“Did you fall asleep?” Pellner asked. His dimples stood out even when he didn’t smile, but they didn’t really soften his stern face.
I blinked at him. “I guess I did.” Another strike against me. There was a saying in law enforcement that only the guilty slept. “I was up late last night, working on my garage sale site.” I craned my head around. “Where’s CJ?”
“Out of town.”
The last time I’d talked to CJ was four weeks ago, when I’d called to ask him a question about our taxes. After he answered my question, I’d asked how he was doing. His answer had been all business. Arrest rates had gone up, but so had the number of petty crimes, there’d been an uptick in car thefts, the department basketball team was having a good season, a good cop was retiring, and he’d had to hire someone new. After his curt answer and his lack of interest in my life, I’d hoped this was the last piece of untangling our lives after our divorce just over a year ago. At least that was what I’d told myself. But now I wondered where CJ was. I knew Pellner well enough to know that asking for details and getting an answer was about as likely as an eighty-degree day in February in New England.
“Did they find anything out in the woods?” I asked.
“A few cigarette butts.”
“Someone was out there smoking while they were snapping pictures of me?” I felt cold all over again.
“We don’t know when someone smoked out there, but they bagged them just in case. How do you know Margaret?”
“Everyone in Ellington knows Margaret.” The local joke was you couldn’t go out of the house without running into someone related to Margaret. She was beloved. And apparently behated by someone.
Pellner twirled his hand. “Give me the details.”
“I met her at the first Spouses’ Club event I went to. You know, the club on base for the wives and husbands of the air force members stationed on base?”
Pellner nodded, so I continued. “It was three years ago, right after CJ and I were stationed at Fitch. She was an honorary member.”
“So you were friends?”
“Friendly. It’s not like we hung out.”
“What are you doing here?” His dimple looked serious. He wasn’t asking lightly.
Then I remembered my argument with Margaret last night on my virtual garage sale site. Oh, boy, that wasn’t going to look good when it came out. I could delete the thread, but when the police started questioning people, it was sure to be reported. It would look even worse if the thread was missing. And I wasn’t computer savvy enough to really, really make it go away. But that was not what Pellner had asked, so I wouldn’t bring it up yet.
“Sarah?”
“I’m setting up a February Blues garage sale on Fitch. There’s also going to be a silent auction to raise scholarship money. Margaret agreed to donate some items. I was here to pick them up.”
Pellner then walked me pretty much step-by-step through my morning, up to his arrival. I left out the details of my showering and makeup routine but did mention deciding to wear my favorite aqua sweater. If that wasn’t enough detail for him, so be it.
“I had an online argument with Margaret last night about the vintage tablecloth that’s stuffed down her throat.” I felt like smacking my forehead. Why had I blurted that out? The image of Margaret and the tablecloth made me shudder. And by the surprised look on Pellner’s face, my bluntness shocked him. But CJ had been in law enforcement the whole of our nineteen-year marriage. I’d observed his ability to detach himself from a situation all those years, and now it helped me to keep from cracking up.
Pellner pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. “How did you happen to want to buy something from her?”
“She’s a member of my Ellington virtual garage sale site.”
“Did she sell a lot of things?”
“Lately, she had been. She called me a few weeks ago and asked how the whole thing worked. I talked her through it, and she immediately started posting items.”
“Did she tell you why?”
“I assumed because it was fun or because she had that thrifty Yankee side so many people do in this area.” I was sure the saying “Waste not, want not” originated here.
“But she was loaded,” Pellner said.
“I never thought about it. Some of the richest people I know here wear ratty clothes, clip coupons, and shop at garage sales.”
“Quirky New England types,” Pellner said.
I paused as I thought about one of my conversations with Margaret. “She once told me she couldn’t take it with her, so she might as well sell some of the things she’d collected.” How different that comment seemed now that she was dead.
“From the look of things, she tried her best to take the tablecloth with her.”
I shook my head. “Really, Pellner?”
He shrugged. Pellner turned down the heat, so the air was more like a light summer breeze than hell’s furnace blasting through the vents. “My wife talks about your garage sale site. She loves it.”
Good thing I had brought up the argument, because it would have come out sooner than I’d have guessed.
“But I’ve heard grumblings about your virtual garage sale.”
“Grumblings?” I wondered what that was about. There’d been the odd bit of drama here and there, but not as much as I’d seen on some sites.
Pellner sighed. “Just tell me about the argument.”
“Shouldn’t we just wait to go over all this when the state troopers arrive?” In small town Massachusetts the district attorney could ask the state police to take over a murder investigation. And with someone as high profile as Margaret involved, I was positive that would happen.
“The Triple A with guns will show up soon enough. Humor me. I know you didn’t kill Margaret, but they won’t.” He pointed toward Margaret’s car. People bustled around it.
Triple A with guns? I knew small town police departments preferred to do their own investigations, and they did, in a behind-the-scenes way, but that statement took agency rivalry to a whole new level.
“As you were saying, you had an argument of some sort with Margaret last night.” Pellner twirled his hand again, a “Get on with it” motion.
“Last night Margaret posted a picture of the tablecloth on the site. I wanted to buy it, and we agreed on a price.” I whipped out my phone. “I can show you the whole conversation.”
“Do it,” Pellner said.
“Margaret posted the picture of the tablecloth and the price at ten last night.” I handed him my phone. “It’s in great shape, and I liked the cheery pattern, so I told her I’d buy it for her price.”
“What’s that?” Pellner pointed at a comment under mine.
“Someone else wanted to buy it, too.” I left it at that.
Pellner scrolled through the comments under mine. I wished he hadn’t. “Who’s Frieda Chida? Her comments don’t sound very happy.”
“It’s not Chida, like China. It’s pronounced Chee-duh.”
“Her name is Frieda Chida?” Although, with his local accent, it came out like Frieder Chider. Pellner rolled his eyes at the rhyme.
“Yep. She’s a member of the group. She saw the tablecloth and wanted it, too. But I saw it first and offered to buy it immediately.”
“But Frieda offered to pay more money. Almost double what you did.”
“It’s an etiquette thing in the world of virtual garage sales. The buyer usually sells to the first person who offers to buy it, if they can agree upon a price.”
Pellner pointed to the screen. “She’s accusing you of getting advanced notice on things because you’re the administrator of the site.”
“We all get notices at the same time. Although I could set it up so I saw things first.” And I might in the future—it was one of the few perks of being an administrator. “I just happened to be on the site when Margaret posted the picture.”
Pellner continued to scroll through the conversation. But I
knew what he was reading. Margaret said sorry to me and told Frieda she could have it. I told Margaret that wasn’t fair or right, as we’d already agreed on her price. We’d even agreed that I would stop by at nine this morning to pick it up. I also told Frieda it was rude to jump in after arrangements had been made. She told me to suck it up and put my big girl panties on. I was so mad at both of them, I threatened to ban them from the site. Margaret said she could sell to whomever she wanted to. Then I realized she was right. Sometimes in the heat of the moment, when I really wanted something, I lost perspective. It was just a tablecloth, for crying out loud, and I had several similar ones at home. I apologized to both and made arrangements to come get the things for the silent auction.
“How do I get ahold of Frieda?”
“I don’t know. I could send her a message through the group.”
“You don’t know her?”
“Not personally, but to be a member of the group, she has to know someone else in the group. That’s why these kinds of sites are different than other bigger sites. Someone has to add you to the group. And virtual garage sale sites are more localized. I run the one in Ellington, but Bedford, Concord, and Lexington have them, too. It makes it safer to do business.”
“Not so safe for Margaret.”
Oh, no. If Pellner thought Margaret’s death had something to do with my site, others might too.
Chapter 3
On our drive to the police station, where the staties would interview me, I called a lawyer, Vincenzo DiNapoli. He’d gotten Mike “the Big Cheese” Titone off racketeering charges, kept his own son out of jail, and helped my best friend, Carol Carson, last fall, when she’d been accused of murder.
“What’d you go and do that for?” Pellner asked when I hung up.
“Because a wise man once told me never to talk to the police without a lawyer. I should have called Vincenzo before talking to you.” Especially before I mentioned the online argument.
Pellner glanced upward, as if sending up a silent prayer. “Since you called Vincenzo, I’m guessing it was Angelo DiNapoli who gave you that bit of advice.”
“It was.” Angelo and his wife, Rosalie, were two of my favorite people in Ellington. They owned DiNapoli’s Roast Beef and Pizza and were almost substitute parents, since my family lived out in California. “They’ll be so shocked when they hear that Margaret’s dead. That she was murdered.” I shivered, the ice storm back inside me.
“Everyone will be,” Pellner said.
* * *
The rest of the morning was a blur. The state police arrived and were impatient when they found I wouldn’t say a word until my lawyer showed up. It took Vincenzo a long time to arrive, and then he basically wouldn’t let me say more than I already had. Under his watchful eye, I signed the statement certifying that what I had told Pellner was true.
“When can I get my car back?” I asked Pellner as Vincenzo and I followed him to the lobby.
“When they’re done with it,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’ll drop you home,” Vincenzo said, whisking me out before I could say anything else.
Vincenzo’s driver held open the back door of the car for us to climb in. I thanked him as I scooted across the luxurious leather seat to make room for Vincenzo. He took up a lot of space in the back of the car. Part of it was his physical presence—barrel chest, long legs, big head, with slicked-back dark hair. Large hands adorned with a ruby-studded pinkie ring. The other part was a mixture of charisma and confidence.
“What a nice way to travel. My Suburban is ten years old, and I need it to last a lot longer.” I ran my hand across the leather.
“It’s comfortable, yes,” Vincenzo said. “But it’s also quite handy. I can work if I don’t have to drive, and with the traffic in the Boston area, I get a lot done.”
I would like to have a driver but didn’t ever see that happening. Since my divorce I’d started a business organizing garage sales for people, but garage sales and snow weren’t a good mix. I’d had to get creative, which was why I’d started my online garage sale site last October. I’d attracted some advertisers and sold my own stuff on the site, in addition to selling things for others and taking a commission. Last fall the town had hired me to run New England’s Largest Yard Sale. I had tucked some of that money into savings, where I’d also put the money from our divorce settlement. CJ had insisted I take half our savings when we divorced, as well as half his retirement pay and alimony. If Margaret’s murder was linked to my site I could be in big trouble.
The car glided to a stop in front of my apartment building—an old frame house with a large covered porch. The house had been divided into four units. I lived on the upper right side. The upper left side had been empty since last spring.
“Call me if you hear anything from the police,” Vincenzo said as I slid out.
“Thank you.”
As the car pulled away, my stomach rumbled, but it wasn’t hunger for once, which was a good thing, since without a car, it would be a long, cold walk in the snow to pick up groceries.
My apartment was on the west side of the town common. A thin layer of snow covered the lawn and made the beautiful old Congregational church on the south end look like the cover for a fancy coffee table book—Winter Scenes of New England. A corner of the common had been flooded to make an ice skating rink. A couple of families were out there, laughing and falling. It was the way a bright, sunny day should be—not shadowed by a murder.
I headed over to Carol’s shop, Paint and Wine, on the north side of the common, just down the block from DiNapoli’s. I wanted to talk to Carol. I’d known her for almost twenty years, and could rely on her to listen and be discreet. But as I walked toward the shop, a large group of laughing women went in, so I knew she’d be tied up for a couple of hours. Carol taught people how to create a painting in a couple of hours and made it a lot of fun in the process. I toyed with the idea of going to DiNapoli’s, but the smell of food might make me nauseous. And I wasn’t ready to be in the middle of the hub of gossip in Ellington.
As I walked back home, a few snowflakes started to fly. Great. More snow. While the ski resorts and the winter sports fans would be happy, I’d enjoyed the almost snowless winter. When I got home, my stomach rumbled again. Maybe it was hunger. I made a fluffernutter sandwich, which consisted of a thick layer of Marshmallow Fluff, invented in Massachusetts—I accepted no imitators—and a layer of peanut butter on white bread. Not the healthiest lunch, but a Massachusetts staple and the official state sandwich. It was completely satisfying after an awful morning.
I wrapped myself in a blanket and sat on the couch, which, like most of my possessions, was a find at a garage sale. I rubbed my feet on the worn Oriental rug that covered the wide-planked wood floors, which I’d painted white. My apartment was usually my safe haven, but Margaret’s murder had me on edge. I grabbed my computer and opened it to my virtual garage sale site. There was nothing there about Margaret’s murder, and I didn’t want to be the one to break the news. At least not yet. I posted a couple of gentle reminders about always listing an item’s price, condition, and location of pickup. People so often ignored my rules.
I decided to dive into the growing number of private messages about the site, hoping to be distracted. People in the group were always complaining about this item or that person. Someone who hadn’t picked up at the arranged time, someone who thought a seller had picked another person to sell to, even though they had posted “interested” under the item. The only message that really concerned me was one about a ppu—a porch pickup. The seller had left the item on their porch for the buyer. When they had returned home, the item was gone, but the payment hadn’t been left. They had made several attempts to contact the person but hadn’t heard back. I banned the offender from the site and wrote a note telling the seller what I’d done. There wasn’t much else I could do. If the banned person made payment, they’d be allowed back on and given one more chance. I’d learned q
uickly that you couldn’t put up with nonsense from people, or things spiraled out of control.
I closed my computer and snuggled into my blanket. Big flakes drifted by the window. The sight of Margaret sitting in her car danced before my eyes. I wanted to push the whole thing aside. But I might as well face it now, instead of letting the reality of Margaret’s death fester in some dark spot in my heart. Someone must have staged her body, because no one would sit calmly, with their hands in their lap, while someone else shoved a tablecloth down their throat.
It might mean she was killed somewhere else and moved. But I hadn’t seen anything unusual that might indicate she’d been dragged from one place to another or deeper footprints, caused by extra weight if someone had carried her. Maybe the killer had surprised her from behind, killed her in some other way, and then stuffed the tablecloth down her throat after the fact. The police wouldn’t know the cause of death yet. Not that they’d be running to me with it when they did know.
I’d have to research the old-fashioned way. I reopened my computer and Googled Margaret. Not surprisingly, a bunch of stuff came up. Honorary chair of this, president of that, her work to save the home where Thoreau was born in Concord, her position on the board of Orchard House, the home of the Alcott family in Concord. She had had her finger in a plethora of pies.
I moved on to searching for information about her personal life. She had nine siblings, most of whom had stayed within a five-mile radius of Ellington, but a couple had moved to Boston. Gasp! The fifteen-mile move to Boston was, by Massachusetts’s standards, the equivalent of moving to the moon. People stayed put here. Roots ran deep. I made notes of their names for further research, but from what I could tell, they looked to be a successful, productive bunch. All of them had their own large families. It could take days to sort them all out. One of her sons was an Ellington selectmen, a member of the executive body that ran the town, and was engaged to our sometimes prickly town manager.
All Murders Final! Page 2
