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

by S. W. Hubbard

  No one knows I’m traveling with a potential ten thousand bucks in my battered Sport-Sac nylon tote, but better safe than sorry.

  I snap to attention when I realize I’m sitting on the correct side of the train to see the empty lot and abandoned warehouse where the murder of Ross Pelletierre took place. The train lurches forward and I stare out the window, not sure what I expect to see. Still moving slowly, the train passes the rutted road leading to the lot. Then tall plumes of goldenrod and other less lovely weeds come into view. My legs feel itchy just thinking about wading through that tick and mosquito infested jungle. Why would a mogul in thousand dollar shoes go there?

  The train picks up some speed, and we chug past the abandoned warehouse with its broken windows and graffiti-scarred walls. Sean said the body was found on the far side of the building, out of sight of train passengers like me. I guess the warehouse could make a good backdrop to a scene in a gritty thriller, but wouldn’t the sound of trains roaring past every half hour make it impossible to film here? Surely there are similar buildings in quieter locations.

  Quickly the murder scene disappears from view as the train charges toward Manhattan. I settle back in my seat and pull out my Kindle to read. But my mind drifts away from the fictional mystery on my screen to the real case Sean is working to solve. I think my husband is right—Ross Pelletierre went to that location to meet someone outside the bounds of civilized society. If it hadn’t been for Stinky Sam and the diligence of Officer Horvath, Pelletierre would probably still be out there, slowly rotting away in his designer suit, pecked at by vultures and crows and rats.

  Yuck, Audrey! I give myself a shake and apply myself to the words on my Kindle.

  I manage a chapter before my mind drifts off again, this time to the document in the bag on my lap. The melody of John Freeman’s song runs through my head as I repeat the words to myself. Was Cordy the inspiration for the song? Not many women can claim to be a songwriter’s muse. Suddenly, I feel very sad about my mission. Yes, selling this document will keep Cordy from ending up homeless like Stinky Sam, but how sad to have to sell off your memories to keep body and soul together.

  The train’s motion rocks me gently as I continue to ponder Cordelia Dean’s situation. I wonder how Ty and Donna are getting along with her today? The old woman has provoked a very different response in each of them. Ty is all about owning your choices and the outcomes they bring. He’s never blamed anyone but himself for his stupid decision to participate in a robbery at age eighteen. He also knows that despite his employment record with me and his Associate’s degree, that conviction will follow him and he’ll never have a good shot at jobs in corporate America. That’s why he’s become so focused on the idea of owning his own storage unit business. He’s made a good plan for his future, so I can understand why he has no patience for Cordy’s free-spirit past. As far as Ty’s concerned, Cordy made her bed and now has to lie in it.

  Donna, on the other hand, spent her whole life doing what was expected of her, following the directives issued by her parents and then her husband. And being a good, obedient daughter and wife has brought her a load of grief. So I can understand why Donna perceives Cordy as a role model of female independence. Follow your dream and damn the consequences.

  All my daydreaming has caused the forty-five minute commute into the city to pass quickly. The train makes its final sprint through the tunnel under the Hudson River, and we pull into Penn Station. As many times as I’ve been here, I still find the surging crowds and hundreds of signs overwhelming. Weaving through the tourists and businessmen and teenagers and panhandlers, I finally emerge onto the sidewalk. Once outside, I take a moment to orient myself. The dealer’s office is in the West Twenties, so I must walk ten blocks downtown and two blocks cross town. Walking will be faster than a taxi and more pleasant than the subway, so I set off briskly, my tote bag hoisted onto my shoulder and my hand holding it firmly close to my body.

  The sidewalks on Eighth Avenue are crowded with pedestrians and sidewalk vendors. I dodge and weave downtown, stepping over a passed-out drunk, skirting a crowd that’s formed around a Senegalese vendor selling knock-off Gucci and Prada bags, and fighting past a line for a popular café. After ten blocks of commando-style striding, I head west on W. 21st Street, a quiet residential one-way of brownstone houses and low-rise apartment buildings. The crowds disappear; I have the entire street to myself except for a dogwalker at the far end of the block. Now I’m enjoying myself, peeking into the windows of the homes I pass, catching a glimpse of the lives lived here: a modern sculpture, a wall of books, a regal Siamese cat, a line of colorful toddler toys.

  I pause to gaze up at the intricate limestone cornices of a four-story brownstone, letting the bag slip from my shoulder to the crook of my elbow. I hear a footstep behind me at the same moment I feel a tug on my arm.

  A purse-snatcher!

  I clamp onto the body of the bag as a young, skinny white guy pulls on the straps. He’s wearing tight gloves. For a moment, I’m too surprised to make a sound. Then I find my voice and scream, “Stop! Thief!”

  The kid yanks hard on the straps of the bag, nearly pulling me down. I grab the wrought iron railing in front of the townhouse with my left hand while keeping my death grip on the bag with my right.

  The handle tears away from the bag. I plop onto the sidewalk on my ass, but I still have the bag. The front door of the townhouse opens, and the kid sprints away, dropping the bag straps on the sidewalk. All I see of him as he departs are the bright orange soles of his running shoes.

  “Are you okay?” the man in the doorway of the house asks.

  “Yeah,” I stand up shakily. “That kid tried to snatch my bag.”

  The man peers down the now-empty block and shakes his head. “Brazen drug addicts! We don’t usually have muggers in broad daylight.” He hesitates. “Do you want me to call the police?”

  I can tell from the dubious tone of his voice that he doesn’t want to get further involved and probably thinks calling the cops would be pointless.

  I agree.

  “It’s okay. Thank you for scaring him off,” I tell the Good Samaritan. “I have an appointment to keep one block from here.”

  With trembling knees, I resume my walk. I keep both arms wrapped around what’s left of my bag, and scan my surroundings on high alert, frequently looking back over my shoulder.

  Was that really a random purse-snatching?

  The kid could have been an addict looking for some quick cash for his next fix.

  But I’ve walked around Manhattan thousands of times in my life and I’ve never been mugged. Isn’t it odd I was attacked the one day I happened to be carrying an extremely valuable document in my bag?

  Could someone have followed me out from Palmyrton on the train, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to make a move? There were too many people on the platform and the train for me to notice anyone in particular. In the adrenaline-charged heat of the struggle, I barely registered the appearance of my attacker. All my focus was on keeping hold of that bag. Now I try to reconstruct his form. Quite a bit taller than me but under six feet, I think. Thin and wiry—he took off like a rocket when the man opened the door. His speed is another indication he’s not some pathetic addict. His clothes were all black—not unusual for Manhattan—except for those bright-soled shoes. I couldn’t see his hair—it was fully covered by a knit hat pulled down over his ears. He also wore gloves and big hipster-geeky dark-framed sunglasses. I know some guys wear sunglasses and a hat regardless of the weather, but the gloves are odd. It’s not cold at all today.

  What about his nose, mouth and chin—were those features thick or fine? I try to conjure an image in my mind’s eye but come up blank. No wonder Sean always says eye-witness descriptions are useless.

  Was that mugger a random opportunist, or did he plan his attack on me? Could he be connected to Cordy? Could she have told one of her so-called friends what we found, and that person set out to steal it?


  We didn’t tell her how much Freeman’s original lyrics notation was worth. But then I remember how I shouted “ten thousand dollars” when the dealer told me how valuable the note is. Could Cordy have heard that? And then blabbed it to her friends?

  Another five minutes of cautious walking, and I arrive at the dealer’s address on the second floor of a building with an antiques shop on the ground floor. I buzz for admission, and the door clicks open to a small vestibule. Looking over my shoulder before quickly entering, I make sure the door locks behind me. With my heart still thumping from nerves, I walk upstairs and knock on a door marked “Davis Tucker, autographs and ephemera.”

  I can hear a series of locks being unlatched, and notice a security camera over my head. A short, thin man with grayish brown hair and rimless glasses opens the door. “Hello, hello—you must be Audrey.” He ushers me into a small room lined with wide metal file cabinets with ten shallow drawers each. A desk with a bright desk lamp sits in the middle of the room with a chair on either side. Mr. Tucker relocks the door before sitting on one side of the desk as I sit across from him.

  Tucker pulls on a pair of white cotton gloves. “Now, let’s see what you have for me.”

  I hand him the envelope and he removes the document reverently, laying it on a sheet of acid free paper. He picks up a magnifying glass and adjusts his light like a surgeon preparing to make an incision. His face is solemn as he examines the note from top to bottom.

  Getting up from the desk without a word, he crosses to the file cabinets, unlocks one, and removes a document. “An authenticated Freeman signature,” he explains as he sits back down. Then he compares the two samples, his head bobbing back and forth.

  I realize I’m holding my breath as I watch him work. Is this note the real deal, or have I made this trip for nothing?

  Finally, Mr. Tucker leans back in his chair and lets out a satisfied sigh. “A very fine example. No stains or tears. Absolutely no doubt that the handwriting matches. And I’ve done some research. Cordelia Dean remembers correctly—Five Free Men did play at CBGB several months before ‘Now It’s Time to Rock’ was first recorded. The timing is right that he could have penned the draft of the lyrics that night.” He returns to examining the document as if it is a lover he can’t get enough of.

  My heart flutters in relief and excitement—I’m going to make a sale. Then a thought pops into my head. “Did you tell anyone about this? Mention that I’d be coming to any of those collectors?”

  He looks up, startled. “Oh my, no. Never count the chickens before they’re hatched, as the old saying goes.” He tilts his head like a robin listening for a worm. “Why do you ask?”

  I tell him about the attempted mugging. Mr. Tucker tsks his disapproval. “The competition in my business is ruthless. If word gets out about a hot property, there are collectors and their agents who will stop at nothing to acquire it. That’s why I have all the security. I have a silent alarm button under the desk. I’ve had to use it three times in twenty years.”

  Perhaps it was a strategic error to mention the mugging. Now Mr. Tucker can be fairly certain I won’t walk out of here with that document in my bag. On the other hand, if there’s already buzz on the street, he can be sure there’s demand for this piece. We eye each other across the desk.

  “Ten thousand dollars,” he offers.

  “Thirteen,” I counter.

  We settle on eleven-five.

  The deal is done.

  Chapter 8

  AFTER BUYING A NEW tote bag from a sidewalk vendor who’s got better knock-offs than the guy on Eighth Avenue, I make it back to Penn Station in time for the 1:15 train to Palmyrton. Once I’m settled in my seat, I start firing off text messages. I tell Ty I’ll be at Cordy’s house by 2:30. I tell Peter the deal has been completed, and that I have a check made out to Cordy.

  I don’t tell my husband I was mugged.

  Peter texts back immediately.

  Fantastic! I’ll come to her house right after work today. I can deposit the check for her and get her to write a check to the tax man before she spends the money on anything else.

  The three dots appear, and I wait for another message.

  Don’t tell her how much you got for the lyrics. She’ll think she’s rich.

  This message troubles me. Cordy isn’t mentally incompetent. I can’t lie if she asks me about how the transaction went. Before I can respond, I get a text from Ty.

  No need to come here. We’re almost done.

  I want to talk to Cordy. Have you found anything else?

  Nothing more in this room. Donna went down to sweet-talk the old lady. See if there’s someplace else to look.

  Sounds like a good division of labor. After the exchange with Ty, I respond to Peter.

  I’ll be at Cordy’s by 2:30. I doubt she can spend $10,000 before you get there.

  He never replies.

  WHEN I RING THE BELL at Cordy’s house, Donna answers. “We’re working in the dining room now,” she explains while standing on the threshold. Then she lowers her voice, “That sketchy friend of Cordy’s just showed up.” Donna jerks her head to direct me back onto the porch for a private chat. “I came downstairs to ask Cordy where else we should look for memorabilia, and whew!—can that woman ever talk!”

  I have to smile because Donna is no slouch in the conversation department.

  “She told me she used to hang out with Patti Smith at the Chelsea Hotel.” Donna waves her hands, pink nails flashing. “She got off on a long tangent about Patti and all the other musicians who used to hang out there. I let her talk because obviously she’s lonely, and besides, it was pretty interesting even though I’ve never been a big Patti Smith fan. Anyway, she was talking away about the crowd at the Chelsea when Gif arrived.” Donna pauses for a breath. “As soon as he came into the kitchen, Cordy clammed up and switched the subject. She started talking about the Beach Boys and how she once had an affair with one of the brothers—I can’t remember who—and she never did tell me where else in the house to look for more stuff. So Ty and I decided to move to the dining room while Gif is here.”

  Donna lowers her voice and leans closer to me. “I thought about cutting her off and making her answer my original question, but, I dunno....” She glances over her shoulder. “I got one of my feelings that told me not to ask again in front of Gif.”

  Donna claims to have a sixth sense, which I don’t take too seriously given how dramatically it failed her in her marriage. Nevertheless, for totally rational reasons, she may be right about being discreet around Gif. “It’s probably a good thing you didn’t ask her in front of Gif,” I say before filling Donna in on the results of my trip to Manhattan. Her eyes widen, and I make the “lips zipped” signal. Clearly, I can’t tell Cordy about the results of my mission in front of Gif. Or ask her if she told him or anyone else about the document I found. I consider leaving, but just as the notion enters my mind, Gif himself appears behind Donna in the hallway.

  “Oh, hey!” He raises his right hand in a nonchalant salute. “I felt a breeze—thought maybe the door blew open.”

  “I was just on my way in, “ I explain and slip past him. Once inside, I get a better look at the man I only glimpsed the day we first met Cordy. He’s older than I realized—late forties to early fifties. His low-slung jeans, ponytail and Nirvana tee shirt make him seem younger, but he’s got the weather-beaten face of a man who’s been around the block a few times and struggled with a few demons on the journey.

  I extend my hand to shake. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Audrey Nealon.”

  The hand that takes mine is leathery and strong. “Ron Gifford. Everyone calls me Gif.” He squints at me. “What kind of work do you do? I asked Cordy, but she seemed a little unclear.”

  I don’t owe this man an explanation, but certainly I have nothing to hide. “I’m an estate sale organizer. I’m helping Cordy sell a few...items.”

  “I thought estate sales were for rich people who die in big man
sions,” Gif says.

  “A common misconception.” I smile brightly. “Anyone can have an estate sale, dead or alive.” And then, since he pried into my business, I feel justified in prying into his. “And what do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a freelance sound engineer.”

  If he’s anything like Sean’s brother Terry, “freelance” is code for unemployed. And somehow I doubt this guy ever took an engineering course. I tilt my head. “So, like, a roadie for rock bands?”

  “Uhm, yeah,” Gif admits. “But I’m not traveling right now.”

  “And how did you meet Cordy?” Donna asks in her usual friendly voice. The two of us have Gif cornered in the small foyer.

  “Oh, backstage at some concert or another,” Gif gives a vague wave. “I’ve known her for a lotta years. Try to help her out when I can, you know.”

  “That’s so nice. What are you helping her with today?” I ask with a sweet smile.

  “I, uh, I’m looking at her hot water heater. She’s been complaining that the water turns cold in the middle of her shower.” Gif backs away from us and opens a door that presumably leads to the basement. “Better get busy. See you later.”

  Donna and I trade a glance. “There’s something about him I don’t like,” Donna stage whispers.

  “Where’d everybody go?” Cordy shouts from the kitchen, unwilling or unable to get up and look for us.

  I pop my head into the kitchen, while Donna heads into the dining room. “Hi, Cordy! I just came by to check on my staff.” Despite my earlier reluctance, I find myself adhering to Peter’s warning not to tell Cordy about her own good fortune. Her face lights up when she sees me, and I brace for an interrogation. I’m willing to not volunteer the information about the sale, but I’m not willing to lie outright.

  “Have a seat.” Cordy waves me toward the table. “I’m just having some cookies and tea while I work on my memoir. The water in the kettle is still hot. Help yourself.”