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

by S. W. Hubbard

  “But Sean....”

  “No buts. Do you want me to send you the stats on abusers who’ve killed their victims’ friends and family and then killed themselves? You’re playing with fire, Audrey.”

  I hear the seriousness in Sean’s voice, and I know this isn’t bluster. The situation between Anthony and Donna is dangerous. And here I am, having to manage the crisis from two hours away.

  “All right. Let me know when you have Anthony in custody. Then I’ll call Donna.”

  Chapter 9

  When I get through to Donna, I brace myself for an onslaught of tears.

  What I get is much worse.

  Her voice is wooden, her tone robotic. She sounds like she’s on another planet, not just forty miles up the highway in Palmyrton. She tells me she’s fine; she apologizes for being a bother.

  I patiently explain the benefits of the battered women’s shelter: the undisclosed location, the security system, the counseling. “And Sean says it’s very nice. You’ll have your own room. They can pick you up from the hospital and take you right there. Please say you’ll go.”

  Donna launches back into her litany of apology and deflection. “I can’t take a spot from a woman who really needs it. I’m fine. My arm’s not actually broken. It’s just dislocated. The doctor popped it back in the socket. No cast, I only have to wear a sling for a while. I can come back to work tomorrow.”

  “I’m not worried about you missing work. I’m worried about your life! Donna, listen to yourself. Are you saying that because the bone isn’t broken, Anthony’s not an abuser? He intentionally hurt you. Hurt you badly enough that you needed to go to the hospital. Hurt you because he’s trying to control you and keep you from working at a job that gives you independence.”

  There’s a long pause when I can only hear her breathing. I want to plunge into that silence with more logical reasons why she has to go to the shelter. Something—the hand of God, maybe?—holds me back.

  Finally, Donna speaks.

  “Okay. I’ll go to the shelter.”

  THE CRISIS BACK IN Palmyrton takes a chunk out of my work day, so I’m glad when Sophia returns in the afternoon. I let her finish the cataloging work on the main floor while I settle down to email photos of interesting pieces to some of my regular clients who might be interested. The key to making this sale successful is going to be matching the right buyers to the right items.

  I start by sending photos of the paintings to a gallery owner in East Hampton, Long Island. The impressionist seascapes are lovely, but they’re not by artists well known enough to sell at an auction house like Sotheby’s. Seems to me a gallery in an even more high-end beach community than Sea Chapel is my best bet for a good price. Then I send photos of the furniture to an interior designer I know who does staging for high-end real estate agents. Surely Brielle’s barely used sofa and chairs could improve the looks of some shabbily furnished co-op in a prime location in Manhattan. Finally, I send photos of Brielle’s kitchenware to my friend who owns a high-end resale shop in Summit.

  Soon replies start pinging into my inbox. The most interesting one comes from Tim Ruane, the interior designer who does real estate staging.

  Did I understand you correctly? You’re at the house of Everett Gardner...THE Everett Gardner, CEO of The Gardner Group?!? Is his company on the ropes? Is that why he’s selling off all his assets?

  Good grief! I’m going to start a rumor that will cause the stock market to crash. I quickly answer.

  No! His wife Brielle simply wants to redecorate this house. She apparently got a chance to work with some famous Japanese designer, so she’s getting rid of everything to give him a clean canvas to work on. Rich people problems ☺

  Seconds later, Tim responds. Hiraku Maki? That’s strange. I can’t imagine he’d accept a gig at the Jersey Shore, even if it is for Everett Gardner. He prefers high profile architecture.

  What a snob Tim is! I can practically hear the drawl of contempt coming from the words on my laptop screen. And I might have realized he’s the one person I know who’s actually heard of this guy that I’m not supposed to mention. I don’t think that’s the one. I quickly type a face-saving lie. Anyway, I still have to sell what’s here. Are you interested in the sofa and chairs, or not?

  Tim says he’s interested, and we negotiate the price and a pick-up time.

  His last email of the night ends with a warning. You’d better do good work on this sale, Audrey. I hear Everett Gardner is a real bastard. He’d be a bad enemy to make.

  After I finish the transaction, a nagging uneasiness mixes with my satisfaction in closing a deal. Tim is one of those annoying people who really does know everything about everyone. Has Brielle lied to me about why she wants her house emptied? Why would she bother cooking up this tale about the Japanese designer when I’m not even sophisticated enough to know who she’s talking about?

  Shrugging off the question, I head out to the kitchen to check on Sophia’s progress. To keep herself company as she works, she’s turned on the TV mounted behind a sliding panel in the kitchen. I didn’t even know it was there, but of course, Sophia has been in this house many times before. She clicks through the channels. I’m not sure if she’s looking for something specific or simply bored by all 300 choices the Gardners’ satellite dish offers. Game shows and soap operas and ads for ambulance-chasing lawyers spin across the screen in dizzying array. I’m searching for a snack in the fridge when an earnest news reporter’s face catches Sophia’s attention, and she stops clicking.

  “Ocean County authorities have completed the autopsy on Trevor Finlayson, the teenager found on Dune Vista beach on Saturday. According to the medical examiner, no sea water was found in the young man’s lungs. He did not drown. Police say this was not a suicide. They are now classifying the death as a homicide.”

  Chapter 10

  Before I can even reach the kitchen table, Sophia has charged out through the deck door. I see her pink head bobbing against the beige sand as she runs headlong down the beach toward town. I’m left standing in the kitchen with the TV news droning on about car accidents and tax protests, Paco snuffling at my feet.

  Trevor was murdered? Why? And what about the suicide note he supposedly left?

  Should I pursue Sophia? She’s got quite a head start on me, and I have no idea where she’s headed. Perhaps some friend who can offer comfort lives down the beach from here. I don’t even have Jane’s phone number, and I don’t relish going next door to barge into her teleconference.

  I reach for my phone to call Sean. He befriended some of those local cops on the night the body was discovered. Maybe he’ll know something or can offer some advice.

  Unfortunately, my call rolls over to voicemail. He must be busy, so I leave a quick message. No sooner do I hang up and uneasily return to work than I hear footsteps on the deck. Has Sophia returned?

  No, it’s her mother.

  I wave Jane into the kitchen. She looks totally different today. For one thing, her hair is combed. She’s applied some make-up. And she’s not wearing PJs. In fact, she looks quite nice in a casual navy dress and flats.

  She glances around the kitchen. “Hi, Audrey. Where’s Sophia?”

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard....” I gesture toward the TV “.... But the news just announced that Trevor’s death was a murder, not a suicide. Sophia ran down the beach toward town as soon as she heard it.”

  I stop myself from apologizing for not following or notifying Jane. After all, I didn’t sign on to be the kid’s babysitter.

  Jane scratches her head as if she’s contemplating some thorny problem she must solve for one of her consulting clients. “Ye-e-es—I was worried she’d...overreact... when she heard the news.” She peers out Brielle’s windows—considerably cleaner than her own—but Sophia is now out of sight. “I suppose I’ll have to drive down to Elmo’s. I really don’t need this today.”

  Jane sounds like a mom annoyed to have to drop off her daughter’s forgotten
soccer cleats. The poor kid’s distraught that her friend was murdered. Surely that deserves a little maternal comfort. “How do you know she went to Elmo’s?” I ask.

  “She’s befriended some local kid who works in the kitchen there.” Jane pulls out her phone and presses a speed-dial. After a few moments of listening, she drops it on the table. “Rolled to voicemail. She never picks up when I call.” Jane massages her temples. “I have a splitting headache after that videoconference. I had to explain my market saturation strategy to the client ten times before he could see the wisdom. All I want to do is crawl into bed.”

  Did Jane come over here to manipulate me into going after her daughter? No way! But, of course, I do feel sorry for Sophia. “You don’t think Sophia will do anything, er, reckless because of this, do you?”

  “You mean like tattoo Trevor’s name across her forehead? That’s entirely possible. Sophia loves a grand gesture.” Jane plops onto one of Brielle’s exquisite chairs and kicks off her shoes. “She was finally settled down after his suicide, and now this! I don’t know how our local-yokel police can possibly say Trevor was murdered. Everyone knew he was depressed. He’d been seeing a therapist for years.”

  As the wife of a cop, I know a thing or two about autopsy results, and I take it upon myself to clarify the situation for Jane. “If there was no sea water in his lungs, that means he didn’t drown. He was dead before he went into the water. So if he did commit suicide, someone disposed of his body by tossing it in the ocean. Why would anyone do that?”

  Jane’s brow furrows. She clearly doesn’t like being contradicted. “Humpf. Trevor’s mother has been crying every day since he disappeared, and she read the note he left at his grandfather’s house. It said ‘I can’t take this anymore. I hate my life. I’m sorry.’ What else could that mean, but that he planned to kill himself?”

  “Why was he so unhappy? Why did he need therapy?” I continue pricing items from the dining area buffet. Despite the house’s uncluttered appearance, Brielle possesses an incredible volume of stuff. Two sets of twenty napkin rings, wine carafes, sangria pitchers, iced-tea glasses, champagne flutes, beer steins. Is there a beverage she doesn’t have a specialized container for?

  “Well, his family was complicated—a yours, mine and ours situation, you know. Trev was Jeanine’s son from her first marriage, and Ken’s got two from his first marriage, and then they had little Roxie together. Trevor used to tell Sophia that he felt like a stranger in his own family. And it didn’t help that Ken was the father of all the other kids, but Trev never knew his own father. He died when Trev was a toddler.”

  “Trevor was staying with his grandparents the night he disappeared?” I nod in the direction of the huge Finlayson house.

  “Yes, Jeanine and Ken and their kids were personae non grata there. But who knows what Trevor was up to that night? The old folks probably go to bed at eight.”

  Jane picks up one of Brielle’s champagne flutes and pings it to hear the crystal ring. “And Ken is a prick—there’s that. I was always willing to let Trevor hang out at our house when things got too hairy at home, but Ken didn’t approve. Said I didn’t supervise the kids enough. I’m sure he thinks Sophia is a bad influence.” She mimes the action of smoking a joint.

  If you ask me, Trevor’s stepfather had legitimate concerns about Jane. But Trevor’s problems sound like standard teenage angst to me. “But would the family drama be enough to make Trevor want to kill himself? Maybe the note meant something else?”

  “Possibly.” Abruptly, Jane swivels on her stool to face the dining area. “How are you going to sell that painting? You’re not going to put one of these sticky price tags on it and sell it to some gawker from Seaside, are you?”

  Nothing makes me bristle more than someone assuming I don’t know how to do my job. “I’ve already found a buyer for it. A gallery in East Hampton.”

  “Hmmmm.” Jane stands up and stretches. “I’ve got to take a nap. If Sophia shows up here, tell her we’re due at the Levoniak’s house at seven.”

  “I thought you were going to look for her at Elmo’s.”

  Jane yawns so wide I can see her fillings. “Well, I’ve spent so much time sitting here talking to you, there’s hardly time for that now, is there?”

  And she sashays off, Paco at her heels.

  Jane’s not winning any Mom-Of-The-Year awards, that’s for sure. While I debate going to Elmo’s to look for Sophia, Sean calls. He’s gotten some information from the Sea Chapel police.

  “It turns out Trevor has a huge trust fund from his dead father. So there actually is a motive for killing him. All the money goes to his baby half-sister, who is his only blood relative. The parents would control it.”

  “The Sea Chapel police think Trevor was murdered by his own mother?”

  “They’ve turned the case over to the Ocean County Sheriff’s Department. It’s too big for them to handle. I think it’s the stepfather the county detectives are looking at. He’s got some financial problems. If his wife controlled Trevor’s money, he could get a bailout.”

  “But what about the suicide note?”

  “The way the note was worded, the family was holding out hope that Trevor simply ran away. The stepfather came down here to look for Trevor after the grandmother found the note and called them in Palmyrton. So maybe the kid did start off running away and his stepfather decided to make sure he never came back. And conveniently used the note as cover.”

  “He probably thought the body would never be found.”

  “Yeah, your average nonprofessional killer doesn’t realize how deep you have to sink a body for it not to wash ashore.”

  I shiver. I’ll never get used to the fact that my husband knows these things. “So if Trevor didn’t drown, does the coroner know what killed him?”

  “His trachea was crushed. Trevor was strangled.”

  “Are they going to arrest his stepfather?”

  “I don’t think they have enough evidence yet. Motive alone isn’t enough. The Ocean County Sherriff’s Department will have to keep digging for some forensic evidence or witnesses.”

  A brief silence falls between us. Sean breaks it. “Are you all right down there? Why don’t you head home right now and go back down when you can take Ty with you.”

  “I’m fine, “I assure my husband. “That poor kid’s murder has nothing to do with me. And nothing to do with this house. The tide just happened to wash the body up here.”

  “Don’t be so offhand about murder, Audrey. Seems to me everyone in Sea Chapel is connected to this case somehow.”

  I spent thirty years of my life feeling like no one was ever worried about my well-being. I’m intensely grateful to now have so many who care. Still, my natural impulse is to pull against any reins that try to slow my forward movement. “The house has an alarm system,” I remind Sean. “I’ll lock myself in while I work. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  When I hang up, it’s five-thirty. Early for dinner, but there’s nothing in the house for a snack or a meal, so I may as well break now. I can get a little more done before bedtime when I return. Should I drive to Rumson to try a new restaurant or just walk down to Elmo’s?

  The rational part of my mind tells me to get in the car and drive far in the opposite direction. But I keep imagining Sophia bereft in the kitchen of the little seafood restaurant waiting for her friend to be done scouring a mountain of pots. And after my long conversation with Sean, my phone is nearly out of juice. If I walk down the beach to Elmo’s, I won’t need it.

  So I plug in my phone to charge and set off for Elmo’s.

  The wind has kicked up and the surf is rough. I carry my sandals as I walk through the sand. At the jetty, waves crash against the black seaweed-covered rocks, sending up a dramatic white spray each time they hit.

  The sand castle little Teddy built so lovingly yesterday is now a crushed heap of sand, sticks, and shells. All that remains of his masterpiece is one tower flying a jaunty sea gull feather flag.
>
  When I get to the restaurant, there’s only one table of early-bird old folks in the dining room. All the action is at the bar.

  I hop up on a stool between a burly guy wearing a Perillo’s Home Remodeling shirt and a skinny guy with two shots lined up in front of him, order a beer, and ask for a menu.

  “Get the oysters,” the shot guy next to me commands.

  “Oysters are the one seafood I don’t like.”

  “They’re fantastic,” he insists.

  Just what I need—a belligerent drunk making my menu choices. “I’m sure they are; I just don’t care for any oysters. I don’t like the texture.”

  “Get her half a dozen blue points,” the drunk hollers at the bartender.

  I make eye contact with the server and shake my head.

  “Calm down, Donnie. The lady doesn’t want oysters.” He leans in closer to me. “What can I get ya, hon?”

  “I’ll have the Cajun grouper and a salad.” Before he turns away, I grab his arm. “Have you seen Sophia Peterman down here today?”

  “Yeah, she came in a while ago lookin’ for one of our dishwashers, but he’s not working today.”

  “Did she go to his house?”

  The bartender shakes his head. “The kid lives a few miles inland. Sophia couldn’t walk there. She didn’t even have shoes on.”

  Now that he mentions it, I can picture Sophia’s ratty flip-flops on Brielle’s deck, where she kicked them off before entering the house. Maybe while I was on the phone with Sean, she came back up the beach and went home. Good. I can eat my dinner without performing psychotherapy.

  The Perillo’s contractor guy on my other side strikes up a conversation with me. “You’re working at the Gardner’s house?”

  I explain my task, and he nods. “I’ve worked for Mrs. Gardner. She’s a real piece of work.”

  I don’t want to disparage my client, especially in this neighborhood hang-out. But I’m curious about what the contractor has to say. I give a noncommittal response. “I’ve only met her once.”