Death of a Garage Sale Newbie

by Sharon Dunn

  Mr. Wheeler pulled a toothpick out of his chest pocket and placed it in his mouth. “Agents are always meeting other agents.” He worked the toothpick back and forth with his teeth. “We wouldn’t have a record of that. Sorry.”

  Dana jumped to her feet. “I might know who it was. Right before she died, Mary Margret was trying to get her sales up. Mr. Jackson was helping her by giving her some key listings and offering her some general advice on sales technique.”

  Mr. Wheeler yanked the toothpick out of his mouth and cleared his throat. “Well, there you have it. It most likely was Mr. Jackson himself. I’m sorry, he’s not in the office.”

  “I know where he is.” With a nervous glance toward Wheeler, Dana tugged on her shirt cuff. “Before Mr. Jackson left about thirty minutes ago, he said he was going to pop over to that restoration being done on the Wilson mansion.”

  Mr. Wheeler snapped the toothpick in half. “Thank you, Dana.” He tossed it in the garbage can. “Maybe you should go back to your buy-sell agreement.”

  Dana lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes at Mr. Wheeler before turning to Ginger and Arleta. “It’s over on Thomason in the nine hundred block.”

  She strutted back to her desk with a backward look at her boss. Wheeler returned to his office.

  On their way out, Ginger noticed a photograph of Wheeler standing outside the office shaking hands with a slender dark-haired man.

  Dana swiveled in her chair and offered an explanation. “That’s the ribbon-cutting ceremony for when the Jackson-Wheeler office first opened twenty years ago.”

  Ginger rested a finger on the dark-haired man. “Who is that man with him?”

  “That’s Mr. Jackson. I guess he’s gained quite a bit of weight over the years.”

  “Poor man.” Ginger crossed her arms. “He must have gained 150 pounds. Does he have health issues that would make him gain weight?”

  Dana shook her head. “He just likes pork chops and Twinkies.”

  Arleta and Ginger walked past two stone lions guarding the entrance to the Wilson mansion. Ginger was already breathless from trotting just to keep up with Arleta’s huge stride. A hedge framed a huge expanse of lawn. A red Hummer was parked in the driveway. That car probably belonged to Mr. Jackson. All the other vehicles referred to some aspect of the construction trade on their doors.

  They ascended a stone and brick staircase.

  “I remember when this house was used by a fraternity,” commented Arleta as they stood on the wraparound wooden porch. “It’s gone through quite a few changes.”

  Inside, drop cloths covered the floor. A man in painter’s pants and a mask worked on his knees spraying trim. The abrasive hum of power tools and the pounding of hammers echoed through the house.

  Arleta took the lead as they walked down a dark hallway that led to a kitchen, where a man wedged a ceramic tile into place on the floor. The man rose to his feet and wiped his hands on a rag tucked in his back pocket. “Can I help you ladies?”

  “We were told Mr. Jackson was here?”

  The man pointed up. “Third floor. The servants’ stairs behind me.”

  Arleta and Ginger made their way up two flights of narrow, winding stairs. Ginger’s loafers with jewels on the toes made the floorboards creak with each step. The walls closed in on them in claustrophobic proportions. Servants’ stairs indeed. She’d seen the huge sweeping staircase in the living room that the wealthy owner must have traversed at the turn of the century The maid was the one who had to run the food and wine and candy up this scary contraption. The arrangement struck Ginger as very unfair.

  The top of the stairs opened up into an expanse of room surrounded by windows. A billiard table occupied the center of the room. In the corner, Mr. Jackson sat at a card table, his lunch spread out before him. Ginger was pretty sure there was enough on the table to feed a small country—two sandwiches still wrapped in paper, a plastic bowl filled with salad, a Big Gulp, and several tacos completed the spread.

  Mr. Jackson’s eyes were visible above the sandwich he’d just brought up to his mouth. He bit into the sandwich, chewed for some time, took a moment to wipe his mouth with a paper napkin, and then sipped from his Big Gulp. “Can I help you, ladies? The house won’t be on the market for another month.”

  Funny, Mr. Jackson didn’t seem to remember her as well as Mr. Wheeler had. “We’re not here to look at the house. I’m Ginger Salinski. Mary Margret’s friend.”

  Mr. Jackson stood up, nearly knocking the table over. His head brushed against the slanted ceiling. He dropped his sandwich on the table. “Oh…yes.”

  “I’m trying to figure out what happened to my friend the day she died. I understand you saw her that Saturday morning.”

  Mr. Jackson ran his hands through his hair. He trudged to the billiard table and rolled a ball across it. “And you heard that from…?”

  “Dana from your office.”

  Arleta crossed her arms and wandered to the window. Mr. Jackson rolled several more balls across the table before answering. “You know, that was almost two weeks ago. Mary Margret and I were getting together several times a week. I’d have to check my Day-Timer to see if we met that Saturday.”

  “So check it,” said Arleta without turning around.

  Mr. Jackson waddled back to the table and lifted a briefcase off the floor. He unzipped it and pulled out a burgundy leather-bound book. By the time he made his way back to Ginger, he was sweating and breathing heavily “Let’s see,” he made a clicking noise as he flipped through the pages, “that would have been July.”

  Ginger stepped toward him. “Saturday, July 15.”

  He read and nodded at each entry as though it held a fond memory. In an effort to hurry him a little bit, Ginger peered over his shoulder. “Ah, here it is. Yes, she and I did a walk-through a house on Stalter Street.”

  “Did she seem upset?”

  He shook his head for several seconds. “No, no.” A stream of sweat trickled past his temple.

  “Did she say anything about the garage sale stuff she had bought that morning?”

  Mr. Jackson puckered up his bulbous lips and released them. “She said she was in a bit of a hurry because she was going to more sales after we were done. Oh wait, she mentioned a little fishing pole she’d gotten for her grandson, Donald Duck on it, I think.”

  “Mickey Mouse,” said Arleta and Ginger in unison.

  He pointed his puffy finger at her. “Right, Mickey Mouse.”

  “So she didn’t seem agitated at all to you?”

  Mr. Jackson shook his head, causing his second chin to wobble. The moments ticked by. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.

  Arleta turned to face Mr. Jackson. Her fists rested on her narrow hips. “How much does a house like this sell for?”

  “When it’s restored, it will be worth a couple million.”

  Arleta nodded. Ginger wasn’t sure what had motivated Arleta to ask the question, but she was grateful for the participation. Frustration made Ginger’s toes curl in her jeweled loafers. Mr. Jackson was hardly a hotbed of information. Both he and Mr. Wheeler had seemed reluctant to share information.

  Arleta continued, “Did Mary Margret sell houses like this one?”

  “I’m afraid a property like this is something a more successful agent like myself would take as a listing. Actually, I purchased this house because I knew it would be valuable when restored. Mary Margret tended to take on lower-end houses, fixer-uppers. She liked to help first-time home buyers. It was kind of her specialty.”

  Ginger shook her head. Once again, Mary Margret’s heart had kept her from making the bigger money. She had loved it when she was able to help renters become homeowners.

  Mr. Jackson removed his jacket, revealing huge sweat stains around his armpits. He tugged at his cartoon tie in primary colors. Bugs Bunny munched on carrots and ran from Elmer Fudd.

  She stomped her foot lightly on the wooden floorboards. Mr. Jackson wasn’t going to volunteer any information. She
’d have to force it out of him. “Something sent Mary Margret to the library in a panic, and then she made a frantic phone call to me.” She edged a little closer to him. “She must have said something to you.”

  “All of that must have happened after she talked to me. If you ladies will excuse me, I have a great deal of work to get done.”

  “Got to get back to laying that tile and sanding the banister?” Arleta said dryly.

  Ginger had a hard time picturing Mr. Jackson doing anything physical without drowning in his own sweat. She appreciated Arleta’s sharp wit. It was nice not to have to do this alone.

  A nervous chuckle escaped through his lips. “I do have work to get done.” He lumbered toward the stairs, not the servants’ stairs, mind you, but those that the bigwigs of yesteryear used.

  She listened to his footsteps pound on floorboards. Why had he left his fast-food banquet behind?

  “He was kind of in a hurry to get out of here.” Arleta patted her bun, tucking in a loose strand of hair. “He seemed nervous to me.”

  Ginger nodded. “I don’t know. I think he sweats and breaths heavy all the time.” She looped her arm through Arleta’s. “Thanks for being my backup. How about I take you to lunch? I’ve got a two-for-one coupon for the Soup Bowl. If you’re game, there’s a shop downtown that sells the cutest velour jogging suits.”

  “Are you saying I need to update my wardrobe?” A faint smile graced her face.

  “They would flatter your slender figure.” Ginger’s voice fluttered with excitement. “And they’re on sale.”

  “I’m glad you offered to help. I’ve been thinking for some time that I needed new clothes. I just didn’t know where to start.”

  They took the servants’ stairs, walked through the now-vacant living room, and stepped outside. The summer sun lingered midway above the horizon, and the temperature was balmy.

  Ginger stopped for a moment in the driveway staring at Mr. Jackson’s red Hummer. Those cars had starting prices into five figures. A far cry from Mary Margret’s ten-year-old Jetta. “She didn’t want the million-dollar properties, Arleta. She was having a hard time making ends meet, and she didn’t want the bigger money properties.”

  “Your friend sounds like a wonderful person.” Arleta rubbed Ginger’s back. “I wish I could have known her.”

  “Me, too. You would have liked her.” Ginger’s eyes fell to the license plate on the Hummer. Something clicked in her brain. “Where have I seen those numbers before?”

  Arleta shook her head. She stopped midshake. “They’re the numbers David had written on that piece of paper.” Arleta whistled. “What are the chances?”

  Ginger glanced up at the third-floor window. Even though no one was there, she shivered. “Your husband has been dead how long?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “Did he know Mr. Jackson?”

  “I think I would have remembered if he was one of David’s acquaintances. Even if he was skinnier back then.”

  “What are the chances, indeed,” said Ginger.

  “I’m looking for night-vision goggles.” Ginger stood in the middle of the sporting goods store, staring up at the tall salesman with snowy cotton ball hair and feeling very out of place. She had only been in the store two or three times to get Earl a gift.

  “We have some nice Rigels we just got in. If you’ll follow me.” The salesman had an air of dignity in the way he carried himself, squared shoulders, chin up, even stride. His fingers drifted over several pairs of goggles displayed against a wall. “What are you going to use them for?”

  Ginger suspected she wouldn’t find a wrinkle on his striped button-down, even under a microscope. His khakis were pressed. His dress and manicured nails would have been better suited for a menswear store. The attention to detail with his appearance suggested a man who liked a high level of control in his life.

  “They’re for my husband when he goes hunting. Sometimes he’s out after dark.” The goggles were a last-ditch effort to connect with Earl. That Remington fellow had said that this was a good place to get them.

  Ginger rocked on her feet, heel to toe. She didn’t exactly feel at home here, too much of a guy place. In fact, when she glanced around at the other customers, they were all male.

  On one side of the goggles and binoculars was a display of kayaks in lime green, orange, yellow, and red. On the other side was a locked display case with rifles and boxes of bullets.

  “For hunting…hmm.” He rubbed his chin staring at the choices in front of him. “You want something lightweight.”

  Judging from the age spots on his hands, the salesman must have been in his late sixties.

  The man selected a pair off the rack and handed them to her. “These should do. I’ll ring them up for you.”

  Ginger glanced down at the price. Her mouth went dry. Three hundred eighty-nine dollars. Yikes. “Ah, do you have any less expensive ones.”

  “The Rigels are at the lower end for price, still a good goggle though.” The man laced his fingers together and leaned toward her. “We do have a payment plan.”

  “How about a catalog instead? I can ask my husband what he would like.”

  The man nodded and pulled catalogs from a shelf below the display. Ginger appreciated that he maintained decorum and didn’t point out how incredibly cheap she was. Earl was right. She had some kind of disorder or syndrome. She’d buy an evening gown she didn’t need because it was on sale, but she couldn’t get her husband a nice gift that she knew he’d like because it wasn’t on sale.

  While the man handed her the catalogs and Ginger croaked out a “thank you,” she wondered if there were support groups for the likes of her.

  “Our goggles usually go on sale right before hunting season. Maybe that would be a good time for you to make a purchase.”

  She thought to ask how much of a markdown there would be but caught herself. “You’ve been very helpful.” In more ways than one. “They should give you a promotion.”

  The man smiled, but his eyes remained placid. “Actually, I’m the owner.” There was just a hint of venom in his comment.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to insult you. Mr., ah…”

  “Stenengarter. Jeffrey Stenengarter.” His fingers rested on his jaw. He tilted his head slightly “I’m surprised you didn’t recognize me. I was a state senator a few years ago.”

  Ginger shrugged. “I don’t keep up with local politics.” She held up the catalogs. “I might be back.”

  She wandered out of the store, looking forward to being in the more familiar parts of the mall and not having to think about what a tightwad she was.

  “Connect the dots for me, ladies.” From her porch, where she had spread out the garage sale items on the picnic table, Ginger sipped her mint tea. The sun warmed her skin as she leaned against the railing.

  Trevor and Earl walked across the yard to the workshop. Earl slapped Trevor’s back. This twinge of envy really wasn’t about Trevor. Earl had done the same with their own sons, taught them about using tools and building things. No, the twinge was about the sense of separation she felt from her husband. It had probably been there all the time. She had just been too busy raising kids and practicing the art of being cheap to notice.

  Kindra rose from the picnic table and stood beside her, close enough so their arms touched. It felt good to have all her friends where they were safe and she could protect them. So far, the whispering man had not made good on his threat. Maybe, hopefully, he wouldn’t.

  Suzanne and Arleta sat around the table. Ginger had lined up the scrap of paper on which David had written the six numbers, the photo album, the vest, and the shell box. The final item on the table was a piece of paper on which she had written Mr. Jackson’s Hummer license plate number.

  The same numbers as found in David’s vest.

  “Someone killed Mary Margret because of something here or something that was here and was taken out. Whoever did that didn’t find what they were looking for because they
tried to break into my car and searched my house, and they were probably at Arleta’s for the same reason.”

  “Nothing connects to the shell box.” Kindra set the box to one side.

  “Unless whatever Mary’s killer is looking for was in that box at one time.” Ginger pushed it back into the circle.

  Kindra tapped her chin with her index finger. “But they were looking for whatever at Arleta’s house. So it must connect to Arleta’s stuff. I say it was something of Arleta’s that set Mary Margret into a panic, one of these photos maybe.” Kindra scooted the box away from the other things.

  “But Mary Margret put all the garage sale items in the basket.”

  “Maybe she was in a hurry and didn’t have time to sort though it. You said yourself that this stuff was her note. Maybe whoever kidnapped her was coming through the door, and she needed to hide it quickly. She didn’t have time to sort through it,” Kindra said.

  All four women nodded. Ginger had a feeling that none of them wanted to picture the details of what had happened to their friend. But they had to if they were going to get to the bottom of this mess.

  Glints of sunlight danced through Suzanne’s hair as she turned her glass of iced tea on the picnic table. “Arleta’s husband and Mr. Jackson are connected by those six numbers. Mr. Jackson is involved. Tammy says this all somehow relates back to the police department not wanting an investigation.”

  Ginger paced the porch. “There is definitely more than one person involved here. We have Mr. Jackson and someone in the police department. Someone was chasing me down while someone else was taking Mary Margret up to the hills. That’s at least two people.”

  “The numbers on the Hummer could be personalized. When I got my momof3 license, which I’m going to change to momof4—”

  “Too bad momofmany won’t fit.” Kindra braided a strand of hair. “Then you wouldn’t have to get a new one every two years.” She elbowed Suzanne.

  Suzanne cleared her throat and raised her eyebrows at Kindra. “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, when I went to get my plate, the guy standing in front of me had the birth date of his dog on his license. Maybe those are Mr. Jackson’s lucky lotto numbers or his birthday.”