Car doors slammed. We turned to see the hearse pull away. Pellner shook his head. “I need to go.” His face still grim as he hurried off.
* * *
Forty minutes later I pushed my plate away from me. I’d polished off the better part of a small mushroom and sausage pizza, today’s special. Angelo DiNapoli, the proprietor and my dear friend, didn’t believe in pineapple on pizzas and sneered at toppings like kale. According to Angelo those weren’t real pizzas. He stuck to the traditional and was excellent at what he did. Me, on the other hand? Except for anchovies I’d eat almost anything on a pizza, especially if someone else made it.
I wished I could have a glass of wine to warm me, but I was meeting a client who was interested in having a garage sale. That was a rare thing in January in Massachusetts, so I needed the business. I was still cold from talking to Pellner in the parking lot. And every time someone opened the door the wind nipped at my ankles like an overenthusiastic puppy.
I shuddered thinking again of Alicia.
“You haven’t been in for a while,” Angelo said. His face was warm, his nose a little on the big side, and his hair way past receding, not that he cared. By a while he meant five days. I’d been huddled at home.
I looked around the restaurant. It was almost empty. The right side, where I sat, was lined with tables. To the left was the counter where you ordered and behind it the open kitchen. I’d been in such a swirl of thoughts I didn’t notice the lunch rush had left—back to wherever they had to go. That explained my cold ankles. Angelo DiNapoli pulled out a chair and sat down. He wore his white chef’s coat, a splash of marinara on the pocket.
“Is everything okay?” he asked.
“I just left a funeral.”
“For the woman who was murdered on base?” Angelo asked as he crossed himself.
I nodded. “She was like me. A younger version. Only twenty-five.” Fourteen years younger than me.
“How so?”
“Active in the Spouses’ Club, volunteered at the thrift shop, didn’t have kids.”
“You see yourself in her?”
“Yes. I know what it’s like to have to move somewhere you don’t want to live and far from everyone you know and love. Then do it over and over.” I sighed. “I didn’t know anything about the military or military life when CJ and I met. And I was always afraid I’d do something that would hurt CJ’s career.” I had married my ex-husband, CJ, when I was only eighteen. “During our first assignment I asked a colonel’s wife out to lunch because she was so friendly. We went to the Officers Club and ate. Then there was this huge brouhaha that a lowly lieutenant’s wife was out with a colonel’s wife. She didn’t care. I didn’t care. But a lot of other people did.”
“That doesn’t sound easy,” Angelo said.
“It wasn’t at first. It’s hard enough to feel judged when it’s just you, but then worrying about tanking your husband’s career too? It feels like you’re walking a minefield of rules no one gave you.”
Angelo crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you reevaluating your life?”
“Maybe I have been. I’ve been a bit down since I heard the news of her death. It seemed like everyone loved her.” I wasn’t so sure everyone had loved me when I lived on base. CJ and I had lived on Fitch for a couple of years until we divorced two years ago. We had tried to work things out, but just couldn’t manage it and split up for good last spring. “If the eulogies are any indication.”
“They aren’t,” Angelo said, “any indication. Genghis Khan would sound like a saint at his own funeral. People gloss over. They forget that people are complex.”
“You’re right.” I knew that. It’s a lesson I’d learned over and over the past few years.
“Would you change the past?” Angelo asked.
I sat for a moment thinking over my decisions, how life had led me here. I’d moved to Ellington right after my divorce and had started my own business organizing garage sales. My friends buoyed me and I was in a great relationship. I was proud of what I’d accomplished, but always feared failure. It was part of what I’d been obsessing about for the last week. I shook my head. “I wouldn’t change much. Every decision made me who I am. Even though I’m still not sure who that is.”
“Then what are you going to do? Sit around and feel sorry for yourself?”
I smiled at Angelo. He didn’t pull any punches. “That’s exactly what I’ve been doing.”
“What have you been doing?” Rosalie, Angelo’s lovely wife, joined us. Concern creased lines around her brown eyes. Her brown hair was cut short and suited her. Rosalie held three plates with pieces of tiramisu and passed them out. “We’ve missed you.”
I almost laughed. It would keep me from crying. Jeez, I was one big ball of emotions. “You two are the best.”
“At least someone recognizes that,” Angelo said.
“Oh, Angelo,” Rosalie said.
He held up both hands, palms up. “It’s the truth.”
We ate our dessert, chatted about things that didn’t have to do with Alicia. They entertained me with stories of the early years of their marriage living in a small apartment in the bad part of Cambridge.
“Did you always want to open a restaurant?” I asked them.
“Yes,” Angelo said. “My nonna and mama taught me everything I know about food. I loved cooking from the day I set foot in their kitchen when I was three.”
I turned to Rosalie. “And you?”
She smiled at Angelo. “I love him, so I supported his dream.”
“She’s a born hostess and a great partner,” Angelo said. He took Rosalie’s hand and kissed it. “Forty-five years almost, and I don’t regret a day.”
“Maybe one day?” Rosalie said with a wink. “Cooking is all about love for us.”
Maybe I should learn to cook a dish and surprise everyone by having them over for a meal. It’s not like I never cooked while CJ and I were married. It’s just that when I tried I always seemed to leave an ingredient out or overcook everything. I blanched when I remembered the episode of the undercooked chicken. That was one dinner party no one would ever forget.
Even when I’d tried using a slow cooker, I seemed to end up with mush. Now there were Instant Pots and air fryers and pressure cookers. New appliances with elaborate recipes to try to master. It was terrifying out there.
“Have you two heard any local gossip about the murder?” Lots of military and civilians who worked on base lived in Ellington. There wasn’t ever enough housing on base for all military personnel to live there, and for civilians it was a dream commute—only fifteen minutes depending on traffic. Even if they didn’t live in Ellington they filled DiNapoli’s at mealtime.
“Nothing here,” Angelo said.
I looked at Rosalie.
She shook her head. “I was at the hairdresser two days ago. There was a lot of speculation but no information.”
That was strange.
“You’re going to take that pizza home with you,” Angelo said, pointing to what I hadn’t eaten.
No one left food behind at DiNapoli’s. Angelo took it as a personal insult. Rosalie took the pizza, boxed it up, and brought it back over. After saying goodbye, I left DiNapoli’s and drove over to meet my new client, pondering the lack of gossip about Alicia’s death and what it meant.
Chapter Two
A tall, thick-boned woman met me at the one-story ranch on a quiet side street in Ellington. The street wasn’t busy this time of day, but I knew at rush hour in the morning and evening it was used as a cut-through.
“I’m Jeannette Blevins.” She had bushy brown hair held back with a sparkly headband. I knew from some of the paperwork she’d already filled out that she was thirty-three.
“Sarah Winston,” I said. We shook hands. Her grip firm. We stood in a narrow hallway with a low ceiling that served as a foyer. What I presumed was a coat closet was to the right. We walked past it, took a left, and went into the living room. I was surprised to see a v
aulted ceiling that made the room seem more spacious.
“Like I told you when I called, my parents died two months ago in Senegal. A tragic accident with a faulty gas line.” She paused and sucked in a shaky breath. “My brother and I need to get rid of all of this stuff.” She waved her hand around.
“I’m so sorry.” She wasn’t that old to have lost both her parents. Jeannette had contacted me through my website four days ago. Because of a past incident I now requested documentation proving the party had the right to sell the contents of the house. Since her brother was the executor and lived out of town, I’d also asked for and gotten a notarized letter from him saying Jeannette could oversee the sale. When I was satisfied that all was in order I agreed to meet with her.
“Is there anything that you want to keep?” I asked. There was so much left in here.
“My brother and I have gone through and taken what we want. I live in a two-family house and don’t have room or the desire to take much. He lives in New York City in a small place.”
I scanned the living room. This would be a huge job. Every bit of wall space seemed to have something hanging on it. Paintings, mosaic tiles, mirrors, samurai swords. It was an eclectic mix that gave me a bit of a headache to look at. I stepped closer to study the things hanging on the wall next to me. Everything seemed to be excellent quality, at least in this room.
“Let me show you the rest of the house.”
We walked through the three bedroom, two bath house. One of the bedrooms had been converted into a study. The house was filled with Japanese furniture, a Danish modern bedroom suite in the guest room, framed maps, and shelves filled with figurines. “Your parents must have traveled a lot,” I said. I snapped pictures with my phone as we went through the rooms. It would help me organize, estimate how many hours this project would take, and maybe I could even do some pricing from home.
“They did. We all did.” Jeannette stopped next to a family photo. Black and white, it looked like it had been taken in Egypt, since a pyramid and camel were in the background. She hesitated for a moment. “I guess it doesn’t matter now that they are gone.”
I wondered what was coming next.
“They were both in the CIA.”
My eyes widened. “That must have been an interesting way to grow up.”
“We didn’t know it. We thought Dad worked for the agricultural department and that Mom was a translator. We took all the moves for granted.”
“How did you end up here?” I asked.
“My dad was originally from Boston. They met in college at Georgetown. At least that was their story.” Jeannette grinned. “I think Mom was my dad’s handler, although they never admitted it.”
“Wow.” I thought about growing up in Pacific Grove, California. My childhood had been grounded, a bit boring even. It’s one of the reasons why I’d gotten married so young “Are you . . .” I stopped. It wasn’t any of my business if Jeannette was in the CIA or not. She wouldn’t tell me if she was.
“CIA?” She laughed. “Oh, no. I’m a teacher. I loved all the places we lived, but I wanted to settle in one place.”
Having moved all the time when I was married to CJ, I understood the need for roots. It’s why I stayed in Ellington when we split up.
“Did you have a favorite place where you lived?” I asked.
“Japan. I was ten and it all seemed so exotic and amazing. For some reason my mom had more free time there. We spent lots of time baking and exploring. It was great.” Jeannette took the photo off the wall. “I guess I should keep this. If you find anything else like this, will you let me know?”
I nodded.
“There’s so much stuff that it’s hard to spot everything.”
“No problem,” I said. “I’ll keep an eye out. Am I going to find any spy gadgets?” My voice held a little more hope in it than I’d intended. This might be a very interesting sale.
Jeannette laughed again. “I think spy gadgets are overrated. Most work was done talking to people one-on-one.”
Maybe I’d find a lapel pin with a camera or a pen with a poison dart. A girl could dream. Maybe I should be extra careful sorting things, though.
We discussed payment options. With a project this big I sometimes charged an hourly fee to price items, or I could take a larger than normal commission. The first option was better for me because there was no way to tell how much all of this would sell for. On the other hand I needed the business, so I was inclined to accept the larger commission. I’d toyed with the idea of starting an online auction site for this kind of sale. Maybe it was time to implement that. But before I offered it up as a solution, I wanted to double-check what kind of website I’d need to support it. And I would have to think about all the packing and shipping costs that would involve. It didn’t seem like the right time for this idea.
We settled on a larger commission and signed a contract agreeing that I do the sale in two weeks. “I’m going to start promoting this sale online right away because we want to attract as many customers as possible.”
“That’s a great idea. Thank you.” Jeannette gave me the keys to the house.
“I’ll be back tomorrow to work.”
Jeannette nodded. “The will stated that my brother gets eighty percent of everything.” Her voice sounded brisk.
The way the will was split seemed unusual, but it wasn’t my place to ask why.
“There was a reason, in the past, why they made that decision. I want to make sure we get top dollar for him.”
“That’s always my plan. And I’ve built a reputation for doing that.”
She smiled. “I know. That’s why I hired you.”
Chapter Three
At three thirty I parked my car in the small lot next to my apartment. My landlady, Stella, had put up a sign with a stern warning saying the lot was for residents only. Since we lived right across the street from the town common, parking could be at a premium especially during events. My apartment was on the second floor of a house with four units. It overlooked the town common with its large green space and towering white Congregational church.
I didn’t feel like going home yet, so I walked the half block over to my friend Carol Carson’s shop, Paint and Wine—or as I called it, Paint and Whine. The air had gotten colder and the wind stronger. My blond hair blew wildly around my face and I wished for a hat or a ponytail holder. Her shop faced the Congregational church just like DiNapoli’s a couple of doors down. Carol knew most of my secrets. We often spent our time together to catch up, complain, laugh, and celebrate the little things in life. I blew into the store on a gust of wind and managed to wrestle the wood-and-glass door closed without doing any damage to it or the old panes of glass.
“That is some wind,” Carol said.
I pushed my hair out of my face until it fell back around my shoulders where it was supposed to hang. “Blow thou bitter wind, blow,” I said paraphrasing a line by Maud Hart Lovelace, one of my favorite authors growing up.
Carol looked out the window. “I heard it’s supposed to snow tomorrow.”
“Great.”
“We’ve had a lot this winter,” Carol said. Her light blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a fuzzy warm sweater that wrapped around her Barbie-doll figure like it was a second skin. Jeans tucked into knee-high high-heeled boots completed her outfit. For someone who spent her life painting or teaching painting, she somehow managed to never have a speck of paint on her.
“I love the days I can sit in my grandmother’s rocking chair by the window, watching it fall while I drink coffee and read. But tomorrow I have to be out in it because I have a new client.”
“Tell me about your new client. That’s a good thing this time of year.”
“It is, and it’s an interesting house. The owner was in the CIA.” Being in the military meant I was used to people having top secret clearances and not being able to talk about their jobs, but the CIA always seemed a bit exotic to me. Carol’s husband, Brad, had
been in the military too. When he retired out of Fitch they also decided to stay here.
“Oh, have you found any shoe phones?” Carol asked. “I always wanted one.”
I laughed. “No. But I haven’t really dug into things yet. I just did a walk-through.”
“Then there’s hope. You’d better let me come to the pre-sale.”
“You’ll be the first one to know if I schedule one.” I hadn’t done a pre-sale in a long time. They were usually the night before the main event. It was just for friends and family, but maybe I could use it to garner extra interest in the sale. Although with this sale, a CIA sale, I didn’t think extra interest would be a problem.
“I have a class coming in an hour. Want to help me set up?”
“Sure. Who’s the class for?” I started pulling stools off the tops of rectangular tables. This part of Carol’s shop was a big open space with lots of long tables. Behind this space was a room where Carol painted and a small storeroom beyond it.
“A group of twelve-year-olds from the base. It’s a birthday party.”
“That sounds like fun.” After we got the stools down we started setting up tabletop easels.
“It should be. The birthday girl is shy, so this is a way to have a party without a lot of stress.”
“What are they going to paint?”
“A starry night. A simpler version of van Gogh’s painting. She thought it was dreamlike and fun.”
We put canvases on each easel along with paintbrushes and paints.
“Want a glass of wine?” Carol asked when we were finished.
“Sure.”
Carol brought me a glass of cabernet and we settled on two stools facing each other across a table.
“I went to a funeral this morning. On base. For Alicia Arbas. Did you know her?” I asked.
“Not well. But she came to a class a few weeks ago with some family members who were in town visiting.”
“A private class?”
Carol shook her head, setting her ponytail to swinging. “No. Just one of the open to the public classes. Wine Wednesdays. They’ve been very popular. We painted a picture of a wine bottle sitting on a picnic table with some trees behind it.”
Sell Low, Sweet Harriet Page 2
