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

by S. W. Hubbard

  On the far side of the church, I spot Brielle’s distinctive honey blonde hair. I stand up to take off my long cardigan, using the move as a way to get a better view. Yes, there next to Brielle is a short, bald, homely man. Looks like Everett Gardner has taken the day off from making megabucks to come to this funeral. While I’m standing, I notice another young man sitting apart from the Bumford-Stanley crowd. His long dark hair scrapes the shoulders of his denim jacket, and the silver ring in his eyebrow glistens when he turns into the beam of light coming through the stained-glass window depicting the Resurrection. Maybe this is Trevor’s public-school friend that Sophia mentioned.

  Now that Sophia has gotten over the initial shock of seeing her friend’s name on the funeral program, she’s looking around with as much interest as I have. She scans the family members, but she really stares at the pews full of BSS kids. Most of them seem to ignore her, but Austin raises his hand in tentative greeting and a tall, slender girl seems to smile in Sophia’s direction.

  Silence descends on the crowd when the minister approaches the pulpit. The organist kicks into high gear, and we all stand and sing, “For All the Saints.” After a welcoming prayer and a reading of Psalm 23, the minister begins his homily. He’s got a smooth, reassuring voice, but his words seem generic, like he’s got a standard spiel for the tragic passing of a young person. He’s tip-toeing around the elephant in the room: the cause of Trevor’s death.

  Next, we sing “My Shepherd Will Supply My Need,” then reach the portion of the service marked, “Sharing of Personal Reflections.” Three people are scheduled to share: Trevor’s great aunt, his art teacher, and his soccer teammate. The poor aunt, who seems to be Grandpa’s sister, can barely make it through her remarks on Trevor’s childhood, she is sobbing so much. The art teacher, more composed, comments on Trevor’s talent and discerning eye. The soccer teammate reads awkwardly from a prepared text, relying heavily on “awesome,” “amazing” and “super” to define Trevor’s skills on the field. As the eulogies continue, I find myself growing more morose. Is this all the poor kid’s life amounts to? A few soccer goals, a few entries in the Art Fair? Of course, no one mentions his struggles with mental illness. But neither do they mention his imagination, his love of Stranger Things, his friendships. This wan tribute doesn’t sound like the boy Sophia misses so much.

  While the reflections have been going on, Sophia continues to squirm in the pew, frequently glancing back at the BSS students. Many of them are gazing down at their laps. I assume they’re texting, not praying.

  “Is there anyone else who’d like to share a tribute to Trevor?” the pastor asks when the soccer teammate leaves the mic.

  The pastor looks ready to cue the organist for the final hymn when Sophia jolts to her feet. Before I can grab her arm, she’s out of the pew and heading for the pulpit. A cold sweat breaks out on my chest. Dear Lord, don’t let her do anything crazy.

  Behind me, I hear a restless murmur from the Bumford-Stanley contingent. The minister smiles encouragingly at Sophia.

  He may live to regret that.

  Sophia grips the sides of the pulpit for support and gazes out into the congregation. “Trevor was my friend, my good friend. We shared a lot about things we liked and things we thought were messed up. Trevor loved Stranger Things, and K-Pop and Keith Haring, and guacamole. He hated Beyoncé, and chemistry, and Lord of the Rings and brussels sprouts.”

  I relax in the pew. Sophia’s doing a great job—she’s giving her friend the kind of heartfelt, spontaneous send-off he deserves.

  Sophia holds her head high and gazes directly at the prep school crowd. “But most of all, Trevor hated hypocrisy.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Trevor hated having to pretend he was a certain kind of person just so he could avoid constant criticism. He hated living a lie. He hated being pressured. And in the last days of his life, he was afraid. Really scared.”

  Trevor’s mother leans forward, her hands gripping the back of the pew in front of her.

  Sophia’s head droops. “I let him down. I didn’t offer to help him the way I should have. Maybe now Trevor’s in a place where there is no fear,” Sophia casts a sidelong glance at the minister, “or maybe he’s just in a cold, dark, nothing.” She takes a deep breath. “But the people who scared him are right here in this church.”

  Trevor’s mother emits a choked wail.

  Trevor’s grandfather looks like fire could come shooting from his eyes to ignite the pew cushions.

  The kids elbow one another.

  Brielle’s skinny arm extends, her hand gripping the pew back in front of her.

  Sophia lifts her gaze to the church’s magnificent vaulted ceiling. “And now they’re going to know what it feels like to be afraid.”

  Chapter 19

  While the stunned minister steps forward to try to regain control of this service, Sophia darts down the center aisle. Every head in the house is turned to watch her. I’m not brave enough to follow in her wake. Instead, I clamber over the knees of the people to my right and duck out down the side aisle. Across the large church, I see that the long-haired boy in the denim jacket is also headed out.

  And right behind him are two burly men wearing suits that definitely didn’t cost a thousand bucks and shoes built for comfort.

  Cops.

  Clearly, detectives from the Ocean County Sherriff’s Department made it their business to attend this funeral. And Sophia’s speech makes them confident their effort has paid off in spades. What did she see here in the church that prompted her to say that?

  I make it to the door just as the organ begins to play, and the mourners launch into a shaky rendition of “Amazing Grace.” Ahead of me, I see Sophia on the church sidewalk facing the long-haired boy. They both have their phones out—trading numbers, I guess.

  The cops stride toward them, and the boy sprints across the street just as the light changes. One cop moves to follow, but a lumbering bus blocks the intersection, and by the time it moves, the boy is out of sight.

  I arrive at Sophia’s side in time to hear the bigger of the two cops say, “We’d like to talk to you,” as he flashes his badge.

  I grab her arm. “Sophia, wait. You should have a lawyer with you when you talk to the police.”

  The cop glares at me. “And who are you? Her mother?”

  “No, just a friend. Sophia, listen—”

  She shakes free of my grasp. “It’s okay, Audrey. I want to talk to them. And I don’t need a lawyer. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Famous last words. “Let’s call your mother. She should be with you.”

  “Puh-leeze. What good would she do? Besides, I’m eighteen.” Sophia tosses her mop of pink hair. “I don’t need her permission to do anything.”

  The taller cop trades a glance with his young partner. This is exactly what they want: a chance to talk to a vulnerable, overconfident teenager all alone. I feel queasy.

  “My car is parked near her office,” Sophia tells the cops.

  “Come with us to the Palmyrton police station, and we’ll give you a ride back when we’re finished.” The younger cop smiles, friendly as a car salesman. They’re not Palmyrton cops, but I guess they can count on the local police to help them out.

  Mourners begin to trickle out of the church. Sophia notices and starts walking. “C’mon,” she calls over her shoulder at the cops. “Let’s go.”

  My head throbs as I watch Sophia walk between the cops to their unmarked car. What could have possessed her to make that dramatic threat in front of hundreds of people? If Trevor’s murderers really were in the church today, does Sophia have enough information to give the cops to ensure the perpetrators are arrested? Because if she was just staging a dramatic scene and only has her feelings and resentments to share with the police, Sophia herself might be in danger after the cops let her go.

  If they let her go.

  If she doesn’t manage to implicate herself in some way.

  Should I tex
t Jane and let her know her daughter could use some parental support? While I’m waffling in the middle of the sidewalk, the funeral attendees dodge around me, and I overhear snippets of conversation. “Tragic...” “Jeanine looked ghastly...” “Who was that girl?” “They should have known better than to have a public funeral.”

  This last remark catches my attention. The woman who said it is wearing black stilettos that would cripple me and a black sheath dress that exposes her long, sinewy arms. Her make-up, although artistic, doesn’t do much to improve her gaunt, frowning face. Maybe she’s simply the kind of person who spreads negativity wherever she goes. Or maybe she knows a real reason why this funeral shouldn’t have been open to everyone acquainted with Trevor and his family.

  She’s walking in the direction I need to go, so I keep an eye on her from a few steps back. A shorter, more conventionally maternal woman walks beside her, while three teenage girls trail behind.

  Just before we reach the corner, I hear the rapid clack of high heels on pavement. A woman puts on a burst of speed, overtaking me and catching up to the group ahead. She catches the tall, skinny woman’s elbow and they all stop.

  The running woman is Brielle.

  The serene self-confidence that usually radiates from her face has vanished, replaced by concerned urgency. She speaks too quietly for me to overhear, but I notice she never loosens her grip on the tall woman’s skinny arm.

  The woman shakes her head.

  Brielle raises her voice. “Are you sure? It’s important!”

  That I hear loud and clear.

  The skinny woman twists her arm away. Her face, sour even in repose, now looks venomous. She says something, the light changes, and she and her group cross the street. Brielle stands watching them go as if her entire family has set sail for the New World without her.

  In a moment, my client is going to turn around and see me standing right behind her. My presence at this funeral will be hard to explain, especially since I’m no longer willing to say I came with Sophia, the pariah of the event.

  There’s a flower garden and a historical plaque at the corner of the church property. I make a beeline down the garden path and show intense interest in some shaggy yellow flowers. From the corner of my eye, I see Brielle rejoin her husband, who’s tapping his wing-tipped foot and scowling at his phone as he waits for her.

  Whew! I read the historical plaque until I’m sure they’re gone then head out of the garden. At the end of the path, a slouching figure waits for me.

  I stride up to him with a smile and an outstretched hand. “Hi, my name is Audrey. Are you Trevor’s friend, Fly?”

  “Yeah.” He studies me, uncertain whether to be relieved or suspicious that he doesn’t need to introduce himself. “How do you know Sophia?”

  “She’s worked for me a bit. How do you know her?”

  “I don’t, really. Trev talked about her and showed me her picture.” He kicks at a rock on the garden path. “Why did Sophia go off with the cops?”

  “She seems to think she knows who scared Trevor. I’m not sure if she actually knows something about his murder, or if she just doesn’t like those kids from Bumford-Stanley and Trevor’s family and knows they made Trevor unhappy.”

  Fly nods. “Those BSS kids are douches.” He gazes out at the traffic zipping around the Palmyrton square. “I wish she hadn’t gone off with the cops before she talked to me.”

  You and me both. “Sophia’s a little impulsive. Do you have information to share with the police?”

  Fly takes a step backward. “I don’t wanna mess with the cops. I’m already on probation for selling weed...and stuff.”

  Hmm. “And stuff” sounds more serious. So Fly has had a brush with the law and doesn’t relish another close encounter. Unlike Sophia, whose mother could well afford to hire a lawyer to accompany her to the police interview, this kid, with his frayed jacket and down-at-the-heels sneakers, looks a little strapped. And of course, he should be in school right now. “Do your parents know you came to the funeral?”

  Fly waves his hand. “My mom’s at work. My dad ran off a long time ago. That’s why me and Trev were friends. He didn’t know his dad, either.”

  “Because he didn’t have any memories from before his dad died?”

  “That’s what I used to think he meant. But the last few weeks, shit started gettin’ strange.”

  “Strange, how?”

  Fly looks up at the sky while keeping his hands jammed in his jacket pockets. “Trev kept saying that no one in his family had ever been straight with him. That they were keeping stuff from him.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  Fly gives a contorted teenage shrug that makes him look like he’s trying to take off a heavy jacket of responsibility without unbuttoning it first. “Trev started acting all paranoid and stuff. I didn’t know what to, to....”

  Stuff, stuff—this kid has one all-purpose word to cover everything he can’t or won’t discuss. I’m about to press him harder when Fly’s face crumples. The poor kid is going to cry right here on the sidewalk. I reach out awkwardly to comfort him. “Sophia told me something similar. She wasn’t sure if Trevor was sick or rational, whether she should take him seriously or not.”

  Fly’s eyes light up. “Yeah, exactly. So tell that to the cops.”

  “Me?”

  He flips his shaggy bangs off his forehead. “I get a good vibe from you. Do the right thing, okay?”

  And he lopes off.

  Chapter 20

  I stand on the corner and watch Fly diminish into a speck among the bustling pedestrians on Palmyrton’s sidewalks.

  Donna...Sophia...Granda...and now this. How many more people can possibly be counting on me to do the right thing today?

  My phone chimes a reminder: appointment with Dr. Stein at 3:00.

  Geez, I nearly forgot all about that. Well, this is something I’m doing for myself, even if it’s not particularly pleasant. The doctor’s office isn’t far from here, so I might as well walk. The exercise might help me put my tumbling thoughts in order.

  Sophia said she’d know what to tell the cops once she went to the funeral. What did she see there? To me, nothing seemed out of the ordinary until Sophia made her dramatic speech. What did she notice that I didn’t? And why was Brielle so agitated? Does she think Sophia’s threat was directed at Austin? I wish now that I’d pressed Sophia harder on this person she said she’d been mistaken about.

  With so much on my mind, I walk right past Dr. Stein’s office and have to double back. Before I enter the office, I text Sean. The Ocean County cops are talking to Sophia at the Palmyrton police station. Have you seen them?

  I wait for a response, but when it doesn’t come immediately, I enter the doctor’s waiting room and look around. The place is packed, every seat occupied by anxious women in their thirties and forties. I take the forms from the receptionist and sit down among my fellow sufferers. A door on the far side of the room opens, and a man in a suit and tie emerges, flushed and flustered. Hanging his head, he slides a plastic cup across the reception counter and scurries out the door.

  The woman next to me glances up from a weeks old copy of People magazine. “Another potential daddy does his duty. I hope for his sake the magazines in there are better than the ones out here.”

  The implication of her words takes a minute to sink in. “What? Wait... you mean... No!”

  The woman smirks as she flips past pages of celebrity tragedies. “You’re new here, eh? Your husband will have to do that, too. Better start preparing him.”

  “Why? There’s nothing wrong with Sean.”

  She drops her magazine and faces me with raised eyebrows. “You can’t be sure until he’s tested. My husband and I both had a problem.”

  That possibility had never occurred to me. This woman sounds like a real expert. “How long have you been seeing Dr. Stein?”

  “Six months, this time.” She points with her head. “Dinah over there has been at it for
three years.” She scans the room. “Rachel’s not here today. She’s been at it the longest. Dr. Stein owes his Ferrari to her persistence.”

  The knot in my stomach tightens. Are visits to this office going to be a regular part of my routine for years? Is trying to have a baby going to impoverish us? “What did you mean ‘this time’?” My voice sounds squeaky with dread of the answer I anticipate.

  “I have a son who’s two years old. Dr. Stein got me pregnant then, so I’m giving him another shot for Number Two. But I’m not trying past Thanksgiving.” She tosses the magazine onto the end table and snorts. “Who am I kidding? I’ll probably be here at Christmas, and Valentine’s Day, and Easter. This place is like crack for mommies. Once you get started, you can’t give it up.”

  “Mrs. Killian,” the receptionist calls.

  My new friend jumps up. “Finally.” She starts across the waiting room, then pivots and gives me a thumbs-up. “Good luck, kiddo!”

  With my chatty companion gone, I find my gaze drawn inexorably to the unmarked door where the poor husband went to do his duty. Apparently, anxious couples are required to give up all privacy and dignity in their quest to have a baby. As if he can read my thoughts, a text arrives from Sean.

  I’m at a crime scene. Will ask about Sophia when I get back to the station. Where r u?

  Went to Trevor’s funeral with Sophia today. Big scene. Running errands now. Leaving for Granda’s at 4.

  I’ll call u there or catch up at home.

  Running errands—does that qualify as a lie? I squirm in my seat and search for something to distract me from what’s going on behind that closed door. I paw through the magazines on the side table.

  Car and Driver, Sailing Today, Modern Bow Hunter—-what kind of selection is that for a room full of anxious women? Nestled among the tattered copies is a cardboard stand holding a thick bundle of brochures. Let Us Help You Build Your Family declares a headline over a picture of a smiling blond mother, a grinning blond father, and an adorable, chubby baby. Fertility Solutions of Palmer County is printed in smaller type along the bottom.