Treasure of Darkness: a romantic thriller (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 2)

by S. W. Hubbard

  “Gee, I’d love to. But I’ve got to get home to feed Ethel. No one else can do it. She’s been very skittish since she got lost.”

  “I knew you were going to say that.” Sean turns in the direction of my condo. “That’s why I’m taking you to a dog-friendly place. Ethel can come with us. We’ll just swing by your place and get her.”

  There are plenty of sidewalk cafes in Palmyrton where you can bring your dog when the weather is nice. But none of those are open in January. “What kind of place lets you bring a dog inside?”

  “Blue Monday. You ever been there?”

  “Isn’t that the place whose neon sign you can see from the train if you’re going into the city? I wouldn’t even know how to drive there.”

  “Oh, it’s off the beaten track, for sure. Willard Street—a dead end that backs up to the railroad tracks. Kind of a cop hangout. And the K-9 guys all bring their dogs.”

  “Isn’t that against the health code or something?”

  “Sure, but Code Enforcement hangs there too.”

  See, this is what bugs me about Sean Coughlin. He’s always one jump ahead, anticipating everyone’s next move. I guess that’s what makes him a good cop. But I’m not some perp he’s trying to outsmart, and I don’t appreciate being backed into a corner.

  “I don’t know, Sean. I—“

  I notice his hands tighten on the steering wheel. He’s staring intently at the road, as if driving down a suburban residential street requires the same level of concentration as driving through Kabul. A little muscle under his right eye twitches madly. That happens when he’s trying to control himself. It bothers me that I know this intimate detail.

  So, now I feel bad. Why can’t I summon my inner bitch and just blow him off? Thank you very much. I have other plans tonight. Catch up with you some other time. But no. I feel myself caving.

  “Okay, sure. I guess it will do Ethel good to get out and socialize with some German Shepherds.”

  Immediately he starts steering with just one hand. The muscle stops twitching. “You’ll thank me for this, Audrey. Once you have your first Blue Burger, you’ll be hooked for life.”

  Hooked for life. This is definitely turning into a thing.

  Unlike me, Ethel is quite elated at the prospect of dining out. When I grab her leash and ask if she wants to go for a ride in the car, she practically flattens me in her haste to get out the door. But when we reach the curb and she realizes the car is not our car and there’s an unfamiliar man at the wheel, she skids to a halt and her hackles go up. She’ll refuse to get in the car. I’m off the hook. Sean will understand that I can’t traumatize my dog.

  He gets out of the car and Ethel rears back. A low growl rumbles from somewhere deep inside her.

  “Easy, Ethel,” I warn. I want her to rescue me, but I don’t want her to go so far as to snap at him.

  Sean stays silent and extends his hand. I see Ethel’s nostril twitch. She steps a little closer to get a better sniff. Slowly, her tail begins to rotate.

  He crouches down and scratches behind her ears. Ethel leaps into his arms.

  So much for doggie trauma. Clearly we’re going out to dinner.

  The Blue Monday began life, maybe around World War II, as a modest frame house. Over the years various additions, porches, and extensions have sprouted from the core, creating an architect’s nightmare. To add insult to injury, the whole monstrosity is painted Smurf blue. Coughlin holds open the door for Ethel and me as if he’s ushering us into The Four Seasons. We’re greeted by a wall of sound: The Allman Brothers wailing from the juke box, scores of guys yelling at three TVs playing three different games, and an occasional bark.

  Drawn by the scent of sizzling burger grease, Ethel forges into the crowd. People call out greetings to Sean and he works his way through the bar slapping shoulders and shaking hands. As my eyes adjust to the gloom, I realize there are a few women in here too. Is it my imagination that they’re checking me out?

  The leash goes slack in my hand as Ethel comes to a dead stop, nose-to-nose with a German Shepherd in a police vest. Ethel’s adoption papers from the pound say she is a “shepherd mix” but when I see her next to a full-blooded shepherd, I realize how much smaller and sleeker she is, despite the similarity in color. The two dogs are on high alert until a beefy guy at the bar speaks one word: “Thor.” Immediately the police dog turns his back on Ethel and lies down at his handler’s feet. As an obedience school drop-out, Ethel wants to keep investigating, but I drag her to a booth in the corner. Before I even have my jacket off, a waitress drops off a paper plate of broken burgers under the table and two draft beers on top.

  “Is that okay?” Coughlin asks. “Would you rather have wine or something?”

  As if the Blue Monday has a list of Argentine Malbecs and Oregon Pinots. I raise my mug in a toast and take a big swig. Whatever it contains, I need it after all that’s happened today.

  Sean drinks too. Then we set our mugs on the table and look at each other. After all his efforts to get me to go out with him, Coughlin’s got the same look on his face that Ethel had on the one occasion that she actually managed to catch a squirrel.

  This is his show. I’m not the one shopping for a relationship, so I feel no need to help him out.

  “So…how’s your dad?” he finally manages.

  “Getting better. His left hand is weak from the stroke and he still can’t drive, so he’s on leave from teaching at Rutgers. But he can walk all around town from his new apartment. He’s started an after school chess club for the kids at the Rosa Parks Center.”

  “Parks is a good place. Sometimes I coach basketball there.”

  “That’s nice.”

  I sit with my hands folded primly well away from Sean’s huge mitts. I know I’m being difficult. I could ask him about his family, ask him about coaching basketball, volley the conversational ball back to him. But I don’t. The best way to get him to give up on me is to make him realize we’re just not right for each other. For one thing, he’s just so damn big! Big hands. Big neck. Big biceps. Not my type at all. I struggle to keep to keep the image of Cal’s long-fingered hands and lithe torso out of my mind’s eye. For another thing, Sean and I have nothing in common. I’m a bleeding-heart, math-nerd only child obsessed with art and antiques. He’s a law and order, weight-lifting sports nut related by blood or marriage to half of Palmer County. Where can we go with that?

  The waitress sets down our bleu cheese burgers and I realize how truly ravenous I am. And Sean’s right—this is an uncommonly good burger.

  He points at me with a French fry. “Did you ever see the episode of Antiques Roadshow where the wife hauls the big, garish vase out to the curb and the husband drags it back and they’re on TV fighting like Ali and Frazier?”

  “And the thing’s butt ugly, so you totally understand why the wife wants it gone…”

  “And the husband keeps insisting it’s his great grandmother’s Victorian vase worth five hundred bucks ‘cause he looked it up on eBay.”

  “And the dealer shakes his head.”

  “And you feel bad for the guy ‘cause the wife is such a bitch…”

  “And then the dealer says it’s not Victorian, it’s early Qing Dynasty. And it’s worth two hundred grand!”

  We burst into laughter.

  “You watch Antiques Roadshow?” I ask.

  Sean cocks an eyebrow. “What? You think the TVs of knucklehead cops don’t get PBS?”

  Busted! I slip Ethel a French fry to cover my embarrassment.

  “I watch with my Great Aunt Moira every Sunday that I’m not working. She loves it.” Sean doesn’t hold a grudge. “You ever save something from the dump like that?”

  “All the time.” So I tell him about Mid-Century Modern coffee table that came out of a retired dentist’s rec room covered with water rings and ended up auctioning for fifty-grand.

  And then he tells me about Aunt Moira’s collection of antique Waterford that he and his brothers nearl
y destroyed playing whiffle ball in the house.

  Before I know it, the waitress is handing Sean the check saying table service has ended for the night and we’ll have to move to the bar. It’s 11:30.

  I look under the table. Ethel is sound asleep. She staggers up and looks around blearily, as puzzled as I am to find herself still here.

  “Guess we better get going,” Sean says, waving off my attempt to split the check.

  Out in the car, awkwardness descends again as I frantically calculate how to fend off the goodnight kiss and any expectation that he’ll come in for the proverbial nightcap. Sean also seems to be lost in thought as he drives toward my condo. Probably planning his offensive.

  After two blocks of silence, he speaks. “Look, Audrey…I gotta ask you this, but don’t take it the wrong way, okay?”

  Uh-oh. Here it comes.

  “I’m going to go to the corner by the hardware store tomorrow morning to look for Ramon. But I need to know—is there any possibility that your man Griggs knew—“

  I flip from anxiety to outrage. “No! Can’t you get past this constant suspicion of Ty? You were wrong last fall when you suspected him of being involved when I was attacked. You’re wrong now.”

  “You’re twisting my words before they’re even out of my mouth,” The easy charm has disappeared from his voice. “Look, Audrey, it’s my job to consider all the angles. Isn’t it possible that Griggs discovered the cans didn’t contain soup while you were working in the house? I mean, anyone would be tempted to keep a few under circumstances like that.”

  I take a deep breath. Coughlin has accused me of being blinded by emotion when I deal with Ty, and maybe sometimes I am. But this isn’t one of those times. “I’m going to explain it to you one more time,” I say in the tone I used to use when I tutored floundering UVA athletes in the intricacies of multiplying fractions. “Ty was not working in the kitchen at any point during the day. He managed the second floor during the sale. He only came into the kitchen at the end, to haul stuff out to the truck. I saw him toss the box into the back of the truck and drive off. He had no opportunity to examine those cans.”

  Sean’s lips press into a hard line. “What about this client of yours? Is she legit? She came back to the house with money in a can. How do you know she’s not setting you up?”

  “Setting me up for what? If we had really given the cans to the soup kitchen, I wouldn’t be obligated to get them back for her. She’d be on her own.” I pull my phone from my pocket. “She called me four times while we were eating. She’s positive there’s more money in those other cans.”

  “Have you ever had a case like this before, with cash hidden in cans?”

  “Not in cans, but we find money squirreled away all over houses all the time. I’ve explained to Jill and Ty how important it is that we always turn it over to the owners. A reputation for honesty is what sells my business. Ninety five percent of the time, the owners had no idea the cash was there and they’re grateful and impressed that we handed it over.”

  “And the other five percent?”

  “They’re people who have intentionally set up a test to see if we’ll clear the bar. They put a few bills in a Tupperware container or between the pages of a book just to catch us cheating.”

  Coughlin glances at me. “How can you be sure of that?”

  “They have a funny look on their faces when I give it back. Almost like they’re disappointed that they were wrong about human nature.”

  Coughlin glides up to stop sign and twists sideways to face me. “And have you ever used that test on your staff?”

  “Yes. But I hide the cash much more artfully than my clients do. And Jill and Ty have passed every time. I trust them completely.”

  Coughlin pulls into traffic without a word. But the mood in the car has shifted a bit. Maybe I’ve finally proven I’m not the naïve chump he takes me for.

  He parks in front of my condo. Recognizing home, Ethel launches herself into the front seat, stomping on my beer-swollen bladder and waving her tail in Coughlin’s face. God bless her.

  “Let me get this crazy mutt out of your way!” I spring the passenger door open and prepare to dash.

  Coughlin’s hand comes down on my shoulder. “I’ll call you in morning after I check out the corner by the hardware.” His index finger brushes a tiny patch of skin between my hairline and coat collar. “Dinner was fun.”

  I shiver. Because it’s January, right? I follow Ethel out onto the sidewalk, then poke my head back into Coughlin’s car.

  “Thank you, Sean. For everything.”

  He waits at the curb until Ethel and I are safely inside. I hear a little farewell toot.

  The dog sits at my feet with her head tilted and her ears pricked.

  “Don’t give me that look, Ethel. I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  Chapter 4

  I wake up on Sunday morning to four emails from my dad: 7:12, 7:43, 7:49, 8:17. Only the first one has a subject line—breakfast. Shit. I forgot I promised I’d take him to the Athenian Diner. I hadn’t planned on going out on Saturday night, so I thought I could get there early enough to suit him. I don’t need to read the emails to know what they say: What time are you coming? Aren’t you awake yet? Should I just eat at home? Never mind the diner, I’ve eaten.

  My father knows that emails don’t arouse a sleeping daughter, but he sends them anyway. If he really wanted to go to the diner, he could’ve called to wake me. But Dad has always hated the phone, and since his speech is still slightly slurred from the stroke, phone conversations are one long string of “Huh? What? Baton? Barcode? Oh, bacon!” So I can’t really blame him for wanting to avoid that frustration. Still, he could manage, “Hello, wake up.” But email is his medium, so email is what we use.

  I email, “On my way. Be there in 10,” then leap out of bed and into the closest pair of jeans. There’s really no need to look good at the Athenian. Clear out on Route 10, it attracts a mixed crowd of early-bird old-timers and up-all-night twentysomethings, so I’m unlikely to run into anyone I know. Ethel whines by the door.

  “Don’t worry. You’re coming too. Dad will complain less if you’re there.” Then I remember. My car isn’t here. I have to walk over to Jill’s house to get it. And the events of yesterday come rushing back. The lost soup cans. The strangely enjoyable dinner with Sean. The four calls from my client that I still haven’t answered. I’m not sure which causes more turmoil in my gut.

  I retrieve my car and arrive even later than promised at Dad’s place. Turns out I don’t need Ethel to act as a guard dog. My father is unaccountably chipper as he lets us into his apartment.

  “Good morning, ladies!”

  I listen closely for sarcasm but hear none. Sometimes good morning is just good morning. He pets Ethel, but doesn’t touch me. I want to hug him, but don’t. You go first. No, you. Old habits die hard. The events of the past few months upended our lives and now we tip-toe around each other trying to figure out how to behave in our new reality. The reality in which both of us were wrong about my mother, and wrong about each other.

  “Sorry I’m late. My grandma died.” This is as close to joking around as we come. Years of teaching undergrads has left my father impervious to all excuses. He claims grandparental death is the number one apologia offered up for missing exams, late homework, and unwritten papers. Some kids’ grandparents die two or three times per semester.

  “No problem.” He walks ahead of me toward his kitchen. “Want a cup of tea?”

  “I thought you were anxious for breakfast.”

  “No point in getting to the diner too early. I want to go to the mall afterwards and it doesn’t open ‘til 11:00 on Sunday.”

  “The mall!” Now I’m totally flummoxed. No one hates shopping more than my dad. He hasn’t set foot in the Short Hills Mall since the birth of the Internet. Amazon Prime membership was the best gift I’ve ever given him.

  “I need a birthday gift by tomorrow. No time for shippi
ng.”

  Curiouser and curiouser. Who could possibly be on the receiving end of this generosity? All the birthday gifts I ostensibly received from him in my childhood were selected by my grandmother. When she died, my birthday gifts from Dad went with her. I want to ask Dad who in his life merits a birthday gift, but I don’t trust my voice not to reveal a touch of envy.

  An edgy silence settles over us. I still haven’t gotten used to the crisp newness of every item in this apartment. Dad offers me the Sunday New York Times crossword, three-quarters completed in ink. I scan the blanks. “Seventeen down: ‘Book that makes light of the missionary position’ ‘of Mormon.’” I toss it back.

  “Humph.” That one clue opens up a logjam and he busily fills in more squares. I watch his bowed gray head, his thin, veiny hands forming precise block capitals. “I have a friend at the Parks Center,” he says, his eyes never leaving the newspaper. “Just found out about the birthday. I’d like to get her a little something.”

  Her? Her? So far as I know, in the thirty years since my mother’s death, Dad has never had a date. “A lady friend! What’s going on?”

  His brow furrows and his lips compress. Still his eyes don’t leave the paper. “Don’t be ridiculous, Audrey. She’s been kind to me. I just want to show her I appreciate it.” His hand stops printing. “You know that can be hard for me.”

  Tell me about it.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Natalie. Natalie Renfrew. She’s a retired pediatrics nurse. Teaches a parenting class at the Center. And she teaches a knitting class for the kids. Kyle and Jamal take it, and they persuaded me to go along.” He glances up from the crossword and nods towards his easy chair.

  For the first time, I notice a tangle of gray yarn on the end table. I walk over and pick it up: the outline of half a mitten attached to two needles. My father has fallen for a woman who teaches parenting skills. The irony is too rich to stomach. And he’s knitting?