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

by S. W. Hubbard

  She told me she was afraid. She told me, and I did nothing, nothing to help her.

  Sean ends his call and pulls his service revolver from the shoulder holster he always wears. I shrink back. I don’t like his gun. He’s not my lover with that thing in his hand.

  “You think the killer is still in the house?” I whisper.

  He nods, his gaze darting from the end of the hall leading to the kitchen to the staircase leading to the bedrooms. I know he wants to search the house, but he’s reluctant to leave me. And honestly, I don’t want to be left alone. I just want to hold Sean’s hand and wait for the police to arrive.

  But Sean is the police, and he wants to do his job.

  I nod toward the kitchen. “I’ll come with you,” I mouth.

  There’s a little alcove right before the kitchen, and Sean positions me there. Then he raises his weapon and sweeps into the kitchen. I squeeze my eyes shut and raise my shoulders.

  Please let the kitchen be empty. Please don’t let him get hurt.

  I hear Sean fling open the door to the butler’s pantry and I brace myself for disaster again. But there’s nothing.

  “Okay, you can come in,” he calls to me.

  When I enter I see a half empty glass of soda and a sandwich with a few bites taken out sitting on the table.

  The back door is wide open.

  Sean and I spend the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening with the Palmer County police. This crime has occurred in Melton, and since the Melton PD is so small, they’ve turned the investigation over to the county police. Each of us is being treated as a witness, so we’re being kept apart.

  Over and over the cops ask me about why I have access to the house, why the front door was unlocked, and who else has been coming and going.

  Over and over I explain my work, explain that Darlene leaves the front door unlocked for me, explain that the other people I’ve seen at the house are Mrs. Eskew’s children, Kara, Tom and Rachel, and Darlene’s son, whose name I think is Rob. The other nurse. Reluctantly, I tell them that my assistants have also worked at the house. I don’t want either one to be interrogated as I am, but I know they both have iron-clad alibis with plenty of witnesses. Ty was at Mrs. Morrone’s house. Adrienne was at her daughter’s field trip.

  Over and over they ask me to recount the story of what happened when I entered the house after lunch. They quiz me on the exact words Darlene spoke. Over and over I tell them about Darlene’s shout of surprise, but how she didn’t speak to me when we encountered her in the hallway.

  “Have you located Darlene yet?” I ask.

  The cops exchange glances and continue to grill me. They don’t like it when I ask a question; I’m just supposed to answer theirs. What agency sent her to the Eskews? What other patients has she cared for?

  I have already given them Kara’s phone number, so I remind them that only she knows the answer to those questions. I’ve known Darlene for less than one week, but still I’m certain she didn’t harm Mrs. Eskew. I tell the cops that, but all they do is nod and scribble in their notebooks.

  But why did she run? I have to admit, her actions are very strange.

  As the questioning continues, different cops enter and leave the room.

  When one who seems a little more perceptive than the others is in charge, I blurt out what’s eating at me.

  “Mrs. Eskew was afraid of someone. She told me that on Thursday.”

  That catches their attention. I recount our conversation as closely as I can.

  “She was afraid of Darlene?” one cop asks.

  “No. She was mad that Darlene wasn’t there. She said she shouldn’t be alone. Darlene is the one who calmed her down.”

  “Why did Darlene leave her alone?”

  “She had to make a phone call. Her son was sick. And Mrs. Eskew wasn’t all alone. I was there. Mrs. E was asleep when Darlene left, then she woke up and got scared while she was talking to me.”

  “She was afraid of you?”

  “No, she was hanging on to me, saying, ‘They blame me.’”

  “Blame her for what?”

  I shrug.

  The cop tilts his head. “And you didn’t think to tell anyone about this?”

  Augh! “I told Darlene. She didn’t seem concerned. She said Mrs. E was simply afraid of dying.”

  “But you didn’t agree?”

  “I wasn’t sure. I barely knew the woman. Then I told my assistant, and he said that old people hallucinate, and that’s what was probably happening.”

  “Your assistant is a doctor?”

  “No, of course not. But he told me about his elderly great-aunt, and…and, well, I tried to tell Kara, but she was in the middle of something and we had to hang up…and then this happened…and, oh, God! I feel awful. This is my fault. I should have spoken up. Especially because we were in the habit of leaving the door unlocked. Whomever she was afraid of could easily come in.”

  They stand out in the corridor comparing notes. Each time they return to me, their questions focus more intently on Darlene. How well do I know her? Did I know her before I started to work at the Eskews’ house?

  Again, I explain our very brief acquaintance. But then I feel compelled to elaborate. “Surely you can’t believe Darlene would pound her patient’s head in? Whenever I saw her with Mrs. Eskew, she was very calm, soothing. Nothing seemed to faze her.”

  The lead cop, who has a double scar bisecting his left eyebrow that irresistibly draws my eye, hitches his chair closer to me. “Did you see something that should have fazed her?”

  Now I’ve managed to paint myself into a corner. “I just meant that taking care of an invalid is hard work that I wouldn’t want to do, but Darlene seemed to take it all in stride. She even said that this was one of her easier cases.”

  “Easier than what?”

  “Than a four-hundred pound diabetic with gangrene. Than an Alzheimer patient who wanders around and throws things.”

  “I see. So you talked to Darlene a lot, did you?”

  Augh! This is what I get for volunteering more than what I was asked. “One day I was cataloguing items in the sick room. It would have been very awkward to work in the same room as Darlene and not speak to her. She told me about some of her other patients, that’s all. She said she liked working for Mrs. Eskew because she wasn’t difficult. She would have no reason to kill her.”

  “Did Darlene know when you would be returning from lunch?” the cop asks.

  “No, I didn’t check in with her when I came and went.”

  “Did Darlene have the run of the Eskews’ house?”

  “Nothing could stop her from walking around, but I only ever saw her in the kitchen, bathroom and hall.”

  The cop’s gaze drills into me from under those flawed brows. “You never encountered her anywhere else in the house?”

  I think of the silverware missing from the dining room. In the back of my mind there has been a niggling worry that Darlene took it. I let it go when Kara seemed to suspect Tom. But I am being absolutely truthful when I say, “I never saw Darlene in any other room.”

  “Do you smoke, Ms. Nealon?”

  I’m startled by his sudden change of direction. “Me? No, I’ve never smoked.”

  “What about your assistants?”

  “No, neither smokes. Why?”

  “Did you ever see Darlene smoking on the back patio?”

  “No, but—” The but slips out as I remember the time Darlene left me alone with Mrs. Eskew, when the old gal had her encounter with the departed Jean-Claude. Now I have no alternative but to finish my thought. “Once she went out on the patio to take a phone call, and I think she might have been smoking a cigarette. I could just catch a glimpse of her through the Venetian blinds.”

  The cop makes a note of this, and I figure they must’ve found cigarette butts out there. But that could explain why Darlene ran away. Maybe she was out there having a smoke break when the killer came in. She worried that she’d be b
lamed for leaving her patient alone. I want to say this to the cops, but I’m worried I’ll make things worse for Darlene, not better. It’s not my job to speculate. Surely, this idea must have occurred to them too.

  My interrogator shifts gears again. “Tell me, Ms. Nealon, why do you think Kara Lyman was so eager for you to get started prepping for an estate sale before her mother had even passed?”

  Ah, this is a dicey question. Since I discovered items going missing, I think I know why Kara was so hell-bent on starting the inventory. I have not mentioned the missing silverware or missing book. I figure Kara must be on her way to New Jersey. Let her tell the cops.

  “I don’t know. You’d have to ask her that.”

  “Are there valuable items in the house? Electronics, computers, cameras?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “What about jewelry, small items that could be pocketed?”

  “Kara put all her mother’s jewelry in a safe deposit box. I’m not handling that. The house contains many valuable antiques, paintings, rugs.”

  “Did you discuss that with Darlene?”

  “Of course not!”

  But I can’t help thinking about the missing copy of Tender is the Night. And the silverware.

  Finally at 7:00PM they let us go. Sean has not enjoyed the role reversal of being the questioned, not the questioner.

  “Incompetent assholes,” he mutters as we leave the police station.

  Our plans to cook for Dad and Natalie have morphed into being fed leftovers by the two of them.

  “It just doesn’t make sense,” I say to Sean as we drive to their place. “Why brutally murder a dying woman? She only had a couple days left to live. Maybe a week, tops.”

  “It wasn’t premeditated. Darlene snapped,” Sean insists. “You’ve been talking all week about how awful her job is. Maybe the old lady made one mess too many, and Darlene couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “But I heard Darlene shout on my way into the house. I’m positive she sounded surprised, terrified. She didn’t do it. She discovered the body.”

  We stop at a red light and Sean turns to glare at me. “Then why did she run?”

  I tell him about the cop’s questions about cigarettes. “She probably worried about being blamed for leaving her post. Maybe she stepped outside on the back porch for a smoke. And the killer was watching and slipped in. When she saw what happened when she left her post, she panicked and ran.”

  “Ran off on foot from Melton, a town with no sidewalks, no public transportation?” Sean’s not too impressed with my theory.

  I stare out the window as snug suburban houses glide past my view. It’s true that there’s been no other car in the driveway in the morning or the afternoon, which meant that her son had dropped her off so he could have their car. “Maybe she was terrified that she was alone in the house with a killer, so she ran out and called her son to pick her up once she got away from the house.”

  “Or someone was already waiting for her,” Sean says.

  “Did you tell the county investigators that? Did you put that idea in their heads?”

  “No. They made it very clear that it’s not my case and they weren’t interested in my analysis. So screw them. But I’m telling you, it was Darlene.”

  “But why beat Mrs. Eskew’s head to a pulp?” I shudder, unable to get the vision out of my mind’s eye. “She wasn’t even recognizable as human.”

  “That’s why I say Darlene snapped.” Sean taps the steering wheel with the side of his hand for emphasis. “That kind of violence indicates rage, a crime of passion. She grabbed whatever weapon was closest to hand. Those gargoyles were right outside the sickroom door.”

  I shake my head. “Darlene didn’t do it. She was used to all the awful things involved in taking care of dying people. She told me herself that caring for Mrs. Eskew wasn’t that hard. The poor woman wasn’t eating anymore. She was light. She could barely talk. No, someone else slipped into the house—the front door was always unlocked—and killed Mrs. Eskew while Darlene was out of the room. The poor old gal told me she was afraid. I didn’t do anything to protect her.”

  Sean takes the corner faster than necessary. “Audrey, whoever killed her, it has nothing to do with you. You’re not responsible.”

  We drive in silence for a while. Everything in Palmyrton looks so nice and normal: pots of chrysanthemums, silly Halloween decorations, back-to-school-night banners. How can this be a day on which an old woman was murdered? How can I brush that off like it’s a fender bender I just happened to witness? I can’t contain myself.

  “Maybe it was a junkie, like the young man who robbed that woman in her garage and stole the computer and camera right off the other lady’s kitchen table. When Darlene discovered the body, she panicked and ran.”

  Sean scowls. “Too complicated. And it completely contradicts your theory that she was killed by someone she feared.”

  “Maybe the intruder made a few forays into the house and Mrs. Eskew saw him. And no one believed her. But this time, she said something that made him kill her.”

  Sean parks in front of my father’s condo and turns to face me. “You’ve been watching too many of those British detective shows on PBS.”

  Natalie sets bowls of homemade zucchini soup in front of Sean and me while Dad keeps peppering us with questions. I know what’s bothering him. The situation isn’t logical.

  “That brings us back to Audrey’s original question—why murder a dying woman? Who would benefit?” Dad has picked up a pen and a junk mail envelope and makes a bulleted list as he speaks. “Her heirs were due to inherit in a matter of days.”

  “Maybe they couldn’t wait,” I say. “The doctor told Kara it would be a couple of weeks. Darlene’s the one who thought the end was closer. Tom apparently is eager to get his hands on the money. I think he may have stolen a valuable first edition. Maybe his mom accused him of that. She had moments when she was quite lucid.”

  Dad shakes his head. “But why risk killing her to gain a week? Or to stop her from talking about a stolen book. Often she wasn’t lucid, so who would believe her? If one of the heirs is convicted of killing her, they’ll never get a penny of her money.”

  “If one of her kids wanted to kill her, they wouldn’t have needed a weapon,” Natalie says as she reappears with a Salade Nicoise. “She was so weak, totally helpless. Anyone could have just put a pillow over her face, and no one would have even known she had been murdered. Or someone could have slipped her an extra pill. It would look like a natural death.

  “When a person is terminally ill and expected to die, the attending physician usually just signs off on the death certificate,” Natalie says. She’s a nurse, and although pediatrics is her specialty, she knows plenty about death and dying. “There would be no autopsy unless the doctor suspected something wasn’t right. And honestly, I think there are plenty of times when relatives help the dying person along and the doctor simply looks the other way if he knows his patient had been suffering.”

  Dad makes a check on his list. “Good point. If the heirs wanted to hurry the process, they wouldn’t have killed her so violently.”

  “Rage.” Sean speaks that one word and returns to picking the black olives out of his salad and tossing them into mine.

  Dad nods. “I think Sean is right. Rage is the motivation.”

  “It might be the motivation,” I say. “But it’s someone else’s rage. Not Darlene’s.”

  Chapter 19

  Although Dad and Natalie probably would have taken Ethel for the night, Sean’s and my ardor has been cooled by the murder. We agree to go our separate ways, saving the dog-sitting chit for the future.

  In the middle of the night, a raccoon knocks over a trash can, Ethel goes bonkers, and I find myself wide awake worrying about Darlene, Mrs. Eskew, and Tender is the Night. There’s not much I can do about the first two, but as I lie staring at the ceiling, I experience a bolt of clarity. If Tom Eskew stole the book, he must be try
ing to sell it. There simply aren’t that many pristine first editions signed by the author, and not that many places to sell them. I can easily check the online marketplaces, but I suspect Tom wouldn’t go that route. He’d rather take it directly to a dealer and get the cash than wait around for an online auction. There are only two antiquarian book dealers in Palmer County, and I know them both. I’m sure I’ll find that book tomorrow.

  In the morning, I call Rare Find first. It’s a business that’s run like a business: regular hours, a phone that gets answered, and a website. No one there has seen my copy of Tender. That means a trip to Venable’s Books. Mr.Venable runs his business out of two rooms in his drafty, firetrap Victorian. More often than not, the “be right back” sign is hanging on his door. There’s no way to call ahead because he never answers his phone, and he certainly doesn’t have a website. What he does have is a photographic memory for every book he’s ever acquired. From whom he bought it …on what shelf he filed it …to whom he sold it. It’s a bother to make a trip there, but if he has Tender, he’ll certainly know who brought it in. I decide to nip over before the sale at the Morrone house since Ty has it so well under control.

  Every time I walk into the jam-packed shop and see Mr. Venable peeping through the shelves at me, I’m always struck by the feeling that he reminds me of some character actor on TV or the movies, but I can never place him. Now it dawns on me: Mr. Venable looks like the stars of those funny goat videos so popular on the Internet. He’s got a wispy white beard, a long face, knobby arms and hands, and a skipping walk.

  “Ah yes, Tender is the Night.” He nods at me from across the battered counter in the front of the store. “I sold it to the father and bought it back from the son. No worse for wear, thank goodness.”

  My breathing quickens. “What father and son are we talking about?”