“Yes, Nepal to interview the Sherpas who lead trips up Mt. Everest, then on to Yemen.”
“Yemen! Oh, Gregory, surely not.” Lorraine’s face constricts in alarm.
I have to agree with Lorraine. Terrorists, civil war, and famine—Yemen’s a real trifecta of danger. Gregory must enjoy skating close to the edge.
Unwilling to listen to Lorraine’s pleas to scratch Yemen, I sidle away from the parents and set off to see if I can score a glass of wine and a few nibbles. When I get near the bar, I spot a familiar head of beautifully styled hair: Brielle Gardner is here. Somehow, I wouldn’t have pegged her as the brainy/geeky podcast type. Her gaze meets mine, and she smiles and heads right over.
“How nice to see you here.” Brielle pecks the air near my left ear. “Are you flying solo tonight like I am?”
“I’m here with my parents.” I nod vaguely in their direction. “They’re big fans of Gregory’s.”
“Gregory and I are old friends.” She sips from her wine glass. “We went to Princeton together.”
That surprises me. As perfectly groomed as Brielle is, she seems older than Gregory. From behind, with her great figure and perfect hair, Brielle could pass for twenty-five. But face-to-face, her age shows in tiredness around her eyes and tension in her mouth. I suppose Gregory’s lifestyle gives him the aura of a perpetual teenager. “He leads a fascinating life.”
Brielle offers an indulgent smile. “He’s quite the rolling stone, our Gregory. If I didn’t try to connect with him at one of his shows, I’d never see him at all.” She turns her gaze away from me and follows Gregory as he moves on to another clutch of fans.
“His parents seem torn between being proud of his success and sad that his career takes him so far away from them.”
“Their plan was that Gregory should go to law school, join his father’s law firm, and buy a house across the street from theirs. Gregory got as far as attending an Ivy League college, then he ditched his parents’ plan.” Brielle smoothes her already perfect hair. “He’s always been a free spirit.”
“The parents are always last to know.” I intend this as a light-hearted comeback, but Brielle’s face darkens.
“Yes, parents have an endless capacity to deceive themselves.”
Someone calls Brielle’s name and waves from across the room. Her face lights into its socially appropriate expression, and Brielle turns away from me. Before she leaves, she makes one more remark. “I’m so glad you found a good home for my seascape.”
Then she strides into the crowd. “Darling! It’s been too long!”
I join the queue at the bar thinking about what Brielle said. How did she know I found a buyer for the painting? I didn’t tell her, or anyone else for that matter.
Except Jane. I mentioned it to Jane when she came over looking for Sophia.
Clearly, she reported back to Brielle.
What else does Jane tell her friend? How many hours I work? How I priced her steak knives?
I give myself a little shake. I’m being paranoid. The painting must’ve come up in casual conversation between Brielle and Jane.
As I wait for my drink, I notice the servers, who all appear to be Drew students, going in and out of a door behind the bar that apparently leads to a service area. Finally, I get my wine, and as I step away, I notice one of the servers hold that door open. A tall young man, not dressed in black pants and a white shirt like the other servers, slips through.
It's the kid who was trying to crash the party and got turned away at the door. I have to chuckle at such determination in a fan! Clearly, security is meaningless here if you have a friend on the inside.
I watch as the kid scopes out the room looking for Gregory. The crowd has thinned a bit, and Gregory is no longer swarmed by admirers. When the kid spots his idol, he strides across the room with determination.
No one else pays any attention. Although most of the guests are older, no one is particularly dressed up, so the kid doesn’t stand out. The boy reaches his target just as Gregory has turned away from another fan. The boy plants himself in Gregory’s path and says something.
I watch in fascination as Gregory’s face undergoes a transformation: friendly...startled...appalled. Gregory jerks his head in the direction of the hallway, then grabs the boy’s elbow and marches him there.
Interesting. When the kid was trying to get past the door monitor, he’d said he had something important to tell Gregory. Apparently, the star wants to hear it.
For an instant, I’m tempted to wander out to the hallway to...say...look for the ladies’ room. But I finally got my glass of wine, and the kid’s message to Gregory is none of my business.
Not that that’s ever stopped me before.
I settle on a compromise: I take the long route back to Dad and Natalie, passing the exit to the hallway as I go. I pause to sip from my glass when I hear muffled voices from just outside the door.
“Look, I’m sorry you’re disappointed, but that’s not what I signed on for.”
“You refuse to even meet with us?” The kid’s voice grows squeaky with indignation. “You don’t even want to meet the others?”
“No. No, I don’t. There’s nothing more to discuss.”
The kid must have wanted Gregory to address some student group at the university, and he’s outraged that Gregory won’t drop everything to comply. Dad is right—kids today do have an air of entitlement. I hustle away from the door so that Gregory won’t trip over me when he reenters the room. Once I’m back in Dad and Natalie’s circle, I glance over my shoulder.
Gregory stands by the door, pale and jittery. Then he flings back his shoulders, dredges up a smile, and plunges back into the scrum of his fans.
Chapter 26
Thursday morning finds me mercifully alone in the office. Ty has classes at Palmer County Community College that will keep him busy all day. Donna is at the Freidrich house, fussing over the first sale she’ll be running solo as if she’s planning a royal wedding. I have phone calls to make finding buyers for some of Brielle’s larger pieces. Some of them are to people I don’t know, so naturally procrastination is in order while I work up my introvert’s sales pitch.
I scan the top stories in my digital edition of the New York Times. Nothing but doom and gloom. I scroll past the big news and click on an article about the sudden resurgence in popularity of Paul McCobb furniture. Once I finish that, the next article in the Style section pops up:
Hiraku Maki to Close Design Atelier
Prominent interior designer Hiraku Maki announced yesterday that he would close his design practice as he fights pancreatic cancer. Mr. Maki, who is noted for working without assistants, had been declining new projects in recent months. Rumors swirled about his mental health as he had a reputation for volatile outbursts. However, friends and associates were stunned to hear of the cancer diagnosis. “This is a tremendous loss to the design community,” said Klaus von Reimer....
My attention drifts away from the expressions of support and encouragement. What does this mean for the sale? Clearly, Hiraku Maki will not be redecorating Brielle’s house. But the article’s claim that Maki had been declining new projects for months makes me wonder if my friend Tim was right all along—maybe Hiraku Maki had never been scheduled to work on Brielle’s house. Why would she lie about such a thing?
I’m two days away from what promises to be a hugely profitable sale. There’s a cancellation clause in my contract, but my kill fee won’t be anywhere near what I stand to make if I sell the contents of the Gardners’ house. Calling Brielle and asking her if she wants to go forward with the sale gives her an out that I don’t want her to take. Is she even aware of this news about Maki?
While I sit at my desk contemplating my options, I hear footsteps outside my door.
Next, a sharp, authoritative rap.
When I answer the door, a short, pale man with a broad face and pouchy eyes stands before me. He looks familiar, but I can’t decide if I actually know him
or if he just bears an unfortunate resemblance to one of my favorite characters, Toad in Wind in the Willows.
“Everett Gardner,” he intones as he offers a hand that I half expect to be webbed.
“Oh, Mr. Gardner—come in. I don’t think we’ve ever met. I’m Audrey Nealon.”
He nods his large head, causing his starched shirt collar to cut into his fleshy neck. I watch him glance around the office. Although he remains expressionless, I cringe at my clutter. I wasn’t expecting a client visit, but let’s face it—no amount of straightening would make this place acceptable to a man who married the meticulous Brielle. Did she send her husband—the man Tim called a real bastard—here to deliver the news that the sale is cancelled? How cowardly!
He chooses the chair we’ve nicknamed “the throne” which only serves to emphasize his small stature. He must be a head shorter than his wife, and maybe ten years older. She has beauty; he has money—a perfect match, I guess.
“So,” he begins. “I understand this weekend you’ll be selling off all the furniture and artwork that Brielle bought for Sea Chapel five years ago. How much do you think you’ll get for it?”
Hmmm. This doesn’t sound like the preamble to cancellation, but he may be coming at it from a different angle. He’s probably a ferocious negotiator. “Uhm—it’s hard to estimate.” Of course, I’ve made my own estimate, but I’m always reluctant to be tied down to a projection of what a sale will bring in. It invariably leads to client disappointment or arguments. “Your home is lovely, but—”
He interrupts me with a raised hand. “I know—furniture and decorations are like cars—they lose half their value the moment they leave the showroom. Believe me, I’m not expecting much,” he squints at me, “but will the transactions extend over the next month or more?”
“Oh, no—everything will be sold and paid for by Sunday. Your wife did insist that she wants the house entirely emptied by October second....” I take a gamble “...for the decorator.”
His heavy-lidded eyes blink, the full extent of his reaction. “Yes, I don’t care about that, but Brielle never remembers that her actions have tax implications. I’ve been asking her all week to get me a preliminary estimate. I finally decided to come here and get it myself. The way my accountant handles the revenue from the sale impacts the timing of some other investment decisions.”
“No problem.” I feel the knot in my shoulders unwind. I should have known that Mr. Gardner doesn’t give a rat’s ass about Hiraku Maki or even about the actual amount of revenue from the sale. All he wants is projections so he can accurately juggle his money to make even more money. I slide into my desk chair and flip open my laptop. He wants projections? I’ll give him spreadsheets out the wazoo.
While I’m tapping away, I keep up a line of chatter with Mr. Gardner. “Your beach house has a spectacular view. I’ve really enjoyed working there.”
He’s studying his phone and doesn’t look up. “Mmm. I suppose. I’m rarely there. I don’t care for the sun.”
I suppress a giggle. He probably prefers a lily pad in a cool pond. “But your son must love it. Does he surf or sail?”
Suddenly, I have his attention. Gardner’s face softens. “Yes, Austin surfs. Beautiful to watch—he makes it look so effortless. And he has a small sailboat—a Sea Ray. Spent a few summers at sailing camp. He’s always been a natural athlete.”
I don’t know anything about sailboats, but I’m guessing Austin’s boat isn’t like a Sunfish that you just drag out into the waves. “Is it docked down near Elmo’s? That’s a cute little restaurant.”
“Yes, we keep it there. Brielle’s after me to get him a bigger boat.” Mr. Gardner grows more animated. I seem to have hit upon a topic he likes discussing—his son. “I told her once he’s accepted at Princeton, we’d talk about it.”
Given his smile of paternal indulgence, I’m pretty sure Princeton is already in the bag. Bring on the 30-foot schooner. I hit “print” and my sales projection spreadsheet begins grinding out of my low-tech printer. “Does Austin know what he’d like to study at Princeton?” I ask to distract Mr. Gardner from his wait.
“He’s a science man. Not interested in finance at all.” The father beams. “Last summer he did an internship with a geneticist at MIT—Wolfgang Eck. Gene editing to cure hereditary diseases. I told him, ‘You find the cure. I’ll get you the financial backing to bring it to market.’”
What could a sixteen-year-old boy possibly do to assist an MIT geneticist? But kids like Austin Gardner don’t spend their summers scooping ice cream or sitting in the life guard chair at the Palmyrton town pool. No siree, they’re busy burnishing that resume to pave the path to the Ivy League and beyond. Austin might be interested in science now, but his father will make sure he doesn’t spend his life clattering among the test tubes in some research lab. No profit in that!
After I hand the spreadsheet to Mr. Gardner, he scans it and gives a brisk nod of approval. “Just what I needed. Very efficient. How soon after the sale can I expect the check?”
“I’ll need to do an accounting after the sale. So probably Tuesday or Wednesday.”
“Make it Tuesday. Bring it to my wife’s store.”
And without further ado, he’s gone. I feel like I’ve gotten off easy in my encounter with this wizard of Wall Street. Standing at the side of the office window, I peek through the crack in the shade as he gets into his large, black Mercedes.
What must it be like to never doubt that your life and your child’s life will always go according to plan?
Chapter 27
On Friday morning at breakfast, Sean chuckles as he stares at his laptop screen.
“What’s so funny?”
“Colleen got an email from my mother in Ireland and she forwarded it to the rest of us.”
“An email from your mother? She never emails.”
“She emails from Ireland—you know she’s too damn cheap to make an international phone call. She befriended a more tech-savvy Royal Hibernian and the lady showed my mother how to use the free wi-fi at the hotel in Dublin. So my mother sent this blow-by-blow description of every single thing they’ve seen.”
“That’s nice. So they’re having fun?”
“They’re having a blast. But here’s the funny thing. They’re meeting all these relatives that Colleen tracked down with her family tree research. Mom told her she missed one of the cousins on Granda’s side—the most distinguished, most successful man in the whole family. A true paragon of all the best O’Shea virtues.”
Sean grins. “But Colleen says her research shows there’s not a drop of O’Shea blood in this man. According to her, this cousin must’ve been born on the wrong side ‘o the sheets, as they say in the old country.”
I stop what I’m doing. “Surely Colleen didn’t tell your mom that?””
“Hell, no. But we’re all getting a laugh out of it. Mom and Granda are always going on and on about what ‘true’ O’Sheas do and don’t do. And how sinners always receive justice from an angry God. Looks like this guy’s mother pulled off a fifty-year lie with no repercussions. And whoever her baby’s father was, he seems to have polished the O’Shea family name to a high shine.”
AFTER BREAKFAST, I pack my bag for my final weekend in Sea Chapel and head over to pick up Ty. He likes driving more than I do, so I toss him the keys and fiddle with the radio as Ty drives us south on the Parkway. Since I refuse to listen to hip-hop and he hates rock, we have to listen to jazz or the news. As I bounce through the channels, I pause on the weather report.
“A big storm is headed toward New York and New Jersey Friday night into Saturday morning. Gale force winds and heavy rains are expected in the city and northern New Jersey, with less intense winds further south.”
“Shit! That doesn’t sound good. I hope it doesn’t affect our sales.”
“Weatherman said it won’t be as bad at the shore. You know a little bit of rain isn’t bad for our business. Keeps people from wantin’ to spend t
heir day out in their yards.”
“True. But gale force winds in Palmyrton sounds ominous.”
“Well, nuthin’ we can do about it. Besides, half the time, the weatherman is wrong.”
Next up on the radio is a weekend arts update.
“....and Sunday afternoon at four, Gregory Halpern, host of The World in a Week will appear at Monmouth University. Limited tickets are still available.”
“I really enjoyed his show at Drew,” I tell Ty. “I’d go see him again except we’ll probably still be wrapping up on Sunday afternoon.”
Ty makes a face.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to make you sit through a lecture by a podcaster.”
“I do enough sittin’ and listenin’ at school,” Ty grumbles. He keeps his eyes laser focused on the road ahead and speaks again. “I might need to take some time off.”
“Sure, if you need some extra time to study. Is there a course you’re struggling with?”
“No-o-o.” He hesitates. “Or maybe just quit.”
My head jerks around. “What? You call that nothing wrong?”
Ty squirms in the driver’s seat. “I made a big mistake. I gotta lay low for a while.” He realizes how that sounds and straightens his spine. “Nuthin’ illegal! This is personal.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
“Can’t.”
Ah, here comes the Donna confession. “What kind of personal problem would be solved by quitting Another Man’s Treasure?” I keep my voice noncommittal.
Ty swallows hard. “I don’t wanna quit, Audge. It’s just....”
“Is this about Donna?”
Ty narrows his eyes. “How you know that?”
“You’ve been avoiding her. Yesterday, you waited until you were sure she’d be out for a while before you came in. Then you found some errand to run. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Ty clearly is dying to unburden himself but must feel some sense of honor not to talk about his involvement with a woman. How can we get around this without my admitting I already know? “Did you and Donna fight? You and Jill used to argue all the time, but it never made you want to quit.”
Treasure Built of Sand (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series, #6) Page 15
