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

by Hubbard, S. W.

  “And I’m sure you know Dennis.”

  Dennis Sykes is on the Board of Directors? With an intense expression on his lean face, Dennis nods in my direction. Today his dreadlocks flow freely, cascading past his shoulders. Was I wrong about him being at the party as a waiter? Was he there as a guest and just wanted to avoid me?

  Of course, Loretta Bostwick should also have been at this meeting. If the rest of them are reeling from her death, they’re certainly containing their grief pretty well. The inheritance seems to have pushed the fundraiser tragedy out of the spotlight.

  I sit down next to Jared Bellack. He keeps tapping away on his laptop. Levi is across the table from me and leans forward. “By now you’ve heard all about our sudden windfall. This news couldn’t have come at a better time. We are currently experiencing a slight budget shortfall that might have necessitated curtailing our programs and shortening our hours.”

  Dennis shifts in his chair and looks at the ceiling. “She doesn’t need to know all that.”

  “I’m putting our situation in context.” Reverend Levi continues unruffled, despite the younger man’s rudeness. “Most of the value of the estate is tied up in the house and its contents. There’s not that much cash.”

  “The old dear had been living on her father-in-law’s investments for over seventy years,” Beverly tells me.

  “It will, of course, take quite some time to find the right buyer for that huge historic house. In the meantime—”

  Jared stops typing and turns to me. “We need an assessment of what the contents of the house are worth. ASAP. And we need a plan to liquidate. How long will that take?”

  “I can start cataloguing the contents tomorrow. Estimating the worth could take a couple weeks, depending on the nature of the antiques and artwork,” I explain.

  “Weeks? We can’t wait weeks,” Dennis says.

  “It could be less. It’s hard to say without knowing what’s inside. Have you all seen it yet?” I don’t want to mention that I was trespassing on the property yesterday.

  “Dennis, Iris, and I just got back from the house. The executor gave us a quick tour,” Levi says.

  “Remarkable!” Iris peers at me over her purple and green reading glasses. “There are some fabulous oil paintings.”

  “It’s like a time warp.” Dennis shakes his head. “Kitchen looks like something out of an old black-and-white movie. The rest of the place is like a gloomy haunted house. I can’t see how we’re going to make any money off that old junk. Clear it out and get the house on the market.”

  Beverly and Iris exchange a glance. Then Beverly smiles at her younger colleague, the epitome of tact. She must work in human relations. “Dennis, I realize the furnishings don’t appeal to a Millennial like you, but I suspect a lot of the furniture and artwork is quite valuable to collectors.” She turns to me. “I don’t know a lot about antiques, but the furniture is massive, and the rooms are a bit gloomy. Victorian, I guess you’d say.”

  “Victorian era antiques aren’t the most valuable, but there’s still a viable market. Sometimes it’s the least likely items that become all the rage among collectors.” The vision of a $4,000 hanging kerosene banquet lamp that I found in an attic pops into my mind’s eye. “If it’s rare, people will collect it even if it’s ugly.”

  “Deep pockets and empty hearts rule the world,” Dennis says.

  “Our goal is to maximize profit in the shortest window of time,” Jared barks without looking up.

  “I sell the most valuable pieces to specialized dealers, and the rest goes in the general sale. Sometimes finding the right dealer can take a little time, but you earn so much more, it’s worth the wait. Putting everything in the general sale is faster, but less profitable.”

  “Speed is what we’re after,” Dennis says. “The wolf’s at the door.”

  Iris glances up from a pile of papers in a folder. “Surely the money from the fundraiser can tide us over for a few months?” She seems to direct the question at Levi, but he dodges her gaze.

  “Speed matters.” Jared laces his hands behind his bald head. “But we have to balance competing priorities. Dynamically actualize our revenue stream.”

  That means they need to make money fast. At least, I think that’s what it means.

  “Henry Bell can do this job, and he’ll get it done fast,” Dennis says.

  Henry Bell? I know Henry. I’ve even used his services. A very nice man, but he’s not an estate sale organizer. He’s a clear-and-clean guy, a trash hauler. He’s the man you call when you know your dead relatives have nothing but broken down, dirty junk in their homes. I shudder at the idea of the Tate Mansion’s priceless contents being hauled off to the dump. But it wouldn’t look good to disparage my competitor.

  “I know Henry—he’s a great guy. I’ve actually hired him to help me with some projects, but he and I don’t really offer the same services.”

  “Henry can do what needs to be done, fast. And why shouldn’t a brother get this job?” Dennis jabs a finger in Reverend Levi’s direction. “How can our people ever advance to economic equality if we ourselves don’t choose black-owned businesses to do the work?”

  All heads swivel to Levi to see how he’ll respond. I feel my big job slipping away to Henry Bell. But Levi hesitates. He glances at Jared as if to take direction from him.

  “This is a business decision,” Jared says. “We need to do what’s best for the Parks Center.”

  I see an opportunity for compromise. “It’s a big job. I’d be happy to collaborate with Henry.”

  “See, she’s trying to cut him out of the action,” Dennis leaps up. “Collaborate? That means she takes the lion’s share and leaves him with the pickins’.”

  I’m so stunned by this accusation I can’t even defend myself.

  “Dennis, that’s enough.” Beverly’s attractive face grows stern. “Audrey was kind enough to come in here today to make a presentation. There’s no call to be insulting.”

  “Tyshaun Griggs works with Audrey,” Levi says. “She gave him a job right after he was released from prison. Not everyone would do that.”

  Dennis isn’t mollified. “Hired him to be her nigger—haul boxes and drive her around,” he grumbles.

  The N-word falls like a bomb in the room. Jared even stops typing.

  Now I find my voice. “I did originally hire Ty to do the heavy lifting. But in the past two years he’s learned a tremendous amount about the estate sale business. He’s attending Palmer Community College—studying art history and business administration. I’ve promoted him and he now runs some of our smaller sales single-handedly.”

  Dennis’s eyes narrow. “Is he a partner? Does he have an equity stake in the business?”

  “Well, no...but—”

  “That’s my point. The capitalist overlords conspire to keep the workers from gaining ground. Ty’s just a flunky. She expects him to be grateful for the crumbs she tosses him.”

  Capitalist overlord? Crumb-tosser? Me?

  “Let’s not involve Audrey in a philosophical discussion.” Levi rises from the table and moves to escort me to the door. “Thank you so much for coming in, Audrey. We’ll let you know the Board’s decision in a day or two.”

  After I’m out the door, I stand in the hall for a moment. Through the door, I hear the rise and fall of voices. One is higher pitched than the others.

  “Dennis has made a good point. What’s the point of being an organization committed to overcoming the results of discrimination if we ourselves are practicing discrimination?” That’s Iris. I can picture her big, round eyes blinking above her funky glasses. “We have to live our values.”

  I sigh. Can’t argue with that.

  I went into this interview so positive that I would get the job. But it looks like this one might be going to Henry Bell.

  Chapter 12

  AS I WALK DOWN STAIRS, I can see my father pacing back and forth beneath the mural of Rosa Parks. Somehow, I feel like I’ve let him d
own by not nailing this job on the spot. Like the time he came to see me in the fifth grade class play and I froze on stage and forgot my lines.

  Dad pauses in his pacing, looks up and catches my eye. His face brightens, then his smile collapses. He must have read defeat in my face.

  We meet in the middle of the lobby.

  “What happened?”

  I glance around and grab his elbow. “Not here. Let’s take a walk.”

  As we stroll away from the Parks Center, I recreate the meeting for my father. At the end of the block, he steers me into a small playground with a rusty swing set and a third-degree burn-inducing metal slide. We sit on a park bench with a missing slat and watch two teenage boys playing a spirited game of one-on-one around a netless basketball hoop.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t prepare you better,” Dad says. “I didn’t realize Dennis and the others would be there. I thought you’d be talking to Jared and Levi only.”

  “Why does Dennis hate me so much? What have I ever done to him?”

  “He doesn’t hate you.” Dad pats my knee. “He hates Jared. And he’s mad at Levi for not standing up to Jared. You were caught in the crosscurrents.”

  “More like a rip-tide. I’m sorry I screwed this up, Dad. I know I could bring in more revenue for the Parks Center than Henry Bell, but I wasn’t in a position to criticize him.”

  Dad tilts his head back and gazes into the leafy branches shading our bench. “Don’t be so sure you’ve lost the job. There’s a lot going on at the Parks Center these days. The Board is in a state of flux, and Loretta’s death has upset some alliances. Jared has uncovered...issues...with Levi’s management.” Dad raises his hand. “Nothing illegal, mind you—but no one has ever challenged Levi or the small group of donors that he’s always solicited from. As the founder’s son, Levi has Executive Director for Life status. Lots of people think it’s time for a change, but no one agrees on what the change should be. Jared says we need to go after the deep pockets—do more fundraising from corporations, wealthy individuals, and foundation grants.”

  Dad gestures toward the low-rise apartment buildings and small brick and frame houses surrounding the park. “But Dennis says every time we take money from a corporation or a rich donor like Jared, we sell another little piece of our soul. Dennis thinks it would be better to scale back our programs a bit and ask the community we serve to take more ownership, get them involved in both the planning and the fundraising. Get one thousand hundred-dollar donations instead of one giant hundred-thousand-dollar donation.”

  I follow the direction of my father’s pointing arm. These houses have held generations of working class Palmyrton families: Irish and Italian, African American, and now, Hispanic. They’re not fancy, but they display a brave optimism: brightly painted elf and frog garden ornaments, American flags, carefully staked tomato plants. Are there a thousand people here with a hundred bucks to spare? “Both have some valid points. What do you think should happen?”

  “I honestly don’t know.” Dad turns to face me. “Money is power, Audrey. Whoever brings in the money has outsize influence in how it’s spent.”

  “But the bottom line is helping the kids. Doesn’t everyone agree on that?”

  Dad answers with a bitter laugh. “Look at how the computers Jared donated have turned into a bone of contention. Jared insists they can only be used to teach coding. If kids agree to take the coding class, they get extra access to the computers for other projects. Jared sees his approach as motivational. Many of us see it as counterproductive coercion. And while the adults squabble, the computers stand idle.”

  “When they could be used for your Math Explorers.”

  One of the boys on the basketball court takes a desperate shot and the ball bounces off the cracked asphalt and rolls to a stop before me. I pick it up and return it with a poorly aimed, math-nerd throw.

  Dad watches the game resume. “Those boys are out here all day long in the summer. Dennis agrees with me that they need more than nonstop sports to occupy them. He loves my Math Explorers idea. He’s all in favor of raising the bar of expectations for these kids. In fact, he said he’d help me recruit—show these guys the connection between free throw probabilities and higher forms of statistics.”

  Dad’s voice rises a few notes in excitement. “These kids need to be encouraged and enticed, not threatened. I could get them hooked on the beauty of math. I know I could.”

  “If Dennis likes your plan, why is he so dead set against me? Why wouldn’t he want to raise as much money as possible from the Tate Mansion sale? Seems like that money is neutral, not controlled by Jared or Levi or anyone else.”

  “Dennis has so many competing passions, it’s hard to predict which one will come out ahead on any given day.” Dad squeezes my hand. “Neither you nor I likes to accept circumstances that are beyond our control, Audrey. But this time, I think we have no choice.”

  Chapter 13

  I’M SO DEJECTED AFTER my interview that I can’t face returning to the office to sit and stare at my computer. It’s a beautiful day. Why not take Ethel to the dog park? That will cheer me up.

  When I arrive home in the middle of the day and speak aloud the sacred words “dog park,” Ethel goes ballistic. She tears around the kitchen twice, then flings herself at the door to the garage. When I let her out, she runs to her toy bin to grab a tennis ball. Tell me dogs don’t speak English!

  The Palmyrton dog park has two fenced areas: one for small dogs, where shih-tzus and cockapoos can frolic, and one for large dogs. Ethel is too big for the small dog area, not because she would hurt them—she loves everyone—but because those Yorkies and Pugs get aggressive when they meet taller dogs. But sometimes the Labs and Boxers in the big dog park bowl my slender Ethel over with their enthusiasm. Today, I’m happy to see there are only a goofy, good-natured Labradoodle and a sleek, high-speed mutt who must be part Greyhound. Ethel bounds joyfully to join them, and they all run laps around the park while I sit on a bench and make doggy small talk with the other owners. Eventually, the Greyhound-mix goes home and the Labradoodle, who’s still a puppy, collapses at his owner’s feet. Ethel jumps on the guy as if to say, “Make your dog get up again.” He laughs and pets Ethel until I pull out her ball. Now her eyes are on me, and she demands that I throw it.

  Although Sean’s coaching has helped me improve my form, I still throw like a math-nerd. Ethel brings the ball back and tilts her head quizzically. “I know. I’m sorry I can’t make it go as far as Sean can.” I throw a few more times, but on the last throw, a beautiful brown and white dog appears out of nowhere and scoops up the ball right from under Ethel’s surprised nose.

  “Rex!” a male voice booms. “Release!”

  Rex immediately drops the ball and returns to his master.

  Impressed by this obedience, I turn to wave at the owner. He’s standing by the gate, looking straight ahead. I see him in profile: silver hair, jutting chin, long nose, wearing khakis and a polo shirt. He looks familiar. Maybe I’ve seen him here before. Then I see his dogs: two beautiful brown and white English Pointers. One sees a bird, and they both point their noses and tails and lift one paw. They look just like—just like a painting! I’ve seen those dogs before, in the painting the pet portrait artist showed me at the fundraiser. They’re Loretta Bostwick’s dogs. And yes, that man is Frederic Bostwick, the guy I briefly gave directions to at the Parks Center.

  I hope he won’t recognize me. I don’t really want to offer awkward condolences to someone I’m barely acquainted with. He nods in my direction, and I nod back. I throw the ball for Ethel again, but she’s lost interest. She’d rather run with the Pointers. They’re chasing birds, but don’t seem to mind that Ethel tags along. Then Mr. Bostwick whistles for them, and they immediately turn and go to him.

  Ethel follows.

  Rex and Cleo trot up and sit at their master’s feet.

  Ethel charges behind them and jumps on Frederic Bostwick with her muddy paws.

  Oh, crap
!

  “Ethel, no! Down!”

  Obedience school dropout that she is, Ethel doesn’t pay me one iota of attention. Frederic Bostwick scowls at her and steps back, brushing dirt off his immaculate pants.

  I arrive by his side, panting, and grab Ethel’s collar. “I’m so sorry. She’s not as well trained as your dogs.”

  Mr. Bostwick frowns at Ethel. “It’s in the breeding. Pointers are bred to point out birds in the field.”

  Breeding schmeeding. “Ethel’s a shelter dog. I guess you could say she’s bred to show gratitude.”

  Frederic Bostwick’s face changes. The indifference melts away, and I see a flash of true pain. “Maybe my son should spend some time in a shelter.”

  There’s no response I can offer to that. Bostwick pivots and snaps his fingers at the dogs. They trot beside him to the gate while I hang on to a straining Ethel.

  I bury my nose in her sweet, musty fur. “Forget about them, Ethel. They’re not our type.”

  THAT NIGHT IN BED AS I wait for Sean to get home, I continue fantasizing about the Tate Mansion. I’ve allowed my father to convince me that all is not lost. Dennis might have the loudest voice in the room, but clearly Jared holds plenty of influence. Maybe I’ll get inside that house yet.

  My mind races with fantasies of the lives lived in the Tate Mansion. The articles on the internet have delivered the bare biographical facts. What happened after Lawrence Tate’s death that caused Vareena to become a recluse? She was hardly the only heartbroken war widow in America. And why was Maybelle Simpson, her maid, willing to entomb herself in that house too? They were both so young—only in their twenties. Why wouldn’t Vareena have taken the money and started over somewhere else? Why wouldn’t Maybelle have found a different job, gotten married, and had kids?”

  I don’t want to let the possibility of my own widowhood even enter my mind. So I let an entirely different thought take hold. What if Vareena wasn’t entirely heartbroken by her young husband’s death? What if she discovered something about herself living alone in that big house with Maybelle? Maybe they weren’t rich housewife and servant.