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

by S. W. Hubbard

  “Whoa. Back up. You’ve taken up knitting because Kyle and Jamal are doing it?” Kyle is Ty’s 10-year-old cousin and Jamal is his best friend. They were the charter members of Dad’s chess club, and they made it cool for other kids to join. But chess is the limit of quiet indoor activity I can imagine for those two bike-crashing, hoops-shooting, skateboard-riding yahoos.

  Dad puts his pen down and a smile touches his lips. “Natalie bet them lunch at Cluck U that they couldn’t learn to knit. Greasy fried chicken is a powerful motivator. Then they bet me a Boston crème donut that I couldn’t learn. Turns out knitting is very mathematical. You should try it. And it’s been great therapy for me. Better than the stupid tricks that occupational therapist wants me to perform.”

  I study the neat rows of stitches reducing by twos to form the rounded top of the mitten. “So bet me.”

  “Dinner at the Green Pagoda.”

  “That would inspire Ethel to take up knitting, but not me. How about dinner at the Green Pagoda with you and Natalie? I want to meet this woman.”

  Dad actually blushes. “I, uh, haven’t actually been out with her yet. It’s awkward with my not being able to drive.”

  “It’s the twenty-first century, Dad. You don’t have to be her chauffeur. Just tell her to meet you there.”

  Dad makes a face and returns to the crossword puzzle. I glance at the clock on the wall in the kitchen. 9:45. It dawns on me that Coughlin must be at the corner by the hardware store by now. Could I have missed his call? I pull out my phone: no texts, no missed calls.

  “Am I keeping you from something?” Dad asks.

  “No. Not at all. I’m just expecting a call.”

  He fixes me with a penetrating stare above his reading glasses. I realize I might as well tell him about yesterday because when Sean does call, I won’t be able to cover up what’s going on. So I fill him in: cans, Ramon, dinner.

  Dad listens without interruption. “I can see that these missing cans put you in an awkward position. I’m glad you called Sean to help you.” He folds up the newspaper. “I see your bet and raise you. Dinner at the Green Pagoda with Natalie and me and Sean Coughlin. Final offer.”

  “Since when are you in the matchmaking business? And since when is a sports-loving, Irish Catholic cop your idea of a dream man for me? Wouldn’t you prefer an actuary, a hedge fund manager?”

  “I’d prefer someone who doesn’t nearly get you killed. Like that Cal person.”

  I’d prefer someone who doesn’t break my heart. Nobody seems the safest bet.

  “I’m not looking to get involved, Dad.”

  “It’s not good to spend so much time alone, Audrey. I’ve been much happier since I’ve been volunteering at the Parks Center. I’ve enjoyed getting to know Sean better. He’s remarkably patient.”

  Patient? That’s not the first adjective that springs to mind when I think of Sean Coughlin. And it seems Coughlin and my dad have been talking. So when Coughlin asked how my dad was last night, he already knew. “So you two have been chatting? What about?”

  “The kids at the Center. His work. My work. I suspect he’d like to inquire about you, but he restrains himself.”

  Something about Dad and Sean’s coziness brings out the pettiness in me. “You know Coughlin graduated from Montclair State. The school you always say uses a heart rate monitor to make its admissions decisions.”

  Dad and I lock eyes for a long moment. He is the first to look away. He walks to the big window overlooking downtown and speaks with his back to me. “People can change, Audrey. I’ve lived the past thirty years not believing that to be true. But the stroke, this business with your mother, my time at the Parks Center—they’ve changed me. I’d like to think I’m a little more open to…variety.”

  Variety. The man who read the New York Times for two hours in the same green wing chair while listening to Bach every evening of my childhood is now open to variety. All righty.

  “Look, Dad, I came over here expecting to spend an hour eating greasy eggs with you. You’re kinda blowin’ me away here, if you know what I mean.”

  Just as Dad is about to answer, my phone rings. Coughlin.

  He starts talking without a hello. “I’m at the hardware store. The guys on the corner said a tall black kid came twenty minutes ago looking for Ramon. They told him to check an apartment on Filmore. I just got a call from work that I have to take care of, so I can’t go to Filmore right away. I’ll be there in thirty. Call your man off, Audrey.” The line goes dead.

  Why is it necessary to bark out orders like that? My hands tremble as I dial Ty, whether from anger or excitement I don’t know. Immediately, my call rolls to Ty’s voicemail. He never turns his phone off or lets it run out of juice. So he’s calling someone.

  Or he declined my call.

  Dad looks at me with his eyebrows raised. I text Ty “Call me NOW.” A moment later, the phone rings.

  “Audge, I found out from the guys on the corner where Ramon lives. I’m headed there now.”

  “No! Don’t you go. Let Detective Coughlin handle it. He has the address.”

  “He’s ahead of me?”

  “No. He has something to take care of, then he’s going over there.”

  “Audge, there’s no time to mess around. Ramon might be headin’ outta town with that cash. I gotta move!”

  “No—if there’s trouble, you’ll get blamed.”

  “I can handle this. I gave Ramon the cans. I’m gettin’ them back.”

  I know that tone in Ty’s voice. This is a point of honor to him. Respect. Street cred. All the nonsense that means so much to men Ty’s age. “Listen, I’m at my dad’s place. That’s only a few blocks from Filmore. I’ll meet you there.”

  “I don’t need you to protect me. I’m twice as big as Ramon.”

  “I don’t want a fight. Wait for me there.” And Ty knows that tone in my voice. I’m the boss. Listen or die.

  I grab my coat. My phone rings again: Martha Wainwright. I’m not talking to her right now, but with any luck, I’ll have good news for her soon. I text: I have a lead on the cans. Talk soon. Then I turn to Dad. “I’m afraid you’ll have to eat Raisin Bran for breakfast, Dad. But I’ll come back to take you to the mall, I promise.”

  “Audrey, this isn’t wise. Stay here at let Sean handle it.”

  “I didn’t ask for your advice. I know what I need to do.”

  Chapter 5

  True to his word, Ty is waiting on the corner of Filmore and Monroe Streets, pacing a groove into the sidewalk. He barely waits for my car to slow down before he yanks the passenger door open and folds his long body into the Civic.

  “Guys said it’s three blocks down, last house on the right.” Ty looks out the window. “That cop called to tell you I was lookin’ for Ramon?”

  That cop. Ty can barely stand to speak Coughlin’s name. “He offered to go talk to the guys on the corner this morning. He found out you got there first.”

  “I’ve been so bugged about the cans, I couldn’t even enjoy the concert last night. Soon as it was over, I came back to Jersey.” Ty leans his head against the car window. “But there was no sign of Ramon or any of them guys, so I figured I’d get up early and come over to the hardware store. I knew I could find him there.”

  “But he wasn’t there?”

  Ty shakes his head. “The other guys were there, but no Ramon.”

  “That’s a bad sign, right? If Ramon isn’t out there looking for work, he must have discovered the money, don’t you think?”

  Ty removes his shades and rubs his eyes. “Probably. It ain’t like Ramon to miss a day of work.”

  “Did you tell the other guys why you were looking for Ramon?”

  “What kinda fool you take me for?” Ty cracks his knuckles. “A couple of them recognized me ’cause they know Ramon works with me sometimes. I said I needed to give him some money, so they told me where to find him.”

  “Good. So you don’t think they called him to warn him?”


  “Those guys can’t know about the cans, or else they wouldn’ta told me nothin’.”

  That makes sense to me. So maybe we’ll find Ramon, but how will we get the cans back? The lunacy of coming here without Coughlin is beginning to set in.

  I find a parking spot right in front of the house, a two-story clapboard that’s clearly been divided into several apartments since there are two front doors. In the bright light of Sunday morning, the neighborhood seems less threatening. Across the street a yellow and red Cozy Coupe is parked on the porch. Hand-cut paper snowflakes decorate the windows. But Ramon’s house shows no such signs of cheerful family life.

  Ty is opening the car door before I’ve even turned off the ignition. I grab his arm. “Wait. Let’s just sit here and watch. As long as he’s still in there, we can afford to wait for Coughlin.”

  “But we don’t know—”

  “Well, if he’s gone, then we’ve lost him. Don’t be impulsive. We’ll just keep an eye on the house.”

  Think first, act later is not Ty’s usual MO. He leaves the car door open, but doesn’t move to get out. Yet. I feel like I’m sitting next to a cat watching a bird feeder.

  My mind is churning with possibilities. The money might be right there, within our grasp. Or we might be walking into a nest of desperate men. And how can I keep Ty on a short enough leash that he doesn’t make the situation worse?

  I have no distractions as I think. The only movement on this quiet side street on Sunday morning is a squirrel scampering across a phone line. Then loud voices break the silence. We look around. The street is still empty.

  “That’s comin’ from the house.” Now Ty is out of the car and heading up the walk. He’s done with thinking, so I guess I am too.

  Once we’re on the porch, the volume of the voices grows. They’re speaking Spanish, but we don’t have to understand the language to know they’re arguing. One word is discernable over and over amid the frenetic flow: dinero.

  Ty tries both doors. Locked. He’s tall enough to be able to look through the fanlight windows at the top of the doors.

  “This door opens to a hall that leads to the back apartment,” Ty says. “I see people moving back there.”

  “Is it Ramon?”

  “Can’t tell.” He spins around and bounds down to the yard in one leap. “I’m goin’ around back.”

  “Wait!”

  “They’re fightin' over the money. They could duck out the back door.”

  This isn’t good. Hasn’t it been thirty minutes? Where the hell is Coughlin? I trail Ty down a narrow, rutted concrete walk that runs along the side of the house. He’s already on the back porch by the time I come around the corner. Now the yelling has escalated to screaming, and we hear thuds and crashes through the house’s flimsy wooden walls.

  “Ty, watch out. There could be a gun!”

  But Ty presses his face against the window, blocking the bright sunlight with his cupped hands.

  “Is it Ramon?”

  “Could be. One guy is short. They’re across the room.”

  Now a piercing shriek.

  “Shit. He’s got a knife!”

  “Who? Get away, Ty,” I shout from the yard. Dammit, where is Coughlin?

  As Ty backs away from the window, the back door flies open and a man in a light gray sweatshirt charges out. His mouth forms a perfect O of surprise as he looks directly at me. But he keeps moving, leaping off the porch. That’s when I see the bright red spray of blood across his shirt.

  Ty springs into pursuit, but I fling myself in his path and wrap my arms around his neck. “No! The money isn’t worth getting killed over.”

  Ty shakes me off, but the man is already at the back fence. In one fluid motion he scales it.

  Ty moves to follow, but I hang on his arm like a panicked toddler. “Let him go!”

  “Damm, Audge!" He pries my fingers away from his bicep. “I coulda’ caught him.”

  “And then what? He had a knife.” We glare at each other. “That wasn’t Ramon, was it?”

  Ty shakes his head.

  “He had blood all over his sweatshirt,” I say. Ty and I look toward the open back door and creep back up onto the porch.

  “Hey, Ramon—you okay, man?” Ty shouts.

  No answer.

  We crowd the door and gaze into the dark interior. A stream of blood cuts across the faded yellow linoleum, inching toward us.

  A man lies sprawled on his back, his right arm flung outward. I take one step closer. A black-handled knife sticks straight out of his chest.

  I feel my stomach lurch and my hand comes up to my mouth.

  Behind me I hear a crack, a moan, and a thump. When I turn, I see Ty crumpled on the porch.

  “Ty! My god!” I run to him.

  In the back yard, Coughlin stands with his gun drawn.

  Chapter 6

  I hear a woman screaming hysterically. “You shot him! You shot him. Why, why, why?” She sounds like she’s at the end of a long tunnel.

  The woman is me.

  Ty’s mouth hangs open and his eyes have rolled back. My mind goes blank in panic. What should I do first? Check for a pulse? Start CPR? My hands shake so violently I can’t even open Ty’s coat to see where he’s hurt.

  A figure casts a shadow over us.

  “Get away! Why did you shoot him?”

  Sean charges past me and enters the house.

  Ty’s eyelids flicker. “What happened?” he murmurs.

  “You were shot. I’ll get an ambulance. Just stay focused on me. Are you in pain?”

  He sits up. “Don’t,” I warn.

  “I ain’t hurt. I think I fainted. Can’t stand seein’ all that blood.” Ty looks as green as it’s possible for a black person to look.

  Relief that Ty is unhurt washes over me. My joy doesn’t last long.

  Coughlin reappears. There’s a flash of hurt in his eyes, that heartrending why did you step on my paw look—did I imagine it?—and then the familiar Coughlin is back. “What the hell are you playing at, Audrey? Didn’t I tell you to call this punk off?”

  Ty springs up. “I’m outta here.”

  Coughlin blocks his path. Sirens howl in the distance. “Too late for that, man. You’re a witness to a crime. Come with me.”

  Ty’s eyes widen. “I didn’t touch nobody! Audge, tell him.”

  “Leave Ty alone, Sean! All he did is look through the window.”

  “So he’s a witness. I need to talk to him.” Coughlin puts his huge paw on Ty’s shoulder and starts guiding him off the porch. “And to you,” he adds without looking at me.

  I scamper behind them. “Don’t worry, Ty–I won’t let anything bad happen.” All Ty wants in life is to keep as far away from the cops as possible, but somehow, between me and his family, that never seems to happen.

  Coughlin stops and glares at me. “Let’s go around front. The crime scene team will be here soon.”

  I look over my shoulder. “Shouldn’t we go in and try to help Ramon? The knife is sticking—”

  Coughlin herds us in front of him, his face a block of stone. “He’s dead.”

  When we turn the corner into the front yard, the narrow street is clogged with police cruisers, ambulances, and various dark unmarked cars and vans. Coughlin leads us to a cruiser with its engine running and a patrolman at the wheel. Without a word, he opens the back door and nods to me. A gust of warm air escapes and I realize I’m shivering. I’ll be happy to sit with Ty and Coughlin in there.

  Coughlin slams the door after me and starts walking off with Ty. I try to jump back out and realize the back doors of police cars don’t open from the inside. I pound furiously on the window. Coughlin keeps walking, then reconsiders.

  He comes back and opens the door, but extends his leg to prevent my exit. “You are also a witness, Audrey. We interview witnesses separately.”

  I know that’s true, but understanding and accepting are two different things. The echo of my promise to Ty rings in
my ears. Can I protect him? The only reason Ty is here is because he wants to help me.

  “What about Ty?” Do I sound belligerent, hostile, defiant? I’m trying for reasonable and inquisitive, but I’m no Meryl Streep. “Where are you taking him?”

  Coughlin has that barely suppressed rage look most often associated with fathers dealing with tantrum-throwing toddlers. “We will be right over there. So when I pull out my stun gun, you’ll be able to shoot video as evidence.”

  The sarcasm of that last remark is lost on Ty. He keeps looking back at me as Coughlin leads him to the back of a big black van marked Palmyrton Investigation Unit. I huddle in the back of the squad car. A friendlier person would try to chat with the young cop in the front seat, but frankly, I don’t have the energy. Not two months after the violence surrounding my discovery of the true facts of my mother’s disappearance, I’m once again face-to-face with murder. Poor Ramon is dead, dead because he had the misfortune to accept a donation of canned soup from Another Man’s Treasure. I slump in the back seat, trying to block the image of that knife protruding from his chest. But Ramon—yesterday, smiling and helpful; today, lifeless—is all that fills my mind.

  In about fifteen minutes, I see a red head bobbing above the crowd moving toward me and I feel a knot in my stomach. Coughlin’s going to yell at me, that I know. Do I have a defense? Do I need one?

  He opens the car door and slides in. “You couldn’t wait?” No preamble. Typical Coughlin. “I told you to call off Griggs, not come over here with him.”

  “Everything would have happened the same whether or not Ty and I were here. The fight started while we were sitting in my car, waiting for you.”

  “And what did you think you were going to—” His voice reverberates in the small confines of the car. Coughlin takes a deep breath and starts over, asking me questions in a flat, emotionless tone, probably the same questions he asked Ty. I answer, recounting our every move from the moment Ty called me to the moment Coughlin arrived on the scene. Through the car window, I see a few neighbors standing on their front porches despite the cold. I get the sense that scores more are peeping through their curtains and blinds.