I bit back some curse words and started gathering the clubs. Bits of violet-colored paper mingled with the scorecards. They were notes, heavily perfumed with a violet scent. The one I held had nothing to do with golf and everything to do with Tiffany.
CHAPTER 12
I read a few. Some of the notes were mushy; some were Fifty Shades of Grey; all were signed, Love, Tiffany. I checked the golf bag. A luggage-like tag attached to the side was marked, Property of Ted Brown. Deena’s husband. Jessica had said Tiffany wanted to bag a colonel. Maybe, despite what Deena had just told me, CJ wasn’t the only one Tiffany had gone after.
I stuffed the notes in my pocket and put the clubs back in the bag. How could Ted let Deena think she was the only one having an affair? If I took the notes to Deena, at least she’d know she wasn’t the only cause of their marital problems. I locked the thrift shop, got back in the Suburban, and headed toward Deena’s.
Before I took the turn onto Edwards Road into the housing area, I realized I’d rather talk to Ted than Deena. I headed over to his office. Thankfully, Colonel Brown didn’t work for one of the green-door programs. They were special-access programs that were top secret. The people who worked them were shut in vaults all day. They weren’t allowed to take their cell phones in because the phones could be turned on and used as listening devices.
Colonel Brown was in charge of an SPO—systems program office. He had enough rank and position to have an office instead of one of the many cubicles I’d passed to get here. This wasn’t the kind of conversation I wanted anyone to overhear. I checked with his secretary to make sure he was in before I walked into his office. It was large, with an impressive desk and a conference table that seated at least twelve. He had a vanity wall filled with awards, framed certificates, and photos of him posing with generals and troops. I shut the door behind me.
“Sarah, very sorry to hear about you and CJ.” I hadn’t seen Ted since the divorce. He stood up, tall and lanky, with high cheekbones that were typical, to me, of the upper echelons of the military. “I’m surprised to see you. What can I do for you?”
“Explain these.” I tossed the notes on his desk. They fluttered down like purple butterflies. I’d been hoping for a more dramatic result, something with a bit of noise.
He looked from the pile of notes to my face, blushing a little before holding up one of the notes. “And this is?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know.” I slapped my hands onto his desk. “How could you let your wife think she’s the only guilty party in your marital problems?”
He sat back down. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Read a couple of those notes and then you will.”
He started reading. His face flushed, paled, and flushed again before he looked up at me. “I swear, Sarah. I’ve never seen these before. Does Deena know?”
“No, because I wanted to talk to you before breaking her heart.”
“I don’t even know Tiffany. The only reason I recognize her name is because of you and CJ.”
“You had plenty of opportunities to know her. Our house, the gym, base functions. Apparently, she gets around. Likes colonels.”
“Where did you find these?”
“In your golf clubs—the ones you donated to the thrift shop.”
Ted’s expression smoothed out. “The clubs I loaned CJ? The ones I told him not to bring back? To take to the thrift shop when he was done with them?”
He might as well have slammed my heart with a sledgehammer. “CJ has his own clubs. Why would he need yours?”
“Because some friend came into town last fall and they wanted to play. CJ knew I’d just gotten new clubs and asked if his friend could use my old set.”
“It’s easier to blame CJ than fess up.” Some part of me remembered CJ telling me something about borrowing clubs when a friend had come through town. Maybe he’d taken them back to Ted. It would be easy for Ted to lie to me.
“Get out. I don’t know what kind of sick game you’re playing. I’m sorry about you and CJ, but that doesn’t mean my marriage isn’t back on solid ground.” Ted grabbed his wastebasket and swept the notes into it. “Keep Deena and me out of it. Don’t even think of mentioning this to Deena. She’ll believe me. You’ll be the laughingstock of the base. Again.” Ted got up, went around his desk, and shoved me out the door, closing it firmly behind me.
“Everything okay?” his wide-eyed secretary asked.
I ran a hand over my hair. “Fine. He had an important call he had to take.” His secretary and I both eyed the phone on her desk. None of the buttons glowed.
“Someone called his cell,” I said.
His secretary nodded. I made my way out of the building. I wasn’t sure how I expected Ted to react. I hadn’t even thought through that part when I’d shown up. Now I didn’t even have the notes.
I drove straight to Bedford Farms Ice Cream. This time I ordered the Green Monster, named for the famed wall at Fenway Park, home of the Red Sox. Mint ice cream with Oreos and fudge swirl. I sat in my car. Anger flared in me as I dug in. I kept thinking that I’d be okay, that I could handle the horror of finding the bones—that even if it wasn’t Tiffany, it was somebody.
Then there was CJ’s betrayal, his new girlfriend, Lexi. How old was she? Twenty would be my guess. I didn’t know anyone my age named Lexi. I dreaded seeing them together. It was inevitable in a small town like Ellington. I savored a large bite of ice cream, letting it melt on my tongue. As the crow flies, CJ and I probably only lived a mile apart. The twisty roads between our two homes gave me the comforting illusion that he lived much farther away.
CJ had borrowed Ted’s golf clubs last October. It meant things were going on either between Tiffany and CJ—or Tiffany and Ted—for longer than I’d realized. The notes didn’t specifically refer to Ted. They didn’t mention CJ, either. Maybe they hadn’t been written to Ted. I hadn’t said anything to Deena. On the other hand, I couldn’t imagine CJ leaving something like that in Ted’s golf bag.
I scooped in some more ice cream. Why was I so eager to shift blame away from CJ? Tiffany’s pregnancy was proof enough that he was to blame. Where did that leave me? With another big, fat question mark.
I listed the litany of wrongs I’d endured the past few months as I shoveled in my ice cream. I started with Tiffany and CJ, my life being turned upside down, the persecution by the police, CJ’s girlfriend, and finally humiliating myself in front of MaryJo. Ugh, and Ted. The last two I’d brought on myself, but the rest I couldn’t control.
I scraped around the cardboard cup to get the last bits of my ice cream. My flare of anger and self-pity had vanished as if the ice cream had cooled not only my mouth, but my soul, too. I stared into the cup, feeling as empty as it was. I jumped out of the car. I dumped the cup in the trash, tossed my hair, and set my shoulders. Time to rebuild my life.
On the way to Carol’s house, I posted flyers around town and in her neighborhood. I arrived at Carol’s house later than I had planned, but I still had plenty of time to finish setting up. As I dragged things from place to place, I spotted Brad’s clubs in a corner of the garage near the lawn mower. Thoughts of the notes I’d found in Ted’s golf bag kept me company as I moved around the garage. Brad’s clubs stayed in my peripheral vision. Leave well enough alone, I told myself. Do not go through Brad’s bag. It’s a breach of friendship and trust. Two seconds later, I searched his bag. No notes.
Leaving Carol’s, I headed back home. At my place, after taking a deep breath, I called CJ. “Can you . . . Would you come over for dinner tonight?” If he said he had a date with Lexi, I was going to crawl into a hole and die. I waited. “CJ?”
“Sure. What’s the occasion?” He sounded hesitant.
The occasion was questioning him about the notes in the golf clubs. Questioning him in person sounded like a great idea a moment ago. Now, two seconds later, it seemed like one of the stupidest things I’d ever done. I’d thought I could tell if he was lying
to me better if we were face-to-face. However, he’d lied about Tiffany. I’d completely missed that. Too late now.
“I just wanted to talk over some things with you. Does seven work?”
By seven o’clock, I flitted around the apartment, moving a pillow, straightening a picture frame. Doing anything I could to keep busy while I waited for CJ. When the anticipated knock on the door came, I opened it reluctantly. CJ’s hair was damp. He wore jeans with my favorite blue button-down shirt of his. It was open at the throat, cuffs rolled up. CJ brought his hand out from behind his back, thrusting a bouquet of pink tulips into my arms. He wasn’t even in the door when I realized the evening had gone terribly wrong.
“CJ, I didn’t . . . I meant . . . Come in.” He followed me into the kitchen. I found a vase under the sink, trimmed the stems of the flowers, and arranged them as best I could with my hands shaking. I popped open a bottle of Charles Shaw—“two-buck Chuck”—from Trader Joe’s. After pouring the Cabernet Sauvignon and handing CJ a glass, I took a big drink. “I didn’t really cook anything. You know me.”
Oh, I wished I hadn’t said that, because CJ was nodding. Yes, he did know me, probably as well or better than anyone.
From the refrigerator, I pulled the chicken salad I’d thrown together. I’d made it with a rotisserie chicken from Stop & Shop, seedless grapes, walnuts, thyme, and a little mayo. I served it over a bed of lettuce. I set some sautéed asparagus with a squeeze of lime on the table. A nice crusty French bread with butter rounded out the meal.
We sat opposite each other at my small kitchen table. Our knees almost touched. I scooted my chair back until it bumped up against a cupboard. Conversations stopped and started as if this was the world’s most awkward blind date. I tried to work up the courage to bring up the notes after realizing CJ clearly hoped this evening was about us.
He reached across the kitchen table, taking my hand. “You’re nervous.” He smiled.
Oh no! He probably thought I was nervous because I wanted to be with him and didn’t know how to say it. I pulled my hand back, jumping up to clear the table. “Go sit in the living room. I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Let me help.”
“No.” It came out harsher than I had meant. There wasn’t enough air left in this kitchen for us to be in it together another minute. CJ gave me a puzzled look before heading into the living room. I quickly cleaned up. Time to get this over with. I poured myself a glass of wine. CJ sat on the couch. I took my grandma’s rocker.
“Just spit it out,” CJ said, but he smiled. He had no idea what was about to hit him.
“I worked at the thrift shop today.” I filled him in on knocking over the golf clubs, finding the notes. I told him I talked to Ted. “Is what Ted told me true? You had his golf clubs? The notes were for you?”
Watching CJ as I’d talked had been painful. His face had changed from smiling, to grim, to his blank cop face, which I’d always hated.
“Where are the notes? I’d like to read them.”
“Ted tossed them in his trash.”
“This is why you had me over for dinner? When you called, I thought . . .” CJ cleared his throat. “We couldn’t have done this over the phone?” He studied his hands, now clasped in his lap. “You thought you could read me. That’s why I’m here.” He looked back up at me. “You figured you could tell if I was lying if you watched my face. You didn’t figure out Tiffany, though, did you?”
I sat there. CJ was so rarely mean I was stunned. Maybe I didn’t know this man at all. I held the smooth, curved arms of the oak rocker.
CJ stood and walked to the door. “I did borrow Ted’s clubs. It was when one of my school buddies came through town on business. It was kind of last-minute and you had some spouse function to attend.” CJ’s voice was even, as if he was reading a report out loud.
“What did you do with the clubs after he left? Tiffany wrote those notes to someone.”
CJ yanked the door open, startling Tyler, who was coming up the stairs. “I either left them in our garage or at the office for a few days. I don’t really remember. Then I dropped them over at the thrift shop.”
I walked over to the door as CJ started down the stairs. He paused. “I never saw Tiffany’s notes.” He turned and hurried out.
Tyler stopped at his door. “Everything okay?”
“Just peachy.” I started to go back in. I had no reason to be rude to Tyler. “Sorry, Tyler. It’s been a rough night.”
I leaned back against my closed door and fisted my hands. I wanted to throw something across the room. In middle school, I had a friend who regularly tossed stuff around. Makeup out the window, shoes across the room, books onto the floor—whatever was handy. I’d tried it once, tossing my favorite eye shadow down on the counter. It shattered. I ended up being mad at myself for breaking my favorite eye shadow. I’d never thrown anything again. At least I was a fast learner.
I went to the bathroom, where I brushed my teeth and washed my face, both more vigorously than normal. To whom had the notes been written? I should have read the notes more closely or copied them before I’d rushed over to Ted’s office. Maybe they contained some hint in them that would have clued me in.
I flipped off the bathroom light and went to bed. I should have known better than to put us through a horrible evening. I thought I was clever. I’d gotten CJ’s hopes up and then brutally dashed them. I plucked at the comforter. Why was I beating myself up? I needed a good swift kick. After what CJ had done to me, he didn’t deserve my empathy or guilt.
If CJ never saw the notes and really didn’t know anything about them, Ted must have been lying. He could have forgotten the notes were in the bag when he loaned them to CJ. Or maybe he planned this so CJ would be found with them. But why? If Tiffany had written the notes to Ted, I’d given him a valuable piece of evidence that he’d thrown away.
The morning of the garage sale, I got up extra early. Bedford had a big Patriots’ Day event this morning. Roads in Bedford would either be closed or crowded. The closures would have a ripple effect into Ellington. Patriots’ Day events commemorated the days leading up to, and the first day of, the Revolutionary War on April 19, 1775. Bedford held a parade and pole capping every year. Pole capping had been started by colonials in Boston to show their defiance of British rule. Someone would climb to the top of a pole and place a red cap on top. The practice dated back to Roman times.
In the 1770s, the people of the town of Bedford had joined Bostonians by raising their own liberty poles to protest their dissatisfaction with the British government. To commemorate that event, a number of minutemen brigades from throughout New England would meet this morning on Bedford’s town common. They’d march with fifes and drums to Wilson Park, playing “Yankee Doodle” and other colonial songs. Four of the men would carry a twenty-five-foot wooden pole to Wilson Park. At the park, after the pole was raised, someone would shinny up it, placing the red cap at the top. Then that person would proclaim “freedom” to the cheering crowd. Bedford’s reenactment of that event drew a huge crowd.
As I left the house, Ellington’s minuteman troop gathered on the common. They called out to each other and drank steaming cups of coffee as they prepared to head over to Bedford. A drummer tapped a lively marching beat on his drum. The light cast by the rising sun made the whole scene look like a postcard. Attending the Patriots’ Day events didn’t get old. I cheered myself by thinking about the events next weekend. Some of my favorites were the Paul Revere Capture Ceremony on Battle Road in Lincoln, the Bloody Angle Battle Demonstration, and the Lexington Battle Reenactment. At least I’d be able to attend some of those.
I wended my way to Carol’s house. The sun slanted through the oak and maple trees, a perfect day for a garage sale. Planning Carol’s sale had offered me a much-needed distraction. Most of the time, sales were a lot of fun. I sang “Oh, What A Beautiful Mornin’” from Oklahoma! as I drove. It helped me shake off last night’s drama with CJ.
I didn’t exp
ect a lot of early birds, people who showed up before the stated starting time, because Carol didn’t have any antiques. Listing antiques in a posting brought out all kinds of people, from dealers to collectors, who thought they deserved a preview. It must work for them often enough, because they always tried.
The weather warmed up nicely. Carol handed me a piece of homemade apple coffee cake when I arrived. We dragged some of the tables outside onto the driveway. I organized like items: kitchen things, knickknacks, books, and DVDs, clothes separated by kids and adult. Brad helped while the kids ran around putting more things out. Some of the stuff stayed in the garage—the sale looked organized and interesting. That wouldn’t last long as people picked things up, carried them around, and then set them back down.
Carol took the money while I did most of the negotiating. Like many people, Carol didn’t like haggling. I’d priced everything with bargaining in mind. People wanted to think they were getting a deal. Some people wanted to think they were pulling a fast one on you.
One lady argued over the price of a one-dollar shirt. I told her she could have it for fifty cents. Then she whipped out a hundred-dollar bill. I’d run into people like her before, so Carol was prepared. The woman was none too happy when Carol handed her ninety-nine singles and two quarters. I had a feeling she’d whipped that out more than once and gotten whatever it was she wanted for free.
Jessica sent me a text saying she had news and wanted to talk. The sale ran until three. Carol and I planned to clean up and take the unsold items to the thrift shop. Taking that into consideration, I texted Jessica that I could meet her around four-thirty. I also asked her to sponsor me on base. Carol would be happy not to have to go to base with me after the garage sale.
Sarah Winston Garage Sale 01 - Tagged for Death Page 9