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

by S. W. Hubbard

  It’s Anne. I run my fingers through my hair and lick my parched lips. Maybe, just maybe, I can smile without my face cracking in half.

  The door swings open.

  “Audrey, dear!” Anne flings wide her arms and herds me into the house. “That dreadful Cal called and told me he’d be late. I said, ‘I’m already having a glass of wine and it doesn’t look good for a woman my age to drink alone, so you send Audrey over to keep me company.’ I’m so glad you listened.”

  Frankly, it never dawned on me not to listen. My self-will seems to evaporate in the presence of Cal, Anne and Spencer.

  “We have to stay back here in the kitchen,” Anne says, taking my coat and tossing it heedlessly onto a Hepplewhite settee in the corner of the huge foyer. “I’m making risotto and I have to keep an eye on it. You know how temperamental risotto can be.”

  “Actually, I have no clue,” I say. “I’m more of a Minute Rice kind of girl.”

  Anne throws her head back and laughs. It’s a nice reassuring sound, the kind of laugh that makes you feel like you’re the most entertaining person on the planet. I watch as she bends over to check something in the oven.

  “I couldn’t boil water when I married Spencer. We always had a cook when I was growing up. Can you imagine!” Anne rolls her eyes. “Those days are gone forever. Anyway, I soon discovered my husband expected a hot meal on the table every night.”

  Bustling around her gleaming granite and stainless steel fiefdom as she talks, Anne stirs a pot bubbling on the stove, pours me a glass of wine, and causes some marvelous looking cheese puff thingies to materialize. Despite the high-end design, the kitchen would never make it into a decorating magazine. Piles of mail teeter on one end of the counter. A slightly cock-eyed bulletin board bristles with invitations and appointment cards; snapshots of Anne and Spencer and various combinations of children and grandchildren peep through the tangle. Post-it note reminders screaming “Leila B-day card!” and “artichoke hearts!” are stuck to the microwave and coffee pot. The combination of the wine and the clutter works on me. I begin to relax.

  “So Spencer expected you to learn to cook?” I ask. It’s hard for me to imagine Anne as a compliant, eager-to-please bride. Wouldn’t she and Spencer have been married around the same time as my parents? And Roger and Charlotte were apparently the model of equality.

  “Spencer and I met through his sister. She and I were both Alpha Chi Omega at Bucknell,” Anne says. “A very smart family, the Finnerans. All three children won full academic scholarships.”

  On the face of it, her words conveyed pride, but something clicks for me. The money was all on Anne’s side of the family. Spencer Finneran was a poor boy who made good.

  “I learned to cook for myself as much as him. With Spencer in law school, we were poor as church mice. We couldn’t afford to eat out. And I’ve never been one to subsist on celery and seltzer water,” she says, patting herself on her ample hips.

  I grin and pop another cheese puff in my mouth. It’s so refreshing to be around a woman—thin or fat—who’s not talking about dieting. And, one who’s not concerned with fashion. Anne’s droopy khaki slacks and navy cardigan make me look positively glamorous. I’m starting to have fun.

  “Your mother never taught you to cook?” Anne asks.

  “My mother died when I was just three.”

  Anne’s hands stop their deft chopping and she looks deeply into my eyes. “Oh my dear, how tactless of me. Cal did mention that. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay. My grandmother was a good cook, but a fussy housekeeper. She never really liked having me in the kitchen. Too afraid I’d make a mess.”

  “Well, as you can see, neatness has never been a concern of mine.” Anne waves her right hand, which happens to hold a large chef’s knife. A slice of avocado sails across the kitchen. The dog nails it. As Anne returns to chopping, the phone rings. She glances at the caller ID, looks apologetically at me. “My daughter, Ginny. She’s stuck at home with a sick baby. I’d better answer.”

  Trying not to eavesdrop, I cross the kitchen to study some Italian pottery displayed on a shelf. Still, I can hear Anne emphatically dispensing advice.

  “Good grief, Ginny, she’s been crying for three hours. Just give her a little Benadryl. You both need to get some sleep.” There’s a silence, then Anne continues. “It’s Benadryl, honey, not arsenic. I used to give it to you all the time, and you ended up magna cum laude at Yale.” Another silence, then a final snap, “Well, if you don’t want to listen to me, I don’t know why you called.” The receiver hits the cradle sharply.

  Flustered by having overheard this less than idyllic mother/daughter exchange, I keep my back turned even after the steady thwack of Anne’s chef’s knife resumes.

  “Come back, Audrey,” she calls. “I promise I won’t yell at you too.”

  I return to the stool at the island where I had been perched.

  “Grandchildren,” Anne sighs, “a constant source of joy and conflict. Speaking of which, I understand my grandson Dylan paid a visit to your last estate sale.” She brushes her gray bangs off her forehead with the back of her hand. A “V” of worry is etched between her brows. “Thank you for your patience.”

  “Oh, no big deal,” I say, focusing my attention on folding my cocktail napkin into a fan. Patience? Has Anne talked to Dylan about what happened at the Reicker sale? If so, apparently Dylan left out the part about Ty bringing him down in a full body tackle.

  Anne pauses in her meal preparations. Suddenly her face shows every one of her sixty-five years. “Dylan’s been going through a tough stretch. My son’s marriage has been a little rocky.”

  So, that much of what Dylan told me was true. I wonder about the rest of his accusation—‘my grandpa’s always got some piece of ass on the side.’ Can that be accurate, or was Dylan making another play for attention, as Cal insists? I’m dying to know, but I can’t very well ask.

  Before I can say anything, Anne continues with a sigh. “Dylan takes everything so personally. He seems to think everyone else’s family is perfect. That the Finnerans are the only people with any problems.”

  Hmmm—I can relate to that. Except the Finneran’s brand of family dysfunction—big, messy, exuberant—seems a lot more appealing than the cold, constipated secret-keeping of mine. “He doesn’t seem to be looking forward to being the grandson of the next governor of New Jersey,” I say.

  Anne rolls her eyes. “He makes that clear to everyone, usually within the first minute of meeting them. Dylan thinks his grandfather conceived this run for office as a personal vendetta against him.”

  I laugh. “That’s exactly the impression he gives. You really seem to understand him.”

  Anne decapitates some broccoli florets with one sure blow. “It’s taken me years to learn to cope with being caught in the spotlight of Spencer’s career. Dylan’s not used to the glare.” Then she grins at me and grabs the wine bottle. “Tuesday. We all just need to make it through Tuesday.”

  For some unaccountable reason I feel a lump forming in my throat. I want to know how to chop like that. I want my picture up on the kitchen bulletin board. I want “Audrey—lunch!” scrawled on Post-it note. I even want to be scolded when I’m ornery. I want to belong here. Here in the middle of this big topsy-turvy family so different from my own.

  Then my brain makes a leap. I visualize the picture of the young Spencer and Anne hanging on Reid VanHouten’s office wall. “Did you know my mother?” I ask.

  Anne’s knife pauses over some scallions. “I don’t think I know any Nealons. Why do you ask?”

  “Perry. Charlotte Perry—she kept her maiden name. She worked for the Van Houten Group. I was in Reid Van Houten’s office the other day. I saw a photo of you and Spencer on his wall.”

  The knife resumes its rapid-fire assault on the vegetables. “Must’ve been some fundraising event. Our paths cross all the time.”

  “No, this was an old photo. Mr. Van Houten said it was taken duri
ng Spencer’s first political campaign. I understand the Van Houten Group handled the PR.”

  “Did they?” Anne’s back is to me as she fills a pot with water. “I suppose it’s possible—until Spencer got Cal to manage all that for him, there always seemed to be a revolving door of PR firms, hired guns and freelancers pulling Spencer in every direction.

  “Mr. Van Houten said my mother might have worked on one of Spencer’s campaigns.”

  “Did she?” Anne smiles and sweeps the broccoli into a steamer. “What a small world! You’ll have to ask Spencer. I was pregnant and coping with two toddlers at the time—I didn’t have much interaction with Spencer’s staff.”

  Suddenly the dog, who’s been sprawled in front of the kitchen island waiting for another random scrap of food to fly off Anne’s chopping block, stands up and trots to the back door.

  “Ah, that must be Spencer and Cal now. About time.”

  Chapter 35

  A cool breeze dissipates some of the kitchen’s heat as Spencer and Cal come through the back door.

  “If the polls in South Jersey can be trusted—.” Cal, his face etched with urgency, is fully focused on Spencer. But Spencer has shrugged off his overcoat and Cal with the same gesture, and he’s heading across the kitchen with his arms outstretched.

  “Hello, darling! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!”

  Anne drops her risotto-stirring spoon and offers herself up to her husband’s embrace. For a moment, they stand entwined, swaying, oblivious to their surroundings. Then the oven timer beeps and Anne breaks away, but not before brushing Spencer’s cheek with her fingertips. The gesture is so intimate I look away, flustered.

  Cal has slipped up behind me and places his hands on my shoulders. “Hey beautiful—how are you?”

  I smile up at him, wondering if he can feel my accelerated heartbeat. As always, when I haven’t seen him for a few days, I’m as giddy as a schoolgirl. I should tell him about the break-in, but I don’t want to do it here and draw unwanted attention to myself. Finally, I get my brain and mouth working in synch. “Fine. I’m sitting here watching Anne cook, being no help whatsoever.”

  “Ah, that’s the story of all of our lives, Audrey,” Spencer says from across the room. “Anne has never needed any help with anything.”

  Anne snorts, but the little smile on her face shows that Spencer’s remark is quite true. In a few easy moves she’s placed cocktails and a plate of hors d’oeuvres in front of her husband and Cal. “There you go, boys. I suppose you haven’t eaten a thing all day?”

  “Not so,” Cal says. “I distinctly remember some sort of chicken and pasta product at a rally in Edison this afternoon.”

  “And half a knish at a retirement community in Fort Lee,” Spencer adds.

  “And a bag of Doritos in the car,” Cal confesses.

  Anne shudders. “Cal, can’t you plan a campaign event for organic farmers, or nouvelle cuisine restaurateurs?”

  “He’s already sewn up the liberal vote, Anne. Unfortunately, swing voters eat foot-long hot dogs and calzones.”

  “Once I’m governor, I promise I’ll eat nothing but yogurt and salad,” Spencer says, winking at me over Anne’s head.

  I must say, for two people surviving on rubber chicken and junk food, both Cal and Spencer are in great shape. Spencer is lean and paunch-free, still a very attractive man. I wonder how Anne feels about that. Is she intimidated by her husband’s good looks? Concerned by her own dowdiness? Does she ever wonder, as I wonder about Cal, what her man sees in her? But I detect no lack of confidence in Anne. She’s the queen of all she surveys, and the connection between her and Spencer is visceral, vital.

  I think about Dylan’s accusation. Does Spencer fool around with other women? Is Anne another in a long line of clueless, used and abused politician’s wives? No, surely Anne is too sharp for that. Still, you don’t have to be dumb to be a dupe, as so many smart, cheated upon women have proved.

  While I’ve been daydreaming, the conversation has moved on. I tune back in to find both Cal and Spencer listening raptly to Anne.

  “…and Jerry Berlinski knows that,” she’s saying, as she ladles risotto into a serving bowl. “He’s got his own agenda, which is why I think you’ll regret striking a deal with him.” She raps the spoon sharply on the edge of the pot, dislodging the last grains of rice.

  There’s a moment of silence.

  Cal breaks it. “Anne’s right. Too risky.”

  Spencer looks back and forth between his wife and his aide. Then he throws his hands up in defeat. “Okay, wiser heads prevail. I’m just the front man of this operation.” Spencer picks up a platter of grilled salmon and moves toward the dining room. “Come on, Audrey. Let Cal and Anne talk politics. You and I will talk collectibles. Did you know I have a 1963 Yogi Berra rookie card?”

  In the soft glow of candlelight and Anne’s twinkling crystal chandelier, the dinner unwinds. True to his word, Spencer has declined to talk shop. He quizzes me on my work, and proves to be surprisingly knowledgeable on the subject of American antiques, 20th century art, and sports memorabilia. Most of all, he listens. Spencer has the knack of making the person he’s talking to feel like she’s the only one in the room. Handy trait for a politician. On some level, I know I’m not really as special as he makes me feel. Still, the experience is very pleasant. As I talk, my wine glass refills magically.

  The conversation ranges from antique furniture to baseball memorabilia to contemporary painting. For once, it’s Cal who’s a bit out of his depth. From the corner of my eye I see him sprawled back in his chair with a pleased half-smile on his face as he watches me banter with his mentor. Once, I catch him exchanging a glance with Anne, and she nods approvingly.

  “David Salle has gotten hot in the past few years,” I tell Spencer while we’re on the topic of underappreciated contemporary artists. “I used to find paintings of his that people were ready to toss out on the curb. Not anymore. In fact, you know who has one hanging on his wall? Reid Van Houten.”

  Anne pushes away from the table. “Let me bring in the dessert. Spencer, can you help me?”

  “I’ll help,” Cal says.

  My mind, dulled from too much rich food and too many glasses of wine, lurches clumsily from our original topic to a new one that blossoms before me like an insanely prolific jungle plant.

  “Did you know my mother?” I ask Spencer. “Charlotte Perry. She worked for Reid Van Houten.”

  I’m drunk, but not too drunk to notice Spencer looking as if he’s opened the shower curtain to a big, hairy thousand-legger.

  Startled, I twist in my chair. My leg pulls on the tablecloth, which in turn knocks over my nearly empty wine glass. A deep red stain spreads across the pristine linen tablecloth.

  “Oh, God! I’m sorry!” I reach for my napkin to try to blot up the mess.

  Anne appears at my side and slides the napkin smoothly from my hand before I compound the problem. “I think Audrey’s tired, Cal. Perhaps it’s time for us all to call it a night.”

  “That’s not the first wine spilled on this tablecloth and it won’t be the last,” Spencer says. “I thought there was dessert? Bring it on, Anne.”

  The awkward moment dissolves. Did it even happen? Did I imagine Spencer’s reaction at the mention of my mother?

  “Now let’s see….Charlotte Perry,” Spencer says. “I think I do remember a young woman named Charlotte who worked for Reid. Very pretty, as I recall.” He grins at Cal. “But it’s so long ago. The late seventies are a blur to me now. Making partner…running for office…becoming a father. I think there were entire years that got lost. Right Anne?”

  Anne has reappeared bearing a magnificent chocolate cake. “You were lost,” she says wryly. “I was right here.”

  Spencer pulls her into a hug. “She’s a trouper. Always was, always will be.”

  Anne’s lips assume the smile position, but her eyes don’t look amused. In fact, I think she seems downright pained.

  Spe
ncer represents a link to my mother that I’m not ready to let go. I keep talking, even though it no longer seems he’s hanging on my every word, as he was earlier. “I asked whether you knew my mom because, well, I’ve been trying lately to figure her out.” Without waiting for encouragement, I plow on. “You see, my father was never willing to tell me much about her, and to my grandparents she was this saint, completely perfect. I wish I knew what she was really like, you know?”

  Spencer leans across the table and pats my hand. “Perfectly understandable, Audrey. Maybe I saw her in the halls at Reid’s office, but—” he shrugs. “I wish I’d known her well enough to share a memory with you.”

  Spencer pops a bite of cake in his mouth, chews, and turns to Anne. “This cake is fabulous, honey.”

  The cake is delicious, but too rich to finish. I leave half of it on my plate. Soon, Cal is helping Anne clear the dishes and we all head for the foyer.

  Spencer helps me on with my coat, then caresses my shoulder. “So glad you could make it tonight, Audrey. It’s a rare treat for me to talk about something other than politics. You bring out the best in us.”

  Cal takes me by the hand. “Indeed she does.”

  “You know,” Spencer says, putting his arm around Anne, “As I was leaving a meeting the other day I noticed a poster one of the secretaries had hung in her cubicle. It said, ‘Marry well. Your spouse accounts for 75% of your happiness.’” His arm tightens around Anne’s waist. “So true. Marry well.”

  Chapter 36

  Because I drove to the Finnerans’ and Cal came with Spencer, I’ve got to drive Cal home. He lives in a fancy new condo in downtown Palmyrton that I’m dying to see, but when we pull into the drive, Cal is full of apologies about a 5AM wake-up for a 6AM breakfast meeting. His goodbye kiss leaves me molten as a puddle of candle wax. Drunk and horny, I wend my way home, slither into my living room and collapse on the sofa. Did Cal really have an early morning meeting, or was he repulsed by my behavior at Spencer’s dinner table? Did I make a fool of myself, asking Spencer so many questions about my mother? Or maybe Cal was turned off by Anne’s heavy-handed matchmaking. God, I hate this!