Another Man's Treasure (a romantic thriller) (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 1) (4 page)

Once Cal has driven off I get back on the phone and dial Tambellinis again.

Busy. Busy. Busy.

I arrive at Mrs. Szabo’s house at seven on Saturday morning.  Frost coats the grass and the sun has barely struggled above the horizon but there’s already a line down the block waiting to get into the sale.  The usual suspects are huddled at the head of the queue: Martin Fine and Gerald Lassiter, two dealers who live over their antique shop in Summit and never miss one of my events; Harold Watts, an obsessive/compulsive hoarder who spends hundreds of dollars on things he can’t possibly need; and Tamara Simchiss, a middle-aged hippie chick who creates art out of “found objects” and sells it for absurd prices in a Soho gallery.  Straggling behind them is a motley crew of adventurous housewives, entrepreneurial immigrants and recent college grads looking to furnish their first home. They’re all holding numbers, which means Jill has beaten me here.

The regulars greet me by name.

“Hello, Audrey darling!  How have you been?”  Martin and Gerald kiss me.  “Look what we brought you.” Gerald produces three muffins wrapped in blue cellophane and tied with a white grosgrain ribbon.  Harold eyes them hungrily, making me worried that he’s spent all his food money on garage sales.  Tamara strokes my arm and smiles her loopy Zen smile.

“Thanks, guys.  I hope you won’t be disappointed by this one.  I’ve got a sale coming up over on Beaumont that’s going to be a beauty.”

Up on the porch, Jill awaits my key.  Today she’s wearing bright orange leggings and a horizontally striped knit minidress, an ensemble that would make a Chinese gymnast look fat.  I pull the key from my fannypack. We enter and firmly close the door on our customers, who crane their necks to catch a glimpse of the treasures within.  It’s our policy to never start a sale even one minute before eight, for fear of starting a riot among the early birds, whose number gives them the right to leave the line if they return by eight.  I hand Jill the cashbox to organize and go upstairs for another quick review before the opening bell. 

Tyshaun has tacked a sheet of plastic over the hole in the room with the collapsed ceiling, and placed the two pieces of furniture the room contained out in the hall.  I lock the door of the damaged bedroom and move into the other bedroom. Here I find what I’m looking for—a framed photo of a younger Mrs. Szabo.  I study the broad square face, the kindly eyes, the stocky figure.  Does she look familiar?  I stare at the faded photo, willing myself to recognition, but nothing comes. 

“Audrey, are you almost ready?” Jill shouts up the stairs to me.

Slipping the photo out of its frame, I put it in my fanny pack.  As I slide the pouch around to my back, my hand brushes against my jeans and I check that I still have my mother’s ring in my pocket.  It’s too small to fit on my ring finger, and too big for my pinkie.  I should have left it in my bedroom, but I want it with me.

“I’m coming,” I shout to Jill.  “Go ahead and open the door.”

I descend the stairs as Jill admits the ravenous horde.  A middle-aged man, eyes burning with fierce determination, feints and dodges his way past the regulars, taking the stairs to the second floor two at a time. I flatten myself against the wall to avoid being trampled. Guess he really needs a bed. 

In the living room, Jill presides over the cashbox, while Tyshaun obligingly lifts the sofa so that a couple speaking rapid fire in some Eastern European language—Romanian?  Serbian?—can assess the springs.  The rest of the assembled customers quickly disperse through the house, picking and poking through Mrs. Szabo’s worldly goods.  “This is junk,” a woman with a Louis Vuitton purse slung over her shoulder says to her friend.  “Let’s go to the sale on Chestnut.”  Another woman examines a lamp, raises her eyebrows at the $10 price tag, and walks away.  A young couple, hipsters in black, snickers at Mrs. Szabo’s vivid, rococo-framed seascape.

This is the sad part of my business—the reason why I advise relatives not to come to the sale of their loved one’s belongings.  It’s too painful to see strangers pawing through your grandmother’s china, rejecting it as not good enough.  Even if you wouldn’t dream of having your mother’s pink flowered sofa and chair set in your own home, you don’t want to hear other people calling it gaudy.  Know this about the end of your own life: your taste will be on trial, your keepsakes up for grabs.

I watch an old woman dragging a wheeled tote bag work her way slowly around the room. Her white hair is pulled back so tightly in a hair-net covered bun that her pink scalp shows through. Very thin but not frail, she studies each item in the sale intently as if she’s a one-woman art jury.  Right now she’s scrutinizing Mrs. Szabo’s curio cabinet, carefully turning over each knick-knack, then putting it back on the shelf.  After ten minutes, she moves on to the bookcase and begins the same process.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” I ask.

She lifts her steel-gray eyes from the examination of a completely out-of-date world atlas and focuses on me.  I haven’t felt so pierced by a stare since Mrs. Abernathy halted the fifth grade assembly to wait for me to stop whispering.  Then the old woman replaces the book on the shelf, turns her back on me, and marches purposefully into the dining room, pulling her tote bag behind her.

Jill and I exchange a smile and a shrug.  As long as no one’s actively hallucinating, a little odd behavior doesn’t faze us.  A moment later, the man in a hurry reappears with a roll of cash and buys Mrs. Szabo’s bedroom set.  From then on, Jill and I are continuously busy at the check-out table.  Estate sales are early morning affairs, and we don’t have a lull until noon, when Jill calls out for subs.  As we sit eating in the steadily emptying living room, the old lady and her tote bag reappear. Has she been in the house all this time?

She rolls to a stop before me.  This time I know better than to speak first.

“Is this everything?” she asks. “The second bedroom is locked.  And there’s an attic.”

“The furniture from the bedroom is in the hall.  And the attic is empty.”  I see no reason to tell her about the hole in the attic floor.  Or the trunk that fell through it.

She stands before me, waiting, still and keen-eyed. Suddenly she doesn’t seem like a garden-variety crack-pot who might show up at any of our sales.  Did this old crone know Mrs. Szabo?  Know her better, perhaps, than her nephew Cal Tremaine did?

“Are you a friend of Mrs. Szabo’s?”

“I live down the block,” she says.  “Agnes and I were neighbors for forty-seven years.”

That answer sidesteps the issue of whether they were friends.  Unsure about offering condolences, I simply say, “Then you must’ve been in this house many times.”

“Not really.  We mostly visited out on each other’s porches.” Her hard, virtually lashless eyes dart around.  “She intended to give me something.”

Ah, here it comes.  With only one living relative, Mrs. Szabo hasn’t been troubled by the circling vultures that fly out at most people’s death.  But in this neighbor, I hear the clack of a vulture beak looking for carrion to pick clean.  Then I feel guilty for having such an uncharitable thought.  Maybe the old gal simply wants a memento of her long-time neighbor.

“Did you want to take a little something to remember her by?” I ask, glancing over at the last few knick-knacks in the room.

The woman snorts.  “Honey, at my age, I don’t collect souvenirs.  What I meant was, Agnes had something that she wanted me to take care of for her.  She’d talk about it when we were together.   But then she died.”

“So what was it?” I ask.

“She never said.  Just insisted she didn’t want it to be left here after she was gone.”

The bag of drugs?  Or the trunk of jewelry?  Either would be something Mrs. Szabo wouldn’t want her survivors to find.  But why give either to her neighbor?  How could she explain them to this suspicious old bat?

“Excuse me, would you take fifteen dollars for this end table?”  A determined looking housewife waves a ten and a five under my nose.  “Something this wobbly isn’t worth thirty.” 

The time has come to start bartering away the last of Mrs. Szabo’s worldly goods.  I complete the transaction, then turn back to question the old woman further.

She’s gone.

Twelve hours, three hundred buyers, two trips to Salvation Army and three runs to the dump later, Mrs. Szabo’s house is empty, broom clean, and ready to be listed for sale.  Jill finishes counting the money and writing up the deposit slip.  “Five thousand, seven hundred eighty three dollars and ninety-two cents,” she announces.

“Ninety-two cents?”  I price everything at even dollars.

“Harold was eight cents short for a melon-baller he wanted so I let him have it,” Jill looks like she’s been caught stealing from the collection plate. “I’m sorry, Audrey.  I should have asked you first.”

I rub her crew cut.  “I don’t care about the eight cents, you goof.  I just feel bad about enabling Harold’s hoarding.  Can you imagine what his house must look like?  Every melon baller and Chia pet we let him take home feeds his addiction.”

“That’s right, Jill.  Harold’s a junkie and you helping him mainline,” Ty says.  “God got a special place in hell for the likes of you.”

Jill grins and prods him with her Doc Marten.  “I’ll pass you on the way down.”

The two of them have been getting along amazingly well today, despite the fact that Tyshaun has been very distracted.  He’s been checking his cellphone constantly. As we sit here finalizing the deposit, it buzzes again. 

Ty flips it open.  “I be there.  Soon.” His voice gets low and velvety as he glances sideways at me.  “I promise.” He stands up and walks out to the hall, the phone still pressed to his ear.

I can’t help smiling.  Kimberly? Myesha? Or is some new girl hot for his long, lean body and soulful eyes?

Jill puts the money in the bank night deposit pouch and hands it to me.  Because we only accept checks from people we know, over four thousand dollars of our take is in cash.  Ty pops his head back into the room, while the rest of his body points toward the door.  A horn honks outside. “We done here, Audge?  I gotta roll.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” Jill demands, her earlier good humor gone.  “You have to ride with Audrey to the bank while I drive the van back to the office.”

Tyshaun looks like Jill told him he has to swim the English Channel.  “I can’t.”  His voice has a harsh, don’t-mess-with-me edge.  The only other time I’ve heard it is when Ty caught a guy pocketing some silver at a sale and threatened to turn him upside down and shake it out of him. 

Jill jumps right in.  “It’s part of your job to—”

I lay a hand on her arm.  Ty usually does escort me to the bank after a sale, but I’ve done it plenty of times by myself too.  He’s never asked for time off in all the months he’s worked for me. Clearly, he has a date.  “Go ahead, Ty.  We’ll see you on Tuesday,” I say.  “Have fun.”

Jill scowls.  “Give me the van—”

The keys are sailing toward her head before she can complete the sentence, and Ty is out the door.

“I’ll go to the bank with you, Audrey.”

“No, it’s out of your way.  I’ll make the deposit on my way home.  You take care of the van.”  We lock up Mrs. Szabo’s house and head toward our vehicles.  I toot the Honda’s squeaky little horn and wave as I pull out in front of the van and head downtown. 

Nearly eight on date night and Main Street in Palmyrton is brightly lit and bustling with people strolling to restaurants and the movie theater. No parking spots near my bank.  I circle the block, but even the side streets are parked solid.  On my second time around the block, I spy an elderly couple ever so slowly getting ready to vacate their spot.  I pull up behind them to wait, but the porky SUV behind me lays on his horn. If he drove a normal sized vehicle he could go around me.  I’m tempted to give him the finger, but the old folks are still doddering with their keys and I’m hungry and tired and eager to wash the Eau de Old scent out of my hair.  Reluctantly I accept the necessity of parking in the municipal garage at the end of the block.  The SUV follows me in.

Even here, the first level is full.  Doesn’t anyone but me stay home on Saturday night?  I go up the ramp to the next level and finally nab a “compact cars only” spot.  Score one for Hondas.  The SUV keeps lumbering up the ramp.

My car, the rolling estate sale, is full of unsold but too good to throw away left-overs from sales gone by.  I pluck a scratched but still chic Coach tote from the back seat to hide the bank deposit bag, stick my keys in my pocket, then head out of the garage.  I look around the dim, cavernous space to get my bearings so I can find my car when I return. I head toward the elevator, the Coach tote hitched over my shoulder.  Four thousand dollars in small bills is surprisingly heavy. 

Pressing the down button, fantasies of food and a hot shower float through my head.  My gaze latches on the lights showing the slow progress of the elevator. 
Come on.
  Slowly the door creaks open.

I see the figure inside but my mind can’t quite process the information.  Black, all black.  A ski mask and gloves, but it’s not cold enough for that yet.  My right foot is raised to step forward but I don’t move.

To scream or not to scream?  In the moment I take to consider, I’m airborne.  A hard shove from behind sends me face-first into the elevator.  I topple like a tree in a windstorm.  The masked man reaches for the tote bag. 

Now I realize what’s going on, and I hang on tight, curling around the profits of a hard day’s work.

A thunderous noise followed by searing pain--the effect of a man’s boot connecting with my head.  I’m sprawled over the bag, too stunned to move.  He rears back to kick me into cooperation.  I scuttle away and the edge of his boot catches my forehead.  My own blood clouds my vision.  The elevator dings incessantly, displeased by the blocked door.

The person behind me reaches down for the tote.  Then he yanks up my coat and sweater.

I clench my legs.
Dear lord, not this.
 

I feel the fanny pack being ripped off my waist.

The boot pulls back a third time.  A wave of strength surges within me, so powerful I feel I can fly.  Get through that elevator door, scream for help.  I lunge toward the parked cars.

Astonishing how loud my bones crunching sounds from inside my head.  The elevator dings grow fainter.  I swallow the coppery taste of blood.

The lights go out.