The Novels of Nora Roberts Volume 1

by Nora Roberts

  “I always worry when somebody shoots at me. I’m funny that way.”

  “Shoot?” Will’s hand hovered an inch above the edge of the bowl, the egg he’d just cracked dripping inside. “What do you mean ‘shoot’?”

  “A gun. Bullets.” Jed sipped his coffee. “Bang.”

  “Jesus, Jesus. She didn’t say anything about shooting.” Still carrying the dripping eggshell, he dashed into the living room and down the short hall and jerked open the bathroom door.

  Dora nearly poked her eye out with her eyeliner. “Damn it, Will.”

  “You didn’t say anything about shooting. Christ, Dory, you made it sound like a joke.”

  She sighed, tapped the eye pencil on the lip of the pedestal sink and gave Jed a hard stare over Will’s shoulder. She should have looked silly with one eye lined and the other naked. Instead she looked sulky, sexy and steamed.

  “Thanks loads, Skimmerhorn.”

  “Anytime, Conroy.”

  “Don’t blame him.” Incensed, Will took Dora by the shoulders and shook. “I want to know exactly what happened. And I want to know now.”

  “Then ask the big-nosed cop.” She gave Will a shove. “I’m busy,” she said, and shut the bathroom door, deliberately turned the lock.

  “Isadora, I want answers.” Will hammered on the door. “Or I’m calling Mom.”

  “You do, and I’ll tell her about your weekend on Long Island with the stripper.”

  “Performance artist,” he muttered, but turned toward Jed. “You,” he said, “you fill me in while I finish making breakfast.”

  “There’s not that much to tell.” There was a sick feeling in Jed’s gut. It didn’t come from running over the events of Christmas Eve while Will whipped up apple crepes. It came from watching the brother and sister together, in seeing the concern and anger on Will’s face—emotions that came from a deeply rooted love, not simply from family loyalty.

  “And that’s it?” Will demanded.

  “What?” Jed forced himself back to the present.

  “That’s it? Some joker breaks in, messes with the files, takes a couple of potshots at you and runs away.”

  “More or less.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what the police are paid to find out.” Jed helped himself to a second cup of coffee. “Look, there’s a new security system going in this afternoon. And new locks. She’ll be safe enough.”

  “What kind of a cop were you?” Will asked. “A beat type, a narc, what?”

  “That’s irrelevant, isn’t it? I’m not a cop now.”

  “Yeah, but . . .” Will trailed off, frowning down at the crepes he scooped onto a flower-blue platter. “Skimmerhorn? That’s what she called you, right? Kind of name sticks in the mind. I remember something from a few months ago. I’m a news junkie.” Will rattled it around in his mind, as he might lines long ago memorized. “Captain, right? Captain Jedidiah Skimmerhorn. You’re the one who blew away Donny Speck, the drug lord. ‘Millionaire cop in shoot-out with drug baron,’ ” Will remembered. “You made a lot of headlines.”

  “And headlines end up lining bird cages.”

  Will would have pressed, but he remembered more. The assassination of Captain Skimmerhorn’s sister with a car bomb. “I guess anyone who could take out a top-level creep like Speck ought to be able to look out for my big sister.”

  “She can look out for herself,” Dora announced. With a juice pitcher in one hand, Dora answered the ringing kitchen phone. “Hello? Yes, Will’s right here. Just a minute.” Dora fluttered her lashes. “Marlene.”

  “Oh.” Will scooped two crepes onto his plate and gathered up his fork. “This might take a while.” After taking the phone from his sister, he leaned against the wall. “Hello, gorgeous.” His voice had dropped in pitch and was as smooth as new cream. “Baby, you know I missed you. I haven’t thought of anything else. When I get back tonight I’ll show you just how much.”

  “Sick,” Dora muttered.

  “Why didn’t you tell him the whole story?”

  Dora shrugged, kept her voice low. “I didn’t see any need to worry my family. They tend to be dramatic under the best of circumstances. If my mother finds out I’ve got a stomach virus, she immediately diagnoses malaria and starts calling specialists. Can you imagine what she’d have done if I’d told her someone shot holes in my wall?”

  Jed shook his head, savoring the crepes.

  “She’d have called the CIA, hired two bulky bodyguards named Bubba and Frank. As it was, she stuck me with Will.”

  “He’s all right,” Jed said just as Will made kissy noises into the phone and hung up. Before he’d taken two steps, the phone rang again.

  “Hello.” Will’s eyes gleamed. “Heather, darling. Of course I missed you, baby. I haven’t been able to think of anything else. I’ll get everything straightened out by tomorrow night and show you just how much.”

  “Nice touch,” Jed said, and grinned into his coffee.

  “You would think so. Since he’s busy making love through AT& T, I’m turning off the television.” She rose and had nearly tapped the Off button when a bulletin stopped her.

  “There are still no leads in the Christmas tragedy in Society Hill,” the reporter announced. “Prominent socialite Alice Lyle remains in a coma this morning as a result of an attack during an apparent burglary in her home sometime December twenty-fourth. Mrs. Lyle was found unconscious. Muriel Doyle, Lyle’s housekeeper, was pronounced dead at the scene. Both Mrs. Lyle and her housekeeper were discovered by Mrs. Lyle’s niece Christmas morning. Alice Lyle, the widow of Harold T. Lyle of Lyle Enterprises, remains in critical condition. A Philadelphia police spokesperson states that a full investigation is under way.”

  “Oh God.” Hugging her elbows, Dora turned back to Jed. “I know her. She was in the shop before Christmas, buying a gift for her niece.”

  “It’s a wealthy neighborhood,” Jed said carefully. “Lyle’s a prominent name. Burglaries can turn ugly.”

  “She bought a couple of doorstops,” Dora remembered. “And she was telling me how her niece was expecting a baby.” She shuddered. “How awful.”

  “You can’t take it inside.” Jed got up to turn off the television himself.

  “Is that what they teach you in cop school?” she snapped, then immediately shook her head. “Sorry. That’s why I never listen to the damn news. The only thing I read in the paper are the classified section and the comics.” She pushed her hair back and struggled to shake off the mood. “I think I’ll go down and open up early, leave Will to clean up the mess before he goes back to New York.”

  This time he didn’t resist the urge to brush his knuckles along her jawline. The skin there was as soft as rose petals. “It’s tough when they’re not strangers.”

  “It’s tough when they are.” She lifted a hand, touched his wrist. “Is that why you quit?”

  He dropped his hand. “No. I’ll head out to the hardware. Thanks for breakfast.”

  Dora merely sighed when the door closed behind him. “Will, when you finish your obscene call, do the dishes. I’m going down to the shop.”

  “I’m finished.” He popped out of the kitchen and snagged the juice. “You’re full of secrets, aren’t you, Dory? How come you didn’t tell me that your tenant was the big bad cop who took down Donny Speck?”

  “Who’s Donny Speck?”

  “Jeez, what world do you live in?” He nibbled on little bits of crepe while he cleared the table. “Speck ran one of the biggest drug cartels on the east coast—probably the biggest. He was crazy, too; liked to blow people up if they messed with him. Always the same MO—a pipe bomb triggered by the ignition.”

  “Jed arrested him?”

  “Arrested, hell. He whacked him in a real, old-fashioned gunfight.”

  “Killed him?” Dora asked through dry lips. “Is that—is that why he had to leave the force?”

  “Shit, I think he got a medal for it. It was all over the news last summer.
The fact that he’s the grandson of L. T. Bester, Incorporated, got him a lot of press, too.”

  “Bester, Inc. ? As in large quantities of money?”

  “None other. Real estate, Dora. Shopping malls. Philadelphia doesn’t have too many loaded cops.”

  “That’s ridiculous. If he was loaded, why would he be renting a one-bedroom apartment over a curio shop?”

  Will shook his head. “You’re a Conroy and you’re questioning eccentricity?”

  “I lost my head a minute.”

  “Anyway.” Will filled the sink with hot soapy water. “The way I see the script here, I figure our hero, the wealthy police captain, is taking some downtime. Last summer was pretty hairy. The Speck investigation kept him in the news for months, then when his sister was killed in the car explosion—”

  “Wait.” She gripped Will’s arm. “His sister?”

  “They figured it was Speck, but I don’t think they ever proved it.”

  “Oh, that’s horrible.” Paling, she pressed a hand to her grinding stomach. “Horrible.”

  “Worse—he saw it happen. The headlines said: ‘Police captain watches sister’s fiery death.’ Pretty tough.”

  “Poor Jed,” Dora murmured.

  “The tabloids got a lot of play out of it, too. Can’t remember it all, but there were lots of hints of scandal in the Skimmerhorn-Bester clan. The sister’d been divorced three or four times. The parents used to have public brawls. I think there was some stuff about Jed getting in scrapes as a juvenile. You know how people like to read about wealthy families suffering.”

  “No wonder he wants to be left alone. But,” she continued after a moment, “that’s not the answer.” Leaning over, she kissed Will’s cheek. “Lock up when you leave. See you New Year’s?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it. Dora?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Do what he tells you. I like having you around.”

  “I like being around.” She grabbed her keys and headed downstairs.

  Customer traffic was light through the morning, which gave Dora time to think. What she didn’t know about Jed Skimmerhorn could apparently fill a football stadium. The fascinating tidbits Will had dropped only made her lack of knowledge seem more acute.

  “Good morning, Izzy, my darling daughter.” Quentin swept into the shop with mink earmuffs clamped over his mane of striking pewter-colored hair. He was wearing an ankle-length shearling coat, a Christmas gift from his wife.

  “Dad. Just the man I want to see.”

  “It’s rewarding to be wanted by your children. Proves a man’s worth in his middle years. Ah, Terri, a vision as always.” He strode over to the redhead, took her hand and bowed theatrically over it. “A credit to the Liberty Players, to your humble director as well as to Dora’s Parlor. What, no clientele this morning?”

  “A couple of browsers, one exchange and a brisk sale of a twenty-dollar door knocker in the shape of a roaring hippo,” Dora reported. “I imagine the malls are packed. Terri, you can handle things out here, can’t you?”

  “Blindfolded and hog-tied.”

  “Dad.” Dora took her father’s arm and drew him out of the main shop into one of the smaller display rooms. “What do you know about Jed Skimmerhorn?”

  “Know?” To stall for time, Quentin took out a roll of spearmint Certs. “Let’s see. He’s about six-one, I’d say. A hundred seventy-five pounds, athletically proportioned. Mid-thirties. Anglo-Saxon lineage from his coloring.”

  “Cut it out. I know you, Quentin D. Conroy. Lea might think you’d rent the apartment to some chain-wielding biker with ‘Born to Raise Hell’ tattooed on his chest, but I know better.”

  Quentin blinked, clearly shocked. “Lea said such a thing? A serpent’s tongue, by God.” He slapped his fist into his palm.

  “Don’t change the subject. Whatever there is to know about Skimmerhorn, you know or he wouldn’t be living here. So spill it. What’s this business about his being from some wealthy family?”

  “The Bester-Skimmerhorn clan,” Quentin confirmed. Wearily, he slipped out of his coat and folded it lovingly over a balloon-back chair. “Most of the money is from his mother’s side, though the Skimmerhorn branch aren’t exactly pikers. Jed is the heir, if you will, as there is only himself and a couple of distant cousins remaining on the dwindling family tree.”

  “So he really is independently wealthy,” Dora murmured. “I’ll be damned.”

  “Independence was apparently more important.” Quentin coughed gently into his hand. His cheeks pinked. “You know I dislike repeating gossip, Izzy.”

  “You’ll only have to say it once.”

  He chuckled, patted her cheek. “My girl is quick. Very quick. Well then, rumor is that young Jed joined the police force against his family’s wishes. They disapproved of his choice of career and threatened to cut him off.” His voice had dropped into its story-telling mode, rich and perfectly paced. “In any case, the parents were notorious socialites. I say ‘notorious’ literally. They were given to public displays of bickering. It was no secret that they detested each other, but neither would divorce the other due to the convoluted financial connection between Bester and Skimmerhorn.”

  “Heartwarming,” Dora murmured.

  “Oh, indeed. Jed made a name for himself on the police force. He gained a reputation for being part bloodhound, part terrier. Sniffing out clues and getting his teeth into a case.” Quentin smiled, enjoying his own analogy. “A bit over a year ago he was made captain, a position many feel would have been a stepping-stone leading to chief of police. Then there was Donny Speck.”

  “Will told me. Speck killed Jed’s sister.”

  “That’s the general assumption. As to why Jed left his position, I can only speculate. I would suggest that you ask him yourself.”

  “He wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Is your interest personal or professional?”

  She thought it through, then accepted the mint her father thumbed out of the roll. “I haven’t decided. Thanks for the details.” She kissed his cheek. “Which I shouldn’t have had to ask for in the first place.”

  “You’re quite welcome.”

  “Jed’s back in the storeroom. You can go bother him while he puts in the new lock.”

  “It would be a pleasure.” He picked up his coat, draped it over his arm.

  “You can leave that here.”

  “Here . . . ah, no, no.” Avoiding Dora’s eye, he stroked the coat lovingly. “I’ll just take it along. I might get chilly.”

  Might need the flask in the inside pocket, Dora corrected, and returned to work.

  Back in the storeroom, Jed was putting Brent’s drill to use again. He had a nice thick dead bolt nearly installed when Quentin toddled in.

  “And happy Boxing Day to you. It seems you’re our man of the hour. May I extend my deepest and most sincere gratitude.”

  “Mr. Conroy.”

  “Quentin, please. After all, according to Will you’ve protected my little girl at the risk of your own life and limb.” Quentin settled into a ladder-back chair. “Tell me, do we have any clues?”

  “Call headquarters and ask Lieutenant Brent Chapman. He’s in charge.”

  “But, my dear boy, you were on the scene, weapon drawn. Where are the bullet holes? Will told me shots were exchanged.”

  “In the plaster, by the stairway.” Amused, Jed watched Quentin stride over to peer at the wall. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the man had pulled a magnifying glass and a deerstalker out of his pocket.

  “Curious, isn’t it? You know, I once played Poirot in a little theater production of Orient Express.”

  “And Will played a drug dealer with Stallone. Quite a family.”

  “One must play the villain as well as the hero to fully develop one’s art. We have theater in our blood, you know. Although Izzy’s seems to lean more toward props.” He came back and settled himself again. He stretched back, crossed his legs at the ankles and folded his hands on his trim b
elly. “Do you have the time?”

  Jed twisted his wrist to read his watch. “Couple minutes shy of noon.”

  “That’s fine then.” Satisfied, Quentin reached in his coat for his flask.

  “Don’t bring that near me.”

  Quentin smiled genially. “I’m afraid I’d filled it with what we might call my high-test the other day. We have a much lower octane today.”

  “I’ll pass just the same.”

  “Well, here’s to all the girls I’ve loved.” Quentin took a slow drink, sighed, then tucked the flask away again. Dora might pop in at any time. “I had another reason for dropping by this morning. I’d like to renew the invitation to our annual New Year’s Eve party, at the theater. My wife would like to thank you personally for looking out for our Izzy.”

  “I’m not big on parties.”

  “I’d consider it a personal favor if you’d at least drop in. After this incident, I’m concerned about Izzy driving there alone.” Having planted the seed, Quentin snuck one more nip before making his exit.

  With business slowed to a crawl, Dora left Terri in charge and spent most of the afternoon reorganizing her files. It was nearly dusk when Jed came downstairs and, without a word to her, began measuring the wall where she’d told him to put the shelves.

  Dora ignored him, too, for nearly five minutes. “This security system you’ve dumped on me is complicated enough for Fort Knox.”

  Jed scribbled down figures on a pad. “All you do is cue in a six-digit code.”

  “And if I forget the code, bells and buzzers go off, lights flash—and some guy with a bullhorn shouts for me to come out with my hands up.”

  “So don’t forget the code.”

  “I’m not good with numbers. That’s why I have an accountant.”

  “Had an accountant. He’s clean, by the way.”

  “Clean? Andrew? Of course he is. His mother checks every night to see if he’s washed behind his ears.”