The Longest Yard Sale (8 page)

“I know I said I'd call your clients and ask about the missing painting, but I think I'd end up alienating a lot of people.”

Carol nodded.

“So I ran your client list through Google, matching names against phrases like ‘art collector' and ‘art theft.'”

“Did you find anything?”

Carol sounded so hopeful I hated to tell her the truth. “No. Nothing that looked incriminating. No Facebook pages with your painting as the header.”

Carol had eaten only a few bites of her sandwich. She wrapped it back up as I finished mine. “I'll come back tomorrow and try again,” I said.

“Thanks. Go on home. I'll get back to painting.”

CHAPTER 12

The drive-through at Dunkin' Donuts had a long line on Tuesday morning. I saw Bubbles's truck in the parking lot and decided to go in. Bubbles sat at a table, his laptop open in front of him. A man dressed in BDUs—battle dress uniform, or camouflage—sat across from him. The eagles sewn on the shoulders of his uniform told me the guy was a colonel. Bubbles didn't look too happy.

By the time I got my coffee, the colonel had left, so I went over. Bubbles didn't notice me as he typed away on his computer.

“Bubbles?”

He jerked his head up, hands still on the keyboard. “Sarah.” Bubbles smiled and stood, giving me a quick hug. “Join me?”

I slipped into the chair across from him. Bubbles closed the computer. “How are you doing?” I asked.

“It's hard concentrating on the business with Terry gone. His murderer's out there. I've been trying to figure out what that frame around his face meant.” Bubbles's voice cracked. “Then with the note I got on top of that . . .” He shook his head and looked down.

I drank some of my coffee to give him a minute to gather himself.

“Did CJ find anything out about the note?”

Bubbles shook his head. “He said chances were slim they'd find anything useful.”

“Did anyone threaten Terry?” I asked.

Bubbles's slight hesitation before he said no spoke volumes. Terry must have been threatened, too. But CJ had told Bubbles not to tell anyone. I didn't want to push him. He looked stressed enough.

“I heard Terry had lived here all of his life,” I said.

“A lot of his life, but not all of it. He just moved back about a year ago. We met one morning when we were both out for a run on base.”

“Why'd he move away?” It seemed to me that New Englanders liked to stay put; an hour's move was a long distance to them. Some had even questioned why I didn't move back to California to be close to my family.

“He had some kind of falling out with his dad. Terry wanted to be his own man. I guess his father wasn't happy about that.” Bubbles drained his coffee and stood. “I've got to go. Great seeing you.” He bent and kissed me on the cheek.

“Take care of yourself, Bubbles.” I watched him walk out to his truck. He looked over his shoulder several times and walked around the truck once before he got in and took off. He must have been more worried than he let on.

 

 

After spending the rest of the morning organizing and sorting at another client's house, at one-thirty I headed over to Gennie's. The afternoon had turned cold. Wind tugged at the brightly colored leaves as though it wanted to finish with fall and start on an early winter. I, on the other hand, wanted winter to hold off for as long as possible. When winter set in, garage sale season would end. I didn't know what I'd do for a job then.

By three, Gennie was still roaming around the house, checking in with me periodically. I'd hoped she'd leave me alone, as she had yesterday. I wanted to dig through the closet again, but not necessarily with her here. Instead, I worked in the Art Deco room. The room she'd re-created amazed me. It included sleek leather chairs, lots of bronze statuary, and Erté posters on the walls. I snapped a bunch of pictures. Later I'd check to see what such things were selling for on eBay and consult with a professional as needed.

Occasionally I heard music blasting from the basement where Gennie worked out. “Eye of the Tiger” seemed to be a favorite. I decided to get a glass of water from the kitchen; on my way, I'd check out the closet. I opened the door and whirled around when I felt someone behind me. Gennie stood there. She moved like a cat without any noisy collar tags.

“There's nothing in there for the sale,” she said.

I looked anyway. All the coats still hung in their places, and a smattering of boots covered the floor where the paintings had been. I wished I'd snapped a couple of pictures of the paintings yesterday.

“Great. I forgot to check when I was here the other day. I'm going to get some water, if that's okay?” I headed to the kitchen, pondering the empty closet.

Gennie followed me. I grabbed glasses while she got a pitcher from the refrigerator, which she pronounced “refrigeratah.” We chatted about how her place in Dorchester was coming along.

“I was over at Paint and Wine last night,” I said, watching for any reaction. I'm not even sure why I cared if Carol and Gennie knew each other but weren't willing to admit it. I guess with the murder and the threat to Bubbles, everything seemed colored with a different light.

Gennie turned away and put the water pitcher back in the refrigerator. “I have to get to my Pilates class. Why don't you come back tomorrow?”

Yesterday she was fine with me staying here by myself, and today she wanted me to leave. I finished my water and followed her out.

 

 

After parking my car in front of my apartment, I glanced over at Carol's store. The CLOSED sign hung in the window again. I knew she had a group coming in thirty minutes because I'd confirmed the appointments. I hefted my purse up on my shoulder and trotted across the common to her store. The lights were off. I knocked, but no one answered.

I stood there for a moment, hands on hips, and then decided to see if Carol's car was parked in the alley. I hurried down the street and around the corner, worried, yet again, about Carol's well-being. The alley was broad and sunny, not the scary, dark kind women in slasher flicks entered. The back door to DiNapoli's was open. The clatter of dishes being washed rang through the old wooden screen door.

I spotted Carol's car, not knowing if that made me feel better or worse. I knocked on the back door. While I waited for Carol to answer, I shaded my eyes with my hand and scanned the alley. On one side were garages, backyards, and the backs of rambling houses. I spotted a few flower and vegetable gardens, but nothing sinister, although I noted that the yards would provide a good escape route for anyone fleeing from a crime.

The other side was a block of businesses and then houses that faced the town common. I studied the backs of this side of the alley: a drugstore, DiNapoli's, an optometrist, Carol's shop, and the headquarters of the Fitch Historical Society. Maybe the crime had happened in the wrong store. Genius. But each of the stores had signs clearly marking the business name in bold letters. So much for me being a genius.

I looked again at the houses across the way. Maybe I should knock on doors and ask if anyone saw someone fleeing from Carol's shop the night of the murder. A yellow sports car roared up and screeched to a halt beside me. Carol's assistant, Olivia, locked lips with the driver. I pounded on the back door. As Carol opened it, her assistant broke the kiss and hopped out of the car. The driver watched with interest as Olivia tugged down her minuscule black skirt. He caught my look and sketched a quick salute before tearing off, kicking up gravel and anything else that happened to be in the alley. At the end of the alley, he careened left, seemingly without stopping to look for oncoming traffic.

“Jett's got to stop tearing off like that, Olivia,” Carol said as we entered the store. “Mr. DiNapoli's after me as it is. If Jett wasn't his godson, I'd really be in the doghouse.”

Olivia started to say something, but Carol waved her off. “I know you're in love with him. I don't care. You're late again.”

“Class was held over.” Olivia shrugged her thin shoulders. She quickly headed to the front of the store, slipping a Paint and Wine apron over her short, purple hair as she did. She tied the apron around her waist as she disappeared into the shop.

“If I had a hundred bucks for every time I heard that I wouldn't be worried about finishing this painting,” Carol muttered before looking at me. “What are you doing here?”

“I just got home from Gennie's house and saw the store was closed. I knew a group was coming in thirty minutes.”

Carol smiled. “And you were worried. Again.”

I shrugged. “You caught me.”

“I got lost in my painting. Come look.”

Most of the background was done. Rolling hills with open fields, separated by low stone walls, filled the canvas. While that was impressive, I knew the hardest part would be adding in all the detailed soldiers, some wounded and anguished. Then she'd have to add the smoke hanging in the air, as it did in the original. I had no clue how she'd manage that.

“Wow. I'm impressed.” I paused, thinking again about the alley.

Olivia walked past us to the storage area. “I have to grab more paints.”

I waited until she slipped through the curtains. “What time did you leave the shop the night before McQueen was murdered?”

Carol continued to paint. “It was around nine-thirty. Why?”

“Did the police ask you that?”

“Of course they did. Why are you asking?”

“I was standing in the alley wondering if someone across the way saw anyone back there.”

Carol straightened up. “You think I'm a suspect, don't you? You know how these things work. It's why you've been hovering.”

I swore silently. I'd been a bull in a house made of glass lately. “You must have known you'd at least be considered. Your store, your frame, your fingerprints.” I watched for any signs Carol was going to crack. Nothing. Maybe that was more worrisome.

“I suppose on some level I did know. But I didn't want to think about it. I wonder if that's why Brad's mother showed up.”

“They're looking into other angles. It's not just you.”

Carol's face lit up. “What other angles?”

“I don't know. But I'm trying to find out.”

We heard the group of women as they streamed into the shop, chattering and laughing.

Carol looked at me. “Thanks for your help. I've got to go.”

I slipped back through the curtains to the storage area. Olivia was on her cell phone.

“The group is here,” I told her.

“I'll see you later then.”

For a moment I thought she was talking to me, but it was to the person on the other end of her phone call. She made a kissy noise as she hung up.

 

 

I went back out into the alley and turned in a slow, full circle, thinking maybe I'd missed something the first time I was out here. I decided to walk the length of the alley, up one side and down the other. This could be how the murderer went in and out of Carol's shop. Whoever killed Terry might have left some evidence that CJ's team had missed—if they'd even looked back here. I walked along, looking in corners and kicking away papers that had blown into corners. I didn't see a thing that didn't seem to belong in the alley.

I kicked at a bit of debris behind Carol's store. A mouse scurried off, and I managed to swallow a scream. That was the last thing Carol needed to hear—that there were mice in the alley. I shaded my eyes and studied the two houses with the best view of Carol's back door. The one to my right had all of the shades and drapes drawn. The one to my left had most of them opened. It looked like one of the closed curtains on the second floor twitched. Maybe a nosy person lived there, one who might have been up in the middle of the night—a night owl or new mother, or a baker getting ready for work early in the morning. Someone who might have seen something.

I took a step toward the house as tires squealed. A siren sounded. I turned as a police car rounded the corner of the alley from the right. It stopped a few feet from me. I twisted frantically, trying to spot what the cop was looking at or for. Then, as the window curtain twitched again, I realized. He was looking for me.

CHAPTER 13

A male voice boomed out of the car's loudspeakers. “Down on your knees. Hands behind your head.”

I dropped to my knees because I knew better than to mess with people who carried guns even when they were wrong—terribly, embarrassingly wrong. I slapped my hands to the back of my head. I heard more sirens. Another police car raced down the alley from the left. It screeched to a halt, and Pellner climbed out.

“I should have known it would be you,” Pellner said. He helped me up and trotted over to the other police car as I brushed bits of gravel and dirt off my knees. The dishwashers from DiNapoli's gathered by the screen door, watching. After Pellner talked to the other officer, he reversed his patrol car down the alley and took off with a squeal.

A man clumped out from the house with the twitchy curtain and moved across the alley with the help of a cane. He pointed an arthritic finger at me. “That's her. Cuff her.”

I'd been right about a nosy person living in the house. The man stood as straight as he could with the cane. His trim body and crew cut screamed military or law enforcement.

“That's the perp I called about. She was casing the joint,” he said. “I'm not sure which joint because she's been up and down the alley staring at all the businesses and houses.” He shook his head. “Obviously up to no good. It's a sad day when you aren't safe in your own home in Ellington.”

“Get in the car,” Pellner said to me.

“My car's over by my apartment,” I said.

“The police car,” Pellner said, pointing at his patrol car.

“Aren't you going to cuff her?” the old man asked.

“I'm not going to cuff her, Herb. I can handle her,” Pellner said. He jerked his head toward the car.

“Why in the world would I get in your car?” I asked.

The old man studied me. “You're right. She doesn't look like she could hurt a flea.”

I found that a bit insulting. I was plenty strong.

“But you shouldn't let your guard down, young man,” Herb said to Pellner.

I started to protest.

Pellner turned toward me. “Please, I'm begging you. Just get in the car.” He turned back to the old man. “Thanks for your help. I'll take her down to the station and question her.”

The old man lifted his chin in acknowledgment but didn't move. “I'll wait till you get her in there, just in case.”

I headed to Pellner's patrol car. I started to open the front passenger-side door.

“The back,” Pellner called out.

I started to protest, but Pellner looked so stressed that I complied and climbed in the back. The car smelled of disinfectant and defiance—the second being the emotion I felt. A partition between the back and the front would keep Pellner safe from me attacking him. And at this point the thought of doing just that tempted me.

After a few more words with Herb, Pellner slid into the front and started the car. The old man stayed in the alley, watching, as we drove away.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Herb Fitch. He used to be on the force. Years ago. It's just easier to humor him.”

“Fitch? As in the air force base Fitch family?” Fitch Air Force Base was named after one of the founding fathers of Ellington. Their family was instrumental in the opening Revolutionary War battle on April 19, 1775.

“Yes, that Fitch family.”

I glanced back over my shoulder. Herb Fitch stood there watching as we turned the corner.

“What was that all about?” I asked when we were out of sight.

“I could ask you the same question. What were you doing back there?”

“I was looking for Carol's car.”

“And then?” Pellner's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror.

“I took a walk.” He didn't need to know what I was doing back there and wouldn't approve if he did. “I wasn't casing anything.”

Pellner shook his head and turned left onto Great Road.

“Are you really taking me to the station?” I asked.

“I should,” he said, but he took another left onto Oak Street and stopped in front of my apartment.

“Did you find anything useful back there?” Pellner asked.

“No. Are you going to let me out of here or not?”

Pellner came around and opened the door for me. He even extended his hand to help me out. I chose not to use it. I glanced over at the common, relieved to find no crowd gathering to see me climbing out of a police car. I expected a lecture about interfering and yada yada. Instead, Pellner went back around the car and opened the driver's-side door. He leaned against the patrol car, arms on the roof. “Are you okay? You looked pretty upset when you left the station yesterday.”

“Did CJ notice?” I asked.

“It's not like he said anything, but from the thundercloud that followed him for the rest of the day, I'm guessing he noticed.”

I wanted to smack my hand to my forehead but refrained. “I don't want him feeling sorry for me.”

“I get that.” Pellner shoved off the car. “Thanks for getting in the back. It made my day a lot easier.”

 

 

I trudged up the steps to the house. Stella came out of her apartment, forehead wrinkled in worry.

“What were you doing in the back of a police car?” she asked.

“Humoring Pellner,” I said.

“That's a first. Come in. I'm between lessons.”

I followed Stella into her apartment. She had a big, inviting couch and a couple of matching chairs. I'd found some art for her at a tag sale, a cityscape of Boston and one of a lighthouse. They looked great in her living room. It made me think of Gennie's paintings.

“Hot chocolate or something stronger?” Stella asked, heading to her kitchen.

“Hot chocolate sounds good. Anything stronger and I'll fall asleep.”

Stella came back in a few minutes with two steaming mugs. “I just made this for my last student, a ten-year-old girl whose mom insists she take lessons.” She handed me one of the mugs. “The girl has the voice of an . . .”

“Angel?”

“No. More like the noise a garbage disposal makes when it has a piece of metal in it.” Stella shook her head. “I'm not sure who hates the lessons more, me or her.”

I laughed and sipped my drink. The chocolate was rich and dark, not instant. I let its deliciousness roll around in my mouth for a moment before swallowing. “Did you know I'm doing a sale for Gennie?” I asked.

Stella's eyes widened, and she shook her head. “Why?”

“She wants to downsize. Gennie doesn't look that much older than you.”

“She's not. My mom's twenty years older than her. And Aunt Nancy is fifteen years older.”

“Interesting choice of career.”

“Grandma says she came out fighting and never gave up. Grandpa died not too long after Gennie was born, and Aunt Nancy spent a lot of years trying to raise Gennie while Grandma worked.”

“They seem close.”

“Now they are, but I guess back in the day it was a whole different story. Aunt Nancy wanted Gennie to wear pink, frilly clothes. Gennie wanted to be a tomboy and raise hell.”

“How'd she get into cage fighting?”

“After one of her escapades, she went to some kind of camp for troubled kids. It's where she learned to channel her energy into boxing and martial arts. Aunt Nancy almost had a coronary. But after that the police never dragged her home.”

So Terry was a counselor for troubled kids, another angle to think about. Maybe something had happened at the camp or with one of the kids. One of them could still be in trouble. “Where'd she learn to paint?”

Stella set down her hot chocolate. “I don't think she knows how to paint. She never could sit still for long enough.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why'd you ask?”

If I tried to lie, Stella would see right through me. She always did. “I came across some beautiful paintings stuck in a closet. They were signed by her and also had a Paint and Wine sticker on the back.”

“So you thought she might have something to do with Carol's missing painting?” Stella asked.

“The thought entered my mind.”

“And then you realized she'd be strong enough to strangle someone,” Stella said, her voice tight with tension. She walked over to a minibar she kept in a corner by the kitchen and returned with a bottle of peppermint schnapps.

“Terry was strangled? Where'd you hear that?” I took a drink of my hot chocolate. It wasn't exactly shocking news, but I wondered how she'd heard.

“It's all over town,” Stella said. She poured a splash of the schnapps into each of our mugs. “People are arguing about whether Carol was strong enough to do it or not.”

I almost spit out my drink, which caused me to choke.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded.

“Most people think she looks too scrawny,” Stella said.

Gennie wouldn't be too scrawny. But Terry hadn't been
that
big of a guy. I wondered if this was one of the other angles CJ and Seth had mentioned. They'd certainly know about Gennie's past since she'd lived here all her life.

“Why would Carol do it?” I asked Stella.

Stella lifted a shoulder in a “how should I know?” motion. “What I do know is that my Aunt Gennie is only violent in the ring.” She raised her chin and looked down her nose at me in a way that would make any Boston Brahmin, the elite of the city's society, proud.

I hoped Stella was right. I drained my hot chocolate, briefly forgetting about the peppermint schnapps. Warmth flooded my body, and weariness settled over me. After a quick good-bye, I went up to my apartment to take a nap. I stretched out on my couch, and as I drowsed, I thought about how furious Gennie had been when she'd found out Terry was part of Bubbles's company. She also somehow knew Carol. Although I didn't have any idea why Terry was murdered in Carol's shop, I realized I might have stumbled on an important connection.