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

by S. W. Hubbard

  I can see Sean carefully considering his answer, trying to decide if agreeing or disagreeing is the best response.

  I keep talking. “Finding the Freeman lyrics was such pure, random luck. To find something else of that value by digging through Cordy’s years of accumulated junk would be like getting hit by lightning twice. That’s why I was all set to quit. I didn’t think the search would be worth our time. But now....”

  Sean’s head starts wagging back and forth. “Audrey, no, no, no. You’re not going back there because someone wants you to not go back there.”

  Overheated by excitement, I push away the covers. “Don’t you see the parallel between this and what Ty and Carter are doing? Once someone with some expertise starts sniffing around a painting, it attracts other people with expertise. And that creates the potential for a bidding war. Once I found something in the house and sold it to a well-known dealer, I must have set off a tsunami of interest among collectors ready to converge on Cordy. They want to prevent me from finding anything else. And maybe they also want interest to die down so they can come in and make a low-ball offer to Cordy.”

  Sean scratches his head. “Low ball offer on what?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what we have to figure out.” A thought pops into my head. “Donna was late to work yesterday morning because she went to Cordy’s house to look for a notebook that contains all Cordy’s notes for her memoir. I’ve been assuming the memoir is BS, and the old gal just misplaced her notebook in that messy house. But what if the notebook contains something important? What if someone stole it?”

  I reach for my phone and text Donna. Have you heard from Cordy today? Did she ever find her memoir notebook?”

  Immediately my phone rings with a call from Donna. I put it on speaker, so Sean can hear.

  “While we were working at the McMurtry sale, she texted that she found the notebook under some mail in the kitchen,” Donna begins breathlessly. “But fifteen minutes ago I got another message from her. Now she says the notebook is missing some pages.”

  “She could tell they were ripped out?” I ask.

  “Seems unlikely. It was just an old spiral notebook like the kind we used in high school,” Donna says. “And every page that I saw was covered with random notes and dates and reminders to call people. How could she possibly know something was missing from that mess?”

  Sean pipes into the conversation. “I think we may be underestimating her. We’re treating her like a dotty old lady because she and her house are kind of ridiculous looking. But she had a long career as a journalist. She probably has her own note-taking system, even if it doesn’t make sense to an outsider. I can’t interpret my partner’s notes, but if he told me a page was missing, I’d believe him.”

  I glance at my husband in surprise. His responses swing as unpredictably as Lo at T-ball practice. But if he thinks Cordy is believable, I’m all in. “Okay, Donna—we’re going back to Cordy’s house on Monday,” I say.

  “Whoa—hold up,” Sean squeezes my hand. “You’re not doing anything that might get you hurt.”

  “Fine.” I push him into the pillows and pull up the covers. “We includes you, too.”

  Chapter 15

  CLATTERING POTS AND pans awaken me at the ungodly hour of 6:30 on Sunday morning. I stumble into the kitchen and confront Sean. “Why are you up so early? And what are you cooking?”

  “Today is Francie’s confirmation, and I said I’d bring brownies to the party. I forgot all about it until Deirdre texted me this morning.”

  “Your sister texted you before 6:30?” Sean’s large Irish Catholic family are very close, but, honestly, this seems extreme.

  “She’s freaking out that she’s not going to have enough food at the party,” Sean explains as he scrapes chocolate batter into a pan.

  “Well, she’ll need less food because I’m not coming to this party.” The Coughlin family gatherings can be fun, but I can only tolerate so many in a row. With five siblings, seven grandchildren, and countless extended family members, the summer and fall have been packed with birthday and anniversary parties. I draw the line at minor occasions: grade school graduations (seriously, does anyone not graduate from grade school?), middle school chorus concerts, and all Catholic religious observances since I’m a barely observant Episcopalian. Sean is a lapsed Catholic since his divorce from his first wife and remarriage to me outside the church. Nevertheless, he has a hard time refusing the first holy communions and confirmations of his nieces and nephews.

  “I know. I’m not trying to pressure you to come,” he assures me as he sets the oven timer. “I’m sorry my noise woke you up. I’ll make you some eggs now that I’ve got these in the oven.

  I accept his peace offering and a cup of coffee.

  “What time is mass?” I ask.

  “Nine. Then we’ll go over to Deirdre’s for a big lunch. I should be home by one.”

  I’ll expect him at three, but I say nothing—just nod.

  “What will you do today?” Sean asks as he places my eggs before me.

  “I dunno. Maybe brunch with Maura, or I could visit Dad and Natalie.” We chat about my father and his chess club as I eat. Even though I don’t want to go to the confirmation party, I suddenly feel lonesome at the prospect of a solitary Sunday.

  I slide off my stool and come around to his side of the kitchen island. I slip my arms around his waist. “I can think of something we could do while your brownies are cooling,” I murmur into his neck.

  He pulls me around to kiss me.

  Then he stops.

  “Are we close enough to our target date?”

  Geez, this again!

  “We’re getting close,” I assure him. “The boys can hang out and wait.” I picture sperm relaxing on pool loungers poised for an egg to float by.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t....”

  I tug on his hand. “You don’t know when this Pelletierre case might kick back into high gear. Let’s make hay while we can.”

  The oven timer begins to beep. Sean pulls the brownies from the oven. “Let’s go.”

  AFTER SEAN LEAVES, Ethel takes his place in our bed, and I read for a while since it’s too early on Sunday to contact sane people. But as the clock strikes ten, it dawns on me that I never did check back in with Noreen regarding the stressful visit with her in-laws. Maybe she’ll want to have brunch with me.

  How’s the visit going? Still want to sneak away? I’m free all day.

  Her response comes immediately.

  What a lifesaver! I really need to talk. I’ll meet you at The Golden Artichoke at noon.

  When I enter Palmyrton’s most hipster brunch spot, I spot Noreen at a table near the window, her face a study in anxiety. But when she notices me coming toward her, her face lights up and she waves.

  “Hi! Am I late?” I ask as I take my seat.

  “Not at all. I just got here.” Noreen slides a menu across the table. “I’m getting the crab cake eggs benedict. It’s fabulous. And a big Bloody Mary.”

  “How did you get away from your guests?” I ask her.

  “Peter and Hank are playing golf and Diane went to church and then out with some of her lady friends from the congregation. I thought I might be stuck going with her, but your text rescued me.”

  “I’m a fugitive from family obligations, too,” I tell Noreen. “If you can believe it, I’m missing my niece’s confirmation to be here.”

  We giggle and fist-bump when the waiter takes our order for two extra spicy Bloody Marys.

  Noreen and I chit-chat about food and clothes and vacations until I begin to wonder if I misread the urgency in her voice when she invited me here. But after the waiter brings our drinks, Noreen leans across the table, all cheerfulness dismissed. “Thanks so much for coming, Audrey. I really need to talk to you about this, and I didn’t want to do it on the phone.”

  “Sure. No worries.” I wait and watch as she bites her lower lip.

  “I know this is really personal,
but you told me you and Sean are trying to get pregnant and having trouble. Would you ever consider adopting?”

  “Ye-e-es,” I say warily. I’m willing to talk about the infertility issue in the abstract, but I don’t want to share our medical trials and tribulations. “But our doctor has a few options for us, and so far the treatments haven’t been too terrible, so we’re going to keep trying for a while.” I smile to myself at the memory of trying just a couple hours ago.

  Noreen glances away from me. “I’ve done IVF three times. It’s insanely expensive, and the hormones make me crazy, and the stress of waiting to see if it worked and then being crushed by disappointment is just too much.” Noreen’s eyes well with tears and she blinks and coughs into her napkin. “I want Peter and me to adopt a baby, but Peter’s father is dead set against it.”

  “Why does Hank have anything to say in the matter? That’s between you and Peter.” Immediately I feel my hackles rise in defense of my friend.

  Noreen pauses while the waiter delivers our food. Once he’s gone, she meets my eyes and resumes. “You’ve met Peter’s dad. He can be very determined once he sets his mind on something.”

  “I did notice Hank was much more willing to get rid of Diane’s stuff in the estate sale than his own,” I say.

  Noreen lowers her voice and toys with her eggs. “Peter and I are nervous about adoption—it’s not an easy decision. Only a fool wouldn’t have some concerns. But Hank keeps picking at our doubts and making them bigger.” Noreen’s lip trembles. “He keeps telling us you never know what you’ll get with an adopted child.”

  “There are no guarantees with a biological child either,” I remind her.

  “That’s what I say. But—” Noreen stabs viciously at a tomato on her plate.

  “I’ve always gotten along with my in-laws, Audrey. But I’ll be totally honest. I’m glad they moved to North Carolina. It’s easier with some space between us. Hank is the kind of person who never experiences one moment of self-doubt. So if the person he’s talking to hesitates at all, Hank will jump in and work on that hesitation. And before you know it, you’re agreeing to his way of doing things.”

  “Huh. Funny you should mention that. When we were setting up the van Neffs’ sale, I told Donna to put the check-out table on the right side of the foyer. When I came back after lunch, it was on the left side, and Donna said Hank convinced her to change it. It wasn’t worth arguing about, but Donna’s self-confidence has been undermined by her abusive ex, so it’s not surprising that Hank would spot that hesitation in her and use it to get his own way. And he was sure that a vintage Vera Neumann silk scarf I priced at $300 was worthless. But of course, he didn’t mind being wrong when I sold it for that price.”

  “See—it’s not just me. You noticed it, too.” Noreen pushes her long, brown hair away from her face. “With Hank gone, Peter and I were finally making progress on adoption. We were all set to make an appointment with an agency. But now, because of what’s going on with Cordy, Hank is planning to come back to Palmyrton and stay with us for a while.”

  Tears spill over and run in two tracks down her cheeks. She rubs them away angrily. “What am I going to do? I can’t forbid Peter’s father to stay with us.”

  “Back up a minute. Why is what’s going on at Cordy’s causing Hank to return? I thought finding those lyrics was a good start toward raising the tax money Cordy needs. What does Hank hope to achieve by returning?” I realize I don’t want Hank Van Neff peering over my shoulder as I work any more than Noreen wants him prying into her marital life.

  “I don’t know. Peter was very excited about your discovery because he’s been so worried about keeping Cordy’s house for her. His mother just happened to call that afternoon when Peter was out, so I told her all about it. Next thing we know, they both called back and said they wanted to visit. And now that they’re both here, Hank says he wants to come back to Palmyrton next week to tie up some loose ends.” Noreen makes a sour face on the last two words.

  “Why don’t they just stay a few more days now?”

  “Diane has some commitments back in North Carolina. So they’re driving back tomorrow, and then Hank says he’s flying to New Jersey alone at the end of the week.”

  “Sounds like a lot of to-and-fro for a couple who’s supposed to be relaxing and enjoying retirement.” I had been planning on waiting until Hank and Diane departed to call Peter and tell him my concerns that other parties might be trying to manipulate Cordy. Now I’m not sure what’s going on. Why is Hank so determined to interfere? I catch myself feeling protective toward Cordy.

  “But Peter agreed to take care of Cordy, so his parents could retire without worrying. Seems to me, Peter’s doing a great job. Why would his father come if Peter is succeeding?”

  Noreen picks the leaves off the celery stalk from her Bloody Mary. “I don’t know. And Hank is being cagey about how long he intends to stay. We have an appointment with the adoption agency a week from Tuesday. If Hank is still here, I’ll have to cancel it.”

  I reach across the table and squeeze my friend’s hand. “No use worrying in advance. Keep the conversation away from having kids, and hope that Hank is gone by Tuesday.”

  Noreen gives me a shaky smile. “Thanks, Audrey.”

  “I wish I could actually do something to help.”

  “You listened. That’s all I needed.”

  Chapter 16

  ON THE WAY HOME, I examine my conscience.

  Why didn’t I tell Noreen about my theory that Charmaine’s attack might be linked to our work at Cordy’s house? Certainly, I had an opening.

  Noble explanation: she was already distraught, and I didn’t want to upset her further.

  More truthful explanation: I’m beginning to doubt the good intentions of Hank van Neff, and I didn’t want to put Noreen in the awkward position of keeping a secret from her husband’s father.

  Just because I didn’t tell Noreen about it over brunch doesn’t mean I can’t call Peter tomorrow and tell him after his parents have departed.

  But will I?

  Surely, Peter will suspect Gif or Ariel. Certainly, they’re on my list of suspects, too. But I have no solid evidence. I don’t want Peter flying off the handle at them if I’m totally wrong.

  The problem is, the longer I procrastinate, the more difficult it will be to tell Peter. He’ll justifiably ask why I didn’t mention it sooner, and what will I say?

  And there’s also the matter of protecting Cordy. She’s certainly not mentally helpless, but she is physically helpless. She’s a sitting duck for the thugs who came after me and Charmaine.

  Yet I suspect her as well. As much as she talks, she also seems to be holding back key information.

  I pull into my garage with nothing settled in my mind. An anxious Ethel greets me with a mournful whine. “I see Sean hasn’t returned to walk you,” I say as I grab her leash. “This must be some rockin’ confirmation party.”

  She hangs her head as if guilty for ratting on him.

  The unaccustomed day drinking at brunch has left me feeling a little sluggish, but the crisp fall air revives me. “Let’s walk all the way to the park, Ethel.”

  I can always count on Ethel to agree with me, and we set off through our neighborhood, pausing to talk to the human who belongs to Shadow the black Lab mix and crossing the street when we spot Brutus, the French bulldog.

  Ethel hates that squat frog.

  Once we reach the walking trail to the park, Ethel puts her nose down to enjoy all the wondrous aromas. I stroll behind her, admiring autumn’s last golden leaves, but wishing Sean were here to enjoy them with me. Up ahead I see something large and white on the horizon.

  A tent. Wait, many tents. Oh, it’s the annual Palmyrton Fall Craft Festival! I forgot all about it.

  Now I pick up my pace. “This will be fun, Ethel. We can browse all the booths without Mr. Impatient trying to rush us.” Suddenly, being alone on Sunday afternoon doesn’t seem so bad.

  We
get to the park and survey the scene: at least fifty white, open-sided tents arranged in five rows. At the center are some food trucks and picnic tables and a folk singer strumming a guitar. I set off down the first row. The craft festival is truly a combination of the ridiculous and the sublime. Displays of gorgeous blown glass vases stand next to tables full of crocheted toilet paper roll covers. I pause to admire some framed photos of wildlife in the National Parks—nothing that I’d buy, but they’re certainly beautiful. I run into a neighbor, and we discuss how much we’d both like to visit Yosemite.

  At the next booth, I pause to sniff some scented beeswax candles and run into a woman who volunteers along with my dad at the Rosa Parks Community Center. “Last year it rained on craft fair weekend,” she reminds me. “I think the crowd is extra big this year. The whole town is here.”

  As if to prove her point, as I’m examining some smooth as silk wood salad bowls, I hear a voice calling my name. “Audrey? What a nice surprise!”

  I turn around to see Diane van Neff, Peter’s mom, standing in the aisle outside the booth. Diane is the same age as Cordelia Dean, but the two women are polar opposites. Diane’s silver hair is styled in a smooth bob, her make-up is subtle, her clothes flattering. Black leggings, a black, gray, and red tunic, and short black boots flatter her trim figure. She looks like she stepped out of an Ann Taylor catalog.

  “Hi, Diane.” I shorten Ethel’s leash so she won’t put muddy pawprints on that stylish outfit. “Peter and Noreen mentioned you were visiting. How’s North Carolina?”

  “We love it! The weather is nice every day, and we’ve already met some lovely new friends. But, of course, I miss my old Palmyrton pals.” She points to another attractive suburban matron concluding a purchase in the booth across the way. “Jenny and I are shopping while our husbands play golf. We’re meeting them here soon.”