This Bitter Treasure: a romantic thriller (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 3)

by S. W. Hubbard

  “It’s nice there—big yards.”

  Sean nods. “Lots of young families. So, this mom is sitting at her kitchen table with her camera and her laptop, sending some photos of the kids to her parents. She hears her baby cry, and goes upstairs to get him. She’s back in less than five minutes, and her laptop, camera, and phone are gone. She thought she was losing her mind. Took her a few minutes to realize she’d been robbed.

  “Guy had to be watching her. Came in through the sliders from the deck. She had them open—why shouldn’t she? That’s why people move to that neighborhood—so they can leave their doors open on a nice day.

  “Then while the patrol officers are at her house, another call comes in from a house a few streets away. Lady just got back from Costco and is unpacking her minivan. Got a big bundle of paper towels in her arms and her purse slung over her shoulder. Guy runs right into her garage, knocks her down, and steals the purse!”

  “Did she get a good look at him?”

  Sean shakes his head. “Happened so fast—all she could say was young, thin, white.”

  “So why is this your case? You don’t work burglaries now that you’re on the Drug Enforcement Task Force.”

  “Junkies. That’s who’s doing this. These days, no one wants to throw addicts in jail for using, but eventually every addict turns into a thief. And when they start robbing suburban moms in their houses, you better believe we’re going to arrest them.”

  “Do you have any leads?”

  Sean massages his temples. “Not yet. But it won’t take long. Anyone desperate enough to rob occupied houses in broad daylight is going to mess up soon. Real soon.”

  Sean lies stock still on the sofa with his eyes closed. He’s doing the deep breathing exercises he uses to relieve stress. “If you’re certain he’ll mess up, why are you so anxious?”

  “Because I’m not sure how he’ll mess up. Set off a burglar alarm and we catch him in the act—great. Grab a knife and lunge at the next lady who finds him in her kitchen—not so good. It could go either way. He’s not a pro, and that makes him unpredictable.”

  “And unpredictable is dangerous.”

  “Exactly.” He opens his eyes and grabs my hand. “Sorry I’m rambling. Tell me why you had a bad day.”

  “I will. But first, I have to tell you about Jill. I saw her today.”

  “You were in the city?”

  “No, she was here. She came out to get more information on Amber Pileggi.”

  “Audrey…” Sean warns.

  “I know, I know. But she actually found something out. And she wants you to know about it. And she says she’s done.”

  Sean raises one sandy eyebrow. “What?”

  “Amber was selling pills at Caffeine Planet. Pills she got from her doctors, and she used the money she made to buy heroin. It was her way of getting more bang for her buck.”

  Sean sits up. “How did Jill get this information?”

  “Talking to Caitlyn, who works at the Planet. We know her, a little. She comes to our sales.”

  “We interviewed her. She never mentioned this to us.”

  “Didn’t want to be a snitch. Hoped the whole problem would go away. Did you find pills on Amber’s body?”

  Sean squints at me. “That’s privileged information.”

  “So, you did! Caitlyn said Amber’s customers were still coming around.” I stroke his cheek. “Does this info help your investigation?”

  He pulls me into a hug. “Yes, Miss Marple. Clearly, I need to interview Caitlyn myself. I should’ve known not to rely on freakin’ Brian Parkhurst. Man couldn’t interrogate his way out of a paper bag.” He pushes me away. “But you tell Jill to stay away from now on.”

  “She will. She’s pretty disillusioned by Amber. Is it true that pills are so much more expensive than heroin?”

  “Yep. People get hooked on pills, but then they can’t afford the high. Heroin gets them there quicker and cheaper.”

  “So there’s a link between the pills trade and the heroin trade in Palmyrton?”

  Sean fixes me with his hard blue stare. “Interesting diversion. Why did you have a bad day?”

  I decide to rip off the Band-Aid with one quick pull. “We didn’t get the house. Someone else made an offer before us.”

  Sean jolts up. His mouth opens, then he does the yoga-breathing thing again to keep himself from saying something he’ll regret. Oh-h-h, man—that means he’s really upset.

  “I’m sorry, Sean.” I hang my head. “You were right—I shouldn’t have been so cautious. Next time, we’ll pounce, I promise.”

  He nods and pulls me into his embrace. “I know it was a great house,” I murmur into his shoulder. “I’m disappointed too.”

  I’m glad my face is hidden when I say this. I’m not sure I’d pass his blue-eyed scrutiny.

  “There will be other houses,” Sean says after a long silence. “I just want this to be settled. I want us to have a home together. A home where we can start—”

  Did I tense up? Did he feel some infinitesimal change in me? He pulls back enough to see my face. “It’s not only about having kids, Audrey. It’s not. I want us to merge our lives. Not have your place and my place, your stuff and my stuff. I want us to be rooted in this home. If you didn’t truly like that house, then it’s best we didn’t get it.”

  “I did like that house. I, I…” I take a deep breath, but my voice still comes out shaky. “Maybe I’m not entirely sure what a home is. Maybe I’ve only thought of the places I’ve lived as roofs over my head. What if I don’t know how to make a home?”

  Sean smoothes the hair back from my forehead, his thumb caressing the tiny scar marking the attack that first brought us together. “If you can’t research it and you can’t create a spreadsheet for it then you can’t do it, right?”

  My eyes search his. “Kinda, yeah.”

  His lips brush my cheek and he whispers in my ear. “Have confidence, Audrey. I wouldn’t have paired up with you if I didn’t think you could deliver.”

  Chapter 14

  One thing leads to another, and by the time Sean departs my condo, I’m pretty convinced that he’s not holding the house debacle against me. But I haven’t totally forgiven myself, so I feel the need to be an especially good girlfriend.

  Lover.

  Fiancée.

  Yes, fiancée, Audrey. That’s what you are.

  That’s how I end up at the all-night Mega-ShopRite at 11:00PM buying the ingredients for the dinner Sean plans to make for me, my dad, and Natalie. Of course, I told Sean I’d go in the morning, but I’m wide awake now so I thought I’d get the chore over with.

  The Mega-ShopRite is the biggest supermarket known to mankind—about a hundred acres of food, booze, and housewares along with strange random outcroppings of yoga pants, lawn chairs, and cactus terrariums. It takes me what feels like hours to wend through the aisles because I don’t come often enough to remember where anything is. Luckily, at 11:00PM, at least the aisles aren’t crowded. I finally finish the scavenger hunt for all the items on Sean’s list, and go to check out.

  Usually, there are lots of lanes open, but this late at night, there’s only one line accepting big orders. I get behind two other people with loaded carts and resign myself to a long wait.

  A magazine catches my eye: “Prince Harry Eludes Capture Once Again.” Ah, a chance to catch up on royal gossip! Soon, I’m so engrossed in the latest antics of the red-haired prince who reminds me of Sean that the snail’s pace of the line seems like a good thing.

  “Damn! I forgot the arugula!”

  I glance up to see the guy ahead of me trying to get out of the line. I let him go and go back to Harry and his long-suffering girlfriends.

  “You can’t pay for that with your EBT card.”

  “Why not? It’s food.”

  The voices are antagonistic. I look up and see the checker with her arms folded across her chest, refusing to ring up a blue frosted birthday cake.

  “C
ustom made baked goods are not covered by food stamps.” The checker raises her voice. “I’ll call a manager.”

  Geez Louise—this sounds like a ten-minute delay. And I’m nearing the end of royal news.

  “Fine. I’ll pay cash for the cake.”

  The customer’s voice sounds familiar. I peek over the top of my magazine. Oh, God—it’s Darlene! The poor woman’s trying to buy a birthday cake for one of her kids with food stamps and the clerk won’t let her. I duck my head so she doesn’t have to be embarrassed in front of me.

  The checker rings up the cake separately, but now there’s a new delay.

  “Do you have the money, or what?” The bitch checker has her hands on her hips as Darlene frantically rifles through an obviously empty wallet.

  “I, I had twenty dollars in here this morning. I….”

  “Over-ride on Line Eight!” the checker screams, snatching the cake back.

  This is horrible. I pull twenty bucks out of my wallet and thrust it at the checker. “Here. I’ll pay.”

  The two women look at me in amazement. Then Darlene recognizes me and flushes a mottled red.

  “No, you don’t have to do that. Forget the cake.”

  “Please. It’s for your son. I want you to have it.”

  The checker takes the cash before Darlene can object. She just wants the transaction completed.

  Darlene looks down at the floor. “Thank you. I…thanks.”

  I want to reach out and reassure her, but my cart is between us. Before I can say anything else, she grabs the cake, puts it in her cart with her other bags, and hurries out the door.

  As the checker rings my order she launches into a long tirade about the evils of lazy, good-for-nothing women who sit on their asses all day long and collect food stamps. When she gets to the part describing the parties and gourmet feasts they enjoy while lounging, I snap.

  “Listen, that woman is a home health aide. She works sixty hours a week changing adult diapers and mopping up puke. She’s supporting three kids and one is a little boy with cerebral palsy and today is his birthday. So how about if you just keep your mouth shut about people you don’t know one thing about. Okay?”

  The checker is too stunned to respond. I cram the last of my groceries into a bulging plastic bag and storm out.

  When I get outside the store, my hands are still trembling with rage against that checker, and the system, and the general suckiness of a world that says a woman can’t use taxpayer financed benefits to buy a blue supermarket birthday cake for her handicapped son. A light drizzle is falling and between that and the tears in my eyes, I have a hard time seeing where I parked my car.

  I’m standing on the curb staring into the parking lot when I see her.

  Darlene is sitting on a bench next to a sign marking the place where the Palmyrton/Summit bus stops. In thirty-four years of living in this town, I’ve never ridden the bus. Does it even come this late? Darlene’s eyes are shut and her hand loosely clasps her cell phone. The cake box sits beside her on the bench, accumulating raindrops on its cardboard and cellophane lid. Her other bags are tumbled at her feet.

  “Darlene? Do you need a ride?”

  She startles. “No. I’m fine. The bus will be here eventually.”

  “But you don’t even have a raincoat or an umbrella. Please, let me take you home.”

  “I called my son. He’s probably on his way.”

  But I can tell by the way she was sprawled on the bench when I walked up that her son didn’t answer her call. She has no idea where he is, and no idea if the bus is coming. I pick up the cake. “I’m giving this cake a ride to your house. Are you coming with us?”

  Darlene gazes up at me through the drizzle. Her usual toughness has cracked; she looks sad and fragile.

  “C’mon.” I feel like I’m coaxing a frightened stray.

  Without a word she gathers together her bags and follows me to my car. I make a right out of the parking lot because I remember she mentioned she lives near the high school. I’m about to ask her for more directions when I catch a movement from the corner of my eye. Darlene’s shoulders are shaking. She’s wracked by silent sobs.

  It’s dark and rainy and I really need to pay attention to the road. I reach my right hand out and make ineffectual patting motions in her general vicinity. “Really, it’s okay. Don’t let that horrible cashier get you down.”

  Darlene says something garbled. I’m pretty sure it’s “I don’t give a flyin’ fuck about her.” There, that’s the spirit! But she’s still crying.

  Her phone rings and she answers it instantly. “Rob?”

  A moment later she slams the phone into her lap and stares out the window. Occasionally, a strangled sob escapes her.

  I’m pretty sure Rob is her oldest son. The one who always uses her car. The one who fought with her at the Eskews’ house. The one who clearly isn’t picking her up. Then something else occurs to me. In the line Darlene said she had a twenty in her wallet this morning. But her wallet is totally empty now. Does her son steal from her too?

  What can I say? How can I help her?

  “Turn right on Walnut, then left on Pierce,” Darlene says as the hulk of the high school complex looms into sight.

  Silently, I do as she directs. The homes on the street are all two family houses, but they seem cheerful enough.

  “Left at the corner.”

  Now we are on a short, dead-end street I’ve never been on before. There are a series of small apartment buildings, dirty beige brick, three stories high. The tiny yards in front of them are beaten dirt and weeds. I gasp as a feral cat dashes in front of the car. In my headlights I see a critter dangling from its mouth.

  “Last building on the right.” Darlene scrambles to gather together her bags.

  “Let me park. I’ll help you carry the stuff in.”

  “This is close enough.” Struggling with full hands, she opens the passenger door then turns to take the cake box from my hands. “Thanks again. I appreciate it.”

  In the harsh glow of the dome light, her face looks as lined as Mrs. Eskew’s, aged by worry, not by time. “Darlene, is there some way I can help?”

  “There’s nothing you can do. Nothing anyone can do. Unless I win the Powerball, I’m screwed.”

  Chapter 15

  Last night’s drizzle has turned into a steady downpour. When I arrive at the Eskew house in the morning, there’s no sign of Rachel. Good riddance—she was creeping me out. A fifty-ish woman/child with a dragon phobia is more than I can handle today. Darlene is also laying low. That’s fine too. After our encounter last night, we’ll both be embarrassed to see each other today. Adrienne has taken the day off—chaperoning her daughter’s Science Center field trip—and Ty will be in as soon as his 8:00AM class ends. With the dining room done, it’s time to move into the butler’s pantry, a narrow room linking the dining room and kitchen that contains even more china and glassware. I enter and flick the wall switch. Nothing.

  Using the flashlight on my phone I can see the bulb in the ceiling fixture is blackened. I wonder if Darlene knows where I can find another bulb? Probably easier to go out through the door that leads into the kitchen to look for her. As I step toward it, I hear voices.

  Through the gap in the door I see Darlene and another woman in nurse’s scrubs in the kitchen bowed over some paperwork.

  Darlene sounds defensive. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I have counted the remaining pills. The quantities don’t square up with the medications log you’ve been keeping.” It’s the nurse talking. She must be the supervisor from the hospice service.

  “Okay, whatever,” Darlene answers. “Maybe occasionally I give her an extra pill. She’s restless, in pain. What difference does it make? We both know she’s not getting better.”

  I stand rooted in the pantry. Should I make a noise to let them know I’m there?

  “It’s not up to you to change her dosages. Only her doctor can do that.”r />
  “Fine. I’ll never give her an extra pill, no matter how hard she moans.”

  “Just make sure your records are accurate. Any more problems and I’ll report you.”

  The door from the kitchen to the driveway closes with a bang.

  “Bitch,” Darlene speaks to the empty room. She bangs dishes in the sink. Then I hear the sound of breaking china.

  “Shit! Goddamn it.”

  This is clearly not the time for me to pop out of the pantry and ask where the lightbulbs are kept. Carefully, I back out into the dining room. I’ll just go around into the living room and unscrew a lightbulb from a lamp. As I cross the foyer, the front door opens.

  “Ty! Just in time.” He’s late, which is so unusual that I immediately start to worry that something might be wrong. But he seems in good spirits.

  “Hey, Audge. Whattup?” Ty stands in the middle of the foyer, does a 360 survey of his surroundings, and lets out a low whistle. “Some crib they got.”

  “Yeah, we’re looking at big bucks here.”

  “Then who was driving that hooptie that nearly crashed into me on the way outta the driveway?”

  I motion for him to lower his voice as I peer out one of the narrow windows flanking the front door. No cars in sight. “It must’ve been the other nurse. Darlene’s boss, I guess. They just had a big argument.”

  “’Bout what?” Ty asks in a softer voice.

  I jerk my head toward the living room. “C’mon, I’ll show you around.” Ty follows me as I get a light bulb from the living room and I tell him what I overheard. “Darlene is hard up for money. Today her boss was threatening to report her for giving Mrs. Eskew too much pain medication. Yesterday, I overheard a conversation that makes me think her son has been pressuring her to steal stuff from the house, but I’m not sure.” Then I tell him about the cake episode at ShopRite. “I guess I should tell Kara, but I feel sorry for Darlene. And I could be wrong.”

  Ty scuffs his foot across the Aubusson carpet. “Seems like this family’s got money to spare.”

  “Yeah, but they didn’t hire me to be Robin Hood.”