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

by S. W. Hubbard

  Dad’s eyes narrow. “Did you confront that man?”

  “I went to talk to him, but he wasn’t home.”

  Dad contemplates this with his eyes half-closed. “None of the neighbors has a good reason to hurt you now that the house was scheduled for demolition. George and Phoebe have a stronger motive. They could have an accomplice. While you were collecting the papers in the master bath, George could have called for back-up.”

  “Possible. But both of them were keeping the baby a secret from their spouses. Even Nora didn’t know about it. That’s why she and George were arguing about the house. Harold is the only other person alive who knew, and he’s in jail. So who–”

  A nurse comes in to draw some blood and we fall silent. Once she’s safely gone, I twist around on the hard examining table and pull the flimsy gown around me in a futile bid for warmth and modesty. “I’m worried about Phoebe, Dad. I saw her looking at me during the rescue. She’s terrified that I’ll give up her secret. I don’t know how to protect her. Do you think I can—”

  Dad jumps out of his chair. “No!” He points a finger at me. “Don’t you even think of lying to the police about what happened.”

  I feel my body freeze. There’s the old Dad I know so well. Disapproving. Authoritarian.

  Before I can speak, he shoves the offending finger in his pocket. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like that. I’m simply concerned for your safety.”

  He’s right, of course. I can’t go through life looking over my shoulder, wondering if someone is out to get me. Still, ratting out Phoebe feels like drowning a kitten. She’s so vulnerable, yet so fierce in her love for her kids. What if they accuse her of harming the baby because she didn’t seek medical help? How can prosecuting her for a twenty-year-old mistake possibly be in anyone’s best interests?

  My father is watching me so intently he can practically see the flow of thoughts through my mind. “Phoebe and George won’t go to jail for this, Audrey. They were children when it happened. They’ve led exemplary lives since. And I doubt the police can prove exactly how the baby died. Phoebe and George may not realize it at first, but everything that happened last night may be for the best.”

  Dad steps closer and puts his hands on my shoulders. “Keeping secrets is dangerous, Audrey. Surely we’ve both learned that.”

  The police arrive after I’m cleared to get dressed and eat a meager dinner from the hospital cafeteria. All day I’ve been dreading the possibility of answering questions from Coughlin, but when the police enter, he is not in the group. Of course, everyone is aware we’ve been involved. I should have known they’d hand off my case to other cops.

  I’m relieved.

  Or am I disappointed?

  Dad has no choice but to leave, so I’m left with two cops: one young, muscular, and buzz-cut; the other middle-aged, paunchy, and shaggy. I immediately dub them Bad Cop and Good Cop, which drives their real names right out of my head.

  Bad Cop starts off, puffing out his chest and droning a long series of questions to establish the basic timeline of last night’s events. Good Cop appears barely to be listening as he occasionally makes some squiggles on a dog-eared notepad. When I get to the part about Phoebe and George and the baby, Bad Cop finally registers some emotion. His eyes widen at the mention of the tiny skeleton. Good Cop writes a little faster.

  Then Good Cop leans forward. In that one motion, the whole tone of the interview changes. Bad Cop retreats to the note-taker role. Good Cop leads me through the encounter with Phoebe and George. Over and over he asks questions with just a shade of difference in meaning. I notice the shrewdness in his heavy-lidded eyes.

  On my third description of my blow to the head, I pause and blurt, “Do you share an office with Sean Coughlin?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  I feel myself flushing. “Just curious.”

  He doesn’t smile—nothing that obvious—yet his expression changes. Maybe he’s amused by Sean’s and my drama. Or maybe he’s thinking Sean is better off without this one.

  “Curiosity seems to run deep in you, Ms. Nealon. So tell me—do you have any idea who could have hit you and locked you in that house?”

  I shake my head. Geez, that hurts! I’m right back to where I left off with my father. “I know Phoebe and George seem to have the only motive. But I don’t think it was them. They were both so horrified by baby Gabriella’s death. I don’t think either one of them is capable of hurting me. More than that—they’re not capable of letting that house claim another life.”

  Bad Cop snorts.

  Good Cop listens. “What if Phoebe and George didn’t knowingly call an accomplice? Could there be someone else with a vested interest in keeping the baby’s death a secret? Someone watching the house?”

  “Sharon, George and Nora’s mother. But no one has heard from her in years. Harold is in custody. Phoebe’s parents never knew she was pregnant. They were so preoccupied with their own troub—”

  “What?”

  Random facts are clicking into place. I’m afraid if I speak too soon, I’ll disturb them. Good Cop waits.

  “Someone had to be watching Phoebe’s kids last night. Her husband is away on business. She would never have left them alone in the house.”

  “She waited until they were asleep and sneaked next door,” Bad Cop says.

  “No, she wouldn’t have done that. Her parents used to leave her alone at night. Her dad was having an affair. Her mom drank at parties at the neighbors’ houses. Phoebe remembers waking up alone and terrified. No, someone was with the kids last night.”

  “And you think the babysitter attacked you?” Bad Cop can’t keep the scorn out of his voice.

  “Not some random teenage sitter…” Can I risk thinking aloud? What if I’m totally off-base?

  Good Cop is watching me closely. I think he suspects what I’m going to say, but he would never put words in my mouth. I think of the afternoon I visited Phoebe at her house. Grandpa was taking Eunice to her tennis lesson. Grandma was staying with the other two while Phoebe went out. Clearly, they were regular babysitters. With a sinking heart, I remember something else. I glance up. Good Cop’s weary brown eyes have magnetic power.

  “The grandparents are regular babysitters,” I stammer. “When I met them recently, Phoebe and her daughter were scolding Grandpa for smoking cigars.” I pause. “I smelled cigar smoke last night when I was sneaking through Harold’s yard.”

  “You never mentioned that before,” Bad Cop snaps.

  “It didn’t seem significant. I heard a dog barking too, but I didn’t mention that either.”

  “Tell us everything. We’ll decide what’s important.” Good Cop’s tone is mild. I sit up straighter. I bet he’s the kind of dad who never raises his voice but has very well behaved kids.

  “You say you met Phoebe’s parents,” he continues. “Tell us about that.”

  “They seemed like the typical doting grandparents. Although they are an odd match.”

  Phoebe’s parents loom in my mind’s eye. The mom–plump, dowdy, down on her knees playing with the two younger kids, her flyaway gray hair tucked behind her ears, her plain, round face crinkled with delight at the kids’ antics. And the dad–trim, handsome, dressed in his immaculate sweater and slacks, archly amused as he waited to take Eunice to her lesson. His whole body was tanned except for the glaring white scar on his hand. I’m positive now that he was the dog-walking man who asked me about our work on the house when we first began even though he later denied it. His wife called him Chip. That’s a nickname. He must have a real name, maybe one he doesn’t like.

  Could it be Walter?

  I glance up to see Good Cop’s expectant eyes, unblinking in their patience. “Phoebe grew up in Summit Oaks. Her parents still live a few streets away. One of the other neighbors told me some gossip about them from years ago.” So I tell them all I know about the affair, the knife attack, the way the parents’ misery made them oblivious to Phoebe’s pregnancy.
I tell them about Estrella and how she hooked up a man in the neighborhood named Walter Marchand with a guy willing to do some dirty work.

  Bad Cop frowns. “I think we established that there’s no basis for your claim that Juan Ramirez threatened you.”

  And Dad wonders why I didn’t take the information on Walter to the cops. “You can check and see what Phoebe’s maiden name is.”

  Good Cop says, “Sounds like the grandmother is the violent, unstable one.”

  I direct my attention to Good Cop. “I get the impression that the affair unhinged her at the time. Now she seems like a sweet, fun grandma—the kind who doesn’t care if the kids spill glitter or eat cookies on the couch.”

  I hesitate.

  “You said they seemed like an odd match,” Good Cop prompts.

  “Look, I could be totally off-base here, but Phoebe’s father is not only quite handsome, but also very fashionable. And her mom, well she strikes me as the kind of woman who was never particularly concerned about her appearance. She’s plump and plain now and I bet she always has been.”

  “So that’s why he had the other woman,” Bad Cop says.

  Good Cop’s brow is furrowed. “Thirty years ago, why would a very attractive man marry a very plain woman? What would make a gentle woman so crazed she’d stab her husband?”

  Our eyes meet. “There wasn’t another woman,” I whisper. “There was another man.”

  Chapter 44

  I’m right outside your door. Don’t freak out when I knock.

  I set down my phone and nudge Ethel snoozing peacefully at my feet. “Hello? Isn’t it your job to alert me to the presence of strangers at the door?”

  She raises her head and sniffs, then yawns and closes her eyes again. That’s no stranger, that’s Sean.

  Briefly, I consider pretending I’m not home. But that’s ridiculous. We can’t go on ignoring each other like two middle-schoolers in a snit. I head to the front door, pausing for a moment before the mirror in the foyer. I fluff up my bangs.

  What the hell’s wrong with me?

  I yank open the door in mid-knock. Sean practically falls into my condo.

  “I came by to tell you what’s happening. You may have reporters calling you tomorrow. I figured you’d need a heads-up.”

  “Thanks.”

  We stare at each other. My heart is pounding, and I suspect he knows that. I check his jaw. The little muscle is twitching. Then I remember my manners. “Come in. You want a cup of coffee?”

  “Not at ten-thirty.”

  “Oh, right. Well, wine then?”

  He takes a deep breath to prepare for a speech. Changes his mind. “Sure. Wine.”

  I pour us each a glass while Ethel slobbers over him as if he were a giant Milk Bone. Her ability to remain aloof is notably underdeveloped.

  I set the glasses down on the coffee table. We do not toast.

  “Pete Holzer took the information you provided and interviewed Phoebe Castelton’s parents, Jean and Walter Marchand.”

  “Separately?”

  “Of course. At first the father was adamant that he never went outside. Didn’t know where Phoebe went. Didn’t see or hear a thing. But the old lady reported that he went outside to smoke. From that point on, it was simply a matter of playing the two of them off against each other. The old lady got so pissed reliving the gay boyfriend business, she really went after her husband.”

  “So it really was Phoebe’s dad who tried to kill me? He confessed?”

  Sean nods. “If he’d kept his mouth shut and got a lawyer like the guy you got for Griggs, we might not have had enough evidence to bring charges. Of course, the fact that he hired a thug to go after you was pretty incriminating. But guys like Walter always think they’re smart enough to outwit Holzer. They’re wrong.”

  “I liked him.”

  “He liked you.”

  I take a gulp of wine and look away. “Did Phoebe’s parents know about the baby at the time of the birth, or not?”

  “The mother never knew. All those years ago when she suspected her husband was having an affair, she started drinking. When she discovered he was cheating on her with a guy, she actually had a psychotic break. She totally overlooked the changes in her daughter. The father noticed, but he was in denial, just like Phoebe. Then one day he saw the baby bump was gone. Even he couldn’t deny that. He talked to Sharon. She told him where the baby’s body was. He decided the patch things up with his wife. Keep his sins and his daughter’s quiet.”

  So they all decided to live a lie for the next twenty years. Because what would the neighbors say if they found out Walter Marchand was gay and his wife committed assault and his daughter gave birth to a baby at fifteen and the baby’s other grandmother buried it in her house? What else could they do but lie? Until last night.

  “He was waiting for me when I came out of the house. How did he know what Phoebe and George were up to?”

  “Apparently he overheard Phoebe on the phone planning with George. He was watching their progress from Phoebe’s back porch. When he saw you go into the house after they were in there, he grabbed his grandson’s baseball bat and waited. When he realized you knew about the baby, he took action. He’s not as trusting as his daughter.”

  I rub my head. “He hit me with a baseball bat?”

  “Little League size. You’re lucky the kid just graduated from T-ball.”

  “He didn’t have to hit me. I would have kept Phoebe’s secret.”

  “I’m sure you would have.” Sean takes a sip of wine and his eyes meet mine over the rim of the glass. “Unfortunately, Mr. Marchand doesn’t know you as well as I do.”

  “You think that’s wrong?” My voice goes up a decibel. “Phoebe and George were victims. They needed guidance and the adults in their lives who should’ve given it to them were totally AWOL.”

  “Relax, crusader. I don’t think Phoebe’s a murderer.”

  “What will happen to them, Sean?” My voice drops to a murmur. “I feel terrible that I had to give up Phoebe’s secret.”

  He reaches out a comforting hand then lets it drop. “Honestly, when I saw Phoebe, she seemed sort of relieved it was all out in the open. The medical examiner has to do an autopsy on what’s left of the skeleton. I don’t think he’ll find much. As long as there’s no overt sign of foul play, I doubt they’ll try to prosecute. Clearly the adults were more at fault, and Harold isn’t competent to stand trial.”

  “What about the house?”

  “We had to search it again to make sure there were no more lunatic women stuck inside. There are four patrolmen stationed outside overnight. The demo starts tomorrow at dawn.”

  “Jill was so sure that Harold needed the house to get better. But now that we know what happened there, I’ve gotta believe Harold will be better off somewhere else. Good riddance.”

  “How is Jill feeling?”

  “Better. The fever broke. Her lungs are clearing.”

  We sit quietly for a moment. Then something else dawns on me. “You said Walter Marchand needed a lawyer like Emil Swenson. Did he actually do a good job negotiating for Ty?”

  Sean grimaces. “Griggs sat there silent as a stone. Swenson did all the talking. We needed the information, so we had to cut a deal. What he gave us was good. We arrested Horacio’s killer.”

  “What about Ramon? Are you still looking for him?”

  He shakes his head. “The DA thinks we have enough evidence against this scumbag coyote as long as you and Ty are willing to testify.”

  Sean knocks back the last of his wine in one gulp and stands. “So, as of January 24, no one’s trying to kill you. Try to keep it that way for a few months, eh?”

  “I’ll try. Thanks for coming by with the news.”

  Sean makes no move to leave. The silence is deafening. Ethel begins to whine.

  “Look, Audrey, there’s one more thing I have to say and then I’ll go and I won’t bother you again. I know you saw me in Whole Foods. That woman, we’re just
old friends.”

  “She didn’t look—” Then I catch myself. That was a trap. “You’re free to go shopping with whomever you please, Sean. It’s no concern of mine.”

  A little smile twitches the corner of his mouth. “You were going to say ‘She didn’t look like a friend to me.’ You’re jealous.”

  “I am not. I simply thought it would be awkward to encounter you with a woman you were clearly trying to seduce, so I left.”

  “I wasn’t trying to seduce her.”

  “Perhaps you had already succeeded. You seemed to be planning a long evening together.”

  Now why did I say that? Why am I so determined to prove him a liar when one-upping him like this only gives him reason to hope I care?

  “So how come you didn’t just say hi instead of spying on me from behind the organic quinoa?”

  I feel my face burning. “I wasn’t spying. I simply didn’t want to intrude on a tender moment. But I assure you, next time I bump into you two, I’ll ask for an introduction.”

  “All right, what can I say? Liza is sort of a friend with benefits. I met her at the gym. Kickboxing.”

  Figures.

  “But I was hurt, Audrey. Drowning my sorrows.”

  “Hmph—nice for her.”

  “It was mutual. She’s getting over someone too.”

  “Perfect.” I feel my eyes well with tears. “Marry her. Have babies with her.”

  He grabs my arm. “I don’t want Liza. She’s hard, inside and out. I want you. When I saw Walter Marchand in the police station I wanted to pound his face to a pulp. If you had died in that house—” He shudders. His grip on my arm turns into a caress. “Holzer told me how you got out. Always resourceful.”

  He kisses the top of my head.

  I let him.

  “I thought about you when I was trapped in there, Sean.” I speak looking down at my cats-chasing-dogs socks. “I thought about how much I regretted hurting you. But then I remembered that other woman and I figured you couldn’t have cared that much if you were dating again. And then I thought about how I’ve always fantasized about having a perfect family, but every time I find one that I think is perfect, it turns out to be crazy, or damaged, or evil.”