Hidden Riches

wine.”
    “Wine would be lovely.” And would give her the prop of a glass to twist in her hands as she told her story.
    “The Pouilly-Fumé, Barbara. Please sit, Miss Conroy. Be comfortable.” In a move calculated to disarm her, he rounded the desk and took the chair beside her. “And how was your flight?”
    “Long.” Dora’s smile was fleeting. “But I shouldn’tcomplain. The weather was turning nasty at home. But of course, I’ll go back tomorrow.”
    “So soon?” His bright eyes glinted with just the right touch of curiosity. “I’m flattered to have such a pretty young woman travel all this way just to see me.”
    His receptionist had uncorked the bottle. Obviously, Dora mused, her duties included those of a wine steward. She passed Finley the cork and tipped an inch of wine in his glass for approval.
    “Yes,” he said after rolling the wine on his tongue and swallowing. “That will do nicely.” When the wine was poured in both glasses, the secretary slipped soundlessly out of the room. Finley raised his glass. “To your health, Miss Conroy, and a safe journey home.”
    “Thank you.” It was beautiful wine, silk on the tongue, with just a hint of smoke. “I know it might sound foolish, coming all this way just to see you, Mr. Finley. But I honestly felt compelled.” As if overcome, she looked down into the pale gold wine in her glass, let her fingers tighten on the stem. “Now that I’m here, I don’t know where to start.”
    “I can see you’re upset,” Finley said kindly. “Take your time. You told me on the phone this had to do with Anthony DiCarlo. Are you . . .” He paused delicately. “A friend?”
    “Oh no.” There was horror in her voice, in her eyes as she dragged them back to Finley’s. She imagined DiCarlo’s voice whispering in her ear to bring the rusty edge of revulsion into her voice. “No. He—Mr. Finley, I need to ask how much you know about him.”
    “Personally?” Thinking, he pursed his lips. “I’m afraid I don’t know many of my branch employees as well as I might. The company is very large now, and unfortunately that depersonalizes matters. We had a meeting here just before Christmas. I noticed nothing out of the ordinary. He seemed as competent as always.”
    “Then he’s worked for you for some time?”
    “Six years, I believe. More or less.” He sipped more wine. “I have studied his file since this odd disappearance, to refresh my memory. He has an excellent record with the company. Mr. DiCarlo worked his way up the corporate ladder rather quickly. He showed initiative and ambition. Both of which I believe in rewarding. He came from a poor background, you know.”
    When she only shook her head, he smiled and continued. “As I did myself. The desire to better oneself—this is something I respect in an employee, and also tend to reward. As one of my top executives on the east coast, he’s proven himself to be reliable and cunning.” He smiled again. “In my business, one must be cunning. I’m very much afraid of foul play. As Mr. DiCarlo’s work record would indicate, he isn’t a man to neglect his responsibilities this way.”
    “I think—I think I might know where he is.”
    “Really?” There was a flash in Finley’s eyes.
    “I think he’s in Philadelphia.” As if to bolster her courage, Dora took another quick sip, and her hand shook lightly. “I think he’s . . . watching me.”
    “My dear.” Finley reached for her hand. “Watching you? What do you mean?”
    “I’m sorry. It’s not making sense. Let me try to start at the beginning.”
    She told the story well, with several pauses for composure, and one significant break in which she described the attack.
    “And I don’t understand,” she finished, with her eyes wet and shimmering. “I don’t understand why.”
    “My dear, how horrible for you.” Finley was all baffled sympathy while his mind performed rapid calculations. It appeared DiCarlo had left out a few significant details, he mused. There had been no mention in his report of an attempted rape, nor of a knightly neighbor coming to the rescue. It explained the bruises on his face during his last, and final, visit, however.
    “You’re telling me,” Finley began, his tone lightly shocked, “that the man who broke into your shop, the man who attacked you, was Anthony DiCarlo.”
    “I saw his face.” As if overcome, Dora covered her own with her hand. “I’ll never forget it. And I