The GPS on my phone kept giving me directions that I knew were incorrect from previous trips up here, whether it had been to go to a garage sale or to see Seth when he used to live up here. I ignored it and went off memory. It hurt my bruised hand to grip the steering wheel too tightly. My head still ached, as did most of the rest of my body.
Fifteen minutes later I pulled into the empty parking lot of the Dunkin’ Donuts. Oh, no. There was a big OUT OF BUSINESS sign on the door. No wonder the GPS was telling me to go somewhere else. The building it adjoined was being torn down. No construction workers were around since it was Sunday, which made me a bit uncomfortable. But it was a bright, sunny day, and I’d seen a few cars go by on the street. It seemed safe enough to stay.
I backed my car into a space facing the street so I could speed off at a moment’s notice if I felt uneasy. It didn’t take long to realize it was a stupid move. A big black SUV pulled in front of my car, trapping me in the space. Since an incident a few weeks ago, I didn’t like feeling trapped. I grabbed my phone and purse and then hopped out of the car. At least this way I could run, if my aching body would cooperate.
I started to walk around to the driver’s side of the black SUV but stopped when the back passenger door opened. I blinked twice, startled by who’d popped out.
Chapter 9
“What the hell are you doing here?” Mike “the Big Cheese” Titone asked me. He sounded steamed, beyond steamed, more like furious. He had a wiry runner’s body. There was no way I’d be able to outrun him, even on a day when my body didn’t hurt.
But I was just as miffed. “Get out of here. I’m trying to buy something, and I don’t want you scaring the guy off.” Mike lived in the North End of Boston, the Italian section, where he owned a cheese shop, thus the nickname. Vincenzo had gotten him off a racketeering charge, and it was rumored that Mike was in the Mob. He had some connection to Seth that I didn’t understand. In the past I wasn’t even sure I wanted to know what was going on between them, but maybe it was time to find out. I put it on the to-do list running in my head.
“You’re BargainHunter?” he asked.
My jaw dropped a bit. “Don’t tell me you’re Sportzfan.”
Mike studied me for a minute, and I realized that there was a controlled fury in his icy blue eyes, which I’d never seen before. His hands were clenched in tight fists. Little fans of hot panic spread through me like the start of a wildfire. I took a step back but bumped into someone. Then I realized I was surrounded by four of his men, all big, brawny guys, who apparently moved like ninjas. Mike had helped me out of a jam once. I’d seen various versions of him, but until today none had made me this afraid.
“No. I’m not,” he finally said.
“Then how did you know I was BargainHunter?”
“Because I saw BargainHunter was interested in some of the items I was. I thought I’d outbid you. Not that I knew you were behind BargainHunter then.”
“So you were supposed to meet Sportzfan here, too?” I asked. I’d heard of people doing this. Telling two different customers they could have the item, and then, when they all showed up, the seller sold to the highest bidder. I didn’t allow it on my virtual garage sale site. It was unethical, lousy, and another reason I always tried to meet in a public place.
“Yes. But Sportzfan is a double-crosser, among other things.”
“What other things?” I didn’t tell him I was looking for stolen goods. Which had been a stupid, stupid idea, born out of fear and exhaustion.
Mike stepped in close. I held my ground, but more because I had nowhere to run than any kind of bravado. My knees were visibly shaking.
“Stay outta this.”
“Out of what?”
“Sportzfan.” Mike opened the door to my Suburban and more or less shoved me into the driver’s seat.
“Ow,” I said. He’d jarred my injuries.
“Sorry,” Mike said.
For a second the Mike I’d come to know showed back up. The one who’d helped me.
“Go home.” He turned away as I clenched the wheel like it was a lifesaver ring.
A car rumbled down the street. It slowed, but when Mike turned to look, it sped off. Mike jerked his head toward his SUV, and his men clambered back in. He followed and slammed his door without looking back. The SUV glided off.
My hand shook as I fumbled for my key and stuck it in the ignition. I fired up the Suburban and pulled forward far enough that I’d have an escape route no matter what. CJ had taught me to always have an escape route around me in the car. Not to pull up too close behind someone at a light or a stop sign. I should have followed it today. After a couple of deep breaths, I pulled out of the parking lot and drove to the Dunkin’s my GPS was still spouting directions to, just to make it happy. I went in, ordered a large latte and a donut—make that two donuts, a coconut and a chocolate glazed.
I sat at a table and gobbled them down, grateful to be around people having a normal Sunday morning. Some looked like they were ready for church, others like they’d just finished a night of partying, and one family had a passel of kids and a crying baby. I wanted to hug them all. When my breathing was no longer coming out in short pants, I finished my coffee and drove back to Ellington.
* * *
Kelly sent me a text saying they’d decided to go to church and out to lunch. She asked me to come by at one instead. I was fine with that. My apartment needed cleaning, laundry needed to be caught up on, and I needed rest. But the first thing I did when I got home was grab my laptop. I wrote a scathing note to Sportzfan about not showing up and trying to sell to two people. Then I deleted the whole thing, because I needed to find him. Instead, I wrote a note apologizing for an apparent mix-up, said it was my bad, and asked if we could try again. After that I tried to decide which of the people on the thread was Mike. But we weren’t the only two who’d responded “Interested” and “Sending PM.” There was a whole string of us.
I started nodding off so I set my computer aside. I woke around noon, still on the couch, after a restless dream-filled sleep that reflected all my anxieties. I showered, trying to ignore the bruises splattered like abstract tattoos on my body. The laundry and cleaning would have to wait because I’d slept longer than I’d planned.
* * *
The afternoon at Kelly’s house sped by. As I worked, the air became thicker and more oppressive. I stepped out of the garage a few times to watch clouds swirling and re-forming off to the west. I found a stack of pristine magazines from the fifties in a box. Ladies’ Home Journals, Better Homes and Gardens, McCall’s, complete with Betsy McCall paper dolls in them. I took a break and flipped through a few. Ads for cigarettes showed women in gowns, gloves, and pearls, looking elegant. Articles gave advice on how to be the perfect housewife and keep your man happy. I was exhausted just reading it. But I did love their Christmas issues, with illustrated stories and recipes for odd gelatin concoctions. These would go fast.
At four o’clock I knocked on the door to the house to let the Longs know I was leaving. Lance answered and stepped out into the garage.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Good. This should be one spectacular sale.”
“I was actually asking about you. Are you okay?”
Wow. Lance had been the board member to hold me at a distance since Melba first suggested I run the swap meet. “Yes. I’m fine.” It was the answer people expected to hear.
He frowned. It made him look more like a boy than a businessman. As did his wardrobe of a pink polo shirt and plaid shorts. He could almost pass for one of his teenage boys today. Although, as always, he looked like a walking advertisement for Ralph Lauren. “Have you hired a lawyer?”
I leaned away from him. Did he think I killed Melba? “No.”
“So you aren’t planning to sue the school board?”
For a moment, I just stared at him, trying to determine what the heck he was talking about.
“You were attacked on school prope
rty during a board-sanctioned event. Although, I still wonder why you were there so late. These are litigious times. Are you going to sue us?”
“No. Of course not.” I shook my head for emphasis. “I can’t even imagine where you got an idea like that.” Had I said something to someone? I didn’t think so.
“I heard that Angelo was talking to you about hiring Vincenzo yesterday at DiNapoli’s.”
Small towns. This was the downside. “He was worried about me talking to the police without a lawyer present. No mention was made of suing anyone.”
“You’d be willing to sign forms stating that you don’t hold the board or the district responsible?”
“I’ll sign whatever you want.” Beyond having never thought of suing, I could imagine the effect on my business if I did sue. It would be all over town, and I’d be a persona non grata in minutes. Lance must be the member of the board who worried about all the legal aspects. Maybe he was a lawyer. I really didn’t know.
“If you can wait here a minute, I’ll go print the form out.”
“Sure,” I said.
He returned a couple of minutes later with a simple one-page form that wasn’t shrouded in legalese. I read it over and took the pen he held out.
“I’ll have to get my lawyer to look over this before I sign.”
Lance opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“I’m kidding,” I said as I signed. Lance didn’t look amused.
He took the form from me with a tight smile. “Thank you.” He paused. “You’re sure you’re not heading to a lawyer next.”
“I don’t have time. I have to go to Concord to an antique store where a teenager tried to sell sports jerseys that sound similar to the ones stolen yesterday. I have to eat, do laundry, see Seth Anderson, and then I’m going to search for the stolen items on line. All of that will keep me way too busy to hire a lawyer to sue the school district.”
“Okay, I’m sorry I brought it up. I hear you loud and clear. You aren’t going to sue anyone,” Lance said.
“Right.” I walked to my Suburban, feeling a little like I’d been slimed. Fat raindrops started to fall as I climbed into my car.
* * *
I headed to Concord to Ryne’s uncle’s antique store, Seventh Time Around. It was four thirtyish, so maybe whoever had come to sell the athletic things yesterday would be back. Bolt after bolt of lightning flashed across the sky making me jump as I drove through the heavy rain. I turned onto Main Street in Concord, followed it, and took a left. Ryne’s uncle’s antique store sat at the very end of the business district. Rent could not be cheap here. I’d been in a few times before Ryne had come to town. I’d always gotten the impression that the merchandise was dusty and overpriced. I pulled into a parking place two doors down, jumped out, and dashed through the rain into the store.
The lighting was dim—a few bare bulbs hung from strings. I turned a full circle, taking in the store. It was hard to tell if there was less dust or not.
“Of all the gin joints in all the towns—”
I about jumped out of my shorts at Ryne’s voice and peered around for him.
“In all the world—”
“Yeah, I walked in here.” I smiled. His goofy quoting of a line from Casablanca was a relief after the incessant lightning, Melba’s death, the attack, and my weird interaction with Mike this morning.
He sat in a dimly lit corner, with a book across his lap. I headed back to him. Ryne was in a wingback chair, one long leg crossed over the other. A floor lamp with a frosted-glass lamp shade that looked to be from the thirties provided just enough light to read back here. The Scarlet Letter, by Nathaniel Hawthorne, lay open on his thigh, spine up.
“I’m reading through the local authors,” Ryne said.
It made me realize I had no idea where he’d lived before he showed up six weeks ago. The Irish accent sounded real enough, but it was used only sporadically.
“There are plenty of good ones around here.”
Ryne stood, and it forced me to look up at him. He had on a checkered button-down shirt, rolled up to the elbows, showing strong arms feathered with dark hair over pale Irish skin. A pair of tan slacks completed his look.
“What can I help you with? An eighteen hundreds sideboard? Or a painting of a relative so dour, the family couldn’t stomach having him on the wall?” He gestured to the dark oak sideboard, ornately carved and heavy looking. Above it hung a portrait of a balding man with eyes so cold, I almost shivered.
I walked back and forth in front of it. “Oh, yuck. His eyes are following me. No wonder the family got rid of him. Who could live with him glaring down at you all the time?” I ran a finger across the sideboard. No dust.
“I’ve been trying to teach the employees the importance of keeping the store clean. My uncle has cataracts thick as an Irish fog. Can’t see the dust. Won’t get the surgery. There’s no need, in his opinion.”
I withdrew my finger. “Sorry. Bad habit.”
“Am I right in assuming that you didn’t stop by to check out my reading habits and how much dust topped the furniture? Or that you didn’t come by because you craved some good company during a storm?” He looked toward the front of the store, where the rain pelted the windows and lightning continued to flash.
Ah, there was the Ryne who was so flip that he should have been a gymnast. But I would rise above this once. “I was hoping to talk to the employee you mentioned last night.”
“Ah, well, in that case, you’re in for a bit of a disappointment. He called in sick.”
“Darn. Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“Soon. I assume he has the Irish flu.”
“There’s a flu going around in the middle of the summer?” I took a step back from Ryne. The last thing I needed was to get sick. I almost had more work than I could manage over the next few weeks.
“Aye, and you catch it by going to Gillganins and drinking too much Irish whiskey. He should be fine and back in the store tomorrow.”
“Well, then, I’ll stop back tomorrow.” I turned toward the door.
“Would you like a beer? You’ll get soaked if you leave now.” Thunder boomed. The lights dimmed for a moment.
I tried not to jump. I came from Pacific Grove, California, the next city over from Monterey. Thunderstorms there were rare. Give me an earthquake any day. Driving through this storm or sitting alone in my apartment, waiting for a tree to fall on it, held less appeal than hanging out with Ryne. “Okay. Thanks.”
Ryne disappeared to the back of the store, and I wandered around. How odd that someone would bring sports equipment here, antique or not. It just didn’t fit with the store. There was a jumble of furniture, lots of paintings, ornate glass windows, a stack of Trixie Belden books, and then I spotted a corner filled with sports things. I didn’t remember ever seeing this section when I’d been in here before. Ryne’s uncle had everything from trading cards to signed bats to framed posters. Did that mean whoever had stolen the stuff had some connection with this store?
Ryne came through a swinging door with a tray full of beer, glasses, and, oh, yum, a plate of nachos. That explained his lengthy absence after he said he was going to grab our beers.
Ryne set the tray down on a table near where he’d been reading. I walked over and sat on a small velvet-covered settee. Ryne pulled a bottle opener out of his pocket, popped the tops off two Sam Adams Summer Ales, and poured the perfect glass, with only a skim of foam at the top.
Ryne raised his glass. “Here’s looking at you, kid. Eat up.”
I dug into the nachos. Gooey cheese, just the right amount of jalapeños—so there was a little heat but no mouth afire—tomatoes, and black beans. The toppings to chips ratio was perfect.
“I didn’t think you ever ate,” Ryne said after I’d scarfed down several chips.
“Why would you think that?”
“Like I said last night, you keep leaving food outside my door.” He tilted his head. “Heartbreak does that to a perso
n.”
I looked at Ryne good and hard. Maybe he’d left wherever not just to help his uncle but also to get over someone. The whole topic made my stomach roil, as I thought of CJ. I set down my plate.
“I’m eating just fine.”
“I saw how you looked the day we first met, and I see how you look now, six weeks later. It brings out my nurturing side, and fortunately for you, I make amazing nachos.”
I laughed. “You do. I should get going.” It sounded like the worst of the storm was over.
“You don’t need to bolt,” Ryne said.
I stood. “Not bolting. Things to do. Thanks for the beer and the nachos.” I hurried to the front door. “The nachos were amazing,” I called back.
He held up The Scarlet Letter. “She had not known the weight until she felt the freedom! Chapter eighteen. ‘A Flood of Sunshine.’”
I stared at him for a moment and then fled.
Chapter 10
I didn’t make if far, because I bumped right into a teenage boy with an armful of stuff. After I made my apologies, I watched him walk into Ryne’s uncle’s shop. Were those football jerseys in his arms? Could this be the kid who’d tried to sell stuff yesterday? I did an about-face and hurried after him. Once in the store, I saw that Ryne was already talking to him. He didn’t seem surprised to see me walk back in.
“Where’d you get all of this?” Ryne asked.
I made my way slowly toward them, looking at this, picking up that and setting it back down. I hoped I looked like a customer because I didn’t want to spook the kid. I whipped out my phone and started snapping pictures of random things while the kid talked. What I really wanted was a photo of him.
I Know What You Bid Last Summer Page 6
