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

by S. W. Hubbard

  I decide to play the guilt card. “I know this party’s a drag for you, but it’s important to your grandmother. Don’t wreck it for her.”

  The door flies open.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  The kid is two feet away from me, wreathed in a cloud of smoke. I step into the room and quickly shut the door.

  He backs away from me, his eyes big black pools of confusion. “Who…”

  “I’m a friend of a friend of your grandfather’s. Cal Tremaine’s date.”

  “Asshole,” he murmurs under his breath.

  I’m not sure if that’s directed at me, Cal, or Spencer. Maybe all three.

  He seems stupefied, either by what he’s been smoking or by my appearance. I figure this is no time for lengthy discussions. I pluck the remains of the smoldering joint from between his fingers, march it over to the attached bathroom, and flush.

  “I hate to be a tool,” I say when I’m back in the bedroom, “but if you were to get caught tonight, the result would be worse than a little argument with your parents. It could cost your grandfather the election.”

  “Like I give a shit.” He’s sprawled across the pretty lavender and white bedspread in this guestroom, his face arranged in perfectly cultivated teenage disdain.

  I don’t need to keep talking to him but I feel a surge of sympathy. I’ve been envying the Finneran solidarity, but maybe he hates growing up in the glare of politics. He didn’t choose to be born into this family.

  Well, none of us chooses our family, do we?

  I extend my hand. “I’m Audrey Nealon. What’s your name?”

  He ignores the hand, but answers. “Dylan.”

  “Well, Dylan, no matter how bad it might be to have a grandfather who’s the governor of New Jersey, it’ll be even worse to be the reason why your grandfather’s not the governor of New Jersey. It might be best for you to chill up here—smoke free—until the party’s over.”

  “Whatever.” His eyelids droop as if he might doze off while he’s talking to me.

  I cross the room and listen for any sounds in the hall before opening the door. “Thanks, Dylan. Stay out of trouble for your grandma’s sake.”

  My words ignite Dylan. He springs off the bed and shouts after me, “Lady, you don’t know anything about what would make my grandma happy.”

  Chapter 20

  By the time I get back downstairs, the atmosphere in the house has shifted subtly. The party has peaked; people are starting to say their good-byes and head home. Anne stands in the hallway, thanking a steady stream of guests for coming. The caterers load their van.

  Cal emerges from the living room and holds out his hand to me. “There you are.” He takes my hand and leads me over to Spencer. “Look at Audrey, Spence. She’s survived her first Finneran party and she’s still on her feet. A real trouper, wouldn’t you say?”

  Spencer beams at me. “She’s a keeper, Cal. Now Audrey, tell this cheap bastard to take you somewhere fancy for your next date.”

  For some reason I’m absurdly pleased by Spencer’s approval. At the same time, I’m embarrassed by his assumption that Cal and I are headed for a second date. I cast about for some lighthearted response but come up short.

  “Cheap! I’m not cheap!” Cal pulls me closer. “Tell Spencer to give me one day off from his campaign, and I’ll gladly take you to the fanciest restaurant in New York.”

  “Don’t be drawn in by his promises, Audrey.” Now Anne is in on the banter. “Our lives won’t be our own until after Election Day. In the meantime, he’ll expect you to make all sorts of absurd accommodations to meet his needs.” She wags her index finger at me, but her face lights up with an indulgent smile. “Don’t do it. You give an inch and they take a mile.”

  I feel myself blushing but I sense it’s a nice rosy glow, not my usual crimson blotches of humiliation. I’m not used to being the center of attention, but this is quite pleasant. For once, I’m not the girl on the outside looking in.

  “I had a wonderful time tonight,” I say. “This was more fun than going to a fancy restaurant. Honestly.”

  “I’m delighted to have met you, dear.” Anne takes my hand in hers. “And I don’t say this to all the girls Cal brings around, do I Spencer?”

  “Whew, that’s for sure!”

  “Let’s not go any further down that path,” Cal says. “Time for me to take Audrey home.” Cal wraps me in the shawl the Nordstrom salesladies picked out for me. The appearance of one accessory makes me realize I’m missing another. Where’s my little evening clutch? Shit! I must’ve set it down somewhere when I was trying to balance a glass of wine and an hors d’oeuvre. I look around anxiously. I should have known I couldn’t pull off this fancy cocktail party thing.

  “What’s wrong?” Cal asks.

  “I seem to have left my purse somewhere.”

  Am I paranoid or do I see a flicker of irritation pass across Anne’s face as she imagines a half-hour hunt for my bag when all she wants is to get everyone out the door. She draws the catering crew boss to her side with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and murmurs in his ear.

  “Black with sequins? It’s in the kitchen.” He returns momentarily with the silly little satin envelope. I must’ve set it down when Cal introduced me to Anne.

  “Aren’t these things a nuisance?” Anne says with a heavenward glance. I think now I must’ve imagined her impatience. “When Spencer and I go out, I make him carry my lipstick in his jacket.”

  “I keep telling her if a reporter ever sees me pull a tube of Revlon out of my pocket, my career’s over.”

  We say our good-byes in a cloud of laughter and make our way out to the car. As we’re buckling our seat belts, Cal reaches over and pats my knee. “You’ve cleared a really high bar, Audrey. Anne likes you.”

  Does she?

  “She’s a very gracious lady. I’m sure she’s nice to everyone who comes to her home.”

  “Oh, she is, she is. A politician’s wife can’t afford not to be. But believe me, I know her well enough to recognize when she’s being politically correct and when she’s genuine. You, she truly likes.”

  I feel a warm glow inside me. I don’t know why it should matter, but I want Anne Finneran’s approval.

  On the drive home, I tell Cal about my encounter with Dylan. I watch as his hands tighten on the steering wheel, then relax when I get to the part where I flush the joint down the toilet. He turns to look at me while we’re stopped at a light.

  “That was brilliant, Audrey. You did exactly the right thing. That damn kid’s always in trouble. Wait until I tell Spencer about this.”

  I reach out and touch Cal’s arm. “Don’t tell Spencer, please. Tell Anne. She’ll know how to handle it. Dylan’s an unhappy kid. It can’t always be easy to be a Finneran.”

  Two vertical lines appear on Cal’s brow. “This isn’t the first time he’s fucked up. Dylan’s a scandal waiting to happen. He has to be reined in before he jeopardizes Spencer’s election.”

  “The race really is that tight that something like this could tip it?”

  Cal looks away from the road for a second to catch my eye. “It’s not just about winning, Audrey. It’s about the future of this state. Do you realize that you and I have never had the opportunity to vote for a principled, honorable person for the governor of New Jersey? Since we’ve been old enough to vote, every candidate of either party has been a buffoon or a crook.”

  “Sometimes both.”

  Cal smiles, but I can see he’s not really amused. This means too much to him.

  “Spencer Finneran is different, Audrey. He’s the real deal. He has a solid plan to make life better for the people of New Jersey. All the people, not just the special interests. So, yeah, I don’t want that brat Dylan to undermine it all.”

  “I understand. But he’s a kid, Cal. Didn’t you ever do anything reckless when you were sixteen?”

  He takes a quick sidelong glance at me, but the worry lines don’t disappear.


  “C’mon…I can’t believe you were a choirboy all through high school.”

  Cal starts to laugh. “I ran track in high school. Several colleges had their scouts out looking at me. I really needed the scholarship money. So, what do I do? The night before the big all-county meet I go to a big beer blast at the house of some kid whose parents were out of town. Of course the party got busted by the police. I knew if they caught me I wouldn’t be able to run in the meet. So as the cops were coming through the front door, I took off out the back. One cop saw me and gave chase. He followed me up hills and through back yards. I was a sprinter, but he clearly was a distance runner. He was gaining on me when I came to a little backyard goldfish pond. I leaped over it, but when he tried, he fell about a foot short. Landed in water up to his thighs. I dashed through a hedge and got away.”

  “So, how did you do in the big meet?”

  “Broke a record for the 100 meter sprint. Won a full ride to Brown.”

  Maybe it’s the wine I drank, or maybe I’m a little high on the praise I’ve won from Spencer and Anne. I reach over and lightly stroke Cal’s cheek. “So maybe Dylan will turn out to be as successful as you. Cut the kid a break.”

  Cal smiles. “You’re really a champion of the underdog, aren’t you Audrey?”

  “Let’s just say I can identify.”

  Cal glides into a parking spot in front of my condo. Somehow the whole evening has gone by without my finding a chance to ask him about Agnes’s stolen jewelry. He kills the ignition and slides his arm across the back of my seat. Now is definitely not the time. A surge of heat from my core makes my own perfume smell stronger. It mixes with the clean leathery smell of the BMW and the subtle scent of Cal’s aftershave. I can only detect it when he’s very close, as he is right now.

  “I didn’t really know what to expect tonight, Audrey.” He runs his thumb lightly along my jaw. He might as well have touched me with a live wire. “But I found I enjoyed your company very much. Can I see you again? And I mean soon, not after the election.”

  I try to play it cool, but I know I’m pathetically incapable of nonchalance. “Yes. I’d like that,” I manage to choke out.

  He pulls me closer and kisses me. It’s a wonderful kiss. Lingering, not demanding. This man knows what he’s doing.

  He can sense my eagerness; I know he can. I haven’t had sex for over a year, since I broke up with Gavin, a chronically despondent unpublished novelist and paralegal. I haven’t been kissed by anyone since except for a slobberingly inept software engineer I met at a St. Patrick’s Day party.

  Then Cal draws back. He knows I’m his for the asking, but he opens the driver’s side door and walks around to hold my door for me. He leads me up the walk, then smoothes the hair back from my face. I realize I’ve forgotten all about Agnes’s stolen jewelry. Well, too late now. Cal kisses the top of my head and whispers in my ear. “Good night, Audrey. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Shakily, I pull the keys from my bag and let myself into the condo. Ethel bounds up to greet me, then skids to a stop. She seems to know that if she jumps up on me now she’ll knock me flat on my ass.

  Chapter 21

  I’m so wound up after my date with Cal that it takes until two AM for me to fall asleep. Consequently I don’t arise on Sunday until nearly ten, when a frantic Ethel leaps onto the bed and walks across my kidneys. Staggering into the bathroom, I look in the mirror. My hip new haircut is flat on one side, cow-licky on the other. My eyes are ringed with black mascara. A pillowcase wrinkle imprints my cheek. Princess Audrey has disappeared; scullery-maid Audrey is back.

  “C’mon Ethel. We’ll take our walk, swing by Sol’s Bagels, then head out to visit Dad, okay?” I haven’t been to the nursing home all week, and the information Mrs. Olsen gave me about the possibility that my mother was pregnant when she disappeared has been floating around me, like something I glimpse from the corner of my eye but can’t quite bring into focus. I want to find out things only my father can tell me, although I dread asking.

  Ethel embraces my plan wholeheartedly, as I knew she would. I take a quick shower, mindful of poor Ethel’s urgent biological needs, then we head down to the bagel shop. A Palmyrton landmark, Sol’s sells the best bagels south of Fort Lee and west of Newark. The place is always hopping, and Sunday mornings are busiest of all. I invariably run into someone I know there, but I’m praying today it won’t be Cal. I’m not yet ready to see him again; I know I’ll have to work too hard to pull off a “fancy meeting you here.” Besides, my jeans and UVA sweatshirt are a far cry from the slinky little black dress of last night. Seductress is not a role I can maintain 24/7.

  Ethel strains on her leash as we walk the three blocks to Sol’s. She knows when we head off in this direction she’s about to get her favorite treat, a salt bagel stick. “What do you think, Ethel, should we get a bagel for Dad too?” Pre-stroke my father disdained bagels as carbohydrate bombs, but he looks terribly frail now and given the slop they serve him at Manor View, I think he might appreciate seven hundred kosher calories. Ethel whines and pulls harder.

  When we arrive at Sol’s the line spills out the door. The five or six sidewalk tables are all occupied and I can’t bring Ethel inside, so I tie her leash to a lamppost and get in the queue. Used to total freedom, Ethel can be a little testy when restrained, but she clearly knows what’s coming her way so she lies down patiently to wait. It shouldn’t take long—Sol’s countermen are famously efficient, and they don’t encourage idle chit-chat on Sundays.

  I make it up to the bagel bin and practice my order: two everything bagels with cream cheese, two coffees and a salt bagel stick. The counterman hands over one order, then makes eye contact with the woman ahead of me on the line. This is her cue to speak, but she hesitates.

  “Next!” he barks at her.

  “Do the everything bagels have garlic?” she asks. “I don’t like garlic.”

  “Everything is everything!” the counterman shouts.

  “Didn’t Nietzsche say that?” the guy behind me mutters. “Or maybe it was Kurt Cobain.”

  “They have garlic,” I tell her, thinking to move things along. Big mistake. Now she’s agonizing between sesame and poppy. I shift restlessly and crane my neck to look at Ethel. I can only see part of her tail. It’s not moving, so she must be fine.

  Finally it’s my turn and I place my order. While I’m paying, I hear a crescendo of furious barking. “Shit! That’s my dog,” I say as I slap ten bucks in the counterman’s hand, grab my order, and rush for the door.

  “Hey, lady—your change,” he calls but I’m already darting through the crowd. Ethel’s quite the libertarian canine—you do your thing and let me do mine—but when someone pushes her buttons she can turn fierce. The tone of her barking worries me. I have visions of bratty kids poking their fingers in her ears and getting bitten for their efforts.

  When I finally make my way onto the sidewalk, I see a crowd forming around the lamppost where I left Ethel tied. A skinny woman in black leggings that accentuate her bow-legs is screeching while trying to pull a big bearded collie away from Ethel. Ethel lunges at the hairball on four legs and succeeds in pulling out a good mouthful of gray and white fur. Maybe the big oaf tossed some doggy insult in Ethel’s direction. She’s not one to turn the other whisker. Before I can reach Ethel, a powerfully built man in basketball shorts and a T-shirt grabs each dog by its collar and separates them by the span of his long arms. Now the bearded collie owner is able to drag her dog away, so by the time I reach Ethel she has given one last “get lost, fatso” yelp and is wagging her tail sweetly at the towering referee.

  “Thank you so much,” I say, taking Ethel’s leash. “Ethel, what’s gotten into you?” I’m so busy scolding Ethel I barely glance at the man who broke up the fight.

  “Trouble seems to follow you around, Ms. Nealon,” he says.

  I stop fussing with Ethel to really look at him. Short red hair, bright blue eyes, a neck as thick as my thigh. I definitely kn
ow this guy, but from where? Customer? Neighbor? And what did he mean by that crack about trouble?

  He unties Ethel from the lamppost and hands me the leash. “There’s an ordinance against this, you know.”

  Now it clicks. Detective Coughlin. I haven’t seen him since I was in the hospital, addled on painkillers. Looking at him in the cold light of sobriety isn’t making him any more appealing. I remember what Cal said about police brutality. Yeah, I can picture this cop knocking people around.

  “I hear you called 911. Someone broke into your condo?”

  Crap—does he know everything? “A misunderstanding. No one broke in. My assistant, Jill, has a key. She moved some things without telling me.”

  “Does Griggs have a key to your place?”

  “No! Why are you asking me all this? I thought you were off my case.”

  “Oh, yeah--how’s your string-pulling friend over at Democratic Headquarters?”

  “What charm school did you graduate from, Detective?”

  “It lost its accreditation.”

  I hand Ethel her bagel stick, effectively rewarding her for her bad behavior. She settles down on the sidewalk with the chewy bread between her front paws and starts working it over. What was I thinking? Now I’m stuck here with Coughlin. We both stare at the dog.

  “You been okay?” Coughlin asks. “Nobody hassling you?”

  “I’m fine. Detective Farrand told me I can call to request a patrol car to escort me to the bank after my sale this week.”

  “Good. I told him to do that.”

  Good grief, how childish men are. Coughlin’s like the star quarterback who pouts when the promising sophomore gets put in the game.

  “When’s the sale? Where?” he asks. His eyes, startlingly blue, lock with mine. I hold the stare for a moment, until a strange uptick in my heart rate makes me look away.