The Longest Yard Sale (15 page)

CHAPTER 23

On Sunday morning, I bounded down the stairs and knocked on Stella's door. She opened it, and we looked at each other's outfits. Yoga pants, zip-up hoodies, and T-shirts.

“I can drive,” I said.

“I hope you don't mind, but Dave is coming to pick us up. When I told him we were helping with a cleanup of the Rails to Trails path, he wanted to come along.”

“He's back in town?”

“I guess CJ wanted him to stay away after the last note, but Dave said he had work to do here.”

“I don't want to be a third wheel. I can meet you over there.”

“You won't be. Ride with us.”

Stella and I went outside. It was cool, and gray clouds moved across the sky as though they were on a mission. This had turned into one windy week. I fished in my pocket for an elastic band and put my hair in a ponytail. A few minutes later, Bubbles chugged around the corner in his truck. He'd finally washed it, but it wasn't much of an improvement.

“Thanks for letting me tag along,” he said, after giving Stella a quick kiss. “I've been working so many hours now that Terry's gone, I could use the fresh air.”

“How's the business going now that you're on your own?” I asked.

“I'm getting behind.”

“Sarah used to work at a financial-planning company. Maybe she could help,” Stella said.

“You did?” Bubbles asked. “Are you licensed? I could really use someone right now.”

“I only had licenses to sell insurance and mutual funds, but I let them lapse years ago. I used to enter trades and answer the phones for the most part.”

“I need someone who's licensed. Any chance you want to retake the tests?”

“Heavens no. It was bad enough the first time.” I shook my head. “I like doing the garage sales.”

“What will you do over the winter when it's too cold?” Stella asked.

“I'm not sure yet.” Thinking about it gave me the jitters. “Have you gotten any more notes, Bubbles?”

Bubbles glanced nervously at us. “No. But someone left a voice mail on my home phone. It wasn't pleasant.”

“Oh, no. What did CJ say?”

“He said he'd try to run a trace on it, but with all the burner phones out there, he didn't have much hope of finding a solid lead.”

I hoped the call would help the investigation.

We parked at the bike shop by the start of the path. A good crowd had turned out, even with the cool weather. Our assigned section was down the path, near where it met the town of Bedford's part of the trail. Bubbles slowed when we got to the burned area.

“I heard about these fires,” he said, shaking his head.

“Nancy was so freaked out over the whole thing, she wanted to hold me responsible if the football field was damaged because it happened during the community yard sale.”

“That's crazy,” Bubbles said. Then he looked at Stella. “I know she's your aunt, but that isn't right.”

“My aunt can be a pain,” Stella said.

“She disappeared in the middle of the day during the yard sale,” I said. “Any idea where she'd go?” Nancy and Stella were so different, I often forgot they were related.

“Not a clue,” she said. “Is it important?”

“Probably not,” I answered.

We arrived at the section we were supposed to clean. I took one side of the path, while Bubbles and Stella took the other. It wasn't hard work, but the amount of stuff people left behind astounded me. I picked up everything from cigarette butts to Band-Aids to water bottles. As we neared the end of our portion of the path, I spotted Seth walking toward us with a bag slung over his shoulder. Oh, no. I didn't want to introduce him to Stella and Bubbles. He hadn't spotted me yet. I turned, trying to decide whether to dodge into the woods or not.

Stella looked at me in alarm when she noticed my panic. I jerked my head toward Seth. Stella shook her head at me like I'd lost my mind. Seth looked up and smiled. It was too late to run.

I introduced Seth to Bubbles and Stella, hoping Bubbles didn't catch on to my discomfort. After everyone shook hands, I said to Seth, “It looks like you finished up your section. We aren't quite done. Nice seeing you.”

“We're done with our side,” Stella said. A mischievous look put a sparkle in her green eyes that spelled trouble for me.

“I'll stay and help you finish up,” Seth said. He looked around. There wasn't a piece of trash in sight.

“I wanted to go closer to the trees on the way back. Make sure I didn't miss anything. I don't want to hold you up.”

“You aren't. I blocked out my morning to help with the cleanup.”

Of course you did.
Then I smiled. What the heck? I enjoyed Seth's company, and it wasn't like we were doing anything we shouldn't.

“We'll start back,” Stella said. Everyone shook hands again and said their nice meeting you's.

“I'll be right behind you,” I said before walking over to the trees with another of the garbage bags they'd handed out for the jobs. The ones we'd already filled dotted the path. Someone with a golf cart would pick them up later in the morning.

Seth and I strolled along. I did find more garbage and was relieved that I didn't look like a complete idiot. My phone rang. It was Stella.

“Dave had something come up. Can you catch a ride with Mr. Most Eligible?”

“I'll be right there,” I could sprint the couple miles back to the car—in my dreams, anyway.

“Is something the matter?” Seth asked.

“We don't have time to wait,” Stella said. She sounded all too satisfied with herself. “Sorry.” She disconnected.

I stared at my phone. I didn't realize she'd added matchmaker to her resume.

“What is it?” Seth asked.

“Dave and Stella had to take off. Suddenly.”

“Great.” Seth glanced at his watch. “It's only ten-thirty. We can go out for breakfast. How about Helen's in Concord?”

Everyone loves breakfast at Helen's. People I knew ate there all the time. They'd see me with Seth. I paused and looked up at Seth. He looked hopeful. Maybe it was time to get over the “hiding Seth” phase of my life.

“Never mind,” Seth said, watching my face. “It looked like you were going to say yes, but I'll save that yes for something better than Helen's. I know this great hole-in-the-wall where no one will see us together. And they have exceptional French toast.”

Twenty minutes later, Seth pulled into his garage. He shut the garage door with the automatic opener before I got out.

“This isn't exactly a hole-in-the-wall,” I said as I climbed out.

“But no one can see you.” Seth grinned. “And I have you all to myself.”

I read the
Globe
while he cooked. Thirty minutes later, Seth put French toast, strawberries, and mimosas on the table. We ate and chatted.

“Anything new on the McQueen murder?” I asked.

“Nothing to share,” he answered.

“You said you were looking at some other angles. Anything interesting?”

“Things are always interesting in a case like this.”

“So you aren't looking at my friend Carol anymore?”

“I'm not discussing this anymore.”

I sighed. “I give up.”

“Good,” Seth said. Then he leaned over and kissed me in a way that made me almost forget who I was.

 

 

Seth dropped me off an hour later. Bubbles's truck was parked in front of Stella's house. Something came up, my foot, I thought. There was only one thing I could think of that was up that would make them leave in such a hurry. As I climbed the stairs to my apartment, I heard Stella singing. It put a little pep in my step.

After a quick shower, I crawled into the storage area under the eaves and pulled out the square-backed chair I'd found on the curb in New Hampshire. I tugged the cushion off and removed the ripped fabric that covered it. I ducked back into the storage space and dragged out a box that held assorted fabrics. Most of the stash was vintage forties material I'd bought at garage sales. But a forties fabric didn't go with the colonial feel of this chair.

I finally found a piece of blue-and-white toile. Perfect. I laid it over the cushion and cut it to the right size. I folded the fabric and used a staple gun to keep it in place. When I was done, I popped the cushion back into the chair and put the chair in the corner of my bedroom. It went well with my blue-and-white duvet cover, white curtains, and the dresser I'd painted white. As I admired my work, the phone rang.

“This is Missy Tucker.”

The woman who'd beaten Gennie in her first fight. I'd begun to think she wasn't going to call me back.

“You wanted to interview me?” she asked. “I'm out of town until late Wednesday night.”

I felt a little guilty because she sounded so excited. I'd left her with the impression I worked for the newspaper and wanted to interview her about her career. She probably wouldn't think a column on garage sales would count as working for the paper. We agreed to meet at her home in Concord on Thursday morning at ten.

 

 

Sunday night around eight, I checked eBay again for the red Michael Kors purse. It wasn't on the thrift shop eBay page yet. I realized it probably wasn't the only red Michael Kors purse out there. So I typed it into eBay's search engine. “Red Michael Kors purse” had 800 entries. I narrowed it down by typing in “shoulder bag.” I flipped through them and clicked on the one that looked like the one at the thrift shop. It had a “see more at my store” link.

I clicked it, and it took me to Groton Goods. There in all of its full-colored glory was the jewelry I'd seen on Beverly's desk at the thrift shop.

CHAPTER 24

I gasped as I studied the jewelry on the page. Although Beverly had told me it was costume, the prices and descriptions said she'd lied. The store had high ratings and reviews. I called Laura and filled her in. I waited while she pulled up the store on eBay and began cursing.

“Also, I told Beverly I'd clean out the shed, but she told me it was empty. As I left, I noticed some stuff outside. I decided to put it in the shed, and it was almost full.”

Laura huffed in disbelief. We agreed I'd pick her up and we'd go through the shed together. Twenty-five minutes later, we dragged some of the bags from the storage shed into the sorting room of the thrift shop. The first few bags we opened held an assortment of household goods—all unremarkable, but in good enough condition to sell at the shop. And blessedly clean.

“These are the bags that were left out that I stuffed in the shed before I left yesterday.”

The next bags were full of nasty clothes that needed to go to Goodwill, where they could be shredded and recycled. Laura and I exchanged a mystified look.

“Maybe we're wrong,” Laura said. “When Beverly told you the shed was empty, she knew it was just this junk.”

“I hope so. But I'm sure it was the same Michael Kors purse, and the jewelry looked like what was on her desk.”

We opened several more bags of the same.

“I'm going back out to the shed,” I said. I hefted a bunch of the bags out the door. I cleared enough space so I could drag out the bottom bags in the very back corners. After hauling the bags in, we unpacked them. I pulled out more old clothes.

“She's just storing the old stained stuff until we can get it to Goodwill,” Laura said.

I kept digging through my bag. Halfway down, I pulled out a beautiful quilt, then another and another. “These are hand-stitched,” I said to Laura, holding one up so she could see the tiny stitches. They were neat but had too much variation to have been done by a machine. “And to my eye, they're from the thirties or older.” I shook one out. “This one is made from old feed bags.” Feed bags used to be made of colorful cotton fabric on the front and burlap on the back. During the Depression, when little was wasted, women cut out the usable bits of fabric and sewed them into their quilts.

The next bag was full of old dolls, some china or bisque, a couple of Shirley Temple dolls in their original boxes. A few of the dolls looked unremarkable but must have some value given that they were in with the others. Another bag was full of designer clothes and purses in excellent condition.

“That witch,” Laura said. “When she asked if she could sell the higher-quality items on eBay, I told her only if it never left the store. It's supposed to be boxed and sealed for shipping here. Then we have UPS come pick it up—just to make sure this very thing doesn't happen.”

“Beverly told me wearing an apron without my own name tag wasn't honest. She has a very warped sense of morality.”

“I can't believe she'd steal from us. She's taking money from the people we donate to for herself. Let's drive out to her house right now and have her arrested.”

“Tempting as that idea is, we don't have a lot of proof.”

“What about the purse? And the jewelry?” Laura asked. She was as close to stomping her foot as I'd ever seen her. Usually it was hard to ruffle Laura's feathers.

“There's a chance she has another purse like it and I'm wrong about the jewelry.”

“So we're just going to let her get away with it?”

“No. We just need to set up a sting.”

Laura beamed. “Count me in. But how?”

“We'll call the base security forces and see how they can help us.”

I decided to call James, since I knew him best. We met him down at the squadron headquarters. Laura ended up calling her husband. He met us there along with the new commander of the security forces. We came up with a plan to put some wireless security cameras in and around the shed and sorting room and to plant tiny GPS tracking devices on a few of the items from the bags.

Laura and I went back to the shop. James installed the cameras while another guy attached the GPS devices. We inventoried and photographed every single item from the bags. Laura, a couple of the security officers, and I would monitor the Groton Goods store just in case she somehow got these things off the base without us realizing. By the end of the evening, Laura was smiling again and almost rubbing her hands together with glee. I dropped her back at her house.

“And now we wait,” Laura said as she climbed out of my car.

 

 

I pulled up in front of my apartment after a quick trip to Dunkin's for coffee Monday morning at nine. Across the town common, I saw a police car in front of Carol's store. Oh, no. I hoped nothing else had happened. I raced over and arrived, panting, as Carol came out of the store with Pellner. Both were grim-faced. Carol locked the store before turning to me. Pellner gripped her arm and led her to the police car.

“What's going on?” I asked.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Pellner said.

“They're arresting me for McQueen's murder,” Carol said as Pellner gently pushed her into the backseat. “They think I killed Terry and stole
Battled
.”

I tried to wedge myself between Pellner and Carol, but he turned and blocked me.

“I have a group coming in at ten. Call Olivia; maybe the two of you can run the class.”

“Of course,” I said. “Pellner, this is crazy.” He slammed the door, shutting Carol in. “She doesn't even know him.”

“Butt out,” Pellner told me as he climbed in the car.

Small clumps of people watched from various spots on the town common and sidewalk. “I'll call Vincenzo,” I shouted to Carol. “And Brad.” She nodded. Tears rolled down her face. As they drove off, I searched in my purse for Vincenzo's number. Fortunately, I still had the card he'd given me. His secretary put me through to him right away.

“I'll be at the station in a few minutes,” he assured me.

“Can't you file charges against them? They humiliated her in the middle of town.” I glanced at the small crowds stopped on the common and on the sidewalk.

“I'm guessing that might have been better for her than in front of her children.”

He was right, of course. It calmed a little of the fire burning through me.

“And they did it early enough in the day that she should still be able to be arraigned. They could have picked her up on a Friday afternoon. Then she'd have sat in jail all weekend before she saw a judge. If indeed they charge her. They might be trying to scare information out of her.”

“I'll meet you there,” I said.

“There's no need. They have nothing. I'll have her out before you know it.”

He said it with such confidence. He'd had tougher cases and defendants than Carol to deal with.

“Let her husband know what's going on. See if he needs anything.”

I hung up and dialed Brad. It's not the kind of call you want to make to a friend. It's the kind of call you had to make.

My conversation with Brad was brief. I'd barely gotten the words out when he hung up to head to the EPD. I wondered what had happened to the other angles both Seth and CJ had mentioned. And why they thought there was a connection between Terry and Carol. Next I called Olivia. She agreed to meet me, and we decided that between the two of us we could run the class.

By the time Olivia arrived, I'd set up all the easels and put out the painting supplies. Carol had already set up the picture the group had chosen to paint, a modern-looking tree. Olivia thought she could handle the instructions and even seemed excited about doing so.

“I'm going to go clean up the storage area while we wait,” Olivia said. “I promised Carol I'd do it. I really feel bad for her.”

“Because you've been in trouble before?” I asked.

“Because I know how it feels to be accused of doing something you didn't do.” She wheeled around and hurried to the back.

I followed her even though her body language clearly said “leave me alone.”

“How's Jett?”

Olivia sighed and got a dreamy look on her face. “He's my soul mate.”

I wanted to laugh or to warn her. It's exactly what I'd thought when I'd met CJ, and I was probably a few years younger than her at the time. I no longer believed in soul mates, but maybe I could at least get her thinking about life. “Why do you think that?” I kept my voice light and friendly.

Olivia moved around Paint and Wine's small back storage space. She shoved the boxes of frames Carol had bought at the yard sale to one side, along with a couple of easels. A smile spread across her face as she started putting tubes of paint away. “He's a great kisser.”

CJ had been, too.

“He has a lot of cars. Hot, fast cars,” Olivia said. “And he's a real good driver.”

CJ had only had one car and a clunker at that—a real one, not a Mercedes. But he'd been a good driver. Not that I'd put that attribute all that high on my list of qualities I wanted in a man. Now that I thought about it, I'd never made a list of qualities. Maybe I should have.

“He sings like an angel.”

“He does?”

“It's how we met. On karaoke night at Gillganins.”

“Do you sing, too?”

“A little,” she said.

“How does he afford the cars?” I asked.

“I don't know. I guess his dad. He's loaded.” She looked me over. We heard people coming in the front door. “I have to get back to work.” She tossed her hair and headed back to the front of the store. Game over.

I thought about the cars. Maybe the DiNapolis would know something about them.

 

 

At two forty-five someone knocked on my door. I hoped it was Carol and yanked open the door. Lindsay Murphy, my former neighbor, fell into my arms, crying.

“Miss Sarah,” she sobbed. I pulled her in, and we settled on the couch.

“What's going on?” I asked. “Is your dad okay?” Lindsay's father was deployed.

She looked up from a curtain of hair dyed black with blue streaks. “It's my mother. I'm done with her,” Lindsay said between gasping breaths. Lindsay had lived down the street from CJ and me when we lived on Fitch. She'd taken to dropping by. I liked to think I was a cool aunt type. I'd listen to her problems without freaking out or being too judgmental, at least not in front of her. Lindsay's mom and I knew each other and had been to some social gatherings together, but we weren't close.

“How did you get here?” I asked.

“I walked here after school instead of taking the bus home.”

“Your mom's going to be worried. You need to call her and let her know you're here.”

“Nooo,” Lindsay wailed. “She'll make me leave. I'm not going back.”

“I'll call her then. You can't stay if she's worrying about where you are.”

Lindsay crossed her arms and looked down. I called her mom and explained the situation. “Just let her stay here with me for a little while,” I said. “Until she's calmed down. Then I'll bring her home.” It took some convincing, but Lindsay's mom finally agreed. I turned back to Lindsay.

“What's going on?” Although Lindsay said the problem was with her mom, I suspected her father going on his fourth deployment to Afghanistan played a role. The pace of deployments took a toll on all members of a military family. Way too often, the kids were the ones who suffered. And most of the time, instead of being able to talk it out, they acted out.

Lindsay poured out a torrent of wrongs, which included not getting to use the car when she wanted, having to watch her younger brother all the time, and having to study too much. “I called her this afternoon to ask about going to a party Friday night in Ellington. Mom said no before she heard the details.” Lindsay brushed tears from her cheeks. “If my dad was here, she'd be nicer to me.”

Most of it was typical teenager complaints. But I knew there was probably more behind this—a dad in danger, a worried mom with more on her plate than she should, and a stigma about getting counseling that still pervaded the military. The Veterans Administration saw dependent children only if it related to the military person's case. I knew counseling was available at school and through Tricare, the military insurance, but kids usually didn't always reach out on their own.

“And now because that McQueen guy got murdered, she's more freaked out than usual. She thinks whoever did it is planning to off me next.”

“Your mom might be overreacting.” I held up my hand when Lindsay started to say something. “But it's frightening. Too close to home.”

“His wife probably did it, anyway, and she's gone.”

“Why do you think that?” I sat up.

“My best friend lives near the McQueens. We were sitting outside on her patio two weekends ago. I spent the night. They were having one he . . . heck of a fight. The screaming kind. We even heard glass break.”

“Could you hear what they were fighting about?” I almost couldn't believe I was trying to pump a teenager for information.

“Not really. It ended when some old guy showed up in a Porsche.”

“Old guy” made me think of Herb. He was always keeping an eye out but then didn't see anything the night of the murder. “Did anyone else know about the screaming match and the old guy with the Porsche?”

Lindsay studied her hands. “Probably not. It was late.”

“If you were out back, how did you see the Porsche?”