by Nora Roberts
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 have a look-see.” His fat, sausage fingers moved with a quick, uncanny grace as he booted up his computer. “Let’s see now.” He rattled a few more keys. “That was to ship out on December seventeenth. . . . Yep, yep, there she is. She went out just fine. Should have arrived yesterday, today at the latest.”
DiCarlo ran a hand through his wavy black hair. Idiots, he thought. He was surrounded by idiots. “The shipment did arrive. It was incorrect.”
“You’re saying the package that plopped down in LA was addressed to another location?”
“No. I’m saying what was in the package was incorrect.”
“That’s an odd one.” Tarkington sipped some coffee. “Was the package packed here? Oh, wait, wait, I remember.” He waved DiCarlo’s answer away. “We provided the crate and the packing, and you supervised. So how in the wide, wide world did the merchandise get switched?”
“That is my question,” DiCarlo hissed, his hand slamming the desk.
“Now, now, let’s stay calm.” Determinedly affable, Tarkington hit a few more keys. “That shipment went out of section three. Let’s see who was on the belt that day. Ah, here we go. Looks like Opal.” He swiveled around to beam at DiCarlo. “Good worker, Opal. Nice lady, too. Had a rough time of it lately.”
“I’m not interested in her personal life. I want to speak to her.”
Tarkington leaned forward and flicked a switch on his desk. “Opal Johnson, please report to Mr. Tarkington’s office.” He flicked the switch off, then patted his toupee to make sure it was still in place. “Sure I can’t get you some coffee? A doughnut, maybe?” He tossed open the lid on a cardboard box. “Got us some nice raspberry-jelly-filled today. Some tractor wheels, too.”
DiCarlo let out a sound like steam escaping a kettle and turned away. With a shrug, Tarkington helped himself to a doughnut.
DiCarlo clenched his fists as a tall, striking black woman strode across the warehouse. She was wearing snug jeans and a bright green sweater with a Nike hip pouch. Her hair was pulled back in a curly ponytail. The yellowing smudges of old bruises puffed around her left eye.
She opened the door and poked her head in. The room was immediately filled with the noise of conveyor belts and the scent of nerves. “You call for me, Mr. Tarkington?”
“Yeah, Opal. Come on in a minute. Have some coffee?”
“Sure, okay.” As she closed the door, Opal took a quick scan of DiCarlo as possibilities raced through her mind.
They were laying her off. They were firing her outright because she’d fallen behind her quota last week after Curtis had knocked her around. The stranger was one of the owners come to tell her. She took a cigarette out of her pouch and lit it with shaky hands.
“We got ourselves a little problem here, Opal.”
Her throat seemed to fill with sand. “Yes, sir?”
“This is Mr. DiCarlo. He had a shipment go out last week, on your line.”
The quick surge of fear had Opal choking on smoke. “We had a lot of shipments going out last week, Mr. Tarkington.”
“Yes, but when the shipment arrived, the merchandise was incorrect.” Tarkington sighed.
With her heart hammering in her throat, Opal stared at the floor. “It got sent to the wrong place?”
“No, it got to the right place, but what was inside it was wrong, and since Mr. DiCarlo oversaw the packing himself, we’re baffled. I thought you might remember something.”
There was a burning in her gut, around her heart, behind her eyes. The nightmare that had plagued her for nearly a week was coming true. “I’m sorry, Mr. Tarkington,” she forced herself to say. “It’s hard to recall any one shipment. All I remember about last week is working three double shifts and going home to soak my feet every night.”
She was lying, DiCarlo decided. He could see it in her eyes, in her body stance—and bided his time.
“Well, it was worth a shot.” Tarkington gestured expansively. “Anything pops into your mind, you let me know. Okee-doke?”
“Yes, sir, I will.” She crushed the cigarette out in the dented metal ashtray on Tarkington’s desk and hurried back to her belt.
“We’ll start a trace on this, Mr. DiCarlo. With a red flag. Premium prides itself on customer satisfaction. From our hands to your hands, with a smile,” he said, quoting the company motto.
“Right.” He was no longer interested in Tarkington, though he would have found some satisfaction in plowing his fists into the man’s bulging belly. “And if you want to continue to enjoy the patronage of E. F., Incorporated, you’ll find the answers.”
DiCarlo circled the noisy shipping room and headed for Opal’s station. She watched his progress with nervous eyes. Her heart was thudding painfully against her ribs by the time he stopped beside her.
“What time’s your lunch break?”
Surprised, she nearly bobbled a box of cookware. “Eleven-thirty.”
“Meet me outside, front entrance.”
“I eat in the cafeteria.”
“Not today,” DiCarlo said softly. “Not if you want to keep this job. Eleven-thirty,” he added, and walked away.
She was afraid to ignore him, afraid to oblige him. At 11:30, Opal donned her olive-green parka and headed for the employees’ entrance. She could only hope that by the time she’d circled the building, she’d have herself under control.
She would have liked to skip lunch altogether. The Egg McMuffin she’d eaten that morning kept threatening to come back for a return visit.
Don’t admit anything, she coached herself as she walked. They can’t prove you made a mistake if you don’t admit it. If she lost the job, she’d have to go back on welfare again. Even if her pride could stand it, she wasn’t sure her kids could.
Opal spotted DiCarlo leaning against the hood of a red Porsche. The car was dazzling enough, but the man—tall, dark, glossily handsome and wrapped in a cashmere coat of pale gray—made her think of movie stars. Terrified, awed, intimidated, she walked toward him, head lowered.
DiCarlo said nothing, simply opened the passenger door. His mouth twitched when he caught her instinctive sigh on sliding over the leather seat. He climbed behind the wheel, turned the key.
“Mr. DiCarlo, I really wish I could help you about that shipment. I—”
“You’re going to help me.” He shoved the gear shift into first, and the car shot away from Premium like a slick red bullet. He’d already decided how to play her, and gave Opal two full minutes of silence to stretch her nerves. He fought back a satisfied smile when she spoke first.
“Where are we going?”
“No place in particular.”
Despite the thrill of riding in a first-class car, she moistened dry lips. “I got to be back
in a half hour.”
He said nothing to that, only continued to drive fast.
“What’s this all about?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, Opal. I figured we could deal better together away from the work atmosphere. Things have been pretty harried for you the last few weeks, I imagine.”
“I guess so. The Christmas rush.”
“And I figure you know just what happened to my shipment.”
Her stomach did a quick jig. “Look, mister, I already told you I didn’t know what happened. I’m just doing my job the best I can.”
He swung the car into a hard right turn that had her eyes popping wide. “We both know it wasn’t my screwup, honey. We can do this hard, or we can do this easy.”
“I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh yeah.” His voice held the same dangerous purr as the Porsche’s engine. “You know just what I mean. What happened, Opal? Did you take a liking to what was in the crate and decide to help yourself? An early Christmas bonus?”
She stiffened, and some of her fear drained away in fury. “I ain’t no thief. I ain’t never stolen so much as a pencil in my whole life. Now you turn this car around, Mr. Big Shot.”
It was just that kind of sass—as Curtis was fond of telling her—that earned her bruises and broken bones. Remembering that, she cringed against the door as the final word faded away.
“Maybe you didn’t steal anything,” he agreed after she’d started to tremble again. “That’s going to make me really sorry to bring charges against you.”
Her throat snapped shut. “Charges? What do you mean, charges?”
“Merchandise, which my employer considers valuable, has vanished. The police will be interested to learn what happened to that shipment once it got into your hands. And even if you’re innocent, it’s going to leave a big question mark on your work record.”
Panic was pounding like an anvil at the base of her skull. “I don’t even know what was in the crate. All I did was ship it. That’s all I did.”
“We both know that’s a lie.” DiCarlo pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store. He could see that her eyes were filled with tears, her hands twisting and twisting the strap of her shoulder bag. Almost there, he thought, and shifted in his seat to offer her a cold merciless stare.
“You want to protect your job, don’t you, Opal? You don’t want to get fired, and arrested, do you?”
“I got kids,” she sobbed as the first tears spilled over. “I got kids.”
“Then you’d better think about them, about what could happen to them if you got into this kind of trouble. My employer is a hard man.” His eyes flicked over her fading facial bruises. “You know about hard men, don’t you?”
Defensively, she lifted a hand to her cheek. “I—I fell down.”
“Sure you did. Tripped on somebody’s fist, right?” When she didn’t answer he continued to press, lightly now. “If my boss doesn’t get back what belongs to him, he’s not just going to take it out on me. He’ll work his way through Premium until he gets down to you.”
They’d find out, she thought, panicking. They always found out. “I didn’t take his stuff, I didn’t. I just—”
“Just what?” DiCarlo leaped on the word and had to force himself not to wrap a hand around her throat and squeeze out the rest.
“I got three years in with Premium.” Sniffing, she dug in her bag for a Kleenex. “I could make floor supervisor in another year.”
DiCarlo bit back a stream of abuse and forced himself to stay cool. “Listen, I know what it’s like to climb up that ladder. You help me out here, and I’ll do the same for you. I don’t see any reason that what you tell me has to go beyond you and me. That’s why I didn’t do this in Tarkington’s office.”
Opal fumbled for a cigarette. Automatically, DiCarlo let the windows down a crack. “You won’t go back to Mr. Tarkington?”
“Not if you play straight with me. Otherwise . . .” To add impact, he slid his fingers under her chin, pinching as he turned her face to his.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry it happened. I thought I got it right afterward, but I wasn’t sure. And I was afraid. I had to miss a couple of days last month ’cause my youngest was sick, and last week I was late one day when I fell and . . . and I was so rushed I mixed up the invoices.” She turned away, braced for a blow. “I dropped them. I was dizzy and I dropped them. I thought I had everything put back right, but I wasn’t real sure. But I checked on a bunch of deliveries yesterday, and they were okay. So I thought I was clear, and nobody’d have to know.”
“You mixed up the invoices,” he repeated. “Some idiot clerk gets a dizzy spell and screws up the paperwork and puts my butt in a sling.”
“I’m sorry.” She sobbed. Maybe he wasn’t going to beat her, but he was going to make her pay. Opal knew someone always made her pay. “I’m really sorry.”
“You’re going to be a lot sorrier if you don’t find out where the shipment went.”
“I went through all the paperwork yesterday. There was only one other oversized crate that came through that lot in the morning.” Still weeping, she reached in her bag again. “I wrote down the address, Mr. DiCarlo.” She fished it from her purse and he snatched it.
“Sherman Porter, Front Royal, Virginia.”
“Please, Mr. DiCarlo, I got kids.” She wiped at her eyes. “I know I made a mistake, but I’ve done real good work at Premium. I can’t afford to get fired.”
He slipped the paper into his pocket. “I’ll check this out, then we’ll see.”
Her jaw dropped with the weight of hope. “Then you won’t tell Mr. Tarkington?”
“I said we’ll see.” DiCarlo started the engine as he plotted out his next steps. If things didn’t go his way, he’d come back for Opal and it wouldn’t just be her face that he’d leave black and blue.
At the main counter in her shop, Dora put the finishing touch of a big red bow on a gift-wrapped purchase. “She’s going to love them, Mr. O’Malley.” Pleased with the transaction, Dora patted the brightly wrapped box containing the cobalt saltcellars. “And it’ll be an even bigger surprise, since she hasn’t seen them in the shop.”
“Well, I appreciate your calling me, Miss Conroy. Can’t say I know what my Hester sees in these things, but she sure does set store by them.”
“You’re going to be her hero,” Dora assured him as he tucked the purchase under his arm. “And I’ll be happy to hold the other set for you until your anniversary in February.”
“That’s nice of you. You sure you don’t want a deposit on them?”
“Not necessary. Happy Christmas, Mr. O’Malley.”
“Same to you and yours.” He walked out, a satisfied customer, with a spring in his step.
There were another half a dozen customers in the shop, two being helped by Dora’s assistant, Terri. The prospect of another big day before the after-holiday lull made Dora’s heart swell. Skirting the counter, she wandered the main room of the shop, knowing the trick was to be helpful but not intrusive.
“Please let me know if you have any questions.”
“Oh, miss?”
Dora turned, smiling. There was something vaguely familiar about the stout matron with lacquered black hair.
“Yes, ma’am. May I help you?”
“Oh, I hope so.” She gestured a bit helplessly toward one of the display tables. “These are doorstops, aren’t they?”
“Yes, they are. Of course, they can be used for whatever you like, but that’s the primary function.” Automatically, Dora glanced over as the bells jingled on her door. She merely lifted a brow when Jed walked in. “Several of these are from the Victorian period,” she went on. “The most common material was cast iron.” She lifted a sturdy one in the shape of a basket of fruit. “This one was probably used for a drawing room. We do have one rather nice example of nailsea glass.”
It was currently in her bedroom upstairs, but could be whisked down in a moment.
“Oh. Does she collect anything in particular?”
“No, she likes the old and the unusual.”
“So do I. Was there a reason you had a doorstop in mind?”
“Yes, actually. My niece does a lot of sewing. She’s put together this really charming room. It’s an old house, you see, that they’ve been refurbishing. The door to her sewing room won’t stay open. Since they have a baby on the way, I know she’d want to be able to keep an ear out, and that this would be an amusing way to do it.” Still, she hesitated. “I bought Sharon a chamber pot here a few months ago, for her birthday. She loved it.”
That clicked. “The Sunderland, with the frog painted on the inside bottom.”
The woman’s eyes brightened. “Why, yes. How clever of you to have remembered.”
“I was very fond of that piece, Mrs . . . .”
“Lyle. Alice Lyle.”
“Mrs. Lyle, yes. I’m glad it found a good home.” Pausing, Dora tapped a finger to her lips. “If she liked that, maybe she’d appreciate something along these lines.” She chose a brass figure of an elephant. “It’s Jumbo,” she explained. “P. T. Barnum’s?”
“Yes.” The woman held out her hands and chuckled as Dora passed Jumbo to her. “My, hefty, isn’t he?”
“He’s one of my favorites.”
“I think he’s perfect.” She took a quick, discreet glance at the tag dangling from Jumbo’s front foot. “Yes, definitely.”
“Would you like him gift-boxed?”
“Yes, thank you. And . . .” She picked up the sleeping hound Dora had purchased at auction only the day before. “Do you think this would be suitable for the nursery?”
“I think he’s charming. A nice, cozy watchdog.”
“I believe I’ll take him along, too—an early welcoming gift for my newest grandniece or -nephew. You do take Visa?”
