Hidden Riches

keep both on hand for customers. It makes business so much more pleasant.”
    “I’d love some tea, then.” It might soothe his stomach more than the Alka-Seltzer he’d downed an hour before. “Your shop is very impressive.”
    “Thank you.” She saw, with satisfaction, that her hand was rock steady on the teapot. “I like to surround myself with beautiful things. But you’d understand that.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Being an art collector.” She offered him a cup of tea and a smile. “Cream? Lemon?”
    “No, no, nothing, thank you.”
    “You said you specialize in abstract, but you might find some of my nostalgia prints interesting.” She gestured to a car manufacturer’s sign for a Bugatti, which hung beside a Vargas girl.
    “Yes, ah, very nice. Very nice indeed.”
    “I also have several good Vanity Fair caricatures in the other room.” Watching him, she sipped her own tea. “But as an abstract buff, you’d be more interested in say, a Bothby or a Klippingdale,” she said, making up names.
    “Yes, of course. Exceptional talents.” The tea soured like vinegar in Winesap’s stomach. He’d tried, really tried to be thorough by studying book after book on the subject of abstract art. But all the names and pictures swam through his head. “My collection isn’t extensive, you see. Which is why I concentrate on the emerging artist.”
    “Such as Billingsly.”
    “Exactly,” he said on a sigh of relief. “I’m very anxious to see the work, Miss Conroy.”
    “Then, by all means.” She led the way into the side room. Jed’s artist friend had worked overtime to reproduce the painting. Now it stood, like a gaudy stripper among prim Victorian ladies, in the pretty sitting room.
    “Ah.” The sense of satisfaction was so great Winesap nearly wept with it. It was horrid, of course, he thought. Absolutely horrid, but it matched the description.
    “Such a bold, arrogant style,” Dora commented. “I was really taken with it.”
    “Yes, of course. It’s everything I’d hoped for.” He made a show of examining the brush strokes. “I’d very much like to add this to my collection.”
    “I’m sure you would.” She let a touch of amusement color her voice. “Did you have an offer in mind, Mr. Petroy?”
    “In mind, naturally,” he said, trying to be coy. “I’d prefer if you’d set a price, for negotiation.”
    “I’d be happy to.” Dora sat in a tufted-back chair and crossed her legs. “Why don’t we start at two hundred and fifty thousand?”
    Winesap’s prim mouth fell open. He made a choked sound in the back of his throat before he managed to find his voice. “Miss Conroy, Miss Conroy, you can’t be serious.”
    “Oh, but I am. You look as though you need to sit down, Mr. Petroy.” She gestured to a petit-point stool. “Now, let’s be frank,” she began when he’d sunk onto the seat. “You don’t know diddly about art, do you?”
    “Well, really.” He tugged at his strangling tie. “As I told you, I have a small collection.”
    “But you lied, Mr. Petroy,” she said gently. “You haven’t a clue about abstract. Wouldn’t it be simpler, and more friendly, if we admitted that we’re both more interested, at the moment, in Impressionism rather than Expressionism?”
    For a moment he didn’t follow her. Then his pasty face blanched. “You know about the painting.”
    “I bought it, didn’t I?”
    “Yes, but, that was a mistake.” His frantic eyes widened. “No? You knew—knew all along about the Monet? You were working with DiCarlo? You—you cheated,” he accused, miserably.
    Dora merely chuckled and leaned forward. “You needn’t sound so offended. After all, you sent DiCarlo here, didn’t you?”
    “It’s been his fault.” Disgusted, Winesap threw up his hands. “All this confusion is his fault. I can’t imagine why I was sorry he died so badly.”
    The image in the police photo flashed obscenely in her mind. “So you killed him,” she murmured. “For this.”
    But Winesap wasn’t listening. “Now I have to clean up the entire mess, again. I’m not happy about the two hundred and fifty thousand, Miss Conroy. Not happy at all.”
    He rose. So did Dora. Even as he reached under his coat, two officers were bursting through the rear door.
    “Freeze.”
    Winesap took one look at the guns pointing at him and fainted dead away. His checkbook slipped out of his hand and flapped onto the floor.
     
    “He was going to pay me for it,” Dora