Another Man's Treasure (a romantic thriller) (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 1) (8 page)

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I’m standing in front of my closet with the kind of curdled feeling you get in your gut when you’ve eaten three-day-old moo shu pork leftovers.  What kind of first date is an invitation to a birthday party for the state’s biggest politician? Whatever happened to dinner and a movie?  And what does “nothing too fancy” mean?  Scotch tape the dog fur off your black pants?  Or wear a hot dress from J. Crew instead of a hot dress from Betsey Johnson?

Not that I have hot dresses from either source. The closest I come to glamour is my collection of strapless bridesmaid’s dresses.   Not only do I have nothing to wear to Spencer Finneran’s birthday party, but I also have no clue what I should run out to buy.

Only one person can coach me through this. I press six on my speed dial and wait to be connected to Isabelle Trent.  As the owner of Trent Fine Properties, Palmyrton’s most exclusive real estate brokerage, Isabelle sends a lot of work my way.  She’s more than a business contact, but something less than a friend.  A pillar of the Junior League, the St Paul’s Episcopal Church Vestry, the Bumford-Stanley School Alumni Association and the Westwood Country Club Greens Committee, Isabelle will most certainly know what to wear to a politician’s birthday party.

She answers promptly.  The good thing about Isabelle is you can always reach her, day or night.

“Audrey, darling, how are you?”

Before I can answer she continues, “I’ve got a client on the other line.  Let me put you on hold for a sec.”

The reason you can always reach Isabelle is because she juggles four or five calls simultaneously.  I wait patiently for my turn in the rotation, then I talk fast.

“I’ve been invited to Spencer Finneran’s sixty-fifth birthday party.  All I know is it’s at his house and it’s not too fancy.  What should I wear?”

“Spencer’s sixty-fifth?  Fabulous!  How did you—  Oh, hang on, I’ve got to take this.”

“I’m going with Cal Tremaine,” I tell Isabelle when she returns.  Isabelle is listing Mrs. Szabo’s house, although it’s not the type of property she normally handles.  But I imagine Cal Tremaine is the sort of person whose Blackberry Isabelle wants to be in.

“Oh, good show, darling!”

It’s taken me years to master Isabelle’s own peculiar lexicon.  “Good show” is particularly high praise.  I guess Isabelle is impressed I landed a date with Cal.  

“And I see you’ve got that precious house all ready for me to sell.  Kudos to you!”

“Precious” is Isabelle-ese for ghastly.  A precious house is terribly small, poorly located, or atrociously decorated.  Or, in Mrs. Szabo’s case, all three.

“So the party’s on Saturday,” I continue quickly.  “Can I wear black slacks and my pink cashmere sweater?”

“I’m sure you’d look absolutely precious in that, darling.  Another possibility might be—  Oh, drat, let me take this.  Be right back.”

Just as I suspected, the pants and pink sweater are all wrong.  But I dread a shopping excursion to the Short Hills Mall, where I picture myself wandering aimlessly for hours in jeans and clogs, buffeted by crowds of purposeful, stiletto-heeled women.

The phone clicks and Isabelle is back, barking instructions at a brisk clip.  “Black sheath.  Sleeveless.  Nordstrom, second floor.  Open-toed pumps.”

“Are you sure that’s not too fancy?” I protest weakly.  I hate wearing dresses.

“Accessories are key here, Audrey.  Chunky beads, not pearls or diamonds.”

As if had pearls or diamonds. I picture my collection of funky costume jewelry, scavanged from various estate sales.  Definitely precious. “I don’t have—“

“Lulu’s.  Tell her I sent you.  And Audrey, legs and brows waxed.  Mani, Shell Pink.  Pedi, Venetian Rose.  Must run, darling.  But call me on Monday and tell me all about it.”

I stare at the dead phone in my hand.  Well, at least I have a game plan.  Then a new surge of anxiety strikes because I realize I didn’t ask Isabelle what to wear over a sleeveless dress in mid-October. My distress telegraphs to Ethel, who lets out a deep sigh from her perch on my bed. 

“C’mon baby, let’s go see what we can find in the hall closet.” 

Obligingly, Ethel trails me into the foyer.  The closet is stuffed with coats, but each is worse than the next: Patagonia fleece, Lands End down, yellow rain slicker, dirty Sam Spade trench coat.  Finally my hand falls on wool and I pull out a full length overcoat.

“Will this work Ethel?”

She cocks her eyebrows and her tail droops.

I haven’t worn this coat in years and as I look at myself in the hall mirror, I remember why. A general in the Siege of Leningrad stares back at me from the glass.  I go to hang it back up, then stop.  This is how the houses I clean out get so stuffed with clutter.  Better to pack the coat in a shopping bag and donate it to the homeless.   I fully open the louvered folding door on the left side of the closet so I can get a shopping bag from beside the trunk full of Agnes Szabo’s jewelry.

The trunk isn’t there.

My stomach heaves.  I shoved the trunk in the left back corner of this closet, right next to the ironing board.  I drop to my knees run my hand along the closet floor—nothing but dust bunnies and a pair of old snow boots. 

My heart is hammering now but my brain doesn’t want to accept the information being transmitted by my eyes.  Ethel feels the need to cram into the closet with me, as if her bloodhound DNA can be of use here.  Snuffling around, she knocks the vacuum cleaner over onto both of us.

“Ow!”

Pushing her away, I stand up and wrench open the right-hand closet door. 

There, behind the fallen vacuum, sits the trunk.

Thank God!  My heart settles down.  I’m relieved to see the trunk, but I’m worried now about my short-term memory.  I could have sworn that after Cal Tremaine left my condo I shoved the trunk in the left corner of the closet.  I can picture myself sliding it past the ironing board.  Is that memory false, some kind of hallucination?

I crawl further into the closet.  Something else is wrong.  The ironing board, which I always keep hanging on a hook, is now propped against the closet wall.  I know I didn’t move that ironing board.  The last time I ironed something, Bill Clinton was in the White House.

I pull the trunk out into the hall.  A vague uneasiness has settled over me, the kind of feeling that makes you want to look over your shoulder.  Closing my eyes, I picture the jewelry in the trunk as I last saw it.  The ugly topaz and garnet brooch was right on top.  I lift up the lid and open my eyes.

No brooch.

I dig through the trunk.  It’s still full of jewelry, but the brooch is now near the bottom. 

As if the trunk had been emptied out and repacked.

I rock back on my heels.  Someone has been in my apartment, digging through this trunk, pawing through my closet.  What else did he touch?  The panties in my drawer, the food in my kitchen?  Suddenly my home feels dirty.

My fingers run over the scar on my temple. Did the foot that put it there also step into my condo?

I stand on trembling legs and run for the phone.  Punching in three numbers seems to take all my concentration.  I keep looking over my shoulder, feeling like the guy who broke into my condo is in here with me still.

“Palmyrton Police.  What’s your emergen-”

“Listen, I think someone broke into my apartment.”  My voice sounds high-pitched and shrill as the words tumble out.  “This trunk in my closet, it’s not where I left it and—”

“Is the intruder still there, ma’am?”

“No, no of course not, but he was here and he got in somehow.”

The flat-voiced dispatcher verifies my address and assures me she’ll send someone right over. Minutes later, Ethel leaps up from a snooze, puts her paws on the front windowsill and begins barking her crazed “I’ve got some German Shepherd in me” bark. 

Peeking out the window, I see a burly patrolman headed up the walk. I fling open the door before he can knock and Ethel lunges forward.

The cop stops on the sidewalk. “Restrain your dog, ma’am.”

I grab Ethel’s collar.  “Come on in.  Put your hand out and let her sniff you. Ethel,” I instruct her, “this is a friend.”

Ethel stops barking but her ears are still back.  Suspiciously she sniffs the cop’s hand.  Apparently he smells friendly because her ears perk up and her tail begins a slow, circular wag.

“Officer Walsh, ma’am.”  He pets Ethel’s head.  “Dog like this is the best burglar alarm you could ever have.  But you say someone broke in here?”

“Yes, I—”  His comment throws me off balance.  I don’t think of Ethel as a guard dog; she’s a lover, not a fighter.  But it’s true she defends her turf pretty effectively.

He examines at the front door.  “No sign of forcible entry.  Good strong deadbolt.”

“Yes.  That’s why I can’t understand how he got in here.”

“Did you leave the door unlocked?”

“No.  He must’ve picked the lock.”

“Only on TV, ma’am.”  Officer Walsh pulls out a notebook and sizes up the trunk full of jewelry gaping on the hall floor. “What’s missing?”

“Uh, I’m not exactly sure.”  I’ve never inventoried the jewelry, so I have no idea if the thief took any of the pieces.  “This jewelry belongs to a client.  I organize estate sales, and I have to have this all appraised, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”  As I say the words, I hear how lame they sound.  There’s something off about this jewelry, some reason why Cal doesn’t want me to have it appraised.

Walsh cocks a quizzical eyebrow at me.  “Let’s start at the beginning ma’am.  You noticed signs of a break-in when you came home this afternoon?”

I explain about looking for a coat in the closet and finding things in different places than normal.  “This trunk wasn’t where I left it.”

Writing methodically in his notebook, he continues, “And what else was missing from the closet?”

“I’m not sure.  But I do know that the vacuum that was on the left is now on the right, like someone moved everything around.  And the ironing board is off its hook.”

Officer Walsh studies me for a long moment.  “Your vacuum and your ironing board have been moved. You remember exactly how everything in the closet was arranged?”

I can’t blame him for the skepticism in his voice.  “Look, I’m sure someone was in here, and searched through the closet.”

“And left all this valuable jewelry?”

I can practically hear him thinking, “Watch out for the ones who look normal.  They’re the craziest of all.”

“Thieves like small stuff they can pawn for quick cash.  If the thief found this, why would he leave it?”

My mind is racing now.  I was so flustered by the trunk being in the wrong spot that I leapt to the conclusion that the person I’m most afraid of had come back for more money.  But Walsh’s question throws me for a loop.  Why wouldn’t my attacker take as much jewelry as he could carry?  Even a pawn shop would give him at least a thousand bucks for the stuff in the trunk.

“Anything else disturbed in the apartment?” Walsh asks.

“I haven’t checked.  I called you right away.”

“Let’s walk through together,” he says.  He grunts with approval every time he finds another securely locked window, while I relax a little every time I open a cupboard or closet and find everything where it should be.  Still, I’m sure that trunk has been moved.

“Place looks clean to me,”  Walsh says.  “Does anyone else have access to your condo?  Relative or neighbor with a key?”

“My dad, but he’s in a nurs—”

I freeze with my hand on the linen closet door.

Jill.

Jill has the key to my apartment.  Jill had the entire week of my hospitalization to go through that trunk.  But Jill would never steal anything.

Walsh can see that he’s struck a chord.  I sense that he’s waiting for my explanation, but I’m still trying to work this out in my mind.  Maybe Jill just wanted to look at the stuff.  She loves campy old jewelry.  Maybe she was playing dress-up like a little girl.  This idea makes sense.  After all, Jill had been taking care of Ethel, and I keep Ethel’s leash in the hall closet.  Jill must’ve seen the trunk when she took out the leash, and was tempted to look through the trove of jewelry.  I exhale, and all the fear and anxiety leaves my body.  That’s it.  I’m sure that’s it.

“I’m so sorry to have over-reacted, officer.”  I smile at him sheepishly.  “You’re probably right.  My dog-sitter has a key to the apartment.  Maybe she knocked some things over when she was getting out Ethel’s leash.”

“No problem.  That’s what we’re here for.”  Walsh smiles, but the subtext is, “Dealing with lunatics is part of my job.”

Ethel and I watch the patrol car drive off. All’s well that ends well. 

For the first time since my attack, I sleep deeply and dreamlessly, waking up nose-to-nose with Ethel, who’s been waiting patiently to go out.  Bounding out of bed, I pull on sweats and grab the leash.  My headache is still with me, but downing three Advil every morning has become as much a part of my morning routine as walking the dog.

Ethel barks steadily while running circles in the front hall.  She must really need to pee.  I open the door.  A strange man stands five feet in front of me.

I scream and slam the door shut. 

Heart pounding, I clutch Ethel for courage, too scared to even think what to do next.

The doorbell rings.

Gradually rational thought returns.  My attacker would hardly be ringing the bell in broad daylight, now would he?  I peer through the peephole.  A nondescript, medium built man in gray slacks and a tweed sports coat stands on the stoop.  While I watch, he reaches inside his jacket.

“Detective Farrand,” he holds up his badge.  “I left you a couple of messages yesterday.”

Shit! Hours after the patrolman left here yesterday, a call came in from a detective. I intentionally didn’t return it because I didn’t want to get into a discussion about the trunk.  Who knew he’d actually come here in person?

I open the door.  “Sorry to react like that.  I didn’t realize anyone was out here.  I opened the door to take my dog out.”

“Didn’t mean to startle you.”  He extends his hand. “I’m Detective Elliot Farrand.  I’m taking over the investigation of your assault and robbery.”

My heart settles down.  “Oh, you’re replacing Detective Coughlin?”

“Right.  I need a moment of your time to go over a few facts.”

I feel myself break into a sweat as we sit down at the table. But it turns out there’s nothing to be nervous about.  Farrand is about as different from Coughlin as two men could be.  While Coughlin seemed menacing asking my address, this guy is polite and straightforward.  He takes meticulous notes, thanking me when I provide extra information.  He doesn’t linger on the questions concerning Ty; instead, he seems most interested in who came to Mrs. Szabo’s sale and who might have realized how much cash we took in.  I try to describe the customers who stick out in my mind: the eastern European couple, the man who charged upstairs to buy the bed, the Hoboken hispters.   He writes non-stop.

Then he looks up at me.  “When you organized this sale, did you find anything unusual in the house?”

Here it comes.  “Unusual?  No, Mrs. Szabo didn’t have much of great value. Why?”

“Weapons?  Drugs?  Anything that would lead you to believe there might have been illegal activity going on in the house?”

“No—why?”  Playing dumb is not my strong suit, but if Farrand notices I’m nervous he doesn’t let on. 

“We’ve recently received some information that this house might have been involved in some drug activity.  The executor of Mrs. Szabo’s estate, Cal Tremaine—I guess you know him?”

I nod, and Farrand continues.  “Mr. Tremaine told us he found some street drugs in his aunt’s kitchen when he was going through the house.  We don’t know if it’s related to your attack.  We’re investigating.”

“Great.” So, true to his word, Cal did tell the police about the drugs.  And Farrand isn’t pinning the appearance and disappearance of the Ecstasy on Ty.  Imagining Detective Farrand spending the week methodically tracking down anyone ever associated with Mrs. Szabo’s house makes me feel better.  This guy is on the right track. Cal was right—I don’t need a loose cannon like Coughlin on my case.  Patient police work will bring in the man who hurt me.

When Farrand stands to go, I shake his hand again.  “Thank you, detective.  You’ll call me as soon as you know something?”

He doesn’t smile, just meets my eye steadily.  “Absolutely.”

By the time we finally get out of the condo, poor Ethel is about to burst. Because the weather is so nice and she’s been so patient, I let Ethel drag me on a longer than usual loop around the neighborhood. Although my headaches persist, the dizziness is gone and I feel stronger every day. Rounding a corner onto Birch Street I come upon a yard with a huge pile of leaves raked in front of a plastic climbing structure.  I stop and stare.

Melody Olsen.

Looking at the scene takes me back twenty five years.  Melody and I used to jump off the ladder of her backyard swing and slide set into a pile of leaves.  Over and over we’d jump, until the crackling leaves were down our shirts and inside our ears and between our teeth.  Then we’d track the mess into Melody’s always chaotic kitchen and drink instant hot chocolate while Mrs. Olsen talked on the phone, cooked dinner and nursed her youngest child.

I haven’t thought of Melody for years.  Because she lived across town and went to Catholic school, she and I were occasional friends.  Every time we met up, I’d be a little shy and stand-offish at first, until Melody would pull me by the hand into whatever outlandish game she and her three brothers had dreamed up for the day.  Within minutes, I’d be laughing and screeching with the Olsen kids, all traces of shyness banished.

It was at the Olsen’s house that I discovered not everyone ate dinner in total silence with a book beside their plate.  That some dads played games other than chess with their kids.  That not all mothers were beautiful, ghostly saints.

My mother and Mrs. Olsen met in prenatal exercise class when they were pregnant with us.  Apparently we girls played together as toddlers, and after my mother died, Mrs. Olsen would offer to help my father out by watching me on the rare occasions when my grandparents were unavailable.  As I got old enough to stay home by myself, I saw Melody and her family less and less.  By middle school our paths had diverged.  My father, of course, would have had no reason to stay in touch with Mrs. Olsen after her usefulness to him ended.

But looking at the pile of leaves on Birch Street gives me an idea.  Mrs. Olsen knew both my mother and my father.  The two of them must have met shortly after my mother received the ring from my dad.  Mrs. Olsen lived through my mother’s disappearance, but she wasn’t destroyed by it.  I can ask her things that I could never have asked my grandparents or my father. 

I hurry Ethel along.  “C’mon baby, I have a lot to do today.”  Put in a full day organizing the Reicker estate sale. Pick up my mother’s re-sized ring from the jewelers.  Buy a dress for my date with Cal.  And pay a visit to the Olsens.

On my way to the Reicker sale I make a quick detour to Parkhurst Avenue. In the disruption following my assault, our
Estate Sale by Another Man’s Treasure
sign has been left stuck in Mrs. Szabo’s yard for two weeks.  I need it back for this sale. 

I park my van at the curb and survey the house for a moment.  Unraked leaves fill the yard. A Chinese food menu, faded and tattered by the weather, peeks out from under the door mat.  A rude dog-walker has deposited a blue New York Times home delivery bag full of poop on the driveway. The hole in the attic floor, through which the trunk dropped, must still be there since it doesn’t look like anyone’s been here since Jill, Ty and I left.  How did my mother’s ring end up in this forlorn little house, in a part of town where our family knows no one?  Who was Mrs. Szabo?  Maybe I can find out more from Cal tomorrow night.

I cross the yard to retrieve the sign, but it’s so firmly anchored in the dry ground of the front yard that I plop on my butt when I finally yank it out. 

“Oh, dear!  Oh heavens! Are you hurt?”

Heaving myself up, I see a thin woman walking an ancient pug.  She and the dog have stopped on the sidewalk to stare at me.  I spring up and dust the dry leaves off my jeans. 

“Are you all right?”  the woman quavers.  Her wispy hair whips around in the breeze.  The dog strains on his leash, emitting coughing sounds.  As small as he is, he looks capable of pulling her over. 

“I’m fine.”  And then, as she shows no inclination to move along, I add,   “Just taking my sign back.”

“Are you the one who ran the estate sale here?”

A regular Sherlock Holmes, this one.  Nevertheless, I smile patiently and extend my hand, “I’m Audrey Nealon.  I own Another Man’s Treasure.” Never know where my next client might come from.

She backs away from my hand.  “I can’t shake.  I have fibromyalgia.  And carpal tunnel.”

“Sorry.”  She’s really not that old—maybe fifty—but she’s what my grandfather used to call “nervous,” an all-purpose adjective that covered everything from jumpy to schizophrenic.  Still, she seems to want to talk.  “Did you know Mrs. Szabo?”

She shakes her head.  “Not very well.  BoBo and I would say hello when we saw her in the yard.  Right BoBo?” 

BoBo refuses to confirm or deny.  “Did you come to the sale?” I ask.

“No, but Vera told me there were a lot of people.”

Vera.
  “Is Vera Mrs. Szabo’s neighbor?  The thin lady with the gray bun?”

Her eyes, the pale, pale green of pond water, open wide.   “BoBo and I better get on home.”  She tugs the little dog, and heads down the street, glancing back over her shoulder as if she expects me to follow her waving an ax.  I toss the sign in the back of the van and watch as she and BoBo disappear into a house four doors down.  Of the three houses between hers and Mrs. Szabo’s, only one has a neat garden and a well-swept walk.  Not much to go on, but I’ll take my chances.  If Vera doesn’t live there, maybe whoever does will be more willing to talk than BoBo’s owner.

I’m knocking on the door before I’ve given myself time to change my mind, or think of what, exactly, I’m going to ask.  The door opens quickly, and the little woman from the sale with the glasses and bun looks me over, almost as if she’s been expecting me.  Pulling her cardigan around her shoulders, she steps out on the front porch.

“I saw you on the news.” Vera squints up at me.  “You got robbed of all the money from Agnes’s sale.  What else did he get?”

This is weird.  I came to ask her questions, and she’s grilling me.  “Nothing.  Well, my fannypack, with my keys and my license—that was a hassle.  But nothing else of value.”

She stares at me long and hard with those lashless gray eyes.

“Look, I know you think your friend left you something in the house, but everything she had was in the sale except this trunk full of old jewelry that we found in the attack.  That has to be appraised, so—”

Vera’s eyes light up.  “Oh, so you found that didya?  That was Agnes’s retirement fund.  She took it from the people she worked for.”

Am I hearing right?  Did Vera just tell me that the jewelry is stolen?  “What do you mean?  Who did she work for?”

“All kinds of people.  She cleaned houses and watched kids.”

My ears perk up.  Growing up, my father and I always had household help, a steady stream of women from the Maid for You agency who kept our rugs vacuumed and our clothes laundered.  Some lasted for a few years, others stayed only a couple of weeks.  My father barely acknowledged their existence. Could Mrs. Szabo have been our housecleaner at some point? 

Vera continues, almost chatty.  “When Agnes got too worn out to chase after toddlers, she started taking care of old people.  She always worked off the books.  No benefits, no pension.  She didn’t even pay into Social Security.  She’d always say to me, ‘Who’s going to look after me when I get too old to work?’ She knew her sister’s children and grandchildren wouldn’t do it.” 

That would be Cal and his family. This makes sense.  Agnes would take a brooch here, a watch there; that’s why the stuff was all different sizes and styles.  Cal must’ve guessed that it was stolen when he saw it.  No wonder he didn’t want to deal with it.

“No one ever suspected her?” I ask.

Vera’s crooked brown teeth appear in a satisfied grin.  “Nope.  She knew how to take things that wouldn’t be missed.  Those rich people had more than they could keep track of.  But in the end, her plan backfired on her.”

“How so?”

“She hid the trunk up in the attic while she was taking the stuff, but then when she needed to start using it, she couldn’t get to it.  She was too old and weak to push herself through that trap door into the attic.  She spent all her time worrying about it.  ‘I need to get it down…how am I going to get it down?’”

“She couldn’t find anyone to help her?”

Vera waves a bony hand. “I made suggestions, but she wouldn’t listen.  To tell the truth, Agnes was starting to get a little strange. When her faucet started leaking, she couldn’t decide what plumber to call.  When her podiatrist retired, she couldn’t figure out how to find a new one.  That’s what happens when they get old.”

They?  Vera looks to be pushing a hundred herself.  “So, did she really need the money from the jewelry?”

Vera shrugs. “She just kept saying, “I need to get into that trunk.  I need something in there.’ I tell you, I got tired of hearing it.”

  “Did Agnes ever tell you about the families she worked for?  Did she ever mention a Roger and Charlotte Nealon?”

“She’d tell me the things those rich ladies said to her.  The way they treated their kids, their parents.  But I don’t remember those names.”

Did my father mistreat Agnes Szabo? Would she have considered a widowed math professor a rich oppressor?  Yes, he’s aloof, but I don’t remember him ever speaking harshly to any of the women who cleaned for us.  Would Agnes have felt she “deserved” my mother’s ring?