The J D Bragg Mystery Series Box Set

by Ron Fisher

  I parked and went inside, where a woman behind a cluttered desk listened politely as I explained who I was and what I wanted. I told her I needed the odometer reading off the Caddy so I could put the car up for sale. That was basically true. I did want to sell the old car, but I left out the part where I needed the odometer reading and Grady Morton’s oil change sticker to find out how many miles Grandfather drove after leaving the garage.

  She said she’d have to go get someone to answer that. She then—as most others had— proceeded to tell me what a great man grandfather was, how sorry she was at his tragic death, and how much everyone would miss him. All these platitudes were starting to wear a little thin. Or maybe I was just anti-platitude because they were directed at Grandfather.

  The woman went down a hall and returned a few minutes later with a plain-clothes detective in tow. He was introduced as Lieutenant Dave Forest of the Criminal Investigations Department. He said he was one of the detectives working Grandfather’s case. I gave him the same story about wanting to sell the car that I’d given to the woman.

  “Bad memories,” I added.

  The detective seemed to understand that.

  “I’ve got the odometer reading in the paperwork,” he said, and asked me to wait while he went to get it.

  “Lieutenant Forest,” I called out, stopping him. “I’d also like to take a look at the tires and general condition of the car. Would it be too much trouble to let me see it? I noticed it in the lot outside. I can copy down the odometer reading from there.”

  I got the feeling that I was pushing the limit of his professional courtesy a bit, but he was trying hard not to show it.

  “I guess that’ll be all right,” he finally said, and went to find the keys.

  As we walked to the impound lot I asked, “How did you get the car here? Did you tow it, or did someone drive it in?”

  He gave me a sharp look, as if insulted by the question.

  “Driving it in would be against procedure. We towed it.”

  “What did you use, a regular wrecker or a flatbed?”

  “Flatbed,” he said. “We would never use a tail-dragger to haul in a crime scene vehicle. That could impact the evidence.”

  He stopped walking and looked me in the eye.

  “Mr. Bragg, if there happens to be some physical damage to the vehicle—which seems to be what you’re getting at—it was done prior to our taking custody. Only the crime scene unit and forensics have touched the car, and it hasn’t moved from the spot where it presently sits.”

  His words were said with a clipped tone that suggested I’d now strained his professional courtesy efforts to the limit.

  “You’ve misunderstood me, Lieutenant Forest,” I said. “I’m sorry if I came across that way. I was just curious about how things are done.”

  I’m sure he didn’t believe me, but that was okay. He’d answered my real question: did the Caddy’s odometer accumulate mileage on the way in from the turnout? It didn’t.

  We went inside the fence and he unlocked the car for me, standing back while I gave it the once over, inside and out. With the exception of the dark smudges around the windows and doors, which I guessed was fingerprint dust, the old Caddy proved to be as dent-free and perfect as always—right down to the tires that looked almost new. I went through the charade of taking a few notes—for the ad copy, of course—while getting what I really came for: the odometer reading from the speedometer, and the one from Grady Morton’s oil-change sticker. I thanked Lieutenant Forest for his help, and could tell he was happy to see me go.

  Back in the Jeep, I looked at the odometer readings from the Caddy and did a bit of quick math. Ignoring the 3000 miles Grady Morton added to the oil change decal as a reminder of when the next service was due, Grandfather drove a total of 30.4 miles after he left the garage. Okay, so I knew how far he drove after he left Morton’s. The trick now was to use it to find out where he drove. I headed for Watson Realty to see if I could learn anything there.

  As I left, I noticed another white pickup truck behind me. From the distinctive crossbar grill, I recognized it as a Dodge Ram, the same make and model as the one that ran the red light earlier. It followed me all the way into Pickens. Maybe it was the same guy, and he was going back to run some more stoplights.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Watson Realty was precisely where Betty Roper said it was. I found a short man with a large stomach and a jowly red face standing on the sidewalk, locking up the small storefront office. He had a wrinkled brown paper bag and a thermos tucked under an arm.

  “Mr. Watson?” I called out, taking a chance that I had the right man.

  “Yes,” he said, turning to look at me. A brief look of irritation was quickly replaced by the wide plastered smile of the perpetual salesman.

  “I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time,” I said.

  He looked at the keys in his hands, then back at me. “No, not at all. How can I help you?”

  “I’d like some information if you can spare a moment.”

  “What kind of information?” he asked, and turned to wave enthusiastically to a passing motorist who looked right at him, but didn’t return the greeting.

  “I’m John David Bragg. I think you knew my grandfather, Garnet Bragg?”

  He assumed a perfect tragic face. “Of course I knew him. A fine man and a great loss to the community.”

  He offered his sympathies, and I thanked him.

  “You know, I saw him on the very day it happened,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “We were looking at some deed books at the land office together.”

  He stood staring at the pavement as if contemplating his own mortality and then shifted his tragic expression into one of concern. Watson seemed to be a man of many faces, but no better actor than I was.

  “Now what is it that I can do for you, Mr. Bragg?”

  “I’m trying to settle my grandfather’s estate, and I need some idea of what his property’s worth.”

  “I see. Are you talking about Still Hollow?”

  “Yes I am.”

  Watson beamed with delight—yet another expression displayed.

  “Beautiful place, and I know it well. Been in your family for generations, hasn’t it?”

  “Since the late seventeen hundreds.”

  “My goodness. Where is your home, Mr. Bragg?”

  “Atlanta.”

  “Atlanta. That’s a far piece, as my grandma used to say. I don’t get down there much. Too much traffic. Scares me to death just to drive through on the interstate.”

  He was buying time with small talk but I could see him thinking the situation through, his face failing to conceal the eagerness in his voice. Wheels were turning in his head, figuring what the six percent commission would be on a property like Still Hollow.

  “You’re considering selling it?” he asked.

  It was what he wanted to hear, so I said, “Thinking about it. If I can turn it over quickly.”

  “Mr. Bragg, you have come to the right place—and exactly at the right time.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  He gave me a conspiratorial look.

  “A man named Roy Habersham recently sold over 500 acres not all that far from your granddaddy’s place. And Cecil Hood’s place was sold, and it had been in the Hood family about as long as Still Hollow’s been in yours. Son, where you find a couple of quail, there’s likely to be a covey. There’s some serious movement going on up there.”

  The Hood name seemed to be coming up a lot today.

  “Did you say anything to my grandfather about the sale of these properties when you saw him?” I asked.

  Watson stared at me as if I’d missed the point entirely.

  “I may have mentioned it,” he finally said.

  “What did he have to say about it?”

  “Nothing really. I think he was late for a meeting or something. He sort of left in a hurry.”

  I’ll bet he did. That news would have lit his
tail on fire.

  “When they damned up the Keowee River and built the lakes it changed everything son,” Watson said. “It ain’t been all that many years ago you could buy land for six hundred dollars an acre up there. Now they’re getting six-hundred thousand—if it’s on the water.”

  “But Still Hollow isn’t anywhere near the water,” I said.

  “Hell, that don’t matter. It’s close enough. That whole area is taking off, and the sale of the Habersham property proves it.”

  He stood beaming at me as if he’d just explained everything in crystal clear terms.

  I could only give him a blank look.

  “I don’t follow you, Mr. Watson.”

  “That whole parcel is on the side of a mountain; don’t you see?” He held up a hand, and ticked off his points, finger by finger. “You can’t farm it. You can’t build factories on it. Hell, it’s so steep you can barely climb it. The only thing it’s good for is to be on it, looking off, so you can enjoy the view. It’s a pretty picture from there. It overlooks Eastatoe Valley. So it’s got to be for some kind of fancy housing development, and a sizable one, based on the acreage.”

  Watson took out his keys and began unlocking the door of his office.

  “Why don’t we go inside and get the paperwork started,” he said. “You don’t want to miss out on this one. Timing is everything in the real estate business.”

  “I thought it was location,” I said.

  If he detected any sarcasm, he didn’t show it. He continued to work at the lock and talk over his shoulder.

  “Some of them fellers up on Wall Street or wherever, keep saying real estate is still in the tank, but that just ain’t true. Especially with what’s going on around here right now. If you snooze you lose, Mr. Bragg. You’ve heard that haven’t you?”

  “Once or twice, Mr. Watson,” I said, “but before I sign any papers, I need to discuss this with my sister.”

  That stopped him. “Your sister?” he said, unable to hide his disappointment, probably the first genuine expression he’d shown during our conversation. “Is the property in her name?” he asked, his voice going up an octave.

  “No, it’s in mine, but I don’t want to do this behind her back. I’ll talk to her about it tonight.”

  That news seemed to mollify him a bit, and he appeared to resign himself to the fact that I was determined to do it my way.

  “Then I’ll hear from you?” he asked, thrusting out one pudgy hand to seal the bargain while offering a business card with the other.

  “You have my word,” I said, taking his hand and his card. “By the way, who’s been buying this land?” I asked.

  Watson removed his hand from my grip and gave me a sly look. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mr. Bragg, but if I tell you that, you may decide you don’t need me.”

  “I think you can trust me not to do that, Mr. Watson.”

  He looked uncomfortable and tried to smile. “It’s not a matter of trust, Mr. Bragg, it’s just the way things are done. I assure you I mean no disrespect.”

  “Then I’ll find out myself,” I said. “And because I’ll have to go to that trouble, I’ll probably want to work through someone else.”

  He was shaking his head, even before I finished.

  “Now, Mr. Bragg, you don’t want to do that. Besides, if you’re talking about just walking into the land office and looking up the records, that’s not going to work. Nothing’s been posted yet, and if things go as usual, it could be a while before that happens. Also, the property never was listed, so there’s no record of it there either. The buyers evidently approached them directly and made an offer.”

  “I don’t need the records,” I said.

  Watson cocked his head and gave me a puzzled look. “Then how do you plan to find out?”

  “I know Roy Habersham,” I lied. “I’ll go ask him.”

  Watson stared at me for a moment, then laughed.

  “I guess you’ve got me there. Me and my big mouth. It always has cost me money. But I can guarantee you that you won’t get the price I can, even with my commission. Plus, I do all the work, arrange everything, handle the closing and so on.”

  Watson looked at me with pleading eyes.

  “I have no desire to sell the property on my own,” I assured him.

  That was the truth, since I had no desire to sell it at all . . . ever. But he didn’t have to know that.

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “There is none, if you give me the name of the buyer.”

  Watson sighed. “I can’t.”

  “Then we do have a problem.”

  He gave me an embarrassed look. “I don’t mean I won’t, I mean I can’t. My grapevine says it’s a company called Red Hills Developments, and they’ve bought most of Eastatoe Valley, but so far I can’t find out anything about them. No published transaction history, no website, and nothing comes up when you Google them. But I’m just getting started. I’ll find them, don’t you worry. If we advertise a little, and they’re interested, they’ll come to us.”

  “Habersham wouldn’t tell you who bought his land?”

  Watson looked even more hangdog.

  “Roy Habersham and me don’t talk,” he finally said. “Has to do with an automobile I sold him a few years ago when I was in that business.”

  “So where are you getting your information?”

  Watson tried another unsuccessful smile. “That’s confidential, Mr. Bragg.”

  “I thought we’d already been through that.”

  He wouldn’t look at me when he spoke.

  “A certain lady friend of mine who works in a beauty parlor told me about the Habersham sale. Habersham’s wife gets her hair done there. She said they’d sold their land and were moving to Florida. I heard about Hood’s property from a guy who bought Hood’s livestock after he died. But he didn’t know who bought the farm, only that it was sold.”

  “Who sold him the livestock?”

  “Mr. Hood’s son. I guess everything went to him. But I haven’t been too successful there either. He ain’t exactly a talkative man. He won’t return my calls.”

  “You told all this to my grandfather?”

  Watson gave me a forlorn look. “Yes, I guess I did,” he said.

  He reminded me of an old fox prowling around an impenetrable henhouse. He could smell the chickens inside but couldn’t find a way in. Something told me it was a life-long predicament.

  Watson’s news would have kicked Grandfather into an emotional high gear, and I knew he wouldn’t have taken it quietly. The prospect of someone coming into Eastatoe Valley and paving over even more of God’s original creation would send him charging into the field with a newfound ecological zeal. But how did any of this help him locate my missing woman? And why did it pique his interest in Carl Hood?

  I called Eloise from the car, as I sat outside Watson’s real estate office.

  “Do you know a man named Roy Habersham?” I asked, when I got her on the line.

  “Ronald and Randy Habersham,” Eloise said.

  “No, Eloise, I said Roy Habersham.”

  “Roy is Ronald and Randy’s daddy, John David. You went to grade school with them.”

  The Habersham twins. Of course. Real hill people. I remembered them bringing a rifle to school in sixth grade to shoot squirrels at recess. This was way before Columbine, but they still scared the hell out of the teacher and class alike.

  “They’re both married with gangs of children now,” Eloise said. “I see Ronald all the time at the Pickens Flea Market when I go looking for things for my crafts. He’s out there almost every day. He sells old junk and calls it antiques. What’s the big interest in Roy Habersham?”

  “Someone mentioned his name and I thought he sounded familiar.”

  The Pickens Flea Market was where I remembered it, out the Walhalla highway just past the bridge over the Twelve Mile River, a narrow stream the color of coffee with too much cream.

  Rows
of long, low, buildings open on all sides like picnic shelters sprawled across the entire length of the river bottom, but only one of them seemed to house any vendors. A large sign by the roadside explained why. The main trading day was Wednesday, which was yesterday; this probably meant that the odds of finding Ronald Habersham today were slim.

  As I slowed to pull in, I noticed a white pickup truck approaching from behind. It was a Dodge Ram, just like the one I’d already seen twice today. I stopped inside the gate and waited until it went by. The driver was a man in a billed cap, just as before, but he turned his head away as he drove past. I sat and watched the truck until it disappeared around a bend in the road. The Cherokees who once lived in this area believed that all things are interconnected, and were skeptical of coincidence. I’m no Cherokee, but I tend to share some of their beliefs, especially the thing about coincidence. The guy was tailing me. But I had no idea who he was, or how we were connected.

  I joined the fifteen or twenty vehicles huddled in a corner of the unpaved lot, which was large enough to hold a thousand, and parked between a battered old pickup and a gleaming new Mercedes. There was another Mercedes and a couple of BMW’s in the lot, looking haughtily out of place among aging SUVs and pickups with their obligatory gun-racks. It was easy to distinguish the buyers from the sellers. The pickups and old SUVs came with loads of inexpensive junk, hoping the Mercedes and BMWs would take it home as expensive junk. However, everyone would probably go home happy with the price paid; I guess that was the point of a flea market.

  A couple dozen people milled about, the building divided into stalls to give each vendor a space for their wares; while it might not have been the main sale-day, there was still enough merchandise on display to warm the cockles of any bargain-hunter’s heart. Goods were hanging from racks, on hooks from the ceiling, stacked high atop and under tables, and in some places spilling out onto the ground in front of the stalls. There was furniture, tools, antiques, old clothes, paintings, glassware, doodads, knick-knacks, and almost any other object made by man, old or new. The place looked like a small village reduced to ruin by an earthquake.