When Jed jogged to the base of the steps leading up to his apartment, he’d sweated out most of the physical consequences of a half bottle of whiskey. One of the reasons he’d chosen this location was the gym around the corner. He’d spent a very satisfying ninety minutes that morning lifting weights, punching the hell out of the heavy bag and burning away most of his morning-after headache in the steam room.
Now, feeling almost human, he craved a pot of black coffee and one of the microwave breakfasts he’d loaded into his freezer. He pulled his key out of the pocket of his sweats and let himself into the hallway. He heard the music immediately. Not Christmas carols, thankfully, but the rich-throated wail of gospel according to Aretha Franklin.
At least his landlord’s taste in music wouldn’t irritate him, he mused, and would have turned directly into his own rooms except he’d noted her open door.
An even trade, Jed figured, and, dipping his hands into his pockets, wandered over. He knew he’d been deliberately rude the night before. And because it had been deliberate, he saw no reason to apologize. Still, he thought it wise to make some sort of cautious peace with the woman who owned his building.
He nudged the door open a bit wider, and stared.
Like his, her apartment was spacious, high ceilinged and full of light from a trio of front windows. That was where the similarity ended.
Even after growing up in a house adorned with possessions, he was amazed. He’d never seen so much stuff crammed into one single space before. Glass shelves covered one wall and were loaded with old bottles, tins, figurines, painted boxes and various knickknacks that were beyond his power to recognize. There were a number of tables, and each of them was topped by more glassware and china. A brightly floral couch was loaded with colored pillows that picked up the faded tones of a large area rug. A Multan, he recognized. There’d been a similar rug in his family’s front parlor for as long as he could remember.
To complement the season, there was a tree by the window, every branch laden with colored balls and lights. A wooden sleigh overflowed with pinecones. A ceramic snowman with a top hat grinned back at him.
It should have been crowded, Jed thought. It certainly should have been messy. But somehow it was neither. Instead he had the impression of having opened some magic treasure chest.
In the midst of it all was his landlord. She wore a scarlet suit with a short straight skirt and a snugly fitted jacket. While her back was to him, he pursed his lips and wondered what sort of mood he’d been in the evening before not to have noticed that nifty little body.
Under Aretha’s rich tones, he heard Dora muttering to herself. Jed leaned against the doorjamb as she propped the painting she’d been holding on the sofa and turned. To her credit, she managed to muffle most of the squeal when she spotted him.
“Your door was open,” he told her.
“Yeah.” Then, because it wasn’t in her nature to be monosyllabic like her tenant, she shrugged. “I’ve been recirculating some inventory this morning—from up here to downstairs.” She brushed at her bangs. “Is there a problem, Mr. Skimmerhorn? Leaky plumbing? Mice?”
“Not so I’ve noticed.”
“Fine.” She crossed the room and moved out of his view until he shifted inside the door. She stood beside a pedestal dining room table pouring what smelled gloriously like strong coffee from a china pot into a delicate matching cup. Dora set the pot back down and lifted a brow. Her unsmiling lips were as boldly red as her suit. “Is there something you need?”
“Some of that wouldn’t hurt.” He nodded toward the pot.
So now he wanted to be neighborly, Dora thought. Saying nothing, she went to a curved glass cabinet and took out another cup and saucer. “Cream? Sugar?”
“No.”
When he didn’t come any farther into the room, she took the coffee to him. He smelled like soap, she realized. Appealingly so. But her father had been right about the eyes. They were hard and inscrutable.
“Thanks.” He downed the contents of the fragile cup in two swallows and handed it back. His mother had had the same china, he recalled. And had broken several pieces heaving them at servants. “The old—your father,” he corrected, “said it was okay for me to set up my equipment next door. But since he’s not in charge I figured I should check with you.”
“Equipment?” Dora set his empty cup back on the table and picked up her own. “What sort?”
“A bench press, some weights.”
“Oh.” Instinctively, she took her gaze over his arms, his chest. “I don’t think that’s a problem—unless you do a lot of thudding when the shop’s open.”
“I’ll watch the thudding.” He looked back at the painting, studied it for a moment. Again, bold, he thought, like her color scheme, like the punch-in-the-gut scent she wore. “You know, that’s upside down.”
Her smile came quickly, brilliantly. She had indeed set it on the sofa the way it had been displayed at auction. “I think so, too. I’m going to hang it the other way.”
To demonstrate, she went over and flipped it. Jed narrowed his eyes. “That’s right side up,” he agreed. “It’s still ugly, but it’s right side up.”
“The appreciation of art is as individual as art itself.”
“If you say so. Thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re welcome. Oh, Skimmerhorn?”
He stopped, glanced back over his shoulder. The faint glint of impatience in his eyes intrigued her more than any friendly smile would have.
“If you’re thinking of redecorating or sprucing up your new place, come on down to the shop. Dora’s Parlor has something for everybody.”
“I don’t need anything. Thanks for the coffee.”
Dora was still smiling when she heard his door close. “Wrong, Skimmerhorn,” she murmured. “Everybody needs something.”
Cooling his heels in a dusty office and listening to the Beach Boys harmonize on “Little St. Nick” wasn’t how Anthony DiCarlo had pictured spending this morning. He wanted answers, and he wanted them now.
More to the point, Finley wanted answers, and wanted them yesterday. DiCarlo tugged on his silk tie. He didn’t have answers yet, but he would. The phone call from Los Angeles the day before had been crystal clear. Find the merchandise, within twenty-four hours, or pay the consequences.
DiCarlo had no intention of discovering what those consequences were.
He looked up at the big white-faced clock overhead and watched the minute hand click from 9:04 to 9:05. He had less than fifteen hours left. His palms were sweaty.
Through the wide glass panel stenciled with an overweight Santa and his industrious elves, he could see more than a dozen shipping clerks busily stamping and hauling.
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.
The woman studied a highly polished brass snail. “My niece and her husband just moved into their first house. I’ve got them both individual gifts for Christmas, but I’d like to get them something for the house as well. Sharon, my niece, shops here quite a lot.”
“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?”
“Of course. This will just take a few minutes. Why don’t you help yourself to some coffee while you wait?” Dora gestured to the table that was always set with tea and coffeepots and trays of pretty cookies before she carried both doorstops back to the counter. “Christmas shopping, Skimmerhorn?” she asked as she passed him.
“I need a—what do you call it? Hostess thing.”
“Browse around. I’ll be right with you.”
Jed wasn’t completely sure what he was browsing around in. The packed apartment was only a small taste of the amazing array of merchandise offered in Dora’s Parlor.
There were delicate figurines that made him feel big and awkward, the way he’d once felt in his mother’s sitting room. Still, there was no sense of the formal or untouchable here. Bottles of varying sizes and colors caught the glitter of sunlight and begged to be handled. There were signs advertising everything from stomach pills to boot polish. Tin soldiers arranged in battle lines fought beside old war posters.
He wandered through a doorway and found the next room equally packed. Teddy bears and teapots. Cuckoo clocks and corkscrews. A junk shop, he mused. People might stick a fancy name on it, like “curio shop,” but what it was was junk.
Idly, he picked up a small enameled box decorated with painted roses. Mary Pat would probably like this, he decided.
“Well, Skimmerhorn, you surprise me.” Framed by the doorway, Dora smiled. She gestured toward the box he held as she walked to him. “You show excellent taste. That’s a lovely piece.”
“You could probably put bobby pins or rings into it, right?”
“You probably could. Originally it was used to hold patches. The well-to-do wore them in the eighteenth century, at first to cover smallpox scars, and then just for fashion. That particular one is a Staffordshire, circa 1770.” She looked up from the box, and there was a laugh in her eyes. “It goes for twenty-five hundred.”
“This?” It didn’t fill the cup of his palm.
“Well, it is a George the Third.”
“Yeah, right.” He put it back on the table with the same care he would have used on an explosive device. The fact that he could afford it didn’t make it any less intimidating. “Not quite what I had in mind.”
“That’s no problem. We have something for everyone’s mind. A hostess gift, you said?”
He grunted and scanned the room. Now he was afraid to touch anything. He was back again, painfully back in childhood, in the front parlor of the Skimmerhorn house.
Don’t touch, Jedidiah. You’re so clumsy. You don’t appreciate anything.
He blocked off the memory with its accompanying sensory illusion of the mingled scents of Chanel and sherry.
He didn’t quite block off the scowl. “Maybe I should just pick up some flowers.”
“That’s nice, too. Of course, they don’t last.” Dora was enjoying his look of pure masculine discomfort. “A bottle of wine’s acceptable as well. Not very innovative, but acceptable. Why don’t you tell me a little about our hostess?”
“Why?”
Dora’s smile widened at the suspicion in his voice. “So that I can get a picture of her and help you select something. Is she the athletic, outdoors type, or a quiet homebody who bakes her own bread?”
Maybe she wasn’t trying to make him feel stupid, Jed thought, but she was succeeding just the same. “Look, she’s my partner—ex-partner’s wife. She’s a trauma nurse. She’s got a couple of kids and likes to read books.”
“What sort of books?”
“I don’t know.” Why the hell hadn’t he just gone by the florist?
“All right, then.” Taking pity on him, she patted his arm. “It sounds to me as though we have a busy, dedicated woman. A compassionate and a romantic one. A hostess gift,” she mused, tapping her finger to her lip. “It shouldn’t be too personal. Something for the house.” With a nod, she turned away and walked to a corner that was fashioned to resemble an old-fashioned pantry. “I think this would do nicely.” Dora took down a footed wooden jar trimmed in brass.
Jed frowned over it. His parents hadn’t gone for novelty antiques. “What’s it—like for cookies?”
“How clever of you.” Dora beamed at him. “It’s a biscuit jar. Victorian. This one’s oak from about 1870. A practical and ornamental gift, and at forty dollars, it won’t cost you more than a dozen long-stem roses or a good French wine.”
“Okay. I guess she’d get a kick out of it.”
“See? That wasn’t so painful. Can I help you with anything else? A last-minute Christmas gift?”
“No, that’s it.” He followed her back into the main room. The place smelled—cozy, he decided. Like apples. There was music playing softly. He recognized a movement from The Nutcracker and was surprised that he suddenly felt relaxed. “Where do you get all this stuff?”
“Oh, here and there,” she said over her shoulder. “Auctions, flea markets, estate sales.”
“And you actually make a living out of this.”
Amused, she took a box from behind the counter and unfolded it. “People collect, Skimmerhorn. Often they don’t even realize it. Didn’t you ever have marbles as a boy, or comic books, baseball cards?”
“Sure.” He’d had to hide them, but he’d had them.
She lined the box with tissue, working quickly, competently. “And didn’t you ever trade your cards?” She glanced up to find him staring down at her hands.
“Sure I did,” he murmured. His gaze lifted, locked on hers. He’d felt something watching her work that had gone straight to the gut like a hot arrow. “Just like you played with dolls.”
“Actually, I didn’t” She couldn’t quite manage a smile. For a moment there, he’d looked as though he could’ve taken her in one quick bite. “I never liked them much. I preferred imaginary playmates, because you could change them into any character you wanted at the time.” With more care than necessary she fit the lid with its gold-embossed DORA’S PARLOR onto the box. “What I was getting at is that most children collect and trade. Some people never grow out of it. Shall I gift-wrap this for you? There’s no extra charge.”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
He shifted, then moved down the counter. Not that he was interested in what was displayed there, but to give himself some breathing room. The sexual tug he’d felt wasn’t new, but it was the first time he’d experienced it because a woman had pretty hands. And huge brown eyes, he added. Then there was that smile, he thought. She always looked as though she was laughing at some secret joke.
Obviously he’d been celibate too long if he was attracted to a woman who laughed at him.
To pass the time he picked up a baseball-shaped item with a hole in the top. The words “Mountain Dew” were painted on the side. Curious, Jed turned it over in his hand. He didn’t think it could be some sort of odd drinking cup for the soft drink.
“Interesting, isn’t it?” Dora set the gaily wrapped package in front of him.
“I was wondering what it was.”
“A match striker.” She put her hands over his on the bowl and guided his thumb to the rough edge. “You put the matches in the top, then light them on the side. Mountain Dew was a whiskey. This is from the late nineteenth century.” She caught the glimmer of a smile on his face. “Do you like it?”
“It’s different.”
“I’m very fond of the different.” She kept her hands warm over his for another moment. “Take it. Consider it a housewarming gift.”
The inexplicable charm the object had for him dimmed considerably. “Hey, I don’t think—”
“It’s not valuable, monetarily. A neighborly gesture, Skimmerhorn. Don’t be snotty.”
“Well, when you’re so sweet about it.”
She laughed then and gave his hand a quick squeeze. “I hope your friend likes her gift.” She walked away then to help another customer, but she watched out of the corner of her eye as Jed left the shop.
An unusual man, she mused. And, of course, the unusual was her stock-in-trade.
DiCarlo raced along the Van Wyck toward the airport, dialing his car phone with one hand and steering with the other. “DiCarlo,” he stated, flipping the phone to speaker. “Get me Mr. Finley.” With his nerves bubbling, he checked his watch. He’d make it, he assured himself. He had to make it.
“Mr. DiCarlo.” Finley’s voice filled the car. “You have good news, I assume.”
“I tracked it all down, Mr. Finley.” DiCarlo forced his words into a calm, businesslike tone. “I found out just what happened. Some idiot clerk at Premium switched the shipments. Sent ours to Virginia. I’ll have it straightened out in no time.”
“I see.” There was a long pause. DiCarlo’s bowels turned to ice water. “And what is your definition of ‘no time’?”
“Mr. Finley, I’m on my way to the airport right now. I’ve got a flight booked into Dulles and a rental car waiting. I’ll be in Front Royal before five east coast time. I have the name and address where the shipment was misdirected.” His voice weakened. “I’m handling all of this at my own expense, Mr. Finley.”
“That’s wise of you, Mr. DiCarlo, as I don’t wish for your mistake to cost me more than it already has.”
“No, sir. And you have my word that this mistake will be corrected expediently.”
“Very well. I’ll expect you to contact me when you reach your destination. Naturally, I’ll want the clerk fired.”
“Naturally.”
“And, Mr. DiCarlo? You do know how important that merchandise is to me, don’t you? You will use any means necessary to recover it. Any means at all.”
“Understood.” When the connection broke, DiCarlo smiled grimly. The way this mess was screwing up his holiday, he was more than ready to use any means. Any means at all.