by Joyce Harmon
Luther and I looked over the list, while Amy pulled out another piece of paper. “Obviously, she didn’t have time to catalog, photograph, and write up an auction listing for everything she got at the auction. From past experience, I’d say that auction gave her enough inventory for two or three weeks’ worth of listings. So I made up a list from memory of the things she bought at the auction that seemed significant to me. I’m not saying it’s inclusive, obviously I could have missed something or forgotten something, but this will be a guide for us to go on.”
Luther looked at the second list. “Northwood Peacock at the Fountain?” he read aloud. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“You don’t have to know,” Amy assured him kindly. “I know.”
“That’s why we brought in the expert,” I reminded him.
“Okay,” Amy said brightly. “Point me toward the merchandise.”
We went into the dining room/eBuy Central. “Ooh, what a nice set-up!” Amy said. “And look, Northwood. Peacock at the Fountain.” She pointed at a carnival glass pitcher on the To Be Listed shelf. I gave it a closer look. Sure enough, a peacock, and a fountain. “I think Rose paid $90 for that,” Amy added. Luther whistled.
“Oh, on eBuy, you’d clear three hundred for it, easy,” she told him.
Amy got to work, checking off items from current auction listings as she found them on the shelves. Then she went on to her list of purchased but not listed items, and began inventorying them.
Luther and I couldn’t really help, so we just watched. Were we hovering? Maybe we were hovering. Because after a few minutes, Amy said, “This is going to take a while, so why don’t you make yourselves comfortable?” Which was a really polite way of asking us to back the heck off and stop breathing down her neck.
Luther pulled out a couple dining chairs and we made ourselves comfortable. “So,” I asked. “Is the man from Richmond here yet?”
“No, the sheriff expects him on Monday.”
“Will he be staying in the area during the investigation? Seems like it would be a pretty long commute.”
“We’ve got him booked into Washington House,” Luther said.
“I hope he likes dogs,” I said, thinking of the Washington mastiffs.
“If he doesn’t, he’ll have to at least tolerate them,” Luther said. Something told me he was hoping the hot-shot out-of-towner had a deathly fear of dogs.
We conversed in a desultory fashion for quite a while before Amy turned to us and said, “Done.”
Luther and I got up. “And?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Amy said.
“Nothing,” Luther repeated.
“Now remember,” she cautioned, “I’m just going from memory here. I didn’t write down everything that Rose bought, this is a list I made several days later of things that I thought were significant. But at least as far as I recall, there was no major purchase at last weekend’s auction that isn’t accounted for here.”
“So it wasn’t a valuable auction find that was the motive for her murder?” I suggested.
“Not drawing any conclusions,” Luther said.
“But if the person who killed her was after something valuable, I can’t tell you what it was,” Amy concluded.
I didn’t want to let go of my theory. “It might have been something you didn’t see her buy,” I reminded Amy. “After all, she didn’t see you buy that Ruba Rombic, and it’s valuable.”
Amy nodded. “Sure, that’s true enough. I took a walk around and got some food. I tried to time my break when it didn’t look like there was any of the good stuff pending, but I might have missed something. But if the killer was simply looking for valuable collectibles, there’s a lot here that he didn’t touch, and he didn’t take any of my stuff either.”
Luther shook his head. “I’m starting to think the auction didn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Three break-ins, Luther,” I reminded him. “Three. How else do you explain it?”
Luther’s troubled frown cleared as he remembered something. “I don’t have to explain it,” he pointed out. “That’s up to the man from Richmond.”
Amy scanned the shelves. “Where’s the rest of the stuff?” she asked.
“What rest?” Luther asked.
“Rose has been going to auctions for months now. She’s picked up some really valuable things and she hasn’t sold them all. There ought to be a lot more inventory.”
“There are some shelves in the bedroom and a shed out back,” he suggested.
We went into the bedroom. Shelves hanging from the walls displayed some items. Amy’s eyes widened. “Holy cow! The Akro star ashtray! The Acorns and Burrs punchbowl! Roseville Sunflower!”
She whipped out her notebook and began writing. Luther and I exchanged glances. “How much do you suppose this is worth?” I asked.
Amy shook her head in wonder. “Hard to say. But ten thousand easy. And you say there’s a shed?”
“Let’s go take a look,” I suggested hopefully.
We headed out to the back yard, where Luther deployed Rose’s keys and opened the pre-fab metal shed. Amy peeked in and squealed. “It’s like Aladdin’s cave!”
I murmured to Luther, “Who inherits?”
“I’m going to find out,” Luther promised. He said to Amy, “Sounds like we need to get a professional appraiser in here.”
Amy emerged from the shed reluctantly. “You sure do,” she told him.
Luther was starting to make let’s-wrap-this-up noises when a car drove into the yard and parked beside ours. It was a late model full-size sedan with rental plates. The driver stepped out of the car and proved to be a 30-ish woman in a navy blue pantsuit. Her dark hair was confined to a French braid and her makeup was muted; she could have modeled as Today’s Young Executive.
She crisply whipped off her sunglasses, and produced a leather folder which she flipped open to display a badge. “Special Agent Helen Maguire, VBI,” she said. “Who are you people, and what are you doing at my crime scene?”
SEVEN
Well, to call the next few minutes uncomfortable would be an understatement. Luther bore the brunt of it, and I felt a tiny twinge of satisfaction to see him on the receiving end of the same sort of thing he’d dished out to me in the past.
He explained who he was and who we were, and why we were there. It was a confusing story, if you’d just arrived and hadn’t already heard about eBuy and the estate auction and Luther’s granny. Finally Special Agent Maguire suggested that she and Luther adjourn to the sheriff’s department for a briefing.
“You ladies can go,” she told me and Amy. “I’m sure you’ll be available later for interviews?”
We assured her fervently that any time would be fine, and made our escape.
I managed to get out of sight of the house before I started giggling. Amy joined in.
“The man from Richmond!” I said.
“I knooow!” Amy replied.
“But to be fair, I can’t accuse Luther of sexism, since I just assumed when I heard that an investigator was coming from Richmond, it would be a man.” I admitted.
“I guess we all have a lot of unlearning to do,” Amy said.
“Luther said last night that they were expecting the ‘man from Richmond’ on Monday.”
“Well, you know what they say,” Amy offered, “for a woman to succeed in a man’s job, she has to work twice as hard and be twice as smart.”
We both chorused the punch line. “Fortunately, that’s not difficult.”
I pulled up at Amy’s house. She opened the car door, but then said, “Oh, before I forget,” and rooted around in her purse, producing her digital camera which I’d asked to borrow.
“Thanks,” I told her. “My own camera should be here soon, but I’m too anxious to do more auction listings to want to wait for it.”
“I’ll be interested to see how that tea set does for you,” she said, getting out of the car. Then she turned back and leaned in
the open door. “Say, it just occurred to me. Rose’s auctions are still running; they’ll be ending tomorrow night. Someone ought to cancel them before they end. I suppose eBuy has a process for when a seller dies with auctions pending, but I don’t know what it is.”
“I’ll see the brother this evening, and tell him,” I promised, making a mental note to myself. Things to discuss with the unseen brother – the dog, and now the auctions.
I drove on home. When I opened the back door, for a few seconds, I thought that the housebreaker had finally got around to our place. But on second thought, I realized that the door had been intact. Anyway, surely no one would break into a house just to TP the place.
No, this was an inside job. I assessed the scene. The wastebasket was overturned, but other than that, it was all toilet paper. A whole lot of toilet paper. I followed the trail to the hall bathroom, where the toilet paper roll I distinctly remember changing yesterday was now down to the bare spindle.
Most of the toilet paper was in the kitchen and the hall, though there was some spillover into the living room. Tough Stuff was curled up at the entry to my office, maintaining a watchful sleep. He raised his head when I stepped over him. In the office, I found Polly on the sofa, in a protective curl around Paco, who was fast asleep.
When I’d left today, the animals were all behaving so nicely that I decided to give Paco the run of the house with the rest of the crew. Perhaps that had been premature.
Polly raised her head when I entered, and Paco woke up and jumped up, barking. Tough Stuff also stood up, ready to resume hostilities.
I picked up Paco and checked him for damage. He seemed uninjured. Before I could assess Tough Stuff, he levitated to his favorite high shelf. So he seemed okay.
“You know what?” I said aloud. “Let’s just pretend none of this happened.” After all, the two had gotten some good exercise without killing one another, so perhaps they were working things out.
I went to work collecting and disposing of the evidence, and replacing the roll in the bathroom. Everything was back to normal by the time Jack came in.
After dinner, I found a dress that dated from my office-attending days, and grumbled my way into a pair of pantyhose. “I can’t believe I once thought these things were such a godsend.”
“You did?” Jack asked incredulously. “You’ve been griping about pantyhose ever since I’ve known you.”
“Before your time,” I told him. “They’re a step up from garters and girdles, I have to admit. But teleworking has spoiled me.”
Jack had his own problems; he was putting on a tie. “Just wear nice pants,” he suggested. “I’m sure other women will.”
“I ought to,” I admitted. “But I still feel like anything funeral-related calls for a dress.”
“So – accept your decision and get on with your life,” was Jack’s unsympathetic response. Men really do think differently.
The viewing room at Gracci’s Funeral Home was hosting a Who’s Who in Queen Anne County. All the supervisors were there, as were the county government’s staff. Head mourner seemed to be a late-forties man with a bad comb-over and a cheap suit.
Joel Gracci was greeting at the door. I asked him, “That’s Rose’s brother, isn’t it?”
“Yes ma’am, Mrs. Rayburn. That’s Myron Blankenship.”
Myron. Poor fellow. As we entered the room, I saw Helen Maguire in the corner, keeping a watchful eye on the crowd. She was wearing a charcoal grey dress that managed to be both businesslike and flattering.
I nodded in her direction, murmuring out of the corner of my mouth, “There’s Luther’s ‘man from Richmond’.”
“Huh,” said Jack.
“And she’s wearing a dress,” I pointed out.
“You obviously made the right decision,” he said patiently.
Jack and I circulated around the room, stopping in at clumps of guests, all offering gracefully worded memories of Rose in hushed tones. “She really did keep us on the straight and narrow, didn’t she?” Emily Davidson offered with a sad smile.
Finally, there was a lull around Myron Blankenship, and I stepped into it. “Excuse me, Mr. Blankenship? I’m Cecilia Rayburn. I found Rose’s… found Rose.”
“Oh, yes,” Myron turned to me and shook my hand. “The sheriff mentioned you.”
“If you have a moment,” I went on, “I need to talk to you about Paco. I took him home with me, and need to make arrangements to turn him over to you.”
As soon as I mentioned Paco, Myron started shaking his head. “No, ma’am. I am not taking that dog.”
“You have to do something about him!” I protested, trying to keep my voice down.
“You can take him on down to the pound,” Myron said. “I’ll sign a release if you want, I’m executor.”
“He’s your responsibility,” I pointed out. “He’s… family.”
“Animals aren’t family, ma’am,” Myron replied. “People are family. And family doesn’t bite. I live in a no-pets complex, and I’m not asking any of my friends to take on a dog who bites. If you insist on turning over that dog to me, I’ll take him straight to the pound. Save us both the hassle and take it there yourself.”
Before I could say anything else, I felt a hand on my elbow. “Come on, Cis,” Jack murmured in my ear.
I followed Jack to the foyer. “Was I making a scene?”
“No – not yet,” he said. “But I know you and I could see the steam coming out of your ears. That man is not going to take the dog, and give it the home you think it should have. Scratch him off and try something else.”
Something else. I sighed. For the moment anyway, I was stuck with a chihuahua. I’m not a fan of small dogs. Nothing against them, but it’s always been my attitude that if you want a pet under ten pounds, get a cat. “Maybe Doc Harding will have some ideas,” I surmised. “And I think all the dog breeds have a rescue organization that finds homes for that particular breed; I could track down chihuahua rescue and see if they can help.”
“That’s the spirit,” Jack said.
“You realize, don’t you, this means we’re stuck with Paco until we can find him a home?”
“I know you’re not going to have a dog put down, if that’s what you mean,” Jack said with resignation.
Helen Maguire slipped out of the viewing room. “Mrs. Rayburn?”
“Yes?” I tried not to look guilty.
“I’d like to interview you about finding the body, what would be a good time?”
“I set my own hours, so any time that’s good for you,” I told her. “You want me to come down to the sheriff’s department?”
“I can come to your home,” she told me.
We agreed to meet on Monday afternoon, and I gave her our phone number.
“She was awfully polite,” I told Jack as we walked back to our car. “Do you think that’s a bad sign?”
Jack laughed. “You think you’re a suspect?”
“We were last time,” I reminded him.
I didn’t go to Rose’s funeral, but I did go to the interment. I took Paco. Jack says I’m anthropomorphizing (he would), but it just didn’t seem right for him not to be there. I put on his little harness and clipped on his leash and off we went.
I have to admit that in the back of my mind was the hope that someone would catch sight of this sad little orphan and offer him a home. But it was not to be.
Paco was fine in the car, putting his front feet on the window ledge from the passenger’s seat and watching the passing scene. He was fine when we arrived at the cemetery, found a parking spot, and got out of the car. At home we’d been working on heeling, and I had some bits of liver with me, so Paco heeled along quite attentively until we approached the crowd at grave-side. Then he went ballistic.
He went into a fusillade of frenzied barking, turning in circles to try to escape his harness, determined to hightail it out of there. My face radiated heat and I knew I must have been bright red. “Crowds must be a problem for
him,” I told the group in a general apology, and removed Paco to a distance. When we got far enough from the crowd, Paco calmed down a bit, and we stood and watched the grave-side service.
I looked down at Paco. “Is this why Rose carried you around in her purse?” I asked him. To which Paco made no response.
I spent Sunday afternoon cleaning house, in preparation for my interview with the VBI. I confined my efforts to downstairs, and found my way into corners that I’d managed to avoid for far too long.
The truth is that Helen Maguire intimidated me. I remember when I first entered the work force after Jimmy died. At the time, and for quite some time afterward, I imagined that eventually I would get it all together. Eventually I would be the pulled-together working woman who turned herself out each morning as a sleek finished product, without the frantic search for hose that weren’t run and blouses that weren’t adorned with baby spit-up. I would finally master the technique of having a smoothly running home, well-behaved children, and a crisp professional office persona.
I finally decided that my goal was a myth. But now, here she was. It was attainable, just not for me. I felt like such a failure.
In the middle of all my cleaning frenzy, I tossed together a tuna casserole (which basically combines cans of tuna and soup and a package of noodles) and stuck it in the oven. Jack had seen early on how this day was going, and retreated to his lab in the barn. By sundown, he was back, asking what was for dinner.
“Tuna casserole,” I told him. My tone of voice dared him to say something about it.
But I’d married no fool, witness his self-preservation in making himself scarce all afternoon. “Fine,” he said. Then he added, “Hey, I think there are still a few tomatoes left.” When I just looked at him, he said hastily, “And why don’t I go get some?” and headed out the back door.
