A Good Day to Buy

by Sherry Harris

“I do?” I asked. They both nodded. It was especially nice to hear after having two strangers ask me if I was pregnant the other night. “I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me before.” I took a cookie.

  “Tell us how you’re doing,” Angelo said. “We keep hearing stories, but want to hear your version.”

  In a small town, stories spread faster than news of antiques at a garage sale. “What have you heard?”

  Angelo and Rosalie looked at each other. Angelo shrugged and spread his hands apart. “You know how the town can be. You killed two people. Your brother’s a serial killer, and he’s kidnapped the Callahans. CJ’s protecting you both.”

  I gritted my teeth. I think I liked it better when people were calling me a hero.

  “Those are the crazy ones. We quickly squelched them,” Rosalie said. “Angelo threatened to kick a table full of people out when he overheard them.”

  “What else?” I asked.

  “That your brother’s lived in this area for years using an alias,” Angelo said. “I told them not to talk about a veteran like that.” His face grew a little red. He loved our country and had served himself.

  Good heavens, was it possible? I shook my head and then filled them in on what I knew.

  “Don’t worry about the crazy stories,” Angelo said. “Most of the people are rooting for you.”

  Chapter 27

  As soon as I got home, I sat at my small kitchen table with another glass of wine. I opened my computer and Googled Bartholomew Winst. What if he really had been living in this area for a long time? We were so out of touch, it could have happened easily enough. The thought made me sad.

  One article popped up with Bart Winst’s byline. My eyes widened as I scanned the story. It was about stolen valor, the term used for people who pretended to be members of the military. I sat back in my chair. Had Luke been tracking down people who pretended to be in the military all these years? The article was dated a year ago.

  There was a lot of controversy about people wearing uniforms who hadn’t served. Some said it was their First Amendment right to wear whatever they wanted. Obviously, those who served disagreed. I did some more digging and ended up watching online videos of confrontations between vets and the posers. The confrontations ranged from polite conversations to ridicule to angry shouting matches. Some of them made me uncomfortable—the ones that people got wrong.

  Why was there only one article? I tried another search engine, using Bart instead of Bartholomew. No luck. Maybe he used another name I didn’t know about. But I didn’t have a guess as to what it could be. I needed to call my parents to see if they knew any of this. Without mentioning I’d seen Luke recently and that he was a suspect in a murder. Maybe this was why I avoided going home. Luke’s absence always felt more real when the three of us were together without him. The rift had hurt my parents deeply, and my distance, both physically and emotionally, didn’t help.

  “Hey, Mom. How are you?” I asked a few moments later. It was only six in California. We made small talk for a while before I took the plunge. “I’ve been missing Luke, Mom.” Heck, that was literally true—he was missing. “Have you heard anything from him?”

  “We haven’t, honey. Why ask now?”

  “I found an article by him using the pretend name he used when we were little. I’ll send you the link.” It was hard to ask things I should have asked long ago.

  “Why’d he leave?” I knew he’d come home from Iraq for a few months when he’d gotten out of the service. But CJ and I had been living in England by then. I hadn’t paid much attention.

  “Do we have to talk about this?”

  “Yes. It’s time.”

  Mom was silent for a moment, then sighed. “We tried to get him help.”

  “Help? What for?”

  “The VA wait was impossible. We offered to pay for a psychologist but . . .”

  “But what?” I asked.

  “He was self-medicating. First with alcohol and then with who knows what. Then he started stealing from us or friends who came by.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me any of this?”

  “You’d just miscarried for the first time. And you adored Luke. We didn’t want to upset you any more than was necessary.”

  I had withdrawn from the world for a bit after my first miscarriage.

  “What happened then?” I asked.

  “We told him he had to see someone or leave.” Mom was quiet for a moment. “He left.”

  “And there wasn’t any clue to where he went?”

  “No. He left most of his things here. Believe me, we went through everything with a fine-toothed comb. He didn’t take much. Just a couple pairs of jeans and shirts. He left most of his medals, books, stuff I thought he valued.”

  “He has medals? Which ones?”

  “I’m not sure what they are. Valor or something.”

  “Do you still have them?”

  “As far as I know, we do.”

  “Can you snap some pictures of them?”

  “Sure, honey. Dad might have to help me find them. But we’ll look.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  * * *

  A few minutes later, my phone binged with a message from my mom. I can’t find his uniform.

  I sent a text back. You don’t have any pictures of him in his uniform?

  No. But your father found this.

  A picture of a certificate popped up. It stated Luke had been awarded a Purple Heart. I sent a quick thanks and then flipped back to the photo of the certificate. A Purple Heart meant he’d been injured. Another thing my family had never talked about. How had we gone from our happy, talkabout-anything family before Luke enlisted to not discussing anything important? My brother was a war hero with substance abuse problems. It happened all too often. Then someplace along the line he’d started chasing down people who pretended they were in the military. Why?

  I stared into my wineglass while I thought. Luke had been at the Spencers’ house. Was it possible Mr. Spencer had faked he was in the military? There’d been money on the floor beside him in the garage. What if someone else knew and was blackmailing Mr. Spencer? I sipped my wine. It could have been Ethan. Maybe he’d tracked down the Spencers and was shaking them down. It would explain them both having lots of cash. I wondered if the police had checked to see if the two different piles of cash had serial numbers that were similar.

  Angelo had said there was a rumor my brother had been living in the area for a long time. What if he had been tracking down military impostors and somehow ended up near here? I looked through the photos on my phone until I found the one I’d snapped of Mr. Spencer and his war buddies. I downloaded it to my computer because it was too hard to see much detail when it was this small. I pulled it up and studied it. As far as I could tell, it was authentic. It was too late right now to go see Charlie and have her take a look at it. There must be something I could do instead of sitting here speculating. Something that would give me some answers and help me find Luke.

  I shot off a text to Mike Titone. I’ll be at your cheese shop in forty minutes. Then I turned off my phone. I didn’t want him to tell me no.

  * * *

  I waited outside the dark, closed cheese shop. The drive had only taken me forty minutes, but it took another fifteen to find parking a few blocks from here. There’d been lots of people on Hanover Street, but there were fewer people here. Occasionally, a couple would walk by. A neon sign for a bar blinked on and off further down the street. And there were lights in apartments above the mostly closed storefronts.

  After waiting five minutes, I turned my phone back on. No messages or calls. I sent another text to Mike, I’m here. Ten minutes later, a black SUV with dark tinted windows pulled up. Mike popped out of the back passenger seat, dressed in a tux. Even in the dark, I could tell his glacier-blue eyes were icier than normal. I had the decency to feel a twinge or two of guilt. I’d never seen him dressed for
mally and had obviously pulled him from something important. I was a little surprised he’d shown up instead of blowing me off.

  Mike straightened his cuff links before acknowledging me. “Well?”

  I looked at him. This version of Mike Titone was scarier than the other versions I’d seen of him—helpful Mike, poker-playing Mike, jogging Mike. Now I could see how all those stories I’d read about him might be true. Maybe he really did leave a slice of cheese on people’s porches as a warning if they crossed him. I hoped I wouldn’t find one on mine.

  “Have you been looking for my brother?”

  “Who’s your brother?”

  “Luke Winston, aka Bart or Bartholomew Winst.”

  There wasn’t a flicker of recognition in his eyes, but once again I remembered he was an Oscar-worthy liar.

  “Why would I be looking for your brother?”

  I shivered a little in a gust of wind. At least I hoped it was the wind that caused the shiver and not fear. Mike hadn’t answered my question. “Because Seth Anderson told me he had other sources looking for my brother.”

  “And you think I’m his other source?”

  “You two know each other and have something going on I don’t understand or even want to understand.” At least I didn’t think I wanted to know what was up between them.

  “Get in the car.”

  A man stepped out from the front passenger side and opened the back passenger-side door for me.

  “I’m fine.” I tried to sound tough, but my voice wavered.

  Mike shook his head in disgust. “For cryin’ out loud. Get in the car. We can talk while I head back to the gala you pulled me from.”

  I climbed in. “CJ knows I came to see you.” I should have told CJ was I coming to Boston. But I knew if I had, he’d have tried to stop me.

  “Whatevah,” Mike said as his driver took off. “So when you asked me to hide someone the other day, was it your brother?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  I filled him in, even though I had a feeling he already knew most of the story. The driver pulled up in front of the Omni Parker House.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Attending a fundraiser for a no-kill animal shelter.”

  Well, that was ironic. Mike opened his door, climbed out, and turned back to me. “I’ll see what I can do, but don’t get your hopes up. Joey,” Mike said. The driver turned and looked over his shoulder at Mike. “Take her to her car.”

  Joey nodded and straightened his massive shoulders before glancing at me in his rearview. “Where’s your car?”

  I explained where I’d parked. As we pulled away from the curb and the locks on the car doors clicked down, I wished I’d done more training with Gennie. And I hoped “take her to her car” wasn’t code for “put her in cement boots and dump her in the harbor.”

  Chapter 28

  At nine Friday morning, I sat next to Charlie in her living room, alive and cement boot-free. Mike’s men had been very polite and had stayed until I’d started my car and pulled away from the curb. I tried to push aside the little unwanted doubts that flicked through my head randomly saying, Maybe Luke did do it. I answered them with a firm, Maybe Tim did it, maybe those four men hanging around town did it, maybe some random person I haven’t even thought of did it, the one who left the unidentified fingerprints behind. Maybe Brad killed him.

  Ugh. Stop it.

  “You wanted me to look at a photo?” Charlie asked. She had a colorful African print turban on this morning. Jeans and a T-shirt completed her outfit.

  “It’s of Mr. Spencer with some buddies when he was in Vietnam.” I’d brought my computer with me, and I opened it and pulled the photo up. The more information I had about the Spencers, the easier it would be to find their killer. We both stared at the photo.

  “Can you zoom in?” Charlie asked.

  I made it larger and watched Charlie as she studied it. She narrowed her eyes, leaned in, and seemed to absorb every detail. After a long minute, she leaned back.

  “Something’s not right with this photo,” she said.

  “What?” I asked. Adrenaline zoomed around my body. And sitting still became difficult. My foot started jiggling in anticipation.

  “It might be nothing.” Charlie pointed at Mr. Spencer’s T-shirt. “It’s not a regulation shirt.” She scanned the photo again. “But things were crazy back then, supplies were limited. Any clean shirt would do.”

  She held the photo farther away.

  “Is there something else?”

  “Other than I need some reading glasses?” Charlie paused. “It’s odd all three of them have the same shirt. But like I said, things were different in the jungle.” She looked at me.

  “There’s something else bothering you,” I said.

  “It’s the foliage. It almost looks arranged.” Charlie shook her head. “That’s silly. I’m trying to read something into this to help you. Sorry.”

  I concentrated on the picture again. “It does look arranged. But what does it mean?”

  Charlie shrugged.

  “Thanks for taking a look at it.”

  “If anything comes to me, I’ll give you a call,” Charlie said.

  * * *

  My next stop was to get the end tables I’d found on my virtual garage sale site. The woman lived down the street from Herb Fitch. It was a street lined with older homes that, for the most part, were nicely maintained. Grass was mowed, flowers were planted, and the houses were freshly painted.

  I saw a crowd of people in front of Herb’s house, and a police car. Oh no. I parked and hurried over to join the crowd. Herb stood clutching his cane like he wanted to beat someone with it. Officer Awesome stood next to him talking calmly about what I couldn’t hear. Both of them stared at Herb’s house. Someone had spray-painted LIAR in big black letters on the shingles of his covered porch.

  I turned to the woman next to me and realized she was Herb’s next-door neighbor. “Who would do this to Herb?” I asked.

  I saw recognition in her eyes. We’d talked last February when Herb was out of town.

  “Well, if it isn’t our local hero come to save the day.”

  I sighed inwardly, wondering when the damn hero thing would finally blow over. “Did they catch who did this?” I asked.

  “Ain’t that whatcha here for?” She looked me over. “Not that I know of. It’s a shame. Herb of all people. Couldn’t ask for a better neighbor. He’s a do-anything-for-ya kind of guy. Even if he can’t do as much as he used to.”

  “Any idea why someone would write ‘liar’ on his house?”

  “None whatsoever.” She headed back toward her house.

  I walked over to Awesome and Herb.

  “What? Do you have a police scanner now?” Awesome didn’t seem thrilled to see me. “Are you becoming an ambulance chaser?”

  “No. I’m sorry, Herb.” I gestured toward the paint.

  There was a bit of steel in his eyes as he looked at the words. “Bastards.” It came out Bastdahds with his accent.

  “Any idea who did this?” I asked him.

  “I think I just answered that.”

  I stared at him for a minute, then smiled. “You’re right.”

  “Good thing I needed to re-shingle the roof anyway. I’ll move it up on the to-do list.”

  “Why would someone do this to you?” I asked.

  “Excuse me,” Awesome said. “Do you want my badge and notebook?” But he had a hint of a smile.

  “Sorry.” Although we all knew I wasn’t. It changed Awesome’s hint of a smile to a full grin.

  “No idea,” Herb said. “We done here? Standing around like this kicks up my arthritis.”

  “I think I’ve got everything I need, Herb. I’m really sorry about this,” Awesome said. He nodded to me. “Sarah.”

  Herb and I watched as Awesome walked back to his car. When he climbed in and drove off, I turned back to Herb.

  “Oka
y. Why do you think someone did this?”

  Herb squinted at me. “Don’t know.” He walked to his porch and went into his house without looking back.

  I didn’t believe him.

  * * *

  I kneeled down on the cement garage floor to examine the end tables. The owner and her three little kids, one in her arms, the other two each clinging to her legs, watched me. The tables were in rough shape. In some places, the stain was worn off. But the wood looked like walnut, not cheap particleboard. I tried to keep my face neutral and not show my delight. Both had two drawers with brass teardrop drawer pulls.

  I pulled open a drawer. The wood was dovetailed together and irregular. Oh, wow. It must be a handmade, instead of machine-made, piece. I slid the drawer out all the way. The thinner piece of wood in the bottom had shrunk a bit. The wood around the edge was slightly lighter. Both were signs of age, which would increase the value of these pieces.

  I sniffed the wood. There was a faint musty smell, but no visual signs of water damage. Mostly it smelled like wood. I pulled both drawers all of the way out and looked at the backs. One of them had a bit of white chalk on it, possibly a signature. These were the real deal, authentic instead of fakes.

  It made me think of Herb, my brother, and the word LIAR being painted on Herb’s house. What if Herb wasn’t a veteran and someone had found out? I couldn’t imagine Luke spray-painting someone’s house. Of course, I couldn’t imagine him being all right and not calling either. Not making sure I was okay after what had happened the other night. But I also couldn’t handle the idea he was in serious trouble or maybe even dead.

  “Is something wrong?” the woman asked.

  It jarred me back to the end tables. I stood and looked at her. She stared at me like I’d lost my mind. It wasn’t the first time someone had done that when I examined a piece of furniture.

  “I have great news. These are handmade pieces. I’m guessing pre-eighteen-seventy.” I pointed to the white chalk. “See these marks?” The woman nodded. “It could be a signature of the maker or a partial one, even though most American furniture wasn’t signed. These could be very rare and valuable.” I sighed. “Even without a signature, they are worth way more than ten dollars. I can’t take them from you.”