Let's Fake a Deal

by Sherry Harris

  “Why do you look so upset?” Kitty asked.

  “Because I missed it.”

  “I think it’s my fault. I found another bag of jewelry this morning and stuck it in with the others.”

  “Oh, thank heavens. I thought I was slipping.”

  Kitty patted my arm and turned to a friend who’d come up to her. I headed back over to the man who found the necklace.

  “I’m sorry. It’s not for sale after all.” I braced myself for his reaction.

  He smiled. “I get it. I guess I should learn to keep my big mouth shut at these things.”

  * * *

  At three o’clock the garage sale looked like a wasteland. We’d consolidated the remaining cats onto two tables.

  “I got two commissions for painting people’s pets,” Kitty said.

  “That’s wonderful.” I’d helped design a brochure of Kitty’s paintings.

  “If I’m lucky someday I’ll be able to quit my accounting job and paint animals all day. What a joy it would be to make people happy through my paintings.”

  “When do you think you’ll start redoing the outside of your house?” I asked. Hopefully, it would be long enough from now that her neighbors wouldn’t associate the garage sale with the construction.

  “About that,” Kitty said. “So many people from cat organizations were here today. I overheard lots of conversations. They have so many needs. I decided to donate the money instead of changing the outside of my house.”

  Kitty looked at me and laughed.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You look so relieved.”

  “I was worried about what your neighbors would think. It’s a lovely neighborhood.”

  Kitty looked around. “It is.”

  “And I think Toulouse will approve,” I said.

  “So do I.”

  * * *

  Back at home I stretched out on top of my blue and white comforter. It was fluffy and felt like a hug. My white curtains let the late afternoon light in. Garage sales were a lot of work, and I just wanted to close my eyes for a few minutes. My phone rang, so I rolled over to see who was calling. Erin. Great. I thought for a second about not answering, but since I’d talked to Becky this morning I felt like I should take Erin’s call, too.

  “Hey, Erin.” I didn’t ask her how she was, because from what Becky said not happy.

  “You are never going to believe this, but Becky called me yesterday.”

  Actually, I could believe it. “She did?”

  “She said she was calling to apologize, but instead she did one of those I’m sorry you felt that way. That’s not an apology, that’s blaming the person for being right. In this case anyway. Because she was wrong, and I was totally right.”

  I hated those kinds of so-called apologies, but I didn’t want to get back in the middle of the two of them. I should have kept my big mouth shut about the whole thing. Lesson learned. I murmured some kind of noise that might sound like an agreement, but that gave me deniability if I needed it. I liked Becky and I liked Erin. It was hard when two people were at odds. And I had to be practical. A few people from base had hired me to do garage sales for them. Unless something egregious happened, I’d chalk this up to she said, she said and try to remain friends with both of them.

  “I might have forgiven her,” Erin said, “but I will never forget. What she did originally or that phony apology. And frankly none of my friends will, either.”

  We talked a few more minutes before hanging up. I rolled over and closed my eyes. But instead of sleeping, I thought about the situation with Becky and Erin. Life was hard enough, and things like this made it harder when they didn’t necessarily need to. It was like me being intimidated by Nichole. What good did it do? What would it matter in five years? We all fretted about a lot of stuff that wasn’t that important.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  At nine that night I sat at DiNapoli’s with Carol, Stella, Rosalie, and Angelo. Angelo had fixed us a feast fit for thirty instead of five. Seth had begged off, saying he had some work to catch up on. I wondered if something else was going on. The table was still loaded with food. Calamari, garlic bread, two kinds of salad, ziti, meatballs. And that was after the antipasto plate and soup we’d started with. The last customers had left, and we had the place to ourselves. Angelo had kept our wineglasses full of Chianti and regaled us with stories of growing up poor in Cambridge. Maybe poor in money, but rich in family and friends. Loved. Isn’t that all any of us really wanted? What was with me and the deep thoughts? Maybe it was because of the arrest and being set up by the Evans. Maybe it was from seeing a man get blown up. Or maybe it was the comfort Seth had given me over the last week.

  I managed a final bite of my ziti and pushed my plate away. Thankfully, I’d worn a loose tunic top and leggings, so I didn’t have to deal with a tight waistband. “Don’t let me eat any more.”

  “But I have dessert,” Rosalie said.

  Rosalie’s Italian cookies were amazing. I let out a small groan. “But I’m stuffed.”

  Angelo poured more Chianti in my glass. “Here’s to you being off the hook.”

  We all clinked our glasses and then took a sip.

  “Do you have any idea why Ashley and her husband set you up?” Carol asked.

  I’d been so busy for the past two days clearing up my legal issues and working on the garage sale for Kitty I hadn’t seen anyone. It had been such a fun evening that I hated to even talk about it. But these were my friends. My family. I wished Luke could have been here, but he had to fly out of town this afternoon on assignment. He’d told me before he left that he and Michelle had spent every minute together since she’d gotten home yesterday. Michelle even took him to the airport. I was happy for them.

  “It was twofold. A matter of convenience and poor business practices on my part. But something creepier, too.” I told them what Ashley had said about Tiffany Lopez. They all exchanged glances. “What is going on? I get the impression it’s something other than just celebrating my freedom.” All night they had been looking at each other. A raised eyebrow here, a shake of the head there. It seemed like they’d been waiting for dinner to be over.

  “I’ll clear the table,” Rosalie said.

  “I’ll get the dessert and more wine.” Angelo started to stand.

  “Sit,” I ordered. “Spill it. I’m a big girl.”

  “It’s about CJ,” Carol said.

  “Is he sick? Hurt?” Being a police officer was risky even in a small town in Florida.

  “No. He’s fine,” Stella said. She turned to Carol. We all did.

  “You know he stays in touch with Brad,” Carol said.

  I nodded.

  “How do you feel about CJ?” Carol asked. They all watched me anxiously.

  “Guilty. CJ said he’d die a lonely old man without me. It makes me sad. I want him to be happy. He thought he could be with me, but he was wrong. We were wrong for each other.”

  Carol glanced at Stella. “You don’t need to feel guilty,” Carol said. “CJ’s seeing his high school sweetheart. She’s a widow with two young girls. Her husband was killed two years ago in Afghanistan. It sounds like they are serious.”

  Wow. CJ always wanted kids and we couldn’t have them. His mom must be over the moon. I’d heard enough about the high school sweetheart from her over the years. We’d actually met once when CJ and I were visiting his parents. She was a lovely, warm person, and her two girls had been adorable. I ran through memories of CJ and me. How we’d met, places we’d lived, the last two years of ups and downs between us. If CJ was happy, I could let the guilt go. There was a twinge of sadness for what we’d lost, maybe what we’d never had.

  “I’m happy for him. He’s a good man and deserves a good life,” I said. “Is that why Seth isn’t here? Because you were worried about how I’d react?”

  They all nodded.

  I smiled. “You are good friends. Thank you for worrying about me. For loving me.” My voice caught
a little. “Now how about that dessert?”

  * * *

  An hour later Stella and I strolled home. I was too stuffed to move any faster. Seth was sitting on the top step of the porch.

  “You should give him a key,” Stella said while we were still out of earshot.

  “I’m not ready. Have you given one to Awesome?” I asked.

  Stella grinned. “Point taken.” Stella greeted Seth and went inside.

  The night was warm, the stars bright. I sat down next to Seth on the porch and leaned against him. “Do you know?” I asked. I had a feeling Carol had called him and told him she needed to talk to me privately.

  “I know that I love you.”

  Little swirls of happiness surrounded me. I took his hand and squeezed it. “I mean do you know why Carol arranged the dinner at DiNapoli’s?”

  “No. She was a bit cryptic. Is everything okay?”

  I looked over at the town common. The white church loomed large, glowing in the light of the almost full moon. I thought of a hymn that said It is well, it is well with my soul. It’s how I felt sitting here in Ellington with Seth next to me.

  “It’s better than okay.” I told Seth what Carol had told me about C J. But also how it made me feel, including the twinge of sadness. Maybe it was time to quit holding back parts of me. Maybe that’s why CJ and I had never completely worked. I thought about the Greens/Evanses and how they valued so little except money. Seth’s arm was warm and steady against mine. The only things with any real value were the people in my life and my relationships with them.

  I looked at Seth. “I love you, too.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To my editor, Gary Goldstein, and my agent, John Talbot. Thank you both so much for all you have done for me. I love it when you tell me stories about each other from back in the day. Maybe I should write a book . . .

  To the Wicked Cozy Authors—Jessie Crockett, Julie Hennrikus, Edith Maxwell, Liz Mugavero, and Barbara Ross. This publishing thing is quite the ride. Sometimes a roller coaster and sometimes merry-go-round. I wouldn’t want to be on it without all of you.

  To independent editor Barb Goffman—you do so much more than find plot holes and misspelled words. Thanks for always making me dig deeper and for making each book so much better.

  To Mary Titone. Mary, Mary you’re never contrary. Thank you for acting as my publicist, but more importantly for being such a wonderful friend.

  To Clare—you now dance with angels while I weep. Thank you for working on each of these books with me. May you sit on my shoulder as I write and whisper encouragements when I have doubts. I miss you and our adventures.

  To Bruce Coffin. Bruce Coffin is a retired detective sergeant from Portland, Maine. He writes the bestselling Detective Byron Mystery series. Thank you for encouraging me to go ahead and have Sarah arrested and for helping with those details. I love how it turned out. Any errors are all mine.

  To Vida Antolin-Jenkins—you are the one who suggested a story focusing on issues women face in the military. I hope this makes you proud. Thank you for helping me understand the ups and downs, for sharing your personal experiences, and for letting me borrow some of them. You also talked me through the details of what an IG complaint could do to a career. This book wouldn’t be a book without you.

  To all the women who serve our country in the military. Thank you. A special thanks to two veterans, Stacy Bolla Woodson and Heather Reed. Your stories inspire me.

  To the crime-writing community—especially to Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America along with all the bloggers and reviewers. Thank you.

  To my readers—thank you for reading my books and writing to me!

  To my lovely family even though we are scattered around the country, I always hold you close to my heart.

  Keep reading for a special excerpt of

  The Gun Also Rises by Sherry Harris!

  THE GUN ALSO RISES

  A SARAH WINSTON GARAGE SALE MYSTERY

  TO RECOVER A PRICELESS MANUSCRIPT . . .

  A wealthy widow has asked Sarah Winston to sell her massive collection of mysteries through her garage sale business. While sorting through piles of books stashed in the woman’s attic, Sarah is amazed to discover a case of lost Hemingway stories, stolen from a train in Paris back in 1922. How did they end up in Belle Winthrop Granville’s attic in Ellington, Massachusetts, almost one hundred years later?

  WILL SARAH HAVE TO PAY WITH HER LIFE?

  Before Sarah can get any answers, Belle is assaulted, the case is stolen, a maid is killed, and Sarah herself is dodging bullets. And when rumors spread that Belle has a limited edition of The Sun Also Rises in her house, Sarah is soon mixed up with a mobster, the fanatical League of Literary Treasure Hunters, and a hard-to-read rare book dealer. With someone willing to kill for the Hemingway, Sarah has to race to catch the culprit—or the bell may toll for her . . .

  Look for The Gun Also Rises. On sale now!

  CHAPTER ONE

  A drop of sweat rolled down my back as I rang the doorbell of the mansion. I wanted to blame it on the hot sun pummeling my shoulders, but it was nerves. As I listened to the deep gong echoing inside the house, I thought, for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. I didn’t know the rest of the poem, only that Hemingway used it for a title, or why the lines swirled through my head. They sure sounded ominous.

  I’d been summoned here via a thick cream envelope delivered by a messenger yesterday at noon. The card inside read:

  Mrs. Belle Winthrop Granville III

  Requests the presence of Miss Sarah Winston

  at 10:00 a.m., July 25

  It was impossible to refuse such an invitation. Okay, so I could have, but curiosity would have killed me if I did. I’d been running a garage sale business for over a year and a half, here in Ellington, Massachusetts. But I’d never worked for someone as wealthy as Belle Winthrop Granville, III. Miss Belle, as she was called around town, which was a very Southern thing to do for a bunch of Yankees, was a legend in Ellington. I couldn’t imagine how she’d even heard about me. Or that she needed me to do a garage sale for her.

  But I knew about Miss Belle. In fact, everyone in Ellington knew her story because who didn’t love a good love story? She was from an elite Alabama family. She’d met Sebastian Winthrop Granville III at spring break in Key West in the early sixties. Sebastian was from a wealthy Boston Brahmin family. Both families were dead set against the union, but the two snuck off and married. They were like Romeo and Juliet without the entire star-crossed business.

  The story went that Miss Belle had brought her Southern hospitality up north as a young bride, but never won over Sebastian’s family. To escape the cold disapproval, Miss Belle and Sebastian moved to Ellington, where Sebastian opened a bank and made his own fortune. This all happened in the sixties, long before I’d landed in Massachusetts three years ago when I was thirty-six.

  I stared at the door, willing it to open. I was beginning to feel twitchy, which wasn’t a good way to make a first impression. When it finally swung open, a twentysomething woman in a black knee-length dress with a crisp white apron stood there. For a moment, I wondered if I’d been invited to a costume party and that I should have worn something other than my blue and white sundress. “Hi, I’m Sarah Winston. Mrs. Winthrop Granville is expecting me.”

  “Yes, ma’am, follow me.”

  I detected a bit of a Boston accent in her voice. We trekked across what seemed like miles of marble flooring, under chandeliers, and past a staircase that would suit Tara from Gone With the Wind. She led me to a room with a massive desk near tall windows lined with dark green velvet curtains. For a moment, I wondered if I was on the set of a remake of Gone With the Wind.

  “I’ll go get Mrs. Winthrop Granville,” the maid said.

  “Thank you.” I turned slowly around after she left. The room was two stories high and filled floor to ceiling with shelves of books. There were two library ladders and a small balcony. It was a reader�
��s dream room. Except for a lack of comfy chairs.

  “How do you like my library?”

  I turned at the sound of the soft voice with a Southern accent, where the word my sounded like mah and the word library was drawled out from three syllables to about five. A petite woman with silver hair twisted into a neat bun stood behind me. “Mrs. Winthrop Granville,” I said. I recognized her from photographs in the newspaper. “It’s an amazing room.”

  “If you are going to work with me, please call me Belle,” she said. She wore a twinset that looked like Chanel and tan slacks. A scarf draped gracefully around her neck.

  I was going to work with her? She really wanted to have a garage sale?

  Miss Belle laughed. “You look flabbergasted.”

  “Trying to keep my emotions from showing isn’t my strongest suit. It’s why I rarely play poker. Apparently, I don’t have just one tell, I have a multitude of them. What did you have in mind?”

  “Let’s sit,” Miss Belle said. “Would you like me to have Kay get you something to drink? Tea or a Coke?” She gestured to the maid, who stood in the doorway of the room.

  “No, I’m fine, thank you.” The idea of having someone wait on me had always made me slightly uncomfortable.

  Miss Belle sat in a leather chair behind a desk that almost dwarfed her and gestured for me to sit across from her in an equally massive chair. She ran a hand across the smooth mahogany of the desk. “This was my Sebastian’s desk. He loved this silly thing. It’s ridiculously big, don’t you think?”

  “It’s lovely.” What else could I say?

  “It was his grandfather’s. One of the few things he wanted from his family when we moved to Ellington in the sixties.” She sighed. “But I’m guessing you are wondering why I’ve asked you here.”