Read PW02 - Bidding on Death for Free Online Page B

suggested. “What do you two have in common?”
    They pondered the question for a moment. “We both go to the Episcopal Church,” Julia offered.
    “We’re friends,” suggested Amy. “Maybe we both pi- … ticked off the same person.”
    Julia leaned over and patted her hand. “Hon, I know I’m not young,” she said. “But when younger people censor their language around me, it makes me feel a thousand years old.”
    Amy grinned. “Sorry.” After a pause she added, “We’re both in the Tuesday night book club.”
    Book clubs didn’t sound like a promising motive to me. Then I suggested, “You both went to the estate auction last weekend.”
    Julia and Amy exchanged looks. “So did you,” Julia reminded me. “So did a lot of people.”
    But I felt this was a fruitful line of thought. “Yeah, but you two bought a lot. I wonder… maybe there was something in all those boxes that turned out to be valuable.”
    “Well, sure,” Amy said. “The Ruba Rombic is valuable and it wasn’t touched.”
    “Maybe something else?” I hazarded.
    “Anyway,” Julia added, “the person with the real haul from that auction was Rose. If that was the motive for the break - ins, why wasn’t she hit?”
    “Hmm. Are we sure she wasn’t?” I asked.
    “Well, we’re sure she didn’t report it to the Sheriff’s Department if she was,” said Julia practically. “Otherwise it would be all over the county.”
    I drummed my fingers on the table. “That’s if she reported it.”
    “Why wouldn’t she report it?” Amy wanted to know.
    “I don’t know,” I admitted. “But hey, why don’t we ask her? If she didn’t have a break-in, then the auction probably wasn’t the motive.”
    Both Julia and Amy just looked at me. Undaunted, I pulled out the phone book, which in Queen Anne County is more of a pamphlet than the doorstop of urban environs. I found an R. Jackson listed, with an address on Washington Ave. I pulled the phone down from the wall.
    “Really, Cissy?” Julia asked. “What are you going to say?”
    “I’ m just going to ask if she’s had a break-in.”
    They were both still staring at me as if I’d flapped my arms and started flying around the room.
    “Look,” I said in exasperation. “I know she’s rude and hard to deal with, but what can she do to me over the phone? And it’s not like if she got angry she could retaliate with some government power of hers; she has none anymore.”
    Resolutely, I dia led the number. Anticlimactic al ly, a machine answered. “You’ve reached the Jackson residence,” the voice said. “I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave a name and number…” and so on.
    I’ve given in to having an answering machine, but I still hate talking to other people’s. I cleared my throat and, feeling foolish, said, “Rose? This is Cissy Rayburn? From the Passatonnack Winery?” I was making every sentence sound like a question. I tried to speak more confidently, difficult with my skeptical audience. “I don’t know if you recall, but we met at the auction a few days ago. The reason I’m calling is because several of my friends who were at the auction had their houses broken into. I was wondering if you’d experienced a break-in as well.”
    I couldn’t think of a reason why she should confide in me, and lamely finished the message by leaving my phone number.
    Then I hung up. Julia said, “Feel better?”
    I shrugged. “It was a thought. Which is more than Luther Dawson can say right now.”
    And that’s where we left it.
    That evening, I showed Jack my on-line auctions. Everything had bids. One of the tablecloths was over $25 and the bedspread was at $17.
    Jack was flabbergasted. “That’s the torn bedspread, right?”
    “Yep,” I said proudly. “They call them cutters. Crafters want them for the vintage fabric and designs.”
    “Well, I’ll be dipped…” Jack didn’t finish the thought.
    I told him about the Barbies and the horses and the