Garage Sale Riddle

by Suzi Weinert

  She told Becca about this when she returned from the pool to prepare for her date’s arrival.

  “We need to know if Max was involved and if he’s in jail. I think it’s rude Goodwin hasn’t told us what happened. Grammy’s safety’s involved here, too.” Becca complained.

  Jennifer agreed. “Because if he’s captured, we can relax. If not, we should be on guard still. And I want to know if Chelsea’s okay.”

  At six o’clock came a rap on the hotel room door. Becca jumped to her feet. “Normally they’d call about a guest in the lobby, but I told Tony our room number.”

  She greeted a nice-looking young man with a kiss on the cheek and turned, smiling, to her family in the hotel room.

  “Mom, Grammy, this is my friend, Anthony Venuti.”

  CHAPTER 57

  Instead of the friendly welcome Becca anticipated for her friend, she stared in dismay at two faces frozen in shock. Embarrassed at this awkward greeting for Tony, she wanted an explanation. “What?” she demanded irritably.

  Recovering first from the surprise, Jennifer said to the young man, “Your name sounds familiar…”

  Tony laughed. “Yeah, I get that all the time. You must mean my uncle. My parents named me for him.”

  Grammy found her voice. “You knew him?”

  “Sure. We didn’t see him much—just family events—but he was my father’s favorite older brother, so that explains our same names.”

  Realizing their ill-mannered reaction to his introduction, Jennifer stepped forward to shake hands. “Glad to meet you, Tony. Here, have a seat. Can you tell us more about him?”

  “Well, I guess so. He was like our family’s rock star. Lots of personality, snappy dresser. Well-heeled. Whenever I saw him, he slipped me a hundred dollar bill. ‘Walking around money,’ he called it. A c-note’s big money to a kid from a blue-collar family. I worshiped him even…even after I learned the truth.”

  “The truth?” Grammy asked, her lips drawn into a thin line.

  “Yeah, I mean, all my information’s second hand through my family, but they talked about him a lot because, like I said, he’s the closest thing we had to a celebrity.”

  “And the truth?” Jennifer invited.

  “The truth? The Mafiosi recruited him as a kid. He was a made guy.” Tony sensed their shock turning to distaste. “In fairness, Italians get the bad Mafia rap, but remember, they’re just one among other organized crime groups like the Irish mob, the Jewish mob, the Russian mob, the Chinese Tongs and a lot more. I majored in psych, where they see a parallel crime structure between today’s city street gangs and the Mafia.”

  An amazed Becca also sank into a chair at this unexpected development. “What do you mean parallels?”

  “The Mafia is a kind of gang, but not all gangs are Mafia. Some large gangs are loose collections of small street gangs. The Mafia’s traditional rigid hierarchy and specific territories contribute to their success at organized crime for profit.”

  Jennifer nudged, “Does he still visit you?”

  “No, he’s dead. At least that’s what we’re told.”

  “Really?”

  “Couple of years ago. Here’s how it went. My ancestors came from Sicily to New York to Jersey. They cozied up with the Bollato family. But some of our ancestors pulled away and went straight. My own father’s father was one of those. When he got sick of those cold New England winters, he moved to Florida. Our branch has cousins in law enforcement and fire-fighters, like me. We’re the good guys. They’re the bad guys, but I admit they’re flashy and loaded with cash.”

  Grammy cleared her throat and managed, “What…what happened to him?”

  “The Jersey mob liked to winter in Florida, always on the Atlantic side — Miami, Boca, Palm Beach and up the coast. But even on vacation, old habits die hard. They wet their beaks, getting a corner on their standard stuff like extortion, smuggling, prostitution, money laundering. Drugs were big down here with so much shoreline for deliveries and the source countries so close.”

  “And…” Grammy’s voice sounded frail.

  “And the story goes he got greedy, didn’t ante up the right percentage to the don. They don’t just break your arm for insider stealing from the mob. My dad says they had a sit-down where Uncle Anthony’s accusers and defenders told their sides and asked the don for a ruling. If guilty, they’d kill him to send a message to anybody with the same idea. If innocent, he’d walk out free, but they’d never forget the stain. Meantime, he’d already decided he liked the Gulf Coast better. Rumor says he moved here, rented a fancy apartment on the water, fell in love with some local woman and retired from ‘the life.’ But this alleged stealing incident humiliated his accusers, and in an honor society, they don’t take humiliation well.”

  “So?” This story had hooked Becca.

  “So, according to my dad, one day Big T—that’s what my Dad called Uncle Anthony—Big T disappeared. Vanished. We assume he took a hit, but like Jimmy Hoffa, they never found the body. My dad thinks they rubbed him out.”

  “How did you know his name?” Becca asked. “Mom? Gram?”

  Grammy’s voice faltered as she answered, “I…I think I read about it in the newspaper.”

  Tony grinned as he stood. “Yeah, the news played big in Naples a few days. On all the TV stations. But without a body, it’s only rumor and then cold news. Well, Becca, ready to roll?”

  She jumped up to join him. “Another person’s fifteen minutes of fame?” She took Tony’s arm as they left.

  When the door closed, Jennifer and her mother exchanged looks before Jen embraced her. “Are you okay, Mom?”

  “We loved each other,” the older woman mumbled, wiping tears.

  “How about a glass of wine before we go downstairs to dinner? It’s the cocktail hour and I brought a bottle of your favorite pinot noir;” she smiled, “coincidentally, my favorite, as well.”

  Two hours later, after a sumptuous dinner in the hotel’s waterfront restaurant, Jennifer and her mother returned to their room.

  “It’s only 8:30 and I’m grateful to put on my pajamas,” Grammy observed. “Each day lately seems more draining than the last. But one benefit of exhaustion is sleeping well.”

  Jennifer agreed, doubting dreams—or whatever they were—like her own distracted her mother’s slumber. “Hey, we can even watch sunset in our PJ’s on our private balcony. Getting in synch with the planet should help us sleep peacefully.”

  They’d no sooner settled into their balcony chairs when Jennifer’s cell rang. She answered.

  “Goodwin here.”

  “You’re on Speaker so Mom and I can both hear.”

  “Okay. There’s good news and bad news. Good news: thanks to your tip, we nabbed Max at Chelsea’s house. He’s in jail with no chance of another escape. Bad news: Chelsea’s in the hospital for overnight observation. Roderick strangled her nearly to death. We stopped him just in time. Doctors say prognosis good for complete recovery.”

  “Would she like visitors?”

  “Not yet. I’ll let you know. How are you?”

  “We’ve moved to the hotel. They insisted we register with our own names but will reverse that if you sign an authorization. We’ll go back and forth to the house during the next few days. The estate sale starts Friday morning and we drive north the following Monday.”

  “With Max in jail, you should have no worries about your real names at the desk. Relax and enjoy your remaining time in Naples.”

  “Please let us know about Chelsea’s progress.”

  “Oh, you’ll definitely hear from me before you leave because of something else.”

  “What?” Jennifer held her breath.

  “Can’t tell you yet… but soon.”

  CHAPTER 58

  An hour later, Jennifer stretched between the silky bed linens in the heavenly soft hotel bed. She plunged swiftly into a reverie. Her mind empty, her gentle breathing wafted into the air… and then, the images rolled in, more powerful
than ever before.

  Convinced of little success in delivering the bags of valuables to the safe house with Yankees all around, Birdsong spread his piece of cloth on the worktable by the unfinished house foundation. Using his flour-sack notes about landmarks, he composed a map showing the Potomac River, the winding trail, the stone wall, the stream and the massive rock surrounded by a circle of trees and the two farms.

  Then he paced the distance from the foundation to the tree-circled flat boulders and from there, down to the winding trail. He marked an X on the exact foundation wall where the treasure lay buried. On the second piece of cloth he wrote what he hoped would instruct Mosby or Lee but confuse anyone else. Satisfied, he stuffed the folded cloths into his shirt.

  But he couldn’t get that girl out of his mind.

  He removed a guarded small scrap of paper from a pocket. Only 3”x4” and much too small for a map, he kept it for an emergency. Unfolding and flattening it on the worktable, he wrote:

  “Selby with the golden hair, Eyes of blue and skin so fair, When peace returns and war is done, Selby, Selby, you’re the one.”

  Filled with thoughts of this promising maiden, he allowed hope to push back the horrors of war, if only for a moment. His heart felt lighter than it had in months. The dreamy thoughts of his own future with her and their loving family temporarily assuaged war’s grisliness. He folded the paper and pressed it deep into the shirt pocket over his heart. This scrap of future anticipation galvanized him for the dangerous tasks ahead. Who knew what or who he might encounter on the road ahead?

  Like all Mosby Raiders, Birdsong knew to keep his holstered six-shooters loaded for action and ready at his fingertips. Raiders preferred pistols over the rifles or sabers used by traditional cavalry units because of their mobility, accuracy and reloading advantages. Nothing beat their effectiveness in close quarter combat. Making sure he’d also loaded his extra, hidden, pistol, he mounted his horse and prepared to start his trip to the safe house.

  A sudden flurry of distant shots jerked his attention He turned Blackie abruptly and dashed to the top of the hill for the overview of cleared farm fields stretching below. A column of smoke billowed above the farmer’s house. He noted the squad of mounted blue uniforms between the house and barn and bodies on the ground. Union Cavalry had attacked the very family who’d given him help.

  Selby!

  He spurred Blackie into a full gallop toward the farmhouse. When fifty feet away from the patrol and closing fast, he screamed the blood-curdling Rebel yell and ploughed into the fray, shooting two soldiers right off their horses. Recognizing Mosby’s trademark shriek, the small band of Union troops fully anticipated one of his regiment’s legendary ambushes underway. Two of the men tried to gallop off but Birdsong shot them dead. The others exchanged fire, and Birdsong brought down two more with his rapid-fire pistols.

  Wilbur stood open-mouthed at the kitchen door, unable to process the carnage before him.

  Astride his horse, Birdsong recognized the farmer’s body sprawled on the ground among those of the hired hands. Such anger surged though him that he rushed upon the remaining four bluecoats.

  Kicking his horse into a fierce gallop, he charged in, firing at close range. Three more fell. Only one Yank remained. This last one turned in fear and galloped away as Birdsong dismounted to check the downed farmer and others for life signs.

  Dismounting to concentrate on the devastating scene before him, Birdsong failed to notice the escaping Union soldier rein in at a safe distance, turn in the saddle, raise his rifle and fire.

  Despite the Bluecoat’s distant, poorly aimed shot, in an inscrutable twist of fate, the bullet tore through the air and punctured a small, lethal hole in Birdsong’s forehead.

  In the last image his mind held, he saw a smiling blond-haired girl wearing a white veil framed against the fresh blue of the spring sky. Then he fell dead beside the farmer, one arm stretched protectively across the man’s chest.

  Wilbur moved like lightning. He snatched up Birdsong’s pistol and ran as fast as he could toward the distant Yankee holding the rifle, shouting. “Mister. Hey, mister. I got somethin’ for ya.”

  Surprised by the sight of a small child, so ludicrous at this gory battle scene, the mounted Union soldier hesitated. He jerked his rein hard right, pulling his agitated horse in a circle as the boy closed the distance.

  “Mister, wait up. This is for you.” Now only five feet away the boy held up the pistol, handle first, for the soldier to take. But as the man bent down from his horse to grasp it, Wilbur spun the weapon around and fired at him.

  The soldier slumped, clutching in disbelief at welling blood staining his jacket. In slow motion, he slid from his horse to the ground. The frightened horse whinnied in fear and fled.

  The soldier on the ground moaned. Wilbur walked closer.

  “I told ya I had somethin’ for ya. It’s for stealin’ our hogs and our cows and our grain. It’s from me and my dad and my friend, Corporal Birdsong. It’s from all us Rebs in Virginia.”

  Wilbur fired the gun at him again.

  The Union soldier lay still, staring at the sky through dead eyes.

  CHAPTER 59

  As Jennifer woke the next morning, the drama’s despair lingered. This war’s horrors a century and a half earlier once seemed remote–long-ago pictures and descriptions in books, stories unrelated to her. But her miraculous visions these last two weeks had transformed those past echoes into something immediate, compelling and powerful.

  These thoughts remained in her mind as she slipped past Becca’s sprawled shape in the adjacent bed. Collecting shoes and clothes on the way, she glanced at the dragon, watching her from the bureau. She tiptoed from the room.

  In the hotel suite’s sitting room, Naples’ golden morning sunshine spilled in through the large windows, lighting the tropical scene for whatever might unfold today. The beauty of the day nudged the grief of her fantasy deeper into the hidden recesses of her thoughts.

  She dressed slowly, looking out the window at deep blue Gulf of Mexico waters lapping soft sand just beyond swaying palm tree branches. Tucking a room key into her pocket, she left a note describing her destination, found the local paper in the lobby and drank her morning coffee sitting on the dining terrace.

  From habit, she turned to the classified and read: Estate Sale. 50 years of collecting. Final move. One day only, 8am-4pm. “…and just a few blocks away,” she noted with a grin. She could attend before the others woke up. This one had her name on it.

  She signed the bill, tiptoed to her room for purse, keys and to revise her whereabouts-note. Fifteen minutes later, she reached the address, expecting to fight for a space in the slew of cars. But no, someone pulled out right in front and she expertly nosed her car into the space. Why did she always feel this pre-sale excitement?

  The new owners of this old-style one-story house surely bought it as a teardown because the close proximity to the Gulf made the location highly desirable. They would doubtless substitute a grand multi-story, high-ceiling, Mediterranean-style home on this same lawn. After one enjoyed high ceilings, older homes like this felt claustrophobic, even when main rooms opened onto a swimming pool oasis.

  She moved through the foyer, living room and into the den, where she stopped short. A collection of dragon figures covered many shelves; books on another shelf bore dragon-related titles. She hurried to the cashier. “Your sign says you’re an estate sale company, but I have questions about the dragons in the study. Are the owners here today?”

  “Yes, the two seniors sitting in the kitchen.”

  Jennifer found them. The old woman typed at a laptop computer while the old man sat beside her, sipping coffee. “Would you please tell me a little about your dragons?”

  “You noticed them, did you?” smiled Old Woman.

  Old Man nodded to his wife. “Actually they’re my collection,” he explained. “What would you like to know?”

  “How did dragons hook your attention?”
Jennifer asked.

  He chuckled. “When we first met, my girlfriend asked what I collected. Everyone in her family collected something. She collected miniature pitchers. I had no collection at all, but as we walked along the beach that day, we found a little dragon at the water’s edge–no, not a real dragon but a plastic toy left by a child or washed up by waves. She suggested this might be a fortuitous sign about what I could collect. That girlfriend later became my wife.” He nodded affectionately to Old Woman. “So mine’s a sixty-eight year collection.”

  “Not just dragon figures but books, too?” Jennifer held up one she’d brought from the den.

  Old Woman looked up from her keyboard. “Collecting sparks curiosity. Why are some dragons different from others? What have they in common? The books help to find answers.”

  “And why are some dragons different from others?” Jennifer asked.

  Old Man smiled. “Depends on the culture where they originated. Some dragons are sea serpents. Some resemble huge birds. The smallest ones look worm-size; the biggest, dinosaur-size. They come in various colors. Eastern dragons typically have no wings but Western dragons do. Eastern dragons may not breathe fire like Western dragons.

  “Then, have dragons anything in common?”

  Old Man scratched his head. “They’re scaly, reptilian-looking and most have legs with claws. The traditional description includes feet like eagles, wings like bats, forelimbs like lions, heads like reptiles, scales like fish and horns like antelopes. All covet shiny objects like jewels, which they collect in their lairs. That’s why replicas often hold a pearl and why cultural tales describe them as treasure hoarders.”

  Old Woman added, “Some legends say their pearls hold wisdom and a power to take them to the ‘highest level.’ Whatever that is. Water dragons like ocean caverns while land dragons prefer remote caves to hide valuables, which they zealously guard. Dragons always represent enormous, formidable power. They’re telepathic so you can’t hide your thoughts. They’re cunning, proud and sensitive to ridicule, and so often insolent. They are homothermic.”