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

by S. W. Hubbard

  Jill’s anxious face peers at me. “We can’t leave him here. It’s not safe. What if those rioters break in and hurt him?”

  “Well, we can’t take him home with us, now can we? His own niece won’t have him in her house.”

  “What’re we going to do-o-o?”

  As if in answer, my phone rings. Coughlin.

  “What the hell’s going on over there? I gotta report of a riot.”

  “Hello to you too.”

  “Audrey,” he warns.

  Even though I don’t care for his tone, I have to admit I’m glad to hear from him. I tell him about the insanity that just unfolded. “And I want you to know, I did nothing to provoke this. The lady next door is furious that Harold’s house escaped being condemned. We want to get out of here, but we’re afraid to leave Harold here alone. He’s not,” I glance at his blank, trembling form, “uhm, feeling well.”

  “Never mind Harold. Are you all right?”

  “Sure, I’m fine.” But I’m not. “I’m fine” is the official Audrey Nealon knee-jerk response. The truth is, I’m scared.

  That crowd, that fight–where did all the rage come from? I could dismiss Bernadette when I thought she was simply one of those perpetually disgruntled busybodies who makes a career from complaining. But what I witnessed today goes way beyond an over-zealous Neighborhood Watch captain. I saw true hatred in Bernadette’s face. And in Phoebe’s, too. The crowd fed on that, turning normal soccer moms and lawn-mowing dads into zealots.

  And what’s really scary–a lot of that rage was directed at me.

  But I don’t say any of that to Sean. I don’t need him joining my dad and Maura telling me to quit this job.

  “We’re all fine,” I repeat. “We just need some help protecting Harold. And the house. God only knows what these lunatics will do after we go home.”

  “Are the uniforms still outside?” Sean asks.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll talk to them. Let them in when they come to the door.” And the line goes dead.

  While we wait, Jill goes back to fixing Harold tea, and I go back to worrying. The level of neighborhood anger seems way out of proportion to news that Another Man’s Treasure has rescued Harold’s house from condemnation. After all, we are cleaning it up. You’d think they could be satisfied with that. Why are they hell-bent on evicting poor Harold?

  What’s come over me! Did I just refer to Harold as “poor Harold”? I look at his trembling hands sloshing hot tea onto the table. Am I growing more fond of him? No, fond certainly overstates the case. But I guess I am getting more sympathetic to his plight. He’s sick, and he can’t cure himself. The neighbors deserve to have the house cleaned up, but Harold deserves a home. He shouldn’t be forced into a life on the streets because of his illness.

  My God, I sound just like Jill!

  I watch her patting Harold’s shoulder and murmuring reassurances. No, I’m nowhere near that nice. But Bernadette’s actions have definitely shifted me onto Team Harold. I think Bernadette brings out the fight in me for the same reason that my father and Coughlin do—she’s always so damn sure she’s right.

  Of course, Sean and Dad say that about me.

  Well, I think I am right about Bernadette. There’s something fishy about her sudden escalation, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it.

  I think about a house I pass every day on my way through Summit Oaks, a house being offered for sale by Trent Fine Properties. If anyone has an insight into what’s going on in this neighborhood, it’s Isabelle Trent.

  I take a moment to mentally compose my questions. Isabelle will always take my call, but she never has time for idle chat. I hit her number and prepare to start talking.

  “Audrey, darling—how are you?”

  I know that question is purely rhetorical so I don’t bother to answer. “Hi, Isabelle. I’m calling about Summit Oaks.”

  “Marvelous neighborhood. Didn’t I see your van there recently?”

  I give her the Spark Notes version of the Harold Project and the riot. “Do you know anything about this Neighborhood Improvement Committee? It’s led by a Bernadette McMartin.”

  “Ah, Bernadette. She once called me in to give her an appraisal on her house. Wasn’t happy with my numbers. She’s a little quirky.”

  “Quirky” is Isabelle-speak for bat-shit crazy. “Yeah, I noticed. She wanted you to list her house? Why is she leading the Improvement Committee if she’s planning to move?”

  “She’s been trying to move for over a year. Her husband took a job in Silicon Valley. She and the kids can’t follow until she sells the house.”

  This explains some of Bernadette’s anger. “But it won’t sell because it’s next to Harold’s?”

  “Darling, I’ve never met a house I couldn’t sell. It’s all a matter of price. The McMartins have a lovely home: excellent maintenance, recent updates, neutral décor. But they can’t fix the view from all their east-facing windows. The other two houses in the neighborhood I’ve listed at close to seven hundred thousand. If I were to list Bernadette’s house, I wouldn’t be able to get more than five.”

  “Ouch. But why is she so mad at me? She should be happy I’m cleaning the place up.”

  “She’d get even more with a new custom home next door. She needs every penny she can get to be able to afford a comparable home in California. Silicon Valley is pricey.”

  “But what if the developer built a monstrosity like that pink villa up on Sycamore?’

  “Possible. Although someone on the Zoning Board got fired after that creation got approved.”

  So that explains why Bernadette and Phoebe are enemies. Harold’s house is the reason one got into the neighborhood. And the reason the other can’t get out.

  “Okay, but why is she working so hard to get the rest of the neighbors riled up?”

  “Darling, think. A house is the average person’s biggest asset. Ever since the real estate bubble burst in ’08, people are desperate to protect their investment. It can make them a little…”

  “Quirky.”

  Just as I finish talking to Isabelle, the cops arrive. On the way from the front door to the kitchen, the patrolmen assure me they’ll be cruising the neighborhood all night long. But they take one look at Harold, blankly staring and totally unresponsive, and announce they’re taking him to the hospital.

  “The hospital?” Jill says. “For what?”

  “Psych eval,” the older cop answers as he calls for an ambulance.

  “Really? You can get him psychiatric help?” Jill asks, her eyes brightening. “His niece always says no hospital will take him.”

  “Lady, he’s catatonic. Believe me, they’ll take him.”

  “I’d better call Nora,” Jill says, but Nora doesn’t answer, and the ambulance arrives quickly. Together the cops and EMTs try to get Harold to lie on the gurney. But Harold’s having none of it. He snaps out of his trance, thrashing wildly, biting and kicking, his eyes huge in his pale face.

  “Get the restraints,” one EMT orders.

  Jill gulps when she sees the medic pull out a white cloth thing that looks like a big dress with no sleeves. Another produces thick leather straps with buckles.

  “No! What’s that?” Jill clutches my arm.

  It takes four powerful men to force Harold into the straight jacket and bind him to the gurney. Still he twists and fights.

  “Stop! Let him go!” Jill cries. “Audrey, make them stop. They’re hurting him! Look how scared he is.” She clings to my arm. “Ohmygod, this is awful. I made a terrible mistake.”

  I pull her into a hug. “He’ll be better once he’s at the hospital. Those guys know what they’re doing.”

  We stand in the doorway and watch as the flashing ambulance carries Harold away from his home.

  We did the right thing.

  Didn’t we?

  Chapter 30

  After Harold is hauled off, I barely have time to make it home and shower and dress for the Coughlin fami
ly party. Sean’s brother and Adrienne, the sister-in-law that Sean claims is so high-maintenance, live in Mendham, a good twenty-minute ride from Palmyrton. Sean is chatty as we start off, talking about the Parks Center kids and the next basketball game in the tournament, but he grows quieter and quieter as we come closer to our destination. I’m nervous too. I don’t dare ask him about the interrogation of the busboy. I have to assume that if the busboy revealed something vital about Ramon, Sean wouldn’t be here with me. Then I worry that he will find it fishy that I’m not asking about it. But silence is safer than talk. One thing is certain—if the topic of the missing money were to come up, I would never be able to successfully lie to Sean.

  Rather than force conversation, I content myself with looking out the window. In our snowless January, the countryside is bleak, but I know that April through October this part of New Jersey is glorious: rolling hills, grassy meadows, blooming gardens, brilliant foliage. All along Route 24, charming old stone farmhouses renovated to suit the needs of the 21st century call out to me. We pass through Mendham’s quaint little main street and drive even further into the countryside, now passing new developments of center hall colonials on steroids. I expect Brendan to live in one of these, but I’m wrong. His house is at the end of a lane of beautifully constructed custom homes. Sean pulls into a long driveway that ends in front of a rambling fieldstone and cedar shake house with Craftsman influences.

  I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to gush about how nice the house is, but honestly, it is pretty spectacular: big without being ostentatious, luxurious but not flashy. The result of a career in finance, not criminal justice.

  Sean parks behind a long line-up of cars in the driveway and we walk up to the walnut front door. When no one answers the doorbell, Sean tries the door and walks in. The foyer is big enough to hold a flock of grazing sheep. To the left is the unoccupied living-room; the right, the unoccupied dining-room. Both look like model rooms in a high-end furniture emporium. But we can hear the sound of laugher and conversation in the back of the house and head in that direction.

  The kitchen, family room and breakfast nook (if you can call a 20’ x 20’ room a nook) are filled with Sean’s relatives. Immediately I can pick out his brothers: Brendan is as tall as Sean but leaner. Where Sean’s hair is strawberry blond, Brendan’s is deep auburn. Across the room is a shorter, paunchy version of Sean. This must be his younger brother, Terry. There are several women, one of them hugely pregnant, and it’s not immediately apparent who is a sister and who a sister-in-law. But then I spot a very thin woman. Her jeans are not Levis, her hair is not SuperCuts, her face is not freckled. This has to be Adrienne.

  There’s a noticeable drop in the buzz as everyone pauses to check me out. Then Brendan steps forward. “Sean! Now the party can really start. And you must be Audrey.” He engulfs me in a bear hug. “Welcome to the Coughlin family circus.”

  Sean takes me around the room, where I’m hugged by his older sister, his younger sister, his other brother, his sister-in-law, his dad—geez, haven’t these people ever heard of handshakes? But by the third hug, I start to enjoy the attention. After all, this is the kind of big, loving family I’ve always longed for. Finally, I arrive before his mother. A heavy-set woman with gray frizzy hair, she doesn’t stand to greet me, just looks me up and down from her easy-chair throne in the family room. Her pale complexion hasn’t aged well, or maybe it’s the trials of raising five kids that have etched her face with lines. She hasn’t bothered with make-up and her clothes are frumpy. But she’s got the same clear blue, all-knowing eyes as Sean. I’m under her microscope for what feels like a full ten minutes but probably isn’t even three seconds. Then a beaming smile lights her face. “Well, hello there, luv. Sean’s told me all about you. I think he’s right—you do look like the sensible sort.”

  I have a hard enough time accepting compliments like, “Your hair looks good.” I’m really stumped on how to respond to this.

  Sean winces and pivots me around. “Let’s get you a drink, Audrey. You’re going to need it.”

  With a beer in my hand, I feel a little braver, but the din of the party scrambles my mind. A wide screen TV in the family room blares a football game where most of the guys are gathered screaming advice to the coaches and refs. Clustered around an iPad, several of the ladies send up squees of approval or dismay over someone’s wedding photos. Sean gets pulled into some highly opinionated cop shop talk with his dad and younger brother. The kitchen’s various high-end appliances beep and trill, and Adrienne flies around slamming pots and baking sheets on the counters. I consider offering to help her, but I can tell from her look of fierce concentration that I’d only get in her way.

  “Kinda crazy, your first time.”

  I turn to locate the source of the voice. A wiry young man with jet black hair and olive skin has appeared beside me.

  “You’re obviously an in-law.”

  “Soon.” He extends his hand to shake. “Anthony—I’m engaged to Colleen. I was out in the garage bringing in more beer when you arrived.”

  “Are the parties always this loud? I’m starting to understand why the Army blasts Aerosmith to disorient terrorist targets.”

  “This? This isn’t loud. Wait’ll someone starts crying.” He offers me a platter of spinach and cheese puffs. “Eat up. When the party is at anyone else’s house, all you get is boiled corned beef and cabbage.”

  “So, you survived your first Coughlin party and came back for more?”

  “Yeah. They were all distracted by someone else’s drama at that time, so I flew in under the radar.”

  “I have the feeling everyone already knew about me when I walked in.”

  Anthony acknowledges the truth of this with the tilt of his Harp bottle. “It’s not that they’ve been discussing you in particular. There’s just a lot of talk about what Sean needs this time around. And the consensus is, he needs a woman who’s not high-maintenance but one who can stand up to him.” He scans me head to toe. “You look to fill the bill.”

  This time around? How many women has Sean brought home to be inspected? Anthony registers what must be a look of horror on my face. Sean and I have only been on two dates and his family has us paired off for life. He squeezes my shoulder. “Just messin’ with you. But honestly, you do seem pretty calm, and this family could use some non-excitable DNA in the mix.”

  Sean returns to my side and I observe him for signs that my accompanying him to this party is more than the favor he billed it as. But he is relaxed and casual—no PDA, no pride of possession. Before long I’m having a good time chatting with Anthony and Colleen about the house they’re buying and with Mr. Coughlin about his travels in Ireland. I tell Adrienne how good the food is—which is true—and she loosens up a bit. We move on to discuss the value and utility of copper-clad cookware, and I promise to keep an eye peeled for a vintage copper sauté pan. Despite the dull roar of the football game, which interests me not at all, I’m starting to feel like one of the gang.

  Then Sean opens a door that leads to the basement. “Hey, your favorite uncle is here!”

  A whoop sounds from the depths. In an instant, little children start pouring through the door. One, two, three, four, five….the basement is a circus stunt car disgorging clowns…six, seven, eight. Wow!

  The kids clamber on Sean, the littlest ones begging to be picked up, the older ones high-fiving and hugging. One little guy climbs up on a chair, then launches himself onto Sean’s shoulders. The noise becomes a whole order of magnitude louder.

  Adrienne’s lips tighten. “I prefer for the kids to stay in the playroom.”

  “Hey, Spartacus done freed the galley slaves!” Terry shouts as the kids tumble through the kitchen and into the family room.

  One kid stuffs an hors d’oeuvres into his mouth, then chokes and spits a black blob directly into his grandmother’s hand. “I thought it was chocolate,” he gasps.

  “Nah, those’re olives, pet. Nasty things.”

&n
bsp; A little red-haired girl grabs the remote and switches the TV to Cartoon Network just as the Jets receiver is heading for the end zone. The men scream in unison, “Alyssa!”

  The terrified culprit springs backward and drops the remote.

  It lands with a crash on the coffee table, knocking over a full bottle of Guinness.

  A chestnut stream of beer splashes over Adrienne’s cream Berber rug.

  The explosion of sound makes me feel like I’m in the stadium at the World Cup when Germany defeats Argentina.

  “I told you not to let those kids—”

  “It was an accident—”

  “Aieee!”

  “Now, now, darlin’, don’t cry.”

  “For Chrissakes, Adrienne, it’s just a fuckin’ rug.”

  “Language! Oh, now you’ve gone and woke the baby!”

  An infant’s squall joins the cacophony, and I realize I haven’t noticed a tiny baby who’s been sleeping in an infant seat in a corner of the family room. While the screaming continues, I slip into the kitchen, find a bottle of seltzer in the fridge and some white vinegar in the pantry, and quietly return to the scene of the crime.

  While I’m down on my knees with a dish towel and the tools of my trade, the battle rages on above.

  “Don’t you ever talk to my child like that—”

  “Why can’t we simply have a civilized—”

  “Civilized? Is that what you call having a stick up your—”

  “Easy for you to get the kids wound up. You get to go home to your bachelor pad.”

  Working systematically from the center of the stain out to the edges, I blot, rinse, repeat.

  Amid the sniper fire, a bomb falls. “No wonder your marriage didn’t last, Sean.”

  My hand hangs suspended over the carpet. Marriage? Sean has never mentioned a wife, ex or otherwise. I lower my unsteady hand and blot one more time. No shadow of brown remains. When I rock back on my heels to study my work, I feel Sean’s mother’s eyes fixed on me. She gives me a quick nod and hoists herself from her chair. One sharp clap of her hands and the clamor pipes down.