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

the arms of his chair as if he’s trying to stand up.  Then he realizes he can’t walk anymore and flings himself backward in frustration.  “Bah!  Bah!” he shouts at me, all the while waving his right hand in the direction of his nightstand.  Ethel slinks under the bed.
    On the nightstand I see a small yellow note pad and a pen.  I hand it to him and he begins to write.
    His brow is furrowed, his breathing labored, his fingers grip the pen fiercely. The nib digs into the paper with every agitated scrawl.  Finally, he stops and thrusts the pad toward me.
    I have to study the seemingly random lines for a moment before they form into words. Just money?
    He must be worried that I was raped . I reassure him . “Y es, all he did was steal the money from the sale.  It was almost $5,000, but I’m insured.  I’ll get it back eventually.”
    Dad leans forward and peers at my face.  He lifts his hand and gestures toward my scar.  “Whuh?”
    “Why did he beat me up?”
    He nods in agreement.  I shrug.  I’ve asked myself that question many times.  “Maybe I didn’t give it up quickly enough and that made him mad.  Maybe he was hopped up on drugs.”
    He shakes his head furiously, flapping his good hand at me until I return the notepad.  More heavy breathing.  More illegible writing.
    Danger.  Will try again.
    “No, Dad,” I reassure him.  “I learned my lesson.  I’ll never carry cash to the bank alone again.”
    He doesn’t try to write any more, but his hands continue to fidget with the pen and pad.  I wouldn’t have thought my attack would worry him so much.  Well, that’s a little harsh.  I guess what I mean to say is, I figured he would blame me for what happened.  Surely if he still had the power of speech I would have to hear the “this would never have happened if…” lecture.  Would never have happened if I’d gone to graduate school in math.  Would never have happened if I’d accepted one of the job offers I’d had from Morgan Stanley or the Commerce Department. 
    So that’s the upside of the stroke.  He can’t say all that.  He can only express what he can scratch out on that little pad, so he has to boil it down to the essentials: He’s worried about me.
    I’m touched.
    I reach out to calm his agitated hands.  For the first time since he’s arrived here, he doesn’t pull away.  We sit like that for a while, not talking.  It’s nice.
    “Look who’s here!”  A young woman with a sleek blond ponytail and a tunic printed with dancing cats bounces into the room.  “Hi,” she says to me.  “I’m Ashley, your father’s occupational therapist.”
    She turns to Dad.  “I see you’re using your note pad to communicate.  That’s so awesome!” Ashley uses the same high-pitched happy voice I use when congratulating Ethel for sitting still to have her muddy paws wiped.  “Do you want to show your daughter how good you’re doing with your life skills exercises?”
    A scowl darkens my father’s face. I can’t imagine he wants me to watch him playing games with this chirpy, ungrammatical girl.
    “I was just leaving,” I tell Ashley.  “I won’t distract you from your work.”  I call for Ethel and head to the door.  When I turn on the threshold to wave goodbye, my father’s eyes lock with mine and I sense an emotion there I’ve never seen before.
    Fear.

Chapter 12
    I read the sign in the window of the store on a crooked little block in the West Village: Custom artistry in a mass-produced world.  No two designs alike. R. Atwell, Prop. A few clicks of my digital camera, an internet search, and some emails have brought me to the jeweler who designed my mother’s ring.  I’m carrying the ring in a little silk pouch.  I’d like to wear it, but I haven’t had it resized yet.  The jeweler in Palmyrton said that would take a week, and I was eager to bring it to this little shop in Manhattan to find out the ring’s backstory.  Because this little