The Longest Yard Sale (11 page)

“The head librarian. CJ asked Marge to keep it quiet. But to her that meant telling only her closest friends, who told their closest friends.”

“In other words, the whole town knows how she discovered the forgery.”

Rosalie nodded.

“But I still don't.”

“Marge was dusting the frame. She knew there was a small nick on the bottom left-hand corner. The duster would get caught every time. She dusted this morning. It didn't catch. She looked to see if it had been repaired and realized it hadn't.” Rosalie stopped and took a drink of her tea. “Then she took a good look at the painting. The signature looked wrong. A little too shiny.” Rosalie leaned in. “Her assistant said Marge was so upset she called 4-1-1 instead of 9-1-1. Marge's version of the story made her sound like Super-woman.”

“I wonder why CJ was so secretive. It doesn't seem like that big a deal.” Then again he was probably worrying about evidence and building a case when and if the perpetrator was caught.

Rosalie lifted her shoulders. “Who knows?”

I paid for my ziti and headed out to pay my respects to Anna McQueen.

CHAPTER 16

I pulled up in front of Anna McQueen's house on the base. Sometimes base life felt like a throwback to the fifties, with lots of stay-at-home moms hosting coffee klatches and volunteering for every organization imaginable. I missed being part of that.

Anna lived in the oldest section of housing, in a gray town house with a small front lawn. Blinds covered all the windows, making the place look like it was asleep. I climbed out anyway and knocked on the door while balancing the still-hot aluminum pan of ziti. The door opened to an expressionless woman. Everything about her sagged—the bags surrounding her very red eyes, the clothes hanging loosely on her thin frame; even her dull, red hair seemed to slump.

I felt bad about intruding. I thrust the ziti at her. “I'm very sorry for your loss.” She looked as though she didn't want to take it, but she straightened herself. “Thank you.”

“I'm Sarah Winston.”

She started to close the door, but some bit of recognition widened her eyes. She held the door wider, “Come in. Are you hungry? I've got every kind of casserole imaginable. An assortment of pies, and now”—she peeled the aluminum off the corner of my casserole—“ziti. It smells good.”

“It's from DiNapoli's. You wouldn't want mine.”

“Let's sit in the kitchen. Coffee? I just was getting ready for a cup.”

“Sure.” I followed her through her house. The living room, instead of being furnished with couch, chairs and end tables, had been turned into a game room. A dartboard hung on the wall, a poker table was dead center, and various pinball and other arcade games filled the corners. A large-screen TV took up most of one wall, with a gaming system underneath. Anna noticed me noticing.

“Some guys never grow up. Terry loved games. I don't know what I'm going to do with all of that now.”

The rest of the house was sparsely decorated with barely any furniture. A desk and chair sat in what should have been the dining room. Only the blinds provided by housing covered her windows. She hadn't added her own drapes. Few pictures hung on the walls.

A picture of Anna and a man—I assumed it was Terry even though he was tanned and healthy-looking instead of blue—hung in the hall. What had to be the Tetons, were in the background. They both smiled at the camera, heavy-looking backpacks at their feet. Terry looked like a runner, lean and muscled. Bubbles had mentioned they'd met when they were both out for a run. So why didn't Terry run that night at Carol's store? Maybe that meant he knew his attacker and hadn't realized he was in danger.

Anna's kitchen counters were full of various kinds of desserts. She opened the fridge to get some half and half and gestured to its overflowing contents. “What could I possibly do with all of this? It's just me now. Not that Terry and I together could have polished all this off.” Her eyes reddened, and she busied herself getting out mugs and pouring coffee.

“That's a lot. I could take some of it to the homeless shelter in Ellington for you.”

“Would you? I don't want it to go to waste.” I followed her to the small kitchen table. She pushed aside a stack of finance books with her elbow and set the coffee cups down. “I heard you were there when Terry was found. What can you tell me?”

I wondered why she'd asked me in. Now I wished she hadn't. Laura warned me this might happen. “I don't know much.”

“I saw him at the morgue,” Anna said. “I know what he looked like. I just wondered if you knew anything else. Something to help catch the bastard who did this.” Her voice caught midway through the sentence. Her eyes started filling with tears, which she blinked back.

“My friend Carol found him in her store. There was a frame around his face.”

“I heard that too. It doesn't make sense. Terry was quiet but well liked.”

“Did he know Carol? Had he mentioned her before?” I took a sip of my coffee. It was more like colored water than coffee, which I was actually grateful for because I'd had my fill of caffeine today. I hated to think this, but even though Brad was retired, Carol still had a dependent ID that allowed her to get on base whenever she wanted. So maybe they'd met someplace and Carol wasn't admitting it. She hadn't fessed up to knowing Gennie, either.

“Not that I know of.” She ran her hands through her hair.

“Were either of you interested in paintings or learning to paint?”

“Not really.”

Most of the walls in the house that I'd passed or could see were bare. I guess I could cross art collector off the list.

“Maybe he was going to see if she was interested in investing,” Anna said. “I know that Dave and Terry were aggressively growing their business. They've been very successful.”

Aggressive. Interesting term. I'd felt like killing more than one salesman in the moment.

“I don't mean aggressive as in an obnoxious, hard sale. I mean that they worked hard on their business plan and ways they could grow the company.”

This is why I didn't play poker. Even when I thought I'd maintained a neutral expression I obviously hadn't.

“They understood the needs of active-duty military and veterans,” Anna said.

“Bubbles is smart and charming,” I said. “One of those ‘could sell sand in the Sahara' salesman types.”

“And both Terry and Bubbles are good with numbers. But over this last month . . .” Anna shook her head.

“What happened over the last month?” I wondered about market performance during the past several weeks.

“Terry got some threatening notes.”

My eyes widened. “You told the police?”

“Of course. And base security, the OSI. Anyone who would listen.”

OSI was the Office of Special Investigations, a branch of the air force that looked into serious crimes. “What kind of notes?”

“They were stupid. Terry wanted to toss them, but I kept them. Just in case.” Anna drew in a ragged breath. “I didn't think ‘just in case' would ever really happen.”

“Do you have them?”

“The police took them.”

I was disappointed, but it wasn't really any of my business.

“But I kept copies. Let me get them.”

I wasn't sure why she was willing to share them with me. Maybe she just needed someone to unload on and I happened to be available.

Anna spread the five notes out on the table. They did seem childish. Things like “I'll make you pay,” “Watch out,” and “You're wrong.” From what I remembered, the writing seemed similar to the one Bubbles received. CJ sure hadn't let on that Terry had gotten notes, too.

“Where did Terry find them?” I asked.

“On the windshield, in the door. Places like that.” Anna shrugged.

“On base or off base?”

“Both. Do you think that's important?”

“I don't know. Could I take photographs of the notes?”

Anna hesitated before nodding.

I took two shots of each note with my phone. “Where did Terry work?” I took another sip of my tepid coffee. Maybe Brad was the one who knew Terry, and not Carol.

“In the vaults on base. I don't know what he did.”

The vaults meant Terry was involved in some kind of top-secret program. Brad had worked as an administrator at the clinic. So their paths wouldn't have crossed based on work. But working in the vaults meant Terry knew a lot of secrets—another area CJ and Seth might be looking into. I'd never find out anything about that, and they might not be able to, either.

“Did you or Terry have any idea why someone would threaten him?”

Anna shook her head. “We wracked our brains trying to figure it out. Terry reviewed the company figures. They haven't had a loss worth mentioning with any of their accounts.” Anna stood, so I did too. “I'll help you load the food in your car.”

The threats must have been directed at Terry. Or maybe Anna was the target and Terry had gotten in the way.

 

 

My car was a ten-year-old Suburban that I babied as much as possible. It was the perfect vehicle for hauling stuff to and from garage sales. I had to curtail my garage sale habit since I lived in a one-bedroom apartment. Throwing yard sales for other people kept me busy on most weekends, anyway, and thus out of trouble.

After I dropped the food off at the homeless shelter, I drove home and cleaned up. I headed up to New Hampshire to visit a couple of thrift shops I'd heard about near Nashua, in search of some furniture for a friend. After I'd finished at the thrift shops, I was meeting Seth for dinner, so I felt a bit giddy. I tried to analyze that feeling as I drove. What was it about Seth that made me smile? I hoped it wasn't the whole rich and handsome thing, but if I was that shallow, I wouldn't be holding back. He was smart and funny, and he liked me. Nothing not to like there.

I pulled up to the first thrift shop and walked in. It was filled with clothes, baby items, and assorted glassware—not what I was on the hunt for this afternoon. But I took a quick turn around the place just in case something was tucked in a corner. No luck.

As I listened to the directions my phone gave me to the next place, I wished there was something along those lines to guide the heart. Detour around this guy, exit before that one, take the express lane to another—he's the one. But unfortunately, I had to figure out the whole Seth/CJ thing on my own.

A white wicker furniture set consisting of a love seat, two chairs, and a table sat out in front of the next shop. That could be just the thing. I parked and tried not to scamper over. Be cool, I told myself. The closer I got, the more beat-up the set looked. I hoped it just needed a fresh coat of paint. But after walking around it and turning it over, I realized the wicker was broken in too many places to repair.

I went into the shop and poked around. An hour later I came out with a small oil painting of a vase of roses and nothing else. But the owner had been lovely. She'd attended New England's Largest Yard Sale and thought it was fabulous. Next year she wanted to have a booth. I promised to send her details as soon as I had them.

As I drove down a winding lane lined with low stone walls and towering trees, I spotted a pile of stuff set near someone's driveway. There was a
FREE—TAKE ME
sign hung on an old stereo console. I pulled over and hopped out, tempted by a jumble of old chairs, a spindled, rocking cradle with no bottom, and some old iron pieces and flowerpots.

I couldn't resist two of the chairs. One was a square-back with a ripped and stained seat. The other had a delicate carving of a shell and a broken cane bottom. I thought both were probably American-made, based on their simplicity. English and European chairs were generally fancier and more decorative. I loved chairs, but they aren't a very practical thing to collect when you live in a small space.

I picked up the cradle. It was pegged together and would come apart easily. The various pieces would look fabulous in someone's garden, where flowers could climb the spindles. But there wasn't any place to garden at Stella's, so I turned my back on it. The two chairs fit easily into the back of the Suburban. As I got behind the wheel, I wondered how much it would cost to fix up my “free” chairs. I took one last look at the cradle and climbed back out. If I didn't end up selling it myself, I'd take it to Carol for her garden in the spring.

I'd arranged to meet Seth at a little diner on the outskirts of Nashua. Lots of people from Massachusetts shopped up here because New Hampshire didn't have a state sales tax. There'd been a few scandals when Massachusetts officials were caught coming out of liquor stores or other shops with merchandise. There were laws about buying things here and reporting it in Massachusetts, but I'm fairly certain most people ignored them.

I'd taken some time getting ready for our dinner before I'd left. After all, Seth was used to dining with Victoria's Secret models. My hair shone, my makeup was as flawless as I could achieve on my own, and my eye shadow was smoky. I waited, studying the menu and the clientele, hoping I wouldn't run in to anyone I knew. But since I didn't know a lot of truckers, I felt fairly safe.

Seth slid into the booth across from me. “How many more greasy spoons are you going to make us eat at?” he asked. He held up his spoon, which was indeed greasy.

This didn't seem to be a good start to the evening. He smiled to soften his words or me—one of the two. “You look awfully nice for someone who was up here, what did you call it, junking?”

Yep, that had been my excuse to meet him up here—that I was already going to be out on a buying expedition for a friend who wanted help furnishing her new home. “Just because I was junking doesn't mean I have to look like junk.”