Another Man's Treasure (a romantic thriller) (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 1) (23 page)

Palmer County weather for this Halloween—bee-yoo-ti ful. Tell mom no heavy coat over the costumes, ‘cause there’s zero chance of rain and the low is a balmy 60. And there’s going to be a FULL moon, so watch out.  Now, back to the music…

Damn!  I totally forgot today is Halloween. After leaving Mrs. Olsen’s house I feel like driving directly to the Finnerans, pounding on the door and demanding to know why Spencer lied about knowing my mother.  But Spencer, Anne and Cal are on the road campaigning today, wearing silly Democratic donkey-ear hats and handing out candy and blue Finneran buttons.

I make a sharp right into the ShopRite parking lot—may as well buy a few bags of candy right now.  I used to get only a few trick-or-treaters, toddlers of the young couples who live in the condo development.  But two years ago, word went out on the teen grapevine that working the condos is a great way to score a lot of candy with very little walking.  Now, the doorbell rings nonstop for three hours, and woe be the person who comes up short on candy—eggs on the front door, shaving cream on the windows.

When I finish my run to the supermarket and make it home, I see my neighbor, Marge, by the mailboxes.  “All ready for tonight?” I ask.

“I’ve got five bags of Skittles,” Marge folds her arms across her chest.  “When that runs out, I’m turning out my lights and locking my doors.  And if my bell rings after nine o’clock, I’m calling the cops.”

I’m not as crabby as my neighbor, but frankly, I’m happy to have Marge take a hard line on late-night revelers.  Although I try to hide it, I’m still plenty jumpy around strangers at night.  At least I have Ethel to protect me.

At home, I click on the front porch light and sit back to wait.  At first, Ethel barks frantically each time the doorbell rings, but she soon realizes that the intruders aren’t coming onto her turf, so she settles down in the foyer and keeps a watchful eye on the proceedings.  The little princesses and pirates are done by seven, the hippies and ninjas peter out by eight-thirty.  There’s a lull, then the bell rings insistently.  I open the door and a crowd of kids, dressed as sullen teenagers, thrust their bags at me silently.  I dole out one candy bar apiece and shout “you’re welcome” to their retreating backs.  No sooner do I sit down than the bell rings again.  This crowd is also uncostumed, although one kid has made an effort by wearing a “scream” mask.  They have the decency to look sheepish demanding their loot, and they chorus “thank you” as they leave.  I hope Marge takes note of that. 

Outside, the shouts of kids grow fainter and fainter.  The evening seems to be winding down.  Ethel and I are absorbed in the final minutes of “When Good Dogs Go Bad” on Animal Planet, when the doorbell rings again.  I hesitate, but it’s under Marge’s deadline, so I open the door.

A strangled shriek springs from my throat and the basket of candy hits the floor.

On the stoop stand four men dressed all in black. They leer at me through pantyhose that flatten their noses and distort their lips.  Ethel’s hackles rise and she barks harsh, staccato notes.

One drops to his knees.  Why is he trying to crawl into my house? Frantically I move to shut the door.  Ethel lunges at him.

Too late I realize they’re laughing.  The one on his knees is trying to scoop up the fallen candy.  Ethel is having none of this.  She nips his hand.

“Ow! What the fuck!”

They turn and run off. 

“I’m sorry!” I shout after them.  “You shouldn’t have scared me like that.”

Kicking aside the candy, I slam the door.  My hands are shaking so badly I have trouble turning off the porch light. I slide into a heap on the floor and rest my head on Ethel’s back.

I’m done with Halloween.

An hour, some deep breathing exercises, and a cup of green tea later, I’ve returned to my logical self.  I’m sitting at the dining room table working on my accounts payable when I realize I’ve left an entire folder of invoices back at the office.  Go get it or leave it until tomorrow?  I really want to get these bills postmarked by November 1, and tomorrow is already jam-packed with appointments.  With all the adrenaline circulating in my system from my scare, I’m feeling wide awake.  Might as well go and get this project finished up.

“Ethel, want to go for a ride in the car?”

But Ethel is snoring on the sofa and doesn’t even hear the magical “c” word.  Fine, I’ll go solo.

The folder was just where I left it, and I’m back home within a half hour. Turning the key in the lock, I use my hip to push open the door, then brace for the Ethel onslaught. It doesn’t come. 

She must be sulking because I went out without her.  I drop the folder on the table in the dark hall and sniff.  What’s that smell?  Has the dog gotten into something?

“Eth—“

Something wraps around my neck, cutting off my voice. Ridiculously, my immediate impulse is to scream. 

Nothing. Screaming requires air and I have none.

The smell is stronger.  Warmth.  Dampness.  Hair.

My senses sort it out.  A human arm is wrapped around my neck. The rest of the human is behind me, breathing in my ear.

“Me and you need to have a little talk,” the voice says. I don’t recognize it except in a generic way: male, Jersey, white.  His grip tightens around my neck and I feel my feet leave the floor.  Instinctively, I claw at the arm.  It’s like scratching at a metal pipe.  “A quiet talk.  Understand?”

I try to nod.  The arm loosens a bit.  My feet come back down to earth.  There’s a steel-toe boot under my sneaker. I can swallow, but my heart is pounding so hard it’s still hard to breathe.  The smell catches in the back of my throat.  Sweat, covered by too much strong, musky cologne.

“You don’t learn, do you?  You and the kid got some customers for my product, that’s fine.  But you two work for me, not on your own.”  He shakes me.  “Understand?” 

The kid? What the hell is he talking about? He thinks Ty and I are both selling his pills? But Ty doesn’t know this guy….I don’t understand.  Not at all.  But I’m afraid to say anything.  All I can think of is the sound of my skull cracking the last time that boot connected with my head.  I don’t want that pain again.  I don’t want to be in the hospital.  I don’t want to die.

“Please…” I whisper.

“And now you got Mondel Johnson sniffing around you.  What’s up with that? Huh?”

“I don’t know him. He—”

The arm crushes my neck.  “You lie!  I’ve seen him watching your office.  You think you’re some kinda player.  We all got our turf.  You don’t mess with that, hear?”

He stays behind me.  I can’t see his face, but I can smell his breath.  Cigarettes.  Beer. Onions. And that awful cologne.  Repulsive—I twist my head to keep my face as far away from his as I can. It’s so dark in the hall, I can’t even see the color of the skin of his arm.  If only I can get him to understand that I didn’t take his drugs.  That I’m not trying to pull something over on him.  “Please,” I gasp.  “Let me talk.”

I hear whining and scratching.  Ethel.  I’d forgotten about her.  It sounds like she’s in the powder room. He must’ve shut her in there when he broke in.  Now that she’s heard my voice, she’s flinging herself against the door, desperate to get out.   Once.  Twice.  I know what’s coming.  Ethel can open the lever handle of that door if she hits it just right.

Boom.  The door flies open and hits the wall.  In three seconds, Ethel is in the front hall.  She leaps on my attacker, tail wagging, tongue slobbering.

“What the fuck!”  With one swing of the guy’s arm, Ethel is airborne and I’m out of his grasp.  She crashes against the wall, and crumples in a heap.

I shriek.  And then I kick the guy.  “You didn’t have to hurt her.  She’s just an innocent dog.”

Bad move. He picks me up and pins me against the wall.  A nylon stocking covers his head, distorting his features, and gloves hide his hands.  It’s dark, but now that my eyes have adjusted, I can see his neck and his arms.  He’s white.  His hair is brown and there’s lots of it.  Holding his face inches from mine, he exhales his putrid breath with every word. 

“I run a simple business,” he says.  “Killing people’s not my style.  But I might make an exception for you, stupid bitch.” He slaps me across the face. The sound of the blow shocks me as much as the pain.  “Now, you and boy wonder--  Augh!”

Suddenly, I’m free.

“Ow!  Get off of me.  Fuckin’ dog’s biting me!”

Fur swishes by my face.  Nails scrabble on the floor.  I mostly see outlines, but I know what’s going on.  Ethel has sunk her teeth into him and she’s not letting go.

He shakes his leg, and Ethel rises up into the air with it.  Her jaw is locked on his calf, and I can see the white flash of her bared teeth.  For a moment I’m paralyzed, not sure what to do.  Then reason kicks in.  I reach for my cell phone and dial 911. 

“Palmyrton Police.  What is your emergency?”  The voice is calm, bland, unflappable.

“There’s a man in my house. He’s trying to kill me and my dog. Send someone fast.  419 Bishop.”

He’s trying to pull Ethel off now, but that just makes her clamp down harder.  He swings his free leg back to kick her, but she dodges the blow.  All the while he’s screaming, “fuck, fuck, fuck” at the top of his voice.

“Can I verify your address, M’am?” The dispatcher sounds bored out of her mind. 

“419 Bishop,” I yell into the phone. Then I stuff it into my pocket without hanging up and turn my attention to the fight.  I’ve never seen Ethel like this.  Her courage gives me courage. I look around for something I can use to defend myself.  I’ve had enough of this crap.  Enough of being a victim.  Enough of not knowing who’s after me or why. Ethel and I are keeping this guy here until the cops come.  I switch on the overhead light and grab the heavy ginger jar lamp from the hall table.

“Call off your damn dog!  Make her let me go!”  I hear fear in his voice, the panic of someone who’s lost control.   

And no wonder.  Ethel’s no longer a house pet; she’s a rabid wolf.  Her big canine incisors, stained red with her victim’s blood, are sunk into the flesh of his calf. Ears flat against her head, eyes bulging, she looks like a creature at the top of the food chain.  Weird guttural whines rumble from somewhere deep inside her. She’s scaring me. I’m not sure I could call her off even if I wanted to. 

My hand tightens on the lamp.  Am I brave enough to swing this thing like a bat right into his head?  Am I brutal enough to crack his head the way he cracked mine?  I lift the lamp up, but my arm trembles.

Then I see a metallic flash.  A knife.  His right arm comes up, ready to plunge the blade into Ethel’s neck.  I swing!  The lamp crashes against his head and shatters in a million pieces.

He staggers.  The knife falls beside him.  But the shower of ceramic shards has distracted Ethel.  She loosens her grip and my attacker shakes free of her.  In the distance, I hear sirens.  I search for another weapon, but the foyer doesn’t have much to offer.  “Get him again Ethel!” I shout.

She springs, but just misses him.  He grabs his knife and charges out the door with Ethel on his heels.

Leaping down the stairs to the sidewalk three at a time, he opens a lead between him and the dog.  I’m running after both of them, screaming like a crazy woman.  But it’s Halloween—my neighbors have tuned out the noise and turned off their lights. 

I keep running, not to catch him, but to keep him in sight until the cops come.  The moon, so brilliant just half an hour ago, has slipped behind a bank of clouds.  Now my condo development is full of shadows and inky recesses.  Ahead of me, Ethel and my attacker disappear into the next cul de sac.

I turn the corner.

Four parked cars. Two fluttering witch flags.  One smashed Snickers.

“Ethel?”

Silence.  A sputtering jack-o-lantern winks at me from a doorstep.  Nothing stirs.

I spin around.  “Ethel? Ethel!”

The sirens are drawing closer.  I race out of the cul de sac and dart into the street.  “Ethel!”  Where is she?  I picture the knife in that goon’s hand.  What if Ethel caught up to him and he stabbed her?

“Eth-hel!”  my voice is shrill with panic and fear.  She won’t come to me if she hears that.  She’ll think she’s in trouble and keep running. 

If she’s able.

I take a breath and try to steady my voice.  “Ethel, here girl.  Come, Ethel.  Come get a treat.”  I produce a linty snack from my coat pocket.  “Eth—hel, look what I’ve got.  Come!”

Through the trees, I can see the flashing red and blue lights as squad cars pull up to my door.  I want to run over to them, but not without Ethel. 

I keep circling the complex, calling until my voice is hoarse.  As I head into the last cul de sac, I hear footsteps behind me.

A cop shines a bright flashlight beam into my face.  What does he see?  A crazed woman with a tearstained face, uncombed hair and a crumbling Milk-Bone in her hand. 

“Have you been drinking, ma’am?”

“No!  I’m the one who called…the man was in my condo…my dog chased him out here…now she’s lost.”

“Let’s calm down ma’am.  Let’s go back to your condo and sort this out.”  He reaches for my elbow, but I shake him off.

“I have to find my dog.  She’s lost out here.  Ethel!”

The cop shines his flashlight into the underbrush.  Two eyes glow.

“Ethel!”

A fat raccoon waddles out, looks at us with contempt, and slithers into a storm drain.  Hot tears well in my eyes.  Ethel is out here somewhere, with wild animals.  She doesn’t know how to protect herself.  She doesn’t know how to find food.  She’ll see a chipmunk and chase it right into the path of a speeding car, I know she will.  Oh, Ethel!

“Call animal control in the morning,” the cop says.  “Put up a few flyers.  I’m sure she’ll turn up.”  He takes my arm firmly and reports via radio that he’s found me.

The thought of Ethel’s smiling face on a Lost Dog poster completely unhinges me.  No one ever looks for the dogs on those things.  Ethel will wander onto Route 80 and be flattened by a semi.  She’ll starve and her collar will fall off and she’ll wind up in the pound and they’ll send her to the gas chamber.  I’ll never find her.

“Ma’am, let’s—”

“No!”  I start running, calling frantically for Ethel.  Up ahead, three men are coming toward me.  One is very big.  I stop, too frightened to go forward, too panicked to go back.  I put my arms over my head and sink to the ground.

Moments later, a hand is pulling me up and a familiar voice speaks.  “Are you all right, Ms. Nealon?  We need you to come inside so we can get your statement.”

I open my eyes.  It’s Detective Farrand.  The big guy with him is Coughlin.  “My dog…”

“The patrolmen will look for Ethel, Audrey,” Coughlin pulls out his phone.  “I’m calling the animal control officer myself, right now.”

I listen as Coughlin reports Ethel missing, then numbly, I let them guide me back home. The entire Palmyrton police department and ambulance squad is in my condo filling every square inch with squawking radios, crime scene paraphernalia and first aid tool boxes.  I’m pushed along like a can on the conveyer belt at the supermarket.  First the EMT examines me, then Farrand questions me, then someone takes my fingerprints,  then Coughlin questions me. I keep asking each one if he knows who this drug dealer is, but none of them will give me a straight answer.  Through it all, my front door opens and shuts, admitting more cops.  Each time my head springs up, hoping someone is bringing Ethel home. Each time I’m disappointed.

I see Coughlin and Farrand talking to each other, then Farrand shrugs and Coughlin wags his finger, and they both come to talk to me again.

Coughlin leads off. “Audrey, there’s no sign of forced entry anywhere in the apartment.  Your windows are all locked; you’ve got deadbolts on both doors.”

I spring up from my chair.  “What are you saying?  You think I let this guy in?  That it’s someone I know and I’m lying to you?”

Farrand ignores this outburst and gestures me back into my seat. “Tell me again about the trick-or-treaters.  Did you lock the front door after each visit?”

“No, I was answering the door pretty steadily there for a while.  I shut it, but left it unlocked.”

“So someone could have slipped in between kids and hidden in the front closet,” Farrand says. 

“No, Ethel would’ve barked.”  Then I run my fingers through my hair.  “Well, maybe—she was barking off and on all night.  But if he was in the closet all along, why did he wait until I went out and came back to attack me?”

Coughlin looks pointedly at Farrand, as if that’s the point he’s been trying to make all along.  “Audrey, I think this guy may have the key to your condo.  Did you change your locks after the first attack?”

“No, but he didn’t take my keys.  They were in my pocket, and at the hospital, they gave them to you, right?”

Coughlin nods.  “They were in an evidence locker until I returned them to you when you left the hospital. Who else has a key to your place?”

“Jill, because she watches Ethel for me if I’m away.  And my dad.”

“Griggs could’ve gotten access to the key though Jill.” Coughlin says this as a statement, not a question.

I’m tired of arguing on this point.  Who the hell knows—maybe Coughlin is right.  “Yes.”

“Your father is in a nursing home, correct?” Farrand says.

“Yes.  He doesn’t have my key with him there.  It’s at his house.  He keeps it—”

I picture it clearly.  My key is attached to a red plastic keychain, the kind you can label.  My father has written “Audrey’s Condo” on the tab in his perfect printing.  It hangs on a hook in the mudroom. 

“—keeps it on a hook by the back door.  With my name on it. I don’t know if it’s still there.”

Coughlin leans forward.  “Who has access to his house?”

I tick off the names on my fingers. “Ty, Jill, Isabelle Trent, the real estate agent, and maybe a guy named Brian Bascomb who visits my father at the nursing home.  “And,”  I look at Farrand, “whoever broke into my dad’s house and took the yearbook and the file folder.”

The EMT returns, demanding to take my blood pressure one more time, while Coughlin and Farrand retreat to the front hall for more talk.

“Coming back to normal,” the EMT says, “but you really shouldn’t be alone. Is there someone you can call to come stay with you?”

Is there?  I can’t very well call Lydia at 2AM and ask her to leave her baby to come tend to me.  I guess I could call Jill, but she’s so jumpy and excitable that we’d both be awake all night long.  And I’d have to tell her about Ethel.  I can’t face that.  I shake my head.

“A guy friend,” the EMT persists.  “You know, so you’d feel a little safer.”

Cal.  Could I call Cal in the middle of the night to say I need him?  Can I wake Cal up and say I know you’re tired from campaigning all day but can you drop everything and come and protect me? 

No.

“I don’t want to bother anyone,” I say, but I’m terrified.  I can’t stay here if this creep has my key.

Eventually the EMT finishes and a few more cops filter out with him.  That leaves Coughlin and two other cops, huddled in my livingroom.

All I want to do is have a stiff drink and take hot shower to finally scrub away the smell of sweat and cigarettes and overpowering cologne that still clings to me. 

“I’m going to take a shower,”  I announce.  When I come out of the bathroom, Coughlin is sitting on my sofa.

“Thanks for waiting.  Maybe I should stay at a hotel tonight, until I can get the locks changed.”

He doesn’t move.

“You can’t sit here all night.”

Coughlin glances my way, as if he’s barely aware that I’ve spoken.

Outside, a car door slams.  I jump and clutch my chest like an actor in a spaghetti western who’s milking his big death scene.  Coughlin says nothing, just extends his hand.

Suddenly the fight goes out of me.  I’m tired and scared and lonely and heartbroken.  I sink onto the sofa, horrified to feel hot tears welling in my eyes.  I rest my head on his massive chest.  He smells plain and clean: Tide, Dial, Colgate.  Under his shirt his heart gives powerful, slow beats.  I let my breathing synchronize with his.

I’ll just rest for a minute.

When my eyes next open, sun is streaming through my livingroom window and the scent of fresh coffee hangs in the air.  I rotate my stiff neck.  Why did I sleep on the sofa?  I catch sight of the clock on the cable box: 8:30.  Ethel will be—

Ethel. 

Despair rushes back to claim me.  But maybe she came back during the night.  Maybe she’s on the front porch, waiting to come in.

Staggering up from the sofa, I notice a crushed cushion on the chair next to me.  I see the full coffeepot on the kitchen island. Coughlin stayed here all night?  I can’t believe it.  I open my mouth to call out, but suddenly I’m shy.  What do I call a man who held me when I was frightened, who spent the night watching over me in an uncomfortable chair, who made me coffee?

Detective?  Sean?

I run to the door to look for Ethel.  Instead, I see Coughlin unlocking his car.    He looks up and offers a mock salute, then gets in his car and drives off.

Last night’s clouds have blown away, and every tree and bush and car is outlined in the bright, hard sunlight.  The street is empty. Ethel is gone.

I cry and cry. No one hears.