Mark Schweizer - Liturgical 12 - The Cantor Wore Crinolines (2 page)

Chapter 2

The courthouse was right in the middle of the block on the east side of the downtown square next to the police station. The steps in front ran from the large double doors down to the sidewalk and had been cordoned off. The people were gathered on the sidewalk, in the street, and the crowd overflowed into Sterling Park. Sterling Park, this time of year, was pretty bleak. The hardwoods that shaded the three acre park were bare. The holiday decorations were gone except for a dead Christmas wreath and a couple of strings of burnt out lights dangling from the top of the gazebo. On top of that, the gazebo hadn’t been painted for a couple of years and was sorely in need of a fresh coat. The grass was mostly sparse and brown. Even the snow had turned to gray slush. The hundred or so people treading what was left of the grass waiting for the auction to begin were quickly turning the lawn into a quagmire of muck. No one seemed worried about it. By spring, it’d be beautiful again.

Cynthia was up at the top of the steps talking to Matthew Aaron, the city attorney. She had a clipboard and was busily writing. The town clerk, Monica Jones, was sitting at a small table off to the side completing some paper work. Nancy was standing beside her, arms folded, a no nonsense look on her face. Kathleen Carson was making her way through the crowd handing out flyers containing all the pertinent real estate facts. I looked at my copy.

Three houses were listed, along with some basic information that anyone could find by doing an on-line search — address, square footage, zoning, encumbrances, previous purchase price, tax value — accompanied by a grainy black and white photocopy of the front of the house. I scanned the list quickly. No liens or mortgages on any of the houses. That was a surprise.

At ten o’clock sharp, Cynthia walked up to the microphone.

“Okay,” she said. “Quiet please.”

The crowd settled down and waited expectantly.

Cynthia flipped through some papers on her clipboard, then settled on one and read it aloud.

“In accordance with the town charter, this auction is held by the township of St. Germaine to recover unpaid assessments. The town is foreclosing on the back taxes that are owed. No preregistration for this auction is required, however, if you wish to bid on any property and you haven’t already registered with the clerk, you need to do so at this time. If you are from out of town, you will need to leave a certified check with the clerk in the amount of one thousand dollars. This will be returned to you in the case of an unsuccessful bid. If you’re from here, we know who you are and where you live.”

Laughter from the crowd, and five people made their way up to the table and stood in line while Monica took their information.

“Here are the terms of sale,” continued Cynthia. “Now pay attention, cause I’m not going to repeat myself. If you bid on one of these here houses, and you win, you are legally responsible for the bid. The town requires a ten percent down payment today and that payment has to be cash or certified check.”

“We’ve heard all this before,” yelled a voice. “We know how it works.”

“It’s freezing out here!” called another. “Get started already!”

“Just to be clear,” said Cynthia, “so I don’t have to throw anyone in jail. If you bid fifty thousand dollars for the house and you win, you give us a certified check for five thousand dollars or five thousand in cash right after the auction. This morning. By noon. The balance is due in thirty days. You don’t pay the balance in thirty days, we keep your deposit and go again.”

“What if I ain’t got five thousand dollars cash?” yelled Skeeter Donalson. “Is this auction just for you rich folks?”

“Yes, Skeeter,” said Cynthia. “This auction is just for us rich folks, so you go on home now.”

More laughs from the crowd. Skeeter folded his arms and made a face.

“As you know,” continued Cynthia, now off script, “the company that owned these houses is bankrupt in North Carolina and the properties are being sold ‘as is.’ The city is going to make an opening bid for the amount owed in taxes, so don’t go getting all mad and think we’re driving the price up. We’re not.”

“Let’s get to it,” came the same voice as before. Not Skeeter. Skeeter was sulking. “
We’re freezing!
”

“Finally, St. Germaine Federal Bank is open this morning,” said Cynthia, “just in case any of y’all need to make a trip over there and get a certified check. Stacey Lindsey will be there until noon.”

“How come we can’t go into the houses?” called Helen Pigeon. “We don’t know what shape they’re in.”

“We don’t own the houses,” said Cynthia, “so we can’t let you in. The owners can’t be located, they’re probably in Brazil or somewhere. As soon as you buy it, or if no one wants it and the city buys it, we’ll cut the locks off.”

General mumbling across the crowd, but most everyone was nodding.

“We already got a peek inside,” Annette whispered to me confidentially. “Last week. Francis is looking to get another rental property.”

Francis Passaglio was an orthodontist in Boone. He and his wife, Annette, were lifelong members of St. Barnabas Episcopal Church. Annette was from old St. Germaine money but had always worked mornings in Francis’ office as manager and bookkeeper. Now that the kids were grown and gone, she also kept busy as a local reporter for the St. Germaine
Tattler
. Francis was a good-looking fifty-year-old, fit and trim with salt and pepper hair and a smile that would make George Clooney blush. He was purported to have quite an eye for the ladies, although most of that was probably just grist for the St. Germaine rumor mill. One thing about Francis Passaglio — he was used to getting his way. This I knew from experience. He could be quite unpleasant.

Cynthia quieted the crowd again. “Then let’s get going. The first house is on Oak Street. Lot number 317.”

“Ten dollars!” yelled Skeeter.

Cynthia put her hand over her eyes and shook her head.

“The town bids twelve thousand, three hundred fifty-six dollars,” said Monica from her clerk’s table. “That’s the outstanding tax bill.”

“
What?!
” yelled Skeeter, outrage in his voice. “Are you kidding me?”

“Fifteen thousand,” called Jeff Pigeon. Jeff was a chiropractor and he and his wife, Helen, had several investment rental properties in St. Germaine. Helen taught second grade. They could be counted on to keep the bidding going, at least for a little while.

“Sixteen,” countered Francis.

“Twenty,” yelled Roger Beeson, manager of the Piggly Wiggly grocery store.

The bidding went higher as people decided what a house near downtown St. Germaine was worth to them. I suspected that most all these bidders were after an investment. If they could get it cheap enough, they’d turn around and sell the house, or rent it out. Rental houses were currently at a premium.

The tax assessment on the Oak Street house was $294,000. Tax assessments were always high in St. Germaine, though. Realistically, in today’s market, this one might sell for two fifty, or so. It was a mid-century vacation cottage, probably not recently updated, and not very big. When the bidding got to one hundred twenty, things started slowing down, and finally there were two. I didn’t recognize the woman who was bidding against Jeff Pigeon. Someone from out of town, but maybe close — Boone or one of our other surrounding townships. Jeff offered one final bid at one forty, then dropped out, and Francis Passaglio jumped back in with Annette whispering furiously in his ear. Back and forth for another five minutes, then Francis through his hands up in disgust, turned and walked away through the crowd. Annette followed, hissing at him all the way.

The other woman bought the cottage for $158,000. A deal probably, although the inside was a mystery. She made her way up to Monica’s table and the crowd buzz started back with a vengeance.

The second house, a larger, three bedroom Victorian on Cherry Bluff Lane, about four blocks off the square was bought for $154,000 by Jeff and Helen, obviously determined to score some property. I thought they’d overpaid. This house was in much worse shape than the one on Oak Street and would take quite a bit of money to fix up. They seemed to be satisfied though and didn’t even stay for the third offering.

The third house was on Maple Street set on the back of the lot right next to Holy Grounds, the coffee shop. Holy Grounds was the third incarnation of the old two-story, American Foursquare house since I’d moved to St. Germaine. It was a design popular in the early 1900s consisting of four square rooms on each floor and a central hallway connecting the front and the rear of the building to take advantage of the mountain breezes in the summer. A long front porch stretched across the front and was perfect for rocking and enjoying a cup of coffee anytime of day. The house had belonged to Mrs. McCarty for as many years as anyone could remember, then bought by a couple from Virginia who opened a spa with adjoining coffee shop. Kylie and Bill Moffit bought it from them, closed the spa, but kept the coffee shop going.

On the other side of the property for sale was a law office housed in a one story bungalow.

The house that was for sale was smaller, but more charming than either, with a real Arts and Crafts look about it. The upside was, that the block was zoned for either commercial or residential use. The downside, if you were looking for a home, was that it was flanked by businesses on either side.

“Ten dollars,” yelled Skeeter.

“The city bids eight thousand forty dollars,” said Monica.

“Dadburnit!” yelled Skeeter. “Eight thousand forty-
one!
”

“This is the one?” Bud said, sidling up beside me. He already knew the answer. He was just nervous, nervous as any other twenty-two year old kid right out of college getting ready to bid on his first house.

“This is the one,” I said. We’d already talked about our strategy. The house was listed on the tax roles for $218,000. Eleven hundred square feet, two bedrooms, one bath.

“Go on,” I urged, grinning.

“One hundred twenty-nine thousand dollars,” Bud called out.

“
What?
” screeched Skeeter. “
Illegal!
”

“Quiet, Skeeter,” said Cynthia into the mic. “I have a bid of one hundred twenty-nine thousand dollars. Is there any advance?” She looked over the crowd. People were looking frantically at their papers. The previous two houses had taken thirty minutes each to sell, the bids going up incrementally with everyone taking their time and mulling over the previous bid. Now, all of a sudden, it was put up or shut up.

* * *

Bud McCollough was the eldest son of Ardine McCollough and the older brother of Pauli Girl and Moosey. I’d known them a long time and helped the family financially when I thought they needed it, not that Ardine would ever ask. Ardine had been a single mother for the better part of a decade now, her husband PeeDee choosing to make his home elsewhere. “Elsewhere,” according to some folks in town, being under a pile of rocks in some unnamed holler far up in the hills. PeeDee, by all accounts, had been an abusive husband and father and when Ardine had had enough, she’d had enough. That was that. There were those folks in the hills that didn’t ever bother calling the law to settle family disputes. Of course, PeeDee might just have easily relocated to the Florida panhandle to start over with a new family. Hard to say.

The one thing he’d insisted on was naming his children after his third favorite thing, behind his truck and his hunting dog, that being beer. The name Bud was okay, Pauli Girl was a stretch, but Moosey (Moosehead Rheingold McCollough) got the worst of that deal. It didn’t really matter in Moosey’s case. By the time you knew Moosey, the name kinda fit him.

Bud, though, had always been an odd duck, but as luck would have it, a wine savant. He had a Bachelor’s degree in business from Davidson and, although he hadn’t graduated with any kind of distinction, he was the youngest Master Sommelier in the country. Ask Bud about any wine you could think of and you’d be likely to get a quick review in winespeak: a saucy Cabernet that tastes like being slapped up side of the face with a wet trout that morphs into a mermaid; a young Merlot that has all the commercial appeal of gonorrhea with notes of dung, spare ribs, horse blanket, boiled cabbage, and cardboard; a Malbec almost Episcopalian in its predictability, cream cheese and mothballs, but as haunting as a cello solo by Yo-Yo Ma; hot dog water. And he was always right.

Not only could Bud talk the talk, he had the nose, and the nose knows what the nose knows. He’d been studying wines since he’d been old enough to check books out of the library. Once he discovered interlibrary loan, there was no stopping him. He’d also been collecting wines since he was twelve, buying bottles on-line under several aliases, wine that he was sure would mature and grow in value. I also contributed to his cellar when Christmas and his birthday rolled around, knowing that he wasn’t drinking it, but stashing it for some greater purpose. I hadn’t seen the stash, but Bud told me he had close to five hundred bottles — all bought for less than twenty bucks apiece. Even at face value, it was close to six thousand dollars worth of wine. Bud informed me that the market price of his cellar was closer to fifty-thousand. An impressive start for a twenty-two year old vintner.

An impressive start, but not the best thing. Not the
piece de resistance.