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

by S. W. Hubbard

  “They’re in it together? Oh my God! This is worse than I thought.” I lean back in my chair and stare at the spider web in the corner of the ceiling. “Why do they keep telling me they like me better than Sean’s first wife when that’s so obviously not true?”

  “Maybe you’re readin’ it wrong. Maybe it’s not the old lady tryin’ to get revenge. Maybe she just took the dress to buy some time. She maybe figures without a dress, you’ll postpone the wedding. And then she can keep pushin’ for that anoun-, anel—”

  “Annulment. Well, if that’s it, she’s got the wrong strategy. Everyone else cares what I wear to this wedding a lot more than I do.” I pull my iPad out. “I’m ordering that dress from J. Crew. Then I’m going to email Deirdre and tell her my designer gown was stolen and I’ve ordered a new dress. The whole family will know within five minutes. Then they’ll realize how badly their scheme backfired.”

  Chapter 13

  My alarm clock detonates at six a.m. Sean groans and rolls over. He still hasn’t gotten used to the fact that Saturday is always a work day for me.

  And neither of us slept well last night. I spent the evening ignoring frantic calls, texts, and emails from Deirdre and Adrienne. I decided not to tell Sean anything about my suspicion of Jill or about Ty’s conversation with Terry and the weird mid-day visit Terry and Adrienne had with his mother. How could I confess that I sanctioned Ty’s spying on the Coughlins? But a guilty conscience prevents sound sleep, and when I woke up in the middle of the night, I discovered Sean was also awake.

  He admitted he was worrying about the annulment stand-off, and I decided to offer Dad’s advice as my own. “Why don’t you talk to a different priest about it? I keep reading that Pope Francis is open to loosening up some of those old rules. Can’t you find a priest who’s cast in that mold to talk to your mother?”

  “I wish I knew a priest like that. Our parish priest is eighty and thinks Pope Francis is too liberal.”

  “Hmmm. But there are lots of Catholic churches. Surely—”

  Sean rolls away from me. “I can’t randomly call every church in New Jersey looking for a priest to talk to my mother.”

  Okay. So much for that idea. We lay in bed silently until sleep finally overtook each of us.

  Now it’s morning, and I’m exhausted. But the Carnahan sale must go on.

  I slip out of bed, take a quick shower, and head out to the Carnahan sale without eating breakfast. I’ll grab a bagel and coffee on my way to Alpine Drive. Because we got a late start yesterday, we didn’t leave the house in as good shape as I wished last night. The pressure to get everything priced once Les and Nancy were finally out of the way meant that I didn’t get the check-out area organized and didn’t get some of the Not For Sale items moved into the living room as planned. Ty and I have quite a bit to do before the sale begins. Thank goodness Jill will be coming to help.

  Just as I let myself into the Carnahans’ house balancing a bag of bagels and a box of supplies, my phone rings. I would ignore it, but the call is from Jill.

  Her agitated voice pours into my ear before I can even say hello. “Oh, Audrey! My car broke down. I can’t believe it! I’m stuck here waiting for a tow truck. It made a terrible sound before it stopped. I think it might be the transmission. Oh my God—I can’t afford this to happen right now. And I don’t know when I’ll be able to get to the sale.”

  Crap! I really could use Jill today, but we’ll have to manage without her. I hear her voice continuing the tale of automotive woe, but unfortunately, her absence means I have no time to commiserate.

  “I’m sorry, honey. Don’t worry about the sale. Text me and let me know what the mechanic says. I’ve gotta run.”

  Ty shows up moments later and we reassess our strategy as we work to set up the check-out area. “There’s no time to move the furniture that’s not going in the sale. Just stick some NFS signs on it,” I tell Ty. “You’ll still work the garage and the porch area. We’ll have to leave the second floor unmanned.” I glance up the stairs. “We already moved the baseball cards, the costume jewelry, and the toys down here. I don’t think there’s anything small that could be shoplifted up there.”

  “Want me to run up and double-check?” Ty asks.

  Out on the front porch, the customers have their faces pressed against the sidelights next to the door. Someone rattles the doorknocker. It’s 8:02:30. I’m confronted with my reality: there are hundreds of people lined up outside ready to enter a sale that was scheduled to open three minutes ago. We don’t have time to check every room like we usually do.

  “No, it’ll be fine. Head out to the garage.”

  “Okay. Call me if there’s any trouble.”

  I give him a thumbs-up and open the front door. Let’s get this sale rolling.

  Throngs of people surge through the Carnahans’ front door. At the head of the pack is the nosey neighbor brigade, led by the irascible Selwyn Forbes. He greets me with a curt nod and storms off into Lester’s den. The gaggle of hens behind him flutters into the dining room. Two young mothers dragging cranky toddlers eager to break anything they can get their grubby hands on head upstairs. Luckily, I’ve moved all the knick-knacks into the dining room. Maybe all the old ladies will buy them up before the little raging bulls return.

  In the first half hour, I sell the Easter dishes but not the Christmas; the ship-in-a-bottle but not the Lladro; the Monopoly and Parchesi games but not the Risk and Battleship. There’s truly no accounting for what might sell in this sale.

  As I make change and answer questions, a group of young women enters. They all have long blond hair and perfect teeth. One wears an orange Syracuse t-shirt, one a hot pink and lime green sundress, and the third artfully ripped jeans and the kind of gold-buckled sandals I’ve recently seen on Adrienne’s feet. Sorority sisters furnishing their first apartment.

  “Excuse me,” Ripped Jeans says. “Do you know if there’s any mid-century modern here? Like Eames or Aalto?”

  I wish! And if there were, you’d better believe it would be snatched up by the earlybirds, not the Gen Y after-brunch set. “ ‘Fraid not. But look around. There are some vintage collectibles.”

  They wander off. I doubt they’ll be interested in the Carnahans’ prim and proper furniture, but they might find some useful—or perhaps ironic—items among Nancy’s immaculately kept pots and utensils.

  Once they’ve combed through every room in the house, the nosey neighbors begin to drift out. Most haven’t bought a thing. “My husband would kill me if I brought any of Nancy’s old junk over to our house,” one lady chirps as she waves good-bye.

  I smile sweetly while muttering in my mind, Thanks for crowding out the paying customers, Gladys. The sorority girls drift past holding a few lemonade pitchers and mixing bowls and head upstairs.

  Soon Selwyn appears clutching a small stack of Les’s old jazz LPs. He waves them under my nose. “The Bluenote recording of Cannonball Adderly’s Somethin’ Else, Chet Baker’s In New York—these are highly desirable collector’s items. You’ve got them priced at $2 a piece, the same as the Carpenter’s Christmas album.”

  “That’s the thrill of an estate sale, Selwyn. Sometimes you score a great find. That’ll be eight dollars.”

  Selwyn snatches the records back. “I don’t want to score a bargain at the expense of my friend. I’m calling Les and Nancy to come down here right now. You’re robbing them blind.” He whips out an ancient flip phone and punches in ten numbers.

  No-o-o-o! After all we went through to coax Nancy into selling, not saving, her life’s accumulation of mementoes and gew-gaws, the last thing I need is for her to see it all laid out with people picking through it like diners at a pay by the pound salad bar. “Selwyn, please—Les knows how I priced his records. And Nancy’s finding the downsizing to be very stressful. We agreed it’s best for them not to be here during the sale.”

  But Selwyn’s one of those men who’s always confident that he’s absolutely right. His face lights
up because Les has apparently answered his call. He steps out of the line to carry on his phone conversation, and I have no choice but to continue waiting on customers.

  Upstairs I hear I high-pitched squeals and some OMGs—apparently the girls have found something that strikes their fancy. Maybe one of Nancy’s old hats is just what they need for a Kentucky Derby party or a Halloween costume.

  Soon Selwyn flips the phone shut with a dramatic flourish. “They’re coming right over,” he announces with a satisfied gleam. Then he stomps off and parks himself in a velveteen wing chair to wait for his friends’ arrival.

  Great. I’m not that worried about Les. Although he’s a little cranky, he’s not irrational. I can justify all my prices if challenged. But I’m certain Nancy will be traumatized by the sight of strangers trooping through her house and carrying off the heirlooms she’d hoped to pass along to Bec. The Carnahans’ arrival is bound to create drama, and that will disrupt the sale and slow down our exit. And there’s no point in calling Bec. Her irritation with her parents and Selwyn will only add gas to the fire. Instead, I text Ty.

  I might need your help. Nancy and Les are coming.

  Ty doesn’t waste words asking why. He just lets me know he’s got my back.

  I’ll watch for them and come right in.

  Now the sorority girls are clattering down the stairs. I’m focused on adding up the bill for a slightly off-kilter lady with thirty random items. The combination of her gleeful nattering over her purchases and my worry about Nancy’s arrival distracts my usually nimble mental math. Finally, she stumbles off and the girls step up to the checkout desk. They dump a load of kitchenware, costume jewelry, and a blue toque with a pheasant feather on the desk.

  “And how much is this?” Pink Sundress asks. “There’s no price.”

  For the first time since they came down the stairs, I lift my gaze from what’s right in front of me.

  Pink Sundress carries a long garment bag draped across her arms like she’s rescued a drowning Ophelia.

  A Kleinfeld’s garment bag with the dramatic script K.

  Chapter 14

  My eyes might just pop right out of my head and roll away.

  “Where did you get that?”

  The sorority girl recoils at the sharp tone in my voice. She has no experience of being treated harshly. “It was hanging in the closet in the yellow bedroom. You’re the one running the sale. You ought to know that.”

  I reach for the bag. “That’s not part of the sale.” The sentence comes out agitated and accusatory. What in God’s name is my dress doing here? It is my dress, right? Kleinfeld’s has been in business a long time, but that’s not Nancy’s wedding gown. The bag is pristine.

  Pink Dress steps back, her manicured fingers tightly grasping the bag.

  “If you didn’t even know where we found it, how do you know it’s not part of the sale? It doesn’t say NFS like some of the furniture.”

  That’s from Miss Syracuse. She must be the brainiac who got admitted to the sorority by mistake. The closet in the yellow bedroom. Surely I was in there yesterday when we were pricing. But no—we emptied that closet last week. Yesterday, I just went in that bedroom to price the furniture.

  I take a deep breath so my voice will be steady and reasonable. It’s not easy. “Can you please lay that out here on the table so I can look inside?” Reluctantly, the girl complies. With shaking fingers, I fumble with the zipper of the garment bag.

  I pull the zipper down, and there’s my Bettina Bartok gown, unsullied, just the way it looked on the day I bought it.

  Suddenly I’m crying. Hot tears stream down my face and a hiccupping sob escapes my mouth. The only time I’ve ever been more relieved and grateful is when Cal found Ethel and brought her home to me. I didn’t realize the dress meant that much to me. Maybe it’s not the dress as a fashion statement, but more the fact that someone wanted to ruin my wedding, steal my happiness.

  And getting the dress back means they haven’t succeeded.

  “Why are you crying?” Ripped Jeans asks. “This is so bizarre.”

  By now other shoppers are crowding around to see what’s going on. Of course the commotion attracts Selwyn like an ant to a picnic.

  “This is my wedding gown,” I explain. “It was stolen from my office last week. I’m so relieved to get it back.”

  “What?” Miss Syracuse plants a hand on her hip. “Ashley discovered this awesome designer dress that you didn’t even know about, and now you’re claiming it’s yours? This is illegal! My dad’s a lawyer. We’ll sue your company for fraud.”

  Selwyn pushes past the sorority sisters. “You’re trying to steal something else right under my nose, even when you know Les and Nancy are on their way? Brazen! I’m calling 9-1-1.”

  This is a nightmare! I’ve found my dress, but I’m being accused of stealing it. And how in God’s name did it get here? How could the thief possibly have gotten it into the Carnahans’ house? And why would they want to?

  Miss Syracuse is madly tapping her phone. “Daddy says we can sue for the dress plus damages.”

  Pink Sundress zips up the garment bag. “I’m not letting this out of my sight until the police come.”

  “Can I just pay for the books I bought and get out of here?” a disgruntled customer complains.

  At that moment, Ty pops into the foyer. His eyes widen at the sight of the garment bag. “Wha—? Is that—?”

  I clutch Ty’s arm. “What’s it doing here? How could Terry or Adrienne or Jill’s client hide the dress here? And why would they want to?”

  Of course, no one else gathered around the dress has any idea what I’m talking about. Ty rocks back on his heels, his face a study in concentration, the way he looks when he’s determined to work out a calculus problem without asking for help.

  “Someone’s messin’ with your head, Audge. Whoever took it never intended to sell it or wear it. They took it to make you miserable. Then they put it back here just to make trouble.”

  They’ve certainly succeeded. Who hates me that much? My deli coffee burns the back of my throat as I contemplate the level of animosity I seem to have generated. Why?

  “I want to buy this dress.” Pink Sundress stomps her perfectly manicured foot. “I found it. And it’s not marked Not For Sale.”

  So Ty takes a turn explaining the saga of my stolen designer dress. But when I hear the words coming out of his mouth, I realize how preposterous this must sound to my customers. I lay a hand on Ty’s arm. “Save your breath. When Nancy and Les get here, they’ll confirm that this dress doesn’t belong to them.”

  “I just saw Nancy pull up. That’s why I’m here. But she doesn’t have Les with her.”

  No sooner are the words out of Ty’s mouth than Nancy enters behind us, having slipped in through the kitchen door. Her face is flushed and her trademark coral lipstick looks like she applied it without the benefit of a mirror.

  “Oh! Look at the dirt these people have tracked in! I knew this sale was a terrible mistake.”

  “Nancy, where’s Les?” Selwyn thrusts the offending jazz albums at his friend’s wife. “Look at the ridiculously low price that estate sale woman put on these LPs.”

  Distractedly, Nancy glances at the records, but her eyes zoom into focus when she spots the sorority girls. She marches up to Pink Sundress. “How dare you!” She puts her hands on the other end of the garment bag and gives a tug. “Let go of that dress. It’s for the wedding of my daughter, Becky.”

  Chapter 15

  Cue the Twilight Zone theme song.

  A hush falls on the crowd in the foyer. In the distance, we hear the howl of police sirens. Are they heading here?

  After her declaration, Nancy sways. Ty grabs her elbow and pulls up a chair. Nancy slides onto it with her head drooping, worrying the strap of her handbag between her bony fingers.

  The casual late afternoon shoppers sense there’s something weird going on and disperse. As the sirens grow closer, the sorority girl
s, despite their threats of lawsuits, lose interest and stomp off after tossing a twenty on the desk to pay for the hat and kitchenware.

  I’m certain now that Selwyn has managed to give the 9-1-1 dispatcher the impression that there was an actual, not figurative, robbery in progress.

  The Carnahan sale, which was supposed to run until four, is effectively over at two-thirty when the Palmyrton police roll up, sirens blaring.

  Two eager Palmyrton patrolmen rush into the foyer. I see them tense up at the sight of a large black man. Then their faces grow bewildered as they notice the distraught elderly lady is holding the black man’s hand.

  “Someone reported a robbery?”

  “Er...it’s just a misunderstanding.” Selwyn tugs at the neck of his shirt. “I should never have called you. I’m sure you have more important things to do, so don’t let us hold you back.”

  The taller cop is not so easily rushed out the door. “Who owns the house?”

  Nancy stares vacantly at the floor, so I do a round of introductions. Selwyn continues to fidget.

  “So what did you think was stolen?” the taller cop continues.

  I know enough about cops to know that this one is not going to leave until he gets an explanation for why they were called. I can prove the dress is mine. I have an email receipt from Kleinfeld’s on my iPad, and I can ask the cops to call Detective Holzer for some background on the theft. But I have no clue how the dress came to be in this house. How can I explain that?

  But before I can start trying to satisfy the police, Nancy finds her voice. While clinging to Ty’s hand, she looks directly at me. “Please don’t tell Becky what I’ve done. She’ll be so angry. She’ll take me back to that psychiatrist again.”

  Selwyn’s eyes have gone buggy. “Don’t upset yourself, Nancy. Don’t say another word.”

  Understanding dawns on Ty and me at the same moment. We look at each other slack-jawed. Nancy stole my dress? How could she have gotten into my office?