Another Man's Treasure (a romantic thriller) (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 1) (6 page)

“Here we are!” Jill sings out gaily as she throws open the door to my condo, sounding like one of the artificially cheery aides at my father’s nursing home.  “Home again!”

Although I’m profoundly relieved to be out of the hospital, it’s hard to feel much joy at being back in this condo.  I look around.  Same beige carpeting, same unadorned off-white walls, same doggy scent. 

I head for the living room, already exhausted by the walk from car.  My nose twitches.  As I walk into the room I hit a wall of sweet scent.  A huge bouquet of flowers sits on the table: lilies, freesia, iris, stock. Not a cheap carnation or mum in sight.

“Wow! Who sent these?” I reach for the little white envelope nestled in the arrangement while Jill watches breathlessly as I read the handwritten note.

Audrey,

I’m so sorry about your terrible injury.  Jill tells me you’re recovering. Is there any way I can help? Let me know when you’re well enough for visitors.

All best,

Cal

I feel myself flushing hotly.  “You told Cal Tremaine I was in the hospital?” I didn’t intend my voice to sound so accusatory, but I’m humiliated by the thought of Jill calling people, scrounging up pity for me.

“I didn’t tell him.  It was all over the news. And the police talked to him. He called the office to ask how you were doing.  I just told him the truth.”  Her eyes are wide and shiny, her lower lip slightly tremulous.

Luckily Ethel charges in and dispels the tension. When the fur stops flying I pull myself out of Ethel’s embrace and make a casual suggestion.

“How about driving me over to the office?”  Although my car is parked outside in its usual spot, I’ve been forbidden to drive for another week, doctor’s orders. 

Jill looks at me as if I’ve suggested an afternoon of kick-boxing.  “No, Audrey, you can’t!  The doctor said you have to take it easy.  No stress, no lifting.”

“Jill, being away from the office is what I find stressful, not being in it,” I plead.  “Please, take me over.  I won’t lift anything heavier than a file folder.”

Thrown for a loop by this role reversal, Jill hesitates.  I press my advantage.  “I just want to check the accounts, look over the mail.”

“You can check your email from here. And I brought you all the snail mail.”  She drops a plastic ShopRite bag bulging with envelopes beside me.  “I’ve paid every bill that’s come in since you were hurt.”

Shit!  Why is she suddenly so efficient?  The truth is, I have a caterpillar need for the cocoon of my office.  I want to wiggle through the familiar clutter.  I want to sit at my desk and gaze at my ever-changing gallery of velvet Elvis paintings.  I want to inhale the scent of Jill’s aroma therapy candles, and eat wasabi soy nuts from the bag in her drawer.  I won’t be home until I’m there.

“C’mon, Jill—please?  I won’t stay long, I promise.”  I stand up and head for the door, as if going were a foregone conclusion.  Unfortunately, I stagger when I reach for my coat.  This is the most exercise I’ve had in a week.

“You see?” Jill accuses, snatching the jacket away.  “You’re still unsteady on your feet.  Sit back down and I’ll make you some lunch. And where are those pills the doctor gave you?  You’re supposed to take your next dose at noon.”

“I don’t want them.”

Jill fishes them out of my coat pocket.  “You hafta take ‘em.”

I’ve been trying to wean myself off my painkillers.  I hate the fog that descends over my brain minutes after I swallow them.  But I hate even more the rising tide of pain that thumps against the inside of my skull when I try to do without them.

Sulky at being thwarted, I eat my sandwich but leave the pills like a pile of peas on a toddler’s plate. Jill continues to fuss around the apartment, fluffing pillows, cleaning out my fridge, making tea.  I feel like I’m being swarmed by a cloud of gnats.  A really sweet cloud of gnats, but still. 

“Why don’t you go back to the office, Jill.  I think I’ll take a little nap.”

She shakes a black nail-polished finger at me.  “Take those pills.”

I swallow, and in a last flurry of chatter, Jill leaves.

I’m alone for the first time since the attack.  It feels good: no nurses, no therapists, no hospital clamor.  I begin to sift through the mail.

Ethel’s nails click across the kitchen floor.  The refrigerator hums. Has this condo always been so creepily quiet in the middle of the day?  I glance around for my iPod, then remember it was in my fannypack.  Whoever attacked me is listening to my Goo Goo Dolls and Mat Kearney. 

I really wish I hadn’t thought of that.

Why was I so eager to get rid of Jill? I click on the TV for a little friendly noise. In mid-afternoon, the airwaves are full of 
Law and Order
reruns—no thank you.  And cooking shows—those will only make the Lean Cuisine that Jill left for my dinner seem even worse.  And decorating shows. “When we return, you’ll learn how to transform vacation mementos and family snapshots from clutter to
art
,” the show’s host promises with a wink to the camera.

No need for me to stay tuned for that lesson.  I’m woefully short of mementos and snapshots.  Except for one.  I heave myself off the sofa, a maneuver that leaves me temporarily light-headed.  Regaining my equilibrium, I make my way over to the bookshelves under the window. 

The picture of my hand clasped in my mother’s sits between piles of books.  Honestly, I don’t look at it that often.  But I wanted to have it.  So one day, I took it off the piano at Dad’s house and brought it over here. I don’t know if my father ever noticed the photo was gone.  If he did, he didn’t care enough to comment.

I study the picture now. Despite the fact that my grandparents poured on stories of my mother’s love and devotion, niggling seeds of doubt sprouted as I got older, weeds pushing though a solid slab of concrete.

If she died, why was her body never found? If she didn’t die, she must have run away.  And what kind of mother abandons her family on Christmas Eve?

What kind of child makes her mother flee?

Now, the ring.  The ring is tangible proof that the story of my mother’s disappearance cannot be fully explained by the facts on record: the snowy road, the sliding car, the treacherous lake.  My fingers tighten on the picture frame as I feel the pill-induced numbness seeping through my body.  My fears and doubts are not unfounded.  There is more to know. 

As the piles of sorted mail grow, my eyelids start to droop.  I lean back against the sofa cushions as dreams begin to dance with reality.  I’m driving my car around and around.  I come to a mountain of flowers and I can’t get around it.  Soon traffic builds up and horns start blowing.  Honk, honk…then the honks turn to bells.  A persistent ringing.

My eyes snap open and I jolt upright.  That sound is real.  Someone’s leaning on my doorbell.  I stagger to my feet and wipe a trickle of drool from the corner of my mouth.  The sun is still brightly shining; I couldn’t have been asleep that long, but I feel groggy and stupefied.

“Coming, I’m coming!” I shout as I lumber toward the door.  Since no one but Jill knows I’m home, it must be her, returning with more mail.  I fling open the door without looking through the peephole.

Tyshaun stands on the threshold.

Delighted, I throw open my arms to welcome him.

He pushes past me and kicks the door shut.  Contorted with scorn, his face looks like something you’d see in those violent videos that PTA moms sign petitions against. 

I back away.  “Look, Ty, I’m sorry they arrested you.  But as soon as I woke up and talked to the police I told them—“

“Told them what, Audrey?”  Tyshaun fills my tiny foyer.  He’s never seemed so big before.  “When that red-haired cop came to let me outta jail, he told me he still likes me for beating and robbing you.  He said he had to let me go for now, but soon as he gets more evidence he’s gonna lock my ass back up.”

“What do you mean?  Why?”

“He thinks you’re lying. Thinks I’m threatening you or summin’ like that.”  Tyshaun’s fierce glare bores into me.  “Why you do me like this Audge? All you had to do is tell him who really hurt you. ”

I feel a hot flush surge into my cheeks.  “I don’t know who attacked me, Tyshaun.  The last thing I remember is driving down Elm Street, looking for a parking spot.  Everything after that is a blank.  When I realized Detective Coughlin had arrested you, I knew he was wrong.  So I
did
lie.  I told him that I remembered seeing the skin on the mugger’s leg, and that it was white.”

We stare each other down for a moment. Then Ty hangs his head and scuffs his sneaker on the floor.

“Really?  You did that for me?”

My fingers trace the stitches on my forehead.  I know Ty didn’t do this to me.  “I wanted the cops to stop chasing the wrong person. If you were locked up, then the guy who really attacked me is still out there.  But I shouldn’t have told Detective Coughlin that the person who kicked me was white.  I don’t know—he could have been black, white, brown, anything.” 

Ty peers at me from under his hoodie.  “Audge, I been thinking that what happened might be ‘cause of the drugs we found.  Maybe the dealer thinks you stole his stuff.”

“But if he came and took it back, why would he think I stole it?”

Ty scratches his head.  “I don’t know, man.  This is fucked up.  I been askin’ around on the street and nobody knows nothin’ about anyone using that old lady’s house as a stash.  Maybe we shoulda told the cops about it as soon as we found it.” 

“I thought about telling Detective Coughlin when he interviewed me in the hospital.  But I was so drugged up—I wanted to think about it first before I said anything.”

You’d be surprised how little time there is to think in the hospital.  Between the steady stream of doctors, nurses, therapists, visitors and meal deliveries, I hardly had a minute to myself.  And when I was alone, my brain was either fogged by drugs or wracked by pain.  But always back there lurking was the need to grapple with this little lie that seems to be growing bigger and bigger. 

“So tell him now,” Ty says.

“I have to figure out the right way.  I don’t want to say anything that might make him suspect you again.” I reach out and touch Ty’s arm. “I did the best I could to protect you.  I guess lying to the police isn’t as easy as it looks.”

He shifts his weight uneasily.  “I couldn’t believe I was back in jail again,” he says softly.  “And this time, I didn’t even do nuthin’.”  He sighs.  “Jill was right.  If I’d’a went with you to the bank, none of this woulda happened.”

“It’s okay.  But why can’t you tell Detective Coughlin who you were with that night?  If you’re trying to protect the girl, I could talk to Coughlin first.  Ask him to meet with her privately.  No one else would have to know.”

Suddenly the fire is back in Tyshaun’s eyes.  “Who I was with is my bizness.  Don’t have nothin’ to do with you or with Coughlin.  You wanna tell that racist cop something, you tell him to go find the actual goon who robbed you.”

Tyshaun pivots and opens the door. “Leave me and mine outta it.”

Day two of my liberation from the hospital. Jill still won’t let me come to the office, but she’s willing to let me do something much more stressful: visit my dad.  Manor View Senior Living hasn’t been graced by my presence since the day after I found my mother’s ring in Mrs. Szabo’s house.  Since then I’ve been beaten, robbed, had brain surgery and lay in a coma for nearly a week.  So I guess no one can accuse me of being neglectful—I do have my reasons for not playing the dutiful daughter.  But I can’t milk my injuries much longer—it’s time to make the trip across town to visit my father. 

I still haven’t been cleared to drive, so Jill is dropping Ethel and me off. 

“So, should I come back in an hour, an hour and a half?” Jill asks.

“No!” I realize how frantic my voice sounds at the thought of being left here so long, so I try for a more reasonable tone.  “I think half an hour ought to do it.  My dad tires easily, you know.”

Clearly she thinks there’s no point in her leaving if she has to return so soon, but I can’t invite her in to meet my father.  Even without the power of speech he’ll manage to convey his deep disapproval of Jill, with her Chinese calligraphy tattoos, her eyebrow stud and her latest unfortunate coif.  I have enough to explain to him without having to defend my choice of employees.

“Okay,” Jill says. “I noticed a Dunkin’ Donuts not far from here so I’ll hang there for a while and you can call me when you’re ready to be picked up.”

“Perfect.”  I grab Ethel’s leash and prepare myself to be pulled through the front door by a dog ready for a treat-scarfing extravaganza.  “See you in a few.”

If there are new occupants in the wheelchairs lining the entrance hall, I can’t pick them out.  Ethel moseys along, licking fingers and snuffling afghans.

“What happened to you, sweetie?” an old lady shouts out.  “Ya look like ya got hit by a truck.”

There’s a perk of old age—you get to blurt out the unfiltered truth wherever you see it.  I’ve stowed my narcotic pain medicine in the bathroom and switched to three ibuprophen every four hours to convince myself that I’m healing nicely and my scars aren’t obvious. Clearly I’m delusional. Even my father will probably notice my changed appearance.  Pulling Ethel closer for support, I push open the door to his room.

As usual, he’s sitting in a chair beside the window, staring blankly at the opposite wall.  His slack face lights up as Ethel charges toward him and he keeps his eyes focused on her.  The time he spends playing with the dog seems to stretch on interminably.  Finally, he can’t delay any longer.  He raises his eyes and looks at me.  I see him recoil.

“Hi, Dad.  Sorry I haven’t been here for a while.”  I sink into the other chair.  “I don’t know if the nurses here told you, but I’ve been in the hospital.”

He shakes his head, his eyes never leaving my face. They move up and down, drinking in every detail, from my patchy hair to my mottled purple-yellow bruises.  He opens his mouth and a sound something between a moan and a query comes out.

“I was mugged in a parking garage.  I had a lot of cash on me from a house sale.  I guess the guy followed me.”

He responds with a croak that I’m guessing means “who?”

“The police haven’t caught him yet,” I say.  I wonder if they ever will.  Detective Coughlin sent a patrolman to my condo this morning to drop off my keys.  Maybe he’s lost interest in the case since he had to release Ty.

My father’s eyes widen and he gets very agitated.  He starts pushing on the arms of his chair as if he’s trying to stand up.  Then he realizes he can’t walk anymore and flings himself backward in frustration.  “Bah!  Bah!” he shouts at me, all the while waving his right hand in the direction of his nightstand.  Ethel slinks under the bed.

On the nightstand I see a small yellow note pad and a pen.  I hand it to him and he begins to write.

His brow is furrowed, his breathing labored, his fingers grip the pen fiercely. The nib digs into the paper with every agitated scrawl.  Finally, he stops and thrusts the pad toward me.

I have to study the seemingly random lines for a moment before they form into words.
Just money?

He must be worried that I was raped
. I
reassure him
. “Y
es, all he did was steal the money from the sale.  It was almost $5,000, but I’m insured.  I’ll get it back eventually.”

Dad leans forward and peers at my face.  He lifts his hand and gestures toward my scar.  “Whuh?”

“Why did he beat me up?”

He nods in agreement.  I shrug.  I’ve asked myself that question many times.  “Maybe I didn’t give it up quickly enough and that made him mad.  Maybe he was hopped up on drugs.”

He shakes his head furiously, flapping his good hand at me until I return the notepad.  More heavy breathing.  More illegible writing.

Danger.  Will try again.

“No, Dad,” I reassure him.  “I learned my lesson.  I’ll never carry cash to the bank alone again.”

He doesn’t try to write any more, but his hands continue to fidget with the pen and pad.  I wouldn’t have thought my attack would worry him so much.  Well, that’s a little harsh.  I guess what I mean to say is, I figured he would blame me for what happened.  Surely if he still had the power of speech I would have to hear the “this would never have happened if…” lecture.  Would never have happened if I’d gone to graduate school in math.  Would never have happened if I’d accepted one of the job offers I’d had from Morgan Stanley or the Commerce Department. 

So that’s the upside of the stroke.  He can’t say all that.  He can only express what he can scratch out on that little pad, so he has to boil it down to the essentials: He’s worried about me.

I’m touched.

I reach out to calm his agitated hands.  For the first time since he’s arrived here, he doesn’t pull away.  We sit like that for a while, not talking.  It’s nice.

“Look who’s here!”  A young woman with a sleek blond ponytail and a tunic printed with dancing cats bounces into the room.  “Hi,” she says to me.  “I’m Ashley, your father’s occupational therapist.”

She turns to Dad.  “I see you’re using your note pad to communicate.  That’s so awesome!” Ashley uses the same high-pitched happy voice I use when congratulating Ethel for sitting still to have her muddy paws wiped.  “Do you want to show your daughter how good you’re doing with your life skills exercises?”

A scowl darkens my father’s face. I can’t imagine he wants me to watch him playing games with this chirpy, ungrammatical girl.

“I was just leaving,” I tell Ashley.  “I won’t distract you from your work.”  I call for Ethel and head to the door.  When I turn on the threshold to wave goodbye, my father’s eyes lock with mine and I sense an emotion there I’ve never seen before.

Fear.