by Joyce Harmon
We wandered out to the back yard. I wondered what other things I could teach him. I liked watching the agility dogs on Animal Planet and wondered if I could make some sort of small jump for Paco. But then I remembered my ultimate goal was for Craig to take Paco, and even if Paco had the capacity to turn into an agility superstar, Craig sure wasn’t cut out to be an agility dog handler, not with that limp and his dislike of crowds.
I decided today would just be basic obedience, the bedrock training that all dogs need. We heeled around the yard for a while, and I had Paco sit and stay and then come a few times. Then I put him on a down-stay. I backed up to the picnic table, ten feet away, keeping my eye on him, ready to make admonishing noises if he started to squirm in an about-to-get-up way.
A car drove up the drive and around to our parking area in back – it was Grand Central here today! I snapped my fingers to get Paco’s attention and when he looked at me, I held up a finger. He held his stay! I was so proud of him!
The new arrival was Gene. He exited his car carrying a flower arrangement. “Came by to thank you for the support, Cecilia,” he said, heading toward me. “Think we’ll have those towers as soon as the Board can vote.”
Paco quivered as Gene started talking. When Gene came into Paco’s line of sight, Paco leaped up, yelping hysterically.
“Paco!” I said sharply. “Oh, and he was doing so well. Paco, come.”
But Paco was shivering all over, and with a last hysterical yip, he raced away into the vineyard, vanishing from sight.
“Paco!” I called after him. “Paco, come!”
A shivering of leaves showed Paco’s progress through the vineyard. That little dog was fast! There was no way I’d be able to catch him if he didn’t want to be caught.
I turned back to Gene. “I’ve been training him and he’d been doing great until just now.”
Gene shifted from foot to foot, and set the flower arrangement down on the picnic table. “Sorry for the interruption. Maybe he’s just not, what’s the word? – socialized. He sure made a ruckus at the burial, didn’t he?”
“Oh, that’s right. You saw that little eruption, didn’t you?” I looked worriedly toward the vineyard. “The odd thing is that he usually rushes up to people and tries to intimidate them. The only person I’ve seen him run away from was Rose’s brother Myron, and he kicked Paco accidentally once.”
“Huh,” said Gene. “Maybe me and Myron wear the same aftershave or something.”
I chuckled. “That’s probably it.”
But unbidden, I had a flashback of memory. Back to the auction and seeing Gene carrying a box for Rose, with Paco trotting peacefully between them.
“Strange that he didn’t seem scared of you at the auction,” I commented idly.
I’ve got to break myself of the habit of thinking out loud! I can’t describe what went on with Gene’s face, but it was all there. Guilt and horror and sadness and regret.
And he saw that I saw it.
“Aw, Cissy,” he said sadly. “I really like you.”
That didn’t sound good.
I was busily trying to come up with an alternate explanation to where we’d wound up here, telling myself that surely I was misinterpreting the situation. But when Gene pulled his hand out of his pocket, there was no mistaking that.
“Gene,” I said uneasily, “that’s a gun.”
He looked at it apologetically. “I do have a concealed carry permit,” he said.
Like that made everything okay.
“What is this all about?” I asked carefully.
“Do you know what she said?” Gene asked, a hint of anger in his voice. “She said I couldn’t tear down the house! Said it was protected!”
“House?”
“The Beaumont house!” Growing more agitated, he began to pace, unnervingly waving the gun for emphasis. “I want you to know something, Cissy,” he said emphatically, “I did my due diligence. Don’t let anybody tell you that Gene Abernathy would buy a property without checking county records for any restrictions. And there was nothing there!”
He scowled. “But that was back when Martha Dooley was in Records, what an incompetent that woman was. But how was I to know?”
I was confused. “This was all about the house?”
“Rose remembered the paperwork coming back from the National Registry,” Gene said. “Damn that woman, nobody else remembered! Martha obviously didn’t get the paperwork filed and the property looked free and clear.”
“Yes, but so what?” I asked. “Even if you couldn’t tear down the house, there was all that other acreage. What possible difference could it have made?”
“It made all the difference!” Gene shouted, waving his arms (and the gun) wildly.
What he was about to say next was lost, because we were interrupted. A tiny shrill tan tornado came whirling out of the vineyard and latched onto Gene’s leg.
As Gene shouted, “Shit!” and tried to shake Paco off his ankle, I jumped forward and grabbed his wrist holding the gun. Paco went flying, but swarmed right back in and bit the other ankle.
I don’t know how long Gene and I swayed back and forth, tussling for control of the gun, though it can’t have been as long as it felt like. But it was an infinite relief to see Craig limping out from the vineyard. He reached us, plucked the gun from Gene’s hand, and punched him in the jaw.
Gene fell like a sack of potatoes. Craig stood over him with the gun. “Call the sheriff,” he snapped at me coolly, “and bring something to tie this feller up with.”
Well! This was a whole new aspect of Craig. Without comment, I raced into the house.
I grabbed the phone off the wall and dialed 911. “This is Cissy Rayburn at Passatonnack Winery,” I said hurriedly to the operator. “We’ve got Rose Jackson’s murderer out in the backyard.” I deliberately didn’t name names, figuring the information that the murderer was the local tycoon and Board of Supervisors member would call my veracity and perhaps even my sanity into question.
“Ma’am…” the operator sputtered, not even sure where to start.
“I can’t talk now, I’ve got to get a rope to tie him up,” I told her. “Call Luther Dawson and tell him to get his ass down here; he knows the way.”
Then I hung up.
Rope, rope. Oh, of course. I hurried to the pantry, where a fresh new rope still wrapped in plastic was waiting for me to replace the tatty old clothesline. I grabbed it and raced back to the backyard, tearing the plastic with my teeth as I went.
Gene was still on the ground, with Craig holding the gun on him. Paco was circling around, growling menacingly. “Mister, if you hurt that dog, you’ll have more to worry about from me than from the cops,” Craig said.
“The dog?!” Gene said. “Look at me! I’m bleeding!”
“Shut up,” Craig said coldly. “Miz Rayburn is going to tie you up now, and don’t you give her any trouble, you hear?”
I picked up Paco and pitched him into the kitchen. Gene had enough bites for one day. Then I clumsily tied up Gene and we waited for the cavalry.
Craig and I sat on the picnic bench while Gene sat on the ground with his hands tied behind his back and his feet lashed together. “What’s going on, and why did this guy have a gun?” Craig asked me.
“He killed Rose Jackson,” I told him. “But I’m not sure why. He said the house was registered, but it wasn’t listed in the county records.”
“Oh,” said Craig. “That thing.”
Just then a car drove up our drive at high speed, coming to a halt in a fine spray of gravel and dust. Luther jumped out of the car, drawing his gun as he stood up. He took in the scene and slowly holstered his weapon.
“Miz Rayburn?” he said. “Hear tell you’ve got the murderer here?”
He came toward us and got a good look at the man on the ground. Gene looked less imposing with bloody ankles and dust all over his man-of-distinction suit.
“Mister ABERNATHY?” Luther’s eyes widened. He turned to
me. “Now Miz Rayburn, are you sure there’s not some misunderstanding here?”
I’d been afraid of that attitude. Gene was a big noise in Queen Anne County. He’d as good as confessed, but I was the only person who heard it. And my Holmesian deduction that a dog who hadn’t been afraid of Gene was afraid of him now; I wasn’t sure how far that would get me. If Gene denied everything, he could walk.
“He pulled a gun on me,” I said. “Threatening with a firearm. Start with that.”
“That’s a fact,” said Craig positively. I was relieved that he was backing me up, because I’m not sure he saw more than the two of us struggling over the gun.
Luther hunkered down beside Gene. “Mister Abernathy? You got an explanation for this?”
Gene glared at him. “Call Sam Wallis,” was all he said.
Sam Wallis. Attorney at law. Luther stood, eyes narrowing. “Well, okay then,” was all he said. While ‘innocent until proven guilty’ is the ideal, demanding a lawyer when asked for an explanation sort of negates the ‘simple misunderstanding’ theory.
More dust and gravel and Helen Maguire joined us. “What’s going on here?” she asked.
Luther lowered his voice, but we could still hear him. “Miz Rayburn here says that Mister Abernathy killed Rose Jackson and that he pulled a gun on her.”
“And Abernathy?”
“He’s just asking for a lawyer.”
Helen took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said briskly. “Get him down to the sheriff’s department. Oh, with regulation handcuffs if you please.”
Luther helped Gene to his feet, untied my hasty handiwork and gave me back my clothesline. He handcuffed Gene and lead him toward the car. Gene seemed to have lost that boundless energy that made him the county’s principal mover and shaker. He walked like a condemned man. At the open back door of Luther’s vehicle, he turned back to me and finally spoke. “Don’t you see?” he asked pleadingly. “It wouldn’t perk!”
TWELVE
We watched Luther drive away with Gene. Helen turned back to Craig and me. “I could haul you two in for statements,” she said thoughtfully. “But I think the sheriff’s department is going to be a madhouse in a few minutes. Can I trust you folks to stay here and be ready to make statements when I get back?”
“We’ll be right here,” I promised.
She drove off and silence descended. “I’ll be right back,” Craig said. He limped off toward the vineyard.
“Craig!” I called after him. “Where are you going?”
“Be back,” he called back and vanished among the vines.
I went into the kitchen, where I found Paco trying to tunnel through the door. That would require a paint job, at the very least. Polly was pacing and whining. I gave everyone treats, and started the coffee.
I was just pouring myself a fresh cup of coffee when there was a perfunctory knock on the door and Craig came in. He was carrying a manila envelope and grinned when Paco raced up to him yipping. Craig dropped the envelope on the table and scooped Paco up.
“Miz Rayburn, you shoulda seen him!” he said. “I was out at the fenceline and he came running up yipping at me, then making little runs back toward the house and looking back to see if I got the message. It was clear as could be that he wanted me to follow him. Damn, it was just like an old Lassie episode!” He gave Paco an exuberant smooch on the top of his head.
“He’s definitely smart,” I said, and gestured at the envelope. “What’s that?”
“Take a look,” Craig said. “I found it in that box you gave me, under the books.”
I slid out the contents of the envelope and there it was, a certificate from the National Registry of Historic Places. “This is it!” I said. “This must be what Gene was looking for at Julia’s and Amy’s houses. And we had it all along!”
Craig placed Paco on the table. “Think he’s okay?” he asked worriedly. “That kick really sent him through the air.”
“But he’s light, so he wouldn’t land hard,” I pointed out. “But let’s see.” I felt Paco all over, watching for yelps or twitches that would indicate injury. He seemed fine. And happy for the attention.
The back door opened and Jack breezed in. “Three new restaurants and two possibles!” he said on the way to the coffee pot.
Then he turned and saw us at the table. After a moment of silence, he said, “If this were a formal dinner, the dog would more correctly be on a trivet.”
I recognized the caption to an old George Booth cartoon and laughed rather hysterically.
“Dog’s a hero,” Craig said defensively.
Jack slowly lowered himself into a chair at the table. “I’m guessing I missed something.”
“Gene Abernathy killed Rose,” I told him.
“And pulled a gun on Miz Rayburn,” Craig amplified.
“But Paco bit him and Craig and I tied him up,” I finished.
Jack cleared his throat. “Do you think you could, uh, flesh out this story a bit? Why on earth would Gene kill Rose?”
We heard the crunch of gravel and through the window saw Helen return. “Time for our statements,” I told Craig. To Jack I added, “Stick around. All will be revealed.”
“He’s all lawyered up and not talking,” Helen said, with nods to the assembly and a weary smile of thanks as I handed her a cup of coffee. She took the fourth seat at the table. “Before we get into the formal statements, can I just ask – what the HELL?”
“I know!” I said sympathetically.
“And that last remark as he was leaving here, was that raving, or is it another ‘chicken necking’ thing? Does ‘it wouldn’t perk’ make any sense to anyone here?”
“Okay, now that I figured out,” I said proudly. I picked up the newspaper and opened it to the illustration of the Beaumont Farm, AKA Passatonnack Gardens. “Look here,” I said. “This is what Gene planned to build on the property he bought.”
Everyone leaned forward and studied the map. I pointed to the spot where the house was now and traced the route of the current driveway. “But what if he couldn’t tear the house down? What if this big chunk right in the center is closed off from development?” I grabbed the grocery list pen and drew the house and driveway back onto the map and drew a line around them.
“Oh!” Jack said, as enlightenment struck. “I see! It wouldn’t perk!”
“Well, I don’t see,” Helen complained. “What does that even mean?”
“We’re not on a sewer system out here in the county,” Jack told her. “We have septic systems.”
She still looked puzzled.
“When you put in a septic system,” I amplified, “there has to be a drain field. There has to be a piece of land that can handle the disposal and recycling of the – you know, the liquids. So before you can build a residence on a piece of property, it has to pass a perk test.”
“Short for ‘percolation test’,” Jack added. “Whether or not a lot will perk depends on a lot of things, elevation, soil composition; it measures the rate at which the site can absorb water.”
“And without being able to use the center of the property…” I looked at the map.
“The house is on the highest point,” Jack said. “Considering the elevation and position of the river, I’d guess that without that bit in the middle, you’d have to move the houses further down, and what you have left for a drain field is down here - these lots wouldn’t perk. Certainly not well enough to get permits for houses the size Gene was planning to build.”
“So there we are at the auction,” I said. “And I’m just guessing here, but I saw Rose talking pretty emphatically to Gene, so I’d say he was just then learning that he wasn’t going to be able to build on the land he’d spent a lot of money on.”
“Still doesn’t make sense,” Craig protested. “Isn’t he a rich guy?”
But as we learned in the days following, rich is a fluid concept. Yes, Gene made a lot of money and spent a lot of money. Huge (by Queen Anne standards) sums would go out and
come in. But sometimes income and outgo don’t sync up, and that was the situation with Gene at the time of the Beaumont auction.
Jack reported on the Latest Word from Buddy’s. Gene had just made substantial money from the strip mall out on the main road when Lacey Beaumont decided to sell up; the opportunity was too good to pass up and Gene used that strip mall money to buy the Beaumont land. But he also had outstanding loans for the construction of the mall. To pay those back, he needed to get a quick approval on Passatonnack Gardens and get new construction loans, some of which would go to pay off the old ones.
Rose Jackson’s inconvenient memory threw a monkey wrench into that delicate balance.
Luther brought me the news that Gene’s guilt wasn’t going to hinge on my testimony alone. Once they had a suspect, the evidence was there, just waiting to be collected. The trunk of Gene’s car yielded blood stains and several hair strands that proved to belong to Rose, from when he’d carried off the sad iron to toss in the river. State forensic accountants were taking the money motive apart and putting it back together until it ran like a fine Swiss watch.
We were having a kitchen table conference. Julia was there; she’d seen Luther’s car pass her house on his way here, and immediately set out in pursuit.
“Going to that auction was my idea,” she pointed out when she unapologetically horned in on us. “And it was my house that got broken into, so if anyone has a right to know what it was all about, I do.”
She poured herself a cup of coffee, and took a seat defiantly. I wasn’t going to argue with her.
“What I don’t understand,” I complained to Luther, “is how nobody knew the house was registered. Nobody!”
“Well, nobody but Rose,” he reminded me. “And it was listed in the National Registry. It just didn’t get into the county records. Martha Dooley in Records was before my time, but all the old-timers are telling me what a scatterbrain that woman was. And nobody here followed up on the registry because honestly, nobody cared.”
“What about Lacey?” Julia asked.
Luther shook his head. “Did you see the date on that Registry notice?” he asked. “1978. The application was submitted by Grandpa Paul. He was the one who was interested in the house’s history, called it a unique example of ante-bellum farm architecture, something like that. Grandma says she just sorta humored him but didn’t pay much mind to it. She remembers him filling out those forms and all. But the registry showed up six months after Grandpa died. I asked her the other day if she remembers receiving the notice, and she says she sorta vaguely remembered it. Says she thought ‘huh’, and put it on the bookshelf.”