This Bitter Treasure: a romantic thriller (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 3)

by S. W. Hubbard

  Jill turns her big sad eyes on me. “Audrey, ple-e-eze. Mrs. Pileggi blames me for what happened. Fifty people heard her say that at the funeral home. Someone’s going to tell the cops. I bet they’re going to come looking for me. Maybe I should just confess and get it over with.” She paces back and forth across my living room. “What if they arrest me? I’ll be kicked out of school. I’ll never be able to be a Licensed Social Worker with a felony conviction.”

  “Jill, stop! You’re blowing this totally out of proportion. What you did was just a case of teenage poor judgment. If the cops arrested people for that, we’d all be in jail.”

  “But I feel so guilt-e-e-e.” She plops back on the sofa. “I want the cops to investigate so that what happened to Amber doesn’t happen to other people. But I don’t want to get in trouble. I’m scared.”

  The doorbell rings with our Thai food delivery. “Let’s relax and eat dinner now. I’ll talk to Sean in the morning. I’ll try to persuade him to tell me a little bit about what’s happening in the investigation, and then I’ll call you. There’s no reason for you to tell the cops what you did all those years ago. It’s not going to change the outcome of the investigation one way or the other.” What I don’t say is that once Sean hears information, he can’t unhear it, so I’m not going to tell him about Jill passing along her pills. I don’t want her distracted from grad school.

  There’s simply no reason for Jill to get caught up in this Amber Pileggi mess.

  The next morning, after dropping Jill off at the train station with more promises, I contemplate my options for the day. I have an appointment to give an estimate to the heirs of a modest house on the west side of Palmyrton, and I need to return to the Eskew place to keep cataloguing the contents. Now that I realize how much of value the house contains, I know I’ll need help every day. Though I’d much prefer to work with Ty, the best strategy would be to take Adrienne with me and let Ty handle the new house on his own. He’s eager to take on more responsibility, and I’m ninety-five percent certain the house will contain nothing but old furniture and housewares, no antiques or art. It will be a good project for his maiden voyage. I text him with the plan, and head to the office.

  Adrienne shows up at nine-fifteen. Our deal is that she comes in after her kids get on the school bus and leaves in time to meet them when they get off. I’m pretty sure school starts at eight, but I don’t say anything, not even when I see that she’s stopped at Caffeine Planet on her way here.

  If I expect her to apologize for being late, I’m dreaming.

  “I can’t believe how slow the service is at Planet,” she complains. “With every cup of coffee they sell, they have to tell the entire story of that girl who died in their restroom.”

  “Oh? What is the entire story?”

  “The part I heard was that she worked there briefly a few months ago until they had to let her go because she kept missing her shifts. Then someone else said that a young mom took her child in the restroom to pee and found that girl on the floor with the needle still stuck in her foot. Can you imagine? You stop for a latte and a smoothie on the way home from nursery school and you end up having to explain to your kid what a junkie is!”

  I stare at her as I speak. “The junkie’s name is Amber Pileggi. She and Jill knew each other since kindergarten. I went with Jill to the viewing last night.”

  Adrienne has the sense to look abashed. “Oh, wow—I’m sorry, Audrey. I didn’t know. How awful.”

  Luckily, the phone rings to break up our awkwardness. Adrienne pounces on it while I get organized for round two at the Eskew home. Then Ty walks in.

  “Whoa, look who just stepped out of the J.Crew Catalog,” Adrienne greets him as she hangs up the phone.

  Ty is wearing khaki pants and a blue polo shirt and he looks quite nice. It never dawned on me to tell him what to wear to a customer meeting, but he seems to have figured it out.

  Ty gives Adrienne the look I call the prison death stare, intended to reduce annoying people to a puddle of submission. Unfortunately, it never seems to work on Adrienne.

  She peers over the edge of her desk to check out his shoes. He’s chosen his most muted Jordans, which provokes a quizzical cock of her eyebrow. Really, did she expect penny loafers?

  “You look very professional,” I tell him before she can comment further. “Let’s go over the checklist.” Ty and I huddle and review the questions he’s to ask and the items he’s to take note of. Adrienne has set aside any pretense of working and is openly eavesdropping. I know she dearly wants to be the one going on this assignment. I’m sure she thinks her Ella Moss top and Kate Spade shoes would make a better impression on my client. Maybe they would.

  Or maybe the client would think I must charge too much if my staff dresses that well. Or feel that their possessions aren’t worthy of an estate sale.

  The bottom line is, Ty has earned this opportunity and I’m going to give him his chance, even though letting go is hard for me.

  Very hard.

  “Okay, I got it,” Ty says after I’ve reviewed every conceivable permutation of customer requirements.

  “And if she asks you if she can take stuff out of the sale after the estimate—”

  “I know, I got it.”

  “But if it’s really just an oversight then—”

  Ty stands up. “Audge, I got this.”

  Time to stop nagging and send him on his way. Still, I can’t stop myself. “If you’re not sure about anything, just call—”

  Now Ty gives me the prison death stare.

  I cover my face with my hands. “I’m sorry. Go.”

  When Adrienne and I arrive at the Eskew house, the door is again unlocked for us.

  “Brace yourself,” I say as we step into the foyer.

  “Wow.” Adrienne pirouettes to get the full effect. “This place really is Old Money, huh?”

  “Old and plentiful, and that’s good for us. Let’s head upstairs. I want your opinion of the designer handbags in Mrs. Eskew’s closet.”

  Adrienne’s eyes light up when she sees the quilted Chanel bag. “A classic—these never go out of style.” She drops to her knees and roots through the floor-to-ceiling shelves looking for more bounty.

  “Look—I found a box full of keys. Maybe one of them opens that locked closet in the hall.”

  Adrienne digs through them looking for a likely match. She tries a couple with no success, then gives a grunt of satisfaction as the door creaks open.

  “Wow, smell that! It’s a cedar closet.”

  She steps in and I follow her. The walls of the closet are made of smooth wood that exudes a fresh, forest-y smell. There are built in shelves and closet poles suspended at various heights.

  “Look! Evening gowns!” Adrienne’s face lights up. She reaches for an aquamarine silk dress on a padded hanger. “Oh my God—this is a vintage Balenciaga! It looks like it’s from the sixties. So Mad Men!” She holds the gown up in front of her and the full skirt drapes around her like a queen’s vestments. She strokes it the way I pet Ethel, full of adoration.

  “That color would be gorgeous on you.”

  “I love aquamarine. My eye is always drawn to this shade.” Adrienne has a dreamy expression on her face. “This is like a magic carpet to a bygone era when women really cared about elegance. When no one went out shopping in yoga pants.”

  I choose not to take that as a dig directed at me, since Adrienne never sees me when I’m prowling Whole Foods in my black spandex. It’s not really kosher, but now I want to see the dress in action, not just as a relic on a hanger. “Try the dress on. I bet it would fit you.”

  “Seriously? I can try it on?” Before I have a chance to change my mind, Adrienne yanks her stylish little knit dress over her head, revealing her perfectly toned body and perfectly matched bra and panties. She steps into the gown and I try to zip it up. As slender as Adrienne is, the zipper won’t go all the way up.

  “Geez, Mrs. Eskew must have always been very skinny. But
it still looks great on you. Turn around.”

  Before my eyes, Adrienne is transformed from attractive soccer mom to stunning princess.

  “Wow, you look amazing.”

  “I gotta see myself!” Adrienne darts out of the closet, a little girl playing with the ultimate dress-up trunk.

  “There’s a full-length mirror in the master bedroom,” I say as I prepare to follow her. On my way out of the closet, something catches my eye. The inside panel of the closet door is gouged with deep scratches. I run my hand over the scratches that radiate out from the doorknob and continue along the doorframe. They’re certainly not recent. Perhaps a pet got shut in here years ago. Ethel did quite a number on my laundry room door when I accidently closed her in there and went out for the day.

  “Audrey, where are you?” Adrienne calls.

  I close the closet door and find my assistant preening before the big mirror in the master bedroom.

  “It’s fabulous.” Adrienne swishes the fine silk back and forth and twists to look over her shoulder at the beading on the back of the gown. “I wonder where she wore it? No one dresses like this anymore except for the Oscars.”

  “And the Met Museum Fashion Institute Gala,” an amused male voice says from behind us. We both spin around.

  A tall, lean man with a mane of wavy brown hair and dark, straight brows leans casually against the door frame. “You wear it well.” His eyes, startlingly similar to the color of the dress, rake over Adrienne. “I can remember standing right here watching my mom get ready for the opera. My job was to keep track of her martini for her. I think that particular dress might have seen Maria Callas in Tosca.”

  This must be Kara’s younger brother, Tom. I feel like I should be apologizing for our inappropriate behavior, but he’s clearly not angry. In fact, he’s smiling in a very mellow way. “I was about four at the time, but I’d say you wear it better than dear old Mom.”

  Now that I look at him more closely, I see his hair is touched with just a few strands of gray. He must be in his early fifties, but he projects a much younger air than Kara. His jeans ride low on his hips and his oxford shirt is top quality, but frayed in an artful kind of way that I myself have never been able to achieve. My old clothes just look worn out.

  I step forward and hold out my hand. “Hi, I’m Audrey Nealon, and this is my assistant, Adrienne Coughlin. Your sister hired me to catalog the house to prepare for a sale. We just discovered the dresses and couldn’t quite resist….”

  He takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Tom Eskew. Oh, no problem.” His gaze quickly leaves my face and moves to Adrienne’s. “It’s nice to see someone having a little fun in this house for a change.” He tilts his head. “Where did you find that dress? It wasn’t in Mother’s closet, was it?”

  “In the cedar closet in the hall. There are quite a few ball gowns in there.”

  The dark brows arch above those extraordinary eyes. “And how did you get into that closet? With a battering ram?”

  Adrienne and I step closer together in instinctive solidarity. “Adrienne found a bunch of keys in that little box.” I point to the green cloisonné now resting on the dresser. “One of them fit the closet.”

  A lazy smile appears. “Well, aren’t you ladies amazing? Beautiful and clever.”

  Adrienne tosses her hair. “Imagine wearing something this glorious to go to the opera. Now people go in jeans. It’s sad.”

  “Tragic.” Tom keeps his focus on Adrienne. “I’d tell you to keep that dress, but as my sister keeps reminding me, it’s not mine to give.”

  Adrienne laughs off his attention. “Oh, where would I wear it? It’s a little over the top for the PTA Tricky Tray.” She slips past him to go back to the closet where her own clothes await. “Time for Cinderella to get back to work.”

  Tom turns his attention to me. “That Darlene person told me I’d find you up here. I’m glad to see my sister did a better job hiring an estate sale agent than she has hiring a nurse.”

  Seems to me the only thing he knows about us is that Adrienne looks good in his mother’s gown. What does he know about Darlene? Unaccountably, I feel the need to defend her. “Darlene’s job is a lot harder than mine,” I say.

  “I suppose. Sitting by my mother’s bedside is no picnic, I grant her that. Of course, she doesn’t have to pretend to be heartbroken. That’s the part I find challenging.”

  Geez, tell me how you really feel! Tom must notice that he’s made me uncomfortable. He flashes a big smile. “Family drama. The Eskews have cornered the market. So, tell me about this sale. How big will it be?”

  I strive to look noncommittal, but I’m having trouble arranging my expression. If you want to win big, play poker with me. “Your moth—uh, your family—has some lovely art and antiques. Some I’ll sell in an estate sale, some will go directly through dealers.”

  Tom drops into an armless slipper chair under the window and crosses his legs. He’s wearing Gucci loafers, slightly scuffed, with no socks. “Those ball gowns—are they worth anything?”

  “Vintage couture can be quite valuable. I’d never put them in the general sale. I’d dispose of them through a dealer. “

  “Ball park—how much?”

  “I haven’t done the research yet.”

  Adrienne chooses that moment to reappear. “I just Googled that dress. It’s part of the 1969 collection. A similar gown sold for $15,000.”

  I could slap her. I really could. I glare at Adrienne then turn back to Tom. “My pricing research consists of more than a Google search. Many factors come into play.”

  I was hoping to squelch the avid gleam in Tom’s eyes, but no luck. “How long will all that take?” he asks.

  “I’m doing all the advance work now. We’ll be ready to move immediately once….”

  Tom heaves a sigh. “My mother started dying the day my brother Parker crashed his plane. She’s been at it for thirty years now. Don’t count on her to be in any great rush.”

  Crashed his plane? Is that how the golden boy with the shrine bedroom died? I’m curious, but I let Tom’s remark pass.

  “The stuff that’s going to dealers—couldn’t you start selling that right away?”

  “I believe your sister wants to wait.”

  His handsome face darkens. “Why should it all be up to her to decide?”

  The answer, of course, is that Kara is the executor and probably also has her mother’s power of attorney. But his question was rhetorical, and I’m not interested in getting involved in the family dynamics. Kara hired me, and she’s the one I answer to.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t make that clear to Adrienne. “We could sell those dresses through a dealer without bothering Mrs. Eskew, right, Audrey? I mean, she wouldn’t even be aware—”

  I jump in to shut her up. “Kara hired us to catalog the contents of the house. That’s what we’re doing until we hear differently from Kara.”

  Tom trades a knowing look with Adrienne. “Well, the boss has spoken.” He stands up and glances around his mother’s former bedroom and sighs. Is he looking for something or remembering the way it used to be in his childhood? “I’ll leave you ladies to your work.”

  With more self-awareness of her transgressions than Adrienne usually displays, she scurries back to the cedar closet. “I’ll finish recording everything in here, Audrey. Since I was late this morning, I thought I’d just work through lunch. I brought an apple and some almonds. You go meet Sean.”

  I’m not arguing. If anyone has the skills to catalog a closet full of designer clothes, it’s Adrienne. Sean has agreed to meet me at Melton’s only eatery, a tiny gourmet deli with a few sidewalk tables. Sean’s not there yet, so I pull out my iPad to pass the time. After researching some vintage couture prices, I decide to Google something else that I’m curious about. I’m engrossed in reading when Sean arrives.

  “You look horrified. Are you discovering some of the paintings at the Eskews’ house are worthless?”

  I attempt a s
mile. “No, I’m reading Parker Eskew’s obituary. He’s the oldest son. Today his brother mentioned that he died in a plane crash. He was piloting a small plane on his way to Hilton Head. His wife died with him. She was eight months pregnant. Her name was Leonie Savatier. Survived by her parents, Clothilde and Jean.”

  Sean leans over to look at the photo in the obit from 1988. Parker grins at the camera, his shoulders thrown back, his arm around his bride, a lovely, petite brunette in a frothy white veil. “Guy looks like a douche.”

  “Sean! He was only twenty-eight when he died.”

  Sean crams himself into one of the café’s delicate wrought iron chairs, a grizzly at a tea party. “Let me guess. He had an MBA from Harvard. Was a bond trader. Just bought his own plane. Was on the way to North Carolina to play in some golf tournament.”

  “Close. Wharton…hedge fund manager…tennis tournament. Okay, he doesn’t sound like my kinda guy either, but it’s still a tragic death. The baby would’ve been the Eskews’ first grandchild.”

  Sean’s jaw clenches. He hates any mention of harm coming to children. “That’s what I mean. You don’t risk your wife’s and your child’s life because you want to strut and fly your own plane. If they’d gone to North Carolina on United, that kid could be getting married around now.”

  He’s right, of course. Parker seems like a guy with a big ego, and maybe that ego was the death of him. No wonder Kara seems resentful of her role as executor.

  “I ordered us a spinach salad and the grilled veggie wrap,” I tell Sean. “We can split them.”

  Left to my own devices, I would have ordered a roast beef and brie, but Sean’s on this vegetarian before six kick, so I humor him. We chat about the Yankee game and the Eskew job, but I avoid any mention of my issues with Adrienne.

  “So how did Jill survive the funeral?” Sean eventually asks.

  I tell him about the awful scene and Mrs. Pileggi’s accusation. “Now Jill feels it’s her responsibility to figure out who got Amber hooked on heroin. What if her doctor was running a, a, what do you call it? A Pill Mill?”