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

by S. W. Hubbard

  “Parker and his siblings were close?” I ask.

  “Yeah, they were tight. They had to be—their parents weren’t very warm and fuzzy.”

  If I thought I was going to have a hard time pumping Wes, I’m totally wrong. He seems to be loving this trip down memory lane.

  “So you went to Georgetown and Parker went to Harvard? Or was it Columbia?”

  “Both. He did his freshman year at Harvard, then transferred. Of course, he was instantly popular at Harvard, so I hardly heard from him. We saw each other briefly over Christmas break. Then, all of a sudden in the spring, he started calling me.”

  “He suddenly missed you?”

  “It was strange. There was some trouble.” Wes swirls the dregs of the tea in his mug.

  “Girl trouble?”

  “Parker didn’t fully appreciate the effect he had on people. He could make them do things they’d later regret.”

  “Do you mean date rape?” This sounds like the kind of scandal I’m after.

  Wes makes a gesture like he’s searching for words that don’t exist. “It was a misunderstanding.”

  “That’s what guys all say. I’m sure Parker wasn’t used to taking no for an answer.”

  Wes looks a little queasy. “He wasn’t some drunken jock forcing himself on women. But when you were with Parker, you’d do anything to please him. You’d ski double black-diamond slopes and surf rough water. And then, when you’d broken a leg or had to be fished out of the ocean by a lifeguard, you’d ask yourself, ‘What the hell was I thinking?’”

  “So he coerced this girl into having sex and she regretted it? And then he called you for advice? Wouldn’t he have wanted to keep it quiet?”

  Wes gets a funny expression on his face, like he’s suddenly seeing the second image in one of those optical illusion pictures. “I, I’m not sure why he called to tell me about it. I always assumed he simply wanted to vent. Parker simply couldn’t believe the matter wasn’t going his way. But this girl was more than his match. The Eskews were rich, but she was from really old, really big money. There was a building at Harvard named after her grandfather. They kept the problem hushed up, but the girl’s family forced Parker to transfer. Sent a letter to Gilbert Eskew saying they’d file charges if Parker didn’t leave Harvard.”

  “What did his parents do?”

  “Oh, they backed Parker all the way. But Mr. Eskew knew he was outgunned, so instead of fighting the transfer they made it look like Parker had been wooed away by superior opportunities at Columbia. Maybe that’s why Parker called to tell me what really happened. He suspected I wouldn’t believe the cover story.”

  “So telling you was a pre-emptive strike. He asked for your sympathy?”

  “And he got it. It all seems trivial now. Parker distinguished himself at Columbia. He graduated summa cum laude. Got into Wharton for grad school. Got the Wall Street job.”

  “And what happened to the girl?”

  Wes stares at the floor the way you do when you’re trying to work out a problem. Eventually he speaks. “She got her own form of justice, so I guess she was satisfied. Parker never spoke the name Sloane Trevelyan again. But I’ve seen her at gallery openings and museum fundraisers.”

  “You know her?”

  Wes shakes his head. “I know who she is; she doesn’t know who I am, or that I was a friend of Parker’s.”

  “Did the experience change him?” I ask.

  “Was he humbled?” Wes laughs. “All I know is he always had a beautiful woman on his arm.”

  “And what about Leonie, his wife? Did you know her? Were they happy? Did she know about this other girl, Sloane?”

  Wes shakes his head. “I doubt it. I met Leonie once in New York when they were first engaged. She was lovely. She seemed besotted by him.”

  Besotted. What a word! I love Sean, but I’m certainly not besotted—not the way the two of us butt heads. But that’s what he likes about me. He wouldn’t want me to be besotted.

  “You didn’t go to Parker and Leonie’s wedding?”

  For a fleeting moment, Wes looks like I’ve jabbed him with a pointy stick. “I got an invitation: Wesley Tavisson and guest. When I responded that I’d be bringing Antonio, my invitation was rescinded.”

  “That’s awful! Parker said you couldn’t bring him?”

  “Not Parker. Mrs. Eskew. The RSVP cards went to her. She called me and said Antonio’s presence would be ‘inappropriate.’”

  “What a witch! You didn’t complain to Parker?”

  Wes sighs. “Antonio said he wouldn’t go anywhere he wasn’t wanted. I didn’t want to rain on Parker’s happiness before the wedding. I figured I might tell him afterwards. But…” Wes’s hand trembles. “I never saw Parker again.”

  Chapter 29

  “Something awful happened yesterday and I don’t know what to do about it. I need your advice.” I speak into my Bluetooth as I drive back to Palmyrton after dropping off the painting with Wes. I’ve been obsessing again about the Adrienne problem. Sean has a late meeting, so I don’t have to face lying to him over dinner. But I’ll see him later and I need a strategy. I can’t ask my dad for advice. As the clueless victim of my mother’s infidelity, he’ll feel that Brendan has a right to be informed. If I tell my father what I saw, he’ll feel compelled to tell Sean about it himself. And that would be the worst of all worlds.

  So I’m calling Natalie, begging her to meet me for coffee while my father is running his chess club meeting. I don’t need a shrink to tell me I see her as the mother I never had. And listening to problems and offering advice is what moms are all about, right?

  Natalie raises her eyebrows as I take a seat across from her at the Whole Foods café. That’s about as alarmed as she allows herself to get.

  I plunge into my story. “Adrienne and I were working at the Eskew house yesterday. I told her I was leaving early to take care of some business with my accountant, but then I got halfway back to Palmyrton when I realized I’d left something important at the house. When I came back into the kitchen, I heard noises in the pantry. It was Adrienne and Tom Eskew.” I make a “use your imagination” gesture. “She begged me not to tell Sean. She claims it was just one moment of madness. But I feel terrible lying by omission to Sean. And what if Brendan finds out some other way and realizes I helped her cover up?” I shudder. “I can’t stand to think about it.”

  I wait, an uneasy tension building. Natalie always chooses her words carefully, and if she’s being this careful, she must have something very tricky to impart.

  “You’re right to be concerned, Audrey. Keeping secrets is not a good way to move forward in your relationship with Sean. But this.” She shakes her head. “Sean and Brendan won’t thank you for being the bearer of bad news. If Adrienne is unhappy in her marriage, you should urge her to see a counselor, even if her husband won’t go. She’s doing this for attention. I doubt that it will stop until she gets the attention she needs from her husband.”

  “Do you think I was too hard on Adrienne?”

  Natalie reaches across the table and lightly strokes the back of my hand. “I think you have a strong aversion to infidelity. And that’s understandable. But you can’t know all that’s going on between Adrienne and Brendan. Marriages are complex mechanisms.” She pauses.

  “And they can’t be fixed by hacks with sledgehammers, right?”

  She squeezes my hand. “You’re not a hack, dear. You’re just perplexed by this big, new family you’re about to join.”

  “You can say that again. In fact, I think I’m perplexed by all families.”

  And I launch into my discovery of the sliced up baby gifts and my suspicion that Rachel wanted me to find them.

  “I wish you could meet this woman, Natalie. You’d know how to respond to her. I feel bad, but she really creeps me out.”

  “Is she delusional like Harold?”

  “No, nothing like that. Everything she says is based in reality. But she rattles along, chatting and ch
atting and it doesn’t seem to matter if anyone is listening. And she’s hyper-sensitive to noises. There was a leaf-blower running a few yards down from the Eskews’ house one day when I was working there and she covered her ears and actually started crying. I didn’t know what to do.”

  Natalie’s brow furrows. “Describe what she looks like again. You said she’s really tiny, but what does her face look like?”

  “She doesn’t resemble her siblings much. Her upper lip is very thin and her eyes are small.”

  Natalie grabs my iPad and types something, then flips the screen around. “Does she look like this?”

  A variety of strange, elfin faces stare out from the screen. Even though they’re all different ages, genders, and races, they bear a resemblance to one another. And to Rachel. I look above the photos: Google Images results for Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.

  “Wow, you think that’s what she has? That her mom drank during her pregnancy and caused Rachel’s problems? But no—she’s a twin, and Tom’s okay. He’s nothing like her.”

  Natalie raises her eyebrows. “FAS affects different fetuses differently. It has to do with how the alcohol is absorbed through the placenta, and the way each fetus breaks down ethanol. That’s why doctors say there’s no safe amount of alcohol you can drink when you’re pregnant.”

  “So even if Mrs. Eskew wasn’t a full-scale alcoholic, she still could’ve harmed Rachel in utero. Do you think she knew what she was doing was dangerous?”

  Natalie shrugs. “Fifty years ago doctors didn’t have the understanding we have today. They even used to tell their patients to have a drink to relax them during pregnancy. Still, you’d think simple common sense would tell you getting drunk couldn’t possibly be good for your baby.”

  I lean back from the computer. “But I thought FAS caused mental retardation. Rachel doesn’t seem retarded although apparently she never finished high school.”

  “It causes a whole range of problems: hypersensitivity, inability to understand cause and effect, inability to manage money. Mental retardation is the most severe. That’s why social workers need to know about FAS. Kids get blamed for having bad behavior or being irresponsible, but if they have FAS, those behaviors can be beyond their ability to control.”

  “So everyone in the family blames Rachel for being a screw-up but—”

  “Her mother made her that way.”

  My chat with Natalie makes me feel like I’m not lying to Sean about Adrienne, only stepping back and allowing her and Brendan to work out their own problems. So when Sean arrives at my condo at seven-thirty, I’m feeling guilt-free and affectionate. We’ve just settled in for a glass of wine when the doorbell rings. I answer it, and there stands Ty holding a yowling bundle. His eyes are wide with anxiety.

  “What’s wrong? Is Lo sick?”

  Ty glances at the baby as if surprised to see him in his arms. “Nah, he’s just mad ‘cause I woke him up. It’s Charmaine I’m worried about. She left Lo with me while she went to look at an apartment. She was supposed to be back a while ago. I’ve been calling and texting her, and her phone is off. I gotta go find her.”

  Sean comes up behind me. He reaches out and lifts the baby from Ty’s arms. “You go. We’ll watch the little fella.”

  He slings Lo over his shoulder like a dishtowel and rubs his back. Within seconds, the baby stops crying.

  “Where’s the apartment?” Sean asks.

  “Fowler Street.”

  Sean scowls. “That’s a crap neighborhood.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s better’n Newark. And it’s all she can afford in Palmyrton.”

  “I better come with you,” Sean says.

  “No!” Ty and I chorus in unison. He doesn’t want to be alone with Sean. I don’t want to be alone with the baby.

  “Thanks, man, but I’ll be a’ight.” Ty reaches behind himself and pulls Lo’s stroller and diaper bag into my condo. “Everything he needs is in here. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  “Call me if you run into trouble, ” Sean shouts after Ty as he lopes down the sidewalk.

  Sean holds Lo at arm’s length. “Hey, little man—you’re kinda stinky. Let’s get you changed. Bring me that bag, Audrey.”

  I’m mesmerized as Sean flips through the bag pulling out a pad, wipes, and a diaper. Then he lays Lo on his back and deftly removes a garment that would have stumped Houdini.

  I’m shocked by the mess in the baby’s diaper. “Why is it yellow? Is he sick?”

  “Nah, baby poop comes in all kinds of colors.” Sean looks over his shoulder at me. “You’ve never changed a diaper?”

  “No.” I feel defensive. “When would I? I’ve got no siblings, no cousins.”

  Sean laughs. “Didn’t you ever babysit as a teenager?”

  “Not for infants. My specialty was helping middle-schoolers with their math homework.”

  Sean cleans the baby up, fastens him into a clean diaper, and gets him redressed, all the while making faces and babbling away in a high-pitched voice. Lo stares at him solemnly, then suddenly breaks into a big, gummy smile.

  “He likes you!”

  “What’s not to like?”

  Sean sits the baby on his knee and begins bouncing him, all the while singing some ridiculous song about a cat who catches a mouse and blames it on the dog. The baby’s chubby cheeks jiggle with every dip of Sean’s knee.

  “Sean, isn’t that too rough? Don’t hurt him!”

  “Babies are tough. You can’t break them. Here, hold him.”

  Sean hands Lo to me. Gingerly, I take him. He’s like a sack of sugar with arms and legs. He squirms and burrows. I hang onto him for dear life. He tilts his head back and studies my face. I can’t help but laugh.

  “Oh my God—that look! I keep expecting Ty’s voice to come out of him.”

  Sean puts his arms around us both and nuzzles my neck. “You look pretty cute with that little guy in your arms. Of course, you’d be even cuter with a redhead.”

  I have no response.

  Sean’s phone rings. As he listens, I watch him closely. His lips purse and his eyes narrow. Not good.

  “I’ll be right there,” he says as he ends the call.

  “Be right where?”

  “Some Neighborhood Watch bozo stumbled onto a surveillance the Drug Task Force is conducting. I gotta get over there, Audrey. I don’t want this to blow up.” He grabs his shoulder holster.

  “Sean, wait. You can’t do this to me again! What about the baby? You can’t leave me here alone with him.”

  “This one is too little to run away.” He places both hands on my shoulders. “You have to learn to do this, Audrey. And the best way to learn is by doing, right?”

  I look at the baby in my arms. For someone who can’t walk or talk, he projects a decided air of self-confidence. “Do you trust yourself with me, Lo?”

  His smile turns up and a dimple appears in his right cheek.

  Sean kisses me on the head and ruffles Lo’s dark curls. “You’ll be fine. I won’t be long.”

  Twenty minutes pass. Twenty l-o-o-ng minutes. I walk with the baby. I sit with the baby. I look out the window with the baby. He’s cute, but he’s really not much in the way of company. I text Ty to ask when he and Charmaine will be back. No response.

  My arm gets stiff from holding Lo. Twelve pounds is surprisingly heavy after half an hour of walking. I put him back in his stroller, but he doesn’t like that, so I pick him back up. Obsessively, I check my phone. Nothing from either Sean or Ty. What could possibly be happening?

  At seven forty-five, Lo begins to whimper. I put him over my shoulder, as Sean did. He switches to a full-throttle cry. I bounce, cuddle, rock. The screams escalate.

  Then it dawns on me. Of course, the little guy must be hungry. I go to the bag and start digging. I find a bottle—totally empty. I dig deeper looking for something to refill it with.

  Nothing.

  Can I give him straight-up milk? Who would know?

  Natalie. I call and sh
e gives me bad news—no cow’s milk for infants. He needs formula.

  “What am I going to do?”

  “I’d go and get it for you, but your father and I are in Chatham at a concert. The curtain’s about to go up.”

  “Don’t hang up! Help me!”

  “You’ll have to go to the store and get him formula.”

  “Take him to the store? He’s screaming! Can’t you hear that?”

  “He won’t die of starvation en route. Just put him in his stroller and walk over to ShopRite.”

  At the supermarket I feel the glare of disapproving eyes. A screaming black baby with a clearly incompetent white woman. I keep my eyes downcast. I finally find the right aisle. “Okay, Lo. Dinner’s almost ready, buddy.”

  I look at the shelves. Holy crap—why are there so many different kinds? Regular, soy, low-iron, organic, powered, liquid. How can this be so complicated? I feel my heart start to hammer. What if I give him the wrong kind? Could I poison him? I can’t call Natalie again—the concert must have started.

  Another woman marches right up, grabs a container without hesitation, and tosses it in her cart. She prepares to roll off, but not before giving me a condescending glance.

  She looks like a be-atch, but I’m desperate. “Excuse me, is that the best kind of formula? I’m baby-sitting and they didn’t leave me enough…”

  She looks into the stroller and her face softens. Confidently, she selects a six-pack of Enfamil cans from the shelf, pops one open, fills the empty bottle he’s been chewing on, and sticks the nipple in his mouth.

  Lo sucks the formula down with the greedy abandon of a rescued POW. The poor kid’s probably afraid he may never eat again.

  “Good as new,” the competent mother says before handing the bottle over to me and sashaying away.

  Lo polishes off the bottle as we stand in the supermarket aisle. His long eyelashes flutter and he collapses into an Enfamil stupor. I pay for this liquid gold and start the walk home. The world seems eerily silent now. I have space to think.

  What is it about children that causes me to lose my grip on competence? I’m a skilled person—I run my own business. I understand math, and chess, and art, and antiques. Why do I panic when I’m confronted by the insistent needs of a child?