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

by S. W. Hubbard

  I lunge in what I think is the direction of the door and mercifully feel its raised panels. I drag myself up, groping for the doorknob. Anne grabs my ankle and pulls me down.

  Dizzy, frantic, burning within and without, I kick back viciously. I hear her sharp cry of pain and I’m free, tumbling through the door into the blessed coolness of the hall.

  My relief is so great, I take a huge gulp of air, then collapse coughing. Everything is relative. The air out here is clearer, but still plenty smoky. I have to keep moving, get away. I stumble forward and crash into a wall.

  Panic moves in now, displacing reason like water displaces air. Think, think.

  If the office is on the right hand side of the hall then I must have to turn left to get to the stairs. Despite the headache lacerating my brain, I pivot and stride forward. Right into Anne’s arms.

  Locked together, we sway like inept ballroom dancers.

  “Anne, please—we’ve got to get out of here.” I still can’t get my head around the idea that she means to harm me.

  “You’re just like your mother,” Anne wheezes in my ear. “She never knew when to stop, never could leave well enough alone.” She pushes me a step closer to the burning room. “Had to destroy my family. Now you…just the same.”

  “What are you talking about?” Although our arms are locked together, I succeed in bringing my knee up between us to push her back toward the stairs. Stalemate. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “Dylan. I won’t let you ruin his life.” The words seem to give her superhuman strength. She kicks my leg and I crumple, pulling her down on top of me. “Family,” she whispers. “Family is everything.”

  She places her forearm across my neck and leans forward with all her weight. I buck and kick, dig my fingernails into her arm. Anything to get the weight to lift, get the air back in my lungs.

  Her lips are moving. She’s saying something; I’m not sure what.

  “Just like your mother.”

  Chapter 46

  White bursts of light explode inside my head. Anne’s voice disappears into a roar in my ears. I feel myself slipping.

  I hear a pop, followed by the tinkle of shattered glass. The windows are exploding. As oxygen feeds the fire, there’s a rush of unendurable heat. The pressure on my neck lifts. The stars dissolve, replaced by orange flames. Instinctively I roll away and discover I’m free. I can move.

  Flames pour out of the office, consuming everything behind me. I inhale, but nothing enters my lungs. Scuttling like a crab, I follow the runner of carpet on the hall floor, willing my hands and knees to go on even though my lungs have let them down. Anne has left my mind—all I can think of is oxygen. One more step, one more. I’m outside my body, cheering it on. I reach out my hand to feel the next stretch of carpet, but touch only air. Too late to warn the knees. I’ve found the stairs, and I’m tumbling down them.

  Smooth, cool fingers stroke my hand. I snatch it away.

  My eyelids feel as big as donuts and all I can see are two thin slivers of light. “Anne? Where’s Anne?” The words croak out of my swollen lips.

  A familiar voice speaks. “Ssshh. It’s all right baby. You don’t have to talk until you’re ready.”

  My brain works to process these words. “Cal?”

  “Yes, baby, it’s me.” My hand is picked up again. “How do you feel? Is it hard to talk?”

  “Where’s Anne?” My voice is so hoarse that the words seem to come from another source.

  Long silence. “Audrey, honey, uh, I’m afraid…afraid she didn’t make it. But don’t bla—”

  “She tried to kill me.”

  He stops stroking my hand. “Baby, baby—the fire was an accident.”

  “She set it and she tried to trap me in the house with her.”

  I hear Cal stand up. “Look, honey—you’re injured, you’re on painkillers, there’s no need to talk about this now. Just rest. ”

  I feel him leaning over me. His lips graze the top of my head. I turn away.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow…” His footsteps click away.

  “I’m glad she’s dead,” I whisper to the wall.

  The next time I wake up, my eyelids have shrunk to the size of ravioli and I can detect motion as well as light through the marginally bigger slit. Once again, someone’s got my hand. Once again, I pull it away.

  “Sorry. How ya doin’?”

  My hand retains the impression of the fingers that touched it. Big. Calloused. Coughlin.

  “Not too good.” My throat is raw. Every word I speak costs me dearly. “Guess I should’ve listened to you.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t. That’s why I sent a patrol car over there as soon as I could. Guys broke down the front door when they saw the flames. Found you at the bottom of the stairs and pulled you out. A minute later the upstairs caved in. No one could’ve saved Anne Finneran.”

  “She tried to kill me.”

  Unlike Cal, Coughlin accepts this news without comment. I sense his bulk in the chair beside my bed, waiting, attuned.

  But I want to know one thing before I tell him my story. “Who were you chasing? Ty or Mondel Johnson?”

  “Neither. Mondel Johnson has nothing to do with what happened to you. I was after Dylan Finneran, although I didn’t know it at the time. The guy who attacked you was his supplier, a pill dealer named Frank Zegna. He rolled on the kid, but he just knew him by a street name. Dylan was quite the little entrepreneur--half the teenagers in Palmyrton were his customers. Kept ‘em juiced on E, painkillers, Adderall.”

  “But not weed or coke.”

  Coughlin shakes his head. “No one-stop shopping. That corner of the market is controlled by Mondel Johnson, and his boss, Nichols.”

  “So the pills in Mrs. Szabo’s kitchen belonged to Dylan?”

  Coughlin raises his eyebrows. “Farrand told me Tremaine found those pills before you ever came on the scene. Why did you feel you had to lie about that?”

  I smile weakly. “Complicated. I promise I’ll tell you everything. But finish telling me about Dylan first.”

  “The Ecstasy must’ve belonged to Dylan. I think he tried to double-cross Zegna by telling him you took the E, which is why Zegna came after you in the parking garage and at your condo. Not that Dylan’s admitting any of this. He’s got the best defense team since OJ Simpson. But we had enough on him to search his room and seize his computer. One thing it shows was he was monitoring estate sales. I figure he used different empty houses to hide his product. The average dumb kid keeps it in his sock drawer until mom goes on a cleaning binge and he’s busted.”

  “Finneran grandchildren are all above average.” I turn my head toward Coughlin but the tube pumping oxygen into my lungs restricts my movement. All I can glimpse is a field of blue, the shirt covering his massive chest. “Anne thought I wanted to harm Dylan, destroy her family. I—” I start to cough, can’t go on.

  “We have a lot of work to do to build our case. We may never get forensic evidence to prove Anne set the fire and tried to trap you, but your testimony will be vital to prosecute Dylan, Audrey. You discovered the pills. You told Tremaine about them. You got attacked by Zegna. You’re the one who links Dylan Finneran to a violent drug dealer. Without your testimony, they could get this hushed up as a youthful indiscretion.”

  I think of all the other things Anne knew that linked me to Dylan, things that Cal told her about. How I found him smoking weed the night of the birthday party, how I caught him shoplifting at the Reicker sale. He must’ve been collecting another one of his hidden stashes that day. I’ll tell all this to Coughlin, but not right now. I don’t have the strength. But I understand now what Anne meant when she told me she hadn’t given up but was just redirecting her fight. She was dying anyway, and if she could save Spencer’s election and keep Dylan out of jail by going a few months early, and taking me with her…. But she failed. I’m alive.

  “I’ll testify,” I whisper to Coughlin.

  “Good. Even the n
ext governor of New Jersey could have a hard time covering up two counts of attempted murder.”

  I’ve lost track of what day it is. “The election?” I ask.

  “Finneran won.”

  I close my eyes and take as deep a breath as my damaged lungs will hold. All Cal’s hard work has paid off. Spencer Finneran is the new governor of New Jersey and Cal will be his chief of staff. At least someone’s fondest wish has come true. I’m happy for Cal, even if he doesn’t believe Anne tried to kill me. It would be nice to congratulate him.

  “So listen, Audrey,” Coughlin starts up again. “The press is all over this. There are reporters camped outside the hospital. But you need to keep quiet until we get our ducks in a row, all right? No talking to reporters, or to anyone in the Finneran family…or their representatives.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?

  “Tremaine. Keep your distance.”

  I struggle to sit up straight so I feel more in control. The tube forcing oxygen in my nose slips out, and Coughlin leans over to readjust it.

  “Easy, there.”

  His hands are surprisingly gentle, but I bat them away. “You’re telling me I can’t talk to my— Can’t talk to Cal?”

  A ripple of emotion passes across his normally implacable face. “I’m telling you the hospital’s the safest place for you. Turn away all visitors. I’ll post an officer at your door.”

  “I hate the hospital, I wanna go home.” Coughlin’s commanding tone instantly gets my hackles up. Physically, he couldn’t be less like my father: hulking not wiry, fair not dark, blue-eyed not brown. But somehow Coughlin manages to push exactly the same buttons as dear old Dad. There’s the same insistance that he knows best; the same infuriating refusal to trust my judgment. “You have no right to imprison me here, or dictate who I can and can’t see.”

  “I’m just telling you, Tremaine is loyal to one person, and that’s Spencer Finneran. Watch your back.”

  “You’re just—” I was about to say jealous, but I bite the word back. This has nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with control. I try to put some calm authority into my wheezing voice. “You were wrong about Ty and you’re wrong about Cal.”

  We glare at each other until Coughlin lifts his hands in surrender and stands to go.

  Strangely, I feel a stab of remorse. I’m being petulant. Coughlin acts like a hovering helicopter mom; I act like a defiant brat. “Sean, wait—,” I say as he reaches the door. But my voice is too weak. He heads off down the hall.

  Chapter 47

  Coughlin’s dream of keeping me locked up in the hospital is defeated by my insurance carrier. They’re not paying for another night, so the morning after Coughlin’s visit, the nurses disconnect my oxygen supply, hand me some antibiotics, and cut me loose. I was kind of hoping Cal might appear to take me home. Instead, Jill arrives promptly at nine. I hate having to rely on her to look after me. Still, the warm rush of her chatter comforts me.

  “Ohmygod Audrey I can’t believe you’re in the hospital again and I totally missed the whole thing because I agreed to drive up to Albany with my friend Gabby to help her move into the dorm because she got into graduate school for microbiology did I tell you that? And anyway she needed help with her stuff so when I got up there I realized I didn’t have my cell phone and I was totally out of touch for the whole weekend and it was killing me and then I got back and Ty told me what happened and ohmygod Audrey I just can’t believe it.”

  “Yeah, it sucks,” I say as I settle into a wheelchair for the ride down to the lobby. Apart from the fact that my hair is singed on the side of my head that was closest to the doorway when the fireball erupted, I’m in good shape. But my lungs were damaged from the smoke and the doctor says I can expect to be short of breath for months. Eager to conserve oxygen, I let Jill do all the talking.

  “And when I got home from Albany I searched everywhere for my cell phone and I couldn’t find it. So now I think I must’ve lost it at your dad’s house so it’s definitely gone for good and I had to buy a new one and re-enter my whole address book and that was such a pain but I like the new phone and I finally feel whole again you know what I mean because you just feel lost when you don’t have your phone.”

  Jill’s words wash over me like elevator music. I’m eager to get to the office. My mind ticks with things I need to do, calls I need to make. With Ethel gone, there’s no need to go home first. My eyes well with tears when I think of the welcome home that I would have received from Ethel. I turn my head, hoping Jill won’t see as she leans over me to press the DOWN button on the elevator.

  “So Audrey I’m still so confused about what happened. The paper said something about the fire starting from a candle. Why did you light them? Why was Anne Finneran there? Audrey?”

  “Huh?” I make an effort to process Jill’s stream of monologue. “The candles? No, I didn’t light them. I thought—” Wait a minute. Something’s not adding up here. “When did you leave for Albany?”

  “Four o’clock. Remember I told you I was going to finish at your dad’s house and then take off?”

  I don’t remember, but that’s because I often listen to Jill with only half an ear. “Did you text me late in the afternoon and ask me to meet you at the house so you could show me some stuff before you got rid of it?”

  “No, why would I do that? You and your Dad already said you didn’t want to keep anything but the books and CDs and the computer.”

  The elevator doors open. We roll out into the hustle bustle of the hospital lobby. Jill pushes me toward the exit and a tall, lean man holds the door for us. The next thing I know, he’s loped around us and is blocking our path on the sidewalk.

  “Evan Shapiro, New York Times.” He thrusts his hand out. “I have a few questions for you, Ms. Nealon.”

  I dodge his hand. Coughlin was right about one thing--the press is after me. I’m not ready for this. “No comment. Keep going, Jill.”

  Shapiro trots after us. “Why was Mrs. Finneran in the house? Did you invite her there? What were you discussing?”

  I practically dive into Jill’s car and slam the door in the reporter’s face.

  “How well did you know Anne Finneran?” he shouts as Jill pulls away from the curb.

  “Not well enough.” I mutter.

  “What did you say?”

  I look over at Jill. “You didn’t lose your phone. Anne, or more likely, Dylan, stole it and used it to send me a message that would lure me to the house.”

  Jill’s mouth forms a perfect “O” of surprise. “I had all the windows and doors open to air the house out. I was going in and out all day, tossing stuff in the Dumpster. Someone could’ve slipped in the front door while I was out in the back. But why did Anne Finneran want to meet you at your dad’s house?”

  “I’ll explain it to you on the way to the office.”

  Jill responds to my story with a rising crescendo of “Get out!”s and “No way!”s. By the time we pull up to the office, she’s finally stopped chattering. She helps me out of her car, then glances at the AMT van parked behind it. “Ty must be back from delivering those antique chairs to Gerald,” she says. “Hey, now that they’ve arrested Dylan, does that mean the big red-haired cop will stop harassing Ty?”

  “I hope so,” I answer aloud, but in my head I’m thinking, but he’ll still be pursuing him about his relationship with Mondel Johnson.

  We walk into the office and find Ty packing boxes for a UPS shipment. He drops his tape gun and opens his arms wide.

  “Hey, Audge! How you doin’?”

  “I’m great!” I lie, then sway and crash dizzily into my desk chair.

  “What you bring her here for?” Ty scolds Jill. “Shouldn’t she be home in bed or something?”

  “No really, I’d rather be here with you guys than home alone anyway.” I see a quick glance pass between them.

  “Think I’ll go to the bank,” Jill says, snatching a pile of checks from her desk.

  I kn
ow she’s just as distraught over Ethel’s disappearance as I am. The only way we can hold ourselves together is to studiously avoid mentioning the dog in each other’s presence. “Good idea,” I tell her. I’d like a few minutes alone with Ty anyway.

  When she’s gone, Ty goes back to wrapping boxes, and for several minutes the only sound is the zipping of tape.

  I gather up my courage. “Ty—”

  “Look, Audge—”

  “You first,” I say.

  Ty drops into a chair. “Look, Audge, I know I been actin’ kinda crazy. But now that you know that shit in old lady Szabo’s house wasn’t mine, that I didn’t have no part in what happened to you—”

  “I never thought you did, Ty,” I interrupt. “It’s just…that Mondel Johnson person—I mean, something’s going on, right?”

  “Was going on. Now it’s all settled.”

  I straighten up and start talking. My brush with death has given me courage. I’m surprised at how authoritative I sound. “Look, Ty, I have to know what was going on. I can’t accept ‘it’s all settled.’ You need to tell me the truth right now if you want to keep working for me.”

  Ty gives me that awful prison stare he’s got down cold. I stare back. I’m pretty sure he’s going to stalk out and I’ll never see him again. It’s not what I want, but it may be what I have to accept.

  Then suddenly he drops his gaze. His shoulders slump and his big foot jiggles. “I had to help my cousin Marcus,” he says.

  “Marcus? Isn’t he the one who graduated from Rutgers and got a job at Citibank?”

  Ty rolls his eyes. “That’s him. Our family’s big success story. My whole life that’s all I hear from our Grams, ‘Why can’t you be more like Marcus? He’s so good in school. He’s never hangin’ on the street.”

  “Little bitter?”

  “Listen, Marcus is book smart, but he got no street smarts, know what I’m sayin’? He had a full academic scholarship, but what they don’t tell you is it don’t cover books, and computer, and food and shit. So he had this job in the library workin’ twenty-five hours a week and he still can’t pay for everything. Thought he was going to hafta drop out. That starts our Grandma cryin’ her eyes out, ’cause all she wants is for one of us kids to turn out right. So Marcus gets the idea he could sell a little weed on campus to pay his bills. Our other cousin Jimmy sets him up with Nichols. Now Marcus himself don’t ever mess with drugs, not even weed. But he figures he could sell to a few friends. Before long, he got a real nice business goin’. And because Marcus is good with numbers and not messed up on usin’ the product, Nichols likes workin’ with him. Keeps pressuring him to expand.”