Moving Is Murder (26 page)

No help there. Idly, I flicked the page over, then frowned. Cass had jotted down two phone numbers and a string of letters and numbers on the back of Gwen’s entry. I picked up the phone and dialed the first number, a local one.

“Assessor’s office. This is Ginger.” “Hi, Ginger. I’ve got a number here—I think an account number.” I read it to her.

“Oh, that’s a parcel number.” I could hear her clicking away on a keyboard. “Here you go. Taxes are current.” She rattled off an address and I wrote it down in the spiral notebook. “Where’s that?”

“The billing address and the parcel number sound like it’s out in the valley. You know, east of Black Rock Hill.”

“Thanks.” This was Isabelle’s land.

I dialed the next number.

“Trinity County auditor.”

“Hi. I’ve got a parcel number here. Could you tell me—” What did I want to know? Who owned it? Where it was? What would Cass want to know?

The doorbell rang. “I’ll have to call you back.”

I opened the door for two guys in jeans and T-shirts. They loaded Cass’s belongings into the Goodwill truck while I paced around the porch. Auditor. I’d seen that recently, but where? One of the guys wrote me a receipt and I placed it on the snack bar next to Joe’s stack of mail.

The mail! That’s where I’d seen it. I shifted through the piles and found an envelope with Trinity County Auditor, Recording Department. I slit the envelope and pulled out several papers, a deed. Lots of legalese, but it boiled down to a Mrs. Norwood selling her property to Tecmarc Corporation. I checked the parcel number and it matched. So Isabelle’s father sold to Mrs. Norwood, the neighbor down the road. And Mrs. Norwood sold to Tecmarc. What is Tecmarc? I searched the paperwork. Tecmarc was represented by—Friona Herrerras?

Friona? Friona seemed like the least likely person I knew to be involved in buying land. Buying a new wardrobe, yes, but land? I couldn’t see her caring about land. And she’d been broke. What was Tecmarc?

Livvy wiggled, sighed, and opened her eyes. I found Cass’s phone book, but there wasn’t a listing for Tecmarc. Where could I find out information about Tecmarc? Would Friona’s husband, Keith, be able to tell me anything? I didn’t feel too confident that he’d be a great source of information, considering how much
Friona hid from him. Friona had told me she didn’t have any close friends in Vernon, either.

I looked back over the paperwork again and read a yellow sticky note attached to the first page. “Mrs. Vincent, I’m still researching the other easement. Do you want me to continue? If so, another search fee is required.” It was signed with the name Debbie and a phone number.

Livvy nuzzled around the fabric of the front carrier, gave out a halfhearted cry, then gnawed on her thumb. Okay, time to head home for a diaper change and a feeding. A little later, I was settled in Livvy’s room feeding her. I checked Mitch’s recall roster and dialed Keith’s phone number.

An answering machine clicked on after a few rings and gave the standard, “We can’t come to the phone” spiel. I didn’t leave a message. I dialed the squadron next.

“Orderly room. Airman Jones.”

“Hi, Tessa. It’s Ellie.”

“Hey, girl. How are you?”

“I’m all right and Livvy’s doing great.”

“What’s up? I haven’t seen Mitch lately.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m actually looking for Keith Herrerras. Is he in today?”

“No, he’s gone back to New York to bury his wife.”

I knew Tessa would have the latest info. “Then that’s a dead end,” I muttered to myself.

But Tessa picked up on my words. “What’s a dead end?”

“You know I’m sorting through Cass’s things, right? I’ve got some papers. Business paperwork with Friona’s signature, like she worked for a company, but I can’t see
her involved in corporate business deals. I mean, she told me she didn’t have any office skills. She couldn’t even type.”

“Hold on,” Tessa said to me. Then, to someone else she said, “Thanks. See you tomorrow. Okay, I’m back. Yeah, I think she would’ve had a hard time squeezing in an office job between her mall runs. That girl. I couldn’t believe how many shoes she had. Our own little Imelda. And she wanted the jewelry to go with her fancy clothes, too. One day she was in here talking to Keith. She wasn’t paying attention and forgot I was here. She described this pair of diamond earrings she wanted. I’d about tuned her out, but then she said, ‘I will be able to afford them. After this deal, I’ll be able to pay for them in cash.’ I couldn’t hear what Keith said, but she got defensive. She said something like, ‘Give it a rest. You could at least be glad for me.’ She looked really surprised when she saw me sitting right here at my desk, not two feet from her. Oops, gotta go.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

I finished feeding Livvy, then put her on her play mat with her noisiest, brightest toys. I shook a black and white ball dotted with red. She kicked her feet out and squeaked, delighted.

I grabbed the phone and the public records I’d brought back from the Vincents'. I figured Joe wanted me to hand these off to Isabelle Coombes so I might as well bring them home with me.

I dialed the number on the sticky note. “This-is-Debbie-how-may-I-help-you.” She ran the words together in a flat, no-nonsense tone.

This was a woman who didn’t have time for a rambling explanation. I tried to be succinct. “I’m following
up on some paperwork for a friend, Cass Vincent. I’ve got a deed. Your note says you need another search fee to keep looking for the rest of the documents?”

“Give me the number on the top right-hand corner.” I read it to her. After a few moments of silence, her voice exploded, “Right. Norwood. Easements. I remember your friend.” A note of exasperation crept into her voice. “She was on her cell phone the whole time she was in here, carrying on a conversation with me and someone else at the same time.”

“Was there more research she wanted?”

“She said there was another easement from way back. I didn’t find it.” Her voice said she doubted it was there. “But I did run across a recent easement, filed, let me see, this year. I pulled it because I figured your friend would want to see it. Basically, it amounted to a company, Tecmarc, granting Forever Wild, that sounds like a nonprofit, the right to maintain and preserve open space. Restricted development of part of the property allowed.”

“Well, if there’s another easement, wouldn’t it be filed with that one or the deed?”

A sigh. “Not necessarily. Sometimes they’re filed separately. They’re a pain to find, let me tell you.”

“I’ll pay another search fee.” Debbie gave me directions for paying the fee, then I asked, “Where can I find out more about Tecmarc and Forever Wild?”

“Let’s see. They’d have to file a business license—that’d be with us. And you could check with the secretary of state. I know they’ve got business records there, too. Articles of incorporation and all that. They’ve got a good Web site.”

I added business licenses to Debbie’s search and then checked on Livvy. She was fascinated with the crinkly sound a toy elephant’s ears made as she crushed
them. I turned on the computer, waited for the right screen, and typed in the address for the secretary of state.

They had an online database. Sometimes I loved technology, especially when it didn’t make me wait. I found Tecmarc with Friona listed as registered agent and the same address as Mrs. Norwood’s property listed as the business address. I typed in Forever Wild. I came up with the Norwood address again. Popular place. Automatically, I scrolled down and opened my eyes wide. I leaned closer to the screen, but the words didn’t change. “Registered agent: Jeff Dovonowski.”

Why hadn’t I asked whose signatures were on that easement Debbie had found?

I sat back, stunned. The other registered agent in this strange mix of companies and legal paperwork was dead. This
wasn’t
good.

I chewed my lip. Could I ask Abby about this? No, better not to. If she knew about Jeff being involved in a land easement, she would’ve told me. At least, I think she would have. No way was I going to bring this up until I knew more.

I glanced at the play mat and jumped up. It was empty. Where was Livvy?

I scurried around the end of the bed. She’d scooted around until her head was tucked under the dust ruffle. I picked her up. “You’re quite the tricky one, aren’t you.” She squealed and grinned her toothless grin. I kissed her cheek. “Come on, let’s go for a drive. Mommy’s got to get food for tonight. And I want to see that land.”

I turned onto the steep switchback road and reached out to brace the grocery bag of tortillas, cream cheese,
green onions, and pimentos on the passenger seat, but I removed my hand after a few seconds. Despite the steepness, the smooth road between the pines was easy to navigate.

At the bottom of the hill the road swept through an ornate gate of black wrought iron set in red brick. A modest home was under construction inside the gate. Maybe Wilde Creek Estates wasn’t totally out of our price range. Then I saw the sign with a map of the lots plotted around the future golf course. I glanced back at the building under construction. It was the gatehouse, not a future residence. If that was the gatehouse, then the homes here would look like the country homes of British royalty.

Livvy made some tentative squawks, so I pulled a toy out of the diaper bag. Mitch and I called it “Thing One” because it looked like something out of a Dr. Seuss book. Livvy grasped the contraption of circles, sliding balls, and clear rattles filled with tiny, noisy pellets that drained from one chamber to another. Livvy shook it. I couldn’t see her face, but from her contented mumblings I assumed she liked it.

I coasted down the empty street. The fresh blacktop branched off at intervals, then ended abruptly at patches of dirt and gravel. Along the road, thick tubes sprouted occasionally from the ground like some alien plant life. I could see four mansions under construction with men balancing on roofs or working inside the partly framed walls. The main street ended at a fringe of trees.

Livvy jabbered as the rattles swirled. She seemed happy enough, so I left her in the Cherokee. I locked the doors and walked a few steps to the edge of the
trees. A crow called sharply and took flight in a flurry of wings.

Isabelle’s father had been right: it was a beautiful valley. Below me a meadow gently rippled down to a thin ribbon of silver that twisted lazily through the valley floor. I thought for a moment I could hear the river, but then I realized it was the wind sweeping through the pines. A movement in the valley on my right caught my eye. A yellow excavator gnawed at the earth and then dumped its claw into a dump truck.

A shiny red pickup rumbled down the road and stopped next to the Cherokee. “That’s the ninth tee box. Quite a view,” said the man who climbed out of the pickup and slammed the door. He had on a crisp long-sleeved white oxford, khaki pants, and a tie. The office casual look ended at his ankles. Muddy hiking boots provided a realistic counterpoint to the rest of his slick image. I moved back to the Cherokee, unlocked the door.

“Sorry to startle you there. You looking for a lot? This road’ll be residential.” He smoothed his shiny yellow tie and nodded down the hill where the machinery labored. His black hair was as dark as the feathers of the crow that just flew away. “All these lots will be directly on the course. Can’t get much better than that. Walk right off your porch onto the course. Close to the clubhouse, too.” He squinted his eyes in the sunlight as he circled around to study the view. “Wilde Creek will be the premier area in Vernon. You should get in now. Value here is only going to go up.”

“I’m just looking today.” I bet this guy could tell me a few things about Wilde Creek, but I’d probably get more out of him if he thought I was a potential customer.
“It is nice out here right now, but with a whole development going in, I don’t know, I don’t want to be packed in next to my neighbors,” I said, trying to do my best snotty, rich girl impression. I thought of the junior high clique that I hadn’t been part of. Barri Carslow was the eye in the center of the popularity ring. Others moved in and out, but Barri, with her disdain and supreme self-confidence, remained firmly at the epicenter of the “in” group.

He crossed his arms, planted his feet, and shook his head. “No. Not here. This is an exclusive development. High end. Lots’ll be at least two acres. The golf course and tracks around Wilde Creek are preserved as open space with a conservation easement. It’ll be wide open out here with a country feel to it. But you’ll have the best golf course in the county in your backyard, and shopping and downtown only minutes away.”

Barri could look down her pert nose and dismiss you with a sharp comment. I tried to imitate her. “Easement. Whatever. Anything can be changed. There’s no guarantee about what will go in all around. At least if we buy on Black Rock Hill I know what will be a few blocks away—the houses that are already there.”

“We’re lucky to be under a conservation easement here. It allows only restricted development.”

I raised my eyebrows skeptically, I hoped.

He swept his starched oxford cloth arm around. “All this land, the whole valley, is covered under the easement. It’s a legally binding document. Property’s got a bunch of rights, like water rights, logging rights. Well, the owners of Wilde Creek signed an easement with Forever Wild to conserve the open space and natural beauty of this valley. No way another development or strip mall is going in here.” Somehow I didn’t think nature
and environmental groups had a golf course in mind when someone said, “open space.” He continued, “Good little tax break for the owners, too.” He winked.

“And you are?”

“Cody Jenkins. Jenkins Custom Homes.” So he was a builder. He whipped out a card from a silver case. I must be a better actress than I thought because the poor guy thought he was close to making a sale.

I took the card. “The lots are how much?”

“Eighty-five thousand and up. But most of the prime lots are sold. I own about a third of them, some on the course, some with a wildlife view.”

I pointed to a real estate sign posted across the street. “Diana McCarter. She own some, too?”