PW02 - Bidding on Death (18 page)

“And if exasperation was a motive,” I pointed out, “someone would have offed her a long time ago, because from everything I hear, she’s always been like that.”

“I know,” she said.

“I suppose the brother has an alibi?” I hazarded.

“He’s been checked up one side and down the other, since so far, he’s the only person who seems to have benefited from Jackson’s death. And unless at least thirty people are lying, he was at work all day. He even ate lunch at his desk, some big deadline they were under.”

“Where does he work?” I asked.

“An engineering firm in Texas
. They were putting in a bid on a government contract and it was all hands to the pumps.
And while he inherits from Jackson, we’ve verified that he actually was better off than she was.
”

“I didn’t think it was him,” I agreed. “They didn’t get along, but he could always avoid her, and sounds like that’s pretty much what he did.”

Helen looked over the fields. “It must have been the auction,” she said. “
That’s what I keep coming back to.
On a Saturday, everything in this house was sold at auction. Two days later, we have three break-ins, all at homes of auction-attendees, and one of the break-ins resulted in murder.”

“Are we sure there were only three?” I asked.

“I checked,” she assured me. “I interviewed the auctioneers and got their list of purchasers and contacted every last person on the list. It was just the three.”

“I wonder what order the break-ins happened?” I speculated. “Did they stop because the housebreaker (and murderer, we assume) found what he was looking for? Did they stop because he surprised the resident at the last stop and had to kill her? Did that scare him off?”

“There’s no way to tell,” Helen said. “But the three people whose houses were broken into were the three who bought the most. Not the ones who spent the most money, but the ones who bought the most things. Several people spent quite a lot more, but they were mostly purchasing furniture. The glassware and knick-knacks and kitchenware and box lots, the stuff the auctioneers call ‘smalls’, those mostly went to your friends and to Rose.”

She stood up and stretched, hands to her back. “And what that means, I haven’t a clue.”

That evening, we went to the Board of Supervisors meeting. I usually avoid board meetings, they’re really tedious. I know, I know, one ought to be more involved, and up on what’s going on locally and all that. I’ve long suspected that the world is being run by people who have the intestinal fortitude to sit through a lot of extremely dull meetings. But even believing that can’t make me attend more than once every blue moon or so. This is why I’ll never rule the world.

But I told
Gene
I’d speak up for cell phones, and so I went. Jack came along because I whined until he agreed.

There was a lot of stuff before we got
to the cell phone towers. Gene
left his seat on the raised dais to present his plan for the old Beaumont farm. Since I’d just been out there that day,
it was surreal to see it parce
led out into two and three acre lots, with a road
and street lights and an
activities center
at the front gate
.

The Planning Commission had already blessed the project, so
the Board’s approval (with Gene
recusing himself) took no one by surprise.

Finally we got
to the cell towers issue. Gene
again left the Supervisors bench to make the pro-towers case. The anti-towers leader was Lola Grimes. Lola is a come-here, and the most aggressively back-to-nature come-here we’ve got. Seeing her is a real trip down memory lane, though the youngsters who didn’t live through the hippie era must wonder what her deal is.
She got up in her broomstick skirt and her handmade beads to read a bunch of alarmist urban legends about microwaves gleaned from the internet.

Then it was public comments time. I’d turned in a public comment card before the meeting, and nervously took my place at the mike when my name was called. I’m not a natural public speaker, or a willing one either. Knowing that the event was being televised on the local channel added to my stage fright. I fought down my panic by reminding myself that nobody really watched the airing of the Supervisors meeting; that helped some.

I made my case as one of public safety. I asked the Board to imagine someone whose car had broken down on one of our little-traveled back roads, or had a medical emergency when away from their houses.

I saw Emily Davidson look thoughtful. As well she might, because I’d tailored this argument just for her. Emily happens to live up on Bald Eagle Point. It’s four miles from the main road to her house, up a road so little traveled that if her car broke down along that stretch, she’d have to hoof it, either forward to her home, or back to the road. Emily has a fondness for impractical footwear, and if she’s ever exercised since high school PE, I’d be surprised.

I suspect that from now on, every time she turns off the road toward her house, she’ll wonder, ‘what if the car breaks down?’ and she’ll wonder that until towers are installed and she has a cell phone safely in her purse.

There were more comments, both pro and con, but the Board was not making a decision at that meeting. There was still the issue of l
and for the towers, though Gene
was offering a bit of the Beaumont property for the purpose.

When the meeting broke up, Gene
sought me out for a hug. “That was great, Cissy,” he assured me, and hustled off to schmooze other county residents.

At the back of the Board room, I saw Helen Maguire. I pointed her out to Jack and we swooped her up and took her to Della
’s
Kountry Kitchen for
some
Koffee.

ELEVEN

Good food comes in all varieties and all income levels. If you’re looking f
or elegance, subtlety, and ambie
nce, you go to Washington House. If com
fort food and a modest charge are
what you’re after, you go to Della’s Kountry Kitchen. The vegetables are out of a can, but the soup is homemade, as is the meatloaf and the chicken-fried steak. Della prides herself on her pies, and with good reason.

Jack and I don’t go to county meetings very often, but when we do, we always end the evening at Della’s, for pie and coffee.

Helen Maguire looked around like an anthropologist discovering a new tribe. We urged her to try the pie, and she agreed to sample the pecan.

“Oh, my goodness!” she said after the first bite. “I’m going to have to run a few extra miles to pay for this!” But she ate it all, including Della’s famous crust.

I asked, “What were you doing at the board meeting? If you can say.”

“I was just observing prominent locals in their native habitat,” she admitted. “I wasn’t after anything in particular. But county government had been Jackson’s home territory until just recently.”

“Did you learn anything you didn’t know?” Jack wondered.

“Well, I already knew my cell didn’t work here,” Helen said. She pulled a snazzy little cell phone out of her purse. I tried not to drool. She eyed it speculatively. “You really come to depend on these things, you know?”

“Like the communicators in Star Trek,” Jack suggested. “Nice to know you’re never out of touch with the mother ship. Of course, then the writers have to come up with some sort of space storm every time they want the characters to be out of touch.”

Yes, Jack and I are Trek geeks.
In fact, that’s how we met. My first husband Jimmy and I had watched Star Trek in first run before he died, but by the time I met Jack, Star Trek was long cancelled and The Next Generation wasn’t yet even a gleam in Gene Roddenberry’s eye. Oh, but there was syndication!

Jack and I worked at the same government agency, but we were Mister Rayburn and Mrs. Hooper until the day, frustrated, when he asked me how long the mainframe was going to be unavailable. He wasn’t the first person who’d asked that question, and I snapped, “Dammit Jim, I’m an operator, not a computer repairman.”

He recognized the Bones-ism and smiled. “It’s Jack,” he said and extended his hand.

The rest, as they say, is history.
             

But back to the present. Helen smiled. Was she a Trek fan too? I was liking this woman.

“I didn’t realize there were places in the United States without cell coverage,” she admitted. “If I’d thought about it, I’d have thought perhaps in the Badlands
, and the states with more cows than people
. But right here in Virginia?”

“We’re catching up,” I pointed out.

We were seating in a booth by the windows. The phone on the wall behind the counter rang, and Della emerged from the kitchen to answer it. After a moment, she turned toward the seating area and called out, “Excuse me, folks. Is there an Agent Maguire here?”

Helen’s eyes widened. She stood up and raised her hand.

Della lifted the receiver. “This is for you, hon.” She laid the receiver on the counter and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Helen went over and spoke into the phone. She whisked a small notebook out of her purse and took some rapid notes. Then she hung up the phone and returned to the booth to retrieve her jacket. “Gotta run, folks, looks like the weapon has turned up.”

She paused and added. “The sheriff’s office called Washington House, and was told to call here. How did they know that?”

“Small town voodoo,” I answered. “No, really, it’s actually simple. Bev and Dave were at the Board meeting, saw you with us, and they know that we wind up here after meetings.”

“Oh. It’s simple once you know.” She headed toward the door, but hesitated, then came back to our booth. “Before I go, could you tell me how embarrassing it’s going to be to question these teenagers?”

I blinked. Jack said patiently, “Could you give us a little more information?”

Helen explained, “The sheriff’s office said that the teens found the flat iron, and told their parents, who told a brother-in-law, who was a deputy and knew that a green flat iron was what we were looking for. I need to question the teens, because they brought in the iron and I need to know where it was and so forth. The office said that the teens were ‘chicken-necking’ when they found the iron. Are they going to be all embarrassed and not wanting to talk about it?”

I couldn’t help laughing. “Sorry,” I said. “But chicken-necking is crab fishing.”

“I thought you caught crabs in pots,” Helen protested.

“You do. But the poor man’s way of catching crabs is just to toss a line attached to a piece of trash meat, like a chicken neck. The crab latches onto it, and you haul it in. You can reuse the chicken neck, catch multiple crabs. We’re tidal here, at least down-county we are, so crabs are available for a little work.”

“Oh!” Helen looked relieved. “So they won’t at all mind talking about it. Thanks for the explanation.”

She headed out. Jack and I chuckled a bit over the chicken-necking. It did sound vaguely obscene when you didn’t know what it meant.

“Of course,” Jack pointed out, “if it was crabbing kids who found the iron, that probably means it was in the river. I doubt if there’s going to be much for forensics to find.”

Which was a bit of a bummer.

As we headed home, we saw the lights still on at the paper. Our newspaper is a weekly, and twice a month they burn the midnight oil in order to bring us what is often the only fresh news available, the report of the Board of Supervisors meeting.

The next day, I had the newspaper to go along with my lunch.
The two big items were
Gene
’
s
developmen
t, christened Passatonnack Gardens
, and the cell tower controversy. The paper faithfully reproduced the proposed map of the new development, and I studied it idly. The one driveway up to the existing house would be gone, as would the house itself. Instead a ring road would circle the property, with the lots facing toward it and backing to one another.

I wondered how much Lacey Beaumont got for the property. I remembered her saying that it was the land that had the real value. It would
certainly be valuable once Gene
was done with it. Two hundred acres of farmland used to be enough to support even a large family in reasonable style, but in these days of agribusiness, such a small property is barely worth farming. But divide it into lots, plant with houses priced at “$500K+”, well, then you’re talking about a pretty substantial sum.

That afternoon, Amy came by the winery. She’d
brought along her boyfriend Jordan
, wa
nting him to have the tour. Jordan
was a big guy, carrying a little too much weight, but he seemed amiable enough. As I took them around the winery, I was amused to see that I didn’t actually have to do much explaining. Amy pointed out all the interesting sights and explained the wine making process to him eagerly.

As we entered the barn, she took a deep bre
ath. “Smell that!” she told Jordan
ecstatically. “Isn’t it marvel
ous?” There is definitely an odor associated with wine makin
g, but it’s a pleasant one. Jordan
allowed as how it was the nicest smelling barn he’d ever been in.