Hidden Riches

to get one piece. This wasn’t Sotheby’s; it was more of a flea market, but there were several good buys.”
    “What did you buy right before the dog, and right after?”
    She was tired, down to the bone. The vague throb in her temple warned of a titanic headache in progress. “Christ, Skimmerhorn, how am I supposed to remember? Life hasn’t been exactly uneventful since then.”
    “That’s bull, Conroy.” His voice took on an edge that had Brent’s brows raising. He’d heard it before—when Jed had been interrogating an uncooperative suspect. “You know everything you buy, everything you sell, and the exact price, tax included. Now what did you buy before the dog?”
    “A shaving mug, swan-shaped.” She snapped the words out. “Circa nineteen hundred. Forty-six dollars and seventy-five cents. You don’t pay tax when you buy for resale.”
    “And after the dog?”
    “An abstract painting in an ebony frame. Primary colors on white canvas, signed E. Billingsly. Final bid fifty-two seventy-five—” She broke off, pressed a hand to her mouth. “Oh my God.”
    “Right on target,” Jed muttered.
    “A picture,” she whispered, horrified. “Not a photograph, a painting. He wanted the painting.”
    “Let’s go find out why.”
    Dora’s cheeks were the color of paste as she groped for Jed’s hand. “I gave it to my mother.” Nausea rolled greasily in her stomach. “I gave it to my mother.”
     
    “I adore unexpected company.” Trixie batted her luxuriant lashes as she hooked her arms through Jed’s and Brent’s. “I’m delighted you were able to find time in your busy day to drop in.”
    “Mom, we only have a few minutes,” Dora began.
    “Nonsense.” Trixie was already towing the two men out of the postage-stamp foyer and into what she preferred to call the drawing room. “You must stay for lunch. I’m sure Carlotta can whip up something wonderful for us.”
    “That’s nice of you, Mrs. Conroy, but—”
    “Trixie.” Her laugh was a light trill as she tapped a teasing finger against Brent’s chest. “I’m only Mrs. Conroy to strangers and bill collectors.”
    “Trixie.” A dull flush crept up Brent’s neck. He didn’t think he’d ever been flirted with by a woman old enough to be his mother before. “We’re really a little pressed for time.”
    “Pressing time is what causes ulcers. No one in my family ever had stomach problems—except dear Uncle Will, who spent his whole life making money and none of it enjoying it. Then what could he do but leave it all to me? And of course, we enjoyed it very much. Please, please, sit.”
    She gestured toward two sturdy wing chairs in front of acrackling fire. She arranged herself on a red velvet settee, much like a queen taking the throne.
    “And how is your charming wife?”
    “She’s fine. We enjoyed your party the other night.”
    “It was fun, wasn’t it?” Her eyes sparkled. She draped an arm casually over the back of the settee—a mature Scarlett entertaining her beaux at Tara. “I adore parties. Isadora, dear, ring for Carlotta, won’t you?”
    Resigned, Dora pulled an old-fashioned needlepoint bell rope hanging on the left of the mantel. “Mom, I just dropped by to pick up the painting. There’s . . . some interest in it.”
    “Painting?” Trixie crossed her legs. Her blue silk lounging pants whispered with the movement. “Which painting is that, darling?”
    “The abstract.”
    “Oh, yes.” She shifted her body toward Jed. “Normally, I prefer more traditional styles, but there was something so bold and high-handed about that work. I can see that you’d be interested. It would suit you.”
    “Thanks.” He assumed it was a compliment. In any case, it seemed easier to play along. “I enjoy abstract expressionism—Pollock, for example, with his complicated linear rhythms, his way of attacking the canvas. Also the energy and verve of say, de Kooning.”
    “Yes, of course,” Trixie enthused, bright-eyed, though she hadn’t a clue.
    Jed had the satisfaction of seeing sheer astonishment on Dora’s face. He only smiled, smugly, and folded his hands. “And of course, there’s Motherwell. Those austere colors and amorphous shapes.”
    “Genius,” Trixie agreed. “Absolute genius.” Dazzled, she glanced toward the hall at the sound of familiar stomping.
    Carlotta entered, hands on the hips of the black sweatpants she wore in lieu of a uniform. She was a small, stubby woman, resembling a tree