by Joyce Harmon
Nobody could imagine why anyone would want to kill Rose, but most people seemed to have had at least one run-in with her. “Rev, didn’t she give you grief over the parking lot?” George asked.
“Aw, geez, that parking lot!” Rev remembered. “We had to make do with a gravel lot for years and years, but back in ’86 we got that bequest from Hester Madison and the congregation said the thing they wanted the most was a paved lot. Simple enough thing, but I thought the county never would approve it, what with all their guff about run-off and something called ‘non-point-source pollution’. It was Rose raising all the objections, I know because Win Webber, he was county administrator back then, told me.”
“You didn’t hold a grudge about that, did you, Rev?” George asked, eyes twinkling.
Rev wasn’t amused. “That’s an uncharitable thing to say,” he said shortly.
“Sorry,” George said, abashed. “Not a joking matter, I guess.” Then he gave a bark of laughter. “Sorry again,” he told us. “I just remembered, though. She tried to stop Gracci’s from building that new wing, you know, the same one where her viewing was. She said their house was ‘culturally significant’ or something. I remember Joel’s dad Henry raving about it. She said the Home was an Arts And Crafts house and shouldn’t be tampered with. They did eventually get their permit, but it took a lot longer than they wanted it to. And then there she was, when it came down to it, right in the wing she tried to stop being built.”
Everyone had stories about Rose in the county administrative office, but Evelyn trumped them all. Evelyn retired fifteen years ago; she’d been a high school English teacher and she remembered Rose from high school. “Her senior year, she was secretary of both the senior class and the student council,” she recalled, hunting along her shelved forty years of yearbooks for the pertinent volume.
I remembered high school. “Secretary,” I mused. “That means she did all the work while the president glad-handed.”
“Here we go!” Evelyn pulled out the correct volume, and flipped through it for the class officers. Sure enough, there was Rose, looking prim and actually rather attractive, despite the teased hair that was almost required in those days. The class officers were photographed peeking around the pillars at the front of the old high school, self-consciously signaling that they too could be ‘cards’ like the fun kids. And there was Gene Abernathy as senior class president. So he’d known Rose for a good long time; maybe he would be a good source for Julia’s biography project.
I flipped some more pages and saw that Gene had snagged Most Likely To Succeed, while Rose had to settle for Most Serious. (Honestly, Most Serious? What a judgment to have to live with!)
I looked back at the yearbook cover. Rose was just two years older than me. “Didn’t she retire kind of young?” I suggested. “The county didn’t force her out, did they?”
“Oh, no,” said Reverend Lou. “Rose always said she was going to do her thirty years and then get out. Said she was going to retire while she was still young enough to enjoy her leisure.”
“And did she?” I wondered.
“Well, she kept busy,” Evelyn said. “You know those bus trips that Parks and Recreation puts on; she’d go on those. To D.C. for sightseeing, to Williamsburg for touring and shopping, like that. I think she even took a Caribbean cruise once.”
I was surprised. “She traveled? Did she take Paco?”
“No,” Evelyn said, thinking back. “I think most of her traveling was before she got that dog.”
“The Williamsburg trip was after she had him,” Linda Delmar said. “You know Bethany, who does for me? She’d been going to Rose’s once a week, dusting and sweeping, like that. And she took Paco when Rose went to Williamsburg. Just the once, though – she said Never Again.”
Evelyn laughed. “Oh, I remember that now. But that was around the time Rose discovered auctions, I think, so she stayed close to home after that, that was her new craze.”
Julia had been taking surreptitious notes, but I’d found a new point of interest. “Who’s Bethany? You think she’s got time in her schedule for new clients?” The only thing I hated more than sweeping was dusting.
“Bethany Daniels,” Evelyn said. “Let me find you her number. With Rose gone, she’ll have an opening, unless someone beat you to it.”
While Evelyn was looking for the number, Julia produced another topic. “I’ve lived here for thirty years now and have started considering myself an old-timer – “ (The real old-timers smiled in pitying silence.) “- but I didn’t know Rose had been married.”
“Oh, that’s right!” Linda said. “Lord, I’d forgotten all about that.”
“I think most folks had,” said Reverend Lou. “Didn’t last long.”
“What was the problem, I wonder?” Julia asked cunningly.
The Reverend shook his head. “One of those early marriages. They often don’t take, seems like. The couple isn’t even really grown up yet and don’t really know what they want out of life. Then when they figure it out, too often they want different things.”
Evelyn returned to the group and handed me a piece of paper. She’d been following the discussion and joined in. “Well, let’s remember,” she said fairly, “this was back before the Pill. If young people wanted to – you know, fool around – they pretty much had to get married or they were playing with fire.”
“And young people always want to fool around, it’s human nature,” Linda said tolerantly.
“But who did she marry?” Rose persisted.
“She married Abner Tuckett’s boy Wilson,” Rev said. “He worked at the lumber mill for a couple years, but when they split up, he went looking for adventure, up and joined the Army.”
That was a more halcyon era, when ‘joining the Army’ conjured up images of Presley in Germany, not slogging through waist-high mud in Southeast Asia.
“Oh, that’s right,” Evelyn agreed. “I’d forgot all about Wilson, he never came back here, did he?”
“Where did he wind up?” I prompted. “I assume someone contacted him about Rose’s death? It’s been a long time, but still. And I’m sure the sheriff would like to know where he was when Rose died.”
George gave a laugh that turned into a wheezing cough. Then he waved and said, “Not that it’s funny, I guess.”
“What’s not funny?” I asked.
“Nobody will be telling Wilson anything; he died about fifteen years back.”
“That’s a shame,” Julia said. “How did he die?”
“Was a lot of things, wasn’t it?” George looked over to Rev for confirmation. Rev nodded, and George said, “I know there was leukemia and a couple kinds of cancer.”
Rev chimed in. “Truth was, it was that Agent Orange that did it, but the Army wasn’t admitting it till after Wilson died.”
Julia had been quietly writing a note in her lap, but now she crumpled the index card and stuffed it in her purse.
Me, I was in awe of the combined knowledge base on tap here at the Historical Society. True, Queen Anne would probably never have a museum. But we did have history, history being people, and the members of the Society kept that history.
“How was the hen party?” Jack asked when I got home.
“You could have come too,” I said, giving him a hug. “We had a couple old goats there.”
I settled across from him in the living room. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have the house swept and dusted once a week?” I suggested.
Jack looked cautious. “Are we going to start the housework debate again?”
We’d been having the same debate off and on for two decades. In theory, Jack agreed that keeping the house habitable was equally our jobs, but old mindsets die hard. Several times we’d tried a ‘chore day’ afternoon schedule, when we each performed cleaning and maintenance projects around the house. But like New Year’s resolutions, chore day never lasted very long.
Now the person most annoyed by the dust and pet hair would tackle the specific site th
at was bugging them at that moment. It was a haphazard arrangement, and we wouldn’t win any housekeeping awards, but it kept the peace.
“I just had a notion,” I said. “Why don’t we pay someone to come in once a week, and keep the main surfaces under control?”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “I’m game if you are,” he said. “Remember the last time?”
Back when the kids were young, I’d had Help come in once a week. Jack remembered my racing around the house picking up before the Cleaning Lady arrived, so no outsider would know what a slob I truly am. “I think I’ve mellowed since then,” I told him.
“What brought this up?” he asked.
“Rose Jackson had help come in, so there should be an opening for us to inherit,” I explained.
“Ah. Well, we can afford it, go ahead if you want.” He picked up the television remote and clicked on the news.
“Hey, look at the time!” I jumped up and headed to the office.
“The time?” Jack called after me.
“Auctions ending!” I called back, and settled down at the desk and logged onto the internet.
A few moments later, I was whooping.
Jack appeared at the door. “Cissy, what the hell?”
“I made a hundred and fifty dollars!”
NINE
I e-mailed all my buyers before I went to bed, telling them their final total and where to send the checks. Next morning, I had e-mail from all of them, assuring me that the check was in the mail. Encouraged, I listed two Barbies, three Breyers, and the tea set.
And I called Bethany Daniels and arranged to meet her the next day.
Bethany turned out to be a woman with short salt and pepper hair, a slight mustache, and a no-nonsense manner. She looked around the house, nodding thoughtfully, and we arranged hours and wages.
“Folks say you’re kind of nosy,” she informed me bluntly.
How do you respond to something like that? “They do?” I asked weakly.
“I’m glad of it, frankly,” she said. “If you hadn’t gone by Rose’s that day, I’d have found her myself when I came on Friday.”
“Oh! Yes, I suppose you would have.”
“Heard it was nasty,” Bethany said.
“Very!”
We headed toward the back door. “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who might be interested in taking Paco, would you?” I suggested hopefully. He was back in his laundry room again, and Bethany eyed him thoughtfully.
“Nope,” she said at last.
“He’s a nice little dog!” I insisted.
“All dogs start out nice, maybe,” Bethany replied. “But Rose spoiled him. Ruined him, as far as I could tell.”
“It’s not too late for him,” I assured her. “I’ve been working with him and he’s really very trainable. Don’t tell people he’s ruined. I think he could be a good dog for someone, and he needs a home.”
Bethany headed toward the door, but turned and said with an almost smile, “Looks to me like he’s got a home.”
Oh, dear.
After Bethany left, I let Paco out. He sat down at my feet and looked up at me solemnly. “This is not your home,” I told him. Then I felt terribly guilty. “Well, let’s call it your default home,” I amended.
I called Polly, and took both the dogs out to the back yard. We were working on sitting and staying and coming now. Polly already knew the drill, and Paco watched her closely. Since he was new at this, I started him out with very short stays and praised him lavishly for remaining in place. For the recall, I started calling him from six feet away.
I couldn’t help smiling when he would come and sit in front of me. He’s just so tiny!
I heard an unfamiliar laugh behind me and turned around. Craig had come out of the barn and was watching us. Craig? Craig laughed? In the two years he’d been here, I’d never heard Craig laugh.
“What’s funny?” I asked him curiously.
“I dunno,” Craig admitted. “He looks so serious. It just tickled me.”
Hmmm. I was about to ask Craig if he’d like a dog, but thought better of it. Craig lived right on the other side of the near vineyard, I saw him every day. No need to rush in and probably garner a firm no. This called for subtlety.
But now I had a plan.
The mail that afternoon brought me my new digital camera. I immediately set out around the property, taking pictures for the eventual Passatonnack Winery website. I took pictures of ripe grapes in the vineyard, of Craig at the grape press, of Jack in his lab, of our most imposing stainless steel tank, and an impressive bank of oak barrels.
Jack posed patiently, but didn’t see the point. “It’s not like we’re Westinghouse or something,” he said.
“Pretty soon, all businesses will have websites,” I told him. “When someone wants to know about wine in Virginia, they’ll do an internet search, and we’d better be there.”
Jack laughed indulgently. “Have fun with it,” he said. “But not everybody is as into computers as you are.”
“They will be,” I assured him. I narrowed my eyes and tried to do Sinister-Yoda, “They will be.”
I was a prophetess without honor in my own household. But I was sure that someday soon I’d be saying ‘I told you so.’
Being caught up with my contract projects, I ran some errands. I took Amy’s digital camera back to her. I found her out in her garden, where she foisted a large grocery bag of zucchini on me. “I know,” she said apologetically. “Too much zucchini, it’s such a cliché. But it’s so easy to grow.”
“No problemo,” I assured her. “I don’t even grow zucchini anymore, because I know plenty of people will be glad for me to take it off their hands. And I have a great recipe for zucchini bread.”
“Ooh, e-mail it to me!”
“Will do.”
Back home, I determined to make zucchini bread after dinner. Did I have everything I need? I thought so. I went to my row of cookbooks to get the recipe.
I have my cookbooks in a row at the back of the kitchen counter. The microwave served as one bookend and a jar of marbles held up the other end. I suspect my cookbook selection is pretty typical. I have a 70s era Betty Crocker hardback from my first marriage. A Julia Child from back when I was young and naïve and buying into the ‘you CAN do it all!’ hype. Cookbooks featuring every cooking craze du jour of the past thirty years, from fondue to wokking.
And a whole host of spiral bound paperback cookbooks from several decades of church and social group fundraisers. You know the drill; the whole congregation gets hit up for recipes, and it all gets printed up and sold to raise money.
These are the cookbooks that get the most use, because the recipe donors live just like the rest of us do; heck, they are us. There are no diagrams for carving a leg of lamb, and the ingredients lists include canned salmon and cream soups. They’re actually useful for people who work for a living and then come home and have to prepare a meal.
I think the zucchini bread recipe was in the Episcopal cookbook. Here it was. I looked at the cover, with the line drawing of the local Episcopal church in red, and realized I’d seen it recently. Oh right, Rose Jackson had the same cookbook, it was one of the ones I’d knocked into the sink.
I remembered that scene and the kitchen and the row of cookbooks. And slowly backed up till my legs hit a kitchen chair, where I sank into the chair, still staring at the cookbook.
I’m not sure how long I sat there staring, my mind whirling over the possibilities. Then Jack came in the back door. “What’s for – “ He saw me and stopped. “Hon, what’s wrong?!”
He was right beside me. I must have looked awful to garner that instant concern.
“Cissy! Are you okay?”
I looked up at him. “I found the murder weapon,” I told him.
Jack sat down beside me and carefully removed the cookbook from my hands. He turned it forward and back and then laid it on the table and took my hand. “Cissy, I don’t think you can crack a skull with a
paperback.”
“Oh.” I realized I wasn’t making sense. “I don’t actually have it,” I explained. “But I know what it is.”
“So, what is it?”
“Well, I don’t know specifically.”
Jack was baffled. “You’ve lost me.”
“Look,” I told him. I went over to my row of cookbooks and moved the jar of marbles. The end books, all soft paperbacks, skidded to the right, and the books fell over like dominoes. “Rose had her cookbooks on the windowsill over the sink,” I told Jack. “I opened the window, because of th-the smell, and some of them fell in the sink, so I put them back. The books filled half the windowsill.”
Jack frowned, trying to follow me. “You think there was a heavier book?”
I shook the jar and the marbles rattled. “Look, Jack! The microwave backstops the books here, like the window frame did at Rose’s. At the other end – you need a bookend!”
“And there was no bookend?”
“Exactly. I put the books back, but there was no bookend.”
“A bookend could be anything,” he mused. “One of those wire things made to be a bookend wouldn’t be heavy enough, but if she used something else, like you do…”
“Precisely.”
“Do you know what Rose used as a bookend?”
“No, but I know who does.”
I strode decisively to the wall phone and called Bethany. When she answered, I went right to the point, no shillyshallying, no explanations. “Bethany? This is Cissy Rayburn. Listen, I need to know what Rose Jackson used as a bookend for her cookbooks.”
The voice on the other end was puzzled, but she responded promptly. “Bookend? Oh, you mean that ugly old sad iron. She got it at an auction, said it was too heavy to sell online, nobody would want to pay for shipping, so she painted it green, made it uglier if you ask me. She called it ‘John Deere green’.”
“That’s it! Thanks, Bethany. See you Friday.”
I hung up the phone and turned to Jack, giving him a triumphant thumbs up. “An antique iron. And it wasn’t there.”
I turned back to the phone and called Washington House. I asked for Agent Maguire, but Bev Washington told me the agent had just started her dinner. “Just ask her to call Cissy Rayburn when she’s free,” I told her.
