I Know What You Bid Last Summer

by Sherry Harris

  “And that’s all that was stolen?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “What’s that mean?” he asked.

  “It means there was so much sports equipment in the room that some of it could have been taken and I’d never know.”

  “You didn’t have any kind of inventory list?”

  I was not a slacker when it came to my business. “It wasn’t necessary for this event.” Yeesh, I had explained this to Pellner last night. “It was a swap. Nothing was being bought or sold except for the silent auction items.”

  He nodded but didn’t seem happy. “Did you know Melba Harper?”

  “Yes.” I thought about Vincenzo. He’d tell me to just answer the question and not elaborate.

  “How long have you known her?”

  “We met last summer.”

  Ramirez tapped his fingers on the keyboard. “Where?”

  “At an auction at a farm near Carlisle.”

  He nodded like he knew what kind of auctions I was talking about. And I was relieved not to have to explain that most auctions weren’t filled with high-end antiques, gems, and paintings. My favorite auctions were the kind at someone’s house or farm. That was where I’d found the best deals over the years. I thought about Vincenzo again. If I just kept answering the questions, I’d be here all day, and I had things to do.

  “We were admiring the same desk before the auction started, and seemed to be drawn to the same pieces. We bid against each other more than once that day.”

  Ramirez leaned in. “So you had a rivalry.”

  I considered that. “Maybe a friendly one.” I glanced at Pellner. His dimples deepened, like he didn’t like me saying that. “Melba usually won, because I was on a tight budget.”

  “Did you resent that?” Ramirez asked.

  “Heck no. After bumping into each other at several more auctions and a few garage sales, we went out for coffee. Of course, we ran into another problem, because she liked Starbucks and I love Dunkin’s.”

  Both Ramirez and Pellner nodded. People were passionate here when it came to things like coffee or sports teams.

  “We’d compromised on an independent place. We liked each other, but both of us were busy and never managed it again. We’d see each other at different events on and off.”

  “Did she ever say anything that made you think she had any enemies?” Ramirez asked.

  I dug around in my memory. “No. We mostly talked about our shared interest in bargain hunting. She loved buying things for the schools. I loved buying things for my house, friends, or the occasional client.”

  Ramirez looked disappointed. “How did you end up being in charge of the swap?”

  “She called me and asked me to stop by her office about a month ago.” Her office had been decorated with the things I’d seen her bid on. The desk from last summer looked great, and I had told her so. “She asked me if I’d do it. I said yes and then attended a meeting of the school board.”

  Ramirez leaned forward. “And everyone was on board with you handling the swap?”

  I smiled at his pun, but when he didn’t smile back, I dropped it quickly. “Lance Long wasn’t crazy about it originally but came around quickly. In fact, I need to get to their house soon. I’m doing a sale for them next week and have a lot of work to do.”

  “Did you hear why he didn’t want you to do it?”

  “Something about he thought the last person who’d done it was good enough. Nothing wrong with being loyal.”

  “Anyone else have a problem?”

  “Anil Kapoor wasn’t too happy, either, which was unusual, because from what I’ve heard, he usually did whatever Melba wanted him to.”

  “What was his objection to you?”

  “He thought the swap was a waste of time and resources. It cost the district money to keep the school open, and he didn’t think the auction would raise enough to make up for the cost. That kind of thing. None of it seemed personal.”

  “Can you think of anything else?”

  “No. I’ll call you if anything comes to me.” I knew that was what he’d say next, and I thought I’d save him the trouble.

  “What about the murder weapon? Have you seen any other antique ski poles like it before?”

  “Sure.”

  Pellner grimaced. Maybe I should be more careful about what I was admitting to.

  “Where?” Ramirez asked.

  “There were some at the swap. My grandparents had them. I’ve seen them at flea markets.” That surely was enough information.

  “How many were at the swap?”

  “I’m not sure. Since it was a swap—”

  “You didn’t keep an inventory.” He frowned. “Can you make an estimate?”

  I thought back. “Somewhere around a half dozen?”

  “You don’t sound too certain.”

  “That’s because I’m not.”

  “Were any taken last night?”

  “I have no way of knowing. I don’t remember seeing them when I got back to the school, but other people were helping organize things, too.”

  “Can I have their names?”

  I quickly listed everyone who had helped and gave numbers where I could.

  “I’m going to go print your statement so you can sign it.” Ramirez left the room, and Pellner followed. I drummed my fingers on the table, stretched, and blinked my eyes to stay awake while I waited. I could hear voices out in the hall but not what they were saying.

  A few minutes later Pellner came back in with the printed-out report.

  “Do you have any thoughts about who killed Melba?” I asked.

  Pellner shook his head, not in an “I’m saying no” way, but more like in an “I can’t believe you expect an answer to that” way.

  “Please tell me that the person who attacked me wasn’t the person who killed her. What was her time of death?” A little beat of panic fluttered through my stomach. I didn’t want there to be a connection between me and Melba’s death. I just wanted to go about my life, setting it in order, getting over CJ’s abrupt departure.

  Pellner opened his mouth, closed it, and then said, “I need you to sign this.”

  His nonanswer seemed like an answer to me. I was going to be dragged into this mess whether I wanted to be or not. If I didn’t have to help set up the garage sale, I’d go straight back over to DiNapoli’s and see what the local gossip was. I read the statement and signed it.

  “If you have another minute or so, someone else wants to talk to you.”

  I glanced at my watch. I still had twenty minutes to get to my appointment. “Okay. Who is it?”

  But the minute I said okay, Pellner hustled out and closed the door behind him. It made me wonder who wanted to see me and why. Maybe I should call Vincenzo. A few seconds later Seth Anderson, the district attorney for Middlesex County, stepped in and sat in the chair Pellner had just vacated. I dated Seth during the period after CJ’s and my divorce and before we’d gotten back together. I hadn’t seen him since before CJ left.

  His deep brown eyes were hooded and dark circled. His face was shadowed with what looked to be a two-day growth of beard. But his shirt, expensive-looking silk tie, and tailored suit made him look like he’d just stepped off the front page of GQ. Which, given his status as Massachusetts’s Most Eligible Bachelor, was entirely possible if not for his eyes, which looked so tired.

  Seth’s presence usually caused an immediate physical reaction in me. But not today. Too tired, too fresh off the hurt of CJ’s absence, too worried about getting to my client.

  “I heard what happened. I was here, anyway. Heard you were.” He paused between each statement, like he was searching for the right thing to say.

  “I am here.” It came out more clipped than I meant it to. Seth had never done me any harm and had always respected my decisions. I put up a little wall in my brain to keep any other memories from seeping out.

  He cleared his throat. “I wanted to keep things professional.�
��

  What things? I just nodded in response.

  “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

  I looked into his eyes and managed a bit of a smile. “Thank you for asking. I’m tired but okay. I don’t think what happened last night was personal. Wrong place, wrong time.” I really wanted to believe that. “And I don’t think what happened to Melba had anything to do with me, either.”

  Seth studied me and then nodded. “Let’s hope so.”

  I scooted my chair back and stood. “I have someplace I need to be. And I’m sure you do, too.”

  Seth stepped in front of me, but only to open the door. His scent of citrus and soap washed over me. I steeled myself, apparently not as immune to Seth as I had hoped. But he’d said he wanted to keep things professional, so I would, too. My heart needed a rest.

  “Good luck with the investigation,” I said as I left the interrogation room.

  I felt him watching me as I walked down the hall. I glanced back as I turned the corner. He wasn’t even there. So much for my spidey sense.

  Chapter 6

  I pulled into Lance Long’s driveway at three-fifteen and drove up the loop toward his sprawling brick house. The lawn was edged to perfection. Flowers bloomed enthusiastically, looking perky even in this heat. A Red Sox banner hung proudly by the door. I’d spent a good deal of time here pricing things that Kelly, Lance’s wife, had put out in the garage, and I would continue to do that today. The garage door rolled up as I parked in a side spot. Kelly waved to me, her dark hair pulled back in a low bun, and her brown eyes sparkled in the sun. She wore a tennis outfit, and the skirt swished around her tan legs.

  She’d found out about me when Lance complained to her that I’d signed on to organize the swap. Yeah, she’d told me that. Kelly wasn’t one to hold back any thought that passed through her brain.

  “I can’t believe you came. Lance told me what happened to you.” She paused. “And poor Melba.”

  “I’m fine.” Horrified about Melba, but didn’t want to talk about it.

  “You can’t be after what you went through.”

  “I’d rather stay busy. It beats sitting home, feeling sorry for myself.”

  “If you’re sure?” She tilted her head.

  I nodded.

  Kelly beamed. “I have a fabulous idea.”

  Oh, no. I wasn’t prepared for fabulous ideas today. “What?” I tried to inject some enthusiasm in my voice.

  “A theme. Urban. Vintage. Chic.” She held her hands up in the air, as if she was framing each word.

  I realized I was supposed to be reacting with something other than weariness. “Great. What do you envision?”

  “I grabbed a bunch of magazines and then studied Web sites on how to throw the best garage sale.” When I didn’t react, she added, “Oh, this is no reflection on you. I’ve heard you’re fabulous.” Fabulous, I’d learned over the past week, was Kelly’s favorite word. “I wouldn’t have hired you otherwise. But I just want to take it up a notch.”

  “Great.” I smiled or bared my teeth, I wasn’t sure which.

  “I’m seeing a large tent, chandeliers, beautiful vintage dresses hanging. Oh, and rooms set up so there will be a kitchen area, a bedroom, a living room. Sparkly lights around the room. What do you think?”

  “What is your goal for this garage sale?” I asked.

  Kelly tilted her head again. She reminded me of a Westie a friend of mine had growing up. “I don’t understand.”

  “Usually, people throw a garage sale for one of three reasons. Either they want to make money, they want to get rid of stuff, or it’s a combination of both.” Usually, this was easy for me to figure out from the get-go, but that wasn’t the case with Kelly.

  “Oh. Oh.” She squished her mouth to one side. “I want to get rid of stuff. But I also want it to look beautiful.”

  “And money?”

  “Don’t worry about that.” She studied me for a moment. “If you don’t want to do this . . ”

  “I’m happy to do whatever you want me to. I just want us to be clear on the end goal.” I wasn’t convinced that we were on the same page, and I could picture this ending badly. Although how much worse could it be than my first sale of the spring season, where someone had died?

  “Excellent,” she said.

  “We’ll need to track down a tent right away. It’s outdoor wedding season, and one might be hard to come by. And get hold of an electrician for the lighting.” I was really glad I’d had the foresight to charge Kelly by the hour.

  She waved a hand in the air. “Don’t you worry about that. I have a source or two.”

  “Okay.” I added another “great” to try to reach her level of enthusiasm. “I’m worried you won’t be able to recoup your costs if we do all that.”

  Kelly patted my cheek. “That’s my problem. Or Lance’s.” She trilled out a laugh. “What about refreshments?”

  I knew my standards, Dunkin’s coffee and donut holes, wouldn’t work for Kelly. “I have some old washtubs I can fill with ice. We can stick in bottles of sparkling water and Italian soda.”

  “Perfect,” Kelly said. “What about food?”

  “With the heat, we don’t want anything that will give people sticky fingers and hurt the merchandise.” I tapped a finger against my cheek. “How about a pretzel bar? We’ll set out an array of pretzels, with cute little paper bags. People can fill a bag and shake on toppings. Maybe even some bacon bits, jalapeños.”

  “That could get messy, too.”

  “We’ll have it set up for as they leave. I’ll work that part out.”

  Kelly clapped her hands. “I love it.”

  “Do you want to charge people for the refreshments?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Anything else?” I hoped not although that wasn’t very gracious of me.

  “Not that I can think of right now.”

  “I’ll just get to work, then.”

  “And I’ll leave you to it.” Kelly turned on her heel and strutted back into the house.

  * * *

  The first thing I did was write a list of the things we had just talked about. I’d have to run to the grocery store sometime this week to buy everything. Amounts were always tricky, because you never knew how many people would show up. But better to buy too much. Kelly and Lance had a passel of teenagers at their house every time I’d been here, so I was sure the pretzels wouldn’t go to waste.

  After I finished jotting down notes I decided to price a selection of vintage kitchenware first. My grandmother had had a lot of these things when I was a little girl. Utensils with wooden handles painted in bright reds or pale greens. I’d always loved the old hand mixer that Grandma had let me beat eggs with. I quickly priced them and turned to a nut grinder with a glass bottom and a metal top with flowers painted on it. It worked by dropping a couple of nuts in and then turning the handle. I moved on to pricing metal canisters with the contents labeled in bright letters, a bunch of old picnic baskets, and sets of mixing bowls, from Fiestaware to Pyrex.

  I’d never asked Kelly where she’d gotten all of this. But it was all highly collectible right now. The regular pricing stickers I usually used weren’t what Kelly had wanted, so I’d ordered some online that looked like old-fashioned tags with preprinted prices in Courier type. I’d spent my evenings last week tying strings on the tags as I watched the Red Sox play. At least it had passed the time and kept me from thinking about CJ.

  The rest of the day passed swiftly, and the heat kept my muscles from aching. By the time I was ready to leave at eight, I’d accomplished a lot.

  Chapter 7

  The world’s longest text from Laura prevented me from going straight home and falling into bed. Brody had been released from the hospital. He had a concussion that required rest which they felt he could do in the car. So they had hopped in the car and taken off for Washington, hoping to get across country before the moving van with their stuff did. In the milit
ary, it was called a door-to-door move and was the most desirable outcome of any move. Otherwise, your household goods were put in storage, and it could be several weeks before they were moved from storage to your new home.

  Brody had realized once they were several hours away that his coach had all his baseball equipment, including his favorite mitt. The coach was getting ready to move, too, so Laura wanted me to run by his house as soon as possible to get Brody’s things. I sent a text saying I could go now, and Laura sent back his address. He lived in Concord.

  I swung through Dunkin’s and got the largest iced coffee they had, hoping it would provide me with enough energy to drive over to Concord and back. According to my GPS, the coach’s house was a scant six miles away. On a normal day, it would be nothing, but the shock of the attack, the hard physical labor this afternoon, and my lack of sleep were all taking a toll.

  I sucked in a deep drink before turning right on Great Road and then left on Concord Road. It had cooled off enough to roll down the windows and enjoy a light breeze. I drove by Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, famous for its Authors Ridge. Then I passed the Colonial Inn, a haunted historic inn and restaurant. Couples sat at tables on the porch; bits of conversation and laughter wafted to me. It all looked so lovely that I blinked back unexpected tears. Good heavens, I was weepy today. But I decided to cut myself some slack. A lot had happened in the past twenty-four hours.

  I took the rotary, turned right on Main Street, and followed it for about a half mile. After another left and right, I pulled into the coach’s driveway. A SOLD sign sat atop a larger Realtor’s sign that proclaimed her number one status in Concord. The house was a Victorian, complete with white gingerbread trim. I rang the bell, and a harried-looking woman, hair in a messy ponytail, yanked open the door. Packing boxes lined the hall behind her. A child cried from somewhere. I explained who I was, and she pointed to a large plastic garbage bag.

  “Thanks for picking this up. We don’t need one more thing to do right now,” she said.

  “I’ve moved a million times. I know what it’s like.”

  “Military?” she asked.