By the time I reached the front yard, the SPOOR crew had wrapped up their final number and were receiving a well-deserved standing ovation. The mild-mannered barbershop quartet in pastel-striped jackets and jaunty straw hats waiting nearby for their turn on the stage looked quite morose. I understood how they felt. Dad and the Owlettes were a hard act to follow. In fact, most people were heading away from the stage and out into the shopping area.
The shopping area that wasn’t even supposed to exist. Cousin Rosemary and the quilting aunt were back, along with most of the other volunteer vendors from yesterday afternoon, and a lot of new recruits. In fact, a secondary yard sale had grown up to take the place of the one the police hadn’t finished with. It was still slightly smaller than the official yard sale, but that would probably change if the police didn’t wrap up their forensics soon. The early birds had set up their tables along the front walk while the late arrivals had to content themselves with secondary aisles on either side.
About half of the vendors were people who already had tables inside the regular yard sale and most of the rest were people I’d turned down when it became obvious that our two-acre site was already overcrowded. Looking at the stuff people had brought out for the original yard sale, I’d have bet you couldn’t possibly find a card table’s worth of unwanted junk anywhere in Caerphilly, but obviously this crew was up to the challenge. As I stood and stared, openmouthed, three more cars drove up and disgorged people who promptly erected more card tables and covered them with clutter. Although, considering how brisk sales were at some of these tables, some people’s notions of junk and clutter obviously differed greatly from mine.
Or perhaps the buyers were vehement environmentalists, determined to find some good use for everything their neighbors would otherwise throw away.
Along with the people cleaning out their attics, I noticed several women selling homemade jams, jellies, and assorted baked goods, and a man hawking miniature replicas of old-fashioned outhouses, complete with the traditional half moon cut in the door. If they were intended to serve some practical purpose, I couldn’t figure it out, and they certainly weren’t the kind of decorative knickknack I’d want to bring home, but people were buying them enthusiastically.
They were buying Cousin Ginnie’s lingerie just as enthusiastically, from the number of those distinctive lavender and silver bags I kept spotting.
“This is better than the county fair!” I overheard one woman say to another.
“So does this go on every weekend?” the second woman asked.
I didn’t stick around to hear the answer.
“Meg? Why so gloomy?” came Rob’s voice from behind me.
“Oh, nothing much,” I said, turning to find that, unlike most of the attendees, my brother had worn his costume again today. “Our yard’s become a flea market, and the woman who fainted yesterday when we found Gordon’s body in the trunk has recovered enough to badger me so she can auction it off on eBay, that’s all.”
“She’d make a bundle,” Rob said. “You’re not letting her have it, are you? You could sell it yourself.”
“Rob!” I exclaimed. “Do you have any idea how tacky this is?” Perhaps being a successful entrepreneur was having a bad effect on Rob’s character.
“Come to think of it, they probably wouldn’t let you, anyway,” Rob said. “They usually make you take down something if anyone gets offended by it.”
“Bravo,” I said.
“But I still don’t see why you don’t sell all this stuff on eBay,” he said, waving his hand vaguely at the sale area. “Might be a lot less trouble.”
“Not necessarily,” I said.
“You wouldn’t have to have this whole huge mob scene,” he said.
I sighed, and tried to answer reasonably. And articulately. After all, perhaps there was some logical reason why he hadn’t paid attention the first twenty times I’d explained this.
“No,” I said. “I’d only have to photograph all the stuff, answer questions about it, pack it all up for shipment, and haul it down to the Post Office or UPS.”
“Oh,” Rob said. “Sounds like a lot of work.”
“And, of course, some percentage of the packages would bounce back when people decided they didn’t get what they thought they were buying. No thanks. At least here, everything is nonreturnable and people provide their own transportation.”
“Okay, I suppose you’re right,” Rob said. “But you could make a lot more money.”
“Money isn’t everything,” I said. “There’s my sanity to think of.”