“What kind of bad note?”
“Let me think,” her mom said. “I can’t remember. Ask your Aunt Nancy; she’d know.” Stella and her mom talked for a few more minutes while I mulled over the fact that Gennie and Terry had more than a business relationship, that he’d been Gennie’s agent, and that things ended badly. Was whatever happened between them bad enough that years later it was a motive for murder?
CHAPTER 20
Back in my apartment, I made a salad for dinner. I grabbed my laptop and searched for Gennie “the Jawbreaker” Elder. Wikipedia had a full biography. It mentioned that she’d signed with the McQueen agency briefly but left them shortly after her first fight. It had a full list of her fights and the people she’d beaten. Her first fight was against a woman named Missy “the Meat” Tucker. I kept digging and found some dirt.
There were allegations that Gennie threw that first fight. Missy Tucker vehemently denied it, as did Gennie. I thought about what Gennie had said about that photo of her from her first fight. She never wanted to feel like that again. Maybe she hadn’t been just talking about getting knocked out. If she’d thrown it, maybe Terry had pressured her into doing so. And maybe his dad had found out and that’s why Terry had left the agency and Ellington. Unfortunately, all I had were a lot of maybes and no answers.
I did another search, this time for Missy Tucker. She lived in Concord, and her phone number and address were listed. I called and left a message, saying I’d like to interview her about her career as a fighter. I hoped she’d call back.
I spent most of Friday putting the finishing touches on a garage sale that was going to be held on Saturday. Vicki O’Malley was the second cousin of Nancy and Gennie Elder by marriage. She’d been following my column in the newspaper and had been an enthusiastic supporter of New England’s Largest Yard Sale. Vicki hired me to organize and price the items for her sale. While she loved going to garage sales, she knew throwing one was a whole different skill set and a lot of work. She didn’t need me on Saturday because she was from a large family who’d come over and help.
Vicki met me in her oversized, two-car garage. “I’m not sure how to price these clothes,” Vicki said.
“I usually go ten to twenty-five percent of the original cost, depending on the condition. Thirty to forty if it’s a name brand.”
“This jacket hasn’t ever been worn,” she said. She held up a classic black wool blazer from Talbots. The ticket was still on it.
“Do half of the ticket price on that one. It leaves room to haggle but still gets you a good price.”
“What are you going to do once the snow sets in and you can’t throw garage sales?”
“I’m not sure.” It had been on my mind. I couldn’t just sit around all winter and do nothing, even with the nice nest egg I’d built up over the summer doing garage sales and with the money the city had paid me. I’d been out of the job market so long as a military wife that my skill set was rusty. And the financial world relied so heavily on technology now that I’d have to take classes to get back up to speed.
“What about estate sales?” she asked.
“That’s a whole different field. You have to know a lot more about antiques and jewelry than I do.”
“I guess you could learn,” she said. “New England’s Largest Yard Sale was certainly a boon for the town, although the way Nancy’s acting you’d think she thought of it and did all the work herself. But don’t worry; everyone in town knows it was all you.”
“Thanks. How is Nancy?”
Vicki paused and looked away. “I haven’t seen her since the morning of the sale.”
Interesting. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t telling the truth but couldn’t figure out why she’d lie. “She disappeared for a few hours in the middle of it.”
“She’s a busy lady,” Vicki said.
We finished up a few hours later. All Vicki had to do on Saturday morning was throw open the garage and drag one table out.
“Have fun tomorrow,” I told her as she paid me. “Tell Nancy I said hi.”
Vicki nodded but didn’t make eye contact as I left.
Instead of heading home, I decided to take a walk on the Rails to Trails path. I was curious about the fires and wondered if there was anything to see. The parking lot at the start of the path was crowded, but I managed to snag a spot. This must be the after-work rush. An old train caboose, parked in the lot, now served as a snack shack. Across the street, a strategically located bike shop sold gear and bikes, and helped people with flat tires and bent rims.
Old oak and maple trees lined this section of the asphalt path. I remembered that Nancy said the fire had been started near the beginning of the path. But I walked about a half mile, dodging bikers and joggers, before I noticed the burned area off to the right side. Singed grass stretched out in front of me for about twenty feet. Some of the trees beside the path were scorched. An acrid odor still hung in the air.
I looked back down the path. It turned just enough that I couldn’t see the parking lot from here. What I did notice was a lot of litter, but that would be taken care of in a couple of days. I snapped some pictures and walked all around the edges of the burned area. I turned into the woods to see if anything was back there. Even with all the people on the path, it was a little creepy with all the overgrowth. After getting scratched by a couple of thorns, I popped back out on the path.
“What are you doing?” Seth called out, startling me.
He jogged up to my side, glistening with sweat. His T-shirt was plastered against the hard muscles of his chest. I tried not to stare or drool.
“Taking a walk.”
“In the brambles?”
Darn. I guess he’d seen me leaving the woods. “I was curious about how far back the damage went from the fire. But after getting tangled up with a couple of bushes, I decided I didn’t care that much.”
“Can you stop by my house this evening? I’ve moved most of my stuff over to Bedford today. I could really use your help.”
I studied him, hoping he really did want my help and not just me. “Okay. I’ll come by at seven.”
“Great. I’ll text you my address.” Seth jogged off with a wave.
At seven, I knocked on the door of Seth’s little bungalow in Bedford. I was surprised it wasn’t grander, considering his family. I pictured him in Revolutionary Ridge in a large house built for entertaining and sporting a three-car garage. This house had a one-car garage, two dormers, and a green front door that stood out from the white siding and matched the trim. It’s the kind of house I’d want to live in. I looked over the yard as I waited. It needed a white picket fence, a puppy, and a couple of Adirondack chairs.
“Like it?” Seth asked from behind me.
I’d been so lost in my daydream, I hadn’t heard the door open.
Seth looked me over. I’d dressed in a black pantsuit with a silk shirt underneath. My hair sat in a low bun. I thought if I looked professional, it would be easier to keep things professional. The little flips my heart did told me I wasn’t immune to Seth at all. My outfit hadn’t helped one bit.
Seth led me into the small living room. His sleek couch looked out of place in a room with built-in shelves, alcoves, and a charming brick fireplace. I whipped out my cell phone and started making notes. I murmured more to myself than Seth, “Couch, end tables, lamps, art.” Then I went through the living room, kitchen (updated), and dining room, oohing and ahing over its built-ins, adding to my list of what needed to be purchased. I headed to the basement to avoid the bedrooms.
“This can be your man cave. We’ll put up your Red Sox memorabilia. The couch upstairs will be perfect down here. The tall table from your old place can go over in that corner. It’s going to look great.” I turned to see why Seth hadn’t said anything. Maybe he didn’t like my ideas and was regretting his decision not to hire a professional decorator.
He smiled at me. “You’re cute when you’re enthused, tapping out notes and waving your hands aroun
d. Thank you.”
I tried to squelch back the glow from his compliment but smiled back at him. We went back upstairs. “Ready to see the bedrooms?” Seth asked.
I nodded. I had to get it over with sometime. The desk was already in one of the bedrooms. Seth had it pushed up against the wall.
“Let’s reposition this. Do you want to look out the window or toward the door?” I asked.
“It’s probably better with my back to the window so I don’t get distracted.”
I ran out to my Suburban and grabbed some pads to place under the legs of the desk. That way we could glide it across the wooden floor without scratching it or having to lift the desk.
We pushed the desk into position and moved the chair. The office didn’t need much else. The other bedroom contained a double bed and a tiny dresser. Not much else would fit.
“Where’s your sleigh bed?”
“Up here.”
I followed Seth up a narrow flight of stairs that opened into a large master suite. The sleigh bed sat at the far end, and an oak tall boy stood against one wall. “Be professional,” I muttered.
“The bathroom’s over here,” Seth said.
Someone had done a beautiful job updating the bath. A large, glassed-in shower had multiple shower heads. A free-standing soaking tub sat next to a window. I took a deep breath and tried to stop envisioning all the wonderful, fun things that could happen up here. “It’s great.” I scampered back down the steps as though I was a squirrel and a fox was chasing me.
“Do you have any paper?” I asked Seth when he came down.
“Hang on. There’s some in the office.” He came back with a plain white sheet of paper. It reminded me of the notes Bubbles had gotten. I shook myself. Everyone had this kind of computer paper. I took the sheet over to the counter in the kitchen and started sketching.
“You could do a great little reading nook in the space opposite your bed. A couple of great chairs, shelves full of books, a bench by the window.” I sighed, picturing it in my head. “Oh, and a couple of great rugs. Old and soft. What do you think?” I handed Seth my sketch.
He shook his head. I should have known. He’d want something more sophisticated. I felt foolish.
“It’s amazing,” he said. “You got it just right.” He ducked behind me, trailing a finger across my lower back. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of champagne.
“I have to go,” I said, listening to my head and ignoring my heart yet again. I kept turning down Seth’s overtures but didn’t completely understand why. Maybe it was because of the way our relationship had started—as a one-night stand. I so wasn’t that person. I wanted to be sure Seth knew it, but I guess he must by now.
“It’s my first night here. Just one drink to celebrate our partnership?”
Part of me wanted to run screaming. “Be professional.” I muttered to myself, again.
“What?” Seth asked.
I blushed and gave in. “Nothing. Just one drink.”
CHAPTER 21
I woke up early the next morning, in my own bed, alone and happy I’d indulged in only one glass of champagne and one heart-stopping kiss. There were many temptations when it came to Seth and his sleigh bed. I grabbed my computer and downloaded the pictures I’d taken by the Rails to Trails path. As I blew them up, I noticed a scrap of fabric clinging to one of the bushes. I zoomed in. It looked like a piece of camouflage from a BDU.
It didn’t mean someone from the military had started the fires, although it was true that someone from the military might have the skills to make an incendiary device. This bit of fabric didn’t look like the latest iteration of a BDU. The military constantly updated the pattern and material to make troops as safe as possible. Anyone shopping at the base thrift shop or a military surplus store could own this. It also didn’t rule out someone in the military because lots of people could easily have clothing made of this fabric. I’d have to show it to CJ just in case he didn’t know. However, it was unlikely he’d be at the station at 5:30 on a Saturday morning.
I popped out of bed, showered, ate a couple of Fig Newtons (invented in and named for the town of Newton, Massachusetts). I was nothing if not loyal to the products of my adopted home state of Massachusetts, whenever possible. That philosophy gave me an excuse to eat fluffernutter sandwiches, Boston cream pie, Parker House rolls, and chocolate chip cookies without guilt. Patronizing Dunkin’ Donuts also fell under that same category since the first one had opened in Massachusetts.
Even though I’d grown up in California, something about New England just felt like home. My parents wanted me to move back after my divorce, but I just couldn’t do that. My mother had recently discovered her ancestors had landed in Hingham, Massachusetts, in the 1630s. Maybe that was why New England felt like home to me: the place was in my genes.
I trotted down the stairs and grabbed a newspaper off the front porch. I took it back up, grabbed my computer, and searched “garage sales.” I studied the listings in both to find the ones that sounded the best. It was the first Saturday I hadn’t had to run one in a very long time. The thrill of the hunt got my heart zinging with anticipation. Even better, I was spending Seth’s money and not mine. This was almost my perfect scenario. Perfect would be my own money and the space to fill it with whatever I found.
I charted a route that wended its way through Ellington, Bedford, and Concord. It was always hard to decide which sale to hit first. Fortunately, this morning a lot of them had different starting times. Many sales listed antiques, but that term was thrown around a lot when stuff was actually only vintage or old, or when someone decided to call a fifteen-year-old Beanie Baby an antique. In the trade, anything over one hundred years old was an antique, fifty to one hundred was vintage, and everything else was just old. Some people used the word vintage to refer to things that came from a specific era.
I hit an ATM to get cash before I headed over to Bedford, my first stop. Even though the person throwing the garage sale should have plenty of change, I wanted to have my own in case someone didn’t. At a garage sale, cash was required. Often, estate sales or auctions were set up so people could use credit cards, but I’d yet to see a garage sale that was. At 6:55, I pulled up to a house with the most promising ad. People already milled about as the owners pulled stuff out of their garage onto the drive. I joined the throng.
A carved oak end table caught my eye. It had two shelves, and the top was about a twelve-inch square. The scale was perfect for Seth’s living room. It looked handmade. I turned it over to check for markings but didn’t find any. That didn’t bother me. I didn’t care if things were labeled or signed; tramp art often wasn’t and yet could be valuable, although finding pieces by Stickley or Hitchcock was always a thrill.
I carried the table with me to another piece I spotted: a comfy-looking chair that would fit perfectly next to Seth’s fireplace. The chair would have to be reupholstered—I didn’t think Seth would like the pink cabbage roses on the fabric—but if the price was right, the size was perfect. I plopped down in the chair, and it was as comfortable as it looked. I tried to get the attention of one of the people working the sale; the chair was too large for me to carry, and I didn’t want to lose out by leaving it to another avid shopper.
I couldn’t find a price on either piece, which worried me. It meant one of two things: either they wanted too much and I’d have to walk away when I really didn’t want to, or they didn’t know the value, which would work in my favor.
A woman came over and we began to haggle. She tossed out a price of $75 for the table and $150 for the chair. We went back and forth; I pointed out that the table wasn’t signed, and she pointed out that the chair was stuffed with down. We finally agreed on $25 for the table and $75 for the chair. I felt good about the table and so-so about the chair. In the end, both pieces were worth more than I paid for them, so overall I was happy.
The woman’s son, a teenage grumpy Gus, grudgingly helped me carry the chair and shove it i
nto the back of the Suburban. Later today, I’d drop it off at an upholstery shop I liked in Ellington. I loaded the table, thanked the kid, and took off. The next two sales were a bust; either I was too late or their idea of antiques consisted of some old, plastic dinnerware and clothes from the eighties.
I had a heck of a time finding the next place on my list. It was on the far outskirts of Concord, and I passed the hidden driveway three times before I saw it and turned in. They needed balloons by the entrance and bright signs far enough from the turn so people could find it without zooming past and having to circle back around. No one else was even at the sale. Their loss was my gain, I hoped.
I headed to the furniture first because it was what Seth needed most. The owner had two large walnut wardrobes, both in excellent condition but too big for Seth’s place. I ran my hand across the smooth walnut with a sigh. Too big for my place, too. I checked out a mahogany dresser. The veneer on the top curled up, which I could fix, but even from a distance the piece smelled musty, so much so that I didn’t think putting charcoal in the drawers would clear up the odor.
I drifted over to the tables loaded with smaller items. I enjoyed digging through a box full of artwork, turning over the odd, lone spoon to see if it was silver, and sorting through a box of paperbacks to see if there was a book for me. Before long, I’d purchased three old framed maps, two lamps, and a dining room table that folded to a size small enough to work behind a sofa and that expanded to seat ten. It came with four chairs, enough for now. I was tempted to keep it for myself.
As I shut the back of the Suburban, I turned to the homeowner. “You really need some signs out on the side of the road. And some balloons on your mailbox. I drove by three times before I found the drive.”
“Kids,” the woman yelled, “get your poster board and markers. Thanks,” she said. “I wondered why things were so slow. My friend told me all I had to do was put an ad on Craigslist and I’d be swamped.”
The Longest Yard Sale Page 14
