From Beer to Eternity

by Sherry Harris

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF SHERRY HARRIS

  Praise for The Gun Also Rises

  “A roller-coaster of a mystery penned by a real pro. This series just gets better and better. More, please!” —Suspense Magazine

  “Author Sherry Harris never disappoints with her strong, witty writing voice and her ability to use the surprise effect just when you think you have it all figured out!”—Chatting About Cozies

  “This series gets better with every book, and The Gun Also Rises continues the trend. If you haven’t started this series yet, do yourself a favor and buy the first one today.”—Carstairs Considers

  Praise for I Know What You Bid Last Summer

  “I Know What You Bid Last Summer is cleverly plotted, with an engaging cast of characters and a clever premise that made me think twice about my shopping habits. Check it out.”—Suspense Magazine

  “Never one to give up, she (Sarah) continues her hunt for the killer in some unlikely and possibly dangerous places. Fans of Harris will appreciate both the clever mystery and the tips for buying and selling at garage sales.”—Kirkus Reviews

  “Each time a new Sarah Winston Garage Sale Mystery releases, I wonder how amazing author Sherry Harris will top the previous book she wrote for the series. I’m never disappointed, and my hat’s off to Ms. Harris, who consistently raises the bar for her readers’ entertainment.”—Chatting About Cozies

  Praise for A Good Day to Buy

  “Sarah’s life keeps throwing her new curves as the appearance of her estranged brother shakes up her world. This fast-moving mystery starts off with a bang and keeps the twists and turns coming. Sarah is a likable protagonist who sometimes makes bad decisions based on good intentions. This ups the action and drama as she tries to extricate herself from dangerous situations with some amusing results. Toss in a unique cast of secondary characters, an intriguing mystery, and a hot ex-husband, and you’ll find there’s never a dull moment in Sarah’s bargain-hunting world.”—RT Book Reviews, four stars

  “Harris’ fourth is a slam dunk for those who love antiques and garage sales. The knotty mystery has an interesting premise and some surprising twists and turns as well.”—Kirkus Reviews

  “The mystery of the murder in A Good Day to Buy, the serious story behind Luke’s reappearance, the funny scenes that lighten the drama, the wonderful cast of characters, and Sarah’s always superb internal dialogue, will keep you turning the pages and have you coming back for book #5.”—Nightstand Book Reviews

  Praise for All Murders Final!

  “There’s a lot going on in this charming mystery, and it all works. The dialogue flows effortlessly, and the plot is filled with numerous twists and turns. Sarah is a resourceful and appealing protagonist, supported by a cast of quirky friends. Well written and executed, this is a definite winner. Bargain-hunting has never been so much fun!”—RT Book Reviews, four stars

  “A must-read cozy mystery! Don’t wear your socks when you read this story cause it’s gonna knock ’em off!”—Chatting About Cozies

  “Just because Sherry Harris’s protagonist Sarah Winston lives in a small town, it doesn’t mean that her problems are small.... Harris fits the puzzle pieces together with a sure hand.”—Sheila Connolly, Agatha-and Anthony-nominated author of the Orchard Mysteries

  “A thrilling mystery. . . . Brilliantly written, each chapter drew me in deeper and deeper, my anticipation mounting with every turn of the page. By the time I reached the last page, all I could say was . . . wow! ”—Lisa Ks Book Reviews

  Praise for The Longest Yard Sale

  “I love a complex plot and The Longest Yard Sale fills the bill with mysterious fires, a missing painting, thefts from a thrift shop and, of course, murder. Add an intriguing cast of victims, potential villains and sidekicks, an interesting setting, and two eligible men for the sleuth to choose between and you have a sure winner even before you get to the last page and find yourself laughing out loud.”—Kaitlyn Dunnett, author of The Scottie Barked at Midnight

  “Readers will have a blast following Sarah Winston on her next adventure as she hunts for bargains and bad guys. Sherry Harris’s latest is as delightful as the best garage sale find! ”—Liz Mugavero, Agatha Award–nominated author of the Pawsitively Organic Mysteries “Sherry Harris is a gifted storyteller, with plenty of twists and adventures for her smart and stubborn protagonist.”—Beth Kanell, Kingdom Books

  “Once again Sherry Harris entwines small-town life with that of the nearby Air Force base, yard sales with romance, art theft with murder. The story is a bargain, and a priceless one!”—Edith Maxwell, Agatha-nominated author of the Local Foods mystery series

  Praise for Tagged for Death

  “Tagged for Death is skillfully rendered, with expert characterization and depiction of military life. Best of all Sarah is the type of intelligent, resourceful, and appealing person we would all like to get to know better! ”—Mystery Scene Magazine

  “Full of garage-sale tips, this amusing cozy debut introduces an unusual protagonist who has overcome some recent tribulations and become stronger.” —Library Journal

  “A terrific find! Engaging and entertaining, this clever cozy is a treasure—charmingly crafted and full of surprises.” —Hank Phillippi Ryan, Agatha-, Anthony-, and Mary Higgins Clark Award–winning author

  “Like the treasures Sarah Winston finds at the garage sales she loves, this book is a gem.”—Barbara Ross, Agatha Award–nominated author of the Maine Clambake Mysteries

  “It was masterfully done. Tagged for Death is a winning debut that will have you turning pages until you reach the final one. I’m already looking forward to Sarah’s next bargain with death.”—Mark Baker, Carstairs Considers

  The Sarah Winston Garage Sale Mysteries by Sherry Harris

  SELL LOW, SWEET HARRIET

  LET’S FAKE A DEAL

  THE GUN ALSO RISES

  I KNOW WHAT YOU BID LAST SUMMER

  A GOOD DAY TO BUY

  ALL MURDERS FINAL!

  THE LONGEST YARD SALE

  and

  Agatha Award–Nominated Best First Novel

  TAGGED FOR DEATH

  From Beer to Eternity

  Sherry Harris

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Heritage Businesses

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  Acknowledgments

  Teaser chapter

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York
, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Sherry Harris

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  First Kensington Books Mass Market Paperback Printing: August 2020

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2303-1

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2305-5 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2305-8 (ebook)

  To Bob

  For making life an adventure no matter where we live

  and

  To Clare

  The angel on my shoulder

  Heritage Businesses

  Sea Glass—owner, Vivi Jo Slidell

  Briny Pirate—owner, Wade Thomas

  Redneck Rollercoaster—owner, Ralph Harrison

  Russo’s Grocery Store—owner, Fred Russo

  Hickle Glass-Bottom Boat—owners, Edith Hickle,

  Leah Hickle, Oscar Hickle

  Emerald Cove Fishing Charters—owner, Jed Farwell

  CHAPTER 1

  Remember the big moment in The Wizard of Oz movie when Dorothy says, “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore?” Boy, could I relate. Only a twister hadn’t brought me here; a promise had. This wasn’t the Emerald City, but the Emerald Coast of Florida. Ruby slippers wouldn’t get me home to Chicago. And neither would my red, vintage Volkswagen Beetle, if anyone believed the story I’d spread around. Nothing like lying to people you’d just met. But it couldn’t be helped. Really, it couldn’t.

  The truth was, as a twenty-eight-year-old children’s librarian, I never imagined I’d end up working in a beach bar in Emerald Cove, Florida. In the week I’d been here I’d already learned toddlers and drunk people weren’t that different. Both were unsteady on their feet, prone to temper tantrums one minute and sloppy hugs the next, and they liked to take naps wherever they happened to be. Go figure. But knowing that wasn’t helping me right now. I was currently giving the side-eye to one of the regulars.

  “Joaquín, why the heck is Elwell wearing that armadillo on his head?” I asked in a low voice. Elwell Pugh sat at the end of the bar, his back to the beach, nursing a beer in his wrinkled hands. I had known life would be different in the Panhandle of Florida, but armadillo shells on people’s heads?—that was a real conversation starter.

  “It’s not like it’s alive, Chloe,” Joaquín Diaz answered, as if that made sense of a man wearing a hollowed-out armadillo shell as a hat. Joaquín raised two perfectly manicured eyebrows at me.

  What? Maybe it was some kind of lodge thing down here. My uncle had been a member of a lodge in Chicago complete with funny fez hats, parades, and clowns riding miniature motorcycles. But he usually didn’t sit in bars in his hat—at least not alone.

  Elwell sported the deep tan of a Florida native. A few faded tattoos sprinkled his arms. His gray hair, cropped short, and grizzled face made him look unhappy—maybe he was. I’d met Elwell when I started working at the Sea Glass. I already knew that Elwell was a great tipper, didn’t make off-color comments, and kept his hands to himself. That alone made him a saint among men to me, because all three were rare when waitressing in a bar. At least in this one, the only bar I’d ever worked in.

  It hadn’t taken me long to figure out Elwell’s good points. But I’d seen more than one tourist start to walk in off the beach, spot him, and leave. There were other bars farther down the beach, plenty of places to drink. So, Elwell and his armadillo hat seemed like a problem to me.

  “Elwell started wearing it a few weeks back,” Joaquín said with a shrug that indicated what are you going to do about it. Joaquín’s eyes were almost the same color as the aquamarine waters of the Gulf of Mexico, which sparkled across the wide expanse of beach in front of the Sea Glass. With his tousled dark hair, Joaquín looked way more like a Hollywood heartthrob than a fisherman by morning, bartender by afternoon. That combination had the women who stopped in here swooning. He looked like he was a few years older than me.

  “It keeps the gub’ment from tracking me,” Elwell said in a drawl that dragged “guh-buh-men-t” into four syllables.

  Apparently, Elwell had exceptional hearing, or the armadillo shell was some kind of echo chamber.

  “Some fools,” Elwell continued, “believe tinfoil will stop the gub’ment, but they don’t understand radio waves.”

  Great, a science lesson from a man with an armadillo on his head. I nodded, keeping a straight face because I didn’t want to anger a man who seemed a tad crazy. He watched me for a moment and went back to staring at his beer. I grinned at Joaquín and he smiled at me. Joaquín didn’t seem concerned, so maybe I shouldn’t be either. I glanced at Elwell again. His eyes always had a calculating look that made me think there was a purpose for the armadillo shell that had nothing to do with the “gub’ment,” but what did I know?

  CHAPTER 2

  “Whatta ya gotta do to get a drink round here?” a man yelled from the front of the bar. He was one of two men playing a game of rummy at a high top. They were in here almost every day.

  “Not shout for a drink, Buford,” Joaquín yelled back. “Or get your lazy as—” he caught himself as he glanced at Vivi, the owner and our boss, who frowned at him from across the room, “asteroid up here.”

  Vivi’s face relaxed into a smile. She would have made a good children’s librarian considering how she tried to keep things PG around here. Joaquín tilted his head toward me. I took a pad out of the little black apron wrapped around my waist and trotted over to Buford.

  “Would you like another Bud?” I asked Buford. “Or something else?”

  “Sure would,” Buford said. There was a “duh” note in his voice suggesting why else would he be yelling to Joaquín.

  “Another Maker’s Mark whiskey?” I looked at Buford’s card playing partner as I wrote his beer order on my pad.

  “You have a good memory,” he said looking at his half empty glass. “But I’m good.”

  Good grief, I’d been serving him the same drink all week, I’d hoped I could remember his order. I made the rounds of the other tables. By each drink I wrote a brief description of who ordered it: beer, black hair rummy player; martini, dirty, yellow Hawaiian shirt; gin and tonic, needs a bigger bikini. I’d seen way more oiled-up, sweaty, sandy body parts than I cared to in the week I’d been here. Not even my dad, a retired plumber, had seen this many cracks at a meeting of the Chicago plumbers union.

  Those images kept haunting my dreams, along with giant beach balls knocking me down, talking dolphins, and tidal waves. I’d yet to figure out what any of them meant—well, maybe I’d figured out one of them. But I wasn’t going to think about that now.

  Nope, I preferred to focus on the scenery, because, boy, this place had atmosphere—and that didn’t even include Elwell and his armadillo shell hat. The Sea Glass Saloon I’d pictured before I’d arrived had swinging, saloon-style doors, bawdy dancing girls, and wagon-wheel chandeliers. This was more like a tiki hut than an old western saloon, though thankfully I didn’t have to wear a sarong and coconut bra top. I could fill one out, but I preferred comfortable tank tops. Besides, the Gulf of Mexico was the real star of the show. The whole front of the bar was open to it, with retractable glass doors leading to a covered deck.

  The Sea Glass catered to locals who needed a break from the masses of tourists who descended on Emerald Cove and Destin, the bigger town next door, every summer. Not that Vivi would turn down tourists’ money. She neede
d their money to stay open, as far as I could tell.

  Like Dorothy, I was up for a new adventure and finding my way in a place that was so totally different from my life in Chicago. I only hoped that I’d find my own versions of Dorothy’s Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Cowardly Lion to help me on the way. So far, the only friend I’d made—and I wasn’t too sure about that—was Joaquín. He, and everybody, seemed nice enough, but I was still trying to adjust to the relaxed Southern attitude that prevailed among the locals in the Panhandle of Florida. It was also called the Emerald Coast, LA—lower Alabama, and get this—the Redneck Riviera.

  You could have knocked me over with a palm frond when I heard that nickname. The chamber of commerce never used it, nor would you see the name in a TV ad. But the locals used it with a mixture of pride and disdain. Some wanted to brush it under the proverbial rug, while others embraced it in its modern-day form—people who were proud of their local roots.

  The Emerald Coast stretched from Panama City, Florida, fifty miles east of here, to Pensacola, Florida, fifty miles to the west. The rhythm and flow was such a contrast from the go, go, go lifestyle in Chicago, where I’d lived my entire life. The local attitude matched the blue-green waves of the Gulf of Mexico, which lapped gently on sand so white you’d think Mr. Clean came by every night to tidy up.