Hidden Riches

downstairs. I was disappointed to find it closed. But this”—she ran a fingertip along the sinuous, female lines of a Deco lamp—“is every bit as delightful.”
    “One of the best things about selling is that I can live with my stock as long as I like. Would you like some coffee, tea?”
    “I’d love some coffee, if it’s not too much trouble.”
    “Not at all. Please, sit down, make yourself at home.”
    “Thank you. I believe I’ll do just that.”
    Honoria didn’t consider herself nosy—simply interested. She was interested enough to study and approve Dora’s view of bustling and artsy South Street from the tall living room windows. She also enjoyed and approved the decor of the apartment—warm and cozy, she decided, while remaining eclectic and a tad theatrical. Yes, she liked the room very much—a perfect mirror of Dora’s personality.
    The girl would do, she thought, and lifted up a tortoiseshell tea caddy to admire it. The girl would do very, very well.
    “Here we are.” Dora carried out a tray laden with a Fiesta ware pot and cups. She wished she could find some tactful way to dash into the bathroom and put on her lipstick. “Shall we take it in here?”
    “That would be fine. Let me make room on the table for you. What a marvelous aroma. Scones?” Her eyes brightened. “How delightful.”
    “I always keep some around.” Honoria’s simple pleasure had Dora relaxing again. “There’s something so civilized about scones.”
    With a laugh, Honoria settled herself. “You’re very polite not to ask me what I’m doing knocking on your door at nine in the morning.” Honoria sipped her coffee, paused, sipped again. “This is quite exceptional.”
    “I’m glad you like it.” Dora waited as Honoria added a dab of blackberry jelly to a scone. “Actually, it’s harder for me not to ask you about the painting.”
    “Good.” Honoria let the scone lay on her tongue, sighing a little as she swallowed. “My dear, my mother would have been delighted with you. I haven’t tasted better since she died.”
    “I’d be happy to give you the recipe for your cook.”
    “I’d appreciate it. Now.” She sat back, balancing her cup and saucer with the uncanny skill only women of a certain class seem to acquire. “I believe you and I can trade information.”
    “Oh? I don’t think I understand.”
    “My grandson asks me to keep a certain painting in my home, and to allow an old friend to work on this painting. I’m to do this in the strictest confidence, and with police protection.” She smiled, inclined her head. “There is no explanation accompanying the request, of course.”
    “Of course.” Returning the smile, Dora leaned forward. “Tell me, Mrs. Rodgers, why do we go along with him?”
    “Call me Ria—my husband always did. We go along with him, dear child, because we care too much not to.” A delicate pause. “Am I right?”
    “Yes. Yes, you are. That doesn’t make him right.” Dora’s earlier irritation returned in full force. “I’ll tell you everything I know, Ria, then you can tell me the results.”
    “Precisely what I had in mind.”
    Dora started at the beginning. Jed would have several logical reasons, she assumed, why his grandmother should be spared the knowledge and the concern that accompanied it. Yet she rationalized that he had already involved Honoria, completely voluntarily. She was only providing the background as a matter of courtesy.
    Honoria listened without interruption. She sipped her coffee, her reaction showing only in the darkening of her eyes, a thinning of her mouth, the occasional lift of a well-shaped eyebrow. There was temper, but there was also breeding.
    And here, Dora thought, was where Jed had inherited his control.
    “This has been terrible for you,” Honoria said at length.
    “Mrs. Lyle’s the worst. No matter what Jed says, I feel responsible.”
    “Of course you do.” This was said staunchly, and made Dora feel more comforted than a dozen polite denials. “You wouldn’t be the woman you are if you didn’t. This DiCarlo . . .” The name came through Honoria’s lips ripe with cultured distaste. “Do the authorities have any idea where he might be hiding?”
    “I don’t think so.” In a frustrated gesture, Dora lifted her hands, let them fall. “If they do, they haven’t found it necessary to mention it to me.”
    “So like men. Do you know, I believe it goes back to when they had to crawl out of the cave and