BLIND EYE

S.W. Hubbard

Blind Eye © copyright 2009 by S.W. Hubbard

Cover design by The Killion Group

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Read all eight books in the Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series

Another Man's Treasure

Treasure of Darkness

This Bitter Treasure

Treasure Borrowed and Blue

Treasure in Exile

Treasure Built of Sand

Rock Bottom Treasure

Treasure Under the Tree

Blind Eye

Holzer and Coughlin were on the way to finish what Danneman had begun.

“It pisses me off, that’s all,” Coughlin said.

Holzer stayed quiet. His partner’s default position was pissed off. The angry young man, Holzer called him. Danneman, a twenty-year patrolman, responded when the woman called 9-1-1 at daybreak to report her husband hadn’t come home last night. Rather than follow up on a few details, Danneman quickly dumped the case on the detectives and went back to patrolling. No big deal.

“Danneman’s such a slacker.” Coughlin’s freckled hands gripped the steering wheel as if he were navigating a road in Baghdad, not suburban New Jersey. “He doesn’t have enough ambition to scratch his own ass.”

Danneman was lazy, no argument there. But working a missing person’s case, even if it turned out to be a husband who simply overslept in his girlfriend’s bed, beat sitting in the office. And no one hated deskwork on a sunny day more than Sean Coughlin, so why gripe about pulling this case? Mr. Glass Half Empty, that was Coughlin.

“And on top of being lazy, he’s cheap, know what I mean? He never paid me back for—”

“Turn here,” Holzer said.

Coughlin stomped on the brake and jerked the wheel. The Crown Vic careened around the corner onto Evergreen Lane. “You could have warned me it was coming up.”

Holzer could have answered that Coughlin knew the roads every bit as well as he did, having spent all thirty-four years of his life in Palmyrton, New Jersey. And Holzer could have mentioned that Coughlin would have accused him of backseat driving if he had pointed out the turn earlier. But Holzer kept quiet. That’s how he’d survived three years as Coughlin’s partner when no one else had made it three months.

Coughlin took the next turn sedately, and they pulled up in front of a trim colonial with a flagstone walk, the home of Brian and Michelle Fanning. Handmade Halloween decorations hung in the windows. A flag shaped like a witch on a broomstick fluttered in the breeze.

Coughlin scowled. “Guy better get his ass back home, he knows what’s good for him.”

In the midst of a messy divorce, Coughlin’s baseline irritability ratcheted up whenever he was reminded of children. He’d been talking excitedly about having kids with Patty, right up to the day she packed her bags and ran off with a stockbroker from Summit. Personally, Holzer was relieved, although he didn’t let on. Having four sons himself, he knew a marriage needed to be rock solid to survive the arrival of a baby. Patty and Sean had been a soap opera from day one. No, Coughlin wasn’t ready for fatherhood. Not now, maybe never.

“If his ass is in one piece,” Holzer said as he rapped on the shiny red front door. Danneman had told them the Fannings were building a new house a few miles out, where cul-de-sacs butted up against horse pastures. When the patrolman had gone out there to look for Brian Fanning, he’d found five big drops of blood soaked into the plywood sub-floor of the prospective living room, prompting him to turn the disappearance over the detectives. Now Holzer and Coughlin would start over with the wife, without letting her know what the patrolman had found. The blood might be nothing—a carpenter who cut himself on a protruding nail.

Or it could mean Brian Fanning was never coming home.

Behind the door came the sound of running, then a woman’s voice. “Wait, Eva. I’ll answer it.”

The door opened on a beautiful little girl, maybe four years old, swathed in a long, glittery pink dress. Big green eyes stared up at Holzer from under a cloud of red-gold curls. Her skin looked too delicate to withstand the rigors of childhood as it was lived in the Holzer house—mountain biking, skateboarding, tackle football indoors and out. She wore a crown and carried a wand.

“Hey, you must be my fairy godmother,” Holzer said, crouching down to her level.

She squinted, clearly surprised that people as dim-witted as he were allowed out unsupervised. “I’m Glinda, Good Witch of the North.” With great dignity, she pivoted and marched down the hall.

Now Michelle Fanning found her voice, and it was tinged with anxiety. “Are you policemen? You’re not the ones who were here earlier. What’s happened?”

They introduced themselves and followed Mrs. Fanning into the living room. Holzer and Coughlin exchanged a glance and a grin as they watched her ass move inside tight jeans. From behind, she looked like a slender but curvy teenager. When she sat down and faced them, they could see by the faint worry lines etched in her fair skin that she was in her early thirties. But with the same red-gold hair and green eyes as her daughter, she was a beauty.

Holzer felt uneasier now about the blood. Surely any man married to a woman like Michelle would have little reason to stray. But then, gorgeous women were often drawn to men who took them for granted. Look at Patty and Coughlin.

“Have you found my husband? Is he....hurt?”

“We haven’t found him, Mrs. Fanning,” Coughlin said. “We just need to, uh, clarify a few things.”

Michelle Fanning sat on the edge of her chair, eager to help. Holzer didn’t want to meet her pleading green gaze. He knew she thought if she answered all their questions accurately, they’d be obligated, through some cosmic quid pro quo, to deliver her husband safe and sound. In his line of work, it didn’t always happen that way. Nice people were often disappointed; jerks escaped the fate they deserved.

“When’s the last time you saw your husband, ma’am?” Holzer asked.

“Last night at dinner. Brian came home from work early, so we could eat together as a family. At eight, after the kids were in bed, he went back into the office to finish up a few things.”

“Works late a lot?” Coughlin glanced around the living room, as if making cocktail conversation. Casual, chatty, full of Irish charm: No one could turn it on—and off—faster than Sean. Meanwhile, Holzer played the straight man, the one who wanted only the facts.

“He has customers in Japan. He has to work on their schedule.” Mrs. Fanning sat up stiffly, refusing to relax into the easy chair.

Coughlin smiled sympathetically, glancing at a framed photo that showed Eva with a little boy a few years older. “Must be rough with two little ones. Do you usually wait up for him?”

“I try to, but I’ve had a cold and last night I took some medicine. I dozed off and didn’t wake up till six this morning. Brian wasn’t here.

“Was it that dark green stuff?” Coughlin leaned forward, his head cocked in concern. “The kind you take in a little cup? Man, that knocks me out too.”

And they were off. Sean and Michelle, chatting like old friends. She admitted she was a nurse and should have known better than to take that cough syrup after having a glass of wine at dinner. A nurse? Did she work at the hospital? No, part time for a private agency—more flexible, with the kids.

Holzer watched and listened, unobtrusively taking notes. Despite the difficult questions about her husband—Could he have been having an affair? Did he use drugs? Did he gamble?—Michelle never bristled. No, no, no, she answered firmly. The only sign of distress was the constant motion of her hands. Holzer watched them twisting the hem of her sweater, rubbing her temples, fluttering through her hair. Michelle’s hands were hardly bigger than a child’s, the skin smooth and white. A sizeable diamond slipped and sparkled on her left ring finger. He couldn’t imagine those hands changing diapers, scrubbing pots. Not that she came across as a princess. Just too delicate for the hard work of motherhood.

He liked the way she conducted herself with Coughlin. Michelle Fanning didn’t fall back on her looks. She met Coughlin’s eyes, and didn’t look away, even when she didn’t like the question.

“About the new house, Mrs. Fanning, it’s part of a development?”

“No. We have our own architect.”

Coughlin arched his eyebrows. “Any chance your husband might be in over his head? Paying the mortgage here, paying the construction costs there?”

For the first time, Michelle looked doubtful. “I, I don’t know. Brian handles our finances. He has an MBA.” She bit her lip. “I’m happy here. But Brian wanted more privacy. He said it would be a good investment.”

Little Eva charged into the room waving a sheet of paper and a crayon. “Mommy, my yellow crayon doesn’t work! I have to have it or my picture will be ruined.”

Michelle extended her arms, and Eva ran into her embrace. Ignoring the detectives, she patiently peeled back the paper on the offending crayon. “There you go, sweetie. All fixed.”

“Thank you, Mommy.” Eva held the paper out. “Look what I’m making for Daddy! Do you think he’ll like it?”

It was a picture of a house, with four lopsided windows, a half-finished smiley sun, and a squiggle of smoke coming from the chimney. Michelle wrapped her arms around Eva and buried her face in her daughter’s curls. A long minute passed, then Eva scampered off. Michelle’s face was streaked with tears.

***

Coughlin backed all the way down the driveway before he spoke.

“She knows he’s dead.”

“Sure, she’s worried,” Holzer agreed. “But it’s too soon for her to give up hope.”

“No hoping. She knows exactly what happened to him.”

Holzer twisted around to face his partner. “You’re thinking she was involved in his disappearance? How the hell do you get that from what she told us?”

“Why else did she call 9-1-1, instead of checking with the hospital first to see if he had an accident? Isn’t that what you’d do if Jan didn’t come home?”

“Everyone reacts differently. It’s a big leap to say she knows he’s dead.”

“Wait and see. That’s one cold bitch.”

For once it was Coughlin who remained calm while Holzer grew agitated. “How can you say that? She was cooperative. She was holding herself together for the sake of her kids, but she was clearly distressed.”

The hint of a smile played across Coughlin’s broad face. “She oughta be distressed. I’m gonna nail her.”

***

For the rest of the afternoon, the partners worked the case from different angles. Coughlin focused on Brian Fanning’s business, an import/export firm, while Holzer followed up with the contractor building the new house. Driving out to the site, Holzer thought about what his partner believed. Clearly another of Coughlin’s famous hunches. Sean had earned a rep for having some kind of second sight when he was a rookie patrolman. Responding to a call about a boy found face down in a stream, Sean had preserved the scene in the presence of the hysterical family. As he turned the case over to his superiors, Sean had said, “The stepbrother did it.” And, after weeks of investigation and forensic analysis, it turned out the death wasn’t a tragic accident; the stepbrother really had killed the kid. There had been other hunches, too, not as dramatic but still spot-on.

Coughlin being Coughlin, he got testy when the guys asked him to forecast point spreads for the football pool or pick a lucky lottery number. He insisted he was just very good at detecting the subtle signs of guilt. Except in his own marriage. Patty fooled around with the stockbroker dude for months before she took off. Coughlin never saw it coming. Holzer shook his head as he drove. Sean didn’t know squat about women.

Holzer stopped daydreaming when he saw “Fanning” spray-painted in orange on a scrap of wood and made the turn. The unpaved road twisted through the trees for nearly a quarter mile before opening up to a big cleared space. Holzer whistled. The unfinished house was twice the size of Brian and Michelle’s colonial. A house like this would set you back a cool two mil, easy.

Trucks and vans were arrayed around the site, and the rhythmic sound of a nail gun pierced the crisp air. Holzer found the general contractor and asked his questions as the boss looked over the day’s work. The GC said Brian Fanning was pleasant enough, picky about the details of his new home but not unreasonable. The wife had been out to the site a few times. They never argued; she held her husband’s hand and let herself be shown around.

“The uniformed officer found some blood out here this morning,” Holzer said. “Know anything about that?”

“Happened late yesterday afternoon. Manny cut himself pretty bad with a hacksaw. I had to take him to the ER for stitches.”

Holzer paused in front of what would be a huge window. The property dropped away in the back, providing a panoramic view of the valley. You couldn’t see another house from this angle, just trees and the glint of gray granite outcroppings. Maybe Fanning wanted to play lord and master over a big spread but came up short of cash. Maybe he was ashamed to admit failure. Would that make a man walk away from a beautiful woman like Michelle and two great kids? Holzer sighed. You only had to be on this job a few months to learn people had an endless capacity for screwed-up decision-making.

A flash of white moved through the woods. Barks mixed with the nailing and sawing as a sleek pointer streaked into the clearing. The GC whistled, and the dog bounded up a plywood ramp into the house. Holzer took a step back. He liked dogs, but this one was filthy and smelled funky.

“Jeez, Uno, what’d you get into?” The GC asked.

Uno sat and looked at them with bright-eyed expectation. The white fur of his muzzle and front paws was stained a deep reddish brown. It wasn’t the color of the rocky New Jersey soil, and there hadn’t been hard rain for weeks.

***

When Holzer arrived home that night, Jan and the older boys were in the driveway playing a spirited game of two-on-two, while Lukey cheered. He watched his wife sink a shot from over near the garbage cans. She’d played for UConn until a tendon tear sidelined her, but she still had a helluva hook. He shook his head as she stole the rebound from her oldest son, elbowing the next younger one out of her way. Jan would walk through fire for her kids, but she didn’t hesitate to knock them down on the basketball court.

The boys caught sight of him and the game was forgotten.

“Daddy, Daddy—I’m playing on Mommy’s team and we’re winning.”

“She scored all the baskets, you little twerp. Hey Dad, guess what? I got a ninety-eight on my math test.”

“Dad, can we go to Sports Authority to get my new cleats? You promised.”

“Daddeeee.”

Holzer scooped up Luke and made it into the house with the rest of them tugging and tumbling and shouting around him. No matter how tired he was, this was the best part of the day. He thought of Michelle Fanning in her neat and pretty colonial. Was she making dinner for her kids right now? What would she say when they asked where Daddy was?

Arguing, complaining, bargaining, whining—the boys rolled through the usual evening activities. Jan kept glancing at him. She always knew when he needed to talk. It was after ten when the house got quiet and she finally dropped onto the couch beside him. Then Lukey reappeared. “Mommy, my ear hurts when I tug on it.”

“Then don’t tug on it. Go back to bed.”

Holzer smiled despite his mood. The kids claimed they preferred going to school when they were sick to find some sympathy in the nurse’s office.

“Now, what’s wrong with you?” Jan asked

Holzer began to talk. He told Jan how the dog had dug in an area where a large amount of human blood had been spilled. Someone had been killed or grievously injured in that spot, most likely Brian Fanning. Cadaver dogs searched the woods, but no body had been found. The ground was so rocky, the trees so dense, that a deep grave was out of the question. Brian Fanning was still missing.

“Coughlin’s convinced the wife murdered her husband,” Holzer said. “There’s no evidence to support it, but does that slow Coughlin down? No, he’s determined to prove she did it, even if he has to twist the facts to fit the theory.”

“You’ve always said Sean was a great investigator,” Jan said. “What would make him so biased on this case?”

“It’s gotta be Patty. Sean’s still so upset about his divorce, he sees every woman as evil. And I told him so.  He just laughed and said, ‘You’ll see.’”

***

Holzer opened his eyes at five-fifteen, already mapping out the day’s arguments with Coughlin. Half an hour of muttering and thrashing later, Jan booted him out of bed. “Go for a run. You’ll feel better.”

The two-mile loop through the neighborhood burned off some tension. On his way back to the house, Holzer passed his elderly neighbor, Mrs. Spence, standing at the end of her driveway reading the headlines in the Palmyrton Daily Record.

“Oh dear . . . oh, how terrible. That sweet Michelle!” She waved the paper at Holzer. “Do you know anything about this poor man’s disappearance?”

“Working on it, Mrs. Spence. Why—you know them?”

“Michelle Fanning was our hospice nurse when Charlie was dying. What an angel that girl was! So patient, so comforting. I don’t know what I would’ve done without her.”

Holzer crossed into her yard. “Michelle Fanning came here to your house?”

“Yes, twice a day at the end to administer morphine when the cancer spread to Charlie’s bones. She kept him comfortable, so he didn’t have to die alone in that awful hospital.”

“So you must know her pretty well. She ever talk about her husband?”

“I’m afraid I did most the talking. She was a wonderful listener.” Mrs. Spence’s lip trembled. “She helped me accept that it was Charlie’s time. . .helped me let go.”

Holzer dreaded a breakdown, but Mrs. Spence straightened her shoulders and folded her paper under her arm. “I’ll always remember what that young woman told me. She said, ‘Doctors are trained to think of death as defeat, so they fight it tooth and nail. In hospice we think of death as part of life. We help our patients meet it with dignity.’ ”

Mrs. Spence turned toward her house. “An angel.”

***

“It’s the only scenario that makes sense.”

“Like hell it makes sense!” Holzer’s sparse hair stood up in tufts above his red face. “Show me one scrap of solid evidence.”

He and Coughlin had been squabbling for close to an hour, closing out the fourth day of the investigation. At the outset, others in the office had listened avidly, surprised to see Holzer so worked up. Coughlin drove them off with a few well-placed insults.

“Start where we always start,” Coughlin said. “Who benefits from Brian’s death? Michelle. Only Michelle. They owned everything jointly. Now it’s all hers.”

“She didn’t need to kill him,” Holzer countered. “She had everything she wanted—new house, nice car, clothes, jewelry. She worked because she wanted to.”

“Yeah, except she didn’t want to enjoy the good life with Brian. She wanted to enjoy it with Dr. Neil Tollson.”

“Half-baked assumption Number One. You have no evidence Michelle and Neil Tollson were having an affair.”

“Ten calls a day to and from Tollson on Michelle’s work-issued cell phone,” Coughlin said. “Three times the number she made any other doc.”

“Michelle was nursing his patients. Everyone says he’s very dedicated.”

“Dedicated to getting laid.”

Holzer slapped the desk. “Produce a witness who saw them kissing. Produce a motel receipt. You got nothing.”

“I got the way people looked over my head and down at the floor and squirmed before they said no about Michelle and Tollson.”

Holzer stared at his partner. So fierce, so proud. Holzer wanted to say you were blind to it with Patty, so now you see it everywhere, but he wasn’t cruel enough. “All right,” he continued, “explain how she got him out to the construction site from the office.”

“We only have her word that he went to the office that night. Maybe he intended to go out the new house all along and she followed him.”

“If both their cars were out at the site, how did she get hers home and ditch his?”

“I never said she followed him in her car. You know how our Michelle got that hot body?” Coughlin tossed a photo across the desk: Michelle Fanning in running shorts, her arms raised in victory as she crossed the finish line. “Taken at the Jersey Shore Half Marathon last month. Brian hung it up at his office.”

By God, Coughlin had an answer for everything. “So she ran out there to kill her husband, leaving the kids home alone?”

“They were asleep.”

Holzer threw his hands up. “A four-year-old and a seven-year-old? Do you have any idea how often kids that age wake up? Bad dream, glass of water, monster under the bed—Jan and I haven’t had one night of uninterrupted sleep in the past fifteen years. If one of those kids woke up and found her gone—”

“A little Benadryl in the Juicy Juice,” Coughlin said, “and they’re out till morning.”

“How can you prove that?”

“Can’t. Stuff’s out of their systems by now. I’m just saying—”

“You’re just making this up as you go. And how did she kill him? Brian Fanning was six-two, two hundred twenty pounds. Michelle’s five foot three, one hundred ten, tops.”

“Shot him. A gun makes anyone strong.”

“What explains all that blood?”

“She hit an artery. Too bad for her she made a bigger mess than anticipated. Otherwise she might have got away with making it look like a disappearance.”

“Okay, what did she do with the body? We know it’s not buried out there. We know Neil Tollson didn’t help her move it because he was at an oncology conference in San Diego. How did little size four Michelle carry him out of those woods?” Holzer said this with a flourish, knowing he’d scored a point. Hell, even Jan wouldn’t be able to move the dead weight of a man Fanning’s size.

Coughlin pushed off his battered desk, rolling his chair toward the office coffee pot. “That’s the one thing I haven’t figured out.” He tipped his mug in Holzer’s direction. “When I get that, I’ll nail her.”

***

“I’m getting Luke’s antibiotics now,” Holzer reassured Jan by cell phone as he sat in the waiting area of the CVS pharmacy in Palmyrton. “I’ll be home by six.”

He hung up and checked his messages. Three from Coughlin. That could wait till morning. The strain between them had grown all week. The captain kept telling Coughlin he didn’t have enough to arrest Michelle Fanning. At the same time, Fanning’s supporters were complaining to the mayor and writing letters to the editor that the police were harassing the family. They had a point. How many times could you interview the neighbors, the colleagues, the friends, before you had to accept they weren’t going to give you what you were looking for? How long before you had to accept that what you were looking for wasn’t there?

“Fifteen minutes,” Holzer heard the pharmacist tell the next customer.

“Mommy, can I go look around the toy aisle?”

“Okay, but stay where I can see you.”

Holzer glanced up just as Michelle Fanning turned. They stared at each other awkwardly. If anything, she looked even more beautiful than the first time Holzer laid eyes on her. The strain of being under suspicion showed in her face. But instead of looking haggard she came across as fragile, like the wildflowers Luke picked for Jan, then cried over because they didn’t last.

“Hello, Mrs. Fanning.” Holzer moved over on the bench, giving her plenty of room.

She nodded and sat. Neither spoke. The minutes ticked by. How long could it take to shake a few amoxicillin tabs into a bottle?

Michelle shrugged off her jacket and Holzer caught her delicate scent. Now she seemed much closer to him although the space between them hadn’t changed. Her profile floated at the edge of his vision, the tumbling curls, the frail wrists. He fought an urge to face her and say, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry for your trouble, sorry my partner is making it worse.” He imagined her crumpling into his arms and weeping on his shoulder.

“Mommy, look!” Little Eva ran up, waving a small stuffed dog. “Isn’t he cute? Can we buy him?”

Michelle sighed and stoked her daughter’s cheek. “Sure, sweetie.  If you like him.”

“Yay!” Eva hugged the toy and spun around, catching sight of Holzer. “Hey, I know you.” Her whole face scrunched into a frown. “You’re a policeman. Have you caught the bad man who hurt my daddy yet?”

“Holzer!” the pharmacist barked.

The detective leaped up to claim his order. He wanted to pay and get out of there. Still, he glanced at the waiting area as he left. Mother and daughter studied him with big green eyes, mournful and wounded.

***

When Holzer walked into the office in the morning, Coughlin greeted him with a Swiss Chalet Bakery bag. “There you are! I couldn’t have protected this Danish from poachers much longer.”

Holzer accepted the offering, wary but hungry. Sean seemed unusually chipper. Maybe he got laid last night.

“Guess who showed up? Or maybe I should say, started showing up,” Sean said.

Holzer said nothing, just chewed and watched.

“Coupla kids walking their dog on the beach in Sandy Hook found a suitcase washed up on the sand. Poor little bastards opened it. Male human torso.”

Holzer swallowed. The pecans felt like razors in his throat.

“Then we got a call from a fisherman in Long Branch. Pulled two male legs in a rolling duffle bag out of the surf. ME looked at ‘em. Says they were removed by someone with medical training. Also says the femoral artery in the left thigh was slashed.” Coughlin dunked a donut in coffee. “Head hasn’t turned up yet. That’s probably in the carry-on.”

“For God’s sake!” Holzer tossed his Danish in the trash.

Coughlin leaned across his desk. “What’s the matter, Pete? Feelin’ a little queasy knowing that your precious Michelle diced her husband up? That she bled him out like a butchered hog and packed him into matching luggage for easy disposal? I figure she tossed the bags off the Driscoll Bridge into the Raritan River. The current carried them out to the Bay, but last night’s storm brought them back in.”

The smug satisfaction on his partner’s face ignited a bottle rocket of fury within Holzer. “This has gone far enough! I won’t let you destroy this woman’s life when you have no proof, no—”

Coughlin flipped open a file folder. His calm confidence sucked the fight right out of Holzer.

“Remember when we searched their financial records?” Coughlin asked. “Never found any big, unusual expenditures. Every month pretty much the same. Every month Michelle spends about two hundred bucks at Costco. You know you have to show your member ID card to shop. They keep track of every item you buy. Last month Michelle spent $430 bucks there. I thought I’d see why.”

Coughlin slid a copy of the bill across the desk. It lay there, as attractive and repellent as a fiery roadside wreck.

Holzer forced himself to look. Circled in red: 3 pc whld lug set. . .$230.00. In that one line, Holzer could see a clear path to the end of the investigation. He knew Michelle wouldn’t be able to produce the luggage. He knew Neil Tollson would admit the affair.

Coughlin stood up and thrust his powerful arms into his sports coat. “It’s like Patty used to tell me when we were moving into our condo—pack three light boxes instead of one big heavy box. Women have little strategies to compensate for their weakness.”

***

“Why are you sitting in the dark?” Jan popped her head into the family room, where Holzer stared at a black TV with a glass in his hand. “Is that scotch?” She sat down beside him. “So Sean was right about Mrs. Fanning. Does it matter that much?”

Holzer stared at his wife, drinking in every detail of her familiar face: the slight gap in her smile, the worry crease between her brows, the freckles, fading now that summer was over. Then he looked down at her strong, capable hands and imagined a hunting knife there. The vision sent a tremor through his body.

“Pete, what is it?”

“She lured him outside, Jan. She must’ve stuck him with a needle full of morphine, and when he collapsed, she slit his femoral artery and watched while he bled out. Then she cut him apart just like you do with the Thanksgiving turkey carcass, so you can fit it in the soup pot.”

Jan winced in disgust, but that wasn’t enough for Holzer.

“She met a guy she liked better than Brian. So she chopped up the father of her children.” He drained the scotch, banging the glass onto the end table. “How do you explain that to your kids? If you killed their dad during a struggle, maybe you could hope someday they’d understand. But this. . .”

Jan massaged his hands, rolling the thick, callused fingers between her own. “You liked her, didn’t you?”

Holzer pulled his wife into a rough embrace. She smelled of pot roast and Play-Doh and Mr. Bubble. His tears soaked into her gray-brown hair.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, but Jan didn’t seem to hear.

THE END

See what happens to Detective Sean Coughlin when he meets up with estate sale organizer Audrey Nealon in the Amazon bestseller, Another Man’s Treasure, Book 1 in the Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series. Turn the page to read the first chapter, FREE.

Read Chapter 1 of ANOTHER MAN’S TREASURE

Chapter 1

I’ve done it countless times. Still, this moment makes me feel like I’m pulling the white satin ribbon off a Tiffany’s box. I insert the key in the last of three locks and take a final breath of crisp October air. Then I push the door open and inhale.

Dust, overlaid with weak-bladdered kitty. Top notes of sour milk. Undertones of cheap cigar and fried sausage. Eau de Old, Number One.

Oh well.

I’ve been running estate sales for ten years, so the scent of a house pretty much tells me what I’ll find inside. In this case, nothing great. But the sale must go on.

“Ah, shit. That’s nasty.” Tyshaun, pushing past me, twists his face. Jill, lugging supplies, is right on our heels.

“It’s fine,” Jill says. “You don’t know true nasty.”

“Hey, I been places smell a lot worse than this,” Tyshaun shoots back.

What kind of ridiculous boast is that? I head down the hall to put some space between me and my assistants. The two of them have been squabbling all day. Ever since I hired Tyshaun two months ago, Jill, who’s been with me for almost a year, never misses an opportunity to lord her seniority over him. And for Tyshaun, one-upmanship comes as automatically as blinking.

He shrugs off his sweatshirt and flexes his dark, muscular arms. “I’m just sayin’, we ain’t gonna find anything good here, that’s all.”

Too true. The furnishings in Agnes Szabo’s house are just what my nose told me to expect: beaten down carpeting; lumpy upholstered furniture that wasn’t attractive even when new; framed pictures of Jesus, John Kennedy, and four dogs playing poker.

The house, although small, looked fairly ship-shape from the outside. On the front stoop I’d been hoping I might open the door and inhale Eau de Old, Number Two—lemon oil, Windex, Clorox and lavender. Those are the old ladies with bathrooms so clean you could perform brain surgery in the tub. In a Number Two house I might find a Wedgewood service for twelve without a single chip, four hundred Hummel figurines, classic chrome Osterizers that still work. Nice money in a Number Two—not extravagant, but nice.

But a house doesn’t have to smell good to yield treasures. Eau de Old, Number Three proves that: piss, unwashed socks, spilled whiskey, puke. The smell of I-don’t-give- a-damn. The smell of I-gave- up- long -ago. Newspapers piled to the ceiling and bulging cans ready to spurt botulism. Those are the houses where you might find anything, from a newly hatched Dodo to the manuscript for Gone with the Wind, Part II.  If they ever find Jimmy Hoffa, it’ll be in a Number Three

I scored my biggest coup in a Number Three. A ten by seven inch watercolor by the American Abstract Expressionist Lee Krasner that I sold to a European collector for $750,000, fifteen percent of which came back to me. My reward for noticing that the only decorative item in the whole house was this little painting hanging over the recliner where an old man sat drinking away the last thirty years of his life.

But Agnes Szabo’s house isn’t a Two or a Three. It’s definitely a One. The most common type of old person’s house, filled with the unremarkable possessions of an unremarkable life. I’ll make enough to cover my time, plus Tyshaun’s and Jill’s, but nothing more.

“Let’s get to work,” I say. “Jill, you take the upstairs. Tyshaun, start in the kitchen. I’ll do the basement.”

Immediately Tysahun looks suspicious, trying to calculate why the kitchen might be the least desirable assignment. The year he spent in Rahway State Prison on a breaking and entering charge has left him keenly attuned to any sign he’s being disrespected.

“How long this old lady been dead?” he asks. “I’m not opening the fridge if there’s stuff two months gone in there.”

“We’re just doing the inventory today,” Jill jumps in to answer for me. She tosses her head for added authority, although the gesture is pointless as she’s recently buzzed off her long black hair in favor of a post-punk crew cut. When she speaks, the studs in her tongue flash. “Tomorrow we clean. Wear your rubber gloves.”

Tyshaun attempts his fierce “you’re not the boss of me” glower, but Jill, unintimidated, hands him an inventory list and stomps upstairs. Her Doc Martens raise little tumbleweeds of cat hair on the treads.

I watch her go, then give Tyshaun a “whattya gonna do” shrug. The two of them make me feel like some zany sitcom mom, caring but kick-ass. Not that I’m old enough to be their mother—I only have about ten years on them. And not that I know squat about mothering, having never been on the receiving end of any. At least, none that I remember.

“Mrs. Szabo died a week ago Tuesday,” I tell Tyshaun. “The executor wants the estate sale wrapped up this weekend. There won’t be a lot of relatives crying and arguing and pulling stuff out of the sale on this job.”

“You need rich people for that.” Tyshaun looks around the cluttered livingroom. “Ain’t nobody want this shit.”

“Hey, what’s our motto?”

“I know, I know—One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” Tyshaun slouches toward the kitchen, his jeans drooping below his skinny butt, striped boxers on display. “What’re them bowls I’m supposed to look out for?” he calls over his shoulder.

“Fiestaware.” I’m crazy pleased that he remembered. I hired Tyshaun for heavy lifting, but unlike the laborers I’ve had before him, he seems to be taking a genuine interest in the estate sale business. I’m not sure why that matters to me, except that I like being right. When I hired Ty, the howl from my friends, and especially my father, was loud and long. He’ll rip you off...Don’t play at being Mother Teresa. And from dear old dad, always handy with a statistic, The recidivism rate among convicted felons is 82%. Ty didn’t beg for the job. He didn’t want pity. Just a chance to work. All he said was, “I seen some things in prison I don’t ever want to see again.” What can I say? I believed him. People defy statistics.

Besides, it’s not like prime candidates for the job are thick on the ground. Must speak English, must have driver’s license, must be able to lift 300 pounds. Can’t be allergic to dust, mold or cat hair. Must be willing to work for ten bucks an hour.  My applicant pool was Tyshaun and a trembling six-foot-six hulk who assured me he only had trouble following directions when he was off his meds. I hired Ty, and so far, no regrets.

I pause on the threshold of the basement stairs, cooled by mushroom-y subterranean currents. There’ll be mice down there, thousand-leggers too. Maybe a garter snake. I should send my staff to the basement, but I prefer the far corners of a house. Bedrooms are too personal. Old age is laid out for you there, in all it’s un-glory. Heart medicine, rosary beads, Depends, cents-off coupons, and always, always, a framed photo of a younger self, waist cinched in, hair stiffly curled. I can’t help thinking what I’ll leave behind fifty years from now when someone comes to clear the remains of my life. Lots of books, lots of dog fur, no family photos whatsoever.

I head down, wielding my flashlight beam like a sword. Skittering sounds indicate wildlife on the move. Not to worry—everything sounds tiny. I prefer not to encounter your larger mammals. Never met a raccoon that didn’t have serious anger management issues.

My flashlight beam finds a bench full of tools. So, there is something of value down here after all. I pick up a hammer with a wooden handle smooth as silk from years of use. The tools are old but in perfect condition, everything hanging from hooks or laid out in shallow drawers. Labeled cubbyholes hold carefully sorted bolts and screws and nails. The faded printing is as flawlessly proportioned as typescript. You don’t have to be a handwriting analyst to know that Mr. Szabo, long dead, was meticulous, precise, committed to a job well done. He lingers here.

Maybe Mrs. Szabo kept the toolbench like this so she could come down and be near her husband. Or maybe I’m—what’s that shrink term?—projecting. As a child I used to crawl into the deep storage closet in the downstairs hall and sit among the boxed holiday decorations using my finger to trace my mother’s dramatic, flourishy script. Tree lights. Window Candles. Centerpiece. Ornaments. Her presence pulsed in that closet, there among the things she had selected and cared for. Everywhere else in the house she had gradually faded away. Or been cleared away.

Overhead, I hear Tyshaun banging around the kitchen, cabinet doors slamming, drawers rattling as he inventories a lifetime of dented muffin tins and well-scoured frying pans. Maybe a cow creamer or a copper Jell-o mold for the collectibles crowd. Time for me to get to work too. I pull out a clipboard and note the significant tools, then head across the room to check out some lawn furniture.

“Shit! What’s up with that?” Tyshaun’s voice comes down through the heating vent as clearly as if he were standing beside me. I lose interest in the chaise lounges. What did Tyshaun find? A bundle of twenties in the cookie jar, a diamond ring in the toaster oven? Mrs. Szabo’s nephew, the executor of her estate, was supposed to go through the house to check for money and items of sentimental value, but he didn’t seem all that interested in his aunt’s home. He probably doesn’t realize how old people squirrel things away. A knot of tension starts churning this morning’s bagel and coffee. If Tyshaun found a wad of cash, will he tell me? Jill is so hyper-scrupulous she won’t take aspirin from a client’s medicine chest if she gets a headache while we’re working. Will Tyshaun be overwhelmed by the temptation of some easy money? This is a test. I realize I’m holding my breath because I really, really want him to pass.

The door to the basement opens. “Yo, Audrey. C’mere. This is wack.”

I exhale and trot upstairs. Tyshaun waits for me in the avocado green and harvest gold kitchen. “You know what this is?” He shakes a baggie in front of my face.

I glance at the bright pink pills bouncing inside, each imprinted with a little flower. “E. Ecstasy.”

Ty’s eyes blink rapidly. He’s always amazed when I display knowledge of anything illicit, as if thirty-three year old white women like me live in some sort of Amish bubble.

He drops the pills on the counter. “I don’t want no part of this.”

A big grin spreads across my face. This is the street equivalent of a sizable wad of cash. Tyshaun passed the test with flying colors. Then my smile fades as I study the hundreds of tabs in this Zip-Loc. “Agnes Szabo was eighty-seven. What would she be doing with club drugs?”

Tyshaun looks at me like I’m a Midwestern tourist trying to navigate the A train. This is the Audrey he wants to believe I am. “Someone using this as a stash house. Maybe her nephew got a little side bizness goin’.”

“He’s a lawyer. I really don’t see him dealing drugs. Where did you find them?”

Tyshaun points to an open drawer. “Right there, next to the egg beater thing.”

I stare into the drawer as if the potato masher and spatulas are going to offer some explanation. In the ten years I’ve been running estate sales I’ve found guns and porn and tons of prescription drugs hidden away, but this is a first. I reach for my cell phone. “Guess I better call the police.”

Tyshaun’s hand grips my wrist. His wiry strength always surprises me. “You just askin’ for trouble. Best pretend we never saw it. I bet next time we come, it be gone.”

“No, that’s not right. I have to—”

Above us, a short sharp shriek. Then a thunderous crash shakes the walls. The wagon-wheel ceiling light swings. A china pig tips off a shelf and shatters on the floor.

Jill.

I race for the stairs.  “Jill? Jill, are you okay?”

Even with one hand holding up those goofy pants, Tyshaun overtakes me, scaling three steps at a time. A cloud of grayish dust billows from a bedroom into the upstairs hall. Coughing and squinting we make our way into the room, following the sound of Jill’s low moans.

She lays spread-eagle on a sagging double bed, in a nest of plaster chunks and splintered lathing. A small trunk pins one leg to the bed. A rotten beam dangles from a five-foot wide hole in the ceiling. Her eyes flutter open, two dark holes in her ghastly dust-coated face. At least she’s conscious.

“Don’t move,” I say. “Your neck, your back...we’ve gotta call an ambulance.”

Jill sneezes, then rotates her neck experimentally. “I think I’m okay.”

“What happened?” I peer through the hole in the ceiling to see the dusty rafters of the attic far above us.

“I poked my head up into the attic and the only thing up there was that little trunk.” Jill points to a rotting leather box down by her legs. “I crossed over to get it and the next thing you know, I fell through the floor. I’m sorry, Audrey.”

“Not your fault that termites have been eating up the beams.”

Jill tries to squirm into a sitting position. “Ow—Could you get that box off my leg?”

Tyshaun springs forward and picks up the trunk. As he lifts it, one rotting leather handle rips away, and the trunk tips open.

A shower of gold, diamonds and pearls rains down on Jill.

Tyshaun grabs the trunk from the bottom and sets it on the floor. The three of us gather around and look inside.

“Geez, it’s like a buried treasure chest,” Jill says.

We forget Jill’s trauma as we stare at the tangle of jewelry.

“Why’d she live in this shitty house if she had all that up in the attic?” Tyshaun asks.

Getting down on my knees, I sift through the jewelry. “I’ve seen it before—rich old people to living like they’re poor.”

My fingers trace a gaudy garnet and topaz bracelet big enough to encircle a gorilla’s wrist and a delicate strand of opals that would barely fit a child. Two men’s watches, a strand of pearls, an ornate brooch, some gold door-knocker earrings: Even without a jewelers loupe I can see that much of it is average or low quality. Still, there’s too much of value to put out in the general sale. I’ll have to get it appraised.

I sit back on my heels. Drugs in the kitchen, jewels in the attic—Mrs. Szabo’s house is turning out to be far from the standard Number One. I reach for my cell phone to call my client, Cal Tremaine, when something in the trunk catches my eye.

A ring, pearl and ruby set in a twist of yellow gold.

I pick it up and stare. The ring was designed to twine around a slender finger like a delicate flowering vine. Very unusual. Very familiar.

Jill and Tyshaun and the hole in the ceiling recede to the distance. The entire world rests in my palm.

The ring was made for a hand I know I once held. A hand whose touch I can’t recall. A hand that took this ring to the bottom of a cold, cold lake.

Or so I’ve been told.

#####

Follow this link to continue reading Another Man's Treasure

Read all eight books in the Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series:

Another Man's Treasure

Treasure of Darkness

This Bitter Treasure

Treasure Borrowed and Blue

Treasure in Exile

Treasure Built of Sand

Rock Bottom Treasure

Treasure Under the Tree

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