The Longest Yard Sale (17 page)

CHAPTER 26

Thirty minutes later, we were driving to Cambridge. At 6:30 the worst of rush hour had passed. Angelo was a true Boston driver; he was impatient, made no eye contact, did lots of honking, used a lot of hand gestures, and called out frequently in a colorful vocabulary, some of it in Italian. Somehow, in the two and a half years I'd lived in Massachusetts, I'd adjusted to this style of driving and rarely took notice of it anymore. But when CJ and I had first moved here, I was terrified to drive down Great Road, let alone on the 95 or the Mass Pike. We pulled up to a large, yellow colonial-style house a couple of blocks off Massachusetts Avenue.

“This isn't the neighborhood I grew up in,” Angelo said. “My neighborhood wasn't this nice. We didn't know how to be prejudiced because there was just about every country in the world represented in that little area—like the United Nations, only we got along better.”

“Why's he so interested in owning
Battled
if he lives here?”

“He lived in Ellington a long time. He's a true Revolutionary War buff. He was so mad when the city wouldn't sell him the painting, he moved back here.”

We headed up the neatly trimmed walk, and Angelo rang the bell. A few minutes later, a tower of a man opened the door and grasped Angelo into his arms, speaking in effusive Italian to him before noticing me. He went through the same routine with me. A slight sloop of his shoulders showed his age.

“She doesn't speak Italian, Uncle,” Angelo said as we went into the house. His Italian accent was suddenly stronger. “But she's a good girl. She wanted to see your copy of
Battled
.”

Stefano let us into the foyer. There was a staircase to the right and a long hall in front of us. Oil paintings and maps of the Revolutionary War hung on almost every available space as far as I could see down the hall and up the wall by the stairs.

“The police have already been here,” Stefano said. “If the town had let me buy it, I'da made sure it was safe and gifted it back.” He turned to me.“That was my plan all along.”

Behind him, Angelo vigorously shook his head no.

We followed Stefano down the narrow center hall; he flipped on a light in a room to the left, and we all stepped in. His copy of
Battled
hung above a fireplace. Bookshelves crammed with books took up the wall on either side of the fireplace. A couple of chairs and a desk occupied the rest of the space. I roamed around the room. Most of the books seemed to be about the Revolutionary War.

“I spend most of my days in here working and admiring my copy of
Battled
,” Stefano said; his voice sounded bitter.

“What do you do?” I asked.

“A little of this, a little of dat,” he responded.

Good heavens, maybe this family really was a
family
, in the Mob family kind of way. But behind Stefano, Angelo was once again shaking his head, and this time he smacked his hand against his forehead. He mouthed “real estate” at me. At least, I hoped that's what he'd mouthed, and not “godfather.”

We stepped closer to the painting; a little spotlight shone down on it. The colors were more muted than in the original, and the facial expressions weren't as clear. Carol's painting was superior, a more accurate copy by far. The frame was almost an exact duplicate, much like the fake in the library.

“It's lovely,” I said.

“You don't have the original stuck in storage somewhere, do you, Uncle?” Angelo asked.

“I got it tucked right next to Jimmy Hoffa,” Stefano answered. “Has the heat from cooking all these years gone to your head? You shoulda stuck with the family business. I don't have the painting. It's what I told the cops, and it's what I'm telling you.”

Stefano sank into one of the chairs. “I wish I woulda thought of it, though.”

 

 

“Is he telling the truth?” I asked once we were back in the car heading toward Ellington.

“As far as I know,” Angelo said as he cut someone off. A horn blared behind us. “His copy isn't good enough to switch with the one at the library. They'd have noticed the difference in five minutes.”

“I thought the same thing. Could he have known about the copy Carol was making?”

Angelo seemed very focused on his driving all of a sudden. He shrugged.

“Did you know about it?” I asked.

“Sure. Jett's girlfriend showed it to him. He told me about it.”

“Did you tell Stefano about it?”

“I might have mentioned it to him.”

“So that's why you gave Carol Vincenzo's information. You were worried Stefano might have been involved with the switch.” It was obvious the picture hanging over Stefano's fireplace wasn't the original, but that didn't mean he hadn't stashed it somewhere else, even though he'd denied it.

Angelo pulled up in front of my apartment. “Maybe.”

I slanted my body toward Angelo. “Was Jett in the Marines? I noticed he had a Semper Fi tattoo.”

Angelo tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “It's one of the reasons he never went to jail. Vincenzo promised the judge Jett would enlist. Jett did his stint and got out.”

It might explain the ripped body and maybe even the confident attitude, but not the cars. Not on an enlisted salary. “I've seen him driving a couple of fancy cars lately. Where would he get the money for those?”

“I don't know. Vincenzo told me he cut him off after he gave him that old Mercedes I told you about.”

“What'd he do for the Marines?”

“EOD.”

Explosive Ordinance Disposal? “Holy crap. That's one dangerous job. Finding and blowing up IEDs is high risk.”

“We all thought it would settle him. But it seemed to make him worse. I think he misses the adrenaline rush and the sense of purpose.”

“What's he do now?”

“Takes classes at Middlesex in Bedford and works as a handyman for the family business.”

There was that family business again. I wondered what the heck a “handyman” did for the Mob.

“Real estate,” Angelo said. “Jett fixes things for various properties.” He yawned, and I climbed out of the car. “Have a good night, kid. Don't worry about Jett. There's some explanation for the cars.”

I nodded and closed the car door. I could think of a couple of explanations. Jett probably knew how to make explosive devices, not just how to blow them up. Maybe he'd sold his services to whoever wanted the fires started so the painting could be taken.

Where was the original of
Battled
?

 

 

I woke up with too many things on my mind. But I decided I could check one of them off the list. Finding out where Nancy Elder had disappeared to during New England's Largest Yard Sale was first up. I didn't care how inappropriate, by New England standards, it might be to ask her outright. I needed to know. I showered and got ready. Then I made a fluffernutter sandwich for breakfast and a pot of coffee.

I read the local news online while I ate. Nancy was going to be at a ribbon-cutting ceremony for the reopening of the newly renovated community center. Who didn't like a good ribbon cutting? I licked the last of the marshmallow fluff off my index finger and gulped the rest of my coffee.

I flung open my window and stuck my head out. It was a bit cool, so I grabbed my brown leather jacket, purchased at a garage sale many years ago for a dollar. I pulled on boots and tucked in my jeans. I decided to walk, since I needed to work off some of the roast beef sandwich from last night. The other two-thirds sat in my fridge for lunch today.

I took the back way instead of walking down Great Road. The road meandered around an odd assortment of houses. Some, like Stella's, had been divided into apartments, although these were a little worse for the wear. Almost all of them were wooden, so different from the stucco homes common in California. The lots here were narrow, the houses were big, and all the curbs were granite—woe to the person who hit one.

A few blocks later, I came to the community center. Local dignitaries were gathered on the porch. CJ was among them. He watched me as I strolled up. Nancy and one of the other council members stood, front and center, behind a big purple ribbon. They whispered to each other. He held the oversized scissors. A nice crowd had gathered, which would make Nancy happy. In fact, she looked really happy, more so than the occasion called for.

I studied Nancy and the town councilman. They were about the same height. Even though they stood side by side, their bodies touched in every place they possibly could without looking like they were touching. Left arm to right arm. Hip to hip. If sparks could fly more than a few feet, we'd be showered with them. I glanced around. No one else seemed to pick up on the chemistry between the two.

Nancy noticed me watching her. I held my thumb up, close to my body where no one else would notice. Nancy looked around nervously, then smiled at me. Now I knew where she was in the middle of the day during the yard sale. A tryst. I don't know why she kept it a secret. The town councilman was a widower and well liked in the community, from what I'd read in the paper.

A few minutes later, the ribbon was cut, and people poured into the community center for refreshments—Dunkin' Donuts coffee and donuts, of course. I headed back to my house. One mission accomplished. Now to tackle the others on my list. CJ pulled up beside me in his official Ellington Police Department SUV. He rolled the window down.

“Need a ride?” he asked.

“Nope. I'm good.” I was more than a little mad at him for arresting Carol. I continued walking, and he continued to drive by my side.

“You're mad at me because of Carol?” CJ shook his head. “It's my job.”

“I'm well aware it's your job. And well aware that Carol didn't murder Terry, no matter what kind of evidence you think you have.” The word
evidence
made me remember I wanted to show him the picture I'd taken in the woods. But that meant dropping my righteous indignation and getting in the car with him. I reminded myself that this was for Carol.

“I need to show you something,” I said. CJ stopped, and I climbed into the front seat of the SUV next to him—as next to him as one can be with all kinds of communications equipment separating us, including a computer monitor. That was fine by me. I was still mad enough to appreciate the electronic wall between us. I flipped through my photos until I found the one I was looking for. We leaned together, our heads nearly touching.

“What's this?” CJ asked.

I quickly explained how I'd just happened to be going for a walk and noticed where the fire had been. “I did a little exploring and snapped a couple of pictures. When I downloaded them, I noticed this bit of camouflage cloth tucked back on a branch just beyond the burned area.” When I turned to face him, we were almost nose to nose. I thought about how naturally Nancy and the town councilman had leaned into each other, how a year ago that would have been natural for us. Then I thought about how mixed up I was and moved back.

“You just happened to be taking a walk,” CJ said, shaking his head. He radioed Pellner and told him to meet him over there.

“Do you want me to go with you and show you where it is?”

“No. We can handle it.”

I opened the SUV door and slid out. “No need to thank me. All I did was find what might be a piece of evidence, take a photo, and let you know about it.” I closed the door firmly, very firmly.

“Sarah,” CJ called after me, but I ducked between two houses, knowing he couldn't follow me.

CHAPTER 27

I spent the afternoon checking more things off my list. I talked to Carol to see how her meeting with Vincenzo had gone. She said fine but couldn't give me any details of their conversation. Apparently Vincenzo wasn't happy we'd listened to the voice mail and questioned Olivia ourselves. Oh, well.

I checked Groton Goods and the thrift shop eBay site. Still no sign of the quilt or the Shirley Temple doll. Then I decided to hit a couple of antiques stores and thrift shops. Tonight Seth and I were going to work on his man cave. I wanted to find something special to add to it, so I drove over to a favorite shop in Concord. It was on Main Street, above another shop. Even though it was in a prime location, I thought their prices were reasonable.

After climbing the stairs and greeting the owner, I roamed from room to room. About a third of the way through, behind a stack of Audubon prints, I found a framed, vintage poster of Fenway Park, home of the Red Sox. It wasn't in perfect condition. It had a few tears and a small piece missing in one corner. But that put it in my price range.

I took it up to the owner and showed her the price. “Can you take anything off?” I asked. I used to find it awkward to ask this question, but now it was routine for me.

She looked the print over. “I'll take ten percent off.”

“Perfect,” I said. I would have paid full price, so ten percent off made me happy.

Back at home I took the poster out of the frame and carefully cleaned the glass and frame. I made sure everything was dry before I put the poster back in.

 

 

I pounded the last nail into the Sheetrock in Seth's basement at 7:30. I stepped back as Seth hung the vintage Fenway poster I'd found for him on the nail.

“You are handy with a hammer,” Seth said.

“I am a woman of many talents,” I replied.

“Mmm. Yes, you are.”

I could tell he wasn't talking about my skills with the hammer. Heat crept from the vee of my long-sleeved black shirt up to my face. I'd tried as hard as I could to keep things professional with Seth. Except for the occasional kiss, I managed that fairly well. I could feel myself weakening, especially after arguing with CJ this afternoon. But I didn't want my being mad at CJ to influence what I did with Seth.

He'd just returned from a workout when I showed up. His Red Sox T-shirt fit him perfectly, not too tight or too loose. His legs were strong and muscled beneath his gym shorts. Even a five o'clock shadow looked great on him.

“That's a great gift,” he said, gesturing toward the vintage poster. “Thank you.”

I glanced around the room to distract myself from the pull of his personality and physique. Although it wasn't completely finished, Seth's man cave was coming along. The large TV and couch were in place, but I still needed to find him a rug. We'd hung his Red Sox memorabilia or arranged it on shelves. It was the perfect place to hang out and watch a game.

“What's that?” I asked, gesturing to a giant box peeking out from stacks of assorted stuff under the basement stairs.

“It's an old trunk. I guess my great-grandfather used it to travel to Europe.”

I went over and started moving the stuff that surrounded the trunk. “Holy crap. This isn't some old trunk. It's a Louis Vuitton.” Who had Louis Vuitton trunks sitting around unused in their basements? I looked over my shoulder at Seth. We came from completely different worlds. “I can't believe you never told me about this. It might be the perfect thing to use for a coffee table in your living room.”

“I like the trunk you use in your apartment. I never thought about this being down here. Is it too low?” Seth asked as he came over to help me drag it out.

“If it's too low, I can buy bun feet for it at a hardware store. I'll paint them and attach them to the bottom, if that's all right with you.” When Seth didn't say anything, I looked up.

He watched me with a grin curving his beautiful lips. “I love how excited you get about things. I've known so many women who seem so blasé about life.”

I didn't want to think about the
so
many women. “Let's take it upstairs.”

“It's heavy. Are you sure you want to try? I can get someone to come help me tomorrow.”

“Of course I can help you. I'm strong.” I guess he was used to women like Barbie Doll, who probably couldn't carry more than one pair of stilettos at a time. I'd spent years hauling stuff to and from garage sales. I could lift a lot.

Seth looked unsure, but we hauled it up the stairs and set it down in front of the love seat. He shook his head. “I didn't think it would look good.”

It had a couple of small scratches, but to me that just added to the charm, along with the fact that it was a piece of his family history.

I traced a finger across a paper travel tag imprinted with an image of the Eiffel Tower. “It is too low. I'll buy bun feet for it tomorrow.”

“Why don't you stay for dinner? I've got a couple of steaks in the refrigerator.” It came out “refrigeratah.” No matter how long I lived here, the local accent would always charm me. “I can throw together a salad to go with the steaks.”

I took a step toward the front door.

“Don't flee. Not tonight. Please?”

Why not? “Okay,” I said. “I'll make the salad.”

“I'll grab a shower and be right down.” Seth grabbed my hand and pressed a kiss into my palm.

I busied myself in the kitchen. The water started in the shower upstairs. I spotted the makings for a salad and started chopping. I found a bottle of champagne vinaigrette in the refrigerator. A decorative Polish pottery bowl sat on the counter. I dumped all the veggies in it and tossed it with the vinaigrette. I found plates and silverware, and carried them into the dining room. The table was covered with folders. I set the plates and silverware, which was actually silver, at one end and started to pick up the folders, humming one of Stella's arias, not that I sounded anything like her.

The domesticity of it all hit me. I sucked in a couple of deep breaths. If this was the life I wanted, shouldn't I be with CJ and not Seth? The folders shook in my hands. Maybe that's why I'd held Seth off all these months. But I did like Seth, too. Could my heart know CJ was the one for me even when my mind didn't? Or was it the other way around? Maybe the problem was I didn't trust myself to choose since I'd misread the situation with CJ so badly last winter. What had I done?

I glanced down at the folders in my hands. One had Carol's name on the label, followed by a long number. I set the others down, staring at it. This might be the case the state had laid out against Carol. If I read it, I might be able to help her. But if I read it, I'd be betraying Seth in the worst possible way. I held it with both hands, debating. A creak sounded behind me.

“I'll put the steaks on,” Seth said, coming up behind me. “You didn't need to get the dishes and silverware. I would have done it.”

I kept my back to him a few seconds longer and held the folder against my waist. It felt like it was searing my hands. But there didn't seem to be any way to keep Seth from knowing I had it. He nuzzled his lips against my neck, and his wet hair sprinkled a few drops of water on me. I closed my eyes for a minute, breathing in his fresh shower scent, realizing I had to tell him what I was holding.

“What do you have?” Seth drew back as I turned. He wore worn jeans and a cream-colored shirt, sleeves rolled up, showing his strong forearms.

The place on my neck where his lips had been felt cold. I handed him the folder. “I saw it when I came to set the table. I didn't open it.”

Seth's face settled into a grim expression as he took the folder from me. A pulse beat madly at his temple. “I think you'd better go.”

When I got to the front door, I opened it but turned back. Seth stood there, clenching the folder in one hand.

“I swear I didn't look at it, Seth. I was tempted, but I didn't.”