The Longest Yard Sale by Sherry Harris

strong.
    â€œThey won’t like my idear, but I’m opening a studio there. I plan to live above it, to be a part of that community. I figure if I can motivate some of those kids, I’ll have done something important—beyond beating the crap out of people for the past twenty years.”
    Dorchester wasn’t the Boston area’s best neighborhood, but I admired Gennie’s philosophy. Although if she didn’t like beating the crap out of people, why did she want to teach others to? As I turned to her, I knocked over a pile of mail that was stacked next to my left elbow.
    â€œWhoops.”
    â€œHand that to me, and I’ll get it out of the way.”
    I scooped up the mail, but stopped handing it to her when the stack was in midair. The return-address label of the top envelope said “Jackson Financial Planning.”
    â€œWhat?” Gennie asked.
    â€œJackson Financial Planning. Do you use this company?”
    Gennie had a funny expression on her face. Oops, sometimes I’d forgot I was dealing with reserved New Englanders instead of more open Californians. Even though before I’d moved here, I’d always heard about the Yankee reserve, I didn’t usually notice it. I think my openness made others more open to me. But every once in a while, it was a conversation stopper.
    â€œI didn’t mean to pry,” I said. “I know Bubbles, Dave Jackson.”
    â€œIt’s okay. Dave knocked on my door a couple of months ago. Friendly, sharp guy. I like to support our troops, so I invested some money with him. So far I’ve been getting great returns.”
    â€œOh, good.” I gulped down the rest of my tea. “I need to come back with my good camera to take some pictures. I’ll develop a timeline for when I think I can get everything priced, and then we can have the sale.”
    â€œSounds good,” Gennie said.
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    I went home for a quick fluffernutter sandwich. I might be the only adult in the commonwealth to eat this delicious combination of Marshmallow Fluff and peanut butter. I’d never heard of it until I moved to Massachusetts, home of the fluffernutter. There’d been a contentious debate in the state house several years ago when some legislator introduced a bill suggesting that fluffernutters weren’t nutritionally sound and should be banished from school lunches. I’m all for kids eating healthy, but banning the flutter-nutter would be like banning cheese in Wisconsin, potatoes in Idaho, or corn in Iowa.
    When I’d finished my sandwich, I grabbed my laptop. The name I’d overheard in Carol’s shop, Terry McQueen, had been rolling around in my head all morning. I opened my computer and typed in “Terry McQueen.” An article from the Fitch Times , the local base newspaper, popped up, along with a photo. The man in the picture bore some resemblance to the body in Carol’s shop—lean build, same sandy hair. But unlike the dead man on the floor, the man in the picture wore a suit and a big smile. I studied the photo. It was hard to tell if it was the same man, but I bet it was.
    According to the article, McQueen had recently won a Civilian Category II of the Quarter award, which meant he wasn’t in the air force but worked on the base. It also meant his boss liked him enough to take the time to write up a nomination for the award and submit it. I wondered what Terry did on base; that wasn’t mentioned in the article.
    I called my friend Laura Nicklas. She lived on Fitch Air Force Base, and since her husband, Mike, was the wing commander, she was plugged into what was going on there. After a brief conversation, I arranged to meet her at four at the base thrift shop, where she volunteered.
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    I napped until three-thirty and fixed myself another fluffernutter sandwich. Full of fluff and peanut butter, I drove over to Fitch. Since the divorce, I no longer had a military-dependent ID,