Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 04 - Any Port in a Storm (2 page)

We’d walked the three blocks, with Scoobie trying to interest Ramona in his pirate lyrics, when I spotted my car, trunk lid in the air.
“That’s weird,” I pointed.

“Huh,” Scoobie said.
“Did you leave it unlocked?”

“Haven’t opened it since I left the house I was appraising…”
I stopped talking as we got closer. My trunk was not just open, it was empty.

I DROVE RAMONA home with my trunk lid in the air and called Aunt Madge to say I’d be a bit later than usual getting back to the Cozy Corner. Scoobie and I stopped at the hardware store and bought some heavy twine to wrap around the trunk until I could get to a locksmith in the morning. I dropped him at his rooming house and hurried home to change before a Harvest for All committee meeting.

I thought Aunt Madge would have already left for supper with Harry, but the vacuum was running in one of the guest rooms.
She has let me do a bit of that work in just the last month, but mostly I’m still relegated to yard work, dog poop patrol, folding sheets from the dryer, and dish washing. And I think Aunt Madge still checks my dishes from time to time.

Two distinct yips came from the back yard, and a glance at the sliding glass door revealed Mister Rogers and Miss Piggy, Aunt Madge’s two shelter-adopted part-Retrievers.
They believe that I have come into their lives to provide more dog treats and walks. They also believe that I brought my little black cat, Jazz, to keep them company. Initially I was concerned that the dogs would intimidate Jazz, but she now has them firmly under her paw.

I let the dogs in and they circled me a couple times as I walked to the cupboard to get them each a treat.
The vacuum went off and I hollered up the stairs to Aunt Madge. By the time I had poured us each a glass of iced tea she was walking down the back stairs, which lead into her living area.

“I heard there was another house with a torn screen and a bunch of trash,” she said, by way of a greeting.
As she petted Mister Rogers I took in her strawberry blonde hair. She colors it with temporary color so she can change her look every month, and I have seen her in every color except the silver-blue some of her fellow octogenarians use.

“You mean besides the ones on Ferry and Seashore?” I asked, debating whether to tell her about my day.
It can wait until morning.

“This one was on Conch.
I ran into Lester at the market and he said to tell you not to go into vacant houses alone.”

I rolled my eyes and she raised an eyebrow.
“Everyone thinks it’s kids,” I said.

“Kids can be very annoying,” she said, with a meaningful smile.

GENERALLY THE MEETINGS of the Harvest for All Food Pantry Committee are brief and deal mostly with how much money we have and how to buy the most food for the least price.
Coming as it did five days before our Talk Like a Pirate Day fundraiser, we had a lot to cover and I had an agenda. I wanted it to be a short meeting because there was a lot to do and I didn’t feel like being too democratic about it.

As I walked into the small conference room near the First Presbyterian community room the first thing I noticed was the several pieces of poster board affixed to the wall with the beginning of a list on each one.
The second thing was that Monica was not wearing her traditional cardigan buttoned to the neck, but did sport a bandana across her forehead and looked very proud of herself. I figured this was the first time in her approximately sixty-five years that she had come close to a bandana.

“Good evening, Jolie,” boomed Dr. Welby.
Though I chair the committee, having been appointed largely because no one else would take the job and Reverend Jamison is a shameless arm twister, Dr. Welby is very upfront about providing ideas and rounding up volunteers. Aunt Madge says this is because, as a retired physician, he is used to bossing people around.

In addition to Monica and Dr. Welby (who abides no teasing about his name), there was my ninety-year old friend, Lance Wilson, and Aretha Brown, who often has a more realistic take on hunger than the rest of us.

The title on each board started with the word “final list,” and Lance had labeled them Volunteers, What to Charge, Food, and Games.

“I figured you wouldn’t mind, Jolie,” Dr. Welby said.

“Of course not. How about one more for publicity, and another for business donations?” I asked, after a glance at my agenda. We had worked on so many things, my brain needed a final run-down of all of them.

“Drat, I knew we were missing something,” Lance said, and wrote these on the room’s white board, since he had run out of poster board.

The door that leads to the street banged and I heard two sets of footsteps, with Scoobie’s voice preceding them. “Yeah, Sylvia, but you wouldn’t have to wear it the entire time. Just for the first half-hour.”

Lance grinned at me.
“I knew she wouldn’t go for it,” he said.

“I will wear a vest with pockets for money when there are no more lobsters in Maine,” Sylvia said.

“I hear they’re in short supply,” Scoobie said, as they walked into the room.

Sylvia glared at me.
“I had nothing to do with it,” I said, raising my hands as if surrendering. Aretha did the same thing, but instead of talking she just shrugged.

Sylvia focused on Scoobie.
“You said it was Jolie’s idea,” she said.

“Oops.” He swung into a seat, a broad grin in place. Since Sylvia sat next to him I knew she wasn’t really annoyed. She always presents a very strict face to the world, and I enjoy watching her struggle with how to loosen up without losing her image. She’s not quite there yet, and sometimes reverts.

“Hello, Sylvia,” said Monica.

“Oh.”
Dead stop. “That’s an interesting hairpiece, Monica,” Sylvia said.

“Lance gave it to me,” she said, with an air of pride.

Sensing that this could move to waters far colder than those off the coast of Maine, I welcomed everyone to the meeting. “We have so much to do in the next few days that I thought maybe we could have a quick meeting and…”

Scoobie started passing around papers from a stack he brought with him.
I hate it when he hijacks my meetings.

As Lance began reading I saw him suppress a smile. Titled “Things We Can Get People to Pay to Do,” the list was single-spaced and included items sure to offend any group.

Talk like a pirate

Talk like a grouchy pirate

Pretend you are a dead pirate

Fart like a pirate

Act like a girl pirate (if you are a boy)

Act like a boy pirate (if you are a girl)

Act like an androgynous pirate (if you aren’t sure what you are)

Walk like a fat pirate.

Show your junk like a pirate

Drink from your tankard like a pirate

Walk the plank like a pirate

Not walk the plank like a pirate

Stop talking like a pirate

“This is a lot more than you had on the last list,” Monica said.

“Interesting that it doesn’t say ‘Talk like a drunk pirate,’” said Sylvia.

Uh oh. Sylvia’s back
. Everyone in the room knew Scoobie had battled back from alcoholism and even spent some time in the county jail for selling pot.

“I was going to say inebriated, but I thought it would offend someone,” Scoobie said, evenly.

Lance jumped in. “How’s the plank going to work?”

“I thought we could use the soft-sided swimming pool we used for a dunk tank at the carnival,” Scoobie said.
“That or it has to be a really short drop into one of those little plastic kids’ pools.”

“Such fond memories,” said Dr. Welby.
I shot him a look. He would not sit above the dunk tank, but I hadn’t been allowed to stay on dry land.

I turned to Scoobie.
“You said we didn’t have to get wet!”

“What does it mean, ‘show your junk like a pirate’?” Monica asked.

“Scoobie’s been collecting odds and ends from the beach,” I said, before he could elaborate.

“I think you better just have a mattress or something at the bottom,” Aretha said.
“You have people jumping into water and we’ll have a lot of kids catch cold.”

“Good point.”
I eyeballed Scoobie and kept going. “We’re going to need more volunteers.”

“True,” Lance said.
“I asked down at the hardware store if they could lend us some of those short aprons with pockets that their people wear. We’re going to have to have lots of people taking money. Can’t have people have to go to one place to pay to talk like a grouchy pirate.”

“That’ll be Sylvia’s job,” Scoobie said.

There was a two second pause, and Monica said, “I have my own apron to bring.”

“So I was thinking,” I barged on, “about asking the other churches to follow up on their promises to get a few volunteers each. Maybe the Methodists could take the money when people want to walk the plank, and the Unitarians could…”

“Unitarians!”
Sylvia and Monica said this in unison, with facial expressions that said I had invited a group of local snake handlers.

“I don’t think they eat slugs or anything,” Scoobie offered.

“Why does a Unitarian cross the road?” Lance asked.

I saw Scoobie’s face light up, but before he could say anything, Lance continued, “To help the chicken as it seeks its spiritual path.”

Dr. Welby laughed loudest, and when Sylvia and Monica still looked taken aback he added, “I have friends who are Unitarians. They’re okay.”

“Now that you mention it, I guess one of the librarians is Unitarian,” Sylvia said, her back even straighter than usual.

Eventually we agreed that Dr. Welby would talk to the other churches, all of which send people to the food pantry, Sylvia would see if the radio stations were ready to run the public service announcements, and Monica would round up people to do a bake sale, always her specialty. I managed to end the meeting without any more verbal daggers sailing across the table.

“YOU STOOPED to her level.”

“You’re right,” Scoobie said.
“And I should have said she should take the money for people who want to stop talking like a pirate. Then they’d only have to deal with her when they were leaving.”

“You’re missing the point,” I said.
I was driving Scoobie home and we would both qualify as grouchy pirates.

“I get your point, Jolie.
I’m just tired of her snide comments. I bet she lays off me the next couple of meetings.”

“Maybe you’ll get lucky,” was all I said.

Scoobie lives in a three-story rooming house not far from the center of town.
It’s older, but the owner keeps it up pretty well. As I pulled up to the curb the front door banged open and three people ran out. It was past dusk and they were in dark clothes. Judging from their sizes, two maybe five feet tall and one not much taller, they were not tenants.

Scoobie jumped out of the car.
“Hey!” He started to chase them and stopped and walked the few steps back to the car.

I turned off the engine and walked to the passenger side of the car. “What was that about?”

“It’s the second time this week there have been kids in the hallways who shouldn’t be,” he said. “There are a couple vacant rooms. I think they’re trying to get in one.”

Just like the houses.

“LISTEN, JOLIE,” Sgt. Morehouse said, the next morning, “it’s not exactly the crime of the century. You should have just talked to the officer at the front desk.” We were sitting in his cramped office in the Ocean Alley Police Station. He had on his usual polyester pants, this pair navy blue, but in honor of the hot weather he was in short sleeves and his tie was rolled up on his desk.

“I know the money I’ll spend to replace the lock isn’t a fortune, but it’s a pattern,” I insisted.

Sgt. Morehouse drummed his pencil on the yellow pad in front of him. “I know a couple real estate agents have found signs that kids or somebody else have been in some houses…” he began.

“They wanted the bag of stuff from the house, the garbage and ash trays I put in my trunk.”

“Yeah, that is odd…” he said.

“And I called around before I came over. Jennifer said she noticed stuff out of place in a vacant house she appraised a couple days ago, over on Ferry,” I said.

Morehouse glowered at me and I realized I’d interrupted him not once, but twice. “Sorry.”

“I’m not saying I’ll ignore you, much as I’d like to, but the only way we’re gonna deal with this is if you guys call us every time you see signs of unlawful entry.” He pointed his pencil at me. “And I mean right then, not next time you think about it.”

“So you’ll maybe send some fingerprint people to a couple of the houses?” I asked.

“When’s the last time I told you how to appraise a property?” he asked, standing up.

I took the cue and stood, giving him what I hoped was a sweet smile. “You told me once to think about not going in vacant houses alone, but so far I’ve ignored you.”

I WALKED DOWN to the locksmith where I’d left my car while I talked to Sgt. Morehouse. She said she’d be quick, and she had been. “Thanks, Margaret,” I said as I wrote out the check.

“No problem.”
She stuck it in the drawer of the cash register. “You gave me an idea to send my refrigerator magnets to all the real estate agents. I’ll tell them if they refer customers the people’ll get ten percent off.”

“That’s good.
I’d rather it be to change the locks after a sale than because of a break-in,” I said.

“No kidding.
Hey, somebody said I should talk to you about Talk Like a Pirate Day. Father Teehan, I think.”

“Super.
Scoobie is trying to arrange some kind of duel between Father Teehan and Reverend Jamison at First Prez, and another one with the Methodist and Unitarian ministers. Then there’d be some sort of a playoff or standoff, or something.”

We agreed that she would put a couple of signs about Talk Like a Pirate Day in her storefront window.
She grinned. “Leave it to Scoobie.”

Ah yes, leave it to Scoobie.
I got in my car and adjusted the seat, since Margaret is a lot taller than my five-feet-two-inches. I’d like to leave more to him, but he told me last night that he had two more quizzes this week. He assured me he’ll be ready to help with Talk Like a Pirate Day set-up in the park on Friday evening, and on the day itself, which is Saturday. When I groused about his lack of time to help Ramona and me put up signs and posters, he reminded me that September 19th was the “established international day” and his professors weren’t inclined to count it as a major holiday, so his homework schedule was the same as usual.

I drove to the courthouse to research some past sales, and I’d been there for about ten minutes, very intent on looking up homes to compare to the house I’d appraised yesterday, when I heard a low-level wolf whistle behind me.
Since I thought I knew its source, I ignored it.

“Come on Jolie,” George Winters said, as he sidled next to me at the tiled counter.
“You haven’t seen me in what, a week?”

“And a great week it’s been,” I said, refiling the material I’d been using.
I glanced sideways at George. He was wearing his usual Hawaiian-style collared shirt and a pair of what I think of as baggy men’s long shorts. Only a reporter who worked in a beach town could get away with that outfit.

“I saw your name on the police blotter again,” he said.
“I knew it was only a matter of time.”

Nuts! I hate Sgt. Morehouse
. I faced George. “I don’t know why he put my name with it. It’s happening in a lot of houses.” The delight on his face told me George hadn’t known there were a bunch of break-ins.

He pulled his thin reporter’s notebook from his breast pocket and fiddled with the pencil stuck in its spiral binding until the stubby thing came out. “So, is there a common way that they get in?”

A throat cleared behind us and we both looked at the register of deeds and mortgages. Since she’s the last person in town I want to antagonize, I smiled and we moved toward the hall. “I’ll talk to you if you won’t quote me,” I said, as we walked outside and sat on a bench in front of the courthouse.

“So, just an ‘unnamed local appraiser’ would be okay?” he asked, with a smirk.

“You know that’s not okay.” I’m trying not to show as much of my irritation with George. He and Scoobie think I’m uptight or something, and they took me to an All-Anon meeting one time. I’ve gone a few times, and one of the things I’ve learned is that my mood is my choice. It is still my mood to be annoyed with George, but I try not to show it as much.

“I’m just kidding. I don’t need to write most of it using quotes.
And Lester’ll always give me one.”

“Printable?” I asked.
He knew it was a rhetorical question, so George waited for me to continue. “It’s only the second vacant house I’ve been in that showed signs of somebody having been in there, but it’s the first time someone was in there when I arrived.”

George looked up from his notebook. “Jeez, Jolie. The blotter just said you reported it. You should be more careful.”

“You mean like ask the kids to put a sign on the door that says
Trespass in Progress
?”

“How do you know it was kids?” he asked.

I shrugged. “A couple people ran out, but I only saw one from the back, right before they ran behind the little garage.” I described the circumstances and gave him the address so he could get more than a mental picture. “There were a couple ashtrays and some litter in the kitchen, or I wouldn’t have noticed anything out of place.” I decided not to mention the pot smell. George would just sensationalize it, and I didn’t want more kids thinking vacant houses were a good place to smoke pot.

“You leave it there?” he asked.

I could see his mind working, figuring how to get into the house to get what he thought might still be there. “Nope. I took it to throw away. That’s what someone took from the trunk of my car.” Usually I try to keep what I’m doing from George, since he likes to use the
Ocean Alley Press
to poke fun at me if there is even a remote opportunity. In this case, I figured he’d have other people to bug, so he’d lay off me, mostly. And maybe getting the word out would be the best way to scare off anyone thinking of going in another vacant house.

He was surprised.
“I didn’t hear that part. Where was your car?”

I told him.
“So, I just got the lock fixed,” I finished.

He was silent for several seconds.
“Hmm. There’s more than I thought to this. People would only take that stuff if they didn’t want their fingerprints found.”

I shrugged.
After some unwanted attention since I left my gambler husband and moved to Aunt Madge’s Cozy Corner B&B last fall, I have decided to mind only my business. This is a challenge, but I’m persevering. “Maybe. Or maybe they were attached to the ashtrays.”

“Were they distinctive?” George asked.

I did a mental eye roll at his literal reaction. “No, just plain glass.” I stood. “I hear we’re going to get some rain and wind from that tropical storm.” I nodded to the two large maple trees that sat outside the courthouse. They had just started whipping a bit in the wind. Tropical Storm LeAnn came ashore in Maryland this morning with weak winds but a lot of rain, and was making its way through southern Pennsylvania toward New Jersey at a slow pace.

“Yeah.
My editor kinda hoped we’d get more of a blast.” When I looked at him he shrugged. “Sells more papers when somebody’s roof gets half blown off.”

I raised my eyebrows at him.
“Speaking of houses, why don’t you talk to Lester or some of the other real estate agents? I only go in houses when they sell, they go in all the houses on the market.”

“Gee, a tip from Jolie Gentil.
Who woulda thought?” He grinned at me and loped away.

AFTER THE COURT HOUSE I stopped at Stenner Appraisals. Jennifer Stenner is the main competition to Harry and me. When I asked if she would help with Talk Like a Pirate Day and assured her she wouldn’t have to get her hair wet she had immediately volunteered to be in charge of games.

Even given Jennifer’s boundless energy when it comes to party-like activities, I had not expected her office to boast a large piece of plywood on which was painted an excellent pirate ship.
The portholes had been cut out and I assumed people would throw beanbags through them. “This is cool,” I said, as Jennifer walked from her office into the small lobby area. She looked elegant, as usual, in a sleeveless A-line dress that accented her perfect figure. I sucked in my tummy, which is my usual reaction when Jennifer walks into a room.

“The really fun part is getting businesses to give prizes.”
She was actually beaming. “The library has hundreds of books people donated for the next sale, and Daphne’s going to give me lots of children’s books and kids can choose. And Lester is ordering a bunch of whistles and he’s going to put Argrow Real Estate on them.”

“Gosh.
All I’d thought of was candy. This is terrific,” I said.

“Toss me a bean bag, would you Susan?” Jennifer said to the receptionist.
Susan obliged, and Jennifer handed it to me.

“I’m lousy at this,” I laughed.
“Are you sure I won’t knock it over?”

“It’s got braces on the back,” she explained.

I threw the bean bag and it bounced off the side of the ship and landed on the floor. The phone rang and Susan answered it. “It’s for you, Jennifer. I put him on hold,” Susan said. “I think it’s the man from Lakewood Realty.”

My ears perked up.
Before my ex-husband Robby’s arrest for embezzling from his bank to support his gambling compulsion, I sold commercial real estate for Lakewood Realty. I looked at Jennifer and she saw the question in my eyes.

“Thanks to you and Harry,” she said, “I have less business in Ocean Alley.”
She smiled stiffly. “I don’t want to have to let anyone go.”

“Good point,” I said, as she left the lobby.
I handed the bean bag back to Susan and thanked her for putting up with the pirate ship for a few more days. It was only as I turned to leave that I noted the name of the ship.
HMS Stenner.
I grinned.
Harry’s really going to love this.

I STOPPED BY THE PURPLE COW, the office supply store where Ramona works, so she could show me the finished poster that would get put up around town tonight and ring the park on Saturday. Her white board caught my eye. Ramona puts a new inspirational saying on the board each day. Unknown to her, Scoobie sometimes changes the sayings. Someone else also does it, but I don’t know who that is.

Today, Ramona’s handwriting said, “It’s always darkest before the dawn.”
Under it was, “so that’s the best time to steal a surf board.”

I laughed to myself as I walked into the store.
On the wall above the cash register was a two by three foot poster about Talk Like a Pirate Day. In the middle was a female pirate, arms folded across her chest, holding the curved cutlass sword of a pirate. And the female pirate’s face was mine.

I stared at the poster, mouth half open and turned toward Ramona, prepared to yell.
The camera flash deterred me. I blinked a couple of times and turned to face George Winters, who was strategically backing away.

“Give me that camera!”
I started after him, but George can be fast when he wants to. He raced around the shelves that had that week’s sale items and was out the front door before I could even get close. I couldn’t chase him further, as I had knocked off a box of envelopes and was on the floor picking them up when I saw the hem of Ramona’s gauzy-type skirt getting closer.

“I thought you’d like it,” she said.
She didn’t need help interpreting my look.

“When have you ever heard me say I wanted my picture on a poster?”
I put the envelope box back on the shelf and turned to study the poster. “How did you get my face on it?”

“I did the background,” she said.

I looked at her drawing of a pirate ship anchored in a bay, complete with a skull and crossbones flag. “And the photo?” I asked again.

“George rented a pirate costume and got someone he knows to pose for a bunch of pictures, and then he put your head on one.
Under the pirate hat, and all.”