Absence of Alice

Book 9: Sarah W. Garage Sale Mystery

by Sherry Harris

Genres: Ghost; Mystery; Amateur Sleuth

Synopsis

Sarah’s latest client, Alice Krandle, is sure she has a fortune in antiques on her hands. She’s already gotten a generous offer for the whole lot before her garage sale has even begun, but she thinks she can earn more with Sarah’s expert help. The problem is that while Sarah’s sorting through items from decades past, her landlady, Stella, faces a clear and present danger. Stella’s kidnapper has contacted Sarah with a set of instructions, and “Don’t call the police” is at the top of the list. But they didn’t say anything about Sarah’s friend Harriet—who happens to be a former FBI hostage negotiator.

Release date: December 29, 2020

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Alice Krandle was breathing down my neck. Literally. I could feel her warm breath on it and smelled the spearmint gum she always chewed. Alice didn’t have a good sense of personal boundaries and stood way too close as I looked at a painting she had of the Old North Bridge in Concord. This is why I loved my job as a garage sale organizer. It never got old working with new people and trying to jolly Alice out of her moods had been fun.

My friend Carol Carson was here to help me price the art. Carol owned the shop Paint and Wine and was a talented artist herself. The paintings were the last things that needed to be priced before the sale tomorrow.

“This painting is an oil, and it looks like it was painted using the alla prima or wet-on-wet technique,” Carol said. “That allows the artist to finish a painting in as little as thirty minutes.”

It was stunning with its vibrant fall colors.

“I paid five hundred dollars for that. Quite a steal,” Alice said. Alice, though in her late seventies, stood straight as a flag pole. She had hair the color of a stainless steel appliance, and skin as wrinkled as a linen skirt.

“I’ll be lucky to get two fifty for it at the garage sale,” I said. More like one hundred, and even that was pushing it. I had to lower Alice’s expectations. The painting was two feet by three feet. The artist was local and had a good reputation in New England. But still, this was a garage sale. I twisted the pink ruby ring on my right hand that I’d bought at an estate sale in January to celebrate my upcoming two-year business anniversary. I loved its gold filigree with tiny diamonds set in the swirls. I’d been proud to be able to buy it for myself. I gave it another twist. This whole sale, and Alice’s expectations, was making me nervous.

“I’m sure that you can do better than that.” She waved a hand around at the paintings in the room. “I know you said people don’t collect things like they used to, but people still love art. This is perfect for a tourist or anyone who loves fall in New England.”

She had a point. The sale was tomorrow, and this was two weekends before Patriots’ Day—the annual celebration of the start of the Revolutionary War here in Massachusetts—so there were lots of tourists in the area for all of the different events.

I looked at Carol. She was tall, thin, and, could have been the model for artist Barbie. Today she wore a turtleneck sweater belted at her hips, faux leather leggings, and stacked-heeled boots. “Why don’t you try three hundred,” she suggested.

Because no one would pay that much? People went to garage sales for the bargains and to bargain—it was part of the game. Garage sale attendees carried cash around like they were Brink’s guards.

“Make it three twenty-five,” Alice said.

I did an inward sigh, but made the tag like Alice wanted. The frame was a nice quality walnut, and frames were expensive. They sometimes brought a good price even when what they held wasn’t valuable. I’d keep my fingers crossed. Alice had already turned down a sizeable sum of money from my new competitor, Zoey Whittlesbee. Zoey had wanted to buy the whole lot from her and had offered her cash. Cash! Zoey had worked for me briefly over the winter, soaking up all the lessons I’d learned attending and organizing garage sales. I wondered why Zoey had offered Alice so much and where she had gotten the money to offer to pay such a sum. I’d been in business for two years, and now made enough to support myself, but not enough to throw around that kind of money.

Part of what puzzled me about the offer was that people don’t collect things like they had in the past. Millennials didn’t want old china sets or silver or Hummel or Lladró figurines like their parents did. God forbid if something didn’t spark joy. Boomers who were downsizing complained a lot about the prices they were getting for their prized possessions. That made me circle back to my original thought. How the heck could Zoey, who had just started her Zoey’s Tag Sales business three months ago, offer to pay Alice that much money with no guarantee of making it back?

Alice had explained when she hired me that if someone would offer that much for all of her things, individually they must be worth much more. Unfortunately, it didn’t always work that way in the world of garage sales. I’d explained that to her and put it in writing when we signed the contract. Alice said she understood. I just hoped she really did. She might have more confidence in me than I did myself.

We moved on to the next painting. Thank heavens my assistant Harriet Ballou would be helping me the day of the sale. She was a former FBI hostage negotiator, and I’d seen her in action. One time she’d actually gotten more for a piece than the original asking price. And I’d seen her talk the price of a Tiffany bracelet down at the thrift shop until the woman had almost given it to her for free.

An hour and much discussion later, it was time for Carol and me to go. We’d finished pricing the last ten paintings. I’d never had a client hover over me while I priced. It was exhausting, and I was starving. Time to do something about both.

I pulled up to Paint and Wine, or Paint and Whine as I liked to call it, at two forty-five. I called it that because Carol listened to me complain about life when I needed to vent. We had known each other since I was eighteen and had both been military spouses. Our husbands had both been stationed at nearby Fitch Air Force Base. “How did you know the painting Alice had was done using the—what did you call it?—alla prima technique?” I’d read up on the artist, but didn’t remember that bit about him.

“I’ve met the artist a couple of times at events.”

“Alice thought you were a genius. So did I for that matter.”

Carol laughed and opened her door. “I am one.”

“Thanks for your help.”

“Anytime. She has some nice pieces. It will be okay.”

I nodded, but I wasn’t as sure about that.

I picked the absolutely worst time to walk into DiNapoli’s Roast Beef and Pizza. I looked up from my phone just in time to see a stray round of pizza dough flying through the air. It landed on my head, draping like a doughy wedding veil.

“I’m sorry,” a deep male voice said. Hint of a Boston accent.

Someone lifted the front of my pizza veil, and I gazed up at a man with deep brown eyes, a boyish charming face, and a look of horror. I blushed like a bride.

“I’m the one who’s sorry.” I’d ignored the Closed sign hanging on the front door because DiNapoli’s was never closed to me. In my defense the door was unlocked. But I’d forgotten that Angelo had decided it wasn’t enough for him to cook. He needed to share his talents with the world. Angelo had started giving cooking classes weekday afternoons. Apparently today was pizza dough 101.

Angelo and Rosalie, the owners of DiNapoli’s and my “so close we were almost family” friends, rushed to my side, as did the other four attendees. All had caught their pizza dough and deposited the rounds on pizza pans before heading over. I could feel a bit of dough on my cheek. Charming guy held the dough off my face with one hand and reached over and swiped the bit off with the other hand, murmuring another apology. I blushed some more, wondering how I would ever get the dough out of my hair before my date with my boyfriend Seth tonight. Maybe the dough would just blend with my blond hair like chunky highlights.

Rosalie looked at me with her warm brown eyes crinkling in concern. “Are you okay?”

“Everything but my pride is fine.” I glanced again at the newcomer, who was still holding the dough off my face.

“Maybe if we all take a side we can just lift the dough off her hair and it wouldn’t stick as much,” Angelo suggested.

Most of the people moved out of my line of vision, but I could feel them surrounding me.

“On the count of three,” Angelo said. “One, two, three. Lift.”

The pizza dough came off. Sort of. I patted my head and felt bits of dough. I looked at the charming guy. “Sorry to ruin your crust.”

“It was like a UFO sailing across the room. Not your fault. I’m just sorry you had to be the landing pad.”

“This is Emil Kowalski. My nephew,” Rosalie said.

Now I saw the resemblance. The warm eyes, a smile similar to Rosalie’s. But his hair was lighter brown than Rosalie’s.

I stuck out a hand. “Hi. I’m Sarah Winston.”

“Ah, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Oh, boy. With all the things that had happened in the past two years of my life, that might not be a good thing. I looked at Angelo. “Sorry to ruin your class.”

“He should have locked the door,” Rosalie said. “Anyone could have walked in. We were lucky it was you instead of some person who would sue us for damages.”

Angelo shrugged. “Let’s get back to our class, people.”

Everyone went over to the stove behind the counter where customers placed their orders. That’s when I noticed the nice aroma of tomatoes, basil, and garlic. I was hungry, which was why I’d come here in the first place. My home away from home.

“Emil’s been working in Rome, Italy, for many years,” Rosalie said.

That explained why I hadn’t met him before. I needed a chart to keep track of all of the DiNapolis’ relatives, as Rosalie and Angelo both had lots of siblings and thus lots of nephews and nieces.

“He’s very accomplished. International business.” She leaned in a little closer. “He’s only a year younger than you and single. Plus, he’s learning to cook.” Rosalie looked over at Angelo with his fringe of hair, nose slightly bigger than it should be, and the start of a paunch. “Nothing sexier than a man who can cook.”

I glanced over at Emil just as he looked up and grinned. Oh, boy, I thought again. “Rosalie, you know I’m happy with Seth.”

Rosalie put her hands out in a little shrug. “Things can change.”

“But I hope they don’t.” Seth was amazing. He had served as interim district attorney after the prior DA had gotten ill and had to resign. Last fall, Seth had won his first election, so he could continue his work as the district attorney for Middlesex County. He was the youngest DA ever elected in our county.

Seth had also been named Massachusetts’s Most Eligible Bachelor year after year, including this year, to my chagrin. I had hoped someone would realize he was taken. Off the market. Mine. I got why he kept getting named because who didn’t love a smart and handsome man? But what most people didn’t know was how he supported me in ways my ex-husband never had, never could.

“You’re like family already,” Rosalie said.

I pictured a wedding where I married Emil. Rosalie and Angelo smiling happily. The marriage. The inevitable divorce—guess I wasn’t over my divorce yet. Rosalie and Angelo barring the doors of DiNapoli’s to me when they sided with Emil. It had only been two years since my divorce—less, really, because CJ and my lives had intertwined after we’d split up, and we’d almost gotten back together last spring.

“Are you okay?” Rosalie asked. “You just smiled and then frowned.”

“Just picturing the future.” One that would never happen.

Rosalie patted my arm. “Let me get you some food.”

Thank heavens she dropped the matchmaking routine.

Thirty minutes later my stomach was full of pepperoni stromboli. Rosalie wouldn’t let me pay, insisting that it was their fault I now had dried pieces of pizza dough in my hair. I gave up arguing and thanked her before leaving.

I walked home, crossing Great Road, and up one side of the town common. It was a big rectangle of greening grass that proved spring was coming. The towering white Congregational church was at the south side of it, facing DiNapoli’s and other businesses like Carol’s shop. The sun was warm, and I would soon be celebrating the second anniversary of starting my garage sale business. I was throwing a huge garage sale of my own a week from tomorrow. I was pretty darn excited about it.

Back home in my second-story apartment I stood in front of the mirror using a fine-toothed comb to try to get all of the bits of dried dough out of my hair. They were hard to see in my blond hair, but I wanted to get as much as possible out before I showered. I pictured a cycle of wet and dry dough ruining my day. But once I shampooed and showered, things started to look up. An hour and a half later I fixed a cup of tea and went into my living room and sat down on the couch.

I loved my small apartment with its wide-planked floors that I’d painted white. I’d filled the room with treasures I’d found at garage sales—an old oriental rug, a flat-topped antique trunk I used as a coffee table, a down-filled couch that my mother had made slipcovers for, an end table that someone had made by hand, and of course my grandmother’s oak rocker. My phone rang. The number was unavailable. I hoped it wasn’t a telemarketer.

“This is Sarah. How can I help you?” It’s how I answered calls with numbers I didn’t recognize or that were blocked just in case it was a new client.

“Sarah Winston?” a man said.

He sounded weirdly like the actor Jack Nicholson when he starred in The Shining. A scary movie I wished I’d never seen and could never quite get out of my head. The scene when Nicholson said, “Here’s Johnny” stuck with me even when I didn’t want it to. “That’s me.”

“I have Stella,” he said.

Stella Wild was my landlady and good friend. I took my phone away from my ear and looked at it like it would show who was on the other end. But all the screen showed was “unavailable” and the different options like mute, keypad, and speaker. Why would he, whoever he was, say something like that? Staring at my phone told me nothing, and I could hear a tinny voice still jabbering away.

“Are you there, Sarah?” he asked when I put my phone back to my ear.

“What do you mean you ‘have’ Stella?” Little prickles of alarm ran up the back of my neck. “I don’t believe you.”

“Sure you do. If you want to get Stella back alive, I have three rules. First rule: You can’t go to the police, your friend Seth, or Mike ‘the Big Cheese’ Titone for help. If you do, I’ll know. Don’t even talk to the police.” His voice changed to a sneer when he said, “your friend Seth.”

“Who is this?” I was sure Jack Nicholson wouldn’t be prank calling me. I couldn’t imagine anyone would kidnap Stella. And even if they did, why call me? I didn’t have ransom money. This had to be a terrible joke.

I looked out my front window to the Congregational church on Ellington’s town common. No answers there. I could understand how someone might know about my association with the police and with Seth. There were articles in the paper, online too, that anyone could dig up if they searched my name on the Internet. My friendship, if you wanted to call it that, with Mike was not as public. It made me wonder if someone had been watching me.

Mike had done me a favor or two or ten from time to time. He had mob connections, helped Seth out sometimes, and occasionally lived in the apartment next door to me, which he rented full-time from Stella. But Ellington was a small town; probably lots of people knew Mike came out here. He went out running. Any number of people could have seen him here. He had to buy groceries while he was here too. Secrets could be hard to keep in a town like Ellington.

“Rule number two: You have to go about your daily routine like nothing’s happened. And act natural.”

“Listen, I don’t know who you are—”

“Oh, but you do, Sarah.”

The words, the intonation, chilled me. The prickles of unease turned into straight-out alarm.

“Rule number three: You’ll complete all the tasks I send you while following rules number one and two. And you have a week to do it if you ever want to see Stella again.”

The call ended before I could say anything else. I dropped into my grandmother’s wooden rocking chair and rubbed my hands over the soft, curved wood arms. Stella was on her way to Los Angeles to perform in The Phantom of the Opera for two weeks. This had to be a prank. Someone had a very sick sense of humor.

I dialed Stella’s number. It was afternoon in LA, two p.m., and five here in Massachusetts. “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” I muttered as I waited for a connection. I looked out the window again. April in Ellington went from winter to spring and back again. Today it was spring with lots of sunshine and little buds starting to peek out on the trees. Wait. Stella would still be on the plane. Her flight wouldn’t land for another hour. There was no way she’d answer.

I heard the connection. “Stella?”

“Sarah, I didn’t know we’d be talking again so soon.”

It was the same male voice. My stomach rolled like I was in a plane with the worst turbulence ever. “Prove to me you have Stella.”

“I’d be delighted to. I was a little surprised, and might I add disappointed, that you didn’t ask me during our first call. You are usually more on your game than that.”

This person thought this was a game? “Right.” I kept my voice calm, somehow. “If you have her put her on the phone. I’ll ask her a question that only she’d know the answer to.” I wanted to add “you sicko” but managed not to.

“S-S-S-Sarah.”

It was Stella, but her voice trembled so much that she hardly got my name out. “Stella. What’s going on? Where are you?”

“I don’t—”

“Ask her the question that will prove to you I have her or this call is over,” the man said.

I wasn’t sure I needed to ask. The terror in her voice was enough to convince me it was Stella and that something was horribly wrong. But just in case I went ahead. “What did you give me for Christmas last year?”

I heard a muffled sob. I put a fist to my heart and rubbed. “Vintage postcards.”

“Of what?” I had to be sure. Probably lots of people knew I liked them.

“Monterey. One was dated 1932.”

I’d grown up in Pacific Grove, the town next to Monterey, California. Stella had found and framed three vintage postcards of the area. They were hanging near the door of my apartment. I choked back a sob. “Stella—”

“Stella’s tied up, dear. Pun intended. But I have a task for you. Go to 115 West Elm Street. I’ve left you a present. The door’s unlocked. And remember the rules.” The call disconnected.

Just after five thirty I pulled my old, white Suburban up to a pleasant-looking Cape-style house that was tucked away from its neighbors on a quiet cul-de-sac. Green roof. White siding. Lots of trees. Of course there would be. There was a For Sale sign stu. . .