Praise for All Murders Final!
“There’s a lot going on in this charming mystery, and it all works. The dialogue flows effortlessly, and the plot is filled with numerous twists and turns. Sarah is a resourceful and appealing protagonist, supported by a cast of quirky friends. Well written and executed, this is a definite winner. Bargain-hunting has never been so much fun!”
—RT Book Reviews, 4 Stars
“A must read cozy mystery! Don’t wear your socks when you read this story ’cause it’s gonna knock ’em off!”
—Chatting About Cozies
“Just because Sherry Harris’s protagonist Sarah Winston lives in a small town, it doesn’t mean that her problems are small.... Harris fits the puzzle pieces together with a sure hand.”
—Sheila Connolly, Agatha- and Anthony-nominated author of the Orchard Mysteries
“A thrilling mystery.... Brilliantly written, each chapter drew me in deeper and deeper, my anticipation mounting with every turn of the page. By the time I reached the last page, all I could say was . . . wow!”
—Lisa Ks Book Reviews
Praise for The Longest Yard Sale
“I love a complex plot and The Longest Yard Sale fills the bill with mysterious fires, a missing painting, thefts from a thrift shop and, of course, murder. Add an intriguing cast of victims, potential villains and sidekicks, and interesting setting, and two eligible men for the sleuth to choose between and you have a sure winner even before you get to the last page and find yourself laughing out loud.”
—Kaitlyn Dunnett, author of The Scottie Barked at Midnight
“Readers will have a blast following Sarah Winston on her next adventure as she hunts for bargains and bad guys. Sherry Harris’s latest is as delightful as the best garage sale find!”
—Liz Mugavero, Agatha-nominated author of the Pawsitively Organic Mysteries
“Sherry Harris is a gifted storyteller, with plenty of twists and adventures for her smart and stubborn protagonist.”
—Beth Kanell, Kingdom Books
“Once again Sherry Harris entwines small-town life with that of the nearby Air Force base, yard sales with romance, art theft with murder. The story is a bargain, and a priceless one!”
—Edith Maxwell, Agatha-nominated author of the Local Foods mystery series
Praise for Tagged for Death
“Tagged for Death is skillfully rendered, with expert characterization and depiction of military life. Best of all Sarah is the type of intelligent, resourceful, and appealing person we would all like to get to know better!”
—Mystery Scene Magazine
“Full of garage-sale tips, this amusing cozy debut introduces an unusual protagonist who has overcome some recent tribulations and become stronger.”
—Library Journal on Tagged For Death
“A terrific find! Engaging and entertaining, this clever cozy is a treasure—charmingly crafted and full of surprises.”
—Hank Phillippi Ryan, Agatha-, Anthony- and Mary Higgins Clark-award-winning author
“Like the treasures Sarah Winston finds at the garage sales she loves, this book is a gem.”
—Barbara Ross, Agatha-nominated author of the Maine Clambake Mysteries
“It was masterfully done. Tagged for Death is a winning debut that will have you turning pages until you reach the final one. I’m already looking forward to Sarah’s next bargain with death.”
—Mark Baker, Carstairs Considers
Also by Sherry Harris
Agatha-Nominated Best First Novel
TAGGED FOR DEATH
THE LONGEST YARD SALE
ALL MURDERS FINAL!
A GOOD DAY TO BUY
Sherry Harris
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Praise for All Murders Final!
Also by Sherry Harris
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Garage Sale Tips
Acknowledgements
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2017 by Sherry Harris
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-0751-2
First Kensington Mass Market Edition: May 2017
eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0752-9
eISBN-10: 1-4967-0752-4
First Kensington Electronic Edition: May 2017
To Bob
4
Chapter 1
Love fades. People change. It’s happened to me. I’ll fall in love and buy something, but in a few years, I’m ready to move on. Fortunately it happened to other people as well, which was what kept my garage sale business growing. But today my client was a story all her own.
“Sarah Winston, are you going to sell my Pyrex for so little? You might as well give it away.” Not only did Mrs. Spencer’s voice shake but her whole body did too—even her rigidly hair-sprayed, gray curls. She snatched the red Pyrex bowl out of my hand and thrust it at the startled woman standing in front of me.
“Go ahead, take it. Just take whatever you want.”
The woman looked at me with raised eyebrows. I gave her a small nod before turning back to Mrs. Spencer. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the woman hurry to her car. Happily, we were having a lull in the Spencer garage sale so there weren’t a lot of people to witness the outburst or decide to help themselves to items based on Mrs. Spencer’s comment.
I’d tried to be patient with Mrs. Spencer over the last two weeks since the Spencers had hired me to run a garage sale for them this Saturday. Mostly because I loved her husband, a Vietnam vet. He’d decided it was time to downsize and head south to Florida to be near their son and grandchildren. Mrs. Spencer was on board with the move to Florida, but not with the downsizing. While I wouldn’t call her a hoarder, she was definitely an avid collector and she didn’t want t
o part with anything.
Her cupboards and closets bulged with everything from old aluminum foil pans to plastic Dunkin’ Donuts cups to embroidered samplers her ancestors had made. Her biggest problem was not knowing which things had value, like the samplers, and which didn’t. I sighed and shook my head. Actually that wasn’t true. Her biggest problem was that she was just a piece of work. I didn’t know how her husband, a gentle, patient man, put up with her. I’d have killed her long before now.
Not long after they’d hired me, I’d called Mrs. Spencer by her first name, Velma. She’d laid into me about respecting my elders and knowing my place. I was the hired help. Since that day, I’d called her Mrs. Spencer and her husband Mr. Spencer, even though he’d asked me to call him Verne. Better to be overly polite than to incite more of Mrs. Spencer’s wrath.
I smiled as Mr. Spencer came outside just then, taking Mrs. Spencer’s elbow. He was looking especially spiffy this morning in a bomber jacket, newsboy-style hat, pressed khakis, and a plaid shirt. He winked at me over her head. “How about a cup of coffee, dear? I brought you some of those Italian cookies you like from DiNapoli’s.” Her body relaxed and she allowed herself to be pulled away from the sale and into the Cape-style house.
A man approached me, carrying the last of the five wooden lobster traps the Spencers had for sale. “I’ll give you ten bucks for this.”
In your dreams. I had it priced at a hundred and twenty-five dollars, and that was a bargain. It was a real, wooden vintage trap. People loved to use them as bases for coffee tables. I could picture setting one on its end, adding some shelves, and using it as a nightstand. Or adding long legs and turning it into a small desk. Inwardly, I’d hoped they wouldn’t all sell, but that was as much of a dream as this man’s offer.
“I can do one-twenty,” I countered. The other four had sold first thing for full price. Earlier, two people had argued over one and an interior designer had offered to pay fifty dollars over the asking price. Mr. Spencer had brought this one out when he’d seen how much they were going for. It made me wonder what else he had stashed that I hadn’t seen.
“You aren’t even taking ten percent off.” He glared at me.
Better men than you have tried to intimidate me. Ten percent was standard in lots of cases. “It’s the best I can do.”
“I ain’t paying that much for something at a garage sale.”
It was a common problem. Just because it was a garage sale didn’t necessarily mean it was cheap. I understood where he was coming from though. Everyone wanted to find something of value and pay next to nothing for it. “Sorry. It’s my best offer.”
A woman came over and stood next to him. “We’ll take it.” She opened her purse and pulled out the cash as the bargain hunter beside her stood with his mouth open. It took all my strength not to smile. This woman got pricing.
“Did you see the wooden lobster trap buoys?” I asked the woman. Now I was trying to upsell. “There are only a few of them left.”
She whipped her head around when I pointed at a table. Mr. Spencer had an extensive collection, which he’d winnowed down to seven that he wanted to keep. Mrs. Spencer didn’t like them so they’d been banished to the garage, where they hung by thick ropes on a pegboard.
“What the heck are you going to do with those?” her husband asked.
“I’ve seen them turned in to the base of a lamp,” I said. “Or stuck in a trap like yours for decoration.” If I had a bigger place, I would have bought some myself.
“Or hung on a wall—inside or out,” the woman added as she snatched two off the table. She didn’t even ask for a better price. As they walked off, I heard him say, “Some negotiator you turned out to be.” His wife snapped something back, but I couldn’t hear what.
The lull gave me time to straighten things up. I’d tried a new system today because I found pricing every single item tedious and time consuming. Today I’d color-coordinated plastic tablecloths to bright matching circle stickers. All the dollar items had yellow stickers and sat on tables with yellow cloths, five-dollar items had red stickers and cloths, etc. Anything over twenty-five was priced individually. I’d also posted signs showing the color of the item and the price.
The stickers on clothes had been a bit tricky because they tended to fall off. They worked best when stuck to a tag with the size or washing instructions. I’d priced some of the more valuable items in two places. One that was obvious and easy to see and one less obvious, like inside a vase or on the bottom of a chair. I hoped this would impede sneaky people who moved stickers from one item to another. It happened all too often at garage sales, but I couldn’t control everything. Which is one of the reasons I’d hired Lindsay, a high school girl, to help keep an eye on things. She was a former neighbor when I’d lived on nearby Fitch Air Force Base. She was already straightening and reorganizing.
“Thanks, Lindsay,” I called. “Help yourself to some coffee and donut holes.” Lindsay nodded. Her long, golden-brown ponytail swayed as she worked. Hopefully, we would have a few minutes before more people descended. Mr. Spencer was getting rid of lots of tools, camping equipment, and hunting and fishing gear, which meant there had been more men at the sale than usual. Mentioning all of it at the beginning of the online ads I’d placed had worked out well.
I looked across the yard as rock music played from speakers I’d hooked my old iPod to. I’d bought colorful balloons to pass out to kids, plus some wash-off tattoos and a big box of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and donut holes. Mrs. Spencer had complained vehemently about me wasting money until I’d explained I’d done it all on my dime.
This was my first big sale of the season, and I wanted it to be fun, not only for the Spencers but for the people who came. And it was working. People bopped their heads to the beat of the songs and smiled. One group of women had even stopped shopping to sing part of Meat Loaf’s “Paradise by the Dashboard Light.” I would have joined in if I hadn’t been so busy.
I hoped it would help my business too. So far, so good. Three people had asked me to organize sales for them and merchandise was moving fast. The warm early May weather lent to the overall party atmosphere. Forsythias blossomed with bright pops of yellow. The air was scented with lilac and warming earth. I was thankful because May in Massachusetts could be dicey. Although I’d learned since I’d moved here three years ago that any month in Massachusetts could be dicey. In my book that’s just another reason to love living here.
By ten, the sunny skies had lured more people out, making the lull short-lived. Several groups of friends stopped by, but with the crowds, I only had time to say hi. Soon, I was negotiating the price of an oil painting of a harbor scene with a man who enjoyed bartering as much as I did.
A shrill shriek pierced the crowd. I jerked my head up and looked around. Oh no. What now? A little girl pointed up, emitting a sound that would have dogs cowering, as her lime-green balloon drifted away. Lindsay rushed another balloon to the girl, tied it securely around her wrist, and the shrieking mercifully stopped.
My heartbeat dropped back to the normal range as I countered the offer on the painting. The man and I went back and forth until we agreed on a price. Both of us left smiling—that was the fun part of the sale.
While I did all the bargaining and kept all the money, Lindsay continued to help people find things and did a great job of putting items back as they were moved from table to table. I was grateful Mr. Spencer had taken Mrs. Spencer inside to keep her out of my hair. It was hard to bargain with Mrs. Spencer watching my every move and giving people the evil eye when they bought something. I empathized with her difficulty in parting with her possessions. As a former Air Force wife, I had parted with many things over the years, as well as places I loved, dear friends, and even my husband.
While someone paid me for a captain’s chair, a woman headed toward the part of the garage that was off limits to the public. I’d hung sheets with clothespins to divide the public and private space.
“You
can’t go back there,” I called to the woman.
It didn’t stop her, so I hurried after her. Mr. Spencer had a lot of expensive tools stored in a work space at the back of the garage. Mrs. Spencer resented he wasn’t selling more of “his crap” as she called it. I’d heard numerous arguments on that topic over the past two weeks. The woman parted the curtain anyway.
She screamed and stumbled back, pulling one of the sheets down. I gasped, taking in the scene. The Spencers lay sprawled across the concrete floor. Mr. Spencer was on his stomach, head turned to one side, eyes open. Blood pooled under his head. Mrs. Spencer was curled into a fetal position near his feet.
Chapter 2
I raced toward them, pulled my cell phone out of my pocket, and dialed 911. Lindsay ran over to me.
“Keep everyone back unless someone thinks they can help. No one else comes in the garage. And don’t let anyone leave if you can stop them.” It was a lot to ask a seventeen-year-old, but I knew Lindsay could handle it.
“Okay.” Lindsay hustled to the front of the garage. “Is anyone here a doctor or nurse?”
I glanced back as a crowd of people stood at the garage door gawking. “Unless you can help, get back,” I shouted. No one came forward. Lindsay put her arms out and started shooing them back.
As soon as the 911 dispatcher came on the line, I gave her the address. “This is Sarah Winston. I’ve got two badly injured people. One may be dead.”
“I’ll make sure Chief Hooker knows what’s happened.” Sadly, the 911 operators were all too familiar with me. I checked for pulses as I talked to the dispatcher, but couldn’t find one for Mr. Spencer. I hoped it was because I wasn’t trained to find it, but the way his eyes looked blankly at the wall didn’t give me much hope. A faint beat pulsed from Mrs. Spencer’s neck when I pressed my cold fingers to it. But she didn’t move when I called her name.
A Good Day to Buy Page 1