Rock Bottom Treasure
Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series
S.W. Hubbard
Published by S.W. Hubbard, 2020.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
ROCK BOTTOM TREASURE
First edition. December 7, 2020.
Copyright © 2020 S.W. Hubbard.
Written by S.W. Hubbard.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter 1
I SCAN THE HORIZON of the Whole Foods produce aisle, the lowliest crew member on Magellan’s ship. All around me are peninsulas of pomegranates, islands of endive, sandbars of Swiss chard.
Here be dragons.
Clutching my phone, I review the shopping list my husband has prepared for me. Sean does all our cooking, so it’s only fair that I help out with shopping. What’s not fair is Sean’s look of dismay and sigh of despair as he unpacks the grocery bags I bring home.
I tell him if he wants me to handle procurement, he’s got to provide detailed specifications. “Lettuce” is hardly instructive when Whole Foods carries mesclun, frisee, romaine, spring mix, power greens, red leaf, Boston. Let’s hope that today he’s given me specs with acceptable substitutions. I don’t want a repeat of the red lentils fiasco. How was I to know that different colors of legumes weren’t interchangeable?
I push my shopping cart forward. Item 1: 1 basket cherry tomatoes (grape tomatoes also OK)
Check.
Item 2: one bag organic spring mix (baby spinach and arugula mix also ok)
Check.
I’m feeling really confident now. I got this!
Item 3: two fennel bulbs.
Fennel? Have I ever eaten that? I thought fennel were those little seeds in Italian sausage. I peruse the beautifully displayed piles of fresh, organic vegetables. Why are there no labels?
If you don’t know what it is, you don’t deserve to eat it—that’s the Whole Foods mindset.
Bulb. That’s a clue. But nothing here seems bulbous except the beets. Then my gaze lands on an overgrown green and white thing that looks bulb-y. Is that fennel? Maybe I can google for a picture of fennel. I stop to tap away, and hear an exasperated, “excuse me,” from my rear.
“Oh, sorry.” I step aside, still waiting for a picture to appear on my screen. The woman I’ve blocked appears very produce-savvy with her squinty eyes and high-end yoga pants. “Say, could you tell me—is this fennel?”
My fellow shopper stares at me like I just dropped in from Pluto. “That,” she enunciates, “is a leek.”
I thank her for saving me from an unauthorized leek purchase, but I’m still no closer to finding fennel. Despite Sean’s passion for gourmet cuisine, I’d be happy with some grilled chicken and salad for dinner. Why do we need this fancy meal for just the two of us? I push forward, hoping for a friendlier consultant.
“Audrey? Hi! How are you?”
I spin around. A couple about my own age are smiling broadly. “Peter, Noreen—great to see you!” Four months ago I ran an estate sale to help Peter’s parents, Diane and Hank van Neff, downsize for a retirement move. “How do your folks like North Carolina?”
“They love it.” Peter van Neff places a large melon in his cart. “Golfing every day, and Mom has joined a book club and a community garden. They were just telling me that there wasn’t a single thing they regret getting rid of.”
“We have you to thank for that,” Noreen said. “They would have dragged twice as much stuff to their new condo if it hadn’t been for your intervention.”
“I’m glad it all worked out. They were very easy clients.” Truthfully, the parents had been a little resistant—the father bossy, the mother weepy—but Peter and Noreen had been endlessly cheerful, encouraging the old folks to listen to the experts. And lord knows, Donna, Ty and I are experts in selling the accumulated possessions of a lifetime. In fact, the van Neff sale was so successful that Peter and Noreen invited me and my staff out to celebrate afterwards. Donna and I went happily, but Ty had better things to do with his Saturday night. What twenty-five year old single man doesn’t? Then Sean joined us, and Donna went home early, and Peter and Noreen and Sean and I closed down the bar. We had so much fun, we promised to get together again soon. Now, four months have gone by, and we still haven’t gotten around to it.
I notice the van Neffs’ shopping cart is loaded with exotic products. “Maybe you can help me. My husband sent me here for fennel. Do you know what that is?”
“Sure.” Noreen flips her long brown hair back and marches toward the wall of greenery where she plucks out a thing that looks like the love child of celery and turnip, with a mop of dill attached at the end.
I accept it, knowing damn well I’ve never eaten such a bizarre vegetable. “I can’t imagine what my husband is planning to do with this.”
“Oh, it’s delicious roasted or braised,” Noreen assures me. “Does Sean like to try new recipes?”
“Yes, he’s addicted to Food Network. He says he’s compensating for twenty-one years of eating his mother’s boiled meat, potatoes and cabbage.”
“Another thing we have in common,” Peter says. “My mother is the casserole queen. She never met a can of Campbell’s condensed soup she couldn’t turn into a meal.”
“You should come over to our house for dinner tomorrow.” The words escape my mouth like a genie bursting from a bottle. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. As an introvert, I usually agonize endlessly over issuing invitations until I manage to talk myself out of entertaining at all. But Sean and I have been feeling lonely lately now that all the couples we know have kids, and we don’t. Peter and Noreen are funny and smart, and like Sean and me, they’re in their mid-thirties with no kids. Will they think I’m weird for issuing an invitation out of the clear blue?
“We’d love to!” Peter looks genuinely delighted.
“You’d better check that Sean is prepared for guests,” Noreen warns.
“He always cooks way too much,” I say, but I quickly text Sean and get his approval.
“Sean says he welcomes a new audience for his creations,” I report.
“Perfect!” Noreen beams. “I love being spontaneous.” We set a time and I give them our address. After they roll off to the fish counter, I feel a little dazed by my unaccustomed social success. You see, Audrey, I scold myself as I
exit the produce aisle, sometimes being impulsive pays off. Not that I’m likely to surrender my spreadsheets for a new que sera, sera lifestyle, but dinner with the van Neffs is a positive step outside my comfort zone.
Returning my attention to shopping, I charge down Aisle Two in search of the next item on my list.
Harissa paste.
Is that a condiment, a spice, a garnish? Or a maybe holistic salve for aching joints?
I find a few other items on my list, but I’m still fruitlessly searching for the harissa when my phone chirps with a text from Sean.
Buy yourself some carry-out for tonight. There’s a body reported by the train tracks. They want me at the scene.
Here’s a horrible admission: my gut cop’s wife reaction is, “Damn, now we’ll have to cancel dinner with Peter and Noreen.”
A body by the train tracks might be an all-hands-on deck murder investigation: Kiss your husband good-bye and prepare to manage your family single-handedly for weeks. Or it might be quickly ruled an overdose or a suicide: He’ll be home in time for dinner. I’ve learned this ruthless cop’s wife calculus from the best: my mother-in-law and Jan Holzer, the wife of Sean’s partner. They are two police spouses who’ve suffered through countless ruined anniversary dates, abandoned holiday dinners, and truncated vacations.
No point in asking Sean which outcome to expect before he’s checked out the scene. One thing is certain though—I won’t be needing the harissa paste tonight.
I check out at Whole Foods and head home. Ethel greets me with tail-wagging, I’ve-missed-you joy that’s amplified when her nose catches a whiff of the fragrant cheeses and pungent sausages in the shopping bags. I make us both a quick dinner, then log on to PalmyrtonNow.com to see if the local news website has any info on the crime Sean has been called to. The site is run by a former investigative reporter who got downsized out of his job at the Newark Star-Ledger. He’s made PalmyrtonNow a success with a mix of good news stories and salacious crime and political scandals. Today is no different: “High School Thespians Wow Crowds with Mame”, follows “Accused Pedophile Defeated in Town Council Race”. As I’m scrolling, “Breaking News” flashes across the screen. “Man Found Dead by Tracks Not Homeless.”
I adjust my pillows and settle in to read.
Although Palmyrton police have not released an official statement, PalmyrtonNow has learned that the body found by the NJTransit tracks today is unlikely to be a homeless person. Police sources unwilling to be identified confirmed that the body is a middle-aged, well-cared for man. Suicide has been ruled out as the cause of death. Stay tuned to PN.com for more details on this breaking story.
I shut down my computer and turn off the bedroom light. Sean won’t be home anytime soon.
This sounds like murder.
Chapter 2
AFTER MIDNIGHT, THE rumble of the garage door awakens me, and I pad out to the kitchen in my jammies to meet my husband. “What happened?” I ask, while he’s still kicking off his shoes.
He gives me his “I cannot share classified police information with civilians” stare.
“Oh, come on. I’ve already learned from PalmyrtonNow.com that it’s definitely not a homeless person and not a suicide. So somebody in the Palmyrton PD has looser lips than you.”
Sean reaches into the fridge for a beer. “Fine. I’ll give you a preview of what you’ll read in the newspaper tomorrow.”
I perch across from him at the kitchen island, knowing I’ll have to drag the info out of him. Sean doesn’t like to bring his work home with him. I understand his need to create a separation between the stress of the office and the peacefulness of home. But I’m interested in his work, and I don’t see how we can avoid discussing something that occupies fifty or sixty of his waking hours every week. “So how can you be sure the victim wasn’t homeless?”
“Maureen says the shoes he was wearing go for a cool grand.”
Maureen is the detective squad’s resident fashionista.
“And the tie was one of those French ones you never send to the clothing bank,” Sean continues.
“An Hermes? They cost $250 new.” An estate sale organizer knows designer clothes, even though I’m a jeans and t-shirt dresser myself.
“Proving our vic had more money than sense.” Sean tilts his beer. “No wallet, so no ID, but our victim is a man, mid to late fifties. No way to know if he had jewelry that was stolen, but he looked like the Rolex type.”
“He was mugged?” I prod.
“The back of his head was bashed in with a broken concrete block,” Sean says with a grimace. “He didn’t do that to himself.”
“But what was he doing in that no-man’s land by the tracks?”
Sean draws his finger through the condensation on the beer bottle. “I can’t think of any legit reason for a guy like him to be down there.”
“Maybe he was a real estate developer thinking of buying the property,” I offer. “With all the new buildings going up around Palmyrton, even that awful lot might have potential.”
Sean points a finger at me. “You think just like Holzer. He’s going to check who owns the property tomorrow.”
I’m flattered to be compared to Sean’s partner. “You don’t agree?”
“Personally, I think the vic was down there to score drugs or sex, and the seller turned on him.”
“There are streetwalkers in Palmyrton? I thought our illicit sex trade disappeared when you guys busted that high-end brothel in the McMansion last year.”
Sean arches one eyebrow and purses his lips.
“Oooh, I get it. He sneaked away to do the nasty with another man.”
“I’m not the crime scene expert, but from where the blow landed, I’m guessing the killer was taller than the victim, and the vic was pretty tall.”
“Who found the body?” I ask, as it dawns on me that lot would actually be a great place to hide a corpse.
Sean gives a bitter laugh. “Stinky Sam. He came back to the warehouse for the night and was very offended to find a dead body in his living room, so to speak.”
Sam is one of Palmyrton’s better known homeless citizens. His aroma announces his presence a block or two before his arrival. “Is he a suspect?”
Sean dismisses this with a wave. “Nah. I mean, we talked to him, but it’s hard to get much sense out of him between the booze and his delusions. I know he’s harmless. Plus, he was on his usual bench in the green all day long, seen by every patrol cop who passed by. So he’s well-alibied for the time of death.”
“Sam called 9-1-1 when he found the body?” I’m stunned the poor soul would have the presence of mind to do that since he always seems to be lost in his own confused world whenever I pass him.
“No, he staggered back up out of the empty lot because the body scared him and ran into the one beat cop in Palmyrton who has patience for Sam. Patrolman Horvath decided to check it out. Very lucky—that body could have lain there undiscovered for months.”
Sean slides off the kitchen bar stool and takes me by the hand. “There’s not much we can do until we get the autopsy reports and figure out who the guy is. A person dressed like that will be missed. Calls will start coming in by Monday, I’m sure.”
I jump down and follow him out of the kitchen. “So you don’t have to work tomorrow?”
“Nope. Holzer said he’d hold down the fort. Dinner is on.”
SEAN AND I SPEND SATURDAY preparing for our dinner party. I clean the house, while Sean makes one more trip to the grocery store to purchase the specialty items he can’t trust me to find. By six, we’re sitting around, pretending like all we ever do is eat gourmet meals in an immaculate house.
At six-ten, Ethel’s ears perk up and she rushes to the door to protect us from an armed robbery or bowl over our visitors with wet kisses, whichever option her canine sixth sense deems appropriate.
Luckily for Peter and Noreen, kisses win the day.
“I love your house,” Noreen says, looking around with open curiosi
ty after she’s freed herself from the dog. “You’ve fixed it up so cute.” She heads directly to the art deco vase on the hall table. “Is this from one of your sales?”
“Thanks. Yeah, I occasionally stumble across things we both like.”
“I put the kibosh on the statue of a Taoist deity she wanted to bring home,” Sean says.
“And I nixed the ceremonial sword from his bachelor pad.” I squeeze Sean’s hand. “The house is still a work in progress, but we’re chipping away at the projects.”
“Come on back to the deck,” Sean says. “I’ll fix you a drink.”
“You boys go ahead,” Noreen says, engrossed in a collection of Japanese woodblock prints that hang on the wall of the stairway. “I want to look at all of Audrey’s art.”
I tell her the story of the prints. “Come on upstairs. I have some watercolors you might like in our bedroom.”
“I’m sorry I’m being so nosy,” Noreen says as she follows me upstairs. “I love looking at people’s houses.”
“So do I. That’s how I got hooked on my work,” I answer.
Noreen prowls around our bedroom, looking at our bookshelves. “Your room is so neat! Whenever I clean up for guests, I end up throwing everything in our bedroom and shutting the door.”
“I use our guestroom for that purpose. I’ll show you everything if you promise not to judge.”
So the tour continues. Finally, we get to the empty room at the end of the hall painted a sunny yellow. The built-in shelves contain a collection of children’s books, and there are some boxed baby items in the corner. Noreen glances at me quizzically, but says nothing other than, “This is a nice sunny room.”
“We’ll use it as a nursery if we ever get pregnant. We’re having some trouble.” I rarely mention our infertility issues to anyone, but at this moment, it feels right to confide a little in Noreen. Of course, I won’t mention Sean’s low sperm count—no need to get into the nitty gritty. “But my sister-in-law keeps giving me her kids’ hand-me-downs, just in case.”
Noreen squeezes my arm. “I’m sorry. Family expectations are rough. Peter and I tried to have kids for five years. Recently, we decided to get off the infertility treatment merry-go-round. I’m still struggling with that choice a little, but I’m learning to let go.”
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