Hidden Treasure

by Jane K. Cleland

  He poured apple cider vinegar and olive oil into a cruet, added stoneground mustard, salt, and pepper, and shook. He poured a little on the salad and tossed it using the olive-wood salad spoon and fork set I’d given him last Christmas.

  “I want some sliced tomatoes, too.”

  “If you get them, I’ll slice them.”

  I plucked two red beauties from the vine.

  He took the meatball pizza from the oven and transferred it to a platter.

  “That looks incredible,” I said. “Luscious.”

  “I open a mean box of takeout pizza.”

  “You keep it warm perfectly.”

  “Thanks. Setting the oven to two-fifty is a real skill.”

  “You mock me.”

  “Also true.” He smiled, and my heart skipped a beat. “Let’s eat outside, while you tell me something good.”

  I carried out a bottle of white Bordeaux in a cooler and two glasses. We sat across from one another at the picnic table, and I poured for us both. The air was thick and moist with the promise of rain. The orange lanterns encircled us with warmth.

  I shared some good-news updates: that Fred thought every element on the chandelier was original, that he was hot on the trail of its provenance, that Timothy had zipped up to take me to lunch, and that he and the crew were coming at the end of the month to film some location shots.

  “Can I ask your opinion about something that’s in the not-such-good-news category?” I asked.

  “You don’t even need to ask.”

  “It’s Zoë.” I described Zoë’s reaction to Emma’s decision to join the marines. “Did you know that Ellis had been a marine before he joined the police?”

  “No.”

  “So what should I do?”

  “Be there for Zoë. Congratulate Emma. Thank Ellis for his service.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “I was thinking we could host a going-away party for Emma. A big one.”

  “Okay, that, too. Now let me ask you something. What do you think of a sectional couch for the living room?”

  I laughed. We traded ideas on furniture styles and arrangements. Just before eleven, we gathered up the dishes and headed inside. We reached no decisions about furniture, but none needed to be made. It was enough, more than enough, to escape from the frightening chaos of the unknown into the safe harbor of Ty’s love.

  * * *

  After a mostly sleepless night worrying about Maudie, a woman I’d only met twice in my life, I rolled out of bed. It was eight minutes after six. Ty was still asleep. I made a pot of coffee and sat down with my iPad to check the morning edition of the Seacoast Star.

  I braced myself for more of Wes’s venom and was pleasantly surprised to see that he didn’t repeat his unfounded speculation in print. In fact, he’d done yeoman’s work overnight, talking to a dozen people and reviewing a score of records, reports, and other documents. He reported that the police hadn’t found anyone who’d seen Maudie after she and Julie got back from lunch.

  One of the photos accompanying Wes’s article showed Celia as she arrived at Belle Vista. I wondered if he’d sweet-talked it from someone at the facility or bartered for it with a police official. Wes had tentacles everywhere, and nothing he managed to learn or acquire surprised me. I stared at the image, the last known photograph of a woman on the brink. Her eyes were mere slits. The corners of her mouth turned down. One of the muscles running along her neck was bulging. A recent professional headshot of Maudie was positioned beside it and offered a telling contrast. In that photo, Maudie was half-smiling, polished and confident. The photo credit read “Rocky Point Women’s Club.” In his mini-bio, Wes stated that Maudie was on the organization’s board. Wes had selected two photos from the array I sent him, one of the jewel-decked chest, another of the cat statue. They were in a sidebar. The text asked anyone who had any information about these potentially priceless objects to contact me.

  Another sidebar, bearing the byline of an intern named Cary Finley, stated that the murder weapon was definitely the rolling pin. The killer hadn’t tried to hide the weapon, just their identity. It had been scrubbed with a Clorox wipe, probably taken from a container Maudie kept under the sink, so it was unlikely any forensic evidence remained that might indicate who had wielded it. The Clorox wipe container had been wiped, too, removing fingerprints and touch DNA. The murderer had evidently washed up in the kitchen sink, then splashed some bleach around. Blood residue was found in the drain, but it was so degraded by the bleach as to be useless in the investigation. No bleach was found in the apartment.

  I walked to the window, thinking. Wisps of fog veiled the meadow, muting the colors of the wildflowers and softening the shapes of the trees that grew along the perimeter of the property. It was as if I were viewing an impressionist painting from afar.

  I refilled my coffee cup, then sat back down to finish the article. It ended with Wes’s hallmark provocative flair: Doug, Celia’s recently laid-off husband, was still, as of 5 A.M. when Wes posted the article, at the police station. According to the sign-in sheet at Belle Vista, though, Doug hadn’t been there. Unless someone let him in by a side door or he entered Maudie’s unit through the window. Wes added that staff, residents, and visitors were all being questioned.

  * * *

  Someone knocked on the door, and when I turned to see who was there, Zoë smiled.

  She stepped inside. “You’re up early.”

  “You, too. Have some coffee.”

  “Sorry for losing it before,” she said as she poured herself a cup. “There’s no excuse for stupid.”

  “I didn’t think you were stupid. I thought you were terrified.”

  “I was. I am. But it’s not my life.”

  “You don’t get a vote, but surely it’s okay to venture an opinion. You’re the mom.”

  She slid into a chair opposite me. “And having so ventured, I now get to shut up.”

  “Among the hardest things in the world for either of us to do.”

  “You got that right. Are you okay? I read in the paper that you were at Belle Vista.”

  “I’m fine. Or I will be.”

  “I wonder if I will be.” Her eyes filled. “I think I’m coping better, then I fall apart again.”

  “It will get easier.” I reached across the table and squeezed her hand, wondering again what Emma had wanted to tell me, and why it had to be a secret. “I promise.”

  She began to cry, tears running down her cheeks. “Oh, Josie, what am I going to do?”

  “Tell her you love her and you’ll always be there for her, no matter what.”

  “And then what?”

  “Tell her again.”

  After a few more seconds, Zoë stopped crying. She sat quietly for a while, drinking coffee. When she left, she hugged me, a big wraparound hug, the kind you see in the movies, fueled by devotion and a deep, unspoken need.

  * * *

  On Saturdays, tag sale day, everyone worked, me included. First, though, I wanted to look at Maudie’s windows from the outside.

  I reached Belle Vista at seven thirty and parked in the back, by the employee lot Lainy had told me was on Victory Boulevard. Dedicated to Rocky Point’s military heroes, the street featured a wide median, which was maintained by the Rocky Point Military Family Association. This summer, they’d planted pink and white petunias arranged in star shapes, with a three-foot-high American flag in the center of each star.

  I crossed the parking lot toward the facility and walked through the gate onto the path that led to the side door near Maudie’s unit. I passed the bench where I’d sat to call the antiques appraisers, then followed the walkway, hoping to find inspiration about whether Celia’s killer had escaped through the window—or entered that way. I left the path and trod on packed dirt toward the building, keeping myself hidden behind the laurel hedge. When I was even with Maudie’s windows, I separated twigs so I could peek.

  A uniformed po
lice officer I didn’t recognize was stationed near her unit.

  I peered into the flower beds below her windows, both now closed, seeking out stomped-down areas. The dirt near the window looked slightly lower than the rest of the garden, but that might be due to a gardener traipsing around, a drainage gully, or simply my imagination.

  I was able to confirm my initial speculation, though. It would have been astonishingly easy to slip in or out via the window, even while carrying the presentation box and cat, especially if you’d secreted them in a bag or larger box. The grassy areas, manicured thickets, and gently curving walkways were all screened from view by artfully arranged bushes and hedges. Anyone fleeing via Maudie’s window could make their way to the road or parking lot without hindrance and with a good chance of escaping notice even from the residents Maudie had described as busybodies. I surveyed her neighbors’ windows. Even though lights were on in both units, I didn’t see a soul. That the killer could manage to maneuver an unwilling or unconscious woman out the window and drag or carry her through the garden to the parking lot seemed less plausible.

  I walked back to my car. I hadn’t found inspiration, but neither had I seen anything that contradicted my theory that sneaking in and out of Maudie’s apartment was doable, and that was something.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Emma arrived at ten, as expected, and greeted everyone with friendly hellos. She’d been in and out of Prescott’s since I first moved to New Hampshire, when she was three.

  Emma inherited her height and lissome frame from Zoë and her ivory skin, blond hair, and cornflower-blue eyes from her dad. She wore tan cargo shorts with a sleeveless white collared blouse and Skechers. Muscles rippled along the insides of her thighs and arms. She was a beautiful young woman, inside and out.

  We crossed the warehouse and mounted the steps to my private office. She sat on the love seat. I sat across from her on one of the wing chairs.

  She leveled her eyes at me. “Mom’s upset.”

  “Understandable.”

  “Not to me. I expected her to be happy for me. All my life she told me I was smart and capable, that I could do anything I set my mind to.” She lowered her eyes for a moment. “It was all a big fat lie. She meant that I could do anything I set my mind to, but only if she approved.”

  “In other words, you don’t merely want to enlist—you want her approval.”

  “Is that too much to ask?”

  “Evidently, yes. Don’t tell me you’re surprised your mom is scared.”

  “This is way more than scared. She’s falling apart! I thought she’d express concern, I’d reassure her, and that would be that.”

  “Surprise!” I called, smiling, raising my arms, and wiggling my fingers, as if Emma were the birthday girl at a surprise party.

  “Very funny,” she said. “What should I do?”

  “Tell her you love her.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Hug her.”

  “What’s that going to do?”

  “Are you going to change your mind?”

  “No.”

  “Then don’t argue the point. Empathize. Tell her you love her. Hug her.”

  She nodded slowly, thinking it through. “That’s good advice. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She lowered her eyes again and rubbed her thighs. Something was churning inside her, something she didn’t want to address. “There’s more.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t know how to tell you.”

  “You’re pregnant.”

  “What? No!”

  “You’ve committed some kind of crime and need me to help you get it quashed before you leave for basic.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s not about me. It’s about Mom.” She clamped her teeth onto her bottom lip for a moment. “I was looking for my birth certificate. There was an envelope labeled ‘important docs’ in her desk drawer. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “You opened it.”

  “It was already open. I went through the papers, yes. Did you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “If she told anyone, she would have told you. Did she?”

  I no longer felt like joking around. “What are we talking about, Emma?”

  “She doesn’t know I know.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t want anyone to know.”

  “That’s what I think.”

  My innate curiosity bubbled to the surface, but I managed to call on my better self and tamped it down. “If it’s about something she did a long time ago, or a family secret, or a secret she’s keeping for someone else, you should pretend you didn’t see it. It’s not your information to share.”

  “It’s none of those things.”

  “You’re saying there’s a problem.”

  “I don’t know.”

  I sensed an unseen chasm opening in front of me. If Zoë was in trouble and hadn’t said a word to me, I would feel both dismayed and hurt, but I couldn’t share either of those emotions with her daughter. Instead, I said, “So respect that—she doesn’t want you to know.”

  “I thought maybe she told Ellis.”

  “Maybe she did.”

  “No. I asked him like I’m asking you, just now. At first he tried to guilt me into telling him, then, when I refused, he peppered me with questions. I didn’t know what to do. Finally, he asked if Zoë was sick or dying, and when I said no, he brushed me off. He told me to come back when I had something to say, that he was too busy to watch me dance around a topic.”

  I didn’t comment. I didn’t know what to say. I worked on maintaining a neutral expression and hoped Emma couldn’t tell how hard and fast my heart was beating.

  “It was a printout of an email from—”

  “Stop!” I interrupted, deciding in a flash I had to stop Emma from revealing Zoë’s secret. All of me wanted to know, but I couldn’t let her tell me. “If Zoë doesn’t want me to know, I don’t want you spilling the beans.”

  “You’re right. Of course you’re right.” She stood and smiled. “Sorry.”

  I walked her out. We didn’t speak again until we reached her car.

  “I love you, Josie.”

  “I love you, too, Emma.”

  Apparently, Zoë was struggling, but until she approached me for help, there was nothing I could do.

  * * *

  I spent the rest of the morning working Prescott’s Instant Appraisal booth at the tag sale, which helped take my mind off my worries.

  As a little perk to my staff for working Saturdays, I always provide pizza. I chose a slice of mushroom, a nice change from last night’s meatball, and went to my office.

  Timothy’s assistant producer, Starr, the recently promoted pink-haired queen of makeup, called to finalize our plans for later in the month. They’d selected two beach locations, one by the jetty and the other a series of high dunes. Sasha and Fred came up together to share their ideas for the themed high-end antiques auction we’d slated for next spring, tentatively titled “Pining for Pineapples,” highlighting antiques that featured a pineapple motif, long a symbol of affluence. I approved the title and their plans. I answered a few emails, then tried to read an accounting report, but my mind kept wandering from our impressive numbers to Emma and Zoë, each wanting something from the other person she didn’t want to give, and from Celia, burdened by debt she couldn’t manage, to Maudie, a woman whose whereabouts were still unknown.

  I knew investigations took time, but I felt fidgety and unsettled.

  I gave up on the accounting report and returned to the tag sale venue. I took a turn working the floor, guiding customers to objects they might find interesting, answering questions, ringing up sales.

  Retired Lieutenant Commander Cynthia Silberblatt, a tall blonde with a big smile, came in and headed right for me.

  “I got Cara’s call,” she said. “The light-switch plates sound like just my cup of tea.”

  I waved Eric over. “You know Lieutenant C
ommander Silberblatt, don’t you, Eric?”

  “I’ve seen you here, but we’ve never met.” He shuffled back a step, as self-effacing as ever. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” Cynthia said, smiling broadly. “I’ve seen you here, too. Nice to meet you!”

  I touched his elbow. “Eric, Cara asked you to set aside some art deco wall-switch plates. Would you get them?”

  Eric hurried away.

  I turned to Cynthia. “May I ask a favor?”

  “Name it.”

  “I have a friend whose eighteen-year-old daughter just enlisted in the marines. My friend is terrified, and I don’t know what to say to comfort her.”

  “Does the daughter know what she’s in for in terms of the physical requirements and training standards?”

  “Yes, and she’s up for it. I suspect she’ll sail through at the top of her class.”

  “Then you can tell your friend that whatever situations her daughter might face, she’ll be able to handle them, and handle them well. The marines train for all eventualities, including lots of things that will never come to pass. She’ll be ready.”

  I repeated Cynthia’s words to myself, memorizing them. “Thank you. That’s just the information I needed.”

  Eric returned with the tissue-paper-wrapped plates. He unwrapped one piece, and Cynthia exclaimed, “Oh, they’re even more beautiful than I expected! I’ll take it! I’ll take them all.”

  She thanked us again and again for the call, and Eric, unable to withstand her enthusiasm, smiled warmly. As I waved good-bye, I repeated her words to myself: Emma will be ready.

  By midafternoon, just as I was about to leave, to walk through the woods or along the beach to try to clear my mind, Wes called.

  “Whatcha got?” he asked.

  “I’m not talking to you. You’re a provocateur.”

  “Oh, puhleeze … all I did was repeat what you said.”

  “I understand there’s an intern at the paper, Cary Finley. I bet she’s going to be a terrific reporter once she gets some experience … I think I’ll give her a chance to prove her reporting chops with an exclusive.”