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

by S. W. Hubbard

He’s trying to pull Ethel off now, but that just makes her clamp down harder. He swings his free leg back to kick her, but she dodges the blow. All the while he’s screaming, “fuck, fuck, fuck” at the top of his voice.

  “Can I verify your address, M’am?” The dispatcher sounds bored out of her mind.

  “419 Bishop,” I yell into the phone. Then I stuff it into my pocket without hanging up and turn my attention to the fight. I’ve never seen Ethel like this. Her courage gives me courage. I look around for something I can use to defend myself. I’ve had enough of this crap. Enough of being a victim. Enough of not knowing who’s after me or why. Ethel and I are keeping this guy here until the cops come. I switch on the overhead light and grab the heavy ginger jar lamp from the hall table.

  “Call off your damn dog! Make her let me go!” I hear fear in his voice, the panic of someone who’s lost control.

  And no wonder. Ethel’s no longer a house pet; she’s a rabid wolf. Her big canine incisors, stained red with her victim’s blood, are sunk into the flesh of his calf. Ears flat against her head, eyes bulging, she looks like a creature at the top of the food chain. Weird guttural whines rumble from somewhere deep inside her. She’s scaring me. I’m not sure I could call her off even if I wanted to.

  My hand tightens on the lamp. Am I brave enough to swing this thing like a bat right into his head? Am I brutal enough to crack his head the way he cracked mine? I lift the lamp up, but my arm trembles.

  Then I see a metallic flash. A knife. His right arm comes up, ready to plunge the blade into Ethel’s neck. I swing! The lamp crashes against his head and shatters in a million pieces.

  He staggers. The knife falls beside him. But the shower of ceramic shards has distracted Ethel. She loosens her grip and my attacker shakes free of her. In the distance, I hear sirens. I search for another weapon, but the foyer doesn’t have much to offer. “Get him again Ethel!” I shout.

  She springs, but just misses him. He grabs his knife and charges out the door with Ethel on his heels.

  Leaping down the stairs to the sidewalk three at a time, he opens a lead between him and the dog. I’m running after both of them, screaming like a crazy woman. But it’s Halloween—my neighbors have tuned out the noise and turned off their lights.

  I keep running, not to catch him, but to keep him in sight until the cops come. The moon, so brilliant just half an hour ago, has slipped behind a bank of clouds. Now my condo development is full of shadows and inky recesses. Ahead of me, Ethel and my attacker disappear into the next cul de sac.

  Chapter 40

  I turn the corner.

  Four parked cars. Two fluttering witch flags. One smashed Snickers.

  “Ethel?”

  Silence. A sputtering jack-o-lantern winks at me from a doorstep. Nothing stirs.

  I spin around. “Ethel? Ethel!”

  The sirens are drawing closer. I race out of the cul de sac and dart into the street. “Ethel!” Where is she? I picture the knife in that goon’s hand. What if Ethel caught up to him and he stabbed her?

  “Eth-hel!” my voice is shrill with panic and fear. She won’t come to me if she hears that. She’ll think she’s in trouble and keep running.

  If she’s able.

  I take a breath and try to steady my voice. “Ethel, here girl. Come, Ethel. Come get a treat.” I produce a linty snack from my coat pocket. “Eth—hel, look what I’ve got. Come!”

  Through the trees, I can see the flashing red and blue lights as squad cars pull up to my door. I want to run over to them, but not without Ethel.

  I keep circling the complex, calling until my voice is hoarse. As I head into the last cul de sac, I hear footsteps behind me.

  A cop shines a bright flashlight beam into my face. What does he see? A crazed woman with a tearstained face, uncombed hair and a crumbling Milk-Bone in her hand.

  “Have you been drinking, ma’am?”

  “No! I’m the one who called…the man was in my condo…my dog chased him out here…now she’s lost.”

  “Let’s calm down ma’am. Let’s go back to your condo and sort this out.” He reaches for my elbow, but I shake him off.

  “I have to find my dog. She’s lost out here. Ethel!”

  The cop shines his flashlight into the underbrush. Two eyes glow.

  “Ethel!”

  A fat raccoon waddles out, looks at us with contempt, and slithers into a storm drain. Hot tears well in my eyes. Ethel is out here somewhere, with wild animals. She doesn’t know how to protect herself. She doesn’t know how to find food. She’ll see a chipmunk and chase it right into the path of a speeding car, I know she will. Oh, Ethel!

  “Call animal control in the morning,” the cop says. “Put up a few flyers. I’m sure she’ll turn up.” He takes my arm firmly and reports via radio that he’s found me.

  The thought of Ethel’s smiling face on a Lost Dog poster completely unhinges me. No one ever looks for the dogs on those things. Ethel will wander onto Route 80 and be flattened by a semi. She’ll starve and her collar will fall off and she’ll wind up in the pound and they’ll send her to the gas chamber. I’ll never find her.

  “Ma’am, let’s—”

  “No!” I start running, calling frantically for Ethel. Up ahead, three men are coming toward me. One is very big. I stop, too frightened to go forward, too panicked to go back. I put my arms over my head and sink to the ground.

  Moments later, a hand is pulling me up and a familiar voice speaks. “Are you all right, Ms. Nealon? We need you to come inside so we can get your statement.”

  I open my eyes. It’s Detective Farrand. The big guy with him is Coughlin. “My dog…”

  “The patrolmen will look for Ethel, Audrey,” Coughlin pulls out his phone. “I’m calling the animal control officer myself, right now.”

  I listen as Coughlin reports Ethel missing, then numbly, I let them guide me back home. The entire Palmyrton police department and ambulance squad is in my condo filling every square inch with squawking radios, crime scene paraphernalia and first aid tool boxes. I’m pushed along like a can on the conveyer belt at the supermarket. First the EMT examines me, then Farrand questions me, then someone takes my fingerprints, then Coughlin questions me. I keep asking each one if he knows who this drug dealer is, but none of them will give me a straight answer. Through it all, my front door opens and shuts, admitting more cops. Each time my head springs up, hoping someone is bringing Ethel home. Each time I’m disappointed.

  I see Coughlin and Farrand talking to each other, then Farrand shrugs and Coughlin wags his finger, and they both come to talk to me again.

  Coughlin leads off. “Audrey, there’s no sign of forced entry anywhere in the apartment. Your windows are all locked; you’ve got deadbolts on both doors.”

  I spring up from my chair. “What are you saying? You think I let this guy in? That it’s someone I know and I’m lying to you?”

  Farrand ignores this outburst and gestures me back into my seat. “Tell me again about the trick-or-treaters. Did you lock the front door after each visit?”

  “No, I was answering the door pretty steadily there for a while. I shut it, but left it unlocked.”

  “So someone could have slipped in between kids and hidden in the front closet,” Farrand says.

  “No, Ethel would’ve barked.” Then I run my fingers through my hair. “Well, maybe—she was barking off and on all night. But if he was in the closet all along, why did he wait until I went out and came back to attack me?”

  Coughlin looks pointedly at Farrand, as if that’s the point he’s been trying to make all along. “Audrey, I think this guy may have the key to your condo. Did you change your locks after the first attack?”

  “No, but he didn’t take my keys. They were in my pocket, and at the hospital, they gave them to you, right?”

  Coughlin nods. “They were in an evidence locker until I returned them to you when you left the hospital. Who else has a key to your place?”

  “Jill, b
ecause she watches Ethel for me if I’m away. And my dad.”

  “Griggs could’ve gotten access to the key though Jill.” Coughlin says this as a statement, not a question.

  I’m tired of arguing on this point. Who the hell knows—maybe Coughlin is right. “Yes.”

  “Your father is in a nursing home, correct?” Farrand says.

  “Yes. He doesn’t have my key with him there. It’s at his house. He keeps it—”

  I picture it clearly. My key is attached to a red plastic keychain, the kind you can label. My father has written “Audrey’s Condo” on the tab in his perfect printing. It hangs on a hook in the mudroom.

  “—keeps it on a hook by the back door. With my name on it. I don’t know if it’s still there.”

  Coughlin leans forward. “Who has access to his house?”

  I tick off the names on my fingers. “Ty, Jill, Isabelle Trent, the real estate agent, and maybe a guy named Brian Bascomb who visits my father at the nursing home. “And,” I look at Farrand, “whoever broke into my dad’s house and took the yearbook and the file folder.”

  The EMT returns, demanding to take my blood pressure one more time, while Coughlin and Farrand retreat to the front hall for more talk.

  “Coming back to normal,” the EMT says, “but you really shouldn’t be alone. Is there someone you can call to come stay with you?”

  Is there? I can’t very well call Lydia at 2AM and ask her to leave her baby to come tend to me. I guess I could call Jill, but she’s so jumpy and excitable that we’d both be awake all night long. And I’d have to tell her about Ethel. I can’t face that. I shake my head.

  “A guy friend,” the EMT persists. “You know, so you’d feel a little safer.”

  Cal. Could I call Cal in the middle of the night to say I need him? Can I wake Cal up and say I know you’re tired from campaigning all day but can you drop everything and come and protect me?

  No.

  “I don’t want to bother anyone,” I say, but I’m terrified. I can’t stay here if this creep has my key.

  Eventually the EMT finishes and a few more cops filter out with him. That leaves Coughlin and two other cops, huddled in my livingroom.

  All I want to do is have a stiff drink and take hot shower to finally scrub away the smell of sweat and cigarettes and overpowering cologne that still clings to me.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” I announce. When I come out of the bathroom, Coughlin is sitting on my sofa.

  “Thanks for waiting. Maybe I should stay at a hotel tonight, until I can get the locks changed.”

  He doesn’t move.

  “You can’t sit here all night.”

  Coughlin glances my way, as if he’s barely aware that I’ve spoken.

  Outside, a car door slams. I jump and clutch my chest like an actor in a spaghetti western who’s milking his big death scene. Coughlin says nothing, just extends his hand.

  Suddenly the fight goes out of me. I’m tired and scared and lonely and heartbroken. I sink onto the sofa, horrified to feel hot tears welling in my eyes. I rest my head on his massive chest. He smells plain and clean: Tide, Dial, Colgate. Under his shirt his heart gives powerful, slow beats. I let my breathing synchronize with his.

  I’ll just rest for a minute.

  When my eyes next open, sun is streaming through my livingroom window and the scent of fresh coffee hangs in the air. I rotate my stiff neck. Why did I sleep on the sofa? I catch sight of the clock on the cable box: 8:30. Ethel will be—

  Ethel.

  Despair rushes back to claim me. But maybe she came back during the night. Maybe she’s on the front porch, waiting to come in.

  Staggering up from the sofa, I notice a crushed cushion on the chair next to me. I see the full coffeepot on the kitchen island. Coughlin stayed here all night? I can’t believe it. I open my mouth to call out, but suddenly I’m shy. What do I call a man who held me when I was frightened, who spent the night watching over me in an uncomfortable chair, who made me coffee?

  Detective? Sean?

  I run to the door to look for Ethel. Instead, I see Coughlin unlocking his car. He looks up and offers a mock salute, then gets in his car and drives off.

  Last night’s clouds have blown away, and every tree and bush and car is outlined in the bright, hard sunlight. The street is empty. Ethel is gone.

  I cry and cry. No one hears.

  Chapter 41

  Anne steps over the huge retriever sprawled across the threshold to the kitchen. Bix opens one eye, just like Ethel does. It takes every ounce of self-control to keep from collapsing on top of the dog and burying my head in his shaggy, honey-colored fur.

  “Have you had lunch, Audrey? I have more food than I know what to do with after Nora and Jim’s anniversary party.”

  There’s always some kind of Finneran family get-together to keep that hulking stainless steel fridge stuffed, but I’m too keyed up to consider eating. “No thank you. I really appreciate your seeing me on such short notice.” As soon as Detective Coughlin left this morning, I called the locksmith. Then I called Anne. Didn’t even think it through, just dialed, blurted out that I knew my mother had worked directly with Spencer, and said I needed to talk to her. Any tact that I ever possessed has been driven away by this second attack and the loss of Ethel. To her credit, Anne didn’t try to bullshit me--she told me to come on over.

  Anne smiles and her laugh lines crease, but her eyes have a distant look. “No trouble at all dear. I’ve been looking forward to your visit.” She extends her arm. “Come on in here where no one will bother us.”

  I follow her through a door off the kitchen that I never noticed before. Behind it is a cozy little office/sitting room with two shabby chintz easy chairs and a desk overflowing with piles of paper. Framed photos cover the walls—not pictures of Anne and Spencer with presidents and senators and rock stars, but candid snapshots of kids and grandkids at the beach, on skis, in class plays, Spencer at the helm of a sailboat, Anne decorating a Christmas tree. Sun streams through the window, illuminating a big vase of fresh flowers. They have to be from a florist since nothing’s blooming locally now, but somehow Anne’s arranged them in a loose, tumbling way that makes it seem like she just picked them in her back yard.

  “What a great room,” I say.

  “Thank you. It used to be a maid’s room, back in the days when the maid had to wake up early to light the coal stove.” Anne makes a wry little face. “Most days I feel like it’s still the maid’s room.” She waves me into one chair and sits herself in the other.

  For a moment there’s an awkward silence as we gaze at each other, uncertain where to begin. Then Anne plunges in. All these years as a politician’s wife have taught her how to manage any type of conversation, even one about how she and Spencer lied about knowing my mother.

  “So, you want to know about your mother, and the work she did for Spencer’s campaign. Well, you’ve seen her pictures so you know she was beautiful, but photos really don’t do her justice. She was—how can I express it?—simply vibrant.” Anne reaches over and pats my hand. “I don’t mean this unkindly dear, because in many ways I feel you and I are very much alike, but your mother could command attention in a way that women like us will never be able to fathom. She didn’t do it with sexy clothing or provocative behavior. It was something much more subtle—and powerful—than that.” Anne shakes her head and pauses.

  “I guess she was born with it,” I say, “and it skipped a generation in me.”

  Anne’s eyes meet mine. “She was born with it, but just as one cultivates an inherent talent for art or music, your mother worked hard to develop her gift.”

  I squirm under her gaze. “Sounds like you knew my mother pretty well. When did you first meet her?”

  “Oh, I only talked to her a few times, but she made quite an impression.” Anne curls up in her chair, her eyes focused on a point over the desk. I know she’s looking back to a time before I was born. “Spencer and I lived in DC when w
e first married. He had a job on Capitol Hill.” The silence stretches on until I can’t bear it any more.

  “But then something brought you to New Jersey,” I prompt.

  Anne jumps a little, as if she’s forgotten I’m there. “Yes, Spencer decided he wanted to run for elective office. We moved back to Palmyrton so he could make a run for Congress.”

  “Back to Palmyrton?”

  Anne arches her eyebrows ever so slightly. “My family has always lived here.”

  Always. I think about the oil portraits in the upstairs hall, the Duncan Phyfe chairs. The Piersons have been here since the Revolution. “Your family connections would help him win.” I say it as a statement, not a question.

  Anne offers a shallow smile. “My father persuaded the Palmer County Democratic party machine that Spencer was their best hope against an entrenched Republican. He raised a small fortune to finance that campaign. And it was all lost, because of her…” Even after thirty-five years the bitterness in her voice is unmistakable.

  “Because of my mother? Why?”

  “It was a razor thin race. Spencer was a dark horse. No one thought he stood a chance, but slowly he started creeping up in the polls. He needed the very best campaign team to keep the momentum going. Charlotte started out doing brilliant work for the campaign. Writing speeches, coming up with slogans, managing events. Whenever I crossed her path, she was at the center of a whirlwind of activity.”

  It hits me hard that Anne must have never liked my mother, even before she supposedly cost Spencer the race. “So what changed?” I ask.

  “All those long hours away from her husband and child, in the company of journalists and politicians and PR men…” Anne arches her eyebrows. “She fell in love with one of them. Fell hard. Suddenly her work went out the window. She started missing ad deadlines, forgetting important appointments, scheduling Spencer to be in two places at the same time. The kicker came when she arranged for Spencer to be interviewed on the Today show as part of a profile on up and coming young politicians. Charlotte got the day wrong and the reporter kept looking at the empty chair on the stage and commenting on Spencer’s absence. Her antics cost Spencer the election.”