Garage Sale Stalker (Garage Sale Mysteries) (6 page)

CHAPTER 10

A
t last, Jennifer saw
Iverson’s car pulling onto the road to follow her as she drove down Balls Hill Road toward Georgetown Pike. When she parked at the next destination, they were right behind her. She hurried up the sidewalk toward the sale while the detective and Hannah strolled leisurely behind her. Before entering the front door, she glanced back to see them laughing and pointing to something in one of the enormous old trees shading the house.

Once through the door, Jennifer found herself in a serious house: easily 15,000+ square feet with gray stone facing, a jumbled custom roof-line including a turret with curved windows, beautifully crafted landscaping and a meticulously groomed lawn. She bet herself that this one sported a handsome pool-patio arrangement in the back yard.

Jennifer and the detective agreed to conceal their connection while at sales. She’d use a hand signal to identify a Regular. Almost immediately she saw the Englishman and there was the Yugoslavian, as usual, concentrating on clocks, watches and cameras, but still investigating every room. Seeing Iverson enter the huge, high-ceilinged, marble-tiled foyer, Jennifer signaled him, identifying both men. Exciting, playing spies!

Staying close in this mansion was impossible. Besides, Iverson left periodically to follow Regulars outside to their vehicles! Jennifer thought Adam appeared more attentive to his non-stop conversation with Hannah than to his police assignment. Or was this truly part of his cover? As they all moved further into the large house, she decided to roam about looking at the merchandise and find him only if she spotted another Regular.

Touring the home at an estate sale always intrigued Jennifer. With far deeper exposure than a docent-led tour of a famous person’s house, these sales gave one the cupboards-open run of a complete stranger’s home: the books they read, the movies they collected, the music they liked, the art they selected, the china and silver they used and even the clothes and shoes they wore. Open pantries housed the spices and foods that sustained them, kitchens held the pans they cooked with and bathrooms stood wide to reveal their cosmetics, soaps and vitamins. This inside peek at another’s life story intrigued Jennifer. Equally fascinating was the chapter explaining their departure, which resulted in the sale itself.

During her own major household moves, each new empty house seemed a canvas inviting her artistry. These owners followed the same route, as their decorating solutions revealed, but unlike traditional house or museum tours, if you admired an original item here, you could
buy it!

Wandering into the wood-paneled study where floor-to-ceiling book shelves lined the walls, she approached the large carved wooden desk to price ornate matching brass accessories for sale on top. Beside the brass-edged blotter-holder stood a brass pencil cup, letter opener and scissor set, double pen stand and the framed photo of a young couple posed in front of a yacht.

The woman in the picture stood in front of a man whose arms encircled her, touching her clasped hands as the camera captured forever this moment in their lives—a charming photo in a frame exactly matching the rest of the most unusual, classy-looking brass desk set. With only weeks until their anniversary, Jennifer wanted an unusual gift for Jason and this functional but handsome grouping would look fabulous on his home or office desk. Priced as a set, the tag read $150. She hesitated only seconds before loading the components into a nearby empty cardboard box.

Buys at these sales, with each item one-of-a-kind, pivoted on swift decision-making. If you left the merchandise for even a few minutes, someone else might scoop it up! No retail store’s stockroom backup or reorder option offered a second chance. Here, if you snooze, you lose.

In their early McLean days with an expensive new house, large family and careful budget, Jennifer hated passing up extraordinary one-time purchases like this one in lieu of the more practical household and children’s necessities relevant then. As with the recent tureen, now she struck when a seductive find surfaced. This freedom heightened her zeal to prowl more sales for more treasures. You had to be in the ballpark to hit a home run!

She looked around the den. What could she learn about the person who’d spent so many hours here? Like Iverson, she became a detective trying to translate clues into profiles of those they reflected.

The book shelves held both decorative old leather bindings and contemporary fiction. Other than several encyclopedia sets and a surprising number of dictionaries, she saw no law, medical or other professional books hinting at the owner’s occupation.

Wandering back to the desk, she was drawn to two tall stacks of identical brand new books, each titled “Thinking and Writing Creatively” by Professor Gilbert Snowden. She picked up the top copy, turned it over and scanned the blurb on the back cover beneath the author’s photo.

“Gilbert Snowden, professor of English at Georgetown University, is a leading writer and lecturer in North America on the use and role of language, past and present. Popular with his students, this author of six books lives with his wife in McLean, Virginia.”

She studied the photo, comparing it with the framed picture on top of her box: recognizably the same man at a different stage of life. She tucked the top copy of the book into the box with her brass items and climbed the majestic curving staircase.

On the second floor, she perused the bedrooms and baths, decorated with rich colors, elegant fixtures and expensive taste. She made mental notes about the display of art objects, placement of flower arrangements and unique window treatments, any of which she might copy.

After roaming through the many upstairs bedrooms, including a breath-taking master suite, she descended the massive carpeted staircase back to the main floor. A line of buyers clutching their purchases flanked a check-out table near the front door. Throughout the house, Jennifer had noticed “helpers” circulating among the rooms, refolding scattered linens, rearranging silver and china on tables where a recent purchase left a conspicuous void, hovering over jewelry and watching for shoplifters. These busy professionals knew their job!

Jennifer passed through the formal dining room and into the large kitchen, where a bent old man sat on a corner stool in the adjacent butler’s pantry. She shoved her heavy box onto a counter near him in order to better inspect the kitchen merchandise. “Are you okay?” she asked.

The frail, stooped man nodded affirmatively and resettled himself but didn’t answer.

“Looks like someone here really enjoyed tennis,” she said aloud, fingering the sport-related collection of ashtrays, mugs, trophies and a clock centered in a ceramic tennis racket base.

“Yes, he certainly did,” said the man in a voice surprisingly clear for his aged body.

She looked up. “You?”

“One and the same,” he said, stirring to life.

“So... is this your house then?”

He sighed, “For forty years it was and will be for two weeks more, until July first.”

“And then?”

“And then a new owner will grace these premises.”

“But this is such a magnificent home.” She tried to imagine tearing oneself away from this spectacular setting as she marveled aloud. “Glorious views from every window, the waterfall swimming pool in the back yard... ”

“Lots of life lived here. Children raised here. Good times here. Rich memories here,” he smiled thinly. Observing her questioning look and palms-up hand gesture he continued. “Then why leave? Why indeed,” he sighed again. “There is a time and a season for every purpose,” he began and then paused. “A new season is about to begin for me.”

Curious, Jennifer perched on a stool nearby to give this man her full attention. “A new season?”

“Yes.” He sat quietly long enough that she feared he’d forgotten their conversation. At last, he continued. “Surprising how few sentences describe the years of one’s life.”

“For instance...?” she encouraged.

He continued haltingly, “My wife died of cancer a few months ago. After bravely battling the beast for fifteen years, those last two
awful
years drained the very essence of her soul. Watching her helplessly, I... the experience nearly snuffed mine, as well.” He stared around the room. “Now, the house is too big, too empty and too quiet. All the beauty we gathered to enrich our life here didn’t halt its recent transformation into a mausoleum.” He drew a labored breath, “The real essence isn’t in what you find left here, it’s in the energy that’s moved on.”

In a wash of insight, Jennifer pictured life’s continuum from birth to death and for the first time recognized her own advanced progress on that path. In twenty years, maybe less, she or Jason would
be
this person!

“The circle of life,” she mused, adding playfully, “as the Lion King would say!”

But instead of warming to her humor, the hunched man focused intently on his own world of thoughts. “I… I loved her very much,” he croaked, fumbling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his eyes with the soft linen cloth.

Filled with empathy for this well-spoken, dignified old gentleman approaching the end of his years, Jennifer felt tears sting her eyes. He didn’t seem a stranger she’d just met but rather someone with whom she shared some inexplicable connection.

“Forgive my nostalgia, but memories comprise the only genuine value left here,” he rasped.

He looked so fragile and pathetic that Jennifer put her arms around him in a compassionate hug, willing strength to flow from her healthy body into his drooped bony shoulders. He folded his own arms around her and clung tightly, as if his life depended on it.

At last, she pulled back and stared into his rheumy brown eyes as he gave her a weak but sincere smile. She smiled warmth and compassion back at him.

“As they say in the vernacular,” his old eyes twinkled, “thanks, I needed
that!”

They both chuckled. Besides his intelligence and articulateness, his photo nestled in her box on the counter reminded her of the handsome fellow this wrinkled man once was.

His wave of nostalgia past, he spoke with a bit more enthusiasm now. “I’m moving to California to be near my daughter and live in a cottage on a vineyard she owns there. My several grandchildren promise to entertain me until I cry for peace, and the bountiful surrounding nature should energize what’s left of my soul. Mark your calendar to think of me there in one month. I will mark mine to think of you! Let’s shake on it.” He extended his bony hand and they did, but afterward he didn’t release her hand.

On impulse she asked, “What made you decide to stay in the house during this sale? You could have gone somewhere else instead of watching your precious belongings disappear one by one.”

“Watching this unravel,” he spoke softly so she had to lean forward to hear him, “... provides needed closure.
Seeing
it happen helps me believe it and thus accept it.”

She sat back, her eyes moist again with tears. Would she feel this same way when she and Jason finally left their cherished McLean house? What unthinkable future circumstance would trigger that departure?

With the old man’s gnarled hand clinging to hers, they shared a wordless communication. At last she broke the spell and stood.

“Just a minute,” he said as she gathered up the box. “Are these your selections?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“What interested you?” he asked, and she showed him.

He scribbled something quickly on a small notepad and, still brandishing the pen, he asked, “Would you like for me to autograph my book for you?”

Drawing upon what she’d learned while in his library, she smiled, “Well, if you’re the famous Professor Snowden, yes definitely. Would you, please?”

“I
am
and I
would!
It’s my great pleasure, Madam, and, you are…?”

She told him her name and handed him the book, which he opened with a flourish before pressing pen to paper. Finished at last, he placed the closed book back into her box. From the pad, he tore off the note written earlier. “Please, take the contents of this box with my grateful compliments. By-pass the check-out line and if stopped, show them this paper.”

“Why, thank you kindly, Professor, but this isn’t necessary.” She touched his shoulder. “Meeting you is already the high point of my day! Great happiness to you in your new life!”

“And happiness to you also, my dear! My life has been grand and yours is… charmed.”

Confusion played across her face. “Charmed?”

“Yes, you’ll see. Perhaps you think I’m a rambling old coot, and actually you’d be right about that too,” he chuckled at his own humor, “but sometimes one well advanced in years learns during that sojourn to observe and to detect… forces not everyone sees.”

“You mean, like gravity or electricity?”

“Yes, but instead I refer to the electrical energy people radiate. Some call it ‘auras’, though it’s more than that. Yours is... ” He shook his head as if to get a clearer picture. Then his expression sobered, as if he just understood something very important. Putting a gnarled hand on her arm and looking straight into her eyes, he spoke with surprising intensity. “Remember our date one month from today!
Remember…”

“You can count on it.” She hugged him good-bye; his thin arms encircled her once again, capable of more strength than she expected. Or was it desperation?

“Farewell, dear Lady,” he managed and then, as if an urgent last thought revealed itself to him, “Be careful. Be very
careful!”

“You too, kind Sir,” she replied. His eyes followed her every move as she slipped quietly out of the room, turning at the doorway to wave one last time.

Who would believe this encounter if she described it? Frankly, she didn’t understand it herself. What did he mean about auras? Long before receiving Tina’s frog, Jennifer felt luck in her life—great health, a good mind, a rewarding marriage, bright children, financial comfort and living the good life in a land of opportunity. But “charmed”? And why the warning to be “very careful”? Was the old professor more eccentric than prescient?