Rock Bottom Treasure (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series)

by Hubbard, S. W.

  And after the sale ends today, Ty and Sean are taking a field trip to visit Ty’s father, Marvin.

  “Who’s going to watch Lo while Charmaine is recovering?” Donna asks as we finalize the sale of a table and chairs set.

  “A friend of hers has organized a schedule for the next week,” I say. “Sean and I are signed up for a block. Do you want to take one?”

  “Definitely!” Donna looks over my shoulder at the grid I’ve pulled up on my iPad. “I can watch him after he gets out of daycare on Tuesday. My mom will get a kick out of him. She’ll feed him meatballs.”

  Filling in the baby-sitting grid helps alleviate some of the guilt I feel over Charmaine’s injury. Sean has talked again to the officers assigned to the crash investigation, but they still haven’t located the black car that hit Charmaine despite contacting repair shops for a vehicle with front-end damage. And they still haven’t found the woman who bought the dresser and then left the scene. Despite Donna’s prediction, she hasn’t contacted us demanding a refund for her destroyed purchase. These dead ends make the visit to Marvin Griggs even more important.

  My phone chirps the arrival of a text. I’m hoping it’s an update from Ty on Charmaine’s release, but instead, it’s from Peter.

  How is Ty’s sister doing? Noreen told me she got hit by a car, and then I read the story in the local news.

  I tell Peter that Charmaine will hopefully be released today and figure that’s the end of our exchange, but he replies.

  Will she be able to return to work? I know you said you’re really busy.

  No more heavy lifting for her, I respond

  Another customer shows up demanding my attention, so I leave the text exchange at that. But later, as the sale winds down, and we are making deals to get rid of the sad rec-room orange and brown sofa and the collection of battered lawn chairs, I get a text from Noreen asking about Charmaine. Geez, do these two talk to each other? Surely, they’re all together on a Saturday afternoon when relatives are visiting. It’s nice they’re concerned, but they don’t even know Charmaine.

  I tell Noreen the same thing I told her husband, and she immediately replies.

  Listen, don’t worry about trying to find more stuff at Cordy’s house. We understand you’re swamped.

  That’s a relief. I can’t expect Ty to work extra hours when he’s got Charmaine and Lo to look after. I’m surprised my friends are both so aware of the accident, but it seems Peter texted me after he heard details of the accident on the news. What’s being said in the media? I quickly call up PalmyrtonNow.com, our local news website, and sure enough, Charmaine’s hit-and-run is the lead story: P-Ton Cops Seek Leads in Hit-and-Run

  I scan the article—it’s straightforward and gives a number to call if anyone knows anything about the black sportscar that hit Charmaine.

  Then I search for an article in the Palmer County Daily Record, aka the Daily Wretched, known for its inflammatory headlines, purple prose, and general disregard for the facts.

  Single Mother Gravely Injured by Speeding Sports Car

  I read the lead paragraph, in which the paper manages to misspell Charmaine’s name and subtract a year from her age. Then there’s a heart-rending paragraph extolling Charmaine’s virtues, gathered from an old lady in her apartment complex who probably barely knows her. But the story gets more interesting in paragraph three. The Wretched seems to have sent a reporter to knock on the doors of the neighbors here on the McMurtry’s street.

  A woman raking leaves in her front yard claims to have seen the black sportscar circling the block three times before finally parking between her house and the McMurtry’s. I read with closer attention, ignoring the final customers of the day.

  “When I saw the same car pass three times,” says Elaine Townsend, “I started keeping an eye on it. This is a close-knit neighborhood, and we watch out for one another. We had more traffic than usual on the street because of the estate sale, but when the car parked and no one got out, I thought that was fishy. Now I wish I had written down the license number.”

  My chest tightens. Sean is right: the car circled to scope out the sale, then parked to lie in wait. With trembling hands, I continue reading.

  The next paragraph shifts to Mrs. Townsend’s husband, Jerry, who apparently visited the sale while his wife was working in their yard. Every sale has a nosy neighbor brigade who comes to snoop even if they have no intention of buying, and it seems Jerry Townsend was part of that crowd. When the reporter asks if he saw anything unusual at the sale, Jerry says, “I saw a woman upstairs hanging around for a long time and acting nervous. She kept chasing people away from this furniture she wanted to buy.” The reporter speculates on the significance of this, and the article concludes with an appeal for readers to help the police solve the crime.

  The arrival of one last argumentative customer distracts me from analyzing the article further, but after I’ve met the man’s demand for a drastic reduction on a heavy-as-sin coffee table, I return to thinking about the observations of Jerry Townsend.

  On one hand, his commentary could be the Daily Wretched doing what it does best to keep readers engaged: finding drama or scandal in the most ordinary of circumstances. Estate sale customers do “guard” pieces they haven’t quite made up their minds about—nothing sinister about that. But what if the woman who bought the dresser was involved in setting up the accident? Wouldn’t that rule out the involvement of Ty and Charmaine’s father?

  But why would one of my estate sale customers have it in for Charmaine?

  Ty shows up at the McMurtry’s house as the last customers leave with their bargains. He looks exhausted, but immediately flings himself into the hard physical work of loading up the junk that didn’t sell. Donna peppers him with questions about Charmaine and Lo until I grab her arm and shake my head. Charmaine is coming home tomorrow and Lo is fine with a friend and that’s all we’re getting out of Ty right now. I know him well enough to see that he’s emotionally drained and wants the therapy of hauling furniture and sweeping floors, two activities that offer him the comfort of total control.

  But just as Ty is ready to drive off to the dump, I risk another question. “Did the police talk to Charmaine at the hospital?”

  Ty nods, his face tense. “They asked me to leave the room.” He closes the cargo door of the AMT van with a vicious slam. “When I came back into her room after they left, Charmaine was crying and she wouldn’t tell me why.”

  Ty hops into the van and roars off to the dump.

  Chapter 13

  TWO HOURS LATER, DONNA and I leave the McMurtry house totally empty and ready for its new owners. Together we drive to the bank to deposit today’s proceeds. Although we’ve been together nonstop for the past two days, I sense Donna’s unwillingness to go home. I know Saturday nights and Sunday afternoons are particularly hard for her. That’s when it’s hardest to be a single woman.

  Trust me, I know.

  “Do you want to join Sean and me for Thai takeout tonight?” I ask as we pull away from the bank.

  Donna’s face lights up. “I’d love to! I never thought I could say this, but I’m getting tired of my mother’s cooking.” Then her smile fades. “Are you sure Sean won’t mind?”

  Donna’s volatile ex-husband would not have encouraged impromptu guests, but Sean is far more welcoming. “Nah—he loves you. I’ll take you to your car, and you follow me to my house.”

  “You go ahead,” Donna directs. “I’m going to stop to buy some wine and dessert.”

  Arguing is pointless; Donna never goes anywhere empty-handed, so I head home. On the way I call Sean and tell him to add some extra pad Thai and basil chicken to our order.

  “Ty and I just talked to Marvin Griggs,” Sean tells me. “I don’t want to discuss that in front of Donna, so don’t ask me.”

  I step on the accelerator. I want to hear this before Donna arrives.

  “How did it go?” I quiz Sean when I arrive home. “Donna is buying wine and dessert,
so talk fast.”

  My husband brushes past me and proceeds to take an inordinately long time to unpack the take-out order. I try to restrain myself. I can tell his silence is not unwillingness to share but rather a need to continue processing whatever he and Ty learned from Marvin Griggs.

  “Marvin Griggs has a room in a pretty decent house down near the Burger King. We sat out on the porch to talk.”

  “Did you tell him upfront why you were there?” I’m so eager for the report, I can’t just let it flow.

  “I told him the traffic division thought his daughter’s hit-and-run was not an accident.” Sean checks the temperature of the basil chicken and pops it in the microwave. “Instead of reacting with outrage or shock as Ty did, he came across as tense, on guard.”

  “All ex-cons are tense when a cop comes to visit. Was he shocked to see Ty with you?”

  “There was a lot of tension between them. Marvin kept looking at Ty like he couldn’t believe his own son had led the cops to him.”

  “That’s understandable, don’t you think?”

  Sean arches his eyebrows. “Marvin was playing strong offense. He said the only reason the Palmyrton police are taking what happened to Charmaine seriously is because of Ty’s connection to me through you.” Sean fluffs the rice. “He was trying to get a rise out of me. And before you ask, he didn’t succeed.”

  “Did he get a rise out of Ty?”

  “No, up to that point, Ty was remarkably restrained.”

  I rub my socked foot along my husband’s leg to let him know I appreciate him.

  “So I told Marvin jealous boyfriends had been ruled out, and I wondered if he had any idea who might want to harm his daughter.”

  I hold my breath waiting for the answer.

  “Marvin just stared at both of us. Didn’t say a word.” Sean hands me plates and silverware so I can set the table. “Sometimes, when I’m interrogating someone, I’ll feel this energy in the room. It’s like static electricity in the atmosphere right before a thunderstorm. That’s what I felt from Marvin.”

  I don’t want to discount Sean’s cop instincts, but this seems a little vague to me. “Did Ty sense it too?”

  “Oh, yeah—big time. That’s when he stepped in and demanded to know where Marvin was getting his money. Marvin pulled out his wallet and showed Ty his pay stub from a store called Big Mo’s.”

  “So he does have a legit job!” I’m not sure why I’m defending Marvin Griggs. If the man is returned to prison, Ty will feel validated, but Charmaine will be crushed. Nothing can make Marvin a better father to the young versions of Ty and Charmaine. But I know the healing power of forgiveness, and I’m hoping there might still be time for Marvin to be a good father and grandfather now.

  “Seems like he does have a job. Except his take-home pay is $250 a week. How can a man live on that, even in a shared house? Ty kept pressing him, and Marvin kept insisting he doesn’t spend much. They went around and around until I warned Ty to stop. Then Marvin told us to go talk to his boss and went inside.”

  “And did you check out the store?”

  “We stopped by, but Big Mo himself wasn’t around. The place is a little neighborhood convenience store: candy, soda, milk, snacks. A guy with lots of prison tatts was behind the counter. He confirmed that Marvin worked there.”

  “Did that satisfy Ty?”

  “Huh!” Sean uncorks a bottle of wine. “Ty said there was no way his father spent his days selling candy bars to little kids. My goal in going over there was to rule Marvin out as a suspect. I didn’t succeed.”

  “So this candy store job is definitely fishy? If Marvin was selling drugs again, wouldn’t he be on the radar of Narcotics?”

  “Yeah, and I already checked that out. They never heard of him and they know all dealers, big and small.”

  “So what’s he into? If it has nothing to do with Charmaine, why act so evasive?”

  “I think all those years in prison have taught Marvin how to play his cards close to the vest whether or not he’s got money in the game.” Sean says.

  “So what’s your next step?” I ask.

  Sean sighs. “It’s a little tricky. Traffic won’t appreciate that I horned in on their case, especially since I didn’t find anything conclusive. So I can’t tell them to stake out the store or Marvin’s house.”

  “Can’t you do it?”

  “Stake-outs take long hours and big budgets. I have my own cases, remember?”

  “So you’re giving up on the Marvin angle?” I protest. “Charmaine won’t be safe until we catch whoever hurt her.”

  Sean arranges serving utensils on the counter beside the array of carryout containers. Then he looks at me. “I can’t give up because I know Ty won’t give up. I told Ty I have a couple favors I can call in. I’m not sure he’s satisfied with that. You keep an eye on him.”

  Ethel begins barking to announce Donna’s arrival, so we drop the subject.

  My assistant sweeps in with a flurry of thanks to Sean, kisses for the dog, apologies for the wine (three bottles—red, white, and rose´, in case she chose wrong), and enough dessert to induce diabetes. We keep the conversation light and cheerful as we eat, but after we’ve all had a couple of glasses of wine, Donna slips into a more somber mood.

  “I feel awful drinking and laughing when poor Charmaine is in the hospital,” she says. “Haven’t the cops come up with any leads yet?”

  “They still can’t find the car, or the woman who bought the dresser,” Sean says. “They’ve put out an appeal on the news, but no one has responded.”

  Donna passes out an array of Italian pastries. “It’s so awful she drove away because she didn’t want to bother getting involved.”

  “Or she drove away because she was already involved,” Sean says.

  Donna cocks her head in confusion. “Wait...you think the lady bought the dresser as some kinda set-up to get Charmaine out of the house? How would she even know Charmaine would be there?”

  “Yeah, Sean,” I say. “One of the neighbors interviewed in the Daily Wretched said he thought that customer was hanging around for a long time. But why would she even know about Charmaine? Charmaine was a last-minute substitution. No one knew she’d be working at the McMurtry sale except me, Donna and Ty. And I didn’t tell anyone—not even you.”

  “But maybe Charmaine mentioned her plan to work the sale to someone she knows,” Sean insists gently.

  Like her father. But I don’t want to bring that up in front of Donna. I needn’t have worried because Donna is having her own epiphany.

  “Oh, my God!” she screams and yanks her own hair. “Oh. My. God.” Donna leaps up and shakes Sean by the shoulders. “I did it. I told someone.”

  Her eyes are wild. “I told Cordy.”

  Chapter 14

  SEAN AND I STARE AT her in confusion.

  “Why would Cordy want to hurt Charmaine?” I ask.

  Donna rubs her eyes, smearing mascara onto her cheek. “You know how Cordy acts all flirtatious around Ty because she thinks he’s cute—”

  “Yeah, and it’s gross. She’s as old as his grandmother,” I say.

  Donna takes a shaky breath. “Well, she was asking about Ty on those evenings when I went over to help her sort through those boxes. She wanted to know how old Ty was and if he grew up in Palmyrton and how he got into the estate sale business, but none of it seemed super-nosy—just chatting, ya know?”

  In my mind’s eye I can picture Ty giving Donna the prison death stare for this breech of confidence.

  “And she wanted to know why I didn’t bring Ty along in the evenings because wasn’t he more of an expert? And I said, you know, that Ty has certain specialties like modern paintings and Tiffany glass, and Fiestaware and stuff like that. But that he doesn’t know so much about all this rock and roll memorabilia—only Audrey has been studying up on it.” Donna rambles breathlessly as she’s prone to do when she’s nervous. “And then I told her Ty has better things to do and then,” Donna
talks faster and faster, “I kinda let it slip about the art auction stuff and how Ty was busy with that and she was really interested and wanted to know more and I just thought, you know, she’s kinda arty and she found it fascinating and....” She trails off, looking at us helplessly. “After what happened to Audrey in the city, and now this—doesn’t that seem, like, weird?”

  I take Donna’s hand to encourage her. “Weird, how?”

  “Maybe someone associated with Cordy wants to get rid of Ty,” Donna bites her lip. “And maybe me, too. Or just wants to scare all of us away from Cordy.”

  Sean’s brow furrows. He’s trying hard to understand Donna’s close-to-hysterical babbling, as am I. “But what about Charmaine?”

  “Charmaine is tall and strong. She was wearing jeans and a bulky sweatshirt and a hat. A white person and a Black person came out of the house carrying furniture. The driver of the sports car must’ve thought—those are the two I’m supposed to hit. Maybe the driver thought it was Ty and me.” Donna’s eyes widen. “Maybe they’re trying to scare us all away from ever working at Cordy’s house again.”

  I watch Sean’s face for a reaction. He’s not usually one for wild conspiracy theories.

  “We’ve got no solid evidence,” my husband says after a long pause. “But just in case Donna is right, I think you should stay away from Cordy’s place.”

  I hold up my hands. “No argument here. I was never thrilled about going back to work there.”

  After Donna leaves and I’m in bed, I toss and turn. Sean puts his hand on my restless leg after I kick him for the third time. “What’s wrong?”

  I start sharing in the middle of my thought process. “I understand someone wanting to steal the Freeman lyrics, but why would anyone want to hurt Ty or Donna or me after the lyrics had already been sold?” I sit up in bed, ready to answer my own question. “Doesn’t that imply that someone thinks there really is something else valuable in that house?”