Rock Bottom Treasure (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series)

by Hubbard, S. W.

  Jenny approaches, staggering under the weight of a large hammered metal planter. “I love it!” Diane gushes. “But Hank would kill me if I bought anything like that. Not after Audrey worked so hard to get rid of all our clutter.”

  “Your house wasn’t bad,” I assure her. “You had some lovely items.”

  “I did,” Diane says, wistful for a moment. “But you know, I feel twenty pounds lighter without all that stuff. Our new condo is very minimalist. I truly appreciate the few things I’ve selected to display.”

  Jenny laughs and sets down her heavy purchase. “But Diane can’t resist shopping. She bought those beads and put them right on so Hank won’t notice.”

  “Very pretty,” I say.

  Diane fingers the chunky, dark red beads that match the red in her tunic. “I got them over there,” she waves in the direction of the next row of booths. “Not only do they match this outfit, but the girl who sold them to me also said the red would ignite my love life.”

  “As if!” Jenny elbows her friend.

  The two older women’s giggles turn into howls of laughter as they notice their husbands approaching.

  “What’s so funny?” Hank van Neff asks, pecking his wife on the cheek.

  “Oh, nothing,” Diane says. “Look who’s here, dear. It’s Audrey Nealon.”

  Hank’s face lights with interest. He’s a handsome man with a full head of gray hair and Paul Newman-ish smile lines at the corner of his eyes. Broad-shouldered, he’s grown a little thick through the middle, but he too looks much younger than his friend, Cordelia Dean.

  “Audrey! I hear you’ve been working your magic for Cordy.” Hank beams at me. “How did you manage to find those Freeman lyrics?”

  “A pure stroke of luck, really.” I make a concerted effort to downplay my talent. “I recognized the song because there was a cover version of it popular when I was in high school. Honestly, I might not have appreciated the value otherwise.”

  “Yes, those royalties are the gift that keeps on giving. Our Cordy got a little share of the action,” Hank says although he doesn’t look particularly happy about it.

  “She says she was the inspiration for the song, so I guess she deserves it, eh?” I ask.

  Hank and Diane exchange a glance. “Well, Cordy certainly embraced the free love philosophy of the era. Whether she’s actually the woman in the song, I couldn’t say.” Hank gives me a smile that comes closer to a smirk. “She’s a legend in her own mind.”

  Diane slaps her husband’s wrist. “Hank, that’s not nice. We’re so fortunate to have our health, and financial security, and the love of our children and grandchildren. Poor Cordy isn’t so lucky. That’s why she lives so much in the past.”

  “Luck has nothing to do with the difference in our lives,” Hank grumbles. “Cordy has not taken personal responsibility—”

  Diane interrupts a tirade I suspect she’s heard many times before. “Oh, Hank, please!”

  “Well, I should be going. I still have a lot of booths to visit.” I tug Ethel forward, eager to escape the family meltdown. “Enjoy the rest of your visit.”

  I hear them calling their goodbyes behind me. Whew—that Hank is a piece of work! A legend in her own mind—that seems a rather mean-spirited assessment of your own friend.

  Once I feel it’s safe to slow down, I enter a booth selling painted silk scarves. As I wrap one experimentally around my neck, I feel a tug on my elbow.

  It’s Diane, slightly breathless from having run after me.

  “Audrey, I need to explain Hank’s attitude.” She runs her fingers through her perfectly cut hair and it falls neatly back in place. “Hank and Cordy and I met in college. We really forged a bond in those days.” She gazes off to the horizon. “An unbreakable bond. But our lives took such different paths after graduation. Now...I mean, if I met Cordy today, we’d never be friends. But that doesn’t mean we don’t still care about her.”

  “Sure, I understand,” I say, my face half hidden by the luxurious scarf. Maura is my best friend from college. We’d walk through fire for each other, but if we met for the first time today, would we be instant friends? Maybe not.

  Diane still has her hand on my arm, as if I’m a toddler who might spontaneously dart into traffic. “Audrey, do you think you can find more items like the Freeman lyrics in Cordy’s house? She really needs the money. I’m worried about her future.”

  My mind churns a mile a minute as I consider how to reply. I like Diane. At least, I think I do. Why did she run after me? Did Hank send her because he realizes he screwed up his own opportunity to ask me about the potential for treasure? But I notice that Diane said, ‘I’m worried’ not ‘we’re worried’. Why is Hank planning to return to Palmyrton next week if he’s so disapproving of Cordy?

  “Cordy seems much less concerned about her finances than you and Hank are. Can’t she manage this tax bill on her own now that an initial payment has been made?”

  Diane huffs in exasperation. “One would think so, but Hank says she can’t be trusted to make the right choices and not squander the money. But I say, Cordy is smart—she just makes unconventional choices that Hank doesn’t care for.”

  “Such as...?” I enquire.

  “Oh, writing this memoir.” Diane waves a well-manicured hand. “Hank says it won’t amount to anything, but I think she’s got a good shot at success. Memoirs are very popular these days—my book club loves them. Hank wouldn’t know. He only reads the Wall Street Journal.” Diane glances over her shoulder like she’s keeping an eye peeled for her husband. Apparently, she spots him in the crowd because her eyes widen and she squeezes my arm. “Just do your best to sell a few more items for Cordy to tide her over until this memoir comes through.”

  The craftsperson running the booth rescues me from further wrangling. “That scarf looks fabulous on you. Would you like to look in a mirror?”

  “Yes, thank you.” I turn my back on Diane and pretend to admire my reflection. The scarf makes me look like a Russian peasant grandma, but I adjust it with great attention until Diane leaves with a weak wave. Then I offer my regrets to the vendor and head off into the row where Diane said she bought her necklace, figuring I won’t encounter them on territory they’ve already covered. Diane’s beads were actually quite pretty. I’d like to find the booth where she bought them.

  Ethel pulls toward the food trucks, but I prevail in the tug of war. “We’ll get a snack later,” I tell her and we head down another row of booths with Ethel sulking. Up ahead, I see a crowd of women elbowing for space in one booth. Following the theory that any place with a line must be good, I join the fray.

  The beads are all arranged by color, the spectrum beginning with yellows and oranges and moving through the rainbow. White and black are conspicuously absent.

  “Ooo, look at these purple ones,” a woman gushes.

  A languid voice replies. “Do you have digestive issues?”

  The woman with purple beads in her hand frowns. “No, why?”

  “Then I don’t recommend that necklace for you. You’ll find greater harmony with the greens and teals.”

  I recognize that voice. Looking up, I see the sign at the back of the booth: Ariel’s Atelier, Therapeutic Jewelry.

  Purple bead woman looks disappointed. “But, I...”

  “Get the purple,” I mutter under my breath just as a woman beside me steps back onto Ethel’s paw. The dog lets out a shocked yip, and I retreat to a safer area out in the aisle.

  I have to admit, Ariel’s creations are nice, but I’m damned if I’ll buy anything from her after the way she tried to cheat me at the McMurtry sale. Still, I’m curious about her business. Despite her death-warmed-over appearance, Ariel seems to know how to sell her product. Customers are asking her what necklace they should buy for their back pain and what bracelet will cure their PMS.

  It’s like they want to be scammed.

  I continue observing the action from an alpaca products booth across the way. By the time
I settle on a new winter hat, the crowd in Ariel’s booth begins to thin, mostly because she’s sold so much, her selection is getting picked over. As Ethel and I are about to move on, I notice a man enter Ariel’s booth. Since all her other customers have been women, I’m curious. Ethel and I cross over to the essential oils booth beside Ariel’s. Luckily, the proprietor here is an animal lover. While she fusses over Ethel, I stand next to the thin panel of nylon separating this booth from Ariel’s.

  “How’s it going?” the man asks. “Has she said anything?”

  “Not yet. It’s only been a day,” Ariel drawls.

  “You know that guy who came over with the estate sale woman is a cop, right?”

  “Relax. He’s married to Audrey. He’s a rock fan. Cordy thinks he’s hot.”

  Why is this guy concerned that a cop visited Cordy?

  The man snorts. Then he lowers his voice and says something I can’t catch. The next voice I hear is Ariel’s greeting another customer.

  I watch for the man to leave her booth, and when he does, I slip out behind him.

  He’s wearing jeans, a fleece, and running shoes with a knit hat pulled down over his ears. Ariel’s visitor strides quickly, leading me to believe he’s young. But when he reaches the food court area at the end of the aisle, he turns and I see him in profile. His face is tan and lined. His nose has a pronounced bump in the middle, like it was once broken and didn’t heal right. He could be in his fifties, or even older.

  The crowd here is thicker, and with Ethel pulling me resolutely toward the hot dog truck, the man melts into the crowd of Palmyrtonians who look much the same as he does. I buy a wiener, no bun for Ethel and scold her as she eats. “I wanted to follow that guy, and you let him get away.”

  She swallows, licks her chops, and lifts her ears. Then Ethel sets off purposefully toward the little performance stage set up across from the food trucks. The rather mournful folk singer who occupied the spot when we first arrived at the craft fair has been replaced by a much more lively guitarist, who’s drawn quite a crowd. The guitarist throws his head back and keeps his eyes half-shut as his fingers fly across the strings of his instrument in an extended riff. He doesn’t sing, but the guitar solo holds the attention of the listeners gathered around. Heads bob and toes tap. Although I don’t recognize the tune, I, too, sway to the beat. The song really is quite catchy. When he finishes with a flourish, the crowd bursts into applause, and many people toss money into his open guitar case. I consider myself a patron of the arts, so I push through the crowd with my dollar offering.

  That’s when I spot the guy who had been talking to Ariel in her booth. Now he’s at the edge of the tiny stage, talking to the performer. The two men are close in age—mid fifties maybe. The cash in my hand gives me a valid reason to intrude. I come up right beside Ariel’s friend, toss my money in the guitar case, and make eye contact with the guitarist. “Thanks for that performance. You’re so talented.”

  He smiles in return and thanks me. Ariel’s friend hasn’t left, but he’s turned away from me, looking out at the crowd while he waits for me to leave.

  “Do you play at bars and clubs around here?” I continue. “I know my husband would love to hear you.”

  “In the summer I play all the clubs down at the shore, but in the winter I play around New York and North Jersey. Too tired to go any further on the road these days,” he explains. The guitarist digs into his jeans pocket and hands me a bent-around-the-edges business card. “My website’s on there. You can check it for my performance schedule.”

  I assure him he’ll see Sean and me in his audience in the future, and walk away.

  Once I’m behind the taco truck, I let Ethel snarf up some fallen ground beef while I watch Ariel’s friend continue an intense conversation with the guitarist. Then I study the card: Alan Greer, Guitarist and Composer, with a website address and a phone number.

  I tuck the card safely into my purse. Alan will be hearing from me.

  Chapter 17

  MONDAY MORNING GETS off to a bad start when the first phone call of the day is a cancellation of our next sale. My client tells me his relatives have descended on his house and taken all the good stuff, and he’s decided to donate the rest before he moves to assisted living. He doesn’t care that he’ll forfeit his deposit. I’ll never fill this slot on such short notice, and now we’ll be going into the slow holiday season with less revenue in the bank.

  However, the cancellation makes me even more willing to roll the dice on further exploration at Cordy’s house.

  “Why is Sean so interested in Cordy?” Donna asks me after I tell her I want to do more work at Cordy’s house, and Sean wants to be involved. She and I are alone together in the office since Monday is Ty’s regular day off. “I thought Sean was busy with the murder of that producer guy.”

  “I think the police are running out of leads in the Pelletierre murder. Sean doesn’t usually share a lot with me, but I get the feeling there’s not a lot of pressure to solve this one. Pelletierre isn’t from Palmyrton, so he’s got no friends or family here complaining to the police.”

  “But Pelletiere’s famous,” Donna objects.

  “That might be part of the problem. The people who knew the victim seem reluctant to say much about him. Leads are drying up, so Sean doesn’t have to work overtime right now.”

  “Wow,” Donna says. “I thought the cops treated every case the same. I guess that shows how naïve I am.”

  “If they thought someone was in danger, like from a kidnapper or a serial killer, then it would be all hands on deck,” I explain. “But yeah, the police department has priorities and budget constraints, so the squeaky wheel gets the attention. They’re still waiting on final toxicology reports and for a few of the victim’s business contacts to make time for interviews. They haven’t given up. There’s simply a lull in the investigation.”

  “That explains why Sean has time to come along to Cordy’s. How come he wants to come?” Donna persists.

  I laugh. “Honestly, he’s obsessed with Cordelia Dean. He’s fascinated by her life, and when I showed him that scrap of paper with the Freeman lyrics, it was like I was showing him a hand-written letter from George Washington. He stayed up late last night doing research on Freeman’s band to see how many of the members are still alive.”

  Donna boxes up some mismatched dishes and battered pots destined for Sister Alice in Newark. “Why does that matter?”

  “Sean was speculating that one of them might have sent the purse snatcher after me. Another member of the band would appreciate the lyrics’ value, and maybe feel he deserved to profit from them more than Cordy does. Sean wants to see what Cordy might say about that.”

  Donna pauses with her finger on the trigger of her trusty squirt bottle of white vinegar and water. “He’s going to, like, question her?”

  “Nothing official. But I thought the three of us could pay her a little visit this evening. It’ll be handy to have Sean along because, unlike me, he’s genuinely impressed by Cordy. And we all know she’d rather talk to a man than a woman.”

  “Yeah, Sean isn’t Ty, but he’s a pretty good substitute,” Donna says. “Ty would have zero interest in coming along.”

  “He has a lot on his plate right now,” I agree. “But even if he didn’t, he has no patience for Cordy.”

  “He’s genuinely creeped out.” Donna giggles. “He doesn’t know how to react. He can’t exactly flip her the bird the way I do when a construction worker cat calls me.”

  “Did you hear anything from Cordy yesterday?” I ask.

  “Nope. She was quiet, and so was I, “ Donna says. “You want me to tell her we’re coming over after we finish here?”

  “No! I want to show up unannounced so no one else will get wind of our visit. Cordy says she’s always home, so there’s no need to check before we go. Sean will meet us there.”

  We return to our individual projects. But within an hour, Donna catches me staring out the window with
a faraway look in my eye.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Do you think I should tell Peter and Noreen that we suspect what happened to me and Charmaine is related to some other memorabilia Cordy might have at the house? Peter’s parents were visiting this weekend, so they’ll probably stop in to see Cordy today before they leave.”

  “Why get everyone all wound up before we know if our suspicions are true?” Donna answers. “Let’s talk to Cordy tonight, and then you can tell Peter tomorrow.”

  That was my inclination, and Donna’s agreement makes it easier for me to move forward.

  WHEN WE ALL ARRIVE at Cordy’s house, the windows facing the street are all dark. “You think it’s possible she’s not home?” I ask Donna, disappointed now that I’ve gotten myself psyched up for this visit.

  “She always sits in the kitchen,” Donna explains, leading us down the overgrown path to the backyard. “She won’t be happy if we make her come to the front door.”

  Sure enough, the kitchen is brightly lit, and we can see Cordy at the table as we climb the back porch stairs. The upstairs windows facing the back are just as dark as the front. I hope that means Cordy is home alone. “Where does she keep the key?” I ask.

  Donna points to a cracked Mexican ceramic flowerpot containing a dried up chrysanthemum. “The plant lifts right out and the key is underneath. But we won’t need it. The door is always unlocked while she’s awake.”

  Sean shakes his head at this security lapse.

  Donna knocks on the back door and waves through the window when Cordy looks up. The old gal gestures broadly for us to enter.

  “She shouldn’t sit alone in the house with the doors unlocked,” Sean mutters as he follows Donna and me into the house. As I step over the threshold, something warm and furry brushes against my leg, and I gasp. But it’s only Ziggy Stardust, the cat, waiting for his chance to slip inside out of the cold.

  On the way over here, I warned Sean against going into police interrogation mode, and he countered with a “how dumb do you think I am?” scowl. We are about to see how well he can do.