PW02 - Bidding on Death (17 page)

“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 him. “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.

We were getting more traffic through the winery as well. The leaves were turning, so the ‘leaf-peepers’ were out in force. Tourists would drive a few hours to ooh at the fall colors and stop in at a local historical site or winery before heading back to the city.
I gave quite a few winery tours during this period and when Paco was around when the tour came through, he was a big hit.

“Oooh, he’s aDORable!” squealed one teen who was obviously her high school’s lead Popular Girl. “Is he yours?” she asked Craig.

Craig isn’t used to talking to people. “Uh. He’s kind of the winery dog,” he said nervously. “Hangs around with me
some.”

The girl looked ready to swoop Paco up, but I stepped between them. “Please don’t pick up the dog,” I asked. “He’s a bit of a rescue project and he’s still unpredictable.”

She pouted a bit, but her parents bought wine, so it all worked out.

Later, I joked with Craig that Paco was quite a chick magnet. I thought that would be a selling point, but Craig just looked alarmed.
Remembering what a loner Craig was when I found him, I quickly dropped that line of attack.

One afternoon, I drove by the old Beaumont place and saw Maguire’s rental car pulled up by the house. I slowed down and turned in. Agent Maguire was sitting on the front steps, looking moody.

I joined her.
“Afternoon, Agent Maguire.”

“Oh, please, Helen,” she said. She seemed to be unstarching a bit, for sure.

“How’s it going?” I asked cautiously.

“It’s not,” she replied.
“I’ve been investigating murders for twelve years now – “

“Really?!” I was surprised enough to interrupt. “Sorry, but you don’t seem old enough.”

She acknowledged the compliment with a brief smile, and continued, “ – and people don’t get murdered for being exasperating. They just don’t. There has to be something else.”