Another Man's Treasure (a romantic thriller) (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 1) by S.W. Hubbard Page A

him for his trouble, but there are no trinkets here.  I can’t afford a four-figure thank-you, so I return to look at the ring I already own.  I have to admit, I don’t for a moment feel that I’ve stolen it from Cal Tremaine; I’ve simply repossessed what is rightfully mine.
    While Atwell is in the back, I slide the ring onto my little finger.  It doesn’t look right.  I’m definitely taking it to the jewelry store in Palmyrton when I get home.
    Atwell comes out of his office and I drop the ring guiltily.  I know he won’t think it suits me as it suited my mother, won’t be happy thinking the ring has found a new home on my hand.
    He’s holding a yellowed receipt which he places before me.  I see my father’s name and address, a description of the ring, and the price all printed in Atwell’s meticulous script. 
    And I see the date: seven months before my birth.
    I had been along for the ride that day when they visited Atwell’s shop.  Maybe I was the reason for the gift.  I try to imagine my father so excited about my impending arrival that he rushed out to buy my mother this ring.  The image isn’t coming.
    “Is there anything else I can do for you?” the jeweler asks.
    There isn’t.  It’s time for me to go, yet I’m strangely reluctant to leave.  It’s so rare for me to be in the presence of someone who knew both my parents.  I realize that since Nana and Pop died, I probably haven’t spent time with anyone who knew my mother and father.  Mr. Atwell has whetted my appetite.  There must be old family friends, neighbors, sorority sisters…someone who can tell me more about my parents, someone else who knew them when they were in love, who can shine some light on what my mother might have been doing that snowy Christmas Eve. 
    I haven’t answered Mr. Atwell so he speaks again.  “I’m afraid I haven’t been able to offer you what you were looking for.”  His kind eyes search for reassurance.
    I reach across the counter and take his hand in mine.  “Oh yes, Mr. Atwell.  You’ve helped me more than you can know.”

Chapter 13
    Old Spice.  Pipe tobacco.  Bengay.
    It’s my first day back at work since the accident and I’m grateful to have this job.  Rather than call in another estate sale organizer, Martin Reicker’s daughter, Ginny, has waited patiently for my recovery.  I’m glad I took the time to go to the old man’s memorial service, not only because it brought me this job, but also because the Reickers are truly nice people.  Martin Reicker’s house exudes a cozy, reassuring smell that makes me want to curl up in his leather club chair with a book from his library and some tea in a mug handmade by one of his granddaughters. 
    There’s good money in this house. The old gent was a collector: shelves of signed first editions, binders full of baseball cards, stamps, coins, civil war artifacts, presidential memorabilia.   It’ll take me weeks to find the right buyers for all this treasure.
    But beyond the valuable items, there’s a strong presence here of a life well lived.  One wall of the foyer is a shrine to Martin Reicker’s family: serious young men in military uniforms, grinning toddlers with Big Bird, hopeful graduates in their motarboards, joyful brides in their finery.  There are probably some black sheep in the Reicker flock, but you wouldn’t know it from this proud display. 
    In every room there are little clues to the interest Mr. Reicker took in the world.  A pair of binoculars by the window where a birdfeeder is mounted.  Post-it notes sticking out of magazines and books.  A binder in the kitchen bulging with clipped recipes.  A thick address book held together with a rubber band.  This is what I love about my work—the chance to press my nose against the glass of another person’s life.  To see how life is lived in other families.  Real families.
    The brilliant rays of the morning sun illuminate a display of postcards stuck to Mr.