Read Online Garage Sale Stalker (Garage Sale Mysteries) by Suzi Weinert - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Suzi Weinert
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speeding ticket four years ago, he viewed her police record as a virtual zero. Next, he flipped through his Rolodex, picked up the phone and dialed his contact at The Washington Post to get a list of their relevant ads for the last six months. The Washington Times would be next.
CHAPTER 9
T he daughters masterminding the Saturday garage sale in the Shannon driveway stayed overnight on Friday, ready for a very early start the next morning. Up at 6:30 a.m., they wolfed down breakfast and bustled to their pre-sale tasks. Earlier, Jennifer priced her own contributions for the sale, items the girls promised to peddle in her absence.
She told her family about her visit to the police station, so when Detective Iverson rang the doorbell at 7:45 a.m. and introduced himself, Jason promptly invited him inside.
“Some news,” the detective volunteered when Jennifer joined them in the foyer. “We found two more hits from those notebook pages of yours that we copied. This looks like a connection we hadn’t considered until you pointed it out. Good work!”
“The same to you for following through,” she said. “You don’t waste much time, do you?”
“I try not to, Ma’am. I see a sale set up in your driveway. Could that be my first garage sale experience?”
She glanced at her watch. This meant getting a late start for the other sales, but catching a real criminal overrode catching a first look. “Of course,” she agreed. “Good idea!”
Iverson cautioned, “Outdoors let’s not say much about why I’m here. A garage sale is a public place. I assume your family already knows about me but we don’t know who else might be listening. Maybe the very person we’re trying to find… or one of his associates.”
Jennifer nodded understanding. Walking the detective along the driveway’s merchandise-covered tables, she introduced him to her daughters. They hurried about putting final touches on their displays, erecting signs at the head of the cul-de-sac, moving attention-getting furniture toward the front sidewalk and arranging a jewelry display on the “check out” table. But the novelty of a detective on the premises distracted them from their work long enough to make him feel welcome. Before they could object, he graciously moved several pieces of furniture for them and was rewarded with a donut in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other.
Though scheduled to begin at 9 a.m., these sales invariably drew early-birds, who began arriving today at 7 a.m.. Jennifer knew dealers often scoured better neighborhoods for under-priced antiques and “collectibles” to resell in their stores at healthy markups. Besides professional or amateur antique hunters, other early-birds typically searched for certain specifics: military paraphernalia, cameras, certain kinds of glassware or china, old books or records, photography equipment, tools, postcards, cigar boxes or whatever fueled their passion.
Jennifer handed the detective a copy of her proposed morning “itinerary,” grouping prospective sales by neighborhood and numbered in the order she expected to reach them. When Hannah returned from positioning signs at nearby intersections and pulled her mother aside briefly to whisper in her ear, Jennifer answered, “I don’t know. Let’s find out.”
Walking to where Iverson stood by his car, Jennifer said, “Um, two more things, Detective. First, if we stumble upon an Unadvertised Special not already on my list, I may stop rather suddenly, so please watch my turn signals.”
“Ma’am, I’m a cop! I have a pretty fair idea how to follow a car. And what’s second?”
“One of my daughters asks to ride along with me today,” and as the 20-year-old girl approached them, Jennifer said, “Hannah, this is Detective Iverson.”
“Hello, Hannah!” He stared with immediate interest at the brown-eyed girl with shoulder-length hair almost the same honey-color as her mother’s. This daughter wasn’t in the driveway earlier
CHAPTER 9
T he daughters masterminding the Saturday garage sale in the Shannon driveway stayed overnight on Friday, ready for a very early start the next morning. Up at 6:30 a.m., they wolfed down breakfast and bustled to their pre-sale tasks. Earlier, Jennifer priced her own contributions for the sale, items the girls promised to peddle in her absence.
She told her family about her visit to the police station, so when Detective Iverson rang the doorbell at 7:45 a.m. and introduced himself, Jason promptly invited him inside.
“Some news,” the detective volunteered when Jennifer joined them in the foyer. “We found two more hits from those notebook pages of yours that we copied. This looks like a connection we hadn’t considered until you pointed it out. Good work!”
“The same to you for following through,” she said. “You don’t waste much time, do you?”
“I try not to, Ma’am. I see a sale set up in your driveway. Could that be my first garage sale experience?”
She glanced at her watch. This meant getting a late start for the other sales, but catching a real criminal overrode catching a first look. “Of course,” she agreed. “Good idea!”
Iverson cautioned, “Outdoors let’s not say much about why I’m here. A garage sale is a public place. I assume your family already knows about me but we don’t know who else might be listening. Maybe the very person we’re trying to find… or one of his associates.”
Jennifer nodded understanding. Walking the detective along the driveway’s merchandise-covered tables, she introduced him to her daughters. They hurried about putting final touches on their displays, erecting signs at the head of the cul-de-sac, moving attention-getting furniture toward the front sidewalk and arranging a jewelry display on the “check out” table. But the novelty of a detective on the premises distracted them from their work long enough to make him feel welcome. Before they could object, he graciously moved several pieces of furniture for them and was rewarded with a donut in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other.
Though scheduled to begin at 9 a.m., these sales invariably drew early-birds, who began arriving today at 7 a.m.. Jennifer knew dealers often scoured better neighborhoods for under-priced antiques and “collectibles” to resell in their stores at healthy markups. Besides professional or amateur antique hunters, other early-birds typically searched for certain specifics: military paraphernalia, cameras, certain kinds of glassware or china, old books or records, photography equipment, tools, postcards, cigar boxes or whatever fueled their passion.
Jennifer handed the detective a copy of her proposed morning “itinerary,” grouping prospective sales by neighborhood and numbered in the order she expected to reach them. When Hannah returned from positioning signs at nearby intersections and pulled her mother aside briefly to whisper in her ear, Jennifer answered, “I don’t know. Let’s find out.”
Walking to where Iverson stood by his car, Jennifer said, “Um, two more things, Detective. First, if we stumble upon an Unadvertised Special not already on my list, I may stop rather suddenly, so please watch my turn signals.”
“Ma’am, I’m a cop! I have a pretty fair idea how to follow a car. And what’s second?”
“One of my daughters asks to ride along with me today,” and as the 20-year-old girl approached them, Jennifer said, “Hannah, this is Detective Iverson.”
“Hello, Hannah!” He stared with immediate interest at the brown-eyed girl with shoulder-length hair almost the same honey-color as her mother’s. This daughter wasn’t in the driveway earlier
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