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

by S. W. Hubbard

  A firm knock at my door is as effective as AED paddles at jump-starting my heart. Maybe Cal changed his mind and came back. Ridiculously hopeful, I follow a barking Ethel to the door and press my eye against the peephole. The man on my porch is so big and so close to the door that I can’t see his face.

  “Who is it?”

  “Sean Coughlin.”

  Sean, not detective? Is he my new best friend? I take a deep breath to settle my heart and open the door. We stare at each other for a moment.

  “Kind of late for a social call,” I say.

  “I need to talk to you.” He strides right into the foyer, not waiting for an invitation and I melt back out of his way. The unstoppable force meets a very movable object.

  “I want to talk to you about your man, Griggs.”

  Annoyance fights a losing battle with anxiety, as I trail Coughlin into my living room. “What about him?”

  “He was spotted at two this afternoon getting out of a car on Ditmars Avenue.”

  I keep my face impassive. That was the time Ty was missing in action from the Siverson job. Ditmars Avenue is about as far away from the Siversons’ neighborhood as you can get and still be in Palmyrton. “And is that a crime?”

  “It is when you’re on probation and the car belongs to Mondel Johnson.”

  It’s a safe bet Mondel Johnson is not the pastor of the Baptist church or the coach of the Rec Department basketball league, but I won’t give Coughlin the satisfaction of asking, ‘who’s that?’ I sit quietly staring at him. Two can play at this game.

  “Street name: Trigger,” Coughlin finally continues. “He’s an enforcer for a guy named Nichols, who runs a major drug operation out of Newark.”

  I feel a bead of sweat break out along my hairline. This can’t be. Not Ty. Not now. Then I get suspicious. Why is Coughlin telling me this? If it truly is a crime for Ty to be associating with this Mondel character, why didn’t the cops arrest him?

  Coughlin’s tough guy pose makes me feel equally belligerent. I start talking as if the creators of Women Behind Bars are writing my lines. “So you barge into my house at ten at night to tell me about it? What’s up with that?”

  Coughlin leans forward, resting his hamhock arms on his tree trunk thighs. The easy chair he’s chosen to sit in sags under his weight. His pale blue eyes drill right into me. “I’m worried about you, Audrey. You’re protecting a guy who’s a known associate of some very dangerous people. Your kindness could get you killed.”

  I feel the defiance draining out of me. Coughlin is serious. He thinks I’m in danger. The anxiety I’ve been feeling lately, the sensation that someone’s watching me, looking for something they think I have—maybe it’s not all in my head. I haven’t said a word yet, but Coughlin, with his eerie sixth sense, picks up on my uneasiness.

  “You lied to me when you told me the man who beat you was white, didn’t you?” he asks. Those pale blue eyes seem to rake through my brain, separating truth from falsehood. I’m powerless.

  “I did lie. I didn’t see who attacked me. I don’t know what race he was, what he looked like. But I’m sure—I’m positive—that it wasn’t Ty.”

  A muscle begins to twitch in Coughlin’s jaw. “Maybe it wasn’t Griggs himself who attacked you, but he was behind it. He set you up.”

  “I don’t believe that!” Ethel’s ears perk up at the high-pitched anxiety in my voice. “Ty has worked hard to turn his life around. I gave him a break when he needed one—he likes me. He would never hurt me. Or let someone else hurt me.”

  “Let me tell you something about criminals, Audrey. The most successful ones are friendly, charming, likeable. They’re able to separate their criminal behavior from their day-to-day life. I knew a hit man for the mob who was a freakin’ Little League coach. They lie. They lie so well, they believe their own lies. They’re sociopaths.”

  A sociopath? Charles Manson was a sociopath; Ty is just a recovering juvenile delinquent. This is my problem with Coughlin—he starts out reasonable, but he always ends up going too far, saying something outrageous that makes me doubt everything that comes out of his mouth.

  “Look, all Ty did was drive the getaway car when his friends broke into a house. He served his time. He’s been working hard since he got out of jail. Just because he’s from a troubled family, does that mean he’s condemned forever? That he never gets a second chance?”

  Coughlin pounds his fist into the palm of his other hand. “You people make me nuts!”

  “You people? Exactly what kind of ‘you people’ am I?”

  “Freakin’ bleeding heart liberal Pollyana!”

  I jump up. “Yeah, that’s me. Maybe the world needs a few more Pollyanas to stand up against racist police brutality.” Ethel echoes my sentiments with a few high, sharp, don’t-mess-with-me barks.

  Coughlin springs to his feet and wags a massive index finger at me. “Don’t play the race card with me. I go after crooks—white, black, Spanish, Chinese, Indian—they’re all the same to me.”

  “Oh, big-time crooks, like the kid who stole a cup of change from the 7-11?”

  “Don’t throw that up to me! I was cleared!”

  “Covered up is more like it. Your partner took the rap, then agreed to retire early. Problem solved.”

  “That’s not what happened.” Coughlin thrusts his index finger at me, his voice loud and harsh.

  Ethel growls low in her throat.

  Immediately Coughlin drops the aggressive pose and extends an open hand for Ethel to sniff. She approaches warily, no longer growling but not wagging her tail either.

  “My partner was the one who beat Jason Powell. But I did nothing to stop him. I was young, didn’t think it was my place to challenge an older cop.” Coughlin looks up and holds my gaze. “I learned that day to be my own man. You have such a great belief that people can change—why doesn’t that apply to me?”

  His jab makes me flinch and I lash out. “So I’m supposed to feel sorry for the poor, misunderstood six-foot-five bully who thinks he’s always right?”

  “You’re a hypocrite, Audrey.” He says it without the slightest heat, very matter-of-fact. “Once you make up your mind about someone, that’s it; that person’s cast in stone for you. But let me tell you—people are unpredictable. They’re pushed against a wall, they’ll do whatever it takes to survive. Fifteen years on the job, I’ve lost my ability to be surprised.”

  “Or to trust.”

  He touches the top of my head: “Pot.” Then he touches his: “Kettle.”

  Touché.

  I take what Jill’s yoga teacher calls a cleansing breath and try to ratchet down the anger in the room. “If you saw Ty with this Mondel Johnson character, and that’s a violation of his parole, then why didn’t you arrest him?”

  “We’re watching him. You’re right about one thing. He’s just a low-level punk. We’re after bigger fish.”

  “Why are you telling me about it? Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell Ty?”

  “It’s no secret we’re watching him. I want you to tell him I’ve been here. Tell him if he doesn’t want to join his old man down in Trenton, he better tell us what he knows. About what happened to you. About Nichols’s operation.”

  I look at Coughlin’s stony face. What does he know about the Ecstasy in Mrs. Szabo’s kitchen? He’s as good at hiding what he knows as he is at ferreting out what others know. But if Coughlin is investigating this big drug gang, wouldn’t Farrand have told him about the pills? How they were there and then disappeared? Of course, Farrand thinks Cal found them. If Coughlin knows about that, he may think Ty hid the drugs in Mrs. Szabo’s house, then took them away again. But if I tell Coughlin it was Ty who found them and willingly told me about them, wouldn’t that dispel Coughlin’s suspicions? Should I tell Coughlin this? But what if he doesn’t know anything about the pills… Shit, I’m so confused!

  To buy time, I ask a question. “When you say Mondel Johnson is an enforcer for Nichols, what does that mean?”
>
  “He collects the money. Makes sure no one’s ripping off the boss.”

  “So you think Ty owes the big guy money for drugs that he’s sold, and now he can’t pay?”

  “Probably. That would explain why he had Mondel and his crew rob you.”

  “But you don’t know for sure? You’ve never seen Ty make a sale?”

  “No.” Coughlin admits.

  “Even though you’ve been watching him?” Coughlin’s answers are giving me hope. There’s got to be some simple explanation for Ty’s behavior. Some reason for my attack that doesn’t involve Ty setting me up.

  “All that means is he’s not selling on the street corner. He’s selling to people he knows.”

  “Then why did—” the information about the pills in the kitchen starts bubbling up.

  “Why what?” Coughlin asks.

  “Nothing,” I mutter.

  Too late. Three little words, and Coughlin knows I’m withholding something. He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms across his massive chest, and stares at me.

  This is ridiculous. I’m not in some windowless interrogation room on Riker’s Island. This is my home. I can kick Coughlin out any time.

  “It’s way past my bedtime. I think you’d better leave.”

  Coughlin crosses his legs without ever breaking eye contact.

  I stare back.

  My bravado lasts for about thirty seconds. I’m not quite sure how Coughlin manages to project such relentlessness, but whatever it is, it works. I feel my resolve weakening. Maybe Ty’s problems and my own fear will be resolved if I tell Coughlin the truth about the pills in the kitchen drawer. Maybe I should trust him. But how do I explain why we lied in the first place without opening up the Pandora’s box of the trunkful of jewelry? The election is less than a week away. I can’t ruin all that Cal and Spencer have worked for, especially when I’m not even positive that the information will help Ty. I can’t confess now. I have to talk to Ty, talk to Cal, then decide.

  I take a deep breath and stand up. Ethel trots to my side, imparting courage. Since lying to Coughlin is pointless, I settle on offering him a limited truth. “Look, detective, I appreciate your concern; I really do. And you’re right, there is some information I haven’t told you. But that information affects people other than just me. I need to discuss it with them first. After I do, I’ll give you a call.”

  Before he can utter a word, I pivot and walk to the front door. A moment or two later, I hear Coughlin’s footsteps behind me. I open the door and Ethel races out to pee on the little patch of grass in front of the condo. The commotion provides me with some cover so I don’t have to look at my uninvited guest.

  As I keep an eye on Ethel, Coughlin follows me onto the front porch and places his hand, large as a dinner plate, on my shoulder. It feels oddly light. The domineering, I-call-the-shots-here expression that I’ve grown used to from him has been replaced by something softer, almost quizzical. Like he’s a scientist and I’m an experiment that’s produced totally unexpected results.

  Finished with her business, Ethel charges onto the porch and shoots into the house. As I turn to follow, Coughlin speaks. “Do what you have to do, Audrey. Just remember this: I’m not the enemy.” His hand tightens ever so slightly on my shoulder. “Call me anytime.”

  A wave of heat passes through me as Coughlin’s hand lifts from my shoulder and I watch him disappear down the front walk.

  Now what the hell is that about?

  Chapter 37

  “Oh, God, Audrey—I think I’ve made it worse.”

  I come out of my father’s house and move into the center of the yard to assess the effect of Jill’s work. She and Ty are helping me get the house ready for listing, and following Isabelle’s instructions, Jill has taken the hedge trimmers to the holly bushes. With a vengeance. Now, instead of huge overgrown shrubs threatening to consume anyone who ventures onto the front porch, we have two clumps of bare sticks surrounded by a pile of holly leaves and berries.

  “They look like post-modernist sculptures,” I say.

  “I’m so sorry, Audrey! I didn’t mean to strip them naked. But when I pruned them back so they wouldn’t touch the porch, I cut off all their leaves. Underneath, there’s nothing but bare branches. Isabelle will have a fit—there’s no curb appeal in stumps!”

  The gardening debacle has set Jill’s lower lip trembling, something that seems to happen with increasing frequency these days. The three of us have been treating one another with elaborate politeness, a symptom, I guess, of our mutual suspicion and hurt feelings. I’m still not sure if Jill searched the trunk of jewelry or not, still not sure what Ty is up to. I could draw a line in the sand and demand absolute honesty from both of them, or else. But what if my ultimatum backfires? I can’t run the business without them right now, not with Dad being sprung from the nursing home and my mind preoccupied with my attacker, my mother, and the sibling I may or may not have. It’s easier to muddle along, one day at a time, hoping that one of these problems will resolve itself and provide me with some slack to work on the others.

  “Don’t worry about the bushes, Jill.” I pat her on the back. “We’ll dig them out and plant something new. Ty can help.” I find a shovel in the garage and set Ty to work digging.

  I hear the steady chink, chink, chink of the shovel as I work in the living room. Through the window I can see that Ty has peeled off his sweatshirt and his tee shirt is stuck to his back with sweat. This is a bigger job than I realized. I go outside with a glass of water for him.

  “Man, these bushes have some kind of root system, huh?” I look into the huge hole Ty has created. “They’ve been here as long as I can remember.”

  “Thirty years of roots,” Ty says, slashing at a thick tendon with the sharp edge of the shovel. He severs it, and yanks it out, tugging with both hands. Looking down, I see something pink poking up out of the soil. It’s plastic, the color faded and dirty, but somewhere deep in my mind it triggers a memory. As I excavate around it a bit with my sneaker, a wheel emerges. An old toy of mine, buried under the earth.

  I crouch down to examine it more closely. Brushing the clods of damp earth aside, I see a flat piece of pink plastic, some rusty metal, and the edge of a tattered, decomposing scrap of bunny-printed fabric. The bunnies do it; suddenly I see two little hands on a handle and a baby doll staring up at me from under that blanket. The vision is as crisp and detailed as a movie playing in my mind. This was my doll carriage and I remember pushing it around and around a few feet from here on the flat part of the driveway. And I hear my mother’s voice calling me, “Let’s go in sweetie—it’s getting late.” Try as I might, I can only hear her, not see her. But the memory is mine, wholly mine, not placed there by my grandparents as all the other memories of my mother have been.

  Suddenly, I’ve got to have this doll carriage. I start clawing at the dirt with my bare hands.

  “Audge, what you doin’? I’ll finish that—just let me drink my water.”

  Ignoring Ty’s words, I grab his shovel. The carriage isn’t buried very deep. A few good thrusts with the shovel untombs it. Panting slightly from my efforts, I knock off the big chunks of earth clinging to it and stare at what I’ve found. My little pink baby carriage, one wheel missing, squashed completely flat. I stare a little longer, waiting. I want so much for this to be my Proust’s Madeleine, the token that unleashes a torrent of memories.

  Nothing.

  “Audge? What’s the big deal? What is that?” Ty’s voice comes to me from a million miles away.

  I remember pushing the carriage. I remember endless loops. I remember my mother’s voice.

  That’s it. Movie over.

  Jill has returned to the office and I need Ty’s help to move a large bookcase that’s blocking my access to a crawlspace under the eaves. God knows what’s in there—probably squirrel shit and dried up hornet’s nests—but even though I know my father’s not a saver, the possibility that something valuable might be waiting b
ehind that blocked door pushes me forward..

  “Ty!” I shout. “Ty, come up here for a minute and help me, will you?”

  No answer. Him and that damn iPod. I pull out my phone and text him. Stare at the phone and wait for a reply. Nothing.

  I head for the stairs. Out in the hall, a big window overlooks the street. I see a shiny black Hummer parked at the curb. Ty stands next to it, talking with a man.

  I step to the side of the window and look out from behind the drapes.

  The other man is also African American, a little shorter than Ty, but broader. He seems to be doing all the talking, while Ty stands silently with his hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie. Then the man pulls something from his pocket and shows it to Ty. Ty nods.

  I don’t like the looks of this. Who is this guy? If he’s just a friend from the neighborhood, why did Ty ignore my text? God knows, he answers texts constantly when I’m talking to him.

  The man turns away and steps off the curb. I see Ty’s mouth move. The guy pivots in a flash, pushes his face right up to Ty’s, says something else, and pushes Ty out of his way.

  What happens next makes my stomach lurch.

  The man heads for his car. Ty lets him go. No challenge, no fighting back. Ty was disrespected and he did nothing.

  This can’t be good.

  I’m standing in the foyer when Ty re-enters the house.

  “What was that all about?” I ask.

  “What? Nothin’—jus’ hadda give my friend something.”

  “He didn’t look like a friend to me.”

  Ty brushes past me and heads to the kitchen. “Don’t worry about it, Audge. I got it under control.”

  I trot after him, addressing his strong, sinewy back. “Ty, if you’re in some kind of trouble, I want you to know you can tell me about it. I’ll help you. If you need a lawyer—“

  Ty spins around. “This ain’t work for no damn lawyer.”