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

by S. W. Hubbard

“Surely you can throw the whole fridge away?” I ask.

  Jill shakes her head. “We’ll compost the food, recycle the containers–”

  “Stop! He won’t even let you throw out rotten food? You have to compost it? That’s insane!”

  “Actually, it’s not.” Jill stands up and addresses her audience of two as if she’s giving a TED Talk. “See, Harold’s hoarding is actually a byproduct of his creativity as an inventor. He can see the theoretical usefulness of just about anything, even rotten food. That’s why he can’t let anything go—he has to repurpose it.”

  I turn back to the spreadsheet I’ve just opened up. “That’s a pretty generous analysis of Harold’s problem, Jill. I think he’s just plain nuts.”

  “Any good quality taken to an extreme can become pathological,” Jill says. “Take, for instance, the belief that numbers can justify every decision.”

  I continue running my cash flow analysis for a full thirty seconds before that barb sinks in. Did Jill, my sweet little scatterbrain Jill, really just say that to me?

  I turn around slowly. “You think I’m a pathological number cruncher because I said taking on Harold’s job wouldn’t be financially worthwhile?”

  Jill opens her big, black-mascaraed eyes wide. “I didn’t say that. I meant, like, Wall Street types who close down companies and fire all the employees…you know.”

  I keep looking at her, trying to stare into her soul. She chatters on. “Anyway, the fridge actually still works. Nora said she’d handle cleaning it.”

  “How generous.”

  If Jill heard my sarcasm she ignores it. “I’ve really enjoyed getting to know Nora. She’s told me a lot about her life. Listen to this: Harold graduated from MIT! Nora says he got a job in the oil fields of Kuwait and spent all this time living abroad in awful places. When the Middle East started getting really dangerous in the 80s, Harold came back to New Jersey. He had saved a ton of money, but he had no life—no girlfriends, no buddies, no home. So he moved in with Nora’s family.”

  “Why not just get his own place near them?” Ty asks.

  “Her dad had just lost his job and they were having a hard time making ends meet. Harold moved into the house and took over paying the mortgage. It was supposed to be temporary—Dad would get a new job, Harold would build a new life for himself here and move into his own place.”

  “But that didn’t happen?” I’m trying hard to pretend I’m not paying attention, but it’s like being in a room where The Jersey Shore is playing on TV. You can’t help being pulled into the ridiculous drama.

  Jill shakes her head. “Nora’s mom and Harold would spend all day together while Nora and her brother were at school and their dad was out looking for work. Harold would take her shopping. At first it was for stuff they really needed. Nora said her mom had been pinching pennies for so long, she was thrilled to be able to buy her kids new clothes and get some stuff for the house. Then it became this hobby the two of them shared: finding bargains, scoring a deal. Her dad finally got a job, but by that time, Harold was totally settled in with them. He still had no friends—he was too smart for ordinary people. Nora’s mom was the only person who understood him.”

  Jill’s story has me hooked. “Harold didn’t need to work? He must’ve been only in his forties in the 1980s.”

  “According to Nora, he held several patents for oil drilling technology, and he got royalties from that. He enjoyed inventing things. As his personality got stranger, he found it too hard to work in an office, interacting with other people. He was only comfortable spending time with his sister.”

  Now Ty and I are fully focused on Jill, like when I sit in the garage listening to the car radio for a while to hear the end of a really good story on NPR.

  “That’s when the trouble started.” Jill starts milking her story for all its drama. “Slowly, the house started filling up. First it was the basement. Then the stuff started creeping upstairs. That’s when Nora’s dad left. He couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “He left her and her brother behind?” I’m incredulous. There’s nothing like hearing someone else’s childhood horror story to make you feel better about your own dysfunctional family.

  “Nora says he got a much better job in Connecticut. She and her brother could have gone with him, but Nora was a junior in high school and couldn’t imagine leaving Palmyrton High. You know how high school is—starting over seems terrifying. So she refused to leave, and her younger brother stayed too. Even though what her dad did seems reasonable, I think Nora feels like he abandoned them because after he left, things got really bad.”

  I’m not sure if Jill is fully conscious of her “pause at the cliffhanger” delivery, but Ty and I fall for it.

  “Ah, shit—is that when the twelve cats moved in?”

  “I think that came later. But all the rooms on the first floor got filled up, so naturally, Nora and her brother were ashamed to have friends over. And the kitchen became inaccessible, so they had to eat carry-out every night. Nora and her brother had to figure out strategies to take showers and wash their clothes at other people’s houses, without letting anyone know the real reason why. Once when Nora went on a class trip for a few days, she came back to find them filling up her room.”

  “And they lived that way all throughout high school?”

  “Until Nora left for college. Then George moved to Connecticut to be with his dad. Neither one of them has lived in the house since.”

  “That’s crazy.” Ty shakes his head. “Harold saved their family, then he wrecked it.”

  “So what happened to Nora’s mother?” I ask. “It sounds like she was Harold’s partner in crime.”

  “I’m not sure,” Jill says. “Sometimes I ask Nora one little question and she spills out all kinds of information, but other times she clams up like I’m prying or something. She doesn’t seem to like to talk about her mom. I figure she’ll tell me if she’s ready.”

  With her maroon crew-cut and her layered thrift-shop wardrobe, it’s easy to write Jill off as some ditzy freak chick, but there’s a keen brain between those multiple-pierced ears and a sensitive heart under that morning glory tattoo. Jill went through some dark times in high school because she didn’t fit neatly into anyone’s clique. Then, just when she was hitting her stride at the Rhode Island School of Design, her aunt, who had helped raise her, died. Jill went off the rails a little and dropped out of school to move back in with her mom. That’s when she started working for me. She’s slowly regained her confidence, but she’s quick to recognize pain in others. She makes me ashamed to be as obtuse as I sometimes am.

  “You’re very kind, Jill.”

  “I like helping Harold and Nora. It makes me feel good about myself. Like I finally have, I don’t know, a purpose in life, ya know?”

  “My grandma always says doin’ for others is good for your soul. But that refrigerator.” Ty shudders. “I don’t want my soul saved that bad.”

  Chapter 13

  Ethel welcomes me home with her usual fervor. No criticism of my judgment. No disapproval of my choices. Just pure unconditional joy that I am once again in her presence.

  How does anyone survive life without a dog?

  “C’mon Ethel, let’s eat and then you can help me brainstorm.” While I fix her dinner, I explain my problems. “I have a plan to lure Ramon out of hiding, but I can’t possibly call Sean Coughlin three times in one day, so that will have to wait until tomorrow.”

  I set her bowl down, and she buries her face in it. I knew she wouldn’t argue.

  “And then I have to convince Martha Wainwright to withdraw her Better Business Bureau complaint. You know what I always tell you when you’re chasing squirrels: know your enemy. Maybe if I understood Martha a little better, I’d be able to reason with her.”

  I get comfortable with a container of Stouffer’s mac and cheese in front of my laptop. Where else to begin but by Googling her? Turns out Martha is all over social media: LinkedIn, Facebook, Twitter. I
could have sworn Martha mentioned that she was an elementary school gym teacher, but her LinkedIn profile describes her as a “healthy lifestyle entrepreneur” and owner of a juice bar called Juiced Up in Palmyrton. Really? Where in Palmyrton? I can’t picture it.

  So I Google the juice bar and get several hits: two announcing the grand opening and one announcing the store closure. Juiced Up was only open for five months. Now that I know the address, I can just about picture the place. It was on a small side street near the county government office complex. No foot traffic from anyone but bureaucrats and they’re probably not health nuts. So Martha must be in debt from the failure of her business. No wonder she’s desperate for that cash. But if she had the passion to start a business, maybe I can get her to understand how important Another Man’s Treasure is to me. Maybe I can convince her that I’d never knowingly hurt one of my customers. Calling her won’t be easy, but I’m going to do it. But first let me see what else I can find out.

  I switch over to Twitter and look at her most recent tweets.

  Has anyone had a bad experience with Another Man’s Treasure? #theft #cheat

  Too bad not all #localbusiness can be trusted. Avoid Another Man’s Treasure. #Palmyrton

  Good lord—she’s flaming me! Don’t panic. She only has a few hundred followers on Twitter. No one has responded or retweeted. And the kind of people who hire me don’t hang out on Twitter.

  My hands tremble on the keyboard. But they do use Yelp. I click over there. My God—I’ve gone from a 4.5 star rating to a 2 star rating in just two days. There are five new reviews posted, all negative: Dishonest. Don’t use them for your sale. Can’t be trusted. Who are these people? They’re not my customers. Martha must have rounded up people to post fake reviews.

  I could post a response, but I know my reaction will only instigate a war that will draw more attention to the bad reviews. I’m trapped.

  I lean back in my chair, massaging my temples. There’s no point in calling Martha.

  This is war.

  Jill is not at her desk on when I arrive at the office the next morning. I find myself feeling irritated in a way I never would have before I was fighting a social media smear campaign and searching for six figures of missing money. “She must be trying to squeeze in some more time over at Harold’s,” I gripe to Ty. “Not cool. We have a lot to do to get ready for Friday’s sale.” This is not quite true: the house is small and the homeowners orderly.

  “I already texted her ‘cause I didn’t know what to do about these boxes, but she didn’t answer,” Ty says.

  When she doesn’t answer my text either, I get anxious. Whatever Jill’s faults, going incommunicado is not among them.

  “We could swing by there on our way over to prep for the sale,” Ty suggests.

  When we pull up in front of Harold’s house, Jill’s Beetle is nowhere to be seen. Ty and I look at each other. “Maybe her mom dropped her off. Let’s go in just to be sure,” he says.

  “Will the door be open?” I ask as we head around to the back.

  “If it’s not, won’t take much to break in.”

  I take a deep breath of cold, fresh air and hold it. The doorknob turns in my hand and we walk in.

  “Jill? Jill, are you here?”

  I forget to listen for her response because I’m so stunned by how much the house has changed in just two days. Even though Jill has told us about her progress, I’m amazed to see scratched hardwood floors beneath my feet and faded Eighties floral wallpaper on the walls. She’s cleared enough stuff that the house is now visible, at least in parts. There are still stacks around the perimeter of the laundry room, but they’re modest in size. Cautiously, I allow myself to inhale. The smell has changed. The rottenness has dissipated; the mildew lessened. But the undertones of urine and decay are still here.

  A sound from the hallway that leads to the kitchen draws me further into the house, and I come face to face with Harold. He jumps back like a squirrel darting away from an oncoming car.

  “Hi, Harold. Where’s Jill?”

  He continues backing away as I advance. “No, no. There’s no Jill here. No one here but me.”

  Ty points to wet boot tread marks on the dusty floor. “Those are too small to be your feet, Harold. Those are Jill’s Doc Martens. Where is she?”

  Harold shakes his head, his eyes open so wide that the whites are visible all around the pupils. “I don’t know any Jill. This is my house. You can’t come in. You have to go away now.”

  “Harold, of course you know Jill. She’s helping you clean the house. Now where is she?” I plead.

  Ty pushes past Harold into the kitchen.

  I hear the stern tone of my own voice and I know I’ve made a serious mistake. Harold’s eyes dart back and forth. He grabs my forearm, and his long dirty nails would sink into my flesh if it weren’t for my thick sweatshirt. “You go now. Right now. My sister won’t like this. The children are sleeping. You mustn’t wake them up.”

  Whoa, this is new. Harold has dialed back a few decades. Maybe seeing the wallpaper is making him think he’s still living in the house with Nora’s whole family.

  “Yo, Jill! Where are you?” Ty shouts. I slide right out of my hoodie leaving it in Harold’s claw, and run through the house to the foyer. The theme here is music. A very narrow path has been cleared on the stairs, but each step is still stacked with sheet music. The stairway turns at a landing, but from here the path appears to dead-end in a solid wall of vinyl record albums. Above us, we hear a muffled sound.

  “Jill?”

  The sound repeats.

  Ty begins kicking aside the stacks of music to make a broader path. Ripped sheets covered with notes flutter behind him.

  Behind me I hear an anguished cry. A gray blur launches at Ty. Brought to his knees, Ty tumbles down five steps. In an instant he’s on his feet, eyes blazing.

  Harold takes a swing at Ty, a pathetic gesture given the size and age differential. But it triggers a visceral fight response in Ty that is better left dormant. He hauls his powerful right arm back. I see Harold’s life and Ty’s freedom dissolving.

  “Stop!” I grab a big instrument case—trombone?–and use it as a battering ram to push Harold out of harm’s way. He falls down, whimpering.

  Ty starts back up the stairs and I’m right behind him. Now the sound of Jill’s voice is recognizable. “Ty? Is that you? Oh, thank God!”

  I feel a sharp jab on my right ankle and my leg goes out from under me. Harold is pulling me off the stairs. “No, no, no!” he shouts. “You can’t bother the children.”

  The sheets of music slide from their piles and Ty slips, nearly falling back on me. He regains his footing and picks Harold right up, a quarterback recovering a fumble. He carries him kicking and clawing to the front door. The whole time, Harold is yelling, “Leave the children alone. They’re sleeping!”

  “You stay outta my way, man. Jill is in trouble upstairs, and I don’t got time for your craziness.”

  I open the door and Ty tosses Harold out like a drunk at closing time. Then we throw the deadbolt and try once more to climb the stairs. Ty is in front, so I can’t see a thing.

  “Shit! How’d you get through here, Jill? I can’t fit.”

  “Please, Ty—try. I need you.”

  I hear the quaver of fear in her voice. “Let me try, Ty.” He and I do an awkward dance to switch places at the top of the stairs and now I see the challenge. Record albums are stacked on either side of the hallway with a path less than a foot wide between them. At the end of the path, an album avalanche has entombed Jill.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m just stuck. I heard my phone ringing but I can’t even get my hands around to my pocket.”

  “Okay, honey—stay calm. We’ll get you out.” I pull out my phone. “We’d better get the rescue squad or the fire department or something. I don’t see how we can move—”

  “No-o-o-o!” Jill’s howl sounds like it’s coming from a dungeon.r />
  “Jill, we have to shift these albums, but there’s no place to move them to.”

  “No, Audrey! If the fire department sees this, the house will be condemned right away and everything I’ve been working for will be lost. Don’t call them, I’m begging you.”

  Ty peers over my shoulder. “If you can squeeze down there, Audge, you can slide the records down the path to me, and I’ll just toss ‘em down the steps.”

  “Harold won’t—” Jill’s voice pipes a weak protest.

  Ty kicks a mound of sheet music down the stairs. “I don’t give a damn what Harold wants. He was willing to let you rot in there. You want out, or what?”

  “Okay. Do it.”

  So we begin the slow process of disinterring Jill. I slide 4-Way Street, Blue, and Sticky Fingers along to Ty and he pitches them into the foyer where they perish. At some point during the process, Harold has come around and re-entered the house through the back door. He stands below keening like a banshee at the loss of each record.

  “These don’t belong here!” he cries as each album comes sailing over the banister and crashes in the foyer.

  After I shift the complete works of Frank Sinatra, the purple spikes of Jill’s hair appear. A few more Woody Guthries and I can see her entire face, streaked with dirt and tears, her respirator hanging forlornly.

  This is not how I want to be spending my morning, rescuing Jill from a catastrophe that I predicted was bound to happen, but I don’t have the heart to say I told you so. Not when she looks so pathetic. In silence, I move enough records to free her arms.

  “I’m sorry, Audrey,” she whispers.

  I can’t quite bring myself to say, “It’s okay.” I keep digging, and as I get closer to the bottom, I start sneezing. After warning Jill of the dangers of this place, here Ty and I are working without any protection. Anxiety made me forget about the stench, but now it intensifies, coating the back of my throat like a thick paste.

  With her hands freed, Jill helps move the albums off her legs and I slide them out to Ty. Our hands meet on The White Album and we move it together.