The Longest Yard Sale Read Free Page B

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?”
    â€œShe makes clocks. I could have her make a special one to be auctioned off for a local charity.”
    â€œWhew. 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.”
    â€œHave you heard anything new about the fires?” I asked.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œWhat’s up?” I asked.
    â€œCan you please get over here?” Carol said. Her voice had an edge to it I’d never heard before. “Right now.”
    â€œAre 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.
    â€œBack 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