Another Man's Treasure (a romantic thriller) (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 1) (7 page)

I read the sign in the window of the store on a crooked little block in the West Village:
Custom artistry in a mass-produced world.  No two designs alike. R. Atwell, Prop.
A few clicks of my digital camera, an internet search, and some emails have brought me to the jeweler who designed my mother’s ring.  I’m carrying the ring in a little silk pouch.  I’d like to wear it, but I haven’t had it resized yet.  The jeweler in Palmyrton said that would take a week, and I was eager to bring it to this little shop in Manhattan to find out the ring’s backstory.  Because this little piece of gold is starting to feel like the stranger who rides into town in an old-time Western.

I enter the jewelry store.

The man behind the counter has shoulder-length gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, exposing a high forehead and prominent nose.  His long fingers open the drawstring pouch and he gently shakes the ring out onto a velvet pad on the countertop.  The moment he sees the twisted vine design his eyes light up.  Holding the ring inches from his eye, a smile animates his serious face as if he’s encountered a long-lost childhood friend.

“You designed the ring?” I ask.

“Yes.  It was part of a vine series I did in the seventies.”  His voice is dreamy.  He’s speaking to me but his eyes never leave the ring.  “This piece was purchased by a math professor as a gift for his wife.  He brought her in afterwards to have the ring sized.  A lovely woman.  Very slender fingers.”

He’s talking about my parents.  He actually remembers them.  I try to imagine my father seeking out this off-the-beaten-track store to select the perfect gift for my mother.  Spending a significant amount of money.  My father, who never picked out a gift for me in my life.  For my birthday and Christmas he’d give my grandmother a hundred bucks and tell her to buy me something.  By the time I was a teenager, he didn’t even bother with that.

“Are you interested in selling this?” Atwell asks.

“No!”

The edge in my voice gets his attention.  He stops examining the ring and studies me.  “They were your parents,” he says finally.  “Yes, I see the resemblance.  You favor your father.”

Unfortunately.  My mother was the great beauty: auburn hair, green eyes, delicate features.  But I seem to have received more than fifty percent of my genes from my father, from my wiry brown hair and lanky frame to my ability to add columns of figures in my head.

“Yes,” I say.  “This ring belonged to my mother.  It was missing for a long time and I recently found it.”

His eyes meet mine and hold for a beat; he seems to intuit that his beautiful creation hasn’t spent the past thirty years in happy circumstances.  “Losing it must have upset her,” Atwell says softly.  “She was very pleased with your father’s gift.”

“I’m amazed that you remember them so clearly,” I say.  “Do you have such complete recall of all your customers?”

He smiles and shakes his head.  “Some I prefer to forget as quickly as possible.  Your father was a fri--, not a friend, an adversary of mine.” His smile spreads to his eyes.  “Roger and I competed against one another in a chess league.  He was quite a player.  Does he still—.”

Atwell’s voice trails off.  At my age, I assume that people I’ve lost touch with are still alive, but at his age, that’s not a safe bet.  I’m not in the mood to explain our sorry family history, so I keep it brief.  “My mom has passed away.  My dad recently had a stroke and hasn’t fully recovered.”

“I’m sorry.”  Atwell has a sort of Buddhist simplicity about him that I really like.  No gushing, no pity; accept what is and move on. “Your father wanted a special gift for your mother, so he came to me. They were clearly very much in love.  And I was very pleased that particular ring was to be worn by your mother.  It suited her perfectly.  I remember her holding up her hand to admire it.  She said, ‘I’ll never take this off.’”

But she had.
  I look over Mr. Atwell’s shoulder into a cluttered office behind the shop.  Not a computer in sight, but rusty metal file cabinets bulge with orders and receipts.  “I wonder if you could tell me when they bought the ring?” I ask.

This is an imposition, I know, but Mr. Atwell is neither impatient nor inquisitive.  He ambles back to his office to rummage through the files while I wander around the shop looking in the display cases.  I feel like I should buy something to thank him for his trouble, but there are no trinkets here.  I can’t afford a four-figure thank-you, so I return to look at the ring I already own.  I have to admit, I don’t for a moment feel that I’ve stolen it from Cal Tremaine; I’ve simply repossessed what is rightfully mine.

While Atwell is in the back, I slide the ring onto my little finger.  It doesn’t look right.  I’m definitely taking it to the jewelry store in Palmyrton when I get home.

Atwell comes out of his office and I drop the ring guiltily.  I know he won’t think it suits me as it suited my mother, won’t be happy thinking the ring has found a new home on my hand.

He’s holding a yellowed receipt which he places before me.  I see my father’s name and address, a description of the ring, and the price all printed in Atwell’s meticulous script. 

And I see the date: seven months before my birth.

I had been along for the ride that day when they visited Atwell’s shop.  Maybe I was the reason for the gift.  I try to imagine my father so excited about my impending arrival that he rushed out to buy my mother this ring.  The image isn’t coming.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” the jeweler asks.

There isn’t.  It’s time for me to go, yet I’m strangely reluctant to leave.  It’s so rare for me to be in the presence of someone who knew both my parents.  I realize that since Nana and Pop died, I probably haven’t spent time with anyone who knew my mother and father.  Mr. Atwell has whetted my appetite.  There must be old family friends, neighbors, sorority sisters…someone who can tell me more about my parents, someone else who knew them when they were in love, who can shine some light on what my mother might have been doing that snowy Christmas Eve. 

I haven’t answered Mr. Atwell so he speaks again.  “I’m afraid I haven’t been able to offer you what you were looking for.”  His kind eyes search for reassurance.

I reach across the counter and take his hand in mine.  “Oh yes, Mr. Atwell.  You’ve helped me more than you can know.”

Old Spice.  Pipe tobacco.  Bengay.

It’s my first day back at work since the accident and I’m grateful to have this job.  Rather than call in another estate sale organizer, Martin Reicker’s daughter, Ginny, has waited patiently for my recovery.  I’m glad I took the time to go to the old man’s memorial service, not only because it brought me this job, but also because the Reickers are truly nice people.  Martin Reicker’s house exudes a cozy, reassuring smell that makes me want to curl up in his leather club chair with a book from his library and some tea in a mug handmade by one of his granddaughters. 

There’s good money in this house. The old gent was a collector: shelves of signed first editions, binders full of baseball cards, stamps, coins, civil war artifacts, presidential memorabilia.   It’ll take me weeks to find the right buyers for all this treasure.

But beyond the valuable items, there’s a strong presence here of a life well lived.  One wall of the foyer is a shrine to Martin Reicker’s family: serious young men in military uniforms, grinning toddlers with Big Bird, hopeful graduates in their motarboards, joyful brides in their finery.  There are probably some black sheep in the Reicker flock, but you wouldn’t know it from this proud display. 

In every room there are little clues to the interest Mr. Reicker took in the world.  A pair of binoculars by the window where a birdfeeder is mounted.  Post-it notes sticking out of magazines and books.  A binder in the kitchen bulging with clipped recipes.  A thick address book held together with a rubber band.  This is what I love about my work—the chance to press my nose against the glass of another person’s life.  To see how life is lived in other families.  Real families.

The brilliant rays of the morning sun illuminate a display of postcards stuck to Mr. Reicker’s fridge.  I flip over a picture of the Eiffel Tower and read the message on the back.  “Hi Dad!  Paris is great.  The kids loved Notre Dame.  We ate at the café you told us about. Wish you were here, Stephanie”

I run my finger across the faded writing and try to imagine writing a postcard to my father.  Then I let my fantasy run wild and picture him wanting to keep something I’d sent him.  Too much of a stretch.  Back to work.

As I inventory the contents of Mr. Reicker’s kitchen, I hear Tyshaun clumping around upstairs.  He’s been quiet and aloof since spending those three days in jail.  Although he works as hard as ever, the jokey camaraderie he shared with me and Jill is gone.  Any efforts to jolly him out of his funk are met with a cold stare. He’s a black guy with a prison record; I’m a white girl with a BS in math. There’s a chasm between us and Ty’s not about to let me forget it. At the end of each day he makes a point of asking if there’s anything else he needs to do, then he slouches off, hood up, shoulders hunched against the cold. 

I’m deeply engrossed in Mr. Reicker’s collection of vintage cookbooks when I hear a tapping sound.  Spinning around, I see a man’s face peering at me through the kitchen window.

I open my mouth, but as in a dream, I can’t summon a sound. 

The face disappears and I hear footsteps crossing the porch to the back door.  The unlocked back door.

I take a deep breath and this time the scream is long and loud.

The noise brings Tyshaun and Jill on the double.

“There’s a man outside,” I say, pointing at the back porch with a shaking finger. 

Tyshaun flings open the door.  “Yo!  What you doing out here?”

There’s the sound of a scuffle as Tyshaun hauls someone from the back porch into the kitchen.

Good lord, it’s Cal Tremaine!  His tie, which probably cost more than everything I’m wearing, is askew and his perfectly starched shirt has come untucked.

“Let him go, Ty.  It’s Mr. Tremaine, one of our clients.”

Ty releases his grip and Cal brushes the wrinkles out of his Italian wool suit jacket.

“I’m so sorry,” I say.  “We’ve been a little jumpy since my attack.”

Cal smiles weakly, keeping a wary eye on Tyshaun.  “Understandable.” Then he switches his focus to me and startles.  “My God, Audrey, you look terrible.  I didn’t understand how badly you were hurt.”

“It’s not so bad.”  I turn my head away from his curious stare.  “I’m getting better…uh, what
were
you doing out there?”

“I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.  I stopped by your office to see how you were doing, but there was a note on the door saying you were over here.  I was heading this way for an afternoon appointment, so I thought I’d stop by.”  Cal offers up a rueful smile.  “You were supposed to call me when you were up to having visitors.  I got tired of waiting.”

“Oh…I’m sorry.  I meant to… I tried calling you to thank you for the flowers but I got your voicemail.  I left a message. They’re beautiful.  The flowers, I mean.”  I’m babbling again.  Can someone please stuff a sock in my mouth? 

At the mention of flowers, a light clicks on in Jill’s eyes, as surely as if I’d thrown a switch.  “C’mon, Tyshaun.  We better get back to work.”

He’s about to protest but Jill fixes him with a penetrating glare.  Christ, could she be any more obvious?

They leave together, but not before Tyshaun tosses one last smoldering stare at Cal. 

“Your employees are very protective,” Cal says, sitting down at Mr. Reicker’s kitchen table.

“Look, I’m really sorry. Ty didn’t realize who you were.  I hope he didn’t hurt you.”

“Not at all,” Cal smiles and pats the seat next to him, inviting me to sit.  “He’s loyal to his boss.  I can appreciate that.”

Cal’s remark cheers me. Despite the coolness Ty has been displaying lately, he is loyal, and even someone who barely knows us recognizes it.  Once I’m seated, I notice the trembling in my legs.  A delayed reaction, I guess, to unaccustomed work, unaccustomed stress, and the unaccustomed presence of a handsome man. 

“So how are you, Audrey?” Cal reaches out and gently touches the raw scar on my forehead.

I flinch, not because it hurts but because the gesture seems to cross a boundary.  I swivel to present my unscarred side.  “I’m fine, honestly.  Just fine.”

“Have the police made any headway in their investigation?  When they talked to me, their focus was on your assistant, but I see he’s been released.”

I shake my head.  “I don’t know what’s going on.  The detective in charge of my case still thinks that Tyshaun’s responsible.  Ty says the cops are following him, keeping an eye on him. What scares me is that if they’re still investigating Ty, maybe they’re not even looking for the real mugger.  But then, I’m not really helping matters.”  I screw up my nerve and look straight into Cal’s eyes.  “You know, I still have never told the cops about the drugs in the kitchen.  Maybe whoever owned those drugs attacked me.”

Cal meets my gaze, then his mouth tightens and he shakes his head.  “God, I’ve been such an ass.  Of course I thought of that.  Those drugs would link a criminal with my aunt’s house. But when the cop talked to me, he asked general questions and I didn’t volunteer anything extra.  It’s my training as a lawyer, I guess.  Never give ‘em more than they ask for.”  He looks down at his hands clasped in the table.  “I didn’t want those drugs to have anything to do with your attack.  The cops were focused on Tyshaun, and I wanted to believe they were right because that would be more convenient for me.  I could get the cop out of my office and get back to working on the campaign.” He sits silently for a moment, then looks up at me.  “I’m so sorry, Audrey.  It’s like I lost sight of the fact that a real person—someone I know, someone I like—got hurt here.  The police need to know about those drugs. You can’t keep living in fear.” 

“But how can I tell them now, after so much time has passed?  What can I say? ‘Oh, by the way, did I ever mention that Ty found a bag full of Ecstasy in the kitchen two days before the sale, and then it disappeared.’  This cop is pretty sharp.  He’ll ask me a million questions about why I didn’t call immediately.  Then I’ll have to tell him about the trunk of jewelry and that’ll look even more suspicious.”  I bury my head in my hands.  “I’ve been paralyzed by indecision. I don’t want to make things worse for Ty, but I can’t stand thinking that the guy who came after me is still out there. I don’t know what to do.”

Cal squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll tell them.  I’ll tell them I found it when I was sorting through my aunt’s things, and waited overnight to call the police because I had an important campaign event and didn’t have the time to get tied up with filing the report.  Then when I came back the next morning intending to call, it was gone. I’ll leave you and Ty and the trunk completely out of it.”

I lift my head up.  “And how will you explain why you’re suddenly coming forward now?”

“Guess I’ll tell them the truth—that I’m a slimeball lawyer more concerned with my work than with justice.”  He smiles at me.  “Bet they’ll have no trouble believing that.  Who’s the detective I should call?”

“Coughlin.”

“
Sean
Coughlin?  Big guy with red hair and freckles?”

“Yeah—you know him?”

Cal’s mouth twists in distaste.  “Oh, I know him all right.  My firm represented the city of Palmyrton in a huge police brutality lawsuit a few years back. Coughlin and his partner cost the taxpayers two million bucks.  Guy’s a real loose cannon.  The only reason he’s still on the force is his partner took the fall for him on the criminal charges.  That and he comes from a long line of cops.  One of his uncles used to be chief.”

Cal places his hands flat on the table and leans forward urgently.  “Listen, Audrey, I know a lot of people in this town.  Let me make some calls.  I’ll get through to the police chief and find out what’s really going on.  This Coughlin character is the wrong guy for the job.  I can get someone top-notch assigned to your case.  It’s the least I can do after throwing you under the bus.”

I have a mini out-of-body experience in which I’m acutely aware of every detail of this scene in Mr. Reicker’s kitchen.  I’m aware of my breathing, aware that my mouth is slightly open.  Aware that Cal’s hands are exceptionally nice—manicured, yet strong and masculine.  His offer has frozen me.  I’m not used to a man wanting to protect me, run interference for me.  I’m about to demur, insist there’s no need to bother.  But I stop myself. Cal Tremaine is willing to push people around on my behalf.  It feels good.

I swallow. Pull my gaze away from his hands and look him in the eye. “Thank you.  If you’d be willing to do that I’d really appreciate it.”

Cal smiles and squeezes my hand.  “Consider it done.” 

Something starts beeping inside his jacket. 

“That’s the reminder for my two o’clock meeting.  I better get going.”  Cal rises and heads to the door.  With his hand on the knob he turns around to look at me.  “Are you busy Saturday night?”

I frantically work to keep my face from lighting up like a Christmas tree.  I’m pretty sure I fail.  “Uh, no—I think I’m free.”

“Great!  It’s Spencer Finneran’s sixty-fifth birthday.  You can come with me to the party at his house.”

Now I probably look like I’ve been offered anesthesia-free root canal.

Cal doesn’t seem to notice.  “I really want you to meet him, Audrey.  Then you’ll understand why this campaign means so much to me.  Spencer is all about making New Jersey a great place to live for everybody, not just the rich and the connected.”

He smiles that dazzling smile one more time.

“Nothing too fancy.  I’ll pick you up at seven.”