The Longest Yard Sale (7 page)

CHAPTER 10

On Monday morning, I sat across from Nancy in her office at the town hall. The town had spared every expense on the utilitarian furnishings. Nancy had brought in a rug with thick swirls of bright color to soften the room. It didn't help. A pipe angled across one corner but was painted the same shade of off-green as the wall to try to disguise it. The joints had rusted, and there was a damp spot where it disappeared into the ceiling. No one could accuse the town of wasting funds here.

“We could have compared calendars over the phone,” Nancy said. She had stacks of paperwork on her desk. Behind her was her wall of fame. Photos of her with John Kerry, Patrick Duval, and Tom Menino when they were senator, governor, and Boston mayor. There was a picture of her throwing out a first pitch at a Red Sox game and plaques from various organizations. “And we didn't need to do it today.”

I knew we didn't need to do it today, but it wasn't why I was here. I wondered how informed she was about the McQueen murder, and what I could find out. “I thought if we were going to go to two days, we'd better plan early. We don't want to be on the same weekend as Bedford Days, and you probably have other events that I wouldn't even think about.”

Nancy nodded with an “of course I do” nod. She opened a computer file, and I tapped open the calendar on my phone. We coordinated a couple of potential weekends. Nancy would take it to the selectmen and town council for their input.

Nancy closed her calendar and folded her ringless hands on the table. “Anything else?”

“I was worried about you. Because of the murder, right after the fires and yard sale—it all must feel a bit overwhelming.” I still wondered where she'd disappeared to in the middle of the yard sale. Maybe I could worm that out of her.

Nancy's eyes popped wide open, and then her expression softened. It seemed as though she wasn't used to people asking how she was doing. A Yankee through and through, she gave off a definite, brusque “leave me alone” attitude. Up until now I had bought it. “I'm an administrator not an investigator.”

“But I know how much you love this town. I'm guessing that when things go wrong it affects you.”

Nancy shuffled some papers on her desk. “You're right, it does.”

“Stella told me Terry's from Ellington. And that he and Gennie were friends.” It wasn't exactly what she'd said, but getting Nancy to open up was harder than prying a clam open with a toothpick.

Nancy snorted. “Friends is a stretch. He was a counselor when Gennie was at camp one summer. The summer she learned to fight.” Nancy shook her head and obviously didn't approve of something, but what I couldn't tell, the fighting, the camp, the counseling. She clasped her hands on her desk until her knuckles turned white.

I opened my mouth to ask another question, but a knock on the door interrupted us. CJ stood there. He didn't look happy to see me. I stood. “Let me know which weekend works best for next year's yard sale,” I said to Nancy. I slid by CJ with a nod and wondered whether, if I lingered outside the door, I'd hear anything useful. CJ took one look at me and closed the door.

 

 

After leaving Nancy's office, I headed over to Gennie's house to start photographing the items I didn't think I could price myself.

“If you don't mind, I'll start putting tags on items I can price as I go through each room,” I said when Gennie let me in.

“Why would I mind?” Gennie asked. She was dressed in shorts and a tank top again.

“It's not going to look very good when Nancy comes over. She'll wonder what's going on.”

Gennie pondered that, then sighed. “She's going to find out sooner or later—although I'd rather it be later. But I also need to get this place ready to go on the market. I can always tell her I'm downsizing and let her think it's to somewhere close by.”

I started with the Victorian room. First, I took pictures of the whole room from several different angles. Then I started the laborious process of taking individual photographs. Where I could, I photographed the name of the artisan who made the piece, which would help establish its value. I opened drawers and snapped pictures of how the pieces were put together. Some had joints that were dovetailed, using interlocking pieces of wood instead of nails. That told me the piece was older or handmade, and that made a difference in its pricing. When I downloaded the pictures to my computer at home, I could zoom in and start an inventory list. This wasn't going to be any ordinary garage sale.

After I worked for an hour, tagging and photographing, Gennie came in. She'd changed into jeans and a black top. “Ready for a break?”

I was lying on the floor, taking photos of the underside of a settee where a bit of the original horsehair stuffing was coming out. I snapped a couple of pictures showing the way it was pegged together before standing up. I stretched my back. The piece didn't have any manufacturer's markings, but that didn't mean an expert wouldn't know who made it. “I'd love a glass of water.”

“Me too. I went to a yoga class at the community center this morning and just finished my at-home workout,” Gennie said.

We settled in her kitchen. It looked like it had barely been used. Either that or Gennie was inordinately tidy.

“Yoga?”

“Mixed martial arts requires more than brute strength. You should come watch me. I only have one match left. I'll get you good seats where you can see the blood, sweat, and, in the case of my opponents, tears.”

I'm not sure I wanted to be that close. “It would be an experience,” I said.

“And you should think of a career as a diplomat with that kind of answer. Anyway, there was a lot of talk about the murder at Paint and Wine.”

Of course there was. Maybe Gennie had found out something interesting. “What were they saying?”

“It went from the wild—that Carol's a madam running prostitutes out of the shop—to the more sane—that she had some kind of relationship with Terry. One woman swore she saw them having dinner together in Concord.” Gennie stared down at her glass of water while she talked. A frown made her look troubled. But she'd known Terry for a long time. I'd look troubled too if it were one of my friends.

“Carol told me she didn't know him. I can't believe she'd be out with him. I hope this doesn't hurt her business.”

“People in Ellington don't take to dead bodies in shops.”

“It's not like Carol wanted it there. She's a wonderful person.” I paused. “Maybe you should come paint with me some night.”

“I can't draw a straight line.” Gennie shrugged.

“How well did you know Terry?”

Gennie tapped her strong hands on the island. “Everyone in Ellington knows Terry. And his family.”

That wasn't much of an answer. “But you went to school with him.”

“He was a couple of years ahead of me.” Gennie shifted in her seat several times as though she wanted to get comfortable but couldn't.

“And a counselor at the camp you went to?”

Gennie gave a short nod and shifted again.

“He was Dave's partner in the financial planning company.”

“Son of a . . .” Gennie swiveled to stare at me, veins popped in her muscled neck. “Where'd you hear that?” She took a couple of long breaths, drawing them in deep, then slowly letting them out. It was a good thing she did yoga because for a moment I thought she was about ready to have a coronary.

“From several people. They said he's good with numbers.”

“He always was.” Gennie looked at her oversized kitchen clock. “I have to meet a contractor in Dorchestah. Just close the door when you're finished. No need to lock it. I don't expect you to have everything done right away. It's a lot.”

I stared after Gennie as she scurried out. A couple of seconds later, the front door slammed. Everyone in Ellington might know Terry McQueen, but I got the impression that at least two people didn't like him—Nancy and Gennie Elder.

After I'd worked for several more hours, I eventually opened a closet in the hallway. It was stuffed full of coats for every season. I pushed them aside and spotted several large canvases. I pulled them out into the hall and took them to the Victorian room, where the lighting was better. They were beautiful, with vivid colors and broad brushstrokes. They reminded me of Carol's paintings. I examined them more closely. The stickers on the back were from Paint and Wine. I flipped the paintings over and saw Gennie's signature. But these paintings didn't look like the stock paintings people copied from. These were all unique, a large bowl of mixed flowers, a cityscape of Boston, and a woman reading a newspaper with an oversized cup of coffee by her hand. And they were larger than the ones people normally painted at Paint and Wine.

Gennie had said she couldn't draw a straight line when I asked if she'd like to come with me to Carol's shop. I realized she hadn't answered my question. While there weren't any straight lines in these paintings, judging from these examples she was very talented, so why lie? I put the paintings back where I'd found them. I'd have to find Carol and ask her about Gennie.

As I left Gennie's house, I pulled the door closed behind me, a little uncomfortable with leaving it unlocked. But maybe if you're a professional mixed martial arts fighter you aren't afraid of intruders because you could knock them senseless. Still, there was a murderer at large. As the door clicked into place, a thought clicked in my mind. If you were the murderer, you wouldn't worry about unlocked doors, either.

CHAPTER 11

I'd found out very little, certainly nothing that would help Carol. In fact, I'm not sure I'd found out anything at all. Maybe Nancy and Gennie didn't dislike Terry and I was just misinterpreting their nonverbal cues. I decided to go see CJ and headed down Great Road to the police station.

As I sat in the lobby of the Ellington Police Station, I tried to hear snippets of conversation but failed miserably. The lobby was a unit unto itself; a person sat on the other side of a wall, with only a small glass window to talk through. There was no receptionist at a desk, which might have allowed one to snoop if one were so inclined. I was beyond motivated when it came to snooping right now. I wanted to know if they were building a case against Carol. But I couldn't just walk through one of the two doors leading off the lobby. I had to be buzzed through.

Only a few officers had wandered through the lobby while I was there. One glanced at me curiously but moved on quickly. I sat there twiddling my thumbs, something I'd seen my father do many times. Did CJ know I was out here, or was someone annoyed with me because of all the work the yard sale had created? Or maybe I was just paranoid; after all, six months ago the whole department seemed to be mad at me, though after I'd knocked out a murderer, things had changed. I hadn't been pulled over for speeding, accused of loitering, or ticketed for jaywalking since. But that honeymoon phase between the department and me may have just ended.

After sitting in the lobby of the police station for twenty minutes, I was buzzed through. CJ sat behind his desk, which was covered with paperwork. It was unusual for CJ not to have everything tucked away in folders and filed.

He smiled, but it was brief.

“I sat in the lobby for over twenty minutes. When you show up at my place unannounced I don't make you wait.” I settled on the edge of the chair across from him.

“What do you need?” CJ asked.

Whoa, I wasn't expecting that. CJ could be direct when necessary, but it usually was accompanied by some Southern boy charm or manners. I tried to think if I came in here too often needing something. The last time I remembered was when CJ was being held on a murder charge. That was six months ago.

“I wondered how the investigation was going.” I decided to be direct. Beating around the bush with Nancy and Gennie hadn't yielded much information. “And how you were doing.”

“You wondered if I was going to give you inside information about an ongoing investigation, not how I was doing.”

“That's a bit harsh.”

“I'm not going to give you any information. And if you really cared how I was doing, I'd be sleeping next to you every night.”

There was a bitter note in his voice I'd never heard before. “Are you going to twist everything back to that?” I asked. I stood as someone knocked on the door. Pellner came in.

“They found a fourth incendiary device at the chicken coops. The fire marshal says it matches the ones from here.” He trailed off when he spotted me. “Sorry, Chuck, er, Chief. I didn't realize you were busy.”

“No worries, Pellner. I'm leaving.” My voice came out low and mean. I darted out. I didn't slow down until I climbed into my Suburban across the street from the station. Not that anyone came after me.

Kids played in the tot lot. Moms sat on benches, gossiping. I pounded on the steering wheel and accidentally hit the horn. All the moms jumped and turned to stare. Heat crept up my face, and I sketched an “I'm sorry” wave as I started my car and left. Somehow I ended up at Bedford Farms Ice Cream. New England was dotted with ice cream stands, places that typically made their own offerings on site. Bedford Farms was my favorite. I ordered a small cup of Almond Joy ice cream. Someone here had a sense of humor, calling this serving small, because it contained two softball-sized scoops, but I wasn't going to complain.

What CJ had said about the inside information was true. He was dead wrong about the caring part, though. The easy thing to do would be to have him back in my life without first making sure where our relationship had taken a wrong turn. If I didn't care about him and myself, he'd be back already, although I wasn't going to convince him of that anytime soon.

Then again, when I'd asked for a divorce, CJ had acquiesced. He didn't fight it or try to convince me to stay. I stopped with my spoonful of ice cream raised halfway to my mouth, wondering why I'd never thought of that earlier. Seth had said something about not letting me go in the first place. Why had CJ done that?

 

 

After parking at my apartment, I walked across the town common to Carol's shop. I could tell from a distance that the crime scene tape was down. But the CLOSED sign hung on the door. That surprised me. If Carol was having financial troubles with the shop, I'd have thought she'd be open. I banged on the door, anyway. Carol finally answered.

“Why are you closed?” I asked as I walked in. Carol's usually animated face looked shadowed and drawn. Maybe she really had given up sleeping, or maybe she knew she was a suspect in Terry's murder. Clouds had covered the bright autumn sky, so I flipped on a few lights. It was too depressing with them off.

“First, I had to clean the store and my studio. Then two groups canceled this afternoon. I left the OPEN sign up for a while, but not a soul wandered in. So I just shut things down, and I've been working on my client's painting.”

“The mystery client?”

Carol shot me a steely glare. I guess she didn't find me amusing.

“Have you given any thought to who it might be? How many people have asked you to paint for them in the last couple of months?” I asked.

“The number of people who asked went up after that article in the newspaper about me. Remember? They featured me leading up to Ellington's Art Walk in June. But the number of people who hire me is small when they hear my prices.”

“Do you think it could be any of the people who called after the article was in the newspaper? Did you keep a record of their names?” That might be really helpful. Carol could call them back and see if they sounded like the mysterious client. A little leap of hope bound through me.

“I didn't keep a list. There didn't seem to be any point at the time.” Carol studied her ceiling. She shook her head. “I just don't remember the voice sounding similar. Come on back and take a look at what I've done so far.”

“You're braver than I am—working back here where you found the body,” I said as we walked into her studio.

“The light's good. I don't have much choice.” Even though it was a back room, Carol had installed special fixtures that produced lighting that was similar to actual daylight. So on cloudy days, when the skylights didn't provide much light, she could still work. Without a dead body back here it looked cheery.

A new oriental rug covered the floor where Terry's body had been. “Isn't that going to get ruined as you paint?” I asked.

“It's from HomeGoods, and I got a great deal, so I don't really care what happens to it.”

“When did you go to HomeGoods? And why didn't you call me?” The closest HomeGoods was in Bedford.

“I went on the spur of the moment this morning after Brad's mom arrived.”

“Brad's mom is here?” Brad's mom and Carol didn't have the best relationship. No wonder she looked even more drawn.

“Brad suggested it so she could take care of the kids while I painted. Suddenly, he's all on board with me getting this painting done and collecting the money.”

“That's great. He should be supporting you.” Unlike CJ. Even the ice cream hadn't erased the sour taste left in my mouth after our encounter. “Why don't you paint? I'll flip the sign to OPEN and stay out front. Maybe someone will come by. Or a group of people.”

“Okay.” Carol didn't sound enthused.

“While I'm out there, I'm going to go through your records. To see if there's any connection between you and Terry. Maybe he came in and you just don't remember him.” I'd also look for any signs of Gennie being here. But I'd keep that to myself for now.

“That'd be good. The sooner the murder gets cleared up, the better for business.”

“I'll call and confirm appointments, too.”

“Thanks. I set up my backup computer out front. It should be all ready to go. Olivia was supposed to come in this afternoon, but she hasn't shown up yet.”

“Maybe she saw the CLOSED sign.”

Carol shrugged and grabbed a paintbrush, turning to the almost empty canvas. I headed to the front of the shop, pulling the studio door mostly closed behind me, and fired up the computer. I called the three people who had a group class scheduled for tomorrow. One canceled; one wanted to, but I cajoled the woman into coming. The third person I talked to seemed a little too excited about painting in a “haunted” store. As long as the group showed up, I figured it wasn't my problem, although I probably needed to warn Carol.

I ran Terry's name through Carol's computer. Nothing popped up. I wasn't surprised Terry's name didn't show up. I assumed the police had searched the computer, and if his name had been in there she'd probably have been questioned at the station. Next, I tried Gennie's name. Zero results. But I'd seen the paintings at Gennie's house. Her name should have shown up. It didn't seem possible that Carol took cash from clients and didn't report it to avoid taxes. I'd known her for years. It was out of character. But so was the drawn face and the mystery client.

I started doing Google searches linking Terry's name to Carol's list of clients. A few connections popped up, but they were tenuous at best. Things like two of them running in Ellington's 10K harvest race and several people who'd gotten awards for service to the base. Nothing that screamed so-and-so had a reason to kill Terry.

I remembered I'd promised to question Carol's clients about the missing painting. It had been stupid, but maybe Google could help me out here, too. I ran her client list against phrases like “art collector” and “art theft.” Again, nothing leaped out as sinister or a motive for art theft or murder.

Raindrops splatting against the window jarred me out of my Google trance. It was dark. I checked my phone. I'd missed dinnertime. I stood and stretched. “Carol?” No answer. I hurried to the back room, trying to remember the last time I'd heard any noise back there. It had been a while ago. She'd talked to one of her kids about scoring a soccer goal, how she wished she'd been there and how excited Grandma must have been.

My heart rate increased as I pushed open the partially closed door and looked into the room. Carol was slumped over her desk, head facedown on her blotter, motionless.

I glanced around the room, which looked empty, although someone could be behind the curtains that led to the storage area. Part of my brain screamed “Run!” but I listened to the calmer part.

“Carol?” My voice sounded loud in the still studio. She didn't react. I ran to her and put my fingers on her neck to check for a pulse. She jerked up and slapped at my hand.

“What are you doing? You scared the crap out of me,” Carol said. “Did you put ice on my neck?”

I snatched my hand back and held it to my heart. “No. Just my fingers.” I clasped my hands together. My fingers were icy. “You were so still. I thought you were . . .”

“You thought I was dead?” Carol shook her head. “Just call my name next time. I'm a light sleeper.”

I had called her name, twice. If that was a light sleeper, I'd hate to see a heavy one. My stomach rumbled just then, breaking the silence and making us laugh.

Carol stood and stretched. “I have sandwiches in the fridge. You want to eat here with me?”

I really wanted to go home and take a long bath, but one look at Carol's face changed my mind. “Sure, that sounds good. Do you have any wine, or do you want me to run to the packy for something?” I asked.

“Packy? Are you going all native on me now?”

“Packy” was short for package store, the state-run liquor store. “When in Rome,” I said.

“I know for a fact you've been to Rome and don't speak a word of Italian,” Carol said. “But no worries. There's a reason this place is called Paint
and
Wine.” She went to a closet and came back holding a tray with a bottle of Cabernet, two wineglasses, a corkscrew, and sandwiches. She popped the cork with way more grace than I ever managed and poured two glasses, hers only a quarter full. “I can't drink too much when I paint.”

“There's not enough alcohol in the world to make me able to paint,” I said.

Carol rolled her eyes. We'd had this conversation before. She had more confidence in my ability than I did.

“Did you find anything on my computer that would shed some light on who took my painting?”

“Nothing.” I took a drink of my wine. “Did I tell you about my latest garage sale job?” I asked, knowing full well I hadn't. “I'm sorting through Gennie ‘the Jawbreaker' Elder's house. She's a world-renowned mixed martial arts fighter. Do you know her?”

Carol was suddenly very interested in unwrapping the sandwiches. “I've heard of her,” she said. “It sounds like an interesting career choice. I can't imagine getting beaten on on a regular basis.” She handed me one. “Lobster rolls from West Concord Seafoods.”

It was my favorite local place to get lobster rolls. They were on hamburger buns instead of the traditional New England–style hot dog bun. Each roll overflowed with big pieces of lobster and mayo—no fillers like celery or lettuce. I bit in. We munched in silence, both holding on to secrets.