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

by S. W. Hubbard

  Soon he answers: Dealing with family chaos. See you tomorrow. Drive safe.

  Hmmm. That could mean anything from one of his nieces or nephews needing stitches to one of his siblings getting arrested—Sean’s family turns to him for help no matter the situation. However, I have to assume chaos doesn’t extend all the way to death, so I decide to go to bed.

  What to do about Sophia?

  She’s sleeping so peacefully—I hate to wake her. I decide to make a big note informing Jane of her daughter’s whereabouts and tape it to Jane’s deck door. Hopefully she’ll see it when she comes home.

  With that task done, I turn out the lights, lock the doors, set the alarm system, and tumble into the guestroom bed. It’s only ten p.m., but I feel like I’ve worked an all-night shift in a Bronx ER.

  A NOISE DRAGS ME FROM the depths of sleep and sets my heart pounding.

  My phone says 2:05. I listen closely.

  Footsteps downstairs.

  Sophia must’ve awakened to go to the bathroom or search for food. I hold my breath and tune my ears. A bang and a murmur—maybe she bumped into something in the torn apart kitchen. I prepare to roll over and go back to sleep when it dawns on me. If Sophia should decide to open the kitchen door and go back home right now, there will be a very short grace period before the security alarm goes off. The last thing I need is a crew of Sea Chapel police here in the middle of the night.

  I jump out of bed and trot down the hallway. I hear a low murmur of voices. Who is she talking to?

  Now I’m halfway down the stairs. “Sophia?”

  A light in the kitchen casts a dim glow into the living room. The stairs, with their clear, Lucite railing, are even more disorienting now than in the daytime. I hug the wall as I see a tall, wiry person move across the vast living room.

  Certainly not Sophia.

  A man.

  My heart kicks into overdrive.

  Who is he and how did he get in here? I know I set the alarm.

  In the shadowy light he looks vaguely familiar. Yet he’s not any of the few men I’ve met at Elmo’s. What other men do I know down here?

  He looks up and sees me trying to melt into the wall.

  A scream escapes me.

  “Hey.” He raises his right hand in a casual salute. His voice is young.

  Hey? What kind of home invader is this? And where is Sophia?

  “Who are you?”

  “Austin Gardner. I live here.”

  I creep all the way down the stairs and flick on the bright overhead light. Both of us reel away from the glare. Yes, this is the young man in the family photo that fell and broke when Donna and I were touring the house with Brielle. That’s why he looks familiar. Why did he arrive in the middle of the night?

  I look around, befuddled. “Is your mom here, too?”

  “No.” He studies me through narrowed eyes, daring me to question him. It is his house—I can hardly demand an explanation from him. He must have been talking to Sophia.

  Moving into the living room, I notice that the blanket I had laid over Sophia is now on the floor beside the family room couch. I keep walking toward the kitchen, talking to Austin over my shoulder. “Well, you startled me. Where’s Sophia?” As the words leave my mouth, I notice that the mound of wet clothes by the deck door is gone.

  For the first time since I encountered him, Austin appears flustered. “Sophia.... Uh, yeah. She left.”

  Austin follows me. He’s wearing khaki pants, a crisp white Oxford shirt, and topsiders. I’m not sure what I consider appropriate garb for a middle of the night visit to one’s shore home, but this seems rather formal.

  “What was Sophia doing here, anyway?” His gaze darts to the tumbled blanket on the floor. Surely, he’s never seen such a sight when his mother is here.

  “She’s been helping me with sorting and pricing.” I can be as cagey with my answers as he is.

  “She talks a lot of trash. Don’t take her too seriously.” He speaks with the same imperious tone as his mother, but he hasn’t learned to cloak it with an air of civility as she has.

  “I set the security system before I went to bed. Was it on when you came in?”

  “No. But Jane knows the code, so maybe Sophia does too.”

  I look over at the Peterman house. All dark. The sliding doors are unlocked, so I lock them again as Austin watches. “I’m driving back to Palmyrton in the morning. I need to get back to sleep.”

  Austin perches on a stool at the kitchen counter. “Sure. Sorry I woke you.”

  I walk back toward the stairs, feeling his eyes bore into my spine. He had been heading upstairs when I encountered him. Clearly, he’s waiting for me to go back to bed before he makes a move. But if he just wants to go to his bedroom, why wait? What’s he up to?

  I get back to my room and lock the door behind me. The kid makes me feel uneasy. I’m sure his mother doesn’t know he’s here. Is he planning one last blow-out party before his mother redecorates? But I’m due to return next weekend, and I’ll have Ty with me. Would prep school kids come down to the shore for a party in the middle of the week?

  I lie down in the big luxurious bed, but sleep eludes me—too much adrenaline still surges through my bloodstream after that scare. As I stare silently at the ceiling, I hear Austin’s footsteps on the stairs. He walks past my bedroom door with barely a sound and opens the door to his bedroom, right next to my room.

  It dawns on me that I forgot to tell him I’d already stripped the sheets from his bed. Oh, well—he’ll find out soon enough.

  I realize I’m holding my breath as I tune my ears to his movements. The floorboards creak as he moves around the room. A little grunt of frustration escapes him.

  Now he’s rustling through drawers, drawers that I know contain only some old T-shirts and sweats. Certainly, he didn’t drive down here for that.

  He’s looking for something.

  “Shit,” I hear him mutter.

  And I guess he can’t find it.

  Then a dresser drawer closes, and I hear Austin stride back down the hallway, no longer attempting to be quiet. I get up and look out my bathroom window, which faces the road. Soon, I see Austin, empty-handed, hop into a Jeep parked in the driveway and zoom away.

  I check the time: four-thirty in the morning. There will be no traffic. The kid will be home before his parents rise.

  Naturally, I have to go into his bedroom.

  It’s as spotless as it was when I left it. I open the top dresser drawer—the sweatshirts, tees, and shorts are tumbled but seem to all be there.

  But one thing is missing.

  The envelope with names written on it. I found it under the mattress but put it in here.

  That’s what the “shit” meant. Not that he hadn’t found what he was looking for, but that I had clearly found it too.

  Chapter 13

  There’s no point in trying to get back to sleep now. I shower and make myself a cup of coffee. The sky is just beginning to brighten; I can be on the road long before rush hour.

  Only one concern nags at me.

  What to do about Sophia. Is she home safely in her bed? How can I reassure her, so she cooperates with the police? How can I even get in touch with her—I don’t have a cell number for either Sophia or Jane, and they don’t have a landline.

  I really don’t want to bang on their door before daybreak.

  Reluctantly, I decide to leave. Once I’m back in Palmyrton, I can get Jane’s number from Brielle.

  Leaving Sea Chapel behind, I cruise north on the Garden State Parkway thinking about Austin and Sophia and their parents. Why did Austin sneak down to Sea Chapel in the middle of the night for that envelope? What did he say to Sophia? Why did he warn me about her? Most of all, what is my obligation to talk to their parents about this?

  My friend Tim’s warning echoes in my mind. Don’t cross Everett Gardner. He’d be a dangerous enemy to have. I just want to run this sale, make a tidy profit, and be on my way.

&nb
sp; I don’t need these complications.

  The longer I drive, the more I convince myself to take a step back from the drama of these Sea Chapel families and keep my eyes on the prize of the sale.

  I arrive home just as Sean is stumbling into the kitchen.

  After we embrace, I pull away and look into his bloodshot eyes. “Don’t take this wrong, but you look like crap.”

  “My grandfather fell and broke his hip last night. My parents spent the night with him at the hospital. Now they say they have to cancel their trip to Ireland.”

  “Oh, no!” Sean and his siblings have spent months planning this trip to Ireland as a fortieth wedding anniversary present to their parents. Touring the Emerald Isle with a bus full of elderly Royal Hibernians isn’t my idea of a fun time, but his parents have been as excited about this vacation as two kids at a Chuck E. Cheese birthday party. They’ve had their bags packed for weeks, Mary has bought gifts for every Coughlin and O’Shea in all of County Cork, and Joe has their priest saying weekly novenas that their plane doesn’t crash. They can’t not go now.

  “What are you going to do?” I ask as Sean paces the kitchen.

  “I’m organizing a schedule with all my siblings so we can care for Granda twenty-four hours a day while Mom and Dad are away. They’re all coming here this morning to work out the details.”

  I put on a pot of coffee, and the Coughlin sibling summit soon convenes at our house. Brendan stands at the kitchen counter picking at the corners of an Entenmann’s coffee cake that Deirdre, who never goes anywhere without food, has supplied.

  “We have eggs and bacon, Brendan.” I place a mug of coffee in my brother-in-law’s hand. “Sit down and I’ll fix you a plate.”

  “Nah, I’m good. This is nervous eating.” He swallows a big slug of coffee. “Can you believe that spiteful old man? He probably threw himself down just to ruin this vacation for our mother.”

  “Oh, Brendan—stop.” Sean’s older sister Deirdre wrings her hands. “This is simply an accident with terrible timing. We have to pull together to take care of Granda so that Mom and Dad will agree to still take their trip.”

  “Look, we’ll put him in a rehab place—not a nursing home.” Brendan knocks back the dregs of his coffee and bangs the mug on the counter. “I’ll pay whatever it costs.”

  “Mom will never allow that.” Sean and Colleen speak in unison.

  In the Coughlin family, putting elderly relatives into assisted living is tantamount to placing them on an iceberg and floating them out to sea.

  Brendan scowls. He’s not used to being crossed. “It’s temporary, for God’s sake. We’ll spring him as soon as they get back.”

  The siblings continue to discuss their options. Granda lives in a tiny two-story house in Kearney. The traffic, the parking, the steep stairs, the bathroom on the second floor all make it a nightmare for a recovering invalid and his caretakers.

  “No way we’re leaving him alone with a home health aide,” Deirdre says. “Look what happened to that old woman in that big house where Audrey was working last year.”

  “But it wasn’t—” I protest, trying to explain that the aide had provided good care, but I’m shouted over so completely that I retreat to a corner.

  “Can we reschedule the trip? Send them with a different tour group?” Terry asks.

  This suggestion falls in a volley of protest. They’ll lose thousands of dollars at this late date. And Sean’s dad refuses to travel with anyone but the Royal Hibernians. “Besides,” Colleen adds, “I’ve spent hours on genealogy websites tracking down all those Coughlin and O’Shea cousins and great aunts and uncles. Mom and Dad have plans to meet up with scores of them. They can’t reschedule that.”

  “The only way Mom and Dad will agree to go on the trip is if we promise to take care of Granda in his own home.” Deirdre speaks with her hands on her hips.

  “We’ll have to set up a rotation and stay with him,” Terry agrees.

  “I have a job, Terry—unlike you.” Brendan glares at his perpetually disheveled brother, who’s currently freelancing as a website designer.

  Bringing Terry’s sporadic employment history into the discussion seems totally unproductive to me, but what do I know? I’m an only child.

  “They’re stabilizing him now, but Mom says they’ll release him by Tuesday.” Sean grabs the note pad we keep by the fridge. “He can go back to his house if we get the right equipment. We’ll need to rent a hospital bed, a wheelchair, and one of those potty chairs.”

  “I am not wiping his ass,” Brendan shouts. “I’m hiring a home health aide for my shifts.”

  Sean steps up to his brother. “You will cover your shifts until that plane takes off on Wednesday. Once they’re in the air, I don’t care who you hire.”

  “If the spouses help, then each person would only have to work one eight hour shift every...” Colleen stumbles through the math on her phone’s calculator.

  “They’re gone for two weeks. That’s 336 hours, divided by ten of us, that’s four eight-hour shifts a piece, give or take a few hours,” I offer.

  “Thanks for the speedy calculation, Audrey, but there aren’t ten of us.” Brendan tosses his mug into the sink with a crash. “I’m separated, remember?”

  Brendan and Adrienne are still trying to decide if their marriage can be patched together or not. Now is definitely not the time to ask her to pitch in with elder care. Although, honestly, even if those two were happy as cooing doves, I can’t imagine the stylish and high maintenance Adrienne doing the messy work of caring for Granda.

  In fact, I can’t quite imagine myself doing it, either. I’m not known for my nursing skills, but I do get a kick out of Sean’s crusty old grandfather. He swears like the sailor he once was, and he’s full of hilarious stories. He also goes out of his way to offend every member of the family in the way that will bother that person the most. He insults the Pope in front of Sean’s mother, tells raunchy jokes to Deirdre’s kids, and insists Colleen isn’t a real lawyer because she’s a girl. He hasn’t figured out a way to bug me yet, but Sean says it’s just a matter of time.

  And I did marry Sean for better or worse.

  “We’ll each work one shift until the plane takes off,” Sean declares. “Then we’ll reconvene to see if we should hire outside help.”

  With some grumbling, the siblings accept the plan.

  When everyone finally leaves, Sean catches sight of the oven clock. “My God, look at the time! I’ve gotta get to work.” Heading to the door, he pauses as he passes me. “By the way, Anthony’s uncle sent him to South Carolina on business.” Sean makes air quotes to indicate the business was keeping his nephew out of jail. “I got Donna set up at the shelter, and the restraining order is in place.”

  “Thank you, honey. I really appreciate it.” Still, I’m not quite satisfied. “But can’t the police arrest Anthony down there and, like, extradite him or something?”

  Sean offers a rueful smile and rubs his thumb and index finger together. “Not for a simple assault charge. Too expensive. Besides, Donna will be safer with five hundred miles between her and her husband.”

  “But what if he doesn’t stay down there?”

  “I met the uncle. He’s not the kinda guy you’d want to cross.” Sean grins. “I’m betting Anthony will stay put until Uncle Nunzio says he can come back. But Donna should hire a lawyer and get the divorce process underway.”

  I put my arms around his neck. “You’re a good man, you know that, right?”

  He kisses the top of my head. “You bring out the best in me.” Then he pulls away and looks down into my face, his brows drawn together in concern “Was there something else you needed to talk to me about last night?”

  The story of Trevor and Sophia is so long and complicated. I can’t saddle him with that when he’s already late for work and preoccupied with Granda. “It can wait.”

  After Sean leaves, I send Brielle a text with an update on my progress. I don’t mention her son’
s visit, and I close with a request for Jane’s cell number.

  She replies with a brusque Excellent! and forwards Jane’s contact info. After pondering my approach, I send Jane a simple request: It’s Audrey. Have Sophia contact me. I can use her help next weekend.

  Let’s hope she doesn’t respond that she has no idea where her daughter is.

  Chapter 14

  When I get to the office, Ty is already there. His face lights up when he sees me. “Yo, Audge—how’d it go down the shore?”

  “Pretty well, but there’s still a lot to do.” I fill him in on the details. “You’re still on to come down there with me this coming weekend, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m all in. Not so sure ‘bout Donna being able to handle the Freidrich sale all alone, though.”

  “How is she?”

  “Better. She’s been callin’ me from the shelter. At first, she’d just cry the whole time. But as soon as she got there, she had all these counseling sessions and shit, and she’s startin’ to get her game back. It helps that Anthony’s clear down in South Carolina. But Donna’s mother doesn’t want her to get divorced. She keeps tellin’ her to forgive and forget.”

  “What! What kind of mother wants her daughter to stay with an abuser? Wait ‘til I talk to Donna. I’ll tell her—”

  Ty raises his hand for silence. “We’re not supposed to boss her around. We gotta just listen and say, “uh-huh, what do you want to do?” Ty pulls a crumpled pamphlet from his back pocket and passes it to me. “Sean gave me this.”

  How to Help a Victim of Domestic Abuse

  Number One on the list is don’t offer advice.

  I guess it makes sense that a woman who’s been repressed by a domineering husband doesn’t need to be bossed around by her friends and family. Holding my tongue will be a challenge, but I’ll give it a shot if that’s what Donna needs.