Another Man's Treasure (a romantic thriller) (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 1)
Page 33
“What is that thing anyway?”
“It’s the column of a washing machine agitator.”
Harold declares this with great confidence. I suppose it might be that, but I don’t see any conclusive evidence.
“I can use this in case my washing machine breaks.”
Ty squints his eyes. “But how do you know it will fit? And if your washer’s not even broken, why….”
Harold tucks the thing under his arm. “I wanted to buy it earlier, but five dollars was too much.”
“Well, you can have it for free now, but first you gotta help me pick up all this stuff you dumped outta the box.”
The words have barely left his lips and I know I know Ty’s made a terrible mistake. As quickly as he tosses the junk back in the box, Harold dives in to reclaim it.
“This lamp is useful.” Harold holds it aloft.
Ty tries to yank it away. “No, it’s busted—we already tried it out.”
“I could fix it,” Harold says.
I see his eyes dart frantically back and forth and he takes a step closer to the other loaded box.
“No!” Ty and I shout in unison.
“Look, Harold, you can’t carry any more stuff on your bicycle,” I say in my most reasonable voice. The bike is propped against the porch railing, its basket weighed down with books, garden shears and a fierce looking statue—Montezuma, Tecumsuh? Harold has clearly made the rounds of other sales. Bulging saddlebags cover the rear wheel. It’s a miracle the tires stay inflated.
Harold clutches his two newest finds to his chest like a father reunited with his lost children at the end of a war. “I can come back. Just leave the boxes on the porch for me.”
“No way.” Ty steps towards the packed box. “When we leave here, the place will be empty.”
Harold pitches himself over the box. “There are useful things in here. It can’t go to the dump.”
“Audrey, where are the brooms?” Jill appears in the doorway. Her mascara has reached end-of-the-day smudginess and she looks like a perplexed raccoon. “What’s going on? Hi, Harold.”
Ty starts to explain. Harold interrupts. I try shouting over both of them. Somehow, Jill figures it out. She sits down cross-legged next to Harold and the box. “We’re not taking this box to the dump, Harold.” She speaks in the soothing sing-song I use on my dog Ethel during thunderstorms. “We’re giving it to our friend, Sister Alice, the nun who helps people in Newark. Remember I told you about her?”
Harold nods. His hands are trembling but he listens intently.
Jill pulls a marker from her back pocket and scratches out DUMP. She starts printing S-I-S “Ty just mislabeled this box. Isn’t that right, Ty?”
Ty scowls, but clearly Jill’s ploy is the quickest way to free us from Harold. “Yeah, right. I musta had my wires crossed….or somethin’.”
Gently, Jill lays her hand on Harold’s. “Sister Alice could really use this lamp, Harold. She’s helping a family who lost everything in a fire.”
Slowly, Harold’s pinscher grasp loosens. “You’re sure both boxes are going to Sister Alice? Because there are some useful things in there.”
“Absolutely. Right, Audrey?”
“Definitely. And you can keep the washing machine part.”
Harold allows Jill to take the lamp and limps off the porch with the presumptive washing machine thingie. Resting it across the bike’s basket, he wobbles away, the unbalanced bike sometimes swerving into oncoming traffic. We can hear horns blowing even after he’s disappeared around the corner.
“Nice save, Jill!” I squeeze her shoulder and hand her a broom.
Ty shakes his head, grabs the dump boxes, and starts loading the van. As he returns for the boxes destined for the soup kitchen, a short, dark-haired man approaches the van. “Ramon!” Ty shouts. “Perfect timing, man. Come on in the house. I’ll show you what we got.”
Ramon nods shyly to Jill and me as he passes. He speaks very little English. He’s one of the many Central American men who stand in front of the hardware store in town hoping that contractors will hire them for a day’s work spreading mulch or hauling bricks. Whenever Ty needs an extra set of strong arms, he swings by there for help. He’s used different men, but Ramon is his favorite because he’s so hard-working, and they’ve figured out their own Spanglish communication.
Before long, they emerge carrying the unwieldy armoire.
“Cuidado on the steps, man,” Ty advises.
Although Ramon is much shorter than Ty, his arms and shoulders are powerful and he holds his end up with no problem. I watch until they have the furniture safely in the van, then wave them off.
“When I get back, y’all better be ready to move,” Ty calls out the window as he drives off.
“Ty’s meeting Marcus in the city. They’ve got some big night planned,” Jill tells me as we return to the kitchen to finish sweeping.
“Ah, to be young!”
“Oh, Audrey—thirty-three isn’t old. You should go clubbing in the city.” Jill twirls with her broom. “Meet some new people.”
“I’m not the clubbing type.” But Jill is right. I’m in a rut. I do need to meet some new people. “My friend Maura gets back from England soon. She’ll drag me out to parties. Maybe I’ll at least make it as far as Hoboken.”
“Hoboken has too many frat boys. You’d do better in Williamsburg. It’s arty.”
“Been there, done that. I’ve sworn off depressed poets and starving musicians. What neighborhood do I go to for smart and well-adjusted?”
“Camelot.”
“Narnia.”
“Neverland.”
Our laughter is interrupted by footsteps pounding down the hall. Seconds later, a woman skids into the kitchen.
“Oh, thank God you’re still here!”
It’s Martha, Mr. Wainwright’s daughter, the one who hired me to organize the sale. Blonde hair disheveled, chest heaving, she brushes past me and flings open the pantry door.
She shrieks as if I’d just tossed her baby off a bridge. Eyes blazing, she turns on me. “Where are they?”
“Wha—?”
“The cans. Where are they?”
“Ty just took them to the soup kitchen. You said you wanted to donate—”
“Not any more. Call him! Get them back!”
I’m really not in the mood for this. Martha Wainwright had seemed like such a nice, reasonable client. Of course she wanted to donate anything useful that didn’t sell. No, she didn’t need to approve the donations. Now here she is going batshit on me.
“What’s the problem?”
She reaches inside her large purse and pulls out a can of Progresso Minestrone. The pop top has been pulled. She thrusts it toward me.
Inside is a tightly coiled wad of cash.
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About the Author
S.W. Hubbard’s most recent novel is Treasure of Darkness, the sequel to Another Man’s Treasure. She is also is the author of three mystery novels and a collection of short stories set in the Adirondack Mountains: Take the Bait, Swallow the Hook Blood Knot, and Dead Drift. Her short stories have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine and the anthologies Crimes by Moonlight, Adirondack Mysteries, and the upcoming Mystery Box. She lives in Morristown, NJ, where she teaches creative writing to enthusiastic teens and adults, and expository writing to reluctant college freshmen. Visit her at http://www.swhubbard.net.
Acknowledgements
No good book is written alone. The following people have earned my deepest gratitude: my fellow authors, Mike Cooper, Hallie Ephron, Pamela Hegarty, and Roberta Isleib for all their love and criticism; Pamela Ahearn for her support and feedback; and Ann Hubbard for her eagle-eyed copy-editing.
Double thanks to Roberta for her boundless cheerleading. Ultimate thanks to Kevin,
my husband and personal patron of the arts, without whose love and support no writing would be possible.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55