Another Man's Treasure (a romantic thriller) (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 1)

by S. W. Hubbard

  This is new. The first indication I’ve ever had that my mother wasn’t a cross between the Virgin Mary and Princess Diana. And Nana never mentioned that my mother had a difficult pregnancy. But then, she wouldn’t have. She only talked about things Charlotte did well. But I still don’t see where Mrs. O’s going with this and I guess it shows on my face.

  “After that Christmas Eve, I kept thinking…..” Another inhalation, as if she’s trying to find the oxygen to swim across the deep end of the pool. “…kept thinking about the last time we were together. It was the second weekend in December. I had a fancy Christmas party to go to, and your mom agreed to take me shopping. In Bloomingdales, one of those perfume sampler ladies squirted a big blast on Charlotte. All the color rushed out of her face, she broke out in a sweat and doubled over. I thought she was going to heave right there in Cosmetics. She ended up buying a new blouse to change into because she couldn’t bear the scent on the one she had been wearing.”

  “Did she always have such a dramatic reaction to perfume?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Never. And it was a nice scent. Chanel Cristalle. I can never smell it without thinking of Charlotte.” Mrs. O. isn’t looking at me as she says this. Her eyes are focused on the tangle of snapshots and children’s drawings stuck to her refrigerator. With some effort, she drags her attention back to me. I see a glimmer of tears in her eyes.

  “What?” I ask. “What is it about the perfume that bothers you?”

  “Sometimes strong smells can make you queasy if you’re… if you’re pregnant.”

  I feel like she’s thrown hot tea in my face. My mother was pregnant when she died? I didn’t just lose a parent that night; I lost the thing I’ve always wanted more than anything else—a sibling.

  Mrs. Olsen sees that she’s upset me. She comes around to my side of the table to give me a hug. “I’m probably wrong. I should never have mentioned it.”

  “But that would explain why she seemed excited. Maybe it was so early she didn’t want to tell anyone yet. Not even her mom. Maybe not even my dad.”

  Mrs. Olsen nods. “Yes, I suppose. It’s just, well—”

  “Did you ever ask him about it?” I demand.

  “No, I didn’t want to upset him.” She picks up my empty teacup and bustles over to the sink. “Like I said, I’m probably way off base.”

  I can’t figure her out. She’s the one who brought up the idea that my mom was pregnant, and now she’s backpedaling. “But what do you really think, was she or wasn’t she?”

  When there’s a safe distance between us, Mrs. Olsen speaks. “I think she might have been pregnant. What I can’t figure out is why being pregnant again would’ve made her that happy.”

  Chapter 18

  I look good. I look damn good.

  I think.

  “What’s your opinion, Ethel?” I spin around in front of the full-length mirror so Ethel can get the full effect of my new black dress and heels.

  She buries her snout between her paws and sneezes.

  “What’s the matter? Did I go too heavy on the perfume?”

  Perfume. I stop in mid-pirouette. My giddy excitement over my date with Cal dissipates as the memory of my conversation with Mrs. Olsen crowds its way back into my consciousness.

  Ethel scootches away from me on her belly, not sure I’m really me. The salesladies at Nordstrom knocked themselves out getting me outfitted (it was a slow day), and Trevor, the stylist at Isabelle Trent’s salon, cut me these punky, fringy bangs that hide the shaved spot on my head. I’ve been pretty successful at keeping the whole scene with Mrs. O. boxed up in a corner of my mind while I shopped and fussed and primped for Cal. But the box pops open at unlikely moments. There’s something alive in there, eager to escape.

  For about the thousandth time since leaving the Olsen’s yesterday, I look at the ring on my finger and think about Charlotte—who’s now not just my mother but the mother of my incipient baby brother or sister—and I wonder about that Christmas Eve expedition. Wouldn’t being pregnant make a woman more cautious? Wouldn’t she have been less likely to go out into that storm if she knew she was risking another life? And if my father knew she was pregnant, wouldn’t he have stopped her from leaving on her crazy mission? And how did Mrs. Szabo steal her ring? Somehow I have to tell Cal that I know how his aunt got the jewelry…don’t I? Won’t that make it okay that I stole from him what was already stolen? The more I poke and prod at these ideas, the further I sink into a funk.

  The ring of the doorbell knocks me out of my trance.

  Ethel shoots out of my bedroom and flings herself at the front door, baying at the top of her voice. Out in the hall I clip on Ethel’s leash and loop it around the newel post. Then I take a deep breath and open the front door.

  A slow grin spreads over Cal’s face. “Hey, you look great! I like the new do.” Casually, he reaches out and touches my hair.

  A hot current races to my core. “Thanks,” I say, trying not to gasp.

  Cal steps into the foyer and sees Ethel straining to get to him. “Hi, girl.” He moves toward her with his hand outstretched. She licks Cal as if he’s a soft-serve cone on the Boardwalk. As I pull her away, Ethel points her nose toward the ceiling and lets out a long, mournful howl.

  “Oh, for God’s sake. You can’t come with us. Get over it.” I grab my snappy little black clutch and turn Cal around. In the soft light of the hall lamp, my mother’s ring glints on my finger. I take a second to admire how nice it looks on my manicured right hand. Then I release Ethel and slip out the door. The sound of her scratching paws follows us down the walk.

  Spencer Finneran lives in a beautifully restored Victorian a few blocks from the center of Palmyrton. There are bigger, fancier houses on the outskirts of town, but these few blocks of graceful Queen Annes and Gothic Revivals have always been my favorites. By the time we arrive, cars are already parked up and down the street. It’s clear which house is the Finneran’s—every light’s ablaze and men are smoking cigars on the big wrap-around porch despite the cold weather. Cal pulls his BMW into the driveway of the house next door.

  “Spencer’s neighbors won’t mind if we park here,” Cal says. “They’re invited to the party.”

  The ride from my house to the party has gone rather well. I’ve walked without tripping, talked without stammering, even managed a little joke. And steered clear of the stolen jewelry. But Cal’s parking maneuver unnerves me. It reminds me that my date is an insider here. Cal knows the senator well enough to know his neighbors; knows the neighbors well enough to park in their drive with confidence. When Cal opens the car door for me I feel as I did the summer after third grade, standing on the edge of the pool, waiting to take the test that would give me unlimited access to the deep end.

  Cal puts his hand on the small of my back and guides me toward the stately green and cream painted house. As we draw closer to the porch, men begin calling out to him.

  “Hey, Cal—nice work on the Henderson deal.”

  “Saw you on Channel 4. You gave as good as you got.”

  “C’mere and tell me about this golf outing you roped me into.”

  Cal leads me through the crush of men, introducing me left and right. Bob, Bill, Dave, Steve, Stan, Marty—the names whiz by like bullets in a shoot out. They smile and nod and crush my hand in theirs as they look right through me. I’m sure they’ve met—and forgotten—scores of women who’ve shown up on Cal’s arm. They slap him on the back and tell him hilarious anecdotes about people I don’t know. They make him promises and beg him to call and murmur advice in his ear.

  I feel my dream date unraveling. This is going to be a helluva a long night, and, unlike these guys, I don’t even have a drink in hand to numb the pain. I look out over the crowd and see a teenage boy in skinny jeans and black Chuck Taylors sitting on the porch swing gazing morosely into the night. A cigarette glows in his right hand. I’d like to join him.

  Then there’s a warm breath in my ear and a strong, smo
oth hand holding mine. “Sorry about this crew. Let’s get inside the house. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Once we’re in the foyer, the frat party atmosphere dissipates. The house is lovely: A Federal highboy, a grandfather clock, a Persian carpet, its blues and roses mellow with age. I could have a field day in here, but Cal is urging me forward. We pass the formal living room, filled with a buzzing group of men in blue blazers and women all wearing some version of my outfit. Score one for Isabelle. A tall man with a mane of silver hair is moving among the groups, smiling and chatting. That’s Spencer Finneran—I recognize him from TV—but Cal keeps directing me down a hall toward a large gourmet kitchen that’s been added on to the rear of the house. There, a flock of white-aproned caterers flaps back and forth refilling trays. A huge cake with sixty-five red, white and blue candles rests on the granite countertop. In the midst of all the activity stands a short, plumpish woman in a beige and maroon flowered dress, a strand of pearls, and sensible low heels. Isabelle would find her just this side of precious.

  “Anne!” Cal holds out his arms.

  “Cal, my dear—there you are!” The woman allows herself to be hugged. “Now the party can start.” She turns to me and takes my hand in both of hers. “And you must be Audrey. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  She has?

  “This is Spencer’s wife, Anne Finneran,” Cal completes the introduction. “She’s the great woman behind the man.”

  Anne snorts, the laugh lines at the corners of her eyes crinkling. “No need for the PR nonsense back here in the kitchen, Cal. Why doesn’t this poor girl have a drink?” She shoots a look at one of the food service minions and a glass of wine materializes. “Cal told me how you met. What a fascinating job you have. Tell me, what’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever found in someone’s house?”

  I twist my mother’s ring on my finger. But of course, I don’t mention that. Anne is looking me straight in the eye. She genuinely wants to know. So I tell her about the abstract impressionist painting, and she knows all about the artist’s work. Soon she’s taking me to see a portrait hanging in their dining room, which leads me to ask about the vintage Noritake china I see there, which gets us onto the soaring value of Rookwood and the impossibility of finding nice Fenton glass. Another woman chimes in, and half an hour goes by before I realize that neither Anne nor Cal is anywhere nearby, but I’m having a fine old time talking art and antiques and historic preservation with some very nice people. It dawns on me then that Anne is an outstanding hostess. She’s taken the new kid under her wing and found her some friends to play with.

  My chat with an art history professor is interrupted by the sound of a loud gong. The door from the kitchen opens and the cake is wheeled in. At the same time, party guests from every other room in the house start cramming into the dining room. Cal appears at my side just as Spencer and Anne Finneran arrive. To make more room, he steps behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. I can’t help but lean back into him a bit.

  I like it.

  Anne and Spencer stand behind the candle-encrusted cake, flanked by their four children, two boys and two girls, and the kids’ spouses. Ten grandchildren complete the tableau. Spencer, despite his shock of silver hair, looks far younger than sixty-five, while Anne looks older. She’s chosen to let her brown hair fade to nondescript gray, and she hasn’t fought against wrinkles or a spreading waistline. She wears the scars of raising four kids and living in the political spotlight like a badge of honor. I like her for that.

  The Finneran children are easy to distinguish from the in-laws, all sharing their father’s strong jaw and high cheekbones. They’re the kind of siblings about whom strangers say, “…and this is obviously your sister.” I wonder what it would be like to be part of a family like this—more than a family: a clan, a dynasty.

  The grandchildren range in age from an infant in arms to a stunning young woman who, according to an overheard conversation, just started Harvard. The little girls wear party dresses, the older ones slightly hipper versions of the dress I’ve got on. The boys all sport khakis and blue blazers. Except for one. The sullen teenager from the porch is among them, looking like he wants to dump a bowl of punch on his cousins and run.

  Spencer begins to speak. He starts with a charming little story about his sixth birthday that captures the attention of everyone in the room, even the little kids. Once he has his audience in his hands, he calls out various people for bringing him safely to this point in his life: his golf buddies, his priest, his law partners, Cal. With obvious pride, he thanks all of his children individually for inspiring him with their courage and their accomplishments. A daughter who survived leukemia, a son who served in the Peace Corps—each tribute comes straight from his heart. Then he turns to Anne.

  I’ve been watching her throughout Spencer’s speech. It’s hard to describe the expression on her face. Devotion implies subservience and she’s clearly not anyone’s slave. Love is there, certainly, but her look is more complex than that.

  Satisfaction. That’s what I see. Satisfaction with the man she married and the life she’s created with him.

  Spencer raises a glass in a toast. “To my bride, my anchor in rough seas, my muse.”

  If there’s a dry eye in the house, I don’t know who it belongs to.

  Then the caterer steps in to light the candles on the cake and the moment dissolves into singing happy birthday and joking about the need for a fire truck. I notice the sullen teen edging toward the door. His mother, a Finneran daughter-in-law, stops him with a fierce glare. Then Anne looks his way. Her left eyebrow goes up. A silent message passes between them and I see the corner of his mouth twitch in a repressed smile.

  Grandma understands. I like her even more.

  Chapter 19

  After the cake, I spy some lovely Delft on the mantle in the living room that I’d like to check out, but Cal steers me across the room directly toward Spencer. Lifting his head from a conversation with a much shorter man, Spencer looks straight at me as I approach. It seems to me that his eyes widen, like he’s amazed to see Cal with the likes of me. Standing right before the senator, I can feel his vitality. What a difference between him and my father, who will also be turning sixty-five in a few months.

  Spencer smiles broadly at Cal, covering his moment of surprise. “Finally getting around to introducing me to your lovely friend?”

  “Audrey Nealon, Spencer Finneran,” Cal says.

  I shake his hand. “Happy birthday. This is a lovely party.”

  “Thank you.” He leans in, still holding my hand, and says sotto voce, “Because it’s my birthday, Anne insisted we only invite people we actually like. That’s why Cal brought you, instead of some dreadful lobbyist. Right, Cal?”

  “Absolutely. Tonight I’m off duty.”

  I smile, even though I know Cal and Spencer are always at work. The glad handers on the front porch are evidence of that. Still, Spencer’s comment reassures me. I come with absolutely no political benefits, so Cal must have brought me for purely social reasons.

  I only have a chance to say a few more words to Spencer before some other friend pulls him away. Then Cal and I make the rounds of the party together, Cal whispering sly commentaries about the guests in my ear. Eventually, one of the thick-necked, ruddy-faced blowhards from the front porch corners Cal, and I excuse myself to use the ladies room. A line has formed outside the powder room in the hall, and a woman descending the stairs urges me to use the upstairs bathroom. “Second door on the left,” she directs.

  Once upstairs, I’m distracted by the oil portraits hanging at regular intervals in the hall. Stern-faced, barrel-chested men; dour women in mob caps. These are what I call ancestor paintings, and these ancestors look to go way back to Revolutionary times. Old family, old money—nothing like my roots. I’m curious if these are Spencer’s forebears or Anne’s until I come to a painting of newer vintage, showing a not quite beautiful woman in an evening gown of a style popula
r in the 1930s or 40s. She has Anne’s laughing eyes and high forehead. It must be her mother.

  As I stand admiring it, my nose begins to twitch. A distinctive aroma, but not one I smell all that often anymore. I inhale deeply, then cough.

  Weed.

  Someone in one of these bedrooms is getting high while the senator’s birthday rocks on below.

  My first impulse is to giggle and slip away to the bathroom. Clearly the poor kid in the black tee shirt and jeans needs a little something to help him get through this family get-together.

  But the Finnerans are no ordinary family. The governor’s election is a couple weeks away. Cal has been working so hard, and any taint of scandal could tilt the tight race. Despite what Spencer said, the people downstairs are not just friends and family; Cal introduced me to a woman who’s a reporter for the Style section of the New York Times. A woman who very well might wander up here to use the bathroom, just as I did.

  I’ll go down and get Cal—he’ll know how to deal with the problem. But when I look over the banister, I know it will take me ten minutes to find him and pry him away from whomever he’s talking to. Meanwhile, the aroma of burning weed grows stronger.

  It’s coming from the bedroom across the hall from Anne’s mother’s painting. Glancing over my shoulder, I step up to the door and tap softly. There’s a clatter within, then dead silence.

  I try the door: locked.

  I tap again. “Listen,” I stage-whisper into the crack between the door and the frame. “I can smell that here in the hall. You’d better put it out before there’s trouble. I’m saying this as a friend, okay?”

  No response. Now what do I do?

  I have no way of knowing that it’s the kid in black who’s in there smoking. In fact, I’m annoyed with myself for playing to stereotypes. Maybe it’s one of the aging frat boys from the porch. Or maybe it’s one of the botoxed, highlighted matrons fluttering around Spencer. But deep inside I’m sure it’s the kid. I haven’t seen him since the cake-cutting, since he shared that glance with Anne.