Hidden Riches

knocked.
    When the door opened, Dora thrust the lease out, crushing the corner against Jed’s chest. “You’ll need this for your records.”
    He took it. His gaze lowered, scanned, then lifted again. Her eyes weren’t friendly now, but cool. Which suited him. “Why’d the old man leave this with you?”
    Her chin tilted up. “The old man,” she said in mild tones, “is my father. I own the building, which makes me, Mr. Skimmerhorn, your landlord.” She turned on her heel and was across the hall in two strides. With her hand on the knob, she paused, turned. Her hair swung out, curved, settled. “The rent’s due on the twenty-first of each month. You can slip the check under my door and save yourself a stamp, as well as any contact with other humans.”
    She slipped inside and closed the door with a satisfied snick of the lock.

CHAPTER
THREE
    W hen Jed jogged to the base of the steps leading up to his apartment, he’d sweated out most of the physical consequences of a half bottle of whiskey. One of the reasons he’d chosen this location was the gym around the corner. He’d spent a very satisfying ninety minutes that morning lifting weights, punching the hell out of the heavy bag and burning away most of his morning-after headache in the steam room.
    Now, feeling almost human, he craved a pot of black coffee and one of the microwave breakfasts he’d loaded into his freezer. He pulled his key out of the pocket of his sweats and let himself into the hallway. He heard the music immediately. Not Christmas carols, thankfully, but the rich-throated wail of gospel according to Aretha Franklin.
    At least his landlord’s taste in music wouldn’t irritate him, he mused, and would have turned directly into hisown rooms except he’d noted her open door.
    An even trade, Jed figured, and, dipping his hands into his pockets, wandered over. He knew he’d been deliberately rude the night before. And because it had been deliberate, he saw no reason to apologize. Still, he thought it wise to make some sort of cautious peace with the woman who owned his building.
    He nudged the door open a bit wider, and stared.
    Like his, her apartment was spacious, high ceilinged and full of light from a trio of front windows. That was where the similarity ended.
    Even after growing up in a house adorned with possessions, he was amazed. He’d never seen so much stuff crammed into one single space before. Glass shelves covered one wall and were loaded with old bottles, tins, figurines, painted boxes and various knickknacks that were beyond his power to recognize. There were a number of tables, and each of them was topped by more glassware and china. A brightly floral couch was loaded with colored pillows that picked up the faded tones of a large area rug. A Multan, he recognized. There’d been a similar rug in his family’s front parlor for as long as he could remember.
    To complement the season, there was a tree by the window, every branch laden with colored balls and lights. A wooden sleigh overflowed with pinecones. A ceramic snowman with a top hat grinned back at him.
    It should have been crowded, Jed thought. It certainly should have been messy. But somehow it was neither. Instead he had the impression of having opened some magic treasure chest.
    In the midst of it all was his landlord. She wore a scarlet suit with a short straight skirt and a snugly fitted jacket. While her back was to him, he pursed his lips and wondered what sort of mood he’d been in the evening before not to have noticed that nifty little body.
    Under Aretha’s rich tones, he heard Dora muttering to herself. Jed leaned against the doorjamb as she propped thepainting she’d been holding on the sofa and turned. To her credit, she managed to muffle most of the squeal when she spotted him.
    “Your door was open,” he told her.
    “Yeah.” Then, because it wasn’t in her nature to be monosyllabic like her tenant, she shrugged. “I’ve been recirculating some inventory this morning—from up here to downstairs.” She brushed at her bangs. “Is there a problem, Mr. Skimmerhorn? Leaky plumbing? Mice?”
    “Not so I’ve noticed.”
    “Fine.” She crossed the room and moved out of his view until he shifted inside the door. She stood beside a pedestal dining room table pouring what smelled gloriously like strong coffee from a china pot into a delicate matching cup. Dora set the pot back down and lifted a brow. Her unsmiling lips were as boldly red as