I Know What You Bid Last Summer Read online

  Praise for A Good Day to Buy

  “A slam dunk for those who love antiques and garage sales . . . surprising twists and turns.”

  —Kirkus 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, 4 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, and 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-nominated author of the Pawsitively Organic Mysteries

  “Sherry Harris is a gifted storyteller, with plenty of twist 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, yards 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 on Tagged For Death

  “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-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

  Also by Sherry Harris

  Agatha-Nominated Best First Novel TAGGED FOR DEATH

  THE LONGEST YARD SALE

  ALL MURDERS FINAL!

  A GOOD DAY TO BUY

  I KNOW WHAT YOU BID LAST SUMMER

  Sherry Harris

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  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

  Garage Sale Tips

  Setting Up a Pretzel Bar

  Acknowledgments

  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.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by Sherry Harris

  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. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

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

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-0753-6

  First Kensington Mass Market Edition: March 2018

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0754-3

  eISBN-10: 1-4967-0754-0

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: March 2018

  To Bob

  In your words:

  You can thank me for always

  keeping murder on your mind.

  Chapter 1

  “I need your help, Sarah,” Angelo said to me.

  I’d rushed over from the Ellington High School gym, where I was in the throes of setting up an athletic equipment swap meet for the school board. The swap was in the morning, and I’d been up to my ears in ski poles when Angelo sent me a text asking me to stop by. Angelo never sent texts, so I had literally dropped everything and would have a mess of ski poles to clean up when I got back.

  We sat in his restaurant, DiNapoli’s Roast Beef and Pizza, at one of the wooden tables lining the far right side of the room. It was just after nine-thirty, and Angelo had closed for the night. His deep brown eyes crinkled with concern.

  “Anything. What can I do?” Angelo and his wife, Rosalie, who sat next to him, had done so much for me that I’d gladly do anything this side of legal to help them. And maybe the other side of legal, if it was really important. They’d supported me when I’d moved to Ellington, Massachusetts, from nearby Fitch Air Force Base during a personal crisis over a year ago. The DiNapolis encouraged me if I was down and celebrated my successes, like starting my Sarah Winston garage sale business. I leaned forward, shoving my glass of Chia
nti to the side.

  Angelo looked at Rosalie. I thought I detected a slight roll of the eyes on Rosalie’s part.

  “You don’t have to help,” Rosalie said.

  “Of course I will.” In the past I’d found replacement tables and chairs for them if something wore out. This sounded more serious, and I was getting anxious. I wished they’d just spit it out. I looked back and forth between them.

  Angelo cleared his throat. “Did you hear about the lasagna bake-off in Bedford next week?”

  Bedford was the town next to Ellington. I nodded, mystified. While I was a whiz at setting up garage sales, my cooking skills were renowned for how awful they were. I hoped he didn’t want me to enter. I thought the contest was open only to chefs at area restaurants.

  “I signed up,” Angelo said.

  “That’s great. You’ll win,” I said. “Do you need a sous-chef?” I could try, but it seemed like Rosalie or someone who worked here with him would be a better choice.

  “I want to make sure I win,” Angelo said. “I have to win.” His hand fisted, but he refrained from pounding the table.

  This time Rosalie definitely rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to win. You want to win,” she said with a shake of her head.

  “So what do you want me to do?” My imagination was going wild. Poison, sabotage, kidnapping? What would making sure Angelo won entail? There were rumors his family was connected, that his uncle had more than just ties to the Mob. And I knew his cousin Vincenzo, an attorney, had gotten a few mobsters off racketeering charges. It seemed like Angelo had better options than me to make sure he would win. I grabbed my Chianti and took a big swig. Why did they call that Dutch courage—or in this case Italian?

  “I need you to go to the top five competitors’ restaurants and sample their lasagna and report back.” Angelo leaned back in his chair.

  That was it? He wanted me to eat pasta? Relief made my body feel like an overcooked piece of lasagna, saggy and limp. “I can do that.”

  “And bring me back a sample, without telling anyone what you are up to.”

  “Of course.” Jeez, how hard could that be?

  * * *

  An hour and a half later I roamed up and down the long rows of tables in the Ellington High School gymnasium, using a hockey stick as a baton, making sure everything was ready. I pictured myself as a drum majorette being cheered on by a crowd in a huge football stadium. I could do with someone cheering for me. I probably looked more suited to leading the band from The Music Man, with my hockey stick and crazy march. Slaphappy. Giddy. Punch drunk. I was all those things. Maybe it was the combination of the Chianti from earlier with the DiNapolis and the caffeine I’d consumed after in the form of coffee, lots of it, from Dunkin’s.

  My stomach rumbled, and I thought about the lasagna Angelo had mentioned. I hadn’t had much of an appetite since my ex-husband, CJ, left me six weeks ago, despite the rekindling of our relationship last February. I still couldn’t believe he had chosen a job in Florida over me. But I couldn’t think about that now.

  The lasagna project was something to look forward to, something to keep me busy. Busy had been my mantra since CJ left. I’d overbooked myself in the hopes that I’d be dead tired. But sleep, like my appetite, had all but disappeared. The lasagna would have to wait, though, because in nine hours the doors to the swap would open.

  For the past week, people had been dropping off their gently used athletic equipment. Items they were tired of or that had been outgrown. Tomorrow other people would come and pick up what they needed. It was something that made everyone happy. The last of my helpers had left right after I returned from DiNapoli’s around ten. Who could blame them? Some people had things to do on Friday nights. All the hard work getting ready for the swap was better than hardly working.

  I twirled the hockey stick in my hand as I checked one last time to make sure all the equipment for the sports swap was at least somewhat organized. It hadn’t taken long to learn that sports equipment didn’t like to be arranged. It liked to roll or topple over. Baseball bats, lacrosse sticks, balls, pretty much all sports equipment. They were unruly and didn’t lend themselves to neat arrangements. Except for the helmets. At least they cooperated by sitting proudly in rows.

  I’d get zippo for doing this, so maybe it wasn’t a smart business move. The last Saturday in June was primo garage sale season. I had turned down a lot of jobs, hoping that organizing this would up my profile in the town of Ellington and the surrounding suburban areas outside of Boston. It hadn’t taken long to learn that sports equipment swaps were very popular in this area. Old and outgrown equipment was a big draw.

  Most of the school board members had liked my idea of adding a silent auction to raise more funds for the school district. With all the sports teams in Boston, it had been easy to get items owned or signed by famous athletes and to prove their provenance. I’d even had a fan girl moment when I ran into Tom Brady the day I picked things up at Gillette Stadium, home of the Patriots. He was bigger in person and better looking. His smile almost melted my shoes.

  I tossed the hockey stick up into the air as I twirled around, planning to catch it before it hit the floor. The lights went out, and I skittered to a stop mid-twirl. The hockey stick glanced off my shoulder and clattered to the floor by my feet.

  “Ow,” I said to the empty, silent gym. I felt around for the hockey stick so I didn’t trip myself. After I picked it up, I shook my head, hoping the power outage wouldn’t prevent the swap from taking place tomorrow. I shuffled in the general direction of my purse and cell phone, not wanting to knock over one of the tables full of equipment. If I could find my phone, I could use the flashlight app. Footsteps echoed on the gymnasium floor and they weren’t mine.

  “Hello,” I called. At least I wasn’t alone. Slow, deliberate footsteps headed toward me. “Who’s here?” I couldn’t make out anything in the dark.

  There wasn’t a response except for the echo of steps. I whirled, still clutching the hockey stick, and hurried blindly toward my cell phone. I knocked my hip into a table. Balls of all sorts, from basketballs to golf balls, spilled, bounced, and rolled around me. I stutter-stepped around them, slipping, hoping that they would slow whoever else was in here, too.

  Footsteps pounded across the gym floor, growing closer. I veered away from my purse. Sprinted toward the only light in the gym, one of the glowing exit signs. Something hooked around my foot. Another freaking hockey stick. I sprawled as I slid across the gymnasium floor and landed in a display of skis. They thundered down, battering and bruising me. I started to shake off the skis, to get back up, to get away.

  Something whacked my lower back, my kidneys. Another blow hit the back of my thighs. I collapsed and curled into a ball, making myself as small as possible. I flung my left arm over my head, protecting it. My right hand clutched the hockey stick. My eyes were adjusting to the dark, and I could see the outline of a shadowy person bending toward me. The person grasped my arm, wrenching my left shoulder, and dragged me. I tried to trip him with the hockey stick. He stomped on my hand. I let go of the hockey stick as I cried out.

  I heard a door open. Hinges creak. The only doors that weren’t exits in the gym were to the equipment room or the locker rooms. The door to the equipment room was the one with the creaky hinges. He shoved me. The door banged shut. Something was dragged across the floor, and it hit the door.

  I huddled on the floor, trembling. I knew I should move, but couldn’t. Too scared. Too hurt. Noises sounded from the gym, bangs and bumps, and I wondered what the hell was going on out there. I pushed myself up to a sitting position and listened. After a while I didn’t hear anything. I got to my feet and stumbled forward blindly. I bumped into some kind of shelving unit. It rocked madly, but nothing fell on my head. I fumbled around for the light switch, running my hand up the rough walls, where it seemed like it should be.

  I finally found it and flicked it on, blinking as the fluorescent light came to life. One of the long
tubes blinked sporadically, crackling and sputtering. It created the perfect setting for a horror movie. The equipment room was full of creepy shadows. The doorknob turned easily in my hand, but when I tried to push the door open, it wouldn’t budge. And every part of my aching body seemed to protest the action. Whoever was out there had blocked me in. I cursed when I realized I was stuck for the night, because no one would miss me until the morning. But what if he came back?

  Chapter 2

  I couldn’t just sit in here, waiting. I looked around the equipment room for something to protect myself with. Athletic equipment was locked in wire cages. A stack of dingy towels, lightbulbs, and a mop with no head were scattered around the room. Throw the towels, break a bulb for something sharp, and whack the man with the mop handle? I spotted a spray bottle filled with bleach. That was more like it. I gave it a couple of trial squirts. It had a strong, steady stream.

  It would keep him at a distance. That should do as a weapon. I hooked it through a loop on my shorts so my hands would be free. I flipped off the light in the equipment room, hoping my eyes would adjust to the dark before I went back into the dark gym. Maybe it didn’t make sense to worry about the light showing either, with all the noise I was probably about to make. Whoever was out there knew I was here. I pushed on the door. Was that a tiny bit of movement? I shoved again and again. Whatever was blocking me in was making a lot of noise as it scraped slowly, painfully, away from the door.