Another Man's Treasure (a romantic thriller) (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 1) Read Online Free Page B

the security code designed to keep residents in, not strangers out.  Then she makes a beeline for the long corridor lined with wheelchairs.  The old folks reach for her as she snuffles around.  The sharpest ones lure her with treats; the most confused call her by the names of long lost pets.  “Here, Trixie.  Come, Sheba.”  I follow in her wake, smiling and waving like Prince Charles trailing Diana.
    Finally satisfied that she’s scored every available crumb, Ethel heads for my father’s room.  He’s never out in the hall with the others, or in the solarium.  She knows she’ll find him in his wheelchair wedged in the space between his bed and the bathroom door.
    Ethel bounds in and places her paws on Dad’s knees. I stand on the threshold and watch. It still stuns me to see my father in a wheelchair.  A lifelong runner, his wiry frame was built for movement. At sixty-three, his hair is still more dark than gray.  All through my life he’s been a superhuman figure, smarter than mere mortals and removed from their petty concerns.  And then one day a blood clot breaks loose, jamming an artery in his brain, and he becomes this wreck.  Who would’ve guessed he even had arteries?  Or blood, for that matter.
    As Dad pets Ethel’s silky brown ears, the left corner of his mouth twitches.  He’s genuinely glad to see the dog.  Me, not so much.  Every time this touching scene plays out I remember the many childhood hours I spent futilely pleading for a dog.  Dad always said he couldn’t take care of another living thing.  At the time I took that to mean he didn’t feel a dog was worth all the effort.  Seeing his devotion to Ethel, I realize that if my father had had a dog in the early days of his marriage, I might never have been born. 
    “Hi, Dad.”  I drag the hard little visitor chair from the other side of the room and sit down.  I make no attempt to kiss him.  He’s never been big on physical affection and since the stroke he seems to shudder at skin-to-skin contact.  Skin to fur is apparently okay, because he continues to stroke Ethel’s head.  Finally she tires of it and settles at his feet.  He has no choice now but to look at me.  Our eyes meet briefly, then Dad looks away, scanning his barren surroundings as if anything—the blank TV, the battered chest of drawers, the potted plant that outlived the room’s previous resident—holds more interest than his visitor.
    I begin my monologue, a filial Conan O’Brien trying to get a rise out of a tough audience.  “So, today I’m organizing a sale over on Parkhurst Avenue.  The house belonged to Agnes Szabo.”  I watch him closely for any reaction.  A widening of the eyes, an intake of breath—anything that indicates Mrs. Szabo holds some significance in his life. 
    Nothing.  His eyes stare blankly, focused on some point above my left shoulder.
    He’s letting me know he has no interest in my work, never has.  To him, I’m a trash-picker who’s squandered her degree in math.  He won’t respond to guess-what-happened-at- work- today small talk.
    “It’s a pretty nondescript house.  That’s why I was so surprised to find this.”  I pull the ring out of my pocket and extend it toward him on my palm; his gaze stays fixed on the middle distance.
    I slide my chair to the left and hold the ring directly before his eyes.  “Recognize it?”
    He flattens himself against the back of the wheelchair.  This is the most reaction I’ve gotten from him since the stroke.  We’re getting somewhere.
    I lean forward with as much intensity as he used to draw away.  “It’s Mom’s ring, isn’t it?”
    The right half of his face remains stony and blank.  The left half trembles.  His gaze stays locked on the ring. He nods.
    “Was she wearing it the night she disappeared?”
    He hesitates and I sense his mind reeling back thirty years. He has never been willing to talk to me about that night.  Ill-timed questions about my