Tagged for Death

by Sherry Harris

  “It is, but I like it here.”

  “Tryin’ to stay around for your husband?”

  “No. Something about New England just feels right to me. What about you?” Might as well try again.

  “Don’t know. It’s cold and expensive.”

  “But it’s charming, too. That part reminds me of Monterey.”

  The door opened and a group of people came in.

  “Gotta get back at it.” Tyler went back around the counter. Darn, just when he’d finally started talking. I ate as slowly as possible, to the point that it was becoming awkward. A steady stream of people came in. I couldn’t sit here all day, hoping to chat with Tyler. He’d wonder what I was doing.

  CHAPTER 26

  I spent the rest of the afternoon getting ready for Betty’s preview party and garage sale. It was a great distraction from thinking about CJ being charged with the murders of Jessica and Tiffany. I put flyers up in Lexington, Concord, and Bedford, farther afield than usual. I put ads online. With all the tourists in town for the Patriots’ Day events, I hoped Betty would have a huge turnout.

  At four-thirty, I drove over to Betty’s house. Since the hard work was done, I dressed in a flowered, spring-looking skirt, with a sweater that picked up the pink of the flowers. Then I moved a few things from one place to the other and dusted some of the furniture. By the time I was done, it was fifteen minutes to showtime. A few of her friends had shown up early. I shook my head—early birds at a preview party. Betty had ushered them into the house and out of my way. She’d set up a table with wine and cheese. A little wine always helped loosen the purse strings.

  Betty had so many beautiful things; I was certain she was set to make a killing tonight and tomorrow. She’d enlisted her sisters and cousins to come help run the sale tomorrow. It kept me from having to hire anyone and her costs down.

  “It’s almost five,” Betty said. “Okay, if I bring my friends out?”

  “I’m ready.”

  A crowd swarmed in—Betty had a lot of friends. If this kept up, she wasn’t going to have any worries about selling stuff.

  Betty handed me a large cardboard box. “I decided to get rid of this box, too.”

  The box was filled with photographs, some tintypes, some just old. I looked up at her.

  “My husband thinks the pictures are creepy. I never did anything with them.”

  I quickly sorted the tintypes from the old pictures. I held up a bunch. “Are these relatives? Are you sure you won’t regret selling them?”

  “I have three more boxes inside, just like this one. My husband’s threatening to use them as kindling in the fireplace. Better someone else enjoy them.”

  As the evening progressed, several of Betty’s friends asked for my number. They wanted me to organize garage sales for them. I jotted my phone number down for them. No one wanted to leave. Betty kept telling them she had an early start as she edged them toward the door.

  We shooed the last of them out at five minutes after seven. Betty counted money as I reorganized the room. It would be a shambles after the first hour tomorrow. At least it would look nice for the first people at the sale.

  One of her friends had bought most of the tintypes. I rifled through what was left to see if I wanted any of them. The people sat in stiff, formal positions, wearing elaborate clothes. Probably the best things they owned. Smiles were rare. The pictures Tiffany had of her with CJ were almost as formal as these.

  Betty interrupted my thought process by handing me a large bundle of cash. “Here’s your part of the take. I added in a bonus. You did a great job. I’m glad some of my friends wanted your number.”

  “Me too.”

  Was it possible that this could turn into a real job? Could there really be enough call for someone to make a career out of organizing garage sales? Lots of places offered to haul off your junk. People paid a hefty price to get it out of their house. I could give those people an alternative. Get rid of your junk—and instead of spending money, make some.

  After parking my car at home, I decided to eat at DiNapoli’s again. Tomorrow I’d go grocery shopping. With my alimony, portion of CJ’s retirement, and savings, I survived easily enough. I’m not sure my waistline would agree if I kept eating out this much. On a whim, I knocked on Stella’s door. I heard her singing “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair” from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s musical South Pacific. As she opened the door, she sang, “And send him on his way.”

  “Man troubles?” I asked.

  “Not this week,” Stella said with a grin. “I sent him on his way.”

  I hadn’t ever seen Stella on a date, but she was young and single—so, why wouldn’t she?

  “I’m heading over to DiNapoli’s for something to eat. Want to come?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll grab my pocketbook from my rum.” Stella pronounced the word “room” as “rum,” a peculiarity of speech in this area. “Come on in.” She hummed Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” as she headed for her purse. I leaned against the doorjamb.

  “I’m going to run up and change out of this skirt,” I said.

  “You look nice,” Stella said.

  “For once. I’d rather drip pizza sauce on jeans than this outfit. It’s cold outside. I’ll be right back.”

  We strolled across the common. Ellington’s drum-and-bugle corps played lively music. Lots of tourists posed for pictures with members of the Ellington Minuteman Company who milled about. Several kids wrestled on the lawn.

  “This is my aunt’s doing.”

  “The cage fighter?”

  Stella laughed. “The town manager. She’s trying to promote tourism. Ellington, Massachusetts, as a tourist destination.”

  “Concord and Lexington sure are. It’s not like the Ellington Minuteman Company didn’t do their part on the first day of the Revolution.” We dodged a kid playing with a hoop and stick.

  “She stole the hoop-and-stick game idea from Hartwell Tavern. The woman doesn’t have any original ideas.”

  “She should throw New England’s largest garage sale.”

  “That’s a phenomenal idea. I’ll tell her. At least that would be something new and different in Ellington.”

  I pointed to Carol’s shop. “Have you been to Paint and Wine? My friend Carol owns it.”

  Stella shook her head. “I’ve never been.”

  “I’ll have to introduce you to each other.”

  Rosalie greeted us at the counter. “Do you have a half-off coupon?”

  Angelo yelled from the back. “We don’t do coupons.”

  Rosalie tossed him a look, suggesting he was wrong. She grabbed a pen and wrote on a napkin, Coupon 50 percent off. She handed it to me and then snatched it out of my hand. “She has a coupon, Angelo. What do you want, honey?”

  “We’ll have a medium bianco.”

  Rosalie yelled, “A medium bianco, Angelo.”

  “No, you don’t want the bianco. Have the sausage and Kalamata olive. It’s excellent tonight,” Angelo said. He put his fingers to his lips and made a kissing motion.

  I looked at Stella. “I think if we stick with the bianco, we’ll get the sausage and Kalamata, anyway.” She shrugged. “Okay, Angelo. We’ll go with your recommendation.”

  He nodded approvingly. “Good choice.”

  We found a table. As we sat, the guy who’d been in line behind me said he forgot his coupon. Rosalie looked over at Angelo. He raised his shoulders and put his hands out as if to say, Now, what are you going to do?

  Rosalie turned to the guy. “Here take this one.” It was the same one she had used for us. Angelo muttered and tossed the pizza crust with a vengeance.

  Rosalie brought over a tray with a pitcher of water, two red plastic glasses, and a couple of kiddie sippy cups, complete with lids and straws.

  “We ordered iced tea,” Stella told her.

  “I’m almost out of glasses. I thought you wouldn’t mind.” She winked and walked away.

  I took a caut
ious sip. Sangria! “It’s sangria,” I said, keeping my voice low. Stella and I toasted silently.

  After polishing off an exceptional pizza, we stood to go. Rosalie shooed us back. “Angelo made a cheesecake that is to die for. Cannoli. He used cannoli shells for the crust, instead of graham crackers, and piped cannoli cream on top of the cheesecake, sprinkled with some chocolate shavings.”

  We told her we’d share a piece. The cheesecake was wonderful. Stella left, but I decided to have an espresso before leaving.

  Angelo came over and sat down with me.

  “How’s Stella doing?” he asked.

  The question surprised me, but Stella had told me she’d been in trouble with the police. “She’s good, as far as I know. We’re just getting to know each other. I like her. Stella said she’d had trouble with the law once. Do you know what it was?”

  Angelo took a minute. He realigned the napkin dispenser, jars of Parmesan cheese, and hot red-pepper flakes. It looked like he was making a decision. I understood. Stella was a native. Her family had lived in Ellington for generations. I was the newcomer. Angelo was fond of me and believed I’d been wronged; but in New England, being from here meant more.

  I patted his hand. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  He grabbed mine, holding it in his calloused one, which surprised me.

  “Stella had a drug problem.”

  CHAPTER 27

  “Stella?” I asked. “She’s the last person I’d expect you to say that about.”

  “It started when she went to Europe. The pressure to succeed, to always be the best, was tremendous. The town made much of her going, like her success made us all better. It just added to the pressure.” He released my hand. “She left Europe and moved to Los Angeles. She didn’t leave the drugs behind. She was arrested in Los Angeles. Nothing much came of it—some community service or something like that. She moved from city to city, each one smaller than the last. Seattle, Indianapolis, Salt Lake City.” He ticked them off on his fingers.

  “Stella told me she lived in Europe. I thought she moved right back here.”

  “She wants the past in the past,” Angelo said.

  “That’s understandable.”

  “Somewhere along the line, she straightened herself out and came back home, where she belongs.” Angelo stood and headed back to the kitchen, muttering about why anyone would ever want to leave Ellington.

  Stella had overcome a drug problem. It didn’t fit with the Stella I knew. She’d told me so casually something about “who didn’t have trouble with the police?” Then a little thought snuck in from the back of my mind. One I wanted to push aside. She had kids, teenagers, in and out of her house all the time for music lessons. What if she hadn’t left her old life behind? The music lessons would be the perfect cover. I hoped I was wrong, way off the mark.

  I studied the pictures hanging on the wall: a young Angelo and Rosalie cutting a blue ribbon in front of DiNapoli’s thirty years ago; former mayor of Boston Tom Menino biting into a piece of pizza, with cheese dripping off the sides; Ted Kennedy, with an arm slung around Angelo’s shoulders, back in the day when Angelo had hair; Guy Fieri cooking with Angelo for an episode of Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. Angelo made it clear to everyone that DiNapoli’s wasn’t a drive-in (obviously) or a dive (not as obvious, but no one was willing to contradict that statement), so it fell into the diner category. Angelo, however, preferred to think of DiNapoli’s as a restaurant.

  I realized how different these pictures were from the ones Betty had sold at the garage sale. And from the pictures in Tiffany’s room. She’d had a couple of her horsing around with kids from home. It struck me again that the pictures of her and CJ were more similar to Betty’s formal pictures than the ones hanging in here. I’d like to see those pictures again. Someone would know where her stuff was. I just had to figure out who.

  I settled on trying to get a hold of James. I could trust him to either help or tell me that he wouldn’t, without reservation. James might have information for me about Deena and her affair. Maybe I could tell him about the purple notes. The clock to Saturday ticked faster than I wanted it to. I had to do whatever I could to help CJ. Otherwise, he’d end up in jail at Billerica tomorrow.

  “I’m playing baseball up in Lowell,” James said when he answered his phone. “Why don’t you come up?”

  I had just enough sangria in me to think it was a good idea even if it was pretty late. James gave me directions to the park. Thirty minutes later, I sat on a cool metal bleacher watching James pitch under the lights. I looked around nervously for Seth. He wasn’t sitting in the stands, but why would he be? I couldn’t see the faces of all the players. Seth really didn’t look like the baseball-playing type, even though his body was certainly athletic enough. My face warmed at that thought. Lowell was a big city by Massachusetts standards. I was being paranoid to think I’d run into him.

  I didn’t recognize any of the people watching the game, either. This wasn’t one of the base teams trying out some new competition. I didn’t want to make nice or answer awkward questions. Anonymity could be a good thing. James had a strong arm and struck people out right and left. After the game ended, and a brief celebration of the win, James snagged two beers from a cooler over by the dugout and joined me on the now-empty bleachers.

  “I didn’t recognize any of the players or spectators.”

  “It’s a police league. Pellner got me into it.”

  “Scott Pellner? How do you know him?”

  “I’ve been thinking about getting out after my enlistment’s up. I’ve been talking to Chief Hooker about a job in Ellington. I got to know Pellner through him.”

  “What’s Pellner’s tie to Lowell?”

  “He’s from here. Most of his family lives here.”

  That might be why Pellner knew about my night in Lowell. “You have quite the arm,” I said, accepting the beer he handed me.

  He shrugged. “I used to dream about playing professionally. What kid doesn’t have some kind of unattainable goal when they’re little?” He took a swig of his beer.

  “Like Tiffany dreamed of being a colonel’s wife.”

  The corners of James’s mouth turned down. He stared over the now-empty field. “It probably wasn’t her first dream. It sounds like she was always looking for a way out.”

  “First, out of a coal town,” I said.

  “Then a fast way out of being enlisted. She didn’t want to take the time to go to college.”

  I sipped my beer. I had to stay sharp. CJ would be moved tomorrow. Someone turned out the lights on the playing field.

  James hadn’t brought up Deena, but I had to, especially given what I’d seen last night. It would be easier to ask about Deena in the dark. “Did you find anything out about Deena?”

  James shifted away from me. “That’s one screwed-up family. But, no, I haven’t heard any of the guys talking about her.”

  “I saw her with someone last night on base.”

  “You were on base?”

  Oh, rats. I shouldn’t have said anything about base. “Yes, but that isn’t what’s important here.”

  “Did someone escort you?”

  “No.”

  “So you weren’t supposed to be on base, but you went, anyway?”

  “Yes. Please don’t lecture me. I had to. CJ is going to end up in the Billerica jail tomorrow if Tiffany and Jessica’s murders aren’t resolved.”

  “How did you get on?”

  I shook my head. “I just did.”

  “Promise me that you won’t do it again. If there’s a hole in base security, you should report it.”

  “Until CJ is out of this mess, I can’t promise you anything. I will tell someone how I got on when the time comes.”

  James didn’t look happy, but he nodded. “What was Deena doing?”

  “I saw her making out with someone. My next-door neighbor. I questioned him today.”

  “You questioned him? You can’t go runn
ing around doing things like that.”

  “‘Questioned’ was too strong. We just had a conversation. Like neighbors do. He said he’d never worked on base. Can you find out how he’s getting on? His first name is Tyler.”

  “I can’t help you if you are going on base when you aren’t supposed to be.”

  I guess James wasn’t the one to tell about sneaking into Deena’s garage and taking the notes. “Please,” I said again. Dear God, I hoped he didn’t ask me why I cared. If he did, I might run down the bleachers, screaming in my best imitation of a raving lunatic.

  “I’ll see what I can find out. Colonel Hooker was always decent to me. Do you know Tyler’s last name?”

  Embarrassed that I didn’t, I made a quick call to Stella. “It’s Shimkus,” I said after hanging up. “I thought about the pictures in Tiffany’s room,” I continued. “The ones of her and CJ. She didn’t have any casual shots of them. Just official ones or ones clipped from the paper. What do you think that means?”

  James took my empty beer bottle, trotted down the bleachers, and tossed them into a recycling bin. I followed him.

  He slung an arm around my shoulders and headed me in the direction of the Suburban. “I think it means CJ was careful enough to make sure none were taken.”

  I sucked in a breath. James was probably right. “Do you know where her personal stuff is?” I leaned against my car.

  “CJ might know. I have no idea. You want to go through it? Looking for what? Pictures that will only hurt you more? Let it go.”

  “I can’t let it go. Bristow told me the DNA results came back and that they prove it’s Tiffany.”

  James looked stunned. “When did he tell you this?”

  “I met him yesterday morning.”

  James shook his head. “He lied to you. I worked all day. I would have heard if they came back. Did he ask you anything?”

  Bristow lied to me? I didn’t answer for a minute. “He told me if I knew anything, now was the time to tell him.”

  “Bristow used a classic interrogation method on you. He tried to shake you up by making up a story about the DNA, to see if you were holding something back.”