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

by S. W. Hubbard

  “Her insights are extraordinary. We saw a 200% increase in return business after implementing her strategies.”

  “Jane cuts through the BS to get the job done.”

  Impressive. Her bio says she spent eight years at Quantum Consulting before leaving to start her own firm three years ago. Quantum is a huge firm with branches all around the world. The firm recruited heavily among all of us math majors at UVA, so I happen to have a college friend who works there. When I text her to ask if she knows Jane Peterman, she immediately answers, Do I ever! She’s legendary at Quantum.

  Legendary in a good way?

  Seconds later my phone is ringing. As a fellow math major, Kelly and I were in a lot of the same classes, but she is an irrepressible extrovert who was born to go into consulting. She also loves a good gossip.

  “I haven’t heard from you since your wedding, Audrey. And then you text out of nowhere asking about Jane Peterman, of all people! What gives, girl?”

  Immediately, I feel guilty about only calling when I want information. So I spend a few minutes catching up on news and end by telling Kelly about my current sale and how it’s brought me into contact with Jane.

  “Wow, so she used her payout to buy a big, fancy beach house, eh?”

  I sit up and tune in. “Payout? What payout?”

  “When Jane was working for Quantum, she spent long hours on a high-profile project with a female client about her own age. They got to be friends, but then the client said Jane wouldn’t leave her alone. She accused Jane of stalking her. Jane’s boss pulled her off that project and put her on a much less prestigious project. At Quantum, getting yanked from a project like that is a career-killer. Well, Jane fought back, and said she was a victim of mental health discrimination. She accused Quantum’s human resources department of violating her privacy by scrutinizing her health insurance claims to see what kind of doctors she consulted and what meds she took.”

  “Whatever they were, she’s still taking them,” I add. “Her kitchen windowsill looks like CVS.”

  “So Jane hired a big-name lawyer, and I guess her case must’ve been pretty convincing because Quantum struck a settlement deal. Quantum offered her a big payout if she would leave voluntarily. Both sides signed nondisclosure agreements, but the office grapevine was on fire for weeks when it happened. People claimed she got a million bucks.”

  “Are people at your office pro-Jane or anti-Jane?”

  “Jane was a high-flyer at Quantum before the incident. She’s super smart and had a reputation for coming up with innovative ideas. But she also had a reputation for being volatile. Everyone who ever worked with Jane knew she was a nut, but we had to admire how she played her cards. It was a ballsy move to threaten that lawsuit. She walked away with a pile of cash and a letter of recommendation that paved the way for her to start her own boutique firm.”

  “What about the woman who said Jane was stalking her?”

  “I don’t know. Rumor had it that she applied for a transfer and moved to the Midwest.”

  Did she move to further her career, or to get away from Jane? I guess we’ll never know.

  I thank Kelly for her help, and we make a plan to get together next month. After I hang up with her, Sean calls to say goodnight from Granda’s house. “You okay down there? It’s raining and blowing like crazy here.”

  The guest room curtains billow in the breeze. “It’s gusty here, but the weatherman said we wouldn’t get as much rain and wind this far south.”

  I hear a boom of thunder over the phone. “Shit, the lights flickered,” Sean says. “I wonder where Granda keeps the candles?”

  “You’d better go. Goodnight, Sean.”

  “Hey—one more thing. I made an appointment with Dr. Stein. I go next week.”

  My heart swells with love for my husband. I know he really doesn’t want to see this doctor. He’s doing it for me. “Thank you, darling.”

  Another boom of thunder.

  “The old man’s calling me. Goodnight, baby. Good luck tomorrow.”

  Chapter 29

  Sophia shows up at the deck door at 8:00 AM, just as we agreed. But she’s wearing ripped cut-off shorts and a vintage David Bowie Aladdin Sane T-shirt—not the customer-facing wardrobe I had in mind for the sale.

  She appears both excited and anxious. I didn’t realize working the small items table at this event meant so much to her.

  “Audrey, listen—I can’t help at the sale today after all. I’m really sorry, but my mom has finally agreed to drive to Maine so I can visit Bowdoin College. And then we’ll stop at Bennington on the way back. I’ve been begging her for months, but she kept saying she was too busy. Today she just woke up and said, “Let’s go!” So I gotta roll with this because who knows when I’ll get another chance.” Sophia’s brow furrows and she looks down at her purple painted toenails. “Are you mad?”

  Am I mad? You bet I am. But not at Sophia, at Jane. She knew her daughter made a commitment to work with me today, yet she dangled something the kid’s been longing for to lure her away. What’s that all about?

  I pull Sophia into a hug. The poor kid’s got enough trouble having Jane for a mother without getting grief from me. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll manage. Have fun on the college visit.”

  “Thanks, Audrey. You’re the best!”

  Half an hour later, I see Jane’s BMW glide out of the garage and head north.

  No sooner does Sophia leave than my phone buzzes. “Audrey, we have an emergency.”

  Donna’s breathless voice causes my heart to miss a beat. “What’s the matter? Are you in danger?”

  “No, I’m fine. It’s the Freidrich sale. In the storm last night, a huge oak tree got hit by lightning and fell right across the cul de sac. It brought down the power lines and broke off a fire hydrant. There’s water everywhere and live electrical wires and no electricity and no one can get into or out of the street. What should I do?”

  It’s eight-thirty. Clearly, live power lines in a flooded street aren’t going to be resolved any time soon. And from what Ty has heard from his grandmother, there are trees down all over Palmyrton. No one’s going be up for exploring estate sales today. “Cancel the sale. Send out an email to our customer list. Announce it on the website.”

  “Who’s going to tell the Freidrichs? Won’t they be mad that we’re canceling the sale?”

  “It’s an act of God. There’s a clause in all our contracts for that. I’ll call them and get it rescheduled.”

  “Oh...okay.” Donna sounds like a kid whose trip to Disneyworld has just been called off.

  “What’s the matter? You’ve got the weekend off.”

  “I don’t want time off,” she wails. “I was looking forward to running the sale. Now I’ll be sitting here all alone dwelling on my problems.”

  “Well, get in your car and drive down to Sea Chapel. We can use the help here. People are already lining up, and the kid who was supposed to help out has cancelled.”

  “What about Ty?”

  “What about him? He’s here. You two need to deal.”

  Long silence.

  “Okay,” Donna squeaks. “See you in two hours.”

  Ty looks like a provoked porcupine when I tell him Donna will be joining us. “But you said—” he sputters.

  “I said you had two days to get your shit together. Now you have two hours. Deal.”

  Ty glowers at me and stomps upstairs muttering under his breath. “You kiss your grandmother with that mouth?” I shout after him.

  Knowing that Ty will get over his snit, I do the last-minute tasks on the main floor. Because all the big windows in this house face the ocean, I have to go into the powder room to peek outside and check on the crowd.

  Cars line Dune Vista Drive, and people have begun to queue up on the front walk and the driveway.

  The very first person in line is Detective Croft.

  I’m glad Jane and Sophia aren’t here to see him and report to Brielle.

 
; When the clock strikes nine, I take a deep breath and open the door.

  Croft nods at me and heads directly for the stairs to the lower level. Other buyers surge past, asking questions as they walk.

  “Tools?”

  “Antiques?”

  “Records?”

  No, no, and no. Those are the hard-core estate sale junkies of the Jersey Shore. They found me; I didn’t have to find them. They may be disappointed by how new everything here is.

  Next come the gawkers.

  “Oh my gawd, Gloria—can you believe how gorgeous this house is? Didn’t I tell ya?”

  “I’ve walked past this house on the beach a million times. I’ve always wanted to look inside.”

  Finally, come the friends and neighbors.

  “I haven’t been here since the housewarming party.”

  “Be grateful you were invited to that.”

  “Are those red wine goblets? Surely Brielle never served Cabernet to people sitting on her white chairs.”

  “I want that bowl.”

  “So, buy it.”

  “Everyone who comes to my house will know where it came from!”

  The ladies collapse in giggles.

  I get behind the sales desk and within minutes, start taking money. I’d love to know what Detective Croft is up to, but I can’t leave my post.

  By the time Donna arrives shortly after ten, Ty and I are so busy with customers that there’s no opportunity for any awkwardness. Donna jumps into my spot behind the sales desk, giving me a chance to patrol the house looking for problems and answering questions. I stop a four-year-old from flying his toy plane near the glassware, decline to cut the price of a fabulous end table, and finally make my way to the lower level.

  There I find Croft on his hands and knees in front of the sofa, looking under the cushions.

  “Find any loose change?”

  He stands, utterly unembarrassed. Evidence collection envelopes peep from his shirt pocket. Some customers out on the pool deck debate the merits of the lounge chairs, but no one is near us.

  “You vacuum this furniture to prep for the sale?” Croft asks.

  “Didn’t have to. It was that clean when I got here. Mrs. Gardner’s house cleaners come every week even when the family isn’t using the place.”

  “Any signs that her kid used this as a party room?”

  I spread my arms like Vanna White displaying prizes: the cream sofa, the bleached oak floor, the polished teak bar. “This look like a good place to play beer pong and flip cup?”

  I finally get a laugh from the poker-faced Croft. “Still, the kid must’ve had his friends over some time.” His voice rises as if this is a question I should know the answer to.

  “You know how it is with teenagers. Some houses are the hang-out houses; some aren’t.” Certainly, the library-quiet house I shared with my father was never a gathering place for my small circle of high school friends.

  Croft makes a face and takes one more panoramic survey of the room. Then he lifts his hand in farewell, and exits through the pool area.

  Chapter 30

  Relieved to see the back of the detective, I head upstairs just in time to glimpse an elderly couple toddle into the kitchen. The old woman holds a cane in one hand and clings to her husband’s arm with the other. The old man faces the world with ram-rod posture and a stern profile. I recognize them from Trevor’s funeral: Grandma and Grandpa Finlayson.

  Surely, they didn’t come here to pick up some stylish serving utensils.

  I draw back into the alcove at the head of the lower level stairs and watch. The old man scans the room with hawk-eyed attention. He runs an appraising hand over the gleaming granite countertop and squints at the huge fridge. Then he steps up to the window to take in the view, his frail wife trailing behind him. When he turns around, she stays at the window. The old man sees me.

  “Are you the person running this event?”

  Certainly, that’s a question I’ve been asked many times in my professional life, but it’s never sounded so disapproving. “Yes. May I help you with something?”

  “Why are the Gardners allowing all these...people—” he glares at a woman in Crocs as if he would’ve preferred to say “riff-raff”—“to prowl through their house? Very out of character. Are they moving?”

  “Not that I know of.” I’m getting tired of telling the redecorating story.

  “Good. My father and Everett’s grandfather worked together at J.P. Morgan before the war.” He scowls at a very large man who pushes past him to get to the barbeque implements. “They’re a fine addition to the Sea Chapel community. Need more like them.”

  Then we’re both distracted by a sound, almost a mew. Could a cat have gotten in here with all the coming and going?

  Mr. Finlayson hustles toward his wife, and I realize the sound came from her. Her thin shoulders tremble as she continues to stare out the window at the beach.

  The beach where her grandson’s body was found.

  “Hush, Emily. Why are you carrying on here in front of all these strangers?” The old man doesn’t embrace his grieving wife. He just turns her around like he’s placing a doll in a dollhouse. “I told you not to come.”

  “This is where he died,” she whimpers. “You shouldn’t have let him go out that night. You should have known. That boy was not a friend to him.”

  Known what? Which boy? I’m watching this drama unfold with open curiosity. Could this haughty old man have participated in his grandson’s death? When I was listening to Trevor’s mother, the idea seemed far-fetched. Now that I’m watching the old man in action, Jeanine’s theory seems more plausible.

  “There’s no point crying about it. What’s done is done.” He places her hand on his arm and steps forward. “We must maintain our dignity.”

  Mrs. Finlayson allows herself to be propelled out of the kitchen. A customer with a question gives me a reason to follow the couple at a discreet distance. While I’m demonstrating the dimmer switch on a halogen lamp, I see my last view of the Finlaysons.

  The old lady stands at the front door and looks back over her shoulder. “I never cared for this house. It’s cold. Just like her.”

  NOON COMES AND GOES with sales so brisk there’s no possibility of breaking for a meal. I take two protein bars upstairs to Ty. Patience for ridiculous customer requests is the first thing to go when that man gets hungry.

  I find Ty in Austin’s bedroom having an increasingly animated discussion with a thin woman dressed in tennis whites. “I’ll take the dresser and one of the night tables, but I don’t want the chest of drawers. I’ll give you five hundred for them.”

  “It’s too early to break up the set. I’ll have a hard time selling the other pieces. If it’s still here tomorrow, you can have that deal.” Ty folds his arms across his chest.

  Mrs. Tennis sniffs. “I’ll need to speak to your supervisor.”

  Ty catches my eye over the woman’s head. “You in luck. She’s right there.”

  I glide into the dispute. “Hi, I’m Audrey Nealon.” I shake the woman’s hand and smile sweetly. Ty turns away, but not before I note the eye-roll. “I’m afraid my assistant is correct. It’s too early in the sale to break up this set. I’m sure you understand; I have to do what’s best for my client.”

  “Humpf!” The woman slings her Louis Vuitton bag over her shoulder. “Like Brielle needs the money!”

  Like you need to bargain at an estate sale. I continue to speak as if I didn’t hear that crack. “If you’d like to leave your name and number, I can call you tomorrow at this time if the pieces are still available.”

  “Regina Mosby,” she says as she scrawls her number on a scrap of paper from her bag. “My daughter Ava is a friend of Austin’s. I’ve known Brielle for years. Maybe I’ll just call her directly about these pieces.”

  “That’s a great idea.” I’m as placid as the Mona Lisa. “She can text me if she agrees to your terms.”

  Given the twist of her mou
th, I’m guessing ol’ Regina is not quite as tight with Brielle as she claims. “Well, I don’t want to bother her. She’s been a little tense lately.” With a toss of her hair, she turns toward the door, waving at a woman she spots in the hall. It’s one of the ladies who was with Trevor’s mother at Caffeine Planet.

  “Hi, Regina,” the other woman trills. “Look at me—I finally got all the way into Brielle’s house. Never made it past the pool deck before.”

  Regina links arms with her friend. The last words I hear her say are, “I don’t know what’s going on here. I feel like Ava knows something, but of course she won’t tell me a thing.”

  Chapter 31

  At four, we shoo the last of the customers from the house, promising them mark-downs tomorrow.

  “Whew!” Ty sits on the stairs since all the living room furniture has been sold. “I haven’t worked this hard since the Eskew sale.”

  “We sold so-o-o much,” Donna marvels. “There’s not that much left to sell tomorrow.”

  While Donna sweeps and straightens the house for tomorrow’s onslaught, I do a quick tally in my head. A grin spreads over my face. “Guys, let’s go out to dinner. You choose the place—my treat.”

  An hour later, Ty’s lust for red meat and Donna’s skill with Yelp have led us to a highly rated steak and barbeque restaurant in Atlantic Highlands. The hostess has seated us at a window table with a panoramic view of the miniature golf course next door.

  “I love miniature golf,” Donna gushes. “I used to play all summer long with my cousins. But Anthony takes it too seriously. He broke a club over the windmill one time when the blade knocked his ball sideways.”

  “Have you heard from Anthony today?” I ask.

  “Lots of texts, but I was too busy to answer. I’m so glad I drove down here to help with the Gardner sale.”

  Ty says nothing, keeping his eyes glued to the menu. On the way over here, he grabbed my car keys so he could drive, and I’d be forced to sit up front, leaving Donna alone in the back seat.

  This tension is killing me.