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

by S. W. Hubbard

  He swallows, takes another swig of beer, and speaks. “Sounds to me like Sophia could be involved in her friend’s murder.”

  A wad of mozzarella catches in my throat. Gasping, I finally find the breath to reply. “No way! She loved him, and she’s devastated by his death. She says it’s those other kids and their secret club or society or whatever. She wasn’t a part of that.”

  Sean contemplates me with the unblinking intensity of a hawk studying a clueless mouse. “So she says. Maybe the cool kids did invite her to join, and she couldn’t resist.”

  I keep babbling in Sophia’s defense. “You didn’t see how anguished she was on the night I rescued her from the jetty. She feels guilty that she let Trevor down.”

  Sean’s sandy eyebrows arch. His eyes look bluer than normal. “Oh, I agree that guilt drove her out to the end of that jetty.”

  The dry crust of my slice slips from my fingers. “You think she was considering killing herself because she participated in Trevor’s murder?”

  “Murder-suicide. Happens all the time. Most common when a man kills his wife or girlfriend, then turns the gun on himself. But remember that lawyer in Chatham a couple years back? He killed his longtime partner over some business disagreement, then jumped off the Route 24 overpass during rush hour. Helluva traffic jam.”

  “Okay, I get it. But I’m sure that’s not what happened here. Sophia’s a good kid. I’ve gotten to know her these last few days and—”

  Sean starts to chuckle. And the chuckle escalates to a full-throated laugh.

  I dive into the pizza box for another slice. “All right, Mr. Ace Detective. I know I don’t have a stellar track record in separating good guys from bad guys, but come on—” I straighten up and go into defensive mode. “Sophia is a teenager, not a life-long politician. I don’t think she’s clever enough to double-cross me. She could’ve just clammed up and gone home without telling me a thing. Instead, she poured out her heart to me. And now I’ve got important information I don’t know what to do with.”

  Sean leans across the table and traces my cheekbone with his thumb. “I don’t think she set out to deceive you. And I’m not saying Sophia’s the one who strangled Trevor. But I’ve interviewed a lot of teenagers in my time. Kids in a group get caught up in bad acts that they’d never do on their own. Sophia may be trying to convince herself that these other kids were to blame. But if she was there—”

  My mushroom slice heaves in my stomach. “—she could be held responsible, too. So she’d better have a lawyer before she talks to the police, right?”

  Sean sighs. “You didn’t hear that from me, but yeah, she needs to lawyer up. How old is she, anyway? If she’s already turned eighteen, she could be in a world of trouble.”

  “I’m not sure if she’s seventeen or eighteen. Should I call her mother and warn her about what’s going on?” To my own ears, my voice sounds uncertain and querulous.

  “I take it you’re not keen on that?”

  “Jane’s not easy to talk to. Very unfocused. Very self-absorbed.” I toss my pizza crust to Ethel. “And I doubt she’ll take Sophia seriously.”

  “Yet you take her seriously. You’ve known her for two days—why do you care so much?”

  Yeah, why do I? I pick at the cheese stuck to the pizza box. “Good question. She reminds me of me at that age, I guess.”

  Sean grimaces. “You had pink hair and a nose ring?”

  “No, I wasn’t brave enough to be so nonconformist. And I was a straight-A student. But....”

  “But what?”

  “I was a lost soul, like Sophia. Only one parent, and that parent disinterested. I acted like I didn’t need guidance, but I was dying for some adult to see me, really see me, not just my good grades and my math and chess skills.” I slap the empty pizza box shut. “But no one ever did.”

  Sean reaches out for my hand. “Yet you turned out all right.”

  “I’m all right now.” I entwine my fingers with his. “As you will recall, I was a bit of a mess when you first met me.

  “I wish I’d gone to Palmyrton High School instead of St. Benedict’s. I could’ve fallen for you at eighteen and saved us both a lot of heartache.”

  I snort and start to clear the table. “Right. Like a Catholic school basketball jock would ever have looked at the public-school chess nerd.”

  Sean comes up behind me and nuzzles my neck. “Rumor among the St. Ben’s guys was that you public school girls were fast.”

  “Want me to prove the rumor true?”

  “Leave the dishes. I’ll close the windows and turn out the lights. You let the dog out.”

  I stand at the back door while Ethel runs a few laps around the yard and pees on her favorite tree. The cool autumn air carries the first scent of falling leaves. I never did resolve whether I should call Jane. I’ll deal with that decision tomorrow.

  Ethel shoots back into the house.

  The last thing I hear before locking the door is a sports car roaring down our street.

  WHAT A DAY! EVEN THOUGH Brielle’s guest room had 700 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, it feels so good to be back in my own best-of-Target bed. After demonstrating to my husband that I really am a fast public school girl, I welcome Ethel into the bed for a cuddle while Sean brushes his teeth.

  Sean returns and slips under the covers. “I was lonely here last night. I’ve already forgotten what it’s like to sleep alone.”

  “You’re going to be alone Friday and Saturday when I go back down to Sea Chapel.”

  “I’m doing my overnight with Granda on Friday. I hope your parents can watch Ethel again. How did it go when you picked her up today?”

  “They had fun with her—they won’t mind having her again.” I curl along Sean’s body. Now is the time to mention that Natalie got me an appointment with Dr. Stein. But the words won’t come. I know he won’t approve, and I don’t want to argue. Instead, I tell him about their plans to see Gregory Halpern’s lecture.

  Sean yawns. “Better them than me.”

  “I thought you liked his podcast.”

  “I don’t mind listening when I’m driving or cooking, but I don’t think I’d want to sit in a theater and stare at him on a stage for two hours.”

  “He’s supposed to put on a great show.”

  I reach to turn off the bedside lamp and check my phone one last time. There’s a text from Natalie. Do you want to go with us to see Gregory Halpern? I’m sorry, but Lorraine only has one extra ticket.

  I chuckle and text back. Love to!

  “What’s so funny?” Sean asks.

  I peck him on the cheek. “I’m going to see Gregory without you. I’m sure you won’t mind.”

  Chapter 17

  I sleep through my alarm and awake at eight to find Sean already off to work, Ethel pacing in front of the hook where her leash hangs, and my phone chirping the arrival of a text from Sophia.

  Driving up right now 2 Trevor’s funeral at 1. Will stop @ ur office when I get 2 P’town.

  My thumbs flash across my phone. Wait! Call me first. I need to talk to you.

  Driving now. Can’t talk.

  Oh, the girl who walked to the end of the jetty in her bare feet at dusk during a rising tide is now Miss Safety First. I won’t be in my office all day, I warn.

  But I know I’ll be there in the window when she’s arriving.

  Before I eat breakfast, I take Ethel out for a walk in our neighborhood. We see the young moms’ group powerwalking behind their strollers, get a Milk-Bone from our favorite UPS driver, and wave to the landscapers who turn off their leaf blowers to let us pass. Before the roar of the blowers begins again, I hear a different, lower rumble.

  There’s that black muscle car again! It roars down the street as Ethel lunges at the end of her leash, barking furiously. I only catch the first three letters of the license plate: EZT.

  This can’t be a coincidence. Someone’s watching me. Who do I know who would drive a car like that?

 
Flashy. Loud. Macho.

  Anthony!

  Maybe he’s back from South Carolina. This can’t be good.

  I take Ethel home, eat my breakfast and drive to the office, all the while worrying about an encounter with Anthony.

  Donna is already behind her desk when I walk in. “What kind of car does Anthony drive?”

  “A cream Cadillac El Dorado. Why?”

  “Oh, good.” I toss my tote bag on my desk, glad that my paranoia is unfounded, and stand on a chair to retrieve a box of price labels on a high shelf. “I got nervous because I keep seeing this black muscle car, and I worried Anthony might have sneaked back from South Carolina.”

  I hop down from the chair with the box in my hands. “I’m just paranoi—”

  Donna’s eyes are as wide as a kid’s on Christmas morning. But it’s not delight I see there.

  “What’s the matter? You know the car?”

  “Was it a Camaro ZR1?”

  “You’re asking me about cars? It’s black and low to the ground and loud. And it has twin exhaust pipes. License begins with EZT.”

  Donna’s face crumples. “Oh my Ga-w-wd—it’s Ray-Ray. He works for Anthony’s uncle. Anthony must’ve told him to keep an eye on me. And you.”

  “Have you noticed the car following you? Has he followed you to the shelter?”

  “No. Ray-Ray would know that I’d recognize his car.”

  I face her with my hands on my hips. “Yeah, so why is he conducting surveillance in such a distinctive car? Doesn’t seem too bright to me.”

  “Anthony wants me to know that he’s watching without going so far as to put a tail on me. That would be a violation of the restraining order. But he knew you’d notice the car and tell me soon enough.”

  “Intimidation. Well, if I see Ray-Ray—what a ridiculous name—I’ll tell him to get lost.”

  Donna lunges at me. “No, Audrey—don’t! You don’t know who you’re messin’ with. Ray-Ray’s a nut-job. He likes hurting people.”

  “Ray-Ray doesn’t realize what it’s like to mess with me.” I thump my chest. “I’ll get Sean to put the Palmyrton police on him and just wait for him to go one mile over the speed limit. I’ll, I’ll—” I don’t know what I’ll do, but I won’t stand by helplessly and let this thug intimidate Donna. “Call your divorce lawyer and tell him about this.”

  Donna doesn’t move.

  “Seriously.” I wag my index finger at her. “This is the kind of stuff he needs to know about so he can negotiate a good settlement for you.”

  Donna rakes her hands through her hair. “I’m not sure.... It’s, it’s not easy ending a marriage, Audrey. We’ve been together for ten years. Our families are all intertwined. You’re acting like I’m just quittin’ a job or droppin’ out of the gym.”

  A wave of remorse smacks me. I’m bossing Donna around, exactly what I’m not supposed to be doing. “Oh, honey—I’m so sorry. Of course, I understand it’s hard. I’m going to butt out. You let me know if you need my help with anything, I mean anything, and I’ll be here for you, okay?”

  Donna swallows hard and nods. “Thanks, Audrey. I’m sorry about Ray-Ray. Just ignore him.”

  I make a gesture that Donna can interpret as compliance if she wishes. But how I handle a thug outside my own house is my business, not hers.

  Donna spends an hour working on emails and social media promoting our upcoming sales. Then she heads out to the Friedrich house to help Ty. Our plan is for Ty and Donna to get the sale perfectly set up so that Donna can run it solo on Saturday with help from a temporary worker while Ty comes to Sea Chapel with me for the weekend to manage the much larger Gardner sale. I’ve second-guessed every conceivable problem she might have running the sale, but haven’t accounted for interference from thugs like Ray-Ray. I make a note to ask Sean to have a patrol car swing by the Freidrich house periodically on Saturday. I’m nervous, but I can do this.

  I can let go.

  I can.

  At twelve-thirty I hear a timid tapping at the door.

  When I open it, there stands Sophia. Her pink hair is neatly combed, and she’s wearing a long black skirt and a fringe-y T-shirt. A little funky, but funereal enough.

  “You look nice. Come on in.”

  Sophia enters and looks around at the cheerful clutter that is Another Man’s Treasure. I rarely meet clients here, so I make no apologies for the mismatched chairs and the hit parade of unsold kitsch that decorates the walls.

  Sophia approaches a framed Velvet Underground album cover. “Awesome! I’ve always wanted one of these.”

  “You can have it if you agree to sit down and listen to me for a minute.” I pat the seat of the overstuffed easy chair covered in butterfly chintz and pull up the faux Chippendale throne chair beside her. “I talked to my husband about your concerns about Trevor. He says the Ocean County Sherriff’s Department has taken over the investigation of Trevor’s death.”

  “Murder,” Sophia corrects.

  “Right. He says the cops will definitely interview all Trevor’s friends. You need to be prepared for that. You need to tell the truth. But also...”

  Sophia tips her head and squints her eyes. “Also what?”

  “You need to be cautious. That special group that the Bumford-Stanley kids invited Trevor into. You need—”

  “I was wrong about that. Just forget I ever mentioned it.”

  Oh, lord—Sean was right. Maybe Sophia was involved. “Forget about it? After we came back from the jetty, you seemed pretty positive that the kids who go to those special BSS parties had something to do with Trevor’s death. What’s happened to change your mind?”

  Sophia twists in the chair, throwing one leg over the arm and ruching up her skirt. “I, I just talked to someone and realized I might have gotten the wrong impression.”

  “Talked to whom?” I press.

  Sophia flounces into an upright position. “It doesn’t matter. I was just wrong, okay? Haven’t you ever been wrong about someone?”

  Have I ever! But this isn’t the time for sharing my life story. I purse my lips and study her.

  “On Monday night when you fell asleep on Brielle’s sofa—did you talk to Austin?”

  “Austin? What are you talking about? I haven’t seen Austin since Labor Day weekend.”

  Is she lying? I’m sure I heard Austin talking to someone that night. Had Sophia returned to her own house before Austin got there? If so, whom was he talking to?

  Before I can ask another question, Sophia begins chattering. “I’ll know what to do about the police after I go to this funeral.” Sophia picks at the fringe on her blouse. Then she looks up at me. “I’ve never been to a funeral before. Not even for an old person. And my mom and I never go to church. I don’t know what to do there. Will you go with me?”

  Go with her? I’ve got a million things to do today. But her eyes are so big and sad. One minute she’s a defiant young woman, the next she’s a scared toddler unwilling to enter an unfamiliar room. And what does she mean that she’ll know what to do regarding the police once she goes to the funeral? “I’ll consider it. The church is only a few blocks from here. But you have to tell me what you meant by knowing what to do after you’ve been to the funeral.”

  “The whole church will be full of people who knew Trev. I’ll be able to tell when I see them all.” Sophia looks at the cuckoo clock. “C’mon—it’s quarter to one.”

  Chapter 18

  First Presbyterian is the largest Protestant church in Palmyrton. Outside its gray stone walls, the balmy autumn sunshine beams down on the well-manicured grounds and a sign that cheerfully proclaims “All Are Welcome Here.” A steady stream of black-clad people marches up the walk to the heavy wood doors. Every parking spot for blocks is filled, and a cop directs late arrivers to the municipal garage. Sophia and I have walked over from the AMT office. As we draw closer, Sophia walks slower. The cop stops traffic and waves us across the intersection. Sophia grabs my arm. “I can’t do it. I can’t go i
n there.”

  I tug her forward. “You’ve come this far. You’ll regret it if you don’t pay your last respects.”

  Sophia searches my face for reassurance. Apparently, she finds it because she gives a brisk nod and heads into the crosswalk.

  I hope I’ve done the right thing.

  She keeps her eyes focused on her feet as we walk into the church. If she knows any of the other mourners, she doesn’t let on. Inside the cool dim interior, the deep tones of the organ drown out any brief whispered conversations of the people in the pews.

  An usher hands us each a program. When Sophia reads the words on the cover, Memorial Service to celebrate the life of Trevor Finlayson, 2001-2019, her hand clenches the thick, cream paper and she sways.

  I grab her elbow and propel her up the aisle. Virtually every pew is fully occupied, and Sophia and I must move toward the front to get a seat. We end up just a few rows back from the pews reserved for the family. On the right side of the aisle sits a woman in her forties, her face a frozen mask of grief. A handsome man sits next to her and three kids sit next to him. This must be Trevor’s mother, stepfather, and the half and step siblings. Occasionally, the man leans toward the woman, but she sits stiffly erect and holds herself apart from any comfort he tries to offer. On the left side of the aisle sits a dignified elderly couple who keep their eyes focused straight ahead on the empty choir stalls behind the pulpit. They must be Trevor’s grandparents. The old lady looks fragile and lost. But the old man sits ram-rod straight, his mouth pressed in a hard line. Years ago they lost their son, and now they’ve lost their only grandson. Behind them is a sparse row of extended family.

  The Bumford-Stanley community is well represented in the next ten pews. I recognize the headmaster, Grayson Peale, whose aristocratic visage I’ve seen pictured in the local news many times. He’s surrounded by men and women who must be staff, and behind them sit several rows of students, all wholesome and clean cut, the girls in modest dresses, the boys in blue blazers, white shirts, striped ties, and khakis. I twist and stare, not caring if anyone notices. Austin Gardner is there among the teens. Is the boy he was pestering at Rocco’s also there? Honestly, I can’t tell. They all look the same: fair skin, short hair, straight teeth.