Free The Longest Yard Sale by Sherry Harris

outside my apartment.
    He snagged my wrist and kissed it, right where my pulse beat madly. I almost reconsidered but found some last bit of willpower and closed the door.
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    A couple of minutes later, I heard another knock on my door. I frowned. If it was Seth coming back for another try, the only piece of me he was going to get was my mind. If it was CJ, he would have seen Seth leaving. I eased open the door, debating which scenario was worse. Carol stood there. My first thought was, What has gone wrong now? We’d already covered burglary and homicide. Arson, vehicular manslaughter, mail fraud?
    â€œAre you going to let me in?” Carol asked.
    â€œOf course.” I felt more than a little guilty for having such thoughts and chalked it up to being tired. Carol had put up with me ending up on her doorstep a number of times when CJ and I were divorcing. I even called her store Paint and Whine because I’d been over there so much grousing about my life. She’d been my cheerleader and confidant. I needed to do whatever I could for her.
    â€œWho was that guy I saw leaving your building?” Carol asked.
    I hadn’t told her anything about Seth. I shrugged. “Maybe someone Stella’s seeing.” Another thing to feel guilty about. Carol was my “tell everything to” friend. As the words came out of my mouth, I realized the air still smelled of Seth’s delicious aftershave. And—worse—in the kitchen, the two chairs were pulled close together, and two wineglasses were on the table next to the pizza box with only one piece of pizza left. Carol knew I loved pizza, but she also knew I couldn’t eat a large DiNapoli’s on my own.
    Carol pursed her lips as she took in the scene in the kitchen. “Can I have a glass of wine? It looks like there’s a little left in the bottle.”
    If Carol wasn’t going to question me about who had been here, something must be really wrong. I scooted into the kitchen, poured her a glass, and was back in a flash. Carol sat on the couch with her head leaned back and her eyes closed.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” I asked. I put the glass of wine on the vintage trunk I used as a coffee table. Carol didn’t even reach for it, but she did finally open her eyes. This time I noticed they were red and puffy from crying. Maybe she’d found out she was a suspect in the murder. I picked up the wineglass and handed it to her.
    She took a sip. “After I left you this morning, I told Brad about the body. And then the missing painting.”
    â€œHow’d he take all of that?”
    â€œAfter he got done yelling?”
    â€œIt probably scared him.” I refrained from adding that it could have been her dead on the floor.
    â€œBrad’s furious with me.”
    â€œWhy?” I was stunned. Brad usually indulged Carol’s every whim.
    Tears rolled down Carol’s cheeks. She sat up and grabbed the wine but didn’t drink any. “Because I copied Battled .”
    â€œHe knows you’ve copied famous paintings before.”
    â€œI’ve copied a few paintings for family and friends. But I usually sell originals only to people I don’t know.” Her tears increased. “And I’ve never been paid this much for a painting, original or copy.”
    â€œHow much are you being paid?” I wondered if she’d answer since she’d been so evasive about it the first time we talked when the painting disappeared.
    â€œIf I get the fee and the bonus, nine thousand, nine hundred, ninety-nine dollars.”
    I sucked in a breath. I’d worked part-time for a financial planning company a long time ago. I knew that amount was one dollar under what triggered alarm bells with banks and the government. And from the look on Carol’s face, she knew it, too.
    â€œBrad pointed out that was five times more than I’d ever made for a painting,” Carol said after a couple of