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

by S. W. Hubbard

  I sit and stare out my window. Sunday afternoon, the loneliest time of the week. Since my engagement, I thought this empty, unrooted sensation was a thing of the past.

  Guess not.

  If I’m lonely, wouldn’t an eighty-five-year-old woman in a retirement home be even more eager for company? I’ll ask for a tour of Bretton Pines—tell them I’m searching for an assisted living facility for my dad. Then when I’m there, I’ll mention that an acquaintance is a resident, and I’d like to ask her opinion of the place. Clothilde Savatier will see me. I’m sure of it.

  An impeccably groomed middle-aged woman greets me with a glossy brochure to begin my guided tour of Bretton Pines. The developers remodeled a Gilded Age mansion and added three wings to form a big square around a glass-roofed interior courtyard complete with a splashing fountain and towering potted palms. The great room has a Steinway grand piano and the library looks like a scaled down version of a reading room at Oxford. Each resident has his or her own private apartment, and meals are served in a grand dining room with linen tablecloths and waiters in black jackets. Geez, getting old might not be so bad if you could do it in this kind of style. I don’t even enquire about the price. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to keep from gasping even though my tour is purely hypothetical.

  I patiently let the saleswoman run through her pitch, even asking a few thoughtful questions. Then I make my move.

  “Bretton Pines is lovely and you’ve done an excellent job of showing me around. You know, a friend of mine is acquainted with one of the residents here. She suggested I introduce myself while I’m here. I’d like to get a sense of Bretton Pines from a resident’s perspective.”

  “All our residents are very happy here. If the person would like to have a visitor, I’ll certainly introduce you. Who is it?”

  “Clothilde Savatier”

  My guide stiffens. “Mrs. Savatier is quite…er…reserved. She may not want to chat.”

  “I wouldn’t want to bother her, but my friend did specifically suggest that I look her up.”

  The guide looks doubtful, which makes me wonder if “reserved” is a code word for “dementia.” But then she musters a smile and says Mrs. Savatier is just finishing lunch. “We can catch up with her as she’s leaving the dining room.”

  We stand by the door as the dining room empties. There are more women than men, and they rise unsteadily from tables of four and totter toward us. Most of the ladies are wearing lacy pastel cardigans, polyester slacks, and sensible orthopedic shoes. They exit in pairs, chatting about their meal or their afternoon plans. In the middle of the room, I spot a woman sitting alone. When she gets up from her table, I note her trim navy blazer, nipped in at the waist and edged in cream piping, and mid-height navy pumps with a gold buckle. Her silver hair is twisted into a chignon, her post-lunch lipstick already reapplied. How French! I’m sure that’s Clothilde.

  Sure enough, my guide approaches her and the old lady stops and gives me the once-over. No sign of dementia in that sharp look! She seems suspicious but her curiosity clearly has got the better of her, and she follows the guide over to me.

  “Hello Mrs. Savatier,” I extend my hand. “My name is Audrey Nealon. I’m acquainted with Kara Eskew.”

  She had been in the act of extending her hand when the name “Eskew” stops her cold. Her bright blue eyes narrow. “I read in the paper the old woman was murdered.”

  The guide’s eyes widen. Crap—now she’s going to ask what’s going on.

  But Mrs. Savatier pivots sharply toward her. “Thank you, Laura. You may go.”

  Wow! Way to dismiss a servant! She’s got that nailed.

  Mrs. Savatier turns back to face me. “Let us go into the parlor. You can explain the purpose of your visit there.” She marches down the hall with her eyes focused straight ahead while I trail at her side. Clearly, my ruse about getting a resident’s perspective on Bretton Pines is out the window. I might as well tell her the whole truth and see what happens.

  The parlor, a room filled with clusters of chintz love seats and wing chairs, is unoccupied except for an old gent dozing with a book in his lap. Clothilde heads to a group of chairs in the far corner. She sits facing me and gives a sharp nod.

  Start talking, and it had better be good.

  So I tell her how I came to know the Eskew family, and how Darlene was there tending to Mrs. Eskew as she was dying, and everything that led up to my discovery of the body.

  “So I got to see how Darlene took care of Mrs. Eskew and I simply can’t imagine any reason why she would ever hurt her patient. Especially not in such an awful way. In fact, I can’t understand why anyone would want to kill her when she was about to die any day. But Mrs. Eskew did seem afraid of something, I mean afraid of more than dying. But the police have arrested Darlene, and I feel like I should help because—”

  I pause. Clothilde is scrutinizing me with those piercing eyes. Stop rambling, Audrey—get a grip. “I feel that I let Mrs. Eskew down. She was afraid, but I let myself be convinced that what she was saying was a normal part of dying. Now I’m not so sure. And I’m worried the police might be pressuring Darlene to take a plea bargain just so they can close the case.”

  Clothilde raises her perfectly plucked eyebrows. “All very interesting. But you have not explained your presence here.”

  No, I haven’t. Maybe that’s because I’m not sure myself. Except for my nagging feeling that the house contains secrets, secrets in plain sight that I’m just too dumb to perceive. I take a deep breath and keep talking. “The nature of my work gives me extraordinary access to people’s lives, their artifacts. The thing about the Eskews’ house is the entire place seems to be permeated by memories of Parker—his life and his death. Mrs. Eskew even spoke to me about him, and about your grandchild, one day when I was working in her room.

  “I can’t help thinking that maybe, somehow, her murder has something to do with Parker. With his life. Or his death.”

  Clothilde had been listening to me with the neutral expression of a TV shrink. Until I mentioned her grandson. Then she snaps into high alert.

  “Marjorie spoke of him, our grandson?”

  “Yes, it was a little weird. She seemed to be speaking directly to him. Darlene, the aide, said it’s common for dying people to speak to loved ones who are already, you know, on the other side.”

  Is it possible to snort with a French accent? If so, Clothilde has done it.

  “Foolish superstitions!”

  I guess what they say about the French all being atheists is true. “She did seem genuinely anguished,” I say.

  “Ha! What of me?” Clothilde taps her chest. “I lost my only child, my only grandchild. She had three others, and many opportunities for more grandchildren.”

  Her English is impeccable, but she retains a trace of a French accent on certain words. As she grows agitated, the accent becomes more noticeable.

  “That’s what strikes me as so odd about the house. You’d never even know there were three other kids in the family. Everything I find is about Parker. Only Parker. So I thought if I could talk to someone who actually knew him…”

  “Why should what happened to Parker and my daughter have anything to do with Marjorie’s murder?”

  “Whoever killed her—it was an act of rage. She was so weak, so drugged—a pillow over her face would have been enough. Instead, the killer…” I shudder. “It was very violent.”

  “Whatever misery befalls that family, they deserve it.”

  Now I’m the one with the “keep talking” look on my face.

  “I despise them all. I would cheerfully pound each one with a rock if it would bring my daughter back. But revenge? What is the point?”

  I’m losing her here. Does she blame Parker for piloting his own plane instead of flying commercial? “Revenge for what?” I ask.

  Clothilde sits up straight and stares me in the eye. “He crashed that plane intentionally. The plane fell out of a clear blue sky. They coul
d find no problem with the engine. There was no radio call for help. It crashed on an empty stretch of beach. No one would believe me. They said I was une folle.” She makes the universal sign for crazy at her temple. “They said I would not accept it was an accident because I was still grieving the loss of my husband.” She leans forward and grips my arm. Her hand feels like she’s been tossing snowballs.

  “He killed himself and took my daughter and grandchild with him.”

  Chapter 22

  This is not what I had been expecting. But Clothilde seems the very antithesis of a crazy old lady. She’s smart, perceptive, and not the least bit hysterical. What she has suggested does happen—look at that German pilot who took a whole plane-load of tourists down with him. But that guy had a history of mental illness. Was that true of Parker Eskew?

  “But why? Had he been depressed? He had plenty of money and a great job, right?”

  “Parker never had a depressed moment in his life, I’m sure. He was a supreme egotist. His parents, especially his mother, raised him to believe he was a god descended from Mt. Olympus to grace the rest of us with his presence.”

  “You never liked him?”

  Clothilde hesitates. “I cannot say that. When my husband and I first met Parker, we were very impressed by him. There is no denying he was quite charming…highly intelligent. But—”

  “What?” I barely breathe the word.

  Clothilde raises her hand to her throat and twists her pearls. “Every time I spent time with him, I came away feeling there was an emptiness at his core. My husband dismissed this as nonsense. He said I merely felt that no one on Earth was good enough for our Leonie. Jean insisted that Leonie had made a brilliant match.”

  “And what about the Eskews? They also approved of the marriage?”

  “Ah, yes! They were delighted to be getting French in-laws. We are so chic, no? And Jean had so many business contacts that Gilbert found useful.”

  Her sarcasm could be cut with a knife. But this reminds me of what I learned from Mr. Venable. “I’ve heard that Gilbert Eskew was something of a social climber. Did you know that he’d changed his name from Jakub Eskein? He grew up poor on the Lower East Side.”

  “I did not know, but it doesn’t surprise me. There is no shame in coming from humble roots, but Gilbert would have seen it differently.” Clothilde bites her lip. “I wish my daughter had married a ditch-digger, a trash-collector. Anyone but Parker Eskew.”

  “But why would he have crashed his plane?”

  “For years after the crash I was certain that his firm would discover some signs of embezzlement or financial impropriety. When nothing materialized in a few months, I hired a discreet private investigator to inquire in case the hedge fund he worked for was hushing it up. But there was nothing. Apparently the firm very much regretted his loss. He was one who made the storms come.”

  “A rainmaker?”

  “Precisement.”

  “But you still think he killed himself to avoid some scandal?”

  “A humiliation that he could not endure. I’m sure of it.”

  “But to take your daughter as well?”

  “She too saw him as a god, foolish girl. Even in his grave, he would not have wanted her to know whatever it was. And certainly he would not have wanted her to carry on after he was gone. He would have found her survival unimaginable.”

  “So he chose death for her.”

  Clothilde has been stoic up to now, but I detect a slight tremor in her upper lip. “This is what I cannot forgive. How dare he, how dare he, decide that my daughter and my grandson would not want to live without him?”

  “The Eskews knew that you felt this way?”

  “I always speak my mind. They knew, but they denied all. But I always suspected that Marjorie Eskew knew the truth, or at least suspected it.”

  “So maybe someone killed her to keep the secret quiet. They knew she was delirious and rambling on her deathbed. But again, why kill her so violently?”

  Clothilde straightens her jacket. “Apparently someone hates her even more than I do.”

  Chapter 23

  Sunday night and Monday morning have passed with no word from Sean. It’s hard to keep my mind off my sadness and anxiety when I’m not even busy with work. On Monday, I putter around the office alone, balancing accounts and sorting through the stacks of paper that sprout on my desk with the relentlessness of dandelions. But this busywork doesn’t fully occupy my mind. Always at the periphery are thoughts of Sean. Does he intend to never speak to me again? To walk away from our future without another word? I check my phone compulsively: a text, a missed call, an email.

  Nothing.

  Just past noon, Ty arrives after his morning classes. I’m ridiculously happy to see him.

  “No Adrienne?” he asks, looking at her empty, neat desk.

  “Sick kid. But we’re not busy, so it’s just as well.”

  We don’t say it aloud, but we’re both relieved to be alone together.

  “Did you hear the news?” I ask. “They arrested Darlene.”

  Ty stretches like a very tall cat. “I heard. You talked to Sean since the carnival?”

  I shake my head. “We’re not speaking. I had a terrible time with the kids after you left. Chrissy ran away from me and got lost.” I shudder. “I don’t even want to talk about it.”

  Ty studies me for a moment, but he doesn’t speak. Unlike just about every other person in my life, he never offers unsolicited advice. He continues the series of yoga stretches that Jill taught him. When his head is practically touching the floor, he says, “I got some details Sean might like to know. What am I supposed to do ‘bout that?”

  “Information? Like what?”

  Ty stands up. “‘Member how I told you at the carnival that I thought that dude Sean was chasing looked familiar? Well, I finally figured it out. I’m almost positive it was Darlene’s son. The day I saw him at the house he was wearing a Devil’s jersey.”

  I’m puzzled. “When did you ever see him at the house? Adrienne was with me the day I saw him.”

  “That day we worked on the morning room. I walked in and asked you who was driving that hooptie and you said the nurse. At the time, I let it pass because you started telling me about the fight Darlene and the nurse had. But the person driving the old car was a young, white guy in a red Devil’s shirt. He looked right at me when he pulled outta the driveway. Then he sped off.”

  “The nurse was a middle-aged black woman. So Rob must’ve been there at the same time.” My hand goes up to my mouth. “Uh-oh—now I get it. The nurse was accusing Darlene of overmedicating Mrs. Eskew because there weren’t as many pain pills left in the bottle as there should have been. Darlene covered by saying she was just trying to keep Mrs. Eskew comfortable. But she must’ve given the pills to Rob. That day when I heard them arguing, I thought he was pressuring her about money. But it must’ve been about the pills.”

  Ty nods. “Rob must be sellin’ what his mom gives him. So you gonna tell Sean?”

  I shake my head. “I can’t call him right now. Not about anything. He needs to call me to apologize first. So you call and tell him about Darlene’s son.”

  Ty throws up his hands and shakes his head hard enough to create a breeze. “No way! I don’t snitch to the cops ‘bout nuthin’. I told you, and if you wanna tell him, that’s up to you.”

  I cradle my head in my hands. “All right. I’ll figure out how to handle it, but not right now.” I point to a stack of boxes in the corner. “Is that stuff going to Sister Alice or the soup kitchen?”

  “Alice. But I figured I’d wait until after the Eskew sale to see what else we end up with for her before I drive to Newark.”

  “Let’s work on consolidating all that into fewer boxes,” I say, eager for mindless physical labor. But while we sort and repack, troubling thoughts keep resurfacing. If Darlene was stealing pills for Rob to sell, it seems to me she’d have even less reason to kill Mrs. Eskew. Why eliminate the sour
ce? But what if Rob’s an addict? Could he have killed Mrs. Eskew in a drug-fueled rage? Is that why Darlene has confessed—to protect her son? Clothilde said someone must hate Mrs. Eskew more than she does. Is it someone with a true motive? Or is it just an angry young man with lousy impulse control? That’s who Sean says commits most crimes.

  Ty and I work steadily, not saying much. Then late in the afternoon, there’s a knock at the office door. Ty answers it, and when he steps aside, I see Kara Lyman. Her face, always anxious, looks truly haggard. She’s wearing a navy blue blouse with black slacks. Maybe she got dressed in the dark. Or maybe she just doesn’t give a damn.

  I stand and extend my hand. “Kara, I’m so sorry for your loss. This is such a terrible experience for your family.”

  She ignores my gesture and my words. Without making eye contact she says, “You can return to working in the house tomorrow.”

  “What? But the police…it’s a—” I’m about to say “crime scene,” but I choke on the words.

  Her gaze darts back and forth, taking in the clutter of my desk and the neatness of Adrienne’s and Ty standing beside a tower of half-packed boxes. You’d think she was watching a tennis match, but no one is moving. “The police are done. They say you can return to working there. How soon do you think we can have the sale?”

  I back away, rocked by a hot wave of alarm. I have no desire to return to the Eskew house right now. The truth is, I’m afraid to be there. The more certain I become that Darlene didn’t kill Mrs. Eskew, the more obvious it is that the real killer—whether it’s Rob or someone else— is still on the loose. And that person is not rational. He—or she—killed a helpless old lady. Why would the killer hesitate to dispatch me if I stumbled across something incriminating? But what can I tell Kara? I want to wait until the police realize their mistake and release Darlene and figure out who really killed Mrs. Eskew? I want to talk to my cop boyfriend before I return to work except I’m not speaking to him right now? Kara thinks her mom’s killer is safely behind bars. Still, I think it’s bizarre that she’s so focused on the sale when the family hasn’t even held a funeral yet for their murdered mother.