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

by S. W. Hubbard

  “Gilbert Eskew and his son, Tom.”

  “You remember selling that book to the senior Eskew? He bought it in the sixties.”

  “Oh, he was a regular customer. Yes, indeed.”

  “You were friends?”

  “Friends!” He gives a baa-ing little laugh. “Oh, heavens no. He wasn’t a very friendly man. I managed to insult him, and he put me in my place.” Mr. Venable’s eyes are twinkling. He certainly doesn’t seem full of regret.

  “Insult him how?”

  “One day when he was buying a book, I said, ‘Eskew. That’s an unusual name. What nationality is it?’ because genealogy and the etymology of surnames are interests of mine.” He leans across his desk and blinks his goaty eyes at me. “Did you know that Truman Capote is the seventh cousin of Tennessee Williams? Anyway, Eskew glared at me and said, ‘American.’ And he turned on his heel and didn’t come back for several years. Years! Of course, by the time he did come back, I knew exactly why I’d offended him.”

  He pauses. Clearly he expects me to beg him to continue, so I oblige.

  “After he left, I started researching the name Gilbert Eskew. Mind you, this was long before Google, back in the day when genealogical research was still a challenge.” Another pause.

  “What did you find?”

  “My customer became Gilbert Eskew when he was eighteen. Before that, he was Jakub Eskein. Son of Moische and Sarai Eskein, a shoemaker and a laundress on the Lower East Side.”

  “No, that can’t be true. There’s a portrait of a Bartholomew Eskew who lived in the seventeen hundreds hanging in the Eskew home.”

  Mr. Venable wrinkles his nose. “How do you know the man in the painting is an ancestor of the Eskews?”

  “There was a little brass plaque—” Then I start to laugh. How easy it is to create an impression! “Mr. Eskew must’ve bought that painting at a flea market and screwed the sign into the frame. So he was ashamed of being poor and Jewish? What a slap at his parents!”

  “Oh, maybe they encouraged him.” Venable tugs on his straggly beard.

  Good grief, the old guy is infuriating! “Why?”

  “Jakub was a superstar at Stuyvesant High School. That public school was a pipeline into the Ivy League for poor but smart kids. They probably all figured the name change would give him a better chance.”

  And then he graduated from Harvard. And married an Episcopalian. And bought a stately home. And got into a posh country club. And produced four WASP children. By then it was too late to reclaim his roots.

  Despite being intrigued by this information, I can’t resist a dig at my informant. “So, you solved a mystery but lost a customer.”

  “Only for a few years.” He puffs out his chest. “It’s hard to avoid me if you’re a serious collector of first editions.”

  “Did you ever tell him you knew his secret?”

  “Never told a soul until I told you.”

  “Why not?”

  “No one else ever asked.”

  After I get back from Mr. Venable’s, I pack up a few things at the office and prepare to head to the Morrone sale. Then I notice Ty’s laptop sitting on his desk. I’d better bring it with me.

  The laptop has gone into sleep mode, but when I pick it up, it jumps to life. On the screen is a photograph. A photo of an adorable baby, a few months old. He has coffee-colored skin, a headful of dark curls, and big button eyes. He stares at the camera with his little chin jutted out. He should have a thought bubble over his head, “Don’t mess with me.”

  It’s a photo of Ty as a baby. It must be.

  But then I notice the fabric of the blanket he’s sitting on: Finding Nemo.

  Nemo wasn’t a thing twenty-three years ago. This photo is recent. Very recent.

  On my way to the Morrone job I feel dizzy with anxiety. Ty has seemed tense lately and worried about money. He kept wanting to postpone college. I assumed he was simply nervous about returning to the classroom. Now I see his behavior in a whole new light.

  He’s been coping with fatherhood.

  How could he have let this happen? Just as everything in his life was going so well, how could he have been so careless as to knock up some girl?

  And who is she? If the baby is three months old, then the mother is someone he was dating a year ago. I try to remember this time last year. It would have been right around the time I discovered my mother’s ring. Right when I met Cal and got swept away. It’s hard to remember what was going on in other people’s lives in the days when that giant iceberg ripped apart my life. It seems to me Ty was juggling a couple different girls then. I thought it was cute. But lately, I haven’t heard him mention any girls at all.

  And what was going on when the baby was born? How could I have missed this? Was I so caught up in my love affair with Sean that I totally overlooked that Ty was struggling with impending fatherhood?

  How could Jill have missed it?

  We work the sale together all day, but I’m anxious and distracted. The flow of customers peters out early, and by dusk we’re packed up and ready to roll. I send Adrienne home and prepare to confront Ty.

  Just before we leave the empty Morrone split-level, I pull out his laptop. “You left this at the office. I figured you’d need it.”

  Ty slaps his head. “Thanks, Audge. I got too much goin’ on these days.”

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  He cocks his head. “Nuthin’ to tell. Just school and shit.”

  I wouldn’t classify a son as “and shit.” “I saw the picture on your computer. How could you not have told me about this? How could you have hidden that you have a son?”

  Ty is looking at me like I’m babbling about the Illuminati taking over the world.

  “Are you crazy, woman? That’s not my son. That’s my nephew. Charmaine’s boy.”

  The relief is like getting my first breath of air after a wave has knocked me flat.

  “Your nephew! He looks just like you.”

  “I know. Everybody says so.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?’

  “I only found out myself three weeks ago. Charmaine was living in Baltimore with the baby’s father. I hadn’t heard from her more than a text once in a while. I didn’t know she was pregnant. Things started falling apart with the guy once the baby was born, and Charmaine came back to Newark.”

  Explaining the timing doesn’t explain why he never mentioned his uncle-hood to me, but I let it pass. “What’s his name?”

  “Adelowo. It means ‘the crown has respect’ in Yoruba.” Ty shakes his head. “I told her not to saddle him with a name nobody outside of Nigeria can pronounce, but you can’t tell Charmaine nothin’. Anything. I call him Lo.”

  “I like his name. Little Lo! He’s really cute, and I don’t even like babies. Much.”

  Ty has a gentle look in his eye that I’ve only seen before when Ethel has her head on his knee. He’s crazy about this kid. Is that what a blood bond does? Is it automatic?

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask again, my voice soft.

  Ty paces around the tiny Morrone living room. “I didn’t want you to think bad of Charmaine. I don’t want my grandma to know. I don’t want her sayin’ I told you so.”

  Ty stops before me and stretches his long arms up to the top of the doorframe. “So now I gotta help Charmaine find a decent place to live. And a job, ‘cause she can’t count on her baby daddy. And if she finds a job, she’s gonna need someone to watch the baby.” He pauses and stares me down. “She’s a good mother. She really is.”

  “I’m sure she is. You should tell Grandma Betty. She would help, wouldn’t she?”

  Ty shakes his head. “Grams is done raisin’ babies. Besides, this baby’s not her grandchild. She’ll tell me to walk away. But I can’t. I keep seein’ his childhood goin’ down like mine, know what I’m sayin’? I can’t let that happen. The boy needs a man in his life. A real man.”

  I give him a hug. “You’re the realest man I know, Ty
. Lo is lucky to have you as an uncle.”

  He looks down at his giant feet and shrugs. My heart swells with such affection for him that I speak without thinking. “I’ll babysit in a pinch. Just call if you ever need help.”

  When I get home from the sale, Sean has an outing planned for me.

  “Put on sneakers and a sweatshirt. We’re taking Deirdre’s kids to the St. Bart’s Carnival.”

  “I haven’t been to the Carnival for years,” I protest. “Probably since I was in middle school.”

  “Good news. You’re coming this year. I promised the kids I’d take them.”

  “They won’t want me tagging along on an outing with their favorite uncle.” I won’t admit it to Sean, but I’m uneasy around the kids. Sean is indisputably the fun uncle. But I feel they regard me as falling way short of being the fun aunt.

  “Oh, yes they will. The boys don’t want to ride with their sister. And I can’t ride with her.”

  “Why not?”

  Sean turns to me and grins. ”I throw up.”

  So Sean and I and the kids set off on our Saturday evening adventure.

  Even after twenty-five years, the carnival still stirs in me a mixture of excitement and anxiety. As kids, we used to hang out the school bus window, squealing with delight when the first carnival trucks pulled into the St. Bart’s field. We’d watch the progress from morning to afternoon as more of the rides and stalls were set up. As opening day grew closer, everyone began to make their plans. Who was going when and with whom. That’s the point at which excitement morphed to anxiety for me. I had to start scheming—begging my father for permission to go, wheedling cash from my grandparents for tickets, and worst of all, hinting and hoping that my neighbors or a friend would offer me a ride. Once I was there, I had to pretend disinterest in the games. I knew there would be nothing but trouble if I came home clutching a goldfish in a plastic bag or an oversized, neon-furred stuffed animal. Tonight, for the first time in my life, I can experience the carnival without my father’s disapproval.

  Chrissy’s eyes are as big and round as Cracker Barrel pancakes as the bright lights of the carnival come into view.

  “This is the first year she’s getting to come at night,” her brother explains. “Instead of on Sunday afternoon with the babies.”

  Chrissy lets go of Sean’s hand, reminded that she’s too old for that. “What was the carnival like when you were little?”

  “Same rides,” I say. “The Viking Boat, the Ferris Wheel, the Spinning Tea Cups.”

  “Same dirt-bag carny workers with no teeth,” Sean mutters.

  “Did you come with your brothers and sisters?” Chrissy asks me.

  “I don’t have any. I’m an only child. I used to come with our neighbors, the Andersons.”

  Sean glances over at me. “Your dad didn’t bring you?”

  I snort. “Dad wanted no part of it. I had to beg to be allowed to come. He claimed carnival rides are inherently dangerous because they must be designed by engineers at the bottom of their class. According to him, engineers on the Dean’s List would be designing something more worthwhile.”

  Sean chuckles. “I can definitely hear Roger saying that. So why did he let you go at all?”

  His question stops me cold. Why did my father let me go if he thought the carnival rides were dangerous? “Maybe that was just an excuse,” I whisper. “Maybe he couldn’t face being a sad, single dad among all the happy families.”

  Sean pulls me into a hug while the kids skip ahead. “My dad brought us, but he acted like he was patrolling the South Bronx the entire time. I guess what you fear is all a matter of perspective.”

  The tinny music gets louder and the scent of popcorn and funnel cakes drifts out to us as we reach the admission gate. Sean winces as he forks over a handful of twenties, and we’re in. Immediately, the boys spot other kids they know and the whole pack clamors to ride the Viking Boat. Chrissy looks up at the giant canoe that threatens to loop the loop at each turn. She bites her lip.

  “Let’s work our way up to that one, Chrissy,” I say, as her brothers run off with their friends’ father. “We can start small with the parachute swings.”

  Sean waits outside the barrier, and we wave to him each time we fly by. The cool breeze ruffles my hair, and I feel like I might take off and soar right up to the stars. Finally, I’ve got the carefree part of childhood nailed.

  When the ride stops, Chrissy and I stagger off, giddy and laughing. Sean scrutinizes us. “You gonna puke?”

  “No way!” we chant in unison and high five each other.

  The boys rejoin us, and now their pack is even bigger.

  “Ty! What are you doing here?”

  “Keepin’ an eye on Kyle and Jamal. Grams wouldn’t let ‘em come alone.”

  I ride the Tea Cups and the Tilt-a-Whirl and begin to worry that my inner ears will never be the same. Then, Ty’s cousin Kyle declares the Haunted House their next stop, and the kids roll in that direction as one.

  As it gets later, the composition of the crowd surrounding us changes. Families with kids leave and are replaced by packs of guys and girls in their late teens and early twenties. Beer isn’t sold at the carnival, but given the screaming and staggering of the young people surrounding us, I’d say some pre-gaming has taken place. Sean shoots a threatening glare at some guys in wife-beaters who jostle him.

  When we arrive at the Haunted House, I elbow Sean. “This doesn’t spin. You take a turn. I’m exhausted.”

  “Okay, time off for good behavior. Boys, you go first. Chrissy, you stay right in front of me. Ty, you coming?”

  “Ima stay out here,” Ty says. “After what we found at Harold the Hoarder’s house, I don’t need to pay money for nasty surprises.”

  As awful as that job was, it did bring Sean and me together. I had to call on him for help, then I had to push him away when he got too controlling. It took us a while, but we’ve finally figured out our boundaries.

  Within seconds of Sean and the kids disappearing into the house, we hear their high-pitched screams from within the attraction. I chat with Ty about our profits from the sale at the Morrone house, but he doesn’t answer. His eyes are riveted on the haunted house.

  “What are you worried about? Kyle and Jamal can’t get lost in there.”

  Ty nods toward the head of the line. “Whattup with those two? They’re too old for this.”

  Two young men in their early twenties stand a few steps before the entrance and talk with their heads close together. The taller one wears a backwards red New Jersey Devils cap. He looks at some cash in his hand, sticks it in his pocket, and they enter the attraction.

  “Eeew,” Ty says. “Get a room!”

  “No! You think?”

  Ty strides closer to the exit to wait for the kids. Soon Kyle and Jamal emerge, followed by the others. Finally, Sean exits. He shoos Chrissy and the boys towards Ty and me, and steps into the shadows behind the attraction. I see him making a call. Seconds later, Backwards Devil’s Cap and his friend leave the house. They separate without a word and join the crowd.

  Sean lopes over to us and tosses me a twenty. His eyes are tracking the guy in the Devil’s cap. “Let the kids play a few rounds of games. I’ll be right back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “There’s a team from the Drug Task Force here. I gotta check in with them.”

  “Sean, no—this isn’t a work night!”

  “Ty will help you,” Sean calls back over his shoulder.

  A wave of anger overtakes me as I watch Sean’s back disappear into the crowd. What if I hadn’t come tonight? He wouldn’t have gone off with the Drug Task Force and left the kids alone. So why do it now? He doesn’t want to miss out on some big arrest, so he dumps his family responsibility on me.

  “Guess your boyfriend’s never off-duty,” Ty says.

  There’s an edge of disapproval in Ty’s voice, disapproval that I happen to agree with. But I don’t let that show. Ty and Sean ha
ve progressed from mistrust to tolerance, but they’re still a long way from cordial. I don’t need to give Ty fuel for his fire.

  “Sean and the Task Force are working hard to shut down the heroin trade in Palmyrton,” I say. The kids are running ahead of us to the games.

  “Looks like I was right. Those two guys were up to something, but I guessed the wrong thing,” Ty says.

  I watch Sean’s nephews tussling with each other, and I can’t restrain my annoyance. “Sean better not leave me here for long. I can’t ride herd on all three kids.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ty says. “We’ll win ‘em some toys.”

  Ty easily sinks three shots in a row at the basketball game and lets Chrissy pick the prize. This inspires the boys to face off against one another, while Chrissy cheers them on. Ty comes to stand beside me. He has a restless look on his face, the kind he gets when he’s trying to work out a problem and is unwilling to ask for help.

  I wait, but patience is not one of my virtues.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “That guy that Sean’s after—the tall one? I feel like I’ve seen him before.”

  “Really? I couldn’t see his face clearly, but there was something sort of familiar about the way he carries himself. That kind of loping walk.”

  Ty rubs his temples. “I feel like there’s something right on the edge of my memory. Like when I’m tryin’ to remember the rules about commas.”

  The kids have managed to lose twenty dollars’ worth of games in record time, and still Sean has not returned nor responded to my text. I’m not sure whether to be angry or worried. Is Sean merely preoccupied or is he caught up in something dangerous? Sean has managed to convince me that detectives like him face less risk than patrol cops, but he’s obviously not investigating from his desk tonight.

  The kids look at me imploringly wanting more money for the games, but I don’t have any cash to offer. I intentionally left my purse at home so I’d be unencumbered. Now I’m angry at myself. When I was a single girl on the dating scene, I never left the house without enough cash to get a taxi back home. Now, because I’m engaged, I thought I could let down my guard. Dumb, Audrey. Really dumb.