Chapter 32
“HOW COME YOU’RE SO late?” I ask groggily as Sean slides into bed beside me, displacing an indignant Ethel. The dog and I gave up and went to bed after my late return home from the office.
“Got called to the scene of an attempted suicide.”
“Why would the detective bureau be involved with that?” I burrow my head in my pillow, not sure I really want an answer this late at night.
“The victim is one of your customers.”
I sit up in horror, my heart pounding. A parade of my favorite regulars passes through my mind. “Who?”
“Sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you.” Sean smoothes my tousled hair off my brow. “Not someone you know personally. The woman who bought the dresser at the McMurtry sale and left the scene.”
“She tried to kill herself?” Now I’m fully awake. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Chelsea Blodgett. After that photo started circulating on social media, it eventually reached her friends—and her husband’s friends—and they started messaging them both. The husband called Chelsea from work to ask what was going on, but she didn’t answer. He got worried because he said his wife’s been jumpy and emotional lately, so he left work early. Found his wife passed out on the bathroom floor next to bottles of pills and vodka. Luckily, he got her to the hospital in time to have her stomach pumped.”
“But she was pregnant. What about the baby?” I ask.
Sean shakes his head. “Not pregnant. That’s just what she told you.”
I reach out for Sean’s hands. “Suicide! That’s a pretty strong reaction to being wanted as a witness. But the traffic division is handling Charmaine’s hit-and-run—did they call you in because they know you’re interested in the case?”
“They called me in,” Sean says, “because scuttlebutt around the office is I know something about art and antiques because of my wife.”
Art and antiques? I’m lost, but I don’t like the looks of his unamused half-smile.
Sean explains. “Up until three months ago, Chelsea Blodgett worked at Christie’s.”
I jump out of bed, all possibility of sleep now banished. “You’re telling me Charmaine’s attack has something to do with Ty’s side-gig buying art for Carter Lemoine?” I don’t want to tell Sean about the sketchy delivery service Ty uncovered today just in case he feels obliged to break it up.
“Looks like it,” Sean confirms. “I talked to Chelsea briefly at the hospital tonight. I’ll know more tomorrow when the traffic division officers follow up.”
“Well, tell me what you know,” I demand.
“Chelsea Blodgett got a text showing naked photos of her taken when she was a twenty-year-old art student who modeled for drawing classes,” Sean explains.
“There’s nothing wrong with being an artist’s model,” I say. “But surely art students aren’t allowed to take photos of the naked model?”
“Of course not. But someone did. And then he photoshopped new legs into the pictures, doing things one would not expect in a life-drawing class.”
“No! That’s disgusting!”
“As you can imagine, Chelsea was pretty freaked out, especially because the photo-shopping was so realistic,” Sean explains. “The sender said he’d circulate the images all over the internet unless she helped him out.”
“I would have told that creep to drop dead,” I say. “How could Chelsea agree to participate in hurting a woman she didn’t even know?”
“She was desperate to get the photos back,” Sean explains. “And she didn’t know about the plan for the hit-and-run. The text said all she had to do was go to an estate sale, buy something when she was told to, and send a message when the item was being carried out. It seemed like a pretty harmless way to get out of this jam, so she agreed.”
I put my hands on my hips. “She wasn’t suspicious?”
“Of course, but people believe what they want to believe. Chelsea decided to go along and hope it would all work out. She had just gotten married, left her single girl life in Brooklyn, and bought a house that was a stretch for them in Palmyrton. She had a new job in a stuffy law firm, her husband just got promoted to assistant principal of a middle school, and they both needed to hang on to those jobs to make their mortgage payments. She loved her husband, loved her new life, didn’t want to lose them.”
Sean gently nudges Ethel off the bed. “When the car hit Charmaine, Chelsea Blodgett realized she’d been set up. She was terrified, and that made her panic. She left the scene. Ironically, if she had stayed and behaved like any other shocked witness, no one would have suspected her involvement.”
“Can you trace the messages? Does she have any idea who sent the photos?”
“The messages came from a burner phone. Her husband is being very supportive and encouraging her to cooperate. She’s given us every name she can think of from her time as an art student to the time she worked as an administrative assistant at Christie’s. It’ll take a week to check them all.”
“What caused Chelsea to leave her job at Christie’s?” I ask.
“She and her husband were both getting tired of living in the city. Her husband was getting burned out working in a public school in Brooklyn, so when he got offered a job in a quiet suburban school in Palmyrton, he jumped, and Chelsea followed.”
“So whoever targeted her knew she’d moved to Palmyrton and knew Ty Griggs lived and worked in Palmyrton.”
Sean laughs. “Slow down, Sherlock. I tried to press her on the connections, but by the end of our interview she was getting shaky. She’s still not fully recovered from the overdose. The traffic division investigators will take over and talk to her more tomorrow.”
I grab my husband’s arm. “Sean, Ty can’t find out about this until you know who at Christie’s had those pictures. Carter Lemoine weighs 130 pounds soaking wet. Ty will eviscerate him if he thinks Carter had the slightest thing to do with Charmaine’s getting hurt.”
Sean taps his chest. “Well, I’m not telling him.” He points to me. “And you’re not telling him.”
“But what about the media? Do PalmyrtonNow or the Daily Wretched know all the details?”
Sean holds the covers up to invite me back into bed. “Let’s hope not.”
I lie down beside my husband and listen as his breathing slows into sleep. Meanwhile, my head is spinning. If someone associated with Christie’s is behind the hit-and-run, that means Ty was the real target, not Charmaine. Donna was right: the driver saw a tall Black person carrying the furniture and assumed that it was Ty. But if the attacker wanted to stop Ty from bidding at an art auction, why did he strike on a day when Ty was already at an art auction?
I stare at a square of moonlight on the ceiling. Maybe that auction wasn’t the important one. Maybe they’re trying to stop Ty bidding at the next auction he’s due to attend.
The one coming up in a few days.
Maybe Ty is still in danger.
Chapter 33
THE NEXT MORNING I find Sean sitting in the kitchen wearing his best charcoal suit and a blue Tom Ford tie I couldn’t resist buying for him at a sale because it matches the color of his eyes.
“Woo-hoo, don’t you look sharp! Who died?”
“I’m interviewing movie producers in the city and I’m trying not to look like a total rube from Palookaville.” He tugs on his tie. “This is the fancy one, right?”
“No, that’s the polyester one your mom bought you at JC Penny.”
My husband’s eyes widen in alarm until my laughter gives away the prank. “Don’t undermine my confidence,” Sean grumbles. “I can’t get past the gatekeepers if I don’t look the part.”
I slice a banana on my Cheerios and sit beside him. “You’re a cop. Doesn’t that automatically make you the winner in the machismo playoffs?”
“I’m sparring against twenty-five-year-old personal assistants who guard their bosses like hungry Rottweilers,” Sean says as he butters his toast. “Today I’m seeing some of Pellet
ierre’s more remote connections. Many of them are curious about the murder, so they hope they’ll learn something if they agree to see me.”
“Are any of them creating a new murder mystery series?” I joke.
Sean responds with a bitter laugh. “I get the feeling that if Pelletierre were still alive, he’d be capitalizing on the opportunity. He had a finger in so many pies—producer, assistant producer, investor, creator. Sometimes he was behind the scenes, sometimes calling the shots. Movies, TV series, plays, kids shows—it’s been a nightmare tracking them all down, and any one of them could’ve run amok.”
“But you’re sure he hasn’t been involved in the music business since he managed Plan for Extinction?” I can’t accept that my lead was worthless.
“One of his partners in the Netflix series told me that Pelletierre swore off managing bands after Plan imploded. Said it was too much trouble for not enough cash. The band gave him solid management experience and some wider entertainment connections. He ran with that.”
“Sounds like he knew how to bounce back from failure,” I admit. “Are you getting a sense of what he was like as a person?”
“Everyone agrees that he had a genius for bringing out the best in creative people. He was calm and steady when they were high-strung and impulsive. But he was controlling and didn’t hesitate to cast aside anyone who wasn’t serving his interests.” Sean gulps the last of his coffee. “The more I learn about Ross Pelletierre, the less likely it seems he’d agree to meet someone on the downlow in an abandoned lot in Palmyrton.”
“Yet he did. People are strange.” I chase the last soggy spoonful of cereal around the bowl. The entertainment mogul’s uncharacteristic behavior makes me think of weirdness closer to home. “Yesterday, I told Cordy that she doesn’t have a lien on her house. She had a weird reaction to the news—she was grateful that I told her, but she insisted it had to be a bureaucratic mix-up. And then she seemed nervous that I might have already told Peter and Hank.”
“Sounds like your good deeds are done, Mother Theresa.” Sean grins and kisses me goodbye. “You’ll have to let Cordy handle Hank in her own way.”
I tag after him to the door. “Hey, should I send you the contact info for Carter Lemoine? As long as you’re in the city and looking so fine, you could stop by Christie’s.”
Sean taps his head lightly against the door frame. “Audrey, Audrey—will you never let up? The traffic division will handle this.”
Chapter 34
I GO TO THE OFFICE to gather all the supplies we’ll need for Elspeth’s sale tomorrow. As I replenish the box filled with pens and markers and price tags, someone hammers ferociously on the office door. “Audrey? Audrey! Open up!”
The voice is crazed, panicky. Is our building on fire?
I unlock the door, and Noreen charges in.
“What have you done?” she demands. Her bloodshot eyes stare at me, challenging me for a response.
“Noreen, what’s wrong?” I pull out a chair. “Sit down. Tell me what happened.”
She kicks the chair and steps closer to me. “What did you tell Cordy? Why were you pumping me about her and Peter’s parents when we met at the gym?”
“I wasn’t pumping,” I protest weakly because, of course, I was. Obviously, Cordy must have confronted Peter and Hank on the nonexistent lien. But why is Noreen so angry at me?
“Look, Noreen—I happened to be helping Donna with her mortgage paperwork and we went to the Palmyrton property tax website and I discovered that Cordy doesn’t owe any taxes on her house. Naturally, I thought she should know that.”
Noreen’s eyes narrow. “When did you discover this? Why didn’t you tell me or Peter?”
Now, this is tricky. So far, I haven’t told any outright lies. As much as I want to smooth this over, I can’t start lying now. “I realized a few days ago. I admit, I knew when I ran into you at the gym. It seemed to me that Hank was intentionally deceiving Cordy, but I couldn’t figure out why. And....” I trail off, not wanting to voice my other suspicion—that Peter, too, might have been involved in tricking Cordy.
Noreen stares at me, her chest heaving. “Cordy called Hank last night. He went over to her house, and when he came back, he was furious with Peter and me.”
“Why? You didn’t—”
“Because we introduced you to Cordy. Got you involved in her life. Now you’re putting all kinds of ridiculous ideas in her head.” Noreen looks around for something to vent her anger on and settles for pounding the side of a metal filing cabinet. “This was a simple misunderstanding, and you blew it up into some kind of, of...conspiracy!”
“Noreen, listen—I don’t know Hank’s motivation, but there’s no way he didn’t realize exactly how much Cordy owed in back taxes. She made a payment after she got the money from the Freeman sale, but Hank made her believe she owed more.”
“He did not!” Noreen stamps her foot. “He was simply distracted with all he had to do managing the move to North Carolina.”
Now I’m getting frustrated. How can Noreen keep defending Hank like this when she’s admitted to me how manipulative and controlling he can be. “Noreen—he’s a lawyer. If he and Peter were so worried about keeping Cordy’s house for her, why wouldn’t they double-check the tax balance?”
But Noreen is so hysterical, she won’t listen to reason. “How could you betray me like this, Audrey? Peter accused me of telling you things about our family behind his back.” Her voice cracks and tears stream down her face. “He says we can’t keep our appointment at the adoption agency. He doesn’t want to raise a child with a woman he can’t trust.”
My stomach heaves. What have I put my foot into? This isn’t a fight about Cordy and her taxes. This is an argument about knowledge and power and control. It’s about Peter and his father, and Noreen is collateral damage.
I reach out for her hand. “Noreen, listen—I didn’t mean to hurt you. Once the full truth is known, Peter will calm down and—”
Noreen yanks her arm away. “Shut up, Audrey. Stay out of our business. You’ve done enough damage.” She opens the office door and leaves with one parting shot. “I never want to speak to you again.”
I SIT AT MY DESK AND cry over the damage I’ve done and the impossibility of setting it right. After a few minutes, I pull myself together and splash some cold water on my face. Ty and Donna will be here soon, and I don’t want them to find me like this.
Ty arrives first. He looks exhausted, with a grayish undertone to his rich, dark skin.
“What’s wrong—did Lo keep you awake last night?” I ask.
He shakes his head. Sits in his favorite chair. Says nothing.
I wait. He’ll tell me when he’s ready.
Mindlessly, I scroll through my spreadsheets, but they bring me no solace. I look up when I hear a sound.
A sniff.
“I’m the reason Charmaine got hurt,” Ty whispers.
How does he know this? Has the traffic division contacted Charmaine?
I’m astounded by Ty’s reaction. I expected him to be out on the hunt for the culprit. Instead of fury, I see shock and despair. “Sean told me late last night that the woman at our sale, Chelsea Blodgett, used to work for Christie’s,” I say softly, “and that the cops were going to investigate that angle. Did they call Charmaine this morning?”
Ty shakes his head, still staring numbly at the wall. “Carter called me last night. The whole office at Christie’s has been talking about how Chelsea’s picture is on social media because the cops want to talk to her. Then someone who she was friends with there heard she tried to commit suicide. Carter got panicked.”
My throat tightens. “What does he know?”
Ty rotates his neck. “There’s a guy at Christie’s...Carter calls him his rival. Dude’s always going after the same pieces Carter wants. Tries to beat Carter on his bids.”
“And that’s why Carter wanted you to go to the auctions as his agent?”
Ty nods. “He left that pa
rt out. Said it was just about not attracting attention so the prices would stay lower.” Ty pounds his thigh with his fist. “I thought I was so smart. I thought I was being careful not to be taken for a ride.”
“You were smart,” I say. “Who would suspect art collectors of being violent?”
Ty jumps up. “Carter coulda told me to watch my back. I woulda still done the bidding for him, but at least I would know what I was up against.”
Honestly, I’m stunned that Carter called Ty to tell him all this. If I had crossed Ty that bad, I’d go into hiding. “What’s happening at Christie’s right now?”
“Carter put together what went down with Charmaine last night. He got to the office and started singing this morning, trying to save his own sorry ass. He says the cops are on their way to arrest the other guy today.”
I guess Ty is so stunned by this turn of events that he’s actually willing to let the police do their job unaided.
Ty jams his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “I was so sure my father was behind that hit-and-run. I was so damn sure I was right, I couldn’t see the real truth staring me right in the face.” He’s silent for a while, then murmurs, “Mrs. Hamilton was right.”
“Who’s Mrs. Hamilton?” I ask.
“My tenth grade English teacher. She used to say that if you don’t have any idea how to spell a word, you’ll look it up. It’s when you’re sure you do know how to spell it that you make your biggest mistakes.”
“What are you going to do about your father?”
“I went to see him late last night. We talked. He told me about his life. Said he wished he could be doin’ a little better. Said he woulda told me about driving for Mo sooner if I hadn’t come callin’ with Sean.” Ty’s eyes glisten. “I was so sure he was still into his street hustle, and that he brought grief to Charmaine’s doorstep.”
I reach out and squeeze his hand. “I’m glad you were wrong about Marvin.”
Rock Bottom Treasure (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 7) Page 20