“What do you usually deal with?” Jones asked. He stepped in closer. His coffee breath swept over me.
He sounded like he expected my answer to be “drugs.” I glanced toward the house, hoping the Greens would be out here in a second to explain all this to Officer Jones. How they owned all of this stuff and it was some kind of terrible mistake. But the only person by the house was the officer knocking on the door.
“My favorite things to sell are antiques, furniture, linens, old glassware, but I sell pretty much whatever my customers want me to. And you wouldn’t believe the stuff some of them want to sell.” Officer Jones didn’t crack a smile. “The rest of it they said to price as people expressed interest. Personally, I think everything should be priced in advance, but the customer is always right.” I shut up. I was volunteering too much again.
“I’ll need you to let us into the house so we can talk to the Greens,” Officer Jones said. He glanced over at the officer standing at the front door.
“I’d be happy to,” I said as we walked to the front door. “They went in to make some coffee for everyone since it’s chilly out here. Then they were coming back out to help run the sale.” If they worked the sale, then I didn’t have to hire anyone to help me, which meant we all pocketed more money.
The officer by the door stepped aside as I opened the door but followed Officer Jones and me into the foyer.
“Kate?” I called. “Alex?” No answer. “The kitchen is just down the hall.” They should have heard me. Why didn’t they answer?
The two officers exchanged a look. One that gave me prickles of discomfort.
“Miss Winston, would you mind stepping back outside while we take a look around?” Officer Jones asked.
The prickles turned into waves. I called to the Greens again. Nothing. “I’d be happy to wait outside.”
Officer Jones looked at his fellow officer. “Go with her.”
The other officer didn’t look happy, but Jones’s message seemed clear. Make sure she doesn’t take off. I went back out onto the porch and walked down the steps to the sidewalk that led from the driveway to the house. The other officer followed me out. We stood awkwardly while avoiding looking at each other. A few minutes later Officer Jones came back out along with the officer who had gone around the back.
“Where are the Greens?” I asked, trying to look past the officers toward the house.
“No one’s in there. The place is empty,” Officer Jones said.
Empty? Although empty was better than him saying there was someone dead in there. “I saw them go in there a half hour ago.” It hit me that it didn’t take a half hour to make coffee. But I’d been busy enough that until now I hadn’t realized how much time had passed. I paused. “By empty, do you mean empty of people?”
“Empty of almost everything,” the other officer said. He didn’t look at me, but at Jones. They both looked at all the furniture on the lawn.
“This didn’t come from the house, did it?” I asked. I didn’t have to wait for an answer. I could tell by the expression on the officer’s face it must have. How could I have been so naive?
I turned to look at the house again. It had one of those historic plaques by the door that said it had been built in the early 1700s. Where were the Greens? If only the plaque could tell me that. The house was a colonial style from the early eighteenth century. It was at the top of a hill. I’d read a bit about its history. The house had been a place where the townspeople went during Indian attacks. It had a tunnel that led from the basement to the nearby woods that was a last-resort escape route if things went south. The woods were long gone, and in their place were rows of small houses with small yards.
“There’s a tunnel. From the basement to someplace around the back. Maybe they went out that way,” I said. The officers just looked at me. “If this is all stolen, they’re the ones that did it. Shouldn’t you send someone after them? They stole the stuff.”
The smaller officer stepped away and talked into his shoulder mike.
Jones turned to me. “Do you know where the entrance to the tunnel is?”
I nodded. “Yes. Do you want me to show you?”
* * *
Minutes later I was down in the basement or cellar or whatever people from New England called them. Basements were few and far between where I grew up in Pacific Grove, California. This one had rough dirt walls and wasn’t fit to be a rec room or man cave. It was creepy enough to be a madman’s cave, though. Damp air flowed around us with its musty, rotting smell.
Jones and the two other officers studied the primitive-looking wooden door with its rusty lock, hinges, and doorknob. It was set into the back wall of the foundation.
“So if you didn’t know anything about this house, how did you know this was here?” Jones asked.
“I noticed the historic plaque by the front door the first time I came over, so I read about the history of the house online.”
“When was the first time you came over?”
“Two days ago. To see where I could set everything up.”
Jones and one of the other officers looked at each other. All of this exchanging looks and no explanations was making me very nervous. Cops. Jones reached over and turned the knob on the door to the tunnel. It moved easily in his hand, but as he pulled on the door the hinges groaned, resisting. The door snagged on the rough dirt floor. Even only open an inch, the smell of stagnant air pushed me back a couple of steps.
“I don’t think I need to be here for this,” I said. I was afraid of what was on the other side of that door. Spiders, rats, bats—with my luck a dead body.
But Jones lifted the door just enough to clear the spot where the door had snagged. We all peered in but saw nothing but darkness.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sherry Harris is the author of All Murders Final, Tagged for Death, and The Longest Yard Sale, and started bargain hunting in second grade at her best friend’s yard sale. She honed her bartering skills as she moved around the country while her husband served in the Air Force. Sherry combined her love of garage sales, her life as an Air Force spouse, and her time living in Massachusetts as inspiration for this series. Sherry is an independent editor for fiction and nonfiction writers, a member of Sisters in Crime, Sisters in Crime New England, and Sisters in Crime Chesapeake Chapter. She blogs with New England mystery writers at WickedCozyAuthors.com.
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Sell Low, Sweet Harriet Page 23
