Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 03 - When the Carny Comes to Town (14 page)

IT WAS AN EXPENSIVE way to learn I might be on to something.  It could also be a coincidence.  I had used the camera and made no effort to conceal where I stowed it.  The man was out of sight when I turned around.  There were plenty of places he could duck into and I didn’t want to call attention to myself.  Because it confirmed what I thought I knew, I chose to believe the camera was more than the target of a casual pickpocket. 

I sat on a bench on the boardwalk and thought about it.  If I complained, there would be interviews and my name would be associated with the complaint.  “Drats!”  I went into a dollar store and bought a disposable digital camera.  I hoped the owners of the house I’d just appraised would be willing to let me back in. 

I wasn’t sure whether to tell the homeowners the camera had been stolen and decided to say it was stolen at the farmer’s market just south of Asbury Park.  I had an uneasy thought about pictures of their home now being in someone else’s hands.  The carved wooden sign on their front lawn would likely be visible in at least one of the photos.  “Parker House, Manasquan, New Jersey.”

TO SAY HARRY WAS SUSPICIOUS of my story would be an understatement.   I stuck to it.  I said I’d stopped at a farmer’s market on the way home and somebody lifted the camera.  For good measure I brought him back some strawberries, and took Aunt Madge strawberries and rhubarb.  I remembered to take off the grocery store price stickers.

What to tell Morehouse was harder, but I had to let him know that Turk was selling something to those kids.  I settled on telling him that I’d gone to Asbury Park to take a picture of Turk so I could remember what he looked like.  Morehouse didn’t know George Winters had given me photos. 
Lying is much more complicated than telling the truth.
  The bottom line was that he’d be ticked no matter what I told him.  And if he told Aunt Madge I’d be in deep kimshee.

“You got a death wish, or what?” he asked.

“I doubt a carny would kill me.”

“That’s just because they don’t know you too well.”

How rude.

He pulled a piece of paper from a drawer and had me tell him exactly what I’d done when I was at the carnival.  I was in the middle of telling when I suddenly stopped.  “I guess it’s not just the pictures of the Manasquan house, those two boys were on that camera card, too.”

Morehouse jabbed his pen in the air in my direction.  “This is why you have no business, no business at all, pulling the shit you do.”

I looked in my purse.  The student loan payment envelope was still there.  “At least the thief didn’t get their email address.”

“Did you hear what I just said?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Will you butt out?”

“Probably,” I said. 

He would have thrown me out, but he wanted to hear the rest of what I had to tell him.  At this point I didn’t care what he did with the information.  I knew Turk would have a reason to want Scoobie to keep his mouth shut. 
But why try to kill Scoobie so he could sell a few joints?

ON SUNDAY I FOUND OUT THAT Morehouse had “accidentally” ratted me out to Ramona, which was like telling the entire town why I’d gone to Asbury Park.  Harry said I had “abused his trust” and Aunt Madge said she “needed some peace and quiet” when I tried to tell her why the carnival visit had been a good idea.

“Maybe it’s more than joints,” George said.  We were in the hospital cafeteria by ourselves for a few minutes Sunday evening, ostensibly in search of some healthy food for Scoobie, who maintained that the hospital wouldn’t serve anything green that wasn’t canned.

I shrugged.  “We’ll never know.  It makes me worry about Scoobie being by himself every night.”

“It wouldn’t be smart to come back down here.  Besides,” he pointed to the corner of the room, “the hospital has cameras everywhere.”

I felt a bit better.  At the moment George was the only person not mad at me, and that was probably just because he wanted to keep learning what I found out.  And the promise of free coffee. 

“These small-time sales could be part of something bigger,” George said.  “They get the kids interested and maybe they find a few customers who want something more expensive.  Wouldn’t take too many of those to make a lot more money than you make running carnival rides.”

His words reminded me of Penny’s stacks of bills.  I hadn’t told George about this.  Keeping my word to Morehouse seemed less important after my most recent visit with him, but I thought whatever Penny had been dealing in was way above my pay grade.  And I did promise, sort of. 
He talked to Aunt Madge on the phone, not me.

“What?” George asked, suspicion clear.

“I was thinking about Penny.”  I was.  “I can’t believe her murder and the attack on Scoobie are unrelated.”

“Puns aside,” George said, and I made a face at him. 

We were in the elevator now.  He carried a huge bowl of salad and I had a plastic baggie of vegetables that cost more than two candy bars.  “Who in the world,” I stopped, I had been about to ask who would trust her with all that money.  “Would even know they were related at this point?  Scoobie said he hadn’t seen her in years, their names are different.”

“I’ve been trying to find where Penny was in the couple months after she got out of the prison in New York,” he said.  “Since she didn’t check in with her parole officer but one time, that’s kind of tough.”

“Jeez.  Wouldn’t that mean there’d be a warrant out for her?” I asked.

“Eventually, but it’s not like she’s a violent criminal.  Damage to Scoobie aside,” he said as we walked off the elevator.  I started to ask what he meant, but he continued.  “She was paroled in New York.  I don’t know anyone there.  In fact,” he grinned at me, “I took a page from your book and made up a name.  Told her PO I was a friend of Scoobie’s, and he was very upset about his mother’s death, and I was helping him reconstruct his mom’s last few days.”

I ignored the barbed reference to my one-time impersonation of a reporter.  “So did the parole officer talk to you?”

We were getting close to Scoobie’s room now.  George lowered his voice when he said, “He said the one time she came in she said she was about to come into some family money, so Scoobie might want to check into that.”

Uh oh. She got money, all right.

I STAYED AWAY FROM Ramona for a couple of days.  I was mad at her for repeating what Morehouse told her.  She probably knew I was mad, because she sent me an email and told me he didn’t tell her not to tell.  There was no point staying angry with her, she’s the closest thing I have to a friend in Ocean Alley besides Scoobie.  She’s also my best source of local news.

I thought Roland might be able to get me a deal on a camera, since the Purple Cow carries a few.  Plus, it would give me something to talk to Ramona about besides her tattling on me.

On Tuesday the white board was back in its place on the sidewalk in front of the Purple Cow.  Today it said, “Failure is simply the opportunity to begin again more intelligently.” Henry Ford.

Ramona saw me coming and stopped straightening the sale table.  “Are you still mad?” she asked.

“Nope.  If he didn’t tell you not to tell, how would you know?”

“I think he did it on purpose,” Ramona said.

“You bet he did.  He’s lucky I haven’t stopped by the station with a grenade.”  I caught Roland’s eye.  “Or a water balloon.”  I smile sweetly and he shook a finger at me before he walked over to unjam the copy machine for a frustrated customer.

I told Ramona I needed to replace my digital camera and we walked over to the glass sales case that houses stuff Roland has deemed popular to lift, like cell phone batteries, cameras, and fifty dollar fountain pens.  Some people have way too much money.

“What about this really thin one?” Ramona asked.

I took it from her.  “Lightweight, too.”  While she took a couple batteries from the bottom shelf I shifted the camera’s weight from one hand to the other and put it in my purse to see how much heavier it would make the purse feel.  I barely noticed the difference.

Ramona put the batteries in the camera and I took a few pictures in the back of the store and near the front, since I need to take photos in all kinds of light.  They were all good shots.  I thought I heard someone bump into Ramona’s white board, but when I looked out the window I saw only the back of someone hurrying away.

“Sold,” I said to Ramona and we went to the cash register together.

As I walked out I glanced at the white board and laughed.  It now read, “Failure is simply the opportunity to try, try again.” 

Ramona looked out the window, scowled, and came out with her small foam sponge and the erasable marker.  “I was beginning to think it was Scoobie, but that’s the second time this week that someone has changed it.”

That stopped me.  I knew it was Scoobie.  So who was doing it now?  “At least Scoobie’s off the hook,” I said.

I HEADED TO FIRST Prez for a meeting of the Harvest for All committee, the first one since the carnival.  Though not an official member, because he won’t agree to be, Scoobie is usually there.  Reverend Jamison invited him to help me get the perspective of someone who sometimes uses the food pantry.  Although his intentional hazing of some of the stuffier members can get the meeting off track, I knew I’d miss his presence. 

Dr. Welby and the mild-mannered Monica were already in the church’s small meeting room.  Despite the pleasant seventy degree temperature, Monica had on her usual cardigan and carefully ironed blouse.  She gave me a small smile. 

“Good morning, Jolie.”  George Welby often speaks at boom level, though he tones it down once a meeting starts.

“Thanks a lot for coming,” I said, still wishing I didn’t have to.

Sylvia Parrett walked in with Lance Wilson, my only tenth-decade friend.  Sylvia is another matter.  She was dressed as severely as usual, though she did have on a decorative pin, which is a major fashion statement for her.

“I’ll give Aretha another minute to get here.”  She’s tied with Lance for my favorite committee member.  Reverend Jamison roped her in when she asked for signs to hang at laundromats, a place she believed would have a lot of people who would use the food pantry’s services.  As we sat chatting an accapella rendition of “Amazing Grace” floated down the hallway and as she walked in Lance waved a finger as if conducting.

“Lance you are one talented man,” Aretha said as she sat next to me.

I took a breath and got started.  “Okay everybody.  First, congratulations.  We made more money at the dunk tank than…”

“First?”  Lance said.

“How is Scoobie?” asked Aretha.

I’m not sure I’ve ever turned a brighter red.  “Well…” I began.

“I stopped by yesterday,” interrupted Dr. Welby.

Uh oh.

“Didn’t stay long.  But I am pleased to report that Scoobie is recovering well.  It’ll be awhile before he’s one-hundred percent, but he’ll get there.

I let out a breath.  It didn’t sound as if Scoobie had asked him to leave.  There’s a no visitors order for him, his choice, but as a physician, albeit retired, Dr. Welby wouldn’t ask about that and no nurse would volunteer the information.

“Thanks, Dr. Welby.”  I cleared my throat and blinked back a couple tears I thought were trying to leak out. 
You’re done crying about this!
  “I did let Scoobie know we made almost $750, and he has already said ‘I told you so’ a couple of times.”

Aretha let out a laugh and Monica almost cracked a smile.  Sylvia said nothing.  I’ve learned she mostly participates when she has a specific idea, and she had the idea of creating a name that would define our role but not look as if we were a charity.  Which we are, but some people are not comfortable coming to the food pantry, and there’s no point emphasizing that they can’t buy food.  It was a good idea.

I had a simple agenda for the meeting.  We would discuss the positive reaction to our new name and whether the ten-year old who submitted it should get a plaque or something.  Then I planned to ask Lance to give a treasurer’s report, which would lead into ideas for another fundraiser.  As I walked into the meeting I had remembered I wanted to ask if we did anything special for homeless people, and I jotted a note in the margin of my small notebook.

That was my plan until I heard the door to the street open, followed by a familiar ‘plop, shuffle, plop shuffle’ sound in the hallway.  “Go slow, man,” George Winters’ voice drifted down the hall.

“Bite me,” came the familiar voice.

We were all on our feet in less than a second and Sylvia, of all people, led the way into the hallway.

“Hold your applause, hold your applause,” said Scoobie.  He grinned but he looked beat. 

Thank goodness it’s a short hallway.  I was trying to hold back tears. 
This is ridiculous.  You aren’t a crier.

“Listen guys, I need to get off my feet or I’ll be on my ass.”

I held the door, but Scoobie didn’t look at me as he walked in.  All his attention was on getting to the chair the Dr. Welby was holding.  From the look of self-satisfaction on Dr. Welby’s face, I figured his hospital visit had to do with seeing if Scoobie could come to the meeting.