Treasure Borrowed and Blue (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 4)

by S. W. Hubbard

  Sean turns back to his cooking. “Once he realizes I’m not going to give in to him, he’ll come around. He hates missing a party.”

  “Do your brothers and sisters think that will work?”

  “Brendan and Colleen say maybe; Deirdre says no. And Terry’s just delighted that someone other than him is drawing all the family heat.”

  “You’re not worried Granda will have a heart attack in the middle of the discussion?”

  Sean places a dish of fragrant chicken saltimbocca before me. “That old man will outlive us all.”

  Chapter 5

  Since Ty and I are wedging the Carnahan sale between two bigger projects, we’ve chosen to work on it piecemeal. This approach isn’t ideal, but it allows us to work a couple of short weekdays to make a preliminary sweep through the house to catalogue and organize. Right before the sale, after the Carnahans have moved to their new condo, we’ll come back for one long day of applying the price tags and setting up.

  “You think these old folks are goin’ to give us a hard time today?” Ty asks as we drive toward Alpine Drive.

  “No. I sensed all the tension yesterday was between Bec and her mother. I bet Nancy will like having our company. And Les might enjoy a new audience for his grousing.”

  Ty smiles. “Yeah, just gotta let them tell all their stories about every little thing in the house. I don’t mind that. Changes things up from always working alone with nuthin’ but my tunes to keep me company.”

  I shoot him a sidelong glance. “You’d rather talk stamps with Les than listen to JayZ?”

  “Ol’ Les’s not so bad. You see all those photos in the hall? He was some kinda mountain climber back in the day. Imma ask him about it.”

  “Is that your strategy to distract him from questioning you on how we’re going to price his Richard Nixon campaign buttons and his ship-in-a-bottle?”

  Ty leans back in the passenger seat and smiles his Cheshire cat smile.

  THE INSTANT TY AND I pull in the driveway, Nancy shoots out the kitchen door and waves us toward her. “Good m-o-o-rning! Come right on in. I have a pot of coffee ready for you, and I baked my special sour cream coffee cake.” Nancy beams as if Queen Elizabeth and Prince Phillip had just rolled up.

  I need seven hundred calories worth of cinnamon crumble like a hole in the head, but I know better than to start this project by rejecting Nancy’s hospitality.

  So Ty and I sit down at the kitchen table with Nancy and Les and a coffee cake to die for. The yellow and blue flowered wallpaper and color-coordinated gingham checked place mats make me feel like I’ve stepped into a wholesome situation comedy from my childhood.

  Except we’re running a little short on laughs. Les immediately begins grilling me on how I got into the estate sale business, and how long I’ve been at it. I suspect he’s still suspicious of our qualifications, so I tell the Another Man’s Treasure origin story with heavy emphasis on how I apprenticed with an older agent while earning my BS in math at UVA.

  Les seems reasonably impressed. “I used to be in the industrial valve business myself. What’s your overhead like? You have a big office? A storage facility?”

  I laugh at the thought. “I have a small office, which sometimes doubles as a storage facility.”

  “Right now, the most important thing we’re storing in our office is Audge’s wedding dress,” Ty says.

  Mrs. Carnahan sits up, a perky bunny eager to plunge into a vegetable plot. “You’re getting married, dear? When? Where? Tell me all about it.”

  I feel a chunk of coffee cake lodge in my throat, but I have no choice but to answer. I try to keep it short. “The wedding is next month at the Old Mill Inn. Both the ceremony and the reception.”

  “Audge had everything organized except the dress. She finally bought it this week, so now she’s all good to go.” Ty seems determined to keep Nancy tuned to this subject, but I sense it could lead us into deep water.

  “And if I may be so rude, dear, how old are you?”

  “I’ll be thirty-five in September.”

  Nancy wags a finger at her husband. “See, Les—girls are getting married older and older these days. It’s not too late for our Becky.”

  Oh-h-h—there it is, the conversation I so did not want to get sucked into.

  Lester doesn’t bother to answer his wife. He turns directly to me. “My wife can’t accept the fact that Bec is gay.”

  “She is not.” Nancy flushes and her bouffant curls tremble. “Becky’s just going through a phase because of that nasty breakup she had with Warren Dubrecki in college.”

  Ty jumps up. “Imma head out to the garage and start working.”

  Nancy barely notices his exit. “Warren has never married. He’s still pining for Becky. And that awful Dana woman has put ideas in our daughter’s head. She keeps them from getting back together.”

  “Bec’s partner,” Lester explains. “They’ve been together eight or nine years now.”

  “Dana is Becky’s roommate.” Nancy clears the coffee cup in front of her husband although it’s still half full. “It’s too expensive to live alone in New Jersey on a teacher’s salary.”

  Les grimaces as he hauls himself out of his chair and grabs his walker. I’m not sure if it’s the effort of moving or his wife’s line of reasoning that makes him scowl. He shuffles back to his den without another word.

  Nancy cleans silently, washing every dish thoroughly before putting it in the dishwasher, scouring the sink. But soon she’s humming “I’m Gonna Make You Love Me” as cheerful as a day in May. It’s like the dust-up over Bec never happened. I slide toward the louvered swing doors. “I think I’ll start working in the dining room.”

  “I’ll be right in to help you as soon as I clean up this mess,” Nancy tells me as she scrubs the already immaculate countertops.

  Great.

  I open the massive breakfront and take out a dinner plate. Lennox, Windsong, a pattern with a rather drab grayish blue border. It’s not one of the more popular patterns. Maybe we can get $500 if all the pieces are intact. Otherwise, I can sell it to Replacements.com, a site that sells individual pieces to people who break a dish or glass. And look at all that crystal! Too bad it’s not Waterford. I turn over the water goblet to check for the backstamp. Nancy appears at my elbow.

  “It’s Gorham. I have water goblets, red wine, white wine, Champagne, sherry, and cordial glasses.”

  Because God forbid you would drink a cordial—whatever that is—out of a sherry glass. The whole experience would be ruined. I wonder if some of these glasses have ever been used.

  Nancy caresses the bowl of a sherry glass. “But I don’t want these to go in the sale. I’m saving them for Becky.”

  The prospect of Bec and Dana celebrating a big lacrosse win with a glass of sherry seems pretty unlikely. “Bec specifically told me she wants everything to go in the sale, Nancy. She says she only wants to keep the watercolor landscape in the foyer and her grandmother’s jewelry.”

  Nancy frowns, and I jump in to divert another rant. “Lots of younger people aren’t really interested in formal entertaining. They’re happy with one set of dishes and glassware that can go in the dishwasher.”

  “Humpf. Are you registered for china and crystal?”

  Ah, I can answer honestly although not entirely truthfully. “Nope.” I don’t mention that I bought a fabulous set of vintage Noritake the week after Sean and I officially took ownership of a house with a dining room. “Our wine glasses are always getting knocked over by dogs, kids, guests...even Sean and me. Whenever we’re down a few, I just pick up another six-pack of glasses at HomeGoods.”

  Nancy shakes her head. “Our society has become so disposable. What’s wrong with heirlooms?”

  She’s got a point. But when preserving heirlooms becomes more important than living life the way you want to, you’ve got a problem.

  Nancy opens a lower door in the seven-foot wide piece of furniture. A mobster could stash a corpse in there. “I a
lso have a complete set of Christmas china and Easter china.”

  Whoa—that will be a challenge to unload. Separate sets of holiday dishes are like roller coasters and black olives: either you love them or hate them; there’s no middle ground. People who love them already have them, and no one can be persuaded to take a set home as an impulse buy.

  “I got these on a double coupon sale at Macy’s. I paid three hundred dollars, but they’re worth much more.”

  Don’t bet on that. I make a note in my iPad. It’s clear to me that my strategy of waiting until after Nancy and Les have made their move to Edgemere to apply the price tags is the right one.

  Nancy places the poinsettia-bedecked plate on one end of the long dining room table. “I have service for twelve. That’s how many we used to have for dinner every Christmas Eve. Les’s parents and Aunt Esther and my sister and her husband and their three kids and Les and me and Becky and Richard.” Her eyes get shiny as she gazes at the empty table picturing it crammed with guests and laden with food. “Those were happy days. Now everyone’s moved...scattered...gone.”

  Chapter 6

  Ty and I compare notes on the ride home from the Carnahan job.

  “The garage is full of all the standard suburban gardening equipment,” Ty reports. “Lawnmower, leaf blower, string trimmer, snow blower, hedge clipper. I couldn’t get any of them to start up though. Ever since Les’s accident, they have a service do all their yard work.”

  “What accident?”

  “Remember I told you I was going to ask the old man about those mountain-climbing pictures? Well, in the middle of the morning I came in to use the bathroom, and I stopped to talk to the old dude. Turns out he’s climbed mountains on every continent except Antarctica. But ten years ago he had a bad fall climbing Mt. Rainier. He broke a buncha bones and the docs never could get him patched up right. That’s why he uses the walker.”

  “That probably explains why he always seems sort of pissed off.” I stretch in the driver’s seat while we’re stopped at a light. “Imagine being such an active outdoorsman and then being stuck in a recliner all day and needing a walker to get around.”

  “I think you’re right. Les cheered up when he was telling me about the climbing, but then he got sour again when he started talkin’ about his accident. That’s when I said I hadda get back to work.”

  “I wonder how Bec’s brother, Richard, died? Nancy hasn’t mentioned him, and they don’t have one of the bedrooms maintained like a shrine the way the Eskews did for Parker.”

  The mention of our most recent big job makes Ty shudder. “Please—that family was creepy. The Carnahans seem like nice normal people.”

  I park in front of the office and we continue the conversation inside.

  “So how much do you estimate the garage items are worth?”

  “Maybe a thousand if I can get the snow blower to work. Les says it just needs a spark plug.”

  “I got through the dining room, living room and bedrooms. That leaves the kitchen, attic and basement. Did you find anything valuable in Les’s den?”

  “There’s some records, but—”

  The office door flies open.

  “I’m here to see the dress!”

  My soon-to-be sister-in-law Adrienne stands in the doorway, her slender figure and sleek, dark hair illuminated from behind by the bright afternoon sunlight. After a full day at the Carnahan house, entertaining Adrienne is not my top priority.

  She strides into my shabby office, where she so recently used to work. Now she’s found a “real” job in corporate marketing.

  “Shouldn’t you be at work?” Ty speaks aloud what I’m thinking.

  Adrienne sweeps past him on a cloud of expensive perfume. “I had a late meeting in Summit. There was no point in going back to the office at the end of the day, so I decided to swing by here and see the dress. Deirdre told me all about it.” Adrienne glances around and spies the garment bag hanging on the coat rack in the corner. “There it is!”

  She unzips the bag, and her eyes narrow into a squint. Her expert fingers caress the silk, fondle the lace. She stands on her tiptoes to see the label sewn discreetly into the back.

  She shrieks.

  “Oh. My. Ga-a-w-wd! This is a Bettina Bartok.” She spins around. “You seriously only paid a thousand bucks for this?”

  “Nine-ninety-nine plus tax.”

  “Audrey, do you know what you have here? This gown was created by the hottest wedding dress designer in America. I heard Meghan Markle wanted Bettina to design her wedding dress, but the Royal family forced her to use a British designer.”

  “That so?” Ty says. “Well, Audge gonna look hotter than Meghan on her wedding day. And Meghan’s pretty hot.”

  Adrienne’s eyes are lit up like Ethel’s when she sees Sean heading to the grill with a platter of raw hamburgers. “This dress is worth a fortune! You got a $20,000 dress for a thousand bucks. Un-freakin’ -believable! It must’ve ended up at Kleinfeld Studio by mistake. And I can’t believe you and Deirdre found it!”

  Adrienne has a real talent for the backhanded compliment. “Why? You think we’re too frumpy and clueless to recognize a great dress when we see one?”

  “No-o-o. I just meant...well, you were very lucky to find it. You know, sharks patrol that store looking for gems like this, and then they resell them online on sites like The RealReal and ThredUp.”

  “I could resell that dress for twenty grand?” I really love my wedding gown, but man, I could remodel my whole kitchen for twenty grand.

  “No, that’s the retail price. But you could definitely get five grand.” Adrienne spins around and plants her hands on her hips. “Put that thought out of your mind, Audrey. I’ll be watching you walk down the aisle in this dress in just six weeks.”

  Given the see-sawing of her marriage to Sean’s brother Brendan, I’m surprised to see she’s so confident she’ll be at the wedding.

  Adrienne stands in the doorway. “I can’t believe you left it this late to get a dress. But I have to hand it to you—you came up with an awesome win.”

  And she’s gone.

  Chapter 7

  Sean is coaching basketball at the Rosa Parks Community Center tonight, so Ethel and I are enjoying a forbidden pleasure from our bachelorette days: frozen ravioli and jarred spaghetti sauce washed down with red wine (for me) and a long drink from the powder room toilet (for Ethel).

  The dog is just trotting back to join me on the couch when the doorbell rings, and she makes a barking, leaping detour to the foyer.

  Now who could that be? If I’m lucky, it’s neighborhood kids selling Girl Scout cookies. I could use a little treat.

  But when I peek through the peephole, I see a stocky woman in elastic waist pants and sensible shoes.

  The sight is so unexpected that for a split second my mind insists that this woman is a stranger. But then I realize that no, my eyes are not deceiving me. That’s Sean’s mother on our front porch.

  I open the door with one hand while restraining Ethel with the other. “Hi, M-m- Mary.” I always stumble when forced to call my future mother-in-law by name. Mary? Mom? Mrs. Coughlin? None of those feels comfortable. “Come on in.”

  Once she’s in the foyer and I’ve silenced Ethel with an undeservedly stern “SIT” we face each other.

  “Uhm, Sean’s not home. He’s coaching basketball tonight.” But surely she knows that. Sean has coached at the Parks Center every Wednesday for the past ten years.

  “I know. It’s you I wanted to talk to, Audrey. Could I get a cuppa tea, do you think?”

  Where are my manners? I’m so startled by my future mother-in-law’s arrival that I’m treating her like an itinerant vinyl siding salesman. “Of course. Let’s sit in the kitchen.”

  As I fuss over the making of the tea, Mary chats about how nice our yard looks and how pretty my sugar bowl is and how grand the weather has been. I can’t escape the feeling that these pleasantries are the preamble to something dreadful. Why
would she come here at a time when she knows Sean is out?

  I set the teacup in front of her and watch as she dips the bag, spoons in the sugar, stirs. It’s like watching the flame race along an extended fuse.

  Finally she swallows a jolt of tea and looks me in the eye. “Deirdre tells me you got a very lovely dress for the wedding.”

  Uh-oh, here it comes. I nod, waiting.

  “That’s grand, dear. We’re all looking forward to watching you come down the aisle.”

  Ethel paces around the kitchen and finally sits right beside Mary, fixing her limpid brown eyes on our guest.

  Mary pulls her heavy handbag closer. She’s not a big fan of pets. “About the ceremony, Audrey. I know you young people aren’t so concerned with traditions, and Joe and me, well, we don’t have a problem with being flexible.”

  Ha! That’s news to me.

  “But it’s the old ones, dear—my cousin, Father Frank, and most of all, my dad. They don’t have that much more time here on Earth with us before they go to join my sainted mother.” Mary pauses and gazes up at the ceiling, as if her mother were hanging out in our guestroom. “They’re worried about meeting their maker, doncha know? And they don’t want to do anything that might put their souls in peril.”

  Ok-a-a-y. I think the two old geezers oughta be able to get through the rest of their days without murdering anyone.

  Mary fortifies herself with another swig of tea. “So, I’m pleading with you, Audrey, to put their souls at ease. They both want to be there to support you and Sean as you begin your life’s journey together. But they can’t, under the....present circumstances.”

  “Wait—you’re telling me Father Frank and your dad think they’ll burn in hell if they come to our wedding in the garden of the Old Mill Inn and watch Pastor Jorge perform the ceremony?”

  Sean’s mother winces at her plea being restated so baldly. “Well, dear—that’s their belief, not mine, mind you. But at their age, there’s really no way to change their minds. Set in their ways, they are.” Mary shifts to the far edge of her seat as Ethel prepares to lay her wet nose on our guest’s knee. Then she leans across the table and grabs my hand. “I’m begging you, Audrey—please persuade Sean to agree to the annulment. Father Frank can rush it through and find a priest willing to marry you at the Inn. Then Sean’s grandfather can go happy to his grave knowing he watched you and Sean joined properly in holy matrimony.”