Hidden Riches

I’d do the talking.”
    “Testosterone surge,” Dora said under her breath.
    The office was open but empty when they reached it. It looked to Jed to be the only space in the building that had seen a dust rag or scrub brush within the last decade. In contrast to the helter-skelter arrangement of the market, the desk was shining and neat, the file cabinets clean and tidily shut. The air carried the vague scent of some lemony spray wax.
    “There’s been some reorganizing since the last time I was here.” Curious, Dora poked her head inside. The desk blotter was spotless, and on the left corner stood a good porcelain vase with fresh hothouse roses. “Last time there was a girlie calendar on the wall—from nineteen fifty-six—and the rest of it looked as though there had been a small bomb detonation. I remember thinking I didn’t see how anyone could work in that kind of chaos.” She caught Jed’s bland stare and shrugged. “My kind of chaos is organized.” She paused to look around and tried not to yearn too much toward the bargain table. “Maybe Porter’s roaming throughsomewhere. He’s easy enough to spot. He sort of looks like a ferret.”
    “May I help you?”
    Jed put a hand on Dora’s shoulder to keep her quiet and turned to the tidily dressed woman with glasses hanging from a gold chain. “We’d like to speak to Mr. Porter.”
    Helen Owings’s eyes clouded and filled alarmingly fast with hot tears. “Oh,” she said, and dug in her pocket for a tissue. And again, “Oh,” as she mopped her streaming eyes.
    “I’m sorry.” Before Jed could react, Dora had her by the arm and was leading her into the office, into a chair. “Can I get you some water?”
    “No, no.” Helen sniffled, then began to tear the damp tissue into tiny pieces. “It was just such a shock, your asking for him. You couldn’t have known, I suppose.”
    “Have known what?” Jed shut the door quietly and waited.
    “Sherman—Mr. Porter’s dead. Murdered.” Though the word came out fruity with drama, Helen’s lips trembled.
    “Oh God.” Dora groped for a chair herself while her brain did a slow, sickening spin.
    “Right before Christmas.” Helen blew her nose on what was left of her tissue. “I found him myself. There.” She lifted a hand, pointed at the desk.
    “How was he killed?” Jed demanded.
    “Shot.” Helen covered her face with her hands, then dropped them into her lap to twist them together. “Shot through the head. Poor, poor Sherman.”
    “Do the police have any suspects?” Jed asked.
    “No.” Helen sighed and began to draw on what was left of her rattled composure. “There doesn’t seem to have been a motive. Nothing was taken that we can determine. There were no—signs of struggle. I’m sorry, Mr . . . . ?”
    “Skimmerhorn.”
    “Mr. Skimmerhorn. Did you know Sherman?”
    “No.” He debated for a moment how much to tell her. As usual, he decided less was best. “Miss Conroy is adealer in Philadelphia. We’re here about some items that were auctioned on December twenty-first.”
    “Our last auction.” Her voice broke. After taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders in an obvious effort to compose herself. “You’ll excuse me for being so upset, I hope. We’ve just reopened today, and I’m still a little shaky. Was there a problem?”
    “A question.” Jed smiled with charm and sympathy. “Miss Conroy bought two pieces. We’re interested in where and how you acquired them.”
    “May I ask why? We usually don’t reveal our sources. After all, another dealer could come in and outbid us.”
    “We’re interested in more background on the items,” he said reassuringly. “We’re not going to try to cut off your supply.”
    “Well . . .” It wasn’t entirely regular, but Helen couldn’t find any harm in it. “I may be able to help you. Do you remember the lot number?”
    “F fifteen and F eighteen,” Dora said dully. She’d remembered something else, something that made her stomach roll. But when Jed murmured her name, she shook her head.
    “F fifteen and eighteen,” Helen repeated, grateful for something practical to do. She rose and went to the file cabinets. “Oh yes, the F lots were from the New York shipment. A small estate sale.” She smiled, taking the folder to the desk. “To be frank, Mr. Skimmerhorn, I believe most of the items were picked up at yard sales. I remember that the quality was not what I’d expected.