LITMIR.BIZ

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fine and for the moving expenses, and what little was left had to stretch to the first of next month.

      “Old Denby hadn’t touched that lock in years,” Gene added.

      “What would really do it is a sledgehammer,” Mr. Bader said. He went to investigate the lock for himself, rattling it as though to shake it off. “You got a sledgehammer in all them tools you got, Gene?”

      “I don’t want to smash more than the lock,” Quincee said hastily.

      “Well, I’ve a hacksaw someplace,” Gene said. “If I can find it. M’son borrowed it last winter and I’m not sure it’s been returned.”

      “Please don’t bother,” Quincee said. “I’ll—”

      “Never mind, Gene,” the judge said. “I have a hacksaw. I’ll see to it later for Miss Davis.”

      Quincee shot a quizzical gaze toward the judge. Why was he so nice all of a sudden? Why would he offer to help her?

      “Uh-oh. I just remembered the roast I have in the oven,” Bette said in a sudden flurry. “Let me know if you need us to help you with anything in that pile of junk, my dear,” she said to Quincee. She smiled at the children, who had drifted away to run about the yard, before saying, “Coming, Gene?”

      “Be right there, Bette, love.” Gene turned to the judge. “Say, Hamilton, did your grandfather ever find those old snapshots he promised to go through? Was a bunch from years back when our sons were just little tykes.”

      “I don’t know that he ever did, Gene. There’s a dozen boxes of old stuff he had in the attic that you’re welcome to look through if you’d like.”

      “Now, Hamilton,” Bette protested with humor as she edged toward the street. The others followed. “Don’t get Gene started on your old stuff. We have enough of our own that we need to do something with. We’re all getting too old to hang on to these leftovers, and our children don’t want any of it.”

      “Why don’t you have a garage sale?” Quincee threw the idea into the pot, strolling along.

      “Thought about it,” Mr. Bader said. “Daughter-in-law’s got her eye on my coin collection, but she don’t want nothing else of mine.”

      “A yard sale has come to mind,” Bette said, seeming to forget her urgency to tend to dinner. “But Gene doesn’t want to mess with one.”

      “Too much work,” Gene said. “And too many people pawing through things, making a wreck of it.”

      “If it’s done well, that can be directed and controlled,” Quincee suggested.

      “How do you mean?” Bette asked.

      “You could combine your sales and efforts into one location. Have a neighborhood block sale. They’re always popular. And if you combine your forces, there would be several of you on hand to help people with purchases while one person takes the money. That would give you more control.”

      Quincee stopped near the sidewalk. Dandelions sprouted around her ankles in all their golden beauty. Almost marking the property line, healthy grass from the judge’s yard warred with her spotty weeds.

      “I don’t like the idea,” the judge said. “It would disturb the neighborhood.”

      “Combining efforts into a group sale sounds wonderful to me,” Bette said. “But, oh my, that takes a lot of work to organize such an event. I’m not sure I’m up to it.”

      “I could do it,” Quincee said. She’d never handled one before, but she’d headed the committee for the school fair last year. “I’m very good at organization.”

      Hamilton gave her a pointed stare. She bit her lip and tried to ignore him. Why was he so skeptical? She was an organized person.

      “Oh, but my dear,” Bette protested. “You’ve just moved in here, and have so much of your own work to take care of.”

      “That’s for sure,” she replied. “But the kids and I have the whole summer to see to our own things. And I can organize the sale and still paint my house this month.”

      Providing her one credit card would stretch to cover the paint and supplies. And there was always the hope she might sell some things in the sale herself. A few dollars extra this month could be a lifesaver. Her enthusiasm for the sale suddenly became personal.

      I can do all things through Him Who gives me strength, she mentally quoted.

      “It really isn’t a good plan,” Hamilton insisted. “It would bring too many strangers around.”

      “Say, young lady,” Mr. Bader said. “What would you charge to do a thing like that? Ten percent?”

      “Randolf, you’re behind the times.” Gene crowed at scoring one on Bader. “Nobody does anything for only ten percent anymore. It’s fifteen now.”

      “You’re both wrong,” Bette said. “It’s twenty percent or more in these things. Estate sales and all that.”

      “More?” Aghast, Mr. Bader shoved his hand over his bald head and scratched an ear.

      “I’d be quite happy to settle for ten percent,” Quincee interjected quickly. “As a favor to the neighborhood.”

      “I’m really not in favor of garage sales. They’re a hazard on neighborhood streets and they leave a mess behind. Who will be in charge to see that it’s all cleaned up afterward? And there’s no way to know if you’ll make any money from one by the time all expenses are in,” Hamilton insisted. “It may be better to simply pay someone to come and cart your unwanted goods away. That way you’d deal with a reputable flea market business, and all the risks are the dealer’s.”

      “But you’d make more money with a yard sale of your own,” Quincee said. “And they can be fun. Bringing several families together on the block to work the day can be almost a party. Perhaps we could make a trade for my services?”

      “Trade?” asked Mr. Bader. “Like how? Trade what?”

      “Like bartering. I’ll take care of this garage sale, the organization, the preparations and the cleanup, in exchange for something you can do for me. That way no money is exchanged.”

      “Say, that’s a dandy idea,” Mr. Bader exclaimed. “What will you take?”

      Bette’s face lit with interest. “Bartering?”

      “Well, if we barter, my fee will increase to the equivalent of fifteen percent or…even trade. What do you do?” Quincee asked. “Or have that I may want?”

      The old man looked at Kyle, then at Quincee. “Got some fishing poles I don’t use much anymore. My grandchildren don’t live close enough to use ’em, and their parents don’t like fishing.”

      “That’ll do for a start,” Quincee said. “Anything else?”

      “Got an old upright piano. Needs repair. Nobody plays it anymore.”

      “Now that’s a thought to keep!” Quincee let her smile spread with enthusiasm as her heart leaped. A piano!

      “Your house is too tiny to hold a piano,” Hamilton muttered. “You’d have to haul it, anyway.”

      Quincee ignored his frown and pronounced, “I’ll find a way.”

      “Beverly Kinney, down on the corner, gives piano lessons,” Bette said in thoughtful tones. “I’ll bet she’d give the children lessons in exchange for coming into the sale.”

      “That’s the spirit. It’s easy to barter once you get the hang of it,” Quincee said.

      “Quincee, it’s lovely having a young family across from us,” Bette said. “You put new life on the street. I really have to go attend my roast now. But come along for coffee later this week,

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