“What about this, Audge?” Ty asks, tracking me down in the kitchen. Adrienne has retreated to the powder room to pull herself together. “You gonna put it in the sale, or should I take it straight to the dump? You know no one ever buys old suitcases.”
I stare at the purple, soft-sided suitcase. It’s at least thirty years old, the kind of thing a teenager might have used in the eighties. It must have belonged to Kara or Rachel. “Where did you find that?”
“In the closet in Parker’s bedroom.”
“Really? I thought I had inventoried everything in there.”
“I noticed a little trapdoor at the back of the closet. The kind that plumbers put in so they can get to the pipes from behind. Remember that house on Dormont Avenue had one, and we found that bag of silver dollars in there. You know how people like to hide good stuff in places like that. But all that was in this spot was this.” He kicks the bag. “And all that’s in the bag is a dirty old sheet.”
Just then I hear car doors slamming. Ty and I lock eyes. Adrienne emerges, her mascara repaired.
“The early birds are here.”
I nudge the suitcase into the maid’s room, which is off-limits for the sale, and lock the door.
Ty and Adrienne and I head to the foyer.
It’s show time.
Day One of the Eskew sale is the most profitable day in Another Man’s Treasure’s history. The line never lets up. Of course the regulars come, attracted by the promise of high quality art, antiques, and housewares. But the rest of the crowd are the curiosity seekers, drawn by morbid curiosity and the breath of scandal. The neighbors are here—I hear them discussing the house and the Eskews. I recognize some people I’ve seen at the café in Melton. Even the mailman that I’ve waved to as he does his rounds is here. But even if they came for the wrong reason, they’re still buying—rugs, lamps, furniture, paintings; corkscrews, potholders, flowerpots, coasters—it all goes out the door in a steady stream. And still there’s more to sell tomorrow.
At four-thirty, Ty does a sweep of the house, rounding up stragglers and telling them to make their purchases and leave. “If you can’t make up your mind, come back tomorrow. We’ll be here,” I hear him say over and over.
As I finish the final transaction of the day, I see an elderly lady emerge from the back of the house. I’ve seen her roaming around throughout the afternoon. She looks like she could be almost as old as Mrs. Eskew, but she’s nothing like her. Sturdy and sure-footed, she approaches me with a look of determination on her face, but nothing in her hands that she wants to buy.
“Can I ask you a favor?” she begins.
“We don’t put anything on hold,” I tell her, anticipating her request.
“Oh, no—I don’t want to buy anything.” She leans in and lowers her voice although there’s no one else around. “I used to live here. I was the Eskews’ housekeeper for many years. Rose Lubich.”
My face lights up. What a great source of information has just walked right into my arms!
“You looked like you recognized me,” Rose says. “Have we met?”
“I believe Kara mentioned you,” I say to cover my excitement. “What can I do for you?” There’s plenty I want to ask her, so I’m willing to be accommodating.
“I’ve been walking around the house, remembering old times.” She smiles slightly, but her glasses are so thick, I can’t tell if her eyes are happy or weepy. “I’d like to peek into my old bedroom, but you have it locked.”
“I’m using that room to store things that aren’t for sale. Come on, I’ll open it for you.”
Rose stands in the doorway of her old bedroom, which is now a holding area for items headed for the dump or Sister Alice. “Sorry it’s such a mess,” I say.
She lifts her hands. “Ach, the house—it’s all the same, but all different. Funny how time plays with your memory. When the kids were teenagers I’d be asleep in here, and I’d hear them come in through the kitchen late at night, and I’d get up to make them a snack. I never minded. And when Parker first brought Leonie here, he brought her in through the back door and introduced her to me first.”
Rose shakes her head. “Ah, Leonie—what an angel that girl was. So sweet, so appreciative. When she and Parker and that dear baby died, ach, no one was ever the same. Mr. Eskew had his stroke and Mrs. E—she simply stopped eating. Egg custard and applesauce—I swear that’s all she swallowed for a year.” Rose rambles on and I let her go. She’s enjoying her morbid reminisces as we walk back into the kitchen.
Eventually, I hand her some of Rachel’s sweet watercolors of birds and flowers. Rose studies them and a small smile twitches her thin lips. Then she bows her head. “Ah, poor Rachel! She always liked to draw. How is she? Have you seen her here? I send her a card every birthday and Christmas, but I never hear back. Sad, sad.”
“What exactly is wrong with Rachel? Did the Eskews ever say?”
Rose shrugs. “Just not entirely right in the head now, is she? It was hard for the parents to admit. They’re the types who’re used to everything around them being perfect. But sometimes God has other plans, doesn’t he?”
I’m not so quick to put God on the hook for Rachel’s problems. “Were you working for the Eskews before the twins were born?”
“No, I came right after. They were both wee small when I started. Soon we could tell that baby Rachel was way behind Tom—crawling, walking, talking—and she never did catch up.”
“What did the doctors say?”
Rose lifts her hands palms up. “Test, test, tests, and they never could find a thing that I know of.”
“No one ever mentioned Fetal Alcohol Syndrome?”
Rose’s face constricts with worry. “Oh my, oh my! Is that what—”
“You think it’s possible? Mrs. Eskew was a drinker?”
Rose arches her eyebrows. “We-e-e-ll, you know what people like the Eskews are like.”
“Actually, I don’t. That’s why I’m asking.”
“Martinis in the afternoon, wine with dinner, cognac before bed, champagne brunch.”
“So, the booze was always flowing. Was Mrs. Eskew an alcoholic?”
“Now, now—I never said that.”
Rose strikes me as the kind of woman who wouldn’t say shit if she stepped in it. She’s not going to hang that label on her former boss, even if she’s dead. “Did anyone ever hint that Rachel’s problems were linked to her mother’s drinking?”
“Oh, my—no! Everyone in the family was convinced if Rachel just tried harder, she could be the same as everyone else. Everyone but Parker.”
“Parker treated her differently?”
“He was the only one with any patience. He encouraged her when she had trouble keeping up. They say twins are supposed to have a special bond, but Tom never took much interest in Rachel. I think he resented the extra attention she got.”
“Seems to me Parker is the one who got all the attention.”
“Yes, Parker was the star and Rachel was the failure.”
“And Tom and Kara were just along for the ride?”
“Ah, families can be strange now, can’t they? I was the middle child of seven. Always felt a little overlooked.”
“Rose, do you remember the time when Parker left Harvard and transferred to Columbia?”
“Oh, his dad was worked up over that, yes indeed. But Parker turned out fine. Working on Wall Street and all. I knew he’d manage, no need to get so riled. But of course I couldn’t tell Mr. E that. Not my place.”
“Was there something going on with Rachel at that time, Rose? Is that why Parker wanted to be closer to home?”
Rose’s brow furrows. “Well, Rachel was sick around that time. In the hospital for an operation. Then her recovery didn’t go so well. The hospital scared her, you know, with her mind being so unsettled as it is. I remember Parker coming to sit with her.”
“Operation?” My hand slides into my bag ready to pull out the other painting. “What kind of operation?”
“F
emale trouble.”
“But she was only a teenager. Did she have an abortion?”
Rose puts her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, heavens no. Don’t even say such a terrible thing. Mr. Eskew was a churchgoer. Never missed a Sunday.”
“But they weren’t Catholic?”
“Episcopalian, but that’s almost the same.”
She rocks back and forth in the kitchen chair.
“Rose, there’s something I need to show you. It’s a little…strange.” I spread the gory painting across the table. “What was Rachel painting here, Rose? Why are her parents clapping?”
She gasps and her purse thunks onto the floor. “Oh, it wasn’t like that! They, they did it for her own good, but—”
“Rose, what are you trying to say?”
Rose lowers her voice and leans forward. “Her parents had her tubes tied. They couldn’t take a chance, you see. Rachel was so odd, so childlike. Boys, men could have taken advantage of her.”
“What boys and men? Was she dating someone?”
“No-o-o-o…” Rose looks increasingly edgy as glances around her old domain. She puts her hand on the table to steady herself. I’m sure she wishes she’d never come.
My stomach churns. “There wasn’t something going on…uh, sexually…within the family?”
Her hand twitches and an unsold glass topples onto the floor.
“Oh, how clumsy of me!” Rose slips around me to grab a broom standing in the corner. She comes back and starts sweeping like she’s hell-bent on removing the pattern from the tile floor.
“Rose? Why were the Eskews so determined to prevent any possibility of pregnancy?”
Rose keeps her head down. Sweep, sweep, sweep. “It wasn’t anything filthy, not what you think. Rachel would never have been able to care for a child. Her parents did it for protection.”
The sweeping intensifies. Rose babbles on. “Because what if the problem were passed on? What if the baby turned out…”
Like her.
Rose can’t get out of the house fast enough. Queasy and lightheaded, I plop onto a chair in the foyer to contemplate the awful scenarios. Rose is convinced that Marjorie and Gilbert had their teenage daughter sterilized against her will to keep her flaw from further polluting the Eskew gene pool. What a message her parents sent her: You’re so despicable that the thought of you reproducing horrifies us. Ironically, Rachel’s problem isn’t genetic at all. Could her parents have known that?
But can Rose’s explanation really account for Parker’s decision to leave Harvard in such a bizarre way? Why was he so determined to be near home even after Rachel’s surgery? Did Parker want to protect his sister, or use her in the most despicable way? Maybe that’s why her parents had her sterilized—because a baby born from incest might also be terribly damaged.
I shiver. Either way, Mrs. Eskew had good reason to beg for forgiveness on her deathbed.
And then Leonie appeared. Beautiful, perfect Leonie creating a beautiful, perfect child with beautiful, perfect Parker. No wonder poor Rachel slashed up those baby clothes.
Ty comes down from the second floor. “Everyone’s gone and I straightened up the bedrooms. Are we going out the back door?”
“Yes, let’s lock up the maid’s room again.”
As I switch off the light, the bulging purple suitcase catches my eye. Maybe I better double check what’s in there. Ty is so squeamish. It’s a good thing he didn’t discover King Tut’s tomb—he would’ve pronounced it skeevy and sealed it back up.
Gingerly, I unzip the bag. After this many years, there’s no strong smell other than a stale mustiness. The pink-flowered sheet is balled up, not folded. I tug on one corner, and some brown speckles become visible between the rosebuds.
“See what I mean?” Ty says. “Nasty. I’m not touchin’ that.”
I tug a little harder. The speckles turn into a solid brown stain, stiff and dry. I’ve seen enough. “I’m taking this home with me.”
Ty’s face twists in disgust. “Why?”
“Terrible things have happened in this house, Ty. And I don’t mean just last week. That was the end. The beginning might be right here.”
Chapter 36
The second Sean walks into my apartment that evening, I start babbling to him about the sale, Rose, and the suitcase.
As he hangs up his coat, I trail after him talking a mile a minute. “…and who should show up at the sale but this woman Rose who was the Eskews’ maid for years and she told me—”
Sean nudges Ethel and me aside and heads for the server in my dining area. He opens the cabinet door and scowls. “All you have is gin?”
“Sean, what’s wrong? Did something happen at work?”
I step toward him, but he turns away, refusing to meet my eye. His face looks crumpled, like he’s moments away from crying.
All thoughts of the Eskews vanish. “Sean, what is it? Did someone get hurt? Did someone—” I can’t bring myself to say “die.”
He closes his eyes and rubs his temples. “My god, can I at least have a beer?”
I run to get it for him, and after he takes a long draw he speaks. “Something terrible has happened. Something that’s made me question everything.” He exhales. “Brendan is cheating on Adrienne.”
“Wha—?” I’m stunned into speechlessness, but of course Sean doesn’t fully understand why. “How do you know?” I choke out.
“I had to go to a bar in Summit today to follow up on a lead for the Task Force. I walk in, and who do I see making out in a corner booth than my big brother and some blonde chick who looks about twenty-two.”
“Oh, Sean—how awful for you! What did he say?”
“That’s what bothers me most. He wasn’t even ashamed to be caught. He sent the girl home—get this, she’s a nanny from Sweden who watches the kids of Brendan’s lawyer—and then he told me not to get on my high horse. He says she’s a harmless distraction. He says Adrienne has what she wants, so he should get what he wants.” Sean pounds the kitchen counter and my unwashed breakfast dishes rattle. “I can’t believe my brother would talk that way. Like giving your wife a big house and fancy clothes is your license to screw around. That’s not how we were raised, not what our family stands for.”
I want to throw my arms around him, but I’m afraid to touch him. And I know I’m about to make things worse, not better. But now I have to tell him what I know. “Sean—” My voice cracks. I swallow and start again. Spit it out, Audrey. “Sean, Adrienne knows their marriage is in trouble. She, she’s been fooling around too.”
Sean’s eyes open wide. Before he can even ask a question I launch into a long and stammering account of Adrienne’s dalliance, how I found out, and why I haven’t told him until now.
Sean turns his head away from me. The anger in his voice is replaced by a barely perceptible tremor. “My first wife cheated on me. Your mother cheated on your father. Brendan cheats on Adrienne.”
I put my hands on his cheeks and force him to look at me. His bright blue eyes are hazed with a film of tears.
“Maybe I’m naïve, Audrey,” he whispers. “Maybe what I want—a long and faithful relationship—is unrealistic, unattainable. Maybe humans aren’t meant to be monogamous.”
I trace the fine smile lines that have started to appear in his fair skin. “I don’t think monogamy is the issue. I think all of them weren’t happy with themselves, so they couldn’t be happy with someone else. I’ve been alone for thirty-four years. I think I know myself pretty well. I know what I want.”
I kiss him.
“Can we do this?” Sean asks.
“Yes. We can.”
A couple hours later, we emerge from my bedroom.
For the first time, Sean notices the purple suitcase in my living room. When I explain what it is, he frowns. “You’re tampering with evidence. You should have called the Melton police.”
“And tell them what? I found a twenty-year-old sheet with a blood stain in the back of a closet and I want them to
investigate? They already think I’m crazy for insisting that Darlene didn’t kill Mrs. Eskew.”
“But if this does relate to an earlier crime, you’re not preserving the chain of evidence,” Sean complains. “You touched it and removed it from the scene. Anything you find is now compromised. It won’t stand up in court.”
“Court! All the parties are dead. I think this blood is Leonie’s. I think she was already dead when she entered that plane. When Parker loaded her into it, I should say.”
Sean scowls. “That would be awfully risky.”
“Not really. Put the body in a duffle bag and load it onto the plane. There are absolutely no security checks for a pilot flying his own plane. I verified that.”
I pace around the bag. “All we have to do is test the blood. Get a DNA sample from Clothilde and see if this blood is from a person related to her. A private lab can do that, right? And then Clothilde will know why Parker crashed the plane.” I pause. “Not that it will bring her any peace. She still won’t know why he killed her daughter. Why would he kill her a month before his son was due to enter the world?”
“Actually, pregnancy is a particularly dangerous time for women in abusive relationships,” Sean says. “The abuser sees his power and influence slipping away as the woman gets more focused on the baby.” He’s turned his back on me while he speaks. Sean loves to tell hilarious stories about dumb perps who take selfies at crime scenes and post them on Facebook or crazy citizens reporting their neighbors as spies, but I’ve noticed that on the rare occasions he confides tragic details about his work, he’ll refuse to meet my eye.
I slide my arms around his waist and rest my head on his back. “You’ve arrested men who beat up their pregnant wives and girlfriends?”
“Too many times to count. And the worst part is, the women stand there with their noses broken and their lips bleeding, cradling their stomachs and begging us not to make the arrest.”
“But that’s poor women who have no place to go. Leonie could have gone home to her parents. They would’ve helped her.”
“It’s not only poor women. When I was a patrolman, we got called to a big colonial on Magnolia Lane. Four-year-old dialed 911, but then was too scared to speak. Dispatcher could hear the whole fight going down over the phone line. We had to break the slider on the deck to get in. Guy had a knife and was threatening to cut the baby right out of her. He was a vice president at AT&T.”
This Bitter Treasure: a romantic thriller (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 3) Page 22