Sarah Winston Garage Sale 01 - Tagged for Death

by Sherry Harris

  Maybe he was mad enough to kill her.

  “Do you know his name? Is he in one of these pictures?”

  “She didn’t like to talk about home. She talked about guys here. Wouldn’t give the enlisted guys the time of day, even though lots of them were interested. Talk about causing drama in the dorm. She liked officers. The higher ranking, the better.”

  Officers and the enlisted troops weren’t supposed to date each other because of chain-of-command issues. The rules about fraternization were spelled out quite clearly in the Uniform Code for Military Justice. Not that it didn’t happen, obviously, given my situation.

  “Did he ever come here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Footsteps sounded in the hall. We froze. Jessica mimed, Should I turn off the light? I shook my head no. Someone rattled the knob, which, fortunately, Jessica had locked when we came in. As the steps headed on down the hall, I let out a huge breath.

  “Maybe we should leave,” Jessica said.

  While tempting, I figured this was my only chance to be in here. “You can go. You have a lot more at stake if we get caught in here. I’ll hurry.”

  “Let me help,” Jessica said.

  I nodded. I flipped up the pink bed skirt to look under the bed. Plastic bins jammed full of decorations from Halloween to Valentine’s Day, and any other holiday I could think of, filled the space. Jessica and I went through them as quickly as possible. I moved to her desk, quickly going through her drawers. Nothing interesting. I guess part of me had been hoping for a journal, something written, that would spell out where she was and that she was alive.

  Her computer was gone. Probably Agent Bristow or the Ellington police had it. I did a quick study of her shelves: some schoolbooks, a few romance novels, and some snow globes. The closet had more plastic bins stacked in the bottom, like the ones under her bed. One stopped me. It was crammed full of baby blankets, bibs, and sleepers. A lone teddy bear tucked in a corner. Her clothes hung in a haphazard mix of uniforms, dresses, T-shirts, and jeans. One hot pink ball gown glowed in the sea of neutrals. Nothing here told me anything helpful.

  “What do we do next?” Jessica asked.

  “I don’t know. Hope Tiffany turns up,” I said.

  “I’ll stalk her Facebook page. See if I can find anything out from any of her friends back home,” Jessica said.

  “Don’t worry about it. I was hoping we’d find a note saying, ‘I’m at Disney World.’ Something everyone else overlooked. It was stupid to come. Thanks,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  Jessica turned off the lights and opened the door a crack. We scooted out into the hall, closing the door behind us with a gentle click.

  “Are you dating anyone?” I knew Jessica had broken up with someone a few months before.

  She grinned. “I’m talking to a couple of guys.”

  “Anyone I know?” It was easy to meet guys in the security forces field as it still leaned heavily male.

  “I don’t think you’d know either of them. One of them is from Waltham. A civilian. The other I’ve been chatting with online.”

  “Be careful with the online guy.”

  “I know, I know. My mom gives me the same lecture. It’s fine. I think we’re going to meet for the first time this weekend. In a public place. I won’t get in a car with him.”

  I smiled. We’d taken about two steps when James came bounding up the stairs.

  “What are you two doing?” he asked.

  We eyed each other. “We went for a walk,” I said.

  “In the snow? Without coats?”

  Oh, crap, it was snowing out? “We were going to go for a walk, saw the snow, and came back for our coats,” I said. “Then we realized how late it was. I’d better get going.” I hugged Jessica. “Fun night. Let’s do it again soon.”

  I saw James look from us to Tiffany’s room, noting our proximity. He didn’t have any proof we’d been in there. “Night, James.”

  Cuddled under my fluffy blue-and-white comforter, I realized seeing the ultrasound pictures had hurt me more than I even wanted to admit to myself. The last few months had been a disaster. I’d gone from confident air force spouse to the shaky puddle lying here. I had a choice to make: wallow or fight back. I decided to fight back and started going over my options.

  Whoever planted the clothes must have also placed CJ’s ID with the bones. It sickened me to think I knew someone who was that conniving, that evil. Tomorrow morning I’d try to re-create the route I’d taken going to garage sales on Saturday. Maybe the drive would make me recognize something that would get us out of this mess.

  I wondered if the gunshot phone calls played into any of this. After I moved to Ellington, they’d started at random times, on random days, no pattern to them at all. They came from different phone numbers or were blocked calls. Carol wanted me to tell someone. My choices were limited. Notifying the police meant telling CJ. I kept hesitating when it came to telling him. I needed to listen to that little voice.

  I could tell Special Agent Bristow, but he wouldn’t have jurisdiction over the calls. I wasn’t a military dependent; it didn’t happen on a military base. I had no proof a military person made the calls. For now, my only option was not to say anything. If it got worse, I’d figure out what to do.

  The other thing I’d do was drop by the church to see MaryJo, one of the biggest gossips on base and secretary for the base’s Protestant chaplain. She knew more about what was going on than anyone else I could think of. She might know what, if anything, Tiffany was up to. I’d probably feel like I’d been slimed by the time I was done. If that’s what it took—I’d do it.

  On Thursday morning, sunshine poured into my apartment. I had a plan for the day. I’d be the first to admit since I moved to Ellington, my life hadn’t had a lot of purpose. I’d loved being a military spouse, all the volunteering, going to the monthly spouses’ meetings, joining a variety of the clubs that were a subset of the spouses’ organization. Clubs formed for almost every interest: mahjong, gourmet cooking, bowling, book groups, skiing or surfing, depending on location, lunch bunch, scrapbooking.

  Over the years, I watched the club evolve from the Officers Wives Club to the Officers Spouses Clubs (so men could join) to the Spouses Club, which included enlisted spouses, too. When CJ and I were first married, I was a bit intimidated by some of the wives. Some wore their husband’s rank—they felt important because of the position or rank of their husband.

  I’d heard stories of a fed-up general bringing a female airman to an Officers Wives Club meeting. The general would point to the airman and say, “She has more rank than any of you.” Supposedly, that got the snooty wives in line. I’d never seen it happen and suspected it was a military urban legend. Fortunately, the number of great women far outweighed the bad.

  I posted ads for Carol’s garage sale on Craigslist, the Wicked Local website, and a few other sites. I made flyers to hang near her house on Saturday morning. At eight in the morning, I headed over to Carol’s. She had to work and I had the place to myself. I used the key she’d given me to let myself in.

  The garage was chilly. Periodically I went inside the house to warm up. Carol had left a plate of brownies out for me. They disappeared at an alarming rate. I forced myself to go back out to the garage. By nine o’clock, I decided to come back when it was warmer.

  I drove through Dunkin’ Donuts for a large coffee. Then I headed to Concord to start driving my garage sale route. After meandering around Concord, Lincoln, and Lexington, I wondered what the heck I was hoping to accomplish. I recognized some of the places we’d stopped, but were any of them significant to the investigation? I drove through Bedford, even though it was wasting time and gas.

  One of the bigger sales had been off Old Billerica Road. I headed over, winding around until I found it. An Ellington patrol car was parked in the drive. Great, just my luck. I slowed, searching for a sign with a family name on it displayed on the front of the house. I hoped for one of those
“Winston Family Established, such and such a year” kind of signs. No luck.

  The front door opened. An officer kissed his wife good-bye and pried a toddler off his leg. He turned toward me. Pellner stepped out. We made eye contact and his face went from happy to angry in an instant.

  CHAPTER 10

  I took off. Back at Old Billerica Road, I turned left, heading to Billerica, instead of right into Bedford and then Ellington. I expected flashing lights to show up in my rearview mirror any minute. None did. That worried me. I drove through Billerica. I intended to drop back into Ellington.

  Instead, I drove back down Old Billerica Road and turned onto Pellner’s street. I could see from a couple of blocks away that the cruiser was gone. I pulled into his driveway. After a couple of deep breaths, I worked up the courage to knock on the door. A pleasant-looking, smallish woman opened the door. The toddler now clung to her leg.

  “Hi, I was at your garage sale on Saturday. I’m here about donating your leftovers.” All of it true, if somewhat loose on specifics. If she described me or my car to her husband, he’d know me immediately.

  “I thought someone was coming tomorrow.”

  Darn it. She’d called some other organization. I just about lost my nerve. If I took it, they’d arrived tomorrow and the stuff would be gone. “Sorry about the mix-up. I can come back then.”

  “It’s all right. Everything is bagged and ready in the garage. I’ll open it for you.”

  The garage was neat. The floor was free of oil stains. The walls were lined with rows of shelving. A big wooden Ellington police shield hung on the wall. Eight big plastic bags, just like the one I’d found the bloody shirts in, sat on the floor. Not that it surprised me. Stuff showed up at the base thrift shop in those very same bags all the time. Every grocery, hardware, and big-box store carried them.

  A handwritten sign taped on one of them said, For the VFW. I almost did a happy dance. I could call the VFW to cancel the Pellners’ pickup for tomorrow. Officer Pellner wouldn’t ever know I’d been by. After I went through the bags, I’d take the stuff over to the VFW. That is, if I didn’t find anything important.

  I loaded the bags into the back of the Suburban while Mrs. Pellner watched.

  “Thanks. The VFW appreciates your support,” I said. It wasn’t really a lie. The VFW would appreciate the stuff when they got it. I opened the car door.

  “Wait. Don’t I get a receipt for our taxes?”

  Rats. “Hang on,” I said as cheerfully as I could. I made a show of digging around in the console. “This is embarrassing. I left them back at the VFW. I’ll mail one out to you as soon as I get back.” I hopped in the car, waving as I pulled out of her drive.

  Thirty minutes later, I knew the Pellner kids dressed well. Some of the clothes had designer labels. All the donated clothes were clean and gently used. The Pellners also donated a half-dozen old Coach purses. I’d found some carefully wrapped Waterford crystal in with the clothes. I was puzzled. If this stuff had been out on Saturday, it would have been snatched up by someone.

  After I dropped all this off, I might have to swing back by the VFW thrift shop to buy the red Coach purse. I sorted through a bunch of paperbacks. I’m guessing the thrillers were his, the Regency romances hers, but who knew? Maybe Pellner had a side I didn’t know about. I grinned.

  After calling the VFW to cancel the Pellners’ pickup—I hoped impersonating a police officer’s wife wasn’t a crime—I took all of their stuff to the VFW drop boxes.

  I pulled up in front of the base chapel, a white clapboard church with a tall spire topped by a cross. It wasn’t as large or as old as the one on the Ellington town common, but it was typical of New England architecture. The chapel held services for many different faiths: Protestant, Catholic, Jewish, and Islam. MaryJo Speck sat behind her desk when I walked in.

  “Sarah! How. Are. You?” Each word dripped with concern, and a slight Southern accent, even though I hadn’t heard a word from her since I’d moved off base. She came around the desk, holding out her hands for me to clasp. She wore a lavender twinset, with a gray skirt and sensible-looking black shoes. “Come. In.”

  “Is Chaplain Black here?” I asked, knowing he wouldn’t be. He did hospital rounds on Thursday afternoons. I managed to wrangle my hands away from hers.

  “Sarah! He’s out this afternoon. Can I help you with something?”

  MaryJo had worked at the church for years. I’m fairly certain each chaplain she’d worked for had prayed she’d restrain her loose lips. Each knew trying to do much about it would result in their ship sailing while MaryJo’s would remain anchored in port. She lived in Lincoln, a town south of the base, in a gorgeous Colonial with her husband, a retired general. MaryJo was still active in the spouses’ club and was generally kowtowed to by the members.

  “Maybe, MaryJo. I’m feeling a little overwhelmed with everything. I thought some counseling would be good for me. Perhaps I could make an appointment?”

  “Of course. Let me make you some tea. We can have a little chat. It wouldn’t be Christian to send you out when you are feeling poorly.”

  I looked down to hide a smile.

  “I’ll lock the door. That way no one can interrupt us. Let’s go into the chaplain’s office. The chairs are much more comfortable.”

  A few minutes later, I settled into one of the two large, comfy leather chairs across from Chaplain Black’s desk. I dropped my purse on the floor, close to the desk. MaryJo bustled in with a tray holding a teapot, cups, and a plate of tiny cupcakes topped with chocolate crosses. She set the tray down on the desk. Instead of sitting next to me, she surprised me by going around to sit in the chaplain’s chair. I resisted the urge to comment as she poured us tea. After handing me a cup, she leaned forward, resting her clasped hands on the desk.

  “How can I help?”

  I had to be careful. MaryJo wasn’t stupid; and while she loved gathering information, she could be choosy about sharing.

  “It’s about Tiffany.” I stopped and took a drink of tea. It tasted delicious. My hand shook a bit as I set it down. “Someone told me Tiffany was searching for a husband from the colonels on base. I’d feel terrible if anyone else was going through the same thing I am.” I burst into tears, to my surprise and embarrassment. Not fake, planned tears to gain her sympathy and loosen her lips, but real tears accompanied by a choked-back sob. I would feel bad if someone else was going through this. I just wished I’d refrained from crying in front of MaryJo, of all people.

  MaryJo handed me a tissue.

  “Well, plenty of military men have succumbed and ended up with a trophy wife. I’m blessed to have kept my Bill grateful to be married to me every day for the past thirty-five years. If more women cooked a decent meal for their men, the divorce rate would plunge.”

  I dried my tears with the tissue. Had she heard about my lack of cooking skills and the fact Tiffany had been to culinary school? She droned on about the topic. I had to figure out a way to get her back on track.

  I interrupted. “You are just an inspiration, MaryJo. You should give a talk on the subject to the Spouses Club.” (Forgive me, program chairman and attendees, if she got a burr under her skin to do that.) “If others are having difficulty, you could save them.” If this didn’t get her back on the topic I wanted her to be on, I’d fake a phone call and scram.

  “That is a brilliant idea. I could do a sermon on it, too, while Chaplain Black goes off on his summer vacation. Your compassion for others speaks volumes.” She paused, a dreamy look on her face while she probably pictured herself speaking to the masses. Then she gathered herself and directed her attention back to me. “Between you and me, I know Colonel Brown and his wife are having some troubles.”

  I guess my suggested speaking topic passed muster. She now rewarded me with information in exchange. This information didn’t hearten me. “Not Deena and Ted. I know he’s been deployed a lot. It can take a toll.”

  MaryJo leaned forward in her chair. “They�
��ve been in here with the pastor about six times. He recommended a marriage counselor.”

  “Anyone else?”

  MaryJo leaned back. I realized I’d asked too much. I drained my tea. “Thanks, MaryJo. For the tea and listening.”

  “Sometimes a good cry is just what the doctor ordered.”

  Or a good lead. MaryJo walked me to the door. “Stop by anytime.”

  I walked partway down the hall before realizing I’d left my purse in my rush to leave the office. I heard MaryJo’s voice as I got back to the office.

  “You’ll never guess who was just here—” She cut off abruptly when I entered. She reddened as she spoke into the phone. “I have to go.”

  “Don’t hang up on my account. I forgot my purse in the chaplain’s office. I’ll be out of here in a minute.” After grabbing my purse, I waved and left. I wasn’t sure if learning the Browns were having marital problems was worth it, knowing before day’s end, most of the base would know I’d cried. I hoped that bit of news didn’t get back to CJ.

  I headed over to the Browns’ house. Deena didn’t work outside the home, and her kids should still be in school. I might be able to catch her. I hadn’t seen her since the day the packers were at our house when I was moving off base. She’d stopped by to see if she could help with anything.

  Deena occasionally volunteered at the thrift shop. My excuse for stopping was to see if she’d like to volunteer again. We needed the help. I knocked on her door. No one answered. I walked over to where some of her neighbors sat outside, watching their kids play.

  “She’s in Boston with friends,” one of them said.

  I would have to track her down later.

  I left base through the Offutt gate, which dumped me out on Hartwell. Took a left on Great Road and headed straight to Bedford Farms Ice Cream. Ice-cream stands. I added them to the list of things I loved about living here—all these small operations that made the most amazing ice creams on site. Bedford Farms had even been mentioned in O magazine once. While New Englanders had a reputation for being reserved, they could be very vehement about their favorite ice-cream stand. I ordered a kiddie-sized cup of Almond Joy ice cream. The kiddie size was bigger than a softball. The large was about the size of a toddler’s head. I sat in my car and ate.