Death of a Garage Sale Newbie (2 page)

She studied each empty green lawn. A bald, potbellied man two houses down from Mary Margret’s came around the side of his house holding a hose connected to an outdoor spigot. After flipping up his sunglasses, he leaned over to turn on the water and sprayed his flower bed, not even glancing at Ginger.

Nothing suspicious. Just a beautiful Montana summer day in a nice neighborhood. Mary Margret’s neighborhood.

Ginger placed a flat hand on her chest and took a deep breath. Where on earth could that woman be?

Kindra came to the door waving her microscopic phone in the air. “Remember, message on the cell.”

Ginger waved back. They were doing all they could. She got into her Pontiac and turned the ignition key. Her car started with a smooth hum. She said a prayer of thanks that Earl always kept the cars running so nice.

Almost as quickly as she had a clear positive thought, her head filled with cotton balls—tangled, anxious thoughts she could not shake. She pulled out onto the street, revved up the hill, came to a stop, and clicked on her blinker to pull out onto the main road.

The real estate office where Mary Margret worked was next to a convenience store and attached to doctor’s and dentist’s offices. Business was slow on Saturday, only five cars in the lot and none of them were Mary Margret’s blue Volkswagen Jetta. She stopped in front of the glass door that said Jackson-Wheeler Real Estate. Inside, a heavyset woman pushed a vacuum across the carpet.

When Ginger pulled on the metal handle, the door didn’t budge. She rapped on the glass. Her knuckles were hurting by the time the cleaning lady noticed her, clicked off her vacuum, and trudged to the door.

“Yes.” The woman groaned rather than spoke her words, then pulled back her sleeve to check her watch.

Ginger recognized the crocheted sweater the woman was wearing as one that had been on the two-dollar table at Wal-Mart a week ago. The cleaning lady had close-set eyes, and the only makeup she wore was bright orange lipstick.

“I’m looking for someone who works here, Mary Margret Parker.”

“I just clean the place on Saturday. I don’t know anybody but the man who hired me, Mr. Jackson; he’s a big fella.”

“You haven’t seen anybody, say in the last hour or so?”

“Only been here fifteen minutes. Place was locked when I got here.”

“Can I look around?”

The woman rubbed the middle of her back and squinted. “You work here?”

“No, my friend does. If you’re concerned about me taking anything, you can watch me.”

The woman half nodded and then stepped to one side. “I guess that would be okay.” She wandered back to her vacuum. “Long as you stay where I can see you.” The vacuum clicked on with a shrill buzz.

The bulletin board just inside the door featured the top salespeople for the month. Mary Margret’s bright face was noticeably absent. All the others on the board probably hadn’t seen the far side of thirty yet.

Beside the board was a computer-generated list, complete with pictures, of the properties that had been sold that month and who had closed the deal. Jackson-Wheeler Real Estate sure sold a lot of houses, half of them vacation homes. Three Horses, Montana, had a fluctuating population of about thirty thousand. The town’s main draw was a lake surrounded by mountains. Many of the citizens were part-timers who left when the white stuff fell out of the sky. In five months, the town would decrease by about five thousand, and the permanent residents would hunker down for winter, extending hospitality to the occasional out-of-state hunter.

She studied the sales board. None of the properties had Mary Margret’s name by them.

With the shrill hum of the vacuum pressing on her ears, Ginger wandered to the back of the narrow office, where she found Mary Margret’s desk. A snapshot of Jonathan, Mary’s two-year-old grandson who lived in California, and a photo of Mary standing with Ginger, Kindra, and a much thinner Suzanne were the only personal items on the desk.

She picked up the picture of the Bargain Hunters Network, called BHN by the four members, that had been taken at their barbecue last summer at Ginger’s house. Mary had her arms around Ginger and Kindra. Glints of sunlight shone in her silver-white hair. She beamed at the camera with that easy smile she had.

Still clutching the photo, Ginger turned a half circle in the office. That was that. Unless she was hiding in the paper clip drawer, Mary Margret was not here. After placing the photograph back on the desk, Ginger wandered past the cleaning woman’s cart and pretended like her chest wasn’t getting all tight again. One of the bottles on the cleaning cart caught her eye.

The woman shut off her vacuum, straightened her spine, and placed her hand on her ample hip. “Can I help you,” she barked.

Ginger held up the bottle. “This will be on sale next week at the House of Spic and Span. I have a friend who works there. She always gives me the heads-up when a sale is coming.”

For the first time, the cleaning woman smiled. “Thank you. I’ll have to get down there.”

A kind word turned away much wrath, and if the kind word mentioned a good deal, it worked even better. “Glad to be of help.”

Helping people save money usually made her warm all over. But right now she was too worried about Mary Margret. Ginger left the office and got into her car. She checked her cell for messages. Suzanne had already phoned in to say that Mary was not at the church. After starting her car, Ginger shifted into reverse, turned around, shifted into first, then headed back to the main road.

She came to the edge of town where the mall, now twenty years old, buzzed with Saturday activity. She passed a boundary of the town, which was marked with a Welcome to Three Horses sign, a sculpture of three metal horses, and a man in a military uniform. The town had been settled over a hundred years ago as a fort and trading center with the local tribes. The town name was a reference to a good trade a military man had gotten. What the Native American had received out of the transaction never came up in the history books.

Main Street turned into the highway, and she pressed on the accelerator. After ten minutes, Ginger pulled onto the country road that led to her and Earl’s house. She checked her rearview mirror.

A brown car was riding her bumper.

The disclaimer on the side mirror
of Ginger’s car read: “Objects in mirror may be closer than they appear.” If that were true, this nondescript gold, no-sort-of-brown car would be hooked to her bumper.

The dust cloud blowing through her open window had jerked her out of her preoccupation over Mary Margret. When she glanced in the side mirror, the visor covered most of the driver’s face. The car slowed and drew farther away from her. Still, it continued to follow her.

The houses were far apart out here. Not good garage sale territory. She passed a trailer house with a huge red barn beside it. Cows grazed in rich green fields. She sped past a white Colonial framed by two large oaks. The car, about a hundred yards behind her and stirring up dust, still did not pull off. At the next opportunity, she took a sharp right turn onto another dirt road away from her house. The brownish car turned as well. This guy stuck like glue.

Ginger readjusted her sticky palms, loosening the death grip she had on the steering wheel. Her heart drummed away. Lifting her foot from the accelerator, she slowed to a snail’s pace. Again, she checked the rearview mirror. The car hung back but continued to follow her. She slowed to the pace of a snail about to die. Why on earth would someone be after her? Maybe it was just some kid with a new driver’s license playing a game.

Ginger stared straight ahead and considered her options. If she turned back and tried to get home, she’d have five miles of open fields before she got to Earl and his shotgun. She glanced at her purse on the passenger seat. She could use her cell to alert Earl. The police were at least twenty minutes away in town, so no sense in calling them. Besides, this might be nothing.

The roar of an engine caused her to look out her side window. As a red Jeep zoomed by, rocks sprayed against the metal of her car, making pinging noises. The driver yelled indiscernible phrases and pointed at her. His compressed expression and pucker suggested he had just left a lemon-sucking party. Was he sitting on a porcupine? Poor man looked like he was in pain.

The silver bumper of the Jeep glinted in the sun as it turned onto a side road and disappeared behind a blanket of trees.

The brown car had slipped even farther back, but it was still there. Ginger hit the gas. She could see a house up ahead, a log cabin with a row of rosebushes on one side of it. But as she approached the house, she saw no cars, no sign of life anywhere. The brown car loomed behind her. She zoomed past the log cabin.

The landscape was flat enough that she could see a little yellow house with kids jumping on a trampoline about half a mile ahead. Ginger swallowed, trying to produce some moisture in her mouth.

The needle on her speedometer pointed to forty when she let up on the accelerator and turned left down the long driveway to the house. The children, a boy and a girl, slowed their jumping and gazed at her.

She killed the engine, took a deep breath, and opened her car door. Their bouncing stopped altogether when she set her sandaled foot on the ground and stepped out of the car. A light breeze rippled her cotton shirt and matching capri pants that she’d gotten on clearance at Macy’s last August, 60 percent off. It paid to shop out of season.

The children, who didn’t know her from Adam, stared.

She needed to get out and meet her neighbors anyway. This was a good excuse. “Kind of a windy day, isn’t it?” She glanced up the road. No sign of the brown car.

The children continued to eyeball her, their mouths open. The girl, maybe six years old, was dressed in a floral one-piece swimsuit with a yellow ruffle around her belly. She placed a protective arm across her younger brother’s back.

The boy twisted away and started to bounce again. “I can do a flip.”

“Stop it, Johnny.” The girl’s body shook from the effect of her brother’s jumping. She crossed her arms and wrinkled her forehead. “Are you looking for my mom?”

“I’m your neighbor, Ginger Salinski. I live up the road about five miles.” The screen door creaked, and a woman holding an area rug came out the door. The woman, short auburn hair blowing in the breeze, flipped one end of the rug out and lifted her arms to shake it—then she noticed Ginger.

Still gripping the rug, she stepped down the stairs and approached Ginger. “May I help you?”

Ginger glanced back up the road, searching for her pursuer. A blue van rolled by. Maybe she should just explain about the brown car. No, that made her seem like one paranoid package. She resolved to stop watching those reruns of
The Rockford Files
with Earl. There was no reason someone would want to chase her. This thing with Mary Margret had her thinking crazy. She said the first thing that popped into her head. “I’m sorry; I thought there was a garage sale here.”

The woman turned slightly and pointed up the road. “That’s north of here at the MacPhersons, way up the road.” The woman assessed Ginger’s feet, her knees, her stomach, and then her face. “They have all kinds of signs up. Anyone should be able to find it.”

“Thanks so much.” Feeling the heat rise in her cheeks, Ginger took several steps back. So much for getting to know the neighbors. This woman thought she was one slice short of a loaf.

The mom didn’t take her eyes off Ginger. “No problem.”

Ginger slipped behind the steering wheel as the two children returned to their bouncing. She turned the key in the ignition and glanced up at the mom, who continued to watch her. Ginger nodded and smiled. The woman didn’t smile back. Instead, she gave her rug a flip and a hard shake.

After shifting into reverse, Ginger cranked the steering wheel and turned the car around. She headed up the long gravel driveway. When she glanced in her rearview mirror, the mom was still eyeballing her car, hands on her hips, eyes drawn into a squint. They probably thought she was one weird lady. Talk about making a poor first impression. One thing was for sure. They wouldn’t be getting together anytime soon for a barbecue.

Ginger pulled back on the road, checking the rearview mirror again. Nothing. No brownish-gold car. She took in a full breath.

She turned onto the road that led home. The tires crunched under the gravel with an occasional spray of rocks against the side of her car.

A rock flew up and hit the windshield before deflecting off. Ginger flinched. The stone left a nick. “Earl’s not going to be happy about that one.” Golden fields of barley stretched in front of her without any houses in sight. Up ahead was a grove of trees and beyond that her home. It had been Earl’s idea to move out to the country when he took early retirement. He wanted property with a big workshop.

Ginger inhaled deeply and relaxed her arm muscles.

Crunch!
Metal rubbed against metal as her car lurched forward.

Before she could react, she felt a second bump. This time, the steering wheel jerked out of her hands. The car swerved toward the ditch.

Every ounce of oxygen vacated Ginger’s lungs. Muscles in her arms and legs turned to stone. She gripped the steering wheel, struggling to keep the car on the road. With strength that surprised her, she straightened the tires, narrowly avoiding the ditch. She sped up.

Now she did have a reason to call Earl. This had gone way beyond a prank. Keeping her eyes on the road, she reached over to the passenger seat to grab her cell phone.

A glimpse of brown flashed in her rearview mirror. Again, the crunch of bumper against bumper. Her neck snapped back, but she held on to the steering wheel. Her purse rolled to the floor, out of reach.

Ginger’s lower torso felt like it was being crammed into a corset. Her heart raced. She took in shallow breaths and punched the gas pedal. The old Pontiac lurched forward, engine roaring and rumbling as it gained speed.

She was a grandmother, for Pete’s sake, not a character in a Steve McQueen film. Why was someone trying to run her off the road? This maniac wasn’t going to prevent her from seeing all her grandchildren graduate from high school, by golly.

Topping out at sixty-five, she kept the car toward the center of the road, hoping the gravel wouldn’t act like marbles under the tires and flip the vehicle. The brownish-gold car was ten feet behind her. Then twenty feet, then thirty. The open fields gave way to aspens and evergreens.

Ginger’s whole body vibrated with adrenaline and fear. She slowed the car only slightly to turn into her driveway, the back tires catching air.

When she hit the brakes, the car swung around in a half circle. She waited for the dust to settle and her heart rate to slow down. She had never been so elated to see her cute blue house with the porch swing and the metal building that functioned as Earl’s workshop.

She craned her neck and glanced up the road. Large evergreens partially blocked the view, but no car roared down their driveway.

She’d already opened the car door and planted her feet when Earl, welder’s cap pushed back on his head, came running out of his shop. “What on earth, woman!” He furled his bushy eyebrows.

That was Earl, Mr. Sensitive. Heaven forbid that her near-death experience should interrupt his work. Her legs rubberized when she stood. “Oh Earl, someone—” She glanced back up the road. Every part of her body trembled. Her stomach clenched into a tiny ball. She took a single step forward and then got a really good view of the ground, each irregular stone, growing closer to her face.

Footsteps pounded across gravel.

Earl’s strong arms pressed against her stomach and back as black dots consumed the view in front of her.