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

by S. W. Hubbard

  Finally around 8:00, I get a cryptic text from Ty: All done. Worn out. Catch you tomorrow.

  I guess that’s good news. If he’s got his phone, he’s not in jail. I want to call him and demand details. Is he totally clear? But if I do, I’ll have to tell him about Jill. And since Ty won’t be able to visit her, there’s no point in his knowing how sick she is. I’m still twisted with worry about both of them. And powerless to help.

  The TV blares on as I pace around my condo. I open my tote bag to look at the Civil War documents. Maybe I can start researching prices to occupy my mind. A jumble of papers greets me: a flier for the upcoming blues festival, a carryout menu for the Taj Mahal, a receipt for my last oil change. I don’t know how this bag can swallow up so much stuff, but it does.

  The reporters are announcing that the condemnation procedures for 12 Acorn Lane have been reinstated.

  I dig deeper.

  A catalog with some funky skirts I liked…a copy of my last set of dental x-rays to give to my new dentist…a coupon for a sale at Lord & Taylor that ended two weeks ago.

  My heart rate kicks up a notch. Where is that manila envelope with the Civil War letters?

  I dump the entire bag out on my dining room table. Loose change and dried-up lipsticks and lint-covered cough drops roll across the room. I sort all the papers into piles.

  No manila envelope.

  I do what I always do when I’ve lost something—try to retrace my steps and envision every place I’ve been since the last time I saw the lost item.

  I picture myself finding the papers. I let out of whoop of joy. What did I do next?

  I took them downstairs to show Jill and passed Harold in the foyer

  I relive the moment of discovering her limp body and my throat constricts. I take a deep breath. Don’t start crying or you’ll never stop.

  I had to call 9-1-1. My phone was in my bag on the kitchen table. While I dug for my phone, I slipped the envelope inside my bag.

  I took the bag back and forth from the hospital to my house twice, but I never looked for the envelope again until now.

  A horrible sinking feeling grips me. While I was preoccupied with helping Jill, Harold could have gone into my bag and taken the envelope back out. He knew I’d found the papers.

  Where would he have put it?

  I hear his nasal whine. ‘This doesn’t belong here.’ I rest my head in my hands. He has to have put it back into the master bathroom.

  A flash of yellow on the TV screen catches my eye. A backhoe is being unloaded in front of Harold’s house. The reporter intones, “Tear-down will begin tomorrow morning.”

  Without the Civil War letters, these last horrible weeks have all been for naught. The loss of the Tiffany lamp, Jill’s illness, Harold’s arrest, the condemnation of the house—one catastrophe after another. The letters are all we have to show for that filthy, exhausting work. Their sale is the only thing that can get Harold the help he needs. Not to mention pay Jill and Ty for their work.

  And pay the company health insurance premium. Who knows how long Jill will be in the hospital?

  And pay Mr. Swenson, or someone better, for defending Ty. He may not be in the clear yet.

  And now the letters are right back where they started out. The police line is set up. The demo equipment is poised for the kill. First thing tomorrow morning, Harold’s house is dust.

  Oh, Harold, Harold, what have you done?

  I never want to go back to 12 Acorn Lane. But what else can I do? The police won’t stop the demo for this. The Heath Department won’t let me go in after some papers. I’m going to have to sneak back in to get them.

  I don’t relish running into Bernadette or any of the neighborhood wackos—they’ll call the cops on me for sure–but if I park on another street and slip through the backyards, I should be able to make it in and out unseen. As for the virus, I’ve been working in that environment for weeks. What’s one more hour? I assure myself it’s no big deal.

  So why am I rooted to my chair?

  Ethel looks at me from under wrinkled eyebrows.

  “Yeah, I know. I’m confused too. It’s just, I’m a little scared, ya know? The busboy dude, the protesters, the break-ins, the rats.”

  Ethel whines.

  “I know you’d go with me, but I can’t trust you not to bark. There are raccoons at night. You know how you get around them.”

  She hangs her head, knowing I’m right.

  Who can I get to go with me? Jill’s in the hospital. I won’t ask Ty to do anything illegal. If we get caught, I’ll be let off with a warning and he’ll get sent back to jail. Maura is in Chicago on business. My father has made it clear he wants no part of my escapades. And I’m sure as hell not calling Coughlin.

  I scroll through the contacts on my phone looking for inspiration. When I hit the halfway mark, I find it.

  Natalie.

  No, I can’t make my father’s sixty year old girlfriend go into that toxic house with me. But she can spot me. I dial.

  I give her the background, then ask my favor. “I’m going over there, Natalie. But I want you to be my back-up. I’m going to call you once I have the papers. If you don’t hear from me by midnight, I want you to call 9-1-1. Okay?”

  “Audrey, I don’t think this is a good idea. Surely there’s another way. Let’s think—”

  “I’m going, Natalie. I’m ninety-nine percent sure nothing will happen. Just be my one percent back-up—please.”

  She sighs. “All right. But I’m not waiting one second past twelve.”

  “Deal.”

  I’m about to hang up when I put the phone back to my ear. “Oh, and Natalie, don’t breathe a word of this to my father. Promise.”

  “But, Audrey—”

  “Natalie, please. I can’t deal with weeks of disapproval from him right now. Promise.”

  “All right. I promise.”

  The streets of Summit Oaks are not laid out in a grid—that would be too straightforward. Instead they twist and twine and double back on each other to create charming lanes and quiet cul-de-sacs...not to mention opportunities for back-stabbing. Now, what is the street whose houses back up to Harold’s? The one Nora always parks on? Birch? Beech? Damn these tree names. I pull down Birch, trying to remember the color of the house that I can see from Harold’s back yard. Taupe. Every other freakin’ house is taupe. I drive at a snail’s pace squinting to peer through the thick trees that fill every yard. A man walking his dog stops and stares at me. I speed up.

  Next I try Beech, but that road twists sharply at the midpoint, taking me away from the direction of Harold’s house. I think.

  Up ahead I see a sign. Aspen Drive. Aspen, I’m pretty sure that’s where Nora parks. Sure enough, when I get halfway down the street I can see the top of the bright yellow backhoe parked in Harold’s backyard. I park and study the houses that back up to Harold’s. One is lit up like a Christmas tree, curtains all open, people moving from room to room. Too risky to cut through that yard. I set off down the edge of the driveway of the dark house next door. I’ve got my respirator stowed in a small backpack. At the end of the pavement I set my foot down and screech.

  I’m ankle-deep in a freezing puddle of slush. In the house next door, I can see the woman in her kitchen lift her head and listen. I duck behind a prickly bush. When she goes back to her work, I head deeper into the yard, choosing to cut across a large flagstone patio to avoid any more slush.

  Suddenly I’m bathed in light. I freeze. A dog begins barking, giving a pretty convincing impression of the Hound of the Baskervilles. Shit, these people are home. I run straight back, my heart rattling the cage of my ribs.

  A ten-foot stockade fence stands before me.

  It takes a moment for me to realize that no ferocious dog is tearing my legs off. He’s charging up and down a dog run in the yard on the other side of this one. And the lights seem to have been triggered by a motion detector. Why are these people so damn paranoid?

  Finall
y, I can see Harold’s property through the trees at the back of the brightly lighted house, and I slip over there to make my crossing. Of course, Harold’s yard hasn’t had maintenance for twenty years. I thrash through brambles and chest-high stalks of dead weeds before finally breaking through. Orange plastic temporary fencing encircles the yard. Signs are posted at intervals: “Biohazard—Keep Out.” What’s a plastic fence at this point? Lewis and Clark weren’t stopped by the Rockies. I push it down in a low spot and clamber over.

  I slip from tree to tree being sure to stay out of view of Bernadette’s house. The backhoe looms over me, its claw a bright yellow T-Rex poised to kill. This house will be laid open, disemboweled. Tomorrow morning, jail is probably the best place Harold can be.

  I shake myself. No time to be maudlin. Just get in and get out.

  I reach the back door. The police have hammered a piece of plywood over it and posted another Biohazard sign. Shit! I never expected this.

  But the police don’t know 12 Acorn Lane like I do. There’s another door that leads directly into the room that holds the furnace and water heater, a door concealed by a giant overgrown bush. Sure enough, the cops have missed it. I jiggle the doorknob. It opens right up.

  Inside, the house is pitch dark. The utilities have been shut off to prepare for the demo. I figure my cell phone flashlight is dim enough for me to use safely. Even eagle-eyed Bernadette won’t notice if I keep it focused low to the ground.

  I stumble into the kitchen, dodging piles of blenders and food processors. I’m conscious of every breath I take. Is the respirator filtering out those Hanta virus particles? A vision of Jill chained by wires and tubes to her ICU bed fills my brain. I can’t allow myself to think about that. I’ve survived this house for two weeks—what’s one more hour?

  Get in. Get out.

  I shine my light around the kitchen floor. Could I possibly be so lucky as to find the envelope here? Maybe it slipped out of my bag. Maybe Harold didn’t take it back to the master bath.

  But the kitchen looks just as we left it. A few take-out containers on the table. Corralled clutter in the corners. Broken Tiffany glass on the floor. No envelope.

  I’ve got to go upstairs, leaving the air that might be toxic for the air I know is toxic. Upstairs where I know we found a rat’s nest. Upstairs where I’m sure Jill got sick.

  I wend my way through the foyer. Unlike in the kitchen, here the windows are still totally covered by Harold’s collections, so I don’t have to worry about my flashlight. At the foot of the stairs I take a deep breath as if I could possibly finish my mission on one lungful of air like some tropical pearl diver.

  I’m about four steps up when I hear a noise.

  Rustling. Movement.

  I pause. My heart sends so much blood through my veins I feel like I might explode.

  No rats. No rats. Please no rats.

  I take another step up.

  More rustling.

  And a voice.

  I freeze. Is that what I heard? Or is my imagination so overheated that I’m having auditory hallucinations? Every fiber of my being is attuned to sounds from above. I stop breathing to listen.

  “Careful.”

  One word. Whispered, but distinct.

  Not a rat.

  Someone else is in here. For a moment I’m scared, but then rage pushes fear aside.

  Those freakin’ neighbors! Those greedy cannibals are in here trying to score some loot for themselves before the wrecking ball strikes. I grip my phone ready to call for help if I need it and charge up the steps.

  At the top, the beam of my flashlight meets the beam of theirs.

  A high-pitched scream.

  A woman. If it’s Bernadette, I swear I’ll gouge her beady eyes out.

  I step out of her beam and squint into the darkness. A cloud of wavy hair is caught in my flashlight beam.

  Phoebe. And behind her stands a man.

  George.

  Chapter 41

  For a moment we are all too bewildered to speak.

  Then we all start at once. “Why are you—”

  What is going–”

  “But wait—”

  “How did you—”

  I’m wearing a respirator and the two of them are wearing simple dust masks, so all our words are garbled.

  In the midst of the commotion, Phoebe sinks to her knees and begins to sob.

  Her shoulders shake as she says something over and over that I can’t quite discern.

  George rakes his fingers through his hair. “Phoebe, stop!”

  Typical guy. When has barking at a hysterical woman ever produced calming results? I crouch down beside her and rub her back. Gradually my ear unscrambles Phoebe’s words. “I can’t leave her here. I can’t leave her here.”

  I look up at George. “Can’t leave who here? What’s she taking about?”

  “Never mind. Whatever you’re here for, get it and go. I’ll take care of Phoebe.”

  Take care of her? I didn’t even know these two were friends. “It’s not safe for you to be in here with just those dust masks,” I warn. “This is where we found the rat’s nest.”

  Mention of the rats makes Phoebe cry even harder. “We have to find her. I can’t leave her here. She doesn’t deserve this.”

  “Who is she talking about?”

  George’s eyes meet mine over our masks. What the hell is going on here? My mind grinds like an ancient adding machine when what I need is a high-end Mac. Now George is looking back over his shoulder at the bedroom that used to be his. The bedroom where–

  A queasy dread churns my stomach.

  “That bedroom,” I whisper. “My dog, she found a bone—”

  I can see George evaluating.

  “The bone wasn’t from a cat, was it?” The horror of this house engulfs me. My God, Sharon is entombed here. Ed was right—she never left. The other Sharons I found on Coughlin’s database weren’t her.

  But I’m still confused. Why is Phoebe the one who’s so upset? My hand still rests on her back. “Were you and Sharon close, Phoebe?”

  “Gabriella!” Phoebe moans.

  Huh?

  “Stop saying that name.” George’s voice is harsh and raw. “It doesn’t have a name.”

  “Don’t you call our daughter it. Don’t you ever call her it. She was a beautiful little creature of God, and I won’t let them scrape her up and throw her in a landfill.”

  My eyes search George’s for answers. “You and Phoebe had a baby?”

  We face each other in the hall. George’s gaze darts toward the banister. I edge away. One lunge and he could throw me over to the foyer below.

  “We were sophomores in high school.” Phoebe’s voice is flat. She recites the facts like a kid forced to give an oral report on the chief exports of Uruguay. “Both of our families were falling apart. George and I started spending time together. I got pregnant.”

  The bare facts release a flood in George. He takes over the story. “Her parents were so caught up in their own drama that they didn’t even notice. Phoebe was in denial. I was clueless. One night, she had a terrible stomachache. We came here.”

  George covers his face. He can’t go on.

  The opportunity to tell her story seems to bring Phoebe some strength. “My labor was quick. I didn’t even know what was happening to me. Sharon was useless. But Harold did what he could. He delivered our daughter. George was there.”

  “The baby came out all blue,” George says. “The cord was wrapped around its…her…neck. Harold tried to get her to breathe, but—”

  I feel my eyes opening wider and wider as the two of them speak. “The baby…your baby…is in here?”

  Phoebe chokes out sentences between sobs. “This is why I came back to Summit Oaks, why I bought the house next to Harold’s. For years, I pushed Gabriella’s birth out of my mind. I pretended it never happened and went on with my life. But after Eunice was born–” She shakes her head. “Everything was different. Suddenly
I was a mother, a real mother, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the baby I lost. I had to come back to her.”

  I’m so creeped out. I feel like I’m having an out of body experience, looking down on myself and Ethel…commanding her to release the shattered bone crushed between her teeth.

  “For the past five years, it’s been enough knowing that I was next to her, nearby. My husband knows nothing about what happened when I was fifteen.” Phoebe sits cross-legged on the floor, her eyes slightly out of focus. “Everything would have been fine if it hadn’t been for Bernadette. I can’t let them tear down the house and load it into trucks headed for a landfill. I’ve been coming in here looking for her. I have to get Gabriella out and give her a decent burial.”

  While Phoebe talks, George has been pacing in the crowded hallway. “Phoebe and I have families now. I’m a professor, I just got tenure, I’m engaged. I can’t let my whole life blow up because of something that happened twenty years ago. Something that could have been resolved if both of us had normal, responsible parents.”

  Phoebe begins to rock. “It’s my fault. I didn’t take care of her when she was inside me. I let them take her away from me. All my fault.”

  “It’s not your fault!” George’s face is taut with anger. “You’re a good mother. If Eunice turned up pregnant would you tell her to give birth at home without a doctor? Would you wrap the dead baby up in one of your seven hundred collectible blankets? Would you tell your crazy brother to squirrel it away in this hell-hole? Would you?”

  George whirls to face me. “My mother and Harold are to blame for this. Everything they ever touched turns to poison.”

  George struggles to get his breathing under control, his voice lowered. “You can see how distraught all this is making Phoebe. We need to find the baby and get the body out of here. Then we’ll decide what to do.”

  Phoebe distraught? It seems to me George is the one coming unglued. I assess my situation: I’m all alone in this toxic house with two desperate, unstable people. Phoebe is smaller than I am, but I’ve seen her fight ferociously. George might have a weapon, or might not. Either way, he’s a thirty-ish man in very good shape. Now is not the time to announce that I’m calling the cops or plead with them to do it. I’d better just humor them until I can make it out of here. After all, poor baby Gabriella is long past needing help.