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

by S. W. Hubbard

  There are three empty pages at the end of the scrapbook. Of course Nana didn’t include the obituary or the newspaper article entitled, “Young Mother Apparent Drowning Victim.” I slap the book shut. There’s nothing I don’t already know here. Time to move on to something more productive.

  On a lark I go to the Rutgers website and search the faculty list. No Brian Bascomb there. Then I Google the name and get several hits. One is an obituary of a 103- year-old Brian in Plano, Texas. Another is a plastic surgeon in Palo Alto. The third is a Brian Bascomb with a Facebook page. The Info page says he’s from Somerville, NJ. I can’t view the rest unless I become Brian’s friend. Now I’m getting somewhere. I try finding a phone listing in Somerville but come up empty.

  I guess Facebook is my best bet. I put in a friend request with a message: “Hi, I’m Audrey Nealon, Roger’s daughter. Thanks for taking him out to lunch.” As I hit send, my phone rings: Cal.

  “Hi.” I strive for blasé but fall significantly short.

  “Hi, yourself. Busy?”

  Busy working myself into a twist. “No, just relaxing with Ethel. You?”

  Cal sighs. “I’m at the office, trying to get a jump on this week’s campaign events. That’s why I called. What works better for you, Tuesday or Wednesday?”

  I feel a prickle of fear. Surely he doesn’t expect me to host some rubber chicken dinner or give a speech for Spencer in front of the Montclair Rotary Club? “Works for what?” I can hear the wariness in my voice.

  “To have dinner with me.” For the first time since I met him, Cal sounds uncertain. “I mean…I guess I thought you, you know, might want to, but…”

  Stupid, stupid Audrey! “I do! I definitely do. But the way you said ‘planning campaign events’ and ‘what works for you’ I thought you meant you wanted me to campaign for Spencer.” I prattle on until Cal’s laughter cuts me off.

  “Poor Audrey—I expect you to read my mind. What I was trying to express was I can leave one night this week free of campaign events so I can see you. Which would you prefer? I promise I won’t put you to work ringing doorbells.”

  Now my heart is pounding. I’m about to say either night is fine, but I catch myself. No need for him to know I’m sitting home alone every night. “Tuesday,” I say with conviction. “Tuesday works best for me.”

  “Tuesday it is. Oh, hell—there’s Spencer on my call waiting. See you at seven, baby.”

  I stare at the dead phone in my hand. Baby?

  Preparations for the Reicker sale are in full swing when I get to the office on Monday morning. I can hear the phone ringing and the sound of packing tape zipping off the roll even before I open the door. The tower of packages waiting for the UPS man, the spicy aroma of Jill’s chai latte, the tinny, insistent beat emanating from Ty’s iPod—I embrace the reassuring familiarity of my office. What a relief it is to be away from home, where I’ve spent the last eighteen hours obsessing about my father’s reaction to my question about my mother’s pregnancy.

  “Audrey, have you seen your picture in the Sunday Star Ledger?” Jill squeals the moment I walk through the door. “It’s from that party you went to.”

  “What picture?” I hold out my hand for the paper. There on the Style page is a big picture of two people in profile: Spencer shaking the hand of a slender, long-legged woman in a black dress. “Are you nuts? That’s not me!”

  “It is too,” Jill insists. “The caption says, ‘Audrey Nealon helps Spencer Finneran celebrate his birthday.’ And that’s your new haircut. Love your dress. You look fabulous.”

  I squint at the photo. That is my haircut. And my new ridiculously high pumps. “Geez, I didn’t even recognize myself.”

  Ty crowds over my shoulder. “Dress is hot.” He taps the page. “You got great legs, Audge. Why you always wear those baggy sweats?”

  I pull the paper away from them and toss it face-down on the desk. I’m not comfortable with this Audrey- as-Angelina-Jolie schtick. “Let’s get to work. Any messages?”

  “The Chamber of Commerce called twice,” Jill says. “They want to know if you’re going to the Meet and Greet next Wednesday at five.”

  I wrinkle my nose. Guys whose guts are ready to pop out of their button down shirts talking to my boobs. Women with frosted hair and color coordinated handbags tossing around terms like loyalty index and cycle time. At the Chamber Meet and Greet, I always feel like the only kid at the grown-up’s table. “Do I have to go? God, I hate those things.”

  “We got three new customers the last time you networked there,” Jill reminds me. “You told me then it was my job to force you to go every time.”

  “It’s your job to reconcile the checkbook every month and you never do that. And don’t use network as a verb in a sentence where I’m the subject. What I do at these functions is hover pathetically near the cheese and crackers until Isabelle arrives, then trail around in her shadow, handing out my card to everyone she hands hers to.”

  “Seems to be working. Should I call and say you’ll be there?”

  “Whatever.” I sit at my desk and start going through the mail. Seconds later, Jill is motioning for me to pick up the phone.

  “Louise, the assistant director, wants to talk to you.”

  I roll my eyes and pick up. Turns out Louise wants to know if I’ll serve on the table decorations committee for the Chamber’s annual fundraising dinner dance. Gee, poke a sharp stick in my eye/serve on the decorations committee. It’s a toss-up. “Honestly Louise, I’m honored to be asked, but you know, I haven’t fully recovered from being in the hospital. Maybe next year, when I’ve got all my energy back.” Was that brilliant, or what? I have twelve months to figure out an excuse for next year.

  “Oh, Audrey, I totally understand!” Louise’s voice drips remorse. “I shouldn’t have asked—I don’t know what I was thinking. Is there anything we here at the Chamber can do for you?”

  I’m about to gracefully decline and make my escape when an idea pops into my head. “Actually, Louise, there is something I could use your help with. I’m looking for a PR firm—do you maintain a list of Chamber members sorted by business type?”

  “Absolutely—I can call it right up on my computer. You’re probably looking for a small, boutique firm, right?”

  “Uh…actually, I’m doing a little research for a friend. I think she wants a firm with a lot of experience. Can you tell how long each one’s been in business?”

  “No, but I can see how long they’ve been members of the Chamber. Let’s see…Burke and Fein, thirty-five years; Media Solutions, thirty years…” Louise keeps going until I cut her off at twenty-five years and say my good-byes. Now I have a place to start my search.

  “I’m not driving old books to Oscar’s,” Tyshaun warns Jill as I tune back in to what’s going on around me. “Last time I was in his shop I seen a rat as big as my arm.”

  “I thought you weren’t afraid of anything,” Jill says.

  “I’m afraid of rats. Rats and snakes, man. That shit freaks me out.” Tyshaun’s broad shoulders tremble in disgust.

  “How about bears?” I ask. It feels good to be teasing Ty again, instead of tip-toeing around on eggshells.

  “Aw, Audge, don’t get me started on bears. D’jou see that story in the paper last week? Big ass bear comes right into this guy’s kitchen. Opens up the fridge. Guy comes down for breakfast and there’s this bear sitting on the kitchen floor eating baloney and yogurt. Knew how to open the packages and everything. That’s messed up.”

  “Yeah, there was a bear over by Lawnwood Elementary school the other day,” Jill says. “They had to call all the kids in from recess.”

  “See—that’s what I’m sayin’. This is New Jersey, man, not Alaska. Shouldn’t have to worry about that. They oughta shoot them mothers. I see any bears around here, I’m’a get me a gun.”

  “Don’t you dare,” I say, suddenly serious. “If you see a bear, you call the police and they’ll come shoot it with a tranquilizer dart.”


  Ty scowls. “I don’t call the cops for nuthin’. I take my chances with the damn bear.” His phone rings and as he holds it to his ear, his face grows even fiercer. “A’right, a’right.” Ty puts his phone in his pocket and snatches up the van keys. “I’m going to Home Depot before it gets too busy. Gimme the list.”

  Jill hands it over silently. Our giddy mood has evaporated. How did we manage to go from rare books to Oscar to rats to bears to the unhappy topic of the police? Ty stomps off, leaving an awkward silence in his wake.

  “Those are cute earrings,” I tell Jill, just to say something.

  Normally she wears ten or twelve silver studs and hoops in each ear, but today she’s sporting bulbous orange and green clip-ons that look like rhinestone encrusted gum drops. Jill brightens.

  “Aren’t they amazing? They remind me of something Bette Davis wore in Now, Voyager.”

  “Before my time.” There’s no doubt the earrings Jill’s wearing now are costume jewelry, but their campy, retro style reminds me of the jewelry in Mrs. Szabo’s trunk. “Where’d you get those?” I ask lightly.

  “I dunno.” Jill fingers the earrings. “The flea market, maybe…No wait, I remember. It was a sidewalk vendor in the city. Oh my God, Audrey, you should have seen this guy--he had so much sick stuff!” Jill’s hands are waving and she’s bouncing in her seat like the old people at Manor View doing their chair aerobics. “There was this awesome snake bracelet with rubies for eyes and these metal fringe-y things on the tail end that rattled. I wanted it so bad but he was asking fifty bucks and he wouldn’t come down.” Jill sighs. “I wish I wasn’t always so broke.”

  “Sorry I can’t pay you better.” I say it with a smile but there’s an unsettling thought in the back of my mind. What if Jill feels she deserves a little bonus? What if that trunk full of jewelry has been tempting her? I’m casting about for a way to ask if she’s ever looked through it, when she turns her big, super-mascara-ed eyes on me.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean it that way, Audge.” Her face is as sweet and yearning as the faces in those adopt-a South-American-orphan photos you get at Christmastime. “This is the best job I ever had.” Then her gaze shifts from my face to my hands. “Say, that’s a cool new ring you’ve got on, too. Where’d you get yours?”

  Stole it back from someone who stole it from who….my mom or my dad?

  “It’s old.” I shove my hands in my sweatshirt pockets. “I had misplaced it and then I found it again.”

  Jill spins around on her desk chair and goes back to her typing. “I love when that happens, don’t you? It’s like getting something brand new without spending any money.”

  Chapter 23

  Six-thirty on Tuesday has rolled around a lot faster than I would have thought possible. I’m in my bedroom confronting the reality that it’s too late to go shopping for a whole new wardrobe before Cal arrives. Somehow I have to find something to wear right here in my closet. Why don’t I own anything else that makes me look as amazing as the dress I wore to Spencer’s party? I’ve gotten as far as putting on my best bra and panties. Hey, good undergarments are the secret to well-fitting clothes, right? Except that doesn’t explain why I’ve also shaved my legs right up to the bikini line.

  The black pants are my only option; the remaining variable is the cream silk blouse or the rose cashmere sweater. I reach for the blouse, and as I’m buttoning it notice a tiny splash of red wine on the cuff. Ethel leaps off my bed and charges to the foyer, barking like a maniac.

  Shit! So it’s got to be the cashmere sweater. I liked this a lot when I bought it—classy yet bold. Now, with Cal coming up the walk, it seems prim yet loud.

  I pull the sweater on with no time to study my reflection before the doorbell chimes. Better not to know, I figure as I go to let Cal in.

  I open the door and Cal takes a step forward, but Ethel, in her frenzy to greet our guest, lunges forward and slams the door in Cal’s face. Restraining Ethel with one hand and yanking the doorknob with the other, I manage to create a footwide opening, and Cal sidles in. Ethel breaks free and runs frenetic circles around the foyer. Her paw snags the lamp cord, sending the light pitching into Cal, who catches it neatly. Ethel sits down, throws back her head, and howls.

  “Ethel stop! This isn’t an audition for Call of the Wild.”

  My hair is disheveled, my sweater twisted. A clump of Ethel’s white fur sticks to my pants and a clump of her brown fur drifts through the air and lands on Cal’s crisp white shirt. Gingerly, I pluck it off. “Sorry for all the commotion.”

  Cal sets the lamp back on the table, puts his hands on my shoulders, and turns me to face him. “I get a kick out of you, Audrey. You’re so…unaffected. That’s refreshing.”

  Unaffected? I feel the way I used to when I won the coach’s “best team spirit” award every year at the field hockey banquet. “Yeah, I pull this social grace off with no forethought whatsoever.”

  Cal pulls me closer, tips my chin up, and kisses me. It takes a while. The room tilts as if I’ve been chugging vodka and Sunny D at a frat party.

  “We better go,” Cal whispers in my ear, “or I won’t feel like eating at all.”

  At Hennessy’s Cal is greeted like rock star. The maître d’ calls him by name, the bartender waves, the chef pokes his head out of the kitchen and recommends the best specials. They’ve probably seen Cal come through here with scores of different women. I sense they’re sizing me up. Where did he find this one? Not his usual type.

  When he’s here with his political cronies they probably sit in the more boisterous Grill Room, but tonight we’re shown to a cozy booth in the back of the formal dining room. This must be his “date” table. As I sink into the plush banquette, the flickering candles and muted hunting prints suck every possible conversational gambit out of my brain. Staring across the table at Cal, mute as my poor stroked-out father, I long for a carry-out tin of Thai basil chicken and the weight of Ethel’s head on my knee.

  If Cal senses my frantic desire to cut and run, he doesn’t let it show. His moving lips and smiling eyes indicate he’s talking to me, but I’m too gripped with anxiety to understand what he’s saying. All I can think about is that we’re on a date, a real date, a date that’s going to end…and then what? Freshly shaven legs notwithstanding, I’m not ready for this.

  “So did you?” Cal’s apparently repeating a question that I totally missed.

  I lean forward. “I’m sorry—did I what?”

  “Grow up in Palmyrton.”

  “Yes, my dad and I lived on Skytop Drive. Then I went away to UVA for college, but I came back.”

  “To take over the family business?”

  I choke back a snort. “My father was a math professor at Rutgers. Believe me, he wanted me to go into his line of work, but instead, as he puts it, I ‘set up garage sales of other people’s crap’.”

  Cal lightly strokes the inside of my wrist. “You own your own successful business. He’s not proud of you for that?”

  This is not what I want to be talking about, but I’m powerless to steer the conversation elsewhere. I shake my head. “He thinks I’m squandering my abilities. I had a summer job in college working for an estate sale firm. I liked it, but I saw how my boss sold things for less than they were worth because he couldn’t be bothered to learn about art and antiques and collectibles. So I started selling things for people…this was pre- eBay…and the rest is, well, history.” I shrug. “It’s a weird business, but I like it. I like poking around in other people’s lives. Nosy, I guess.”

  Before Cal can ask me another question, I shift the spotlight to him. “What about you? You couldn’t have gone to Palmyrton High or I would remember you.”

  “I grew up in Summit, in the smallest house of the nicest neighborhood. My family was all about keeping up with the Joneses.” He smiles, but he doesn’t look particularly amused. “Running was the perfect sport for me. I was always eating the dust of someone who was just a little bit taller, stronger, fa
ster. Until I finally worked out my own strategy for getting to the head of the pack.”

  “Which is?”

  “Focus on the three feet of road ahead of you, and the finish line will take care of itself.”

  He says this with great conviction. Maybe that pragmatic philosophy is what accounts for his supreme self-confidence. It wouldn’t hurt me to borrow a page from Cal’s playbook.

  “Me, I’m always looking ahead, seeing all the possible twists and turns and pitfalls that lie down the road. Guess that’s what comes of being captain of the chess team, not the track team.”

  Cal chokes on his drink. “You were captain of the chess team?”

  “Until senior year, when it finally dawned on me how uber-geeky it was. Boy, was my dad pissed when I quit.”

  “He taught you to play?”

  “Yeah, that was his great gift to me. Chess, and an ability to multiply large numbers in my head. Forms quite an emotional bond.”

  “You know what my mother gave to me?” Cal rips a dinner roll in half. “Impeccable table manners and good fashion sense. And my father taught me how to slip a maître d’ a twenty to get a good table without a reservation. Quite a legacy, huh?”

  I recognize the disappointment in his voice. I’ve heard it often enough in my own. Guess Cal and I share some common ground after all. “I take it you’re not close to your parents?”

  “They divorced when I was a sophomore. Got bored and decided they could each do better. They could’ve waited ‘til my sister and I were in college, but they weren’t ones for delaying gratification. Still aren’t.”

  Cal’s hand rests on the table—no doubt his mother wouldn’t approve. I’m tempted to touch it, but I’m not quite bold enough. “Still, you turned out okay.”