Garage Sale Stalker (Garage Sale Mysteries)

by Weinert, Suzi

“Remote door unlock?” Adam recalled the irritating number of police calls from citizens who’d locked keys in their cars, usually with the motor running, asking for police help. Police cruisers used to routinely carry slim-jims, but no longer because of potentially unintended damage to the newer electronic door locks. Adam knew their current procedure involved calling a locksmith or AAA for stranded motorists. Compared to that, this OnStar service seemed sci-fi.

  “That’s right,” Brad said, “The locked-out member calls our toll-free number with his name and password. OnStar beams up to the GPS satellite, which locates his car so we can electronically unlock the door via our cell network. Slick, isn’t it? The members really like that one.”

  “So did she use the car advice or door unlock recently?”

  “No, but this still might tell you something.”

  “For instance?” Adam asked.

  “No air bag deployment, as is typical in a high speed crash, which automatically calls OnStar. No voluntary request for help, directions, proximity of a gas station, or medical or roadside assistance. Hmmmm… she could have contacted Triple-A or a local gas station directly on a cell phone. You’ve probably already checked that out.”

  “Yeah, we have.” Adam’s fatigue showed in his voice.

  “Tough case?”

  Adam sighed, “Yeah, but thanks for the earful. This info might help with a future case.”

  Brad Billings stared at his desk photo of his little daughter’s grinning face. He’d had a panic of his own when she wandered away and disappeared for five awful minutes at Home Depot. He remembered how store clerks pitched in to help him search and one of them found her in a nearby aisle, playing hide-and-seek behind a display. How gratefully he valued their instant “good Samaritan” help. Maybe he could pass that good deed along.

  “How long has your person been missing?” Brad asked.

  Adam calculated rapidly. “About 24 hours.”

  “Look, I have an idea. Since her car shuts down after 48 hours, you have 24 hours to go. I could do a periodic GPS check on it during that time in case it’s relocated from wherever it is now. After that, GPS can’t help unless the ignition is turned on again.”

  “Great idea, Brad! That would really help. Thanks for going the extra mile to help us out.”

  “If my GPS check is successful, you’ll hear from me. Since a missing person report is filed, we won’t have to take more time with a subpoena.”

  “Thanks, again, Brad. I appreciate your doing this.”

  Hanging up, Adam pushed back his chair, locked his hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. After any crime, the longer elapsed time, the colder the trail. Every single lead invited thorough investigation. Would this be just another time-consuming futile exercise, or might OnStar actually locate the missing car in the next 24 hours?

  Geez, he hoped so!

  CHAPTER 45

  “You cook.” Wrestler spoke this as a statement, not a question.

  “I am an experienced cook.”

  “Take this cleaning stuff to the kitchen.”

  Her mind raced. When her useful activity ended, so did her future. Cooking a meal, if allowed, might well be her farewell chore. What then? Uneasy and exhausted, she trudged ahead of him down the hall, pulling the vacuum cleaner behind her.

  “Fix dinner,” he ordered when she reached the kitchen. He snapped his fingers twice. The dog rushed forward, looking up at him expectantly.

  “Door,” he said to the animal. It hurried to guard duty by the laundry room door. “When the food’s ready, hit the buzzer.” He left so quickly, locking the kitchen door behind him, that she still stood with one hand on the sweeper and a pail of rags and supplies in the other.

  Grateful for the mercy of another assignment, she clung to the hope that wowing him with this meal might mean he’d want her to cook again. Another meal equaled another day alive!

  Though she’d cooked thousands of meals for her big family in her forty-one years of marriage, she’d truthfully described herself as an experienced cook, not Julia Child. Nor had her very life ever hinged upon the success of a single meal, as this one might.

  Unlike dinner parties she hosted at home, with carefully planned menus and ingredients bought specifically for them, today’s situation was a different challenge. Ingredients already in this kitchen determined the dinner’s possibilities and her outcome depended upon that outcome. Complicating this further, meal preparation excluded using sharp knives, which he’d removed.

  Stowing the cleaning items in the laundry room, she examined the contents of the refrigerator, freezer and pantry shelves. Should she use the hamburger, or save it for the dog? If only she could lace the dog’s snack with sleeping pills… or put them into the man’s dinner, for that matter.

  With that thought, she rummaged again under the sink for rat poison or other toxic ingredient. Oven cleaner, cleanser, 409, Windex—enough of it could make them sick but the awful taste nixed that idea. She stopped short. What if he forced her to taste the food first to ensure its safety? She’d be in the same traumatized state they were. Not a good plan.

  In a novel she once read, a prisoner escaped by starting a fire and this kitchen was the ideal place. No matches, but paper towels could ignite on a stove burner to torch window shades. Fires create confusion. This old house would burn fast. Smoke and flames could attract outsiders to rescue her. Maybe the man and dog would be trapped in the flames. She could escape.

  This proactive idea appealed to Jennifer. Any size fire guaranteed distraction, but how would the man react? Would he chase her while his house burned to the ground or ignore her while he put out the fire. She frowned. What if he ordered the dog to guard her while he extinguished the flames? Then he’d save the house and, afterward, punish her.

  What if the man imprisoned others somewhere in this house? They’d be burned to death as well. The earring proved Tina’s presence here once. Perhaps she was still here! What if Jennifer were trapped in the flames herself? A horrible way to die! No, she’d try to think of something else…

  A mountain of a man, Wrestler’s size suggested a huge appetite, with quantity more important than quality. She considered her narrowed meal options even with a well-stocked larder. Unable to picture him enjoying restaurant dining, she guessed he ate all meals here.

  While mulling a menu, she slipped the dog another small piece of hamburger, hoping to repeat this during meal preparation. No longer growling, the animal now responded to her approach with guarded anticipation. He acted the way he looked: half-starved! Lacking a way to subdue or eliminate him, she needed the dog’s acceptance, even his cooperation, to get away.

  She decided on meatloaf for four reasons. Cooked meat would still entice the dog, using all the hamburger prevented discovery of its reduced amount, the dish was tasty yet easy to prepare and plentiful in amount if her captor’s appetite matched his size.

  Gathering the hamburger, two eggs and numerous seasonings, she mixed the ingredients, shaped two loaves in a baking pan and spread each with catsup before sliding them into a hot oven.

  Unable to peel potatoes without a knife, she knew they’d mash with a fork if boiled until soft. She selected frozen green beans, adding bottled bacon bits and a can of diced tomatoes. For dessert, she poured canned peaches into another baking dish, sprinkled a mixture of brown sugar, flour and cinnamon over them and fitted this into the oven beside the meatloaf.

  Setting the table with a paper towel placemat and napkin, she poured him a glass of water and added a bowl of apples as centerpiece. Would he care about the convenience of prepared food enough to want her to cook again? Probably not, but she had to try!

  An hour after starting, she pressed the buzzer, indicating dinner was ready. He stalked into the kitchen, walked directly to the table and sat down. “Prepare two plates. Put mine on the table. Take yours downstairs,” he ordered gruffly.

  “Do you want me to clean up afterward?” she looked at the counter as she spoke.<
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  “No!” She must have hesitated a moment too long, the hot pad in her hand, because he shouted impatiently, “Now!” and rose to his feet as the dog rushed into the room at the sound of his raised voice.

  Nerves frayed and hands shaking, she filled the man’s dinner and dessert plates quickly and put them on the table. Returning to the stove, she served herself, grabbed a fork and moved toward the basement door. Following right behind her, he opened the door so forcefully that for a moment she feared he would fling her down the stairs.

  Balancing her plate in one hand, she grabbed the hand rail for support. As she started down the basement stairs, her downcast eyes fell upon the pencil-shaped scar on his left hand just as he closed and locked the door behind her. She stopped still on the third step down, clinging to the banister with one hand and frantically trying to quiet the plate trembling in her other hand.

  Ten fingers and the angry scar. The younger brother!

  CHAPTER 46

  Locked in the basement, she sat on the bottom stair step to eat her dinner. Putting aside several pieces of her meatloaf for the dog, she realized that despite her efforts to please the man with her good performance, he seemed angrier as the day wore on. Did anger make him even more unpredictable? He was a killer and something would trigger his inevitable attack on her. Would it be frustration about something else that he took out on her?

  She needed to get out very soon!

  Escape tomorrow in daylight made little sense since she’d be easily visible. If she even saw tomorrow! No, tonight while he slept. She needed the cover of darkness.

  She tried to shrug off the triple whammy of physical labor, minimal sleep and emotional stress. The overpowering urge to lie down, shut her eyes and drift into healing sleep made waking up doubtful once her eyes closed. Even with an alarm. She couldn’t escape tonight if she fell asleep! No, she must stay awake, whatever it took.

  Patting her slacks, she rubbed the lucky frog in one pocket and removed the small clock from the other. She tested its alarm, which worked, but could she stake her life upon its dependability? Setting the alarm for midnight as “insurance” even though she intended staying awake, she hid the small timepiece on a shelf where she could see it but he wouldn’t.

  Though captive in the cellar, at least she wasn’t locked in the awful confinement box. She peered inside that prison, unwilling to climb in for a better look. At its door, she noticed an unpleasant smell emanating from inside, probably from the toilet bucket. If her escape tonight were successful, she’d leave that for him to empty.

  The night light inside the confinement box still glowed so she needn’t get inside to verify the V-shaped nick in the top board of the bench. Definitely where the boys sat in the night stand’s photo. Poor, frightened little guys. Thirty-five years ago, “disciplining” children was considered the prerogative of parents who were barely accountable to society. Even schools meted out corporal punishment then. Kids like these boys hadn’t much chance of rescue, isolated as they were. Had they run away, foster homes and orphanages during that era offered their own documented insensitivities and occasional atrocities. Brutality to children was an issue mostly swept under the rug.

  As her fatigue grew, even the basement floor looked inviting. She thought of stretching out, just to relax her aching body for a few minutes, but she knew she’d fall sound asleep. She slapped her cheeks. She pinched her arms. She did some stretches. She stamped her feet.

  Then she remembered the three boxes under the stairs. Pulling out the one marked “The Boys,” she opened it and spread the photos side by side. She returned the “schoolhouse” and studied the remaining two.

  The young boys together, with the older one’s arm around the younger one’s shoulder, looked much like the night-stand picture upstairs, except they were younger here, maybe three or four. She wished for the magnifying glass or at least better light. Holding the pictures directly under one of the six naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling, she counted five fingers on the older boy’s hand and no scar on the younger one’s. Assuming these were the same children, whatever caused those injuries happened after this photo.

  Next, she studied the boy pictured in the too-large military school uniform. Based on her children’s sizes, he looked about six or seven. At first she thought he stood at attention, but then his hands would be pressed flat against the sides of his trousers. He stood stiffly with his feet together, but his arms hung loosely in front of him, the hands showing enough below the jacket sleeves to reveal a pencil-shaped scar on his left hand. Again, the younger brother! Was this dress-up or a Halloween costume? She didn’t think kids could attend military school at so young an age.

  Placing the photos beside the hatbox, she again lifted out the old, rolled rag. The puckered rubber band fell away as she unrolled the small bundle. So many folds, but when at last the ancient cloth fell open, inside lay a thin, brown shriveled stick about two inches long. But was it a stick? On closer examination, one end had a flat side that looked a little like…

  She shrank back, covering her mouth to stifle the scream filling her throat. “Oh,” she cried out to the empty room, “Oh, no….”

  She stared dumbly at the still visibly intact nail and slightly bent knuckle. Atop the rag lay a child’s mummified finger.

  CHAPTER 47

  Jennifer gazed in shock at the wizened finger. What had these little boys endured at the hands of their parents? You could never excuse Wrestler’s murderous retaliation, but you could certainly grasp the grisly chain of events pointing him there.

  Hastily re-wrapping the finger in the rag, she put the ghastly bundle on the floor beside the photos and fumbled through the rest of the box’s contents. She remembered keys of various sizes lay at the bottom. No clue what the small ones fit, but what about the three large old ones? She remembered keys like these from childhood visits to her grandparents’ house. Maybe they opened the barn or the “schoolhouse” or the front entry or… maybe the basement door?

  Taking the three big keys, she crept up the stairs and gently rotated the doorknob. While the knob turned easily, the door held. She pushed gently, then firmly. Locked tight!

  She pulled out the three big keys and knelt down to peer out the 3/4 inch crack under the door. Light shone on the other side, but she saw and heard no sign of the dog or the man. The left half of the under-door view faced the opposite wall, about four feet away. The right half view stretched down the dark hallway. Other than the possibly irrelevant 6:00 alarm setting on his bedroom clock and with no other clue to the man’s sleeping habits, she crossed her fingers that he was in bed.

  Closing one eye, she peered again into the keyhole. Some light there, but the hole wasn’t empty. After locking the door on the other side, he had no reason to pocket the key with only himself and the dog upstairs, so he’d left it in the lock. She remembered from her grandparents’ house that you couldn’t fully insert a key into one side of such locks with another key engaged on the other side. She needed to bump his key out of the hole to use hers.

  Jiggling her key against his would make noise which could attract the man or the dog. Even if the man weren’t near, the dog’s keen hearing would surely prompt investigation, if not a barked alert. If the man jerked the door open to find her at the top of the stairs with keys, she was through! Also the successfully nudged-out key would fall and clatter onto the bare floor. Once it fell, how could she retrieve it if none of the keys in her hand opened the basement door?

  She eased her way quietly back down the stairs and looked around. A carton marked “Linens” caught her eye. Opening it, she pawed through sheets and table cloths to find what she needed, pulling out a terrycloth bath towel.

  While cleaning the basement earlier, she threw several rusty coat hangers into the trash by the sink. Retrieving one, she tried to unbend it with stiff old pliers found among the tools. Gritting her teeth and using all her strength, she untwisted the hanger’s neck and bent the sprung wire fairly straight, leaving
the top in the same shepherd’s hook that hangs over a closet pole.

  She pulled her stolen clock forward on its shelf to check the time: almost midnight! She turned off the alarm. Was he asleep?

  Collecting the meatloaf saved from dinner, she wrapped the pieces in paper from the corner trash pile, slid the hidden screwdriver into her belt and picked up the towel and hanger. Creeping back up the stairs, she paused at the top to listen. No sound! She poked one end of the towel through the crack under the door. Then she used the coat hanger to push the towel through and straightened it with the hanger until it lay spread out on the other side of the door beneath the key hole.

  Retrieving the coat hanger without disturbing the flattened towel, she pushed one end of it into the key hole and wiggled it, flinching at the scratching noise this created. She paused, listening for any reaction on the other side, and hearing none, cautiously jiggled the key again. Squinting into the lock, she saw the hole filled with light! Crouching back down, she peeked out the crack under the door. An irrepressible smile crossed her lips at the sight of the metal key lying on the towel after its silent fall.

  Quickly getting to her feet again, she tried the first key from the hatbox, then the second, finally the third. None worked! She needed next to retrieve the fallen key from the other side.

  Crouching down with the extended coat hanger, she used it to gently pull the towel, inching it back toward her through the crack under the door.

  Her movements froze at the sound of nails clicking on the floor.The dog!

  With shaking hands, she fumbled the paper open, clicked her tongue and pushed a piece of meatloaf under the door. Wet smacking sounds came from the other side as the dog gobbled the piece of food. Slowly, carefully she pulled on the towel again. Looking through the crack, she saw the key coming closer... closer. It was almost under the door, almost within her grasp.

  And then, the unimaginable happened. The dog grabbed the towel, as she’d seen dogs at the park grab and shake a toy or a stick, tumbling the key across the floor. Oh my god, she thought, he thinks this is a game!