Dead Man Waltzing

different. I don’t do garage sales.”

“You say tomahto, I say tomayto,” I whispered to Tav as we made our way into the high-ceilinged foyer. I thought of all Great-aunt Laurinda’s stuff I wanted to get rid of and wondered whether either an estate sale or a garage sale would net me enough to buy a few new pieces of furniture. Maybe if I combed garage sales for bargains, I thought. I hadn’t been to a garage sale in years; last time I’d purchased an Aladdin VCR tape with a quarter from my allowance. I started for the stairs.

Midway up, a young couple, each toting one end of a rolled-up carpet, bumped into me. Tav’s arm clamped around me as I teetered on the stair. He drew me tight to his side.

“This is more dangerous than playing football”-I knew he meant soccer-“on the highway.”

“The possibility of bargains can drive even usually sane, calm people to hitherto unknown acts of violence,” I said, trying not to show how his closeness affected me. His warmth and the woodsy scent of his shampoo or deodorant made me lose focus for a moment.

“Do you suppose that woman woke up this morning saying, ‘I must have a bronze planter engraved with scenes from an African village, because my life is incomplete without it’?” Tav asked in my ear as an elderly woman tottered past us with just such an item clutched to her chest.

I stifled a laugh and continued up the stairs. On the landing, practically within sight of my goal, I bumped into Turner Blakely. A knowing smile oiled across his face when he recognized me, and I could tell he thought I’d come looking for him. He threw an arm across my shoulders. “Too many people around right now, Stacy,” he said. “But I’m free tonight.”

I wiggled out from under his arm and drew Tav forward. “Tav, this is Turner Blakely, Corinne’s grandson. Turner, Tav Acosta, my partner.” I deliberately didn’t specify what kind of partner.

The men eyed each other with instant, mutual dislike and shook hands briefly. “I am sorry about your grandmother’s death,” Tav said.

“What are you doing here, then?” Turner asked me, suspicion darkening his eyes now that he knew I hadn’t come chasing after his hot bod.

“The same as everyone else,” I said as casually as possible. “Looking for a bargain.”

“They’re not charging enough for Grandmother’s treasures,” Turner said. His face wore an expression of discontent. “I tried to tell the woman in charge that she was pricing things too low, but she wouldn’t listen to me. Told me she knew her business and to butt out.”

I grinned inwardly and wished I’d been present for the confrontation between Eulalia Pine and Turner Blakely.

“I know Grandmother paid twenty times more for some of her things than that Pine woman is asking for them.”

“Things always go cheap at a garage sale,” I said.

“Estate sale.” Turner glared at me.

I suddenly thought of Maurice’s painting. I knew he didn’t have possession of it yet. “Where are the items that Corinne willed to people?” I asked.

“In storage,” Turner said. “Goudge’s staff collected the bequeathed items. They also removed all the good art, Grandmother’s jewelry, and pieces of furniture; it’ll be auctioned off later.” He looked a bit happier at the prospect of making more money.

“Look, Verena, this chest of drawers is only one hundred dollars,” exclaimed a woman’s voice behind us.

“That can’t be right!” Turner brushed past Tav and me and went to confront the women attempting to lift the chest.

As soon as his back was turned, I grabbed Tav’s hand and pulled him down the hall to Corinne’s office. Only a couple of shoppers browsed in the small room. One was standing on tiptoe to take down a clock mounted on the wall. The desk had a “sold” sticker on it. Gaps in the bookshelves showed where buyers had removed books. The desk chair was gone.

So was the typewriter.

Chapter 26

I must have gasped, because Tav turned to look at me. “Stacy?”

“It’s gone,” I wailed. “But the woman said they hadn’t sold it yet.” I rushed to the desk, looking under it and around it, in case someone had moved the typewriter so they could examine the desk better. “It’s not here.”

“Stacy.” Tav hauled me to my feet. “Someone must have just walked out with it. If we hurry, maybe we can catch up with them at the cashier and make them an offer for it.”

“Good thinking.” I dashed out the door in front of him, saw the stairs clogged with people to my right, and headed left, hoping to find a lesser-used flight of stairs. Many of these old houses had servants’ stairs, I knew. This end of the hallway was quieter, empty bedrooms opening off to either side. I flung open a door at the end of the hall to find a narrow flight of stairs leading downward. With a triumphant smile at Tav, I took the stairs two at a time, erupting into what appeared to be a butler’s pantry near the kitchen.

“Excuse me,” I said, squeezing between two couples squabbling over an ugly china tureen ornate enough to have graced the table of Queen Victoria or some such.

Hoping Tav was still behind me, I threaded my way through the kitchen, its counters laden with stacks of china and serving dishes in three or four patterns, bins of silverware and stainless, glassware, small appliances, and all the other detritus that ends up in kitchen cabinets: linens, baskets, holiday-themed dishes, candlesticks, garlic presses and mandolins, and a George Foreman grill. A brief vision of the impeccable Corinne bent over a little grill on her patio flashed through my mind as I opened the back door to said patio and stepped outside with a sigh of relief. Fresh air! I hadn’t realized how confining the house felt with so many people panting for bargains.

“Over there.” Tav grasped my arm and pointed toward a young man disappearing around the side of the house, our typewriter tucked under one arm while he struggled with a standard poodle on a leash. We took off after him. My kitten heels sank into the soft turf with every step. I finally paused to slip them off and sprinted barefoot to catch up with Tav as he rounded the corner of the house. The grass was crisp and cool, and I would’ve enjoyed the opportunity to stand and scrunch my toes in it, but our typewriter was getting away.

“Sir, sir!” I called to the man, who had, luckily, stopped to examine a copper birdbath.

The poodle barked and the man looked up, light brown hair the color of the poodle’s curly hair falling into his eyes. He was in his mid-twenties, with a soft look about him like he didn’t exercise much and spent most of his time indoors. “Quiet, Tammy,” he told the dog, resting a hand on her head.

She curled her lip at us, but quieted. “Yes?” He looked from me to Tav inquiringly.

“My name’s Stacy Graysin,” I said with a winning smile, “and I came here today specifically to buy that typewriter for a friend of mine.”

The man’s arm tightened around the machine. “I’m buying this for my mother. She wants to write a book. A romance.”

“Wouldn’t she rather have a computer?” I asked. “Much easier for editing and such.”

“She doesn’t trust them.”

Oh, boy. Tammy the poodle growled at me, and I wished Hoover were here to teach her a few manners.

“How much are they asking for the typewriter?” Tav asked.

The young man righted the typewriter and checked a sticker. “Twenty-five dollars.”

“I’ll give you forty,” Tav said. Tammy nosed at his hand until he stroked her head.

“Done.” The man handed me the Smith Corona while Tav pulled two twenties out of his wallet.

“Thanks.” I tossed the word to Tav and the young man as I beelined for the cashier’s desk before anything else could happen. The way the morning had been going, I expected Turner to pop up and rip the typewriter out of my hands, telling me it wasn’t for sale, or for a sinkhole to open up and swallow the machine.

“I see you found it.” The woman we’d talked to earlier smiled when I reached the front of the line.

“You know,” I said, clunking the typewriter and my shoes down on the folding table, “I really only need the cartridge, and I think that man”-I pointed to the man with his poodle, still talking to Tav-“would like to buy the