The Longest Yard Sale Read Online Free Page A

There weren’t many hiding spaces out here. We quickly searched Carol’s studio before moving to the small storage space. A stack of canvases, some finished, some waiting to be completed, yielded nothing. Shelves held cans of paint thinner, turpentine, and lots of tubes of paint. A couple of wooden boxes filled with a jumble of frames sat on the paint-spattered concrete floor.
    Carol pointed at them. “Those are the frames I bought today at the yard sale.” She smiled for a brief moment.
    â€œWow. That’s a great haul.” I opened the door to the small bathroom. An aromatic waft of scent came from a vase full of dried lavender sitting on a shelf over the toilet. A sink and wastebasket were the only other things in the room. I checked the wastebasket, just in case. It was empty.
    â€œDid you ask Olivia about the painting?” I asked.
    â€œI sent her a text, and she said she thought it was there when she left. We were really busy today with all the tourists. Olivia was only here until one because she had a study group for a class she’s taking at Middlesex Community College.”
    â€œDid she know what you were painting?” I asked.
    â€œShe might have. I usually kept it covered during the day and worked on it when the shop was closed.”
    â€œWhat can I do to help? You know I can’t paint,” I said.
    â€œYou’re better than you think. But I’ll just have to give up sleeping.”
    â€œI have a couple of garage sales I’m organizing for next weekend.” Organizing a garage sale for Carol last spring had led to a series of other people asking me to set up garage sales for them. “If I can help here or run your kids around, let me know.” Carol had eight-year-old twin boys and a six-year-old daughter, all of whom participated in lots of activities.
    â€œThanks for coming over. I thought it would magically appear if you were here.”
    I paused as I watched her face the blank canvas on the easel, worry lines etched on her forehead. My rumbling stomach set me back in motion. I couldn’t think of the last time I’d eaten. I headed down the block to DiNapoli’s Roast Beef and Pizza.
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    Just as I arrived, Rosalie switched the sign on the glass door to CLOSED. I started to turn away, but Rosalie spotted me and opened the door.
    â€œSarah, we were just going to eat. Join us.”
    â€œIs she paying?” Angelo shouted from the back of the restaurant.
    â€œOf course I will,” I said.
    â€œNo. You want her to pay for leftovers, Angelo? Have you lost your mind?” She turned to me. “I think the crowds today wore him out,” she said, her voice lowered.
    But behind her Angelo winked and smiled at me. His bald head shone above a fringe of hair. Rosalie tried to whisk me over to a table where they would eat, one in a row of tables positioned on the right side of the restaurant. A low wall separated the eating area from the kitchen. That way Angelo could keep an eye on things while he cooked. No fancy tablecloths—or, for that matter, any tablecloths at all—covered the odd assortment of wooden tables. The tables and chairs were mismatched, not because it was trendy but because Angelo didn’t want to buy new ones. Of course, if asked, Angelo would claim he started the trend. These days, when something broke, I found its replacement.
    â€œI’ll set the table,” I said, shooing off Rosalie’s attempts to stop me.
    Soon dishes of pasta, pieces of pizza, an antipasto platter, and warm garlic bread with olive oil for dipping covered the table.
    â€œWant some cooking wine?” Angleo asked with another wink.
    â€œYes, please,” I said.
    Rosalie served me Chianti in a kid’s cup with a lid and a straw because they didn’t have a liquor license. Anytime I looked around the restaurant and saw adults drinking out of kid’s cups, I knew they were sipping wine and were close