Another Man's Treasure (a romantic thriller) (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 1) (26 page)

“I’m sorry.  Did I startle you?” 

I know this woman, know her well, but she has nothing to do with my father, this house, estate sales.  And for a moment her disconnection from this part of my life drives her name right out of my mind.  I stare, silent.

“Are you all right, dear?”

Her voice restores my memory.  “Anne.  What are you doing here?”

She offers me a Mona Lisa-ish smile.  “I thought I’d come and look around one last time.  I’m glad I did.  Sometimes the line between pleasure and pain is a rather fine one, wouldn’t you say?”

What’s gotten into her?  She looks dreamy and distant, not at all the sensible, brisk Anne I’ve come to know.

“How did you get in?” I ask.  “And where’s Jill?”

“She couldn’t wait.  I told her I’d show you the things she was concerned about discarding.” 

“But how did you know I would—”

Wincing, Anne lowers herself to sit on the steps.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“There’s something I have to tell you, dear.  I’ve been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.”  Anne keeps talking over my gasp.  “I’ve known for a while.  I told the doctor I didn’t want chemo—what’s the point, a few lousy extra weeks of illness?  I’d rather enjoy the time I’ve got left.  I was hoping to not have to tell Spencer until after the election, but—”

“Wait!  Spencer doesn’t know?”

“He wouldn’t have run for governor if he had known, so I decided not to tell him.  He’s so oblivious, I doubted he’d figure it out.  But last night I had to tell him. My wedding ring slid right off my finger into the spaghetti carbonara—I haven’t been this thin since I finished breastfeeding Abby.”  She smiles slightly.  “Finally a diet that works for me.”

“Anne, you can’t just give up without a fight!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say I’ve lost my will to fight.  I’ve just redirected it.” 

I’m about to ask her what she means when I hear something upstairs.  Not a voice,  more a crackling sound.  “What’s that?  Is someone else up there?”

“I noticed the sound myself. Perhaps you should check, dear.  That’s what I was doing when you got here.”  Anne slides over to let me climb past her. 

I reach the landing, where the staircase makes a ninety degree turn.  Now I can see a light haze of smoke snaking through the upstairs hall. 

The candles!  Jill’s damn scented candles must have ignited something up here.  The curtains, maybe, or a lampshade.

“It’s a fire!” I shout to Anne as I race up the remaining steps.  “Call 911.” 

Dad’s room and mine are fine—the smoke is pouring out of the little office at the end of the hall.  I run there to see what I can do.  The cloud of smoke thickens, enveloping me.  Gray, choking smoke, reeking of melted plastic, invades my eyes, my mouth, my lungs.  In an instant, I’m blinded.

A hand touches my arm.  I shriek.

“It’s spreading.”

My heart rate steadies.  It’s only Anne.  Her voice is so calm.

“I’ve called the fire department,” she says.  “But we might be able to contain it.  Throw some water on it…fill up the wastepaper can from the bathroom, maybe?”

“Good idea.  I’ll do it—you go down and wait for the firemen.”  Anne retreats to the far end of the hall while I fill the can with water.  The air in the bathroom is fresher, and I take some deep breaths before crossing the hall.  Maybe I shouldn’t mess with this, but if the fire is small, shouldn’t I try to put it out?

I step into the room with my can of water, looking for the flames.  Thick and black, the smoke has erased the outlines of the desk, computer, bookcase that I know are here. The smell is strongly chemical—the plastic housing of the computer and printer melting into oblivion.  I notice a few tongues of orange near the window.  Can I toss the water that far?  I edge closer and throw.  Behind me I hear a click. I glance over my shoulder.  It’s too smoky to see, but I sense a presence nearby. Who’s upstairs with me?

Frozen by panic, I stand there breathing in the fumes that will kill me, still clutching the can of water.  Then some primal instinct kicks in and I sink to the floor.

Down here it feels cooler, the air cleaner.  I take a few breaths and my mind clears.  Right, you’re supposed to stay low in a fire. Now I understand why.  Thinking that I could extinguish this myself was crazy—I need to get out of here fast.  I turn to crawl toward the door.

I can see my hands on the floor, nothing else.  The panic rises again.  Did I turn around when I got in here?  Is the door in front of me or behind me?  I feel my eyelids straining, as if by stretching my eyes open I can will them to admit light.  To see.  Instead, I stare into a void.

I reach out, groping for the wall.  Once I find it, I can work my way along to the door.  My stretched fingertips anticipate the smooth, hard surface of plaster; they encounter something warm and yielding.  I recoil with a stifled scream.  Someone’s in this room with me.

A hand, strong but not rough, grips my right wrist.    I flounder with my left hand until I feel hair, a smooth bob.  “Anne?  Why did you follow me in here?  We’ve got to get out.”

I move forward, but she doesn’t yield.  “Anne, come on—back up!  The door’s right behind us.”  Every word costs me, smoke searing my throat. 

“No, dear.  We’re staying right here.  It’s important they find our bodies together.”

Find our bodies?  Is that really what she said?  There’s no time to consider her meaning.  Heat scorches my back; smoke burns me from within.  Instinct drives me forward. I push away from Anne, scrabbling for the door.  She’s still latched on to my right wrist.  Her weight pulls me down and we’re rolling on the floor like puppies.  She splays herself on top of me pushing what little breath I had out of my lungs.

I’m pinned, too stunned to struggle.

“That’s better,” she murmurs in my ear as if she’s comforting a feverish grandchild.  “It won’t take long.”  Her grip on my wrist lessens.

Cancer or no cancer, Anne’s a good fifty pounds heavier than I.  But I’m in better shape.  When I feel her relax, I tense my body and surge upward.  Surprised, she rolls off me.

I lunge in what I think is the direction of the door and mercifully feel its raised panels.  I drag myself up, groping for the doorknob.  Anne grabs my ankle and pulls me down.

Dizzy, frantic, burning within and without, I kick back viciously.  I hear her sharp cry of pain and I’m free, tumbling through the door into the blessed coolness of the hall.

My relief is so great, I take a huge gulp of air, then collapse coughing.  Everything is relative.  The air out here is clearer, but still plenty smoky.  I have to keep moving, get away.  I stumble forward and crash into a wall.

Panic moves in now, displacing reason like water displaces air. Think, think. 

If the office is on the right hand side of the hall then I must have to turn left to get to the stairs.  Despite the headache lacerating my brain, I pivot and stride forward.  Right into Anne’s arms.

Locked together, we sway like inept ballroom dancers. 

“Anne, please—we’ve got to get out of here.”  I still can’t get my head around the idea that she means to harm me. 

“You’re just like your mother,” Anne wheezes in my ear.   “She never knew when to stop, never could leave well enough alone.”  She pushes me a step closer to the burning room.  “Had to destroy my family.  Now you…just the same.”

“What are you talking about?”  Although our arms are locked together, I succeed in bringing my knee up between us to push her back toward the stairs.    Stalemate.  “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Dylan.  I won’t let you ruin his life.”  The words seem to give her superhuman strength.  She kicks my leg and I crumple, pulling her down on top of me.  “Family,” she whispers.  “Family is everything.”

She places her forearm across my neck and leans forward with all her weight. I buck and kick, dig my fingernails into her arm.  Anything to get the weight to lift, get the air back in my lungs.

Her lips are moving.  She’s saying something; I’m not sure what.

“Just like your mother.”

White bursts of light explode inside my head.  Anne’s voice disappears into a roar in my ears. I feel myself slipping.

I hear a pop, followed by the tinkle of shattered glass. The windows are exploding. As oxygen feeds the fire, there’s a rush of unendurable heat. The pressure on my neck lifts. The stars dissolve, replaced by orange flames.  Instinctively I roll away and discover I’m free.  I can move. 

Flames pour out of the office, consuming everything behind me.  I inhale, but nothing enters my lungs.  Scuttling like a crab, I follow the runner of carpet on the hall floor, willing my hands and knees to go on even though my lungs have let them down. Anne has left my mind—all I can think of is oxygen.  One more step, one more. I’m outside my body, cheering it on.  I reach out my hand to feel the next stretch of carpet, but touch only air.  Too late to warn the knees.  I’ve found the stairs, and I’m tumbling down them.

Smooth, cool fingers stroke my hand.  I snatch it away.

My eyelids feel as big as donuts and all I can see are two thin slivers of light. “Anne?  Where’s Anne?”  The words croak out of my swollen lips.

A familiar voice speaks.  “Ssshh.  It’s all right baby.  You don’t have to talk until you’re ready.”

My brain works to process these words.  “Cal?”

“Yes, baby, it’s me.”  My hand is picked up again.  “How do you feel?  Is it hard to talk?”

“Where’s Anne?” My voice is so hoarse that the words seem to come from another source.

Long silence.  “Audrey, honey, uh, I’m afraid…afraid she didn’t make it.  But don’t bla—”

“She tried to kill me.”

He stops stroking my hand.  “Baby, baby—the fire was an accident.”

“She set it and she tried to trap me in the house with her.” 

I hear Cal stand up.  “Look, honey—you’re injured, you’re on painkillers, there’s no need to talk about this now.  Just rest. ”

I feel him leaning over me.  His lips graze the top of my head.  I turn away.

“I’ll see you  tomorrow…”  His footsteps click away.

“I’m glad she’s dead,” I whisper to the wall.

The next time I wake up, my eyelids have shrunk to the size of ravioli and I can detect motion as well as light through the marginally bigger slit.  Once again, someone’s got my hand.  Once again, I pull it away.

“Sorry.  How ya doin’?”

My hand retains the impression of the fingers that touched it.  Big. Calloused.  Coughlin.

“Not too good.”  My throat is raw.  Every word I speak costs me dearly. “Guess I should’ve listened to you.” 

“I knew you wouldn’t. That’s why I sent a patrol car over there as soon as I could.  Guys broke down the front door when they saw the flames.  Found you at the bottom of the stairs and pulled you out.  A minute later the upstairs caved in. No one could’ve saved Anne Finneran.”

“She tried to kill me.”

Unlike Cal, Coughlin accepts this news without comment.  I sense his bulk in the chair beside my bed, waiting, attuned.

But I want to know one thing before I tell him my story.  “Who were you chasing?  Ty or Mondel Johnson?”

“Neither.  Mondel Johnson has nothing to do with what happened to you.  I was after Dylan Finneran, although I didn’t know it at the time.  The guy who attacked you was his supplier, a pill dealer named Frank Zegna.  He rolled on the kid, but he just knew him by a street name. Dylan was quite the little entrepreneur--half the teenagers in Palmyrton were his customers.  Kept ‘em juiced on E, painkillers, Adderall.”

“But not weed or coke.”

Coughlin shakes his head.  “No one-stop shopping.  That corner of the market is controlled by Mondel Johnson, and his boss, Nichols.”

“So the pills in Mrs. Szabo’s kitchen belonged to Dylan?”

Coughlin raises his eyebrows.  “Farrand told me Tremaine found those pills before you ever came on the scene.  Why did you feel you had to lie about that?”

I smile weakly. “Complicated.  I promise I’ll tell you everything.  But finish telling me about Dylan first.”

“The Ecstasy must’ve belonged to Dylan.  I think he tried to double-cross Zegna by telling him you took the E, which is why Zegna came after you in the parking garage and at your condo.  Not that Dylan’s admitting any of this. He’s got the best defense team since OJ Simpson.  But we had enough on him to search his room and seize his computer.  One thing it shows was he was monitoring estate sales.  I figure he used different empty houses to hide his product.  The average dumb kid keeps it in his sock drawer until mom goes on a cleaning binge and he’s busted.”

“Finneran grandchildren are all above average.”  I turn my head toward Coughlin but the tube pumping oxygen into my lungs restricts my movement.  All I can glimpse is a field of blue, the shirt covering his massive chest.  “Anne thought I wanted to harm Dylan, destroy her family.  I—”  I start to cough, can’t go on.

“We have a lot of work to do to build our case. We may never get forensic evidence to prove Anne set the fire and tried to trap you, but your testimony will be vital to prosecute Dylan, Audrey.  You discovered the pills.  You told Tremaine about them.  You got attacked by Zegna.  You’re the one who links Dylan Finneran to a violent drug dealer.  Without your testimony, they could get this hushed up as a youthful indiscretion.”

I think of all the other things Anne knew that linked me to Dylan, things that Cal told her about.  How I found him smoking weed the night of the birthday party, how I caught him shoplifting at the Reicker sale.  He must’ve been collecting another one of his hidden stashes that day.  I’ll tell all this to Coughlin, but not right now.  I don’t have the strength.  But I understand now what Anne meant when she told me she hadn’t given up but was just redirecting her fight.  She was dying anyway, and if she could save Spencer’s election and keep Dylan out of jail by going a few months early, and taking me with her….  But she failed.  I’m alive.

“I’ll testify,” I whisper to Coughlin.

“Good. Even the next governor of New Jersey could have a hard time covering up two counts of attempted murder.”

I’ve lost track of what day it is.  “The election?” I ask.

“Finneran won.”

I close my eyes and take as deep a breath as my damaged lungs will hold.  All Cal’s hard work has paid off.  Spencer Finneran is the new governor of New Jersey and Cal will be his chief of staff.  At least someone’s fondest wish has come true. I’m happy for Cal, even if he doesn’t believe Anne tried to kill me.  It would be nice to congratulate him.

“So listen, Audrey,” Coughlin starts up again.  “The press is all over this.  There are reporters camped outside the hospital.  But you need to keep quiet until we get our ducks in a row, all right?  No talking to reporters, or to anyone in the Finneran family…or their representatives.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?

“Tremaine.  Keep your distance.”

I struggle to sit up straight so I feel more in control.  The tube forcing oxygen in my nose slips out, and Coughlin leans over to readjust it.

“Easy, there.”

His hands are surprisingly gentle, but I bat them away.  “You’re telling me I can’t talk to my—  Can’t talk to Cal?”

A ripple of emotion passes across his normally implacable face.  “I’m telling you the hospital’s the safest place for you. Turn away all visitors.  I’ll post an officer at your door.”

“I hate the hospital, I wanna go home.” Coughlin’s commanding tone instantly gets my hackles up.  Physically, he couldn’t be less like my father: hulking not wiry, fair not dark, blue-eyed not brown.  But somehow Coughlin manages to push exactly the same buttons as dear old Dad.  There’s the same insistance that he knows best; the same infuriating refusal to trust my judgment. “You have no right to imprison me here, or dictate who I can and can’t see.”

  “I’m just telling you, Tremaine is loyal to one person, and that’s Spencer Finneran. Watch your back.”

“You’re just—”  I was about to say jealous, but I bite the word back.  This has nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with control.   I try to put some calm authority into my wheezing voice. “You were wrong about Ty and you’re wrong about Cal.”

We glare at each other until Coughlin lifts his hands in surrender and stands to go.

Strangely, I feel a stab of remorse. I’m being petulant.  Coughlin acts like a hovering helicopter mom; I act like a defiant brat. “Sean, wait—,” I say as he reaches the door.  But my voice is too weak.  He heads off down the hall.