Rock Bottom Treasure (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series)

by Hubbard, S. W.

  “What kind of people?” I quickly clarify my question before Sean protests. “I mean, not their names, their positions.”

  Sean leans back in his chair. “Let’s see...there’s a guy who produces a reality show about supermodels. And a woman who recruits gorgeous backup singers and dancers for music videos. And a husband-and-wife team who looks for good stories to turn into series on Netflix and Hulu.”

  “Talking to those people sounds kind of fun to me. Did they all come out to Palmyrton?”

  “Hell no—Holzer and I spent most of the day in Manhattan cooling our heels in fancy lobbies while these princes and princesses made room in their very busy schedules to see peons like us.”

  “You couldn’t demand that they talk to you?”

  “If we get too aggressive, they respond by insisting they have a lawyer present. And that slows things down even more,” Sean complains. “They were all so cagey because they’re all so competitive. They’re trying to be the first ones out with a hot new idea. They don’t want to say exactly what they’re working on, or what Pelletierre was working on. I get the feeling the husband and wife producer team sees an opportunity to swoop in and snatch something up now that Pelletierre is out of the way.”

  “Could they have paid someone to get rid of him?”

  Sean makes a face. “Hiring hit men is a lot more popular in books and movies than in real life. Contrary to fiction, there really isn’t a large group of highly competent paid assassins to choose from. There’s just low-life scum bags who’ll screw up and then immediately rat out the person who hired them. This producer team struck me as way too smart for that.”

  “What about the sex angle?”

  Sean waves a dismissive hand. “According to his assistant he was”—Sean makes air quotes—"‘polyamorous’ which means he’d screw anything that moved slower than he did. I got the impression that if he got horny in the middle of the day, he’d just invite someone into his office to scratch the itch. I don’t think he needed to go to an empty lot in Palmyrton for sex.”

  “Who inherits his money?” I ask.

  “He has no kids. All the money goes to the Ross Pelletierre Foundation for Arts Education. The director seems like the only person genuinely grief-stricken by his death.”

  “So what did bring him to an empty lot in suburban New Jersey?”

  Sean stands and clears his plate. “Gotta keep working on it. Tomorrow is another day.”

  Now is the time I must tell my husband about the purse-snatching attempt. “I wish I’d known you were in Manhattan at the same time as I was. I could have used your help.”

  Sean pauses as he rinses his plate and observes me through narrowed eyes.

  Quickly, I spit out the story of the young and fleet-footed mugger.

  “What!” Sean grabs my hands in his. “Did you call 9-1-1?”

  “No. C’mon, Sean—you know the Manhattan police wouldn’t have done a thing. I would have had to stand around on that street corner waiting for them, and the most they would have done is drive me around to look for the guy. But even if he was dumb enough to still be hanging out on the street, what could they do? No witnesses. No injuries. Nothing stolen. I figured I’d be safer just getting myself and the document to the dealer as fast as possible.”

  Sean scowls, knowing I’m right. “But why didn’t you call me?”

  “I thought you were in Palmyrton. What could you have done?”

  My husband throws up his hands in defeat, but he’s still outraged. “And you think this purse snatcher knew you had the Freeman lyrics in your bag because Cordy blabbed about it?’

  “No solid proof. But she was very cavalier about the whole incident when I told her about it. I got the feeling she didn’t care about the money since she’s not getting to use it for anything fun.”

  “Keeping a roof over her head should be all the fun she needs.” Sean guides me toward the stairs. “Let’s go to bed early. We both have busy days tomorrow.”

  I slide my arm around his waist. “I don’t mind going to bed, but I’m not that sleepy.”

  I can feel my husband’s body tense. “Is tonight the night?”

  I’ve been tracking my ovulation to make sure we get plenty of exposure, as the fertility doctor likes to call it, on the right days of the month. No one enjoys applying math and spreadsheets to a problem more than I do, but the process has taken all the spontaneity out of our love life. “The hot zone isn’t until next week, but c’mon,” I tug him toward our bedroom. “We can still have fun even if it doesn’t further the cause.”

  Sean slips away from me and heads to the bathroom. “We’d better not, Audrey. Just hold off, okay?”

  I flop onto our bed and listen to Sean brushing his teeth endlessly with his electric toothbrush. Since our fertility odyssey began in earnest, Sean has used a newfound obsession with oral hygiene to avoid sex when he thinks it won’t “pay off.” Even though the doctor has explained that restricting himself this far in advance is not going to increase his sperm count from the hundreds of thousands to the millions, Sean has developed an unshakeable superstition that “his guys” are massing up like runners behind the starting line of the New York City Marathon.

  He’s not going to fire the starter’s pistol until the spreadsheet and the hormone test say it’s a go.

  I close my eyes and roll on my side to face the wall before Sean gets into bed.

  People say having a baby wrecks your sex life.

  Well, let me tell you, not having one wrecks it even more.

  Chapter 10

  THE NEXT TWO DAYS PASS in a blur of preparation for the McMurtry sale. Feeling guilty, Ty has worked especially hard to get all the heavy lifting done, and Charmaine came over to the McMurtry house at five-thirty on Thursday to get the lay of the land and learn what she’d need to do on Friday. “I’ll see you at 8:30 tomorrow morning, Audrey,” she tells me. “Just as soon as I drop Lo off at daycare.”

  On Friday morning, I’m at the AMT office by 7:45 to start loading up our van. Surprisingly, Donna isn’t here yet. The minutes tick away. I finish my share of the work, and still no Donna.

  I pace. People will be lining up in front of the house, and we’ll need to pass out numbers. And I don’t want Charmaine to arrive before I do.

  Finally, the office door opens.

  “Where have you been?” It’s not like me to be testy over Donna’s unusual lateness, but we have so much to do to get ready for the McMurtry sale, and Ty’s day off means Donna and I must work efficiently from 8 am on.

  “I’m so-r-r-y,” Donna wails. “I had to stop by Cordy’s house.” She tosses her purse on her desk and begins assembling the materials she’ll need to set up the sale: markers, sign stock, tape, cash box. “She’s all in a twist because she can’t find her notebook with her memoir notes.”

  “And that concerns you, why?” My voice still holds a sarcastic edge.

  Donna rakes her fingers through her mane of dark hair. “I know I shouldn’t get involved, but I’ve been going over there in the evenings, helping her out a little.”

  I drop my calculator. Now I’m puzzled, not annoyed. “You have? Why?”

  Donna throws her hands into the air. “Living with my parents is driving me crazy. The TV is on at an ear-splitting level every minute they’re awake. And my mother is constantly cooking and cleaning, so I feel guilty if I don’t help her. And then she tries to fix me up with the loser sons of all her lady friends. They all have Italian Prince Syndrome.”

  I laugh, all my irritation gone. It’s impossible to stay mad at Donna. “I’ll bite—what’s Italian Prince Syndrome?”

  “That’s when a guy has a mother, a grandmother, and a couple of sisters to tend to his every need. So the Prince is always saying things like, ‘Where do we keep the ice?’ Or ‘How do I mail this letter?’ I’m not getting tangled up with one of them, even if I have to stay single ‘til I die.”

  “Okay, I can understand that you need to get away from your f
olks, but to Cordy’s house? Why not go to the Blue Monday for a drink or the Short Hills Mall for some shopping?”

  “I can’t go to a bar alone!” Donna looks like I suggested she visit a brothel. “And shopping is no fun if I can’t spend money. I need to save every penny for my move. The closing on my condo is next month, and there are so many extra expenses I didn’t take into account.” Donna shoves her supply box next to the door and begins to gather her cleaning equipment. “Besides, my mom would want to come to the mall with me. And you know I’m incapable of telling a lie. So I tell my parents I need to go to Cordy’s because we’re doing a job there, which is technically the truth. And then when I’m there, I help Cordy go through some boxes and just listen to her talk. I don’t even have to answer. And she plays all her favorite music. I’m starting to really get into those old rock songs from the seventies and eighties.” Donna pauses and belts out, “you can go your own w-a-a-y,” in a surprisingly good imitation of Stevie Nicks. Then she grins at me sheepishly. “Evenings with Cordy are actually quite soothing.”

  I think it’s a little weird that Donna has become one of Cordy’s hangers-on, but who am I to judge? “Have you found anything in the boxes?” I ask.

  “No. Peter and Noreen brought some boxes down from the attic mostly full of random junk. But we did find some old copies of Bass Line with Cordy’s articles in them, along with her handwritten notes for each story. So she’s been going through all that, telling me about how she wrote every story. She was so brave! She’d do anything to get her story.”

  “You’re sure the boxes just contain Cordy’s own notes, nothing valuable?” I confirm.

  “Nothing that could be sold. But the notes are valuable to her. She thinks they could help her with her memoir. And then while she talks, I clean a little.”

  Listening to that old woman ramble is not my idea of relaxation, but Donna has had a stressful year between Anthony’s arrest and her divorce, so whatever makes her happy is good. “So why did you have to stop by this morning?”

  “I left her house around ten last night, and Cordy was still going strong. She’s a total night owl. But when I woke up today, I had a text from her that came in around 4AM. She said she couldn’t find her memoir notebook. She was worried I’d tossed it out when I was cleaning. I knew I hadn’t, but I thought I’d stop over on my way into the office to find it for her.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “Cordy sounds like one of your Italian Princes who can’t find ice in the freezer. So did you locate her notebook for her?”

  Donna frowns. “No. Just to be certain, I pulled out the trash bag I used last night and went through it, but the notebook wasn’t there. Then I searched her kitchen and living room, and even the boxes we’d been going through. No sign of it. It must be up in her bedroom somewhere. I’ll tell her to check there when she wakes up.”

  “Wait...you were over there while she was still asleep?”

  “Of course.” Donna looks at the time on her phone. “It’s only 8:45. Cordy’s never up before noon.”

  “So how did you get in?”

  “Oh, she leaves a key under a flowerpot on the back porch. I told her that’s not safe, but she won’t listen. She hardly ever leaves the house, but if one of her friends comes over in the morning, Cordy doesn’t want them pounding on the door to wake her up. She just tells them to let themselves in with the key.”

  I massage my temples. Probably everyone in Cordy’s neighborhood has watched people take out that key and let themselves in. Not a good situation for a defenseless seventy year old woman. “I’ll mention it to Peter and Noreen. Maybe they can reason with her.”

  “Enough with Cordy,” Donna says. “Let’s head out to the McMurtry’s house. We have a sale to run.

  ONCE WE’RE AT THE MCMURTRY house, Donna becomes her usual marvel of efficiency. While she whips the line outside into shape, I take Charmaine to the house’s second floor and run through a list of possible questions she should prepare for, as well as potential shoplifting hotspots she needs to monitor.

  When the doors open at nine and the hordes rush in, I’m in the foyer ready to cope with the dealers and regulars who are at the front of the line at every big sale. Within an hour, I’ve sold the leather sofa, the walnut console table, and the copper pots and pans. Above me, I can hear Charmaine managing unruly customers with firm politeness. “There’s nothing for sale in that room. No discounts today. Please keep an eye on your little girl, ma’am.” I smile. Even without Ty, the sale is running smoothly. I go over to the cash box to deposit some money.

  “Hi, Ariel,” Donna says.

  The wary tone in Donna’s voice makes me look up because it’s so different from her usual cheery greeting style.

  A wraith-like young woman with a grayish pallor and dark circles under her eyes stands at the check-out table, squinting at Donna. “How do you know my name?”

  “I met you at Cordy’s house the other day, remember?”

  “Oh. Oh, yeah...right.” She sets several colorful bracelets and necklaces on the table. Her nails are bitten and her arms covered with tiny scratches and scabs. “I got these from the dollar box.”

  Donna picks through them and pushes three to the left and one to the right. “These three came from the dollar box. This one is genuine turquoise, priced at $35.”

  I smile to myself. That’s my girl! Donna knows our inventory, and she’s not about to let any customers get away with switching prices.

  “It doesn’t have a price-tag on it,” Ariel protests with a whine. “I found it in the dollar box.”

  Donna slides the bracelet away from Ariel. “Perhaps someone picked it up and put it back in the wrong place. This one is definitely real turquoise and the price is $35.”

  Donna doesn’t say that she suspects the “someone” who moved the bracelet is Ariel herself, but the accusation hangs in the air.

  “That’s not fair,” Ariel continues to protest but she can’t make herself meet Donna’s firm gaze. She scratches at her arm and one of her scabs oozes a drop of bright red blood. “I can’t afford thirty-five dollars, and I need these blue beads to complete a project I’m working on.”

  “We don’t reduce prices on the first day of the sale. You can come back tomorrow afternoon, and if the bracelet is still here, I can let you have it for $17.”

  “Fine,” Ariel tosses her thin hair and reaches for the bracelet. “I’ll put it back.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll take care of putting it back,” Donna says, keeping her hand firmly on the turquoise. “I’ll have to make a new price-tag.”

  Ariel scowls and hands over three crumpled bills for the costume jewelry. Donna waits until the young woman has left to start fuming.

  “Can you believe the nerve of her—switching that nice bracelet into the junk box and expecting me to fall for the scam? And then thinking I’d let her hide it somewhere so that no one else can buy it until she comes back tomorrow! I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  “Oldest trick in the estate sale business.” I pat Donna’s shoulder. “I must say, you seem particularly outraged that Ariel pulled the switcheroo.”

  Donna makes a new tag that screams “genuine turquoise” and ties it tightly to the bracelet. “This thing is kinda ugly. I probably should have priced it a little lower. But it’s the principle. I wasn’t going to let Ariel get away with cheating us.”

  “So you met her at Cordy’s?” I ask between helping a customer measure the width of a chair and directing someone away from a locked closet. “Peter mentioned her to me and thought she might have been upstairs when we visited the first time, but I’ve never met her. What’s wrong with her? She looks sickly.”

  “Yeah, she’s been there twice when I came over to help Cordy. But she wouldn’t stick around and talk with us. Cordy says she’s shy, but I think she’s just weird. She eats this very restrictive diet, so it’s no wonder she looks like death. And she picks at her skin. Claims she has some disease, but when I looked it up on th
e internet, I found out it’s fake.” Donna shakes her head. “I know people with cancer who’d do anything to be healthy. Why would you want to ruin your own health and claim you have an imaginary disease?”

  “Her physical ailments might not be real, but it sounds like she’s got a certifiable mental illness,” I say.

  Donna snorts. “She’s not so crazy that she can’t figure out how to cheat at an estate sale. You know what she does for a living? Makes therapeutic jewelry. She claims different combinations of stones and gems and colors have healing properties. Brother!”

  I chuckle. “She’s not exactly a walking advertisement for her products. Jeweler, heal thyself!”

  “Ariel would feel a lot better with a few bowls of my Aunt Rose’s pasta e fagioli in her,” Donna agrees, and we both go back to work.

  But as the day wears on, my mind keeps returning to Ariel. Was it just a coincidence that she came to this estate sale? I get a lot of crafters at my sales, so if Ariel lives in Palmyrton, I’m surprised I haven’t come across her before this. I’m pretty sure I would remember her, as she’s so odd-looking. And why did she act like she didn’t recognize Donna when she’d met her twice at Cordy’s? I suppose it’s possible Donna looked different in an unexpected setting. But given the way Cordy talks nonstop, she must have told Ariel that Donna and I are estate sale organizers. Strange.

  About half an hour before the sale ends, Ty calls from his car on the Long Island Expressway to report that he successfully bought the paintings that Carter Lemoine wanted. By the time he delivers the paintings to Carter in Manhattan, he won’t be back to Palmyrton until late. But he’ll be at the McMurtry sale first thing tomorrow. I assure him that all is going well without him. “Charmaine’s an estate sale prodigy. You better watch your back.”

  Ty cackles, then curses. “I gotta watch my driving, or I’ll get killed out here. See you tomorrow.”