Let's Fake a Deal

by Sherry Harris

  “Like I said. There’s no record of the Greens renting a unit out there. But there was one rented to a Sarah Winston.”

  I wanted to collapse on the steps but tried to hold myself steady. “That can’t be.” He must be lying. Trying to rattle me. It was working, all too well.

  “It is.” Officer Jones turned and went back to his car.

  I waited until he started it and took off before I actually did collapse onto the top step. I knew people had devices that could steal your credit card information when you walked by them. It seemed like people like the Greens would certainly be the types to have such a thing. I quickly checked my credit card account using the app on my phone.

  Oh, no. There were the two charges. I stared down at them for a few seconds, willing them to go away. But of course they didn’t. I called my bank to report the two fraudulent charges.

  “I don’t know how this happened,” I told the customer service representative.

  “Between you and me, all those credit cards with the chips? They are incredibly easy to steal the information from. Someone has to have a radio frequency identification reader, what you might know as an RFID reader, and they can just suck out the information when you walk by if your cards aren’t protected.”

  This wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I’d heard about all of this before but didn’t think it would ever happen to me. I gave the customer service representative all the information about the two charges, thanked him, and hung up. I don’t know if the Greens had something that fancy. They could have just looked in my purse the first time we met when I’d gone to the bathroom. Hook. Line. Sinker. They had me at hello with their “we can watch your purse” routine.

  I followed up my call to the bank with one to Vincenzo. I told him about Officer Jones’s visit and the credit card charges. His voice calmed me a little as he assured me this was nothing to worry about. I wasn’t sure I believed him, but sitting here worrying wouldn’t resolve anything.

  * * *

  I went up to my apartment and made another pot of coffee before I called Luke. He’d left more than one message on my phone.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “As okay as one can be after seeing a dead body. A victim of a crime,” I added. “I thought you were leaving town.”

  “Not now. I rescheduled. Did you get a sense of how he died?” Luke asked.

  I thought about what I’d seen in the car. About Bristow’s warning not to talk about it. “Not really. Did you?”

  Luke as a trained reporter might have seen something I didn’t. That and his background as a Marine had given him excellent observational skills.

  “I didn’t get a very good look at the body, because I was worried about Michelle.” He paused. “But my brief glimpse? He looked peaceful. Did you know him?”

  I explained that I’d only seen him for the first time last night and that I didn’t even know his name until this morning. “I wish I’d paid more attention last night to his interactions with other people in the bar. But I was trying to distract Michelle. Shift her focus from Blade and his obnoxious friends to having a bit of fun. I’m kicking myself now.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. It’s the last thing anyone expected.”

  “Anyone but his murderer,” I said.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later I parked in front of the storage unit the Greens had used—my storage unit according to Officer Jones and my credit card. The lock dangled on the big garage-type metal door. When I got out and examined it, it looked like someone had taken bolt cutters to it. Probably Officer Jones. I yanked the door up anyway. It rattled in the track like a skeleton in a scary movie. It didn’t surprise me to find the unit empty. After all, the stuff had been moved to the garage sale site. I flipped on the light and walked in anyway, standing in the middle and turning full circle.

  Alas, there were no scraps of paper, no messages scrawled on the wall, just a spot of old oil on the concrete floor. It there had been anything, Officer Jones would have gotten to it before me anyway. I pulled the door closed, returned to my Suburban, and drove over to the rental office. A woman with springy gray hair sat behind the scratched counter watching a soap opera on a flat-screen TV that took up half the wall. The actors were almost life size.

  She glanced back and forth between the TV and me. Clearly not delighted with my presence.

  “I can wait until a commercial,” I told her. I’d rather wait a few minutes and have her full attention than have her be impatient because of the interruption. The place smelled of tuna fish and burned popcorn. There were lots of notices pinned to a cork bulletin board. I walked over to take a closer look. There were coupons for Tony’s, a terrible Italian restaurant in Billerica that made truly awful lasagna, an ad for a cheap oil change, and calendars of community events that dated back five years. Nothing helpful here, either. The volume of the TV went down, so I headed back over to the counter.

  “You need a storage unit?” the woman asked.

  “No. I need information about the people who rented unit 1761.” I figured being blunt would get to the point faster and the woman back to her soap opera.

  She squinted at me. “You’re Sarah Winston.”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Cops brought in a photo of you and asked me if I’d ever seen you before.”

  “What did you tell them?” I asked.

  “That I hadn’t.”

  That was good news. Maybe now Officer Jones would believe me.

  “But that doesn’t get you off the hook. I’m not here twenty-four/seven, and we have a system where you can fill out the information online and get a code for the gate.” She looked at the TV. An ad for antacid was playing. I might need one.

  “Is that what happened when 1761 was rented?”

  “No, a guy came in and filled out the paperwork. Paid cash.”

  “Cash? There’s a charge on my credit card for the unit.”

  “He paid cash for the first month and then added the credit card information later.”

  “How long did they have the unit?”

  “Just a couple of months,” she said, checking the TV again. Another commercial.

  “Didn’t you think it was odd that a man was named ‘Sarah’?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I’ve heard a lot of odd names.”

  “What did he look like?”

  She shrugged again. “Brown hair, beard, thinnish.”

  That pretty much described Alex Green. “What about security camera video?”

  “It’s on a forty-eight-hour loop. If nothing goes wrong, we don’t save it.” The soap came back on. She went over and turned the sound up. I headed for the door.

  “You got a brother, honey?” the woman asked.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “The police asked me about that.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  That pretty much described my brother as well as Alex Green, I thought as I drove over to Kitty Thompson’s house. If the police thought I was making the Greens up, my brother and I pretty much fit the bill, too. Great. Combine that with what Officer Jones had told me and things were looking worse. Although Alex had a birthmark and Luke didn’t.

  Seth called as I parked in front of Kitty’s house at eleven forty-five.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t talk to you at Gillganins this morning.”

  “I understand. I wanted to run over and throw myself at you.”

  “Hmm, I like the sound of that. Want to do that tonight?”

  I smiled. “Your place or mine?”

  “Yours?” Seth asked.

  “Yes.” At least this lousy day would have a happy ending.

  “How are you?” Seth asked.

  I loved that he didn’t ask, “Are you okay?” That he knew I couldn’t be completely okay after what I’d seen this morning. I didn’t know how he did his job. He dealt with bad people and crime scenes day in and out.

  “I’m staying busy. It keeps my mind off things. In fa
ct, I’m parked in front of a new client’s house. I need to get going.”

  “Okay. See you tonight.”

  I forced myself to get out and knock on the door. At least talking to Seth had left a smile on my face.

  Kitty answered the door. Today she wore a long-sleeve dress with a print of kittens playing with balls all over it. Somehow it worked for her. “Come in.” Kitty bounced a bit as she said it. “Where do you want to start?”

  I always tried to do the task I hated the most first when working. I probably needed to apply that philosophy to my personal life, too. “The basement.”

  “Okay. I took down a comfy chair and a table to make the place a little more bearable. There’s also a space heater down there, too. But best of all, I talked to Toulouse, and he’s promised to keep you company.” Kitty beamed at me.

  Oh boy. “That is very generous of Toulouse, but if he has other things to do . . .” I let the statement trail off because I was beginning to wonder if Kitty was sane and if I should be going down in her basement.

  “He took a liking to you last time you were here. I don’t think I could separate the two of you if I wanted to.”

  As we headed through the kitchen to the basement, I noted that there wasn’t a lock on the door that would keep me down there. That made me feel a tiny bit better. Toulouse appeared and followed us down the stairs, where Kitty had placed a pink upholstered chair with a back that was shaped like a cat’s head. It sat near a table that would be great for sorting and pricing. Kitty had also brought down a couple of bright standing lamps.

  Kitty turned on the space heater, and in a few minutes it chased away some of the damp and musty smell. Toulouse curled up on a cushion shaped like a cat next to the chair.

  “I’ll be up working in my office if you need anything,” Kitty said. “There’s a kettle on the stove and a variety of tea bags if you want some.”

  My fears of being kidnapped faded. But as a precaution I would send a group text to my two closest friends, Stella and Carol, letting them know where I was.

  “Great. I’ll get started then.”

  Kitty climbed the stairs and she didn’t close the door between the basement and the kitchen. Whew. I lifted the closest box off its stack and set it on the table. A little tingle of excitement went through me. The anticipation of the search never left me no matter how many sales I did. Although most yielded nothing too exciting, there was always hope. Going to garage sales was like finding a good partner. You had to kiss a lot of frogs before you found a treasure.

  I opened the lid and started unwrapping cat figurines in every shape and color. Some looked like they might be from the sixties. None of them were signed, which would have added value. The sheer amount was almost overwhelming. I did some quick research on cat figurines. Most of these had been mass produced and wouldn’t sell for more than a couple of dollars, if that. After I priced each one, I rewrapped them and put them back in the box. I put a big red X on the front of the box and moved it to the other side of the basement. I went up and made myself a cup of tea.

  The kettle of course looked like a cat. The water poured out of its mouth and the handle was its tail. And while I’d rather have a cup of Dunkin’s coffee, English breakfast tea would hold me over for now. I went back and opened another box. I unwrapped a tiny bronze cat that sat on a pedestal and another and another until there were a set of nine. Could these be Burmese opium weights? I wasn’t sure, so I did a quick online search—they were.

  If these were all original, they were probably worth more than the two other boxes I’d sorted through combined. The term “opium weights” was a bit of a misnomer. They had an actual practical use—to weigh things like vegetables or spices that were being sold at markets. And while they might have also been used in the opium trade, it wasn’t their main purpose. I liked how the heaviness of them felt in my hand. They weren’t intricately carved, but the whiskers stood out. Their faces looked a bit evil with their wide eyes and grins. I set them aside to do some more research before pricing them.

  After an hour and a half my stomach growled, which startled Toulouse. “I’m sorry,” I told him as I stood and stretched my arms above my head. I turned off the space heater and lights and climbed the stairs with Toulouse by my side.

  Kitty stood in the kitchen with a large butcher knife in her hand. I stood stock-still.

  “I’m making a salad,” she said, pointing at a head of romaine with the knife. “Would you like to stay for lunch?”

  Yeesh, my imagination was on overdrive. “No thanks. I have another appointment.” I squatted down and patted Toulouse. “You were excellent company.”

  Kitty and Toulouse walked me to the door.

  “I found a set of Burmese opium weights in one of your boxes. Do you think they are originals?” I asked Kitty.

  “I had an aunt who was a world traveler and loved cats. I think they must be,” Kitty said. “I remember the set you mentioned. I always thought the cats looked a bit wicked. I like happy cats.”

  Me too, I thought as I left. Me too.

  * * *

  At two I yanked open the door of DiNapoli’s Roast Beef and Pizza, like I was ripping a stubborn bandage off a wound. I worried that if I avoided public places in Ellington it might make me look guilty. And starting here was safe because the owners, Angelo and Rosalie DiNapoli, were dear friends, almost family. They wouldn’t let anyone give me any grief, especially not Angelo. His name meant messenger of God. And woe to you if you crossed him unjustly. Rosalie stood behind the counter taking orders. A menu board hung over her head. The open kitchen was behind her. Angelo had his back to the counter while he let a round of pizza dough fly up into the air before catching it and sending it back up.

  DiNapoli’s was divided into two sections. The left side was where you ordered, and beyond it the kitchen. The right side was a long, narrow space filled with unmatched tables and chairs, some of which I found for them at garage sales. A low wall separated the kitchen from the dining area.

  When it was my turn to order Rosalie smiled. “Sarah, it’s good to see you.” Her dark brown eyes sparkled. Her brown hair curled around her ears, and her clothes were neat and practical.

  It warmed my heart just to come in here.

  “We have a special today.” Rosalie said it loud enough so the whole place could hear her. “It’s for people who have been falsely accused. A bowl of New England clam chowder and a half a sandwich for fifty percent off.”

  This was Rosalie’s way of telling the locals she believed me. I’d only lived in Ellington a couple of years and was about as far from a local as possible. When things went wrong in this town, people assumed it was someone who was new to town who did it.

  A man behind me piped up. “My ex-wife accused me of having an affair. Do I get the special?”

  “I said falsely accused,” Rosalie said. Everyone laughed and the man shrugged.

  “Gotta try,” he said.

  “Maybe that’s your problem,” Rosalie answered. But her smile took the sting out of her words.

  “I’ll have the clam chowder and half a sandwich,” I said.

  “Try the pesto, fresh mozzarella, and tomato panini,” Rosalie said. “Angelo used a new recipe for the clam chowder.”

  “It’s bellisimo,” Angelo called without turning around.

  “I assume he didn’t use tomatoes,” I joked.

  Rosalie made the sign of the cross, and Angelo whipped toward me still managing to catch the pizza dough. His hair was thinning, but he didn’t try anything fancy to disguise the fact.

  “I’m kidding. I know there’s a law against putting tomatoes in New England clam chowder.” The law was archaic but still on the books in Massachusetts.

  “Tomatoes have no place in chowder.” Angelo pronounced it chowdah. One of the reasons I loved Massachusetts was the charming accents. “It’s one of the many things wrong with New York. Who puts tomatoes in chowder?” Out of the corner of my eye I saw people nodding in agre
ement.

  “I’m a believer,” I said. I wouldn’t admit to anyone here that I liked the tomato-based Manhattan-style chowder, too.

  “Go sit,” Rosalie said. “I’ll be over when things calm down. What do you want to drink?”

  “Just water, please,” I said. Rosalie filled a glass and handed it to me.

  I sat at a table and thought about what a day it had been so far. The weight of Major Blade’s death settled on me. Five minutes later a server brought me my food, a large plate with a bowl of clam chowder, the half sandwich, and a side of homemade potato chips. Steam rose off the chowder. It was thick with plump clams and potatoes and spiced with just the right amount of pepper. It didn’t take long until I was scraping the last bits from the bottom of the bowl.

  I cleansed my palate with some water and chips. They crunched nicely. Then I attacked my sandwich. By the time I finished eating, the line was gone and Rosalie came to sit across from me.

  “Do you need something stronger than water?” she asked. They had gotten a license to serve wine and beer a few months ago. I kind of missed the days when they snuck wine to me in a kiddie cup with a lid and a bendy straw.

  “No thanks. I have more work to do this afternoon.” I left off that the work was trying to track down the Greens. “So what have the good folks of Ellington been saying about me?” Running a business in a small town depended on the goodwill of its inhabitants.

  “They’re backing you. Officer Jones is a known hothead. People aren’t happy. A petition is circulating for you.”

  That warmed me way more than any glass of wine could. “Unknowingly I was in possession of stolen goods.”

  “They set you up.” Angelo joined us at the table. He had a rolling pin in his hand and waved it around. “When I get my hands on them.” He grasped the rolling pin more tightly.