Hidden Riches

Conroy . . . yes, you purchased both pieces. I’m afraid I can’t tell you very much about them. I—”
    The knock on the door interrupted her. “Miz Owings?”
    “Yes, Richie?”
    “We got a question out here about that Early American dry sink. People are in a hurry.”
    “All right, tell them I’ll be right there.” Helen rose, smoothed down her hair, her skirt. “Will you excuse me just a minute?”
    Jed waited until she’d walked out before picking up the file himself. He scanned the lists, the inventories, the prices, then simply pocketed what he felt was relevant.
    “What are you doing?” Dora demanded. “You can’t do that.”
    “It’ll save time. Come on.”
    “She knows my name.”
    “So, we’ll make copies then send the originals back.” He took a firm grip on her hand, but this time it wasn’t necessary. She didn’t try to linger or dig in her heels to study any of the dusty treasures. Once they were outside and in the car, Jed took her chin in his hand. “Okay, spill it. You went white as a sheet in there.”
    “I remembered Mr. Ashworth. I told you about him. He was the dealer I met at the auction that day. He bought a piece from that shipment.”
    “The guy who was killed during a burglary,” Jed murmured. “You said his shop was around here.”
    “Yes, just a couple miles away.”
    “Then that’s where we’re going next.” He switched on the engine. “Can you handle it?”
    “Yes. But I want to stop and call the shop first.”
    “You’ve only been away a couple hours, Conroy. It should run well enough without you.”
    “I don’t want Terri or Lea anywhere near the place.” She set her jaw and stared straight ahead. “I want it closed.”
    “Okay.” He closed his hand over hers and found it cold and rigid. “Okay.”
     
    Although he’d taken the precaution of packing an overnight bag, Jed had hoped to make the trip to Virginia and back in one day. There was no question of doing so after visiting Ashworth’s shop.
    Dora needed some downtime, and he was going to see that she got it.
    She said nothing when he checked into a hotel near the airport. The fact that she’d said little throughout therainy ride from Front Royal concerned him nearly as much as the information they’d gleaned from Tom Ashworth’s grandson. In addition to Ashworth’s death and the damage done during the break-in, the figurine had apparently been taken.
    Jed unlocked the door of the hotel room, set the overnight bags aside, then pointed Dora toward a chair. “Sit down. You need to eat.”
    “I’m not hungry.”
    “Yes, you are.” He picked up the phone and ordered two steaks, coffee and a bottle of brandy without consulting her. “Thirty minutes,” he said when he hung up. “Which probably means forty. You’ve got time to stretch out.”
    “I . . .” Numb, she looked toward the bed. “I think I’ll have a bath.”
    “Fine. Take your time.”
    She rose, picked up her bag. She didn’t look at him. “Don’t you feel anything?” she asked in a voice that cracked with fatigue. “Three people are dead—at least three. There might be more. People I care about might be in danger simply because they work for me. And you order dinner. Doesn’t it make you scared? Doesn’t it make you sick? Doesn’t it make you anything?”
    The last question lashed out like a whip as she clutched the bag to her chest and forced herself to look at his face. Jed met her eyes levelly. “Yeah, it makes me something. It makes me pissed off. Go take your bath, Dora. Tune it out for a while.”
    Wearily, she turned away. “It doesn’t work like that.” She closed the door quietly behind her. In a moment, he heard the water running in the tub.
    He lighted a cigarette, swearing under his breath as he fought with the matches. She was disappointed in him—that’s what had been in her eyes when she’d finally looked at him. And it mattered, maybe too much, what she thought of him, what she felt for him, how she looked at him.
    She mattered too much.
    He crossed to the bathroom door, lifted his hand to knock. Then dropped it again. There was nothing to be said, he thought. Actions were necessary. He went back to the phone and called Brent.
    “Lieutenant Chapman.”
    “It’s Jed.”
    “What have you got?”
    “A couple of dead guys.” Jed blew out smoke and automatically kept his voice low. “Sherman Porter, owned the auction house where Dora picked up the painting and the dog.