Death of a Garage Sale Newbie (18 page)

She listened to his footsteps pound on floorboards. Why had he left his fast-food banquet behind?

“He was kind of in a hurry to get out of here.” Arleta patted her bun, tucking in a loose strand of hair. “He seemed nervous to me.”

Ginger nodded. “I don’t know. I think he sweats and breaths heavy all the time.” She looped her arm through Arleta’s. “Thanks for being my backup. How about I take you to lunch? I’ve got a two-for-one coupon for the Soup Bowl. If you’re game, there’s a shop downtown that sells the cutest velour jogging suits.”

“Are you saying I need to update my wardrobe?” A faint smile graced her face.

“They would flatter your slender figure.” Ginger’s voice fluttered with excitement. “And they’re on sale.”

“I’m glad you offered to help. I’ve been thinking for some time that I needed new clothes. I just didn’t know where to start.”

They took the servants’ stairs, walked through the now-vacant living room, and stepped outside. The summer sun lingered midway above the horizon, and the temperature was balmy.

Ginger stopped for a moment in the driveway staring at Mr. Jackson’s red Hummer. Those cars had starting prices into five figures. A far cry from Mary Margret’s ten-year-old Jetta. “She didn’t want the million-dollar properties, Arleta. She was having a hard time making ends meet, and she didn’t want the bigger money properties.”

“Your friend sounds like a wonderful person.” Arleta rubbed Ginger’s back. “I wish I could have known her.”

“Me, too. You would have liked her.” Ginger’s eyes fell to the license plate on the Hummer. Something clicked in her brain. “Where have I seen those numbers before?”

Arleta shook her head. She stopped midshake. “They’re the numbers David had written on that piece of paper.” Arleta whistled. “What are the chances?”

Ginger glanced up at the third-floor window. Even though no one was there, she shivered. “Your husband has been dead how long?”

“Fifteen years.”

“Did he know Mr. Jackson?”

“I think I would have remembered if he was one of David’s acquaintances. Even if he was skinnier back then.”

“What are the chances, indeed,” said Ginger.

“
I’m looking for
night-vision goggles.” Ginger stood in the middle of the sporting goods store, staring up at the tall salesman with snowy cotton ball hair and feeling very out of place. She had only been in the store two or three times to get Earl a gift.

“We have some nice Rigels we just got in. If you’ll follow me.” The salesman had an air of dignity in the way he carried himself, squared shoulders, chin up, even stride. His fingers drifted over several pairs of goggles displayed against a wall. “What are you going to use them for?”

Ginger suspected she wouldn’t find a wrinkle on his striped button-down, even under a microscope. His khakis were pressed. His dress and manicured nails would have been better suited for a menswear store. The attention to detail with his appearance suggested a man who liked a high level of control in his life.

“They’re for my husband when he goes hunting. Sometimes he’s out after dark.” The goggles were a last-ditch effort to connect with Earl. That Remington fellow had said that this was a good place to get them.

Ginger rocked on her feet, heel to toe. She didn’t exactly feel at home here, too much of a guy place. In fact, when she glanced around at the other customers, they were all male.

On one side of the goggles and binoculars was a display of kayaks in lime green, orange, yellow, and red. On the other side was a locked display case with rifles and boxes of bullets.

“For hunting…hmm.” He rubbed his chin staring at the choices in front of him. “You want something lightweight.”

Judging from the age spots on his hands, the salesman must have been in his late sixties.

The man selected a pair off the rack and handed them to her. “These should do. I’ll ring them up for you.”

Ginger glanced down at the price. Her mouth went dry. Three hundred eighty-nine dollars. Yikes. “Ah, do you have any less expensive ones.”

“The Rigels are at the lower end for price, still a good goggle though.” The man laced his fingers together and leaned toward her. “We do have a payment plan.”

“How about a catalog instead? I can ask my husband what he would like.”

The man nodded and pulled catalogs from a shelf below the display. Ginger appreciated that he maintained decorum and didn’t point out how incredibly cheap she was. Earl was right. She had some kind of disorder or syndrome. She’d buy an evening gown she didn’t need because it was on sale, but she couldn’t get her husband a nice gift that she knew he’d like because it wasn’t on sale.

While the man handed her the catalogs and Ginger croaked out a “thank you,” she wondered if there were support groups for the likes of her.

“Our goggles usually go on sale right before hunting season. Maybe that would be a good time for you to make a purchase.”

She thought to ask how much of a markdown there would be but caught herself. “You’ve been very helpful.” In more ways than one. “They should give you a promotion.”

The man smiled, but his eyes remained placid. “Actually, I’m the owner.” There was just a hint of venom in his comment.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to insult you. Mr., ah…”

“Stenengarter. Jeffrey Stenengarter.” His fingers rested on his jaw. He tilted his head slightly “I’m surprised you didn’t recognize me. I was a state senator a few years ago.”

Ginger shrugged. “I don’t keep up with local politics.” She held up the catalogs. “I might be back.”

She wandered out of the store, looking forward to being in the more familiar parts of the mall and not having to think about what a tightwad she was.

“Connect the dots for me, ladies.” From her porch, where she had spread out the garage sale items on the picnic table, Ginger sipped her mint tea. The sun warmed her skin as she leaned against the railing.

Trevor and Earl walked across the yard to the workshop. Earl slapped Trevor’s back. This twinge of envy really wasn’t about Trevor. Earl had done the same with their own sons, taught them about using tools and building things. No, the twinge was about the sense of separation she felt from her husband. It had probably been there all the time. She had just been too busy raising kids and practicing the art of being cheap to notice.

Kindra rose from the picnic table and stood beside her, close enough so their arms touched. It felt good to have all her friends where they were safe and she could protect them. So far, the whispering man had not made good on his threat. Maybe, hopefully, he wouldn’t.

Suzanne and Arleta sat around the table. Ginger had lined up the scrap of paper on which David had written the six numbers, the photo album, the vest, and the shell box. The final item on the table was a piece of paper on which she had written Mr. Jackson’s Hummer license plate number.

The same numbers as found in David’s vest.

“Someone killed Mary Margret because of something here or something that was here and was taken out. Whoever did that didn’t find what they were looking for because they tried to break into my car and searched my house, and they were probably at Arleta’s for the same reason.”

“Nothing connects to the shell box.” Kindra set the box to one side.

“Unless whatever Mary’s killer is looking for was in that box at one time.” Ginger pushed it back into the circle.

Kindra tapped her chin with her index finger. “But they were looking for whatever at Arleta’s house. So it must connect to Arleta’s stuff. I say it was something of Arleta’s that set Mary Margret into a panic, one of these photos maybe.” Kindra scooted the box away from the other things.

“But Mary Margret put all the garage sale items in the basket.”

“Maybe she was in a hurry and didn’t have time to sort though it. You said yourself that this stuff was her note. Maybe whoever kidnapped her was coming through the door, and she needed to hide it quickly. She didn’t have time to sort through it,” Kindra said.

All four women nodded. Ginger had a feeling that none of them wanted to picture the details of what had happened to their friend. But they had to if they were going to get to the bottom of this mess.

Glints of sunlight danced through Suzanne’s hair as she turned her glass of iced tea on the picnic table. “Arleta’s husband and Mr. Jackson are connected by those six numbers. Mr. Jackson is involved. Tammy says this all somehow relates back to the police department not wanting an investigation.”

Ginger paced the porch. “There is definitely more than one person involved here. We have Mr. Jackson and someone in the police department. Someone was chasing me down while someone else was taking Mary Margret up to the hills. That’s at least two people.”

“The numbers on the Hummer could be personalized. When I got my momof3 license, which I’m going to change to momof4—”

“Too bad momofmany won’t fit.” Kindra braided a strand of hair. “Then you wouldn’t have to get a new one every two years.” She elbowed Suzanne.

Suzanne cleared her throat and raised her eyebrows at Kindra. “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, when I went to get my plate, the guy standing in front of me had the birth date of his dog on his license. Maybe those are Mr. Jackson’s lucky lotto numbers or his birthday.”

“So why would David have the same numbers? Unless—” Arleta shook her head. “David sometimes kept things from me if he thought they would worry me or make me sad. He was protective of my feelings. When he was turned down for a full professorship at the first college we were at, I didn’t know about it until years later. Mr. Jackson must have crossed David’s path for only a short period of time.”

There was something sweet about David wanting to protect his wife. Sweet but not helpful at this point. Ginger took another sip of tea.

Kindra said, “You know there is a professor in the archaeology department who is older than dirt. Arleta, did your husband work with a Professor Chambers?”

“Oh yes, Lyndon Chambers. He and David were good friends.” Arleta looked pretty in the purple velour sweat suit Ginger had bought for her at the sidewalk sale downtown. She was determined to gently bring Arleta’s wardrobe out of the seventies.

“You and I could go talk to him. Maybe David told him something.” Kindra lifted the shell box, turned it over, and then opened it.

“I haven’t seen Lyndon in years. We older than dirt people should stay in touch.” A smile brightened Arleta’s face, and she leaned a little closer to Kindra.

Kindra continued to turn the box over in her hands.

“I thought we decided the box wasn’t connected.” Ginger placed her tea on the table. “What are you looking at, kiddo?”

“Do you have a ruler or tape measure?” She held the box at eye level. “I suspect that the dimensions on the outside of this box don’t match those inside.”

“I’ve got a ruler in my craft drawer.” Ginger opened the sliding glass door by the deck while Arleta said something about putting her house on the market and maybe talking to the nice blond lady at Jackson-Wheeler Real Estate.

Ginger stepped into the cool kitchen just as Phoebe jumped off the counter. While she was rooting through her craft drawer, the doorbell rang. Who on earth? She opened the door.

Well, wire my jaw shut and call me Sally
. Had she just stepped into a musical theater number? The two people in front of her looked absurd, like they were on their way to belt out a tune on a stage somewhere.

It took a moment, but she recognized the man as Keaton Lustrum. The lacquered Elvis-style hair threw her off. His shirt was buttoned up to his neck. He tucked his shirttail into polyester slacks pulled up past his belly button and cinched into place with a white belt. He looked substantially different than in his newspaper photograph. What on earth was he doing here in that getup?

The pretty lady beside him was dressed in an equally bizarre and dumpy outfit. Even the boxy denim jumper with embroidered puppies frolicking across her chest couldn’t hide her perfect posture and skin. She looked like a model who was trying to appear plain.

When Keaton opened his mouth, he spoke with a Southern accent. “Excuse me, ma’am. We are from the Organized Bible Society.”

The woman nodded, fidgeting with the handle of the tote bag she held up to her chest.

“The Organized Bible Society?” As opposed to the Unorganized Bible Society? This was getting weirder by the second.

Keaton turned his Bible so Ginger could see the cover. “Yes, if you would just allow us to come in and talk to you about the Lawd.”

Ginger placed her hand on her hip. “The Lawd?”

“Yes, ma’am. If you would just welcome us into your lovely home.”

Not too subtly the woman stood on tiptoe and looked over Ginger’s shoulder. She suspected that the dumpy model was making an itemized list of the contents of her home. She was looking for something.

Ginger crossed her arms. “You want to come into my house?”

Keaton’s lips tightened, suggesting impatience. “Do you have a personal relationship with Jesus?” He leaned toward her, spittle flying in her direction.

Ginger wiped her cheek. He had said her Savior’s name like he was cracking a whip. “As matter of fact—”

The pretty woman in the dumpy outfit swung her tote bag in such a way that it was obviously empty. She leaned close to Ginger as if expressing a confidence. “Is the devil in your house? We get him out.” The oversized cross the woman wore around her neck was big enough to knock out an elephant.

Kindra’s voice rose from behind Ginger. “Oh please, give me a break.”

The nineteen-year-old stood on the threshold between the family room and the kitchen. The shell box was tucked under her arm.

Keaton’s mouth formed an oval shape. His hands twitched at his sides. He gazed at the shell box like it was a hot fudge sundae.

Kindra stomped across the kitchen floor and stood beside Ginger. “Where have you guys been shopping, the nerd factory? Christians don’t act and dress like that. That cross could blind half of Africa if the sun hit it at the right angle. You’ve been watching too much network television.”

The woman with the French accent lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “Yes, that is correct. I watch the TV.”

Kindra paced back and forth, gesturing by holding the box up and pointing with it while Keaton made odd noises and raised his hands toward the box. His head jerked in sync with Kindra’s movement.