I Know What You Bid Last Summer

by Sherry Harris

“Once upon a time.” I never knew quite how to explain my connection with the military. I hadn’t served, in the eyes of some. But in a way I had, because I had followed CJ around, participated in lots of base activities, and hosted his troops at our home frequently. Military life was about relationships and helping others. It could be difficult, but for me the good had outweighed the difficult times.

  “I hope this is our last move.” She sighed. “We’re off to the Pentagon. He’s hoping for a star. I promised him twenty years of doing this. We’re up to twenty-six.” She shook her head. “I guess I’d miss it. Do you?”

  “Sometimes. But I love it here.”

  “I did, but it’s been a rough year. My husband is a baseball nut and loves coaching. There’ve just been too many injuries, long nights, travel with the team, on top of the long hours on Fitch. Plus, our son and daughter are on the team.”

  “Your daughter plays?”

  “Did play. Catcher. The last concussion knocked her out for the season.”

  I watched enough baseball to know what a wild pitch could do to a player. “That’s too bad,” I said. “I hope you enjoy your Pentagon assignment.”

  “At least the winters won’t be as long or as cold. I won’t miss that. But I’ll miss this house.” She patted the door frame. “I needed a break from living on base.”

  Not everyone lived on base, and there wasn’t enough housing for everyone on most bases even if they did want to. I had always loved living on base but had been forced to leave when CJ got in trouble. “It can be like living in a petri dish.”

  “Yep. Everyone always knows your business.”

  “Mom,” a boy yelled. “I’m hungry.”

  “I’d better go. We’re doing one of those ‘clear out the frig and pantry’ meals. I think it’s pancakes and Shake ’n Bake.”

  “I’ll just take that and get going,” I said. I grabbed the lumpy bag and hefted it up. “Good luck with your move.”

  * * *

  As I pulled into the drive, another text sent me over to DiNapoli’s. The coffee had worked well enough that I still had a bit of energy. The attack had made me want to be around people instead of home alone. I cut across the lawn of the town common. The shadows were long. The clock on the Congregational church glowed in the last light of the day, and I counted as the bells chimed. Nine o’clock.

  The sign on DiNapoli’s was flipped to CLOSED, but I went in, anyway. Rosalie was scrubbing down the counter and Angelo, the grill.

  “Can I help?” I asked.

  But they both yelled no and pointed me toward a table that was set for three. The tables were plain and mismatched, as were the chairs. I noticed a quarter under the leg of the one they’d pointed me to. I’d keep an eye out for a replacement for them.

  There was an uncorked bottle of Chianti and three glasses on the table, so I poured. A couple of minutes later they came over. Angelo carried a pan of lasagna, which he set in the center of the table. It smelled delicious, and I loved a good lasagna. Rosalie brought a salad and a basket of steaming garlic bread. After Rosalie dished everything out, I bit into the garlic bread. Just the right amount of crunch before I hit the buttery, garlicky goodness. I devoured the rest of the piece. Rosalie pushed the bread basket over to me with a concerned smile.

  “I wanted my lasagna fresh in your memory before you set out to taste the others,” Angelo said.

  I realized that was a guise to find out something else, because concern troubled Rosalie’s eyes. I took a bite of the lasagna. The noodles were cooked perfectly. The Italian sausage had just the right amount of spice. The sauce seemed to have a stronger basil flavor than I remembered from past lasagnas here although it wasn’t always on the menu so it had been awhile. Should I mention it?

  They both watched me intently.

  “Be honest,” Angelo said.

  “There seems to be a bit more basil than usual,” I said, hoping Angelo wouldn’t be offended. He took pride in his cooking and the food he served.

  “Ha!” Angelo said. He turned to Rosalie. “I told you she’s perfect for this. Of course there’s too much basil. I wanted to check your palate before you set off to taste my competitors’ food.”

  “Sorry, Sarah. You really don’t have to go through with this,” Rosalie said. “Especially after last night and this morning.”

  I smiled. “Of course I will help. I’d do anything for you two.”

  Angelo busied himself with clearing the plates. “Let me go get the real lasagna.” He came back with a deep pan of lasagna and served each of us a piece. Cheese dripped in long gooey strings. My stomach rumbled in anticipation.

  “Are you okay?” Angelo asked me.

  “Angelo, we agreed to let her eat first,” Rosalie scolded.

  I almost laughed. Angelo’s name in Italian meant Messenger of God. It was a role Angelo fulfilled very well. If he saw an injustice, he wanted to make it right, kind of like an Italian superhero. But it often got him in trouble, and not just with Rosalie.

  “I’m okay.” I wanted to leave it at that. They knew me well enough by now that they wouldn’t buy it if I tried to gloss over everything.

  Rosalie reached over and patted my hand. “How fine can you be after being attacked last night and finding Melba today?”

  “Attacked, questioned by the police, and don’t get me started on CJ.” Angelo was waving his hands around as he talked. At least he didn’t have a ladle full of marinara sauce this time.

  When CJ and I divorced over a year ago, Angelo and Rosalie had staunchly sided with me. As they had when we reunited, and again now. It made me smile to think of it. I took a bite of my lasagna, trying to give everyone a moment to relax.

  “What’s in this, Angelo? It tastes amazing.”

  “It’s the recipe my mama taught me when I was a boy. It never changes.”

  “Angelo, don’t lie. God will get you.” Rosalie crossed herself. “He tried a new combination of spices.”

  “It’s brilliant,” I said.

  “Of course it is.” Angelo pointed his fork at me. “But don’t try to change the subject.”

  It was almost impossible to pull a fast one on Angelo.

  “With the swap meet and planning a garage sale, I really haven’t had time to think about what happened.” I put down my fork.

  “See, Angelo. She’s quit eating. I warned you.”

  “I’m just getting a sip of wine. I’m not done.” I didn’t want to be the cause of a fight. I took a sip of wine, then ate some more lasagna.

  While we finished the meal, we talked about vacation plans (I had none), the weather (it was chilly one day, boiling the next), and the last books we’d read. I thought perhaps I was off the hook, until Angelo set a platter full of Rosalie’s homemade Italian pastries down in front of us.

  “Talk,” he said.

  I thought about stuffing a cannoli in my mouth, but that was delaying the inevitable. The DiNapolis listened closely while I filled them in on the attack and my trip to the hospital. I gave them facts, but not the emotions that went with them—uncertainty, terror, anger, and a lingering unease.

  Rosalie sighed when I finished. “You haven’t answered Angelo’s original question. How are you?” She accentuated the word you.

  I took a moment. “Anxious. Sore. I keep wondering if it was random, like Pellner thinks. It’s what I want to believe. But if Pellner noticed my car, why didn’t my attacker?”

  “Maybe they had a timeline. Someplace they had to be,” Angelo said.

  The equipment had little value, but all the silent auction items could be resold. I made a mental note to do a search online when I got home. The police might have already done it, but I was better at decoding virtual garage sale language because I ran a virtual garage sale.

  “Like a late-night appointment with Superintendent Harper? Have you heard anything about a time of death?” I asked. I assumed it had to have occurred after the police finished up at the school after I was attacked and before I had go
ne back in the morning. The rest of the time, too many people were around.

  “One of the stylists from Giovani’s salon came in for a dinner take-out order. Her sister-in-law is a dispatcher at the station. She said they’re putting the time of death between one and five in the morning,” Rosalie said.

  It’s what I had thought. But it meant I might have been sleeping out in the parking lot when the murder occurred. Had the murderer walked right by me? Seen me sleeping in my car? “How’d they come up with that?”

  “The police left the gym around one. Then you and your friends were in the gym by five thirty,” Rosalie said.

  It confirmed my thoughts. I knew from my time with CJ that the police depended as much on the last contact between the victim and someone as they did the condition of the body. I tried to stifle a yawn. It was almost ten. Time for me to go and let the DiNapolis get home, too. I stood.

  “Thank you for the dinner and company.”

  “You aren’t leaving without some leftovers,” Angelo said.

  I couldn’t say no, because it would offend them. I’d stick it in the fridge and dole it out tomorrow.

  It was dark out when I finally waved good-bye. The warm and humid air pressed in on me. I stuck to the sidewalk, instead of cutting through the deep shadows of the town common. The Congregational church stood out, white against the night sky. Crickets chirped, bushes rustled, and I was jumpier than the frogs of Calaveras County. The walk was less than two blocks, but it felt like a hike up Kilimanjaro. I waited for the light to change as a few cars whizzed by on Great Road. Music blared; teens laughed. It accentuated my loneliness.

  I trudged along, carrying the bag of food. My body had stiffened while I was sitting with the DiNapolis. The aches from the attack last night all made themselves known. And then I heard the footsteps behind me.

  Chapter 8

  I hurried up, and so did they. I broke into a run, and so did they. I ran up the sidewalk to the porch. The light was off. I yanked open the screen and ducked inside. I slammed the heavy wooden door. Fumbled for the lock. It squeaked and groaned with lack of use as it clicked into place. Through the door I heard the footsteps pounding closer. I held my breath, but they went on by. My heart pounded as I unlocked the door and peeked outside. It was just someone out for an evening run. I left the door unlocked and headed upstairs.

  Back in my apartment, I stuffed the lasagna in the refrigerator. I took the box of pastries, headed back into the living room, and slumped onto the couch, still a bit shaken. I loved this little apartment, though. The ceiling slanted down on one side to meet a four-foot-high wall; a worn Oriental rug covered the wide-planked wood floors, which I’d painted white; and my grandmother’s rocker sat next to the window that overlooked the town common.

  I clicked on the TV and selected a cannoli. The Red Sox were winning. I was almost comatose as I finished the cannoli. Sleeping on the couch seemed like a better option than trying to move. A knock on the door jolted me upright.

  I stumbled to the door and lifted the little piece of metal that allowed me to look through my newly installed peephole. Every time I used it, I thought of CJ, because he’d installed it his last day here. I hadn’t even been home. Stella had seen him climbing the steps to my apartment, with a toolbox in hand, and had gone to see what he was up to. He’d been installing this, and I was still confused about it. Was he saying he loved me? If that was it, why’d he leave? Was it a way to keep me safe? Or was he trying to control me?

  I peered out, and it chased all thoughts of CJ away. Ryne stood out there, tapping his fingers against his leg. What the heck did he want? I thought about backing away, but between the creaky floor and the TV, he had to know I was home.

  I pulled the door open and stepped forward to keep him out in the hall. It was then I noticed the top of my dress was coated with a light dusting of powdered sugar from the cannoli. I thought about trying to brush it off, but the less attention paid, the better.

  “What?” I asked, in no mood for social niceties or company.

  “Someone came into my uncle’s antique store today, around four, and tried to get an employee to buy what he called an old, valuable hockey stick.”

  I perked up.

  “I think it might have been stolen from your silent auction.” Even though Ryne was new to the area, he had already plugged into the local gossip and somehow knew about the theft or maybe he heard about it at the gym this morning.

  I waved him in, he followed me to the couch, and we sat on opposite ends. The couch, a garage sale find, was stuffed with down and slipcovered in white. My mom had made the slipcovers for me. Ryne stared at the box filled with cannolis and Italian cookies.

  “Help yourself,” I said.

  “So you’re the one leaving all the food on my doorstep.”

  I hadn’t wanted the food to go to waste, but I also hadn’t been in the mood lately to knock on his door, which would have required a friendly little chat. I shrugged. “The DiNapolis are trying to fatten me up.”

  “You could use it.”

  I closed my eyes for a long moment. There had been a point in my life when I wished someone would say things like that to me, but now wasn’t the time. “So why do you think the hockey stick was from the silent auction?”

  “It was signed by a Bruins player.”

  “A signed one was stolen from the auction.” I clasped my hands together as excitement surged through me.

  “The person who was trying to sell it didn’t have any explanation for how he came to own it. When our employee questioned him, he didn’t answer at first and then said a friend gave it to him.”

  “That’s entirely possible.”

  “The kid left when my employee asked for ID.”

  “It does sound suspicious. I have pictures of the ones that were supposed to be in the auction. Do you think your employee would recognize it?”

  Ryne nodded. I grabbed my phone, asked for Ryne’s number, and sent him the photo.

  “Did you get a look at the guy?” I asked.

  “I was out of the store at the time. My employee just said he was an average-looking teen, sandy hair, nothing that made him stand out.”

  “It doesn’t seem very smart to try to sell stolen goods in the next town over from where they were stolen.”

  “No one ever said thieves had to be smart.”

  Ryne had a point, although the burglary in some ways seemed thoughtfully planned out. If it wasn’t for me being there, it would have gone unnoticed for many hours.

  I stood. “I’m exhausted.” I needed to process all that had been going on. “Did you tell the police?” I asked as I walked to the door and opened it.

  Ryne followed me. “If I called the police every time someone came in with something I’d be on the phone all day. I wanted to chat with you first.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “But maybe you should call them.”

  “Will do.” He frowned down at me. “Take care of yourself.”

  “Thanks for de-escalating the bidding war today at the swap.”

  “Aye, and that was a dicey bit, wasn’t it? Feared for me beautiful jawline for a moment.” With that, he grinned and left.

  I shook my head as I closed the door.

  * * *

  My plan to head straight to bed was diverted when I glanced down at my computer lying so innocently on the trunk I used as a coffee table. If the stolen goods were already out there, maybe someone was trying to sell them online. I settled back on the couch, opened my computer, and started searching. I didn’t find anything on my virtual garage sale site, which was no surprise, but Ryne’s comment about thieves not being smart rang through my head. I checked virtual garage sale sites in Concord, Lincoln, Bedford, and Lexington, the towns closest to us. I even checked the one for Fitch Air Force Base, which lay smack-dab in the middle of all those towns. Nothing.

  I slowly broadened my search, yawning as I did so. I thought about making a pot of coffee but decided to press on. Three
minutes later I struck gold with a page in Lowell, a town about thirty minutes north. A guy whose screen name was Sportzfan had lots of pictures of signed sports items. His profile picture was of a Red Sox cap, so I couldn’t even tell if he had the sandy-colored hair that Ryne had described. He was selling everything from photos to baseball cards to items that looked awfully similar to the ones from the silent auction. My conundrum was that a lot of what had been taken, and what was listed on this site, wasn’t that hard to find.

  I picked three items that most closely matched my silent auction items. I wrote “Interested” under each item and followed it with a “Sending pm,” a private message. I was using an account that wasn’t connected to my business or personal page. My profile picture for this account was a dollar sign, and the user name was BargainHunter. In the message I told him which three items I wanted, and asked if we could meet in the morning, around seven-thirty, at a Dunkin’s on Fifth Street in Lowell. It was virtual garage sale courtesy to go to the town of the seller if they didn’t say they were willing to drive somewhere to meet. Meeting at seven-thirty should give me time to get to Lowell and then back to Kelly’s to do some more work. She’d asked me to come by at nine.

  I didn’t like to go to a stranger’s house, although I had plenty of friends who did this without ever encountering a problem. One friend had actually been invited into a house for a tour when she told the seller how lovely her home was. About halfway through the tour, on the third floor of the house, she realized how quiet it was and that no one knew where she was. Another friend went to pick something up. The woman had an illegal day care running in her basement and asked my friend to watch the kids while she got the item for sale. That was why I stuck to public places, if possible.

  Ten minutes later Sportzfan wrote back, saying that he could meet me and that the Dunkin’s I had suggested would work just fine.

  * * *

  I almost had the road to myself as I drove up Route 3 to Lowell. Lowell was an old mill town, like so many towns in Massachusetts. The Merrimack River flowed through it and had once powered the mills. It was home to the University of Massachusetts Lowell. And it was the place I’d first laid eyes on Seth Anderson, at a bar. I still blushed at the thought. At the time I hadn’t known he was the newly appointed district attorney for Middlesex County. Normally, DAs were elected, but Seth ended up finishing his sick predecessor’s term. Nor had I known that he was Massachusetts’s Most Eligible Bachelor, now for three years running. And I’d never dreamed I’d hurt him, because one look at him and a girl would think, He’s a player. But I’d manage to hurt him, anyway.