Rock Bottom Treasure (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series)

by Hubbard, S. W.

  Ty meets my gaze. “It’s really hard for me to admit. Yeah, I was wrong. He’s working this job with Maurice because it’s all he can get with his record. He sees me and Charmaine both with legit jobs and, well, he’s proud of us. But it’s hard, you know? He wants to talk about his work. Hold his head up in front of us. But he feels like he can’t. So he avoids me. And he gives Charmaine money for Lo because that’s something he can do.”

  “He must’ve felt terrible when you and Sean showed up accusing him of being responsible for what happened to Charmaine,” I whisper.

  Ty turns his head away from me, but I can tell his eyes are glassy. “I wanted him to still be the bad guy. I wanted him to fail. I wanted to punish him for what he did to me as a kid by keeping him away from Charmaine and Lo.”

  “You can put things back together with your father if you both want to work at it.” I squeeze Ty’s hand. “It takes time and patience.”

  “Time, I got.” He stands. “Patience, I gotta learn.”

  Chapter 35

  TY AND I DRIVE OVER to Locust Avenue so we can place some estate sale signs throughout the Burleith neighborhood. He drops me off a few blocks from Elspeth’s house, while he drives a little further afield. I’ll walk back to the house as I place the signs.

  The November day is cold and clear, but windy. I pull my hat down and my scarf up as I trudge along the sidewalk. I place one sign on the corner of Lilac Court and another at the turn onto the main artery that bisects the neighborhood. Along the way, friendly people ask me about the sale, and dog walkers accept my praise for their pooches.

  As I place another sign, my phone rings.

  Elspeth Leonard. I’d better answer in case she needs me to pull some other forgotten item from the sale. Today will be her last chance.

  But Elspeth isn’t calling with a request; she’s calling to thank me. “Oh, my dear—I’m so grateful, so relieved. The box of my husband’s war medals arrived today.” Her voice cracks with emotion. “I had to thank you with my own voice. I don’t like typing out these messages.”

  I assure her we were happy to help, but she doesn’t want to hang up. “How do you think the sale will go? I had to leave so quickly. I apologize that the house is so messy.”

  “It’s not messy at all. My assistant was remarking on what an excellent housekeeper you are. And we ate some of the delicious cookies you left behind in the freezer since we can’t sell them.”

  This delights her, and unfortunately, encourages her to keep chatting. It’s nippy out here, and I’d like to finish with the signs. “I’m so glad. I love to bake, but I always make more than I can eat.” She sighs. “Who knows if I’ll ever get to bake again?”

  The poor soul has had a very traumatic week. It won’t kill me to cheer her up with a little conversation, even if I am cold. I keep walking as I talk. “I bet you used to take treats to all your neighbors.”

  “Oh, yes!” Elspeth rattles off a list of every neighbor’s favorite item. “And of course, Cordy Dean in the colorful house across the street loves everything.”

  “I actually know Cordelia Dean,” I reply. “I found a key here with her name on it and returned it to her yesterday. She was sorry to hear about your move.”

  “Yes, we exchanged keys years ago. Cordy is such a talker! Drove my husband crazy, but I get a kick out of her. She’d tell me all about her gentleman callers.” Elspeth titters. “She shuffled them around like a deck of cards. Once, she sent a fella over to my house to get him out of the way of the fella who was jealous.”

  “My, my—quite a bit of excitement here on Locust Avenue,” I say, now eager to keep her talking.

  I needn’t have worried. The poor dear is happy for a companion, even one two thousand miles away whom she’s never met. “Yes, that fellow Hank was quite handsome. But Cordy always said she couldn’t be possessed by any man.”

  I say good-bye to Elspeth and lean against a telephone pole, stunned.

  Whoa—Hank and Cordy have been getting it on all these years. Does Diane have any clue? Does Peter?

  But it makes sense. Hank and Diane’s marriage went through a rough patch when they had a baby with Down syndrome. Cordy helped out with the kids, but if Hank also felt neglected.... And Cordy was always into free love.

  Could Hank have brought Cordy to Palmyrton and set her up in that house for his own convenience? Was 151 Locust a love nest? Is it still?

  I make a face. It’s hard to think of elderly people that way.

  What can I do with this information? My first impulse is to call Noreen.

  But then I remember, she’s not speaking to me.

  I was right about Hank, but no one appreciates hearing, “I told you so.”

  I give myself a shake and return to placing signs.

  When I’m about two blocks from Locust Avenue, a tall, thin person comes out of an alley and walks along ahead of me. There are a few houses between us, and from behind, I can’t tell if it’s a woman or a man. The clothes are androgynous: slim black jeans, a dark puffy coat, a knit cap, and sneakers with orange soles.

  The orange soles are the only spot of color.

  An unsettling déjà vu sensation comes over me as I watch the person striding along ahead of me. Why do I feel I’ve lived this scene before?

  I quicken my steps. The purse snatching in Manhattan! This is what the guy who grabbed my bag looked like as I watched him run away. Except on that balmy day, he wore a dark fleece, not a puffy coat.

  I trot along, shortening the distance between us. Easy, Audrey—it could be a coincidence. And if it’s actually my purse snatcher, what do I plan to do? I pull out my phone, not sure if I intend to call Ty for back-up or take a picture of my suspect.

  At the corner, the person turns onto Locust. Good—I have every reason to follow.

  I draw even closer. In the middle of the block, the person turns to go down a driveway.

  Cordy’s driveway.

  The person is a woman.

  Ariel.

  Chapter 36

  I’M SURE AS HELL NOT afraid of her. I break into a run. “Hey! Ariel!”

  She turns around to face me as I charge up, panting. “Nice shoes,” I say, pointing to her feet. Up close, I can see they are good quality running shoes.

  She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, but does not reply.

  “I guess they help you turn on a burst of speed when you need it. Like when you’re snatching bags on the street in Manhattan.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ariel says, taking a step backward. But her sallow face beneath the knit cap shows a mottled flush. She could definitely be my purse-snatcher. In my shocked state that day, I assumed my attacker was a man. The snatcher was tall, thin, and fast. I’ve never associated Ariel with speed as she always seems so languid and sickly. But she was certainly walking briskly just now.

  “When I took the Freeman lyrics into Manhattan to sell them to the dealer, you followed me on the train and tried to steal them before I could make the transaction,” I say, my voice rising in outrage.

  “You’re crazy,” Ariel says and walks toward the back of Cordy’s house.

  I grab her shoulder to stop her, but she yanks away. I follow her. “Fine. Let’s tell Cordy about it, shall we? Let’s see how she feels about you trying to steal ten grand from her.”

  “Go ahead.” Ariel speaks defiantly as she continues to walk toward the back door. “She won’t believe you.”

  I’m not going to continue in a childish tit-for-tat argument with this woman. I follow her into the house. Immediately, we hear Cordy calling from the kitchen. “Oh, Ariel dear—thank goodness you’re back. Can you bring me my—"

  I enter the kitchen while Ariel pushes past me and runs upstairs.

  “How come you’re here?” Cordy tucks her chin down and gazes at me through her mop of reddish gray hair. “What’s wrong with Ariel?”

  “She’s a little upset because I accused her of trying to steal the Freeman l
yrics. I recognized from the way she’s dressed today that she’s the one who tried to grab my bag in Manhattan when I was on the way to the dealer.”

  Cordy purses her lips. “I thought you said a man attacked you.”

  “The mugger was a tall, thin person in black jeans, a knit hat, and orange sneakers. It happened so fast, I assumed the person was a man. But I happened to be walking behind Ariel on the sidewalk today, and I realized she looked just like my attacker. And she knew about my plans. She must’ve followed me on the train.”

  Cordy continues to look dubious.

  “Was she here that day?” I challenge. “Or was she gone all morning?”

  Cordy dismisses me with a wave. “How would I know? I’m never awake before noon.” She points to a chair. “You’re all worked up, love. Have a seat. But fix me a cup of tea before you do, would you, please? And bring me that notebook from the dining room table.”

  Dutifully, I put the tea kettle on and fetch the notebook. How does Cordy get everyone to do her bidding like this? As I’m opening the cabinets looking for clean mugs amidst the falling clutter, I continue addressing her. “Don’t you care that Ariel tried to steal ten thousand dollars from you? Are you going to let her continue to come and go in your home?”

  Cordy accepts the tea from me and leans back in her chair. “You just leave Ariel to me.” She has a Cheshire cat smile on her face whose origin is not clear to me: satisfaction with her tea or confidence she has Ariel well in hand?

  Fine. I’ve alerted her to the scam artist in her midst. I feel no further obligation. But as long as I’m here, I decide to ask her about what she said to Hank to make him so angry at Peter and Noreen, and thus at me. “You know, the last time I pointed out that someone was ripping you off, you threw me under the bus.”

  She blinks her faded blue eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “You confronted Hank van Neff about your tax bill, and when he found out I was the one who told you, he got furious with Peter and Noreen. Now both of them are angry at me. You cost me a friendship that I value.”

  Cordy turns her face away from me, but I slide my chair to force her to meet my gaze. “As soon as I told you that you didn’t really owe back taxes on the house, you knew it wasn’t a bureaucratic mix-up. You knew Hank had lied to you. I think he did it to pressure you. You two were having an affair, weren’t you?”

  For the first time since I met her, Cordelia Dean looks chastened. “Look, when Diane and Hank and I arrived on the Kent State campus in 1969, we were three virgins who’d never been off the farm. That campus was like Oz, Camelot, and Woodstock rolled into one. I hooked up with Hank the first week of the semester. Neither one of us had any clue what we were doing in bed, but we knew we liked it! But Hank thought that the sex meant I was his girlfriend.” Cordy waves her hand like she’s shooing a fly. “Pah! I wanted no part of that! Hank was a delicious hot fudge sundae, but there was a whole buffet of choices on that campus. Hot fudge is good, but so is cheesecake and pecan pie and cream puffs—know what I mean? So I told Hank right then and there we could keep having fun, but I wasn’t about to settle down with one guy. So he started up with Diane by Thanksgiving. He thought I’d be jealous, but I wasn’t. I liked her. We became great friends.”

  “The three of you were....?” I raise my eyebrows.

  “A threesome?” Cordy howls. “Get your mind outta the gutter, girl! No, Hank and Diane liked being a couple, and I just did my own thing, see?”

  Her smile fades. “But when I came out here in the eighties to help out after Teddy was born, well, that’s when things started up again. Hank was sad, and mad and lonely. And I was still upset about losing my job at Bass Line. We took comfort in each other. That’s all it was to me. I just really like sex—makes me feel good, ya know? I should have realized Hank wouldn’t be able to see it that way.”

  “He wanted to leave Diane for you?”

  “Hell, no!” Cordy slaps the table. “He wanted to keep me as his side piece—indefinitely. That’s why he engineered the sale of my apartment and the purchase of this house. To keep me conveniently within reach.”

  I feel my eyes widen. “He tricked you into moving here?”

  Cordy shifts her substantial figure in her chair. “Tricked isn’t quite fair. I really was in a bad way, financially. I went from having a fulltime job with Bass Line to writing freelance record reviews for fifty bucks a pop. Nobody can survive in Manhattan on that little money. So I agreed to flipping the East Village apartment. But I should have taken the money and rented a small place in a cheap neighborhood in Brooklyn. Instead, I turned all the finances over to Hank, and I ended up here.” She lifts her hands to the kitchen ceiling. “I’ve always been terrible with money.”

  “So the affair continued once you moved to Palmyrton even after Teddy’s health improved?”

  Cordy’s mouth forms a wry grimace. “This was Hank’s revenge. I dumped him back in college. Now he had me back, and he wasn’t letting go. I didn’t care about the sex. It was a few times a month. Whatever. And I kept seeing my other friends. But I did feel bad about betraying Diane. I told myself it didn’t matter because I had no interest in taking him away from her. Hell, I didn’t want the old fart at all. But I worried she might find out. Or the kids.”

  Cordy scratches at a stain on the flowered tablecloth. “When Diane decided they should move to North Carolina, I was thrilled. Free at last! But then this tax lien came up, and Hank started pressuring me to sell the house and move to North Carolina, too. Kept telling me how much cheaper it is down there.” Cordy leans across the table and narrows her eyes. “I told him he could shove a senior-living condo with low taxes up his ass—I’m not moving below the Mason-Dixon line! Hank got nasty. He doesn’t like to be crossed, you know. Said I’d end up on the street and Ziggy would go to the animal shelter. Then my sweet boy Petey stepped up and said he’d take care of the taxes. Hank was fit to be tied!”

  Geez, I realized that Hank was controlling, but I didn’t think he was this manipulative. I wonder whether Cordy is telling me the complete truth, or if this is one of her stories where she casts herself in the starring role. After all, Diane van Neff is quite attractive and Cordy is...well... a wreck. If Hank wanted some extra-marital action in his new retirement community, surely he could find a willing widow or divorcee in North Carolina. “How was Hank going to explain your following them to North Carolina to Diane?” I ask.

  Cordy shrugs. “He’d simply barrel forward like he always does. The only issue Diane has ever resisted him on is how to handle Teddy.”

  “Did you and Diane spend much time together without Hank?” I can’t imagine hanging out with Noreen if I was having an affair with Peter.

  “Oh, she’d drop by occasionally. Usually to bring me healthy food.” Cordy spins in her padded desk chair. “The woman makes a wicked good butternut squash soup.”

  I guess my shock at this cavalier response must show on my face. Cordy meets my gaze boldly. “You’re wondering what Hank saw in me. A dapper dude like him could attract a better looking broad than me, right?” She gives a bitter snort. “What Hank and I had going wasn’t about sex, Audrey. It stopped being about mutual attraction way back in the eighties. What this was about was power. Hank knew I could never bring him down without destroying my relationship with Peter and his brother and sister.”

  Cordy mimes an explosion. “Mutually assured destruction.”

  I push away from the table and head for the door. “Instead of destroying your relationship with Peter and Noreen, you destroyed mine. I guess that doesn’t matter to you.”

  “Now, now—just give it time. Hank will calm down, and Peter and Noreen will come around.” Cordy attempts to stand but flops back in her chair. “Is Ty coming back to help me today?”

  I face her from the back hall. “Our work here is done, Cordy. Good luck finding whatever it is you’re looking for.”

  Chapter 37

  I WAKE UP ON SATURDAY morning eager to launch the El
speth Leonard sale.

  After all the upheaval of the past few days, I’m looking forward to a nice, predictable, low-stress event. Sure, there are no antiques or vintage collectibles to bring in big bucks. But that also means there won’t be cut-throat dealers and pushy collectors trying to beat each other out of a deal.

  Sell the stuff. Collect the money. Sweep the floors. Go home.

  And then my six-week holiday break begins. Plenty of time to do my fourth-quarter taxes and run projections for next year. I can help Donna with her real-estate closing and her move, and work with Ty to create a business plan for his storage unit enterprise.

  I can string my outdoor Christmas lights and buy gifts for all our relatives.

  Of course, I won’t be attending any Christmas parties with Peter and Noreen.

  Will I be slipping baby paraphernalia into my Amazon cart? I have to wait another week before I’ll know if this month’s “exposure” worked or not.

  No point fretting over any of this. I pull on my warm jacket and head to Locust Avenue.

  When I arrive, Donna is already passing out numbers to a sizeable crowd of early birds. Ty is inside, blocking off the downstairs powder room and adjusting the lighting on the table full of small knick-knacks and costume jewelry. I wonder if Ariel will have the chutzpah to show her face at this sale after our encounter.

  “Ready to rock?” I ask.

  Ty checks the time and heads for the front door. “Let’s do this.”

  The Leonard sale unspools as I predicted. The dishes sell, but not the heavy hutch. The embroidered and appliqued tablecloths go to collectors, but no one will touch the silver plated candelabra. The tools are snatched up but not the heavy steam iron. Still, the money rolls in as the junk rolls out.

  As I finish one transaction, I’m vaguely aware of conflict surrounding the next.

  “You don’t need that,” a woman insists. “Just use your phone instead.”

  A customer sets his purchases on the table. “I want to buy this, but I want to test it to see if it works.”