The Longest Yard Sale (2 page)

I roamed around, wishing I had time to barter for things for myself—a red purse, an antique chair, a chenille bedspread. Nothing pumped me up like making a deal. I consoled myself by remembering my apartment was small enough that I didn't have room for much else, anyway. I spotted a vendor with beautiful old prints and boxes of empty, antique frames.

“I hand-color the prints,” the vendor told me.

“I'm going to let a friend of mine know about all these frames.” I sent a text to my artist friend Carol Carson, who owned a store, Paint and Wine. It was located on Great Road at the end of the town common in a line of storefronts. A few months ago I'd introduced her to the joys of garage and tag sales, and now she was always on the hunt.

I spent the next few hours monitoring the vendors, helping lost tourists, reuniting kids with parents, and settling the occasional argument that broke out when two people wanted the same item. I saw lots of people I knew but never had time to stop and talk to them.

“You have to do something about the traffic.” Nancy's voice boomed through my earpiece.

I don't know what she thought I could do. I turned and looked over my shoulder at Great Road. I'd done my best to ignore it up to this point. If I'd thought it was jammed at 7:30, what it looked like now would have done New York City proud. The good news was that lots of people milled about, visiting the shops and restaurants along Great Road.

Carol's shop looked packed with people, and my favorite restaurant, DiNapoli's Roast Beef and Pizza, had a line out the door. A faint whiff of roast beef drifted over to me, and my stomach growled in response. My earpiece crackled.

“Chief Hooker just called, and he's not happy. Great Road is slow on either end of Ellington, all the way from Bedford to Carlisle.”

“We both knew there was a possibility this could happen.” This probably wasn't the right time to remind her I'd suggested having people park at the high school and run buses back and forth between there and the town common. “It means the event is a big success. Didn't you authorize some overtime for traffic control?” I asked. I could hear horns honking as people became impatient with the wait on Great Road. I hoped I could avoid CJ for the next few days until he got over this.

“Yes, of course I did,” she said. “With all this traffic, it really will be New England's Largest Yard Sale. I wasn't sure you could pull it off.”

I couldn't believe Nancy had thought I'd fail. She'd hired me, after all. But it was her political career that was on the line if something went terribly wrong.

“I'll tell CJ to get his officers out there and keep the traffic moving,” Nancy said.

She could tell CJ that until she was blue in the face, but the truth was Great Road was a main cut-through from the 95, which connected Maine to Miami, and to the 495, which circumvented Boston. (The locals always made fun of my California speak, which had me using the word
the
before 95 or any other road number I referenced.) It was going to take more than a few police officers to get the road going again. I turned my back to Great Road and looked up at the church steeple reaching toward the bright blue sky. The weather was perfect. The trees were changing, the meteorologists had gotten it right, and I couldn't ask for a better New England autumn day. I focused on all the positives.

At some point, I'd turned down the sound on my earpiece. Nancy's voice droned on and on, more annoying than a gnat relentlessly buzzing my ear. After a few minutes I realized she'd quit talking—that it had been a while since I'd heard her say anything. “Nancy?” I asked several times. She didn't answer. I shrugged. I was too busy to worry about what Nancy was up to.

Sirens began to wail. First one, then others joined, in increasingly large numbers. I couldn't pinpoint where they were coming from or going to. Fire trucks crept out of the station a block up on Great Road, with some going left and others to the right. People quit shopping to look around. The band stopped playing.

I smiled at people as I hurried across the common to the church. “It's okay,” I said over and over, desperately hoping it was. I tried to reach Nancy and turned up the volume on my earpiece in case I couldn't hear her over the crowds and the sirens. I motioned to the band and got them playing again as I scanned the crowd, looking for Nancy.

People took that as a good sign and began to shop again. Thankfully, the sirens headed away from the town common, but that many sounding at once couldn't be good.

I rushed back over to Great Road, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was happening. But all I saw were long lines of traffic.

My earpiece crackled to life. “What's going on?” Nancy's voice blasted my eardrum.

For once, I was happy to hear her voice in my ear. I'd been more worried about her silence than I'd realized. “I don't know.” I craned my neck as I looked up and down Great Road. CJ, in his chief-of-police SUV, inched along. I knew that wasn't good. CJ pushed his Ray-Bans up on his forehead. We locked eyes for a second. From this distance, I couldn't see the pale blue of his eyes or the way he narrowed them when he was mad. He pounded his horn and hit the siren in frustration. Traffic was slow to get out of his way. Where could they go on a narrow New England road? His glare said it all—this is your fault.

“Where are you?” I asked Nancy.

“At the church. Meet me there.”

I plunged back into the throngs of shoppers as Nancy came around the corner next to the church. She jerked her head toward a side entrance, and I followed her in. The noise level dropped instantly.

“We might have to shut this whole thing down.”

I stared at Nancy. “Why?”

“There's an arsonist on the loose.”

CHAPTER 2

I stared at her. “Why do you think that?”

“I just spoke with the fire chief. There's a series of small fires smoldering all around the area.”

Shock and relief swept through me. The thought of an arsonist on the loose was awful, but at least the fires had nothing to do with my event. “Where?”

“One's near the start of the Rails to Trails path.”

The path was only a few miles from the town common. It runs from Ellington to Cambridge and is heavily utilized by bikers, runners, and Rollerbladers. A biking magazine recently named it one of the best paths in America because of the ancient trees shading it and the easy access it provided to historical sites.

“How bad is it? Is there any damage?”

“I don't know. I'm waiting for a report.”

“Where are the other fires?”

“One near the old missile silos on that land Harvard owns. A bigger fire at the old chicken coops on the VA property in Bedford. And one near the high school football field. The brand-new
millions
-of-dollars Astro Turf field.” Nancy emphasized the word
millions
as if I didn't know. It had been years in the making and a hotly debated topic around town.

“How could one person start that many fires so far apart from one another? Especially on a day like today when the roads are clogged.” As the crow flies, the sites weren't that far apart, but on the narrow, crowded roads they were.

“I have no idea.” Nancy's face was creased with worry. “If the fire damages the high school's Astro Turf field, I'm holding you accountable, Sarah.”

I looked at her, thinking she must have lost her mind. “How could I be responsible? This is the work of a very sick person.”

Nancy glared at me for a moment, then her faced relaxed. She patted my arm. “I'm sorry. It's just so terrible. The police department is overwhelmed with traffic direction, crowd control near the fires, and actually helping put fires out. The chief isn't happy,” Nancy said as if I somehow had the key to the chief's happiness. On reflection, that might be true, but this was not the time to think about that.

“It's too bad CJ's unhappy. But this has nothing to do with our event, and there's no reason to shut us down.” Even as I said it, I wondered about the timing of the fires and what, if anything, they might have to do with the yard sale.

One of the vendors called to me, so I left Nancy. I worked the event, putting out fires—bad choice of words—and solving problems all across the common. Two hours later, Nancy instructed me to meet her at the side of the church again.

“The fires are all out. The creepy old chicken coops were slated to be torn down for low-income housing, anyway. The few officers left at the police station ran over to help put out the fire at the football field.”

That made sense. The police station and the football field were separated by just a small park and some basketball and tennis courts. Many of the department's employees had kids that attended Ellington High School. They'd be highly motivated to make sure the fire was out and next Friday's football game was on.

“The other fires were minor and quickly extinguished.”

“That is good news indeed,” I said.

 

 

The official end of the yard sale was five
PM
. By six only a few stragglers roamed the common. All the canopy tents and booths had been taken down. The last of the sun's rays lightened the sky to the west. The church cast long shadows across the common. The event had been a huge success. Euphoria circled through me, and I wanted to celebrate.

Vendors had asked me if we were going to do this next year and could we add a day. They had little to load back into their vehicles. Most of the tourists didn't realize anything had gone awry. I heard reports that local businesses had boomed today, that the individual yard sales had good crowds, and that the car washes and other events packed people in. As long as I dodged CJ, life looked good.

Nancy strode up to me as I picked up some trash on the lawn. “How can we make next year's event even bigger?”

Inside my head, I did a fist pump and danced a jig. In spite of the fires, Nancy was happy with the event. “Some of the vendors mentioned doing a two-day sale,” I began. “We could add a pancake breakfast with local maple syrup from New Hampshire, a clambake in the evening, an organic farm stand, an animal parade with organic treats as prizes.” Who knows what I could dream up given more time? “I have a friend who's a horologist.”

Nancy's mouth dropped open. “A what?” she sputtered out. “What's a horologist?”

“She makes clocks. I could have her make a special one to be auctioned off for a local charity.”

“Whew. There for a minute I thought you were talking about some kind of illegal adult entertainment.”

It was probably not the first time someone had thought that about my friend.

Nancy smiled. “Exciting ideas. I'll check my calendar so we can start planning for next year. I'll call you.”

“Have you heard anything new about the fires?” I asked.

“I think it was someone trying to ruin our event. Some of the people in the other towns around here were quite jealous—mad they didn't think of New England's Largest Yard Sale first.”

It was quite a leap, I thought, from jealousy to arson. “Where were you midday? You went radio silent for a couple of hours.”

Nancy opened and closed her mouth. She waved a hand around. Interesting. This was the first and only time I'd seen her at a loss for words.

She finally lifted her chin and stammered out, “As town manager I have multiple duties—unlike you, who had only this event.” She made a sweeping gesture with her arm as though this event had been no big deal. Nancy turned on her heel and headed off, looking a bit like a steamroller. Tourists beware.

One of the local Boy Scout troops picked up trash as part of a service project. I helped. As I headed back to my apartment around seven-thirty my phone rang. I thought about ignoring it—I'd already ignored a couple of calls from CJ. But I saw it was Carol Carson. We'd met in Monterey and known each other for almost twenty years. We were thrilled when we both ended up at Fitch Air Force Base a couple of years ago after a long while of being stationed at opposite ends of the country. Last December we both moved to Ellington, for different reasons. Carol had her business, and her husband, Brad, after retiring from the air force, took a job at the Veteran's hospital in Bedford. CJ and Brad were almost as good friends as Carol and I.

“What's up?” I asked.

“Can you please get over here?” Carol said. Her voice had an edge to it I'd never heard before. “Right now.”

“Are you at the shop?” I asked, but Carol had already disconnected. I glanced across the common at Paint and Wine. Lights blazed. I reversed direction to see what had put such a frantic note in Carol's voice.

CHAPTER 3

I looked through the beveled-glass window that filled the top half of the old wooden door. Tables topped with small easels filled the room. Stools were tucked neatly under them. Paintings lined the walls. No one was in the shop. I tried the knob. The door was unlocked. “Carol?” I called out as I stepped into the shop.

“Back here. Hurry,” Carol said. She appeared at the door that separated the public space from her private studio. Tall and slender, Carol wore jeans and a tight-fitting sweater that showed off her ample chest. It wasn't that I was a washout in that department, but Carol had an enviable figure.

I hurried past the tables and easels, where her clients could create a painting in a couple of hours using Carol's unique teaching method. Carol led me to an easel holding a blank sixteen-by-twenty canvas.

“What?”

“Someone took my painting,” she said, pointing at the easel. A large canvas tarp sat crumpled on the floor beside it. Her face was pale, her eyes wide. She twisted a strand of hair around her finger. “Right before I called you, I took the tarp off. The blank canvas was there, and my painting was gone.”

“Oh, no. Did they take anything else?”

I looked around. She'd lined most of the walls with pegboard. Old frames and assorted canvases hung in neat rows. A table was covered with a neat array of paints, arranged by color. Brushes stood in brightly flowered vintage biscuit tins. A chaise lounge sat in one corner with a stack of art books beside it. The room smelled like turpentine and paint.

At the back of the studio, vintage curtains we'd found at a garage sale divided the working area from a small storage space and a door that led to the alley.

“No, just the painting.”

“Nothing else is missing? No money?”

Carol shook her head. “It's worse than money. It's a catastrophe.”

“Why?”

“It's a copy of the Patrick West painting at the library.” She pointed to a computer monitor next to the easel. The picture of a recently fought battle glowed with its bright reds and blues contrasting with ashen faces, gray stone walls, and rolling spring fields.

“You were copying
Battled
?”
Battled
was Ellington's beloved painting by native son and Revolutionary War hero Patrick West. He'd first sketched a drawing at the end of the first day of the Revolutionary War. After surviving the war, West had used the sketch and brought the scene to life in an oil painting that depicted the anguish and triumph as the colonials chased the British soldiers from Concord back to Boston. He'd gone on to have a highly successful career as an artist. Some of his works hung in the National Gallery of Art.

“Yes. It was done—except it needed to finish drying. Here, I took some pictures of it.” Carol clicked on the keyboard. Her hand shook as she scrolled through pictures of the painting in various stages.

I was shocked. I'd known Carol was talented, but only an expert would be able to tell that this was a copy. “It's beautiful. Was it for you?”

“No, a client.”

“Who?”

“That's not the issue. I have three more weeks before my client needs it, but I'm sure I can recreate it in that amount of time.”

It worried me that Carol didn't answer my question about her client. “When did you realize it was missing?”

“Just before I called. I'd draped the canvas over it last night because I knew we'd be busy today, and I didn't want anyone to see it.”

When Carol had painted a painting for me she'd done the same thing. She didn't like people to see her work in progress.

“So it could have disappeared anytime between last night and now?”

“Yes.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to call CJ?” I asked. Being close to the chief of police came in handy on occasion.

Carol took a shaky breath and thought for a moment. “No. It's okay. You know that copying paintings is a little shady. As long as it's for use in a private home it's not so bad. I was planning to sign it after the paint dried.”

“Is there any chance Olivia moved it?” Olivia was Carol's new assistant, an art student who wasn't all that reliable. Carol had called me more than once to help out when Olivia was a no-show.

“I did a quick search, but will you help me look again? Maybe I somehow overlooked it.”

“Sure.” We started in the public space, going through cupboards and looking in corners. There weren't many hiding spaces out here. We quickly searched Carol's studio before moving to the small storage space. A stack of canvases, some finished, some waiting to be completed, yielded nothing. Shelves held cans of paint thinner, turpentine, and lots of tubes of paint. A couple of wooden boxes filled with a jumble of frames sat on the paint-spattered concrete floor.

Carol pointed at them. “Those are the frames I bought today at the yard sale.” She smiled for a brief moment.

“Wow. That's a great haul.” I opened the door to the small bathroom. An aromatic waft of scent came from a vase full of dried lavender sitting on a shelf over the toilet. A sink and wastebasket were the only other things in the room. I checked the wastebasket, just in case. It was empty.

“Did you ask Olivia about the painting?” I asked.

“I sent her a text, and she said she thought it was there when she left. We were really busy today with all the tourists. Olivia was only here until one because she had a study group for a class she's taking at Middlesex Community College.”

“Did she know what you were painting?” I asked.

“She might have. I usually kept it covered during the day and worked on it when the shop was closed.”

“What can I do to help? You know I can't paint,” I said.

“You're better than you think. But I'll just have to give up sleeping.”

“I have a couple of garage sales I'm organizing for next weekend.” Organizing a garage sale for Carol last spring had led to a series of other people asking me to set up garage sales for them. “If I can help here or run your kids around, let me know.” Carol had eight-year-old twin boys and a six-year-old daughter, all of whom participated in lots of activities.

“Thanks for coming over. I thought it would magically appear if you were here.”

I paused as I watched her face the blank canvas on the easel, worry lines etched on her forehead. My rumbling stomach set me back in motion. I couldn't think of the last time I'd eaten. I headed down the block to DiNapoli's Roast Beef and Pizza.

 

 

Just as I arrived, Rosalie switched the sign on the glass door to
CLOSED.
I started to turn away, but Rosalie spotted me and opened the door.

“Sarah, we were just going to eat. Join us.”

“Is she paying?” Angelo shouted from the back of the restaurant.

“Of course I will,” I said.

“No. You want her to pay for leftovers, Angelo? Have you lost your mind?” She turned to me. “I think the crowds today wore him out,” she said, her voice lowered.

But behind her Angelo winked and smiled at me. His bald head shone above a fringe of hair. Rosalie tried to whisk me over to a table where they would eat, one in a row of tables positioned on the right side of the restaurant. A low wall separated the eating area from the kitchen. That way Angelo could keep an eye on things while he cooked. No fancy tablecloths—or, for that matter, any tablecloths at all—covered the odd assortment of wooden tables. The tables and chairs were mismatched, not because it was trendy but because Angelo didn't want to buy new ones. Of course, if asked, Angelo would claim he started the trend. These days, when something broke, I found its replacement.

“I'll set the table,” I said, shooing off Rosalie's attempts to stop me.

Soon dishes of pasta, pieces of pizza, an antipasto platter, and warm garlic bread with olive oil for dipping covered the table.

“Want some cooking wine?” Angleo asked with another wink.

“Yes, please,” I said.

Rosalie served me Chianti in a kid's cup with a lid and a straw because they didn't have a liquor license. Anytime I looked around the restaurant and saw adults drinking out of kid's cups, I knew they were sipping wine and were close friends of the DiNapolis. It amazed me that they weren't able to get a liquor license while Carol had one for Paint and Wine. It burned Angelo as well, so two of my favorite people hadn't warmed to each other.

As we ate, we talked about all of the tourists and the success of the sale.

“We were swamped all day,” Rosalie said, but her warm, brown eyes still sparkled with energy. Her brown hair was in place, as always.

“What do you know about the fires?” Angelo asked me.

It didn't surprise me that Angelo already knew the news. His restaurant was a hub for gossip in Ellington. Policemen and firefighters frequented the place.

“Not much. A series of small fires were started around town at about the same time. All were put out without too much damage, although those old creepy chicken coops out at the VA burned to the ground.” I pushed my plate away and sipped my Chianti. “Nancy told me that if the fire damaged the new football field she'd hold me responsible.”

Angelo waved his hands in the air. “That woman—she thinks she knows more than the rest of us.” In Italian,
Angelo
meant messenger of God, and he took that role to heart, which meant he butted heads way too often with the town powers that be. “You let me know if she pulls something like that again. I'll take care of it.”

I worried about what Angelo's method of “taking care of it” would be. I'd seen him nose-to-nose with a traffic officer when he didn't like the way traffic was rerouted. I knew Angelo had a cousin who was a lawyer for the Mob. His letters to the editor in the local paper were scathing if he didn't like something the town was considering. I hoped he was joking.

Rosalie set a tray full of cannolis and Italian cookies on the table. Minutes ago I'd thought I couldn't take another bite, but Rosalie's baked goods were irresistible. I picked a cannoli filled with chocolate mousse. The ends were dipped in mini chocolate chips. I must have made some kind of happy noise when I bit in because Rosalie smiled at me.

 

 

I left a few minutes later with one bag stuffed with what we didn't eat, plus another full of Italian cookies. As I left, Rosalie tucked the unfinished bottle of “cooking wine” under my arm.

My legs ached as I walked back across the common. I'd been on my feet almost all day. As I'd predicted this morning, boots with heels hadn't been a smart choice. But at least the fall air was still warm. When I stopped for a moment in the middle of the common to stare at the stars popping out, weariness settled over me. A bath, with a glass of wine and some decent blues playing in the background, sounded like the perfect ending to the day.

As I got closer to my building, I saw a figure sitting on the porch, arms on knees, head down. I hoped it was Bubbles waiting for Stella or one of the Callahans' kids. But soon enough the figure shifted, and I could tell it was CJ. I thought about ducking into the shadows of the church and sneaking around the back way. But CJ spotted me and stood.

I had a minute or so to decide, as I walked the rest of the way across the common, whether to invite CJ in or keep him out on the porch. Talking on the porch would shorten our visit and get me into the tub sooner. But I'd hurt CJ's feelings so many times recently that inviting him up might be the more diplomatic thing to do. I hoped he wasn't here for a relationship talk because I was too tired to fight.

I held the food between us when I reached the porch. “Want to come up for some leftovers?”

CJ took the food from my hands and swooped in for a kiss. I kept it to a brush on the lips, even though part of me longed to fall into his arms, lean into his chest, and surrender. But there was too much unfinished business between us to allow myself to do that. I stepped back, hoping the dark would hide the blush on my face. It wasn't dark enough that it hid the disappointment on CJ's.

In my apartment, CJ moved carefully through the living room so he didn't hit his head on the side of the ceiling that slanted down. CJ's light brown hair was a bit longer than when he had been on active duty in the military. I set the wine on the counter and pulled out a plate so CJ could eat. We settled at my small kitchen table, another barrier I'd used to good purpose on more than one occasion. CJ unpacked the food and took a bite of a meatball before it even hit the plate I slid in front of him.

“Their meatballs are the best,” he said, wiping a bit of tomato sauce from the corner of his mouth. He stabbed a fork into a piece of Italian sausage. “And their sausage is blissful. You don't usually get sausage.”

“This is food that was left over at the end of the day.”

“I rarely get their food.”

“I thought all was forgiven.”

The DiNapolis had taken my side nine months ago, during the separation and divorce, when we all thought CJ had slept with a young woman. CJ, who befriended everyone, had been hurt by that.

“So did I, until I went in a few months ago. I don't think anyone actually spit in my food, but the glare and the chill made me realize I'm still persona not grata in there. Why is that?”

I shrugged, but I knew. I grew up in Pacific Grove, California, right next to Monterey. My family still lived there and were mystified that I stayed out here in the snow and ice. Ellington felt like home to me, and the DiNapolis were like my family. They not only filled my tummy but also my soul by listening to my woes. “They think you're pressuring me.”