Treasure in Exile

by S. W. Hubbard

  I leave the garden club trophy on the table and slip away.

  Back in my car, I study the family tree. Loretta’s grandfather was Vareena Tate’s father. So that makes them some kind of cousins, I guess. How long had Loretta known this, and why was she determined to keep it secret? A one hundred- year-old out of wedlock birth just doesn’t seem that scandalous nowadays. Was she worried that her husband would be upset?

  Then Sean’s theory that Loretta needed a source of cash to help Crawford pops into my head. Was she planning to lay a claim to the Tate estate? Challenging the will would be a long and messy process. Maybe she and Crawford were planning to strike a quiet deal—they’d go away for a cut of the money.

  No, that can’t be right. Loretta died before anyone knew the Parks Center had inherited the money. Unlesss....

  This is making my head hurt!

  Maybe Sean can make some sense of it. I decide to violate my usual rule about calling him at work.

  “Coughlin,” he barks after the first ring.

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “What’s wrong? You okay?”

  “I’m fine. It can wait. You sound stressed.”

  Sean lowers his voice. “Shit’s been hittin’ the fan here all day. Another girl came forward to accuse Crawford of sexual assault, this time in Palmyrton. Our sex crimes unit went to interrogate Crawford, who was crashing in the empty guest cottage of one of his friends. When our team got there, they found Crawford had cleared out. We got a subpoena to search his email account and found a boarding pass for a one-way ticket to Phnom Penh.

  “As in...Cambodia?”

  “Yep. Where the U.S. has no extradition treaty. He flew with a forged passport. They want to arrest Frederic for aiding and abetting a felon, but they have to find a paper trail.”

  Meeting...My office...Now! I hear in the background.

  “Gotta go. Don’t wait up.”

  Chapter 39

  IF SEAN WON’T BE HOME until late, I might as well go to the office and work on all the accounting associated with the Tate job. There’s nothing like a little math to help me get my thoughts in order. Maybe the symmetry imposed by Excel will help me see some pattern in the relationships between Vareena, Loretta, Crawford, and Levi.

  After I’ve been poring over spreadsheets for an hour, my phone rings. Dad.

  “Audrey, I hate to bother you, but I need a favor if at all possible.”

  “Sure, how can I help?”

  “I accidentally left my pills at the Parks Center, and Natalie is away on her yoga retreat. I told her I wouldn’t need the car, but .... If you’re busy, I can just skip the pills for one—”

  “Absolutely not! I’ll go there and get them. Where did you leave them?”

  “I think the bottle rolled under the desk in my classroom. I took a pill at noon, and put the bottle back in my fanny pack. Later, I was helping Shayna with her science project, and I dumped out my pack to get my pocket knife and some things fell on the floor.” Dad sighs. “I’m usually not so careless, but it’s the only explanation for why the pills aren’t in my pack now.”

  “No worries—I’ll go get them. When do you have to take the pills?”

  “As long as I have them by bedtime. No rush.”

  I glance at my watch: 7:30. “I’ll just finish a few things here and head out.”

  A few things turns into a frustrating accounting quagmire. Before I realize it, the clock has moved to 8:15. Naturally, because I’m in a rush, I get caught in a slow-moving detour caused by a downed power line. I arrive at the Parks Center at ten after nine. The building is dark.

  Shit!

  But as I walk toward the front door, I see a faint glow of light within. I press my face against the glass door, and dimly make out Mr. Vargas mopping the foyer floor. He’s all the way at the back, ready to mop himself out of the room.

  I pound on the glass door. He lifts his head from his task and waggles his right hand in a no-no gesture.

  I pound some more.

  I see his mouth move. “We’re closed,” he’s probably saying.

  I wave for him to come to the front door. With disgust, he throws down his mop and tromps across his clean floor.

  I shout to him through the glass. “My dad, Mr. Roger, left his medication in his classroom. I just need to run down and get it. I’ll be in and out in a minute.”

  He shakes his head and cups his hand around his ear. He can’t hear me, so he unlocks the door and opens it a crack. I repeat my request.

  “No, no, Mees—no come in building when empty. No allow.”

  Clearly, Mr. Vargas doesn’t understand what I want. But now the door is open, and I push my way through. I know I’m being obnoxious and taking advantage of an old man just trying to do his job, but I really need those pills.

  “Gracias, Mr. Vargas. I’ll be back in uno minuto.” I tear past him so I don’t have to listen to his grumbling.

  A dim emergency light barely illuminates the stairwell, but once I’m in the downstairs hall, it’s pitch black. I feel for a light switch, but can’t find it. Oh, well—Dad’s classroom is the second on the left. I feel my way along the left wall until I come to the second door. I enter and turn on the lights there. No pill bottle on the desk—that would be too easy. I get down on my knees and start searching the floor. As I’m scrambling around under the desk, I hear a voice in the room next door. Is that Mr. Vargas looking for me?

  No, it’s definitely two voices having a conversation. So everyone hasn’t left after all. Does Mr. Vargas know people are still in the building?

  I pause in my search and listen.

  “You people are bleeding me dry. I’m here to put a stop to it.”

  Who is that? A man...foreceful...white, I think. Jared?

  “Ha! You’re not dealing from a position of strength, my man. When you know what I know, you’re going to change your tune.”

  That’s definitely Dennis. What’s he up to? Who is he talking to?

  “Talk. I don’t have all night.”

  Where have I heard that tone of condescension before?

  “Okay, Fred—here’s the deal,” Dennis says.

  Frederic Bostwick! Why is he here at night talking to Dennis? And if the SBE Foundation is still donating money to the Parks Center, why is Dennis being so rude?

  “Jared has had the auditors in here to go over the books. Turns out Levi was giving money to your wife. She’d make a donation, and he’d kick part of it back to her.”

  “Don’t be absurd!”

  Sean was right. Loretta has been scrounging for money.

  “Yeah, it didn’t make sense to the rest of the Board, but it made sense to me. Because I know something they don’t. And that’s why you and I are here tonight,“ Dennis says.

  While I’ve been eavesdropping, I’ve been sliding my hands along the floor, looking for Dad’s pills. I finally find them in a dusty corner under the desk and put them in my pocket. But what I’m hearing is too intriguing to miss. I settle in under the desk and keep listening.

  “You see, I was at the fundraiser not as a guest, but working for the caterer. I was in the back hall by the kitchen when I overheard Levi and Loretta arguing. Your wife told Levi she had checks and pledges from her rich friends that totaled over two hundred grand. But she said the Parks Center would only be getting half of that.”

  “Preposterous! Loretta was committed to her charity work. She talked about it all the time.”

  “Oh, she was committed, all right.” Dennis’s tone goes beyond sarcastic all the way to snide. “You know, she begged Jared to get put on the Board. She was committed to using the Parks Center to get money to save her darling boy, Crawford and keep you in the dark, Daddy.”

  “What do you mean?” For the first time in their conversation, Frederic sounds concerned.

  “I heard your boy took off for Cambodia today, ahead of a second charge of child rape. Nice kid you got there,” Dennis says.

  “I no longer have a son.
” Frederic’s voice could freeze water. “Crawford is dead to me. I’ve cut him off totally.”

  “Yeah, I feel you, man. But you know moms. They got soft hearts. So your wife was all about helping Crawford out of his jam. See, she knew all along there were other girls, not just the chick in New York. She knew Crawford needed an escape plan if all the shit hit the fan. You know Crawford left the country on a false passport. You got any idea how much that costs these days, what with terrorism and all?”

  “Of course not, I—”

  “Well, let me tell you Fred, it doesn’t come cheap. And the kind of dudes who fix you up, they don’t take American Express, know what I’m sayin’? And then Crawford, he didn’t want to go to Cambodia and live like a peasant. He wanted the same life he had here. And he knew mommy would get it for him.”

  Frederic groans, as if this is painfully plausible. But how does Dennis know all this? Were he and Crawford in cahoots?

  “So Loretta needed some serious cash, and she knew you weren’t going to go along with her plan. That’s why she made a deal with Levi to get some of her donations back in the short term, in return for giving more in the future. But then Levi got all jammed up with the new Board members looking over his shoulder, wanting to know why there was no cash to fix the plumbing and the roof and all. So on the night of the party, Levi and your wife were fighting about money. And I saw them take the discussion upstairs. They both went up. And we know how Loretta came down.”

  “What! Are you telling me that man killed her? You knew this and never told the police?”

  I hear chairs scraping, as if Frederic has jumped up or lunged forward.

  “Easy man. I didn’t see anything with my own eyes. But I let Levi know I saw him go up there. He claims they argued and Loretta got all hysterical and threatened to jump, and he grabbed her, but she fell.”

  “And you believe that?” Frederic’s voice rises in anger.

  Dennis responds with an unpleasant laugh. “Let’s just say I chose to believe it. Levi is, was, an old friend even though he was weak and foolish in his old age. And honestly, Fred, I don’t give a rat’s ass about your wife and your son and your one-percenter problems. What I want is to get the money the Rosa Parks Center deserves. And I finally see the way to do it with no strings attached.”

  “By blackmailing me? Well, I can tell you right now, that won’t work.” Frederic’s voice has regained its arrogance. “Everyone already knows the worst about Crawford. What Loretta did to help him is nothing by comparison.”

  “Heh, heh. You’d don’t know the half of it, Fred. The best is yet to come.”

  What does Dennis know? What is he planning? My legs are cramped from crouching here so long. Should I get up and intervene? Or just let this play out?

  “I’ve had enough of your idle threats. I’m leaving.”

  Again there’s a scuffle, as if Dennis is pulling him back forcefully.

  “Did you know your wife and Vareena Tate were related?” Dennis asks.

  So, Dennis has figured out that Julius Crawford was Vareena’s biological father. But my goodness, it was all so long ago. Will Frederic really care?

  “Of course, they’re not. The Tate family has all died off. There’s no connection, but what if there were?”

  “Vareena Tate is the illegitimate daughter of Julius Crawford. He arranged for her to be adopted. Your friend Birdie Armentrout figured it out and told Loretta.”

  “Loretta never mentioned any of this. Why would she keep it a secret from me?”

  “You know much about genetics, Fred? Like how certain qualities run in families? For instance, I’m real handy, good at fixing things. So was my dad. So was my granddad.”

  “Your point?”

  “You know what quality runs in your wife’s family? The rapist gene. Julius Crawford raped his housemaid. Then he took that baby away from her momma and gave her to some folks who worked in his factory to raise. And that baby girl grew up to be Vareena Tate.”

  I gasp, but there’s enough movement in the other room that I’m sure they don’t notice. I imagine Dennis standing over Frederic, going in for the kill. “Get out your checkbook, man. You’re going to donate a million dollars to the Parks Center, or the whole world’s going to know Crawford comes from a long line of rapists. And one more thing—”

  Dennis lowers his voice. I strain, but I can’t hear what he says.

  All I can hear is a moan from Frederic.

  Chapter 40

  POP!

  The sound is so sharp that I startle and crack my head against the desk.

  “Augh!” Someone stumbles and falls.

  Was that sound a gunshot?

  Pop! again. Frederic came here with a gun? He’s shot Dennis? I burrow into my hiding place and dig for my phone.

  “Mees? Mees? You still down here?”

  Oh, dear Lord—Mr. Vargas! I forgot all about him. Now he’s going to walk right into a crazy man with a gun, and it’s all my fault.

  “You gotta leave, Mees. I gotta lock up now.”

  I can’t hide any longer. I spring out from under the desk just as Frederic passes in the hall, lifting his arm to fire again.

  I need a weapon. The classroom offers nothing. I pick up a plastic and metal desk chair and charge Frederic, screaming like a banshee.

  The gun goes off. Plaster showers onto my head.

  I’m not in pain. The bullet hit the ceiling.

  “Mees? What you—?”

  “Run! Run upstairs, Mr. Vargas, and call 9-1-1.”

  Frederic Bostwick turns toward me. He’s still got the gun in his hand. His eyes are glazed.

  “Mr. Bostwick, please. Drop the gun.”

  “Who are you?” he pants.

  I put my hands up. “I’m a volunteer here. Just someone who helps the kids.”

  Frederic keeps the gun aimed at my chest. His eyes dart back and forth, his tongue licks his parched lips. He’s panicked. He’s already shot Dennis and taken aim at a harmless old janitor. Will he hesitate to kill me?

  I can’t fight my way out of this. My only defense is words. “You know you don’t want to hurt me. You met me once at the dog park. My dog Ethel played with Rex and Cleo.”

  Frederic’s eyes never blink. But I sense that he remembers.

  “You’re an honorable man, Mr. Bostwick. Do the right thing.”

  Hearing his family name seems to bring the light of sanity back to his eyes. His hand trembles and the gun slips from his fingertips. I kick it far down the hall.

  In the distance, I hear sirens.

  Chapter 41

  TO SAY THAT SEAN IS distressed to find me being interrogated by the police two days in a row would be a monumental understatement. But I remind him that he was the one who didn’t have time to talk when I texted him, and that I hadn’t gone to the Parks Center to investigate, but to do a good deed for my father.

  It’s past midnight by the time I finish my statement to the police, deliver the pills to my father, and arrive home with Sean.

  We’re both too keyed up to sleep, so we sit at the kitchen table eating stale pretzels, drinking cold beer, and trying to make sense of what just happened.

  “Do you think Levi really did kill Loretta?”

  Sean carefully breaks a pretzel in two before answering. “We’ll never know for sure. But I suspect he killed himself because of the guilt. With his financial pressures building, he must’ve feared his arrangement with Loretta would come out and the argument at the fundraiser would be revealed. Dennis was probably threatening him.”

  “When will you be able to question Dennis?”

  Sean scowls. “I’d like to pull him out of that hospital right now. He’s lucky Frederic Bostwick is such a lousy shot. Two bullets and neither one hit a major organ. But the doctors had to dig the bullets out and stitch him up, so Dennis won’t be clear-headed enough to talk until late tomorrow.” Sean takes a swig of beer. “Frederic Bostwick is spending the night in Palmer County jail. I bet the guard
s are having quite a unique experience processing him.”

  “I feel sort of sorry for Frederic.”

  Sean’s not having it. “He pointed a gun at your heart.”

  “True. I think the kid in Newark scared me more. Somehow I sensed Frederic wouldn’t shoot me.”

  “What do you think Dennis said to Frederic that pushed him over the edge?” Sean asks me. “And how does Dennis know that Julius was a rapist? What proof could he possibly have?”

  Just then my phone pings the announcement of a Facebook message.

  Sean scowls. “For God’s sake Audrey—this is no time for checking who’s posted a new cat video.”

  Ignoring him, I squint at the screen. Someone has replied to my post in the Friends of Ebenezer Foight School Group:

  Mrs. Willa Brantley.

  But before she was Mrs. Brantley, she was Miss Simpson.

  She was strict, but really a good teacher.

  She left to be a principal somewhere else.

  I turn the phone so Sean can see the screen. “One of the photos in the secret room showed a class picture from this school. I tracked it down on Facebook. The black teacher in the picture was named Miss Simpson! She is related to Maybelle.”

  Next step, Google Willa Simpson Brantley. The first thing that pops up is her obituary: BA and MS, Rutgers, distinguished educator, retired as Superintendent of Schools, Pine Crest, NJ. Survived by her son, Martin Simpson Brantley of Pine Crest and her daughter Mona Brantley Cox of Pine Crest. Three grandchildren, lots of nieces and nephews.

  Next, I Google her son, Martin Simpson Brantley. He’s a retired law professor who’s written some books. “He has his own website,” I tell Sean. “I can send him an email from here. I’m going to ask if he’s related to Maybelle.”

  Sean puts a restraining hand on my arm. “Check to see if he’s available, but don’t tell him too much. I plan to take a little drive to the Jersey Shore tomorrow.”

  “I’m the one who tracked him down. You’re not going without me.”

  Sean slides me my phone. “Okay, partner. I guess we’re in this one together.”