Garage Sale Stalker (Garage Sale Mysteries) (5 page)

CHAPTER 7

D
elighted that Dylan’s
family
stayed on after her party, Jennifer marveled at how quickly their three-day visit sped by. She still felt the damp farewell kisses from little Asa, Christopher, Ethan and Gabe. Such cute little Grands! But after their noise and energy, returning to quiet, normal routines also had definite rewards. Win-win, Jennifer thought.

When the phone rang, she rushed from folding sheets in the laundry room to get the call before the answering machine kicked in. “Hello,” she said.

“Jennifer Shannon?” a male voice asked and when she acknowledged that she was, he continued, “This is Ronnie Williams over at Forensic Labs. Remember me?”

“Of course I do! How could anyone work at the lab for three years and not remember you, Ronnie? What’s new?”

“Pretty much the same except Heather, who we hired when you left, must start maternity leave next week… sooner than expected, doctor’s orders. So, we wonder if you might like to temp for her during the two months she’s gone. Returning short term might fit your schedule and since you already know the business office routine, we wouldn’t have to train someone new. What do you think?”

Jennifer mused, “Interesting, Ronnie. You know I left only because I didn’t want full time work any more. How many days a week?”

“We could probably get by with four because, if I remember, you work like a house afire!”

She laughed, “ Well, I like keeping busy! Four days a week for two months sounds possible.”

They discussed salary and recent office chatter about other employees she knew. “This is a tentative ‘yes’ but I want to discuss it with Jason first. I’ll call you back within the hour! And Ronnie, thanks for thinking of me for this job!”

“Jennifer, I’m always thinking about you!”

“You’re incorrigible!”

“I try to be.”

How pleasant! She warmed to the idea of working again in the lab’s business office—a stimulating environment, pleasant staff, extra income for her garage sale mischief and… how nice to be wanted back. Ronnie, the office manager, hadn’t changed a bit: still flirty but in the nice way, not the harassment way.

Jason encouraged her to do what she wanted, so she and Ronnie decided she’d start on Monday.

Smiling at this unexpected surprise, Jennifer poured a cup of coffee and sank into a chair in the quiet kitchen. Realizing she hadn’t looked at the morning newspaper, she opened the
Washing
ton Post.
A few pages inside the first section, an article immediately drew her attention: a burglary in nearby McLean Hunt. She attended a sale in that neighborhood just a week ago and something about the address looked familiar!

On impulse, she found her garage sale notebook, flipped pages until she located the McLean Hunt sale and compared the house number to the newspaper information. An exact match! She cut out and dated the newspaper article. Didn’t Jason mention a robbery in Woodlea Hills last Saturday when she returned from sales with the soup tureen? Rushing to the newspapers stacked in her garage for recycling, she pulled out the previous weekend’s
Washington Post
and
Times
.

Paging through, she found Jason’s article and checked it against addresses from the last few weeks in her notebook. Comparing the Woodlea Hills address in the paper to her notebook, she couldn’t believe it: another match!

The newspapers in her garage went back about a month. Dragging them inside, she began with recent dates, looking for a very specific type of news article. When she glanced at the clock, an hour had passed. Unsuccessfully comparing several more articles with notebook entries, she cursed herself for a waste of time and was about to stop when she found yet another match.

How many incidents form a pattern? Three surely defied random coincidence. Her mind raced as snippets of TV police dramas came to mind where crimes were examined for—what was it?—method-motive-and-opportunity. So if the motive was stealing, and the method involved something happening at a garage sale, that left only opportunity.

Carefully marking the three targeted pages in her notebook, she wondered what commonality might link these entries with the crimes. All upscale neighborhoods offered promising pickings for a greedy thief. Two of the ads described moving sales. The third, an estate sale, must have been run by an amateur because professional groups typically put their company name in the ad.

Trying to match specific sales with the newspaper addresses was daunting because she visited so many. Would a drive through those neighborhoods refresh her memory? Grabbing the newspaper articles and her notebook, she jumped into her car and sped off on her mission. An hour later, she walked into the McLean Police Station on Balls Hill Road.

CHAPTER 8

J
ennifer entered the police
station for the very first time. Talk about a sheltered life! Once inside, she spoke to the uniformed policeman behind the glass reception window. “Hello, there! I think I may have some information about the recent string of residential robberies in McLean and surrounding area. May I speak with the person working those cases?”

“That would be Detective Adam Iverson,” he explained pleasantly. “May I have your name, please?”

She told him.

“Have a seat and I’ll see if he’s available.”

Should she have discussed this with Jason rather than acting on her impetuous decision to rush over here? If her information seemed less logical to the police than to her, how foolish she’d look and feel!

She hardly sat down in the empty waiting room when a pleasant-looking young man dressed in street clothes strode in. “Mrs. Shannon? I’m Adam Iverson.”

Grabbing her purse and notebook, she shook his offered hand. He looked maybe thirtyish, about the age of some of her children. Though only half her age, this policeman doubtless saw more violence and the seamy human behavior in his years on the force than she in her entire sixty years. Bless these guys for what they do, she thought with gratitude and respect.

His hazel eyes, neatly combed wavy brown hair and trim civilian clothes that fit his six-foot frame created a good first impression, but it was his congenial smile that dispelled her police-station nervousness and restored her sense of purpose. He’d put her completely at ease.

“Please come on back to my office,” he invited and she followed him down the hall to his cubicle, where he indicated a chair. “Please have a seat,” he said before sitting opposite her behind his desk. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Shannon?”

“Detective, I notice you’re not in uniform like the policeman at the front desk. Why is that?”

“Detectives wear plain clothes so we don’t stand out while investigating cases. You seem pretty observant,” he added diplomatically but he would size her up as he listened. Her well-groomed appearance and sincerity appeared normal enough, but he knew that façade could hide a real fruitcake underneath. In this affluent area, some people—especially older retired ones—had too much time on their hands or felt lonely and hungered for attention. Others, who read too many mystery thrillers and spy novels, perceived sinister activity everywhere. Some already were, or bordered on, certifiable mental cases. Occasionally, an actual perp “volunteered” information to ensure his crime wasn’t overlooked or to ostensibly transform his role from “bad guy” to “good guy.”

The flip side was that police sometimes got from the public, and occasionally even requested, tips that broke stalled cases. Because of this, you had to hear each one out. Where would this older woman fall on the rating scale? Who knew?

“I hope I’m not wasting your time with this information today, but I’m naturally curious about situations and people and this concerns recent robberies described in the newspaper over the past couple of months.” Jennifer put the three newspaper clippings on his desk, which he recognized as reporters’ accounts of one group of cases keeping him guessing at the moment. “Do you know what garage sales, estate sales and moving sales are?” she asked.

Where the hell is
this
going? he wondered. Instead he said, “I’ve never actually been to one, but I think I know what they are.”

“Well, I go to lots and keep a record of them here,” she tapped the notebook in her lap. “This record goes back over a year, listing the local advertised sales I visit most weekends.”

He nodded to encourage her.

“Look at this, Detective,” she pointed to three pages marked in her notebook. “In the last month, these houses had sales followed by,” she shifted to the newspaper articles, “robberies. Seems like someone attending these sales later returned to rob the house! What do you think?”

Iverson cleared his throat. “First, let’s use the same vocabulary. To police, robbery means a crime against a person involving a weapon or threat. Burglary means a theft from a residence or business. Okay?”

“... and return later to burglarize the house,” she corrected.

He smiled approval. “Thanks. Now, may I take a closer look?” He pointed to the book on her lap.

Placing her spiral binder on his desk, she rotated it 180 degrees for him to read while she pointed as she described. “See, I typically cut out the newspaper ads describing each sale and tape them down the left side of the page. Because the print is too small to read while driving, I print the prime info just to the right of the ad in larger letters: the address, the hours of the sale surrounded by a circle and the book map coordinates surrounded by a rectangle.”

“What’s this list on the opposite page?”

“What I bought that day at those sales and how much it cost.”

“Is this some sort of code after each purchase?”

She laughed, “I can see why you’d think that. If the item is for a particular person, I write the name after it. If it’s for a room at home I put LR for living room, K for kitchen and so on.”

“What are EB, SS and UTPG?”

“Easter Baskets, Stocking Stuffers and Under-the-Pillow-Gifts,” Jennifer explained.

“Under-the-pillow-gifts?”

“If any of my ten grandchildren spend the night at my house, they get an under-the-pillow-gift.”

“Must be nice to be your grandchild.” The detective turned back to the notebook. “Now which sales match the burglaries?”

She showed him and he verified their connection. Surprised at this new possibility for cases so far going nowhere, he felt genuine interest. “I think we should check this out.”

“There’s more! These sales attract a few Regulars—I call them that because they regularly visit this area’s weekend sales—and any one of them potentially might be the thief.”

“But you’re a Regular so you could be the thief yourself.”

She snorted with disdain at the very idea before realizing he had a valid point. “Of course, you’re right! I’m not suggesting that every Regular
is
guilty… perhaps none or perhaps just one… but if so, which one? If not them, who would fit such coincidences?”

“I don’t believe much in coincidence,” the detective said.

“Then how should we proceed?” she asked.

He leaned forward at his desk. “These sales are on weekends, right?” She nodded. “Then why don’t I come to your house in my own car? I follow you on your rounds that morning. You point out these Regulars. I see the cars they return to and run those license plates. That tells me who they are and if they have a rap sheet. Could I copy your notebook pages for the last few months? I’ll compare the sale addresses against our crime reports for more possible matches.”

“Please do! If you follow the newspaper trail, you should know their ads for these kinds of sales aren’t necessarily under one heading in the classifieds.”

“What does that mean exactly?” the detective asked.

“Some are listed under ‘Estate Sales,’ some under ‘Moving Sales,’ or ‘Household Goods’ or ‘Garage Sales.’ The rob... that is,” she corrected, “burglary connection could surface under any of those headings. You might want to check the
Washington Time
s
as well as the
Pos
t
.” Then frowning, she remembered, “I almost forgot, this Saturday my daughters are holding a garage sale at my own house. But wait, they won’t need me for that, so we can still follow your plan.”

“Here, please write down your address and phone number and what time should I arrive on Saturday?”

She did. “I get an early start so please be there by 8 a.m. or I’ll already be under way!”

“Not a problem, Ma’am. And thank you for coming in with your information.”

“You’re welcome. Nice to meet you, Detective Iverson,” she smiled and shook his hand before leaving the office. “See you Saturday,” she called over her shoulder.

The detective knew police don’t routinely release to newspapers the addresses of victims of burglaries, but in this situation increased protection from the Neighborhood Watch’s high alert justified the temporary decision to do so. If Mrs. Shannon’s tip resulted from that choice, it was a good one.

After she left, he ran her name through his computer. With the only blemish a speeding ticket four years ago, he viewed her police record as a virtual zero. Next, he flipped through his Rolodex, picked up the phone and dialed his contact at
The Washington Post
to get a list of their relevant ads for the last six months.
The Washington Times
would be next.

CHAPTER 9

T
he daughters masterminding
the
Saturday garage sale in the Shannon driveway stayed overnight on Friday, ready for a very early start the next morning. Up at 6:30 a.m., they wolfed down breakfast and bustled to their pre-sale tasks. Earlier, Jennifer priced her own contributions for the sale, items the girls promised to peddle in her absence.

She told her family about her visit to the police station, so when Detective Iverson rang the doorbell at 7:45 a.m. and introduced himself, Jason promptly invited him inside.

“Some news,” the detective volunteered when Jennifer joined them in the foyer. “We found two more hits from those notebook pages of yours that we copied. This looks like a connection we hadn’t considered until you pointed it out. Good work!”

“The same to you for following through,” she said. “You don’t waste much time, do you?”

“I try not to, Ma’am. I see a sale set up in your driveway. Could that be my first garage sale experience?”

She glanced at her watch. This meant getting a late start for the other sales, but catching a real criminal overrode catching a first look. “Of course,” she agreed. “Good idea!”

Iverson cautioned, “Outdoors let’s not say much about why I’m here. A garage sale is a public place. I assume your family already knows about me but we don’t know who else might be listening. Maybe the very person we’re trying to find… or one of his associates.”

Jennifer nodded understanding. Walking the detective along the driveway’s merchandise-covered tables, she introduced him to her daughters. They hurried about putting final touches on their displays, erecting signs at the head of the cul-de-sac, moving attention-getting furniture toward the front sidewalk and arranging a jewelry display on the “check out” table. But the novelty of a detective on the premises distracted them from their work long enough to make him feel welcome. Before they could object, he graciously moved several pieces of furniture for them and was rewarded with a donut in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other.

Though scheduled to begin at 9 a.m., these sales invariably drew early-birds, who began arriving today at 7 a.m.. Jennifer knew dealers often scoured better neighborhoods for under-priced antiques and “collectibles” to resell in their stores at healthy markups. Besides professional or amateur antique hunters, other early-birds typically searched for certain specifics: military paraphernalia, cameras, certain kinds of glassware or china, old books or records, photography equipment, tools, postcards, cigar boxes or whatever fueled their passion.

Jennifer handed the detective a copy of her proposed morning “itinerary,” grouping prospective sales by neighborhood and numbered in the order she expected to reach them. When Hannah returned from positioning signs at nearby intersections and pulled her mother aside briefly to whisper in her ear, Jennifer answered, “I don’t know. Let’s find out.”

Walking to where Iverson stood by his car, Jennifer said, “Um, two more things, Detective. First, if we stumble upon an Unadvertised Special not already on my list, I may stop rather suddenly, so please watch my turn signals.”

“Ma’am, I’m a cop! I have a pretty fair idea how to follow a car. And what’s second?”

“One of my daughters asks to ride along with me today,” and as the 20-year-old girl approached them, Jennifer said, “Hannah, this is Detective Iverson.”

“Hello, Hannah!” He stared with immediate interest at the brown-eyed girl with shoulder-length hair almost the same honey-color as her mother’s. This daughter wasn’t in the driveway earlier with the others. Thinking fast, Adam said, “How would you like to improve my cover today by riding to the first sale in my car?”

“Well, I…I guess that’s okay,” she agreed somewhat reluctantly, and he helped her into his car.

No, Jennifer thought as she climbed into her own van. No, he doesn’t waste much time!

***

Ten minutes later, after both their cars parked at the first sale on the list, Jennifer strolled up the driveway, chatty as usual. “Hello,” she began, “You’re so well organized; did you own a store.”

“Didn’t own one,” said the lady-seller, “but I spent
many
years working retail.”

“Oh? Where?”

“Penney’s, Sears and Montgomery Ward. My husband was in the service so I stuck with the big chains likely to have stores wherever we were stationed. That way I complemented his career with one of my own, and in the service the double income helped.”

A large black Labrador scampered excitedly around the side of the house, galloping straight for Jennifer. She froze rigid, a hand at her throat and her eyes widened in panic as they riveted upon the black streak closing in upon her.

“My god, what’s wrong?” cried Seller with obvious concern.

“I...I’m afraid of dogs,” Jennifer stammered in a high voice choked with fright. “Sorry, but… if you have the fear, it’s real.”

“Baron,” shouted Seller seconds before the dog reached Jennifer. “Into the house this
min
ute!”
The dog jerked to a stop, head hung in disappointment. With reluctance, he walked toward the opened kitchen door. He cast a last, long appraising look at Jennifer before disappearing inside.

Was it just superstition or could they smell fear?

“Forgive me,” Jennifer apologized, breathing deeply to calm herself, “but dogs are territorial and can get upset about strangers on their turf. Even the cute little ones have a full set of teeth.”

This amused Dog Owner. “My fault,” she apologized. “He shouldn’t have been out here today.”

“Thanks for your understanding!” Jennifer calmed enough to change the subject. “With the beautiful weather this morning, bet you’ve had a lot of customers.”

“You wouldn’t believe it. Our ad said 8:30 a.m. but the early birds began at 6:30 a.m.. Waking up to the chiming doorbell surprised us, but luckily we organized everything yesterday. So we just threw on our clothes and started the sale two hours early.”

“Good for you.” Jennifer glanced about for Regulars while scoping the sale merchandise.

Over the years, she’d made some amazing purchases, not just for her own house but for her family and even for friends. Once she took an “order,” success was usually only a matter of time! And they “shopped” risk-free because if they didn’t like what she brought, she fielded it later at a consignment shop or a future garage sale of her own. The four-slice toaster requested by a neighbor was such an example.

Daughter Kaela asked her to look for a room divider and here stood a four-panel folding screen in mint condition. It exactly matched Kaela’s description and price range: “natural wicker, tall and the Victorian curlicue style for $50 or less.” So handsome was it that she momentarily tried to craft a spot for it in her own house. “What’s the price for this?”

“How about $50? Actually, it’s probably one-of-a-kind. We brought it back from our tour in Hawaii and even there, I bought it at a military thrift shop for that price ten years ago.” Dog Owner ran a hand over the wicker. “It’s in perfect shape and they’re hard to find now.”

Jennifer examined the hinges and made sure the screen unfolded smoothly and stood level. Satisfied, she thought it well worth the money but remembered to bargain, especially acting as Kaela’s “broker.” “Would you take any less?”

“Not now, because I think it’s fairly priced. But you might stop back at 4 o’clock when the sale ends. If it’s still here then, I could negotiate.”

Other buyers arrived and Jennifer didn’t want to lose this screen. “You drive a hard bargain,” she smiled, “but I’ll take it. Will you please hold it for me while I look at the rest of your sale?”

Dog Owner nodded and taped a “sold” sign on the screen as Jennifer moved among the furniture and tables of doo-dads while keeping a peripheral eye out for the Regulars.

Having accompanied her mother to many past sales, Hannah schooled the detective in shopping for used items.

He asked, “Is all this second-hand stuff really usable?”

“Buyer beware.” She repeated her mother’s counsel. “Especially if it’s electric or battery operated. Don’t accept what the seller says; try it out yourself. With clothes or rugs or linens like bedspreads or table cloths, inspect every inch. For lamps and other electric appliances, cord condition is a potential safety issue unless you know how to replace it yourself.”

“Hey,” Iverson exclaimed, “I’ve always wanted one of these.” He studied a tie rack which, when screwed into the wall, held at least twenty ties. “Couldn’t belts hang on these hooks, too?”

“Why not? How much is it?”

“The tag says $2. Luckily, I’ve been saving up!” They laughed. He tucked the item under his arm and they shopped further.

“And here’s a treasure for me,” cried Hannah, picking up a book of poems.

“Do you like poetry?” he asked.

“Yes,” she read the sign over the pile of books, “especially at fifty cents a book.”

“This could become habit-forming,” he said.

“Detective Iverson…” she began.

“Please call me Adam.”

“Is that your real name or an undercover alias?”

“Nosy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, and I’m not even the detective,” she teased and they laughed again.

Jennifer hefted the folded screen toward her car. “No Regulars here.

Ready for the next sale?”

“As soon as we make our purchases,” Hannah said.

“If you get lost, remember we have cell phones to reconnect,” Jennifer said.

According to Jennifer’s notebook, the next stop on their itinerary would be an estate sale put on by professionals. She drove to this location, watching in her rearview mirror for the detective’s car to follow and realized she was somewhat annoyed not to see it behind her. After all, wasn’t this police business? Maybe he just wasn’t a very dedicated cop. Maybe he didn’t share Jennifer’s own urgency for cramming as many sales as possible into whatever time she allotted. Maybe Hannah’s banter distracted him from his professional focus.

Or maybe something else?