Hidden Riches

her suit. “Is there something you need?”
    “Some of that wouldn’t hurt.” He nodded toward the pot.
    So now he wanted to be neighborly, Dora thought. Saying nothing, she went to a curved glass cabinet and took out another cup and saucer. “Cream? Sugar?”
    “No.”
    When he didn’t come any farther into the room, she took the coffee to him. He smelled like soap, she realized. Appealingly so. But her father had been right about the eyes. They were hard and inscrutable.
    “Thanks.” He downed the contents of the fragile cup in two swallows and handed it back. His mother had had the same china, he recalled. And had broken several pieces heaving them at servants. “The old—your father,” he corrected, “said it was okay for me to set up my equipment next door. But since he’s not in charge I figured I should check with you.”
    “Equipment?” Dora set his empty cup back on the table and picked up her own. “What sort?”
    “A bench press, some weights.”
    “Oh.” Instinctively, she took her gaze over his arms, his chest. “I don’t think that’s a problem—unless you do a lot of thudding when the shop’s open.”
    “I’ll watch the thudding.” He looked back at the painting, studied it for a moment. Again, bold, he thought, like her color scheme, like the punch-in-the-gut scent she wore. “You know, that’s upside down.”
    Her smile came quickly, brilliantly. She had indeed set it on the sofa the way it had been displayed at auction. “I think so, too. I’m going to hang it the other way.”
    To demonstrate, she went over and flipped it. Jed narrowed his eyes. “That’s right side up,” he agreed. “It’s still ugly, but it’s right side up.”
    “The appreciation of art is as individual as art itself.”
    “If you say so. Thanks for the coffee.”
    “You’re welcome. Oh, Skimmerhorn?”
    He stopped, glanced back over his shoulder. The faint glint of impatience in his eyes intrigued her more than any friendly smile would have.
    “If you’re thinking of redecorating or sprucing up your new place, come on down to the shop. Dora’s Parlor has something for everybody.”
    “I don’t need anything. Thanks for the coffee.”
    Dora was still smiling when she heard his door close. “Wrong, Skimmerhorn,” she murmured. “Everybody needs something.”
     
    Cooling his heels in a dusty office and listening to the Beach Boys harmonize on “Little St. Nick” wasn’t how Anthony DiCarlo had pictured spending this morning. He wanted answers, and he wanted them now.
    More to the point, Finley wanted answers, and wanted them yesterday. DiCarlo tugged on his silk tie. He didn’t have answers yet, but he would. The phone call from Los Angeles the day before had been crystal clear. Find the merchandise, within twenty-four hours, or pay the consequences.
    DiCarlo had no intention of discovering what those consequences were.
    He looked up at the big white-faced clock overhead and watched the minute hand click from 9:04 to 9:05. He had less than fifteen hours left. His palms were sweaty.
    Through the wide glass panel stenciled with an overweight Santa and his industrious elves, he could see more than a dozen shipping clerks busily stamping and hauling.
    DiCarlo sneered as the enormously fat shipping supervisor with the incredibly bad toupee approached the door.
    “Mr. DiCarlo, so sorry to keep you waiting.” Bill Tarkington had a weary smile on his doughy face. “As you can imagine, we’re pretty frantic around here these days. Can’t complain, though, no sir, can’t complain. Business is booming.”
    “I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes, Mr. Tarkington,” DiCarlo said, his fury clear. “I don’t have time to waste.”
    “Who does, this time of year?” Unflaggingly pleasant, Tarkington waddled around his desk to his Mr. Coffee machine. “Have a seat. Can I get you some of this coffee? Put hair on your chest.”
    “No. There’s been an error, Mr. Tarkington. An error that must be corrected immediately.”
    “Well, we’ll just see what we can do about that. Can you give me the specifics?”
    “The merchandise I directed to Abel Winesap in Los Angeles was not the merchandise which arrived in Los Angeles. Is that specific enough for you?”
    Tarkington pulled on his pudgy bottom lip. “That’s a real puzzler. You got your copy of the shipping invoice with you?”
    “Of course.” DiCarlo took the folded paper from the inside breast pocket of his jacket.
    “Let’s