Treasure in Exile

by S. W. Hubbard

  “Sure. She knows everybody,” Ty chimes in.

  “Thank you for that offer,” Levi says, but he doesn’t seem all that enthusiastic. He picks up the last photo and checks around the room to see if he’s missed anything. Then he passes it to me for packing in the box.

  It’s the photo of the teacher with her class. Printed along the bottom in faded letters are the words “Ebenezer Foight Elementary School, 1964.” Two kids in the front row hold a felt banner that says GRADE 3.

  I place the picture in the box and close it up. Ty lifts it and we all stand looking at each other and at the empty secret room.

  “Let’s close the room up and be on our way.” Levi heads down the stairs and Ty follows him with the box. I swing the secret door in place and trail behind with Henry.

  “Don’t you think his reaction is a little weird?” I murmur under my breath as I let Levi and Ty get further ahead of us. “Why won’t he call the cops? And why does he want those photos?”

  “Hmm. I think he’s afraid someone’s after the inheritance.”

  “But who? Those pictures are Maybelle’s relatives. Vareena had no family.”

  Henry snorts. “Everybody’s got family. That old lady didn’t hatch from a rock. Just gotta look for the connections.”

  Outside, Ty is pulling out of his hidden parking space. When the car is next to me, he leans out the window and extends his hand. “You got my phone?”

  In all the excitement, I forgot that I still had it. I dig it out of my bag, but then I remember the news that Ty will see as soon as he glances at the texts. I hold the phone back as I speak. “Ty, something happened yesterday while you were gone.”

  His eyes narrow.

  “Your dad was released from prison.” The words spurt out of me like shaken soda. “He was with Charmaine. They came looking for you. But now Charmaine says she doesn’t know where he is.”

  Ty fixes me with a steady dark glare. He rolls his fingers and I place the phone in his hand. “I’ll see you here in the mornin’.”

  And he’s gone.

  I text Donna and tell her Ty is fine and to meet us at the Tate Mansion at 7 AM tomorrow for the sale. When she responds with questions, I mute my phone. Let Ty tell her what he chooses. On the drive home, I mull over all that’s happened. And the more I think, the more worried I get. First of all, there’s no way Ty is just going to walk away from this assault. You hurt me. You scared the shit out of me. You coulda killed me. But hey, no problem. I’m just gonna turn the other cheek and forget about it.

  Would Ty ever say that?

  No.

  So that means he’s got some idea of who the assailant is, and he’s going to go after him by himself.

  And that can’t end well.

  And what about Levi? Does he have some idea of who those people in the photos are? Could one of them have known about the room and been responsible for the attack? Is Levi protecting someone?

  And the one person who might help me figure this out is the one person I dread telling: Sean. I can hear him already. How could you have compromised the crime scene by tramping through that room? All the forensic evidence is destroyed. How could you have let Levi walk off with those photos? They’re evidence.

  I know all that. I do. But what could I have done to stop them?

  You could’ve called 911 the moment you got to the house and suspected Ty was there.

  Yeah, right. And how would that call have gone down? Hi, this is Audrey Nealon. I’m sure something terrible has happened to my assistant because he missed his econ exam. Can you come over to the Tate Mansion and help me look for him?

  You could have called the moment you found Ty bleeding and knew a crime had been committed.

  I could have. But I hesitated because of the sale. Because of all the work we’ve put into it. Because of the money it will bring in, not just for me, but also for the Parks Center and my dad’s program and the kids it will help. I hesitated, and once Ty saw that moment of weakness, I was doomed.

  This is what I must confess to Sean.

  But when I pull into the garage, his car isn’t there. The house is dark. Ethel whines patiently next to her empty dish. But he told me just a few hours ago that he was heading home to cook dinner for us.

  While I’m fixing Ethel her dinner, I get a text from Ty.

  Yo—send me that pic you took of the room.

  I forward it with a “why?”, but of course I get no answer. What’s with the men in my life?

  Ethel is dancing on her hind legs as I check the fridge for some leftovers to dress up her dog food. As I set her dish down, I spot a piece of paper on the counter.

  Audrey,

  I’m sorry about dinner. I got called in on another security job. I might have to spend the night. Good luck with the sale tomorrow.

  Love,

  Sean

  I stand in the kitchen holding the sheet of paper. Why did he leave me a note instead of calling or texting? There’s only one answer—because he didn’t want me to ask him questions. He was supposed to be done with this moonlighting and now he’s taken another shift. Sean is avoiding me, so I can avoid him with a clear conscience. Maybe by the time the sale ends tomorrow, I’ll have a better justification for my actions.

  Maybe.

  Chapter 34

  WHEN I DRIVE UP SILVER Lane at 6:55 AM, cars are already parked on the shoulder all the way from the intersection to the front gates of the mansion. I wave at my regulars as I pass. First order of business: send Donna out with the numbers that will admit the early birds in the order they arrived even if they leave the line to go for coffee.

  When I enter the house through the back door, I follow the sound of voices to the foyer. Ty and two of Henry’s men are moving some tables to create a payment area and block shoppers’ access to the back hall. Ty is his usual self—relaxed, joking with the guys, lifting and hauling with no complaint. Donna pops in from the parlor, her ever-present microfiber cloth in hand.

  “I’m so excited! Everything is good to go. Can we open the doors?”

  “No!” Ty and I chorus.

  “Never open early. It sets a bad precedent,” I explain.

  “Yeah, then next sale, when we happen to be running behind, they’ll be clawin’ and scratchin’ to get in early. Jus’ chill.”

  I send a crestfallen Donna out to distribute the numbers and wait for Henry’s men to return to the garage. “What’s happening,” I say to Ty in a low voice. “Did you meet up with your father?”

  He shakes his head. “I talked to Charmaine. Everything cool.”

  “What about—”

  Ty turns his back on me. “Don’ worry about it.”

  O-kay. I guess we’re not going there. “And your exam....?”

  His face lights up. “I went straight out to campus to talk to my professor after I left you yesterday.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “The truth.”

  Ty laughs at my dropped jaw. “Well, not the whole truth. I told him about my job, and how I was studying in the mansion...of course, he knew about the place after all the news articles. So then I showed him the picture of the hidden room and told him I accidentally got trapped in there until you found me the next day. I left out the part about being hit on the head.”

  “So that’s why you asked me to send you the picture of the room! What did he say?”

  “That it was the craziest excuse he ever heard, and that he didn’t think I was creative enough to make it up, so it must be true. And he said I could take the exam on Monday.”

  I fling my arms around Ty “See, honesty is the best policy.”

  “Yeah? What did Sean say when you told him about me and the room?”

  Finally, we come to the most pressing matter. “When I got home last night, Sean wasn’t there. He had to spend the night at his moonlighting job.”

  Ty continues to busy himself with the cash box and the receipt book. “So?”

  “So I haven’t told him ye
t about what happened in the secret room.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Ty.” I scoot around so he has to meet my eye. I clutch his wrist and don’t let go. “It’s not like you to brush off something this big. I thought about it all night long. You have some idea of who attacked you, don’t you?”

  Ty takes a pained breath, tries to squirm away without being rough. “There’s been some guys comin’ around.”

  “Guys?”

  “Old gangsters who knew my pops back in the day. Guys who knew him inside. Word on the street was he was gettin’ out soon.”

  “And how did these guys find you?”

  Ty stands silently.

  A light bulb goes off in my mind. “Charmaine did this! She took your father’s messages to his crew. And then they came looking for you to help them with their schemes? They think you’re one of them because—”

  Ty interrupts my rant. “I set them straight. I told them I didn’t want no part of what they had to offer.”

  “When was all this?”

  “End of last week.”

  “And you think these men came here on Thursday night? How would they have known where to find you? And how would they know about the secret room? Could this be related to the carjacking? ”

  “They know who I work for, and signs for this sale have been up all over town for the past week. But the room—” Ty shakes his head. “I can’t figure out how they discovered it before we did.”

  “And these thugs attacked you out of revenge? Because they were mad you wouldn’t go along with them? Then why didn’t you want me to call the police?”

  Now Ty gives his arm a sharp shake and breaks free. “You don’t have no idea what kinda people you’re messin’ with here! Callin’ the cops would bring a whole world a trouble down on us.”

  “You know what—I don’t care what kind of trouble I bring down on your father and Charmaine.”

  “I’m not trying to protect my father. I’m trying to protect you.”

  Donna chooses that moment to reenter the house, so our discussion is tabled. Together we focus on our final preparations. But I’m distracted. Who is trying to harm me, my business, my staff?

  At 7:58, I lift the heavy velvet drapes in the dining room and peek out. A huge line snakes down the driveway.

  A thrill of excitement flutters in my chest, pushing away the wad of worry. This may be our biggest sale ever.

  “Take your places, everyone.” I nod to Henry’s helper. “Let them in fifty at a time. No more.”

  The heavy door swings open. We’re off!

  The first ten people through the doors are regulars. I watch as nimble Jonathan Streit dodges past lumbering Donald Porter to lay claim to the Rococo Revival étagère in the parlor. But sometimes slow and steady wins the race because Donald has snagged all the oil paintings in the foyer, not even bothering to haggle on the price.

  The morning continues at a lightening pace. Experienced antiques dealers act decisively. They know if they can make a profit reselling a piece at the price I’m asking, or if the furniture will languish in their showroom. They write a check immediately, or they walk away without a backward glance.

  People buying for their own use are different creatures entirely. They fall upon a table or a cabinet gushing and squealing, and then ask me if I’ll drop the price. Note to shoppers: not a good negotiating strategy. Or they circle the piece, caressing, measuring, discussing. They walk away. They come back. They walk away again. They argue with each other, sometimes to the point of tears. In the end, I get the money and they walk out with their purchase. Whether they’re elated or disgruntled matters not to me.

  Fully one-third of the people in the line are sightseers eager for a glimpse inside the mysterious Tate Mansion. That’s fine—although they clog the rooms and delay the entry of buyers, they also create a sense of urgency that fuels sales. The classic Manhattan conundrum: if this many people are lined up for it, it must be worth the wait. And the corollary: if there’s no line and you can stroll right in, why would you want to go?

  I’ve been worried that some of the furniture in the mansion is too massive to be sold to private homeowners. So I’m relieved when Reggie and Chris arrive in a swoosh of powerful aftershave and hair product.

  “Dah-ling, this place is to die for!” Reggie—or is it Chris?—bestows double air-kisses. One is tall and dark, the other short and fair, but between them they have just one personality.

  Gush-o-rama.

  “Squee! Look at this breakfront! Wouldn’t this be fabulous in the tasting room in that vineyard in Sonoma?”

  “Or the farm-to-table in Vermont...”

  Either way, they’re taking it. Reggie and Chris own a huge warehouse in Queens where they stock decorative items for restaurants, hotels, and movie sets. If I have something truly bizarre to sell—a stuffed rhino head, a rodeo rider’s saddle, a 20-foot long banquet table—they’re the guys most likely to buy.

  Of course, they don’t always maintain the integrity of the piece—I can hear one of them in the parlor saying, “We could rip the drawers out and replace them with shelves...paint it gray—” –but that’s not my business. I’m here to sell, not preserve.

  Just before noon, a familiar voice causes me to pause in my transactions.

  “Well,” he drawls. “This sure is a gloomy old pile, isn’t it?”

  I look up to see Crawford Bostwick standing in the foyer, hands thrust into the pockets of his faded Nantucket red Bermuda shorts, blond hair held back by the sunglasses pushed up on his head.

  “Hello, Crawford. What brings you here?” Looking for a new place to crash? Or something small to steal? I want to say.

  “Oh, I have an interest in the stately homes of Palmer County. After all, I live in one. Or used to.” He spins around, looking up. “Gothic Revival...so grim, so dour. Why not revive something fun?”

  He prowls around the foyer, peering at the few small paintings that haven’t been purchased. What’s he up to?

  “By the way, Crawford—we found something here related to your family. Your mother’s side of the family.”

  Crawford’s hand freezes as he was about to touch an ornate, carved bird on the case of the grandfather clock. “Oh?”

  “Vareena Tate seems to have saved some advertisements of your great-great-grandfather’s product, Scour-Brite. Any idea why?”

  Crawford’s shoulders relax. “Really? Maybe the other lady—Mary Ellen?... Annabelle?—used it to clean this place. Where are all the things that belonged to Vareena Tate?”

  “Miss? Who should I make the check out to?”

  I snap back to taking care of the customers checking out. When I look up again, Crawford is gone.

  I text Donna, who’s working in the dining room where we’ve gathered all the smallest, easily stolen items, and Ty, who’s upstairs. Crawford Bostwick is here. Keep your eye on him.

  A few minutes later, Donna texts back that she hasn’t seen him, but will watch out.

  I get busy again, and a half-hour passes. Then I hear a commotion from upstairs. A few moments later, Crawford Bostwick is trotting down the grand staircase. He pauses by my checkout table. “That thug who works for you is out of control.”

  Before I can respond, Crawford sails out the front door.

  Good riddance.

  “What do you think of this sale compared to the one at Birdie’s house?” I ask Donna as we finally get a lull around 1:00 PM. She has moved the remaining small items from the dining room to the foyer, consolidating our area of operation. Henry’s men have been keeping an eye on the kitchen and the back of the house.

  Donna drops in a chair behind the checkout desk. “It’s like Black Friday at Wal-Mart, but with antiques. Is every sale as busy as these first two have been?”

  “No. Sometimes we could sit around playing canasta. Those are the sales with nothing but standard old-folks clutter. I want to limit them to on-line sales only, but I just haven’t been able to devote the time to dev
eloping our on-line presence. I’m hoping you’ll help me with that.”

  Donna’s eyes light up. “Oh, I’d love that. I already have so many ideas.” She chatters to me happily about creating a cyber-store and improving our SEO as we complete transactions for a few more buyers.

  Ty appears on the landing above us. “Slowin’ down up here. How about calling Bangkok Palace for a delivery?”

  “Pad Thai and basil chicken?”

  Donna sighs. “Perfect!”

  When Ty comes down to eat, I ask him what happened with Crawford.

  “I was following him from room to room. He didn’t like it. When we were alone, I asked him if he was in here last night. He told me I was crazy. Then some real customers came in and I had to lay off.”

  “Do you think he was lying?’ I ask.

  Ty shrugs. “He’s got that ‘who, me?’ act down pretty good.”

  I frown. “He’s had plenty of practice, I think.”

  As we’re polishing off the last of our rice noodles, Ty spies a horde trooping up the driveway and tosses down his almost empty Pad Thai container. “Ima head back upstairs and close off two of the bedrooms. Move what’s left into the three biggest rooms.”

  Donna springs up. ”I’ll help you.”

  Ty pushes down on her shoulders. “Chill. I’ll call when I need you.”

  The pace of the sale picks up again. It’s the late afternoon mini-rush of casual buyers—people with a real life who don’t have the time to camp out in line. Most of the best stuff is already gone, but there are some surprisingly good antiques still available. I’ve given up predicting what will sell immediately and what will be passed over at any sale. It’s like trying to accurately guess if the Mets can hang onto an eight-run lead.

  At four, we begin herding the stragglers out the door. Ty comes downstairs to report that everyone’s gone. But he looks worried.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  Ty reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a pair of sunglasses. Oversize horn rims.