“Oh, thanks—but I should get busy.” The faster I’m out of her sight, the easier it will be for me to lie by omission. But the look Cordelia Dean gives me is so full of sadness and longing that I have no choice but to sit at the table and take a cookie. I reach across a dog-eared spiral notebook covered in a looping scrawl. “How’s the writing going?” I ask just to be polite.
“I’m in the research and organization phase,” Cordy answers. “I’ve always done that in longhand, before I sit down to actually write. Then the story just flows.”
I can see my fear of being deceptive is unfounded. Cordy seems to have forgotten where I’ve been today. Instead of asking me about the sale, she immediately launches into a story from her youth. “Today, I’ve been writing about my experiences with dear Joni. Ah—listen to that!” She leans back in her chair with her eyes half shut as a familiar woman’s voice trills from the Alexa speaker on the counter.
I know this song—Joni Mitchell’s “River.” It’s one of my stepmother Natalie’s favorites, and I’m drawn to the mournful reference to Christmas, a holiday that’s always been hard for me because it’s the anniversary of my mother’s death. Joni’s voice arcs into a high note on the word “fly,” and Cordy and I both let the sound wash over us.
“Ah, Joni—what a voice!” Cordy says. “Of course, she was always very high-strung. Still is. She cried on my shoulder plenty when she wrote that song.”
I bite my lower lip. I happen to have read the liner notes to Natalie’s CD of the Blue album in order to study the lyrics to this very song. The album, I recall, was released in 1971. Cordy would have been in her first year of college when Joni Mitchell was writing this song, well before she began her career as a rock journalist. Is Cordy intentionally lying, slightly exaggerating, or simply misremembering?
I decide to call her out, but gently. “I thought this album was released in 1971. Weren’t you still in college then?”
“’71?” Cordy’s brow furrows then immediately clears. “No, it had to have been ’74 or ’75.” She rests her hands on the table with absolute authority.
I know I’m being annoying, but my work makes me a relentless fact-checker. I Google Blue’s release date and slide my phone across the table so Cordy can see the 1971 date for herself.
“Hmph. It must be that song on Court and Spark I’m thinking about.” Cordy pivots effortlessly. “She wrote it after some guy dumped her. Hmm—was it David Crosby or James Taylor?” Cordy shoves my phone away, unconcerned with the facts it contains. “Joni sank into such a funk about it. I said, ‘Joni, honey—you’re too good for him. Shake it off and move on!”
Did Cordelia Dean really give romantic advice to the legendary Joni Mitchell, a woman with a veritable reverse harem of high-profile lovers to her name? I’ve been observing Cordy’s performance closely. Sean always says that detecting lies during an interrogation is not a matter of looking for the same specific tells in everyone: the shifty eyes, the tapping fingers. Instead, he counsels looking for changes when the conversation turns from nonthreatening to lying. I have to admit, I haven’t noticed the slightest change in Cordy’s demeanor. She was sprawled across her chair when I arrived, and she still seems totally relaxed and unperturbed by my correction of her dates. In fact, the only time I noticed any change in her expression was when she thought I wouldn’t sit and join her for a chat.
She’s lonely, I think. And not a liar—just a little vague on details. “Well, broken hearts gave Joni Mitchell a lot of good raw material to write about, eh?” I stand. “It’s been great talking to you, Cordy, but I’ve got to get back to work.”
At this moment, Gif reappears from the basement. “Did you get the hot water heater fixed?” I ask.
“Ah, yeah...yeah. Just turned up the dial a little.” He moves to the kettle, fussing with making a cup of tea.
Cordy frowns. “Is that where you went? I hope you didn’t make it too hot.” She extends a pale, freckled arm. “My skin is very sensitive.”
Did she want her hot water heater adjusted up, or not? I glance at Gif to see how he takes this rebuke. His eyes are firmly focused downward, as if stirring that tea demands the focus of landing a 747.
So why did Gif go down to the basement? To get away from me? To look for something? To eavesdrop? I’ve been in enough old houses to know that sound often carries through floorboards quite distinctly. If it was the latter, he’s disappointed since Cordy and I discussed nothing of importance. As I move toward the dining room to check on Ty and Donna, Gif slides into my chair at the table. The last thing I hear before exiting left is Cordy launching into another old story.
In the dining room, I find Ty and Donna both flipping through albums in different spots along the sagging shelves. Five albums lie on the dining room table.
Ty pauses in his work. “Hey, Audge. We’re working from that list of high-value albums you gave us. We pulled a few, but we still have to check if they’re the right pressing, and if they have all the inserts and stuff that collectors want.”
“And who knows if they’re scratched or warped?” Donna says. “I don’t know how to check for that. Records are before my time.”
I smile as I sit at the dining room table to examine what they’ve found: A Nirvana EP, an ancient Bob Dylan, and an early Bruce Springsteen. Ty and Donna act like LP records are in the same category of primitive technology as butter churns and wringer washers. Although my own music purchases began in the compact disk era, my father always had a big collection of jazz and classical LPs that he played during my childhood. Unlike my staff, I do know how to use a turntable.
My heart rate kicks up when I see Diamond Dogs, but a closer examination reveals that this is not from the original limited-run pressing with the error. Either someone else found the valuable version of the album, or Cordy was only fantasizing that she ever had a copy. Personally, I suspect the latter. Shoving Diamond Dogs back on the shelf, I examine the other records. Although I don’t see any visible scratches or warping, an expert might disagree. But even if these records are deemed to be in good condition, I doubt they’re worth more than a thousand dollars combined—fifteen percent to me. That’s a hundred fifty bucks for a day of Ty and Donna’s work. We’re operating in the red. Today has to be our last day at Cordy’s house. The Freeman lyrics were an amazingly lucky find, but we can’t keep digging aimlessly hoping for lightening to strike twice.
At 4:30, I hear the front door open. “Hi, Aunt Cordy—it’s Peter!” My friend shouts loud enough for all to hear. I make my way back to the kitchen just as Peter enters the room from the hallway. He looks pained to see Gif there.
Reaching into his pocket, Peter pulls out a money clip and peels off a ten for Gif. “I wonder if you could do me a favor and pick up Cordy’s prescription at CVS? I meant to get it on my way over, but I drove right past without stopping. Here’s a little something for gas money.”
Peter’s tone is smooth yet borderline insulting. Nevertheless, Gif accepts the money and disappears without a word. Peter waits until he hears the loud rattle of the old roadie’s exhaust before he starts talking.
“Great news, Aunt Cordy. Audrey has sold your Freeman lyrics for enough to make a substantial payment on your taxes. Once we make a big payment, I think Dad can negotiate an extension on the balance. I’ll deposit the check in your account, and you write a check to the Palmyrton tax collector. Might as well get it all squared today.”
I hand Peter the check from Tucker Davis, and he slides it to Cordy face down for her endorsement. She doesn’t even bother to look at the amount. In a way, that makes sense. Why torture yourself with money you’re not allowed to spend? That cash is just passing through like a cowboy on a cattle drive.
Peter pockets the signed check and opens a kitchen drawer, where he finds Cordy’s checkbook. Then he stands over her while she write the tax payment with a disgusted frown on her face.
Peter offers Cordy and me a satisfied smile. “Now Audrey has wiggle room to find some
more treasures, right Audrey?”
I hesitate. I don’t want this project to extend any longer. Get in, get out is my philosophy. “Y-e-e-s, well—we haven’t found much else in the spare room upstairs, and Ty and Donna have only found a few somewhat valuable albums in the dining room, so if there’s nowhere else to look—”
Cordy sits to attention. “Who said there’s nowhere else to look?” She spreads her hands as if she lives in Versailles. “There’s lots more places: the attic, the basement, the garage.”
My heart sinks. Despite today’s success, I still feel like we’re looking for a needle in a haystack. If Cordy can’t help me zero in, I can’t afford to have Ty and Donna searching endlessly through decades’ worth of boxes. “Cordy, can you give me a sense of what might be where? Can you recall if you have any other original lyrics or music notations? Any musical instruments that could be authenticated?”
Peter and I both lean forward, staring at the poor old gal like Ethel stares at a squirrel before she gives chase. And like a squirrel, Cordy sits stock still, eyes darting back and forth as she plans her next move.
“Instruments...no-o-o, I don’t think I have any guitars or drum sets around here....” Cordy pauses. The “but” hangs heavy in the air.
She’s enjoying this. Cordy loves being the center of attention. She knows if she doesn’t produce some tantalizing tidbit to entice us, we’ll be outta here. I can practically see the wheels turning in her brain as she schemes to come up with something.
I’ve had enough manipulation. Abruptly, I stand up and turn to Peter. “Maybe you and Noreen could look around the attic and basement and garage this weekend. If you find anything that looks promising, text me a photo.”
Peter looks disappointed, but he nods in agreement.
“One more thing.” I turn back to Cordy. “I was mugged today in the city. The guy nearly got the bag where I was carrying the Freeman lyrics.”
Peter gasps. “My God, Audrey—are you all right?”
Cordy seems less distressed. “Street crime in New York—always a problem. At least it’s better now than in the Seventies. Why, when I first moved to the East Village—”
I cut her off. I’m not interested in more reminiscing. “Did you happen to tell anyone about what we found?”
Cordy’s posture changes. She pulls herself in, looking smaller in her seat. Her breathing gets heavier. “No. I wasn’t even sure what you found. Remember, I was on the phone when you left.”
“Did you talk to anyone about my being here?” I persist. “Because I think someone might have followed me out from Palmyrton and waited for the right opportunity to grab the bag.”
“Really?” Peter’s eyebrows draw down. “How can you be certain it wasn’t just a random purse snatcher?”
“I can’t be certain. But I’ve been to Manhattan thousands of times in my life without a problem. It seems too coincidental that I’d be mugged on the one day I was carrying something worth eleven thousand bucks in my bag.”
“You’ve got good karma,” Cordy says breezily, “and that protected you. All’s well that ends well.”
I won’t be brushed off. “Do you know a tall, thin white kid who’s a fast runner?”
Cordy throws her head back and laughs herself into a coughing fit. “I know twenty of ‘em!”
Chapter 9
I ARRIVE HOME FROM work before Sean and decide to try my hand at dinner prep. There’s flank steak marinating in the fridge, but I wouldn’t dream of usurping Sean’s spot at the grill. I’ll satisfy my domestic impulse by attempting chicken oregenata, recipe courtesy of Donna and her mother. Nothing is written down, so I have to FaceTime them for coaching when I’m ready to start. Just as I’ve successfully completed the first four steps, with Donna’s mother yelling contradictory explanations over her daughter’s shoulder, the front doorbell rings.
Sean has recently installed one of those video doorbells, claiming my propensity for trouble demands extra security. Although I reject paranoia as a way of life, I have to admit I like the gadget. I look at the screen in the kitchen and see Ty standing on my front stoop. No wonder Ethel is wagging her tail instead of losing her mind. But I’m not as sanguine. What would bring Ty here unannounced? I hang up on Donna’s mom and rush to the door.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as soon as I open the door.
“Hey. Hello to you, too.” Ty shifts uneasily.
I open the door wider and invite him in. “What’s wrong?” I repeat. “Is Grandma Betty okay? Lo?”
“Everyone’s fine,” Ty says, but his eyes dart from left to right.
Clearly, something’s up. I wait.
Ty takes a deep breath. “Audge, I need to ask you a big favor, and I know the timing is bad.”
“You need money? I’ll try to help.”
“Nah, nuthin’ like that.” Ty rams his hands in his pants pockets. “I need a day off.”
I laugh. “Since when is that a big deal? You have a ton of unused vacation days.”
Ty gnaws on his lower lip. “Friday.”
“This Friday?” That’s the first day of the McMurtry sale. It will be super busy, and I can’t call on my former employee, Jill, to help because she’s only free on weekends.
Ty runs his hands over his head. “I know, I know. That’s why I came here to talk to you in person. It’s an art auction that Carter Lemoine needs me to go to. He just found out about two important paintings that are going to be included.” Ty looks at me longingly. “I stand to make some serious cash here.”
How can I deny him? Make him work for me for a couple hundred bucks when he could be making thousands? “It’s okay. We’ll manage somehow.” I say that, but I have no clue how Donna and I can work the sale alone.
Ty’s face lights up. “Don’t worry, Audge. I gotta plan. Charmaine is willing to work in my place. I know it’s not the same, but she’s a hard worker, and that girl is strong.”
“Charmaine? Doesn’t she have to work at her real job on Friday?”
“She’s got comp time coming because of all those nights she works running focus groups. And Imma pay her what I make, so she’s ahead.”
It’s not ideal, but Charmaine is certainly better than hiring some unknown person from a temp agency. “Okay—we’ll make it work.”
A grin spreads across Ty’s face. “Thanks, Audge—you da bomb.” Accepting a celebratory beer, Ty sits at the kitchen island and watches me cook while telling me about the art auction, which is hours away at a gallery on the North Shore of Long Island. I’m glad for the company because Sean still isn’t home from work.
At seven, Ty leaves, and at eight, Sean finally arrives. It’s been a long and eventful day, and I’m very glad to feel his arms around me. I sense it’s the same for him. We stand in the kitchen for a full minute, saying nothing, swaying with our arms wrapped around each other.
When we pull apart, Sean sniffs and grins. “Don’t tell me you’ve cooked a big dinner for us?”
“Well, smarty pants—that’s where you’d be wrong. I have cooked dinner: Donna’s mother’s special chicken oregenata. Sit down and I’ll serve you, just like Donna’s mother does.
Sean’s surprise turns to absolute wonder when I place the plate before him. “Wow! This looks great. And it smells so good.”
“Donna coached me through the cooking process on FaceTime with her mother chiming in. None of their recipes are written down. But I think I could do it again solo.”
I plan to tell Sean about the purse-snatching attempt. I really do. But I don’t want to ruin his obvious enjoyment of the meal I’ve made. So I lead off with the good news about the sale of the Freeman lyrics.
Sean’s sandy eyebrows shoot up above his blue eyes. “Fantastic. And we get a share of that?”
“One thousand six-hundred and fifty bucks. Not bad for two days’ work. Peter thinks he can finagle an extension on the balance of Cordy’s taxes after using this money to make a big payment. So I plan to extricate myself from Cordy’s
house even though I know Peter wants me to stay.”
Sean nods as he chews. “Couldn’t you continue to pop over there between big sales now that there’s no deadline? I’d love to talk to the old gal again. And if you make another discovery, we might be able to pay for the new front walk this fall instead of waiting until spring.”
I could if it weren’t for the general sense of unease I feel at Cordy’s house, and the gut instinct I have that we’ve found all there is to find. I know if I tell Sean I was attacked because I suspect Cordy told one of her sketchy friends about the Freeman lyrics, he won’t want me to return. But I’m not ready to talk about that yet. “Maybe. She claims she has more stuff in the attic, basement and garage. But paper stored there could be damp and mildewed.”
I redirect the conversation. “How was your day?” I ask, pouring us both another glass of wine. “Anything new in the Pelletierre case?”
Sean grimaces. Chews my tender chicken methodically. Takes a sip of wine.
I wait.
I sense he wants to unload about the case, but if I prod him, he’ll clam up.
Finally, after chasing some peas around his plate, he speaks. “Interrogating rich people sucks.”
I laugh. “Let me guess—they all have lawyers.”
“It’s freakin’ unreal. These people aren’t suspects. We have a pretty precise time of death because Pelletierre’s secretary and the security guard at his office building know exactly when he left the building, and Officer Horvath reported the body four hours later. You figure a little over an hour for him to drive from the city to Palmyrton, so the murder had to have occurred between two and four. If a person has an alibi for that time period, why does he need a lawyer present to answer a few questions? Sheesh!”
“They must be afraid of something other than being accused of the crime. What is it?”
Sean points his fork at me. “That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question. Pelletierre was a very powerful figure in the entertainment industry. Seems to have a long list of friends and a longer list of enemies. It’s like people are still afraid of getting crosswise with him even though he’s dead.”
Rock Bottom Treasure (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 7) Page 7
