Another Man's Treasure (a romantic thriller) (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 1) (25 page)

Dad and I spend two hours huddled together on the couch of our family home as he chokes out the story in his stroke-ravaged voice, and I fill in the missing pieces.

My mother had been sick all of Christmas Eve day.  In the late afternoon, my father finally recognized the symptoms for what they were.  She was pregnant.  He had known about the other man, but he loved my mother so much he hung on, hoping the affair would run its course.  The baby changed everything.  He left the house and drove around for hours, numb.

Meanwhile, my mother called her lover and told him that her husband knew everything.  He too was married. They had been planning on telling their spouses after the holidays, but now the plan was changed.  They agreed to meet.

By this time, the snow was falling.  My mother put me in the car.  No child safety seats back then—I was beside her in the front seat.  She started to back down the driveway when she felt the car hit something.  She must’ve gotten out of the car to look.

I was alone in the car.  Three years old, curious, energetic.

By nine o’clock, my father came home.  He found the car off the driveway, backed into the row of evergreens separating our house from the neighbor’s.  The engine was still running.  The gear was in Reverse.  I was asleep on the front seat. 

The carriage lay crushed in the driveway.

My mother lay beside it.

My father carried me into the house and put me to bed.  I never even woke up.  This is where things got really strange.  Sitting alone in this very room, on this very sofa, Dad decided there were only two things he could do for the woman he loved.  He could protect me and he could protect Nana and Pop, because we were the people Charlotte had loved.

And so the myth was born: snow angel Charlotte, going out to buy those last few gifts, sliding into the lake.

“But where is she?” I ask my father, who lies flung back on the sofa, spent from his effort.  “Did you throw her body in Heart Lake?”

Dad shakes his head. “No lake.  Ocean.”

The Atlantic.  No wonder her body was never recovered.  But how would dad have been able to dump her body in the ocean on Christmas Eve?

“How did you—“

“I couldn’ do ih.  He did. Had a boat.”

“Who?”

Dad doesn’t answer; he’s too exhausted.  Then I understand—who else could it be?

“Her lover got rid of the body for you?”

Dad nods.  “He came here looking for her. He didn’ wan’ the truth to come out either.  Never did tell his wife.”

I look down at my mother’s ring on my finger.  “Then he took this off her finger, before….before he threw her body in the water.  He kept the ring as a memento?”

Dad nods. “He must have.”

“That’s why you were so shocked when I found it.  Then Mrs. Szabo must’ve stolen it from him. Who was he, Dad?”

He waves his hand, his eyes half shut.  “Wha’ matter?    I should’a known.”

“Known what?”

“ I could’na keep a woman li’ your motha.”

There it is: her perfection terrified Dad as much as it’s always terrified me.  I could reach out to him now, tell him how I’ve always felt that I didn’t deserve to be her daughter.  Confide my switched-at-birth conviction that somewhere, some perfectly ordinary mother must have the gorgeous, accomplished daughter that should have gone to Charlotte. 

But I don’t tell Dad any of this.  I just shake his knee, determined to knock loose the facts. This man who changed our lives needs an identity. I want to know what he did with the ring, how he’s connected to Mrs. Szabo. “It was someone she worked with, right? What was his name?”

Dad says nothing.  He has his eyes shut, like a child.  If he can’t see me, maybe I don’t exist.  I won’t let him get away with this.  I shake his knee harder. “Was he a reporter?  Someone who worked at The Van Houten Group?”

Stubborn silence.  I won’t let up.

“Was it Spencer?”

Dad opens his eyes and shakes his head.

I’m a dog person, but my voice takes on the cajoling tone necessary to elicit cooperation from cats.  “Just tell me his first name.”

Dad takes a breath, then speaks.  “Jude.  His name wa’ Jude.”

The ride back to Manor View passes in silence.  I feel as if a huge boil has been lanced.  The pressure has been released, which brings relief from the constant throbbing. But the pain hasn’t gone away; it’s been replaced by the discomfort of a huge open wound.  Gaping, ugly, requiring meticulous care.

Who will nurse this wound?  Not Dad.  He’s slumped in his seat, exhausted, diminished. 

Not me.  Nursing requires a gentle touch and right now I feel as compassionate as a grizzly jolted from hibernation.  The elation of knowing, finally knowing, has passed.  Now I’m seething.  He blames me. 

Thirty years of frost and distance and criticism because he blames a three year old child for leaving her toy in the driveway.  Blames a curious toddler for nudging that gearshift into reverse.  He invented the last minute Christmas gifts story to shield me from the knowledge of what I’d done.  But the story didn’t offer the protection I needed most.

It didn’t protect me from him, did it?

Autopilot.  That’s the only way to get through this day, this week, perhaps the rest of my life.

I woke up this morning and experienced a moment of emotional neutrality, but by the time I sat up in bed and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, it dissipated.  The first thing I remember: Ethel is gone.  Despair settles on me like a lead apron.  But wait, there’s something else to be miserable about.  Oh, yeah…I killed my mother.  And my father blames me.  Now, let’s go run an estate sale.

But that’s what I do.  The ads have been placed, the signs are up—there’s really no alternative but to open the doors of the Siverson house and start selling.  So with one section of my brain I add and subtract, make change, persuade, haggle.  With the rest, I let out one long, silent howl.

The Siverson sale is busier than I anticipated.  Doing it without Jill was a mistake—Ty and I have been running nonstop since the doors opened.  But since Jill’s and my little dust-up over the trunk of jewelry, I’ve been treating her with kid gloves.  She clearly enjoys staging my father’s house for sale, so I told her to finish that up today.

My phone chirps.  I glance down—text message from Jill. 

“So, twenty-five dollars for the vase, the bowl and the Dustbuster?”  A woman with the hungry eyes of a hawk with a mouse in its sights refuses to be ignored.

“Thirty.” I speak decisively, then look away to read Jill’s text.

There’s stuff here u need to see.  Come by house after u r done @ sale.

The woman tosses a ten and a twenty at me with a disgusted huff, but scoops up her loot quickly.  She knows she got a bargain.

There’s nothing important left in my father’s house—I’ve already been through everything twice. I text Jill back before the next customer steps up to the cash box. 

Just toss it.

“There are only five of these salad plates,” a perfectly coiffed woman complains, setting a stack of Portmeirion in front of me.  “I need eight.”

Apparently she thinks she’s in Bloomingdales, not the dining room of a dead person, and that I can nip back to the stockroom for a few more.  “That’s all there are,” I reply, keeping my voice neutral, but putting my hands on the plates as if I might repossess them. “Do you want the five?” My phone chirps again. 

Don’t want to.  U shld decide.

Damn Jill.  Why is she so indecisive?  She seemed to be getting more confident, but working on my father’s house has sent her back to square one.  While the Portmeirion lady vacillates, I text back:

Tomorrow.  Will b late here.

“I guess I’ll take them.” The woman slides the plates out of my grasp.  “Will you call me if you find three more?”

I’m about to tell her no, when my phone chirps a third time.  Geez, Jill—enough already!

Better tonite. Isabelle showing house in A.M.

“Excuse me!” someone at the end of the line shouts.  “Can I leave exact change for this?  I’m in a hurry.”

“No, I can’t call you about the plates.  Yes, you can leave the money.”

Chirp. 
Audrey?  R u coming?

K! @ 7

It’s well past seven when I pull up to the top of the driveway. I expect to see Jill’s big boat. Instead, there’s a smallish navy blue Mercedes.  Is that Isabelle’s car?  Does she drive a Mercedes or a BMW?  I really can’t remember. I’m forced to park my Honda on the incline.  I set the handbrake with a vicious yank.  Wouldn’t want to kill anyone else now, would I?  For a moment, my vision blurs.  Then I blink and sniff and move on.  The downstairs windows are all dark, but I see a dim light in some upstairs windows. 

I walk into the dark kitchen and, despite my exhaustion and grief, I have to smile. The place smells great!  Jill has banished the musty odor of abandonment with a combination of her earth-friendly organic cleaning solution and her pomegranate scented beeswax candles.  When I turn on the overhead light, I see the candles lined up on the kitchen table, their blackened wicks sprouting out of still liquid puddles of melted red wax.  She must’ve just blown them out.  I drop my purse on the table and shout.

“Jill? Isabelle? It’s me, Audrey.  The place looks great.”

No answer.  iPod, cellphone—those two are always wired to something.

I move through the dining room into the living room.  Turning on the floor lamp, I see that Dad’s sagging easy chair is gone, replaced by two sleek new chairs from Ikea.  She’s changed the art on the walls and added some throw pillows.  The house seems to be on its way to a second life.

Maybe we’ll sell it to a young couple just starting out, full of hope and enthusiasm.  Maybe they’ll have a little kid, maybe another baby on the way.  They’ll fill 37 Skytop with laughter and music.  And probably arguments and middle of the night crying and the blare of mindless cartoons too, but even those will be the sounds of life, no?  Maybe the Nealon house can be resurrected.

My phone rings.  I figure it must be Jill, unaware that I’m right downstairs.  But the caller ID says Palmyrton PD.

“Hello?”

“Where are you,” a voice barks.

“Who is this?”

“Coughlin.  Where are you?”

“At my father’s house. Why?”

“Get out. Get out right now. Go someplace where there’s a lot of people.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I finally understand what’s going on with Griggs and Mondel Johnson and the drugs.  It’s not safe for you to be alone.  Go—Fuck!”

I hear a cavalcade of horns and squealing tires.  “What are you doing?  What’s going on?”

“I’m driving.  I’m chasing him.”

“Who?”

“Jesus Christ, Audrey!  I can’t explain it now.  Get out of that house. Go to WalMart or McDonalds or someplace crowded. Just trust me.”

Over the phone line I hear sirens and the screech of metal scraping metal.  Then the line goes dead.

Trust me.
  I stare at my cellphone.  That’s the problem.  I don’t trust Coughlin.  Or Farrand, or anyone else on the Palmyrton Police Department.  Who is Coughlin chasing?  Is Ty on the other side of that crashing metal? Ty, who just left me after escorting me to the bank with no trouble. Ty, who waved a cheery goodby as he walked the few blocks home to his grandmother’s place. I feel my rage at Coughlin rising again.  I know Ty hasn’t been totally straight with me, but Coughlin’s pursuit of him has moved beyond relentless to crazed.

Who do I trust?  Not my father. Not Ty, much as I want to.  Jill?  Maybe. Cal?  Not so much.

Who does Coughlin think is going to come after me here?  I glance around the living room, suddenly wary.  Whose car is that outside?  I’m not positive that it’s Isabelle’s.  But it certainly doesn’t belong to some street punk drug dealer. And where the hell is Jill?

I step toward the front window.  Maybe I should get out of here.  But what if someone’s waiting for me outside?  What kind of advice did Coughlin give me?  Go to WalMart.  Who ever heard of a cop telling a victim that? 

I head into the front hall.  This too is dark, and the scented candle smell has been replaced by some thing else.  Something a little acrid.  Uneasiness morphs into paranoia, a roadside weed choking out the flowers of rational thought.  What am I doing here?  Why was Jill so insistent that I come?  Why did she turn out all the downstairs lights if she’s still working upstairs?

My fingers tighten around my car keys as I back away from the stairs in the foyer.  Time to start over, go out to my car, lock myself inside, send Jill a text.  If she doesn’t answer, I’m out of here.

I turn toward the kitchen.  Then I hear a creak.  I stop walking, stop breathing.  Again it comes—the creak of old wooden joists, not merely settling, but moving under the pressure of someone’s weight.  Someone is in this house with me. Run or turn to look?  I’m a squirrel paralyzed by indecision as the car bears down. 

Run,
my instinct screams. 
Turn
, my intellect counters.

Intellectual curiosity trumps gut emotion.  I am my father’s daughter.

I turn.  But I don’t understand.