Free Death of a Garage Sale Newbie by Sharon Dunn Page A

Trevor? Why?” Now her voice was nothing but emotion.
    He seemed transfixed by the pattern in the linoleum. “Me and Kevin found this really rad little motor just lying on the side of the road. We were going to put it on my skateboard.” He lifted his head and gazed at his mother. “We just needed some things.” His eyes steeled and his lips tightened. “So there!”
    Whatever regret Trevor had had about his life of crime had been replaced by rebellion. Inwardly, Tammy shuddered. She knew that look—the cold, unwavering eyes and the expression that was like a mask of concrete. She’d seen it on a thousand faces right before the handcuffs went on…and she’d seen it in Larry.
    Panic stretched and compressed her stomach like Silly Putty. A memory of two-year-old Trevor running through a field of dandelions, the light playing on his curly hair, flashed through her head. Tammy squared her shoulders.
    I will not lose this kid.
    She placed her feet shoulder-width apart and tilted her head. She was still two or three inches taller than him. Two can play this game, Trevor. “I think we better go home.” The ominous tone in her voice implied that she had a medieval torture chamber in her basement that she wasn’t afraid to use.
    Trevor’s shoulders drooped. Though his jaw remained tense, the coldness in his eyes melted. He fiddled with the zipper of his sweat jacket.
    “The car is in the side lot. I suggest you hustle.”
    Trevor scowled at her and shoved his hands in his pockets, but he made his way past the counter and out into the hall.
    “He looks half starved to death.” Her mother readjusted her purse on her arm. “I’ll make him soup when we get home.”
    “Mom, he’s only been in jail for four hours.”
    Her mother waved her hand in the air. “I am his grandmother. It’s my job to feed him.”
    Tammy took a deep breath. “You’re right. That is your job.” And my job is to find Trev a mentor who doesn’t think dating me is part of the deal.
    As they left short-term lockup, Tammy glanced back at Vicher, who tapped the keyboard at a furious pace. Even though she gazed at him for some time, he didn’t make eye contact or even look up from the computer.

    Ginger had never seen a man’s eyes turn quite as big and round as the man named Frank’s did. That phrase “eyes like saucers” really did have some truth to it. She waited for spirals to appear in his eyes like they did in the cartoons.
    Frank shook his head. His cheeks and forehead reddened, making him look like a giant strawberry in a T-shirt. “I can’t believe Beth did that.” He tugged on the waistband of his green and black checkered shorts. “I just can’t believe it.” Frank picked up the Mickey Mouse fishing pole and set it back down in the box with the other garage sale stuff.
    “So the pole is yours?” Kindra cocked her head and crossed her arms. Her eyes veered subtly toward Ginger in an “aha” expression. Frank was probably too busy turning red and clenching his fists to notice Kindra signaling Ginger.
    They had laid out the box of four items on the hood of Frank’s truck, the door of which said The Housewife’s Helper in solid, manly letters. There was a lawn mower, toolbox, and floor buffer in the bed of the truck. Ginger shifted her weight to the balls of her feet. This was only their second stop on Mary Margret’s chronological list, and already they had scored.
    Frank was a fortysomething man with a head full of black hair. His skin, when it wasn’t red with anger, was rich dark brown, probably from the outdoor work he did. His tan stopped midforehead. A white strip of skin jutted up against dark bangs. Ginger pictured a baseball hat with a reference to a sports team or beer on his head. Pasty skin was also evident on his upper arms. A large stomach caused his shorts to droop.
    “This is my lucky fishing pole.” His index finger jabbed toward the reel that sported Mickey Mouse dancing with an elated Pluto.