Hidden Riches

up 95. Neatly boxed on the seat beside him rode a bronze eagle and a reproduction of the Statue of Liberty, both easily purchased from a novelty shop just outside of Washington, D.C.
    It had gone slick as spit, DiCarlo thought now. He had walked into the shop, done some nominal browsing, then had walked out again, the proud owner of two pieces of American kitsch. After a quick detour into Philadelphia to pick up the next two items on his list, he would head into New York. All things being equal, he would make it home by nine o’clock, with plenty of time for holiday celebrations.
    The day after Christmas he would take up his schedule again. At this pace, he figured he would have all of Mr. Finley’s merchandise in hand well before deadline.
    He might even earn a bonus out of it.
    Tapping his fingers along with the dance track, he dialed Finley’s private number on the car phone.
    “Yes.”
    “Mr. Finley. DiCarlo.”
    “And do you have something of interest to tell me?”
    “Yes, sir.” He all but sang it. “I’ve recovered two more items from D.C.”
    “The transactions went smoothly?”
    “Smooth as silk. I’m on my way to Philadelphia now. Two more items are in a shop there. I should arrive by three at the latest.”
    “Then I’ll wish you Merry Christmas now, Mr. DiCarlo. I’ll be difficult to reach until the twenty-sixth. Naturally, if you have something to report, you’ll leave a message with Winesap.”
    “I’ll keep in touch, Mr. Finley. Enjoy your holiday.”
    Finley hung up the phone but continued to stand on his balcony, watching the smog clog the air over LA. The etui hung around his neck on a fine gold chain.
     
    DiCarlo did arrive in Philadelphia by three. His luck was holding steady as he walked into Dora’s Parlor fifteen minutes before closing. The first thing he noticed was a statuesque redhead wearing a green elf’s cap.
    Terri Starr, Dora’s assistant, and a devoted member of the Liberty Players, beamed at DiCarlo.
    “Merry Christmas,” she said in a voice as clear as holiday bells. “You’ve just caught us. We’re closing early today.”
    DiCarlo tried out a sheepish smile. “I bet you hate us eleventh-hour shoppers.”
    “Are you kidding? I love them.” She’d already spotted the Porsche at the curb and was calculating ending the business day with a last whopping sale. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”
    “Actually, yes.” He took a look around the shop, hoping he’d spot either the painting or the china hound quickly. “I’m on my way home, and I have an aunt who collects statues of animals. Dogs in particular.”
    “I might be able to help you out.” Topping six foot in her spiked heels, Terri moved through the shop like a staff sergeant inspecting troops. She’d sized up DiCarlo’s suit andovercoat as well as his car, and led him toward the jade.
    “This is one of my favorite pieces.” She opened a curved glass cabinet and took out an apple-green carved Foo dog, one of their most expensive objects. “Gorgeous, isn’t he?”
    “Yes, but I’m afraid my aunt’s tastes aren’t quite so sophisticated.” He let amusement play around his eyes. “You know how these little ladies are.”
    “Are you kidding? You can’t run a curio shop and not know. Let’s see, then.” With some regret Terri replaced the jade. “We’ve got a couple of nice cocker spaniels in plaster.”
    “I’ll take a look. Would it be all right if I just browsed around? I know you’d like to get out of here, and I might see something that strikes me as being Aunt Maria.”
    “You go right ahead. Take your time.”
    DiCarlo saw the plaster cockers. He saw cloisonné poodles and blown-glass retrievers. There were plastic dalmations and brass Chihuahuas. But nowhere did he see the china hound.
    He kept his eye peeled for the painting as well. There were dozens of framed prints, faded portraits, advertising posters. There was no abstract in an ebony frame.
    “I think I’ve found the perfect—” Terri backed up two steps when DiCarlo whirled around. She was a woman who prided herself on reading expressions. For a moment there, she’d thought she’d read murder in his. “I—sorry. Did I startle you?”
    His smile came so quickly, wiping out the icy gleam in his eyes, she decided she’d imagined it. “Yes, you did. Guess my mind was wandering. And what have we here?”
    “It’s Staffordshire pottery, a mama English sheepdog and her puppy. It’s kind of