Nora steps up and begins edging her way along the path. A moment passes before she realizes I’m not following. There’s not enough room to turn around, so she has to talk to me with her back turned.
“Just work your way through behind me. Harold comes in this way every day. It’s okay.”
In what universe could this possibly be okay? The towers of crap are perilously unstable. I’m beginning to think Nora is not as normal as I first assumed. The smell is overpowering: rotten food, urine, and the unmistakable aroma of something dead. All dead things smell the same—mice, rats, squirrels, groundhogs. The intensity depends on the size of the creature and the nearness of its passing. My nose says Harold’s house is the tomb for something bigger than a mouse, smaller than what? A buffalo, maybe.
“Look, Nora—I’m not following you in there. This job is way beyond my scope. Way beyond.”
Nora pauses and backs up a few steps, still speaking into the void. “Jill told me that you’d help us.”
“I think she said I’d come out and look at the house. I’m sorry if she gave you the impression that I would definitely take it on.”
There’s a long silence. Then I see Nora’s shoulder’s shaking. Finally, I hear the sobs.
Now what am I going to do? I’m not good with tears under the best of circumstances. Whenever I cried as a child, my dad would leave the room. I soon learned that tears wouldn’t get me what I wanted, and to this day I’m wary of criers.
“Please,” Nora chokes out the word. “If you won’t help us, we’re going to lose the house. And then I don’t know what I’ll do with Harold. I can’t let him into my home, or he’ll destroy that too.”
There’s desperation in her voice. Even without seeing her face, I know her pain is real. “Can you come back out here for a minute? I have an idea.”
I can’t clear this house, but I do know plenty of trash haulers and clean-out crews who can help. I’ll get Nora set up with some contacts and be on my way.
Nora backs toward me and jumps onto the patio.
I pull out my phone and start scrolling through my contacts. “Take down these numbers. Tell them I sent you and they’ll move you to the top of their queues.”
Nora lifts her tear-stained face, but she makes no effort to capture the names and numbers I’m rattling off. “Harold wants you. He trusts you.”
“Well, that’s very sweet, but you’ll just have to explain to him—”
“Have you ever tried to explain anything to Harold?”
I think of our encounter on the front porch of the Wainwright house. “I know he can be a little…obstinate, but—”
Nora gazes out over the weed-choked wreckage of the back yard focused on a point in time, not in space. “Harold ruined my childhood. He ripped apart my family. He didn’t mean to, but he did.”
“Then why do you care what happens to this house? Let the town condemn it. Let Social Services deal with Harold.”
Nora faces me, her eyes fierce. “That’s what my brother says to do. But he lives in Connecticut. He’s not the one who would have to see our uncle every day sleeping in the park, eating out of garbage cans.”
Now I suspect that Nora is trying to manipulate me. “Surely it wouldn’t come to that. Social Services would find him a new place to live, get him some help.”
Nora begins to laugh. Not a pleasant sound as it tilts toward hysteria. “There’s no help for people like Harold. He’s not”—She makes air quotes—“‘a danger to himself or others’. Sometimes I wish he’d hold a knife to someone’s throat. Then the doctors would commit him, make him take his meds. But Harold wouldn’t hurt a fly, at least not intentionally. There’s no help for gentle crazy people, only a life on the streets.”
“Have you tried—”
“I’ve tried everything.” She rattles off an acronym-studded list of government agencies and private charities. “No one will take him. He’s not crazy enough. He has obsessive/compulsive disorder. And delusions brought on by post-traumatic stress. The closest I’ve come to getting him help is when the neighbors turned him in to the ASPCA for having twelve cats. A rescue group found new homes for the cats. Harold, they left behind.”
Twelve cats! That explains some of the smell.
Out on the street, I hear a car door slam.“My only hope is to get the house cleaned up enough that the town won’t condemn it,” Nora says.
“Hi, how’s it going?” a voice calls out somewhere between the pile of dismembered bicycles and the decaying redwood picnic table. A moment later, a Peruvian knit hat appears, followed by the rest of Jill’s bundled figure. The little diamond stud above her nostril makes her nose look redder.
“Jill! What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I went out for lunch and thought I’d just drop by and see how you two are doing.” She pokes at a family of ceramic turtles with the toe of her furry boot.
Jill is striving for guileless nonchalance but falling about half a football field short. She looks at the tunnel through the junk mountain. “So, have you been inside?”
“No, I—”
“Well, come on—let’s check it out.” Jill heads to the back door.
I grab at the hood of her sweatshirt and haul her back. “No way are you going in there. It’s not safe.”
She jerks her clothing out of my grasp. “I want to see exactly what we’re up against.”
“We are not up against anything. We’re not taking this job. The job at Willowby is huge. It’s going to require all our effort.”
Her eyes light up. “We got it?”
“Well, no—I still haven’t heard. But I have a very good feeling about it. We’ll know in a few days.”
“So it can’t hurt to just see what Harold’s got in there.”
Nora can see that Jill is giving her an opening and she chimes in. “It’s not like you have to empty it totally. Just clear the kitchen and hallways. Then I’m going to check on him every week, and make sure that for every new thing that comes in, something else goes out. Once I get his housing situation stabilized, maybe I’ll have better luck getting him into therapy.”
Surely even a cock-eyed optimist like Jill can see that strategy will never work. I’m moved by Nora’s plight, but this is not a project for Another Man’s Treasure.
“Nora, I’m sorry, but I run estate sales. There’s nothing here for me to sell. I simply can’t afford—”
Her eyes light up. “You misunderstood. I’m not asking you to do this out of the goodness of your heart. Didn’t Jill tell you? There’s half a million dollars of Civil War memorabilia in there. Harold is willing to sell it to a museum.”
I glance up at the sound of hammering and see a big woodpecker ferociously pounding a rotten cedar shake above my head. “You expect me to take Harold’s word that he picked up priceless historical artifacts at a garage sale and stowed them away in the house?”
“Oh no—he bought them from a bona fide dealer. Fifteen years ago Harold had plenty of money and he bought these letters written between General Lee and Jefferson Davis. I’ve seen them with my own eyes. And there might be other Civil War memorabilia in there too.”
Nora beams encouragement. “You just have to find them.”
“See!” Jill chirps. “I told you there was valuable stuff in there. I just kinda forgot what.” She heads toward to door. “Let’s check it out and make a plan.”
Often I get testy with Jill, more rarely I get irritated, but I’m headed toward full-throttle rage right now. Why is she defying me like this? It’s hard enough saying no to poor Nora without Jill turning around and offering her false hope.
“Absolutely not.” I actually stamp my foot. “We are not clearing out this house. Get back here, Jill!”
She pauses in the doorway and speaks to me in a tone she usually reserves for pushy telemarketers. “If I want to enter Harold’s house, I am free to do so.” Then she extends a hand to Nora. “Show me around. Apparently, Audrey isn’t interested in this job. But I
would be happy to do it for you on a freelance basis.”
Then Jill and Nora disappear down the rabbit hole.
Chapter 10
It’s been a decade since I graduated UVA with a degree in math. My father continues to mourn the loss of my higher mathematical mind, and it’s true that I am no longer clear on the law of biquadratic reciprocity. But one skill developed in my undergraduate days still comes in handy: I can tune out the world and focus intently on one problem. My anger at Jill hasn’t dissipated, but there’s nothing I can do right now to deter her insane determination to help Harold. And there’s nothing more I can do to secure the job at Willowby. That leaves one problem to focus on: Ramon and the missing money.
I know finding my money isn’t job one for the Palmyrton PD, but finding Ramon has to be important. He has the money, and that’s why the other two were fighting. That’s why that poor kid was killed. Maybe the killer is on his way to meet up with Ramon. Then I have a horrible thought—maybe Ramon is on his way to Honduras right now. Surely Sean has thought of that?
Do I have the chutzpah to call Sean again? I’m not sure I can pull off the charm offensive twice in one day. Finally I take the socially inept teenager’s approach: I text him.
Hey! How are you? Any news on Ramon?
I stare at my phone, willing a response. Nothing. Maybe he’s busy. Then words start to appear.
Still trying to ID the victim.
Wow, they still don’t know who he is? Hasn’t anyone missed him? Isn’t his family looking for him? My eyes tear up as I picture that knife jutting out of his chest, his blood creeping across the floor. Doesn’t anyone but me care? But his family is probably illegal too. They wouldn’t call the police to report their son missing. I imagine them worried, searching. But not reaching out for help. That’s not an option for them.
Don’t you need to question Ramon? He must know the boy. What if he’s already flown off to Honduras?
While I wait for the answer, I can’t help picturing Ramon arriving back in his village like a conquering hero, swarmed by raggedy little children and embraced by the girl he left behind. Part of me wants him to make it back and build himself a little hacienda in the center of town. If it weren’t for the damn Wainwrights, I’d actually be rooting for him.
Can’t fly. Watch placed on all airports
See—I knew Sean was looking for Ramon. So if this hunted man wants to get back home, he’d have to drive, sneak across the Mexican border, make his way down to Central America, a risky journey that would take weeks and eat up a lot of the money. And we’re still not sure how much there is. So maybe Ramon is nearby, hiding out with friends, but he’s sent the money back to his country. I see all those storefronts on Webster Avenue offering wire transfers. I don’t even know how that works.
Have you tried those wire transfer places?
The text message screen goes dark and my phone rings. “Audrey, I’m on it. You’re not the only person on the planet who’s competent. How about you let me do my job, and I’ll let you do yours.” Call ended.
Boom.
Of course finding Ramon and arresting the escaped killer is a job for the police. And I know Coughlin is competent. Mostly. But recovering the Wainwrights’ money and keeping my business afloat is my job. And helping that boy’s family is my job too. My father would say that’s irrational, but it’s not. If I had supervised Ty better, explained the importance of always abiding by our contracts, none of this would have happened. The buck stops with me.
Coughlin is a public servant. That’s completely different than being an entrepreneur. I can’t put the future of my company, and my conscience, in someone else’s hands and just sit back and wait for results. I have to do something.
Then I think of the killer looking straight into my eyes as he jumped off the back porch on Filmore. I remember Coughlin’s warning: I’m a witness to homicide. I don’t want to cross paths with that guy, I really don’t. But Ramon, Ramon is different. I know Ramon—he’s a nice guy. Of course, I’ve been wrong about nice guys in the past, haven’t I? But Ty agrees that Ramon is a good person.
In fact, Ty said Ramon was religious. What about some of the churches in town? I wonder if Coughlin has thought of that?
I can’t call and ask, that’s for sure.
I Google “churches in Palmyrton, NJ.” Twenty-seven—no way! Who is the most church-going person I know who can help me whittle down this list? I pull out my phone and scroll through the contacts. Geez, I know a lot of sinners! I haven’t darkened the door of a church since my grandmother’s funeral. I haven’t even heard a prayer since…since Thanksgiving. Since Ty’s Grandma Betty led us in saying grace. Betty’s definitely got to know her way around the churches in town. I have her number as the emergency contact in Ty’s personnel file, so I dial.
“Hello, baby Audrey! How are you, girl?”
Grandma Betty is not the kind of woman you just hit up for a quick fact. So we chat: my health, her health, my dad’s health. My dog, her grandchildren. While this is going on, my brain is desperately spinning how I can explain why I called without getting her riled up about the murder. But I needn’t have worried. Betty has her finger on the pulse of Palmyrton.
“Are you calling with news about that poor boy who got knifed? You know I’m worried sick about Ty seeing that. And that Spanish fella that helped Ty out—I think he’s in trouble now, too.”
“We need to find Ramon, Betty. The police are busy looking for the guy who stabbed Ramon’s housemate. Meanwhile, Ramon’s out there somewhere. Maybe he has the missing money and the other guy is out to get him. The police are looking for the killer, but I’m not so sure they’re worried about Ramon.”
“Huh. Police only worried about makin’ an arrest. They don’t care who gets hurt in the process.”
“Ty says Ramon is religious. Maybe he’d go to his pastor for help.”
“A church is a place of sanctuary, Audrey. No pastor is going to turn over a member of his flock.
“Don’t you think I could persuade the pastor that I don’t blame at Ramon?”
“Blame don’t really enter into it. When you got a problem to be solved, you can’t just be thinkin’ about what’s in it for you. See, I got a few years on you, and I know you gotta think, what’s in it for the other guy, and how can I give him some of what he wants so I can get some of what I want.”
I’m not entirely sure where this little excursion into behavioral psych from the school of Grandma Betty is leading. “Right. A-a-a-nd?”
“What’s the one thing that boy Ramon wants more than anything?” Betty asks.
“To take all that money back to Honduras.”
“Hmmm—I don’t think so. From what Ty told me about him, what Ramon wants is opportunity. That’s why he snuck into this country. That’s why he works so hard. You offer that young man opportunity, maybe you’ll get your money back.”
I hear her take a breath and I jump in to divert the lecture. “You’re absolutely right. I’ll think about that. But which church in Palmyrton do you think Ramon might have attended?”
“If he’s Catholic, he’d go to Our Mother of Sorrows, that homely little church over on Catalpa Avenue. It was ready to close down before all the Spanish folks moved to Palmyrton.”
“And if he’s not?”
“Then he’d go to the Church of Living Praise—that’s the holy-roller church. They do some serious prayin’ over there. Speaking in tongues and whatnot.”
I don’t even want to consider the whatnot. But at least now I have a place to start.
I’m trolling the Internet for information on those churches when I sneeze. And sneeze again. And again. I spin on my desk chair, groping for a tissue and see that Jill has slipped into the office unheard.
Neither of us speaks.
I grab a tissue and turn my back on her. And sneeze. Then I smell it. Dust and cat and that sickly-sweet death.
“Jill! What have you got on your clothes? You’re stinking up the
office and you’re making me sneeze. You must be covered in mold spores. Get out!”
Jill backs away from me as if I’m a machete-wielding serial killer. “Alright, I’m sorry if I smell bad, but Audrey, the house is amazing—”
“Amazingly toxic, and you’re polluting this office.”
“Okay, okay—I’ll change my clothes, but just listen to what I found. There are ten rooms and—”
“Ten rooms of filth! Enough rats to bring back the Plague. And the mold—you know that can make you seriously ill.”
“Yeah, I know—I’ll be more careful next time. But the Civil War stuff–”
“No next time. Mold is a biohazard, not something you can just charge into with no training and expect to shift it all around and spread those spores and—”
“Audrey, will you please just let me speak!”
We glare at each other. Jill’s maroon-tipped hair is frosted with gray dust. There’s no room for dirt under her close-bitten nails, but the cuticles are grimy and the whites of her eyes are bright red. My own eyes burn just looking at her. But for all that, she doesn’t appear miserable. Indeed, she’s even more chipper than usual. Somehow, that infuriates me.
“Fine. Speak away.”
Usually cowed by any signal of my disapproval, Jill today is undaunted. “The house is am-a-a-azing, Audrey. I know from the outside it just looks like a big pile of trash, but there’s actually a method to Harold’s madness. Every room is dedicated to a different category of—”
“Crap.”
“You’re interrupting.” Jill conjures a look that makes her resemble Miss McGuiness, my third grade teacher, if Miss McGuiness had sported a pierced nose.
“Anyway, Harold has different collections in each room: tools, appliances, books, art, maps, and once a room is filled, he stops collecting that thing unless he finds something he really needs, in which case he’ll take something out, but he won’t throw it away. He always has to find a new home for it. He’s like the ultimate recycler. But see, that’s why the task isn’t impossible. According to the health department, we just have to clear out enough stuff so that the kitchen and bathroom are accessible and the hallways are clear. And we have to promise Harold not to throw away anything that will end up in a landfill.”
Treasure of Darkness: a romantic thriller (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 2) Page 7