PW02 - Bidding on Death Page 6

  “You think I’m encouraging her?” Luther asked with wounded astonishment. “You think I like this?”

  “Hey!” I objected. “I know this isn’t any of my business, and I’ll keep out of it, so long as it stays none of my business. Last time, might I remind you, you folks were just about to arrest Jack! That made it my business.”

  “Alright,” Luther said peaceably. “Just so long as we understand one another.”

  We went over my actions and observations again several more times, while Jack listened in disapproving silence. Finally Luther felt he’d got everything he could out of me and closed his notebook.

  As he stood to go, I asked, “About Rose’s next of kin. Are they local?”

  “What did we just agree about you keeping out of it?” Luther asked in exasperation.

  “The dog, Luther!” I pointed out. “I need to know what to do about the dog.”

  “Oh. Well, I’ll have to check and get back with you on that.”

  He headed toward the kitchen. Jack stood up. “Wait a minute!” he objected. “Are you saying we’re stuck with this dog? Why us?”

  Luther shrugged. “Ask your wife, she’s the one who volunteered to remove it from the crime scene. Maybe the vet would board it for a while.”

  Out in the yard, Luther was just opening the car door when the Expedition lumbered up to park beside him. Luther shot me a disappointed look. “I didn’t call her!” I assured him.

  Julia jumped out of the car and hurried toward me. “Cissy, what happened with Rose? Bob just called me from Buddy’s.”

  “Buddy’s.” Luther shook his head, got in his car and drove away without another word.

  FIVE

  Julia shooed me back into the house. In the kitchen, Paco started up again. I was glad Julia hadn’t brought Beau.

  Julia went to the laundry room door to observe Paco. “Well,” she said at last, “I never much liked him, but it’s sad. I think he’s lost the only person in the world who could tolerate him.”

  She turned back. “Is there coffee? Let’s take it to your office.”

  What a great idea. I corralled cups and the coffee pot and we headed to the other end of the house.

  Jack joined us. So did Polly. So did Tough Stuff. Suddenly everyone wanted to be at the opposite end of the house from the laundry room. Jack grabbed the recliner, and Tough Stuff leaped into his lap and began industrious kneading. Julia opted for the sofa and received Polly’s head in her lap. I took the office chair.

  “So?” Julia prodded. “Tell me all about it!”

  Jack frowned. “Didn’t you just tell Luther you weren’t going to meddle this time?”

  “Discussion among friends is not meddling,” I assured him. “It’s only natural and it’s not like I’m going to run around and look at things and question people. Right?”

  “You’re not?” Julia asked in surprise.

  “Why should I?” I asked her. “Last time it was right on our property, and the sheriff almost arrested Jack. This time it’s some woman I barely knew, I don’t know anything about her other than that she sure didn’t train her dog.”

  “That’s something you can do,” Julia suggested. “I’ll bring you a video about training. If ever a dog needed some training, it’s that one.”

  Paco was still keening from the laundry room, but he seemed to be winding down.

  “So,” Julia said, bringing us back on topic. “Rose?”

  “Oh my god, Julia!” I moaned. “It was awful! She’d obviously been dead for days! There was this horrible smell, and the back door lock was busted.”

  “For days. Hmm.” Julia considered that. Then her eyes widened. “I wonder if she was killed the same day my place and Amy’s were broken into? What if we’d been home, or came home in the middle of the break-in?”

  It sounded scarily plausible. “You suppose Luther would tell us about time of death?” Julia added.

  “No,” Jack said. “No, he wouldn’t.”

  A depressed silence. Then I had a notion. “Didn’t Amy say that Rose lists auctions every evening?” I turned to the computer and logged onto the internet.

  “What are you doing?” Jack asked.

  “I want to see when she last listed auctions,” I told him. “That ought to give us an idea.”

  I looked up Rose’s auctions. “Aha! Her last listings were Sunday evening.”

  “So she could have been killed on Monday, sure enough,” Julia said.

  Jack cleared his throat significantly. “Uh, Cissy? Wouldn’t you call what you’re doing right now investigating?”

  “I’d call it web surfing,” I replied defensively. To prove it, I surfed over to my own auctions. “Hey, look! That kaffee klatch tablecloth is up to $47.50, and the cutter bedspread is at $21.”

  “Are you shitting me? Move, TS.” Jack brushed Tough Stuff onto the floor and heaved out of the recliner to come over and look over my shoulder. “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” he said in wonder. “People are buying that old junk?”

  “They’re vintage collectibles,” I told him loftily.

  “Hey, do they sell books?” Jack asked.

  “I think they pretty much sell everything,” I said.

  “Can I look?”

  Awestruck, I moved out of the desk chair to make room for Jack. Julia and I exchanged wide-eyed looks.

  I’ve been trying to interest Jack in the internet for three years now. Oh, he has an e-mail address but he hardly ever remembers to check his mail. I have his password and weed out the spam about once a week, and when I see something he ought to know about, I print it out for him. He’s gotten better about checking his e-mail since Danny, our college student son, shifted most of his communication with us from ‘snail mail’ to e-mail.

  But for the rest of the wonders of the web, Jack has been spectacularly uninterested. He says he’s got plenty to keep him busy without spending time sitting at a computer, but I long ago realized what the real problem is, and watching his agonizingly slow hunt-and-peck on the keyboard just reinforced that realization. My brilliant and talented husband can’t type.

  I suspect future generations will find this hard to believe, but there was a time, and it wasn’t all that long ago, when a man could spend an entire career without knowing how to type. I say ‘man’ advisedly. Women always wound up learning how to type. Even the women who didn’t start in the secretarial pool still always seemed to be the ones producing the minutes of meetings, making the flyers for the fundraisers, and everything else involved in the production of written communications between the organization and the world. But a man? At most, a man needed a pen and a yellow pad. At best, he could call in a woman with a steno pad, who would take dictation; he could simply recite what he wanted written, and the written product was produced by the women.

  Of course those days are changing and not a moment too soon, if you ask me.

  “Look!” Jack exclaimed. “They’ve got Richard Burton’s books. I’ve been looking for some of these for years.”

  “Ooh, I loved him in Becket!” Julia said. “Did he write books?”

  “Not the actor,” Jack said absently. “The explorer.” He scrolled down the list avidly. “Hon, how do I buy some of these?”

  Bingo! We had a convert!

  “Well,” I said, “I could bid on my account, or you could open your own account.”

  “I want my own account,” Jack said.

  Now I recalled that some of Burton’s writing was fairly risqué. Translations of the Kama Sutra and similar topics. So I showed Jack where to click to register.

  While he was working his way through the registration screen, the phone rang. I answered it, “Rayburns.”

  “Cissy!” It was Doc. “I just heard! Rose is dead and that’s why you have Paco?” Passatonnack Winery isn’t the only place in Queen Anne County where you’ll find grapevines; the whole place is littered with them.

  I lifted the phone cord over Jack’s head and carried the phone to the re
cliner. I gave Doc a brief rundown of what I’d discovered at Rose’s house, Paco’s distress (tailoring my story to my audience), and how he’d behaved since I brought him home.

  “He’s always been an only child,” Doc told me. “And like so many chihuahuas, he’s got that Little Big Dog syndrome; can’t understand why the whole world doesn’t just accept that he’s in charge. You’re going to have your hands full. I hope sharing a house with some other pets will be an attitude adjustment for him.”

  “Yes, but Doc,” I complained, “for how long? Do you know anything about Rose’s relatives, how I could reach them? Somebody’s got to take this dog.”

  There was a pause as Doc thought about it. “I think she’s got a brother, but not local,” she finally said. “And his name would be different; someone told me once that Rose had been married and then divorced a long time ago.”

  “I’ll have to keep after Luther on the next of kin question,” I decided. “Surely her nearest and dearest will give her dog a home.”

  Doc said sadly, “You’d be surprised the number of pets I’ve had to rehome when their owners die; plenty of times the next of kin bring them in here and ask for them to be put down.”

  Surprised, yes, and shocked too. What is wrong with some people?

  Doc signed off and I turned back to the computer to see what Jack was up to. “Sixteen volumes?!” I asked. “Were there that many Arabian Nights?”

  “Yep,” said Jack. He hit the enter key and placed a bid. I gasped at the amount.

  “Okay, I don’t want to hear a word about the digital camera I bought,” I told him. “That will actually be useful around here, for selling on eBuy and for the website.”

  “Not a word,” Jack agreed.

  Julia took her departure then, ominously declaring that she hadn’t made any commitments about not investigating. I gave Paco some more pieces of softened kibble, and took him out to the yard to do his business. I was glad to have the harness; the way he tugged and pulled, he’d wind up strangling himself with a leash attached to a collar. He obviously seemed to believe that he got to decide where we went and the speed at which we got there.

  Polly nosed open the screen door and joined us, curious about this new addition. Paco gave a shrill scream of defiance and flung himself on Polly. Did he really not notice that she was ten times his size? Startled, Polly danced out of his reach. I saw that Paco had a mouthful of fur, and reminded myself to check Polly for damage later, though that thick fur usually makes good armor.

  That ended our yard excursion. Polly continued to follow us just out of Paco’s reach and Paco kept pulling impatiently, determined to teach her who was boss. I put him back in the laundry room and hoped he’d settle down eventually. Polly could do some real damage to the little terrorist if she wanted to, and however unpleasant he was, I didn’t want for him to be injured while under my care. Surely someone was going to want him.

  I crashed right after dinner. I’m a big fan of murder mysteries, but one thing they don’t really convey is just how exhausting it is to find a body, and all the activity and questioning that entails. I was out like a light for hours.

  But I woke up at three in the morning. Jack was beside me, and I could feel that he was tense as an over-coiled spring and just about to snap. And no wonder! That sound! Drifting up from the first floor was an eerie keening, unspeakably tragic and incredibly grating at the same time.

  “You awake?” Jack asked quietly.

  “Yeah,” I mumbled. “How long has that been going on?”

  “Couple hours now. I keep thinking he’ll stop. I couldn’t believe you were sleeping through it.”

  “What should we do?”

  “How about taking him out to the barn? Use one of those cat crates.”

  “Jack, it’s cold out there, and he’s a short-haired dog.”

  “Fine,” Jack snapped. He heaved out of bed and went to the closet, hauling a sleeping bag from the top shelf. “Then I’ll go to the barn.”

  I was too tired to get into a big thing. “Jack, I’m sure he’ll get over it soon and settle down.”

  “But not here,” Jack directed. “Find an owner for him.”

  And he stomped off down the stairs.

  I flopped back on the bed. After a moment, I went to the bathroom and found the cotton balls and fashioned myself some ear plugs. I could still hear Paco, but it was fainter. Pity and a desire to strangle the little beast warred uneasily in my head.

  Eventually, I slipped back to sleep. I dreamed I was back that the Beaumont auction. The tent was there, the office trailer, the BBQ Hut, and all the chairs and tables and boxes. But no people. The only sign of life was a little dog, racing frantically around the deserted scene, sniffing and whining piteously.

  Having gone to bed ridiculously early, I woke up ridiculously early too. It was just after dawn, and beautifully still. I stretched luxuriously. The bed was all mine, the room was all mine…

  Wait a minute. I sat up. No Jack. No Polly stretched out on the floor. I remembered that eerie dream and shivered. To break the silence, I spoke aloud, repeating the old Western cliché, “It’s quiet out there. Yeah, TOO quiet.”

  What had happened to Paco? Had Jack strangled him? Did Polly get past the baby gates and dismember him? Did Jack get fed up and dump him outside, where he was running loose who knows where?

  I slipped into my robe and slippers and headed downstairs.

  In the kitchen I found Polly. She was asleep curled up against the baby gate into the laundry room. She raised her head as I came in, and then put her chin back on her paws. I looked over her. On the other side of the baby gate, Paco was curled into a ball, pressed up against Polly with the gate between them.

  Awww. I love my dog.

  Paco woke up then, jumped up and started shrilling. I sighed and went to the sink to start the coffee and soak some kibble. He’d at least be quiet while he ate.

  Jack came in then, looking rumpled and heavy-eyed – adorable, actually. That set off Paco, and Jack winced. I gave him a hug and a sympathetic kiss. “Hon,” he said, trying to be patient, “I’m not a dog hater, but that high-pitched business is getting on my last nerve.”

  “It is grating, isn’t it?” I agreed. “But maybe he’ll stop whining so much when he adjusts to being here. When I came down just now, Polly was over by the gate and he was being quiet.”

  “I don’t want him to adjust to being here!” Jack objected. “I want him to not be here!”

  “I’d turn him over to Rose’s next of kin or executor in a heartbeat, if I only knew who that was. But if I bother Luther about it, he’ll think I’m meddling again.”

  “I’ll talk to Luther about it,” Jack vowed. “I’ll tell him I only want to know to get the dog where he belongs. I’ll explain that my sanity is at stake.”

  I made us both an enormous breakfast to compensate for the trials of the previous night and fortify us for the trials of the day. Jack left to check on his precious wine and then track down Luther, and I tried a bold experiment.

  I let Paco out of the laundry room.

  Tough Stuff had been sitting on the floor, tail regally coiled around his feet, staring at Paco coldly. Paco celebrated his freedom by dashing up to TS, barking hysterically. I know Tough Stuff’s capabilities; he was perfectly able to levitate out of Paco’s reach without breaking a sweat. Instead he stood his ground and, as soon as Paco got within reach, smote him a mighty blow to the muzzle.

  Paco yelped in astonishment. Seems no one had briefed him about cat claws. Then he turned tail and dived back into the laundry room, with Tough Stuff right behind him.

  It was time to break this up. I followed them into the laundry room to find Paco at bay between the washer and dryer, and Tough Stuff guarding the pass. I picked up TS and dumped him out the back door, then went back and squatted in the laundry room to assess the situation. There was a scratch on Paco’s muzzle, and a few drops of blood. He started whining again.

  Polly started wh
ining in sympathy, but then lifted her head and raced to the back door. The infallible dog alarm. Now I heard it too, a vehicle engine, coming to a halt in the back yard. I looked out the window. It was Julia.

  I flung open the door and called dramatically, “Save me!”

  Julia was out of the Expedition and heading up the walk. She knew exactly what I was talking about. “Paco?”

  “Paco. He whined most of the night. Jack took a sleeping bag out to the barn.”

  We were in the kitchen now, and Julia was helping herself to the coffee pot. “Where is he?”

  I pointed to the laundry room. She went to the door and looked in. “There’s blood on his face.”

  “Tough Stuff punched him in the nose.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “I guess that sounded unsympathetic,” she admitted. “But the truth is he just doesn’t know better. He’s spoiled and doesn’t know how to behave. About time he learned.” She fished in her enormous purse and pulled out a videotape and handed it to me. “Here. This will help.”

  I looked at it. “Sirius Puppy Training? Paco’s not a puppy.”

  “No, but it will be a good guide anyway. This is the new training. Off-leash, with treat lures rather than leash corrections. You really have to be careful with leash corrections with a dog that small. And frankly, leash-popping is considered pretty old school these days for all size dogs.”

  I looked at the videotape curiously. “I’ll watch it,” I promised. “But I don’t want to train this dog, I want someone to take him!”

  “Sure,” Julia agreed. “I don’t blame you. But as long as you have him, you might as well try to make him a little easier to live with.” She gulped the rest of her coffee and stood up, making departure motions. “Hey, how are your auctions doing? I’ll be seeing Amy later, it’s our day to man the desk at the church thrift, and I know she’ll ask.”

  “They seem quite promising,” I told her. “I’ve got over a hundred dollars in bids already and this is all stuff I thought was worthless. Say, would you ask Amy if I could borrow her camera again? I got one just like it on eBuy, but it’s not here yet and I’m anxious to do some more listings.”