Ten Little Bloodhounds (13 page)

“How do you know he’s accurate? You can’t double-check his information.”

“You tell me. I asked him for a quickie when I called. I asked him for your current bank balances. He says you have eight hundred in checking and thirteen thousand in savings, which you should put most of in CDs. You’re losing interest daily.”

Her eyes widened. “That’s illegal!”

“True. Unfortunately, all computers leak information like sieves. Little Bemis is just one of the determined hackers out there with a bucket and sponge. I know of three different ways to secure your bank balance without using Little Bemis.”

“Tell me.”

“One, pretend I’m you, call up the bank, and ask for it. I know your mother’s maiden name, your account numbers, and the amount of your last deposit, because I write your check. Two, I call and say I’m Sears from Waycross and want to verify a check. We’re all a close-knit community here. Sometimes they’ll do it. If not, I tell them I’m running a credit check and give them the name of my business. They won’t give the actual balance, but with the figures they release, you can come close. They say high three figures, medium four figures, or low five figures. Three, I can hire a private detective and receive the information in thirty minutes. I have no idea how they do it.”

Jasmine appeared pensive. “I’ve wondered where
you got those thick computer sheets that you studied from time to time. No offense meant, but I knew you hadn’t generated them.”

“I can’t help it that this miserable computer has gremlins that hate me. No offense taken, you’re just grounded for a week right
after
you retrieve the information packet from the ‘drop.’”

“Don’t ground me,” she whined. “You’re a computer genius!”

“You’re forgiven. Did you bring your map?”

She swept it off the sofa and advanced to the desk.

“You mark your map while I read the directions. Go south on the Woodpecker Route until you reach the third dirt road on your right and turn right, which will put you on One Hundred Fifty-third Street NW.”

I heard her snickering. I stopped reading and looked at her.

“I can’t help it,” she said, giggling. “I laugh every time I see those new street signs on every small three-path road in this county! They look so strange. Some of them are twenty-five miles into deep woods yet peter out in less than fifty yards!”

“Jasmine,” I lectured with a stern face, “Dunston, and all the surrounding counties, even in North Florida, have been brought into the twentieth century. It’s not nice to make fun of progress. The federal government in its infinite wisdom has given grants to each county so their streets can have signs. By God,
all
our streets now have signs. You should be grateful that now when we get lost, we’ll know the name of the street that we are lost on!”

“I won’t think they’re strange anymore,” she said
with a straight face and immediately started giggling again. I ignored her.

“After you complete the turn, go exactly five-eighths of a mile and look for a cross on the first pine tree in a row to your right. It’s made out of white adhesive tape and both pieces are only two inches long, so they are hard to see. Better change into old jeans. There is thick growth between the trees down most of that road. Walk to the fourth tree and the package will be wrapped in plastic and leaning against the back of the tree. Got it?”

“Got it. For Pete’s sake, why doesn’t he just put it in a post office box? It would be a lot easier.”

“Silly you, what decent spy would use the U.S. mail? It would cut out all the fun.”

“Silly me. Anything else?”

“Raise your right hand,” I ordered, “and repeat after me. I solemnly swear that I will eat my driver’s license and credit cards if I see I’m about to be captured.”

“And swallow my poison capsule?”

“That goes without saying. Now, get out of here!”

I had Donnie Ray on watch for the helicopter, with specific instructions. When I heard it approaching from the west, I walked to the front window and peeked from a tiny part in the drapes and watched it land. Donnie Ray had removed the battered paper towel cross, but Rand sat the bird down where it had been. I watched the blades stop and both men alight. Donnie Ray walked toward them and gestured to Rand. He should be telling him where the door to the common room was located and that he could wait for Jackson in there.

Rand ignored him. Donnie Ray said something to Jackson, and hauled buggy toward the office.

“He said he wanted to say hello to you,” he repeated breathlessly when he skidded to a stop in front of me.

“Go back, say hi from me, and tell him to wait in the common room! Be firm! Hurry!”

He tore off to do my bidding. I checked the action from my peephole in the drapes. Donnie Ray ran until he was six feet in front of Rand, stopped, and lifted up an officious hand to stop him. I smiled. Donnie Ray is seven inches short of Rand’s six feet. It made me think of David and Goliath.

Rand looked toward the office and gave a casual wave. I jumped back, even knowing it was impossible for him to see me. By the time I could peek through the slit again, he was leaning indolently against the wall of the grooming room. He was staring across the tarmac toward the window he thought I was using. Jackson and Donnie Ray were almost at the office door.

Good. Things were looking up. At least he hadn’t stalked back to wait in the copter. This meant he was going to give it a second try to see me.

I ran light-footed back to my desk and sat up straight staring at my screen saver, which was my favorite picture of Bobby Lee chasing butterflies. I jiggled my mouse so that text would appear.

When Jackson’s discreet knock sounded, I was typing
THE QUICK RED FOX JUMPED OVER THE LAZY BROWN DOG
over and over on my December’s projected tax totals. I’d have to remember to clean up the page before Jasmine saw it.

“Come in,” I called, and kept typing.

“Am I intruding?”

I looked up, startled. “Forgive me, you must be Mr. Jackson,” I said, rising from my chair as I typed a final line. “I had to get this into e-mail,” as if I were on the Internet and knew what I was doing.

“Sit in this chair,” I offered. He was across the desk from me, so he couldn’t see my silly typing. I slid my chair a foot to the left because the computer blocked his face.

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

I wanted to seem like a businesswoman whose time was just as valuable as his own. He was in his sixties, looking prosperous and proper from his manicured nails to his expensive tasseled loafers. Brown sport coat and tan pants, white shirt with the collar open sans tie. Casual Georgia elegance on a Saturday morning.

I was in a hunter green wool sheath, lime green scarf, pantyhose, and black sensible pumps. My stomach muscles were sucked in so tightly I feared cramps. I had tamed my frizzy tresses with styling mousse and hairspray and applied serious war paint. We were even on appearance, but I had home turf advantage. He dispensed the fluff first.

“I realize you run a business and I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice.” He glanced around the room. “I’m familiar with your father’s work, and greatly admire his paintings. Mrs. Cancannon owned four. Do you have any here? I’d feel deeply honored if you would allow me to see them.”

“Mr. Jackson, I’m afraid that you have wasted your time and mine,” I chided. “I wish you had told me over the phone the purpose of your visit. I have none of my father’s paintings that you can view, and I was aware
that Mrs. Cancannon owned some. She mentioned the fact during our only meeting on Monday.”

I stood. “If there’s nothing else?”

We bared our teeth politely at each other, but he ignored my broad hint that the meeting was over by remaining seated.

“I was informed by the Jacksonville Museum curator that you personally possess four oils, titled ‘The Four Seasons.’ He said you wouldn’t sell them. Don’t tell me you keep them in a bank vault?”

I laughed. “Mr. Jackson, in trying to spare your feelings and not be rude, I qualified my statement to you about my paintings and obviously it sailed right over your head. I will repeat my sentence about my paintings for clarity. I said, ‘I have none of my father’s paintings that you can view.’” I repeated, “That you can view. Get it?”

“Got it!” He was angry. His face flamed to the roots of his perfectly styled gray hair.

He sat up straighter in the chair.

“Ms. Sidden, I don’t give a good goddamn about your father or his paintings. I noticed that you looked uptight. I mentioned your father’s paintings because Mrs. Cancannon told me that they were important to you. I was trying to put you at ease and got insulted for my efforts!”

“That’s more like it,” I said in an approving manner. “Cut out the bull and tell me why you are here.”

“Fine.” His voice had turned crisp. He had dropped the snake-oil ooze. “I was staying at the house with Mrs. Cancannon when you were there to search for Amelia. She approached me just before dinner and told
me to come to her room after everyone was asleep. This didn’t happen until after one
A.M.

“When I sneaked into her room, she was very upset. She took your warning that she had an enemy who might harm her to heart, and acted fast. She demanded that I write a new will on the spot, so she could then tell her heirs that she was disinheriting the whole bunch until she found out who tortured Amelia. I begged her not to act hastily, at least not when she was so upset.

“To calm her down, I instructed her in writing a holographic will. This had to be entirely written by her, as testator, by her hand alone, and is legal in this state, without witnesses attesting to her signature. She also added a codicil. She had me make a videotape about the codicil. I explained that this video would not legally be accepted in a court of law. She said that its legality wasn’t necessary, that she had to ‘bait the hook.’”

He stopped and shook his head dramatically.

“Anyway, we finished just before dawn and we were both exhausted. I pleaded with her not to alienate her relatives and accuse them without any proof. I said her enemy might be a business rival, and she could drive her nieces away. Alyce loved those girls. She had raised them since the oldest was fourteen. She has always trusted my judgment. I had to return to the island Thursday on another matter. She agreed not to say anything or accuse anyone until Thursday, when I could be with her for the confrontation.

“I wanted her to have a cooling-off period. Everyone arrived by Wednesday who believes they are an heir. Something happened from Tuesday morning when I left to Wednesday noon which upset her and made her
break her promise to me. At lunch, everyone agrees that she taunted them with the fact that she was
going
to change her will Thursday when I arrived. She didn’t mention once that
she had already done it!
If I had not made her promise not to tell them, I believe she would still be alive. I feel responsible for her death. They all knew at noon on Wednesday that she was going to write them out of the will on Thursday. She died between midnight and nine
A.M.
Thursday morning. I arrived at nine, and they had just found her. I was told she had coffee every morning at seven, but she didn’t answer the maid at seven or eight. Just before nine they became alarmed, went in, and she was dead.”

He didn’t look as elegant as he had when he arrived. It was like he had lost stature in telling me the story. I felt a twinge of sympathy.

“You’re not responsible for someone killing her.”

“Thank you for saying that. It’s what Sheriff Beaman said also, but I still feel guilty.”

“We all get the guilts from time to time. I have a doozy of my own.” I was thinking about Leroy. “I appreciate you coming over here to tell me these facts. I could claim some of the blame myself, for warning her, but I won’t,” I said with a smile.

“Mr. Jackson, I’m sorry, I still don’t see why you felt you had to tell me this. I’m not involved.”

“I’m afraid you are, Ms. Sidden, whether you care to be or not.”

He reached into a pocket of his sportcoat and produced a videotape.

“Do you have a VCR handy? I’ll let Mrs. Cancannon tell you.”

I
pointed silently toward the TV and closed the drapes. I could understand now why Jackson had insisted on meeting with me and telling me what had happened in the wee hours of Tuesday morning. It all led up to this tape I was about to see.

I bet Miz Cancannon would be shocked if she could have known that it would be viewed so soon. With her money, I would have packed a bag and chartered a jet to some safe haven far from harm’s way. I have a few bucks and also have a determined enemy. I mentally laughed when I pictured me on a plane winging to safety with fifty-seven dogs, seventeen puppies, and a cat. I have too much baggage to travel and would have to remain earthbound. Maybe that was the way Miz Cancannon felt.

But we people in peril don’t really believe deep
down in our hearts that the grim reaper is going to come calling on
us.
It always happens to someone else.

Jackson and I sat opposite each other on the oyster-white couches and he started the tape.

Miz Cancannon appeared on the screen looking a lot different than she had the last time that I saw her early in the evening on Monday night. I had left her clutching Amelia with a haughty expression. I would have preferred to remember her that way.

Two days of anger and fear had shrunken her cheeks and hollowed her eyes. Only her voice remained unchanged.

“A good reporter will always put the five W’s of journalism in the first paragraph of his story, who, what, when, where, and why. Unfortunately, I only know the victim … me. I have no knowledge of the other four. I also want you to find the how.

“It is obvious to you at this point I have died under suspicious circumstances. Everyone may know by now most of the answers, but some are still unanswered, or you wouldn’t be viewing this tape.

“I charge you to find my killer. I am willing to pay handsomely for your services. I have instructed my lawyer to release ample funds for your investigation. Find out who prematurely stole my right to die a natural death, whether it’s a month from now, or years in the future.