Rock Bottom Treasure (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 7)

by S. W. Hubbard

  Cordy scowls. “Fascist pigs!”

  Peter massages his temples. Clearly, he and Cordy have been down this road before. “Look, if you’re going to stay in this house, we have to pay the taxes. The best way to come up with the money is by selling some of your memorabilia. Audrey can help you get the best prices. But you have to work with her to find the stuff. Are you willing to do that?”

  I watch for her reaction. I’m not coming here for a daily contest of wills, and I’m not participating in coercion.

  “Oh, sure—that’s fine.” Cordy glances hopefully toward Sean. “Are you going to work with her?”

  He laughs. “No, Audrey has her own staff.”

  I notice that my husband doesn’t mention his profession. “You’ll enjoy meeting my assistants, Ty and Donna,” I assure Cordy. “Ty is very handsome. But he’s more into hip-hop than rock.”

  Cordy’s face lights up. “Did I mention that I had drinks with Tupac just days before he was shot?” She shakes her head. “Such a tragic loss to the music world.”

  Somehow, I don’t think Ty will be quite as impressed by Cordy as Sean is. But he’s surprisingly patient with old people and has formed some unlikely bonds with our clients in the past, so maybe she’ll succeed in charming him. I’m pretty sure that Cordy will be very charmed by Ty’s impressive physique. “But you are willing to sell some of your memorabilia?” I want Cordy to specifically confirm this.

  “Sure. I don’t need it.” She taps her temple. “The real treasure is up here. I’m working on writing my memoir. It’s going to be called All Night Jam. When it’s published, all my money problems will be over.”

  Noreen starts clearing away the tea mugs. “How many chapters are written, Aunt Cordy?”

  “Oh, a few.” Cordy snags another cookie before Noreen puts the box away. “I’ve been calling and emailing old friends to verify some details. We get to talking, and next thing I know, the sun is coming up and it’s time for me to get some sleep.”

  Peter rises and stands behind Cordy with his hands on her shoulders. “You need to take better care of yourself, Aunt Cordy.” The affectionate gesture allows him to give me a loaded look that the old woman can’t see. Peter’s face is a roadmap of exasperation and concern. Clearly, he has no confidence in this memoir and every confidence in me. “When will you start?” Peter asks me.

  All eyes turn to me. My friends, Peter and Noreen, anxious for a lifeline to help their aunt stay in her home. Sean, eager for more tidbits of Cordy’s extraordinary life. Cordy herself, happy at the prospect of a new audience for her tales. All of this versus my vague uneasiness that this job will be way more trouble than it’s worth. I can run financial numbers in my head effortlessly, but the emotional calculus here is stumping me. “Uhm...I guess I can fit Cordy in between our sales. Maybe work here a few hours a week, starting on Tuesday.”

  The tension drains from Peter’s face. “Fantastic!”

  Cordy follows us to the front door. “Come any time. No need to call—I’m always at home.”

  We regroup on the sidewalk, and I look back at the house. A movement at an upstairs window catches my eye.

  Peter follows the direction of my gaze. “What are you looking at?”

  “I thought I saw the curtain in that upstairs window move, like someone was looking out at us.”

  “Damn it!” Peter steps forward to climb the porch steps again, but Noreen grabs his arm.

  “Leave it, honey.”

  “It’s probably that sneaky Ariel,” Peter fumes. “She was eavesdropping on our conversation so she can pass it on to Gif.”

  “Who are these people, Gif and Ariel?” Sean asks with a suspicious frown.

  “They’re the latest in a long line of strays that Cordy has taken in,” Peter says. “You would think that since she no longer lives in Manhattan and no longer writes for Bass Line, she wouldn’t be such a magnet for freaks. But it seems like every tarot card reader, aroma therapist and organic mung bean farmer in Palmer County has gravitated here.”

  Noreen nudges her husband toward their car. “Most of them are harmless,” Noreen explains to me. “Peter’s just suspicious because a few months ago, some beekeeper hit Cordy up for a loan to save his hives, then spent all the money on drugs and overdosed.”

  “I think they all hit her up for money,” Peter grumbles. “Where else could her cash be going? He’s just the only one I have solid proof on.”

  I run my fingers through my hair. “But if Cordy openly talks about this valuable record she has, wouldn’t these sketchy friends have stolen it by now?”

  Sean nods in agreement and waits for Peter’s answer.

  “Cordy talks and talks,” Peter says. “Who knows what’s true and what’s in her imagination? And she might have other valuable items she doesn’t even realize, like that vintage fringed leather jacket you found at my parents’ house. My dad was ready to trash that before the sale, but Noreen stopped him because you said not to toss anything in advance.”

  “Audrey might be able to spot some valuable items for you, Peter. But she can’t be responsible for keeping those vultures at bay,” Sean says.

  Usually I bristle at Sean’s over-protective instincts, but I appreciate this one.

  “Don’t worry,” Peter says. “I’ll make sure no one’s in the house but Cordy when you come on Tuesday.”

  Chapter 4

  “WHAT ARE YOU THINKING?” Sean asks as we ride away from Cordy’s house in silence.

  I heave a sigh as I stare out the passenger window. “I dunno—just reflecting on how often my job puts me in the middle of generational conflict. Usually parents want their kids to let go of wild dreams like being a pro athlete or a rapper so they can settle down to toe the line. But I always land in the reverse situation—kids who want their parents to let go of their unrealistic desire to live in houses they can no longer afford or safely maintain.” I twist in my seat to look at my husband’s handsome profile. I’ve known Sean for nearly five years and never asked him this. “Did you ever want to be something other than a cop?”

  He laughs. “Oh, I went through a teenage phase of wanting to be an NBA point guard, but I realized by junior year of high school that I wasn’t even good enough to play in college, so I decided to follow in my father’s law enforcement footsteps.” He squeezes my knee. “The only time I’ve ever been delusional was when I fell in love with this headstrong woman who owned her own business and was always getting in trouble defending underdogs.”

  “Hmmm. I hope you recovered.” I rest my hand on his. “We’ve both lived in Palmyrton our whole lives. Have you ever wanted to live somewhere else?”

  Sean steers the car around the Palmyrton green. “Maybe I’m unimaginative. I want to visit lots of other places, but I’m very happy to live here. It’s a good town. And our family is here.”

  “Yeah, my dad and Natalie would never move south, and I can’t imagine your parents in a condo on a golf course either.”

  “JUST LIKE EVERYONE else, they complain about the high property taxes in Palmyrton. But where would they go? Family means more to my mom and dad than warm weather or golf or saving money. They’ll stay here until they die,” Sean says.

  “But Cordelia Dean doesn’t have family here,” I say. “She could move somewhere cheaper. But maybe she’s overwhelmed by the thought of starting over somewhere new. Peter’s parents struggled with their move, but they had each other to lean on.”

  Our discourse on letting go and moving on ends when Sean’s phone rings. I watch his face. Eyebrows up. Brow furrowed. Head scratched.

  Something’s up.

  “That was Holzer. I need to go into the office. Our stiff has been identified.”

  “Really? Who is he?”

  Sean squeezes my knee. “Can’t tell you, Sherlock. But don’t wait up.”

  ONCE SEAN DROPS ME off at home, I start to research rock memorabilia. I’d better get a sense of what’s valuable, so I’ll recognize the treasures when I see th
em.

  I doze off Googling the value of Cyndi Lauper’s high heels. When I wake up, I find Sean sawing logs beside me. I have no idea when he got home, but I must’ve been sound asleep. I check my phone as I do every morning and find a text from him at 3:00 am.

  Coming home now. Don’t wake me in the morning.

  So I slip out of our bedroom and succeed in walking the dog and eating my breakfast while Sean catches up on his sleep. Then I head out to the Another Man’s Treasure office.

  I open the door to find my assistant already in high gear. Honestly, Donna only has two gears: high and off.

  “Audrey, thank goodness you’re here. I got the online preview of the McMurtry sale set up, the email newsletter ready to send, and the Twitter and Facebook posts scheduled. But I need you to give me some advice about these Instagram posts.” Donna pulls out her phone, in its hot pink and rhinestone case. “What filter should I use for these pics? What looks more appealing?”

  I peer over her shoulder at the screen. Donna is far more qualified to make any artistic judgments than I am, but she likes to show me what she’s been up to, so I remember to praise her work. I can be a little forgetful on that front, but I truly do appreciate her. My social media presence has skyrocketed in the year she’s been working here. “I think this shot of the garnet necklace looks beautiful,” I say. “You made it look glittier than it is in real life.”

  “That’s what I thought, too!”

  Okay, I chose correctly. Can I do it again? “And I think maybe this shot of the grandfather clock. I like the way you blurred that ugly wallpaper in the background.”

  “I used portrait mode to take that shot.” Donna holds the phone at arm’s length, her pink nails gripping the edges. “Yeah, I think this one is the best.”

  I’m batting 1000 here. “I see you got your nails done since we didn’t have a sale to ruin them last weekend.”

  Donna splays her fingers to study her ten long, shiny talons. Notably absent are any rings. “I got a mani to celebrate.”

  She doesn’t have to say what she’s celebrating. Her divorce from her abusive husband, Anthony, was finalized last week. Donna had continued wearing her engagement and wedding rings while the legal proceedings unfolded because she wanted the thrill of taking her rings off on the day the divorce came through as a tangible symbol of her freedom.

  “Your hands look lovely. You should get yourself some cute silver rings.” I already know Donna plans to sell her diamond ring and put the money toward a down payment on a small condo. She had to sell the marital home once Anthony took up residence in the Rahway State Prison for pulling a gun on me when he was searching for Donna. To save up more money for the condo, she’s been living with her parents for months.

  “Yeah, I used to wear silver rings on every finger when I was a college girl.” Donna swivels her desk chair to face her computer. “I’m too old for that now.”

  “You are not old, silly.” I settle behind my desk and tell Donna about my dinner with Peter and Noreen and our visit to Cordy Dean. “What did you do with your free weekend?” I ask when I’m finished.

  “Took my mom to the podiatrist.”

  “Oh, Donna!” We’ve already gone a few rounds on the need for her to get out and meet new people even if she isn’t ready for another relationship. It’s hard for me not to offer advice, but I’ve said all I can on the topic; she’ll act when she’s ready.

  I open my email in-box, overflowing with messages from regulars wanting to know if the McMurtry sale this weekend will have any of the particular items they each crave. There’s George, who’s always after tools (yes, you’re in luck). Marlena, who runs a very successful craft shop on Etsy and will buy any kind of fabric: drapes, tablecloths, garish old dresses. Yes, Marlena—the McMurtrys have all that and more. And Phil, who’s seeking vinyl records and musical instruments. Sorry, Phil—not this time. I don’t mention Cordelia Dean. Phil’s head would explode.

  I tap away answering emails until I feel Donna’s gaze boring into me from across the room. “Did you need something?” I ask.

  “No.” Donna ducks her head and taps at her keyboard. “Uhm...do you know what Ty is doing today?”

  I shrug. “He got a three-day weekend—I hope he went somewhere fun. How often does that happen in our business?” I glance at Donna from under my bangs. She looks wary and unconvinced. “Why? What’s the matter?”

  “I saw Ty this morning as I was driving in. I was two cars back from the intersection when he crossed the street, heading for the train station.” Donna pauses. “He was all dressed up. In a blazer.”

  A blazer? To my knowledge, Ty doesn’t even own a blazer. He has a suit that he wore to my wedding and that he wears to accompany his grandmother to funerals. But the estate sale business doesn’t require a jacket and tie, and neither do Ty’s social gatherings, which mostly involve going to clubs and sporting events with his cousin Marcus. “Ty was going into Manhattan early this morning?” I clarify.

  “Yeah. He looked very...purposeful.”

  “Maybe he was meeting Marcus at his office on Wall Street.”

  “Mmmm—I don’t think so. I follow Marcus on Instagram. He’s been posting pictures of Boston all week. He went there on a business trip, and he’s staying until tomorrow.”

  Now I’m intrigued. “You think Ty was going on a job interview?”

  Donna runs her fingers through her mane of dark hair. “That’s how he was dressed. But I don’t know. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  We each return to work, but now I feel uneasy. Could Ty really be looking for a new job? I rely on him so much; I’d be devastated if he left me. But of course, I’d never want to hold him back from a great opportunity. Could there be an estate sale organizer in Manhattan eager to hire him away from me?

  Donna interrupts my agonizing with a high-pitched squeal. “Oh my God—look what just popped up in my breaking news. That body they found by the Palmyrton train tracks is Ross Pelletierre.”

  Is this bombshell news? Is Ross Pelletierre another rock star I’ve never heard of like Robert Plant? “Who’s that?” Before Donna can express her incredulity, I defend myself. “You know how totally uninformed I am on pop culture. And I haven’t been to the dentist’s office lately. That’s where I catch up on back issues of People Magazine.”

  “Oh, Audrey! Ross Pelletierre is a big Hollywood producer. He did the movie Final Conflict and lots of hot shows on Netflix and Hulu. I think he worked with Lady Gaga. Or maybe it wasn’t her, but someone big like that. Now, what would he be doing in Palmyrton, especially down in that creepy empty lot?”

  “Oh, great,” I grumble. “No wonder Sean got home so late. I’ll never see my husband if this murder case is so high-profile.”

  “Will they let the Palmyrton police solve the crime?” Donna muses. “Maybe they’ll send in the FBI.”

  “I think it has to be a federal crime or involve crimes committed in more than one state for the FBI to get involved.” I tell her. “The victim being famous isn’t enough.”

  But I have to admit, I’m curious. I Google Ross Pelletiere and read his long list of credits. In every article, he’s referred to as “entertainment mogul”. How does one graduate from mere producer to mogul?

  Donna was accurate about most of it, except the Gaga connection. However, there are some similarly sexy female stars who appear with him. He seems to have been married and divorced several times, so Sean’s theory that Pelletierre was meeting another man for illicit sex seems unlikely now. As far as I can tell, Hollywood types conduct all their affairs with all genders right out in the spotlight—no need to sneak around in back alleys and empty lots. There’s no such thing as a sex scandal in the entertainment industry these days.

  “Maybe he was scouting a location for a new show,” Donna speculates.

  “I think moguls have people who do that for them. And I thought they always travel with an entourage. Strange that he was all alone down there.”

 
“So, is Sean working on this case?” Donna leers at me from her desk, her curious eyes magnified by her new lash extensions.

  “Yes, but don’t get your hopes up for inside information. Sean doesn’t tell me much about his cases. He claims he’s shielding me from the seamy side of life.”

  “Ha!” Donna answers. “You ask me, estate sales expose you to just as much seaminess as police work.”

  We return to work with a laugh, but not before I text Sean. Entertainment mogul! Are you busy interrogating movie stars?

  No reply. Must be really busy with starlets.

  At four o’clock, who should come strolling through the door but Ty, a snappy blazer hooked over one shoulder and a big grin splitting his face.

  “Look at you! Why so dressed up?” I utter the words, fearful of the answer.

  “I just got back from my first art auction. I bid on a painting by Reginald Clark and got it for seven grand.”

  Donna spits Diet Coke onto her keyboard. Luckily, I’m not drinking anything, or I’d have done the same. “Art auction?” is all I can manage.

  “Where did you get seven thousand dollars?” Donna adds.

  Ty sits in the saggy easy chair we saved from the dump and stretches out his long legs, revealing beautiful, pointy black leather oxfords. “Imma tell you all about it. I was acting on behalf of my main man, Carter Lemoine.”

  I need a few seconds to process the name. “Wait, Carter Lemoine, the appraiser from Christie’s? How did you get in touch with him?”

  “We tight.”

  I cannot imagine two people less likely to be tight. Ty, a twenty-five year old Black ladies’ man with an arrest record and a community college degree in business and art history, and Carter Lemoine, a gay Yale PhD employed by the world’s most famous art auction house as an expert in 19th Century decorative arts. “We haven’t heard from Mr. Lemoine since he came out here two years ago to appraise that Tiffany lamp that belonged to Harold the Hoarder,” I say.