Another Man's Treasure (a romantic thriller) (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 1) (17 page)

“A bead kit,” Coughlin repeats.  “You were three years old.  A mother doesn’t give tiny beads to a toddler. They’re a choking hazard.”

“Oh.  Oh, right.”  My brain feels like it’s wading through a swamp, trying to find solid ground.  “That means—”

“Those toys weren’t bought for you.”

When I get back to the Reicker sale, it’s time to dig in and work.  I have no time to think about what Detective Coughlin has told me, but the information about Ty and those gifts lurks at the back of my mind like an uninvited guest at a wedding.  I find myself compartmentalizing.  With one part of my mind I slash prices, strike deals, add columns of numbers.  With the other part I watch Ty, eavesdrop on his phone calls, speculate on my mother’s ability to concoct her own disappearance while planning for Santa’s arrival.  By five-thirty when the last customer leaves, I feel edgy and dirty, like a spy who’s sold out his country for a sports car and a wide screen TV.

Because I’ve already sold many of Mr. Reicker’s more valuable pieces to dealers, the public sale has netted only a little more than Mrs. Szabo’s sale: $6,215.  This is far from the largest deposit we’ve ever made, but we’re all eyeing the money as if it were an unpredictable wild animal. 

“I think all three of us should go to the bank together,” Jill says.

“Yeah, I’m cool with that,” Ty says too quickly.  It’s clear he doesn’t want all the responsibility for protecting me and that money to fall on his shoulders. And I realize, with a horrible twist in my gut, that I’m not entirely comfortable with Ty as my only bodyguard.

Just as I’m about to agree that we should all go, we hear a loud knock at the door.  Jill jumps and lets out a little yelp; Ty’s powerful arms tense.  I stand behind the livingroom curtains and peek out.  Two uniformed cops stand on the front porch.  When I open the door, they announce that Detective Farrand has sent them to escort me to the bank.  I accept the offer and five of us make the trip to the bank.  I want to ask Ty about the unauthorized trips in the van, but clearly we won’t be alone together tonight.  Our talk will have to wait.

With the money safely deposited, I return home to a starving and restless Ethel.  She makes quick work of her kibble, and we head out for our evening walk.  As Ethel sniffs every tree, manhole and trash can on our block, I review the events of the day. The incident with Dylan Finneran was strange, but lunch with Detective Coughlin was even stranger. Is he really on a new case that involves Ty, or is he pissed about being removed from my assault investigation  and looking for a way to pin something, anything, on Ty?  I get such mixed signals from Coughlin; he’s certainly not stupid, but he’s stubborn, relentless, always convinced he’s right.

Like my father.

My feet stop moving.  Ethel looks back impatiently over her shoulder and drags me onward.  According to Cal, Coughlin’s police brutality case was big news when it happened seven years ago, but I can only vaguely remember the uproar. At the time, I was launching my business and every day was taken up with work…and arguing with my father about my work.  When Ethel and I get back home, I’m going to look up the news articles on Coughlin’s case.

It seems we’ve made it all the way around the block without my noticing.   Ethel picks up her pace as the lights of my condo development come into view, forcing me into a trot.  As we zip into my cul de sac, a blue car—or is it gray—pulls away from the curb.  Was it in front of my place? As the car passes under a streetlight, I notice a dinged front right bumper.  Then it’s gone.

My hand tightens on the leash as I look up and down the row of condos.  There are lights on in almost every one.  I can see one neighbor watching TV, and another serving wine and cheese to some friends.  An average Saturday night in suburban New Jersey.  Nothing to worry about.

I go inside and lock my front door.  Then, to be on the safe side, I double-check the door that leads to my garage. 

“Okay, Ethel—looks like we’re safe.  Let’s do a little research, shall we?”

Ethel settles herself under my desk as I pull up the on-line archives of the Palmyrton Daily Record.  A few keystrokes and I’m reading the headlines of Coughlin’s police brutality case: 
Youthful Offender Alleges Police Brutality, “He Didn’t Have to Beat Me” Petty Thief Says,  Race a Factor in Police Beating Case, Brutality Lawsuit to Cost Taxpayers $2 Mil. 

It doesn’t surprise me that the headlines are so sensational.  Bad news sells papers.  Not for nothing that Palmyrtonians call their rag the Daily Wretched.  I try to keep an open mind as I digest what I read.

Jason Powell was a 17-year-old high school drop-out who got it in his head to steal a canister on the counter of the 7-11 that had been placed there by the Policemen’s Benevolent Association to collect change for a little girl who needed a heart transplant.  A little girl who happened to be the daughter of a cop.  That summer night, the manager of the 7-11 turned around in time to see Jason sprint out the door with the jar of money in his hands.  He pursued Jason into the parking lot, just as two cops pulled in to buy coffee.  They gave chase and caught Jason within a block of the store.  One of the cops was Sean Coughlin.

Despite the amazingly fast response of the police, Jason was empty-handed when Coughlin and his partner put him in the back of the patrol car.  Down at the station, they demanded to know what the kid had done with the money.  Jason insisted he had panicked and thrown the plastic jar as the cops chased him.  Despite an extensive search of the block, the cops couldn’t find the money.  They accused Jason of having passed the jar off to an accomplice.  That’s when matters got ugly.

The more Jason insisted he didn’t know where the jar was, the more infuriated the cops became that they were being stonewalled by a lying punk.  A lying punk who stole money donated by the generous patrons of the 7-11.  A lying punk who stole a little girl’s chance for a new heart.  A lying black punk who, when it came right down to it, as good as killed a white cop’s daughter. 

The door to the interrogation room was locked, with Jason, Coughlin , and Coughlin’s partner inside.  Three hours later, Jason left the police station in an ambulance.  Ten hours of surgery and two years of rehab later, Jason went home with a permanent limp, a metal plate in his head,  and short-term memory loss that made it impossible for him to hold a job.

Three months after the robbery, when all the leaves had fallen from the trees, a homeowner down the street from the 7-11 raked the jar out from under his viburnum bush.  It contained twenty-three dollars and seventy-two cents.

I log off the newspaper’s website with trembling hands.  Is Ty in danger of becoming the next Jason Powell, forever marked by the cops because he once did something irresponsible?  I think of Dylan Finneran.  If I had called the police today because of Dylan’s shoplifting stunt, would they have locked him in a room and knocked him around? 

Not likely.  I know that, and so does Ty.  No wonder he doesn’t trust the police.  And now Coughlin wants me to spy on Ty, report anything I find suspicious.  Anything I, white thirty-three year old woman with a math degree from UVA, find suspicious about a twenty year old black guy with a prison record.

I can’t do this.  I won’t.

I log off my computer and realize that I never checked my home phone for messages. There’s one from the caseworker at Manor View. “Please stop in to see me on Sunday, Monday or Tuesday.  We need to discuss your father’s prognosis.”  Sounds ominous.  I was planning on visiting dad tomorrow anyway.  I’m determined to ask him about the gifts in the car, the possibility that my mother ran away from him and me, the likelihood that I could have a half-sibling.  If I’m tackling all that, can a conversation with Martha the caseworker really add much more anxiety?

I lie on the sofa with Ethel curled at my feet and turn over in my mind all that I know.  Taken all together, the evidence seems to point in one direction: my mother was in love with another man, maybe pregnant by him, and ran off to start a new life, a new family, using the Christmas Eve snowstorm as a convenient cover-up. But when I examine each fact individually, I can come up with a plausible explanation for every one.  Her excitement could have been due to some surprise she was planning for the holidays; her nausea when she was shopping with Mrs. Olsen might have been sparked by the flu; the bead kit in her car might have been a gift for the older child of a friend.

But always I come back to the ring.  If she never took it off, why wasn’t she wearing it the night she disappeared?  What if Mrs. Szabo stole the ring from my mother at some point after she started her new life?  Nannies sometimes go along on family vacations—maybe Mrs. Szabo encountered my mother in some place far away from Palmyrton. Maybe my mother is still there, unconcerned about the loss of a ring given to her by the man she abandoned.

My cell phone chirps the arrival of a text.  I glance down. Cal. He’s at some fundraising dinner tonight.

Miss u.  Will b @ ur place by 3 Sunday. 

A nice glow of contentment replaces the stress of the day.  I don’t mind spending Saturday night with Ethel if the wretched expanse of Sunday afternoon will be filled by Cal.

Ethel’s got her head out the window, her ears blowing back in the breeze.  Any car trip is a good trip as far as she’s concerned.  I wish I could say the same.  I’ve got a knot in my stomach that feels like a living, breathing entity.  This is how the character in
Alien
must have felt right before the parasite snake thing burst out of his gut.

Somehow I’ve got to get my father to tell me what he knows.  And I can only do that if I can find a way to keep from antagonizing him.  I’m no Daddy’s Little Girl.  I’ve never known how to manipulate him, guilt him, cajole him.  Disappoint him, that I’ve got covered.  The others, not so much.

But before I talk to Dad, I have to deal with this Martha caseworker person.  “We need to discuss your father’s prognosis,” is what her message had said.  Were they thinking of kicking him out of Manor View for underachieving?  Christ, were there places even more awful where a man could be sent to die? 

I park the car at Manor View and head inside, Ethel trotting at my side.  But once we’re in the foyer, I have to pull Ethel left toward the staff offices when she wants to go right towards Dad’s room. “Ethel, c’mon,” I cajole.  “We’ll see him a little later, I promise.”  Never one to embrace change, Ethel locks all four legs and I have to drag her, stiff and stubborn, toward Martha the caseworker. 

A perfectly agreeable middle-aged woman, Martha greets us both warmly.  But once Ethel determines that the caseworker doesn’t have any part of her lunch adhering to her clothes, she settles down to sulk under my chair.  I’m not any more enthusiastic than my dog, but I try harder to feign cordiality.

“I’ve called you in to plan for your father’s release,”  Martha says.  “If his recovery continues at this pace, he should be ready to leave in about a month.”  She looks up from the folder containing my father’s paperwork and smiles brightly.  “Will he be moving in with you?”

I can feel my mouth hanging open.  I must look like a soap opera actress emoting surprise.  “He’s progressing rapidly?  Since when?”

“Every person reacts differently to a stroke,” Martha says.  Some are determined to recover right from the get-go, rarin’ to start on their therapy from the moment they get out of ICU.  Others go through a period of mourning their loss.  Then something happens to inspire them—the birth of a grandchild, maybe, or a visit from someone who’s bounced back from a stroke-- and they kick into gear and start improving rapidly.  That seems to be what happened to your father.”

“Really?”  I know my obvious surprise leads her to conclude that I’m one of those horrible, neglectful children who abandons her parent to rot in a nursing home.  But I can’t pull off pretending that I’m aware my father’s had a breakthrough and that I know the reason why.  And I can’t very well tell her the truth: The last time I saw him, he was locked in the bathroom, refusing to come out until I was gone.

“Well,” I start off with a tentative smile. “He sure hasn’t had a new grandchild.  I’m trying to think what could have inspired him.  I don’t know what’s changed.”

Martha glances at the file.  “His therapy team agrees that his motivation changed about three weeks ago.  Wasn’t that about the time you got out of the hospital after your attack?”

I nod dumbly. 

“Maybe seeing how quickly you bounced back has inspired him,” Martha says.

I’ve only seen Dad twice in those three weeks, and the second visit didn’t go too well.  It’s hard for me to imagine that I’ve had an inspirational effect on him.  In fact, it seems quite the reverse.

“So, will he be moving in with you?” the caseworker repeats.

“I don’t see how he could.  I only have a one-bedroom condo.”

“His own house…?”

I imagine the house I grew up in.  It’s full of steps, narrow hallways, and cramped bathrooms.  “It’s not exactly barrier-free.”

“Well, that’s why I called you in.  You should start looking for something all on one level.  He’s been walking, but he’s still unsteady on his feet.  His right side may always have residual weakness.”  Martha rises and hands me some brochures.  “These are over-55 communities.  Some provide independent living and graduated care. Talk over the options with him today.”

“Talk?”

“We’ve been weaning him off some of his meds.  That’s really helped his speech.”  Martha glances out into the hallway.  “There goes Megan, his speech therapist.  She can walk over to your father’s room with you.”

“I just love working with your dad,” Megan confides as she walks with me from the therapy area to the residential wing.  “He was a little reserved as first, but now he’s always got a joke and smile for me.  And so sweet—he even bought me a little African violet when he was out with his friend Brian because he knows how much I love flowers.”

I stretch my lips over my teeth in what passes for a smile, but jealous rage corrodes me from the inside out.  So my dad bought his therapist a little potted plant—big deal.  So he jokes with her—that’s nice. I guess he speaks for the therapists, speaks for the aides, and only retreats into silence for me.

I blink once, twice, three times.  I can’t cry here.  I can’t. 

“You know, I’ve never met this friend Brian,” I manage to say.  “Apparently he’s one of my dad’s old work colleagues.”

Megan cocks her head, looking as puzzled as Ethel when she sees me wearing a coat but not holding her leash.

“Oh, Brian Bascomb’s not old--he’s closer to your age.”  Megan scans me appraisingly.  “Maybe a few years younger.  So cute.”

Brian Bascomb is young and handsome, so the guy I contacted through Facebook must be him.  Why won’t he answer me?

“I’d really like to get in touch with this guy—you know, to thank him for taking my dad out.  Would they have his phone number in the main office?”

“No.  We don’t monitor our patients’ visitors.”

“You mean, anyone could come and take him out?  Is that safe?”

Megan stops in the middle of the hall.  “Ms. Nealon, there’s nothing wrong with your father’s cognitive function. The stroke simply affected his speech and his balance.  He’s free to visit with anyone he wants to.”

Guess she set me straight.  I nod sheepishly and start walking again. 

As we get close to Dad’s room, Ethel starts straining at her leash.  When I’m sure she can run straight in without bowling over any tottering old folks, I let her go.  I hear a voice say, “Ed-del!” and I pick up my pace.  Who’s in there with Dad?  Could it be the mysterious Brian Bascomb?

But when I step across the threshold, Dad is sitting alone, his face buried in Ethel’s fur.  Megan catches up to me as Dad lifts his head.  I see his face light up, then immediately darken.  Delight for Megan.  Disgust for me.

“Hi, Mr. Nealon!”  Megan speaks before I can summon any words.  “I thought we’d show your daughter how much progress you’ve made.  Won’t that be great?”

Dad eyes me warily, looking distinctly unenthused.

“Now, don’t be shy,” Megan says.  “Audrey will be very proud of you.”  She turns to me, “Right?”

“Oh, absolutely.” I paste a smile on my face and sink into a chair.

Megan begins taking Dad through his paces, doing exercises for his tongue, making him repeat sounds, holding up a mirror so he can see if he’s got his lips in the right position.  At every juncture she encourages him, cheering, patting his arm, clapping her hands in delight.  I can hardly bear to watch—it’s like spying on sex, the kind of thing a child doesn’t want to see her parent do. Finally Megan takes a deep breath and says, “Okay, are you ready to deliver your message?”

Dad’s eyes squint half shut, the way he used to when he was solving a functional derivative in his head.  Eventually he nods.  Then he turns to face me. “Tans or vis-uh. Id nye to eee ooo.”

It’s like listening to a broadcast with a three second tape delay.  I see his lips move, hear the sounds, then process the meaning: Thanks for the visit. It’s nice to see you.

Ducking my head, I rub my eyes with the back of my hand.  “It’s nice to see you too, Dad,” I finally choke out.

“Yay!  Good job!” Megan jumps up. “I’ll leave you two alone.  Go ahead and practice a little, Mr. Nealon, but don’t get worn out.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Megan’s departure leaves a void in the room that Dad and I both are desperate to fill.  Luckily, there’s Ethel. 

“Goo duh,” Dad tells her, rubbing her ears.  “Ooo wanna tree?”  He rolls over to his nightstand.

Even without the final consonant, Ethel knows the word treat when she hears it.  Her ears stand straight up and she starts licking her chops.  I figure Dad has something from breakfast stashed, but he opens the drawer and pulls out a small box of freeze-dried liver snaps, a doggy snack that can only be purchased in high-end pet stores.

Ethel goes ballistic.

Dad holds the treat over his head and makes Ethel dance on her hind legs.

“Those are her favorites, Dad.  Where did you get them?”

Dad doesn’t answer.  An idea pops into my head.  “Did Brian take you shopping?”

Dad’s having too much fun with Ethel to be suspicious of my question.  “Yah.”

“Brian’s been taking you out a lot.”

Dad darts a furtive glance in my direction, but I’m determined not to repeat the mistakes of my last visit.  I say nothing more, and meet his glance with a pleasant smile.  I’m also not ready to bring up the business of where he’s going to live after they let him out of Manor View.

I notice his shoulders ease out of their hunch.  He goes back to playing with the dog, while  I make idle chit-chat about Ethel, the Reicker sale, Ty’s encounter with the shoplifter.  Dad answers as best he can, alternating grunts and nods with actual sentences.  As my ear adjusts, I’m able to understand him more and more.

A rambling conversation about nothing in particular.  Families do that a lot, I imagine, but it’s a new experience for me and my father.  Maybe this is the upside of stroke—he’s lost the need for every dialogue to be significant, purposeful. 

Maintaining the same aimless tone, I say, “So, guess who I met the other day—Reid van Houten.”

Dad looks puzzled.  “Ooo?”

“The man who was mom’s boss at the PR firm where she used to work, The Van Houten Group.  He said he remembered you.”

Dad smiles and nods.  “Ood man. Ike him.”

Okay, so there’s nothing suspicious about Van Houten.  Dad apparently liked him.

Then Dad tips his head and peers at me.  “Ow you know him?”

“Chamber of Commerce,” I lie blithely.  “I go to the meetings to drum up business.”

“I have a job for you.”  Dad is looking at Ethel when he speaks but he says this sentence more clearly than any other words he’s uttered.

“You do?  What’s that?”

“Sell ‘ouse.  Not go back ‘ere.”

Again I feel myself displaying mindless surprise.  I never thought he’d be willing to give up the house so easily.  Ever since I went off to college, people have been suggesting that he move.  Although the house isn’t huge, it’s more than a man like him needs.  Why have a yard when you don’t garden?  Why have a dining room if you don’t entertain?  Why have three bedrooms when you never have houseguests?  But Dad has always clung to the house tenaciously.  Nana and Pop said the house represented the happy times he shared with my mother.  You might think I would represent that, but apparently not.

“You want to sell our house?”

He nods.  “I ge’ apar-men.”

“You want to move to an apartment after you get out of here?”

He nods eagerly.  For the first time in months I see him smile at something other than Ethel.

“Okay, Dad, I’ll talk to my friend Isabelle Trent.  She’s a great real estate agent.”  I show dad some of the brochures Martha gave me for over-55 communities.  “Do you want me to look for an apartment for you in one of these places?  That one in Basking Ridge looks nice.”

He shakes his head.  “Too far away. Someplace near you.”

I’m stunned into speechlessness. Maybe Dad’s newfound commitment to his stroke therapy really has been inspired by my recovery from the attack. Does this mean we’re going to launch into a new life of father/daughter togetherness once he’s out of here? Dad makes a great show of playing with Ethel, but I sense he’s tense, waiting to hear how this suggestion goes over.

“Okay,” I say slowly.  “There’s that brand new apartment building on Sycamore.  It’s really nice, but kind of pricey.”  The place has elevators, a doorman and a health club.  I doubt my thrifty father will spring for that, but he smiles brightly.

“Goo’. Close to downtown.  I can walk ever’ where.”

I’ve never known him to spend much time in downtown Palmyrton before, but clearly his worldview has changed.  If he’s interested in Palmer Centre, why should I argue?  Settling him there will be easy for me.

Disoriented by how well the visit is going, I can’t bring myself to ask him about the police report on my mother’s disappearance and the gifts they found in the trunk of the car.  We chat instead about how he can take Ethel out in the middle of the day for me once he’s living right around the corner.  His voice, which had reached a peak of clarity, is now staring to slur from the unaccustomed effort of so much talking.  I can see him searching for words, struggling to form them.  My window of opportunity is closing.  I have to ask him at least one of my questions. I try a roundabout approach.