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.”
“Go away,” he muttered, closed his eyes and tuned out.
CHAPTER
SIX
She was right. He felt terrible. The last thing Jed wanted was someone pounding on his door while he was trying to drown himself in the shower. Cursing, he twisted off the taps, wrapped a towel around his waist and dripped his way to the door. He yanked it open.
“What the hell do you want?”
“Good morning, Skimmerhorn.” Dora breezed in with a wicker basket over her arm. “I see you’re your usual bright and cheerful self.”
She was wearing some sort of short-skirted outfit in vivid blues and gold that made his eyes throb. “Get lost.”
“My, we are feeling nasty this morning.” Unoffended, she unpacked the basket. Inside was a red plaid thermos, a mason jar filled with some sort of vile-looking orange liquid and a snowy-white napkin folded around two flaky croissants. “Since my father instigated this little affair, I thought I should see to your welfare this morning. We’ll need a glass, a cup and saucer, a plate.” When he didn’t move, she tilted her head. “Fine, I’ll get them. Why don’t you go put some clothes on? You made it clear that you’re not interested in me on a physical level, and the sight of your damp, half-naked body might send me into an unbridled sexual frenzy.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched as he ground his teeth. “Cute, Conroy. Real cute.” But he turned and strode off into the bedroom. When he came back wearing gray sweats torn at the knee, she’d set a neat breakfast on his picnic table.
“Had any aspirin yet?”
“I was working on it.”
“These first, then.” She offered him three pills. “Take them with this. Just gulp it down.”
He scowled at the sickly orange liquid she’d poured into a tumbler. “What the hell is it?”
“Salvation. Trust me.”
Because he doubted he could feel much worse, he swallowed the pills with two big gulps of Dora’s remedy. “Christ. It tastes like embalming fluid.”
“Oh, I imagine it’s the same principle. Still, I can guarantee the results. Dad swears by it, and believe me, he’s the expert. Try the coffee—it won’t do much for the hangover, but you’ll be fully awake to enjoy it.”
Because his eyes were threatening to fall out, he pressed the heels of his hands against them. “What was in that flask?”
“Quentin Conroy’s secret weapon. He has a still in the basement where he experiments like a mad scientist. Dad likes to drink.”
“Now there’s news.”
“I know I should disapprove, but it’s hard to. He doesn’t hurt anyone. I’m not even sure he hurts himself.” She broke off a corner of one of the croissants and nibbled. “He doesn’t get surly or arrogant or nasty with it. He’d never consider getting behind the wheel of a car—or operating heavy machinery.” She shrugged. “Some men hunt or collect stamps. Dad drinks. Feeling better?”
“I’ll live.”
“That’s fine, then. I’ve got to go open up. You’d be amazed at how many people shop on Christmas Eve.” She started out, paused with her hand on the knob. “Oh, and the banister looks good. Thanks. Let me know when you feel up to hammering together some shelves. And don’t worry.” She flashed him a smile. “I don’t want to sleep with you either.”
Dora closed the door quietly and hummed her way down the hall.
DiCarlo was feeling fine. His luck was back; the rented Porsche was tearing up 95. Neatly boxed on the seat beside him rode a bronze eagle and a reproduction of the Statue of Liberty, both easily purchased from a novelty shop just outside of Washington, D.C.
It had gone slick as spit, DiCarlo thought now. He had walked into the shop, done some nominal browsing, then had walked out again, the proud owner of two pieces of American kitsch. After a quick detour into Philadelphia to pick up the next two items on his list, he would head into New York. All things being equal, he would make it home by nine o’clock, with plenty of time for holiday celebrations.
The day after Christmas he would take up his schedule again. At this pace, he figured he would have all of Mr. Finley’s merchandise in hand well before deadline.
He might even earn a bonus out of it.
Tapping his fingers along with the dance track, he dialed Finley’s private number on the car phone.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Finley. DiCarlo.”
“And do you have something of interest to tell me?”
“Yes, sir.” He all but sang it. “I’ve recovered two more items from D.C.”
“The transactions went smoothly?”
“Smooth as silk. I’m on my way to Philadelphia now. Two more items are in a shop there. I should arrive by three at the latest.”
“Then I’ll wish you Merry Christmas now, Mr. DiCarlo. I’ll be difficult to reach until the twenty-sixth. Naturally, if you have something to report, you’ll leave a message with Winesap.”
“I’ll keep in touch, Mr. Finley. Enjoy your holiday.”
Finley hung up the phone but continued to stand on his balcony, watching the smog clog the air over LA. The etui hung around his neck on a fine gold chain.
DiCarlo did arrive in Philadelphia by three. His luck was holding steady as he walked into Dora’s Parlor fifteen minutes before closing. The first thing he noticed was a statuesque redhead wearing a green elf’s cap.
Terri Starr, Dora’s assistant, and a devoted member of the Liberty Players, beamed at DiCarlo.
“Merry Christmas,” she said in a voice as clear as holiday bells. “You’ve just caught us. We’re closing early today.”
DiCarlo tried out a sheepish smile. “I bet you hate us eleventh-hour shoppers.”
“Are you kidding? I love them.” She’d already spotted the Porsche at the curb and was calculating ending the business day with a last whopping sale. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“Actually, yes.” He took a look around the shop, hoping he’d spot either the painting or the china hound quickly. “I’m on my way home, and I have an aunt who collects statues of animals. Dogs in particular.”
“I might be able to help you out.” Topping six foot in her