Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 05 - Trouble on the Doorstep (4 page)

Pooki came downstairs carrying her still-wet clothes, and I handed her a plastic garbage bag.
We walked to my car in silence and she didn’t say a word during the short ride to the Ocean Alley Police Station.

When I parked she asked, “Can you, like, tell them to come out and get me?”

“It’s life, not TV. No one knows you’re here. Come on.”

Sullen attitude firmly in place, she followed me through the glass door into the small station lobby.
“We need to see Sgt. Morehouse,” I said to the officer on duty.

“He’s pretty busy.
Can I help you?” the man asked. I didn’t think I’d met him, and I knew most of the small force. He was in his early twenties, and I judged him to be new not just because of his age but because it looked as if he’d ironed the sleeves of his uniform.

I jerked my head toward Pooki.
“I have one of the reasons.” He stared at me, uncertain what I meant. “This is Pooki Morton.” Still nothing.

“Eric Morton’s wife,” she said.

“What in the hell is this?” Sgt. Morehouse must have been just the other side of the door that led into the office area, and he had pushed the button to unlock it before the desk clerk did. He fumed his way into the small lobby. “In here, both of youse.”

I knew he was really mad.
He rarely reverts to his native Jersey speak. I gestured that Pooki should go before me, and both of us followed him toward the small conference room I knew to be down the hall.

“Tortino,” he yelled.
“We got the wife.”

Lieutenant Tortino looked out of his office and his eyebrows shot up.
“I should have known,” he said, looking at me.

LUCKILY, POOKI had burst into tears right about then, so Morehouse and Tortino had to calm her down and give her tissues and coffee. That gave Morehouse a chance to get that I’d done him a favor of sorts, and he and Officer Dana Johnson listened to Pooki between her gulps, with me filling in with what little I knew. Lt. Tortino had gone to call her parents.

I was out of there in fifteen minutes, without the usual warning to mind my own business.
My phone chirped.

“Where the heck are you?” Scoobie asked.

“Just dropped Pooki with Morehouse and crew,” I said.

“Excuse me?
I go looking for information for you and you already got her out of here?”

I heard Miss Piggy’s yip in the background.
“Sorry. I told her the radio said Steve Oliver had gotten some kind of warning letter and she said Eric did, too. That was it for me.”

“Good riddance,” he said.
“Except I’m sorry for Bill.”

“Me too,” I said, wondering if his brother’s death would bring Bill Oliver back to Ocean Alley.
I wanted to see what he knew.
What the heck is wrong with me?

“I’m problem-free,” I said.

“I don’t think so. You’re going to have to deal with George.”

EVERYONE I SAW on Sunday talked about where Eric Morton could be and whether Steve Oliver’s death was really a hit and run or maybe something more sinister. I don’t think that would have occurred to anyone, except that Eric was missing. I couldn’t imagine why Eric would leave that message for Pooki, but if he was anything like what I saw of her behavior, it would be hard to guess at reasons for why he stayed out of sight.

I felt really bad for Bill Oliver. I couldn’t imagine losing Renée.
I wanted to talk to Bill, but his practice was closed on Sunday and I didn’t have a mobile number for him. I planned to track him down Monday. I would have tried harder on Sunday, but the B&B guests were staying until Monday, and I didn’t want to add any drama to their visit.

Instead, I ate lunch with Ramona in the B&B and she tried to teach me how to make a decent loaf of bread from scratch.
No success there.

I CHECKED IN at Steele Appraisals as soon as the guests left on Monday. One of the best things about moving to Ocean Alley was getting a job with Harry.

Usually there is at least one request for an appraisal on a Monday, but not today.
I checked behind Harry’s desk to make sure no incoming work had fallen off the fax machine. Most people use email now, but Ramona’s Uncle Lester, the biggest pain in the backside of all the Ocean Alley real estate crew, hates email and mostly uses it to send insulting comments to Harry. Since Lester sends us a lot of business, it’s okay. Except when he’s arguing with Harry about the value of one of his properties that I appraised.

Work had dropped to almost nothing since Hurricane Sandy, since most people had at least some clean-up work and didn’t want a real estate agent to show their houses until they were more or less perfect again.
And who had time to shop for a house when they were busy throwing out the contents of their freezer, putting in window glass, or volunteering to help the city crews who were dismantling damaged sections of the boardwalk?

Harry and I figured that eventually some of the people in southern Jersey who lost homes might relocate in our area, meaning a lot of the Ocean Alley houses on the market might sell.
Sad to say, there is not a lot of available housing in the areas Sandy hit the hardest. I wanted more work, but not that way.

It was so quiet in Harry’s home office that the phone startled me.
“Steele Appraisals,” I said.

“Jolie?”

Why does this voice make me shiver?
“Yes, can I help you?”

“It’s Elmira Washington.”

It took me a couple seconds to reply. “Hello Elmira. I guess you know where Harry is.” My heart was actually beating faster. Every town has at least one person who believes it their duty to pass on bad news, and Elmira had seen fit to let everyone know that my ex-husband had embezzled money from his bank and I’d turned tail (her words) and moved in with Aunt Madge.

“I know.
I need your help, Jolie. Something’s wrong at Silver Times.”

And you’re calling me why?
“Did you call the manager or maintenance people?”

“They said they’re tired of talking to me,” she said.

Imagine that.
I took a deep breath and tried to pretend I had Aunt Madge’s patience. “And what is it you think I can do that they can’t?”

“You know how to investigate things.
You need to…”

I cut her off.
“Elmira, you know I’ve only looked at stuff a couple of times when something pertained directly to me. I’m not some sort of investigator.”

“Maybe not officially, but you know how to find things.
You need to come over here right now. I’m in unit seven in the duplex section.” She hung up.

Elmira is the only person I truly dislike in Ocean Alley.
I think she’s mean. I opened a file drawer and took out the folder for a house I was supposed to appraise in early November. They hadn’t had a lot of hurricane damage to repair. Maybe the owner and buyer were ready to close their deal and needed the appraisal this week. I’d call them.

Twenty minutes later I had called that homeowner — “Give us another week” — and checked with a couple of real estate offices to see if they had any deals coming up.
Pickings were as slim as fishing on the beach in low tide.

The phone rang again.
Harry really needs to get caller ID on every phone
. “Steele Appra…”

“Jolie, where are you?”

“Elmira, you know where I am. You also know I’m not your complex manager. I don’t see how I can help you.” And I don’t want to.

“You won’t know that until you see what I mean.
Come over here!” She hung up again.

I sat in Harry’s desk chair and put my head on my folded arms on top of his desk.
I really didn’t want to deal with Elmira, but if I didn’t she’d tell everyone she knew that I’d refused to help her. Half the people she told would think I was smart, the other half might one day take their appraisal work to Jennifer Stenner’s appraisal firm. My bank account is getting low.

IF YOU HADN’T BEEN to Silver Times Senior Living you might think that the small backhoe was just moving dirt around for landscaping and the front garden was torn up because they were planting bulbs. Since I’d been there, I knew there had been a very nice gazebo at the entrance of the large complex. The remnants were probably about to be used for a bonfire.

I didn’t know the place well enough to know where number seven was.
The complex has a mix of one-story duplexes for independent living, an apartment building where you can eat in the dining room if you want to, an assisted living building, and a nursing home. It was about sixty acres, given all the walking paths and the tennis court.

The duplexes have an odd ownership structure, to my thinking.
Silver Times sells the properties. When an owner wants to move they sell it back to Silver Times. Technically, an owner might not need an appraisal, but sometimes they want to know the value of the property before they sell it back to Silver Times.

After a couple of wrong turns, I spotted Elmira’s duplex, but only because she was standing on the small front porch with her arms folded.
Great. She’s ready to pounce
.

The front yard had what had been a fairly small tree and was now just a forlorn trunk.
It would have to be dug out. Other than that, it didn’t look as if she had had any damage. Surely she didn’t want me to dig out the tree’s root ball.

“Inside,” she said.

No pleasantries here.
I followed her through a well appointed living room and into the large combination kitchen and dining area. Her unit was smaller than one I had appraised a few months ago, but it had the same granite countertops and crown molding as the larger one. Very classy. Until you saw the area around the sliding glass door that led to a small garden.

“You really took in some water, didn’t you?”
The wallboard had gotten so wet it was peeling away from the studs, and she, or someone, had pulled back the carpet near the door. I glanced around the kitchen. There was similar damage above her kitchen sink window, but it wasn’t quite as dramatic.

“Are you waiting for someone in particular to do the repairs?” I asked.

“The maintenance staff did some cleanup and the complex put out some sort of request for bids to do all of the repairs. They said that would ensure high-quality work.” She pursed her lips and shook her head slightly. “They finally sent someone around to really look at this mess.”

“I hope they can help you soon,” I said, realizing this work was likely what Eric Morton and Steve Oliver had wanted to bid on.

“They did an estimate for the cost of the repairs. They didn’t want to give me a copy, but I made them.”

Of course you did.
“And?” I asked.

Elmira studied me with a critical eye.
She’s taller than I am and her blue-permed hair has a severe cut. She looks like an elderly drill sergeant. “Tell me what you think it should cost.”

“Is this the only damage?” I asked.

She nodded. “Indoors.”

I’m no fixit guru, but being an appraiser teaches you a little about
the cost of home repair. Every person who’s made improvements on their house wants to tell you how much they spent for the new bathroom or flooring, hoping you’ll make the appraisal higher so they get their asking price.

“I suppose contractors are at a premium right now.”
I had a number in my head, but didn’t care to say it. There were so many factors. Maybe a contractor would not be able to match the carpet color and they’d have to recarpet the entire room. I shook my head. “I really can’t guess. What did they tell you?”

She told me and I gaped at her.
The dollar amount was easily double what I had anticipated.

“What?
Is there mold to clean or something? More damage behind the walls?” I asked.

She shook her head firmly.
“This is it. And I used a bleach and detergent mix myself and rented a dehumidifier. No mold.”

“That’s good,” I murmured as I walked into the kitchen.
“Do you have the actual estimate?”

She nodded and pulled it out of a kitchen drawer and handed it to me.
“It’s not final, according to the powers that be.”

I didn’t ask who that was, but assumed it was the Silver Times management.
As I started to read the estimate there was a loud knock at her front door, and I heard several people talking. She left to answer it.

I skimmed the two-page estimate.
A note at the bottom said “preliminary estimate for use in developing a contractor’s estimate.” I was not sure exactly what that meant, but thought maybe they had to assess some of the damage so they could show a contractor the work to bid on.

I wondered if Silver Times showed this preliminary estimate to the contractors who wanted to bid, or if it was done as a basis of comparison for what came in.
Though the materials seemed expensive — several hundred dollars for wall board and molding? — most of the cost was labor.
I should make so much an hour.

“Jolie’s here?”
It was Scoobie’s voice. I figured he had seen my car.

“Yes.
What do you want?” Elmira asked.

“We have the teen volunteer group,” he said, “I think you put in a request to have the tree dug up in your front yard?”

“I did not,” Elmira said, stiffly. “I don’t have a tree.”

“True,” Scoobie said.
“You have a matchstick sticking up from the ground where you used to have a tree…” The front door slammed.

Elmira’s footfalls sounded like a storm trooper’s from Star Wars.
When she walked into the kitchen her fists were clenched and her face was in full frown. “I don’t want that man on my property!”

I stared at her for a moment, picked up my purse, and started to leave.

“Oh dear, oh dear. I don’t mean you, Jolie,” she said.

“You know very well that Scoobie is my best friend.
No Scoobie, no me.” I ignored her request that I stay and shut the front door firmly behind me.

Scoobie was taking a couple of shovels out of the back of Reverend Jamison’s car, which he had obviously borrowed to transport his crew of three boys and a girl.
He looked up. “I thought maybe you’d had a brain injury,” he said.

“She looks okay to me,” said the girl.

Scoobie flashed her a smile and looked back at me. “I never thought I’d see you with Elmira.”

“Are we going to dig it up anyway?” asked the shortest of the boys.

“Yep,” Scoobie said. “It needs to come out. That lady just didn’t want to talk to me.”

I leaned against my car as Scoobie instructed the teens on what to do and told them to keep the dirt in one spot so they didn’t ruin the grass.
I glanced at the house and saw Elmira peeking from behind a curtain. She must have decided not to make a scene. Unusual for her.

The door to the other half of the duplex opened and a man of about seventy, whose jet black hair was surely dyed, walked out.
He took in the teens and Scoobie, and gave me a nod and began to walk toward me.

Great.
More repair complaints
.

He held out his hand as he approached.
“Andrew Markham,” he said. “Are you her friend who’s an appraiser?”

“I know her, and I am an appraiser,” I said.
“I’m Jolie Gentil.”

He gave me a broad smile.
“So, you really know her if you answer like that,” he said.

I flushed slightly.
“I’m sorry. That was rude.”

“Not at all.
I just,” he lowered his voice and looked toward Scoobie and the teens. “I wanted to let you know she’s been a bit different since the storm.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.
I didn’t add that Elmira seemed as sour as ever to me.