Treasure of Darkness: a romantic thriller (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 2)

by S. W. Hubbard

  “Did anyone else see where the guy ran? He couldn’t have gone far on foot. After all, he’s covered with blood, and he doesn’t even have a coat.”

  “My men are doing a house-to-house.” Coughlin leans toward me. “You’re sure you’ve never seen the guy before?”

  He’s already asked me this once, but I don’t get testy. “It’s possible I’ve seen him—on the street, in a store, sitting in the park. I don’t know him.” A young Hispanic guy in jeans and a sweatshirt. They’re everywhere in Palmyrton. Their lives run parallel to mine but never intersect. It’s like asking me if I can identify a particular leaf on a tree.

  I look at the shabby apartment building. A showdown took place behind its nondescript walls. What desperation fueled that fight? “Is there anyone else in the house?”

  “No.”

  I can no longer hold back. “What about the soup cans? Are they in there?”

  “The tech guys are working the scene. I can’t search ‘til they’re done.”

  I scan his face for more information. Impassive as always. But he seems too relaxed for my liking. “You don’t think they’re in there, do you? You’d be pacing outside the door if you thought you’d find them.”

  He looks out over my head. “If these guys fought over the cans and someone got killed, they wouldn’t leave the money behind.”

  Of course he’s right. But then a hopeful thought occurs to me. “The guy who ran didn’t have a bag with him. There were fifteen cans, each supposedly with a wad of cash. He couldn’t have had that many bills stuffed in his pants pockets.”

  Before Coughlin can answer, another cop comes to get him and I go and sit with Ty.

  He looks about as miserable as Ethel getting a bath. I pat his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m not leaving until you can leave with me.”

  His big dark eyes hold mine for a long moment. Then he looks away. “Why you like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Watchin’ my back…you know…”

  My heart swells with affection for Ty. This whole mess started because he could hardly wait to get to the Jeezy concert. Yet I can’t be angry with him. He’s twenty-two. Of course he wants to be with his friends on Saturday night. What does it say about me that I’m never in a rush to finish work on Saturday night? Sometimes I think I chose the estate sale business—in which Saturday is always the busiest workday—precisely because it provides great cover for Date Night. My math nerd friends understand. One of them sent me a T-shirt recently. “Introverts of the World Unite. We’re Here. We’re Uncomfortable. We Want to go Home.”

  I rest my head against Ty’s puffy coat. “It will all work out,” I say more to convince myself than him.

  Before long, Coughlin emerges from the front door and walks straight towards us.

  “I found the cans.”

  Ty and I both perk up.

  “They’re empty.”

  Of course they are. How could they not be? “Where were they?”

  “In one of the bedrooms, near some letters addressed to Ramon Esevachia. Scattered around, all the lids popped off. Looks like someone left in a hurry. Couple dresser drawers empty, some stuff knocked over.”

  “Did they all have money in them?” Ty asks.

  “I just said, they’re empty,” Coughlin snaps.

  I feel Ty bristle and jump in. “He means, did any of the cans contain soup? We’ve never been sure if they all contained money.”

  For a split second, the curtain drops. Confusion. Embarrassment. Then right back to The Great and Powerful Oz. “I’ll have to go back and check on that.”

  I inch forward. “Can I go look—”

  “I’ll handle it. Sit.”

  Coughlin turns to Ty. “Tell me about Ramon. How often have you worked with him?”

  Ty jumps up. “Man, I already told you everything I know three times!”

  I give Ty my best “behave yourself” look. He rolls his eyes and begins speaking with exaggerated clarity, as if Coughlin is an Alzheimer’s patient. “Like I told you before, the first time I worked with Ramon was in the fall. I needed someone to help me move this giant roll-top desk.” He turns to me. “Remember that, Audge? What sale was that?”

  “Cornbluth.” I can picture the desk: solid walnut, 1830s, original finish and hardware.

  “You can check your records for the exact date?” Coughlin asks.

  I nod.

  “How did you happen to hire Ramon for that job?”

  “I just pulled up to the corner by the hardware where all the Spanish dudes hang. Most a them so short and scrawny. I picked Ramon cause he was a little more ripped. Plus he kinda had a look in his eye…you know, like he really wanted to work.” Ty continues to tell Coughlin how Ramon did a good job with the desk, so whenever he needed help, he’d look for Ramon.

  “Did you always find him there?”

  “No, sometimes he’d be out on another job. Yard work. Gutter cleaning. Roofing. See, mostly I need help at the end of the day. The contactors, they go get guys real early. But Ramon, he’d finish one job, then go hang at the corner hopin’ to get another one. Like I said, he’s a hard worker.”

  “He was sending money back home?”

  Ty nods. “To Honduras. I know he’s from Honduras, but don’t ask me what town. It’s some little shit village where they ain’t got bathrooms or nuthin’. He’s got a girlfriend and a bunch of brothers and sisters. That’s all I know.”

  “You’re sure he’s illegal?”

  “Yeah, he’s always askin’ me how can he get the carta verde. That’s green card. I tell him I don’t know.” Ty shakes his head. “I understand why he took the money, but really he’s a good guy, know what I’m sayin’? And he’s real religious too. Dios this, and Dios that.”

  Coughlin straightens up. “He go to a church here in town?”

  Ty shrugs. “I dunno. Why would I ask him that?”

  “You ever hang out with him? Have some beers, smoke a little weed?”

  Ty thrusts his face toward Coughlin’s. “No! I told you already—he wasn’t my friend.”

  I tug him back. “Calm down.”

  No sooner is that platitude out of my mouth than the scrum of cops bursts into motion. Two EMTs push a gurney along the sidewalk from the front door. A long black bag is strapped on top. Ty swallows hard and looks away. I reach out and squeeze his hand. He doesn’t pull away.

  They roll the gurney toward us on the way to the ambulance. Coughlin halts its progress. He unzips the body bag part way. “Griggs, come here.”

  Ty recoils and squeezes his eyes shut. I take a deep breath and step forward.

  A face, once brown, now strangely pale, stares up at me. A young man, hoping for a better life, has died alone, painfully, thousands of miles from home. That much is certain, but….

  “It’s not Ramon.”

  I stagger backward and bump into Ty, who’s trying to peer over my shoulder.

  “Damn. You’re right. That’s not Ramon. That’s just a kid.”

  “You’re sure?” Coughlin asks.

  “Face is too round. Lips too fat,” Ty says. “And he looks like he’s only fifteen or sixteen. Ramon is twenty-three, a year older than me.”

  Coughlin makes a note in a little pad he always carries. “Okay, Audrey—you can go. Ty, I need you to come down to the station with me.”

  “What! See, Audge—what did I tell ya? They tryin’ to hang this on me somehow.”

  I plant myself in front of Coughlin. “Why does Ty need to go with you? He’s already told you everything he knows.”

  Now he’s the one to use the “behave yourself” look. “Witnesses have a tendency to remember more details…different details…over a period of time.”

  “Yeah—over a period when you’re hammering at them, intimidating them, not letting them eat or sleep!”

  “Oh, for Chrissakes, Audrey. I work for Palmyrton PD, not a Middle Eastern dictator. Your precious boy isn’t going to be hurt.”

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nbsp; “Boy” is not a word that goes over well with Ty. He looms larger behind me. I keep myself firmly planted between Ty and Coughlin. “Is Ty under arrest?”

  “No, we just want to—”

  “Then he’s not obliged to go anywhere with you, is he?”

  “Innocent people are usually happy to cooperate with an investigation.”

  “This innocent person has been cooperating. If he thinks of anything else, he’ll call you. If you need to talk to him again tomorrow, you can stop by the office. We’ll both be there.”

  “Audrey—”

  “This interview is over.” I grab Ty’s arm. “C’mon. I’ll drive you home.”

  Ty keeps looking over his shoulder like he expects Coughlin now really will shoot him in the back.

  “How come he’s lettin’ me leave?”

  “You’re not under arrest. You’re not even a suspect.” I walk faster and faster as my anger boils. “You’re under no obligation to go anywhere with the police.”

  Ty trots to catch up, smiling for the first time today. “‘You’re under no obligation…’ ‘This interview is over’” He cackles. “You really know how to talk some trash, Audge.”

  Yes, I’ve managed to protect Ty, for now. But what about that young boy? Was anyone looking out for him? Why was he arguing with the other guy? Why did the man have to kill him if Ramon and the money were already gone? The Wainwrights and their damn soup cans are sowing destruction all across Palmyrton. Somehow four people who never would have encountered each other have come together because of me. One is royally pissed. Two are missing.

  One is dead.

  By the time I reach my Honda, the poor kid’s body has been loaded into the ambulance. Coughlin speaks to the driver, then pivots and lopes toward my car. I’m tempted to peel out from the curb and blow past him, but I’m not naturally inclined to melodrama. I roll down my window and wait.

  Coughlin crouches and his freckled face fills my window. “Protecting your employee from over-reaching cops is very noble, Audrey. Just remember this: a killer now knows you witnessed his crime.”

  Chapter 7

  Could my life possibly get any worse? An innocent fifteen-year-old kid is dead. Ty and I have witnessed his murder. The murderer has seen both of us. The Wainwrights’ money is still missing, either in the possession of the killer or Ramon—who knows? I’m dodging calls from Martha Wainwright, too terrified to tell her the truth. And the one person who might be willing to go out of his way to help me find the cash is furious with me. And now, as the icing on the cake, I’m shopping at New Jersey’s most intimidating mall with the man who knows he gave me good advice that I refused to accept.

  I was so rattled after dropping off Ty at his grandma’s place that I drove straight home, desperately seeking love from the one creature who’s never angry at me. Only after I opened my door and was greeted by creepy silence did I remember that Ethel was still at my dad’s place. So back I went, straight into the maelstrom of Dad’s disapproval.

  News of the killing on Filmore traveled faster on the Internet than my Honda moves on the streets of Palmyrton. By the time I arrived, Dad had read all about the police activity on PalmyrtonNow.com. I filled him in on the details the reporters couldn’t know: how Ty was willing to fight an armed man to get the money back, how terrified I was when I thought Ty had been shot, how that poor kid looked with a knife sticking out of his chest, how I refused to let Coughlin take Ty to the police station. The one thing I left out is the pain in Coughlin’s eyes when I accused him of gunning down Ty.

  Dad peppered me with questions and scolded me for recklessness. Question, scold. Question, scold.

  With every “Audrey, you shouldn’t have…”, I felt my hackles rising. I know what Dad would have done in the same situation—retreat, withdraw, pull inside the turtle shell and hope the trouble goes away. But if I pointed out to him that his preferred approach hasn’t always been effective, I’d only take the argument in a direction that will make us both unhappy. It was easier to escape his barrage by reminding him of his urgent need to visit the mall.

  I once read an article about some Khmer refugees who were relocated from the jungle villages of Cambodia to Fargo, North Dakota. That’s how Dad and I feel when we step through the doors of the Short Hills Mall. French perfume, lavender candles, cappuccino—the scents in the air are almost visible. Dreamy, quasi-classical music pulses on a subliminal level. A pale green orb generates a smooth sheen of water. How will I be able to help him buy a gift for some woman I don’t even know? Where to begin?

  “Do you have any idea what you want to get her?” I ask as hordes of highly motivated shoppers surge past us.

  “I was thinking a scarf. Natalie often wears these colorful…” Dad flutters his fingers in the vicinity of his neck.

  Okay, that’s a start. It narrows the search down to roughly half the stores in the mall.

  “Like that.” Dad points to a stylish woman striding down the concourse, a fringy scarf draped artfully across her shoulders.

  Leaving Dad, I sprint after her. “Excuse me, excuse me!” This is how desperate I am.

  She pauses as I draw up next to her. From the way she clutches her designer bag, she expects me either to rob her or to ask her for change to get a cup of coffee. But when I point out poor old Dad leaning on his cane next to the fountain and tell her what we’re after, she comes up with inspired advice: the Metropolitan Museum of Art gift store, just a few doors away. Once we’re inside, Dad and I both start breathing easier. Gregorian chants play on the sound system and stacks of books share space with statues and paintings. Yes, it is a retail establishment, and yes, the art is all reproduction, but this is familiar turf for us.

  Sure enough, there’s a large selection of scarves. Too large. We’re paralyzed by so much fashion. The salesclerk comes over and spreads two scarves across the counter. One is a swirl of blues and purples and pinks mimicking an Impressionist painting. The other is a precise repeating pattern inspired by Moorish tilework.

  Dad doesn’t ask my opinion. He doesn’t need to; I know which one he’ll pick.

  His hand rests on the geometric blues and golds and reds. “I’ll take this.”

  On the way home, we listen to The Moth on the radio, happy to let someone else’s stories erase our own. When I pull up in front of his apartment building, Dad switches the radio off but keeps staring at the dashboard. “Thank you for helping me with this.” He lifts the little Met shopping bag. “I’m afraid I may have been…abrasive…with my advice on how to handle the missing money.” His Adam’s apple bobbles. “I don’t want you to come to any harm. Not now, not after—” He opens the door.

  “Good night, Audrey.”

  I squeeze his hand. “Good-night, Dad.”

  As I stand outside the office door on Monday I can hear the low rumble of Ty’s voice interspersed with higher pitched notes. “Wow…no way…get out…no way.” I know what I’ll see when I walk in: Jill treating her desk chair as an orchestra seat while Ty plays all the roles in the drama of his Sunday. I pause with my hand on the doorknob. I still can’t hear Ty’s words clearly—I know he’s standing across the room, near the file cabinets—but I hear Jill’s voice distinctly.

  “Of course Audrey would back you up. Why would you ever doubt that?”

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  “She doesn’t care about that cop, Coughlin. He’s too big and Irish Catholic. Not her type.”

  How well Jill knows me!

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  “Because she loves you, fool.”

  Do I? My eyes tear up a bit. Yes, I suppose I do.

  I make a production out of blowing my nose and rattling the doorknob. Their voices fall silent and I enter.

  “Good news, Audrey. It’s only 9:30 and we already have two new jobs.”

  My eyes light up at the two pink message slips Jill waves in greeting. The month between Thanksgiving and Christmas is always slow in the estate sale business. Realtors don’t like
putting new listings on the market then, so no one asks for their house’s contents to be sold. But over the holidays people still retire and make plans to sell-up and move south. And they still die. I keep meaning to check the stats on this, but I think old people die more frequently in December, their bodies drained by the effort to feign enthusiasm for fruitcake and reindeer sweaters and yet another scented candle in the Secret Santa exchange. That’s why January and February are the months of pent-up demand for our services. But in other years, I’ve spent the slow period networking and trolling for business. This holiday season was different. I was reeling from all that happened, recovering from my hospitalization, depressed and dazed. I let new business prospecting fall by the wayside. Now bills are rolling in—my usual business expenses plus invoices from doctors and labs I never even knew I used. And the premium for my liability insurance. God knows, that will be increasing if they have to pay out for the loss of the Wainwrights’ money.

  Yes, I need clients.

  “I have you scheduled to go out and look at the houses this afternoon,” Jill says. One is over on Peyton Road.”

  I flop into my desk chair. “Hmmm. That won’t yield much.” Peyton is in a neighborhood of modest splits and bilevels. I know without even seeing the house that the probability of priceless heirlooms is low. But I can’t afford to be picky if there’s nothing better on the horizon.

  I jolt upright. “Hey, is there a message from Elizabeth Haverford?”

  “Is that the job where the house has a name, not a number?” Ty asks.

  “Yes. Willowby,” Jill says. “There was nothing on the voicemail. I’ll check the email now.”

  While Jill is searching, I allow myself to fantasize. “You should see this house, guys. From the main road, you wouldn’t even know it’s there. You drive and drive down this private lane and boom! A Rennaisance Revival mansion. Columns, balconies, recessed archways, big tall chimneys.” I sketch them in the air. “And the foyer has a double curving staircase.”