Appraisal for Murder (9 page)
“But, you didn’t,” Aunt Madge said.
“No, but I can tell they think I did.” He splashed tea as he set the cup down hard.
“They have to have a reason to think that,” I said. I remembered that Elmira Washington said he seemed to be arguing with his mother in Newhart’s a few days ago, but that hardly seemed like a reason for the police to suspect him of murder. “You, uh, didn’t go around town bad-mouthing your mom, did you?”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Of course not.” He sighed. “I’m her sole beneficiary, except for her plans for the house, plus my business is not doing as well as it was. And,” he gave a forced smile, “some people think I’m an asshole.”
“But surely not everyone on the police force,” I said.
He half laughed, but Aunt Madge said, “For heaven’s sake!”
He grew immediately somber again. “They already called my partners in Houston. A lot of people know I’m here because we had a major falling-out.”
“That doesn’t sound like a motive for murdering your mother. Your partners, maybe,” I said.
He looked at me directly, “I’m not going to walk away from the business with much cash. We have a clause in our partnership agreement that says if one person voluntarily leaves the firm they only take what they brought with them plus a portion of last year’s profit.” He paused. “It was not our best year.”
I was dying to ask him why he was leaving the firm, but I caught Aunt Madge’s eye and decided not to. “Sorry, Michael, still no motive.”
“OK, here’s one. My wife is divorcing me, and I’ll probably need a lot of cash for the settlement.”
“Yeah, okay. But your mom was going to die anyway. What’s the rush?”
Aunt Madge sat up straighter, but didn’t say anything.
Michael looked at me as if he had never seen me. “I’m known to be somewhat impatient,” he said, dryly.
“So, an impatient asshole,” I said, and saw Aunt Madge flinch. “That could relate to state of mind, but not motive.”
This time he really laughed. “I don’t remember you being funny in school.”
“The only time you talked to me was the first couple days of school and when you were running for class president and you wanted my vote.”
“That’s probably true,” he said, almost amiably.
“To be honest, I didn’t vote for you.”
Am I flirting with him?
Aunt Madge interrupted. “When does your father arrive?”
He glanced at his watch. “In about an hour at Newark. I need to get on the road.” He stood. “Thanks for the tea.” He looked at me with an expression I could not interpret.
“On TV, they usually don’t arrest family suspects until after the funeral.” I said.
“Thanks for that nugget,” was all he said, as he bent over and kissed Aunt Madge’s cheek.
JAZZ AND I WERE ON THE FRONT PORCH sweeping sawdust from Aunt Madge’s latest carpentry project into a dustpan when Sgt. Morehouse came by in the late afternoon. He glanced at the dustpan. “What’s she working on now?”
“She’s putting crown molding in one of the upstairs bathrooms.”
“A bathroom? Isn’t that kind of fancy?”
I shrugged, and looked at him more closely. He looked as if he hadn’t slept much, and I figured there probably weren’t too many murders in Ocean Alley. Although he was not wearing the same clothes that he had worn yesterday, today’s polyester pants, nondescript blue shirt, and old-fashioned tie were so similar that it was as if he was in uniform.
I invited him to sit and he sank wearily into a wicker chair. Jazz ran to the other end of the porch and jumped on the railing. I could hear the dogs barking in the back yard; they knew someone was out front. “How’s it going?” I asked.
“You and your aunt came to the station this morning.” So much for him answering my questions. I told him about the call from the reporter, and that Aunt Madge was especially upset by it.
“I hate that guy,” he said.
I shrugged. “Isn’t he just doing his job?”
“Yeah but he always calls before we’re ready for him.”
“Then he must be doing his job really well,” I said, intentionally needling him.
He grunted. “You sure you told us everything yesterday?”
“Gee, why don’t you ask me if I did it?”
“Did you?”
“Of course not.” I was offended. “Why would you even ask?”
“You seem pretty friendly with the Riordan kid.”
“The ‘Riordan kid’ and I didn’t even socialize in high school. I was just there because I’m doing some work for Harry.”
“Yeah, I know.” He signed heavily. “You don’t have an obvious motive, but I have to ask.”
Somewhat mollified, I asked, “Do you have any idea who did?”
“Just theories,” he said.
As if he’d tell me.
“The funeral home said Madge went with him to make arrangements. I kinda need to talk to her.”
I led him back to the kitchen and excused myself. Aunt Madge would probably defend Michael, and I wasn’t ready to go that far. My instinct said he didn’t do it, but I really had no reason for any opinion. On the other hand, Aunt Madge seemed convinced that Michael and his mother were having such a great couple weeks that he couldn’t have done it.
I can trust her instincts.
Since I’d left Jazz on the porch, I went back there. At first I didn’t see her. Then I looked to the sidewalk in front of the house and saw Joe Pedone holding her. “What the hell are you doing? Give me my cat.” I was down the steps in two bounces and he handed her to me without comment.
“Did you flatten my tires?”
“Gee, you had a flat? I’m sorry,” he said, looking away.
I took in his clothes. No more loud golfer outfit. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“That’s a no,” he said, pleasantly, adjusting his obviously expensive tie. I couldn’t help but be struck by the contrast between his clothing and Morehouse’s. Pedone obviously didn’t live on a civil servant’s salary.
“You probably had someone do it,” I said, stroking Jazz, who seemed to want to go back to Pedone. I held her tighter.
He didn’t reply to that. “Did you give any more thought to repaying your husband’s debt?”
“Look, I don’t have the money. He cleaned me out. Anyway, Robby owes it, not me.”
“But, Robby ain’t got it.” He said this as if this was the only clarification I should need.
“Do you want to pay my student loan?” I asked him.
He looked puzzled. “Same logic,” I said, and walked back into the house. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was shaken. This was not something I wanted to bother Aunt Madge with when she had just lost a good friend, and I wasn’t about to bring it up in front of Morehouse. I could call the lawyer who had advised me on my rights as the wife of an embezzler, but what would that accomplish? Just a huge bill, probably.
At least Pedone hadn’t threatened to break my legs. I pondered whether I would mind if they did this to Robby, and tried to remind myself that his compulsive gambling was supposed to be an illness. I pushed Joe Pedone out of my mind with the vigor I usually attached to eating chocolate ice cream, and went upstairs with Jazz.
WE DIDN’T SEE MICHAEL all weekend. I figured he had his hands full with his father and stepmother and funeral planning. I spent a good part of the weekend trying to put together an easy-to-assemble computer desk I had bought at Wal-Mart. There were some really nice ones at the Purple Cow, but with very limited funds in my bank account the $29.99 price at Wal-Mart was more in line with my checkbook. When I had six screws left over and it wobbled, Aunt Madge took pity on me and suggested that there must be another piece to brace the back. I found it wrapped in paper at the bottom of the box. Not amused at my swearing, Aunt Madge lent me her electric screwdriver but did not help with the disassembly and reassembly.
I hauled the box, empty except for Jazz, downstairs and placed it on the sitting room floor. It was long and thin, which meant Jazz could crawl in easily but all the dogs could do was insert a nose or paw. It took less than thirty seconds for this to become a popular game. Jazz would dive for Mister Rogers’ paw. She let go each time he pulled it out.
Aunt Madge came into the room as Miss Piggy was inserting her nose into the box and Mr. Rogers was head-butting her in the midsection so he could have another turn. “I see you’re enjoying yourself,” she said, somewhat curtly.
“You want us kids to play outside?” I asked.
“No.” She sat next to me on the couch. “I’m sorry if I’m short. I just can’t believe the police would consider Michael a suspect. Ruth would be so upset.”
I squeezed her knee, not sure what to say. “I trust your instincts, Aunt Madge, but…”
“But what?” she bristled.
“What makes you so certain? I mean,” I saw the protest coming. “You’ve hardly seen him for years, have you?”
She answered immediately. “It isn’t just that Ruth said they were enjoying each other’s company. They talked about how he would help her through the next few months or year, and he was going to go with her to the assisted living place to help her pick out an apartment there. You just don’t talk about those kinds of things and then off your mother.”
“Off your mother?” I couldn’t hide my smile.
“Oh, you know what I mean. It just doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense.” Her voice cracked and she put her hand to her mouth to keep from crying. I leaned over and put a hand on her wrist. Mr. Rogers came over and put his head in her lap. “You’re a good boy,” she said softly, petting him.
Miss Piggy pulled her nose out of the box and gave a soft grunt before loping over and trying to move Mr. Rogers’ head from Aunt Madge’s lap and insert her own. She laughed and stood. “I don’t know what I’d do without these dogs.” She pointed to the door. “Come on, out you go.”
I watched as she slid the sliding glass door so they could bound into the back yard. I would do anything to help Aunt Madge feel better, if only I knew where to start.
WHEN SHE CAME HOME FROM CHURCH the next day Aunt Madge said she had seen Michael’s father in church, but he sat alone and left before she could talk to him. “You know who was there,” she added, “Your friend Adam. It was almost forty degrees. We generally don’t see him unless it’s much colder.”
“Scoobie goes to church?” I was more than a little surprised.
“The library doesn’t open on Sundays until one o’clock. Our service is one of the shorter ones.” She slipped off her pumps and sat them on her long oak table. “And we always have coffee and donuts or cookies afterwards.”
I sat at the table and turned up her electric kettle. “Just before that reporter called, I started to ask you about him. Then I forgot. What happened to him? Where is his family?”
Aunt Madge actually made a tsk-ing sound. “He’s better off without them. Didn’t you ever wonder why he was the only other child out late on the boardwalk with you?”
I stared at her and could swear she almost smirked. “You knew where I was?”
“As I’ve heard you say, Ocean Alley is a very small town.” She poured her tea. “I decided that as long as so many people were keeping track of you on the boardwalk, I’d let well enough alone.”
I continued to stare at her, saying nothing. All these years I thought I’d been so smart to thwart her rules.
She glanced at me. “If I had confronted you, you would have started going to someplace more remote than the boardwalk. I didn’t want that.” She strained her teabag and placed it on a saucer. “And I certainly didn’t want to have to stay up until you went to bed. I’m no night owl.”
I decided to take the focus off me. She was enjoying this too much. “What did you mean that Scoobie is better off without his parents?”
“His mother drank a lot. His father tried to ignore it. When he couldn’t, he left. Adam seemed to almost raise himself.” She leaned over to turn the temperature up on her electric kettle. “Think how angry you were that your parents paid more attention to themselves than you in eleventh grade, and imagine what Adam must have felt.”
“I can’t.” I took a moment to get Jazz out of her box, and then went upstairs. I lie on top of the bed, staring at the ceiling. All the time Scoobie and I had spent together, I had thought he didn’t have a care in the world. I hadn’t known him at all.
IT SEEMED THAT HALF THE TOWN attended Ruth Riordan’s funeral on Monday. Larry Riordan and his wife, who looked to be all of thirty-five, sat in the front row with Michael. I thought that was pretty tacky, not so much that Larry Riordan was there, but the new wife. Ruth’s sister from Phoenix sat on Michael’s other side. Aunt Madge and I had gone to the funeral home the night before and I’d noticed Ruth’s sister had studiously avoided talking to Mrs. #2.
When the minister asked if anyone wanted to say anything about Ruth Riordan, Aunt Madge surprised me by getting to her feet at once. She walked purposely to the front of the congregation and up to the pulpit. However, once at the microphone, she hesitated, then seemed to collect herself and began to speak. “Ruth Riordan was one of the kindest women I’ve known. She could have spent her time playing bridge or traveling, but you were more likely to see her helping at the food pantry or fixing food for an after-funeral meal here at the church.”
She paused, and I thought for a minute she would really cry, something I’ve never seen her do. “She was an intensely private person who would never burden a friend with her troubles, and if you trusted her with yours, you could be sure she would never repeat your confidence.” At the front of the church someone blew his nose loudly.
