Hidden Riches (8 page)

Of course, he remembered with what was almost a smile, he had gotten tipped pretty well at that. A few bucks, and in one memorable case a brightly colored tin filled with homemade Christmas cookies.

It hadn't been such a big deal, and it had been interesting to see how much more enthusiastically you were greeted when you knocked on someone's door carrying a box rather than a badge.

He could have crossed the whole experience off as a kind of experiment, but now he was standing out in the cold replacing a banister. The fact that he was enjoying it on some deep, elemental level made him feel like an idiot.

He was forced to work outside because Dora didn't have ten feet of unoccupied space anywhere in her building. Since her idea of tools had run to a single screwdriver and a ball peen hammer with a taped handle, he'd had to drop by Brent's to borrow some. Of course, Mary Pat had grilled him on everything from his eating habits to his love life while plying him with Snickerdoodles. It had taken him nearly an hour to escape with his sanity and a power saw.

The events of the day had taught Jed one important lesson: He would keep to himself from this point on, just as he had planned. When a man didn't like people to begin with, there was no rational reason to mix with them.

At least there was no one to bother him in the rear of the building, and he enjoyed working with his hands, liked the feel of wood under them. Once, he'd considered adding a small workshop onto the back of the house in Chestnut Hill. A place where he could have tinkered and built when the job gave him time. But that had been before
Donny Speck. Before the investigation that had become an obsession.

And, of course, it had been before Elaine had paid the price.

Before Jed could switch off his mind, he saw it again. The silver Mercedes sedan sitting sedately under the carport. He saw the dull gleam of pearls around Elaine's neck and remembered inanely that they had been a birthday gift from the first of her three husbands. He saw her eyes, the same brilliant blue as his own—perhaps the only family trait they had shared—lift and look curiously in his direction. He saw the faint annoyance in those eyes and saw himself racing across the manicured lawn, between the well-tended rosebushes that had smelled almost violently of summer.

The sun had glinted off the chrome, speared into his eyes. A bird high up in one of the trio of apple trees had trilled insanely.

Then the explosion had ripped through the air with a hot fist that had punched Jed back, sent him flying away toward the roses, where the petals were sheared off by the force of the blast.

The silver Mercedes was a ball of flame with a belch of black smoke stinking upward into the summer sky. He thought he heard her scream. It could have been the screech of rending metal. He hoped it had been. He hoped she'd felt nothing after her fingers had twisted the key in the ignition and triggered the bomb.

Swearing, Jed attacked the new banister with Brent's power sander. It was over. Elaine was dead and couldn't be brought back. Donny Speck was dead, thank Christ. And however much Jed might have wished it, he couldn't kill the man again.

And he was exactly where he wanted to be. Alone.

“Ho, ho, ho.”

Distracted by the hearty voice behind him, Jed switched off the sander. He turned, his eyes narrowed behind his
tinted aviator glasses as he studied, with equal parts annoyance and curiosity, the pink-cheeked Santa.

“You're a couple days early, aren't you?”

“Ho, ho, ho,” Santa said again, and patted his comfortable belly. “Looks like you could use a little Christmas cheer, son.”

Resigned to the interruption, Jed took out a cigarette. “Mr. Conroy, right?” He watched Santa's face fall. “It's the eyes,” Jed told him, and struck a match. They were Dora's eyes, Jed thought. Big and brown and full of secret jokes.

“Oh.” Quentin considered, then brightened. “I suppose a policeman is trained to see past disguises, the same way an actor is trained to assume them. I have, of course, played many upholders of law and order in my career.”

“Right.”

“In keeping with the season, I've been entertaining the children at Tidy Tots Day Care.” He stroked his silky white beard. “A small engagement, but a satisfying one, as it gives me the opportunity to play one of the world's most beloved characters to an audience of true believers. Children are actors, you see, and actors, children.”

Amused despite himself, Jed nodded. “I'll take your word for it.”

“I see Izzy's put you to work.”

“Izzy?”

“My darling daughter.” Quentin wiggled his eyebrows and winked. “Pretty thing, isn't she?”

“She's all right.”

“Cooks, too. Don't know where she gets it from. Not her mother.” Conspiratorily, Quentin leaned closer. “Not to complain, but boiling an egg is a culinary triumph for her. Of course, she has other talents.”

“I'm sure she does. Dora's inside.”

“Naturally. A dedicated businesswoman, my firstborn, not at all like the rest of us in that aspect—though, of course, she could have had a brilliant career on the stage.
Truly brilliant,” he said with some regret. “But she chose the world of retail. Genes are a peculiar thing, don't you think?”

“I haven't given it a lot of thought.” A lie, he thought. A basic one. He'd spent a great deal of his life thinking about inherited traits. “Listen, I need to finish this before I lose the light.”

“Why don't I give you a hand?” Quentin said with the unexpected streak of practicality that made him a good director as well as an actor.

Jed studied the padded belly, the red suit and flowing white cotton beard. “Don't you have elves to handle this kind of thing?”

Quentin laughed merrily, his booming baritone echoing on the windy air. “Everything's unionized these days, boy. Can't get the little buggers to do anything not in the contract.”

Jed's lips quirked as he turned on the sander again. “Once I finish here, you can help me put it up.”

“Delighted.”

A patient man, Quentin sat on the bottom step. He'd always liked to watch manual labor. “Watch” being the key word. Fortunately, a modest inheritance had kept him from starving while pursuing his acting career. He'd met his wife of thirty years during a production of
The Tempest,
he as Sebastian and she as Miranda. They had entered the brave new world of matrimony and had traveled from stage to stage, with considerable success, until settling in Philadelphia and founding the Liberty Players.

Now, at the comfortable age of fifty-three—forty-nine on his résumé—he had whipped the Liberty Players into a respected troupe who performed everything from Ibsen to Neil Simon at a steady profit.

Perhaps because his life had been easy, Quentin believed in happily ever after. He'd seen his younger daughter tidily wed, was watching his son staunchly carrying the family name onto the stage. That left only Dora.

Quentin had decided that this healthy young man with the unreadable eyes was the perfect solution. Smiling to himself, he pulled a flask out of Santa's pillow belly, took a quick nip. Then another.

“Well done, boy,” Quentin said half an hour later as he heaved himself up to pat the banister. “Smooth as a lady's cheek. And it was a pleasure to watch you work. How does one secure it in place?”

“Take a hold,” Jed suggested. “Carry your end up to the top.”

“This is fascinating.” The silver bells on Quentin's boots jangled as he climbed the stairs. “Not that I'm a complete novice, you see. I have assisted in the building of sets. We once constructed a rather spiffy Jolly Roger for a production of
Peter Pan.
” Quentin twirled his white moustache, and a look of menace gleamed in his eye. “I played Hook, naturally.”

“I'd have bet on it. Watch yourself.” Making use of Brent's electric drill, Jed secured banister to post. Throughout the procedure, Quentin kept up a running conversation. Jed realized it was as easy to tune him out as it was to tune out the background music in a dentist's office.

“As easy as that.” Back at the base of the steps, Quentin shook the rail and beamed. “Steady as a rock, too. I hope my Izzy appreciates you.” He gave Jed a friendly slap on the back. “Why don't you join us for Christmas dinner? My Ophelia puts on an impressive production.”

“I've got plans.”

“Ah, of course.” Quentin's easy smile didn't reveal his thoughts. He'd done his research on Jed Skimmerhorn much more thoroughly than anyone knew. He was well aware that Jed had no family other than a grandmother. “Perhaps New Year's, then. We always throw a party at the theater. The Liberty. You'd be welcome.”

“Thanks. I'll think about it.”

“In the meantime, I think we both deserve a little reward for our labors.”

He pulled out the flask again, winking at Jed as he poured whiskey into the silver top. He handed the makeshift cup to Jed.

Since he couldn't think of any reason not to, Jed tossed back the whiskey. He managed to choke back a gasp. The stuff was atomic.

“By God!” Quentin slapped Jed's back again. “I like seeing a man drink like a man. Have another. Here's to full white breasts that give a man's head sweet rest.”

Jed drank again and let the whiskey work up a nice buffer against the cold. “Are you sure Santa should be drinking?”

“Dear boy, how do you think we get through those long, cold nights at the North Pole?

“We'll be doing
South Pacific
next. Nice change, all those palm trees. We try to fit a couple of musicals into our schedule each year. Crowd pleasers. Have to have Izzy bring you by.”

He tipped more into Jed's cup and began a rousing rendition of “There Is Nothin' Like a Dame.”

It must be the whiskey, Jed decided. That would explain why he was sitting outside in the cold at dusk, finding nothing particularly odd about watching Santa belt out a show tune.

As he downed another capful, he heard the door open behind him and looked around lazily to see Dora standing at the top of the steps, her hands fisted on her hips.

Christ, she had great legs, he thought.

She spared Jed one withering glance. “I should have known you'd encourage him.”

“I was minding my own business.”

“Sitting on the back steps drinking whiskey with a man in a Santa suit? Some business.”

Because his tongue had thickened considerably, Jed enunciated with care. “I fixed the banister.”

“Bully for you.” Dora strode down the steps and caught her father's arm just as Quentin was executing a fancy spin. “Show's over.”

“Izzy!” Delighted, Quentin kissed her lustily and gave her a bear hug. “Your young man and I were seeing to carpentry repairs.”

“I can see that. You both look very busy at the moment. Let's go inside, Dad.” She took the flask and shoved it into Jed's hand. “I'll come back for you,” she said under her breath, and dragged her father upstairs.

“I was minding my own business,” Jed said again, and meticulously capped the flask before slipping it into his back pocket. By the time Dora returned, he was loading up Brent's tools with the care of a man packing fine china.

“So.” He slammed the trunk, leaned heavily against it. “Where's Santa?”

“Sleeping. We have one rule around here, Skimmerhorn. No drinking on the job.”

Jed straightened, then wisely braced himself against the car again. “I was finished.” Blearily, he gestured toward the banister. “See?”

“Yeah.” She sighed, shook her head. “I shouldn't blame you. He's irresistible. Come on, I'll take you upstairs.”

“I'm not drunk.”

“You're plowed, Skimmerhorn. Your body knows it, it just hasn't gotten through to your brain yet.”

“I'm not drunk,” he said again, but didn't object when she slipped an arm around his waist to lead him up the steps. “I made fifteen bucks and two dozen cookies on the deliveries.”

“That's nice.”

“Pretty good cookies.” He bumped into her as they passed through the doorway. “Christ, you smell good.”

“I bet you say that to all your landlords. Got your keys?”

“Yeah.” He fumbled for them, gave up and leaned against the wall. Served him right, he thought, for drinking that hard with only a few Snickerdoodles in his system.

Sighing, Dora slid her hand into his front pocket. She encountered a hard thigh and loose change.

“Try the other one,” he suggested.

She looked up, caught the easy and surprisingly charming smile. “Nope. If you enjoyed that, you're not as drunk as I thought. Fish them out yourself.”

“I told you I wasn't drunk.” He found them, then wondered how he was supposed to fit the key into the lock when the floor was weaving. Dora guided his hand. “Thanks.”

“It's the least I can do. Can you get yourself to bed?”

He braced a hand on the doorjamb. “Let's get this straight, Conroy. I don't want to sleep with you.”

“Well, that certainly puts me in my place.”

“You got complication all over you, baby. Those big, brown eyes and that tough little body. I just want to be alone.”

“I guess that kills any hope I've been harboring that I'll bear your children. But don't worry, I'll get over it.” She steered him toward the couch, shoved him down, then propped up his feet.

“I don't want you,” he told her as she pried off his boots. “I don't want anyone.”

“Okay.” She looked around for a blanket, and settled on a couple of towels he'd hung over his bench press. “Here you go, nice and cozy.” She tucked them neatly around him. He looked awfully cute, she thought, all drunk and surly and heavy-eyed. Going with impulse, she leaned over and kissed the end of his nose.

“Go to sleep, Skimmerhorn. You're going to feel like hell tomorrow.”