Treasure Built of Sand (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 6)

by S. W. Hubbard

  Treasure Built of Sand

  Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series, Volume 6

  S.W. Hubbard

  Published by S.W. Hubbard, 2019.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  TREASURE BUILT OF SAND

  First edition. May 15, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 S.W. Hubbard.

  Written by S.W. Hubbard.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Nothing is more soothing than a spreadsheet.

  Manipulating the rows, controlling the columns, slicing and dicing the data—those activities bring peace to my troubled soul.

  But today I’m not feeling the love.

  I stare into my computer screen at our third quarter projected income as if the patterns in my Excel spreadsheet can be read like tea leaves.

  If I were to get pregnant this month, the baby would be born in late June, the peak season for estate sales. I’d have to hire temporary workers to help Ty and Donna manage the workload while I’m out of commission... for what? Two months? Three months?

  Ty has been with me now for three years. Wow—a lot has happened in that time. I’d trust him with my life, but do I trust him with my business? After all, he’s only twenty-four with all the impulsiveness of youth.

  Hiring Donna has turned out to be an excellent decision. But she still lacks confidence. If I’m not here every day, will she be able to keep Ty in check? But I’d only be out for three months, and they could call me at home every day.

  Surely, I could be back at work with the baby in tow by September. I scan our cluttered workspace. The teetering towers of boxes awaiting shipment or removal to the dump, the tangle of wires connecting the computers, the printer, the coffee pot and the mini-fridge. This place would be a snake pit of danger to a toddler. But I suppose it’s okay for an immobile infant. I could cram a Pack ‘N’ Play in that corner beside the supply cabinet, and I could use the folding faux-Japanese screen that didn’t sell at the Feeney sale as a breastfeeding retreat.

  Breastfeeding! I’m not even pregnant yet. But if I did manage to do it this month....

  Our income would fall just at the moment when we need it to rise.

  It’s true I nurture Another Man’s Treasure like the child I don’t yet have, but now that Sean and I are trying to get pregnant, I have to be willing to relinquish more duties to my staff. I’ve been training Ty to manage smaller sales and give estimates, and he’s learned so much. But what if we were to land a big job with lots of antiques and artworks right when I’m awake all night rocking a colicky baby? I drop my head into my hands.

  This will never work!

  My husband tells me I’m being overly controlling. My stepmother, the retired pediatric nurse, tells me there’s never a convenient time to have a baby.

  Just roll with it.

  It’ll all work out.

  Only my father understands. We Nealons are not believers in puzzles that miraculously solve themselves.

  We’re chess players. Strategists. Planners.

  Now that I’ve tossed out my birth control pills, I’m all-in on this baby creation project. But I can’t relax until I have a plan that ensures my business and my baby will survive the birth.

  So far, that plan has eluded me.

  I look up from my projections when Ty charges through the office door and collapses into our favorite dilapidated armchair.

  “I’m draggin’ ass. Made my last trip to the dump.”

  “You had to haul the Gellner’s sofa there?”

  Ty arches his back until it cracks and stretches his dark muscular arms above his head. “Couldn’t get Sister Alice to take it, not even for that family of Somalian refugees she’s helpin’. Even people who just moved outta tents didn’t want that ugly-ass couch.”

  That the burnt orange/mud brown/avocado green monstrosity with knobby wooden arms and a heinous dust ruffle flummoxed our favorite do-gooder nun is saying a lot. At Another Man’s Treasure Estate Sales we strive to find homes for items we can’t sell, but the Gellner home strained our abilities to the max. “This job has been a soul-crusher,” I complain to Ty.

  “For a big house in a nice ‘hood, it sure didn’t have much that brings in the large. Everything was old, but nothing was an antique or collectible.”

  Given that Mr. and Mrs. Gellner hadn’t bought anything new since the Nixon administration, I thought when I accepted the job that we might find some seventies kitsch. But the Gellners seem to have been utterly joyless their entire lives. No Roberto Clemente baseball cards. No Sex Pistols LPs. No Love Boat drinks coasters or Marimekko tablecloths. “Luckily, their son doesn’t have unrealistic expectations. But putting on a sale in a five-bedroom colonial is twice as much work as that townhouse we did in Summit, and we’ll make half the profit.”

  “Yeah, it was good luck for us that Summit guy got transferred to Paris and needed to empty his crib of all those leather couches and halogen lamps. That stuff sold. We need another big score.” Ty stands and touches his toes. “But not a creepy house like the Tate mansion. I’d rather do ten boring houses than another one like that!”

  Our last big-dollar sale took a toll on all of us, especially Ty. “Don’t worry. I can’t think of any other untouched historic homes that might require our services. I’d be happy with another transferred executive.”

  “You heard anything from Donna yet? Maybe she got us a new project.”

  As part of my campaign to delegate more tasks to my staff, I let Donna attend the monthly Rotary Club meet-and-greet. No matter how many “how to network effectively” books I read, it never gets any easier. I’d rather scrub toilets than go to that luncheon.

  I’ve asked Ty if he wants to go to these networking events with me, but so far, he’s always declined. Like me, Ty is a non-shy introvert. He’s perfectly comfortable going out to talk to a potential client to offer an estimate, but he doesn’t like the small-talk chit-chat of a networking event any more than I do.

  On Saturday, when I was moaning about the Rotary event as we wrapped up the Gellner sale, Donna volunteered to go.

  At first, I reacted like a mother whose child has asked to stay at home alone for the first time. “No, you’re too young. You won’t know what to do if the house catches fire. You’ll let a serial killer in the door.”


  But then I realized Donna is a true extrovert. She could converse with a ficus tree, so why not use that to the company’s advantage?

  “Do you think you know enough about the business now to give a sales pitch?” I asked her.

  “Absolutely!” Donna had danced around the Gellner’s dining room, her ever-present spray bottle of white vinegar locked and loaded. “I’ve been role-playing with my cousin Carmine. He used to sell used cars, so he knows all about overcoming objections. Like, if I say we can clear everything out of your parents’ house and sell it in two days, Carmine will say he could do that himself. And then I’ll tell him how we can get more money for the stuff. Or how we can help if he gets emotionally overwhelmed. I roll through all our best marketing points.”

  “It was sweet that she’d been practicing with her cousin,” I say to Ty. “I wonder if the overcoming objections role-playing came in handy?”

  Ty smiles and shakes his head. “That girl’s a talker. If it was me, I’d probably just say, ‘Take us or leave us, I ain’t beggin.’”

  I crack up. “Honestly, that’s usually what’s going through my head when I make a sales pitch. It’s taken me years to learn to repress it.”

  “That’s why sending Donna to this lunch was a genius move. She don’t have to fake it. She’s honestly nice.”

  His words cheer me. Ty and Donna get along great. They’ll be able to manage Another Man’s Treasure if I have to take a few weeks off with a new baby.

  As if she could hear us discussing her, Donna charges through the door. “Audrey, Audrey! Guess what? I got us a new customer at the luncheon!”

  She dances across the office in the black suit she wears to all her Italian family funerals and the new floppy bow blouse she bought at TJ Maxx. “Except the job isn’t in Palmyrton. It’s in Sea Chapel.”

  Ty’s brow furrows. “Sea Chapel? Isn’t that near Rumson, at the Jersey Shore?”

  “Yeah. Is that too far?” Donna spins to face Ty, her face a study in concern. “The lady says it only takes an hour and a half to get there. She has her main house here in Palmyrton, and this is her vacation house.”

  I don’t want to throw water on the flame of her success, but I’m not sure Donna has reeled in the kind of client we’re looking for. “It’s not one of those beach bungalows that got damaged the last time we had a hurricane is it? I’m not signing on to sell mildewed furniture.”

  “Bungalow? No way! This house is gorgeous!” Donna whips out her phone. “She shared this picture. Five bedrooms right on the beach.”

  Ty peers over her shoulder and lets out a low whistle at the picture on the screen.

  “So why does she want us to sell the contents? Is she putting the house on the market?”

  “Uhm, I don’t know. I’m sorry—I guess I should’ve asked. But she was so nice. I was telling this old fart about Another Man’s Treasure when she came up and joined us. We started yakking and the next think I knew, she wanted an estimate. Her name is Brielle Gardner. She owns that gift boutique on South Main. That’s why she was at the luncheon—to promote her own business. She seemed excited that she found us as a bonus.”

  Now I’m intrigued. “Elle’s Choices. I’ve been in there. She sells seventy-dollar scented candles and hand-carved driftwood napkin rings.” In other words, nothing I’d ever buy, but she does seem to have good taste and cater to a high-end crowd. I can’t recall ever meeting her at previous Rotary Club events. So her beach house might be filled with good stuff. “How did you end the encounter?”

  “I told her we were definitely interested...that you’d come and look at the house and give her an estimate. She said you could come tomorrow. I figured it was easier to back out than to stall and tell her you’d call her. Was that too aggressive?”

  “Not at all. You handled it just right.”

  Donna beams. “So you’re going to go see the house tomorrow?”

  “Not me. We. You landed this job, so you can come with me to do the estimate.”

  Donna squeals! “Ooo, Audrey—I’m so excited. I like this part of the job even better than cleaning!”

  Chapter 2

  Late morning on a Wednesday in mid-September is an excellent time to drive to the Jersey Shore. The Garden State Parkway is as wide-open as the Nebraska prairie.

  Well, that’s an exaggeration, but it’s not the bumper-to-bumper, road-rage inducing traffic jam that it is every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday from Memorial Day to Labor Day.

  Donna and I cruise along singing to Bruce Springsteen and Bon Jovi. In just over an hour, we take Exit 114 and drive a few miles past lovely homes in Rumson. I navigate a bend in the road, and the GPS begins to chirp, “The destination is on your right.”

  43 Dune Vista Lane reveals itself.

  Donna has her nose pressed against the car window. “Wo-o-ow, Audrey! Brielle’s house is the most gorgeous of all these fabulous houses!”

  Although I have a soft spot for shingled Victorians with wrap around porches, I have to agree that Brielle Gardner’s house is quite spectacular. Pure white stucco in several tiers glows against the bright blue sky. The roof is sharply angled, fanning high and wide at the rear, which faces the ocean. The front door offers the only pop of color—a rich cerulean to match the waves.

  I turn my trusty little Honda down the paving stone drive. Although the front yard is sizeable, the houses on either side are quite near. Oceanfront property in New Jersey is at a premium, and even the rich have to squeeze together to allow for as many houses as possible to have that ridge-top view.

  We exit the car and stand before the huge double doors. Donna tugs at her slacks, the only ones I’ve ever seen her wear that aren’t fifteen percent spandex. “Do I look okay?”

  Before I can utter a word of reassurance, the doors open. “Oh, hello, hello! I’m so glad you could make it today!” The tall, slender woman who I assume is Brielle Gardner gives Donna an air-kiss and extends one long, manicured hand to me. “And you must be Audrey! Delighted to meet you.”

  Brielle Gardner looks like she’s been prepped for our visit by the kind of stylist who readies A-List stars for their red carpet walk at the Oscars. No one over the age of ten has natural honey blonde hair streaked with pale gold, but Brielle, at fifty, has a mighty fine imitation. She’s wearing perfectly creased white capris and a coral and blue sleeveless blouse, both of which accentuate her light tan. None of that leathery, roasted brown beach skin for her. Her strappy blue sandals coordinate perfectly with the blouse, as does her coral mani/pedi.

  “Come on back to the kitchen,” Brielle waves us forward. “I was just having some tea and toast. Can I get you anything?”

  She was recently eating in that outfit? I’d have jam on my pants and crumbs in my cleavage if I tried to have breakfast after I got so dressed up. To maintain that level of perfection, I’d have to be shrink-wrapped.

  “No thank you. We’re good.” As Donna and I follow Brielle through the open-plan living area, we exchange an awed glance. The far wall is solid glass and we can see big green-blue waves crashing onto the empty beach. The colors of the furniture reflect the scene outside: pale, sky blue sofa, sand beige floors, ocean blue area rug, cloud white chairs.

  Brielle passes behind a cream stone wall featuring a fireplace that faces both the dining area and the kitchen. When we enter the kitchen, the view stops us in our tracks.

  “Wow!” Donna exhales.

  I’m normally not one for revealing that I’m impressed, but a gasp escapes my lips, too.

  Dazzling. Literally and figuratively. Everything in the room is white, blue, or stainless steel. Even the cookbooks lined up on a shelf have blue and white spines. The bright morning sunshine pours through the sliding glass doors glinting off the glossy surfaces. The deck on the other side of the sliders cantilevers out over the ridge, so it feels like we’re standing in midair and could reach out and touch the waves.

  If Brielle has been eating, there’s certainly no sign of it. Not even a teasp
oon in the sink. The kitchen looks like a model in a very high-end designer showroom. I feel that if I open the cabinet doors, the shelves will all be empty.

  Brielle hops up on one of the sleek bar stools surrounding the white granite island. The subtle flecks of blue and gray in the stone are picked up in an intricately hand-painted ceramic bowl that’s nearly three feet across. Donna touches it gingerly. “This is so beautiful. Is it from Italy?”

  “Yes, we picked it up in a little shop in Sorrento. I used to carry some of their items in my shop in Palmyrton.” Brielle rakes her slender fingers through her tawny hair. “I’m so over that now. It’s too busy. Too ornate. I’m after a calming, Zen vibe. That’s why I want to clear out the entire house. I’m starting over with a new decorator.”

  “You mean, you’re not moving?” Donna blinks her well-mascaraed eyes. “But all your things are brand new. You want us to sell everything. Even these great stools? Even that perfect sofa?”

  Brielle’s lips compress ever so slightly. I can see she’s a woman who doesn’t like her decisions to be challenged. But Donna’s oblivious to that subtle tell. She prattles on, twisting in her seat. “What about that gorgeous painting? Surely, you’re going to keep that?”

  I try to slide my foot over to nudge Donna’s leg, but her stool is too far away. If she keeps this up, she’ll talk us right out of the job she landed.

  Brielle turns her gaze on the stunning expressionist seascape that dominates the wall nearest the dining table. A little shiver passes through her. Is she sad to be letting it go, or horrified she ever acquired such a thing?

  “Yes, Hiraku Maki insists on working from a blank slate. I’m very fortunate that he found room for me in his schedule.” She drops this name clearly expecting Donna and me to keel off our bar stools. But his hipness far exceeds our humble experience. If it’s not on HGTV, we don’t know about it. And if he’s the kind of decorator who insists I have to purge every remnant of my own personality, I don’t want to know about him.

  Brielle faces us both with implacable finality. “So you can see it’s imperative that the house be entirely empty by October 1.”