“Buying your first house, taking out a mortgage—that’s a big deal. And you should certainly understand exactly what you’re getting into,” I reassure her. “Let’s go over it together, and I’ll try to apply what I remember from buying my condo and Sean’s and my house. If there’s anything we don’t understand, we can always ask Mr. Swenson.”
“Mr. Swenson! I forgot that you have a lawyer,” Donna says as I roll my chair next to her and we prepare to go through the documents together.
“I don’t think he specializes in real estate transactions, but he’ll be able to explain anything we don’t understand.”
We read together, and I explain the first page of the mortgage documents to her to the best of my ability.
“Thank you, Audrey. You’re so smart.”
“I’m happy to help you. And I’m not that smart. I’ve just done this before.”
Donna bites her lip. “This is what I’ve been working on with my counselor. I lack self- confidence. I’m always so self-critical. You never do that. I need to try to be more like you. But I don’t know how.”
This is one of those compliments that women specialize in. By accepting it, I end up insulting the giver. I squeeze Donna’s hand. “You know what? I think ‘never’ and ‘always’ are very dangerous words. Whenever I’m confronted with something I don’t understand, I’m pretty confident I can figure it out by doing some research and asking some questions. You can do that, too. Everything I know about antiques and collectibles, I taught myself. But I lack confidence in other areas.”
“You do?”
“Do you know what I admire you for?”
“What?”
“Your ability to go into a room and talk to anybody. I can’t do that. Well, I guess I can, but I have to force myself. It makes me uncomfortable. So, we all have our gifts.”
We return to decoding the legal documents. “This paragraph here says you have to pay for a title search,” I explain. “That’s where they check to make sure there are no liens against the property you want to buy.”
“What are liens?”
“Unpaid tax bills, second mortgages. It means the owner doesn’t own the property free and clear, so he can’t sell it to you.”
“Isn’t that what happened to Cordy?” Donna asks.
“Yeah, she had a property tax lien. Well, still does, since the Freeman lyrics didn’t bring in enough to clear it.” For a long moment, I gaze at the vintage Moonpie Cookie sign decorating our office wall. Then I turn to Donna’s computer and start typing.
“What are you doing?”
“When I bought my condo, I remember questioning why the title search was so expensive given that liens are a matter of public record. I’d already searched the property myself. But an official title search involves more, I guess.”
Donna watches me feverishly typing. “So what are you looking for?”
“I want to see the lien on Cordy’s property.”
I sit back and tilt the screen so both of us can see it. “There’s no lien on 151 Locust Avenue.”
Cordy doesn’t owe the taxman. Maybe she never did.
Chapter 27
“HOW CAN THAT BE?” DONNA tilts her head and looks at me like a puzzled squirrel confronting a high tech birdfeeder.
My brain is spinning too. If Cordy never owed back tax payments, what happened to the cash I got for the sale of the Freeman lyrics? I saw Cordy write a check to the tax man. Well, to be accurate, I saw her write a check and hand it to Peter. I don’t know what was actually on the check. More importantly, what are my friends Peter and Noreen up to? Their request for me to look for saleable items at Cordy’s house arose completely spontaneously, didn’t it? An unplanned encounter at Whole Foods...an impulsive dinner invitation...a spur-of-the-moment request for my assistance. How could that be planned?
Are Hank, Peter, and Noreen all trying to scam Cordy? Or is it just Hank? Or is it my suspicious mind? Maybe Peter paid off the last of the tax bill and didn’t tell his parents.
I massage my temples. “I don’t know, Donna. But something’s not right.”
“What are you going to do?”
What indeed? Confront my friends? What if this is an innocent misunderstanding? God knows, I’ve misperceived situations in the past. I need more information before I speak to Peter and Noreen.
“Let’s go over to Elspeth’s house and keep working on the set-up. At lunch we can talk to Ty again.” I pull out my phone and text Ty with the information I’ve discovered.
See if you can find a way to ask Cordy about the tax bill.
BACK AT ELSPETH’S HOUSE, Donna and I go our separate ways—she to finish pricing and staging upstairs, and I to tackle the kitchen and tiny TV room. Elspeth’s cookbook collection will sell, as will her well-organized crafting supplies. The back issues of Good Housekeeping, not so much.
Working keeps my mind off the bigger issue of Cordy’s tax bill and its implication for our friendship with Peter and Noreen until Donna appears at twelve-thirty carrying the take-out order that was just delivered. “Here’s lunch. Ty’s on his way.” Unable to control her urge to clean, Donna begins picking off the photos and notes and news clippings stuck with magnets to Elspeth’s fridge. “Let’s see if there’s anything important here,” Donna comments as she prepares to toss the paper in the trash and save the magnets. “Elspeth’s granddaughter’s field hockey team made it to the play-offs a few years ago...she needs toilet paper and milk at the store...and she has to ask Gil about the drip in the powder room.”
I come alongside Donna and fish the last note out of the trash. “That says ‘Gif’ not ‘Gil’ doesn’t it?”
Donna squints. “Yeah, maybe—she has scratchy handwriting. You think Cordy’s friend hangs out over here, too?”
“He’d get better food over here, I’m sure, so I guess he’s willing to do little chores for Elspeth as well as Cordy.”
Just then, Ty taps on the back door and we let him in, along with a gust of icy air and a swirl of dead leaves. “Man, it’s gettin’ cold.” Ty rubs his hands together. “I’m glad I’m not out in the garage today. Cordy’s basement is a mess, but at least it’s warm.”
“Have you found anything down there?” I ask as Donna divides a pizza among us.
“Three dead mice, twenty dried-up, half-empty cans of paint, and enough paint thinner, varnish, and oil to burn the house down,” Ty grumbles. “But I found another box of old papers, so I brought that up to her.”
“And...” Donna hitches her chair closer to the table.
“Another walk down memory lane.” Ty tears off the tip of a pepperoni slice. “She looked at every one of those drafts of articles, telling me about how she wrote each story. So I asked her when she’d interview people, did she take notes or use a tape recorder, and she said both. She said some people freeze up when they see a recorder, so she had to be prepared to do whatever works.”
“That makes sense, “ Donna says. “If the person I was interviewing was talking fast, I’d be worried I’d miss something if I had to write it all down.”
“Yeah, but most of those old rockers were probably stoned, so they don’t talk as fast as you,” Ty teases her.
“Good—you established that she did use recorders,” I say, impatient for more information. “Were you able to turn the conversation to bootleg tapes?”
“Yeah, I asked her if she ever recorded the music at the concerts she attended. She acted all shocked—said that would be a violation of copyright, and if the bands ever caught her doing that, she would have lost all her backstage access.”
“Acted shocked?” I clarify.
“I’m startin’ to get a feel for when Cordy’s BSing me, and I think that’s what she was doing.” Ty drops a long strand of melted cheese into his mouth. “When she got to the bottom of the box of papers, she looked disappointed again, just like yesterday. And that was real.”
“Doesn’t that seem like what she’s looking for is a tape or a tape player
?” I push the last slice to Ty out of concern for my weight, not as a bribe for agreement.
Really.
He nods as he chews. “Could be right.”
“Did you ask her about the tax bill?” Donna reminds Ty of his other task.
“Didn’t have to ask. We heard the mail drop through the slot, and Cordy asked me to go get it for her,” Ty says. “She flipped through all the junk, and then she smiled at me and said, “Whew! Another day with no notices from that damn tax collector.”
“So she does believe she still owes money,” I say.
Ty scrapes the last glob of cheese from the bottom of the pizza box. “Yep. I didn’t tell her different. I leave that to you.”
Chapter 28
AFTER LUNCH, SEAN FINALLY returns my call. “Sorry I’ve been out of touch. Really hectic day.” He sounds slightly out of breath. “What’s up?”
Where to begin? Quite a bit has happened since last I saw him, but I sense our time for this call is short. “I tried to wait up for you last night. I wanted to tell you something I discovered—Cordelia Dean knows Ross Pelletierre. She interviewed him for her last article, the one that got her fired. It was about a band called Plan for Extinction, and Pelletierre was their manager.”
“Hunh.”
“That’s all—hunh?” I object. “Don’t you think it’s suspiciously coincidental that Pelletierre was murdered a couple miles from Cordy’s house, and she’s never mentioned knowing him even though the case has been all over the news?”
“Odd, yeah. I guess Pelletierre started out as a band manager. But music is the one form of entertainment he’s not involved in now.” Sean’s voice sounds vague and distracted, as if he’s doing something else while he’s talking to me. “Thanks for telling me. I’ll follow up on it.”
“You want me to ask Cordy about it?” I offer, dissatisfied with his lukewarm response.
“No!” Now my husband speaks emphatically. “I’ll handle this, Audrey. You stay out of it.”
Clearly, Sean is not all that impressed by the lead I’ve given him. I decide not to launch into my bootleg tapes theory now. And I’m definitely not telling him he missed our window of baby-making opportunity. “What’s going on? You sound preoccupied.”
“Following more leads in the Pelletierre case. There might be some financial...irregularities. I’m trying to make sense of all his transactions with a forensic accountant.”
I hear the rustling of paper. “Oh, he’s back. Gotta run. See you tonight.”
AT FIVE, I RETURN TO the AMT office.
Sitting at my desk, I study the photos in Cordy’s Plan for Extinction article. Yesterday, I focused on the big photo that showed the four bandmates on stage. But the article also features candid close-ups of the four musicians. I blow them up on my computer screen. Are any of these men familiar to me? They were in their twenties when the photos were taken. Now they’d be in their fifties.
Jay claims they all left the music business and returned to mainstream life. I try to imagine them fatter, balder, more conventional. Narwhal is handsome, larger than life, with full sensual lips. I sense that he’d still be a striking man even in middle age. Bonobo, the bassist, is like his namesake monkey—slight, wiry, full of frenetic energy that radiates from the photo. Vaquita, the guitarist, seems happy-go-lucky, with twinkling eyes. And finally, Loggerhead, the drummer. The photographer has caught him in a moment where he’s transported by the music he’s playing. His eyes are closed, his chin thrown back.
And the ridge of his nose has a noticeable break.
This is the man who visited Ariel’s booth at the craft show, I’m sure of it.
At least one member of Plan for Extinction is in Palmyrton.
Could the guitarist who performed at the craft fair and talked to Loggerhead be Vaquita? I study the photo of Plan for Extinction’s guitarist. His face is so smooth and young and not particularly distinctive. He could be the same guy as the musician at the craft fair.
Or maybe not.
I pull out the business card Alan Greer gave me at the fair. Time to check out his website and give him a call.
I begin by introducing myself and telling him where I heard him play. I tell him my husband and I are hoping to catch his gig in Jersey City this weekend. Then I launch into the backstory I developed—my nephew has expressed an interest in learning to play the guitar, and we thought we’d buy him some lessons for Christmas instead of yet another video game. What kind of guitar should his parents buy him? Where should they get it? Alan is very affable and chatty. He’s given me so much good advice that I hope I actually can talk one of our nephews into taking up the guitar. I keep going. How old was he when he started playing? Has he ever been in a band or has he always played solo?
Alan chuckles. “Sure, I was in a band back in my wild youth. But it brought me a whole world of trouble, and when I finally straightened myself out, I decided playing solo was best for me. I’m lucky that I’ve been able to make a living as a musician—playing, teaching, writing ad jingles and custom songs for weddings. Not enough to make me rich, but I don’t aspire to that. I’ve got what I need, and that’s enough.”
“Good attitude, “ I respond. My heart kicks up a beat. “When I finally straightened myself out” sounds like this could be Vaquita, the guitarist for Plan for Extinction. “So what was your band’s name?”
“Oh, we were a flash in the pan—you’re too young to remember us.”
“Tell me—I bet my husband’s heard of it. He knows every band for the past forty years.”
I hear the phone clunk. Then Alan responds. “Hey, Audrey, gotta run—my four o’clock lesson is here. It’s been great talking to you. Hope to see you at the club this weekend. Let me know what you decide about the lessons.”
And he’s gone.
Chapter 29
MY PHONE BEEPS AN APPOINTMENT reminder. Ugh! It’s that facial at the spa attached to Maura’s fancy gym. She gave it to me as a gift, so she’ll be mad if I blow it off.
I know it’s ridiculous to not want a facial, but there are so many other things I could be doing tonight.
Like researching the members of Plan for Extinction.
I pull into the parking lot at Your Best Life spa and fitness center marveling at how many people feel compelled to come here for hours of torture after work. At least I’m here for something relaxing.
My anxiety ramps up the moment I cross the threshold. Your Best Life is the kind of place that requires a fancy, color-coordinated outfit for every activity. So much spandex, so much Lycra, so many sneakers designed by MIT engineers. I’ve been here as Maura’s guest once or twice, but there’s no way I’d pay the hefty membership fee to join. Luckily, I get all the exercise I need running up and down the stairs at estate sales and hauling heavy boxes and furniture to our van.
Maura, on the other hand, needs this place as her life as a marketing consultant involves way too many restaurant meals and networking cocktail parties.
My Swedish facialist claims me from the sleek gray and black reception area of the spa and leads me to a quiet cell with a padded table. While she tsk-tsks over the condition of my pores and the hydration of my epidermis, I let my mind wander, pondering the nature of friendship. Would Maura and I be friends if we met today? Where would we encounter each other? Not at work. Not at a bar. Not at a party. Not shopping.
We have no interests in common. Maura is a marketing consultant who travels constantly, enjoys socializing, loves fashion, and hates antiques, or, as she puts it, old crap. I’m a homebody estate sale organizer who wears the same jeans every day and loves old crap. And yet, here we are, celebrating our twentieth year of friendship.
I clearly remember the day we met during freshman move-in. Maura and I were the only two girls on our dorm floor whose parents weren’t hovering. I recall the cacophony of clucking mothers and grumbling fathers in our UVA dorm. My aloof father had dropped me off at college like I was a suitcase at airport curbside check-in. Maura, t
he fourth of five kids, had super-experienced parents who got her unpacked in an hour flat and hit the road. I remember fleeing my dorm room to escape my roommate’s mother and running into Maura, who was bored and ready for adventure. She grabbed my arm and dragged me off to look for cute fraternity boys.
And she’s been dragging me around ever since.
What is it about freshman year that causes people to form these tight friendships?
You’re scared to be on your own, but you’re thrilled to have the chance to re-invent yourself. I guess the person you go through that with stays connected to you forever.
I wonder if that’s what happened to Cordy and Diane and Hank. Did they meet at some Kent State Orientation Week mixer and become permanently imprinted on one another? And now it seems they can’t separate.
After forty-five minutes of steaming, kneading, and massaging, the facialist sets me free. I have to admit, my face looks like I’ve never spent a restless night or furrowed my brow over a troublesome financial report.
I exit the spa feeling dewy and relaxed. At least, as relaxed as it’s possible to feel after the facialist has relieved me of forty bucks for some deliciously scented serum to give me the pores of a newborn.
Is it even remotely possible Sean will notice a difference in my appearance?
“Audrey!”
I spin around in the lobby. There, at the entrance to the juice bar, is Noreen.
“I didn’t know you were a member here,” she says, looking delighted to see me.
Am I happy to see her? Curious about what she knows, certainly. Anxious about what she might tell me, or conceal from me, definitely. “I’m not,” I explain. “My friend Maura gave me a gift facial at the spa. Do I look ten years younger?”
Rock Bottom Treasure (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 7) Page 17
