A Very Catty Murder Page 2

  Sonja couldn't help but wonder if it was a stray. If she saw it again, she would have to check for a collar.

  Frank finished the last bite of his waffle, practically having inhaled it. Standing up, he patted his now full belly. "Well, I think I'll get started putting everything out. This stuff isn't going to sell itself."

  Chapter 2

  Sonja quickly finished up her own waffle and then jumped up to help her husband arrange items for the garage sale. They started by pulling out long fold-out tables and setting them up, followed by dragging out boxes and organizing the contents as quickly as they could. Frank had already done some major organization when he'd stored it all in the one-car garage a few months earlier.

  Still, picking through the stuff was daunting.

  It was only about five minutes later that her parents arrived as well, parking on the street where Jameson had only been a little while earlier.

  "We're here," her mother announced loudly, waving as she got out of the car. Sonja had spent less and less time with her mother since her engagement and eventual marriage to Frank. It wasn't an intentional move, but married life and proven to be far busier than she anticipated. Her mother, as a result, relished any and every chance to spend time with her daughter. "I brought the stickers." She produced a plastic wrapped pad of multicolored blank stickers that could be used for adding prices to items.

  Frank held up his hands. "Oh, we weren't planning on putting stickers on everything," he told her.

  Her jaw dropped as if offended by the notion. "And why not, Frank? How is it a garage sale if the prices aren't marked?"

  Frank motioned to the still full garage. "I've already boxed everything into categories. We will have different sections of the driveway for different items. Like that tote over there is for everything that I'll let go for twenty-five cents." He pointed at the large plastic storage tote. His finger passed to the card table. "Then that will be for everything that is a dollar. We'll have a five-dollar section, a ten-dollar section, and all the way up to twenty-five dollars for some of the bigger or more expensive stuff."

  Sonja's mother hummed quietly as she considered Frank's arrangement. "Well, it's not a bad system, I suppose, but I always like to see clearly marked prices when I go to a garage sale."

  "Mom," Sonja scolded, feeling a hint embarrassed and walking over and holding out some printed out paper signs. "We already printed out the prices to put on each table. They'll be clearly marked."

  Her mother smirked but was clearly not convinced. However, she knew by experience not to not to argue with her daughter over these small matters. Sonja had always been markedly independent, refusing to let her mom tell her what to do.

  "Where should I put this?" Sonja's father asked, huffing as he carried a hefty looking cardboard box up the driveway.

  "What is it?" Frank asked.

  Not feeling like holding the heavy thing up any longer, he let the box plop down to the ground with a dusty thud. "In the spirit of garage sales, your mother got into a purging mood and decided to thin out her romance collection."

  This time, Sonja's jaw dropped. She made an overexaggerated gasp. "My mother? Getting rid of her romance novels?" she joked. Growing up, the huge shelf in the living room dedicated to those pieces of romantic fiction was a staple in their home. It was as much a part of the decor as the wallpaper or curtains.

  "Dear, I'm not a hoarder," she defended herself, jumping to the conclusion that she was being insulted.

  "No, no. I think it's good to clear out stuff once in a while."

  "I agree," Sonja's father huffed mildly. He'd never been a fan of the eyesore in the living room of their Victorian Home. Not only that but when he'd gone away for a few years, his old study and all its shelves quickly became filled to the brim with her books.

  The box they'd brought, large as it seemed, was only a minor dent in the collection.

  "Mom, are you sure you want to get rid of your romance novels? I know how much you love them. You've been collecting them for years." Sonja would never admit it, but she had some sentiment for the books as well. She remembered many lazy chilly autumn days where she would pull out one of her mom's books to read it.

  "I didn't get rid of any favorites," her mother noted.

  Sonja knew there were many favorites in the collection.

  "Besides, I have to make room for new releases, don't I?"

  Sonja's father smirked sarcastically but didn't let her mother see, knowing it could cause a spat. When he came back into their lives, the mother and daughter had been both hurt and grateful at the same time. Still, there was some mild tension in the family.

  "Well, I'm glad to have them as part of the sale. You can put them over with all of my old western novels I'm parting with," Frank noted, motioning toward another box near the end of the driveway next to the storage tub. They were going for twenty-five cents apiece.

  "You're not going to sell my books for such a low price, are you?" her mother gasped.

  "Oh, Diane. That's a plenty reasonable price," her father noted hoisting the box over there to be done with it.

  "You're getting rid of all your western novels, Frank?" Sonja asked, worrying that her new husband was letting go of far too much in the name of moving in with his wife. She knew how much he loved his western books and movies. In fact, it was hard getting him to watch or read much of anything else.

  "No, no. I have another box of books I'm keeping. I just hope there is room for them in the cottage."

  "There is all that shelving built into the walls of the living room. We can just take down some of the DVDs to make room." Sonja wondered if she should have joined in and gotten rid of a few of her movies. She was obsessed with old black and white films, especially mysteries. She supposed she could always bring some the next day of the sale.

  "Sounds good to me," he said with a smile.

  "Okay, what can we do to help?" Sonja's father asked, clearly ready to get down to work. It was already seven in the morning and the bargain hunters would be out soon.

  "Alright, you can help me get out these old toys," he said, motioning to him to follow.

  "Right O," Sonja's father said rushing in and helping Frank to pick up a large and long plastic box. "Oh, this is heavy."

  "Yeah, most of them are made out of metal," he admitted, moving toward the end of the driveway.

  As they moved by, Sonja could see through the clear plastic to the toys inside. "What is all that?" she asked.

  "Toys," Frank reiterated.

  "No, I mean they look like little miniatures or something."

  Frank's mouth crooked to one side like he'd been caught. He was silent.

  "Well?" Sonja pressed.

  Before Frank could answer, the sound of someone cursing nearby drew the curious attention of everyone. Who could be walking around a family neighborhood and cussing like that so early in the morning? A father trying to get his old mower running? A retired gentleman complaining of back pain?

  It ended up being neither. Walking down the street with a determination of a tiger who was hunting its prey was Charles, the man who owned the dive bar just on the other side of the wooded area behind the neighborhood. It was the last place most people saw on the way out of town.

  "What's Charles doing out this morning?" Sonja's father wondered out loud. "Doesn't he usually sleep in after running the bar all night?"

  "I don't know," Frank admitted, walking down to the end of the driveway.

  "Gosh dang it all," the man muttered, his hands buried in the depths of his pockets as he plodded forward. He was a big fellow who could be intimidating if he wanted, a necessity when owning a roadside dive.

  "Charles?" Frank called to him, waving.

  The man looked up, a haggard glaze to his eyes. Clearly, he wasn't used to being awake at this hour. His thinning hair stuck up in parts as if he'd just rolled out of bed. "Sheriff, thank goodness. You're just the man I needed to see."

  "Me?" Frank asked, pointing to himself
as Charles stomped his way to the end of the driveway. He paused and looked around. "Having a sale?"

  "Yes, as a matter of fact," Frank said.

  "Hold on, if you were looking for Frank, how did you know he'd be over here this morning?" Sonja asked, her usual investigative nature kicking in. She was a naturally curious woman, but ever since she found out she could see ghosts, her interest in investigating strange situations had only grown more and more.

  While this wasn't a supernatural situation, she knew that those human tendencies carried over to the grave. She took every chance she got to learn more about people's interactions to help her better understand those who'd passed on.

  "He lives here, doesn't he?" Charles inquired, looking at the house.

  "Actually, I moved in with Sonja on the Smith estate."

  "The Smith estate?" he wondered out loud, a furrowed confusion on his brow.

  Clearly, he wasn't all caught up on town news, but his gossip usually consisted of the seedier side of town--brought to him by drunks and braggarts at the bar. Of course, Sonja and Frank's living situation was no one's concern.

  "Yes, Belinda asked me to be the caretaker a while back, when she left to travel the world," she noted, thinking about how much she missed her similarly supernaturally inclined friend. Belinda had taken off to hunt down the evil and unseen forces in the world. If there was one person who knew more about the occult than anyone, it was Belinda.

  Charles waved off this new information like he didn't have time for it now. He turned to Frank with stern, unflinching eyes. Something serious was up. "Sheriff, someone vandalized my bar."

  Chapter 3

  "What?" Frank exclaimed, suddenly all ears. While it was the sheriff's day off, he could never leave someone in need without at least listening to what they had to say.

  "Oh, my. Vandalism here in Haunted Falls?" Sonja's mother gasped as if it were some great shock.

  Sonja shook her head. Could her own mother be forgetting the number of murders that had occurred in town over the past years? Ever since Sonja had moved back to town, it seemed like a plague.

  Her father, who was the one who'd passed on the ability to see and speak to spirits, believed that their ability--their power--drew in violence.

  "That's right. Vandalism," Charles reiterated. Clasping his hands behind his back, he began to pace up and down the driveway. "They broke out the few windows I have with rocks and spray painted all kinds of swear words everywhere, calling me horrible names."

  Frank folded his arms. "Why would someone do that?"

  Charles threw up his arms. "I have no idea. It just doesn't make a lick of sense."

  "You can't think of anyone who might want to deface your business?" Frank asked.

  Charles paused, thinking deeply. His index finger shot up in the air. "Dan Tetterson, of course."

  "Dan?" Frank asked, thinking of the old gentleman and finding it hard to believe.

  "I mean, I've kicked a lot of people out of my bar throughout the years, but Dan is pretty sore about it. He is always in there trying to hustle pool. He always complained that my table was crooked. That it messed up his shots. He complained so much I banned him from playing."

  "I understand," Frank said, stroking his chin.

  "Aren't you going to come see what he did?" Charles insisted. He was usually such a gentleman with a good ear for listening. Now, however, he was in a tizzy of anger.

  Understandably so.

  "Tell you what. I'll call the station and have one of the deputies come down and have a look."

  "The deputies?" he expelled irritably. "No offense to those two boys of yours, but they don't hold a candle to you when it comes to police work."

  Frank's features crumpled up at the insult. He took great pride in his tiny police force.

  "No, you're already right here. It's a ten-minute walk to my bar. Just come yourself."

  "I'm a little busy at the moment," Frank commented, motioning to currently half-set-up garage sale.

  "Sonja is more than capable of handling this," Charles insisted, waving toward her. While Sonja appreciated the vote of confidence (she had been friends with Charles for some years, even if she didn't stop by the bar to see him very often) she didn't like the idea of being left to handle all the stuff alone.

  "It is my day off, Charles. In fact, this whole weekend is my time off."

  "And you can't just come take a quick look?" he demanded.

  Frank hesitated, but then looked at Sonja for assistance. She could only shrug.

  "Okay. I'll come have a look, but after that, you'll have to work with one of my deputies until Monday. Understand?"

  "I guess if that's the way it has to be," he complained.

  Frank shook his head. "The only thing that would keep me from doing this sale this weekend, something I've put off for far too long, is a dead body."

  *

  Frank still hadn't arrived back by the time they'd finished setting up. Thankfully, he had labeled all the boxes well with which category of price they fit into, and with Sonja in charge, the work went quickly.

  She was surprised her mother didn't fight her more on the pricing and organization, but something about her father being there also kept her in check.

  However, she did mutter the occasional complaint under her breath such as stickers would be clearer and how can this be called organized?

  Of course, in the case of a garage sale, what could honestly be considered organized?

  Once they were all ready, Sonja set up chairs for each of them to sit on to greet customers and sell items.

  Secretly, she also took the chance to peek at the toy box that Frank had been reluctant to reveal to his wife. Looking at the box, it appeared as if it had originally been meant as a container to hold shoes that would easily slide under a bed. The lid folded up on both sides for easy access.

  Popping open the top, she got a good look at what was inside.

  Before her eyes was a large arrangement of pewter miniatures, each only around an inch or less tall. They were organized carefully, lovingly, as if someone had treated them with great care. They consisted of cowboys and World War II soldiers mostly, but there also appeared to be the occasional elf, dwarf, wizard as well. Each one had seemingly been hand-painted and Sonja couldn't help but wonder if Frank himself had done it.

  How could he get rid of such treasures? She was sure that they could be used at the diner's Friday night gaming sessions. Most of the kids who showed up liked playing tabletop role-playing games, and minis like this were expensive. Having a collection on hand was something that could help kids who couldn't afford expensive gaming materials.

  But perhaps that was the very reason he hadn't wanted her to see. Frank had traditionally been open about the fact he thought tabletop and board games were boring and a waste of time. (He had, however, very much enjoyed playing a war board game at Thanksgiving the year prior with Ally's husband.) Could it be that he was trying to hide the fact that he had once gamed?

  This was a big and intriguing mystery all in itself.

  "Excuse me, are you having a garage sale?" a female voice asked.

  Sonja looked up to see a woman about her same age. She had dark hair pulled back into a ponytail and a tight smile on her lips. "Yes, we are," she answered, closing the box and standing up. She made a mental note to move them out of the sale area and back into the garage as soon as possible.

  As she stood, she noticed the black cat again. This time it was simply sitting on a fence across the street staring their way. Staring at her?

  Sonja cursed the fact that the first customer had already shown up and needed help at the same time when the cat had come back. From where she stood, however, she could see a collar. That probably meant it belonged to someone.

  "Are you looking for anything in particular?" Sonja asked, turning her attention back to the woman.

  "No, no. I think I'm just going to browse," she said, walking past Sonja. For a second, the woman eyed the ho
use, pausing there a bit too long, before looking at the tables.

  Something about the woman felt strange. Maybe a bit off.

  "Hello, dear. How did you find us?" Sonja's mother asked, being invasive as usual.

  "Oh, darn. I need to put out the signs," Sonja's father remembered, standing up and grabbing the neon colored poster board with marker on it. "Be right back."

  "I was just walking the neighborhood," the shopper noted.

  "You're not from around here? I don't recognize you from town," she noted.

  That wasn't too odd. It was the tourist season, after all. Sonja wished her mother wouldn't keep pestering the woman.

  "No. I don't live here. At least not recently."

  Her mother's eyebrows shot up. "So, you are from here?"

  "Well, I lived here for a few years during my late teens and early twenties."

  So, that wasn't too long ago, Sonja assumed.

  "Oh, interesting. Do you have family in the area?"

  "Not really." The woman gave that same strained smile.

  Sonja's mother pushed to the edge of her chair, obviously eager for gossip. "Don't keep me in suspense, dear. Maybe I'll remember you. What's your name?"

  The woman hesitated, glancing back at Sonja then to the house. However, before she could answer, someone else answered for her.

  "Sheba?" Frank gasped, having just arrived back at the house. "Sheba Rayearth?"

  Chapter 4

  Sonja's jaw dropped wide open as she looked from Frank, to the woman, and back to Frank again.

  "Sheba? As in, the ex-girlfriend we were just talking about this morning?" she asked, hardly able to believe it. Not only did Sonja feel blown away by this revelation, but so did everyone else. Her mother looked as if she might just fall out of her chair, her father's mouth turned down into a concerned frown. Even Charles, who stood behind Frank, had his lower jaw drawn back in seeming disgust.