Treasure in Exile

by S. W. Hubbard

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, help me move this table. Then I’ll give you all the best stuff and you arrange it on there.”

  The table is solid English pine, big enough to seat eight. Ty lifts his end and I move to help Donna with the other end. But with a slight grunt, she picks it up and they carry it ten feet to the far wall of the kitchen.

  Ty nods with satisfaction. “You pretty buff, girl. You been liftin’?”

  “I bench press two-fifty.”

  Donna has peeled off her long-sleeved Jets t-shirt. Her toned arms are nicely displayed in a sleeveless dri-fit.

  “How’d you get that bruise?” Ty asks.

  A large purple spot is fading to mottled yellow and green at the top of Donna’s arm. She glances down as if she’s forgotten it’s there. “Oh, that—I crashed into something in my garage. We need a better light in there.”

  My mind flashes briefly to the fingerprint bruises on Loretta’s spindly arms, and I shiver. Donna looks a lot stronger, like she’d put up a good fight if someone tried to toss her off a balcony.

  “I’m going to head upstairs. Send Donna up when she’s done with the display here, Ty.”

  On the second floor, I open Birdie’s walk-in closet and let out a low whistle. The clothes are all hung on velvet hangers facing the same direction. The blouses are grouped together by color, as are the slacks. Dresses and suits hang on the other side. It dawns on me that I don’t know where, or if, Birdie worked. She must have, before her memory started to slip—even a rich garden club patron wouldn’t need this many suits. And the shoes! All in their original boxes.

  “Wow, that’s one neat closet!” Donna offers her approval as she walks into the master bedroom.

  “Check the other bedrooms for clothes, jewelry and small decorations. I want to move everything that could be easily shop-lifted into this room, and just leave furniture in the others.”

  “Your customers steal stuff?” Donna rubs a smudge off the light switch plate. “I thought they were all rich.”

  “They’re definitely not all rich. But even if they were, I’d still have to worry about thieves. I once had a woman all decked out in Lily Pulitzer stash a $500 pair of Baccarat crystal candle sticks in her Louis Vuitton tote bag and head right for the door. When I confronted her, she was cool as a cucumber. Said she’d just put them in there to check if they would fit because she didn’t want to buy anything she couldn’t carry.”

  “Did she buy them?”

  “Nope. Looked me right in the eye, handed them back, and said they were a little too bulky.”

  “Geez, she probably could’ve afforded to buy them brand new at Tiffany.”

  “Exactly. For some people, it’s the thrill of doing something illegal. And some are just trying to game the system, no matter what the system is. Rich people do it and poor people do it, but rich people usually know how to steal the very best.”

  Donna cocks her head, reevaluating her first impression of me, maybe.

  “There are good people at every level too. I didn’t mean to sound so cynical.”

  She smiles. “It’s like my Uncle Vinny always says. You could be nice to people without being a chump, right?”

  “Exactly.” I need to work on following the Uncle Vinny credo.

  Donna and I move into the smallest bedroom. Birdie has it furnished as a home office, and George has assured me he’s taken all her personal papers and financial documents.

  Apart from the desk, the chair, and a lamp, the room contains only a metal filing cabinet in the closet. We pick it up easily, so it must be empty.

  “Check all the drawers,” I tell Donna. “Just in case George missed something.”

  She bangs the first three open and closed. “This bottom one is stuck.” Donna gets down on her knees. “I think something’s wedged between the drawers.”

  “See if you can get it out. No one will buy a broken filing cabinet.”

  While she works on it, I price the office gadgets.

  “Ooof!” Donna gives the drawer a hard jiggle, and it shoots open. She falls back on her butt, laughing.

  “Okay, I fixed it! Told you I was handy.”

  Inside the drawer, a slightly ripped file folder dangles open, spewing its papers. Donna and I scoop them up.

  “Hey, look at this diagram.”

  I take it from Donna. “Huh—it’s a family tree. George said his sister was an amateur genealogist. This must be her research.” I read aloud the label on the folder: “Armentrout Family, 1730-2017.”

  Chapter 16

  “YO, AUDGE—WE BREAKIN’ for lunch?”

  Donna’s eyes light up. “I’m starving!”

  We clatter down the stairs. I put the genealogy folder in my bag so I don’t lose it. I’ll call George about it later.

  I decide to stay behind and make some phone calls, and send the two of them off to rustle up lunch. The weather is perfect and Birdie’s garden is so beautiful, I decide to set myself up back there to work and await the arrival of food.

  With my feet up on a chaise lounge and the butterflies and hummingbirds flitting through the flowers, I feel my eyelids drooping as I send emails to clients about significant items in this sale that might interest them. Then the phone slips from my fingers into my lap, and I succumb to the warm sun and the gentle breeze.

  I’m not asleep. Not really. Just drifting...where shall Sean and I go on a winter vacation....how should we celebrate Maura’s birthday....what....

  Music. Piano music. How nice.....

  I jolt up.

  Piano music? Why is there piano music coming from inside Birdie’s house?

  I recognize the tune. “Moonlight Sonata.” There’s a slight break in the notes, then a re-do. Now I’m on my feet. That’s not the radio. Someone is in Birdie’s living room playing the baby grand. I sure as hell know it’s not Ty, and somehow I doubt Donna’s playing by ear extends to Beethoven.

  I get up and press my nose against the French doors that lead from the patio to the dining room. Beyond the dining room, I can just barely discern the outline of a tall man at the piano in the living room, his hands moving effortlessly up and down the keyboard, his head bobbing to the rhythm. Did we leave the front door unlocked? Or does this guy have a key to Birdie’s house?

  That’s a little creepy. Who walks into an empty house in the middle of the day and starts playing classical music? On the other hand, I reassure myself a professional thief wouldn’t announce himself with a sonata.

  I check my watch—Ty and Donna should be back any minute now. I should wait for back-up before I investigate, but curiosity pulls me toward the house. I reenter through the kitchen and make my way toward the foyer. As I pass the front door, I see that the deadbolt is in the locked position. He didn’t come in that way. If I stand by the doorway from the foyer into the living room, the pianist’s back will be toward me. I can see if I recognize him.

  He’s at a fortissimo part of the sonata, transported by the music. I could stomp and knock over a lamp, but I doubt he’d notice me.

  His head swivels and bobs subconsciously. He pounds a final dramatic note and lifts his head. I can see his face clearly reflected in the mirror on the other side of the piano.

  I’ve never met this man, but I’m quite sure who he is.

  Dark blond hair, fine, chiseled features, long thin arms and legs. The resemblance to Loretta Bostwick is striking.

  I applaud.

  He spins around. “That’s not the end.”

  “How gauche of me to applaud between movements. I was a little surprised to find a strange man at the keyboard.”

  “I know the owner.” He plays a few practice chords. “She and my mother were friends.”

  “I’m Audrey Nealon. I’m organizing the estate sale.” I approach with my hand outstretched. “And you are...?”

  “Crawford Bostwick.”

  I was right. This is Loretta’s problem-child son. “I knew your mother. I’m very sorry for your loss.”r />
  Now that I’m looking at him close-up, I notice one clear dissimilarity to his mother. Where Loretta was tightly strung and intense, Crawford is as languid as a summer day. Is that why George said Crawford was a disappointment to his father—because he’s a laid back musician instead of a hard-charging businessman?

  “Well, it’s certainly a surprise. The police have the crazy idea that someone killed her.” He shakes his head. “They don’t know my mother very well.”

  What? She wouldn’t allow herself to be tangled up in anything so tacky as murder? Before I can get him to elaborate on that, he turns his attention back to the piano. “This is a fine instrument. It could use a little tuning, but it’s got marvelous tone. What will happen to it?”

  “I have a few instrument dealers coming to look at it during the sale. Are you interested in buying it?”

  Crawford snorts. “My current abode would not accommodate a baby grand. I couldn’t get a cheesy electronic keyboard in there. Not that I’d want one.”

  So, he must not live with his parents. “What brings you here today?”

  “I needed a place to practice. I’m persona non grata at Heatherington.”

  “Heatherington?”

  “Ancestral home of the Bostwicks.” Crawford speaks with an ironic smirk, then turns to face the keyboard again. “Don’t let me distract you from whatever you’re doing.”

  Man, I wish I could learn to dismiss people like that! What a life skill. But I’m not so easily intimidated.

  “How did you get in here? Do you have George Armentrout’s permission to use this piano?”

  “Georgie? Oh, he won’t mind. He’s such a pussycat. Not like my old man.” He suddenly spins back around on the piano bench. “Say, do you think I could stay here? Then I could practice every day. The house isn’t sold yet, is it?”

  “You mean, live here?” I’m so stunned by the turn the conversation has taken that I let it pass that he hasn’t answered how he gained entry to the house. Is this guy homeless?

  Crawford gives a vague wave of his elegant hand. “Oh, you know—just camp out for a bit. Until all this nonsense blows over. It would beat couch-surfing.”

  What nonsense? Surely that’s not how he characterizes his mother’s death? But Crawford acts like I’m fully up-to-date on all his issues. If there’s one thing my work has taught me—the rich really are different. He turns his back on me and picks up the next movement of the sonata.

  I retreat to the kitchen to call George. This is above my pay grade. Way above.

  Just as I enter, Ty and Donna come in the back door bearing take-out.

  “Who’s playing the piano?” Donna asks.

  I give them an update. Ty’s eyes narrow, and he steps toward the foyer. “You want me to go throw him out?”

  I catch the hem of his t-shirt as he passes. “Let’s not be hasty. His mother was George’s friend, and Birdie’s too, I guess. In fact, George says they’re distantly related. I’ll call him to find out what to do.”

  When I call George and explain what’s going on, he’s immediately distraught. “Oh, dear! Oh, no—that won’t do. That won’t do at all.”

  “I can have my assistant escort Crawford out, if that’s what you want. I just wanted to check first.”

  I hear a sharp intake of breath. “Crawford might prove difficult. I owe it to Loretta to do what I can to help her son. Just ignore him until I get there.”

  So we sit down and eat our lunch listening to Crawford roll through some Chopin and Mozart, and await the arrival of George Armentrout.

  “He sure does play great,” Donna says. “Do you think he performs at Carnegie Hall and places like that?”

  “If he played on stage, he wouldn’t be lookin’ for a crib to crash in.” Ty collects our trash. His hand rests above Donna’s Styrofoam sandwich clamshell. “You gonna eat that pickle?”

  Donna looks at it longingly, but starts to rise. “Well...if lunch is over, I’ll get back to work.”

  “Sit down.” I slide her pickle back to her. “Ty eats too fast.”

  “You don’t eat fast at Rahway, some land shark takes your food.” The casual reference to his stint in Rahway State Prison slips out of Ty. I’m surprised. Has he already told Donna his story of running with a bad teenage crowd and driving the getaway car for an impromptu convenience store robbery? I know he likes her, but it’s not like him to open up to strangers so quickly.

  I lift up my big glass of ice tea and peek at Donna over the rim. Either the remark has sailed over her head, or she knows so much about Ty’s life in prison that she feels no need to ask a question.

  She catches my eye and grins. “Hey, guess what? We saw your husband on our way back here. He’s cute!”

  “You saw Sean in Melton? What did he say he was doing here?”

  “We didn’t talk to him,” Ty explains. “We just drove by and saw him standing in the driveway of some big-ass house. And then a dude came out and got in a black limo and they all drove away.”

  I wonder what he’s doing in Melton? Maybe the Loretta Bostwick investigation has spread outside of Palmyrton.

  As I ponder this, I realize the piano music has stopped. How long ago did that happen? Where is Crawford now?

  As if reading my mind, Crawford appears at the foot of the back staircase that leads from the second floor to the kitchen. What was he doing up there?

  “I remember that cookie jar,” Crawford smiles and makes a beeline for the flower-patterned Roseville in Donna’s display. “Birdie always had it filled with Lorna Doones. Never ate any other cookie.” He shakes his head. “I thought they tasted like dust.”

  What an odd young man. His mother’s been murdered and he’s reminiscing about cookies he didn’t care for?

  He looks from me to Donna to Ty and back to me again. “Where’s George?”

  Should I tell him that George is coming over to deal with him? Maybe not. George said to ignore Crawford. “George is at work.”

  “Oh, right. What day is today?” Crawford drifts around the kitchen, picking up gadgets and running his fingers over a stack of folded tablecloths.

  Ty shoots me a look. “Wednesday, man. All day long.”

  “I lose track of time in the summer.” Crawford plops into a chair.

  Surely he’s too old to still be in college. “You’re in school?”

  “I work at Bumford-Stanley.”

  He doesn’t look like he could hold the attention of a classroom full of overachieving prep school kids hell-bent on getting into Harvard. “What do you teach?”

  “Oh, I’m not a teacher. I coach the JV girls fencing team and play the piano for the chorale. But I’m off until September. I guess.”

  Before Ty can blurt out, “That’s a job for a grown-ass man?” I interject, “Well, we have a lot of work to do, so unless there’s something I can help you with....” I wish George would show up. I don’t know how close his office is. Would it be better if Crawford just wandered off the way he wandered in, or does George want to talk to him?

  “Right. I’ll be heading out.” He stands up. “First, I need the facilities.”

  “There’s a powder room off the foy—”

  He gives me a dismissive wave as he brushes past. “Oh, I know my way around.”

  Ty’s brow furrows as he watches Crawford disappear through the dining room. “What’s up with that? He just dropped by to play piano and pee?”

  “His mom was murdered?” Donna sets down a glass salad bowl. “Is she the one in the news who died at that party? He didn’t even seem upset.”

  I turn back to the stacks of kitchenware awaiting pricing. “He’s definitely rude. And strange.”

  Ty is standing stock-still, his head cocked to one side like Ethel when she senses the presence of deer in the backyard.

  A low murmur of voices drifts back from the foyer. We all strain to listen.

  Wheedling. “Don’t you think my mother would want you to help me? I thought you were supposed to
be her great friend.”

  Flustered. “Of course I am. But Crawford, I’m a trustee of the Alumni Council. In light of your present...er...predicament at the school, I can’t allow you to stay here. It would be a conflict—”

  Aggrieved. “I didn’t do anything. She’s a neurotic little bitch. This is a witch hunt.”

  Pleading. “No one wants this to escalate, Crawford. Just live quietly at Heatherington until—”

  Belligerent. “What part of impossible don’t you understand?” A crash of breaking china—Birdie’s bowl of potpourri.

  Ty doesn’t need to hear more. He bolts through the dining room with Donna and me on his heels.

  When we skid into the foyer, we find George backed against the wall, a flume of dried flowers and china shards at his feet. “I can’t live under the same roof with my father.” Crawford’s face is inches from George’s. He’s got George’s tie bunched into his right hand. “I need to get away.”

  Ty grabs Crawford and twists his left hand up behind his back. “Time to change your tune, Jack.”

  George steps away from the wall and straightens his jacket and tie. He turns his mournful gaze to Ty. “I believe Crawford was just leaving.”

  Ty loosens his grip enough to allow Crawford to perform a ballroom dancer’s turn to straighten his arm.

  As our intruder saunters toward the door, I notice a bumpy bulge in his front pocket. I step right out onto the porch with him and hold out my hand, palm up. “Empty your pockets.”

  “Wha—? I have no idea—” He moves toward the porch steps.

  I grab his thick Oxford shirt and press my mouth to his ear. “Birdie’s pearls and whatever else you took from her bedroom. Turn it over, or I’ll get Ty to shake it out of you.”

  Crawford doesn’t even have the decency to blush. “Aren’t you efficient,” he drawls as a strand of pearls, a gold watch, three pairs of gold earrings, and a scarab bracelet drop into my waiting hand.

  Then he skips down the stairs, a breezy “nice meeting you,” floating back to my astonished ears.

  Chapter 17

  WHEW! I THOUGHT I’D never see the end of this day!