Another Man's Treasure (a romantic thriller) (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 1) (15 page)

Now Mr. Van Houten has the decency to blush, which I find charming in an old-world way.  “My dear, we were colleagues.  That’s not the kind of news she would have shared with me. But it wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t what?”

Smooth as he is, Mr. Van Houten seems a little flustered, like he’s wishing he’d never gotten into this discussion.  This lead had seemed so promising, but I feel the possibility of learning something significant slipping away. I scramble to keep the door open. “Did she have a friend here at the office?”

“At the time, Charlotte was the only woman on the professional staff.  The other female employees were secretaries—she wouldn’t have confided something personal to any of them, I’m sure.”  Mr. Van Houten glances at his watch.

“Did you know my father?” I ask quickly.

“I met him at a few office parties.  As I recall, he had a very droll sense of humor.  I always felt he kept Charlotte balanced.” 

His Blackberry begins tinkling a tinny rendition of Bach’s cantata in F.

“Did they seem happy to you?”  I toss this out desperately, knowing it will be my last question. 

Mr. Van Houten rises. He looks truly uncomfortable now, like he regrets ever having invited me in. “I have a meeting to attend. But yes, your parents struck me as happily married.  I’m sorry I couldn’t have been of more help.”

“Oh, no—you were very helpful,” I assure him, even as I desperately fight the urge to shove him back in his chair.  “Thank you so much for your time.”

He walks with me toward to door, but his phone rings and he pauses to answer it.  While I’m waiting to say good-bye, I get a chance to look at the wall of photographs that I’ve had my back to throughout my visit.  They depict Mr. Van Houten through the years with all sorts of famous people.  The most recent photos are nearest to the door.  A silver-haired Van Houten with Derek Jeter, Oprah Winfrey, Katie Couric, Michelle Obama.  Further to the right, a salt and pepper Van Houten with Bill Clinton, Tom Kean, Robert Redford.  All the way in the corner a smooth faced, dark-haired but still easily recognizable Van Houten shakes hands with Jimmy Carter.  Some of the other celebrities in that corner I’m having a hard time identifying—this era is before my time.  Maybe that glamorous-looking woman is Elizabeth Taylor.  The golfer might be Arnold Palmer.  Finally, my eye rests on a photo of Van Houten with a young, attractive couple.  The man looks very familiar; the smiling woman even more so, like someone I know personally.  I take a step closer and squint.

“I know those people.” I say, pointing.

Van Houten pockets his phone and follows the direction of my finger.  “Anne and Spencer Finneran.  This firm handled his first three campaigns.”

My heels dig into the carpet although Van Houten is gently urging me toward the door. “Did my mother know Anne and Spencer? Did she work on those campaigns? ”

“She may have.”  Van Houten holds the door for me.  “Everyone here had a hand in them.”

Lying in my bed, I stare at the patterns on the ceiling made by the beams of the rising sun. Ethel has tried a few times to come up to the head of the bed to cuddle with me, but I push her away.  Miffed, she retreats to the foot of the bed.  Why am I so harsh?  Because I don’t want Ethel’s doggy smell to obliterate the delicious aroma of Cal that still lingers on the pillow next to mine.  Smelling him is the next best thing to lying in his arms, which is the next best thing to feeling his weight on top of me, inside of me.

My heart rate kicks up and I hear the sound of my own breathing.  I’m horny.  Intensely, squirmingly, itchingly horny. I went without sex for a year and barely missed it.  Now, I’ve been celibate for three days and I can hardly contain my need to make love to Cal again. Unfortunately he has campaign events all week and he told me we can’t go out again until Sunday.  I wanted to say, “To hell with going out.  Just come here after you’re done with your fundraising dinner.  I don’t care how late it is.”  But I didn’t want to sound desperate, so I kept my mouth shut.  Now I’m regretting that restraint.  I feel like I’m about to jump out of my skin, like I’m about to—

I sit bolt upright.

To burst.

Jesus, this is what Mrs. Olsen and Mr. Van Houten were trying to tell me about my mother.  She was excited…keyed up…ready to burst.  A woman doesn’t get that way because she’s pregnant with her second child. 

She was in love.

Newly in love. The kind of in love that makes you do stupid things, like go out in the middle of a snow storm.  The kind of love that makes you take off the ring your husband gave you. The kind of love that makes your husband cry thirty years later. I fling the covers off, burying Ethel.  There’s no point in even trying to fall back asleep now.  I head for the kitchen.

I had read the newspaper accounts of my mother’s accident years ago as soon as I was old enough to go to the public library alone.  Those stories all supported the image of Charlotte as loving wife and mother, come to a tragic end.  But surely the police must have considered the possibility that there was more to her accident than met the eye. Wouldn’t they have looked into the possibility that there was another man involved in her disappearance? I want to see the official police report on the accident investigation.  Sitting down at my computer, I fire off an email to Detective Farrand asking if he’ll pull the file on my mother’s accident.  The clock on the microwave reads 6:35 A.M.

Ethel sits expectantly by her dish, nudging it occasionally to emphasize its emptiness.  Absently, I go to fetch her kibble, all the while thinking of my poor father.  No wonder he barricaded himself in the bathroom at my last visit.  He knows—he’s always known—that his wife ran off with another man.  Yet he covered for her.  Why?  To protect his own pride?  Or to shield me from the awful truth that my mother loved some man more than she loved me?  I feel a sudden overwhelming tenderness for him. 

But that doesn’t explain everything, does it?  If Dad was so hellbent on preserving the image of a loving mother for me, why did he turn into such a cold father?  Why did he take his rage at Charlotte out on me?  Maybe I remind him of her, in a way only he can see.

I sigh.  If he had told me the truth, we could have been allies, united in our anger against her.  Maybe it’s not too late.

Across the kitchen I hear the ping of an email landing in my inbox.  Someone else is up as early as I am.  Maybe it’s Brian Bascomb.  He still hasn’t answered my Facebook request.

I pad over to look.  Farrand.  Excitedly, I open the message.

Ms. Nealon: 

I am currently pursuing several active leads pursuant to your assault. If you have an interest in a closed case, you must put in a request to the police records department by completing form Q1324.  Non-urgent requests are processed at the discretion of the records department and may take up to a week to fulfill.

Detective Elliot Farrand

He sure blew me off.  But if he’s working on my case at 6:30 in the morning, I guess I can’t complain.  Still, a week to pull my mother’s file?  That’s bullshit.  As Ethel methodically crunches through her breakfast, I stare at my email.  I do know another cop in the Palmyrton police department, one who’s probably less concerned with playing by the rules.  I’ll have to come up with a plausible reason for why I’m suddenly interested…one that doesn’t involve the ring and Cal’s trunkful of stolen jewelry.  I think a while longer.  When I’m sure I can explain my reasons, I send Coughlin the same email I sent Farrand.  Then I take Ethel for her walk.

By the time I’m back, I have my answer.

.
Meet me at the bagel shop at noon.  I’ll have what you want.

Running an estate sale on three hours’ sleep is sub-optimal, to say the least.  When I stagger up the walk to Mr. Reicker’s house at 7:30 AM, Jill already has her hands full managing an unruly crowd of early-birds, and she’s managed to tick off Tyshaun by ordering him to do things two seconds before he intended to do them anyway.

“Can you tell me if there’s any china?  Limoges, Spode, Royal Doulton?” a fat lady in rhinestone glasses whines.  “I don’t want to wait if there’s no china.”

“I already told you ma’am, I really can’t—”

“Ain’t none of that shit,” Tyshaun overrules Jill as he walks past the line hauling a heavy table saw. 

“Ty!”

Our rule is not to answer these kinds of questions because you never know what people might end up buying if they don’t find the thing they came for.  But Ty’s clearly had enough of this woman and her bitching, and he may be right.  Some customers aren’t worth the hassle. Before Jill can light into Ty and put him in a worse mood, I send her inside with the cash box to set up the check-out desk.  Together, Ty and I put the finishing touches on the garage, which contains a good assortment of tools, garden supplies, patio furniture and even some sports equipment that Mr. Reicker must have kept around for visiting grandchildren.

“You work out here, Ty,” I say.  “Keep an eye on the stuff in the garage,  manage the line and help people load their cars.  I think we’re going to be really busy.”

“No problem, Audge.  Just keep Jill in the house, wouldja?  I don’t need her up in my face.”

I pat Ty on the shoulder.  “I’m going inside to work with her.  I’ll start the sale in about ten minutes.  You’re on your own out here.”

I see the mantle of resentment slip off him.  He nods his head curtly.  “’K, Audge.  I got it covered.”

I head inside, where Mr. Reicker’s life has been laid out for the vultures.  His spirit, which was so strongly present when I first walked through this house, has been stripped right out of it by my efforts.  His hobbies: boxed up to be sold to other collectors; his personal mementos: dispersed among his children and grandchildren.  What remains is the skeleton of his life, with a few pieces of flesh still stuck to it. His furniture, some artifacts from his travels, a few of his less valuable collectibles, and his household items are all priced, displayed, and ready to be sold.  His daughter wanted to come to the sale, but I advised against it.  I like Ginny too much to let her watch strangers pawing through her Dad’s possessions.

I take one final look around as Jill watches me expectantly.

“Looks great.  Another outstanding job, Boo.”

Jill beams.  “Thanks, Audrey.  Do you need to fix anything, or should I open the doors.”

Through the living room window I can see the line snaking down the driveway.  “The natives are getting restless.  Let the first twenty-five in.”

The earliest early-birds rush in with the frantic desperation of starving refugees at a U.N. feeding center. Some head for the tools, others the china, others the books.  Within a few minutes, the expert shoppers have found what they were looking for, and Jill and I begin processing sales.  The morning passes quickly—ten satisfied shoppers out, ten new eager buyers in every fifteen minutes.  I’m keeping an eye on the clock, mindful of my appointment with Coughlin at the bagel shop.  At 11:45, I’ll volunteer to run over there and bring back lunch for Jill and Ty.

Jill gets up to let in the next group of buyers.  Through the open front door comes the sound of voices raised in anger.

“Yo!  Where you going with that?’

“I bought it.  It’s mine.”

“You did not.  Let’s see your receipt.”

Suddenly there’s a yell and the sound of sneakers pounding on pavement, followed by a loud howl.

“Ow!  Stoppit!  Put me down!”

I push through the crowd on the front porch to see Ty at the foot of the driveway with a skinny teenager tucked under his arm like a football.  The kid’s legs, arms and head are all flailing, but he’s no match for Ty’s lean power.

I trot down to the curb.  Looking like he just nabbed a terrorist in the boarding line at the airport, Ty sets the kid upright on the sidewalk while keeping his arms pinned.  I notice an odd protrusion in the kid’s torso.  Sticking my hand inside the kangaroo pocket of his baggy hoodie, I pull out a ceramic flower pot with a pretty green glaze.  Kind of an odd item for a teenage boy to shoplift.

“He stole that outta the garage.  I watched him put it right into his sweatshirt.” The price tag on the pot reads three dollars, but Ty couldn’t be more outraged if the kid had robbed him of his life’s savings at knifepoint.

Futilely, the boy tries to shake himself free of Ty’s grasp.  Something about the way his stringy black hair flies back from his forehead is vaguely familiar.  I take a step closer and tilt his chin up, forcing him to look me in the eye.

It’s Anne and Spencer’s pot-smoking grandson, Dylan.

He recognizes me at the same moment I recognize him.  Now he’s frantic to get away. Twisting and kicking, he manages to free one arm from Ty’s grip.  Then he slides out of his sweatshirt and takes off running.  Flinging the sweatshirt down in disgust, Ty sprints after him. 

“Let him go, Ty—it doesn’t matter!” I shout after them.  But Ty’s long legs are pumping and he’s gaining on Dylan.  At the end of the block, he brings the kid down in a full body tackle. Why Ty is so determined to seek justice for a three dollar flower pot, I can’t imagine.  I only hope he hasn’t broken any bones—either his or Dylan’s.

Ty hauls Dylan back to me and gives him a shake.  “You know what we do with thieves?  We turn ’em in to the cops.”  

Now I get it.  Ty’s bound and determined not to let a white kid get away with something he and his friends would be arrested for.  I’m between a rock and a hard place. If I tell Dylan it’s no big deal and let him go, I’ll destroy the fragile peace I’ve found with Tyshaun.  On the other hand, if I call the cops on Spencer Finneran’s grandson, there’ll be hell to pay with Spencer, Anne, and most importantly, Cal.  I suddenly realize every customer at the Reicker estate sale has gathered around to watch this drama unfold.

“Let’s go in the house, okay?”

I shepherd Dylan into the kitchen. Picked clean of all but a few mismatched coffee mugs, the room has lost all its cozy charm.  Perfect for an interrogation.  I order him into a wobbly chair and stand looking down at him.

“What’s going on?” I ask.  “What made you steal that flower pot?”

He declines to meet my eye. Suddenly linoleum holds a powerful fascination for him.

“What brought you here?”

He shrugs.  “My house is right around the corner.  I saw all the people and thought I’d see what was going on.”

“Thought you’d see what you could steal?”

He jumps up.  “What’s the big fuckin’ deal?  It’s a crummy flower pot.  You can have it back.  I’m outta here.”

I step in front of him to block his path.  He’s a little taller than I am, but no heavier.  “Stealing things is a kick, isn’t it?”

He tosses his hair back.  “It brightens up my day.”

“That and smoking dope.  What else do you do to promote the bad-boy pose—a little graffiti, some vandalism?”

He tries to stare me down, but I don’t blink.  Finally he starts to laugh.  “You think you’re some kinda hard-ass, huh?  I gotta say, you’re not much like the chicks that suck-up Tremaine usually brings around.”  He tosses the hair again.  “I know you won’t call the cops.  You gonna to call your boyfriend, or what?”

I think Dylan means that “not like the other chicks” remark as a compliment, although I suspect any other woman would take it as an insult. The kid’s a pain in the ass, but there’s something about his cocky nonchalance that I can’t help but like.  Still, I don’t want him to think he’s got me in his back pocket.

“No, I’m not calling Cal.  I was thinking maybe calling your grandmother would be a better plan.”

Instantly his face darkens.  “You leave her out of this.”

“Your grandma’s very special to you, isn’t she?  I’m sure she wouldn’t be happy to hear you’ve been out on a shoplifting expedition.”  I decide to push the envelope.  “Again.”

“Shut up!”

Dylan tries to dodge around me, but I grab his arm.  “Look, your grandmother’s got a lot on her plate right now with this election.  Can’t you do her a favor and lay low until it’s over?”

Dylan wrenches his arm out of my grasp.  The cockiness has dissolved into anger and hurt with the breathtaking speed only teenagers can summon.  “Why would she care about the stupid little crap that I do?  Why doesn’t she—why doesn’t anyone—care about the shit that
he
does?”

“Who?”

“My grandfather!  He’s been screwing around for years.  He’s always got some piece of ass on the side.  And my old man is a chip off the old block.  They think I don’t see, but I do.  You wonder why I had to get stoned at my grandfather’s birthday party? Because there’s nothing worse than having to smile through all that Finneran family togetherness BS.”

Dylan’s words hit me harder than they should.  Spencer cheats on Anne?  Surely not.  I saw the way they looked at each other at the party.  That kind of happiness can’t be fake.  Can it?

Dylan jabs his index finger at me.  “You think I’m a poser?  They’re the ones who put on a show.”

The kid pivots and heads for the door.  It closes behind him with a wall-shaking slam.  The stolen flowerpot, perched on the edge of the counter, crashes to the floor. I expect it to shatter, but it bounces and rolls to my feet, intact.

But when I pick it up, a sharp wedge breaks loose in my hand.