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

by S. W. Hubbard

  “Not a fight,” Ty mutters.

  “The opposite of a fight?” I keep my voice light.

  Ty bows his head toward the steering wheel in an uncanny mirroring of Donna’s reaction. “I shoulda known better. It was my duty not to cave in. But she was hanging on me, wrappin’ her arms around me. She just wanted some sympathy. I shouldn’t a done her like that.”

  No, he shouldn’t. But when are twenty-four-year-old men good at resisting needy women? “Well, that ship has sailed. Now what?”

  “She’s gonna want me to be her man. I can’t do it, Audge. I’m not ready to settle down. I got too much still to do for me. Besides, Charmaine and Grams would kill me if I came home with a white girl. They’re always tryin’ to set me up with sistas.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. It’s true that the older ladies at the Parks Center are always checking Ty out, asking about his availability, eager to match their daughters and granddaughters with a handsome, hardworking man like Ty.

  So it looks like neither Ty nor Donna wants to continue their moment of madness. But how can I let each one know that without revealing that they both blabbed to me? “What makes you think Donna wants a relationship with you? Seems to me she hasn’t decided what to do about Anthony. And if she does divorce him, she’ll probably want to take a break from all men for a while.”

  “Hmph. She sure wasn’t takin’ no break on Wednesday!”

  “I meant an emotional break. Maybe now that she got the passion out of her system, she’ll want to pretend it never happened.”

  Ty steals a glance at me. “She told you something.”

  So much for trying to maintain discretion. “I came in yesterday morning, and I could see Donna had been crying. I asked a few questions and—” I raise my palms. “You know me—people are always telling me their secrets.”

  “What’d she say?” Ty is so interested in my report, he lets the car slow down and a big truck barrels past us on the right.

  I can tell that Ty’s curiosity is greater than his outrage. “She said she got carried away. She said she didn’t want to hurt you but that she’s too old for you and a relationship would never work out.”

  Ty’s face brightens. “Really? Well, can you tell her—”

  “No! We’re not all in middle school.” I pick up my phone. “I’ll text her that you’re not mad and don’t want to be in a relationship either. You have the weekend apart from each other. After that, you two need to talk and work it out. I’ve cleared the way.”

  Ty grins. “Thanks, Audge. You the best!”

  WE PULL INTO 43 DUNE Vista drive half an hour later. I’ve watched Ty’s reaction when he enters a client’s house many times, and it’s pretty easy to read his emotions: amazement, revulsion, awe, surprise, pity. But this is the first time I’ve seen this particular emotion.

  Envy.

  “Damn. This is one fine crib.” He tiptoes across the living room, skimming his long fingers across the back of Brielle’s pale blue sofa. “This my kinda house. So open. So fresh. So clean.” He gets to the window and takes in the view. “Yes. I could really kick back here.”

  “It’s all yours...for the weekend.”

  “We’ve worked in some nice houses, but I never felt like I wanted to live in any of them. Too stiff. Too straight.” Ty grins. “But I’d like to live here.”

  He spins around. “How much you think this place goes for?”

  “Three million? Four?”

  Ty whistles. “I’ve never really cared about being rich. Money don’t buy happiness and all that. But man, I think living in a house like this would make me pretty damn trippy.”

  I smile but don’t answer.

  “I know what you thinkin’, Audge. This house hasn’t made the Gardners so happy, or why would they be tossin’ out all this really fine stuff?” Ty drops into the easy chair that faces the view. “You think there’s something about havin’ lots of cash that makes people miserable? ‘Cause I can tell you this—ain’t no picnic bein’ poor.”

  I sit in the chair beside his and watch a bird circle then dive into the water. “I think there’s a tipping point. People who don’t have enough money to feed their kids or pay the electric bill get desperate. But people who have more than enough get desperate, too. Desperate to maintain their position. Desperate to impress others. What strikes me about Brielle and Jane next door is they both seem exhausted by their lives.”

  “Humpf. They think they’re exhausted, they oughta try a double shift in Housekeeping at the hospital like my grams used to work.”

  I don’t reply. After a while, Ty speaks again, softer. “I know what you sayin’. There’s different kinds of wore-out. These rich people get stretched about to snap with all the effort of tryin’ to always be the main man. I sure don’t need that.”

  I reach over and lay my hand on Ty’s arm. We sit like that for a while. Then he grins and leaps up. “C’mon, Audge—we got work to do.”

  While I pick up where I left off pricing in the family room, Ty makes several trips back and forth to the van to unload the supplies we’ll need for the sale. The sliders to the pool are open, and I hear his voice from the driveway. “Yo, no early birds. Sale starts tomorrow morning.”

  A low voice murmurs something in return. The next thing I hear is “Audge! Hey, Audge, c’mere.”

  I know the difference between, “Come look at this cool thing,” and “Get your ass over here—we got trouble,” and this is the latter. I drop my marking pen and run outside.

  A tall, strong man with close-cropped hair strides toward me. He looks vaguely familiar. Ty trails behind him in an uncharacteristically meek way.

  “May I help you?”

  “Detective Larry Croft. Ocean County Sheriff’s Department. I just need a moment to look around.”

  One of the cops who talked to Sophia after the funeral. He doesn’t seem to recognize me. At the funeral, I was wearing make-up and slacks. Today, my hair is yanked back, my face scrubbed, and I’m sporting the faded UVA sweatshirt I’ve owned since graduation. I stand blocking the sliding door. “You can’t enter this home without the owner’s permission.”

  He smiles, trying for “aw shucks” innocence and missing the mark by a mile. “You’re not the owner, so there’s no need to worry about it.” He takes another step toward the door. “I won’t get in your way.”

  I plant my hands on my hips. “I’m the owner’s agent. I’m responsible for the property in her absence. Do you have a warrant?”

  “Heh, heh, heh—a warrant? You’ve been watching too much TV. Tomorrow, you’re going to have hundreds of people in here looking around. What’s the harm in me doing it a little early?”

  I hold my ground, steadfast as a Texas Ranger at the Alamo. Obviously, he’s fishing—he doesn’t have probable cause for a search warrant. So why would this detective want to poke around in Brielle’s house? I remember that odd encounter outside the church when Brielle ran after one of the other mourners. What is this tight-knit little circle of families trying to hide? Still, this cop should be doing his job according to procedure. I have a duty to protect my client’s property. And unlike Ty, I have no qualms about crossing swords with the police. “You’re welcome to come tomorrow as a customer. Maybe you’ll find something to brighten up your office. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have work to do.”

  As I turn away, he grabs my elbow. “Hey, weren’t you with Sophia Peterman at Trevor Finlayson’s funeral?”

  “Yes.” Never lie, but never offer more information than you’re asked for.

  “How well do you know the kid?”

  Both of us look over at the Peterman house. It’s quiet—doors and windows all closed. I’ve been expecting Sophia to pop over, but she and her mother must not be home.

  “Not well at all. I met her last week when she came over to help me organize the sale.”

  “And Trevor and his family—you know them?”

  “No.”

  “But you went to the funeral? An
d you offered Sophia advice about getting a lawyer before she talked to us? And now you’re guarding the Gardners’ house like a pit bull?”

  With every question, his voice carries a greater inflection of suspicion. I can’t blame him. My actions do seem a little odd when they’re laid out so starkly. I don’t owe him any explanations, but I want to get information out of him as much as he wants to get it from me.

  So I try to do as Grandma Betty always recommends: catch some flies with honey instead of my customary vinegar. “Have a seat.” I smile and gesture him toward Brielle’s sleek patio furniture. Ty still watches me from a distance. I nod at him and he shrugs and goes back to work.

  Sitting across from Detective Croft at the umbrella table, I smile and lean in. “You know, my husband is a detective on the Palmyrton police force. He and I were staying here on the night Trevor’s body washed up on the beach. So we have a personal connection to the case.”

  Detective Croft squints at me with deeper interest. “Your husband was the one with the local guys...kept them from tramping all over the crime scene?”

  Once I nod, I sense a subtle change in his demeanor. I’m okay, he thinks. I’m on his side. He knows how to handle a cop’s wife.

  But knowledge cuts two ways: I know how to handle a cop.

  “How long’s your husband been on the force?”

  “Fifteen years. But we’re newlyweds.” I try to mimic that Princess Diana demure look: chin down, eyes gazing up through the lashes. “Last weekend we were combining work with pleasure. Sean came down here with me while I was organizing Mrs. Gardner’s house sale.”

  I keep chatting, friendly as a spouse at a backyard barbeque. “And the next day we met Sophia and her mother. After my husband returned to Palmyrton, Sophia helped me do some sorting and pricing to get ready for the sale. She’s a sweet kid, but a little...high strung. So when she drove up to Palmyrton to go to the funeral, I agreed to go with her for moral support.” A dead leaf has the audacity to land on Brielle’s table. I brush it away. “I certainly didn’t expect her to make that declaration from the pulpit.”

  “Why didn’t you want her to talk to us?”

  I glance at the gold band on his left hand. “You have kids?”

  He nods.

  “You wouldn’t let one of your kids who was barely eighteen talk to the police alone, would you?”

  He opens his mouth, and I can practically see the party line about how the innocent never have anything to fear forming on his lips. Then he catches my steady gaze and thinks better of it. He shifts in his seat and mutters, “I guess not.”

  “We were worried when Sophia disappeared after talking to you.”

  He holds up his hands in protest. “We told her to go straight home and lay low for a while. Can’t help it she didn’t follow our advice.”

  Hmm. So whatever Sophia told the cops, it was concerning enough that they advised her to watch her back. I glance over at the Peterman’s house again. “I haven’t seen any sign of Sophia today, but she says she’s going to help out at the sale tomorrow.”

  Detective Croft extends his large body back in the patio chair and drums his fingers on the table. “So tell me about this sale. Are the Gardners getting ready to move out of the house?”

  “No, Mrs. Gardner plans to redecorate. The designer wants a clean slate.”

  He peers at the open sliding door. “I checked out your website. You usually do sales for people who’ve died or are moving. You ever encountered a situation like this before?”

  “No. But if I’ve learned one thing in my business, it’s that the rich are different from you and me.”

  “Mmm. What I’ve learned in my line of work is that the rich have more to lose, so they’re more likely to go to extremes.”

  He’s got a point. I think of my previous clients, the Finnerans and the Eskews. “You think she’s selling off the contents of her house to cover something up? Something associated with Trevor’s death?”

  Croft remains silent.

  “Look, I can assure you there are no large blood stains on the rugs or bullet holes in the walls. It’s the cleanest house I’ve ever worked in.” I stand up. “I can’t give you access today, but everything that’s in the house now will still be here tomorrow morning. Come back then if you want to look around.”

  He rises too and reaches out to shake my hand. “Fine. I’ll be here. You gonna get on the horn and tell Mrs. Gardner I came by?”

  Am I? I’ve followed the letter of the law in my contract with her. Truth is, I don’t like her and her son and her husband much. And I feel no need to protect them—they’ve got enough money to hire a platoon of lawyers to do that job.

  I shake Croft’s hand firmly. “My client doesn’t like to be disturbed.”

  Chapter 28

  Ty and I have finished the set-up for the sale and are eating a pizza when Sophia turns up at the back door. She strolls in like she owns the place, perches on a stool, and nabs the last slice, which I know Ty would’ve polished off. “Hi, I’m Sophia,” she tells him. “I’m going to help you with the sale tomorrow.”

  “That so?”

  Sophia doesn’t seem to notice Ty’s lack of enthusiasm. “Have you been here all day? My mom and I were shopping in Rumson.”

  “Yes. We got here at ten and we just finished all the set-up. The sale will open at nine tomorrow morning. I’ll need you here at eight.”

  “I’ll be ready.” Sophia finishes her slice and hops off the stool. “I’m going to look around at everything.”

  I think about how Jane reported back to Brielle about the sale of the big painting. Did Jane send her daughter over here to spy on my work? “I’ll come with you and explain how the sale will operate tomorrow.”

  I follow her into the dining area explaining how we’ve grouped all the small items together on the table where we can keep an eye on them. Of course, Brielle doesn’t have jewelry in the sale, and there are very few small knick-knacks, so shoplifting shouldn’t be a big concern.

  Once we head upstairs, I launch into the topic I really want to discuss with Sophia—the funeral and its aftermath.

  “You know I was worried about you after Trevor’s funeral, especially when your mom called and said you hadn’t come home.”

  Sophia dismisses this with a wave. “I told her before I left that I would probably stay over with a friend in Palmyrton, so I didn’t have to drive home in the dark. She never remembers a thing I say.”

  That could be true, or it could be revisionist history. Who can be sure with Sophia and Jane? “How did it go when you talked to the cops?”

  “Fine.” Sophia stares at the price tag attached to the slipper chair in the guest bedroom. “They said I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone what we talked about.”

  I’m sure they did, but when has Sophia ever listened to adults’ advice? Still, I won’t stoop to egging her on to break her word.

  “Isn’t Brielle’s stuff nice?” Sophia asks as she runs her fingertips over the folded duvet at the foot of the bed. “I’ve never been in this room.”

  “Yes, I think everything will sell.” I put my hand on her shoulder as she moves to leave the guest room. “Sophia, that was quite a dramatic statement you made at the funeral. It seemed like you were threatening someone there. What did you mean by that?”

  She glides away from me and darts across the hall into Austin’s room. “Threaten?” she says with her back to me. “How could I threaten anyone? Hey, look at this—Austin’s BSS sweatshirts priced at fifty cents apiece. I hope some Mexican landscaper dude buys them. Wouldn’t that make the alumni association crazy!”

  Clearly, Sophia’s not going to tell me a thing about the aftermath of Trevor’s funeral. But she certainly seems to be in good spirits, so I have to assume there hasn’t been any fallout for her personally. “Well, you’ve seen all we have to sell.” I nudge her toward the stairs. “You’ll be working in the dining room tomorrow.” I tug at her ratty T-shirt. “Dress code is busines
s casual.”

  “Okay, I can do that.” She trots downstairs and heads for the back door. “I’ll see you in the morning, Audrey.”

  After she leaves, I put on my jacket and go out on the deck to enjoy the ocean breeze and the sound of the waves. From the lower level, the sounds of Sports Center drift up as Ty relaxes in front of the huge TV before we sell it. From next door, I hear Sophia’s excited voice through her own open kitchen window. “.... The sale’s going to be awesome, Mom. I bet everyone in Sea Chapel will be there. Are you coming?”

  “No, Sophia. I’m not going to buy my best friend’s cast-offs.”

  The light in the Peterman’s kitchen goes off, and the two of them move to a part of the house where I can no longer hear them.

  Interesting that Jane considers Brielle her best friend.

  I wonder if the feeling is mutual?

  Back inside, I say goodnight to Ty and settle myself in the guestroom.

  I brought a book to read, but my thoughts keep returning to Jane and Sophia. How does a woman as scattered and unfocused as Jane run a business so profitable that she can afford a house almost as grand as Brielle’s?

  I’m a lot more organized but a lot less rich.

  Who is Jane Peterman anyway? Given what Sophia told me about her estranged grandparents, it doesn’t seem like Jane inherited her money. When I Google her, the first thing that comes up is her own website: Peterman Consulting, LLC. The “about us” section says the firm is a boutique consultancy laser focused on outside-the-box marketing initiatives. Whatever. The photo of Jane is so flattering as to be unrecognizable. She’s thinner, with perfectly coiffed hair, a snappy suit to prove she’s serious, and a rakish scarf to indicate she’s got imagination and flair.

  The page headlined “What clients say about Jane” contains quotes from high-level executives at Fortune 500 companies.

  “Jane gets results!”