by Nora Roberts
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 pushe
d 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.”
“I’m not going to mess up.” But after he knelt beside her, he did indeed start on a corner. He dampened the rag and, working in slow, delicate circles, removed the end of the signature.
“Bye-bye, Billingsly,” Dora murmured.
“Put a lid on it, Conroy.” He dampened the rag again then gently removed the stark white paint, the primer. “Something’s under here.”
“You’re kidding.” Excitement bubbled into her voice as she leaned closer. “What is it? I can’t see.” She tried to crane her neck over his shoulder and got an elbow in the ribs for her trouble. “Damn, Skimmerhorn, I just want a look.”
“Back off.” His muscles tensed as he delicately removed more of the primer. “Pay dirt,” he murmured. “Son of a bitch.”
“What?” Refusing to be put off, Dora nudged him until she could crouch close to the corner. “Monet.” She whispered the name, as though in church. “Claude Monet. Oh my God, I bought a Monet for fifty-two dollars and seventy-five cents.”
“I bought a Monet,” Jed reminded her. “For eighty.”
“Children.” Brent laid a hand on each of their backs. “I’m not much of an art buff, but even I know who this guy is, and I don’t think anybody would have painted that abstract crap over the real thing.”
“Unless it was being smuggled,” Jed finished.
“Exactly. I’ll run a check, see if there’ve been any art thefts in the last few months that included our friend here.”
“It might have been in a private collection.” Dora let her fingers hover over Monet’s signature, but didn’t touch. “Don’t take off any more, Jed. You could damage it.”
She was right. Jed stemmed his impatience and set the rag aside. “I know somebody who does some restoration work. She could probably handle this, and she’d keep quiet about it.”
“The old girlfriend?” Dora asked.
“She isn’t old.” In an unconscious move he skimmed a hand over Dora’s hair, resting his fingers on the nape of her neck as he looked over at Brent.
“You’re going to have to take this to Goldman.”
“That’s the next step.”
Jed looked down at the artist’s signature against a deep misty green. “I shouldn’t ask you, but I’m going to.”
“How much time do you want?” Brent asked, anticipating him.
“Time enough to check out this auction house in Virginia and find the trail.” He kept his voice even.
Brent nodded and picked up his coat. “I’ve got enough on my plate checking out DiCarlo. NYPD reports that he hasn’t been seen at his apartment for a few days. Between that and trying to keep Philadelphia safe for women and children, I could let certain details slip my mind. You’d be doing me a favor if you could pull together what a china statue of a dog and a painting have in common. Keep in touch.”
“I will.”
“And watch your back. See you, Dora.”
“Bye, Brent.” She stayed where she was a moment. “How high a limb did he just go out on for you?”
“High enough.”
“Then we’d better be sure we can pull a net under him.”
“We?” He grabbed her hand as she got to her feet. “I don’t remember anything about we.”
“Then your memory’s faulty. Why don’t you call your friend the artist, then book us a flight for Virginia? I’ll be packed in ten minutes.”
“There’s not a woman alive who can pack for a trip in ten minutes.”
“Skimmerhorn.” She spoke over her shoulder as she headed for the bedroom. “I was born on the road. Nobody packs faster than an actor ducking an opening-night bomb.”
“I don’t want you with me. It could be dangerous.”
“Fine, I’ll book my own flight.”
“Goddamn, you’re a pain in the ass.”
“So I’ve been told. Oh, and make sure it’s first-class, will you? I never travel coach.”
Winesap knocked lightly on Finley’s office door. He knew his employer had just completed a forty-five-minute conference call, and wasn’t sure of his mood. Gingerly, he poked his head inside. Finley was standing at the window, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Sir?”
“Abel. It’s a fine day, isn’t it? A fine day.”
The trepidation curdling Winesap’s stomach smoothed out like lake water. “Yes, sir, it is.”
“I’m a fortunate man, Abel. Of course, I’ve made my own fortune, which makes it all the sweeter. How many of those people down there enjoy their work, do you suppose? How many go home at the end of the business day fulfilled? Yes, Abel, I am a fortunate man.” He turned back, his face wreathed in smiles. “And what can I do for you?”
“I have a dossier on Isadora Conroy.”
“Excellent work. Excellent.” He beckoned Winesap forward. “You are of great value to me, Abel.” As he reached for the file, Finley squeezed Winesap’s bony shoulder with his free hand. “Of great
