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

by S. W. Hubbard

  “Didn’t hire you to be a security service either. Stay out of it.”

  Ty adheres strictly to the “no snitching” credo. He’d get along well with Caitlyn at Caffeine Planet. “Maybe I can find a way to let Darlene know she needs to stop.”

  Ty makes a face. “Whassamatter—things goin’ so good in your life right now you gotta look around for problems?”

  “Actually, things aren’t going that well.” I fill him in on the real estate deal.

  Ty stands quietly for a moment before he replies. “I don’t think you were too careful. I know people who got foreclosed on because they didn’t understand how much their mortgage payments were really going to be.” He squeezes my shoulder. “You did the right thing to check it out.”

  “Thanks, Ty.”

  Then we head for the pantry.

  “Any of these paintings famous?” Ty says as we make our way through the dining room. “That one looks like a Thomas Cole landscape.”

  I pause in front of the pantry door. “Wow, Ty—way to rock the art history. It’s a different artist, but from the Hudson River School. Good eye.”

  He grins as he enters and reaches up to screw in the light bulb. “Ninety-five on that test. Got the bonus question too.”

  When the light comes on, I can see that the butler’s pantry may not hold much of interest. The shelves are filled with hundreds of plain wine glasses and stacks of unadorned white dishes. “Looks like these were supplies for big parties. Adrienne started in here yesterday. We’ll let her finish this tomorrow. Let’s you and me check out the breakfast room and the home office.”

  We emerge into the kitchen. No sign of Darlene, but I see the shard of a broken plate on the floor. Ty pokes around the kitchen.

  “I’ve seen bigger kitchens than this before,” he says.

  “Yeah, this house dates from the time when people did their entertaining in the formal living room instead of inviting everyone to hang out in a glamor kitchen.”

  Ty heads down a short hall, trying doors. “How come there’s a bedroom back here?”

  I come up behind him and peer into a cramped bedroom with an adjoining bath. “Huh, a maid’s room. Nowadays, if people are rich enough to have servants, they don’t expect them to sleep next to the kitchen. But it makes sense that the Eskews would have had a maid back in the day. Now Mrs. Eskew just has Darlene and a cleaning service.”

  Ty turns back the way he came. “What’s a breakfast room, anyway? They need a separate place to eat Froot Loops and pancakes in?”

  “It’s like a casual dining room, where the family eats when there’s no company.”

  “In my house, we call that the kitchen.” Ty shakes his head. “Some people got more money than sense.”

  The breakfast room is a sunny space with two walls of windows framed by window seats and a round table that seats six. The paintings on the wall are whimsical watercolors of animals and flowers. When I look closely, I see they are all signed “Rachel.” “Huh, these were painted by one of the Eskew kids.”

  Ty peers over my shoulder at a painting of two birds frolicking in a bird-bath. “She’s pretty good. Looks just like that.”

  I follow his pointing finger and see the bird-bath outside in the garden with a finch perched on its rim. Rachel has a sort of art-primitive style that’s at once innocent and evocative.

  “And look at this,” Ty says. “She painted one of her brother and sister.”

  The painting shows a young man in a bow tie and blue blazer with his hand on the shoulder of a little girl with blonde hair holding an Easter basket. “No,” I say, “I think that’s Parker, the oldest son, with Rachel herself. Kara, the second child, would never have been that much smaller than Parker.”

  Ty moves across to the other wall. “Here’s a photograph of the same pose, kinda.”

  The photo shows the four Eskew children dressed for Easter Sunday. Same bow tie, same Easter basket. In the photo, earnest Kara and laughing Tom stand between Parker and Rachel. In the painting, they’ve been excised altogether.

  “Guess Rachel decided to get rid of half her siblings. I met her yesterday. She and Tom are actually twins, but they look nothing alike. She’s incredibly tiny. Kara said Rachel had been sickly as a child. It must’ve stunted her growth. From a distance she still looks like she’s about twelve years old. Then you get up close and see the lines in her face. She is one weird chick.”

  I make a note on my iPad. “Kara told me that the family had already removed items of sentimental value. I wonder if they plan to put Rachel’s paintings in the sale?”

  “Someone might buy ‘em,” Ty says. “I’ve seen pictures a lot uglier sell.” He looks at a Swiss clock on a shelf. “That’s not the right time, is it?”

  “Yes—ten o’clock.”

  “Damn! I didn’t realize I was so late. I gave a kid from my English class a ride back to Palmyrton because I saw him miss the bus.”

  “No problem.” I glance around the room looking for more items to catalog. “Ty, see if those window seats have storage inside.”

  He removes a cushion and flips up the seat. “All kinds of junk in here.”

  As we start emptying the contents, Ty tells me about his ride with the kid.

  “This kid Judah started talkin’ the second he got in my car and he didn’t stop ‘til we got to his house. All about his mom, his dad, his lousy step-father, his brothers and how broke they all are and how he never gets to use their car. TMI.”

  “Did he want your advice?”

  “Nah. Nothing I could do about any of it. After Judah’s dad took off, his mom hooked up with some loser and had another baby. But that kid’s got something wrong with him, and the loser took off too. So Judah’s older brother is mad at their mom for havin’ a disabled kid, and he won’t help out with him. Judah likes his little brother, but he gets tired of watching him all the time.” Ty drags a box loaded with school yearbooks, papers and report cards to the doorway and sets up an empty one. “One good thing about talkin’ to Judah. He makes me feel better about my family problems.”

  I keep dumping book reports and art projects into the box and attempt to sound only mildly interested. “Is everything okay with Charmaine?”

  “I never thought trying to help someone could be so complicated.”

  “You can say that after all we went through trying to help Harold?”

  “That’s different. My sister’s not a crazy hoarder. She’s normal…but—” Ty shakes his head.

  “What?”

  Ty throws his hands up in the air. “I tell her what to do and she won’t do it!”

  I laugh. “I give you advice that you don’t follow.”

  “Nuh-uh. Name once.”

  “I told you to apply for those scholarships and you refused.”

  “That’s different. I knew I wouldn’t get ‘em.”

  In an astonishing show of restraint, I don’t launch into the how-do-you-know-until-you-try discussion that we’ve already had too many times. But I can tell my words have struck a chord. As he works, his brow is furrowed in thought. Finally, he lets out a loud sigh.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nuthin’. I guess I gotta be more patient with Charmaine. Let her come around to doin’ stuff in her own time.”

  I rest my hand on his shoulder. “I’m still working on learning that, Ty. It’s not easy.”

  Ty springs back into action. Enough with introspection. “Looks like the Eskews totally forgot all this school stuff was ever here.”

  “I’ll let Kara know and she can decide if they want to keep it or pitch it.”

  Ty lifts the second cardboard box and the bottom gives way, scattering papers around the room. We both work to retrieve them.

  Everything I pick up belongs to Parker. Third grade book report on The Indian in the Cupboard—A+. Sixth grade poster on photosynthesis—A+. Eighth grade report card—all As. High school essay on King Lear—“insightful” the teacher has written. A+.

/>   The yearbooks that produced the weight in the box landed in a stack. Four yearbooks from Bumford-Stanley Academy 1974—1978. I flip to the sports teams. Parker Eskew is featured prominently in every shot of tennis, golf, swimming and crew. In many of the photos he has his arm around the shoulders of another young man, a little shorter, a litter thinner, a little less intense. One photo caption reads: “Parker Eskew and Wesley Tavisson take first and second in the Palmer County junior golf invitational.”

  In 1978 Parker is listed as the Valedictorian, and Wesley Tavisson is Salutatorian. Under Parker’s picture is a paragraph on future plans. “Major in Economics at Harvard. Row for the Harvard crew just like my dad.”

  Harvard? I thought Parker went to Columbia. All those banners in his room, all those photos and trophies showed him wearing Columbia royal blue, not Harvard maroon.

  “What’s the matter?” Ty asks. “You find something important?”

  “No, just puzzling. Parker’s high school yearbook says he was headed for Harvard, but all the stuff up in his room shows that he went to Columbia.”

  Ty shrugs. “Musta changed his mind.”

  “Mmm.” I don’t argue the point. But if Parker got into Harvard, and Harvard was part of the family tradition, why would he have switched to Columbia? Harvard is the more prestigious school, and God knows, the Eskews are all about prestige. Somehow I don’t see Mrs. Eskew encouraging her son to pick the college that makes him happy and damn tradition.

  Ty returns with his pile. All Parker’s. Now I’m just curious. “What about those other boxes? Do they have the other kids’ stuff?

  Ty flips a few lids. “All Parker.”

  I open the other window seat bench. “Whoa. This one is full of model airplanes.” I lift one out. It’s the Spirit of St. Louis. Underneath in meticulous printing it says Parker Eskew. I check another two, but I know what they will say.

  Parker. All Parker.

  Chapter 16

  As Ty and I finish in the breakfast room, my phone rings. Kara.

  “How’s it going at the house? Are you almost done?” I hear cheering in the background. She must be at her kid’s game although it’s early in the day for that. “My brother mentioned something about Mother’s old ball gowns. He seems to think they’re worth something. Can that be true?”

  I only met her on the day she hired me, but I can picture her anxious, distracted face as her words tumble into my ear. “I’m making steady progress. Yes, the dresses are vintage couture. They’re worth a few thousand each. I haven’t finished the research. But there’s something—”

  Kara cuts me off. “Really? Have you counted them? Where did you leave them?”

  I feel like I’m having a conversation with an AK-47. “There are eight dresses. We put them back in the hall cedar closet where we found them. It was locked, so we locked it again.”

  “Wait…where did you say you got the key?”

  “We found a cloisonné box full of keys in your mother’s former bedroom. One of the keys fit the cedar closet in the hall.”

  “Amazing. I’ve been looking for that key for years.” I hear a sharp intake of breath. “Did you tell my brother about the key? And what about Rachel? Has she been there this week?”

  “Yes, I met Rachel yesterday. I didn’t mention the key to Tom, but my assistant—”

  Again, Kara doesn’t give me a chance to finish before she resumes peppering me with questions and orders.

  “Oh no! Tell her not to talk to Tom. And definitely don’t tell Rachel about those dresses. You didn’t do that, I hope.”

  This is the worst part of being an estate sale organizer. I’m often thrust into the middle of family bickering, when all I want to do is run the sale. Families initially present themselves as the Waltons. And then when I mention that Jim-Bob came by and took home grandma’s crocheted potholders or dad’s Masonic tie-clip, they suddenly turn into the Kardashians, clawing one another’s eyes out with spite and jealousy. Often the items with virtually no monetary value inspire the greatest conflict. I remember two brothers who came to blows over a hideous Tyrolean cuckoo clock.

  “No, Rachel and I didn’t talk about anything that will be going into the sale. But, Kara—there’s something I’m concerned about. Some of the books in the study are quite valuable. Your parents seem to have been collectors of first editions.”

  “Oh? You mean they’re not just books that Daddy read?”

  “No. For instance, he has a complete collection of first editions of all F. Scott Fitzgerald’s novels.”

  “So that’s a good thing, right?”

  “Yes—except that Tender Is the Night has gone missing. It was there on Wednesday, and gone today.”

  “Did you tell Tom and Rachel it was valuable?”

  “No. No one. And there’s one more thing.” And then I tell her about the missing silverware.

  “The silver. How could I have forgotten that it could be melted down? Listen, can you move the silver to the cedar closet? Lock it in there for now.”

  Clearly, Kara suspects her siblings of stealing. If they’re capable of theft, maybe they really have been threatening their mother. Maybe I’d better tell Kara about my encounter with Mrs. Eskew.

  “I’m concerned because your mom spoke to me yesterday—”

  “Spoke? About Jean-Claude?”

  “Yes, and—”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s been going on for months.”

  “But she seemed very—”

  “Damn, my daughter’s game is over. I can’t think…just, just don’t worry about that book right now. Bye.”

  “But wait—there are also some school papers and paintings…”

  There’s a commotion and then garbled voices. “Maw-aawm! Did you see it? Did you see my goal? I bet you missed it talking on the phone.”

  “Of course I saw it, darling. It was fabulous. Audrey, I’ve gotta run. But tell me this—will you be ready to run the sale by next weekend?”

  “Possibly, but your mother—”

  “Maaawm!”

  “Call me tomorrow,” Kara snaps.

  And the line goes dead.

  Chapter 17

  Ty and I break for lunch at one.

  “Sean is taking me to lunch at that little café in Melton. Want to join us?”

  I’m not sure which he finds more alarming: the guest list or the tea shop ambiance of Melton’s only eatery.

  “Nah. Ima swing back to Palmyrton and check on Mrs. Morrone’s house. Make sure we’re all ready for the sale there tomorrow. You need more help here this afternoon?”

  “No, I’ll finish up in the living room. On Monday, you and Adrienne and I can tackle the attic and the basement. I’ll see you back at the office around four.”

  After lunch, Sean returns me to the Eskew home. We sit in his car with the windows down and I let him nuzzle my neck. There’s no one to see us carrying on like teenagers. The street is deserted; the whole neighborhood as quiet as an unused movie set. A cool breeze loosens a few yellow leaves from the big tree in the front yard and they drift lazily down.

  “What time do you think you’ll be done?” Sean asks.

  “Maybe six. I really want to finish the living room today.”

  “Don’t work too late. Your dad and Natalie are coming at seven.”

  I whisper in Sean’s ear, “Are you hoping the meal you’re serving is so good that they’ll offer to take Ethel for the night?”

  He sits up with a stern expression. “You know I genuinely enjoy their company.” Then he grins and returns to pawing me. “But if I can put that idea in their heads….”

  I kiss him in earnest. “You’re the best.” I drag myself out of his embrace and head toward the house. I’ve only taken a few steps when a shrill scream pierces the gauzy autumn air.

  Then a woman’s voice: “Oh, my God! Oh, Jesus, no!”

  I look back over my shoulder at Sean who’s just backing out of the driveway.

  In a few bounds, S
ean is at my side. “Someone screamed,” I tell him.

  “Get back in the car.”

  “No, it must be Darlene. She won’t know who you are. I’d better come with you. It’s gotta be that Mrs. Eskew has died.”

  But even as the words leave my lips, I feel a shiver of unease. Darlene has been expecting this. She’s attended scores of deaths. That scream contained true terror. What’s going on?

  Sean is running toward the front door and I trot at his heels.

  The front door is unlocked, as it has been all week. We charge into the foyer just as Darlene comes running down the hall from the sickroom. She freezes when she sees us, her eyes widen and her head whips back and forth like she’s looking for an escape route.

  “Darlene, what’s wrong? What happened?”

  Sean doesn’t wait for an answer. He’s heard enough about the house from me to understand where Mrs. Eskew lies and he pushes past us.

  Darlene backs away from me slowly like a hiker who’s unexpectedly encountered a bear. I don’t have time to consider her odd behavior because Sean is inside the study now, and I hear a strangled shout from him.

  I run into the room and he intercepts me. “Don’t look.”

  But as Sean well knows, I don’t take direction well. I squirm until I can see past him to the bed.

  On the white pillow where Mrs. Eskew’s head has rested every day there is now a red, pulpy mess.

  “What…?”

  Sean holds me by the wrist. “Don’t take a step closer.”

  A yard from my feet lies one of the gargoyles, the one with the bulging eyes and impudent grin.

  His lips are covered in blood.

  Chapter 18

  Sean pulls me back into the hall. He’s on high alert, his head swiveling back and forth looking for the intruder who did this.

  “Darlene?” I shout. “Darlene, where are you? Are you okay?” I take a step toward the kitchen but Sean’s iron grip restrains me.

  “Do. Not. Move.” With the hand not restraining me, Sean pulls out his phone and calls in the crime using a lot of terms I can’t fully process.

  My knees quiver and my head swims. I lean against the hall wall for support. Who could have done such a terrible thing? Mrs. Eskew was utterly helpless, totally immobile. A thief would have no need to kill her even if he was stealing from right under her nose.