This Bitter Treasure: a romantic thriller (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 3)

by S. W. Hubbard

  Kara takes a deep breath and clenches her hands. “I can’t believe I’m telling you all this. You must think I’m nuts.”

  “No, I’m used to it. People have a tendency to tell me all about their families. Something about turning over all their stuff to me is…freeing…I guess.”

  Yes, I’m used to being a psychotherapist to bereaved, and not so bereaved, survivors. But Kara is not a survivor. Her mom is still alive. “So, you’re not thinking of having the sale before….”

  “Oh, no! But I’ve been coming to New Jersey once every ten days or so. It’s exhausting. I have to make the most of each trip, try to get as much done as possible. I have to be totally prepared, have everything ready. When, you know, it happens.”

  I want the job. I can tell from the two rooms I’ve been in that there’s lots of good stuff here. But geez, the idea of inventorying this poor woman’s possessions while she’s clinging to her last days of life…. What will I say if she asks who I am, what I’m doing? Without sounding critical, I need to encourage Kara to wait until her mom has passed before starting the job. “We could sign a contract now, then you could just call me from Pittsburgh and I’d get started…when the time comes.”

  Kara’s hands grip the arms of her chair. “It’s vital that I get an inventory now. It’s a complicated estate. As the executor, I’m responsible. I need to have everything inventoried and the sale ready to run. My Realtor already has a buyer for the house. She told me your company would empty the house and leave it clean as a whistle. Isn’t that what you do?”

  “Yes, of course, but usually—”

  Before I can elaborate, Kara lets out an exasperated huff. “You’re not interested. I’ll have to find someone else.”

  Whoa, Nellie—not so fast! “I want the job. I can start the inventory as soon as you sign the contract.”

  There’s another metallic clatter. Kara flinches, but doesn’t rise this time. “My mother is restless. She’s not really aware of what’s going on. Sometimes the aide has a hard time keeping her calm.” She gives her head a little shake to regain her train of thought. “You wanted to me sign a contract?” She extends her hand.

  I pull my standard contract out of my bag. Kara grabs a pen from the end table and moves to sign it.

  Geez, she really is in a hurry! “You should read it first,” I warn.

  “I’m sure it’s fine. My Realtor recommended you.” She hands the signed contract back. “Can you start right now? There’s quite a bit to go through.”

  “Today? I hadn’t planned on it, but I guess I could work until five.” New job or no new job, I’m still determined to make it back to the office in time to intercept Ty after his classes.

  “Good. How long will it take you to get me an estimate?”

  “It depends on how much research I have to do. Items of exceptional value I’ll sell through specialized dealers, not the general sale. Maybe a few days, maybe a week.”

  “I’m returning to Pittsburgh tonight, but the aide will be here every day. She can let you in. Let me introduce you.”

  “The sick room—there’s nothing for me to see there, I imagine?” I hope.

  “Actually, the room Mother is in now used to be the study. There are some antiques, some paintings and books. You will need to go in.”

  I’m not too good at keeping a poker face. Kara must notice my distaste.

  “Don’t worry. The aide will know the best time, when Mother has had her meds and is sleeping.”

  Kara’s phone chirps. “That’s the alert for my lawyer’s appointment. Come and meet Darlene and I’ll leave you to your work.”

  I follow her to the far side of the room, and a cluster of framed photos catches my eye. “But are you sure you’re ready? You need to remove items of sentimental value and other things you don’t want sold.”

  Kara surveys the living room with an unamused laugh. “There’s nothing sentimental about this place. My mother’s good jewelry is in the safe deposit box. Everything else is up for sale.”

  People say this all the time, but when the house has been emptied to the bare floorboards, they come to me demanding to know what I did with an envelope containing a lock of baby hair, or a circa 1945 newspaper article about Aunt Bessie serving in the WACs. I point to the photos. “Snapshots, letters, souvenirs—what do you want me to do with them?”

  “Sell the frames. Toss the photos. Toss anything you find.” Her voice contains not a shred of doubt.

  “But your siblings? Maybe they have mementoes they want preserved?”

  Kara’s restless eyes meet mine. “Believe me, there’s nothing in this house any of us wants to preserve.”

  Chapter 3

  Darlene, her frizzy hair yanked back from a broad, plain face, acknowledges our introduction without much interest and says Mrs. Eskew won’t be reliably asleep for at least an hour, so I head upstairs to begin. There, the stench of illness isn’t so bad. It doesn’t take long for me to become totally engrossed in the inventory. There are five bedrooms on the second floor. A quick glance shows the master is at the near end of the hall, but I save that for last. The next three bedrooms are tastefully decorated with antiques and perfectly coordinated custom bedding and drapes. Guest rooms, now that the kids are grown. But one bedroom has been maintained as a shrine: tennis trophies, swimming trophies, golf trophies, crew trophies—all engraved to Parker Eskew. This has to be Kara’s oldest brother, the one who was supposed to be the executor. A blue Columbia banner. An award from Rotary. Some kind of fraternity certificate. And framed photos, scores of them. Parker in his scull. Parker with a tennis racquet on his shoulder. Parker in a group of tuxedoed young men. He resembles Kara, but in the way a Doberman resembles a mini pinscher. The face is similar, but it’s a whole different breed. His vitality practically leaps out of the picture frames. In none of the photos does he look any older than late twenties. I wonder what happened to him?

  It will be our job to discard all this after the sale. Kara’s pain when she mentioned her brother seemed genuine, yet she doesn’t want to keep any of his things. Maybe she already has the treasures that are meaningful to her. You can’t keep everything. But people feel heartless discarding the memories of the departed.

  And it’s a good thing they do. That’s what keeps Another Man’s Treasure in business.

  This room has the most personality, but the fewest items of monetary value. The bed, dresser, and nightstand are slightly dated Ethan Allen. I can sell them, certainly, but they won’t bring much. I open a dresser drawer expecting it to be empty. Instead there are some neatly folded Columbia sweatshirts and tees. I open another drawer—please don’t tell me she saved his underwear and socks—but it’s full of scrapbooks and photo albums.

  I shut it gently and leave the room.

  In the master bedroom, there’s plenty to inventory. A collection of Chinese cloisonné, a series of Audubon prints, a closet with five Prada and two Chanel bags and some timeless St. John suits. There are four small worn spots in the shape of a large rectangle. Something has been removed from the top of the dresser—a jewelry box? I open the dresser drawers. The two small top drawers are empty, but the lower drawers are filled with lingerie. This must be where Mrs. Eskew kept the jewelry that Kara says is now in a bank vault.

  I finish in the bedrooms and notice a raised panel door that blends with the wainscoting in the hall. I try the handle, but it’s locked. I’ll have to ask Kara about that. There’s also a narrow staircase that leads up to the third floor. I walk partway up, but I’m driven back by the heat. No air-conditioning up there. I think I’ll save that for another morning when it’s cooler.

  I head down the broad main stairway. There’s a landing where the stairs turn, with a niche containing a lovely sculpture of a nymph gracefully perched on rocks. I pause to take a photo. This will require some research—I know nothing about sculpture. I crouch to line up the shot just as Darlene emerges from the study/sickroom. She has her cell phone pressed to her ear, and
an orange prescription bottle in her other hand. “It says fifteen milligrams,” she says. “Twenty. Yeah? Well, you try taking care of her with no meds. Fine.”

  She walks out of my line of sight. Then I hear the rattle of pills shaken out of a bottle.

  Chapter 4

  I descend the stairs and stand hesitating in the foyer. Should I go to the back of the house and see if now is a good time to inventory Mrs. Eskew’s sickroom? I’d much prefer to slip out the front door, but honestly, the task won’t be any more appealing tomorrow.

  I start down the hallway, but a long table with a collection of stone figures soon catches my attention. They’re gargoyles! How cool is that? I pick one up—whoa, really heavy—and study his face: big bulging eyes, pointy ears, and a teasing grin. The back of the figure is rough and uneven, showing where he was removed from whatever building he once guarded. I pick up another. This one has a dragon’s snout and wings emerging from his shoulders. I wonder how much they’re worth? ‘Cause if they’re not too expensive, I may have to buy one for the new house we’re searching for. Sean would love it.

  I’m a few steps from the study, when the door flies open. Darlene and I spring away from each other, equally startled.

  Her eyes narrow. “I didn’t know you were out here.”

  “I just came down from the bedrooms. Is this a good time to inventory the study? If not, it can wait until tomorrow.”

  Darlene sighs. “No, you may as well do it now. She’s asleep.”

  “If I’m interrupting your break…”

  “I don’t get a break.” Darlene holds the study door open and waves me in.

  The room is dim and suffocatingly hot. The decaying smell catches in the back of my throat. How can Darlene stand to sit in here all day? I creep forward. A high hospital bed with the head raised sits in the center of the room. At first glance it appears empty, the old woman lying in it is so wizened and pale. I can see the blue veins of her scalp through the scant tufts of silver hair that remain. Her breaths are rasping and so far apart that they don’t seem capable of sustaining life. I avert my gaze and make my way to the bookcases that cover two walls.

  A decorator can impart style, but books speak the truth about a house. Matched sets of leather-bound classics: fake culture. Slightly frayed editions on eclectic topics: a true reader. Meticulously organized books with perfect dust jackets: a collector. Readers are more fun, but collectors bring in more money, of course.

  I shine my flashlight across the shelves. John Steinbeck. Willa Cather. Wallace Stegner. Someone had a passion for authors writing about the American West. My heart rate kicks up. Good lord, could that be a first edition of The Grapes of Wrath? I climb the rolling ladder to give the volume a closer look.

  “What made you go after that one?”

  Darlene’s voice startles me so much I nearly topple off the ladder. I got so excited by the book, I forgot she was even in the room. First editions are one of my favorite topics and I could easily wax on about them, but I bite back my words. A book would be easy to steal, but hard to sell for someone who knows nothing about rare editions. I slide the Steinbeck back into its place. I’m starting to see the scope of the job. This room alone could take me all day if these shelves are filled with valuable first editions. Clearly, I’m going to have a hard time cataloguing all these books under Darlene’s inquisitive eye. I’ll have to ask Kara how she wants me to handle the book collection.

  “Just an author I like. I’m kind of a book geek.” I come down the ladder. “Have you been taking care of Mrs. Eskew for long?”

  “Three months.” Darlene stands with her arms folded, watching me. Chit-chat about her patient is not on her agenda.

  There’s a nice little Queen Anne table next to the bed. I’d like to look at it, but a stainless steel tray filled with pill bottles rests on top. How can a dying person require so much medication?

  “You want me to move that?”

  “If you don’t mind.” I feel Darlene’s eyes boring into my back as I open the drawer to look at the dovetail joints and run my fingers over the finish.

  “You think someone’s gonna wanna buy that?”

  “Mmmm. Probably. There’s a good market for smaller pieces like this.”

  “Like, for more than twenty bucks?”

  I shrug, hoping I’m projecting indifference. In reality, I know a dealer who will pay $800 and sell it in a shop in Mendham or Summit for $1,200.

  “Well, I wouldn’t give more than twenty bucks for any of this dark, depressing old junk,” Darlene says. “If I had money, I’d go to Ikea and buy all new fresh, modern stuff. I like modern. I wouldn’t want some dead lady’s old shit.”

  I cringe at “dead lady.” But poor Mrs. Eskew doesn’t stir. “Lots of people agree with you,” I say. “But luckily there enough who like antiques…or a bargain… to keep me in business.”

  “Yeah, I know all about finding bargains at garage sales.” Darlene nudges a frayed footstool with her white Crocs. “I’m sick of that. Sick of second-hand everything.”

  I move to a huge desk that has been pushed aside to make room for the bed. It’s Chippendale revival, made of nice mahogany, but pieces like this don’t fetch much these days. Now that all anyone needs to run a business is a laptop and a cellphone, the market for desks with this much square footage has shrunk to nothing.

  “When you planning on having this sale?” Darlene follows me, keeping five feet between us.

  I cough. “Not until….”

  “She’ll be gone by Friday. Saturday, tops.”

  My eyes widen. “But Kara just went back to Pittsburgh.”

  “I told Ms. Lyman. She don’t wanna believe me. Says the doctor is giving her two, three weeks. No way.”

  “You’ve taken care of a lot of dying people?”

  “Twenty-five, thirty. You hear that sound she’s making when she inhales?”

  We pause and listen to the intermittent scratch of sandpaper on wood emanating from the bed.

  “I don’t care what the doctor says,” Darlene continues. “That sound means she’s on the way out.”

  I open my mouth to speak, but what can I possibly say?

  “Guess you think that’s mean, huh?”

  “Just realistic, I’m sure.” I scurry over to the oil portrait between the two windows, sending up a silent prayer that when my time comes, I won’t have Darlene watching over me. “What will you do when this job…ends?”

  “If I’m lucky, the agency will send me right out on another one. I got three kids. I can’t afford days off.”

  She flicks her stringy ponytail. “I’ll probably get another job pretty quick. I’m in demand ‘cause I’m…you know.”

  Brutally honest? I wouldn’t think that’d be a selling point in a home health aide. I peer at her above the iPad I’m using to take pictures and notes. “Uh…I’m sure you’re good at what you do.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I meant, I get hired a lot ‘cause I’m white. Lots of the other girls are Haitian or Jamaican. Don’t get me wrong, I think they’re nice. But lots of the old folks don’t want a black nurse.”

  I stop what I’m doing. “Surely it’s illegal to request someone by race?”

  “Yeah, I think it is. They say stuff like, ‘Must speak perfect English.’ Like, my friend Georgene is way smarter than me. She was a registered nurse back in Jamaica. But sometimes she don’t get the jobs, and I do.”

  Darlene keeps talking as I shine my flashlight on the painting of a dour old man in 18th century garb. I’m looking for the artist’s signature, but all I can see is a tiny brass plate screwed into the frame, which reads “Bartholomew Eskew, 1735-1791.” Cool—an ancestor painting. Won’t Kara want to keep this? If old Bartholomew were my great-great-great-great grandpa, I’d keep him.

  “This job hasn’t been so bad,” Darlene continues. “At least she’s light. Changing her diapers isn’t so hard. The four hundred pound diabetics with gangrene are the worst.”

  She s
inks into a chair. “And the ones with Alzheimer’s. They stay up all night and roam around the house. They try to escape. They reach in their pants and throw their shit at you. The old men beat off all the time.”

  With her eyes half-closed, she keeps talking. “Yeah, this job’s not so bad. I hope the old gal hangs on a few more days.”

  I want to run screaming from the room. I’d rather work in a coal mine than have Darlene’s job.

  Chapter 5

  “Tell me all about it!”

  By the time I get back to the office, Adrienne has left for the day and Ty’s car— a three-year-old Nissan Sentra that’s his pride and joy—is parked out front. Finally, I get to hear the report on his first day of school. And after my encounters with the drug addict at Caffeine Planet and the home health aide at the Eskews’ house, I’m ready for some happy news.

  Ty tucks his paycheck in his back pocket and shrugs. “I dunno. It was a’right. Just school. Without all the nonsense rules.”

  “C’mon, Ty—you gotta give me more than that. How was 20th Century Art?”

  He grins. “The teacher talks like Jill. ‘Matisse’s The Da-a-ance is the first m-a-a-a-sterpiece of the ce-e-e-ntureee.’ “Cept she’s hotter. Statistics, the teacher’s an old dude, but he’s okay. He started right in teaching and I understood everything. So far.”

  I’m encouraged by his enthusiasm. “What about the writing class?”

  Ty’s expression darkens. “’S okay. But I don’t wanna be there.”

  “Writing was never my favorite subject either, but it’s useful in business to be able to write well.”

  “I don’t mind taking English. I’m mad I got put in the dumbass class. Even when I was doing bad in high school, they never put me in with the dumbass kids.”

  “Ty! It’s not a class for slow learners. Remedial just means you have a little catching up to do before you’re ready for the freshman writing class.”