Of course, I hadn’t really expected the chief to let me stay, but he’d be suspicious if I didn’t at least try to lurk nearby.
I decided to check outside to make sure no one needed me before taking up my eavesdropping vantage point. And if the chief saw me outside, all the better.
Outside, I saw that the fenced-in area was nearly empty—of people, that is; the Army of Clutter was still there in all its glory. Two acres, covered almost entirely with stuff. Tables piled high with stuff. Boxes filled with stuff. Aisles and rows and huge messy clusters of larger stuff. Enough racks of clothes to stock a department store, if any of the garments were still in style and in reasonable condition. Several thousand books, though that number would probably shrink to several hundred if we didn’t count duplicate copies of The Da Vinci Code and a handful of other recent bestsellers. Three or four houses’ worth of furniture, some of it actually sound enough for use. All lying peacefully in the autumn sunshine, undisturbed except for the small area where the local evidence technician was industriously photographing the contents of a table while Cousin Horace meticulously dusted the contents of the adjacent table for fingerprints.
I hoped that there was something special about those particular tables. If they followed the same process with the whole two acres, Michael and I would have to bequeath the chore of finishing the yard sale to our grandchildren.
The job of clearing out the customers was going much faster. Michael and his checkout crew were nearing the end of the line, and most of the open space inside the fence, along with the corner we’d planned to use as a picnic area, now contained neat, orderly rows of boxes, each carefully labeled with the name of the person who’d either bought the contents or would be buying them, if they bothered returning when the police allowed us to open again. The uniformed officers were progressing more slowly with questioning the departing customers, but still making visible progress. As I watched, they let two uncostumed people go free, while an officer escorted a Nixon up to the house—presumably for further questioning by the chief.
Of course, that didn’t mean that our lawn was in any danger of becoming deserted. Most of the people who’d been allowed to leave the yard sale area were still hanging around outside the fence, watching the police, and window-shopping. I wondered if the police inside found the circle of impassive Nixons, Draculas, and Grouchos as unnerving as I did.
From the size of the crowd I suspected some of the people milling around our yard had only arrived after news of the murder spread through the county. Especially the ones wielding cameras and binoculars. The cousins who’d been running the concession stand inside the fence had scrounged up more grills and food, and were doing a brisk business. The occasional squeal of feedback emanated from the side yard, where the as-yet-unnamed band formed by one of Eric’s older brothers was tuning up and preparing to satisfy their largely unfulfilled passion for playing to a live audience. Apparently the medical examiner had departed without allowing Dad to accompany him, and Dad had consoled himself by organizing an owl pellet dissection project. Several dozen children and teenagers and even a few bemused adults were diligently hacking and sawing on owl pellets with disposable plastic knives borrowed from the concession stand. Mother, by contrast, was circulating like the hostess at a floundering party, apologizing for the disruption and urging people to have some lemonade while they waited for the yard sale to reopen.
The press had arrived in force. I recognized the reporter from the Caerphilly Clarion, and the crews from the local TV and college radio stations stood out in the crowd because of all the equipment they were lugging. I had to chase several of the television trucks out of the side yard, though not
I decided to check outside to make sure no one needed me before taking up my eavesdropping vantage point. And if the chief saw me outside, all the better.
Outside, I saw that the fenced-in area was nearly empty—of people, that is; the Army of Clutter was still there in all its glory. Two acres, covered almost entirely with stuff. Tables piled high with stuff. Boxes filled with stuff. Aisles and rows and huge messy clusters of larger stuff. Enough racks of clothes to stock a department store, if any of the garments were still in style and in reasonable condition. Several thousand books, though that number would probably shrink to several hundred if we didn’t count duplicate copies of The Da Vinci Code and a handful of other recent bestsellers. Three or four houses’ worth of furniture, some of it actually sound enough for use. All lying peacefully in the autumn sunshine, undisturbed except for the small area where the local evidence technician was industriously photographing the contents of a table while Cousin Horace meticulously dusted the contents of the adjacent table for fingerprints.
I hoped that there was something special about those particular tables. If they followed the same process with the whole two acres, Michael and I would have to bequeath the chore of finishing the yard sale to our grandchildren.
The job of clearing out the customers was going much faster. Michael and his checkout crew were nearing the end of the line, and most of the open space inside the fence, along with the corner we’d planned to use as a picnic area, now contained neat, orderly rows of boxes, each carefully labeled with the name of the person who’d either bought the contents or would be buying them, if they bothered returning when the police allowed us to open again. The uniformed officers were progressing more slowly with questioning the departing customers, but still making visible progress. As I watched, they let two uncostumed people go free, while an officer escorted a Nixon up to the house—presumably for further questioning by the chief.
Of course, that didn’t mean that our lawn was in any danger of becoming deserted. Most of the people who’d been allowed to leave the yard sale area were still hanging around outside the fence, watching the police, and window-shopping. I wondered if the police inside found the circle of impassive Nixons, Draculas, and Grouchos as unnerving as I did.
From the size of the crowd I suspected some of the people milling around our yard had only arrived after news of the murder spread through the county. Especially the ones wielding cameras and binoculars. The cousins who’d been running the concession stand inside the fence had scrounged up more grills and food, and were doing a brisk business. The occasional squeal of feedback emanated from the side yard, where the as-yet-unnamed band formed by one of Eric’s older brothers was tuning up and preparing to satisfy their largely unfulfilled passion for playing to a live audience. Apparently the medical examiner had departed without allowing Dad to accompany him, and Dad had consoled himself by organizing an owl pellet dissection project. Several dozen children and teenagers and even a few bemused adults were diligently hacking and sawing on owl pellets with disposable plastic knives borrowed from the concession stand. Mother, by contrast, was circulating like the hostess at a floundering party, apologizing for the disruption and urging people to have some lemonade while they waited for the yard sale to reopen.
The press had arrived in force. I recognized the reporter from the Caerphilly Clarion, and the crews from the local TV and college radio stations stood out in the crowd because of all the equipment they were lugging. I had to chase several of the television trucks out of the side yard, though not
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