Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 05 - Trouble on the Doorstep (12 page)

When I looked at Dana again she mumbled, “Nephews.”

It wasn’t that I really cared, I simply realized that I thought of Morehouse as my confidant or nemesis, depending on the day, and not much else.
If George were here he’d make one of his comments about me being a little too self-focused and suggest he pick me up for an All-Anon meeting.

When I got closer to Pooki she saw me and her eyes widened.
I thought she was about to cry again, but she gave me a big smile. “Jolie. You saw me when I was all wet.”

It took me a few seconds to realize that she was probably taking some sort of pills to stay calm.
“The only difference is your hair was a bit more curly,” I said.
What the heck am I supposed to say to a grieving widow who’s high as a kite?

I assumed the couple next to Pooki were Eric’s parents.
I had never met them, but Dana obviously had, as they gave her a warm hug and held her hand for several long seconds.

“Jolie,” Pooki said, “do you know Gedward and Ger… I mean Edward and Gertrude?
They’re Eric’s parents.”

“Oh, my!”
Gertrude Morton’s eyes immediately flooded.

How could I be so insensitive?
I had found their son’s body. I might be the last person they wanted to see.

“We didn’t come in until last night or we would have called,” Edward Morton said, in a very formal tone.
I sensed from his manner that even if it had not been his son’s funeral he would have had on a dark suit and navy blue tie with tiny red dots.

“Gosh, I certainly wouldn’t expect you to call,” I said, looking at Mr. Morton as Mrs. Morton gave me her hand.
“I’m so sorry you have to be here,” I said.

“Will you be in town the next few days?” Mr. Morton asked.

I felt as if everyone was looking at me as I stammered, “Yes. Can I do something for you?”

They both shook their heads.
“We just wanted to chat for a couple of minutes. You were the last person to see him…” Gertrude Morton said.

“Well, almost,” Pooki said, in a very solemn tone.

I stared at her for a moment, and then realized she meant the murderer.

She put her hands over her mouth.
“I didn’t mean, I mean…”

“It’s all right, dear,” Mr. Morton said, softly.

Mrs. Morton’s mouth formed a grimace that she quickly altered to a stiff smile. She did not look as if she was cutting Pooki any slack.

“I just wanted to bring regards from the guys,” Morehouse threw in, from behind me.

In a town this small, it did not seem odd for members of the police force to come to a wake or funeral, but Morehouse’s comment made me think he knew the Mortons in a more than passing way.

“Best barbeque in town,” Mr. Morton said, and Mrs. Morton let Morehouse give her a peck on the cheek.

Morehouse placed a hand at the small of my back, as you would for a friend, except he was not especially my friend, and the push he gave me was a bit much.

“We’re going to have some at the tree lot tomorrow night.
You stop by, yours is on me,” he said.

The Mortons’ attention had to turn to whoever was behind Morehouse, so Edward Morton gave Morehouse a quick nod and looked away.

“What about barbeque?” I asked.

“Fraternal Order of Police sells it to get money for Christmas ‘Shop with a Cop.’
Morton always bought it for staff in his law office.”

“That was nice.
He’s a lawyer?”

We were in the small foyer now.
“Forget what he is,” Morehouse said, in a low voice. “You don’t go talking to them. It’s none of your business.”

“Hey, I didn’t…” I began.

“Jolie.” The door to the street had just opened and Bill Oliver walked in.

I walked over and gave him a big hug.
“I wasn’t sure if I’d see you here,” I said.

“George here?” he asked, as he nodded at Morehouse.

Morehouse gave a half-snort, half laugh. I figured the combination of George and Jolie was not his favorite. “You call anytime, Bill.” Morehouse said, and left.

“He came earlier,” I said.
“It’s his night at the tree lot.”

Bill shook his head slightly.
“He cracks me up. He badgers the police, clerks of court, anybody in town, really, and then he sells Christmas trees with them.”

“Part of his charm,” I said.

“Listen, Jolie,” Bill gave a nod toward the back of the funeral home. As we walked back a couple of people gave him a wave or quick hug. With the certainty of someone familiar with a place, he opened a door and we went into a room and he shut the door.

It was one of those little rooms where funeral home staff let you cry a bit and then go over prices and flower arrangements and such.
The carpet was thick and the Chippendale-style table had a high sheen. Bill leaned against the wall and pointed to one of the two chairs. I shook my head and half-sat on the table.

“Did you figure out anything?” he asked.

I hated having to talk to Bill about his brother’s death.
What if it were Renée?
“I went out there today, at the time they were supposed to accept bids.”

“Anyone besides Marky?” he asked, not bothering to hide contempt.

“Just him and his dad,” I said.

“Andrew Markham?”
He said this half as a question and half as a statement.

“Yep.
I talked to them for a minute.”

Bill raised his eyebrows in a question.

“Not much to say. Andrew was kind of irritated that Nat wasn’t there right at ten.” I kept to myself the comment about varying the percentage. I had no idea what it meant, and it seemed unkind to raise something that could be meaningless.

Bill shut his eyes and leaned his head against the wall for a moment.
“It can’t be a coincidence.” He opened his eyes. “Marky Markham has been a screw-up all his life. He’d never have any work if his dad didn’t talk people into hiring his son.”

This seemed a bit extreme, but I had registered the derisive tone he used to say the name that Nat didn’t like, so I figured he’d known him
a long time. All I said was, “It seems like more than a coincidence to me, too. What’s kind of surprising is that the attention, I mean, um…”

“Steve and Eric’s deaths,” he threw in.

“Didn’t attract other companies. At least companies that would have asked for an extension of the bidding deadline.”

Bill shrugged.
“Probably working at Seaside Heights or someplace further south,” he said.

When he didn’t say anything else, I asked, “Are you doing any better?”

“At this point, I’d like to get,” he gestured around the room, “all of this over. My folks want to have a service just before Christmas. My mom’s sisters and their families were all coming home for Christmas. One of them’s in Utah. Mom says she doesn’t want them to pay big airfares when they’re going to be here soon anyway.”

I wasn’t sure what to say.
“That’s good of her.”

He shrugged.
“It’s a memorial service. Steve wanted to be cremated.” His voice broke a little on that word. “I think my parents just aren’t ready to face all of it yet.”

I hated to ask, but I needed to know. “Did you have a chance to go through Steve’s business papers?”

“A lot of them. He’s the one who did the nuts and bolts of the estimates. I’d really like to get my hands on what Markham submitted. I bet it’s a helluva lot more.”

“And they’re going to just pay it,” I said, slowly.

“Their call,” he said, bitterly.

“Can I get them?” I asked.

He looked at me blankly for a second and then caught on. “Steve’s papers? The estimates and stuff?”

I nodded.

He gave a shrug that could easily be called helpless. “Sure. I did ask you to snoop.”

I flushed.

“I’m kidding, Jolie. Somebody who cares needs to really look at the stuff, and I just don’t have the emotional energy to do more.
The cops went through them quickly, but since they seem to think it’s an accidental hit and run, and not related to the Silver Times estimate, they didn’t do more than look.”

After Bill talked briefly to the Mortons we stopped at Eric’s apartment and he went in to get the material.
When he leaned over to pass it to me through the car window, I thought he looked fifteen years older than he did at last year’s high school reunion.

I rolled up my window and was about to drive away when Bill tapped on the window.
I rolled it down again.

“I like George,” he said, “but I don’t want to see any of this in the paper.
Can you make sure George doesn’t print this?”

“Sure,” I said.
As I pulled away I knew that the only way to be sure nothing about Steve’s figures appeared in the
Ocean Alley Press
was to keep the numbers away from George.
And you thought this boyfriend stuff couldn’t get any more complicated.

I YAWNED AND PUSHED the detailed repair estimate to the other side of the oak kitchen table. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, so after two hours it was no wonder I hadn’t found it. Plus I was behind on B&B work. Aunt Madge dusts and vacuums guest rooms every day. I’ve watched her, it takes maybe ten minutes per room. I should be so fast.

I had done about half an hour of guest room tidying when I got back from the funeral home.
There were two guests arriving Friday evening and they had to be my first priority. “You really should check the bathrooms for guest soap and shampoo,” I said aloud.

I ignored myself and pulled the material back toward me.
Steve Oliver had broken down the estimate by each separate repair and listed major work steps for each. While Elmira Washington’s apartment needed only about fifteen hours of work, it had to be done over several days so they could take down drywall, clean behind it and let it dry, put up new drywall, paint and let it dry, do a second coat, and then put back trim. I noted he allowed more than an hour to cover much of the first floor in plastic and put plastic across doorways of other rooms.

It sounded like a lot of work, but the cost was way less than the preliminary dollar amount that Elmira had gotten from Silver Times staff.
I thought about that. I remembered the “initial estimate, not binding” note on the bottom. As my eyes went back to the long list of tabulations at the end of 112 pages of project description I realized who should be looking at this. Lance Wilson.

I FINALLY HAD A HOUSE TO APPRAISE. Mr. and Mrs. Adams looked to be in their mid-seventies, and they’d had their house three blocks behind the Cozy Corner for almost thirty years. “As soon as our kids moved out we sold the house in Newark and skedaddled down here,” Mr. Adams informed me.

“You bought at a good time,” I murmured.
I was trying to pay attention to him as I wrote down the measurements for the bedroom we were standing in. He followed me from room to room, making a point to tell me every improvement they had made and why he thought the house was worth a sum I figured was easily $25,000 more than an appraisal could justify. I just smiled.

“I really appreciate you coming on quick notice,” he said.
“Mr. Argrow said you didn’t mind coming any time.”

I’ll have to talk to Lester
.

Mrs. Adams said little, just sat and rocked quietly in the living room with a partially-knitted scarf on her lap, her hands resting on top of it.
She was the perfect customer. No distractions.

When we got to the smallest of the three bedrooms, Mr. Adams lowered his voice.
“You know Lance Wilson, right?”

I looked up from my notebook.
“Sure. He’s on the Harvest for All Committee.” The Adams go to First Prez, so they knew what I did in my so-called free time.

“He says he likes it out there.
You heard anyone doesn’t like it?”

It took me a few seconds to realize he was talking about Silver Times.
I thought for a few seconds. “I’ve been out there a couple of times the last week or so, but I only know a few people. Do you know Elmira Washington from church?”

He made a face and I smiled.
“How about Margaret Chasworthy? She moved from a duplex to assisted living not too long ago.”

“Oh, I forgot about her.” He looked at the floor and then back to me.
“We were going to try a duplex, but Mother isn’t really up to that any more.”

I almost said it was amazing that his mother was able to even consider living independently when I realized he meant his wife.
“Oh. I didn’t realize she was ill. I’m sorry.”

He tapped his head.
“The dementia,” he said, softly.

That stopped me.
I realized that what I thought of as peaceful rocking was more a sign of a mind grown more feeble. “Margaret seems to have adjusted well. Give her a call.”

I didn’t know what else to say.
I think about things like Alzheimer’s and dementia sometimes. What would I do if Aunt Madge couldn’t live alone anymore? Could she stay in the Cozy Corner, with all the steps? Would I be able to take care of her? What about Harry?

I went back to my work.
Thanks to the conversational Mr. Adams, it took me more than another half-hour to finish the measurements and exterior photos. He seemed so pleased to have someone to talk to that I was actually patient with him.

THERE WERE THREE messages at the office when I got back there. Two were from Elmira.

“Andrew Markham said you’d be here Sunday, Jolie.
Come by before the hotdog contest, so you don’t forget afterwards.”

“Who does she think she is?” I said to the answering machine.

“And bring a calculator,” said the second message. “I went to the hardware store and priced wallboard.”

The third message was in Spanish, so I figured it was a wrong number.
I frowned as I sat at the computer to enter my measurements into the appraisal software. If business didn’t pick up again soon I’d find myself on the other side of the food pantry counter myself.

GEORGE CALLED WHEN I got back to the Cozy Corner. He and Scoobie were true to their word and had devised a schedule to spend the nights with me. I had worried that George would stay every night, and had been a bit nervous. I hadn’t spent that much one-on-one time with anyone since I left my husband. George had two “really early mornings,” as he put it, and preferred to get up at home those days. Saturday was one of them. He had to cover an out-of-town playoff game for the Ocean Alley High School football team.

“So, I figure if you can’t have me Scoobie’s a good substitute,” he said, as he ended the explanation.

“Ramona’s better than both of you. She’s coming over for a bit tonight.”

“She’s not walking, is she?
We don’t know who broke in…” he began.

“Give me some credit, Mr. Reporter.
I’m picking her up.” Ramona doesn’t have a car, and generally walks from her small apartment to her job at The Purple Cow, the local office supply store. She’s worked there for years, preferring to save her mental energy for making her 1970s-era clothes and doing her pen and ink drawings, which are really good.

I went back to the list of estimates I was looking at again.
I hadn’t called Lance yet. He was more than good with numbers, he could look at a problem from all angles. But I knew he would not understand me looking into project costs, even if Bill had asked me to, as he put it, snoop. I’d have to sweet-talk Lance in person.

Besides, what good did it do to look at just Steve’s estimates?
It seemed unlikely I could get Markham Construction’s, but since the Silver Times Board was to meet tonight, maybe George would have some figures. When he talked to Fred Brennan earlier in the day, Fred had immediately been sorry he mentioned how quickly the board would move to approve “one of the bids” and get construction started. George pushed to go to the board meeting.

Brennan had initially told George it was not a public meeting, then finally agreed that George could attend at least part of it since “he was doing such an upbeat story on Silver Times.”

Maybe it won’t be upbeat
.

The phone rang, bringing the call I’d been dreading.
“Jolie, it’s Edward Morton,” he said.

My fingers were sweaty holding the phone.
I hadn’t gone to Eric’s funeral that morning, I just couldn’t. Part of it was that I didn’t want dozens of people to give me a hug or ask questions about the night Morehouse and I found Eric at the Cozy Corner. And part of it is that I hate any funeral. And part of it was Pooki. I thought she would hang onto me at least some of the time afterwards. I felt sorry for her, but I had pretty much decided I didn’t like her.

What am I supposed to say?
“I remember you said you’d call. I hope your day went as well as it could.”

“In many ways it did.
Eric certainly had a lot of friends.” When I didn’t say anything, he continued. “I know I said Gertrude and I would like to meet with you, but we simply aren’t up to it now, and we want to drive back to Manhattan early tomorrow.”

I had forgotten where they’d moved when they left Ocean Alley after Eric graduated from high school.
I murmured something soppy, and felt hugely relieved.

“We wanted to thank you for helping Eric, and let you know that we will be available to you at any time.”
His tone was very formal.

“I wish I hadn’t left him…” I began, in a hoarse voice.

“That’s exactly why we wanted to call. He didn’t want to go back out, and you obliged him. You must
never
feel guilty.”

I recognized what a great kindness his call was, but all I wanted to do was get off the phone.
“My head knows that,” I said softly. Jazz jumped onto the oak table and nuzzled my elbow. A hug from her was unheard of, unless she wanted something. I stroked her. “He was a lovely man,” I said.
What else can I say?

“He was, and we will miss him forever.”
He paused before continuing. “This may sound crass, but I know you are recently on your own. My wife and I wondered, well, if you needed anything.”

Was he offering me money?
I sat up straighter and Jazz swatted me. “I…thank you, but I’ve landed on my feet. I found a good job in Ocean Alley and Aunt Madge is the best.”

“Good,” he said in a kind of forced hearty tone.
“We are getting ready to offer a reward for any evidence that helps find Eric’s killer. Gertrude and I wanted you to know that we value your help to Eric as much as any assistance to someone who helps the police.”

I needed to get off the phone before I totally lost it.
“Thank you,” I said. “I hope you get to find out.”

Whether it was my stuffy nose or his own schedule, Edward Morton got off the phone quickly.
I looked at the spot where Eric’s body had been and then turned back to the table and buried my head in my arms and sobbed.

SCOOBIE’S VOICE DISPLAYED panic, which is rare for him. “Reverend Jamison has had about twenty calls this morning. We’re going to have a ton of people.”

George had written a short article about the teens who were volunteering for hurricane cleanup as part of the newly organized Ecumenical Youth Group Reverend Jamison and Father Teehan had more or less bullied Scoobie to lead.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” I asked.

“No! It’s a practice contest. We were going to do it in the Harvest for All space, remember? Have the teens gorging on one side of the counter and their parents and friends on the other.”

We were still trying to figure out whether to ask for donations from the parents.
“That’s a good…” I began.

“It was a good idea.
We’ll be swamped. Didn’t you see the article? Hey, were you crying?”

“Yes.
I’m allowed.”

“You need me to come over?”

“I’m okay,” I said, knowing his response.

“It’s okay to not be okay.”

“I wish I had five dollars for every time you said that. What did the article say? I only looked at the front page.”

“He featured the hot dog eating contest as the teens’ idea and said they were rounding up a practice audience for their rehearsal on Sunday. What got tons of people interested in coming is he said we were going to split the proceeds between Harvest for All and the Red Cross Hurricane Sandy relief.”

I fired up. “Who decided that?”

“Your bed mate.
The point is, we won’t have room, and I have an anatomy test this afternoon. Can you find another location and tell George so he can put it in tomorrow’s…”

“What?
A location for Sunday!?”

“Monday would be kind of late,” he said.

“Who does he think he is, giving some of our money to the Red Cross?” I stopped. “He thought it would be a good hook for the story, didn’t he?”

“Pretty scary you’re getting to know him that well.
Listen,” Scoobie said, “I have a test in five minutes and Reverend Jamison is getting all the calls. He doesn’t feel like he can have it at the church because it’s not something their board or anybody decided to do.”

“What about Father Teehan?”

“Call him.” Scoobie hung up.

I fumed for five full minutes before getting a grip, as Aunt Madge would say.
I think the Red Cross is great, but we’re going to have more hungry people at Harvest for All than usual this winter. And I figure some of the regular winter donors will channel their money into direct Hurricane Sandy help. Which I get, but it doesn’t help feed Ocean Alley people.

Father Teehan picked up the phone himself and listened with his usual patience. “Jolie,” he said, “I feel badly, but we have half the parking lot used for the tree sale, and I can’t schedule this without talking to the St. Anthony’s Parish Council.
Reverend Jamison told me about the dilemma, so I made some calls.”

“I love you,” I said.

“Not appropriate,” he quipped. “The teens have volunteered at the nursing home on the Silver Times campus, and at a couple local homes that needed their yards cleaned up. Obviously the homeowners can’t help, but Fred Brennan said we can use the large dining room at Silver Times independent living building. We just have to put plastic on the floor in the area where the kids are eating.”

“It would be perfect,” I breathed.
And maybe I can talk to some people
.

The rest of Friday was a blur.
When I called George to give him the new location for Sunday’s “Big Eat,” I couldn’t even yell at him for saying we’d give money to the Red Cross because he was working on two stories and had the Silver Times meeting Friday night.

I called Aretha to see if she could help Reverend Jamison’s secretary answer phones.
The blue-haired prune is always mad at me about something, and I wasn’t sure how she would respond to people calling about gorging on hot dogs. She was probably way above her patience quota, and Aretha usually has patience to share.

Lance said he would work with Sylvia about how to accept donations on Sunday, and then he’d scout out the dining room and kitchen area in his temporary home to get some ideas for how to set up for Sunday.
Mr. Markle said he would try to get us more hot dogs on the cheap, and that we had to stop the last-minute requests. I sweet-talked him more than usual.

I left two messages with Molly, to see what Fred Brennan needed us to do or not do in the dining room and kitchen on Sunday.
No phone call back.