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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 sheis. 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