The Longest Yard Sale Page 5

  “Why stop with the fifties?” I asked, still stunned by all I’d seen.

  “I couldn’t stand doing a sixties room with beads, lava lamps, and beanbag chairs. The whole country, shabby chic thing never appealed to me, either. After the fifties, it seems like everyone just started taking elements from some other era and putting them together in a different way. Nothing new or original about that.”

  I’m not sure I agreed with her, but she was the client, and the customer is always right. “Any thoughts on when you want to have the sale?” I hoped she wouldn’t say next weekend.

  “I’m not in a huge rush.”

  “I’ll have to take a lot of pictures and research the value of a lot of the items. I might even need to reach out to a few experts for some of the pieces. This isn’t a typical garage sale. You might want to contact some estate sale experts instead of using me.” I didn’t like to turn away business, but this was a significant undertaking. “I could recommend someone.”

  “I want you to do it. Nancy called me last night, raving about what a great job you did yesterday. Come on into the kitchen. Let’s get something to drink while we talk terms.”

  I stopped in the center of a room that by the looks of the crystal chandelier was supposed to be a dining room but instead was a trophy room. A black-and-white photograph took up most of the far wall. The only color was the red blood trickling from the nose and mouth of a young, knocked-out Gennie.

  Gennie gestured at the photograph. “My first professional fight. I lost badly. That picture appeared in the paper the next day. I kept it tucked in my wallet at first. Then I printed an eight-by-ten and kept it on the nightstand of every hotel room I stayed in. When I bought this place, I had that made.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Reminds me of what losing felt like. I never wanted to feel like I felt that night again.” Her eyes looked teary, but she blinked them back.

  “You must be pretty good. I hear your nickname is ‘the Jawbreaker.’”

  That brought a smile back to Gennie’s face. “I got beat again but never knocked out. And it’s a lesson for the kids I teach who think they’re invincible or think I’m invincible.”

  The rest of the room was filled with belts with giant buckles, gleaming trophies, and signed photos of Gennie with lots of men and women fighters.

  I pointed at one of the photos. “Wasn’t that guy on Dancing with the Stars?”

  “Yes. That’s Chuck Liddell. Next to him is Tito Ortiz. He was on Celebrity Apprentice.” She stopped in front of another photo. “Randy Couture is an actor now. He’s in the Expendables movies.”

  We went into the kitchen and sat at a gleaming granite-topped island. Light reflected off the stainless-steel appliances and glass-fronted cabinets. Gennie set out two glasses of iced tea and a bowl of lemon slices. “Need sugar?”

  I shook my head and sipped the tea. I hated discussing how I charged people for my service, but it had to be done. “The way my business works is I take a percentage of what you earn at the sale.”

  “So if I don’t make anything, you don’t?”

  “That’s right. It’s a powerful incentive to make sure I price things correctly and negotiate a good price.”

  “You’ll have to spend a lot of time pricing,” Gennie said.

  “With any business there’s a lot of work that goes on in the background.”

  Gennie nodded. “Okay. It works for me.”

  “Why are you downsizing?”

  “I haven’t told Nancy or Stella this yet, but I bought an old office building in Dorchestah.”

  She meant Dorchester. I found it charming how people from this area used the ‘r’ sound, dropping and adding it to their words. Gennie’s accent seemed particularly strong.

  “They won’t like my idear, but I’m opening a studio there. I plan to live above it, to be a part of that community. I figure if I can motivate some of those kids, I’ll have done something important—beyond beating the crap out of people for the past twenty years.”

  Dorchester wasn’t the Boston area’s best neighborhood, but I admired Gennie’s philosophy. Although if she didn’t like beating the crap out of people, why did she want to teach others to? As I turned to her, I knocked over a pile of mail that was stacked next to my left elbow.

  “Whoops.”

  “Hand that to me, and I’ll get it out of the way.”

  I scooped up the mail, but stopped handing it to her when the stack was in midair. The return-address label of the top envelope said “Jackson Financial Planning.”

  “What?” Gennie asked.

  “Jackson Financial Planning. Do you use this company?”

  Gennie had a funny expression on her face. Oops, sometimes I’d forgot I was dealing with reserved New Englanders instead of more open Californians. Even though before I’d moved here, I’d always heard about the Yankee reserve, I didn’t usually notice it. I think my openness made others more open to me. But every once in a while, it was a conversation stopper.

  “I didn’t mean to pry,” I said. “I know Bubbles, Dave Jackson.”

  “It’s okay. Dave knocked on my door a couple of months ago. Friendly, sharp guy. I like to support our troops, so I invested some money with him. So far I’ve been getting great returns.”

  “Oh, good.” I gulped down the rest of my tea. “I need to come back with my good camera to take some pictures. I’ll develop a timeline for when I think I can get everything priced, and then we can have the sale.”

  “Sounds good,” Gennie said.

  I went home for a quick fluffernutter sandwich. I might be the only adult in the commonwealth to eat this delicious combination of Marshmallow Fluff and peanut butter. I’d never heard of it until I moved to Massachusetts, home of the fluffernutter. There’d been a contentious debate in the state house several years ago when some legislator introduced a bill suggesting that fluffernutters weren’t nutritionally sound and should be banished from school lunches. I’m all for kids eating healthy, but banning the flutter-nutter would be like banning cheese in Wisconsin, potatoes in Idaho, or corn in Iowa.

  When I’d finished my sandwich, I grabbed my laptop. The name I’d overheard in Carol’s shop, Terry McQueen, had been rolling around in my head all morning. I opened my computer and typed in “Terry McQueen.” An article from the Fitch Times, the local base newspaper, popped up, along with a photo. The man in the picture bore some resemblance to the body in Carol’s shop—lean build, same sandy hair. But unlike the dead man on the floor, the man in the picture wore a suit and a big smile. I studied the photo. It was hard to tell if it was the same man, but I bet it was.

  According to the article, McQueen had recently won a Civilian Category II of the Quarter award, which meant he wasn’t in the air force but worked on the base. It also meant his boss liked him enough to take the time to write up a nomination for the award and submit it. I wondered what Terry did on base; that wasn’t mentioned in the article.

  I called my friend Laura Nicklas. She lived on Fitch Air Force Base, and since her husband, Mike, was the wing commander, she was plugged into what was going on there. After a brief conversation, I arranged to meet her at four at the base thrift shop, where she volunteered.

  I napped until three-thirty and fixed myself another fluffernutter sandwich. Full of fluff and peanut butter, I drove over to Fitch. Since the divorce, I no longer had a military-dependent ID, so Laura had to sponsor me on base. I stopped at the visitors center, where I had to show my driver’s license, registration, and proof of insurance. The security guard handed me a piece of paper that had to be displayed on the dashboard. It said where I’d be and for approximately how long.

  I drove around the large iron barriers that reminded me of giant jacks. They were in place to make it difficult to run the gate. I pulled up to the security shack and guard. My face was eye level with the gun on his hip. It was intimidating, but I guess that was the point. I knew some of the guards, but not this guy. He took my pass a
nd driver’s license, and studied the photo and then me. Finally, he stepped back so I could continue on.

  Military bases are set up to be self-sufficient, like small towns. As I headed to the thrift shop, I passed the base chapel, a white clapboard building with a tall spire topped by a cross. The chapel held services for many different faiths, including Protestant, Catholic, Jewish, and Islam. CJ and I had attended a lovely wedding there last fall when we were still happy. He’d held my hand as the couple recited their vows.

  I came to a T intersection. The gym, tennis courts, and baseball fields were straight ahead. I’d spent time at each—at the baseball games purely as a spectator. I turned left and then right onto Travis, the main street of the base. I headed up a hill, passing the gas station, library, and outdoor rec, where you could rent equipment for outdoor activities or sign up for an event at Tickets and Tours. It was a beautiful day, but the base was fairly empty. During the week, lots of people who worked on the base were out taking walks. In New England, people didn’t waste good weather by staying inside. So probably half of the base residents were out leaf peeping or exploring one of the many charming towns in the area.

  Laura was standing behind the register, checking out a customer, when I arrived. The thrift shop took donations but also let people associated with the base consign things. It was a popular shop and benefited from all the moving to and from assignments.

  Laura was a slightly taller version of Halle Berry, and her smile, along with her deep brown eyes and long, curly, god-given lashes, always dazzled me.

  “Give me a minute,” Laura said as she typed codes from tags into the register. While I waited, I roamed around, chatting with the volunteers I knew as they reminded the remaining customers it was closing time. The shop had moved to this building last April after a murder had occurred at the old facility. This space was lighter and centrally located. From everyone’s demeanor, I realized that no one knew that someone who might have been associated with the base had been found dead that morning.

  “I’m done, and we’re closed,” Laura said as she bagged the last of the stuff and handed it to the woman at the register. She locked the door behind the woman and took off a blue apron. All the volunteers wore them. Women called good-byes to Laura and me as they headed out.

  I followed Laura to a scarred leather couch that was for sale. She plopped onto it, and I sat on the other end.

  “I haven’t seen you around much lately,” Laura said.

  Even though CJ and I’d divorced and I had no official standing on the base, I’d continued to volunteer at the thrift shop. They raised money for scholarships for military kids and for other good, base-related causes.

  “I’ve been so busy with the community yard sale in Ellington, I haven’t had a lot of spare time.”

  “I went. It was wonderful. If you do it again, the thrift shop should have a table.”

  “I left a message about it, saying you could have a space for free. But whoever called back said it wasn’t worth it to take stuff into town when it sold well here.”

  Laura frowned. “That’s ridiculous. It must have been Beverly, our new manager. We hired her a couple of months ago to try to give the shop some continuity rather than being managed by people who’d have to move when the military saw fit.”

  “How’s that working out?”

  “She’s really kept the inventory moving. The sorting room isn’t a death trap anymore. She’s selling some of the better stuff on eBay.” Laura yawned and stretched. “She also got the idea that we should be open once a month on Sunday afternoon. Not everyone is crazy about the idea.”

  “It looks like you had a lot of volunteers.” That wasn’t always the case.

  “We did today. I strong-armed them into it. I’m not sure about the Sunday thing.”

  “Is she here? I’d like to meet her.”

  “No. She had a church thing this afternoon.” Laura yawned. “Beverly’s also an accountant, so the books are up to date. Anyway, what’s going on? It sounded like you wanted to talk about something when you called.”

  “Do you know Terry McQueen?” I asked.

  Laura drew her knees up under her. “Yes.”

  I waited, hoping she’d volunteer more. Something must be going on or she wouldn’t be so reticent. “I saw he got a Civilian of the Quarter award, but I didn’t recognize his name.”

  “Do you usually know the award recipients?” Laura asked.

  Rarely. How was I going to get out of this one without mentioning that he might be dead and having Pellner and CJ on my back for blabbing?

  “Sometimes. I saw his picture in the base paper and thought he looked familiar.” Whew, I didn’t have to lie.

  “He hasn’t been very popular on base lately,” Laura said.

  “Why not?” Maybe the reason he was killed had something to do with the base, and I wouldn’t have to worry about Carol being accused of murder. Oh, no. I tried not to have any physical reaction to that thought. I realized it had been lurking around the back of my brain since we’d found the body.

  “Are you okay? You look a little pale.” Laura’s big eyes looked concerned.

  “I’m fine. Just a little tired after the yard sale yesterday.” I turned on the couch so I was facing Laura and tucked one leg under the other. “Are you going to tell me why Terry hasn’t been popular?”

  Laura sat for a minute staring at the front door of the shop. “Do you know Dave Jackson?”

  That wasn’t what I’d been expecting. “CJ and I’ve known Bubbles—Dave—for a long time. I didn’t know he’d moved here until yesterday morning.”

  “So you know about the missile scandal and that Dave was fired?” Laura asked.

  I nodded, wondering what this had to do with Terry.

  “Dave and Terry started a financial planning company, and some people on base are none too happy.”

  I stared at Laura, surprised by this bit of news. “I just heard about the company yesterday. I didn’t know Terry was involved, though.” If people were unhappy with him, it might be why he was murdered. It didn’t explain why it happened in Carol’s shop. I hoped Bubbles was okay. I’d check with Stella when I got home.

  “Terry’s a great guy with a mind for numbers. He was a shoo-in to win the civilian of the year award.”

  “But he isn’t now?”

  Laura plucked at an errant thread on the seam of the couch.

  “Have a lot of people on base invested with them?” I prodded.

  “I don’t know for sure. We did.”

  It felt to me like Laura was holding something back. “Are people upset about the financial planning company? Isn’t it doing well?” That was the complete opposite of what Gennie had said, but maybe someone on base was disgruntled.

  “No. The people I know who’ve invested with them are happy. I know we are.” Laura shifted. “You know how the base can be. Some people are mad that Dave and Terry started the company. Says it takes away from their real jobs. That Dave is ROAD and Terry is the civilian equivalent of that.”

  Uh-oh. ROAD stood for retired on active duty—a derogatory term used for people who, in their last year or two before retiring, slacked off or were lazy. “It’s never good if the perception is that he isn’t doing his job anymore,” I said.

  “Some people have whined about Dave taking time to get all the licensing he needed. But he started before he left his last base, and he’s on terminal leave now, so he can do what he wants.”

  Terminal leave always sounded scary to me, but it was just the period of time when you were finished with your official air force duties but could use your accumulated leave before your official retirement or separation. “Bubbles probably knew that, once the cheating scandal broke, he wouldn’t get promoted again. It makes sense that he’d start preparing for what’s next.” Most military people lined up or at least looked for jobs before they were officially retired. CJ had already been hired to replace Ellington’s retiring chief of police before the scan
dal with his subordinate last spring. Even after the scandal broke, Nancy insisted he could still have the job. She deemed that one blemish on an otherwise stellar career wasn’t enough for the town to go through the search process again.

  “I wonder why he decided to set his business up here,” Laura said.

  “CJ told me Bubbles grew up in Maine and his ex and kids are in Nashua.” Nashua was a thirty-minute drive up the 3 depending on the time of day. Lots of military people lived up there because New Hampshire didn’t have any state sales or income tax. “Since he’s been in the military, he knows what military members’ investment needs are. It all makes sense.”

  “Some people just don’t like it when others are successful.” Laura studied me for a minute. “Why do I get the impression there’s something else going on that you aren’t telling me?”

  This is why Laura knew so much about what was going on around the base. She was either an astute judge of character or she just asked everyone that question, and in a fit of guilt everyone coughed up whatever they knew. Either way, it didn’t hurt that the wing commander’s wife stayed on top of what happened on base.

  I shook my head. Laura would find out soon enough and probably be mad when she figured out I’d known when we chatted. But at least I had an out—I didn’t know for certain that the victim was Terry McQueen. I wondered when I would.

  CHAPTER 7

  When someone knocked on my door at six that night, I panicked. I’d already washed my face, and my hair was pulled back in a headband. I was braless and wearing a tank top and yoga pants. I didn’t want anyone to see me now, unless it was CJ; he’d seen me look worse. Besides, I’d left multiple messages for him, so maybe he’d decided to drop by. Although because of the way we’d left things last night, I hadn’t thought he’d be stopping by anytime soon. I whipped off the headband and gave my hair a shake.

  I opened the door, and there stood Seth, in a beautifully tailored custom suit. His crisp white shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, and a red silk tie peeked out of his right suit-coat pocket. He held a bottle of wine in one hand and a pizza box from DiNapoli’s in the other. I slammed the door in his face. I didn’t want him to see me looking like this. Although I guess he already had.