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

by S. W. Hubbard

  “But if there’s something wrong with me, we should find out sooner, not later. I want to go to a fertility specialist and have some tests done.”

  “I think you’re worrying needlessly.”

  “It would make me feel better...make me feel like I’m in control. This cycle of trying, then waiting two weeks to see if it worked, is killing me.”

  “You always have to be driving the bus, don’t you?”

  I sit up. “And you’re content to be a passenger? Right!”

  Sean laughs and pulls me back into the covers. “You do realize that once we have kids, neither one of us will be driving the bus. For the next twenty-one years, we’ll be careening madly through traffic in a driverless vehicle.”

  Chapter 6

  By the time we wake up, the sun has moved westward, and the tide has erased all signs of the tragedy on the beach. The stretch of sand behind the houses on Dune Vista Lane looks the same as it would have in 1491. Sean and I decide to walk along the beach to Elmo’s, the little seafood restaurant near the marina with an ocean view in what passes for downtown Sea Chapel. As soon as we get to the water’s edge, we encounter a small white dog, maybe a Bichon. I bend down to pet him. “Hey, cutie—where’s your owner?”

  The dog scampers off, chasing a receding wave and barking as if he’s the tough guy scaring it away. As soon as the next wave comes in, the dog turns tail and charges up to the dry sand.

  Chase. Bark. Flee. He does it over and over again as we stand laughing at him.

  “Ya gotta hand it to dogs—once they find a game they enjoy, they’ll play it ‘til they drop.”

  We’ve been watching him for a good five minutes, and there’s still no sign of another human on the beach. “Do you think he’s lost?”

  “Nah—he’s clearly done this a million times before,” Sean reassures me. “He probably lives in the house next to Brielle’s.”

  We look up at the Petermans’ house. It’s not quite as grand as the Gardner house, but it’s plenty big. As we stare up at the deck, a teenage girl in droopy sweats and bare feet comes out on the deck. “Paco, get in here!”

  Sean squints. “Is that Sophia?”

  The late afternoon sun emerges from behind a cloud and illuminates the deck. “Yep, there’s the hot pink hair.”

  Paco cocks his head to listen to the girl’s voice, then returns to his game.

  “Paco, you are such a brat,” Sophia yells. “If I have to come down there and get you, you’re going into your crate.”

  I have yet to meet a dog who comes in response to a threat. But Sophia’s had a pretty rotten day, so I try to help. “Paco! Here, boy—come get a treat.” I hold out my hand, and Paco comes running on the off chance that I might be holding a chunk of steak. The little dog dances at my feet, and I scoop him into my arms and carry him up the beach toward his house.

  Sophia comes halfway down the deck stairs to meet me. Up close, I can see her eyes are red and swollen.

  She takes the dog from me and starts walking back up the stairs. A few steps up she turns her head. “Thanks.”

  ONCE WE GET TO ELMO’S, I realize all the exercise I’ve gotten today, both horizontal and vertical, has made me ravenous. I study the menu the way I used to peruse my differential equations text during exam week. Blackened grouper, sautéed sea scallops, grilled bluefish—they all sound fabulous.

  Sean has already closed his menu and turned his attention to the TV screen above the bar.

  “Authorities have confirmed via dental records that the body found this morning on the beach in Sea Chapel is that of seventeen-year-old Trevor Finlayson. The teen has been missing for ten days and was feared to have been a suicide.”

  I turn in time to see a school photo of a gangly but sweet teenage boy flash on the TV screen. He smiles broadly, his cheeks rosy with good health. Sean looks away and gazes out the window at the crashing waves. I wish the story hadn’t come on now. We had just about succeeded in pushing this morning’s tragedy out of our minds, and now Sean has to recall that the decomposed corpse he saw this morning was once a good-looking kid brimming with life.

  I reach across the table and squeeze his hand. The waitress shows up at that moment and begins to quiz us on our choices: grilled or fried, chowder or bisque, balsamic or ranch. She hustles toward the kitchen.

  “Man, you could hire her to interrogate suspects.”

  Sean chuckles and the sad moment surrounding the news story passes. We talk about the sale and our latest remodeling project and the future of Donna’s marriage and the prospect of Sean’s parents reconnecting with distant Coughlins and O’Sheas in Ireland. The food arrives and we chat some more, passing bites of shrimp and grilled bluefish back and forth. The restaurant has slowly been filling up around us.

  The crowd at the bar has grown bigger, too. They’re a rougher group than the dining patrons—two men in New Jersey Transit uniforms, a woman with the deep, vertical mouth wrinkles of a heavy smoker, another guy with a full sleeve of tattoos and a doo-rag. The buzz of conversation envelops us.

  The loud slap of a palm on the bar hushes the crowd. “Dammit, Reg—that’s a lousy thing to say. He was just a kid, no matter what you think of his grandparents.”

  Sean and I turn our heads toward the bar, as do several other diners. The two men keep arguing, oblivious to our stares.

  The man with the tattoos prods the NJ transit worker with his index finger. “You would defend those people after what they done to me?”

  “That’s ancient history. Let it go.”

  “It’s a helluva thing for Trevor’s mother—knowing that her boy was so depressed,” the woman sitting with the men says. “As a little boy, he used to play with my sister’s kids on the beach. So sweet, friendly to everyone—not like the old man.”

  The other conversations in the restaurant have begun to pick up again, and we can no longer hear exactly what’s being said at the bar. But the man with the tattoos is clearly still disgruntled.

  “Wonder what that’s all about,” Sean murmurs. “Seems like Trevor’s family is not too popular with the locals.”

  I use a wave to our waitress as a means to look at the crowd at the bar without staring. The tattooed man and the New Jersey Transit guy are getting heated again, and the bartender scowls and makes a “pipe-down” gesture. Then the tattooed guy throws some cash on the bar and storms out.

  When our waitress brings our check, she tells us to pay at the bar. Sean reaches for his wallet and heads to the far end near the cash register. I watch as he and the bartender exchange a few pleasantries. Then as Sean signs his credit card receipt, their conversation becomes more involved. I smile. Sean really knows how to use that Irish gift of gab to get whatever information he’s after.

  Eventually, he turns to the table and raises his eyebrows at me. That’s the code for, let’s leave and I’ll tell you all about it when we’re outside.

  As we walk down the beach toward Brielle’s house, Sean lights our way with a bright penlight he’s had the foresight to bring. I hold his other arm, a little unsteady with wine and exhaustion. “So, what did the bartender have to say?”

  “The Finlayson family has had a big house down here for generations—it’s that old yellow and blue one you liked. Everyone in the extended family uses it. The grandfather has a reputation for being a prick, trying to restrict access to the beach in front of his house even though there’s no such thing as a private beach in New Jersey. After Hurricane Sandy, there was a big movement to build up the dunes to protect houses in low areas from flooding. But Finlayson used his political influence to prevent any dune construction in Sea Chapel because it blocked his view. The guy with the tatts lost everything in Hurricane Sandy, and he’s terrified his house will get washed away in the next big storm. Of course, Finlayson’s house is on the ridge, so he doesn’t have to worry. I guess the debate divided the town: rich against working class. So the guy at the bar said the old man deserved to have his only grandson die.”


  “That’s harsh. Would someone really have killed Trevor as an act of revenge?”

  Sean squeezes my hand. “When your house is your biggest asset and someone else is threatening it through their actions, it’s a plausible motive. I’ve seen people killed for less. The bartender says the old man has pumped a lot of money into the town, so no one wants to cross him. But he agreed old man Finlayson is a jerk. Trevor’s father was the old man’s only son, and he died a few years ago. After that, the old man didn’t want Trevor’s mother and her new husband to use the house. Only Trevor was welcome.”

  “So the night Trevor killed himself, he was down here with his grandparents?”

  “I guess so. The local cops didn’t go into that with me.”

  By this time, we’ve almost reached the Finlayson house. We gaze up at the many windows glinting in the moonlight. “I bet the mother’s blaming the grandparents,” I speculate. “ ‘If I’d been there, this never would have happened’, would be a normal response, especially if the old man specifically refused to let her come.”

  “The grandparents are probably blaming themselves. With a suicide, there’s plenty of guilt to go around.”

  Chapter 7

  Sunday is an uneventful mix of work and play, and Sean departs very early on Monday morning. I look forward to a full day of steady work cataloguing the kitchen. Today the room is not flooded with brilliant light. Instead, the huge windows reveal gray storm clouds rolling in over the waves. The kitchen is so dim that I have to turn on the tiny recessed spotlights and the stunning blue glass orb that hangs over the island.

  Brielle really does have a great eye for contemporary furnishings. Everything she has chosen for this home is striking yet subtle. No cheesy nautical themed tchotchkes, no predictable sea shell lamps or cutesy star fish platters. The woman has impeccable taste. Why does she feel the need to ignore her own discernment and replace everything with some Japanese man’s choices, even if he is famous?

  This isn’t the first time I’ve been baffled by my clients’ decisions, and it won’t be the last. I know there are lots of people who will be very happy to acquire some of Brielle’s vision.

  I start with the cabinets above the sink. The woman has enough glassware to entertain the entire Royal Family. As I count and price, the wind rattles the furniture on the deck. This is going to be some storm.

  A clap of thunder makes the fine glass bowl in my hands vibrate. A bolt of lightning splits the sky.

  Then I hear a smaller, quieter noise.

  Right behind me.

  I spin around, and there’s little Paco the dog scratching at the sliding door. With his white fur plastered against his body, he looks half the size he did yesterday. I rush to open the door, and he shoots into the kitchen. Paco shakes himself vigorously, sending sprays of water across Brielle’s pristine floor.

  “Hey, buddy—did you get shut outside by accident?” I peer over at the neighbor’s house, but I don’t see any signs of activity in the windows that face Brielle’s house. A torrent of rain flings against the windows and lightning strikes the ocean again. “Well, Paco—looks like you’ll be keeping me company for a little while. I’m not venturing next door in this storm.”

  Paco cocks his head and wags his tail. He snuffles around the kitchen but shows no impulse to explore the house, preferring to stick close to me.

  It’s nice to have some canine company. I miss Ethel. But soon he’s jumping up on my legs wanting more interaction. “Let’s see if we can find you something to play with.” I open the lower cabinets hoping to find an old margarine tub or deli container to use in a game of fetch.

  Nothing. In fact, Brielle doesn’t even have a set of perfectly color coordinated Tupperware. On the rare occasions that she eats in this room, I suppose she must toss out any leftovers. They do tend to clutter up a refrigerator.

  I open some drawers and confirm my suspicion: this house does not have a junk drawer! That’s gotta be a first. Everyone has random odds and ends that need to live somewhere.

  Not Brielle.

  Every drawer and cabinet is sparsely populated with the highest caliber kitchen tools: German knives, gleaming stainless steel All-Clad pots, matching Oxo spatulas and spoons. Nothing that’s not part of a curated collection.

  Sean is meticulous, but as a serious cook, he possesses a mish-mash of essential tools. Even our good knives don’t match because he feels one brand makes the best chef’s knife while another makes the best paring knife. He wouldn’t last ten minutes married to Brielle.

  Finally, in the cabinet above the stovetop, I find an almost empty container of pink Himalayan sea salt.

  Designer salt! Frankly, I’m shocked that Brielle would allow pink salt into her blue and white kitchen. I dump out the remains and roll the empty container across the floor. Paco chases it in delight.

  I go back to work, occasionally doing my part to keep Paco’s salt soccer game going. An hour passes, and the rain finally lets up. A beam of sunshine breaks through the gray clouds. “Time for you to go home, Paco. Although I must say, your owners don’t seem particularly worried about you. Maybe they thought you were sleeping upstairs in your own house all this time.”

  I scoop the little fluff ball up and make the hike over to the Peterman house.

  When I’m on the deck, I can see Jane sitting at her kitchen island stirring a mug of coffee in front of her. She appears to be having an animated conversation although no one else is in the room. Then I see the white wireless earpods and the cellphone lying next to the mug.

  I tap on the glass to get her attention, then move to slide open the door and drop off the dog. When she sees me, Jane starts gesturing me into the house. I dump the dog off and wave since she’s obviously busy with her call, but her gestures become more emphatic. She wants to talk to me.

  So I follow Paco into the kitchen.

  Could there be a room more different from Brielle’s?

  The pale birch cabinets are modern and top quality, the counters are speckled beige granite, and the floor is a coordinating color of Italian tile. It would be a lovely kitchen if it weren’t for the towering stack of unwashed dishes in the sink, the crumbs and coffee rings on the island, the sandy footprints across the floor, the jumble of unopened mail on the table, and the crowning glory, a pile of hardened dog poop next to the sliders. Paco looks at me sheepishly as if to say, “I tried to tell them I had to go out, but they wouldn’t listen.”

  “The key performance indicators should be more challenging,” Jane shouts. She listens for a brief moment then resumes yelling. “Deliverables! We need to see deliverables!”

  Jane jabs at her phone and directs her attention to me. “Idiot!”

  “Excuse me?” Is she angry that I rescued her dog from the storm?

  “Not you, my client. Why do they hire me if they want to keep plodding along on the same path to nowhere?” She gets up from the high barstool and I see she’s still wearing the flowered nightgown she wore in the middle of the night last time I saw her. Except now it’s nearly lunchtime. “You want some coffee?” She looks around the kitchen and tries to pick up a mug, but it’s stuck to the counter.

  “No thanks. I’m good.” There’s an awkward silence that I feel compelled to fill even though Jane is the one who called me in. “Paco was scratching at my door during the storm, so I brought him inside Brielle’s house until the rain let up.”

  “Sweet Jesus, don’t let Brielle know!” Jane peers down at the dog. “What were you doing outside? You weren’t out all night, were you?” Jane laughs and tosses her teaspoon in the sink, where it lands with a clatter. “Our Paco is quite the man about town.”

  She doesn’t seem to notice I’m not smiling. What kind of pet owner doesn’t even check to see if her dog is in for the night?

  “So tell me about your business, Annie.” Jane stands confidently before me as if she’s wearing a Ralph Lauren business suit instead of a semi-transparent, coffee-stained nightgown.

  “Audr
ey,” I correct. “I own a small business called Another Man’s Treasure Estate Sales. I’m based in Palmyrton.”

  “Oh, Palmyrton! Sophia and I used to live there until we moved down here full-time last April. Sophia needed a change of scenery. Her school environment was toxic. Just toxic.”

  “Oh? She didn’t like Palmyrton High School?”

  “Good Lord, she didn’t go there.” Jane tosses her unbrushed hair. “She went to Bumford-Stanley. But it wasn’t a good fit for her. Sophia is a nonlinear learner. She needs space and a student-directed learning environment.”

  I choose to ignore the slam against my alma mater. “Oh, so Bumford-Stanley is how she knew Trevor?”

  “Mmmm. The Finlaysons are part of our circle.” Jane’s gaze drifts to the window facing Brielle’s house although it’s so coated with salt spray she can barely see out. The windowsill is lined with orange prescription pill bottles. “When is this big sale Brielle is holding?”

  “The first weekend in October. I have a lot of work to do, so I need to get back.” I edge toward the door.

  Jane blocks my path. “That’s what I want to talk to you about. I’d like Sophia to have an internship with you.”

  “Internship? Doing what?”

  “Whatever.” Jane waves her hand. “I mean, you don’t have to pay her or anything. Surely, she can help you with something.”

  I could use some help, but the little I’ve seen of Sophia doesn’t give me the confidence that she’ll be a hard worker. And I’m pretty sure I give linear instructions to my staff. Besides, I thought prep school kids require internships in finance or cancer research to prepare them to be masters of the universe. “Working with me wouldn’t be particularly educational.”

  Jane snorts. “That doesn’t matter. She’s supposed to have an internship. It’s part of her homeschooling plan.”

  I take a closer look at the clutter of papers and books on the kitchen table. Mixed in with the Pottery Barn catalogs and sewer bills are a tattered paperback copy of The Scarlet Letter and Everyday Physics, a tome that looks like it’s never been cracked open. A tumble of half-completed worksheets surrounds them. Palmyrton High School has its shortcomings, but I’m pretty sure the teachers there know more about the laws of thermodynamics than Jane here. “You’re homeschooling your daughter? That must be a lot of work.”