by Joyce Harmon
Lacey shook her head. “I can’t imagine. The real value was the land. I got enough from that to live comfortably to the end of my days and still leave a little something to remember me by. The contents of the house was just stuff, as far as I was concerned.”
I was still trying to think of items of value. “Does anyone else watch Antiques Road Show?” I asked. “I saw an episode once where an old bronze statue that was being used as a doorstop turned out to be worth a hundred thousand dollars.”
“Huh!” said Lacey. She thought for a moment. “No, no statues, bronze or otherwise.”
“Stock certificates?” Julia suggested. “Maybe Paul or his parents bought something like IBM back when they were just making cash registers.”
Lacey shook her head. “Paul always considered the stock market to be a more respectable casino. Any money he had put by went into bonds and Treasury bills, and those went to the safety deposit.”
“Autographs?” I suggested wildly. “A signed first edition Mark Twain, or anything like that?”
But Lacey just shook her head again. She turned to Luther. “I think you’re barking up the wrong tree, Luther, honestly. It was just normal house contents, some older, some newer. But tell me about this woman who died.”
“Oh, you remember her, Gran. Rose Jackson.”
Lacey frowned. “Rose. Jackson.”
“From County Admin.”
“Oh!” The lightbulb went on. “Ms. Jackson From County!” Lacey chuckled. “Sorry, forgot she was dead. But what a pure pill that woman was. Luther, you remember that go-round your Aunt Loretta had when she wanted to turn her three-season porch into a grooming salon?”
“Lori Bishop?” I asked. Lori Bishop is Queen Anne’s main dog groomer.
“That’s her,” Lacey said. “She got the permit eventually, but not before having to jump through all these hoops about parking and something about an easement, whatever that is. Lordy lordy, I still remember Loretta coming by my place just spitting fire about ‘Mzzzzzz. Jackson’!”
She realized she was talking about her daughter’s feud with a murder victim, and hastened to add, “But that was a long time ago.”
“Don’t worry, Gran,” Luther told her. “If running foul of Rose’s notion of regulation made a person a murder suspect, we’d have hundreds of them. And Aunt Lori did get her permit, after all.”
On the drive home, I expected Sherlock Barstow to want to review the murder and ruminate over her deductions. But Julia had another topic on her mind. “I can’t get over the change in Lacey,” she marveled.
“Oh, I hadn’t realized you knew her.”
“Not to say ‘knew’,” Julia said. “Just to say hi to. But I always thought she was sort of a boring person, if you want to know the truth.”
“I guess being a widow living on a farm doesn’t give a person a lot of scope to be interesting,” I suggested.
“You may be right. But man, that place! I always thought of assisted living as the place you go to die, but that’s more the place you go to live it up.”
“And why not?” I said. “Spend your kids’ inheritance, I always say. It’d only spoil them anyway.”
“That’s the spirit.”
When I got back home, I expected to hear Paco’s shrill complaints as I came in the back door. I’d left him in the laundry room, which I’d taken to doing when I wasn’t around to referee between him and Tough Stuff. But not a peep from him.
Polly mugged me at the door of course. (“It’s been so long, I thought you were dead!”) “Settle down, Pol,” I told her, making my way past her into the kitchen. “Paco?”
But the baby gate was down. And Paco was gone.
ELEVEN
Paco was gone! I went to the laundry room door. Maybe the gate had fallen down, but he certainly wasn’t in there.
“Polly?” I stupidly asked the dog. “Where’s Paco?”
She grinned at me, tail whisking.
I went through the house. “Paco?” I looked in the office, which was the animals’ favorite hangout. Tough Stuff was on his high shelf, curled into a ball with his tail over his nose. But no Paco.
I searched the house, increasingly worried. He wasn’t under the beds. He wasn’t in the closets. He wasn’t in the cabinet under the kitchen sink. I looked everywhere he could get into and a lot of places he couldn’t.
Maybe Jack took him somewhere? As if he would! Although, who knows? – maybe the little guy had some sort of a fit, and Jack had to take him to the vet? I buzzed the intercom to the barn, and then tried buzzing the shop/tasting room. No answer. (See why I want a cell phone?)
Was it possible that Paco not only got past the baby gate, but also found a way out of the house?
But behind all this speculation was the real worry. It had dawned on me that there was a murderer at large in Queen Anne and Paco was the only witness. Had I left the poor orphaned mini-canine trapped in the laundry room, served up on a platter for a ruthless killer? Of course, it’s not as if Paco could be put in the witness stand, to point a little paw at the defendant and yelp, “That’s the man! He did it!” Or describe the perp to a police artist. Was I getting hysterical here? Anyway, the point is that once you’ve killed someone, you’re probably not thinking rationally anymore, and whoever did it might have concluded that for their own safety and continued freedom, Paco had to go.
I went to the back door to examine the latch for signs of a break-in. Of course there were none. Because if I’d been thinking clearly I would have realized – middle of the day, Jack in and out, of course the back door had been left unlocked. If the murderer was after Paco, he could have just waltzed right in.
I sank down into a kitchen chair, trying to decide what to do next. Polly came over and stood beside me, grinning. I ruffled her ears. “Where’s Paco, Pol? Where is he?” (No, I wasn’t expecting an answer! I talk to my pets – doesn’t everybody?)
Try to think. Where hadn’t I looked? I’d looked everywhere inside. Maybe Paco somehow slipped out (having already dealt with the baby gate) when Jack came in sometime or other, and Jack, not wanting to keep the dog anyway, had just let him run. I couldn’t imagine Jack, who was a responsible person, doing such a thing. But what else could have happened?
I stood up. Might as well look around outside.
But through the kitchen window, I saw Craig coming toward the house. And frisking around him was – Paco!
I sagged with relief and took a couple deep breaths before flinging the door open. “There he is! Craig, where did you find him?”
“Find him?” Craig was puzzled. “He was with me.”
Paco pounced into the kitchen, with Craig following more awkwardly.
“I’d been looking everywhere for him!”
“Oh, geez, I’m sorry. Guess I should have left a note?”
“That’s okay. I’m just glad he’s alright. So you decided to take him out?”
“Yeah,” Craig looked down at Paco, who looked up at him intently. He reached into his pocket and produced a treat, which he tossed. Paco snapped it out of the air. I was impressed. “Thing is,” he went on, “I was walking by here after lunch and I heard what sounded like an air raid siren. Came in to see what was wrong, and there was That Cat, sitting right at the gate, screaming at the little feller. That didn’t sit right with me, so I decided to take him along with me for a while.”
Well! My matchmaking was showing progress! “How did he do?” I asked.
“Okay,” Craig said. “I took some of those treats and gave him a few like I saw you do, and after that, he didn’t get too far away. He did a lot of sniffing around, like he’d never been outside, seemed real interested. If he got out of sight, I’d just whistle and he’d come right back.”
“I’m sure the exercise is good for him,” I told him. “If you want to take him out with you, just go ahead.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Craig nodded and headed on his way, leaving Paco staring sadly at the closed door.
“Never mind,” I told h
im. “You’ll have a new daddy before you know it.”
Tough Stuff stalked into the kitchen. Haughtily ignoring us all, me and Polly and Paco, he levitated to the top of the refrigerator and began industriously grooming his ears. “Did you do that on purpose?” I asked him. “Are you on my side in this?” He ignored me.
I heard the scrunch of gravel out back. Oh, good, Jack was home. I could tell him about the Paco Panic. Or – wait a minute. I hadn’t told him about my matchmaking plans for Craig and Paco. Would he approve, or disapprove?
But when I looked out the window, I saw it wasn’t Jack at all. It was a strange car. And getting out of the car was Rose’s brother Myron. He took a box from the back seat and looked around, obviously wondering whether or not to go around to the front.
I solved the question for him by opening the back door. “Mister Blankenship?”
“Afternoon, Mrs. Rayburn,” he said. He hoisted the box. “Do you still have the dog? I’ve got his stuff here.”
“Bring it on in,” I told him and held the door open.
He came in and set the box on the kitchen table. Paco looked up at him, gave a soft whine, and dashed out of the room.
I remembered my earlier thought, that Paco was a witness to the murder. Hmmm. “Is Paco afraid of you, Mister Blankenship?”
He shuffled his feet sheepishly. “Probably. I sort of – kicked him once.”
“You KICKED the dog?!”
“Hey, I didn’t mean to!” he protested. “He took me by surprise. Came up behind me and bit me on the leg. Damn, that hurt! I just kicked back automatically, instinct, you know?” He looked toward the hall door. “Is he gone? That’s a mean little dog.”
“He isn’t really,” I said. “He’s not been well-trained and probably felt insecure. When was this, that he bit you?” I moved toward the counter, asking, “Coffee?”
“It was over a year ago. And yes, please.” Answering my wave toward the chairs, he took a seat. “I came down to visit Rose, after she retired,” he said. “Black, thank you.”
I handed him his mug and sat across from him. He took a moody sip. “Me and Rose never got along very well,” he admitted. “But ever so often, I’d try again. When we were kids, we were like cats and dogs, but Mom kept saying we’d love one another when we were grown up, and I guess I kept expecting that to happen. But Rose was difficult to get along with.”
I suddenly felt sorry for him. “You’re not the only person to say that,” I told him.
“Rose was my big sister,” he said. “And I guess it’s corny to say, but she was a real goody two-shoes, you know? It was like she not only loved rules, but she loved catching you breaking them. By the time I was a teenager, I got pretty wild. I guess I thought I was always in trouble anyway, so why not?”
“So if she caught you breaking a rule, she’d tell?”
“Oh, yeah. All self-righteous about it, not gloating or anything, just ‘you shouldn’t have done that!’”
“My daughter went through a phase like that,” I said. “We finally had to come to a meeting of minds about telling about big important stuff, but not to be a tattletale about everything. Once she finally grasped how unlikeable it was, she got over it.”
“Wish our mom had been like that,” Myron said. “But she really sort of egged Rose on. She’s probably where Rose got it from.”
“When did you last hear from Rose?” I asked, trying to sound more like a sympathetic listener than an interrogator.
Myron thought back. “Must have been a little over a month ago. She called for my birthday. She was really good at remembering dates and things.”
“Did she say anything about any conflicts or arguments she might have had? Was there anything worrying her?”
“You don’t understand.” Myron sighed with frustration. “If you asked Rose, she’d say she didn’t have arguments or conflicts. And she really believed that. What other people saw as a confrontation, she saw as simply someone else being wrong and her setting them straight.”
Goodness, she sounded like a maddening woman! No need to say that to Myron, though. He already knew.
“So how long are you staying?” I asked.
“A few more days at least,” he said. “I’m executor and need to get everything set up for with the lawyers. I need to sell the house, and do something with all that stuff Rose had.”
“She had some eBuy auctions running when she died,” I told him helpfully. “What happened with those?”
Myron sighed. “When I got access to her internet account, I found a lot of angry emails from buyers wondering why they hadn’t received their invoices. I e-mailed them all about Rose’s death and had eBuy close the account. Tell you what, I was executor for our mother’s estate, and things seem harder now, with the internet and all. I have no idea what all Rose has out there that needs to be cancelled.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” I admitted.
Myron stood up. “Thanks for the coffee. I’m sorry I was… abrupt with you earlier, and I hope you find that dog a decent home. But I sure can’t take him.”
“Understood.”
He went on his way, and left me in greater charity with him. I certainly couldn’t see him as a murderer.
I turned to the box on the kitchen table, and opened it. “Oh, my word!”
The back door breezed open. “Hi, hon.” It was Jack. The gravel crunch of Myron’s departure had masked Jack’s arrival. He thumbed back over his shoulder. “Who was that?”
“That was Rose’s brother, bringing me Paco’s stuff. Jack, look at this!”
I lifted a tiny leather motorcycle jacket out of the box. It had a Harley logo on the back.
“Good grief!” Jack exclaimed.
“I know!” I continued my exploration, unearthing a yellow slicker raincoat, a grey hooded sweatshirt, a woven poncho, and a whole host of sweaters.
Awed, Jack picked up the little poncho. “It gives you a whole different angle on Rose, doesn’t it?”
“It surely does.”
For dinner I found some leftover beef in the refrigerator, threw it together with some vegetables, with yogurt and curry powder. I’m not sure what to call it; it was a thing. It was pretty good, though.
While we ate, Jack and I filled one another in on our days. He proudly reported that he’d got the cabernet balanced the way he likes, and also pointed out that he’d been called away to the shop four times. I didn’t bring up the hiring idea again; I was letting it marinate.
I gave him an entertaining account of Luther’s golfing granny. “No hidden treasure, though,” I said moodily.
“Just an old piece of farmland that the family didn’t want anymore,” Jack said.
That got me to thinking. Maybe it was nothing you should bring up, but I’m one of those fools who rush in, as anyone could tell you. “Say, Jack,” I said. “What if the kids wanted to sell this place? You know, after we’re gone.”
You could tell he didn’t like the idea. But then he said, “Well, realistically – we’re gone. It’s theirs. They can do whatever they want with it. They might want to keep it, or they might want to sell it. If they don’t sell, and their kids don’t sell, it’s still going to change hands somewhere down the line. It’s not like it’s going to be a vineyard a thousand years from now. The place is ours to use and enjoy while we’re alive. After that, who knows?”
“I wonder what they’ll do?” I speculated. “You think any of them would want to be winemakers?”
He thought about it. “Danny might,” he concluded. (Danny was our youngest, in college and studying archaeology.) “He liked to help me in the vineyard and the lab when he was younger. I have trouble seeing either Pete or Deb in the role. They strike me as incurably urban.”
“Of course, that could have been said about us at one time,” I pointed out.
“True. Well, we’ll never know, I guess.”
I changed the subject, telling Jack about Paco’s disappearance and my reaction to it and the
happy ending. “And Jack? What do you think about Craig taking Paco?”
“Did he suggest it?” Jack asked, surprised.
“No, and I didn’t suggest it either,” I told him. “But he seemed to enjoy the company, I thought. If he does want to take Paco, would you have a problem with it?”
“I guess not,” Jack said. “It’s not like he could damage that old trailer. If Craig told me he’d like to have a dog, I’d have said sure.”
“Great!” I gave him a quick hug and cleared the table. “Don’t mention it to Craig, though,” I cautioned. “I’m letting him get used to Paco and maybe bond with him. Don’t want to scare him off.”
Jack nodded. He tends not to meddle. (Which is a good thing, otherwise our schemes would wind up clashing with one another.)
For the next few days, nothing much happened. At least nothing related to the murder investigation, or at least, as far as I could tell.
I saw Agent Maguire’s rental car out and about around town, and heard through the grapevine that she’d questioned just about everyone in county government, and also the auctioneers and many attendees of the Beaumont auction.
I started receiving checks and mailing out the tablecloths and bedspread, and learned that you could go to the Postal Service website and they would ship priority boxes right to your home, absolutely free.
Craig started taking Paco out with him most afternoons. One day we had a cold snap and Craig brought Paco back fifteen minutes after taking him out. “Little guy is shivering,” he said. “Maybe he should stay in today.”
I remembered the box. “Wait a minute!” I said, and hunted out the box. I found the least ridiculous of the sweaters. “Let’s see if he’ll let me put this on,” I suggested. I was a bit concerned, remembering that Paco had a reputation as a biter, but he accepted the sweater so easily it was clear he was used to dress-up.
Craig scratched his head. “I’ll feel kinda silly, going around with a dog wearing a sweater.”
“Oh, who’s going to see?” I asked.
After that, we embellished Paco with a selection from his wardrobe every chilly day.
