The Longest Yard Sale

by Sherry Harris

  “Sure.”

  I poured the beer into one of the special Sam Adams glasses I’d bought at the brewery. According to them, it was the perfect beer-drinking glass because of the shape, the thickness, and the laser etching on the bottom. I put it all on a tray and placed it on the trunk in front of CJ.

  “Bianca. Your favorite,” CJ said.

  Another thing to be grateful for and feel uncomfortable about. CJ would have been shocked if I’d brought out a slice of meat lovers pizza. It’s probably the last on my list of kinds of pizza I’d order. Not that I wouldn’t eat one if someone else ordered. I turned on the Red Sox game but hit mute in case CJ wanted to talk about the case. I flipped through a magazine while he ate. It felt comfortable, not that different than any night we’d spent together during our marriage.

  When CJ finished, he carried the tray into the kitchen and rinsed everything off, leaving the dishes in the sink. I heard Stella singing in her apartment. Stella was a former opera singer and a voice teacher at Berklee College of Music in Boston. She also taught private lessons in her apartment. I listened and realized she was singing an aria from Pagliacci, an opera that ends with the husband killing his cheating wife and her lover. She’d taught me a thing or two about opera since I’d moved in.

  CJ came back into the living room, and I turned up the volume on the TV.

  “Does her singing bother you?” he asked.

  “Not usually.” Tonight might be the exception, though. “How’s the investigation going?” Sometimes CJ talked cases over with me.

  “Slowly.”

  But I guessed he wasn’t going to talk this one over with me. I couldn’t blame him. He didn’t know where we stood anymore. I was still surprised he even stopped by. We watched as the Yankees tied the game at the top of the ninth. The Red Sox left two men on base, sending it into extra innings. I got CJ another beer, then sat back down. “Carol swears she doesn’t know McQueen.”

  CJ jerked up. “Where’d you hear that name?”

  “I overheard it after you left Carol’s shop this morning. Am I right that Terry McQueen is the victim?”

  CJ stared at the TV, but I don’t think he saw the game. A relief pitcher struck all three Yankees out.

  CJ finally looked over at me. “The next of kin were notified this afternoon, so I guess it doesn’t matter that you know. His wife identified the body. It will probably be on the news tonight and in the paper tomorrow morning.”

  I couldn’t imagine how sad Terry’s wife must be. “Is there an official cause of death?”

  “No.”

  “Unofficial?” I asked. “Was he strangled?”

  “Where’d you hear that?” CJ almost shot out of his seat.

  “I didn’t hear it. I deduced it from looking at the scene.”

  “I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse,” CJ said as he sank back onto the couch.

  “I heard he was in business with Bubbles. Have you talked to him?”

  CJ hesitated. “He’s really shaken up. But doesn’t think it has anything to do with the business. We’re looking at other angles, too.”

  That was almost the exact wording Seth had used. I was going to ask about the other angles, but a bat cracked loudly from the TV. The Red Sox’s new, young phenom hit a home run with the bases loaded and won the game.

  CJ finished his beer. “That new hotshot DA brought the staties here.”

  Seth. As prosecutor, he would turn the case over to the state troopers. “Isn’t that typical?” I asked.

  “Yes. But it doesn’t mean I like it or that I’m going to sit back and not do anything.”

  My hand shook a little as I turned the TV off. Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Since the apartment next door was empty, I assumed it was someone coming here. I opened the door. Bubbles stood there, with Stella behind him. His usually cheerful face looked pale and set. He held a white piece of paper in his hand.

  “Look what I found on my windshield.”

  CHAPTER 9

  CJ took the piece of paper as Bubbles and Stella came in. We all huddled around it. “You’re next” was written in sprawling letters. I looked at CJ. His eyes narrowed as he studied the note. Who would threaten Bubbles? He had to be terrified, considering his partner was dead.

  “When did you find this?” CJ asked.

  Bubbles clutched Stella’s hand. Her wide-open green eyes looked at me, asking a question I didn’t understand.

  “Just now. I said good-bye to Stella, went out to my truck, and found this tucked under my windshield wiper. I figured it was just some flyer until I read it.”

  “Let’s take a look at your truck,” CJ said to Bubbles.

  Stella and I followed the two men down the stairs and out to the truck. The night was cool; stars popped in the sky. There wasn’t much traffic on Great Road. No one lurked in the dark shadows cast by the church.

  “Did you see anyone near your truck?”

  “Not at all. I saw your SUV parked out here, so I came up.”

  CJ had driven his official police vehicle over instead of his personal car, meaning he was going back to work after he left here. Which made me wonder why the heck he’d come over. Even though the truck sat under the streetlight, CJ grabbed a gigantic flashlight from the car and used it as he moved around the truck. I followed him. I couldn’t see anything different than when it had been parked out front yesterday.

  “How long were you at Stella’s?” CJ asked as we went back up to my apartment.

  “A couple of hours.”

  “What were you doing? Did you hear anything?”

  Bubbles and Stella looked at each other. Stella turned a shade of bright red usually only seen in dyed carnations. Bubbles’s face relaxed momentarily into a grin.

  “I didn’t hear anything, except for Stella’s amazing voice,” Bubbles said. “She’s getting ready for a faculty recital.”

  He sounded proud. They must really like each other.

  “Do you recognize the handwriting?” I asked. CJ shot me an “I’ll ask the questions” look, but I knew this was an important question. The paper was plain white copy paper, eight and a half by eleven, pristine and probably untraceable because it was sold in reams everywhere.

  Bubbles took the paper back from CJ. We all stared at it again. Bubbles shook his head. “I don’t. Do any of you?”

  I reached for it, but CJ snatched it from me. “Who else has touched this, Bubbles?”

  “Just me. And Stella.”

  “Hold it up to the light and see if it has any special watermarks,” I said.

  CJ did, but there weren’t any watermarks on it that would differentiate it from millions of other pieces of computer paper.

  “Let’s take it down to the station. I’ll get an official statement,” CJ said to Bubbles. He headed to the door. “Thanks for the pizza,” CJ called as he hurried out. Again no attempt to kiss me. I still didn’t know what to make of that.

  Bubbles brushed a quick kiss across Stella’s lips and rested his forehead against hers for a few seconds before leaving.

  Stella turned to me. “Have any wine? Or should I run down and get my scotch?”

  “I have wine.” I wasn’t a big fan of scotch. “Cabernet okay?”

  We settled on the sofa with our glasses, tapping them in a silent cheers.

  “What do you think about that note?” Stella asked.

  Maybe because I’d been married to a cop she thought I had some kind of special investigative skills, which couldn’t be further from the truth. “A piece of plain white paper that’s available everywhere isn’t going to help narrow a search for who wrote on it. The writing looked unremarkable. Maybe they’ll get some prints from it.”

  Stella brightened a bit at that thought.

  “They might need a set of prints from you,” I told her.

  “If they use any national database, I’m sure mine will pop up.” Stella had some troubles in her youth.

  “Bubbles must have been terrified,”
I said.

  “I’ve never seen him look like that. We haven’t known each other that long, but his face was drained of color. And his gorgeous brown eyes just looked blank, like he was shell-shocked. I’ve always heard that term, but that was the first time I’d ever seen someone actually look it. We were both relieved CJ was here.”

  “Did you hear that he was in business with the guy who was murdered at Carol’s shop?”

  “He called me earlier today and told me. I asked him to come over so he wouldn’t be alone.”

  “You wanted to distract him?”

  A smiled flashed across Stella’s face. “Yes. But then this happened. It scares me that someone tracked him to my house.”

  “CJ will have realized that. I’m sure we’ll have increased patrols.” I hoped so. I hadn’t thought yet about the killer coming by here. I shook my head. “I can’t believe what’s happened over the last few days. A murder. Threatening notes. And Carol’s painting disappearing.”

  “What happened to Carol’s painting?” Stella asked.

  I was surprised it wasn’t on the town grapevine. I filled her in. “Please don’t mention it to anyone. She’s already started another copy.” I picked up my wine. “So you’re singing an aria from Pagliacci for a recital?”

  “Nedda’s. Maria Callas made it famous in the midfifties. I find love triangles fascinating, don’t you?”

  I drank some wine, feeling heat creep up my face. I hoped Stella thought the color was from the wine and not my embarrassment.

  “Who was that hottie I saw trotting down the steps from your apartment?”

  Rats, I’d finally been caught. “Insurance salesman. Did he stop by your place? He had some good rates on term policies. Never buy a whole life policy. They’re a rip off. Too expensive. Most people stop paying for them before they have full coverage.” Stop babbling, I told myself.

  “I thought we were way beyond lying to each other at this stage of our friendship. And, trust me, I recognize Massachusetts’s most eligible bachelor when I see him.”

  “It’s a long story.” And maybe one I needed to quit hiding.

  “I’m all ears,” Stella said.

  I filled her in on our relationship.

  “You like him,” Stella said.

  “I do. But what if he’s just that rebound guy you always hear about?”

  “He must be more than that to put up with your shenanigans.”

  “Did Bubbles see him?” Not that Bubbles would know who Seth was, but he might tell CJ he saw someone leaving my apartment. I didn’t want CJ to know I was dating Seth, but I wouldn’t lie about it, either.

  “No. I was taking out the recycling. Dave was inside. Seth looked awfully happy.”

  “Not for any reason you might be thinking.” I sat up. “What about McQueen? Could he be in a love triangle? His wife or a pissed-off girlfriend?” One who liked to paint, maybe? “Had you met him?”

  “I’ve known Terry for years. He grew up here, although he’s a bit older than me. I think my Aunt Gennie knew him pretty well.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?” I asked.

  “Dave and I ran into him at the Colonial Inn when we were having lunch a couple of weeks ago.”

  “And?”

  “And what? I’m starting to feel like I’m being interrogated.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I saw him dead this morning. I’m trying to understand why.”

  “I’m guessing you’re worried your friend Carol is going to be in trouble since Terry was in her store.”

  “Yes. I’ll shut up.”

  “It’s okay. Everyone needs a friend she can count on in a crisis.”

  “What was Terry like?”

  “Polite. He asked how Aunt Gennie was doing. He knew she was getting ready to retire. We only talked for a few minutes.”

  “Have you met his wife?”

  “No. She’s not from around here. Why?”

  “Maybe she had something to do with his murder.” Maybe that was one of the other angles CJ and Seth had referred to.

  CHAPTER 10

  On Monday morning, I sat across from Nancy in her office at the town hall. The town had spared every expense on the utilitarian furnishings. Nancy had brought in a rug with thick swirls of bright color to soften the room. It didn’t help. A pipe angled across one corner but was painted the same shade of off-green as the wall to try to disguise it. The joints had rusted, and there was a damp spot where it disappeared into the ceiling. No one could accuse the town of wasting funds here.

  “We could have compared calendars over the phone,” Nancy said. She had stacks of paperwork on her desk. Behind her was her wall of fame. Photos of her with John Kerry, Patrick Duval, and Tom Menino when they were senator, governor, and Boston mayor. There was a picture of her throwing out a first pitch at a Red Sox game and plaques from various organizations. “And we didn’t need to do it today.”

  I knew we didn’t need to do it today, but it wasn’t why I was here. I wondered how informed she was about the McQueen murder, and what I could find out. “I thought if we were going to go to two days, we’d better plan early. We don’t want to be on the same weekend as Bedford Days, and you probably have other events that I wouldn’t even think about.”

  Nancy nodded with an “of course I do” nod. She opened a computer file, and I tapped open the calendar on my phone. We coordinated a couple of potential weekends. Nancy would take it to the selectmen and town council for their input.

  Nancy closed her calendar and folded her ringless hands on the table. “Anything else?”

  “I was worried about you. Because of the murder, right after the fires and yard sale—it all must feel a bit overwhelming.” I still wondered where she’d disappeared to in the middle of the yard sale. Maybe I could worm that out of her.

  Nancy’s eyes popped wide open, and then her expression softened. It seemed as though she wasn’t used to people asking how she was doing. A Yankee through and through, she gave off a definite, brusque “leave me alone” attitude. Up until now I had bought it. “I’m an administrator not an investigator.”

  “But I know how much you love this town. I’m guessing that when things go wrong it affects you.”

  Nancy shuffled some papers on her desk. “You’re right, it does.”

  “Stella told me Terry’s from Ellington. And that he and Gennie were friends.” It wasn’t exactly what she’d said, but getting Nancy to open up was harder than prying a clam open with a toothpick.

  Nancy snorted. “Friends is a stretch. He was a counselor when Gennie was at camp one summer. The summer she learned to fight.” Nancy shook her head and obviously didn’t approve of something, but what I couldn’t tell, the fighting, the camp, the counseling. She clasped her hands on her desk until her knuckles turned white.

  I opened my mouth to ask another question, but a knock on the door interrupted us. CJ stood there. He didn’t look happy to see me. I stood. “Let me know which weekend works best for next year’s yard sale,” I said to Nancy. I slid by CJ with a nod and wondered whether, if I lingered outside the door, I’d hear anything useful. CJ took one look at me and closed the door.

  After leaving Nancy’s office, I headed over to Gennie’s house to start photographing the items I didn’t think I could price myself.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll start putting tags on items I can price as I go through each room,” I said when Gennie let me in.

  “Why would I mind?” Gennie asked. She was dressed in shorts and a tank top again.

  “It’s not going to look very good when Nancy comes over. She’ll wonder what’s going on.”

  Gennie pondered that, then sighed. “She’s going to find out sooner or later—although I’d rather it be later. But I also need to get this place ready to go on the market. I can always tell her I’m downsizing and let her think it’s to somewhere close by.”

  I started with the Victorian room. First, I took pictures of the whole room from severa
l different angles. Then I started the laborious process of taking individual photographs. Where I could, I photographed the name of the artisan who made the piece, which would help establish its value. I opened drawers and snapped pictures of how the pieces were put together. Some had joints that were dovetailed, using interlocking pieces of wood instead of nails. That told me the piece was older or handmade, and that made a difference in its pricing. When I downloaded the pictures to my computer at home, I could zoom in and start an inventory list. This wasn’t going to be any ordinary garage sale.

  After I worked for an hour, tagging and photographing, Gennie came in. She’d changed into jeans and a black top. “Ready for a break?”

  I was lying on the floor, taking photos of the underside of a settee where a bit of the original horsehair stuffing was coming out. I snapped a couple of pictures showing the way it was pegged together before standing up. I stretched my back. The piece didn’t have any manufacturer’s markings, but that didn’t mean an expert wouldn’t know who made it. “I’d love a glass of water.”

  “Me too. I went to a yoga class at the community center this morning and just finished my at-home workout,” Gennie said.

  We settled in her kitchen. It looked like it had barely been used. Either that or Gennie was inordinately tidy.

  “Yoga?”

  “Mixed martial arts requires more than brute strength. You should come watch me. I only have one match left. I’ll get you good seats where you can see the blood, sweat, and, in the case of my opponents, tears.”

  I’m not sure I wanted to be that close. “It would be an experience,” I said.

  “And you should think of a career as a diplomat with that kind of answer. Anyway, there was a lot of talk about the murder at Paint and Wine.”

  Of course there was. Maybe Gennie had found out something interesting. “What were they saying?”

  “It went from the wild—that Carol’s a madam running prostitutes out of the shop—to the more sane—that she had some kind of relationship with Terry. One woman swore she saw them having dinner together in Concord.” Gennie stared down at her glass of water while she talked. A frown made her look troubled. But she’d known Terry for a long time. I’d look troubled too if it were one of my friends.