Rock Bottom Treasure (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series)

by Hubbard, S. W.

  Ariel steps around me and runs lightly up the stairs with more energy than I’ve ever seen her display. A few minutes later, she reappears holding Cordy by the elbow. The older woman shuffles along in bedroom slippers, then grabs the banister and slowly makes her way down the steps after shooing Ariel away.

  I had no idea Cordy is this unsteady on her feet. Maybe it really isn’t safe for her to continue living in a two-story house. I move to the foot of the stairs, ready to grab her if she trips. Although, if I’m honest, I wouldn’t be able to catch someone so much heavier than I am. Ariel stands at the top of the stairs, still frowning. Once Cordy reaches the bottom, Ariel shoots me a withering glare and disappears into an upstairs room.

  “Hi, Cordy. Sorry to bother you,” I say as she reaches my side.

  “No both—” her words are interrupted by a bout of raspy coughing. “I write for an hour or so before I come downstairs to eat. Can’t face food first thing in the morning.”

  It’s mid-afternoon, but who’s counting?

  Together we toddle into the kitchen, where I offer to make a pot of tea and lay out the banana bread. I open a cabinet looking for what I need, and several boxes of tea bags and tins of loose tea tumble onto the counter.

  Grateful to be pampered and totally unconcerned with the mess I’m stuck cleaning, Cordy settles herself in her usual chair. “Did Ty send you because he couldn’t work here today?”

  Shaking my head, I set the house key labeled “Cordy” on the table next to the food and explain how I came to be running a sale at Elspeth’s house.

  Cordy’s face registers sincere sadness. “I had no idea Elspeth was sick. She was a good neighbor. I’ll miss her.”

  “She was about your age, I guess.”

  “Yes, but we lived very different lives. I have her key here somewhere.” Cordy glances helplessly around her cluttered kitchen. “I guess I should give it to you.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it—once the house sells, the new owners will change the locks.” The water has come to a boil, and I get up to fix us each a mug of tea. Wisely, I sniff the milk before pouring it into my tea and recoil at the sour scent. “I’m afraid your milk has gone bad, Cordy.”

  “Figures. Gif left on tour, and Ariel never buys what I tell her to. There’s probably some fake stuff—soy, almond, coconut, whatever—in the fridge.”

  So, Gif is touring as a roadie. That explains why I haven’t noticed his car on the street since I’ve been working in the neighborhood. “How’s the memoir coming along?” I ask.

  Cordy explains that she’s writing a few sample chapters and an outline. “First step is to shop it around to literary agents. I need to snag one of the big New York power brokers.” She winks at me. “But I’ve got the goods. They’ll be interested.”

  “I guess an agent is the literary equivalent of a rock band’s manager,” I say. Even though Sean has expressly forbidden me to enquire about Cordy’s connection to Pelletierre, I can’t resist this little foray into illicit territory.

  “Exactly.” Cordy taps my hand, impressed by my perception. “And just as a band’s manager can make or break them, a literary agent can strike a great deal or totally blow an opportunity. That’s why I have to find the right one. I’ve seen too many creative people ruined by misplaced trust.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got a plan,” I say. And indeed, she does seem to know what she’s doing with the memoir. Except I’m here because regarding her housing, I suspect she’s misplaced her trust in Hank van Neff.

  Cordy leans across the table. “My problem is, I don’t have a hard deadline. As a journalist, I was always racing against the clock, and that helped me churn out the words.” She gives a bitter laugh. “Now that damn tax bill is my deadline.”

  Wow—she’s offered me the perfect opening. “Actually, Cordy—that’s the other thing I wanted to talk to you about. I think my assistant Donna has told you she’s planning on buying a small condo.”

  “I heard all about her divorce. Scum!” Cordy says.

  “Yes, well, I’ve been helping her with some of the financial and legal details surrounding her mortgage, which caused us both to be on the Palmyrton property tax records website.” I pull out my iPad, which I’d already opened to that page, and slide it across the table. “There are no outstanding property taxes on 151 Locust.”

  I watch Cordy’s reaction. Her face cycles through several emotions: confusion, surprise, relief.

  Then one more: comprehension. She knows how this happened.

  Will she tell me?

  “Huh!” Cordy speaks at last. “Those damn government workers. I always thought I couldn’t owe that much. They scared the life out of me and then straightened it out without telling me.” Cordy pushes the iPad back in my direction. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  So this is how she’s choosing to play it—blame the false debt on bureaucratic incompetence, not the deception of Hank van Neff. “Did you ever see the actual bill yourself?” I enquire, knowing that Noreen says Hank intercepted it.

  “Of course I did,” Cordy snaps.

  I stand up and pour her another cup of tea. “Hank and Peter will certainly be happy to hear this news.”

  Cordy sloshes tea from her mug as she lifts it. Her voice sounds gravelly. “Have you told them?”

  “No, I haven’t seen them today. I meant, they’d be happy to hear the news from you.”

  “Mmm—for sure. I’m looking forward to telling Hank he doesn’t have to worry about me anymore.” Cordy knocks back another gulp of tea. “Look at the time! Better get back to my writing.” She pushes herself out of her chair, causing the table to shake. “Thanks for returning the key. And bringing me good news.”

  Once I’m back on the sidewalk, I’m left to wonder—is Cordy protecting Hank, or is she simply determined to keep her retribution private?

  AT FOUR, TY FINALLY shows up at the office. He shows no sign of having been in any sort of altercation. “So, did you learn anything from this guy?”

  Ty plops into the saggy easy chair. He stares at the wall in silence.

  I know I should hold my tongue, but I can’t bear not knowing. “How do you know this guy, anyway? You stay in touch with friends from prison?”

  Ty snorts. “Audge, there’s two kinds people you meet inside: dudes who are willing to kill you and dudes who aren’t. Just because a guy wouldn’t kill me didn’t make him my friend. Let’s just say I know people who know this guy.”

  He hardly seems like a reliable source, but I keep that opinion to myself. “So what did he tell you?”

  “The guy my father is workin’ for is an ex-con himself. He understands the system. When a guy is on parole, he has to show his parole officer he’s got a job with a legit paycheck. Maurice has this little storefront business—Big Mo’s—selling candy and newspapers and soda and stuff. But he’s got twenty men working for him.”

  “That seems like high overhead. So you were right—the candy store is a front,” I guess.

  “Yeah, but what he’s running on the side isn’t drugs or anything illegal. At least, not totally illegal. It’s a delivery service for small businesses and restaurants that can’t afford using UPS or UberEATS or DoorDash.”

  “That seems totally legit.” I perk up at the news that Marvin isn’t dealing drugs. “Why wouldn’t your dad tell you that himself?”

  “ ‘Cause what Big Mo is runnin’ is kinda gray market. See, UPS and Uber charge so much to deliver, there’s no profit left on the sale. So Maurice charges less because his drivers are all felons. Driving for Uber or UPS is a good gig, but you can’t get a job with them if you have any kind of criminal record,” Ty explains.

  “Do his customers know their products are being delivered by ex-cons?” I ask.

  Ty shrugs. “Don’t ask, don’t tell. They gotta realize there’s some reason for their bargain price, but they’re happier not knowin’ what it is.”

  “And the parole officers all fall for this?”


  Ty scowls. “Most of ‘em don’t want trouble. Guy can prove he’s got a job, that’s enough. Maurice’s drivers all show up on the books as working part time for minimum wage at the candy store. Then they drive full time for fifteen bucks an hour off the books. Everybody’s happy except the tax man. Maurice runs the whole operation from the back room of the candy store using two cells phones and some scheduling software.”

  “Very entrepreneurial. Okay, that explains why your father was cagey talking to you and Sean.” I smile brightly. “So, that’s settled. The hit and run had nothing to do with your dad.”

  Ty bites his lower lip and stares at the ceiling. Eventually, he speaks. “I watched the candy store all day today. Cars coming and going, but no black sports car. I followed some of the cars—they went to restaurants and picked up orders and delivered. I even followed my dad at a distance. He went to stores and delivered.”

  Why does Ty look so worried? “Great—that’s what your connection said the drivers do.”

  Ty squirms in the chair to face me. “How can I be positive the car that hit Charmaine wasn’t working for Maurice? Maybe my dad crossed him in some way. Maybe at night the cars deliver more than Chinese take-out.” Ty jumps up. “Imma go back and watch tonight.”

  Ugh! “Ty, come on—you’re taking this too far. Leave those drivers alone. The police have been circulating that photo of the woman who bought the dresser. Someone is bound to recognize her soon.”

  Ty runs his hands over his head. “I can’t wait for the cops. I gotta know that Charmaine is safe. She wants to go back to work next week.”

  Ty heads out the door. “I’ll call you later, Audge.”

  Chapter 31

  MY CONVERSATION WITH Ty has left me agitated and tense. Sean has already texted to say he’s working late again. I might as well stay here at the office for a while and put my nervous energy to good use. I call my neighbor to ask her to feed Ethel and let her out in the yard. Then I walk over to Caffeine Planet in the rain to get a latte and a big oatmeal cookie.

  That’ll make me feel better.

  As I open the door to Caffeine Planet, a tall thin man standing under the café awning speaks to me. “Excuse me, miss. I lost my wallet. Could you help me out with five dollars, so I can take the train back to Summit?”

  Five dollars for such an unimaginative appeal! I have some loose change in my pocket that I’m willing to part with. As I put the coins in his outstretched hand, I do a double-take. “Gif?”

  He recoils.

  Why is he panhandling? “Are you okay? Cordy told me us you were off touring with a band. Why are you out here in the rain?”

  He squints at me in the dim evening light. “How do you know me?”

  “It’s Audrey Nealon. We met at Cordy’s house. I’m the one who found the Freeman lyrics.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry I bothered you.” He pulls his collar up and steps out into the rain.

  “No, wait.” I grab his sleeve. “Come back. Let me buy you a cup of coffee and a sandwich.” Something must be terribly wrong if he’s out here begging.

  He hesitates, but hunger overcomes caution, and Gif follows me into Caffeine Planet. I buy him a sandwich and order two cups of coffee and two cookies. I’m sure he wishes I’d get mine to go, but he doesn’t protest when I sit across from him at a table in the corner.

  “What’s going on?” I begin. “I thought you were supposed to be on tour.”

  “Not ‘til January.” He looks over my left shoulder as he says this.

  “But Cordy thinks—"

  Gif gives a bitter snort as he wolfs down the sandwich. “I got warned away from her. Not supposed to go there anymore.”

  “Warned away by whom?” I ask.

  Gif shakes his head and refuses to make eye contact.

  “Why do you have to listen to this person? Did he threaten to hurt you?” I’m outraged. “You know my husband is a cop. He can—”

  “No!” Gif drops his sandwich on his plate. “No cops. I got some debts hangin’ over my head. Back child support from years ago. Some fines that went unpaid, and now I got penalties and interest. I can’t pay, and they’ll throw me in jail if they find me. It’s all bullshit stuff—misdemeanor weed possession. Unpaid speeding tickets. It adds up, though.”

  So someone threatened to make trouble for Gif if he didn’t leave Cordy alone. Could it be Hank van Neff? He’s a lawyer and would know how to stir up legal problems. “Did Hank van Neff tell you to leave Cordy alone? What did Cordy say?”

  Gif takes a bite of sandwich and nods as he pushes a trailing piece of turkey into his mouth.

  Damn! Was it really Hank, or did I just give Gif the out he was looking for?

  “She don’t know.” Gif chases the last few crumbs of his sandwich around the plate. “Hank told me to tell her I went on tour. I do have a tour lined up for after the holidays. Just gotta get through the next two months.” He shivers and gulps down his coffee.

  The poor guy is homeless at the start of winter until his next gig as a roadie? I admit I was sort of suspicious of him, but I’m more suspicious of Hank. Is Hank interposing himself between Gif and Cordy, or is it someone else?

  I feel my heart soften. Gif is not a bad guy; just one of those people hanging on to the edges of mainstream society. I decide to keep playing along with the idea that it’s Hank who wants Gif gone. “Why does Hank want to get rid of you?”

  Gif looks up from his empty plate, his bloodshot eyes as mournful as a hound dog’s. “Says I’m a deadbeat. Maybe I am. But I try to look out for Cordy, do things around the house to help her out. Keep her company. She likes havin’ me around.” He holds his hands out. “Okay, I don’t pay her no rent. She won’t take it. But I don’t ask her for cash, not ever.”

  Gif shakes his head. “Now I gotta spend my cash to pay for a room in a house with some other guys. I gotta eat at the soup kitchen. Bein’ a roadie is the only work I know. But nobody tours between Thanksgiving and Christmas.”

  I can sympathize. No one holds estate sales then either. But I know how to cushion myself against the slow times. Gif’s cushion was Cordy, and Hank, or someone else, has ripped it away. “You have a car, right?” I ask.

  “Yeah, it’s still runnin’.” Gif makes the sign of the cross. “Might have to start sleeping in it.”

  “Give me your phone number. I know a guy who might be able to throw a little delivery work your way.”

  Gif looks hopeful as we exchange contact info. “What about Ariel?” I ask, feeling like I can push a little more now. “She’s always hanging around at Cordy’s. Is anyone trying to scare her off, too?”

  Gif shakes his head. “We don’t talk much. Ariel’s a strange chick.”

  On that, we agree.

  Then Gif leans across the table and lowers his voice. “I’m worried about Cordy. I can tell she’s up to something.”

  I arch my eyebrows, trying hard not to look over-eager. “Oh? Like what?”

  “Ever since you found those lyrics, Cordy’s phone is always ringing. Sometimes I’d hear her half of the conversation and I’d ask who called, and she’d say, ‘never mind,’ or ‘nobody you know.’ But normally, if someone from her past called, she’d want to tell me all about it. She loves to talk about all her friends in the business. Suddenly now, she’s keeping secrets.”

  “Did she ever ask you to look around for something else valuable she might have?”

  The old roadie lifts his scrawny shoulders. “She’s always sending me down to the basement or out to the garage on some wild goose chase for something she thinks she’s stowed away somewhere.”

  I feel a flutter of excitement as I sip my coffee. “Like what?”

  Gif blows air through his pursed lips. “A red felt hat she wore to the Apollo Theater...a gadget to squeeze orange juice...a Dictaphone. Sometimes I find the stuff, sometimes I don’t.”

  Only one of those items interests me. “Why did she want a Dictaphone?”

  “She wanted to try dicta
ting her memoir.” Gif flutters his fingers in an imitation of typing. “Says her arthritis keeps her from typing fast on her laptop.”

  “Have you read any of her memoir?” I keep my tone light, hoping I can conceal my intense interest. “It must be fascinating.”

  “Nah. Cordy doesn’t show anyone stuff she’s writing until it’s done. But I figure I’ve already heard all the stories she’ll write about.” Gif lowers his voice. “I’ve seen Ariel sneaking around trying to read it on Cordy’s laptop, but when I told Cordy she should be more careful, she laughed. Told me her computer is password protected and backed up to the cloud. Whatever that means.”

  More evidence that Ariel is looking for information on whatever Cordy’s got.

  I feel it’s unwise to come right out and ask about the Plan for Extinction tour. Gif may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he’ll be suspicious if I start asking about an obscure band whose brief heyday was during my childhood. “Do you know the story of why Cordy was fired from Bass Line? It seemed pretty catastrophic for her.”

  Half an oatmeal cookie disappears into Gif’s mouth in one bite. Seconds pass before he can respond. “All she ever says is she got screwed by someone she underestimated. Says she won’t make that mistake twice.”

  The other half of the cookie dangles from the old roadie’s weather-beaten hand. “I’ve known Cordy for a lotta years,” Gif says. “She likes to feel important. She likes when people come to her asking for advice or asking her for an introduction to someone else in the business. But now that she can’t cover live concerts, can’t get outta the house much, people call her less and less.”

  “Until recently,” I interrupt. “After I found the Freeman lyrics.”

  Gif nods. “That discovery made her feel important again.” Gif lifts his gnarly hands and holds them a foot apart over the table. “I feel like she’s got something someone wants, and she’s playing both ends against the middle, you know? But I worry she’s messin’ with people too big for her to manage.”