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

by S. W. Hubbard

  “I don’t remember everything that happened,” Jill continues. “I guess I blocked it out. But somehow we ended up in Paterson. As young as I was, I knew this wasn’t good. There was definitely no ice cream in this bombed-out neighborhood.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “He started screaming. I couldn’t even understand him. He parked the car,” she looks down, “and he ran away.”

  “And left you alone in Paterson?”

  Jill nods. “I sat there for hours. It was nine o’clock before the police found me.”

  I try to picture an eight-year-old Jill with pigtails and a gap-toothed smile, huddled all alone in a car in the dark in a run-down neighborhood. Time passes so slowly when you’re a kid. She must have felt utterly abandoned. “Did they arrest your father?”

  Jill shakes her head. “The cops couldn’t find him. That’s when my mom and I moved in with my aunt in Palmyrton. I never saw my dad again. When I was sixteen, we got word from someone who worked with homeless people in Florida. They found his body in a liquor store parking lot. The only thing in his pockets was a picture of my mom and me with our names written on the back. Cause of death—alcohol poisoning and heat prostration. He was forty-three.”

  I come around to her side of the table and squeeze onto the same chair so I can wrap my arms around her. She feels hot and her breathing is ragged. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper into her hair. “Why did you never tell me this before?”

  “I’ve thought about that a lot,” she says with her head still buried on my shoulder. “Watching George and Nora with Harold has made me realize something about myself. I’ve been ashamed, ashamed and scared. Ashamed that my dad had schizophrenia and scared that I might get it too. It can be hereditary. Every time someone calls me crazy—” Her voice breaks.

  I stroke her back and she continues softly.

  “My dad was very creative, very funny. My mom met him at the ad agency where they both worked. She was in the art department; he was a copywriter. They had a whirlwind romance, and my mom was already pregnant when they got married. Things were only good for a few years. Then he started acting strange. He refused to believe he was sick. My mom finally got him to see a doctor, but he wouldn’t take his meds because they had terrible side-effects. She got so tried of struggling with him.” Jill lifts her teary face. “I don’t blame my mom, Audrey. It’s really hard to help people with mental illness. But,” she squeezes both my hands, “we’ve got to try.”

  Chapter 38

  Now that I understand why helping Harold has become such a crusade for Jill, I feel differently about the house. Up until now, I just wanted to get to the master bath, find the papers, and get the hell out. I really didn’t care if the house came down after we were gone. But Jill is convinced that she and Nora will be able to persuade Harold to accept psychiatric help once all the disruption surrounding the house has ended. That means money available, us gone, repairs made, neighbors mollified. Only when his home life is stabilized will Harold be calm enough to coax into a doctor’s care.

  That’s Jill’s mission. I can’t stop her.

  And when I hear her wheezing, tear-choked voice in my head, I know I have to help her keep fighting to preserve Harold’s house. So after Jill leaves, I decide to take Ethel and cruise past the address I found for Estrella Camion’s SuperStar Cleaning (ten Yelp Reviews, all five-star). If I can get to the bottom of these neighborhood factions, maybe we can finish our work on Acorn Lane in peace.

  Her address is in The Bottoms, near where Coughlin and I searched for Ramon. Finding the place is easy: two bright blue minivans painted with yellow stars are parked in front of a small storefront. As I pull up, one van disgorges a crew of chattering ladies. They head inside, I guess to report on their day and collect their wages. I haven’t really thought through a plan, but now that I’m here, I feel an overwhelming desire to go inside and get some answers.

  I look around as dusk settles over the neighborhood. I guess it would be crazy to go in there all alone when no one knows I’m here.

  Ethel whines.

  “Oh, all right. I’ll call for back up.” Who is closest?

  Dad.

  His apartment is only a few blocks away. I call and tell him I need his help with something.

  He sounds pleased.

  By the time I park and get up to the front door, the last group of cleaning ladies are on their way out. They hold the door open with smiles, and walk off to their homes in the neighborhood. Dad is sitting in the car, watching my every move. I waited until I had him captive before I told him exactly what I intended to do. He has been protesting loudly that an elderly stroke patient is not a suitable bodyguard, but I tell him anyone can dial 911. He just needs to be alert.

  I enter the building, greeted by a nose-twitching combination of lemon, pine, and chlorine. To my right is a store room lined with shelves of cleaning supplies and racks of brooms, mops and vacuums. To my left, a small office with one desk.

  A woman in her fifties with bright pink lipstick and gold-streaked hair lifts her head. Her face lights up with such delight that I glance over my shoulder to see if someone else is behind me.

  “Hola! Hello! Come in. I am Estrella.” She stands and extends her hand in greeting. I’m embarrassed to touch my grubby mitt to her well-manicured fingers. Clearly Estrella is no longer on the front lines of the cleaning operation.

  “Have a seat.” She beams at me. “You need some help with cleaning? How can I make your life easier?”

  Ha! She could restore my ruined reputation. Blast a hole through to the master bath at 12 Acorn Lane. Restore Harold’s memory of where he got the Tiffany lamp. But for starters, she can just tell me if she set the busboy on my trail.

  I must say, Estrella strikes me as an unlikely organizer of goons. The warmth in her eyes is genuine. I hesitate about giving her my real name, but let’s see how she reacts. “Hi, my name is Audrey Nealon. I own an estate sale organizing service called Another Man’s Treasure.”

  I watch her face closely for a sign of recognition, but there’s nothing. Instead, her eyes light up with the good businesswoman’s delight at a promising prospect.

  “You need some cleaners to help at these sales?”

  “No, not cleaners. But I’ve heard you can help with other workers as well. I think you helped Mr. Bonini find a quick replacement busboy?”

  “Oh, yes. Mr. Bonini is a very nice man. I know his wife a lotta years.” She stretches her arms wide as if to embrace the entire neighborhood. “I know a lotta people. I bring people together—ones who want to work, ones who need help. I help you. What do you need?”

  “It’s not a steady job,” I explain. “I need someone occasionally who can help with heavy lifting. I used to just go over to the hardware store and hire one of those—”

  Estrella wags a red-tipped finger. “No, no, no—that’s not good. You never know who you’re going to get. Some of those guys are hard workers, some not.” She tips an imaginary bottle. “And you’re a woman, you gotta be careful. I find you the best guys. Nice family men. Good, strong workers.”

  “That would be great. How much advance notice do you need?”

  “You call me when you need a guy.” She snaps her fingers. “I send him—fifteen minutes, half-an-hour, tops.” While she’s talking, she’s pulling out a form and a pen. “You fill this out and we’re all set.”

  As I write, I keep chatting with her. One or two questions and I get her whole life story: how she arrived penniless from Columbia twenty-five years ago. How her no-good husband left her and she cleaned houses to support her kids. Oh, how people love to talk about themselves! And now she owns a house, a business, and her three kids have college degrees. And once she was successful, the worthless husband showed up again making trouble, but she sent him packing. She ends by putting her hand over her heart. “Ten years ago I became an American citizen. Happiest day of my life.”

  Geez, the woman should be doing tours at the Statue of L
iberty. I want to like her, but I keep a solid wall around my heart. I need to stay tough for what comes next.

  I smile and slide the completed form across the desk. “You’re a remarkable woman, Estrella. Even though I’ve just met you, I feel like I’ve known you forever. You understand how hard it is for a woman to build up her own business.”

  She cradles my right hand in both of hers. “We are hermanas—sisters—and we have to stick together, eh?”

  “Exactly. So that’s why I’m wondering…there’s something else…maybe you can give me advice–” I cast my eyes down and feel the warmth of her hands holding mine. Am I a good enough actress to pull this off?

  “You need help with something else? I tell you, I know all kinds of people. Lawyers, accountants, doctors. You pregnant? Guy left you?”

  Ah, what an opening she’s handed me. “I’m not pregnant, but the problem is with a guy.” I look into her motherly brown eyes. “A few months ago, I went out with this guy a few times. At first, he seemed nice. Then I started to get a bad vibe. He lied to me about having a job. He was real possessive. I told him I didn’t want to see him anymore, but now—”

  “He won’t leave you alone.”

  I nod, hoping I look scared. “And the police say there’s nothing they can do.”

  “Police,” Estrella dismisses them with a huff. “You don’t have any brothers to help you out?” She’s still holding my hand across the desk.

  I shake my head. “I’m an only child.”

  “What you need is someone to do what any brother would do for his sister. Talk to this guy and tell him to go away.” She squeezes my hand. “Or else.”

  “You know someone like that?”

  She nods. “Of course, he doesn’t work cheap.”

  I straighten my shoulders and increase the pressure on her hand. “Frankly, Estrella, I believe I’ve already met him. A short, strong guy with one chipped tooth. Lives in Dover. Mostly works as a landscaper, except when he’s helping Mr. Bonini. And threatening me.”

  Estrella’s eyes widen and she tries to pull away.

  I increase my grip. “I want to know who hired him. Who paid him to threaten me?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You have misunderstood me.”

  “No I haven’t. One of your housecleaning customers needed a man to warn me off a job I’m doing. You set it up.”

  Her hand is sweating. Her eyes dart back and forth.

  “It’s someone who lives in Summit Oaks.” I squeeze her hand harder. “Who?”

  She yanks her hand away. “Get out of here.” She reaches for her phone. I shove it away.

  “You think you know a lot of people, Estrella? Well, so do I. You know who I’m really dating? An IRS agent. Maybe he would be interested in checking your books. I hope you’ve been paying taxes on all those people who work for you now and then. And I hope you haven’t knowingly hired anyone who’s an illegal alien. Perhaps my other friend at the INS would be interested in coming here to look into that.”

  Behind the pink lipstick and purple eye shadow, her face grows pale. I didn’t think I had it in me to be this ruthless, but I’m determined to find out who’s trying to hurt me.

  “My business,” she whispers.

  “That’s right. You have a business you’ve worked hard for and so do I. I don’t want you to lose your business, but someone is trying to hurt me, trying to stop me from making a living. All I want is to know who it is. Then I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Please—I didn’t know the man was told to threaten you. My customer, he said he needed help getting a drug addict to move out of a rental property he owns.” She puts her hand to her chest. “I, myself, have had this problem. So naturally, I said I would help.”

  Ah, Estrella—you’re all heart. “Tell me who your customer is, Estrella. I won’t tell him how I know. I won’t tell the police. I won’t tell the IRS. I just need to know who’s trying to hurt me.”

  She swallows hard. Her lips part. I sit tensed, waiting for Bernadette McMartin’s name to emerge from her mouth.

  “Mr. Marchand.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Walter Marchand. He lives in Summit Oaks.”

  “What’s the address?”

  From the back of the building, we hear a voice. “Mom, are you done? What’s for dinner?”

  Estrella nods to the door. “Go. You got what you came for.”

  I return to the car bursting with the information I’ve uncovered.

  “Wait’ll you hear how brilliant I was, Dad!” I put the car in gear and begin pulling out of my parking spot. “I tricked her into telling me who sent that thug to Play-O-Rama, so now I can figure out what the hell is going on in Summit Oaks. Apparently it wasn’t Bernadette after all. It was this other faction who’s been sneaking around in Harold’s house and…”

  Dad’s lips are pressed in a thin line. He’s staring out the window at the dark street with the fixed interest of a tourist in Yellowstone.

  “What are you mad about? I’m back in twenty minutes, all in one piece. We can get some nice carryout from Whole Foods and celebrate at my place.”

  “Take me home.” There’s more ice dripping from his voice than from Harold’s gutters.

  “Fine.” Two can play that game.

  We drive in silence until my father snaps. “What you did was completely irresponsible, Audrey. You had no idea what you’d find in there. You could’ve been killed. And now you plan to antagonize some other violent lunatic.”

  “Stop exaggerating. I simply plan to ask this Walter Marchand person why he paid the busboy to threaten me. I’ll embarrass him, put him on the spot, and he’ll have to back down.”

  “You need to tell the police everything that you know and let them handle it.”

  I jolt to a halt at a stop sign and twist to face him. “The police think I’m a liar. What don’t you understand about that?”

  “If you calmly present them with the facts, I’m sure—”

  My foot falls hard on the accelerator. “You’re sure, you’re sure. You’re always sure that logic will win the day, right Dad? Always sure that you’re right.”

  We ride the final block in silence. I’ve barely pulled up to the curb before he’s opening the door. “Certainty must be genetically linked. Good-night, Audrey.”

  Still fuming from my tangle with Dad, I head to the new Whole Foods to pick up dinner. As usual, the parking lot is packed.

  Two months ago, an exhausted old A&P full of wilted iceberg and green-tinged hamburger patties was replaced by a gleaming emporium of grass-fed beef and line-caught tuna. People flock to the store. Even though the grand opening novelty has dissipated, it seems like three-quarters of Palmyrton’s population is trolling the aisles at any given point in the day. It’s like they’ve never seen an organic gooseberry before.

  I’m the worst offender. At least twice a week I weave my little Civic through the parking lot, cutting off BMWs and Land Rovers for the last available parking space. I’m paying through the nose for food that’s beautifully presented, but speaking as someone who’s eaten far too much lo mein straight out of the white cardboard box while standing over the kitchen sink, I think I deserve the illusion of elegance in the food I carry out. Besides, after a long day at Harold’s and an argument with my father, I need beauty wherever I can find it.

  Now that I know Walter Marchand hired the busboy, I feel bolder about traveling around Palmyrton unescorted. Walter’s got to be a little unhinged, but at least he’s not a murderous coyote. “I’ll only be inside for fifteen minutes, Ethel. You bark at anyone who comes near the car, okay?”

  She sits up straight in the passenger seat and slobbers on the window as I look back and wave. No one will car-jack me with Ethel on board.

  I’m barely into Produce before I run into a girl I graduated from high school with, and, down by the greens I wouldn’t know how to prepare, I meet a man whose father’s house I cleared out last year. After I visit th
e salad bar, I head for the prepared food, where short ribs and butternut squash are calling my name. As is Ethel’s vet, who’s right behind me in line.

  Before heading to the checkout, I make a final detour into Beverages for a box of insanely delicious green tea with lemongrass. I turn at the end of the aisle and pull up short. On the other side of a tower of organic quinoa I spot a familiar red head. Why wouldn’t he be here? Everyone else is.

  I duck behind the display, but I needn’t have bothered. Coughlin is looking straight ahead at a woman–tall, smartly bobbed, incredibly fit. He comes up to her and shows her a jar of something and they confer over it, their heads nearly touching. He’s wearing sweatpants and a tight Dri-Fit shirt that strains over his biceps. Even though it’s twenty-five degrees outside, she’s wearing running shorts that reveal every muscle in her perfectly toned legs. This is the kind of girl who scared the crap out of me in high school. He places his hand on the small of her back. Apparently they’re making a gourmet meal together after a workout session.

  And presumably before another workout session.

  I turn quickly, nearly mowing down a little kid trailing after her mom. I can’t risk apologizing out loud, so I nod rudely and scurry away. Adrienne’s words mock me. Sean is incredibly loyal. Clearly, she doesn’t know him as well as she thinks she does.

  My sweaty hands stick to the handle of my cart. I told Coughlin to find someone else, and he did. That’s good. I no longer have to feel guilty for rejecting him.

  Then why are the letters on the aisle signs swimming?

  Chapter 39

  The morning after my fact-finding mission to SuperStar Cleaners, I pull up in front of Walter Marchand’s house, 35 Birch Lane, which is only a few streets away from Harold’s. Last night I discovered Walter has a pretty low-key Internet presence: no Facebook, Twitter, or Linked In, so I couldn’t find a picture. He must be old. Good—easier for me to intimidate. I’m stoked for this encounter. At this very moment, Ty and Mr. Swenson are facing the police. There’s nothing I can do to fight that battle, but I can enforce a little justice right here.