by Nora Roberts
“Who isn’t?” Lea’s mind worked fast. Mary Pat would be the perfect source to pump about Jed. “So, you and Jed are friends.”
“For years.” Mary Pat examined a collection of Goss china and looked for an opening to casually grill Lea about her sister. “He and Brent were partners before Jed made captain, were on the same squad for six years. Your sister has a charming place here. How long has she been in business?”
“Since the first grade,” Lea said dryly. “She always liked to wheel and deal. But officially, for about three years.”
A hard-edged businesswoman? Mary Pat wondered. A profit hound? “She certainly has some beautiful things.” She edged over a price tag on a Deco cocktail shaker, let out a soundless whistle. “I hope she hasn’t had any more trouble since the break-in.”
“No, thank God.” Lea walked over to the silver coffee service and poured two cups. “Cream, right? No sugar?”
“Mmmm. Thanks.”
“We’re awfully grateful Jed was here. It eases the mind knowing that Dora’s got a policeman right across the hall.”
“And one of the best, too. Brent thinks if Jed pulls out of this and comes back on the job he could be chief in another ten years.”
“Really?” Guiltily thinking of diets, Lea added a miserly half teaspoon of sugar to her own cup.
Mary Pat turned back the topic of conversation.
“I was surprised when he moved in here. Your sister’s quite the entrepreneur—a shop owner, a landlord.”
“Oh, Dora loves to run things.”
Pushy, Mary Pat decided. Arrogant. She was glad, for Jed’s sake, that she’d come by to snoop. She turned when she heard voices drifting in through the doorway.
“I think I know where to find just what you’re looking for, Mrs. Hendershot.” Dora helped an elderly woman leaning heavily on a birchwood cane through the shop.
“You’ll call me,” she demanded in a voice that boomed shockingly from the frail body. “My great-granddaughter’s wedding is in two months. Young people, always hurrying.”
“Don’t worry.” Dora held the woman’s arm as they came to the door and, despite the thin protection of her silk suit, walked her out to the classic DeSoto waiting at the curb. “We’re going to find her the perfect gift.”
“Don’t disappoint me.” Mrs. Hendershot propped her cane on the passenger seat as she took the wheel. “Get inside, girl, you’ll catch your death.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Dora made it to the curb before Mrs. Hendershot roared off into traffic. Dora hurried back inside, rubbing her chilled hands. “If she had the pole position at Indy, nobody would beat her.”
“A woman that age shouldn’t be driving,” Lea stated, and poured her sister a cup of coffee.
“Why not? She handles that old tank like a pro. Good morning,” she said to Mary Pat. “Is Lea helping you?”
Mary Pat had had ample time to study her quarry. She approved, with a tinge of envy, the stylishness of Dora’s floral jacket, and the straight, snug skirt the color of apricots. As a woman who stood on her feet for hours on end, she marveled at Dora’s choice of high-heeled pumps, and wondered if the sapphire clusters at her ears were real or paste.
“I came in looking for a birthday gift. Lea and I are neighbors.”
“This is Mary Pat Chapman,” Lea told her.
All of Mary Pat’s preformed opinions shattered when Dora smiled and took her hand. There was instant warmth, quick friendliness. “I’m so glad you came by. I was hoping I’d get a chance to meet you. Brent was terrific the other night, keeping me calm. By the way, did you like the biscuit barrel?”
“Yes, I did.” Mary Pat relaxed. “In fact, I liked it so much I came by to look for a gift for my mother.” She hesitated, then set her cup down. “That’s only part of the reason I came in. Mostly I’m here to check you out.”
Dora’s eyes laughed over the rim of her cup. “Who could blame you? Well, while you’re checking me out, why don’t we find Mom a present? Did you have anything in mind?”
“Not a thing. Have you ever been married?”
Dora almost giggled at the unambiguous interrogation. “Nope. I was almost engaged once. Remember Scott, Lea?”
“Unfortunately.”
“He moved to LA, and our romance faded quietly away. How about something in a perfume bottle? We have several nice pieces in crystal, porcelain, blown glass.”
“Maybe. She does have a vanity table. Oh, this one’s lovely.” She picked up a heart-shaped bottle with cut flowers decorating both front and back. “You consider your shop successful? Ah, financially?”
Dora grinned. “I’m not interested in a man’s bank account, even one as nicely padded as Jed’s. I’m much more interested in his body. That bottle runs seventy-five, but if you like it, I’ll give you ten percent off. An introductory special.”
“Sold.” Mary Pat grinned back. “He is easy on the eyes, isn’t he?”
“Very. Would you like this gift-wrapped?”
“Yeah.” Mary Pat followed Dora to the counter. “I’m not usually so pushy, but Jed’s like family.”
“I understand. If I hadn’t, I’d have been pushy back.”
More than pleased with the results of her visit, Mary Pat laughed. “Good. You know, Dora, all Jed needs is—” She broke off when the man in question came through from the storeroom.
“Conroy, do you want these—” He stopped, narrowed his eyes. “MP.”
“Hey.” Her smile was quick and a little forced. “Fancy meeting you here.”
He knew her well, too well. He hooked his thumbs in his pockets with forced casualness. “What are you doing?”
“I’m buying a present.” She took out her credit card to prove it. “For my mother.”
“And I certainly hope she likes it.” With her back to Jed, Dora sent Mary Pat a slow wink. “She has thirty days to exchange it.” She turned toward Jed. “Did you want something?”
Annoyance tightened his mouth. “Do you want these damn shelves fixed or adjustable?”
“You can make them adjustable? Terrific. Jed’s been such a help around here.” Beaming, Dora turned to Mary Pat. “I don’t know what I did without him.”
“There’s nothing like having a handyman around,” Mary Pat agreed. “Jed helped Brent finish off the family room last year. You’ll have to see it sometime.”
“You’re about as subtle as nuclear waste, Mary Pat.” Jed scowled at both of them and slammed the storeroom door behind him.
“He’s such a friendly, low-key sort of guy,” Dora stated.
“That’s why we love him.”
Mary Pat left a few minutes later, satisfied with her morning’s work.
The woman was asking for trouble, Jed thought grimly as he sent the power saw ripping through a board. She figured she could handle herself. It was tempting to prove her wrong. He would have done it, too, he decided, if she hadn’t been so close to the truth on one single point.
He wasn’t scared of her. Damned if he was. But . . . He set the saw aside and took out a cigarette. She sure as hell made him nervous.
He liked listening to her laugh. He’d even gotten a strange sort of kick at the way she’d talked back to the movie screen the evening before in the darkened theater. She didn’t have any problem with conversation, he mused. Hell, he imagined he could sit alone with her for an hour without saying a word and there wouldn’t be any holes in the conversation.
He’d be stupid not to admit he liked the way she looked. Big eyes and short skirts. She wasn’t any wilty pushover either. He admired the way she’d taken on the accountant, her fists raised and fire in her eye.
Jed caught himself grinning and crushed the cigarette under his boot.
He wasn’t going to let her get to him. He didn’t need the headache. Didn’t want the complication. Didn’t care for the feeling of being sucked into a situation by his hormones.
Maybe he’d spent some time—too much time—imagining peeling Isadora Conroy
out of one of those trim suits she wore. That didn’t mean he was going to act on it.
After all, he mused, he’d been raised to be suspicious, cynical and aloof, in the best Skimmerhorn tradition. His years on the force had only heightened the tendency. As long as he didn’t trust the lady, he could keep his hands to himself.
Ten minutes of standing out in the cold cooled his blood. Jed gathered up lumber and headed back inside.
She was still there, sitting at her desk. Before he could come up with an appropriately sarcastic comment, he saw her face. Her cheeks were dead white, her eyes dark and gleaming.
“Bad news?” he said, and carefully deleted any interest from his voice. When she didn’t answer, he set the lumber aside. “Dora?” He stepped in front of the desk, said her name again.
She lifted her face. One of the tears swimming in her eyes spilled over and slipped down her cheek. He’d seen hundreds of women cry, some with callous expertise, some with the abandon of wild grief. He couldn’t remember any affecting him more than that single, silent tear.
She blinked, spilling another, and with a strangled sound pushed back from the desk. His intellect ordered him to let her go, but he caught up to her in two strides. Firmly, he turned her around until she faced him.
“What is it? Is it your father?”
Battling fiercely for control, she shook her head. She wanted to lay her head on Jed’s shoulder. Perhaps because he offered it, she refused.
“Sit down.” Though she held herself stiff, he guided her back to her seat. “Do you want me to get your sister?”
“No.” Dora pressed her lips together, took a deep breath. “Go away.”
He’d have been relieved to oblige her, but he already had enough guilt on his shoulders. He went into the tiny adjoining bath and poured a glass of tepid water into a Dixie cup. “Here. Drink this. Then sit back, close your eyes and take some deep breaths.”
“What’s that? Skimmerhorn’s all-purpose cure?”
Uneasy with the urge to stroke and soothe, he jammed his hands into his pockets. “Something like that.”
Since her throat felt raw, she drank the water.
With her eyes closed, Jed thought she looked fragile, not at all like the vital woman who’d tweaked his libido only moments before. He sat on the edge of her desk and waited.
“Okay,” she said after a moment. “It works.” She sighed, opened her eyes again. “Thanks.”
“What set you off?”
“The call.” She sniffled, then reached in a desk drawer for a pack of tissues. “I met this other dealer on a buying trip right before Christmas. I just called down there to see if he had this piece my last customer wanted.” She had to take another long breath. “He’s dead. He was killed during a burglary last week.”
“I’m sorry.” They were two words Jed hated because they always seemed useless.
“I only met him once. I outbid him for a couple of lots. Lea and I went by his shop after the auction and he made hot chocolate.” Her voice broke and she took a moment to strengthen it. “That was his son on the phone. He was killed the next night.”
“Did they catch the guy?”
“No.” She looked back at Jed. Both of them were relieved that her eyes were dry again. “I don’t know any of the details. I didn’t want to ask. How do you handle it?” she demanded, gripping Jed’s hand with an urgency that surprised them both. “How do you handle being close to the horrible day in and day out?”
“You don’t look at things the same way on the job as you do as a civilian. You can’t.”
“Did you leave because you stopped looking at things like a cop?”
“That’s part of it.” He pulled his hand away, distanced himself.
“I don’t think that’s a good reason.”
“I did.”
“Interesting choice of tense, Skimmerhorn.” She rose, wishing her stomach wasn’t still so shaky. “You should have said ‘I do’—unless you’ve changed your mind. We could go into that, but I’m not feeling up to a debate right now. I’ve got to go talk to Lea.”
Gregg and Renee Demosky arrived home to their Baltimore split-level at 6 P.M. sharp. They were, as usual, bickering. They had sniped at each other all during the twenty-minute drive from Gregg’s dental practice, where Renee was his dental hygienist, and continued the bout in the garage, where Gregg parked their bronze BMW beside their spiffy Toyota Supra, and as they reached the door to the house.
“We could have gone out to dinner,” Renee said as she slammed open the front door. She was a statuesque blonde just beginning to thicken in the middle.
“Once in a while I’d like to see people, when they don’t have their mouths wide open,” she complained. “We’re in a rut, Gregg.”
“I like being in a rut,” he muttered. “Come on, Renee, ease off. All I want is to relax in my own home. Is that too much to ask?”
“And I want to have a nice night out, maybe down at the Inner Harbor.” Renee yanked open the refrigerator and took out a tuna casserole. “But no, I come home, after standing on my feet all day flossing other people’s teeth, and have to fix dinner.”
Gregg headed straight for the scotch in the living room.
“Don’t you walk away from me when I’m talking to you.” Renee shoved the casserole into the oven and hurried out on his heels.
She stopped, as her husband already had, to stare at the destruction of their living room. What wasn’t missing was broken or jumbled in the center of the room, where the Persian rug had been. The entertainment corner across from the conversation pit was depressingly empty of their twenty-five-inch stereo TV, VCR and multiple-CD player.
“Oh, Gregg!” Resentments were forgotten as Renee grabbed her husband. “We’ve been robbed.”
“Don’t cry, baby. I’ll take care of everything. Go in the kitchen and call the police.”
“All our things. All our pretty things.”
“Just things.” He gathered her close and kissed the top of her head. “We can get more things. We’ve still got each other.”
“Oh.” Renee blinked tears out of her eyes as she looked up at him. “Do you mean that?”
“Sure I do.” He ran an unsteady hand over her hair. “And after the cops finish up, and we figure out what the hell happened, we’re going out. Just you and me.”
DiCarlo was whistling along with Tina Turner on his car stereo. He had the mermaid bookends as well as $600 in cash the Demoskys had hidden in the freezer, a fine ruby-and-diamond ring Renee had left carelessly on her dresser and the profit he’d made by fencing all the electronic equipment to an old connection of his in Columbia, Maryland.
All in all, he considered it an excellent day. Making it look like a random burglary had helped pay his traveling expenses. He was going to treat himself to a first-class hotel after he’d picked up the parrot in Virginia.
That would leave only another quick trip to Philly for the painting.
In another day or two, Finley would have to admit just how reliable and how creative Anthony DiCarlo could be. And, DiCarlo mused, he was bound to earn a substantial reward for services rendered.
CHAPTER
TEN
A well-mannered fire simmered in the grate of the Adam fireplace. It threw pretty, dancing lights over the Oriental carpet and silk-papered walls. A distinguished vermouth picked up the subtle lighting and sparkled in the heavy, faceted Baccarat glass. Van Cliburn played an elegant Chopin étude. Tasteful hors d’oeuvres had been offered on Georgian silver by the aged and discreet butler.
It was exactly the sort of room Jed had skulked through during his childhood, with the carefully placed bric-a-brac whispering of old money. But there was a subtle difference here. In this room, in this house, he had known some transient happiness. In this room he hadn’t been threatened or berated or ignored.
Yet it still reminded him, painfully, of the boy he had been.
Jed rose from the miserably uncomfortable Louis XIV side chair to p
ace his grandmother’s front parlor.
In evening clothes he looked the part of the Bester-Skimmerhorn heir. It was only his eyes, as he stared down at the flickering
