The Novels of Nora Roberts Volume 1

by Nora Roberts

“We’ve only got fifteen minutes with her,” Jed said quietly when Dora returned. “Let’s make it count. You,” he added with a nod toward Dora. “Do nothing, say nothing unless you get the go-ahead.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Ignoring her, he turned to Brent. “She shouldn’t be going in at all.”

  “She’s seen the statue, we haven’t. Let’s see if it means anything.” He led the way through the doors, past the nurses’ station and into one of the small, curtained rooms.

  Dora was grateful she’d been ordered to silence. She couldn’t trust her voice. The woman she remembered as elegant and enthusiastic lay on the narrow bed, her eyes closed and shadowed with dingy bruises. The formerly deeply black hair was dulled, and gray was beginning to show at the roots, and her skin was sallow against the startlingly white bandages. Her face was drawn, the cheekbones jutting up sharply against skin that looked thin enough to tear at a touch.

  “Mrs. Lyle.” Brent stood at the bedside, spoke quietly.

  Dora could see the pale blue veins in the eyelids when they fluttered. The monitor continued its monotonous beep as Mrs. Lyle struggled to focus.

  “Yes?” Her voice was weak, and rough, as if her vocal cords had been sandpapered while she slept.

  “I’m Lieutenant Chapman. Do you feel able to answer a few questions?”

  “Yes.”

  Dora watched Mrs. Lyle try to swallow. Automatically she moved forward to pick up the cup of water and slip the straw between the dry lips.

  “Thank you.” Her voice was a shade stronger. She focused on Dora and smiled. “Miss Conroy. How nice of you to visit.”

  Jed’s order was easily forgotten. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” She reached down to close her fingers gently over Mrs. Lyle’s frail hand. “I’m sorry you were hurt.”

  “They told me Muriel is dead.” The tired eyes filled slowly, the aftermath of a storm already spent. “She was very dear to me.”

  Guilt was like a wave battering against the wall of Dora’s composure. She could stand against it, but she couldn’t ignore it. “I’m so sorry. The police hope you’ll be able to help them find the man who did this.” She pulled a Kleenex out of the box beside the bed and gently dried Mrs. Lyle’s cheeks.

  “I want to help.” Firming her lips, she looked back at Brent. “I didn’t see him, Lieutenant. I didn’t see anyone. I was . . . watching a movie on television, and I thought I heard Muriel—” She broke off then and her fingers shifted in Dora’s for comfort. “I thought I heard her come in behind me. Then there was this horrible pain, as if something had exploded in my head.”

  “Mrs. Lyle,” Brent began, “do you remember buying a china dog from Miss Conroy the day before you were attacked?”

  “Yes, for Sharon’s baby. A doorstop,” she said, and turned her head toward Dora again. “I’m worried that Sharon’s not getting enough rest. This stress—”

  “She’s fine,” Dora assured her.

  “Mrs. Lyle.” Jed stepped forward. “Do you remember anything else about the statue?”

  “No.” Though she tried to concentrate, memories drifted through like clouds. “It was rather sweet. A watchdog, I thought, for the baby. Is that what he wanted?” Her hand moved restlessly again. “Is that what he wanted? The little dog? I thought—I thought I heard him shouting for the dog. But that couldn’t be.”

  Jed leaned forward so that her eyes would focus on his. There was panic in hers, but he had to press, just a little further. “What did you think you heard him shouting, Mrs. Lyle?”

  “ ‘Where’s the dog?’ And he swore. I was lying there, and I couldn’t move. I thought I’d had a stroke and was dreaming. There was crashing and shouting, shouting over and over about a dog. And then there was nothing.” She closed her eyes again, exhausted. “Surely he didn’t murder Muriel for a little china dog.”

  “But he did, didn’t he?” Dora asked when they stood together at the elevators.

  “Not much doubt of it.” Brent worried his glasses, stuck his hands in his pockets. “But that’s not the end of it. The bullet that killed Muriel came from the same gun that killed Trainor.” He looked at Jed. “Matched the ones we dug out of the plaster at the shop.”

  “So he came back for something else.” Calculating, Jed stepped into the elevator. “The dog wasn’t it—or wasn’t all of it. Whatever it is.”

  “But the piece wasn’t valuable or unique,” Dora murmured. “It wasn’t even marked. I only bid on it because it was cute.”

  “You bought it at an auction.” Slowly, Jed turned the possibilities over in his mind. “Where?”

  “In Virginia. Lea and I went on a buying trip. You remember. I got back the day you moved in.”

  “And the next day you sold the dog.” He took her arm to pull her out of the elevator when they reached the lobby. “There was a break-in at the shop, Mrs. Lyle was attacked, then another break-in. What else did you buy, Dora?”

  “At the auction. A lot of things.” She dragged her hand through her hair, leaving her coat unbuttoned to the cold as she stepped outside between the two men. The brisk air helped blow away some of the sickly scent of hospital. “I have a list at the shop.”

  “Don’t they have lots at auctions?” Brent asked. “Or groups of merchandise that come from the same place or the same seller?”

  “Sure. Sometimes you buy a trunk full of junk just to get one piece. This wasn’t Sotheby’s; it was more of a flea market, but there were several good buys.”

  “What did you buy right before the dog, and right after?”

  She was tired, down to the bone. The vague throb in her temple warned of a titanic headache in progress. “Christ, Skimmerhorn, how am I supposed to remember? Life hasn’t been exactly uneventful since then.”

  “That’s bull, Conroy.” His voice took on an edge that had Brent’s brows raising. He’d heard it before—when Jed had been interrogating an uncooperative suspect. “You know everything you buy, everything you sell, and the exact price, tax included. Now what did you buy before the dog?”

  “A shaving mug, swan-shaped.” She snapped the words out. “Circa nineteen hundred. Forty-six dollars and seventy-five cents. You don’t pay tax when you buy for resale.”

  “And after the dog?”

  “An abstract painting in an ebony frame. Primary colors on white canvas, signed E. Billingsly. Final bid fifty-two seventy-five—” She broke off, pressed a hand to her mouth. “Oh my God.”

  “Right on target,” Jed muttered.

  “A picture,” she whispered, horrified. “Not a photograph, a painting. He wanted the painting.”

  “Let’s go find out why.”

  Dora’s cheeks were the color of paste as she groped for Jed’s hand. “I gave it to my mother.” Nausea rolled greasily in her stomach. “I gave it to my mother.”

  “I adore unexpected company.” Trixie batted her luxuriant lashes as she hooked her arms through Jed’s and Brent’s. “I’m delighted you were able to find time in your busy day to drop in.”

  “Mom, we only have a few minutes,” Dora began.

  “Nonsense.” Trixie was already towing the two men out of the postage-stamp foyer and into what she preferred to call the drawing room. “You must stay for lunch. I’m sure Carlotta can whip up something wonderful for us.”

  “That’s nice of you, Mrs. Conroy, but—”

  “Trixie.” Her laugh was a light trill as she tapped a teasing finger against Brent’s chest. “I’m only Mrs. Conroy to strangers and bill collectors.”

  “Trixie.” A dull flush crept up Brent’s neck. He didn’t think he’d ever been flirted with by a woman old enough to be his mother before. “We’re really a little pressed for time.”

  “Pressing time is what causes ulcers. No one in my family ever had stomach problems—except dear Uncle Will, who spent his whole life making money and none of it enjoying it. Then what could he do but leave it all to me? And of course, we enjoyed it very much. Please, please, sit.”
>
  She gestured toward two sturdy wing chairs in front of a crackling fire. She arranged herself on a red velvet settee, much like a queen taking the throne.

  “And how is your charming wife?”

  “She’s fine. We enjoyed your party the other night.”

  “It was fun, wasn’t it?” Her eyes sparkled. She draped an arm casually over the back of the settee—a mature Scarlett entertaining her beaux at Tara. “I adore parties. Isadora, dear, ring for Carlotta, won’t you?”

  Resigned, Dora pulled an old-fashioned needlepoint bell rope hanging on the left of the mantel. “Mom, I just dropped by to pick up the painting. There’s . . . some interest in it.”

  “Painting?” Trixie crossed her legs. Her blue silk lounging pants whispered with the movement. “Which painting is that, darling?”

  “The abstract.”

  “Oh, yes.” She shifted her body toward Jed. “Normally, I prefer more traditional styles, but there was something so bold and high-handed about that work. I can see that you’d be interested. It would suit you.”

  “Thanks.” He assumed it was a compliment. In any case, it seemed easier to play along. “I enjoy abstract expressionism—Pollock, for example, with his complicated linear rhythms, his way of attacking the canvas. Also the energy and verve of say, de Kooning.”

  “Yes, of course,” Trixie enthused, bright-eyed, though she hadn’t a clue.

  Jed had the satisfaction of seeing sheer astonishment on Dora’s face. He only smiled, smugly, and folded his hands. “And of course, there’s Motherwell. Those austere colors and amorphous shapes.”

  “Genius,” Trixie agreed. “Absolute genius.” Dazzled, she glanced toward the hall at the sound of familiar stomping.

  Carlotta entered, hands on the hips of the black sweatpants she wore in lieu of a uniform. She was a small, stubby woman, resembling a tree stump with arms. Her sallow face was set in permanent annoyance.

  “What you want?”

  “We’ll have tea, Carlotta,” Trixie instructed, her voice suddenly very grande dame. “Oolong, I believe.”

  Carlotta’s beady black eyes scanned the group. “They staying for lunch?” she demanded in her harsh and somehow exotic voice.

  “No,” Dora said.

  “Yes,” her mother said simultaneously. “Set for four, if you please.”

  Carlotta lifted her squared-off chin. “Then they eat tuna fish. That’s what I fixed; that’s what they eat.”

  “I’m sure that will be delightful.” Trixie waggled her fingers in dismissal.

  “She’s just plain ornery,” Dora muttered as she sat on the arm of Jed’s chair. It was unlikely they would escape without tea and tuna fish, but at least she could focus her mother on the matter at hand. “The painting? I thought you were going to hang it in here.”

  “I did, but it simply didn’t work. Too frenzied,” she explained to Jed, whom she now considered an expert on the subject. “One does like to let the mind rest in one’s drawing room. We put it in Quentin’s den. He thought it might energize him.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  “An extraordinary girl, our Isadora,” Trixie said when Dora was out of earshot. She smiled at Jed, but didn’t quite disguise the gleam of calculation in her eyes. “So bright and ambitious. Strong-minded, of course, which only means she requires an equally strong-minded man to complement her. I believe a woman who can run her own business will run a home and family with equal success. Don’t you, dear?”

  Any response could spring the trap. “I imagine she could do whatever she set out to do.”

  “No doubt about it. Your wife is a professional woman, isn’t she, Brent? And a mother of three.”

  “That’s right.” Since Jed was clearly on the hot seat, Brent grinned. “It takes a team effort to keep all the balls in the air, but we like it.”

  “And a single man, after a certain age . . .” Trixie aimed a telling look at Jed, who barely resisted the urge to squirm. “He benefits from that teamwork. The companionship of a woman, the solace of family. Have you ever been married, Jed?”

  “No.” Jed’s eyes sharpened when Dora walked back in, carrying the painting.

  “Mom, I’m sorry, I’m afraid you’ll have to eat lunch alone. I called in to the shop to let them know I’d be delayed getting back. There’s a little problem I need to see to. I’ll have to leave right away.”

  “Oh, but darling . . .”

  “We’ll do lunch soon.” She bent to kiss Trixie’s cheek. “I think I have something Dad might like better for his den. One of you drop by and we’ll see.”

  “Very well.” With a resigned sigh, Trixie set down her cup and rose. “If you must go, you must. But I’ll have Carlotta pack up lunch for you.”

  “You don’t—”

  Trixie patted Dora’s cheek. “I insist. It’ll just take a moment.”

  She hurried off, leaving Dora sighing.

  “Very smooth, Conroy.” Jed took the painting from her to examine it himself.

  “Speaking of smooth.” She turned back, smiling curiously. “Amorphous shapes?”

  “I dated an artist for a while. You pick stuff up.”

  “It should be interesting to see what you’ve picked up from me.”

  “I don’t even like tuna fish.” But Dora bit into the sandwich nonetheless while Jed finished removing the frame from the canvas.

  “I like the way she chopped up hardboiled eggs and pickles.” Brent polished off his second sandwich with a sigh of satisfaction.

  They’d chosen to work in Dora’s apartment rather than the storeroom because there was both room and privacy. No one had mentioned the fact that Brent hadn’t insisted on taking the painting or the information he’d gathered to his superior.

  It was an unspoken fact that Brent still considered Jed his captain.

  “Nothing in the frame.” Still, Jed set it carefully aside. “Nothing to the frame, for that matter. We’ll let the lab boys take a look.”

  “Can’t be the painting itself.” Dora washed down tuna with Diet Pepsi. “The artist is an unknown—I checked the day after I bought it in case I’d happened across some overlooked masterpiece.”

  Thoughtfully, Jed turned the painting over. “The canvas is stretched over plywood. Get me something to pry this off with, Conroy.”

  “You think there might be something inside?” She spoke from the kitchen, rummaging through drawers. “A cache of drugs—no, better. Diamonds.” She brought out a screwdriver. “Rubies, maybe. They’re more valuable these days.”

  “Try reality,” Jed suggested, and went to work on the backing.

  “It could be,” she insisted, peering over his shoulder. “It has to be something worth killing for, and that’s usually money.”

  “Quit breathing down my neck.” Jed elbowed her away before prying at the plywood.

  “It’s my painting,” she reminded him. “I have a bill of sale.”

  “Nothing,” Jed muttered as he examined the backing he’d removed. “No secret compartments.”

  Dora glared at him. “There might have been.”

  “Right.” Ignoring her, he tapped a hand on the back of the exposed canvas.

  “That’s odd. The back of that canvas has a lot of age to it.” Dora pushed her way in for a closer look. “Although I suppose Billingsly could have painted over an old canvas to save money.”

  “Yeah. And sometimes people paint over paintings to smuggle them through customs.”

  “You think there’s an old master behind there?” Amused, Dora shook her head. “Now who’s dreaming?”

  But he was paying no more attention to her than he would to a fly buzzing around the ceiling. “We need to get this paint off, see what’s under it.”

  “Hold it, Skimmerhorn. I paid for this. I’m not going to have you screw it up over some cop’s ‘hinkey feeling.’ ”

  “How much?” Impatience and disgust warred as he turned to her.

  Pleased that he understood, she folded her
arms over her chest. “Fifty-two dollars and seventy-five cents.”

  Muttering, he pulled out his wallet, counted out bills.

  Dora tucked her tongue in her cheek and accepted them. Only her strong feelings for Jed kept her from recounting them. “Overhead,” she said primly. “And a reasonable profit. Make it an even eighty and we’ll call it square.”

  “For Christ’s sake.” He slapped more bills into her palm. “Greedy.”

  “Practical,” she corrected, and kissed him to close the deal. “I have some stuff in the storeroom that should work. Give me a minute.” Dora slipped the money into her pocket and went downstairs.

  “She made you pay for it.” Filled with admiration, Brent leaned back in his chair. “And made twenty-seven bucks and change on the deal. I thought she was kidding.”

  “I doubt Dora ever kids when it comes to money.” Jed stepped back, lighted a cigarette and studied the painting as if he could see through the splashes of red and blue. “She might have a soft heart, but she’s got a mind like a corporate raider.”

  “Hey!” Dora kicked at the door with her shoe. “Open up. My hands’re full.” When Jed opened the door, she came in loaded down with a drop cloth, a bottle and several rags. “You know, it might be better if we called in some expert. We could have it X-rayed or something.”

  “For now, we’re keeping this to ourselves.” He dropped the rags on the floor, then took the bottle. “What’s in here?”

  “A solution I use when some idiot has painted over stenciling.” She knelt on the floor to roll back the rug. “We need a very careful touch. Give me a hand with this.”

  Brent was already beside her, grinning at the way Jed scowled when Jed noted where his eyes had focused. He crouched and spread the cloth.

  “Trust me, I’ve done this before,” she explained. “Some philistine painted over this gorgeous old credenza so it would match the dining room color scheme. It took forever to get it back in shape, but it was worth it.” She sat back on her heels, blew the hair out of her eyes. “Want me to give it a try?”

  “I paid for it,” Jed reminded her. “It’s mine now.”

  “Just offering to help.” She handed him a rag. “I’d start on a corner if I were you. In case you mess up.”