Treasure in Exile (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series, #5)

by Hubbard, S. W.

  Sean turns to block him. “You can’t help her. Don’t move her body.”

  Then my husband faces the gathering crowd. “I’m a detective with the Palmyrton police department. No one leave the building. This may be a crime scene.” Sean commands Robert the butler, “Secure the back door.”

  As Sean calls for back-up, the crowd breaks into excited murmuring. “Crime? She simply tripped coming down the stairs.” “Outrageous! We can leave if we want to.” “I’m a lawyer! I know my rights!”

  But no one makes a move for the door. No one wants to miss the excitement.

  Flower Power and Blue Suit are in the front of the pack. I notice them gazing upward. Now I see it too. Sean’s trained eye must have caught it immediately. A long scrap of sheer black fabric flutters from the ornate baluster above us.

  Loretta didn’t trip going down the stairs.

  She must’ve gone over the railing in that spot.

  Fell, jumped, or was pushed?

  That’s what the police have to determine. I watch Sean craning to look upstairs. I know he wants to charge up there and search, but he can’t go without backup. He doesn’t even have his service revolver with him.

  A patrol car must have been in the vicinity because two uniformed officers arrive within minutes. Sean leaves one to watch over the body and the crowd, and sprints up the stairs with the other cop.

  I feel a stab of fear in my chest. On a normal day, I succeed in suppressing my worry about my husband’s safety because I don’t know what he’s been doing until after he arrives home in one piece. Seeing him head into the unknown in real time scares me.

  His broad back disappears into the dark reaches of the second floor of the 1780 Club. I’m left to stare at that forlorn scrap of black chiffon on the railing. Surely, a woman as petite as Loretta couldn’t have accidentally fallen over such a high, sturdy balustrade?

  Chapter 5

  MONDAY MORNING, AND Ty is riding shotgun in my Honda Civic with the passenger seat pushed back as far as it will go to accommodate his long legs.

  We’re on our way to a huge town house development on the far edge of Palmer County to provide an estimate on a job. I’ve been chatting away, telling my assistant about my networking success and the tragic finale to the Parks Center fundraiser.

  “Sean says she either jumped or was pushed. There’s no way it was an accident.” I end my story with a dramatic flourish.

  Ty stares out the window.

  “It might be murder,” I clarify just in case Ty didn’t catch my drift.

  “Hmm. An’ everyone always tellin’ me to watch the kinda parties I go to.”

  While it’s true that Ty is hard to shock, I was expecting a bigger reaction. Why is he so taciturn?

  Two miles pass in silence. Then Ty shakes his fist at a huge boat of a Buick driving twenty miles per hour under the speed limit “Can somebody tell this dude we’re in New Jersey, not Pennsylvania Dutchland?”

  I try to pass, but just as I give my Honda some juice, the Buick drifts from the right lane toward the left. It ambles along straddling the dividing line.

  Ty slaps the dashboard. “C’mon, man—pick a lane. You don’t get both.”

  I turn to look at him. “What’s bugging you? And don’t say nothing.”

  He follows my order and sits in silence.

  “Ty, come on. Normally you’re telling me all about your weekend, and school, and Lo—”

  Mention of his toddler nephew provokes a response. “I’m worried about Charmaine.”

  Ty’s half-sister is a little needy, but I thought she was finally on the right track. “Don’t tell me she lost her job?”

  “No, she’s doin’ great there. That’s why it pisses me off that she’s out lookin’ for trouble. And draggin’ Lo into it.”

  “Lo?” Now I’m all ears. I love that baby. Charmaine has always seemed like a good mother to me. Could she possibly be neglecting Lo or bringing him along to wild parties?

  He rubs his temples. “She wants to take him to visit our father in prison.”

  Given the negative fantasies blooming in my mind, this seems minor. “Oh. Does she stay in touch with your father?”

  Ty nods. “Writes him. Lets him call her collect. Now she’s got it in her head to take the baby clear to Trenton to show him off. As if our old man gives a rat’s ass about that baby.”

  “But Ty, it’s different for Charmaine. You have your grandmother and your aunts and uncles and cousins plus Charmaine and Lo. All Charmaine has is you and Lo. That’s why she’s having a hard time separating from your father. I can see why she’d want him to meet his grandson.”

  Ty twists in his seat to glare at me. “Don’t you go siding with her!”

  “I’m not taking sides. I just...well, I get where she’s coming from. When you don’t have a lot of family, you’re reluctant to toss anyone aside.”

  Ty pounds his fist on his knee. “He tossed us aside. It was his job to be there for us when we were kids. Instead he chose to sell crack so he could drive some tricked out ride and be all that in the ‘hood. My mother begged him to get a legit job but no, he hadda run with the gangbangers and get his sorry ass arrested. And then once he was inside, he couldn’t just do his time and get back to us. No, he had to get pulled into some throw down and kill a dude and get sent up for twenty-five to life.”

  I’ve never been clear on the precise details of Ty’s father’s crimes; it’s not a topic I’ve ever cared to quiz Ty on. Now he’s so wound up that he’s told me more than he ever has before. Probably more than he intended to.

  “How long has he been in prison?”

  “Since 2001.”

  “That’s the last time you saw him?”

  Ty shakes his head. “Oh no. My mom used to do what Charmaine is doing now.”

  “She took you to visit him in jail?”

  Ty doesn’t answer for a long time. His face looks strange—frozen—as if that distant painful memory is a numbing shot of Novocain. I wait, and eventually Ty speaks.

  “Grams told her not to take me. But I was seven. I missed my dad. Some kid at school said I didn’t really have a dad, and I wanted to prove him wrong. When my father would call, he always asked to talk to me, and then he’d end by saying, “tell your mom to bring you for a visit.” So I would beg her and nag her and finally she gave in.”

  A slight shiver runs through Ty’s powerful shoulders. His voice drops to a whisper. “Took us all day. Caught the Jersey Transit train to Newark, then switched for the train to Trenton. Took a bus from the train to the prison. Waited in a long line with other ladies and their kids. Another boy tried to make friends with me, but I wouldn’t talk to him. I hung onto my mom’s hand.” He stops, gazing at a fawn trailing a doe through a meadow on the side of the road.

  “That doesn’t sound like you,” I say to prod him back to the story.

  “I think in some part of my brain I was shocked by what the other kids looked like. Some of them were dirty, with bad teeth and ratty hair. Unhealthy. Didn’t matter if they were black or white or brown—they all looked sad and beaten down. I didn’t want to be like them. Lookin’ back, I can see I was mean not to talk to that kid. Wasn’t his fault he looked so poor. But at the time, I just didn’t want no part of him.”

  I take one hand off the wheel to pat Ty’s knee. He’s the least likely person on the planet to reject someone for not being good enough, so I can tell this confession costs him dearly.

  “Finally, after what seemed like forever, we got inside the prison. I had to watch while the prison guards searched my mother like she was the criminal. Then they searched me too, and I was shaking thinking that they might arrest me for having two sticks of gum in my pocket. When we finally got to the visitation room, it was like being in Penn Station during rush hour—people yelling and crying and laughing and pushing. It smelled nasty—like sweat and cheap perfume and dirty laundry. We found my father, and all I wanted was to be connected to him—hold him, sit on his lap,
touch him. But he just patted me on the back and told me to man up—I was too big for that. Then he started talking real quiet and intense to my mom. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I watched my mom’s face. She looked scared and worried and she kept shaking her head.”

  Ty has begun to crack his knuckles as he talks. It’s almost as if he’s forgotten I’m here and simply needs to speak the story aloud for his own sake.

  “After a while the guard said something over the loudspeaker and everyone started getting ready to leave. Then the real crying started. Kids hanging on to their dads and having to be dragged off...women howling like cats. I wanted to hug my dad again, but I didn’t think he’d like it. I started walking toward the door, following my mom. And my dad called my name. I got excited, ‘cause I thought he did want to hug me goodbye after all. So I ran back to him. And you know what he did?”

  Ty’s eyes are shiny and hard. I’m afraid to know the end of this story.

  “He pulled me towards him, put his arm around me and his mouth next to my ear. But it wasn’t no hug. I smelled his sweat and his bad breath when he whispered, ‘You tell your mother to take you to see Redbird. When you see him, you give him this paper,” and I felt his fingers going into my pants pocket. “And if you give that paper to Redbird, he’ll get you a new basketball. And then you can visit me again.’ He squeezed my arm real tight and made me repeat what I was supposed to ask my mom.”

  “He tried to bribe you to do something illegal? Who was Redbird?”

  “Some gangsta back in the ‘hood. My dad had been smugglin’ messages to him. Then Dad wanted my mother to go talk to the man, and she wouldn’t do it, so he figured he’d get me to work on her, get me to beg her the way I begged to come visit him.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Hell, no. I was scared outta my mind. I felt that paper in my pocket like it was a hot rock. I was so worried a guard would find it while we were on our way out.

  “Once we were back on the train, and I was sure we couldn’t get arrested, I gave the paper to my mom and told her what my dad said. She read it and her hands started to shake. Then she turned her head away from me and stared out the train window the whole way back to Newark. By this time it was dark, but whenever the train passed through a town, I could see the tears shining on her cheeks. I didn’t really understand what was going on, but I just knew not to ask her any more questions right then.”

  Ty rests his head against the passenger side window. “And that was the last time I ever saw my father.”

  This all happened over fifteen years ago. There must be a whole new generation of criminals running the drug business now. Ty may never have forgiven his father for his treachery, but does he really think the man is up to the same trick with Charmaine and Lo?

  “Why now? Why didn’t taking Lo for a visit come up sooner?” I ask.

  Ty flings his arms out. “Exactly! Why is he suddenly asking to see the baby? Like he cares about being a grandpa. He’s got some plan. Something’s in it for him.” Ty taps his fists together. “His sentence in ‘01 was twenty-five to life. He’s gotta serve at least fifteen. I don’t know what his record is, but maybe he’s got a shot at early release. So he’s trying to show the parole board he’s got a ‘stable family’.” Ty puts those last words in air quotes. “I told Charmaine that our old man is using her and Lo. And if he manages to get out of prison, he’ll drag his shit show right to our door. But she won’t listen.”

  Ty twists to face me, eyes blazing. “I won’t let it happen! I don’t want Lo to set foot in a prison—not as an inmate, not as a guard, not as a visitor. It’s a bad place. His eyes don’t need to see that. Ever.”

  Chapter 6

  I GOT MORE THAN I EXPECTED when I asked Ty what was on his mind. The rest of the ride passes in silence.

  On the horizon, peeping out above a stand of trees, I see a cluster of brown rooftops. We’ve finally arrived at Sutton Courte.

  We pull up to a big cast iron gate. In front of it is a small brick house with a microphone on a pole.

  “What's up with that?" Ty asks. “Looks like a fancy drive-through at Mickey D's."

  The unnecessary “e” should have tipped me off that Sutton Courte is a gated community. Ahead of us, the guard waves through a woman in a white Mercedes. When Ty and I pull up in my dusty, dinged Honda, he peers into the car and gives me the once over: asymmetrical haircut, badly damaged manicure from ripping open cardboard boxes, slightly disheveled blouse. Then he bends his head at the neck and sees Ty: powerful dark brown arms, bright orange Jordans, Cavs cap. Ty returns his fisheye with the prison death stare.

  The sales call spirals down from there. When I finally talk my way past the guard and get to the townhouse, I discover that the executor of the estate has a wildly inflated opinion of the worth of the home’s contents. Where she sees luxury, I see twenty-year out-of-date suburban schlock. We’ll be lucky to clear four grand from the furnishings. And the final indignity—the clean sneaker in the big, stinky dog turd of this sales call—comes when our prospective client practically throws herself in front of the door to prevent Ty from going out to the garage alone to check out the tools.

  I decline to shake her hand as we stand in the foyer. “I’ll get you an estimate by Thursday.” I’ve already decided I’ll be bidding high.

  For the third time since I’ve been here, I feel my phone vibrate in my pants pocket.

  Who the hell is calling me? I never pull out my phone while I’m talking to a client, but suddenly I feel anxious. Could something have happened to Sean at work? Is it Natalie calling to say Dad has had another stroke? I can’t get out of this damn townhouse fast enough.

  As soon as we’re out the door, Ty mutters, “She buy her paintings at HomeGoods and she think she got a five-figure sale? This bitch got bugs in a bucket.”

  “You nailed it. Not worth our time.” I pull out my phone. All the calls are from my father.

  Ty shoots me a suspicious look. “You pretty quick to walk away from her bizness.”

  “I don’t like her.” I toss him my car keys. “You drive. I have to make a call.”

  Ty plucks the keys from mid-air with one raised hand. “Since when we gotta like people to sell their shit?”

  I settle into the passenger seat. “I can tell she’ll be nothing but trouble.”

  Ty snorts. “Trouble ain’t never stopped you before.”

  If my father is calling me, he’s definitely not dead. But what could make him so persistent?

  I get ready to call back when a large, black hand obscures the screen.

  “You don’t have to turn down business to protect my feelings.” Ty’s dark gaze won’t allow me to look away.

  “I didn’t...I wasn’t...”

  “I saw the way she looked at me. I saw she didn’t want me going into the garage alone. I can deal with that. Been dealin’ my whole life.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t have to deal with it.”

  “Shouldn’t have to deal with global warming. Shouldn’t have to deal with pasta from Olive Garden. World’s full of stuff that sucks. Gotta handle it and move on.”

  I squeeze his hand. “She can get another estimate. It won’t be any better than ours. If she calls back, I’ll take the job. But I’m not begging her for it.”

  Ty purses his lips and backs the car out of the driveway. “Guess now we’re limitin’ our business to rich old liberals and kindhearted Christians.”

  As we sail through the gate of Sutton Courte, I finally get to focus on my father’s text message: The Parks Center has inherited the Tate Mansion. Call me.

  Chapter 7

  THE ROSA PARKS COMMUNITY Center has inherited the Tate Mansion, the most iconic Victorian home in all of Palmyrton? What does that even mean?

  Maybe I should be worried—my father seems to be delusional.

  When I call back, Dad is uncharacteristically wound up.

  “What a morning! How soon can you get over here?” In the background I h
ear a cacophony of high and low voices, punctuated by squeals and clapping. Today is Dad’s day to run the after-school chess club at the Center. He usually spends the whole day there, getting his room set up and talking to the counselors about kids with problems.

  “Dad, go to a quieter room and explain to me what’s going on.”

  The background noise lessens but doesn’t disappear. Dad’s voice comes into my ear skipping along at warp speed. “You must have seen in the news last week that Vareena Tate died.”

  “Yeah, she was like a hundred and three or something, right?”

  “One hundred and one. And then a couple days later her maid died.”

  You’d have to be living under a rock not to have heard the story. Vareena Tate was legendary for having not left her grand old Victorian mansion since the 1960s. She had been cared for all those years by her devoted maid, an African American woman only three years her junior. When the two old gals died within days of each other, the press quickly turned the story into a legend that went viral: grand house, mysterious owner, faithful servant who died of a broken heart. It was all over social media and even got picked up by the New York Times.

  “So what’s that got to do with the Parks Center?”

  “This morning Levi Jefferson got a phone call from the executor of Vareena Tate’s estate. She’s left all her money, the house, and the house’s contents to the Parks Center. Millions of dollars! We can remodel the kitchen, fix the plumbing, expand our hours.”

  He pauses. It’s like he’s afraid to even say it out loud.

  I speak for him. “So with this money coming in, there will be no more arguing about the computers. You can buy some of your own and set up your Math Explorers classroom just the way you want it.”

  “Exactly.” As always, my father is a man of few words, but I can hear joy and relief and optimism all packed into those three syllables.

  Clearly from all the excitement, this windfall came totally out of the blue. “What’s Vareena Tate’s connection with the Parks Center? Why did she choose it to be the beneficiary of her estate?”