The Longest Yard Sale

by Sherry Harris

  “A man is dead on my floor and that’s what you’re worried about?” We took another step toward the man. “How do you think he died?” Carol asked.

  I looked around again. Anything was better than looking down at that blue-faced body. “Nothing’s knocked over or seems out of place. You didn’t move anything, did you?”

  “No,” Carol said.

  “So there wasn’t a big brawl in here. No rope hanging from the ceiling, so it doesn’t read suicide, but what do I know? I can’t tell you what happened, but I can guess.”

  Carol continued to get paler as we talked. “What do you think happened?”

  “Someone strangled him.” Saying it out loud made me go from not-so-cool observer to involved. That man was someone’s son, brother, husband. The thought punched into my soul.

  “Why’d you think I’d know him?” I asked.

  I looked at Carol. She was so calm. Maybe she was in shock.

  “You know so many people,” she said. “Should we look through his pockets for an ID?”

  “No. The last thing we need to do is mess up the crime scene. You didn’t touch anything, did you?”

  Carol shook her head. “I saw him and ran to get you.”

  We heard sirens and hustled outside as a fire truck pulled up.

  A couple of EMTs ran into the shop but came out quickly. As they did, the first cop cars showed up, with CJ not far behind them.

  “You two okay?” CJ asked as he hurried by, barely waiting for our affirmative responses. But he did a double take when he realized I was dressed in the same clothes as yesterday. He opened his mouth to say something, but someone called to him from inside the shop.

  If I could have shut out the noise and forgotten that terrible blue face, it was another lovely morning—rosy sky, dew glimmering on the grass of the town common, the sun lighting the steeple of the church.

  “Why’d you come get me?” I asked in a low tone. Police officers and technicians scurried in and out of the store.

  “I panicked. You felt safe and were close by.” Carol shuddered. “I don’t even know how he got in,” she continued. “The back door was locked when I came in, and the front door was locked when I came to get you.” Other than the large plate-glass window in the front, the half window on the door, and some skylights scattered throughout, there wasn’t another window to crawl in through.

  We entwined our arms, clinging together.

  “That frame was positioned so perfectly around his neck. It must be a message of some kind,” I said.

  “A message,” Carol squeaked out. “Who’s the message for? What kind of message is it supposed to be?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s just a thought.” I shouldn’t have said anything. But thoughts flew around my brain like hummingbirds seeking nectar. The two most puzzling were why the frame and why in Carol’s store.

  The chimes at the Congregational church rang out. Before long, people would start showing up for church and wonder what the heck had happened.

  “Do you think this has anything to do with the missing painting?” I asked.

  Carol shrugged. She started to say something but cut off her comment when two officers arrived and separated us.

  Scott Pellner escorted me to his patrol car. “Get in,” he said, holding the front passenger door open for me. We didn’t trust each other but had made an uneasy peace over each of us knowing the other’s secret. Mine had to do with a night with Seth and his with lying to his wife about his application to be the chief of police. She liked the idea of the status Pellner would have as chief, but he’d withdrawn his application without telling her. He wanted to stay out on patrol instead of being stuck behind a desk.

  “Walk me through what happened,” Pellner said. He had dimples that softened an otherwise severe face. They flashed even when he wasn’t smiling, which he certainly wasn’t doing now.

  I tried to be as succinct as possible. After Pellner quit asking me questions and taking notes, he looked me over. “Yesterday was a goat rope. You created a lot of work for us.”

  Goat rope. Yeesh, I’d forgotten Pellner had served in the military and sometimes used the lingo. He might think yesterday was a mess, but I didn’t. I clasped my hands together. “The city created the work. I just implemented the town manager’s idea.”

  “Not what I heard. I heard it was your idea. Thus your goat rope.”

  “CJ didn’t have any complaints.” At least not about the yard sale, although I remembered his glare as he’d fought to get down Great Road.

  “The traffic problems, the fender benders. A brawl broke out during one of them.”

  “Poor you, having to do your job while I brought tourists and tax dollars into town.”

  “Then there were the suspicious fires. We’re damn lucky nothing more serious happened and no one was injured.”

  “I thought the fires were small.”

  “The one out at the chicken coops got pretty big. Bedford called for backup.”

  “Nancy thinks they were set by someone trying to ruin our event.”

  “That someone was pretty darn sophisticated. They found timers at three of the fires. The ashes out at the chicken coop fire are still too hot to sift through.”

  I wondered why CJ hadn’t mentioned that last night. I must have wondered out loud because Pellner snorted.

  “The guy would do anything for you. And you don’t even appreciate it. You’re running around with Seth.”

  “CJ and I agreed to take things slow. To see other people.”

  “But he doesn’t know you’re seeing Seth.”

  “No. And it’s not your business.”

  “It is when I see a great guy like Chuck mooning around because of you.”

  I hated it when people called Charles James Hooker “Chuck.” CJ was not a Chuck. I climbed out of the car and firmly closed the door. Pellner might have considered it slamming, and one of the technicians jumped. I looked over at DiNapoli’s. Rosalie stood in the window, motioning me in. I was surprised to see her there so early on a Sunday morning.

  I shook my head and mouthed “later,” not sure if she understood me or not. Carol stood on the sidewalk next to another officer. Her eyes looked glazed, and she stared off, maybe at the church steeple. But I don’t think she saw it.

  I went over and whispered in her ear, “Did you tell him about the painting?” just as CJ walked out of the shop. Carol shook her head “no.”

  CJ planted his hands on his hips and barked, “You two come with me. Now.”

  CHAPTER 5

  We followed CJ up the block a little ways. He rubbed his face. “Something else is going on. What is it?”

  Carol and I exchanged glances. Carol clamped her lips together in a firm line but moved her head in a “you tell him” motion.

  “Carol called me last night. Someone stole a painting from the store,” I said.

  “You knew this when we were together last night?” CJ asked.

  Carol’s eyebrows popped up as she looked back and forth between us.

  “Yes,” I said. I looked at Carol. “He doesn’t mean together together. I fed him, and we talked.”

  “I know neither of you filed a police report,” CJ said, “because I don’t remember hearing anything about it at the station.”

  I nudged Carol with my elbow. “It’s your story.”

  She didn’t look too happy with me. Carol explained she was painting a copy of Battled for a client, that it appeared to have been stolen, and that she’d decided to start over instead of worrying about what had happened to the copy.

  “How far along were you?” CJ asked.

  “All the way done. Except for signing it.”

  CJ studied Carol’s face. “Did you forge West’s name on it?”

  “No!” Color rose in her face for the first time that morning. “I’d never do that. I was going to sign my name,” she said.

  Carol stared back toward the store when she said it. I wondered if there was something she
hadn’t told me last night and wasn’t telling CJ now.

  “Have you told your client?” CJ asked.

  “No. I have another three weeks. It’s enough time to recreate it.”

  “Who’s your client? Any chance he wanted it unsigned?” It was the the same question that I’d asked last night and that Carol had ignored.

  Carol paled again as she thought about that. “No. He said he wanted it for his home. That he was a revolutionary war buff.”

  CJ looked at her, waiting for Carol to answer his other question.

  She looked down at her nails and picked at a fleck of paint on her index finger. “I’m not sure who my client is.”

  CJ rubbed his face again. “How can you not know who your client is?”

  “We talked over the phone,” Carol said. “He paid a deposit with a cashier’s check that he mailed from a PO box in Boston.”

  “Did you call him to tell him about what happened?”

  Carol blew out a long stream of air. “I don’t have anyway to contact him.”

  “How can that be?” I asked.

  CJ glared at me with one of those “stay out of this” looks.

  Carol turned toward me and grabbed my hand.

  “He said he wanted to stay anonymous. When he called, a number didn’t show up. It said ‘private.’”

  “You didn’t ask why?” CJ asked.

  “I did in the beginning, but the terms were very generous—if I didn’t ask a lot of questions.”

  “That didn’t worry you? Seem odd?”

  “Not really,” Carol said, but she gripped my hand tighter.

  “Why you?” CJ asked.

  Carol dropped my hand. “Why not me? I have a good reputation in this area. I’ll start over and get the job done. There’s a bonus involved if I complete the project in the time he gave me.”

  “So somewhere out there is a very good unsigned fake of Battled?”

  “You’re making it sound like I’ve done something criminal. I haven’t. I wasn’t going to forge West’s signature on it. I made it very clear—in fact, I insisted that I would sign it with my name.”

  “The voice on the phone didn’t sound familiar?”

  Carol took her time answering. “No. I’m sure it isn’t someone I know.”

  “How were you going to deliver the painting?” he asked.

  “The guy told me he’d be in touch near the deadline and arrange for pickup then.”

  “Did he know it was almost finished?” CJ asked.

  Carol shook her head. “I haven’t talked to him for a while.” She twisted her hair around her finger. “When can I reopen the store?”

  “We’ll have to get search warrants. It will be several days,” CJ said.

  “I don’t have several days. I need to paint, and I have classes scheduled.”

  “You can sign a form giving us consent to search. That will speed things up.” CJ looked around the shop. “We’ll do everything as quickly as we can. I’ve got to go.”

  CJ left. We heard voices coming from Carol’s store and strained to listen.

  “ID says Terry McQueen. Heard of him?” a female voice asked.

  We looked at each other, but before we could say anything, Pellner stuck his head out the door. “Come on, clear out.”

  We slid off our stools and followed him out.

  “What’s going on, Pellner? Where’d CJ go?” I asked.

  He gave me his best cop stare, one that a few months ago would have had me shaking in my boots if I’d been wearing them. It didn’t intimidate me anymore—not as much, anyway.

  “Can we go?” I asked.

  “Mrs. Carson needs to sign this form first,” Pellner said. He handed Carol a clipboard with a document on it. She moved to sign it.

  “Don’t you need to read through it first?” I asked. “Or have a lawyer go over it?”

  “I trust CJ,” Carol said, as she signed.

  Pellner took the clipboard back. “Don’t tell anyone what you saw in there.” Pellner tipped his head toward the store.

  “Was he serious?” Carol asked as we walked down the block.

  “He was,” I said. “Do you know Terry McQueen?”

  “No. I’ve never heard of him.” Carol looked like she was about ready to throw up. “Do you know him?”

  “I don’t think so. Could he be one of your clients?”

  “No. I don’t know him.”

  “You told CJ everything you knew, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I’m going to go talk to Brad. I don’t want him to hear this from someone else.”

  “Does he know you were getting paid to copy Battled?” I asked.

  “No. I don’t tell him how to run his department at the veterans’ hospital, and he doesn’t tell me how to run my business.” She sounded more confident than she looked as she bit her bottom lip.

  I stopped in front of DiNapoli’s. “Want to come in?”

  “I’ve got to run. Besides, they aren’t open.”

  I smiled. “They are for me. Call me if you need me.”

  Rosalie hurried around the counter and unlocked the door to the restaurant. I stepped in and breathed in the aroma of rising dough and tomato sauce. She glanced at my outfit and raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s not what you think,” I said, not wanting her to think I’d spent the night with Seth. I’d told them about Seth one night when they were asking about how things were with CJ. “I fell asleep in them. Then Carol rousted me and didn’t give me a chance to change.”

  Rosalie nodded. While she wasn’t happy that CJ pushed me to get back together, she didn’t necessarily like my relationship with Seth. I plopped down at a table, weary beyond what I could imagine. Angelo brought over a large cup of inky-looking dark coffee. “Here, this will help.”

  I wrapped my hands around the white mug, warming them. I hadn’t even realized I was chilled until now. The mug was sturdy and serviceable. A lot like Angelo, it could be counted on to fulfill a need. I took a sip and gave a little shudder. It was good, and the perfect temperature. Angelo’s coffee was always the perfect temperature. I’m not sure how he did it, and he never answered me when I asked.

  “It’s not any of that sissy coffee you find out there.” Angelo waved his hand in the general direction of Great Road. “Carmel whatevers and flavored this and that. It’s ridiculous.”

  Rosalie put a hand on Angelo’s arm before he really got going. “Let Sarah talk or rest if that’s what she wants to do.”

  I took another sip of my coffee. It was bracing, and right now I needed bracing. Rosalie disappeared into the back and came out with a thick shawl and put it around my shoulders. I wrapped it around me until I was swaddled tighter than a baby. Then I realized I couldn’t reach my coffee, so I loosened it just a bit.

  “Somebody died at Carol’s shop,” I said. My voice shook. I gripped the mug tighter.

  “Natural causes?” Angelo asked.

  He must have known otherwise, what with all of the hoopla going on out on the street, although in a small town, without a lot of crime, almost any event created hoopla.

  “I don’t think so. But I don’t know for sure.” Even without Pellner’s admonishment not to discuss the circumstances of the death, I knew better than to give away any details that could possibly undermine the investigation, even to two people I trusted.

  “Are you okay?” Rosalie asked.

  I pulled the shawl tighter around me before answering. “I’m okay.” I’m pretty sure no one believed that, but they didn’t press me.

  Rosalie stood and patted my shoulder. “We have to get ready to open. But you sit as long as you want.”

  I huddled into the chair, sipping my coffee until I could face going back to my empty apartment.

  CHAPTER 6

  After a long shower and another cup of coffee, I headed over to Stella’s other aunt’s house for an appointment. Gennie Elder was a cage fighter, as Stella called her, or a professional mixed martial arts fighter, as most o
f the world called the sport. Her professional name was Gennie the Jawbreaker. I’d met her only once, but she’d hired me to do a garage sale for her. She owned a large colonial north of Great Road and was thinking about downsizing. I rang her bell and heard a deep gong resonate inside the house.

  Gennie opened the door dressed in workout clothes, a tank top, and gym shorts. A white towel hung around her neck. Gennie took one end and swiped it across her brow. She stood about five-seven, so met me almost eye to eye. Even though she was Stella’s aunt, they were about the same age. Stella had told me Gennie had grown up knowing she was the “mistake.”

  “Come on in.” Her body was firm and so muscled it would make nails seem pliable, quite a contrast to my curvy, somewhat-in-shape figure. Her hair hung down her back in a thick braid.

  “I pin my hair up so no one can grab it in the cage,” she said when she saw me studying it. We stood in the foyer of a typical colonial house: a center staircase was placed within a long hall with several rooms off of it to the left and a room with the door closed to the right. If every room was as sparsely furnished and lacking in décor as the entrance, it would be one small garage sale.

  “You still fight?” I asked. She must be in her early forties. I’d looked up mixed martial arts on the Internet, and most of the women fighters looked young.

  “I only do a couple of fights a year now. Let me show you around,” Gennie said. She flung open the door on the right, and we entered a room that shattered any notion of what a cage fighter’s decorating style would be. I’d been expecting sleek leather and modern abstract paintings. But this room was filled with delicate Victorian settees, lace-draped chairs, and bric-a-brac appropriate for the period.

  “I love collecting things. Each room reflects a different era,” Gennie explained. I followed her around the first floor, exploring rooms that ranged in style from Art Deco to midcentury modern. Each room was filled to the brim with pristine examples of the furniture and decorative touches from a particular era.

  “This is the last of it,” Gennie said as we stood in the midcentury modern room.