Treasure in Exile

by S. W. Hubbard

  I plop into a chaise lounge on my deck while Ethel runs laps around our fenced backyard. What a luxury to not have to walk her when I’m exhausted. I sip some Chardonnay and laugh as a squirrel perched on a branch above Ethel’s head drops an acorn on her snout. Ethel backs away and redirects her energy at some tiny finches she finds easier to intimidate.

  The scene at Birdie Armentrout’s house today was too weird for me. After that big confrontation, George murmured regrets for distracting us from our work and left. No explanation. No gratitude.

  And Crawford! Why does he want to live in Birdie’s house? Is he afraid of his father? And why would the scion of one of New Jersey’s wealthiest families want to steal some moderately valuable jewelry worth maybe a thousand bucks, tops? Had Crawford been upstairs looking for something else and just pocketed the jewelry in passing? He certainly didn’t fight to keep it.

  What exactly is Crawford’s “predicament” at the Bumford-Stanley school? Obviously something sexual, but what?

  I take another sip of wine. Really, what does it matter? None of my business.

  Unless...could their sketchy behavior have something to do with the murder of Loretta Bostwick? I’m definitely going to tell Sean about this. And, in the interest of helping my spouse to the fullest extent, maybe I can seek out some additional information. The sooner he solves this case, the sooner he can get back to working normal hours.

  I pull out my phone and text Isabel Trent, the only person I know well who attended the Bumford-Stanley School. She’s always too busy with her real estate clients to chat, but maybe she’ll give me a few quick hints via text.

  Do you know Crawford Bostwick? I hear he’s in trouble with the Bumford- Stanley School.

  Two seconds later, my phone is ringing.

  “How do you know about this?” Isabel demands.

  O-kay, I hit a nerve.

  “I’m organizing the estate sale at Birdie Armentrout’s house. Crawford showed up there and asked if he could crash in the house. Said he couldn’t live under the same roof as his father. And George said no because of Crawford’s predicament at the school.”

  “Dear Lord...those fools! We’re trying to minimize this unfortunate incident.”

  Hmm. “Unfortunate incident” sounds like Isabel-speak for “really juicy scandal.” But if I say “what incident?” she’ll realize I how little I really know and clam up.

  “Yes,” I offer. “I imagine this accusation could be problematic for the school, given that Crawford coaches—”

  “Ugh! How could he? Independent schools are in the spotlight right now with all the reports of improprieties at St. George’s and Phillps-Exeter. Bumford-Stanley makes it a selling point that our reputation is above reproach. And then along comes Crawford to sully our name.”

  Right. I remember reading about a teacher having an abusive relationship with a student at St. George’s. So Crawford must be in that sorry club. But Bumford-Stanley is legally obliged to report an incident of sex between a teacher and a student.

  “Honestly, Isabel—the school needs to report this to the police. It’s a crime to cover it up.”

  “Darling, I know. We’re between a rock and a hard place. The parents, who are huge donors, insist that nothing happened.”

  I cough on a gulp of wine. “Wait—the parents of the abused girl don’t want Crawford prosecuted?”

  “They don’t want the scandal. The girl, and the parents, insist that Crawford was a gentleman.”

  “So...who says he wasn’t?”

  “The Bumford-Stanley trustee standing behind Crawford at the front desk of the Ritz-Carlton. Never complain about room service when you’re trysting with a fifteen-year-old.”

  Before I can ask another question, Isabel has rung off with a “Must run. Thanks for the tip about the loose lips.”

  As I end my conversation with Isabel, Sean’s car pulls into the driveway. He lifts his hand in greeting and pulls into the garage. A few minutes later, the sound of the fridge door slamming and pots banging drifts through the open kitchen window. This doesn’t sound good. Sean appears at the back door. “You couldn’t have taken the chicken out of the freezer before you came out here? Did you buy the mushrooms?”

  Damn! All day long I’ve felt like I was forgetting something. This is it. “”I’m sorry, honey. I totally forgot. I’ll run out right now.”

  “After you’ve been drinking? I think not.”

  He pivots and returns to the kitchen. More slamming and banging ensues.

  Now I’m irritated. What’s the use of having a nice back yard to relax in if you can’t sit down after a long day? Who cares what we have for dinner? It’s not like I demand that Sean whip up a gourmet meal every night. There’s a package of Trader Joe ravioli and a jar of spaghetti sauce in the fridge. What’s wrong with that for dinner?

  “Audrey! What did you do with my garlic press?”

  What did I do with it? I don’t even know how to use it. And why is he yelling loud enough that the neighbors could weigh in with suggestions of where to look for it?

  I snatch up my empty wine glass and head into the lion’s den.

  As I enter the room, the smoke alarm goes off, triggered by a cloud of fumes from a pan full of scorched butter on the range. Sean grabs the pan off the burner with his bare hand.

  “Augh!” He recoils and the pan clatters to the floor, splashing grease everywhere. My husband stands surveying the chaos he’s created.

  I cross the room and lead him to the sink, where I run cold water over his burned hand. “Calm down. You don’t have to cook dinner. We’ll eat some pasta or order a pizza.”

  Sean stares at the water pouring over his blistering hand. I switch from irritation to concern. All this anger has nothing to do with undefrosted chicken and misplaced kitchen implements. “What’s wrong? Tell me what’s really bothering you.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Did something happen at work?”

  “No. Everything’s fine. I’m sorry.” Sean turns away from me and dries his hand.

  Everything very clearly is not fine, but pleading for him to confide in me won’t work. I decide to take the small talk approach to see if he’ll eventually give up some information.

  “Say, Ty and Donna said they saw you in Melton today. Were you following up on something in the Bostwick investigation?”

  His shoulders stiffen. “No! I mean, yeah, but—” He crosses to the fridge and starts rooting around. I could swear he’s using the open fridge door to block my inquiring gaze.

  I review what Ty told me. Sean was standing outside of a fancy house and then a man came out and got in a limo. That image triggers a memory. A few weeks ago Sean and I ran into a colleague of his standing beside a stretch limo outside one of the big office buildings in downtown Palmyrton. Sean had raised his hand in greeting but kept walking. Once we were past, he told me the guy was working off the books doing personal security.

  “Were you even scheduled to work today?”

  No answer.

  “Were you moonlighting in Melton like that guy we met back in June?”

  Sean shuts the refrigerator door. His face is flushed, and not from the cold.

  “What’s going on?” I face him with my hands on my hips. “Why would you take a moonlighting job and not tell me about it?”

  He walks away from me and looks out the kitchen window. “I only planned to work a few shifts.”

  “Is that why you’ve been so tired? Why you’ve been late nearly every night?”

  He nods.

  Now my voice gets stern. “Sean, your mother has told me several times how she used to worry that your dad would get killed on the job because he was so exhausted from moonlighting. Why would you take a risk like that? There’s no need.”

  My husband spins around. “There is a need. We’re short of cash.”

  Have I created this worry with my endless spreadsheets and budgets? “Honey, our situation isn’t that bad. We have enough—”
<
br />   “We don’t.” His jaw juts out. “My brothers and sisters want to send our parents to Ireland for their fortieth wedding anniversary. I need two thousand dollars for my share by next week.”

  Two thousands bucks is a lot of money right now, but a fortieth anniversary is a big deal. My in-laws deserve a special gift. Surely he knows I wouldn’t have refused this. “So why didn’t you talk to me about it? I have—”

  His eyes narrow. “I don’t want your money. They’re my parents. This is my responsibility.”

  “So you’re saying I’m not really a member of the Coughlin family?” Male pride meets only child insecurity. “Are your brothers’ and sisters’ spouses also left out of this gift?”

  “I didn’t say that. Of course, the gift is from both of us. I just didn’t want to ask you—”

  “And it’s not my money and your money. It’s our money. I seem to recall taking a vow recently that mentioned something about ‘for richer, for poorer.’ Remind me of how that goes.”

  “You’ve been working your ass off to earn more money to pay off this kitchen.” Sean thumps his chest. “I can do some extra work to help pay for this extra expense.”

  “O-o-h, now I see.” I start banging dinner plates and silverware onto the table just to blow off some of my anger. “This is why you weren’t upset I didn’t get the Tate job. You didn’t want me to make more money than you. You can’t be king of the castle unless you earn more.”

  “That’s not true. I just want to do my part.” He reaches for me, but I slip away.

  “Fine. Why did you feel you had to sneak around and do it behind my back?”

  Sean plops into a kitchen chair and stares up at the ceiling. “Because I’m covering Terry’s share too.”

  Ah, there we have it. Sean’s younger brother is chronically under-employed and short of funds. “Covering” Terry’s share means we’re loaning money we’ll never see again. I could argue about how always bailing Terry out just encourages his irresponsibility. I’d win on logic but lose on emotional support. There may come a time that I draw a line in the sand over Terry’s insolvency, but this isn’t it. I sit down across the table and take my husband’s hand. “Look, we have two thousand dollars in our account. Write the check. If you want to pick up a few security shifts, fine. But spread it out so you’re not exhausted.”

  Sean squeezes my hand. “Do you have buyer’s remorse about marrying into the Coughlin family?”

  “Only when you throw burnt butter on the floor.”

  I rise, but Sean pulls me into his lap. “I’m sorry for snapping at you. And I accept your offer to write a check for the trip from our joint account. But I’m going to replenish that withdrawal and add more to it.”

  “And I’ll make dinner tonight as long as you lower your expectations.”

  “Deal. I’ll clean up this mess.”

  I pick my way gingerly to the back door. “Ethel’s happy to assist with the preliminary mopping.”

  The dog tears in and immediately sets to lapping up the butter, while I put on a pot of water for the ravioli. Sean talks to me from his spot at the kitchen table.

  “Unfortunately, I’m committed to working one more security shift this week, and it couldn’t come at a worse time. He pours himself a glass of wine. “I’m under tremendous pressure from my boss to come up with some leads in the Loretta Bostwick case. But I’ve got nothing. No witnesses. No motive.”

  “Frederic Bostwick still insists that Loretta fell accidentally?”

  Sean nudges the dog out of the way and gets out the mop. “The forensics don’t back that up, but we have zero additional evidence pointing to suicide or murder.”

  “Who profits from her death? Isn’t that always the prime motive?”

  “You’d think that would be a straightforward question, but in the case of Loretta Bostwick, I need to talk to her estate attorney. Who is strongly resisting talking to me.”

  I dump a package of mushroom ravioli into the boiling water and turn to face Sean. “Rich people may not have figured out how to take their money with them when they die, but they sure do know how to control their loot from beyond the grave. If I were you, I’d unravel all the trusts and restrictions.”

  Sean grimaces. “Easier said than done. Frederic Bostwick is a powerful man and he’s using his influence to push for having the case closed and ruled an accidental death. He’s even threatened to hire some celebrity pathologist to do a second autopsy to challenge our results. And his pressure at the top is filtering down to me.”

  “Sounds like he’s protecting someone. Could his son be involved? It happens I had a strange encounter with Crawford Bostwick today, and I found out some dirt about him.”

  Sean perks up. “What?”

  “Did you know that Crawford Bostwick was seen at the Ritz-Carlton shacking up with a student from the Bumford-Stanley school?”

  Sean lets the mop clatter out of his grasp “What? Who told you that?”

  Ah, I love it when I know something my husband doesn’t. I hand him back the mop and while the pasta cooks, I settle back to spin the tale of Crawford’s appearance at the house, George’s refusal of help, and Isabel’s clarification. Sean hangs on my every word.

  “What kind of parents don’t want to press charges against a child molester?” Sean slams the mop back into the broom closet. “If Crawford Bostwick went after my kid, I’d want him strung up by the balls.”

  “Maybe the parents are afraid of going up against the Bostwick family. If he’s capable of pressuring the police and the medical examiner, imagine what he’d do to civilians. You know ‘Neither of us wants unpleasant publicity and here’s a hundred grand for your trouble.’ ”

  Sean nods. “I knew those people were hiding something. When I interviewed Frederic Bostwick, he was very cagey about his son’s whereabouts at the time of Loretta’s death. He insisted Crawford was at their house, Heatherington. But that place is as big as Yankee Stadium. Several of the servants confirm that Frederic was there all evening. They served him dinner, brought him a drink in the library”—Sean rolls his eyes—“helped him pack a bag for a trip. But only the butler claims to have seen Crawford. This guy’s been an employee for years, smooth as silk. He was very vague about exactly when and where he’d seen ‘Young Mr. Crawford’, but he insisted he was there all night. But when I interviewed the cook and the maid, they were both nervous wrecks. They said Crawford was home, but they couldn’t say how they knew.”

  “Did you talk to Crawford’s boss at the school?”

  Sean glances heavenward. “Oh, yes. I talked to the headmaster, the games coordinator and the vocal head. Otherwise known as the principal, the gym teacher, and the choir director. And don’t get me started on the first names—Spalding, Woodson, and Pippy. Seriously, Pippy. No one in Bostwick-land is named Tom, Dick, or Harry. Or Mary Jane.”

  “So what did Spalding, Woodson, and Pippy have to say about Crawford?”

  Sean suddenly realizes he’s told me much more than he normally would about an active case. He strokes my arm. “Never you mind, Miss Marple. But I appreciate the lead on Crawford’s preference for little girls. It’ll give me something to use when I go back for round two of questioning.”

  His touch sends a shiver up my arm, but it’s not one of pleasure. “Uh-oh. Isabel will know I told you. I don’t want to wreck our business relationship, but honestly, I think the poor girl Crawford seduced deserves some police protection.”

  “Unfortunately, since the assault happened in Manhattan, there’s not much I can do for her. But I can find out if he’s hurt anyone else. And don’t worry. I’ll keep you and Isabel out of it. If George Armentrout and Isabel both knew about Crawford’s troubles, then I bet half the Bumford-Stanley community knows. Each parent will think another parent spilled the beans, and pretty soon they’ll be tripping over each other to talk to me.”

  “Three people can’t keep a secret, right?” I quote one of Sean’s favorite sayings back to him.

&
nbsp; “Not unless one of them’s dead.”

  Chapter 18

  DESPITE AN ENTHUSIASTIC kiss-and-make-up after dinner last night, I still manage to make it to the office by nine-thirty. Before we all head to Birdie’s house for the last of the set-up, there’s some advertising to finalize for the sale, and some items I’m shipping off to longtime customers. We work in companionable silence, interrupted only by the zip of Ty’s packing tape dispenser and the tap of computer keys.

  Tom, our regular UPS driver appears just as Ty has finished with the outgoing boxes. Donna presents the paperwork, and by the time the UPS man leaves with his hand truck loaded, Donna has learned he has two kids, is on a gluten-free diet, and is taking his wife to Puerta Vallarta for a second honeymoon.

  Through the window, Ty watches the driver’s retreating figure. “I never heard that dude talk so much. In all the time I’ve been working here, all he’s ever said to me is, “Hi, Bye, and Sign here.”

  Donna smiles and shrugs. “People open up to me. I just ask a question or two to get them started, then I listen.”

  Ty turns to look at Donna. “You do listen. Most people can hardly wait to interrupt and give you advice or tell you how they’re sicker than you or smarter than you or righter than you. You keep your mouth shut and pay attention.”

  Hmmm. I wonder if I’m included in people who interrupt to offer advice? Donna looks pleased but shy at the compliment. Flustered, she asks me, “Do you want me to send an email to that record collector guy?”

  “Yeah, he’s in our contacts under Vintage Vinyl. The list of LPs that I thought he’d want is in my tote-bag.”

  Donna digs though my bag and finds the list. “You know, you still have that genealogy folder we found yesterday in here. Should I send it to Mr. Armentrout?”

  “Wow, I forgot all about that.” I extend my hand for it and Donna passes it to me via Ty.

  Ty opens the folder. “What are these charts and drawings?”

  “The Armentrout family tree. Birdie traced the family back to 1720.”

  Ty studies the paper with a furrowed brow. “My family tree would have branches that twist right off the page. I bet nobody could figure it out.”