Garage Sale Diamonds (Garage Sale Mystery) (4 page)

“Commendable. So you’ve prepared a resume?”

“Not yet. My income isn’t needed at the moment, and I want time to work on our other plan.”

“…your other plan?”

“Mom, we’re going to move into the old Yates family house on the property. We’ll be on scene to make important decisions about where to build the new house before Adam decides which acreage to sell. We need that clearly in mind before he signs with a developer. Since Adam already owns the land, the price is right. We’d have all the benefits of the McLean and Great Falls communities but could still raise a few chickens, plant a garden and eat organic vegetables we grow ourselves. Control over food quality is important because we think the toxic stuff sprayed on plants and fruit bought in groceries explains a lot of illnesses and diseases. We could create our own special world. We’re so excited, Mom. It’s a dream we can make come true.”

Jennifer felt as if she’d been punched. Her daughter and Adam in that wretched house of horrors day after day, week after week?

Hannah paused her animated chat, fork in midair, to stare at her mother. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

“I agree with everything you said about food quality—even though you didn’t warn me you were stepping on your soapbox.” She tried a nervous laugh then looked directly at her daughter. “I’m just trying to absorb this…this…. You…you’re not concerned about living in a place where such dreadful things happened generation after generation?”

“Mom, you of all people don’t believe in haunted houses. It’s just an inanimate building—walls and a roof—with no control over who lived there or how they behaved. It isn’t infected with poison. We’d get rid of everything inside, which is right up your alley because we’d want to have a huge garage sale and then refill the house with quality second-hand furniture.”

Jennifer drew a sharp breath. Should she share her apprehension with this daughter so focused upon a single course of action? What was her responsibility here? Each person deserved freedom to make decisions and learn from mistakes. But informed decisions stood the better chance of success. Shouldn’t a parent try to spare his child pain or danger when possible? The more puzzle pieces Hannah had, the clearer picture she could make.

To avoid Hannah’s needing to repent later, shouldn’t someone warn her before she plunged ahead?

8

Thursday, 1:07 PM

Looking across the table at her daughter, Jennifer wondered how best to explain her concerns. She composed words in her head then blurted them before she changed her mind. “You’re right, Hannah, a house is an inanimate building. But this isn’t just any old house. It’s where Adam, your husband, endured terrible abuse for the first six years of his life.”

“Good second-hand furniture makes sense since we only expect to stay a few months. You and I could have fun giving a big garage sale to get rid of what’s there and afterward shop together for replacements. Our tastes differ, which is normal for different generations, but you know all the resources and I can make the selections. And if Adam goes to law school as his new dad suggested, we’d live on my new job’s income until the other acres sell.”

Jennifer stared at her daughter. Had Hannah missed what she said about Adam’s torture at the house or chosen to ignore it? She thought about Ruger’s experience at the farm. Did his similar plan to start a new life there prompt him to comb local garage sales to replace his hated mother’s belongings? If so, his plan didn’t work. Purging the house didn’t purge its horror for him.

How could she share this connection and her resulting uneasiness with Hannah? She reached across the table, touched her daughter’s hand and looked directly into her eyes. “Honey, didn’t Adam tell us repressing those awful childhood memories allowed him to move forward and develop into the balanced person he is? What if living in the house reawakens those torturous memories? Doesn’t ‘repressed’ mean the experiences still exist, just buried deep in his mind until something jars them out?

Hannah’s gaze dropped to focus on her plate. A tear spilled from the corner of one eye. “Oh, Mom, I don’t want anything to threaten our happiness together, especially a risk we take voluntarily. Adam and I talked about this, and he’s convinced bad vibes from the past can’t change the person he is now. I’m nervous because I don’t want anything to hurt someone I love, but he thinks our plan is logical and practical. He thinks country living would be fun and eco-sound. I admit that the idea of using the old house startled me at first, but I’m not the bold visionary he is and, of course, I want to support his ideas. At best, the plan seems like a harmless, quaint way to spend a few months in a beautiful country setting.”

“But…”

“…but frankly, Mom, I’m nervous about anything that might threaten our life together.”

Moe reappeared. “Dessert for you ladies today?” They shook their heads and Jennifer produced a credit card from her purse.

“Oh, Mom, what should I do?”

“Honey, this is one of those dilemmas life keeps handing out. You make the best decision by learning as much as possible about the situation. Sometimes you get it right, sometimes you don’t. If you don’t, you try again.”

“You’re not going to tell me what to do, are you?”

“Of course not, Honey. This is your life. But I’m glad you’re not overlooking anything affecting your best choice. And here’s an idea that might influence your decision.”

Hannah’s eyes widened. “What?”

“A house safety inspection. You’d want one if you bought a house. They only cost a few hundred dollars. The inspection checks the electrical system, plumbing, foundation, roof, chimneys, drainage, HVAC and water heater; even radon gas and carbon monoxide. A farm’s tests should include well water and septic tank.”

“Adam told me Greg Bromley—I still have a hard time calling him ‘Dad’—advised him not to invest in structural repairs since the old house will be torn down for rebuilding. So if it isn’t safe, I can’t imagine Adam would want us to live there.”

“Well, there you go.”

“Oh, Mom, thanks. And by the way, guess what?” Hannah flashed her winning smile.

“I give up.”

“Adam took me to a shooting range to learn to fire weapons. Police work teaches every person should know how to defend himself, so it’s a sensible skill to learn. He thinks isolated living on the fifteen acres means I should know how to protect myself if it’s ever necessary. Turns out I’m a pretty good shot with a pistol.” She groped in her purse, withdrew and unrolled a target showing a silhouetted human form perforated with holes centered about the head and chest.

Jennifer remembered Hannah as a little girl, holding up her latest proud triumph: a Girl Scout badge, a report card with straight A’s, a tennis trophy…and now this.

“Impressive, Hannah. What a many-talented gal you are!”

She grinned at her mother’s approval. “Before we go, I almost forgot to ask—any family news?”

Jennifer thought. “Your sister Becca comes home from Virginia Tech for Thanksgiving break on Saturday. She invited Tina McKenzie to join us for the family event on Thursday.”

“How’s Tina recovering after her awful experience with Ruger Yates?”

“Plastic surgery repaired her outer wounds and counseling’s working on her inner ones. I guess we’ll learn more when we see her at Thanksgiving.”

“And my brothers?”

“Kaela and Owain are about to take a needed business-and-pleasure long weekend get-away. Guess who’s babysitting their three kiddos while they’re gone?

“Mom, you’re a saint.”

“Back to Thanksgiving, Dylan’s family and four kiddies are coming as well as Mike and Bethany. And we’ve invited Adam’s mother, Sally Iverson, and his new dad, Greg Bromley. And, of course, we’ll extend an invitation to poor Tony Donnegan.  How about you and Adam?”

“Absolutely. What can we bring?”

“Appreciate the offer, Honey, but if I shop for one item I might as well get them all. One of these days, I may ask you children to take over, but not yet. Coming home should be a relaxing treat for you with your busy lives.”

“Mom, you make coming home something very special.” She stood and hugged her mom. “Now, let’s go get your car.”

They left the restaurant arm in arm.

9

Thursday, 2:32 PM

Dressed in shabby, filthy clothes, Ahmed accepted the exhaustion from the tormenting hardships along the way. He balanced it with the exhilarating thought that he’d reach his final destination today.

The difficulties during these past dangerous, miserable months swam through his mind as he recalled how one designated accomplice after another handed him off to the next, moving him invisibly from the Middle-East toward his pre-arranged destination in North America.

Before leaving his country, he’d felt a surprising personal hesitation when the Great Leader ordered him to shave his luxuriant natural beard and crop his hair. He understood the need to disguise identifiable Middle-Eastern characteristics for this mission. Compared to the excruciating training to endure torture if captured, this simple cosmetic gesture was nothing. Yet, relinquishing these cultural signs of masculinity dismayed him even though he admitted sadly that Allah’s path for him excluded any expectation of a woman in his life. He needed no handsome beard to signal his maleness. Still, he needed respect among his male peers with whom the beard showed both his dedication to Allah and his virility. Fortunately, he’d been told to wait until the night before departing on his mission to remove his beard. The further he traveled from his homeland, the less this lack of facial hair set him apart from others.

Instructions to let the beard stubble reappear while he traveled to the U.S.A. created an unkempt-look which, together with his dirty, worn travel clothes, achieved a decrepit appearance signaling potential human predators this wasn’t a man worth harassing. Tolerating the filth served its critical purpose even though Ahmed’s religion reinforced his personal preference for cleanliness. He chafed at this disgusting daily desecration, although the ruse served his mission well.

First a series of small boats, then freighters, moved him down waterways from the Gulf of Aden through the Red Sea to the Mediterranean. Then a particularly uncomfortable cargo ship tossed him mercilessly for too many days across a stormy Atlantic. He ventured out only at night in seasick desperation from his sequestered, claustrophobic cabin.

At last the vessel entered the Gulf of Mexico, depositing him at a port where others removed him from the ship in a cargo box they conveyed to a warehouse. More facilitators moved him in a series of clunker vehicles across scorching Mexican wasteland. They delivered him to a coyote who prodded him through a rancid, decaying, rat-filled tunnel beneath the U.S. border into Texas.

Once he was delivered inside the Texas line, others picked him up and drove him to a seedy motel where he showered away the travel stench in a cleansing lasting until the shower’s cascading hot water ran cold. He winced at again donning the filthy clothes, but with only days to his destination, he had forced himself. Their critical importance to his larger objective meant under no circumstances could he leave these clothes behind. The safest way not to lose them was to wear them.

A variety of trucks and cars drove him for days on end through Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, the Carolinas and into Virginia. Every step along the way pointed him toward a certain house in a certain town where he would carry out his destructive mission, and, praise be to Allah, he would reach that destination before this day ended.

When the panel truck in which he rode the last stretch stopped for fuel, he shaved away his beard stubble at the gas station’s restroom sink, washed his hair and cleaned his face, neck and armpits with damp paper towels. Later, hidden from view in the back of the panel truck, he changed into clean clothes after carefully placing his worn travel garments in his suitcase.

To prevent this driver from knowing his final destination, the truck dropped him in front of the McLean Safeway store, where he phoned his host to pick him up.

10

Thursday, 4:02 PM

Jennifer returned from lunch to find Jason at home. “How’s Tony doing?”

“Rough afternoon. Telling his kids was hard. I overheard their reactions to their mother’s death on the speaker phone. Heart-breaking, Jen! Then we called funeral homes and picked one. He wants a small funeral, family only, but you have to jump through most of the same hoops as if it were public. The funeral director’s a pro, with lists of what needs to happen.”

“Like?”

“Like writing her obituary and deciding which newspapers should print it, asking someone to give a eulogy at the service, picking a casket and selecting a cemetery or columbarium. Then planning the church service, musician and a reception for mourners there afterward. They’ll make a slide show—with today’s technology, it’ll be a Powerpoint—of Kirsten’s life with any photos he gathers. I’ll help him when he and the kids work on that tomorrow. This afternoon at 3:30 we meet his pastor to make church arrangements. What a grim education, Jen. This convinces me we should work out a lot of this in advance so our kids—or whichever one of us is left—won’t need to wade through it while confused and grieving.”

“Okay, it’s on our to-do list. By the way, what’s a columbarium?”