Garage Sale Stalker (Garage Sale Mysteries) (17 page)

CHAPTER 36

A
s she looked f
or
a place to hide the screwdriver, three distinctive black-and-white striped boxes tucked under the basement stairs caught Jennifer’s eye in the artificial light. Identically sized and entirely different from the brown cardboard packing cartons stacked elsewhere, these old-fashioned round hatboxes were labeled: “Papa,” “Junior” and “The Boys.” Clearly these boxes hadn’t been opened for a long time. Were vintage hats inside?

Considering how much work this basement cleanup required, she’d moved surprisingly fast. Her garage sale experience in organizing disorderly items helped enormously. This unexpected “extra” time, coupled with her curiosity, allowed a hasty peek into these three boxes.

Blowing dust from the top, she slid the cover off the box marked “Papa” and stared inside. A scarf-size flag with a swastika, medals and battle ribbons and the photo of a middle-aged man standing in front of a foreign-looking bombed out building. The soldier wore a WW II uniform, much like the one belonging to her own father. Another photo, but this one of a letter. She vaguely remembered mail like this received long ago from her dad when he fought in Europe. V-mail, was it called? Examining the photo-letter in the thin light beneath a hanging light bulb, she squinted at the small photographed print and read:

“Martha—You know
I can’t describe m
y whereabouts. Loose lip
s sink ships. I am still okay and
eager for this damn war to
end. The problems we faced
there on the farm were a picni
c compared to this god-a
wful mess. Sorry the boy is su
ch a problem. I know
you’re strict with him but you need
to break his spirit, like you saw me do with the
horse. When I get home, I’
ll whip him into shape all right.
The army has taught me a lot mor
e about discipline, which
you know better than anybody I could al
ready dish out pretty well.
I will straighten everything and eve
ryone out when I get back. Junior
will obey us, I promise you
that. Your husband, Cha
rles”

This letter slid from Jennifer’s fingers back into the hatbox. She tried to absorb its content before carefully unfolding the yellowed paper of a second letter. Under an official seal at the top was typed, “June 9, 1944. From Department of the Army of the United States of America to Mrs. Charles Yates: We regret to inform you that your husband, Charles Mathis Yates, was killed on June 6th during the Normandy invasion in the European theater of action. Please accept my sincere condolences and know that our entire nation is grateful to you and your family for his and your sacrifice.”

She refolded and returned the second letter before replacing the box’s cover. Had she heard a sound from up above? What if the man dashed down the stairs to find her snooping instead of working? Motionless, she listened. Convinced at last that no one was coming, she hastily opened the next box labeled “Junior.”

Inside lay a wedding ring, a small bouquet of dried, faded flowers, a crumpled paper and a stack of photos. The first pictured a young man beside a beautiful young woman who wore a modest tiara with a short veil. They held hands, looking at the camera—she smiling, he stern. A wedding picture? The second photo showed the same two standing in front of a store, neither smiling. A third photo captured the two of them again, she very pregnant and clearly unhappy, he with a menacing grimace. Fourth photo caught her holding a young baby, a haunted expression on her face. The next picture showed the same woman standing before a barn. She held the hand of a sad little girl while at her side sat two unhappy boys atop a hay bale. All their expressions seemed like deer in the headlights. The final photo showed two little boys, perhaps three and two, with gaunt, serious expressions. Did one sport a black eye and the other a large bruise on his left arm, or were those oddly placed shadows of years-old amateur photography?

Carefully replacing these photos, Jennifer gently spread open the tightly wadded paper:

“
Wendey, you bitch. You
are an abomination and a scourge on
my name. When you dared
to question my authority and y
ou refused to obey me, I ga
ve you the discipline you des
erved. I couldn’t beat the
poison out of you or starv
e it out of you in the
confinement box but even though
I won’t be there to con
tinue your lessons, I
promise you will suffer eve
n after they take me away to that
place. I will destroy every
thing you care about. You
doted on the little girl and I
got rid of her, didn’t
I? Never doubt my power
! You cannot escape my wrat
h because each time you lo
ok at your sons, my scaldin
g hate will stare back at
you from their eyes and
in their faces you will
see my face. You might thin
k I am not there, but
through my boys I will tor
ment you every minute of ev
ery day for the rest of
your life, exactly as y
ou deserve. – Tobias
”

Jennifer’s hands trembled. The cruel face of the man in the photo and now this! Did the basement’s damp chill trigger her shiver or what she’d just read? She hesitated; dare she even look inside the final box? Despite a morbid fascination to do so, she shrank at what she might find. Yet she
had
to know. What if information inside helped her gain freedom?

Slowly she lifted the lid from the last hat box labeled “The Boys.” On top lay a photo of two little boys, maybe four and five, dressed in tattered clothes. Both looked wretched, though the older had his arm protectively around the younger. The younger one’s face favored the cruel man, even more noticeable since he shared his father’s identical sour expression. But did either of the boys in this grainy photograph resemble the man upstairs or was this someone else’s tragic story?

Two more photos: in the first, one of the boys stood at attention in front of a military school, looking so young, maybe five or six, in a uniform too large. Other cadets hovered in front of an institutional building in the background, but she couldn’t make out the school’s name above the door. Was this the younger or older boy of the previous pictures?

The second photo pictured a little old-fashioned schoolhouse the size of a playhouse. In this black and white photo she saw painted-on windows and a bell tower on the cupola at one end of the roof.

She remembered a weathered version of this shed, odd looking enough for a second glance when her car rumbled to the top of the farm’s gravel driveway. What else was different about that shed? A heavy board nailed across the door had looked new compared to the gray, sun-bleached lumber beneath. Was that a place for these boys to play? If so, why would it be boarded now?

In the bottom of the hatbox, beneath the photos, something clinked. A number of large and small keys. Next to the keys lay an old rag rolled tight and secured with a rubber band, its rotted strands still loosely circling the wad of cloth. As she started to unwrap it, she heard footsteps somewhere above. Quickly closing the box, she tucked it under the stairs with the other two, hid the screwdriver beside them and hurriedly picked up the broom.

Were these items relevant to the man upstairs or to some unrelated owner of this cellar?

Tired from strenuous work, she’d nevertheless transformed the basement. Similar items were neatly grouped, the floor swept, the sink cleaned and the trash bagged. Certain now of footsteps overhead, she pressed the buzzer he’d given her.

Seconds later, a beam of light widened overhead as the door opened, followed by the man’s heavy tread descending the aging stairs. At the bottom, he circled the basement and, she hoped, observed her dramatic changes. She watched his face for any reaction to the difference she’d made but saw none. Then without looking at her, he returned wordlessly to the stairs, walked up and closed the door.

Her heart sank! Had this diligent labor accomplished nothing? How could she actually have thought this plan could work? Instead, she’d exhausted herself, making subduing her even easier for him when the time came, and surely it would come. Probably
soon!

Without doubt, Jason had called the police by now. Why, since logic told her otherwise, did she cling to the irrational notion they might somehow find her if only given enough time?

Frantically, she tried to conjure a new strategy, but no idea came. What would the man do next? Lock her again in that stifling box? Or worse? She struggled to keep her head clear, but despair welled inside her as tears of helpless frustration pooled in her eyes.

Startling her back to reality, a noise near the top of the stairs again interrupted the stillness as the door above banged open. He started down the stairs, carrying something in one hand. A weapon? Fear clutched her heart. Were these the last seconds of her life?

He tossed a bundle down the steps. “Press the buzzer in five minutes.” He ordered before closing the door at the top. The turning key rasped metallically before his footsteps faded above.

Jennifer crept to the stairs, almost afraid to see what the man had left. Maybe the severed hand or foot of a previous victim as a deadly warning? Wary, she picked up the bundle to find it was a rubber-banded sack. Removing the elastic and spreading open the brown paper bag to look inside, she gave a sharp intake of breath at what she saw.

At the bottom of the sack lay a crudely made sandwich atop a bag of potato chips and beside them a bottle of water. He wanted her alive a little longer!

CHAPTER 37

T
he alert Fairfa
x County
Police Department operator rattled off Jeremy Whitehead’s name and address to the 9-1-1 fast response team. She realized that besides his actual request for help, Whitehead’s usually loud and angry voice sounded uncharacteristically weak and pathetic. She felt she almost knew the old curmudgeon, having fielded his incessant phone calls more times than she could remember.

Whitehead’s partial report would remain a matter of record, but there was no point forwarding his incomplete information for further action.

While she ruminated about the old man, an ambulance rescue team sped toward Jeremy Whitehead’s house. When their knock remained unanswered, they easily broke open the ill-fitting door to find him sprawled on the kitchen floor, barely breathing. They administered emergency care, loaded him into the ambulance and tore off toward Fairfax County Hospital. Though not dead, he’d suffered a massive heart attack. Before leaving Whitehead’s house, the paramedics turned off his television set, tuned to such deafening loudness that it vibrated.

Shortly afterward, two Fairfax County policemen entered Jeremy’s house to secure the broken door against opportunistic vandalism and to rule out foul play. After checking the house and chatting with neighbors, the cops reviewed their assembled facts.

“So,” said the first uniform, “a 76-year-old male has a severe heart attack while on the phone with headquarters, reporting a bad driver. He’s known at the district station as a semi-kook. He’s known in the neighborhood as an ill-tempered recluse. No apparent friends or contacts since the wife died. So what are we looking for here? Smash and grab? Homicide? I don’t
think
so!”

The other cop pointed. “Hey, check the last entry on this clipboard! Is that what he called in?”

“Probably! So what!”

“What ’s this? An address and a VA license number: YRDSALE? Weird! But makes no sense! Should we take it in as evidence?

“Evidence of what? Hey, we came, we looked, we checked. The old guy’s ticker acted up. Does this look like a crime scene to you?”

“No, well… I just thought... ”

“Nah! Look, so some jerk who drives like a maniac gets lucky and isn’t reported today. How bad can it be?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Let’s secure the front door and go.”

On impulse, just before they left, the second uniform copied the clipboard’s last entry on a scrap of paper found in the wastebasket and stuffed the note into his pocket.

At that same moment miles away, temporarily revived at the hospital ER, Jeremy struggled hard to tell the doctors his crucial information. Focused upon the nearly impossible challenge of keeping him alive, the medical staff initially overlooked his feeble efforts to get their attention, instead urging him to quiet down.

He finally grabbed a nurse’s arm with surprising force, pulling her close to his mouth. “Important!” he whispered hoarsely. “Very important!”

“What is it, Sir? What’s important?” she asked.

“Yard Sale,” he whispered.

“Yard Sale?” she repeated doubtfully.

“The tag said Yard Sale. Tell the…the poleeeesss.” He hissed the word “police,” in a final exhalation as his attached monitors changed from a heartbeat’s audible beeps to the monotone buzz of a flat-liner.

“Code Blue,” shouted the nurse as additional medical personnel rushed into the room to assist with CPR. They worked feverishly for ten minutes, but to no avail.

“He’s gone,” the doctor announced. “Note the time for the record.”

The nurse shook her head sadly and turned to the doctor. “Poor old man! I’d like to think someone understood my last words on earth, but could you make out what he said?”

“The words, yes, but the meaning, no: ‘tell the police the tag said yard sale’? Makes no sense!”

The nurse agreed. “Not to me either, but isn’t it too bad since he seemed to think it was mighty important?”

The doctor took a last look at Jeremy’s still body, alive only minutes ago.

“Not any more,” he said and turned away.