Noreen squeezes my arm. “I’m sorry. Family expectations are rough. Peter and I tried to have kids for five years. Recently, we decided to get off the infertility treatment merry-go-round. I’m still struggling with that choice a little, but I’m learning to let go.”
Spontaneously, I hug her. We cling to each other for a moment, until I hear Sean’s voice shouting up the stairs. “Ladies—I’m making margaritas. Are you in?”
Our little moment of womanly angst ends, and we head downstairs clamoring for cocktails. Out on the deck, Sean and Peter are discussing basketball, but they drop the boring sports analysis when we arrive. Peter grins at me, “Audrey, I have a math question for you.” He launches into a statistical conundrum he’s encountered in his work as a marketer for a pharmaceutical company. While I answer, flattered that he remembered I was a math major at UVA, Noreen looks over Sean’s shoulder at the grill and they discuss tonight’s menu.
I relax in my deck chair. What a great couple—both of us like both of them. That’s not easy to find.
The pre-dinner cocktail conversation roams from Palmyrton’s newest downtown redevelopment project to Noreen’s work in human relations at a big tech company known for its sexism. Finally, it circles back to more personal issues like balancing the demands of work and family.
“Maybe Audrey can help you with Aunt Cordy,” Noreen says to her husband.
“You have more downsizing elderly relatives?” I pass my guests the platter of grilled vegetables.
“Technically, Aunt Cordy isn’t a relative,” Peter explains. “She’s a friend of my parents that my siblings and I call Aunt. And she’s definitely not moving. In fact, I’m trying to find a way to keep her right here in Palmyrton.” Peter takes a big swig of wine, anesthetizing himself against Aunt Cordy’s issues. “My father has always looked out for her. She was the last obstacle standing between my parents and a peaceful retirement in North Carolina. My dad was worried about leaving her here unsupervised, so I agreed to take on the responsibility. But it’s turning into a bigger job than I anticipated.”
“Aunt Cordy is kind of crazy,” Noreen explains. “But she’s fun.”
“Like a lot of fun people, she’s totally irresponsible.” Peter stabs some grilled zucchini onto his plate. “We found that amusing when we were kids. Now, not so much.”
“Sounds like my brother, Terry,” Sean mutters.
I don’t want the party to veer into a discussion of Sean’s brother, who’s once again in the family doghouse for borrowing money from his parents that he can’t repay. “What does Cordy do—shop too much? Fall for telemarketing scams?” I ask.
“She takes in strays, both animal and human,” Noreen says. “It would be sweet, except she really can’t afford her generosity. She barely has enough income to support herself. We’re worried she might lose her home because she owes back taxes.” Noreen leans across the table and touches the top of my hand. “But she’s got a lot of cool stuff in her house. Do you ever sell things for people who aren’t moving?”
“Uhm, if they want their antiques sold,” I say cautiously. The last thing I need is to be put in the middle of a power struggle between my new friends and some poor old lady clinging to her heirlooms.
“Oh, Cordy doesn’t have antiques, per se. She’s got rock ‘n’ roll collectibles.” Peter waves his fork. “Original Woodstock posters. A sweaty shirt Mick Jagger threw into the audience. A pair of Keith Moon’s drumsticks. Is any of that worth cold, hard cash?”
My ears perk up. Rock collectibles are, in fact, a lucrative market. “Oh, definitely. But I’m not an expert. I’d have to see what she has and then do a little research.”
Peter and Noreen exchange a look. It’s the kind of communication between a couple that means they share information other people in the room don’t. I should know—Sean and I do it all the time.
Peter leans back in his chair, a subtle gesture allowing Noreen to take the lead. “That’s been our problem—finding the stuff and determining if it’s real,” Noreen says. “We’d be so appreciative of your opinion.”
Now I’m getting nervous. This is bringing back unpleasant memories of Harold the Hoarder, my worst job ever. His relatives also wanted me to find missing valuables buried in his house. I raise my hands. “Full stop. I don’t do hoarders.”
“Oh, her house isn’t that bad,” Noreen assures me as she devours her grilled fennel. “She doesn’t pick up stuff off the street or anything. Cordelia simply has a lifetime of souvenirs and, er, quite an imagination.”
“She makes stuff up,” Peter clarifies. “That’s how she lost her job as a reporter for Bass Line.”
“Wait.” Sean pauses with a spatula full of salmon in mid-air. “Are you talking about the Cordelia Dean, queen of the backstage interview?”
“One and the same.” Peter looks more pained than pleased that Sean recognizes the woman.
“You’ve heard of her?” I ask Sean.
“Of course.” Sean gives me a “what stone have you been living under?” look. “As a teenager, I was really into classic rock. I used to go to the library to read all her old articles about Jagger and Bowie and Hendrix.” Sean leans across the table toward Peter. “You mean to tell me Cordelia Dean lives in Palmyrton?”
I watch all this with curiosity. My cynical, unimpressible husband has gone all fan-boy.
“Yep. 151 Locust Street. Would you like to meet her?” Peter offers. “Audrey could talk to Cordy about the rock memorabilia at the same time.”
“We’d love to,” Sean says before I can even open my mouth. “How about tomorrow?”
“I thought we were going to hike at Jockey Hollow,” I remind Sean. I’m not keen to miss my fall foliage hike on the only weekend I’ll have off until Thanksgiving. Or to get dragged into a search for this old lady’s collectibles.
“Plenty of time to do both,” Peter assures me. “Afternoon is best. Cordy sleeps ‘til noon.”
Chapter 3
ALTHOUGH MY HUSBAND loves all kinds of music, I’ve never known him to be impressed by fame. He rolls his eyes at people who hang around after sporting events hoping for autographs, and he looked the other way the time Angelina Jolie crossed the street in front of us in Manhattan. “Why are you so hellbent on meeting Cordelia Dean?” I ask as we get undressed for bed after our guests have departed.
“I dunno.” Sean won’t meet my eye as he peels off his shirt. “I just think it’ll be cool to talk to someone who’s met all the greats of rock’n’roll.”
“I had fun with Peter and Noreen tonight. But they do seem awfully anxious to sell off Cordelia’s memorabilia. I don’t like getting in the middle of family squabbles.”
“Peter never said Cordy objected to selling off some of her stuff,” Sean reminds me. “Let’s meet her and see how she reacts to the idea of you doing some appraisals.”
“I guess that can’t hurt,” I agree. “I hope she’s got her wits about her. Although she can’t be ancient if she was friends with Peter’s dad—Hank is in his mid-seventies. Peter never did explain her connection to his family. We got sidetracked into talking about other things.”
When I slide under the covers, Sean has his laptop open on his knees. “Look, here’s a picture of Cordelia Dean back in the day.”
I scoot closer to my husband. A picture of a slender but buxom woman in her twenties with long, wavy auburn hair fills the computer screen. She’s grinning exuberantly at the camera, holding a champagne bottle aloft while a long-haired guy in an unbuttoned shirt and low-slung jeans pulls her into a hug. “She was gorgeous and sexy. Who’s the guy?”
Sean groans as if I didn’t recognize John F. Kennedy. “Robert Plant, lead singer of Led Zeppelin.”
I nod, trying to pretend that means something to me.
“ ‘Stairway to Heaven’...’Whole Lotta Love’...’Good Times, Bad Times’.” Sean’s voice becomes more incredulous with every song I don’t recognize.
“Sorry. That was before my time. I list
ened to Moby and Cake and Ben Folds when I was in high school. Didn’t you?”
“Yeah, sure. But I always liked the old rock classics. And the rock stars. These guys were larger than life. Ben Folds looks like some dad you’d meet at a soccer game.”
“So you want to pick Cordelia Dean’s brain about drug-fueled parties and nights spent tearing up hotel rooms?” I reach across Sean and turn off the bedside lap with a rough click. “You’d better not tell her you’re a cop.”
Sean pulls me into his arms. “Hey, are you mad about having to go over there?”
I realize my tone was rather snappish. I snuggle under his arm. “Not mad. Just...I feel a little pressured to get involved appraising and selling Cordy’s stuff. I’m going to be really busy between now and Thanksgiving. I have to pack in the sales before everything goes dead between Thanksgiving and New Year’s.”
“Well, if it’s more trouble than it’s worth, just turn down the job.”
“Mmmm.” I pull the covers over my head. That’s easier said than done when Peter and Noreen have moved from clients to friends.
THE NEXT DAY, WE TAKE an early morning hike with Ethel, have lunch at home, and head over to meet Peter and Noreen at Cordy’s house at two.
Locust Street is in the Burleith neighborhood of Palmyrton, small houses that were built in the 1920s. The neighborhood became run-down for a while, but now it’s enjoying a resurgence of popularity since the houses are within walking distance of Palmyrton square. “You know who lives near here?” I tell Sean as I gaze out the passenger window at the small houses with covered front porches and pocket lawns. “Lydia Eastlee. She’s the young widow we helped downsize from her McMansion in Palmer Heights.”
“Yeah, I remember meeting her at open mic night at Blue Monday. I like the Craftsman style here, but these houses are money pits,” Sean says. “Look—that one’s got a slate roof. Replacing that will set you back a cool thirty grand.”
“I hope Cordy doesn’t need that kind of repair. I’d have to sell an awful lot of rock memorabilia.” I point to a street sign ahead. “There’s Locust.”
We turn and start looking for 151. The houses on this street are a mixed bag. Some have been lovingly restored, while others need paint and new windows. The odd numbers are on the left, and I squint ahead looking for our target. One-forty-three, forty-five, forty seven...
Whoa.
Up ahead, shining like a beacon on a foggy day, is a house painted bright blue. And purple, and orange, and green, and yellow. It doesn’t have a house number, but it sits between 149 and 153.
“I think we’re here.” Sean parallel parks behind a dilapidated Subaru covered with rainbow flag, science is real, and eat the rich bumper stickers. “Looks like Cordy got a discount on all the discontinued colors at the paint store.”
I have to admire the effort that went into using so many different shades of paint. Every spindle on the porch’s railing is painted a different color. The windowsills are orange, while the frames are yellow. The door is fuchsia and the shutters are green. A large orange tomcat sprawls across a wicker chair that looks like it wouldn’t support the weight of a human. A scrawny gray cat nabs a piece of kibble from a bowl and darts away as we approach.
While we’re standing on the sidewalk taking it in, Peter and Noreen pull up in their SUV.
“You like the exterior?” Peter asks as he approaches us on the sidewalk. “You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet.”
“Oh, I’m impossible to shock,” I assure him as we climb the front steps. But anxiety builds—they did insist the woman’s not a hoarder, right?
Peter scowls at the half-empty cat food bowl on the porch. “Cordy is not supposed to leave food outside. The neighbors reported her, and she got a ticket from the town for encouraging a feral colony.”
Noreen strokes the head of the tom cat. “Ziggy Stardust lives here. It’s his harem that are the problem.”
Peter knocks vigorously on the wooden door, ignoring a clearly nonfunctional doorbell with wires sticking out of its socket. As we raise this racket, a tall, thin man with a dirty-blond ponytail lopes down the path from the backyard and hops into the beater parked in front of our car. He rattles off with a belch of exhaust and a grinding of gears.
Peter grimaces. “One of Cordy’s deadbeat hangers-on. She got rid of him before letting us in because she knows I don’t approve of him staying here.”
“Cordy’s always got someone—” Noreen breaks off as the front door opens.
A blowsy old woman with dyed red hair shot through with plenty of gray stands in the doorway. Her heavy breasts hang to her waist. Her sandaled feet poke out from the bottom of a long Indian print skirt. She flings her arms wide. “Petey!”
Peter smiles, stepping into the hug. “Hi, Aunt Cordy. Did we interrupt a visit?”
“No, no. I’ve been sitting here all alone waiting for you.”
This is patently untrue, but Peter lets it slide. “Noreen has brought you some treats.”
Noreen waves a Swiss Chalet bakery box, and Cordy’s eyes light up.
“And these are our friends, Audrey and Sean. Audrey is the estate sale organizer I told you about. And Sean is a great fan of your writing and wanted to meet you.”
“Well, I like him already.” Cordy Dean gives Sean a coy smile and actually bats her eyes. The habits of a sexy woman die hard. “Come on in.”
Her voice is low and raspy, and the air in the house has a distinctive skunky scent. I guess fifty years of smoking weed does that to a person. We all follow her through a small, dark foyer and down a hall to the kitchen. Framed photographs cover every square inch of the walls: Cordy at parties...Cordy on stage...Cordy backstage, all with various singers, guitarists, drummers, and socialites. I can tell that Sean would like to stop and study each one, but Peter herds us forward.
In the kitchen, Cordy gestures us into chairs around a large round oak table. Noreen sets about making tea and serving the cookies she brought, while Cordy allows herself to be waited upon.
Cordy beams at Sean, taking no notice of me whatsoever. “So, you’ve read my work in Bass Line?”
“Yes, ma’am. Your article about Springsteen’s concert at the Guthrie in Minneapolis made me feel like I was right there, even though I hadn’t been born yet when it happened.”
“Oh, yes—Bruce is such a sweetheart. Just as adorable now as he was then.”
While Cordy and Sean are rambling down memory lane, I do what comes instinctively to me: take stock of the room I’m sitting in. The kitchen is a hodgepodge. The beautiful original wood cabinetry has survived updates from several eras—1970s yellow Formica countertops, 1980s blue vinyl flooring, and a brand-new stainless steel dishwasher that doesn’t match the older white stove and fridge. A variety of potted plants compete for sunlight on the wide lavender-painted windowsill—a sprouted avocado pit, a bravely blooming geranium, and a collection of herbs I don’t recognize. A spider plant hangs in a macrame sling. What I’m really searching for is collectibles. I spot a Depression glass cream pitcher and an unwashed Pyrex mixing bowl on the counter. Maybe the cabinets contain more, but I suspect Cordelia Dean has never been the domestic type and probably just has mismatched odds and ends. No profit in that.
I tune back into the conversation at the table. “Tell Sean and Audrey about the Bowie album,” Peter says, making eye contact with me that clearly means “listen up.”
Cordy grins as all eyes turn to her. “The original cover art of David Bowie’s Diamond Dogs had a dog whose...manliness,” Cordy winks, “was clearly visible. A few hundred copies of the cover were run before the record label noticed and told them to airbrush the dog’s nuts. Those albums were supposed to be destroyed, but some were smuggled out. The last time one came on the market a few years ago, it sold for five grand. But since Bowie’s death, they’re supposed to be worth even more.”
“And you have one?” I ask.
“I think so. Somewhere in there.” Cordy gestures to the dining room adjacen
t to the kitchen. I get up and peer inside. Instead of a china cabinet, sagging shelves line the walls, filled from end-to-end with thousands of vinyl record albums. I step closer and tilt my head to read the thin spines. As far as I can tell, there’s no organizational system: the Beatles are next to ZZ Top, Alabama is next to Jefferson Airplane. While I’m out of Cordy’s sight, I do a quick google search of the album she’s talking about.
My eyes widen as I stare at the phone screen. The last one that turned up sold at auction for $10,000.
Okay. That’s worth my time.
But searching for the valuable records in this collection will be like finding a needle in a haystack. In a normal estate sale, a client might have a hundred old albums, and I let the vinyl-hounds pick through them. If a collector like my regular customer, Phil Moxley, manages to pay a dollar and resell for twenty-five, more power to him. I imagine setting Phil loose on this collection. He’d push his mother under a bus to get his hands on these records. And if he found the precious Diamond Dogs, he sure wouldn’t tell me.
I re-enter the kitchen to enquire whether Cordy has a clue where the album resides. “Do you ever listen to those records, Cordy?”
She waves a cookie, scattering crumbs across the table and floor. “Not since my turntable broke. Gif said he’d fix it for me, but he hasn’t brought it back yet. But Ariel showed me how to use Spotify, and that’s easier, really.”
Peter looks pained at the mention of Gif and Ariel, who I assume are two of the hangers-on.
Cordy turns toward a speaker on the counter and shouts, “Alexa, play Janis Joplin on Spotify.”
The kitchen fills with the plaintive wail of a woman who’s been wronged.
“Oh, Janis—what a tortured soul you were!” Cordy holds her folded hands over her heart. “So passionate! So vulnerable!” She puts her hand on Sean’s arm. “Do you know who Janis is singing about in this song?”
“No, who?”
Before Cordy can get started on another long tale, Peter jumps up from the table. “Look, Aunt Cordy—before Dad moved he talked to the tax collector and got you an extension on your back taxes. But we have to come up with twenty thousand dollars by December.”
Rock Bottom Treasure (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 7) Page 2
