A Good Day to Buy

by Sherry Harris

  “Not for a few more days. Until I’m done investigating this story.”

  It took all my willpower not to question him. Don’t scare him off. You are just rebuilding your relationship. “Okay. There are a couple of motels in Ellington and some in Bedford.”

  “I’ll let you know where I land.”

  “Do you want me to make sure the coast is clear?”

  “Naw. If I run in to anyone, I’ll pretend I heard about the apartment being for rent.”

  * * *

  “Can you meet me at the house this evening?” Tim called at four, not long after Luke left.

  I really didn’t want to. “Could it wait until tomorrow?”

  “Mom had a relapse this afternoon.”

  “I’m sorry.” Why in the heck did he want to meet me then?

  “I’m going nuts sitting here when there’s nothing I can do. I’d like to go over, and I really don’t want to go alone.”

  That was understandable. “Okay. What time?”

  “Does five-thirty work for you?”

  “It’s perfect.” It would give me time to help Tim and be back to meet CJ for dinner. “I’ll see you there.”

  * * *

  I parked in front of the house right before five-thirty. The neighborhood was quiet. The crime scene tape was gone, but I wasn’t anxious to get out of the car. Going back into the garage sounded like about as much fun as cleaning scum out of a clogged garbage disposal.

  In the rearview mirror, I saw a small car swing around the corner. I hoped it was Tim. It slowed as it headed toward me, then came to a complete stop in the middle of the street. After a second, the car reversed, did a U-turn, and sped off. How odd. I craned my neck to watch it drive off as I ticked off reasons someone would do that. They were lost or forgot something or got a call to do something else. Perfectly reasonable. But what if they’d seen my car and didn’t want me to see them? It gave me the creeps.

  I started my Suburban, deciding to follow them. But as I did, another car pulled into the drive. Tim climbed out. At least I thought it was Tim—he looked different. I got out of the car and greeted him, but part of my mind was still on the car that had U-turned in the middle of the street. “You shaved,” I said.

  “My mom hates beards. I figured if she woke up, when she wakes up, she’d be happy to see me clean shaven for the first time in five years.”

  Without the beard, I could see the round shape of his face and how he did look like his dad. I took an envelope out of my bag and handed it to him. “Before I forget, here’s the money from the garage sale.”

  He looked in the envelope full of money. “Did you deduct whatever it is my parents were supposed to pay you?”

  “I didn’t. It wouldn’t feel right under the circumstances.” We headed up to the house. “So what do you want me to do?” I asked.

  “The police must have had you do this already, but would you walk through the house with me to see if you notice anything different than the last time you were here?”

  The police hadn’t had me look around. I decided not to share that information. It was an excellent idea. Even better, maybe I’d find something that would help me figure out who had attacked the Spencers and why.

  “Sure. Garage first or last?” I asked. We both turned to look at the garage.

  “Last,” Tim said, shoulders slumping. He unlocked the front door and held it open for me. He flipped on a light as we stepped in. We stood in the living room since the Cape-style house didn’t have a foyer. He looked around and sighed. Even with the moving sale, there was a lot left in the house. A big, overstuffed leather couch filled one wall. An end table next to a leather recliner was to our left. Tim picked up a Hummel figurine, a little boy with rosy cheeks.

  “My mom loves these things.”

  “She wouldn’t sell that one. She said it reminded her of you.” I glanced at him. “This must be hard for you.”

  “It’s not like I ever lived in this house. My parents moved here long after I was gone.” He put the figurine back on the table, scanning the room, looking down the hall toward the dining room and kitchen. “I didn’t get here as often as I should. Too busy with my career and family.”

  “It’s hard. My parents are out in Pacific Grove, California, near Monterey. I understand how difficult it can be to get away.” Since my divorce, my parents had pressured me to move back. But now that CJ and I were trying again, I was especially grateful I’d stayed in Massachusetts. We walked through the dining room, kitchen, and enclosed porch. Nothing looked like it was out of place since I’d last been here on Saturday morning.

  Tim opened the door to his father’s office.

  “Oh, wow,” I said.

  “What? Is something different?”

  I walked into the room. The desk was covered with files sitting next to a cardboard book box. “The few times I was in here, it was pristine.” A drawer on the file cabinet was open and a stack of moving boxes in the corner had been jostled around. “I wasn’t in here on Saturday. I can’t say if this was your father packing things. Or . . .”

  “If someone else was in here going through things.”

  I nodded. Tim had completed my thought. I walked over to the wall and straightened a picture of Mr. Spencer when he was young, arms thrown around a couple of guys in fatigues who must have been part of the platoon he’d loved to talk about. “Your dad was sure proud of his service. Did you move around a lot as a kid?” CJ and I had moved on average every couple of years when he was still active duty.

  “He was out before I was born. I was one of those miracle babies born to my parents late in life. I don’t think my mom loved being a military wife. She didn’t like to talk about it.”

  “Not everyone takes to it,” I said. “Some people aren’t cut out for all the moves and being far away from family. I loved it most of the time.”

  “Would you look at the files on his desk and see if anything stands out?” Tim asked.

  “Yes. Although I’m not sure I’ll be helpful. Like I said, the office was always neat.” I went around to the back of the desk and plopped into Mr. Spencer’s chair. It hit me again that he was dead. Such a cheerful man, it was hard to believe anyone would hurt him. It made me wonder if he’d died defending his wife. Because as mean as it sounded, someone wanting to kill her didn’t seem unlikely.

  “I’m going to look in the file drawers for the powers of attorney and wills,” Tim said. “My dad liked to be prepared. I guess it’s a good thing.”

  I started leafing through the files on the desk. “It looks like taxes, health insurance, medical records. This one seems out of place—it’s a folder of places to visit in Florida.”

  Tim came and looked over my shoulder as I thumbed through the files in the box.

  “It’s more of the same in this box, plus a folder of assisted-living places,” I said.

  “I didn’t know they were looking at assisted-living places. I thought they planned to buy a house,” Tim said.

  “Maybe a better term is ‘retirement communities. ’” I set the folder aside but hesitated before pulling out the next file. “This one is labeled ‘Life Insurance.’”

  I handed Tim the folder. “Do you want me to leave? A lot of this is really personal and none of my business.”

  Tim shook his head. “It’s okay. Another set of eyes, having someone else here, is a huge comfort. My family has nothing to hide. I’m fine with you staying, unless you don’t want to.”

  “I’ll do what I can to help.” I was relieved. I felt compelled to stay, to figure out what had happened and why. Since the crime had been committed at my garage sale, it made me feel responsible.

  Tim flipped open the life insurance folder. He frowned as he read through the papers, and then his eyes widened. “Unbelievable,” he muttered.

  Chapter 8

  I stood next to him, not wanting to intrude but dying of curiosity. Tim showed me a sheet of paper and pointed to a figure.

  “A million-d
ollar policy?” I was astounded.

  “I had no idea. I guess he wanted to make sure Mom was taken care of.”

  “Again, it’s none of my business, but when did he take the policy out?”

  Tim flipped through the policy. “Ten years ago. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe, if it was recent, your dad had some concerns about health or something else.” Something that had nothing to do with me or my garage sale. “Since it’s ten years old, it doesn’t seem likely.”

  We put the files back in the box, looked through the open file cabinet drawer, and straightened the stack of boxes in the corner.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help in here,” I said to Tim as we left the office.

  “No worries. Let’s go upstairs and take a look around.”

  Ten minutes later, we were back downstairs and headed to the garage. We stopped at the door and looked at each other. Tim opened the door, flipped on a light, and stepped in. I followed. It was cool and the single bulb didn’t light the corners. The sheets I’d used to divide the garage sale from the things that weren’t for sale still hung, dividing the garage in half. Tears burned in my eyes, and I inched backwards.

  “Are you okay?” Tim asked.

  I swallowed and nodded. “Let’s take the sheets down and see what it is we’re dealing with.” We took them down. Someone from the police department had haphazardly piled the unsold items from the garage sale near the big garage door. Fingerprint powder covered some of the surfaces, but other than that, it would have been hard to tell anything out of the ordinary had happened in here. The money, Purple Heart, and lobster buoy that had been on the floor were all gone. A dark stain that must be blood from Mr. Spencer’s head remained.

  He looked around with his hands on his hips. “Can you tell me what you saw? Anything you heard?”

  I moved around the garage as I explained what I’d seen. He even wanted to know where his mom had been, and his dad. I told him everything I could remember.

  “My dad always wanted me to be handy. To work with wood like he did.” Tim looked around the garage. He spotted an old birdhouse and lifted it off the hook it hung on. “My dad and I made this when I was in first grade. I can’t believe he still has it.” Tim turned it around in his hands. Bright splotches of red, green, and yellow covered the sides and roof. “I was quite the painter back then.”

  I laughed. “Do you still build things?” It was a skill I’d long admired.

  “Not often. I loved to draw and spent way too much of my time with a sketchbook and pencil.”

  “Do you still draw?”

  “Not in a long time. I’d have gone to art school if I could, but my mom said I needed to do something practical. So I’m an engineer.” He shrugged. “The pay’s a heck of a lot better.”

  “Maybe you can get back to it someday.”

  “Maybe, but not while I have a family to feed and college tuition looming in the future.”

  After we finished, Tim locked the house and walked me to my car. “Here’s an extra key to the house. I’d really like to try to get the rest of this stuff sold as soon as possible. Can you finish the garage sale on Saturday?”

  The key weighed heavy in my hand. “I can’t this weekend. I could do it next weekend.”

  Tim nodded. “I’ll try to gather some more things for the sale. Mom will be mad as heck, but better to do it now.”

  “Okay. If you think that’s best.” I wasn’t sure this was the right course of action, but since Tim was in charge, I’d leave it to him.

  * * *

  I was fifteen minutes late getting home, but CJ wasn’t there yet. My stomach was growling so I started nibbling on the cheese Mike had given me. When I hadn’t heard from CJ by seven, I tried calling him, first on his cell phone and then at the station. All I got was voice mail. At seven-fifteen, I grabbed my keys, one part of me worried while the other assured the worried side this was a normal part of being involved with someone in law enforcement. I’d had this conversation with myself hundreds of times when we were married. I decided driving by his house and stopping at the station wouldn’t hurt anything.

  As I reached for my coat, my cell phone rang. CJ.

  “We’ve had a break in the Spencer case.”

  “Oh, good,” I said.

  “It is, but . . .” Silence stretched across the phone line.

  “But what, CJ?” My stomach started to flutter.

  “I hate to tell you this on the phone, but I don’t want you to hear it when you’re out and about.”

  I gripped my phone tighter. “Hear what?” I barely managed to get the words out.

  “We got a hit on some of the fingerprints from the Spencers’ garage.”

  “That’s good news, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “Yes, but . . .”

  I waited, but CJ didn’t say anything and I was starting to get scared. “Spit it out, CJ.”

  I heard a big deep breath.

  “The fingerprints belonged to Luke Winston. Your brother.”

  Chapter 9

  I dropped my keys and sank to the floor, clutching the phone to my ear. CJ yakked away, but only part of what he said registered. Since Luke had been in the military, his fingerprints were on record, which meant the results came back fast. CJ couldn’t come over. He said he was mystified, that he was sorry, that I shouldn’t tell my parents, and he’d call soon. Then he hung up before I could say, “Wait. Luke was here.” I’m not sure how long I sat there trying to figure out what to do. I knew I should call CJ back and tell him I’d seen Luke. That he couldn’t have killed someone and then headed over here and acted so casually.

  I pondered his appearance at my door. He had been tense, not casual. I’d chalked it up to us not having seen each other for such a long time. Luke had reacted when he’d seen CJ’s jacket on my kitchen chair. He didn’t want anyone to know he was in town. Because he was investigating something, not because he’d murdered someone. There’d be no reason to come here if he’d killed someone and certainly no reason to stay in town. I pushed myself off the floor but only managed to walk over to the couch before collapsing on it. I could make all the assumptions I wanted, but how well did I really know my brother?

  I looked at the phone gripped in my hand. I had to call CJ back and tell him I’d seen Luke. But I didn’t dial, damn it. I couldn’t. I sat for a few more minutes, my mind a kaleidoscope of images, one swirling to the next before I could focus. But I finally punched in CJ’s number, doubting what I should do with every digit.

  “CJ,” I said.

  “Sarah, I can’t talk right now unless someone’s bleeding.”

  My heart was bleeding. “No one’s bleeding.” I started again, “CJ.”

  “I have to go.” And he did.

  Maybe it was a sign. A sign to help Luke, or maybe it’s what I wanted to do. I shot off a text telling CJ to call me as soon as possible. Then I sent him an email saying the same, emphasizing that it was important. I forced myself up, grabbed my light spring jacket. I’d find Luke and contact Vincenzo DiNapoli to defend him. Vincenzo had helped not only Mike Titone but my friend Carol out of jams. Once I had those two things in place, we’d all go to CJ together. Luke was here investigating a story. It may have led him to the Spencers’ house at some point for some unknown reason. But I knew Luke was no killer and I had to prove it.

  * * *

  My first stop was DiNapoli’s for food and hopefully to find out if word about Luke was out yet. I stood in line waiting for my turn. A woman I’d never seen before took orders. She was tall, with short blond hair. She moved with an efficient energy and talked with a loud Boston accent. I heard every order she repeated back as the line got shorter, a large sausage pizza, pronounced pizzer, with double cheese, an eggplant pahm sandwich, a chopped salad with a side of fries. None of it sounded it good.

  “What can I get you?” she asked.

  The person in front of me had moved off to the side to wait for their food.
Options continued to stream through my head. I looked at the menu written on boards hanging from the ceiling as someone sighed and shuffled behind me. It had been a stupid idea to come here.

  “Try the shrimp sandwich, Sarah. It’s new.” Rosalie came over and stood next to the cashier, little worry lines more pronounced around her eyes as she studied me.

  I nodded, wondering if her worry was because she’d heard about my brother or because she knew someone had died at my garage sale.

  “You’re Sarah?” the cashier asked. “I’ve heard lots about you. I love, love, love tag sales.”

  I tried to smile. “Me too. The shrimp sandwich sounds good.”

  She stuck out her hand. “I’m Gale. G-A-L-E.” She gave my hand a vigorous shake. “My mom said I came into the world like a strong gust of wind. And I haven’t slowed down yet.”

  I could use a good strong wind to blow me in the right direction. I found a table against the wall. One of many lining the right side of the restaurant. Angelo was cooking at a frantic pace and shouting out orders as he finished them up. There was only a low wall between the tables and kitchen. I think originally the purpose was so he could watch over the restaurant, but on nights like this, he was fun to watch. He chopped, he stirred, he tossed pizza crust into the air. I figured he felt the crowd watching him and enjoyed putting on a show. I knew it after he tossed one crust into the air, executed a full circle, and caught the pizza. The crowd clapped and he bowed.

  Gale brought my shrimp sandwich. Large breaded shrimp sat on a New England – style hot dog bun, which was sliced across the top instead of on the side. I took a bite. The breading had a slight spice but wasn’t so thick you couldn’t taste the shrimp. A light tartar sauce complimented the shrimp but didn’t overpower it. If it weren’t for the shocking news about Luke, this sandwich would be heaven.

  Sadly, Rosalie and Angelo were too busy to join me. And after listening in on a few conversations and not hearing a word about the murder or my brother, I realized the Ellington High School baseball team was there celebrating a win with their families. It explained the crowd.