When I finally pry her mouth open, all that’s left of the bone are a few dried splinters.
“Eeeew.” Jill squinches her eyes shut.
Ethel is unfazed. In fact, she’s squirming away from me, ready to go right back into the tunnel we just pulled her out of. Behind us there’s a creak. Then a crash.
I pull Ethel into my arms as the balance in the toy room shifts and a load falls forward and spills out the door.
“Whoa, another avalanche, like with the records,” Jill says. When the dust clears, she stands on tip-toe to look into the room. “Look, I think this was definitely Nora’s room.”
I peer over her shoulder. Mounted on the far wall is a pink shelf painted with now-faded rainbows. Sitting on the shelf in an orderly row are stiff-legged Barbies, their hair matted with dust, and homely Cabbage Patch Kids, and a realistic infant-sized doll in a flowered onesie.
“Those look like they could actually be the dolls Nora played with,” I say. “I had a Cabbage Patch Kid when I was little.”
We stand silently, joined in a little requiem for the mundane lives once lived here. Mundane until Harold’s arrival turned them to the gothic. “Hmmm,” I say. “ Maybe that’s why Harold’s always saying ‘don’t wake the babies.’ Maybe he’s remembering this.”
“Hey, way to psychoanalyze, Audrey. I think you may be right.”
Or maybe the babies are just another of Harold’s sad delusions.
The Ethel incident has given us a little respite from worrying about Ty, but the minute the dog is safe, our anxiety comes crashing back in on us. As Jill silently picks up the toys that have spilled into the hall, I notice a big tear sliding down her cheek. She sees me watching her.
“I thought he’d be back by now,” she whispers. “What’s taking so long?”
I sit staring at the wall. I’m trying to think like Ty. And think like Ramon. Grandma Betty’s words come back to me. What Ramon wants more than anything is to stay in this country. My effort to work a deal for him hasn’t amounted to anything. So maybe he’s turned to Ty to get what he wants. Finally, I speak.
“Ty didn’t just impulsively chase after Ramon. Ty left the phone because he worried I’d tell Coughlin when I realized what he’d done. He knew the cops could use it to trace his movements.” I look up at Jill. “And what other thing could the cops use to find him?”
“Your car?”
“There are a million Honda Civics on the road, Jill. But only one with my license plates.” I jump up and run downstairs. Harold doesn’t even lift his head as I rush out to the driveway. There sits the last of Harold’s three junked cars. Jill couldn’t persuade Harold to give this one up because it’s filled with “valuable” garden implements. So here it sits. Last time I looked, it had plates.
Now it doesn’t.
Jill and I quickly find my plates slipped under a box of hand trowels on the front seat of the car. I stand staring at the familiar numbers. “I think Ty knew he would be driving further than just to some nearby town in New Jersey. He knew if he was going to be spending some time on the road, it needed to be in an untraceable car.”
Jill’s brow furrows. “But I thought everyone said Ramon still had to be nearby.”
“I think he was nearby when he called Ty. I think Ty took him somewhere.”
Jill’s face lights up and she grabs my hand. “You know what I couldn’t find today? Our cooler! I thought Harold took it, but it must’ve been Ty. He’s helping Ramon get away in exchange for the money! Wow!” Then Jill’s smile fades. “Are you going to tell Coughlin?”
I press my hands into my eyes. “Good lord, no.”
Chapter 27
That evening I tell Maura I have a splitting headache and pull the covers over my head before she tries to make small talk. I can’t tell her anything about what happened today. It’s bad enough that Jill knows what Ty has done. The crushing fear that Ty has been killed by the coyotes has been replaced by a dread of a fate that is almost worse—that he’ll be arrested for harboring a fugitive or hindering an investigation and wind up back in jail.
I know Ty would rather die than go back to jail. That he would risk this for me leaves me breathless. And that he planned it, that his act is not even an impulsive act of bravado, is more than I can get my head around.
The more I think, the more I writhe. Ty did this not to save me personally, but to save Another Man’s Treasure for me. Have I given him and Jill the idea that the business means more to me than they do? I would give up estate sales forever and cheerfully work as an insurance actuary just to have Ty back home safely. What if I never get to tell him that?
In the midst of my agony, my cell chirps the arrival of a text. I grab my phone eagerly.
Sean, not Ty.
Arrested the man who threatened you at Play-O-Rama. Need you to come ID him. Sending a uniform to pick you up.
Now? Why aren’t you coming? I text back.
You’re a witness. I can’t talk to you before the ID.
Inside the station it’s just like on TV. I’m behind a big glass window and five Hispanic men walk in. There are several cops there—detectives and uniforms. Sean stands off in a corner. I can’t ask him anything about Ramon or the coyotes. As I look at the men in the line-up in profile, I panic—they’re all short, they all have dark hair, they all have brown skin. What if I can’t pick him out? What if I make a mistake and the wrong man gets in trouble? But as soon as they turn to face me, my anxiety evaporates.
“Number three,” I say without hesitation. That’s the face that breathed on me in the play structure. Those are the eyes that stared into mine with no compassion. That’s the man who threatened me. Has he also threatened Ramon? Are there other guys in his gang who are on Ramon and Ty’s trail? Does this guy know anything about that?
The two other cops with Sean ask me a few questions, and when I answer with certainty they exchange glances and smile as they file out. Sean and I are left alone.
“What’s next?”
“With your ID, we have enough to arrest and hold him. They’ll interrogate him tomorrow morning. They’ve called in a state police specialist to assist.”
“This guy’s that big a deal?
“He’s our best shot at finding the boy’s killer. And finding Ramon. And your money.”
I glance away. Whatever they get from this guy, I’m almost positive it won’t be the money, unless they get to Ty before Ty gets to me. “Why aren’t you interrogating him, Sean?”
“We need a native speaker of Spanish and an expert interrogator so we don’t blow our chance.”
“You’re an expert.”
A smile twitches his lips. “Yes, but I have a relation– I know the person he threatened. I can’t be part of the interrogation team.”
“If, if this guy provides information that leads you to the coyotes, will you still look for Ramon?” I’m afraid to look into Sean’s eyes. Afraid that he’ll see I’m hiding information from him again.
Sean shifts his weight and flexes his fingers. “We still don’t know Ramon’s role. We don’t know if he’s a victim or if he’s aiding—”
“He’s not!” The objection leaps from my mouth unbidden.
“Ah, Audrey—defender of the downtrodden.” Sean places his index finger gently against my lips. “You’d better get some rest. I believe you have a party to attend tomorrow.”
I’m happy to accept the change of subject before I say something else stupid. “Yeah, I don’t want to meet your family with bags under my eyes.”
He squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll pick you up at five-thirty.”
“At my condo, okay? I’m tired of staying at Maura’s.”
He hesitates, then nods. “Should be fine.”
A normal girl with a big date on Saturday night would spend the day primping, but I’m such a nervous wreck about Ty that I can’t stand to be alone. I head over to meet Jill at Harold’s house for a few hours.
As soon as I walk in, Jill grabs my arm an
d pushes her phone under my nose. I read a text that came in late last night.
Everything chill See you soon.
“See you soon. He must be on his way home.” Jill’s face is beaming. “He’s okay.”
The message unwinds one tendril of anxiety, but the knot is still pretty big. Once Ty is back, how will I be able to return the money to Martha without Coughlin knowing how I got it back? If Coughlin even suspects that Ty was in contact with Ramon, he and the other cops will be on him like white on rice. How will I protect him?
Jill is oblivious to my worry. Ty’s message has put her in a good mood. She’s got her earbuds in and she’s hauling boxes of bird paraphernalia at a brisk clip.
I hear the distant clang of a cowbell, followed by shouting.
“What’s that noise?” I ask, setting down a box of little fake birds, the kind that florists put in wreathes.
She bobs her head to her music. I might as well be talking to myself.
I stop dragging boxes and strain to hear. Sounds like chanting, or a football cheer.
I tug on Jill’s arm, and point to my ears.
“Huh?” she asks as she pulls out her earbuds.
“Listen.”
Jill wrinkles her nose. She hears it too, but doesn’t understand. Of course, all the windows upstairs are covered—we haven’t worked our way to an exterior wall yet, so we head downstairs.
In the dining room, the sound of voices is much clearer. “Hey, ho—he must go. Hey, ho—he must go.”
Jill lifts a tattered curtain. “Ohmygawd. There’s, like, fifty people marching down the street.”
I nudge her aside so I can see. Coming down the cul-de-sac is Bernadette leading a parade of people—gray-haired men, little kids, moms pushing strollers, a man in a track-suit, women in jeans, women in skirts and heels. Some of them are waving signs, but I can’t read the writing from here. Then the cowbell rings again, and a little boy blasts one of those annoying horns people blow on New Year’s Eve. The chanting begins again. “Two, four, six, eight—rats we don’t appreciate.”
As they march along, more people come out of their houses, and some join in the protest.
“Bernadette’s such a looney-tune,” Jill says. “What does she think she’s going to get from this? The Health Department already cleared us.”
“Publicity.” The Daily Wretched news van is following the protesters.
“Big deal,” Jill says. “Nobody reads that rag. And it’s not like they can embarrass Harold into leaving.” She glances into the foyer where Harold is pounding away on his calculator. “He’s oblivious.”
Jill thinks the whole scene is funny, but I’m not so sure. As the marchers get closer, I can see their faces. Not pretty. Now I can see the messages on their signs: Save our kids. Raze the Toxic House. Protect our neighborhood.
They’ve reached the house and they form a line down the sidewalk.
“I don’t like this,” I say.
“It’s street theater,” Jill reassures me. “Like the time we marched on the Admin Building dressed as members of a chain gang to protest low wages for the service workers.”
As if to prove her point, Bernadette’s minions struggle with a big gray bundle. Then, before our eyes, a giant rat starts inflating.
“I love it!” Jill claps her hands. “Unions always have those things to protest when scabs are crossing their picket lines.”
“Hey, ho—he must go!” “Two, four, six, eight—rats we don’t appreciate.” The crowd keeps shouting as the ten-foot rat sways in the breeze.
Once she’s sure she has everyone’s attention, Bernadette pulls out a bullhorn and starts making a speech.
“The Palmyrton Board of Health has blatantly disregarded unsafe conditions in this house. Their refusal to condemn the property is creating a dangerous situation that will only get worse when the spring rains arrive. We are prepared to take action to protect our lives and the lives of our children!”
The crowd cheers.
By now, all the noise has finally roused Harold. He comes into the dining room and peers out the small clear space in other window, showing about as much interest in the protesters as a man watching tropical fish circle a tank.
The crowd gathers around waiting expectantly for their leader’s next move. “This is an act of civil disobedience,” she proclaims. With her down jacket flapping open, Bernadette and another woman unfurl a large green square. Now what?
I hear a sharp intake a breath from Jill. “Oh, no—they wouldn’t dare.”
“Ummm—yes they would,” I say. “They’ve got themselves a Dumpster in a Bag.”
Talk about irony. Usually, Jill, Ty, and I love using these things. Three thousand pounds of crap can be loaded into what amounts to a gargantuan, performance-fiber tote bag. They’re portable and much cheaper than a standard metal dumpster.
The protesters break ranks and a free-for-all commences. They grab birdbaths and flower pots and garden tools and pink flamingos. In a mad frenzy of cleaning, everything is pitched into the bag.
A high keening sound fills the dining room.
Before either of us can catch him, Harold runs out the door.
Chapter 28
We watch in horror as Harold disappears into the crowd of protesters. All I can see of him is occasional flashes of his gray pony-tail bobbing among the tossing, heaving arms and legs of the neighbors. Then the crowd shifts and I see Harold latched onto one side of a rusty lawn chair. A young mother determined to toss it is connected to the other side.
“No. That’s useful. I need that.” Harold tugs so hard, the young woman pitches forward on her knees.
The crowd rushes forward.
“Lisa! Did you see that? He pushed Lisa down.”
As a swarm of sympathetic women scoops up their fallen comrade, the burly man in the tracksuit comes after Harold.
“Audrey, do something!” Jill pushes me toward the door. “They’re going to kill Harold.”
I hesitate on the threshold.
The big guy picks Harold up by the collar. Harold’s feet start flying and land a solid kick.
“Call 911, Jill,” I take one step onto the front porch.
“There she is!” Bernadette yells and points and every head in the crowd turns toward me. Suddenly I can sympathize with Lindsay Lohan being swarmed by paparazzi. The mob doesn’t look like individual human beings, each with two eyes, a nose, and a mouth. It’s a seething mass of bristling anger.
“She’s responsible for keeping this house from being condemned,” Bernadette says through her bullhorn, her index finger thrusting in my direction. “She cleared away just enough so that it would pass inspection. As soon as she leaves, Harold will fill it up again.” Bernadette turns to the crowd and raises her arms as if to conduct a symphony. “There’s only one solution.” Her arms drop.
I reach for Jill, my only protection. Does Bernadette’s solution involve dragging me off?
“Tear down the house, tear down the house,” the crowd chants.
The kids get into it, jumping up and down and screaming at the top of their lungs. “Tear Down the House! Tear Down the House!”
Their parents catch fire. The chant crescendoes. “Tear Down the House, Tear Down the House!”
This isn’t street theater anymore. This could tip out of control. Kent State. Watts. Ferguson. Ordinary people gone crazy.
Although Harold has stopped struggling, flabby tracksuit-guy still has him collared. Like a child being bullied on the playground, Harold has covered his head with his arms. The shouts rain down on him like shrapnel.
A heavy curtain of rage hangs before us. I set down one uncertain foot, holding my arm out before me. A bratty little kid darts toward me and shakes his sign in my face. “Tear down the house.”
The taunt galvanizes Jill. Side-stepping the brat, she strides toward Harold, the glower on her face clearing a path. I’m gathering courage to follow when we get some unexpected help. A curly blonde-haired woman streaks acro
ss the yard from the right. Phoebe Castleton runs straight up to an unprepared Bernadette, plucks the bullhorn from her hand, and tosses it into the Dumpster in a Bag.
The crowd falls silent.
“What’s the matter with you people? You’re terrifying an elderly man in his own front yard. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.” Phoebe’s voice has lost its breathless quality. Even without the bullhorn, she projects to the back row, transformed from Mia Farrow to Liza Minelli. “This is Summit Oaks. We look out for one another here. Why are you following Bernadette like a bunch of sheep? Go home!”
In the distance we hear the wail of police sirens. People on the edges of the crowd scuttle away.
Jill glares at tracksuit-guy. “You need to get yourself a life. Come on inside, Harold.”
But Bernadette isn’t throwing in the towel. If anything, Phoebe’s appearance has ignited a fanatic gleam in her eyes. She turns on her neighbor. “You, you… Breastfeeding kids who are old enough to read. Sleeping all in one bed. Eating vegan hot dogs. You think you have friends here? You don’t belong. Everyone thinks you and your kids are freaks.”
Jill jumps back as Phoebe lunges at Bernadette. “Shut up, bitch!” The two women go down in a swirl of thrashing legs and clawing hands.
Jill, Harold, and I make it back inside as two burly cops stride up to the fight. They need all their strength to separate the women. The cop holding Phoebe struggles to drag her slender body away. Scratched and bleeding, with long strands of Bernadette’s dark hair streaming from her fingers, she turns to spit out one last threat.
“No one hurts my children, Bernadette. No one.”
Chapter 29
There’s no working after that.
Jill sits at the kitchen table with a catatonic Harold. His eyes, pupils hugely dilated, stare at nothing. That weird high-pitched hum thrums from his diaphragm. When he’s not humming, he’s muttering, “Don’t wake the babies.” Jill tries to coax him to drink a cup of tea.
Treasure of Darkness: a romantic thriller (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 2) Page 19