Another Man's Treasure (a romantic thriller) (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 1) (9 page)

Vera folds her brittle arms across her chest.  “I went to visit Agnes in the hospital before she died.  All drugged up and stuck full of tubes. I could see in her eyes she had something to tell me, but she couldn’t get it out.”  She shakes her head.  “I would’ve helped her if I could. But Agnes waited too long to tell me what she needed me to do.”

“What do you think it was? Was she just worried that she’d need the money from the jewelry to pay her medical bills?”

Vera’s hard, little eyes narrow to slits.  “She knew she was dying.”

Poor Agnes.  Dying all alone, worried, and no one but this flinty old gal to offer her comfort.  What had she wanted Vera to do?  “Could it have something to do with me getting robbed?”

As a cool breeze whips leaves across the porch, Vera turns to go back into her house.  With her hand on the doorknob, she shoots me one last keen look.  “Maybe what happened to you was just a coincidence.” 

In the twenty-odd years since I’ve last been here, the Olsen’s house has shrunk while their trees have grown.  The center hall colonial, which I recall as large and rambling compared to our older, quirkier home, now seems like a standard-issue suburban four-bedroom.  Meanwhile, the little sapling in the front yard, which we kids did our best to trample, has matured into a 25-foot shade tree.  The clutter of bikes and trikes and sports gear is gone, as is the swing set Melody and I used to leap from.  But in the large side lawn I can still see the bare patch that served as home base for so many games of kickball and wiffle ball.  I can’t conjure up many purely joyful moments from my childhood, but swinging the yellow plastic bat and knocking the ball clear out to the curb here is one of them.

A pleasant warm glow fills me up as I ring the doorbell.  Even if Mrs. Olsen can’t tell me anything about my parents, it will still be nice to see her and find out how Melody and her brothers are doing.  Within moments of the chime’s sounding, the door flies open and I find myself engulfed in her cushiony bosom. 

“Look at you!” Mrs. Olsen squeals.  “You’re so lovely, all grown up from the shy, skinny little girl I used to know.”

“You haven’t changed a bit,” I answer, and in this case, it’s absolutely true.  Always a little matronly, Mrs. Olsen never looked young in her mid-thirties and she doesn’t look old now that she’s over sixty. Her tendency to plumpness and her sunny disposition have kept her face smooth.  Her only wrinkles are the laugh-lines crinkling the corners of her blue eyes.

“Come on back to the kitchen.  I made oatmeal raisin cookies because they were always your favorites.”

I have no recollection of this; as far as I recall, all Mrs. O’s cookies were equally good.  “That’s so sweet.  You didn’t have to go out of your way like that.”

She directs me into a chair at her big kitchen table, then pauses in her bustling for a moment.  “It’s so good to see you.”  Her kind eyes search my face.  “I’ve thought of you many times over the years.  I really should have gotten in touch.  Then, last week, to see you in the news, the victim of a terrible attack—”  She shakes her head, her frizzy gray-brown curls bobbing.  “I’m so relieved that you’re okay. You
are
okay, aren’t you?”

Am I?  I’m jumpy and suspicious and a little too in touch with the dark side of human nature.  But my headaches are mostly gone and my stitches are out.  “Yes, I’m fine,” I assure my old friend.  “Tell me about Melody and the boys.”

We spend the next twenty minutes catching up.  Melody is a biologist in Montana; her brothers are all in New Jersey, although not in Palmyrton.  Mrs. Olsen chats on about their many accomplishments and tells me that she’s now taken a part-time job as a social worker at the Midtown Community Center.  I tell her about Another Man’s Treasure, and about my father’s stroke.

“A stroke? Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.”  Mrs. Olsen reaches out to pat my hand.  As she does, she notices the ring. I only picked it up from being resized a couple of hours ago, and it still feels strange on my finger.   Her face lights up.  “You’re wearing your mother’s ring—how nice!  She loved that ring.”

I straighten up in my chair. All the family chat has been nice, but this is what I came here for.  Suddenly the ring feels like a heavy weight.  I need Mrs. Olsen to help me carry it.

“Did she always wear this ring?” I ask.

“Oh yes.  Her wedding band was on her left hand and that ring was always on her right.”

I look Mrs. Olsen straight in the eye. “Then why wasn’t she wearing it the night she disappeared?  I found it recently, not at my father’s house, but in a trunk of jewelry in the attic of an old woman whose house I was clearing out.”

“Really?  How odd.”  Mrs. O looks genuinely perplexed.  “What was the woman’s name?”

“Agnes Szabo.”  I say the name slowly and clearly, hoping for some start of recognition. 

“Never heard of her.”

“She worked as a housekeeper and a nanny.  She stole this jewelry—one or two pieces from each employer—as a kind of nest egg for her retirement.  So I was thinking she might have worked for us at some point.  But our family always used an agency, Maid for You.  I checked, and they have no record of an Agnes Szabo in their files.  Yet somehow this woman stole the ring.  From my father…or from my mother.”

Mrs. Olsen starts fussing around, straining and pouring the tea.  “Maybe your mother took it off in a restroom, and this woman found it.  Or maybe it slipped off her finger.  What does your father have to say about it?”  She gasps and covers her mouth.  “I’m so sorry.  I forgot you said he’s not able to speak.”

“He couldn’t tell me anything about the ring.  But it upset him, Mrs. Olsen.  You’d think he’d be happy that I found it, but seeing it made him angry.”

Her gaze is focused on the green pottery sugar bowl on the table but I can tell she’s looking far back in time. 

“Why is my dad so cold?” I ask her softly.  “Why is he angry at me?  Was he ever happy?”

Her thick, strong fingers interlace with mine.  “Oh my dear, yes.  He adored you.  When you were born he was brimming with wonder and joy.  You were fussy at first and I remember your mother used to tell me that you’d cry all day until your Daddy came home, then you’d settle right down as soon as he took you in his arms.”

It’s as if I’m listening to her recite a fairy tale.  This can’t be my father she’s talking about.  “He held me?” I ask.  I don’t remember ever sitting in my father’s lap.

“Oh yes, he was willing to sit with you for hours. In fact, he was good with all babies.  I think it was because he had such deep inner reserves.  Your mom and I would talk about how lonely it could get being home with a baby all day, but your dad never felt that way.  He was content with his own company.  I envied him that.”

“You make it seem like a positive thing.  But to me, he’s always seemed like a recluse, walled off from the world.”

Mrs. Olsen nods.  “All he ever truly needed was Charlotte and you, but he still enjoyed other people’s company. That’s what changed when your mother died.  Once she was gone, not only did he not need anyone else, he couldn’t even tolerate anyone else.”

I take a deep breath and squeeze her hands in mine.  “What do you know about the night she disappeared, Mrs. O?  Do you really think her car slid into that lake while she was out Christmas shopping?”

Mrs. Olsen squirms in her seat, the way Melody and I used to squirm when she interrogated us about large quantities of missing cookies.  Finally she speaks, looking past my right shoulder.

“Well, it must’ve happened that way.  That’s what the police said.”

“I know the official story.  But what do you think?  If she ran out to go shopping, why wasn’t she wearing the ring she never took off?”  My eyes lock with Mrs. Olsen’s and she’s the first to look away.  She knows something; I’m sure of it.

  I force her to look at me.  “Tell me.  Please.”

She sighs.  “I don’t know, Audrey.  It’s probably nothing. But, well, your mom didn’t seem herself for a few months before…before Christmas.  We weren’t spending as much time together--she was busy with her work and I had my hands full because the twins had just been born.  But when we would see each other she seemed—”  Mrs. Olsen searches for a word.  “…keyed up.  Like she was about to burst.”

“And you didn’t ask her what was going on?”

“Oh, I did. She’d laugh it off.  Say life was good and she was happy, that’s all.”

“But you didn’t believe her?”

“At the time I did.  I figured I was a little envious of Charlotte, which isn’t a nice feeling to have for a friend.  I was feeling fat and exhausted and zoned out on Sesame Street and your mom was getting her life back together.  She had this great new job that she loved at a small PR firm, and a husband who was willing and able to help out with child care.  Not like me.  My poor George would catch the 6:16 train into the city and not make it home again ‘til eight at night.”   She shudders as she glances around her cheerful kitchen.  “Sometimes I wonder how we ever made it through those years.”

Maybe she’s seeing herself trapped in here from sun-up to sundown every day of her kids’ toddlerhood.  It’s hard to connect this tale of maternal discontent to the jolly, loving uber-Mom of my childhood memories.  And it’s hard to figure out where she’s going with this story.  It seems like yet another page in the “Charlotte Perry had a perfect life” book.  But Mrs. O. must have a reason, so I sit quietly and wait.  It worked for detective Coughlin; why not for me?

After a protracted silence, Mrs. Olsen starts talking again.  “Your mother and I were from the generation of women who were taught we could have it all: career, kids, marriage of equals.  We started our careers and married our true loves and had a baby and then we hit the wall.  We found out it wasn’t so simple.  Bosses were demanding, childcare was unreliable, husbands only supported equality if there were clean socks in their drawer.  So we made sacrifices.  I gave up my career when I realized I couldn’t do a good job at work and at home with three kids under the age of three.”  She pauses and strokes my arm.  “Your mom made a different sacrifice.”

“What?”

“She decided she was only going to have one child.  She loved you dearly, but she knew she wouldn’t be a good mother to a bigger family.  She worried that she’d be resentful if she had to give up working to take care of another child.  Plus, she was sick as a dog when she was pregnant with you, and I don’t think she could’ve faced going through that again. We used to joke about ‘the final solution’—making our husbands get vasectomies.”

This is new.  The first indication I’ve ever had that my mother wasn’t a cross between the Virgin Mary and Princess Diana. And Nana never mentioned that my mother had a difficult pregnancy.  But then, she wouldn’t have.  She only talked about things Charlotte did well. But I still don’t see where Mrs. O’s going with this and I guess it shows on my face.

“After that Christmas Eve, I kept thinking…..”  Another inhalation, as if she’s trying to find the oxygen to swim across the deep end of the pool.  “…kept thinking about the last time we were together.  It was the second weekend in December.  I had a fancy Christmas party to go to, and your mom agreed to take me shopping.  In Bloomingdales, one of those perfume sampler ladies squirted a big blast on Charlotte.  All the color rushed out of her face, she broke out in a sweat and doubled over.  I thought she was going to heave right there in Cosmetics.  She ended up buying a new blouse to change into because she couldn’t bear the scent on the one she had been wearing.”

“Did she always have such a dramatic reaction to perfume?” I ask.

She shakes her head.  “Never.  And it was a nice scent.  Chanel Cristalle.  I can never smell it without thinking of Charlotte.”  Mrs. O. isn’t looking at me as she says this.  Her eyes are focused on the tangle of snapshots and children’s drawings stuck to her refrigerator.  With some effort, she drags her attention back to me. I see a glimmer of tears in her eyes.

“What?” I ask.  “What is it about the perfume that bothers you?”

“Sometimes strong smells can make you queasy if you’re… if you’re  pregnant.”

I feel like she’s thrown hot tea in my face.  My mother was pregnant when she died?  I didn’t just lose a parent that night; I lost the thing I’ve always wanted more than anything else—a sibling.

Mrs. Olsen sees that she’s upset me.  She comes around to my side of the table to give me a hug. “I’m probably wrong.  I should never have mentioned it.”

“But that would explain why she seemed excited.  Maybe it was so early she didn’t want to tell anyone yet. Not even her mom.  Maybe not even my dad.”

  Mrs.  Olsen nods.  “Yes, I suppose.  It’s just, well—”

“Did you ever ask him about it?” I demand.

“No, I didn’t want to upset him.”  She picks up my empty teacup and bustles over to the sink.  “Like I said, I’m probably way off base.”

I can’t figure her out.  She’s the one who brought up the idea that my mom was pregnant, and now she’s backpedaling.  “But what do you really think, was she or wasn’t she?”

When there’s a safe distance between us, Mrs. Olsen speaks. “I think she might have been pregnant.  What I can’t figure out is why being pregnant again would’ve made her that happy.”

I look good.  I look
damn
good.

I think.

“What’s your opinion, Ethel?” I spin around in front of the full-length mirror so Ethel can get the full effect of my new black dress and heels.

She buries her snout between her paws and sneezes.

“What’s the matter?  Did I go too heavy on the perfume?”

Perfume. 
I stop in mid-pirouette.  My giddy excitement over my date with Cal dissipates as the memory of my conversation with Mrs. Olsen crowds its way back into my consciousness. 

Ethel scootches away from me on her belly, not sure I’m really me.  The salesladies at Nordstrom knocked themselves out getting me outfitted (it was a slow day), and Trevor, the stylist at Isabelle Trent’s salon, cut me these punky, fringy bangs that hide the shaved spot on my head.  I’ve been pretty successful at keeping the whole scene with Mrs. O. boxed up in a corner of my mind while I shopped and fussed and primped for Cal.  But the box pops open at unlikely moments.  There’s something alive in there, eager to escape.

For about the thousandth time since leaving the Olsen’s yesterday, I look at the ring on my finger and think about Charlotte—who’s now not just my mother but the mother of my incipient baby brother or sister—and I wonder about that Christmas Eve expedition.  Wouldn’t being pregnant make a woman more cautious?  Wouldn’t she have been less likely to go out into that storm if she knew she was risking another life?  And if my father knew she was pregnant, wouldn’t he have stopped her from leaving on her crazy mission? And how did Mrs. Szabo steal her ring?  Somehow I have to tell Cal that I know how his aunt got the jewelry…don’t I?  Won’t that make it okay that I stole from him what was already stolen? The more I poke and prod at these ideas, the further I sink into a funk.

The ring of the doorbell knocks me out of my trance.

Ethel shoots out of my bedroom and flings herself at the front door, baying at the top of her voice.  Out in the hall I clip on Ethel’s leash and loop it around the newel post.  Then I take a deep breath and open the front door.

A slow grin spreads over Cal’s face.  “Hey, you look great! I like the new do.”  Casually, he reaches out and touches my hair.

A hot current races to my core.  “Thanks,” I say, trying not to gasp.

Cal steps into the foyer and sees Ethel straining to get to him.  “Hi, girl.”  He moves toward her with his hand outstretched.  She licks Cal as if he’s a soft-serve cone on the Boardwalk.  As I pull her away, Ethel points her nose toward the ceiling and lets out a long, mournful howl.

“Oh, for God’s sake.  You can’t come with us.  Get over it.”  I grab my snappy little black clutch and turn Cal around.  In the soft light of the hall lamp, my mother’s ring glints on my finger.  I take a second to admire how nice it looks on my manicured right hand. Then I release Ethel and slip out the door.  The sound of her scratching paws follows us down the walk.

Spencer Finneran lives in a beautifully restored Victorian a few blocks from the center of Palmyrton.  There are bigger, fancier houses on the outskirts of town, but these few blocks of graceful Queen Annes and Gothic Revivals have always been my favorites.  By the time we arrive, cars are already parked up and down the street. It’s clear which house is the Finneran’s—every light’s ablaze and men are smoking cigars on the big wrap-around porch despite the cold weather. Cal pulls his BMW into the driveway of the house next door. 

“Spencer’s neighbors won’t mind if we park here,” Cal says.  “They’re invited to the party.”

The ride from my house to the party has gone rather well.  I’ve walked without tripping, talked without stammering, even managed a little joke. And steered clear of the stolen jewelry. But Cal’s parking maneuver unnerves me.  It reminds me that my date is an insider here.  Cal knows the senator well enough to know his neighbors; knows the neighbors well enough to park in their drive with confidence.  When Cal opens the car door for me I feel as I did the summer after third grade, standing on the edge of the pool, waiting to take the test that would give me unlimited access to the deep end.

Cal puts his hand on the small of my back and guides me toward the stately green and cream painted house.  As we draw closer to the porch, men begin calling out to him.

“Hey, Cal—nice work on the Henderson deal.” 

“Saw you on Channel 4.  You gave as good as you got.” 

“C’mere and tell me about this golf outing you roped me into.”

Cal leads me through the crush of men, introducing me left and right.  Bob, Bill, Dave, Steve, Stan, Marty—the names whiz by like bullets in a shoot out.  They smile and nod and crush my hand in theirs as they look right through me.  I’m sure they’ve met—and forgotten—scores of women who’ve shown up on Cal’s arm.  They slap him on the back and tell him hilarious anecdotes about people I don’t know.  They make him promises and beg him to call and murmur advice in his ear.

I feel my dream date unraveling. This is going to be a helluva a long night, and, unlike these guys, I don’t even have a drink in hand to numb the pain.  I look out over the crowd and see a teenage boy in skinny jeans and black Chuck Taylors sitting on the porch swing gazing morosely into the night. A cigarette glows in his right hand. I’d like to join him.

Then there’s a warm breath in my ear and a strong, smooth hand holding mine.  “Sorry about this crew.  Let’s get inside the house.  There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Once we’re in the foyer, the frat party atmosphere dissipates.  The house is lovely: A Federal highboy, a grandfather clock, a Persian carpet, its blues and roses mellow with age.  I could have a field day in here, but Cal is urging me forward.  We pass the formal living room, filled with a buzzing group of men in blue blazers and women all wearing some version of my outfit.  Score one for Isabelle.   A tall man with a mane of silver hair is moving among the groups, smiling and chatting.  That’s Spencer Finneran—I recognize him from TV—but Cal keeps directing me down a hall toward a large gourmet kitchen that’s been added on to the rear of the house.  There, a flock of white-aproned caterers flaps back and forth refilling trays.  A huge cake with sixty-five red, white and blue candles rests on the granite countertop.  In the midst of all the activity stands a short, plumpish woman in a beige and maroon flowered dress, a strand of pearls, and sensible low heels.  Isabelle would find her just this side of precious. 

“Anne!”  Cal holds out his arms.

“Cal, my dear—there you are!”  The woman allows herself to be hugged.  “Now the party can start.”  She turns to me and takes my hand in both of hers.  “And you must be Audrey.  I’ve heard so much about you.”

She has?

“This is Spencer’s wife, Anne Finneran,” Cal completes the introduction.  “She’s the great woman behind the man.”

Anne snorts, the laugh lines at the corners of her eyes crinkling.  “No need for the PR nonsense back here in the kitchen, Cal. Why doesn’t this poor girl have a drink?”  She shoots a look at one of the food service minions and a glass of wine materializes.  “Cal told me how you met.  What a fascinating job you have. Tell me, what’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever found in someone’s house?”

I twist my mother’s ring on my finger. But of course, I don’t mention that.  Anne is looking me straight in the eye.  She genuinely wants to know.  So I tell her about the abstract impressionist painting, and she knows all about the artist’s work.  Soon she’s taking me to see a portrait hanging in their dining room, which leads me to ask about the vintage Noritake china I see there, which gets us onto the soaring value of Rookwood and the impossibility of finding nice Fenton glass.  Another woman chimes in, and half an hour goes by before I realize that neither Anne nor Cal is anywhere nearby, but I’m having a fine old time talking art and antiques and historic preservation with some very nice people.  It dawns on me then that Anne is an outstanding hostess.  She’s taken the new kid under her wing and found her some friends to play with.  

My chat with an art history professor is interrupted by the sound of a loud gong.  The door from the kitchen opens and the cake is wheeled in.  At the same time, party guests from every other room in the house start cramming into the dining room.  Cal appears at my side just as Spencer and Anne Finneran arrive.  To make more room, he steps behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders.  I can’t help but lean back into him a bit.

I like it.

Anne and Spencer stand behind the candle-encrusted cake, flanked by their four children, two boys and two girls, and the kids’ spouses. Ten grandchildren complete the tableau. Spencer, despite his shock of silver hair, looks far younger than sixty-five, while Anne looks older.  She’s chosen to let her brown hair fade to nondescript gray, and she hasn’t fought against wrinkles or a spreading waistline.  She wears the scars of raising four kids and living in the political spotlight like a badge of honor.  I like her for that.

The Finneran children are easy to distinguish from the in-laws, all sharing their father’s strong jaw and high cheekbones. They’re the kind of siblings about whom strangers say, “…and this is obviously your sister.” I wonder what it would be like to be part of a family like this—more than a family: a clan, a dynasty.

The grandchildren range in age from an infant in arms to a stunning young woman who, according to an overheard conversation, just started Harvard.  The little girls wear party dresses, the older ones slightly hipper versions of the dress I’ve got on.  The boys all sport khakis and blue blazers. Except for one. The sullen teenager from the porch is among them, looking like he wants to dump a bowl of punch on his cousins and run. 

Spencer begins to speak.  He starts with a charming little story about his sixth birthday that captures the attention of everyone in the room, even the little kids.  Once he has his audience in his hands, he calls out various people for bringing him safely to this point in his life: his golf buddies, his priest, his law partners, Cal.  With obvious pride, he thanks all of his children individually for inspiring him with their courage and their accomplishments.  A daughter who survived leukemia, a son who served in the Peace Corps—each tribute comes straight from his heart.  Then he turns to Anne.

I’ve been watching her throughout Spencer’s speech.  It’s hard to describe the expression on her face.  Devotion implies subservience and she’s clearly not anyone’s slave.  Love is there, certainly, but her look is more complex than that. 

Satisfaction.  That’s what I see.  Satisfaction with the man she married and the life she’s created with him.

Spencer raises a glass in a toast.  “To my bride, my anchor in rough seas, my muse.”

If there’s a dry eye in the house, I don’t know who it belongs to.

Then the caterer steps in to light the candles on the cake and the moment dissolves into singing happy birthday and joking about the need for a fire truck.  I notice the sullen teen edging toward the door.  His mother, a Finneran daughter-in-law, stops him with a fierce glare.  Then Anne looks his way.  Her left eyebrow goes up.  A silent message passes between them and I see the corner of his mouth twitch in a repressed smile. 

Grandma understands.  I like her even more.