PW02 - Bidding on Death Read online

  Bidding On Death

  A Mystery

  By

  Joyce Harmon

  Bidding On Death

  Copyright 2012 Joyce Harmon

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The prologue and epilogue of Bidding On Death takes place in the present, but the main body of the story occurs in 1998. I mention this because the late ‘90s was the dawn of internet commerce, and Cissy and her friends become involved with on-line auctions and buying and selling collectibles. There are mentions of values, and the reader should be advised that these are values current in 1998. A common misapprehension among collectors is that if something was worth a certain amount years ago, that item must be worth more than that amount now. This is not always the case. Collectibles are not necessities. They are worth what buyers are willing to pay at that time, and specific collectibles and whole classes of collectibles come into fashion and also go out of fashion. It is not at all uncommon to see items that once went for hundreds of dollars now going for ten or twenty dollars. The values expressed in the novel should not be taken to indicate current value of the items under discussion.

  PROLOGUE

  The mailbox for Passatonnack Winery and the Rayburn residence was located at the side of the black-topped county road, but the Postal Service truck turned up the gravel driveway. It was a long driveway, and Tyler Bishop knew that Mrs. Rayburn was just back from knee replacement surgery. Walking on gravel was a chancy business, in Tyler’s opinion, calling for a degree of stability that he wasn’t sure Mrs. Rayburn had regained. Better to bring the mail up to the house.

  And there was the lady herself, seated in a rocking chair on the front porch. She had a cat in her lap and a walker positioned beside the rocker. The late spring day was warm, but not hot. Perfect porch-sitting weather. Tyler pulled up and got out of the truck, smoothing his light brown hair back and wondering if it was getting too long. “Afternoon, Mrs. Rayburn!” he called up to her, heading toward the porch. “Thought I’d bring up your mail, save you the walk.”

  “Why, thank you, Tyler,” the silver-haired woman in blue jeans said. “Can I get you something? Iced tea?”

  She made as if to heave out of the rocker and the cat hopped out of her lap, but Tyler waved her back. “No, ma’am, you stay sat! I didn’t drive up here to have you hustle around waiting on me. I’m trying to save you the steps, not add to them.”

  Mrs. Rayburn subsided back into the rocker. “Well, then. How’s your mother?”

  “Pretty fine,” Tyler said, leaning back on the porch railing. “Doctors are after her to get her hips done, but she says she’s not ready yet. How are your knees doing? I know she’ll want to know.”

  Mrs. Rayburn patted her knees carefully. “They tell me they’ll soon be good as new – better than new. But we’re not there yet.”

  “You’ll get there,” Tyler assured her. The huge black and white cat twined around his ankles and he bent down to stroke its ears. He held up two rubber-banded bundles of mail. “Want me to take the winery mail to the office for you?”

  “No need,” Mrs. Rayburn said. She fished around in the basket of her walker among the books and newspapers and pulled out a cellphone.

  “I didn’t know these things came with baskets,” Tyler said. “Handy.”

  “They don’t,” Mrs. Rayburn said. “That’s a bicycle basket. It was Danny’s idea, said my hands would be full with the walker, but this would allow me to carry things around with me.”

  She flipped easily through the cellphone screens and hit a button, then put the phone to her mouth. “Hi, it’s me,” she said. “I’ve got the winery mail up here on the porch, come by when you have a minute.” She snapped the phone closed and patted it affectionately. “I love these things,” she said.

  Seeing Tyler’s puzzled look, she chuckled. “That probably sounds to you as odd as someone loving a pencil. But you don’t remember the world without them, do you?”

  “No, ma’am, can’t say as how I do. Well, I’d better be getting back to the route.” Tyler handed Mrs. Rayburn the large bundle of winery mail and started to hand her the smaller bundle of personal mail, but stopped, surprised by the return address of the top letter. “Greensville? Mrs. Rayburn, who do you know in prison?”

  Mrs. Rayburn took the bundle and looked at the top letter. She sighed and said sadly, “A murderer.”

  ONE

  I’ve always thought of myself as thoroughly up to date in matters of technology, but the truth is that I’d never heard of on-line auctions before Julia took me to Lacey Beaumont’s estate auction.

  I’d never been to an estate auction, either, though I’d seen them occasionally, driving down a country road on a weekend and seeing the lines of parked cars and the crowds and the large striped tent set out in the yard or field of some elderly neighbor, now gone presumably to a better place.

  “Come on, Cissy, it’ll be fun!” Julia insisted. Julia is always telling me that things will be fun. Sometimes she’s right.

  But I was doubtful. “Rummaging around in a dead person’s belongings? That just seems sort of grisly to me.”

  We were in my kitchen, drinking our usual coffee. Julia brought the coffee pot to the table and shrugged. “They can’t take it with them, right? What do you think ought to be done with a dead person’s belongings? Should they be buried with the stuff like those old pharaohs? Anyway, Lacey’s not dead, she’s moved to an assisted living place in Alexandria. The real estate is already sold, this will be the stuff she’s not taking with her.”

  “What do you expect to find there?” I asked.

  “You never know,” Julia said. “That’s the beauty of it. It’s like a treasure hunt.”

  “When I go shopping, I like to know what I’m shopping for,” I objected.

  “Oh, please, Cis! Bob is going to be out in the manly sections all day; he’s had his eye on Paul’s power tools for twenty years now. I want some company scavenging the household stuff.”

  Bob is Julia’s husband. They’re both retired and Bob makes wooden toys to sell at craft fairs. Julia and I had been friends since Jack and I bought the then-dilapidated farm almost twenty years ago as a summer place, but since Jack retired and we became full-time residents, Julia has been my best buddy, closest confidante, and co-conspirator.

  Julia continued her sales pitch. “The weather is going to be ideal, sunny and mild, a beautiful fall day.”

  “A beautiful fall day in the middle of harvest,” I reminded her.

  “Exactly,” she said significantly.

  “Oh.”

  Back when Passatonnack Winery was young and I was younger, I was out helping with the harvest right alongside Jack because there was nobody else. Now the winery was larger, and so was the harvest. But Jack had Craig the handyman now, as well as a handful of teenagers he’d been training for several seasons, so in theory he didn’t need my help.

  In practice, though, I seemed to wind up running harvest-related errands all day long. Suddenly a day spent in a folding chair in a tent started to sound more attractive.

  “Tom Barnes always brings the BBQ Hut,” Julia added enticingly.

  I capitulated. “Okay, it’s a date.”

  So on a bright and sunny Saturday, Julia rolled into the yard to pick me up. She’d recently traded her land yacht for an Expedition, and looked like Patton taking Sicily. I hauled myself into the passenger’s seat, and saw Beau the Labrador sprawled across the back seat.

  “We’re taking Beau?” I asked.

  “Sure, he’ll be fine.”

  “But – not Bob?”

  “We’ll meet him there; he’s taking the pickup. He’s hoping to get that table saw.”

  So the Barstows would be there with two l
arge vehicles. Should civilization fall into a dystopian post-apocalypse, they already had the nucleus of a roving nomad band. I should stay on their good side.

  I eyed Julia curiously. She seemed to be dressed for post-apocalypse as well. Sure, it was LL Bean, but LL Bean of several long hard decades ago. She even had a scarf over her grey curls; it looked like a babushka. I was in jeans, tee-shirt, and flannel jacket; Julia had warned me not to wear anything nicer than gardening clothes.

  The Beaumont farm was ten miles from our place. In addition to the farm acreage and a nice bit of woods along the river, there was a large old 19th century farmhouse, rather like ours before we updated it, a barn, several outbuildings, and an impressive workshop.

  Today there was also a large tent, a recreational vehicle with a window counter, serving as the auctioneers’ office, and the promised BBQ Hut.

  Men in Lundgren’s Auctions vests waved us to parking in the field beside the house. We clambered out and Julia opened the back of the SUV, hauling out empty boxes and old newspapers.

  “You came prepared,” I observed.

  “They usually have boxes and wrapping,” the knowledgeable Julia explained. “But not enough.”

  She opened the back seat and Beau jumped down, sat obediently and allowed her to attach his leash. “He doesn’t really need it,” said Julia, “but it makes people feel better.”

  I tried to imagine my Polly in this environment and suppressed a shudder.

  “So – we go find seats?” I asked.

  “First we check in, have to get registered and get our bidder numbers.”

  We lined up at the RV’s window behind a heavy-set gray-haired woman whose purse began to yap furiously at us. I gave a startled jump. The woman patted the purse absently; looking closer, I realized that a chihuahua’s head was peeking out of the top. “Hush, Paco,” the woman said, but Paco glared down at Beau and continued to threaten to tear him limb from limb just as soon as he had the opportunity.

  Beau’s only response was a silent, regal sneer. Julia gave me a significant look. The woman took her bidder card and headed toward the tent. Julia approached the window, saying over her shoulder, “Keep an eye out for where Rose sits so we can sit on the opposite side of the tent. Otherwise that little rat Paco will keep that up all day.”

  “You know her?”

  “Not really, just to say hi to, but she’s a regular at these things. And Paco.”

  “Oh, Paco!” said the woman manning the counter. “We all know Paco.” It sounded as if to know him was not to love him.

  Julia gave the woman her name and got her bidder card. I was new and had to show my driver’s license and have my name and address written down for the auction house records. “It will be easier next time,” the counter woman told me brightly.

  We headed toward the tent. It was light-jacket weather and the tent was open-sided. Between the RV-office and the tent were boxes, lined up in several rows on the ground. I slowed down to scan them. They seemed to contain, well, stuff. Julia had been forging ahead but saw she’d lost me. She turned back. “We’ll check those out later. Come on, seating is at a premium at these things.”

  We passed into the tent. The center of the tent was lined with folding chairs facing a large platform for the auctioneer. In front of the platform were tables crammed with wares, and other tables flanked the two sides of the tent.

  Julia scanned the growing crowd, saw Paco’s owner ensconced to the left, and found us some seats on the right. “Here we are!” She placed boxes on two seats to save them, then looked around appraisingly.

  I was baffled. “What is where?” I wanted to know.

  Julia pointed toward the front. “Those tables up there will have the most valuable and desirable stuff, according to the auctioneer’s judgment. Along the sides, less choice but still good. Out there on the outside line, it’s anything goes. Usually junk, but sometimes hidden treasure lurks. We’ll need to look things over. Remember, once you’ve bought something, it’s too late to notice any damage, it’s yours.” She put Beau on a down-stay beside our folding chairs and we went to scope out the merchandise.

  I headed straight for the front table, wanting to see the best of the selection. I took a spot at the table beside a petite blonde and was surprised into exclamation. “Why, this is all old stuff!”

  The blonde laughed out loud. “It’s not old,” she assured me, “it’s vintage.”

  “Hey, Amy,” Julia said to the blonde. “You’re talking to a lady who thinks ‘vintage’ means ‘the year of the harvest’.”

  “Oh, right,” Amy said, “you’re Mrs. Rayburn, right? From the winery? I’m Amy Withers.” Amy looked like a living embodiment of the mischievous elf in the Kingdom of Qu’aot adventure games. (I write their manuals.)

  “Pleased to meet you, Amy,” I told her. “And please, it’s Cissy - and I’m not completely wine-centric. I know that in the vernacular, ‘vintage’ is a euphemism for old.”

  “Not exactly,” Amy said. “To be more accurate, something gets less valuable as it gets older – until it passes a certain point and then it starts becoming more valuable. That’s when it’s vintage.”

  “Seriously?” I asked. I pointed to a set of green glasses. “I mean, look at those. I got a set of those at the base thrift store when Jimmy and I were first married, they were a nickel apiece.”

  Amy eyed the glasses respectfully. “Colonial Knife and Fork. You didn’t happen to keep them, did you?”

  “Are you kidding? I had kids! They’re all gone now. But I got them because they were cheap.”

  “No disrespect, Mrs. Rayburn, but how long ago was that?”

  “Oh.” Now I got it. “That was thirty years ago.”

  “You see? Then they were just old. Now they’re vintage. You watch and see what those go for. It will be more than a nickel apiece.”

  I eyed the selection disparagingly. “Couldn’t they at least wash them?”

  “That’s why I told you to dress down,” Julia explained. “The auctioneers have to haul everything out of the house and sort and display it. They don’t have time to get it all clean and shiny. Some of this stuff has been in an attic or cellar for decades.”

  “In the attic quietly becoming vintage,” Amy said. She moved around the table, muttering arcana. “Autumn Leaf. American Sweetheart. Akro Agate. Roseville Clemantis.” We were joined at the table by Rose and her yapping purse. Amy immediately fell silent.

  I moved on to the side tables, taking note of a handsome old mantle clock, and then outside to the boxes on the ground. Julia was there, consulting with Bob. Bob was resplendent in bib overalls. Did I mention that Bob was a retired corporate executive? He looked like he was auditioning for a little theater Hee-Haw. They seemed to be negotiating who got to spend what amount of money. I waved at them and walked the line of boxes. Kitchenware. Linens. Paperbacks. Might be something there.

  Over by the willow tree, I saw Luther Dawson lounging in a deck chair and went to join him. He waved. “Hey there, Miz Rayburn, found any dead bodies lately?” Luther is an investigator for the sheriff’s department. His query was a standard greeting.

  “Come on, Luther, it was one body and that was two years ago. It’s not like I make a habit of it.”

  Luther gestured at the auction crowd. “You looking to buy anything in particular?”

  “No, I’m just keeping Julia company and avoiding the harvest. How about you?”

  “Just keeping an eye on things. My grandma’s estate, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know. How’s she doing?” Without intending to, my voice had taken on a ‘poor dear’ tone – ‘assisted living’ conjured up images of the frail and the infirm.

  But Luther chuckled. “She’s happy as a pig in sh-slop. Grandpa died a long time ago, you know, and living out in the country gets pretty tedious when you’re all by yourself and getting on. I stopped by when I could, but most of the family has moved away. Grandma had been talking about selling out and movin
g for years and she finally did it. The place she’s at has little condos for the ‘active elderly’, and when she gets to where she needs help, she’s guaranteed a spot in their advanced care facility. Last time I was up to see her, she barely had time to visit with me. Water aerobics in the morning and golf in the afternoon, with bridge or bingo in the evening. Grandma playing golf! That tickles me.”

  We both looked up at the sound of PA noises coming from the tent. “Looks like they’re getting ready to start,” I said, and headed back to my seat.

  I found Amy in the seat beside the seat I’d snagged and settled in between her and Julia.

  Up at the podium, portly Amos Lundgren spoke into the microphone. “Let’s get started, folks. First we’ll go over the terms and conditions…”

  He proceeded to read through the auction rules and cautions that were already printed on our bidder cards. Julia leaned over me to address Amy. “Have you found another job yet, dear?” To me, she added, “Amy is our church organist. She worked at the hardware store before it went out of business.”

  Amy shook her head. “I’m not looking for a job. I’m self-employed now.”

  “Doing what?” Julia asked.

  “This,” Amy said, with a comprehensive gesture around the tent.

  “This?” I asked.

  “I buy and sell,” Amy explained. “Buy locally at auctions, estate and yard sales, and then resell on eBuy.”

  “Resell on what?” Julia asked.

  “EBuy. It’s an online auction site. It’s basically a venue to bring buyers and sellers together.”

  I was intrigued. “How does it work?”

  “You have something to sell, you make an auction listing. People bid on it, and the highest bidder pays you and you send them the merchandise. It’s a lot of fun and gives you a global market. Last week I shipped a Howdy Doody doll to Italy.”

  “Huh!” I was going to have to look into this business.

  Julia had more questions, but Amos was done reading terms and conditions and the first item went up for auction. I sat back to watch the show. There was nothing here I felt passionate about buying, so for me it was a spectator sport.