Another Man's Treasure (a romantic thriller) (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 1)

by S. W. Hubbard

  We enter through the back door. After the crisp, cold air of the back yard, the kitchen seems oppressively hot and musty. “The place really needs to be aired out. It’s been shut up for months.” I go to open the window over the kitchen sink, then think better of it. I don’t want to walk out and remember later that I’ve left a window open.

  Jill prowls around, inquisitive as a cat. “It’s not bad. Just a little…bare. We could get some of those really realistic looking fake apples and pears and put a fruit bowl on the table, then burn some scented candles. My new favorite is this one called Cinnamon Cookie. It makes the house smell like you’ve been baking all day.” She pivots and takes in the blank expanse of the wall in the breakfast nook, scene of so many silent meals. “Remember those Portuguese pottery plates that didn’t sell at the Reicker sale? Wouldn’t those look really cute hanging there?”

  Jill’s enthusiasm is contagious. I start to see the house as it might be if “regular” people lived here. Cheery. Cozy. “Come in the living room,” I say. “Isabelle insists this chair has to go. What can I get to replace it?”

  Jill studies the room; moves a lamp, angles a table. “I saw the most awesome chairs at Ikea the other day. Sort of a mushroom color with a hint of plum. We could get two of them and put them right under that window. Then, when the house sells, you could put them in your living room. You know, you really don’t have enough furniture at your place.”

  No sooner are the words out of her mouth than Jill turns beet red. “I’m sorry Audrey. I didn’t mean your condo isn’t nice the way it is. I like it. I do.”

  I put my arm around her shoulders and pull her in for a hug. “It sucks, Jill. I know it. You know it. When we get my dad’s house sold, you can work on redecorating my place. Make it look less like a Holiday Inn suite occupied by a traveling salesman, and more like the bachelorette pad of my dreams.”

  Jill giggles. “Really? You’d let me do that? Because I’d love to and I wouldn’t do anything crazy just warm it up a little, you know, and maybe introduce some color…sage?....or plum and gold? I love that combo..and then--”

  “You can have free reign, but let’s tackle this first, okay?”

  “Oh, right!” Jill spins around. “Candles. Let’s get one of those big candelabra things and put it in the hearth, just to suggest the possibility of a fire, know what I mean?”

  “Candles are your solution to everything,” I mutter as I follow her upstairs. There, Jill diagnoses new bedspreads, area rugs and lampshades.

  “You think you can bring this in for under a thousands bucks?” I ask.

  “Absolutely. They do it on those decorating shows all the time.”

  I pull out the AMT company credit card and hand it over. “Get what you need tomorrow and come over here and work your magic. Move everything we’re getting rid of into the front hall, okay?”

  Jill gets her saucer-eyed, Little Orphan Annie look. “You mean you trust me to do it all by myself?”

  “Of course I do.” I head for the kitchen. “Now, let’s get out of here. Don’t let me forget to turn off that back porch light.”

  By the back door we double-check everything. With my hand on the doorknob, I’m swept by a sensation of déjà vu. I went through these exact motions yesterday when I was here alone. Except then I was scared shitless and today I’m perfectly calm. And there’s one other difference. Yesterday I had something in my hand as I was locking the door. What was it? Oh, Dad’s yearbook and that folder with my little art project and Dad’s grade roster in it. I put them right on the counter while I got my keys out. And then I must’ve left them there when I went out the door, because they’re not in my car or my house. I look around. So where are they?

  “Jill, did you see a file folder and a book on the counter here when we came in?”

  “No, the counter was empty. I remember thinking how neat your dad is.”

  I glance around the kitchen. Nothing. But I know I brought those things down here from upstairs. I can see myself putting them on the counter. Where is the stuff? My heart starts to beat a little faster. I flip open cabinet doors and pull out drawers.

  “What is it, Audrey? What are you looking for?”

  Ignoring Jill, I pace around the kitchen. Why does it matter? It was only a kid’s drawing and Dad’s old book. But where did it go? Why can’t I find it? A cool breeze sends a shiver through me. I’m near the short hall leading to the powder room. I step in there and see the window wide open. I feel my own nails sinking into my palms. Isabelle and I didn’t open any windows yesterday.

  I think about the car with the dented bumper. Is that the car that pulled out last night when I left here? It’s not my imagination. Someone is following me, watching me. Someone broke into this house. Someone was down here last night when I was upstairs. Someone took that folder and that book.

  Chapter 33

  “Audrey?”

  I’m aware of Jill’s voice in the way I might be conscious of a foreign language radio station—meaningless background chatter. My whole focus is on that window, on the sickening sensation that someone really has been following me. That the noises I heard here last night weren’t random bumps in the night. That maybe all my crazy little suspicions aren’t so crazy. It’s not paranoia if someone really is out to get you.

  “Audrey? Are you ready to leave, or what? I have to be back downtown for my yoga class by six.”

  “Hmm?” I’m staring at the wide-open powder room window, its curtain rippling slightly in the breeze. Could a skinny man fit through there? It would be tight, but I think he could. No more burying my head in the sand--I need to tell the police about this. I’ll call detective Farrand as soon as I get back to the office.

  “Yeah—let’s go.” I lock the door, then toss the car keys to Jill. I don’t want her to see my hands trembling on the steering wheel. “Do you mind driving? I’m kind of tired.” She looks at me strangely, but does as she’s told.

  As we wind down the hill toward downtown, I blurt out what’s on my mind. “Jill, there’s something I have to ask you. The trunk of jewelry that we found in Mrs. Szabo’s house—did you ever…I mean, when I was in the hospital and you were taking care of Ethel…did you happen to look through that trunk?”

  Jill’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “What do you mean?”

  “I went in the closet last week and the trunk was in a different spot. The brooch that had been on the top was on the bottom, like someone dumped it out and put it all back in again.”

  Jill’s gaze darts from the road to me and back again. “What are you saying? You think I stole stuff from that trunk?”

  “No, no, no. I need to know if you looked at it, because first I thought someone broke in, but there was no sign of that. And then I realized you have the key, so maybe you might have—.”

  “You think I’m a thief.” Jill’s voice keeps climbing up the scale. “That’s basically what you’re saying. A thief!”

  This isn’t going the way I hoped. “Jill, listen. I’m not mad if you looked at the stuff. It would be better if you did, because if you didn’t that means some stranger really did break in. I just need to know the truth: did you move that trunk?”

  We’re in front of the office by now and Jill throws the car into reverse. With a few vicious cranks of the wheel, she parallel parks. “When you were in the hospital I came to your condo every day to take care of Ethel. I fed her and walked her and cleaned up after her and that’s all I did. I didn’t snoop through your closets or steal your stuff or touch anything and I can’t believe you think I’m—.”

  “Jill, stop—”

  “a thief and a liar and I thought you trusted me but apparently not and—”

  “Jill I do, I—”

  She tosses the car keys in my lap. “I’m going to yoga. Have a nice night.”

  Watching Jill stomp off, I’m not sure what to think. Can I attribute her over-reaction to just plain Jill-yness, which means she didn’t look through the trunk and
I do have to worry that someone…Brian?....was in my apartment? Or did she freak because she really did go through the trunk and help herself to something? I’m not quite sure which possibility I prefer.

  When I walk into the office, the place has been transformed. The usual chaos of boxes, packing material and stacks of unsold junk has been cleared away. Ty, a slight sheen of sweat highlighting his rippling biceps, stands watchfully by the window.

  “Wow, this place looks great,” I say, happy to latch onto anything that will distract me from what just happened.

  “I packed up the van with the stuff goin’ to Sister Alice,” Ty says. “Then I cleaned up this whole corner here. There was boxes and bubble wrap and tape and shit everywhere. No wonder Jill can’t never find what she’s looking for.”

  I give him a long, silent stare. His gaze drops to the floor.

  “Look, Audrey—about this afternoon. I didn’t mean to leave Jill with all the work. I thought I’d jus’ be out for fifteen minutes or somethin’. .”

  “Sounds like the ‘or something’ turned into the entire afternoon. What’s up with that?”

  Ty rolls his powerful shoulders. “It’s complicated, Audge. I got some shit I’m dealin’ with.”

  “What kind of shit? Where did you go?”

  Ty shakes his head. I know that stubborn, hard-eyed look. He’s not talking.

  I’ve been thinking over the past two days how I’m going to ask Ty about the other trips in the van without revealing that it was Coughlin who told me. Now’s the time to roll out my plan.

  “There’s something else I have to ask you about. My friend Lydia’s husband is a salesman—he’s on the road all the time. He told me he passed the AMT van on the Turnpike north of New Brunswick. I thought he must’ve been mistaken, but now I think he was right. What do you say?”

  Ty looks like I kicked him in the balls. His skin actually changes color—I didn’t think African Americans could blush. “My cousin Marcus,” he stammers. “He graduated from Rutgers last spring. He asked me to help him move some stuff he left in his old apartment. That’s why I took the van to New Brunswick. It was the day I delivered that table to Somerville, so I figured it wasn’t much further.”

  Sounds plausible. I want to believe him, but what about Paterson, what about today?

  “Look, Ty, I’ve been very happy with your work. If you need a day off to take care of personal business, all you have to do is ask. But it’s not okay to drive my van without permission. It’s not okay to just head out without telling anyone and stick Jill with all your work. And it’s definitely not okay to insult her when she objects.”

  Ty’s head droops lower. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean nothin’. It’s just, sometimes when I’m worried, stuff don’t come out right, know what I’m sayin’?”

  Boy, do I ever. I reach out and put my hand on Ty’s forearm. It looks very small and white there. “Ty, if you’ve got problems, why don’t you tell me about it. Maybe I can help.”

  My fingers scald him—he flinches away from my touch. “I can handle it. Just some drama with this girl I’m talkin’ to. Her parents don’t like me.”

  Before I can plead any further, Ty lopes to the door. “Tell Jill I said sorry and shit. I make it up to her.” And he’s gone.

  Sorry and shit. An eloquent apology, if ever there was one. Uneasily, I look around the ship-shape office. What kind of problems is Ty up against? Would standard-issue girlfriend drama have produced this reaction? Or is he feeling guilty about something, guilty and in over his head? Guilty and exposing me to dangerous people, just as Coughlin said? Am I being willfully obtuse, unable to admit I was wrong about Ty all along? Or is Coughlin manipulating me, playing on my fears so I’ll give him something he can use against Ty?

  If I tell Coughlin Ty’s been acting sketchy because of a girl, he’ll want to know the name of the girl, and I know damn well Ty won’t give that up. I decide to bide my time and keep an eye on Ty. In the meantime, I need to call Farrand and tell him about the break-in at my father’s house. He answers on the first ring.

  I explain about the open window at my father’s house and the missing items. As I hear my words tumbling out, I start to squirm. Spoken aloud my concerns sound so paltry and insignificant. I feel I’m bothering him, distracting him from important work.

  “Anything else missing?” he inquires blandly. “Jewelry, electronics, cash?”

  “No, but—”

  “But what?”

  “Last night, when I was there alone, I heard noises downstairs when I was upstairs. I think whoever broke in was there when I was. He was, he was…watching me.”

  “Watching you do what?”

  What indeed? Wander aimlessly around the house…dig through every file folder in the desk…scroll through the computer…find a drawing and a yearbook. Put some papers in a folder. Leave said folder behind.

  “Well,” I begin. “I just…since the attack, I’ve kinda felt like—.”

  I pause. I picture him on the other end of the line rolling his eyes. But I’m wrong.

  “It’s perfectly normal for the victim of a violent crime to feel nervous and stressed, Ms. Nealon. I can give you a contact at the County Victim Services department—they offer free counseling. Do you have a pen?”

  Dutifully, I write down the number, although I know I’ll never call. I look at my right hand as it forms the number. Is the ring what the watcher wants? At the time the trunk was searched, the only person who knew I had this ring was my father. He certainly didn’t break into my condo. But he does have my keys, just as I have his. He could have sent someone to search my place. Someone like Brian Bascomb. How can I explain this to the uber-logical Farrand?

  He’s put on that bland, noncommittal tone cops use when they ask for your license and registration. They must practice it at the police academy. “Possibly some kids noticed that your father’s house has been unoccupied for a while and they decided to use it for a little recreation. Did you find any cigarette butts, beer bottles, condoms?”

  Eeew, teenagers having a tryst in my father’s bed—could that explain the open window? “I went all through the house and didn’t see any signs that anyone had been there,” I say. “None of the beds had been messed up.”

  “They may not have bothered going all the way upstairs,” Farrand says. I blush hotly at the memory of Cal’s and my antics on my sofa.

  Farrand has succeeded in sowing the seeds of doubt in my mind. Maybe I was imagining the sounds I heard last night. Maybe that window had been open for a while and Isabelle and I didn’t notice it. But what about the folder and the book? They’ve definitely disappeared.

  “Why would teenagers take a file folder and a yearbook that I left on the counter, and not take anything else?” I ask him.

  “Why would anyone take it, Ms. Nealon? What was in it?”

  “Just—” Suddenly I don’t want to be talking to this guy anymore. I definitely don’t want to tell him about my sentimental need for my childhood artwork, or about Brian Bascomb. “Just some personal papers,” I finish lamely.

  “Maybe the intruder needed a piece of paper and grabbed the first thing he saw. If the folder was important to you, you might look around outside. He may have dropped it. If you’d like, I can send someone from community policing over to look around with you and make sure the house is secure.”

  Farrand is so attentive, so prepared with a police service for every occasion. Why not take him up on it? Put my tax dollars to work and all that. But I can’t bring myself to come across as whiny and demanding. I’m low-maintenance Audrey—isn’t that what Cal likes about me? “Thanks for the offer, Detective. I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

  After I hang up with Farrand, I feel my fingers itching, creeping toward the computer keyboard. Like so many other things, e-commerce has made the marketplace for old yearbooks much more efficient. Want to relive your high school or college days but can’t find your yearbook? No problem—all the old yea
rbooks ever given to Goodwill or the church bazaar or used book shops have been consolidated on a few websites. Request the year and school you want and see what happens. I’ve sold plenty of yearbooks on FINDYOURYEARBOOK.com. Now it’s time to buy one—Princeton, Class of 69, In Stock. I buy it and choose regular shipping. It’ll be in my hands in under a week. Maybe I’ve wasted my money, but there has to be some reason the thief took my folder and that yearbook. There’s nothing I can do about the drawing, but I can try to see what was so interesting about that yearbook.

  Chapter 34

  At 6:30 I’m dressed and waiting for Cal to pick me up for dinner at the Finneran’s. At 6:32, my phone chirps the arrival of a text message: Held up @ office. Head over to Anne’s. I’ll meet u there.

  Great. Walking into Anne and Spencer’s house solo is right up there with root canal on my things-I’m-eager-to-do-list.

  Driving over, I realize the steering wheel is slippery with sweat from my palms and I’m not sure why. This is not a big party. Anne has been unfailingly nice to me. I don’t even have to worry about what I’m wearing because Anne has that Barbara Bush-like frumpiness that I find so reassuring. And yet…. And yet…

  I turn a corner onto the Finneran’s street. Almost all the leaves have fallen from the trees now, and huge piles line the curbs waiting to be scooped up by the public works department. Plowing directly into one of those leaf mountains, I park the car and study the Finneran’s big Victorian. Lights glow in all the downstairs windows; pumpkins and mums line the wrap-around porch. I let the sharp breeze push me up the walk into that Hallmark card. I want to be in there, yet my finger hesitates on the doorbell. I feel a little bead of sweat forming between my breasts, despite the nippy night air. Why am I so nervous? I press and hear the chime echo on the other side of the door. A dog starts barking and a calming voice reassures him.

  “Now, now Bix, that’s enough.”