Treasure in Exile

by S. W. Hubbard

  “Wait—you think this was planned? That the kid didn’t just come across the van while we were inside?”

  Ty shakes his head. “You see his kicks?”

  “His shoes? No, I wasn’t looking at his feet. I was too interested in the gun pointed at my heart.”

  “He was wearin’ a brand new pair of Jordan’s. That model goes for four hundred large. Whoever followed us out from Palmyrton paid that kid to hit us.”

  Chapter 23

  FOR ONCE, TY DOESN’T object to calling the cops.

  But the Newark police are quite unimpressed by our crime. An old van full of worthless junk was hijacked by a punk. No one was killed.

  Yawn.

  When Ty tells the cop recording our theft report that he thinks someone was following us, the guy just arches his eyebrows and keeps typing like he can’t even be bothered to tell us we’re crazy.

  I think about mentioning that my husband is a police detective in Palmyrton, but I get the feeling these guys won’t be impressed. And I’d rather tell Sean about the carjacking in person at home tonight than get him riled up with a call at work. He has enough to worry about.

  In an hour, we’re Ubering back to Palmyrton.

  “Thank God Donna wasn’t with you when this happened.”

  “Yeah, her old man would make her quit fer sure.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t even tell her about it.”

  “How we gonna explain why we don’t have a van anymore?”

  “True.” I gaze out the window at the crazed New Jersey drivers surging past us. Relief at surviving this assault has been replaced by anger over having to buy a new van. “I just had that van tuned up. The mechanic said I could probably get another hundred thousand miles out of it.”

  “If it was a Chevy pick-up or even a Honda like yours, it would be in a chop shop by now. But I don’t think there’s much call for cargo van parts. It’s too hot to drive it far, so they’ll take what they want and abandon it. Gotta hope the cops find it before it gets totally trashed.”

  “Take what they want...what do they want, Ty? There was nothing valuable in that load. Could we have overlooked something? Some collectible? Some antique?”

  “That’s what I’m sittin’ here goin’ over in my head. I’m picturin’ every single thing I loaded in there.” Ty cracks the knuckle of each finger methodically. “Nuthin’. Nuthin’ but old junk that no one wanted to buy.”

  By the time we’re back in Palmyrton it’s after six, but what’s the point of rushing home? Sean is working late again, and I have plenty of paperwork to do at the office. I send Ty home and call my neighbor to ask if she’ll let Ethel out and feed her. I file a claim with my insurance company, but I won’t hear from an adjustor until Monday. In the meantime, I look up the Blue Book value of a ten-year old Chevy cargo van: $6,000. What kind of replacement van can I hope to buy with that? My van may have had some dings and scratches, but I took good care of the engine.

  Then I open up my accounting program.

  The profits from the Armentrout sale are totally overshadowed by the loss of the van. Now I’ll have to use some of the Tate sale profits to buy a reliable used van.

  I kick my trashcan. I was this close—this close—to having all my financial ducks in a row—wedding and remodeling bills paid off, Sean’s debts from his first marriage and college loans settled, savings launched—when this crime blew a hole in my plans.

  I don’t need the van for the Tate sale since Henry has a truck, so I can get along without a van until the following week. But if the old AMT van doesn’t turn up, I’m probably going to have to spend twenty grand to get a used van that’s not a piece of crap.

  Screw that!

  I’m going to figure out why my van was stolen.

  And who stole it.

  And then I’m getting it back.

  Chapter 24

  “WHAT TIME IS IT?” SEAN stumbles into the kitchen on Sunday morning rubbing sleep from his eyes. He catches sight of the oven clock. “Eleven-thirty! Why did you let me sleep so late?”

  “Because you were utterly exhausted.” I pour him a mug of coffee. “I couldn’t have woken you up even if the house was on fire.”

  He sips his coffee as he scrolls through the messages on his phone.

  “Don’t even think of accepting another moonlighting job,” I warn him. “You need a break.”

  Sean sighs but pockets the phone. He slides his arms around me from behind as I scramble eggs. “You do realize that if I spoke to you like that, you’d turn around and do exactly the opposite of what I said.”

  “Me? Never!” I slide the eggs onto a plate and send him to the table. While I’m cleaning up, I chatter about the Armentrout sale and the buried box. I’m not ready to tell him about the stolen van. I’d like to have an hour or two of peace and relaxation before we have to start worrying again. I move on to a report on how funny Donna is when she cleans.

  Silence.

  When I turn around, Sean has his phone out with a forkful of eggs suspended in midair.

  “You haven’t heard a word I said.” I lunge for the phone.

  He holds it above his head. “I did. Donna found a box buried in the Armentrout’s back yard and cleaned it off.”

  “Wrong.” I sit down across from Sean. “What is so damn important in these messages you get from the security job?”

  “There are group texts that go out with open assignments. The first person to respond gets the gig. I don’t want to miss a good one.”

  “What makes one better than another?”

  “These German investors are visiting pharma companies in Palmer County. All I have to do escort them in and out of buildings so they think they’re safe from kidnappers and terrorists.” Sean rolls his eyes. “It’s like picking up money off the ground.”

  “Pick it up some other day. I thought we’d take Ethel to hike in Hacklebarney Park and then eat at that cute restaurant with the patio seating.”

  “O-k-a-ay.” The phone vibrates and his gaze leaves my face and drops to the screen.

  “Ty and I were carjacked outside of Sister Alice’s and now I don’t have a van anymore.”

  The phone clatters from Sean’s hand.

  “What! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I was waiting for the right moment. Guess I found it.”

  Now that I have my husband’s full attention, I fill him in on all the details of the crime. Sean immediately calls a contact in Newark, so the urgency of my case has bumped up a little. But I still doubt they’ll be combing the streets for my van.

  Unlike the Newark cops, my husband is very interested in the car that followed us out from Palmyrton. Sean makes me call Ty so he can get the details directly from the source. But Ty wasn’t able to make out the license plate or even the make of the car. All he knows is that it wasn’t a Mercedes or BMW or Lexus or any other model that interests him.

  Now Sean starts on a second round of questioning with me.

  “You think the guy was looking for something inside the van when you came back out?”

  “That’s what it seems like. We heard boxes being moved and stuff falling. But there was nothing but old junk left from the sale. We’re sure there was nothing valuable.”

  Sean paces around the kitchen. “What about that buried box? It must have been important if Loretta gave it to Birdie and Birdie went to the trouble of burying it.”

  I study the innocent face of the cow creamer on the kitchen table. “George and her friends seem to think her dementia made her do that, but maybe—” I pull out my phone and show him the photo of the photo. “George doesn’t know who those people are, but maybe it has something to do with Birdie’s genealogy research. And Loretta bought the box. That seemed to throw George for a loop.”

  “Who knew you had it?”

  “Just Donna, Ty, and me. And George and the ladies who found it.”

  “So the ladies might think it was in the van,” Sean says.

  “You can�
�t possibly think members of the garden club hired a punk to carjack me!”

  Sean squints and points a finger at me. “What else was weird about the Armentrout job?”

  “Crawford Bostwick wanting to move in...prowling around upstairs. You think he was looking for that box?”

  “His mother gave it to Birdie. Seems like she wanted it out of her own house.” Sean sits down across from me. “Could it have been Crawford who pointed the gun at you? You said the guy was thin.”

  I shake my head. “No, the voice was wrong. And Crawford is taller. I’m sure our guy is a kid.”

  Sean leans forward. “Crawford works at a school. And he’s already shown he knows how to manipulate young people.”

  “Yeah, but...kids from Bumford-Stanley wouldn’t do dirty work for a new pair of sneakers.”

  “Crawford has also been in and out of rehab. You don’t know what kind of kids he has connections to.”

  Sean whistles for Ethel. “Let’s go for our hike.”

  “Really?” I was sure the loss of the van would make Sean want to moonlight even more.

  He pulls me in for a hug as Ethel prances around our feet. “That carjacking could have gone sideways in an instant. Money doesn’t matter. All that matters is you’re safe.”

  Sean grabs Ethel’s leash. “Today we have fun. Tomorrow I’ll be questioning Crawford Bostwick.”

  Chapter 25

  MONDAY IS TY’S DAY off, a day that he spends in classes, so Donna and I will tackle the bedrooms at the Tate Mansion on our own, while Henry and his men work in the tiny servants’ bedrooms on the third floor. I’ve decided not to tell Donna about the van right now. Maybe Sean will have it back for me by the end of the day.

  We enter through the kitchen since the back door is easier to lock and unlock than the massive oak front door. Donna pauses to look around, taking in the clean but scratched gas stove and the deep porcelain sink. She sets down her caddy of cleaning supplies and runs her fingers along the wobbly wooden work table, which has been leveled with some flattened aluminum foil shoved under one leg. My assistant looks as perplexed as Ethel when Sean emerges from our pantry without a Milk-Bone in his hand. “When I saw this house from the outside, I thought living here must be like living in a fairytale castle. But now that I’m inside, this house seems more like an episode of Survivor. Ya know, where the people have to figure out how to make do with whatever they can find. What’s the point of being rich if you don’t have any luxuries? They didn’t even have a dish washer.”

  Donna doesn’t expect an answer from me. She wanders over to the avocado green refrigerator. “I wonder which one of them chose this?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about their purchases. Maybelle seemed to do all the shopping and bookkeeping. Did she make the decisions on what they bought, decide when it was okay to spend some money?”

  “It was Vareena’s money.” Donna giggles. “But it’s not like Maybelle went crazy with it, like my cousin Tiffany.”

  I gesture for Donna to go ahead of me up the narrow back stairs. “Maybe the bedrooms will give us a clue.”

  “Whew!” Donna says as we emerge into the upstairs hall. “Those steps are steep. No wonder the old gals lived to be a hundred. They got an aerobic workout every day.”

  Every door in the hallway is closed. Donna looks at me. “Where should we start?”

  “Pick one.”

  She opens the first door on the right. “Oh. My. God. Would you look at this bathroom?”

  I follow her in. The room is large yet spartan.

  “Look at how high that claw foot tub is! How did they climb in and out of that without breaking a hip?” Donna crosses the room. “And look at this toilet! You flush it by pulling a chain.”

  I have to try it. The water rushes through the pipes and circles the bowl. “Why fix it if it’s not broke, eh?”

  Donna opens the medicine chest. “Band-Aids, aspirin, merthiolate and toothpaste. Wow—talk about nothing but the basics!”

  “Nothing to sell in here. Let’s move on.”

  The next door Donna tries doesn’t open. “This room is locked.”

  But when I apply a little more force, the door creaks open. A musty, mothball smell rushes out like a genie that’s been contained for eons.

  “Yuck!” Donna waves her hand in front of her nose as I pass her. The bedroom is wide enough to contain three of the windows that face the front of the house. They’re all draped in heavy maroon velvet, blocking every ray of sunshine. An imposing four-poster bed stands against the interior wall. Was this Vareena’s room? I pass through an archway into a dressing room that features built-in cabinetry. When I open the door, the mothball smell grows even stronger. Every shelf contains men’s clothing: a top hat and a bowler, stiff but yellowing shirts, vests, bow ties, dark woolen suits and overcoats.

  “Looks like this was the old man’s bedroom, and when he died they just shut the door and never came in here again,” I call out to Donna.

  We quickly catalog the items of value: two paintings, some gold cufflinks, a sterling silver-backed hairbrush, and the furniture. Maybe the clothes will be of interest to a movie costume designer who’s bought from me in the past. Both of us are eager to find Vareena’s room.

  The air behind the next door we open is much fresher. “Someone’s been polishing with Pledge in here,” Donna says.

  This room faces the backyard. The windows are smaller and covered in a cheerful, if faded, cotton floral print. The busy green and white wallpaper looks a little less ancient than dreary maroon stripes in the master bedroom. The bed, a standard double, is neatly made with a chenille bedspread and two not very fluffy pillows. No photos, no artwork, no knick-knacks—just a vase of faded artificial flowers on a tiny corner shelf. The dresser and bedside table are heavy mahogany. I open the top dresser drawer: a stack of plain cotton panties and three sensible white bras. Next drawer: wool and cotton socks, neatly matched and rolled in balls. Three Land’s End knit shirts and two cardigans, one cotton, one wool. The closet holds two blouses, two skirts, one dress, and a pair of slacks. Lined up on the floor, one pair of each: bedroom slippers, sneakers, walking shoes, snow boots. Hanging on one hook is a flannel nightgown and a bathrobe.

  On another hook hangs a pair of corduroy pants with faded knees and a frayed shirt with some bleach stains. Finally, a little clue to ownership. “I think maybe this is Maybelle’s room. These are the clothes she must’ve worn to do the cleaning.”

  Donna checks the labels of the hanging clothes. “All LL Bean and Land’s End. She sure didn’t have a lot of clothes, but everything she had was pretty nice. If this is Maybelle’s room, Ty was wrong—there’s nothing from the thrift shop.”

  On the nightstand are two books: the Bible and another library book, The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. The story of a Black woman and her family—so maybe Maybelle. Also the story of medical research—maybe nurse Vareena.

  Maybelle or Vareena? I’m still not sure. The longer I’m in the house, the less distinct their lives seem.

  We move to the room across the hall. It’s about the same size, but faces the front. While the other bedroom was green and white, this one is blue and yellow. Apart from that, the furnishings are virtually the same. When we open the drawers, we find the same clothing, one size larger and in slightly bolder colors. “Look,” Donna says from inside the closet. “You thought the other room belonged to Maybelle because of the work clothes, but this room has a set, too.”

  Donna strokes the worn fabric of the shirt. “That’s sweet. As they got older, they shared the work. They were like partners, not employer and employee.”

  I prowl around the room looking for something, anything, that indicates which of the ladies slept here.

  “How could they be so old and not have any prescription bottles?” Donna asks. “My grandma takes so many pills she needs a box to sort them all out. But there were none in the kitchen, none in the bathroom, none in the bedrooms.”

  “M
aybe that’s exactly why they lived so long. They stayed totally out of the clutches of the medical industrial complex. But you’re right. A pill bottle would be handy to—” I stop as my gaze falls on a worn, leather-bound book on the nightstand. When I pick it up, I realize it’s not a book at all; it’s a closed frame that holds two photos. “Look,” I call to Donna.

  On one side is a young man in an Army Air Corps uniform, facing the camera with somber resolve. On the other side is the same man smiling joyfully as he gazes into the eyes of an equally ecstatic young woman. Lawrence and Vareena.

  “Wow, he was handsome,” Donna says.

  I notice an edge of faded blue paper behind the photo of Lawrence. Carefully, I slide it out. It’s the tissue-thin paper of old-time airmail stationary. The letter is addressed to Mrs. Vareena Tate, 60 Silver Lane, Palmyrton, although the ink is so faded it would be hard to decipher if I didn’t already know what it said. I can see that the letter has been unfolded and refolded countless times.

  “Should we read it?” Donna whispers.

  “Normally we don’t read personal letters that we find; we give them to the family. But in this case, there’s no one. So....”

  We look like two teenagers daring each other to light a cigarette. I slip the letter out of its envelope.

  “What are all those black scratch-outs?” Donna asks.

  “War time censorship. The men who were serving couldn’t reveal anything about their location or what they were doing in case the information got into enemy hands.”

  My Darling Vareena,

  As I await (censored) I dream of you. I have only a moment to pen these few words. I know we will win this war and the world will be set right again. When I return, we will truly launch our great adventure together. Until then, be patient (so hard for you!). Our time in the sun will arrive.

  With all the love my heart can hold,

  Lawrence

  “They look so happy in the picture. The letter is so optimistic, like they were sure everything would turn out all right.”