From Beer to Eternity

by Sherry Harris

  Vivi stood. “If this is your last day here, let’s get this place opened up so you can earn your keep.” She winked at me as she said it.

  Winked!

  * * *

  I stood outside the Sea Glass at eleven the next morning saying one last goodbye to Vivi and Joaquín. I’d planned to leave earlier but stayed late last night, talking to Vivi, Wade, Joaquín, Michael, and Ralph. We’d sat out on the deck of the Sea Glass, talking like old friends. Funny how close you could get to some people in just over three weeks. Dorothy cried when she left the Emerald City, and I knew I’d cry when I left the Emerald Coast.

  Rhett had been nowhere to be seen. He’d left the bar yesterday afternoon not long after I’d announced I was leaving today. All I got was a handshake and a good luck. Maybe Ann was wrong about who he liked, because it certainly didn’t seem to be me.

  I’d also taken one last run—well, hobble, considering my foot—on the beach this morning. I was going to miss those runs along with the sanderlings, pelicans, and dolphins. In Chicago it would be back to pounding the pavement or going to the gym to run on a treadmill. It didn’t hold much appeal after my beach runs. But now my car was packed and I was ready to take off. I’d be back for visits when I had vacation time. The Sea Glass, the people, they’d become part of my heart, and I felt like I was leaving a piece of it with them.

  Vivi, Joaquín, and I stood next to my Beetle—a bit awkwardly, no one knowing quite what to say. My phone rang. “Hang on a minute,” I told them, “it’s my boss.” I’d sent her a text yesterday, saying I’d be back and ready to work in two days. I took a couple of steps away from them.

  “Chloe, I have some difficult news.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “There’s been a hiring freeze. We were just briefed an hour ago. You don’t have a job.”

  “But I never quit. I’m just on leave.”

  “The higher-ups said we did fine without you, so they cut your position.”

  “There’s nothing you can do?”

  “I fought for you, but there isn’t anything else I can do. I’m sorry. You know once they lift the freeze I’ll higher you in a heartbeat.”

  “Can I transfer to another library in the system?” I heard the edge in my voice.

  “They are all in the same boat.”

  I thanked her and hung up.

  “What’s wrong?” Joaquín asked.

  “I don’t have a job or a place to live.” I stared at my phone for a moment. “There’s a hiring freeze. I’ve been frozen.”

  “That’s the problem with the North. It’s too cold,” Vivi said with a dramatic shiver. She swung out an arm, gesturing to the beach. “Not here, though. Here you have a job, a place to live, and the only thing that’s frozen are the margaritas. Stay?”

  I looked out at the placid Gulf, then at Joaquín, who was nodding and bouncing on his toes like a five-year-old who was excited about the book he’d just found. I turned to Vivi. “Of course I’ll stay. Thank you.”

  Joaquín squealed and gathered us in his strong, fisherman arms for a group hug.

  “I have some ideas about changes we could make . . .”

  “Shut up, Chloe,” Joaquín said.

  “I was kidding.” My voice was muffled against his chest. Maybe, I thought. Maybe.

  Acknowledgments

  I have so many people to thank for helping me with this book. My editor, Gary Goldstein, has been amazing through the writing of this book. And thanks to all the other unseen heroes who work behind the scenes at Kensington. John Talbot, my agent, is always there when I need him.

  Thanks to Tom DeAngelis, fireman, who answered so many questions. Curt Frost, who coined the term Redneck Rollercoaster for Jeep rides on their California ranch. Charlie and Kathy Minter for boating information and for being the best neighbors we could ask for when we lived on the Emerald Coast. Shannon Ponche, bartender extraordinaire in Brooklyn, for walking me through the bartender life. Shari Randall for talking to me about being a children’s librarian and for being an amazing friend. Kristopher Zgorski and Michael Mueller for allowing me to use a story of theirs and inspiring a character or two. My beta readers, Jason Allen-Forrest, Christy Nichol, and Mary Titone. The three of you are fabulous, your support and honest feedback has made this book way better. Jessie Crockett—who writes an amazing series as Jessica Ellicott—helped me at the very beginning of the process by spending hours with me on the phone, plotting. It’s something I’m not good at and she’s great at, and she did it despite her busy schedule.

  Barb Goffman, can you believe this is the eighth book we’ve worked on together? You are one heck of an independent editor and friend. You pushed me (and pushed me and . . . ) to make this better, and I couldn’t have done it without you. Any errors are on me.

  To all the readers, reviewers, bloggers, librarians, and booksellers out there, a huge thank-you for your support of the Sarah Winston Garage Sale mysteries. I hope you like Chloe. A special shout-out to bookseller extraordinaire, Kelly Hebert Harrington. Her support of this series has been phenomenal. To the Wickeds. I love you all. And, of course, to my family, who take the brunt of my crabby, my-book’s-due days—thanks for your love and support. I wouldn’t be a writer without you.

  If you like the Chloe Jackson, Sea Glass Saloon Mysteries, you will love the Sarah Winston Garage Sale Mysteries!

  SELL LOW, SWEET HARRIET

  A Sarah Winston Garage Sale Mystery

  by

  Agatha Award–nominee

  Sherry Harris

  “Bargain-hunting has never been so much fun!”

  —RT Book Reviews

  ONE WOMAN’S TRASH . . .

  Sarah Winston’s garage sale business has a new client: the daughter of a couple who recently died in a tragic accident while away on a trip to Africa. Their house is full of exotic items from around the world that need to be sold off. When Sarah learns that the deceased were retired CIA agents, the job becomes more intriguing—but when an intruder breaks in and a hidden camera is found, it also becomes more dangerous. And Sarah has enough on her plate right now because she’s investigating a murder on the side at the nearby Air Force base, where her status as a former military spouse gives her a special kind of access.

  . . . IS ANOTHER WOMAN’S TROUBLE

  With so much work piling up, Sarah decides to hire some help. But her assistant, Harriet—a former FBI hostage negotiator—has a rare talent for salesmanship. Which is good, because Sarah may have to haggle for her life with Harriet’s assistance....

  Keep reading for a special excerpt, and look for the

  Sherry Winston, Garage Sale

  Mystery series, on sale now where books are sold.

  CHAPTER 1

  From the back of the base chapel I could see the large photo resting on an easel at the front of the church. Golden light from a stained glass window shone on a picture of a smiling, auburn-haired young woman, dead, murdered right here on Fitch Air Force Base.

  I sat on a pew after a couple scooted over for me. The church was packed, standing room only even on a Tuesday morning. I wasn’t sure if it was because they knew Alicia Arbas or were horrified at how she had died. Maybe it was a combination of both. When a tragedy hit a base, especially a smaller one like Fitch, military people pulled together.

  I studied the picture of Alicia, her bright smile. She wasn’t me, but she could have been. That’s why her death hit so close to home. Why I was sitting back here listening to the prayers, eulogies, and singing hymns even though I hadn’t known her all that well.

  Thirty minutes later the service for Alicia was almost over. There had been a lot of laughter as people shared funny stories, but more tears because Alicia died at the hands of an unknown killer. Someone who lived on base or had, at the very least, been on base. People glanced at one another more often than normal. Were they trying to suss out if their neighbor could have been the one who committed a murder? I worried about what would happen to people, to a c
ommunity such as this, when they couldn’t trust one another.

  We sang the last hymn as the casket was carried out. Alicia’s husband, a young captain, followed, pale and uncomfortable-looking in his black suit. The pain in his face seared my soul.

  A few minutes later I stepped out of the church. The January wind slashed at my tights-covered legs and pulled at my coat. I scraped at the blond hairs that slapped my face, so I could see where I was going. Lunch was to be served in the church basement, but I was headed to DiNapoli’s Roast Beef and Pizza for food and comfort. I didn’t know Alicia well enough to console anyone. I had paid my respects, said my prayers, so it was time for me to go.

  I crossed the parking lot to my car.

  “Sarah Winston.”

  I turned at the voice. Squinted my eyes in the sun. Scott Pellner, a police officer for the Ellington Police Department, called to me. I almost didn’t recognize him out of uniform and in a suit. He was broad and muscled, a few inches taller than me. His dimpled face grim.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. I had scanned the crowd at the funeral, curious about who’d be there. There had been a large group from the base Spouses’ Club, an OSI agent—the Office of Special Investigations—who I knew, lots of military folks in. their uniforms. A few of my friends, but they were too far away to join. I hadn’t spotted Pellner.

  “Working the case,” Pellner said.

  The base and the town of Ellington, Massachusetts, had memorandums of agreement. When a crime was committed on base but involved a dependent—the spouse or child of the military member—they worked together.

  “Do police really go to funerals to see if the killer shows up?” I asked.

  “They do in this case,” Pellner said. His voice was as serious as I’d ever heard it.

  “No suspects?”

  “There’s suspects. But no proof.”

  From what I’d heard, at some point in the night almost a week ago, Alicia had gotten up to take their new Labrador puppy out to do its business. We’d had a terrible ice storm that day and a thick coat of ice caked everything. The house I lived in looked like it had been wrapped in glass. And when I’d gone to bed that night I had heard tree branches across the street on the town common snapping under the weight of the ice. Later chunks fell off the house as a warm front swept through from the south and I was grateful to be snug in my bed.

  Early in the morning Alicia’s husband woke to the sound of the puppy barking and crying. He found the sweet thing scratching at the back door—shivering but otherwise okay. After calling for Alicia, he found her sprawled in the backyard with a head wound. Ice shattered around her. At first everyone had thought it was a terrible accident. But later the medical examiner discovered the wound might not have been an accident. When Alicia had first been found the scene wasn’t treated as a crime scene, so any evidence had melted away. No footprints, no nothing.

  “Who are the suspects?” I asked. I assumed the husband. He had to be on the list as the last person to have seen her.

  “Did you know her?” Pellner asked.

  Of course he wasn’t going to answer my question. I shouldn’t have bothered asking. “We occasionally crossed paths at the base thrift shop.”

  “Do you know who her friends are?”

  I shook my head. “No. And I don’t know who doesn’t like her either.” That’s what he really wanted to know.

  Car doors slammed. We turned to see the hearse pull away. Pellner shook his head. “I need to go.” His face still grim as he hurried off.

  * * *

  Forty minutes later I pushed my plate away from me. I’d polished off the better part of a small mushroom and sausage pizza, today’s special. Angelo DiNapoli, the proprietor and my dear friend, didn’t believe in pineapple on pizzas and sneered at toppings like kale. According to Angelo those weren’t real pizzas. He stuck to the traditional and was excellent at what he did. Me, on the other hand? Except for anchovies I’d eat almost anything on a pizza, especially if someone else made it.

  I wished I could have a glass of wine to warm me, but I was meeting a client who was interested in having a garage sale. That was a rare thing in January in Massachusetts, so I needed the business. I was still cold from talking to Pellner in the parking lot. And every time someone opened the door the wind nipped at my ankles like an overenthusiastic puppy.

  I shuddered thinking again of Alicia.

  “You haven’t been in for a while,” Angelo said. His face was warm, his nose a little on the big side, and his hair way past receding, not that he cared. By a while he meant five days. I’d been huddled at home.

  I looked around the restaurant. It was almost empty. The right side, where I sat, was lined with tables. To the left was the counter where you ordered and behind it the open kitchen. I’d been in such a swirl of thoughts I didn’t notice the lunch rush had left—back to wherever they had to go. That explained my cold ankles. Angelo DiNapoli pulled out a chair and sat down. He wore his white chef’s coat, a splash of marinara on the pocket.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked.

  “I just left a funeral.”

  “For the woman who was murdered on base?” Angelo asked as he crossed himself.

  I nodded. “She was like me. A younger version. Only twenty-five.” Fourteen years younger than me.

  “How so?”

  “Active in the Spouses’ Club, volunteered at the thrift shop, didn’t have kids.”

  “You see yourself in her?”

  “Yes. I know what it’s like to have to move somewhere you don’t want to live and far from everyone you know and love. Then do it over and over.” I sighed. “I didn’t know anything about the military or military life when CJ and I met. And I was always afraid I’d do something that would hurt CJ’s career.” I had married my ex-husband, CJ, when I was only eighteen. “During our first assignment I asked a colonel’s wife out to lunch because she was so friendly. We went to the Officers Club and ate. Then there was this huge brouhaha that a lowly lieutenant’s wife was out with a colonel’s wife. She didn’t care. I didn’t care. But a lot of other people did.”

  “That doesn’t sound easy,” Angelo said.

  “It wasn’t at first. It’s hard enough to feel judged when it’s just you, but then worrying about tanking your husband’s career too? It feels like you’re walking a minefield of rules no one gave you.”

  Angelo crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you reevaluating your life?”

  “Maybe I have been. I’ve been a bit down since I heard the news of her death. It seemed like everyone loved her.” I wasn’t so sure everyone had loved me when I lived on base. CJ and I had lived on Fitch for a couple of years until we divorced two years ago. We had tried to work things out, but just couldn’t manage it and split up for good last spring. “If the eulogies are any indication.”

  “They aren’t,” Angelo said, “any indication. Genghis Khan would sound like a saint at his own funeral. People gloss over. They forget that people are complex.”

  “You’re right.” I knew that. It’s a lesson I’d learned over and over the past few years.

  “Would you change the past?” Angelo asked.

  I sat for a moment thinking over my decisions, how life had led me here. I’d moved to Ellington right after my divorce and had started my own business organizing garage sales. My friends buoyed me and I was in a great relationship. I was proud of what I’d accomplished, but always feared failure. It was part of what I’d been obsessing about for the last week. I shook my head. “I wouldn’t change much. Every decision made me who I am. Even though I’m still not sure who that is.”

  “Then what are you going to do? Sit around and feel sorry for yourself ?”

  I smiled at Angelo. He didn’t pull any punches. “That’s exactly what I’ve been doing.”

  “What have you been doing?” Rosalie, Angelo’s lovely wife, joined us. Concern creased lines around her brown eyes. Her brown hair was cut short and suited her. Rosa
lie held three plates with pieces of tiramisu and passed them out. “We’ve missed you.”

  I almost laughed. It would keep me from crying. Jeez, I was one big ball of emotions. “You two are the best.”

  “At least someone recognizes that,” Angelo said.

  “Oh, Angelo,” Rosalie said.

  He held up both hands, palms up. “It’s the truth.”

  We ate our dessert, chatted about things that didn’t have to do with Alicia. They entertained me with stories of the early years of their marriage living in a small apartment in the bad part of Cambridge.

  “Did you always want to open a restaurant?” I asked them.

  “Yes,” Angelo said. “My nonna and mama taught me everything I know about food. I loved cooking from the day I set foot in their kitchen when I was three.”

  I turned to Rosalie. “And you?”

  She smiled at Angelo. “I love him, so I supported his dream.”

  “She’s a born hostess and a great partner,” Angelo said. He took Rosalie’s hand and kissed it. “Forty-five years almost, and I don’t regret a day.”

  “Maybe one day?” Rosalie said with a wink. “Cooking is all about love for us.”

  Maybe I should learn to cook a dish and surprise everyone by having them over for a meal. It’s not like I never cooked while CJ and I were married. It’s just that when I tried I always seemed to leave an ingredient out or overcook everything. I blanched when I remembered the episode of the undercooked chicken. That was one dinner party no one would ever forget.

  Even when I’d tried using a slow cooker, I seemed to end up with mush. Now there were Instant Pots and air fryers and pressure cookers. New appliances with elaborate recipes to try to master. It was terrifying out there.