Appraisal for Murder

APPRAISAL FOR MURDER

by Elaine Orr

Kindle, Nook, epub Edition

Published by Elaine L. Orr

APPRAISAL FOR MURDER

Copyright 2011 by Elaine L. Orr

ISBN: 978-0-9645997-9-6

Poetry by James W. Larkin

Copyright 2011 by James W. Larkin

This ebook edition is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be sold or given to other people. If you want to share this book with others, please purchase an additional copy.

Discover other books and novellas by Elaine Orr on Smashwords.

Biding Time
(young adult)

Secrets of the Gap
(mystery with a touch of romance)

Searching for Secrets
(mystery with a touch of romance)

Appraisal for Murder
(first of the Jolie Gentil cozy mystery series)

Rekindling Motives
(continuing the Jolie Gentil series)

Tess and All Kinds (short story)

www.elaineorr.com

THE ONLY REASON I DIDN’T SHOOT Robby was because I couldn’t think of how to do it without getting caught. About two weeks later I found out that in addition to embezzling from his bank my husband also stole money from our joint IRA. I should have thought harder.

It all happened pretty fast. I like to think that if Robby had blown the money over more than a couple months I would have wised up to it. Or, maybe not. The only bank statement I ever looked at was my separate checking account. After all, my husband was Mr. Commercial Banker. That’s how I met him. I was Ms. Commercial Real Estate.

But, not any more. I did not exactly flee Lakewood. I quit my job and left. There’s a difference. And now I need a job.

I walked faster, hearing the thunk of my footsteps on the nearly deserted boardwalk. Three months ago I could not have imagined leaving my deluxe condo in Lakewood, New Jersey and moving into Aunt Madge’s Cozy Corner B&B in Ocean Alley. Three months ago I didn’t know my husband had been gambling away our assets in New Jersey casinos on evenings I thought he was at Rotary or Lions or one of his other clubs.

My memories of Ocean Alley are mixed. As a kid I especially liked the beach. It wasn’t because of the boardwalk, cotton candy, or suntanned lifeguards, but because Aunt Madge was a lot less strict than my parents. She also fell asleep pretty early, so I essentially had the run of the boardwalk after she tucked me in at 8:30.

My parents also trusted me to Aunt Madge the year they were ‘working out issues’ in their marriage, so I spent my junior year of high school with her in Ocean Alley. I was mad at everyone about being there, including my sister, who was in graduate school and thus able to retain some control over her life. I did a lot of roaming by myself. I had few friends, and didn’t like the way half the boys teased me about my name. Those memories are one reason that I didn't keep up with anyone. I visited Aunt Madge many times through the years, but when I came to see her I didn’t stroll through town that much.

Right now, I’m especially glad I kept my own name when Robby and I married. Jolie Gentil. It’s pronounced Zho-Lee Zhan-tee. The “J” is soft, which distinguishes my name from a southern moniker, such as Bobbi Lee. It’s rare that anyone gets it right on the first try. As a child I did not like this one bit. Now I consider it a useful way to recognize telemarketers.

My father is of French descent, as he will tell anyone within shouting distance if he gets the chance.
Jolie
means pretty in French, and
gentil
means nice. Clearly, my parents were not thinking straight when they named me. I attribute the name to the twenty-two hours my mother was in labor, something she does not hesitate to mention.

I shivered. It was cool for October, even for the shore. I had a hooded windbreaker over my loose-knit yellow turtleneck, which I thought went well with my dark brown hair with its blonde highlights, the latter courtesy of whatever brand had been on sale two weeks ago when I decided to leave Robby. I stood by him when he had his probable cause hearing, and was greatly relieved that he later decided to plead guilty to the embezzlement charge. I didn’t think I could take sitting behind him during a trial looking like the loyal wife. He was barely willing to talk to me about what he had done. He acted as if this was just a slight financial setback – as if his 401(k) account had gone down a little – rather than a federal crime.

Since Robby hadn’t had a chance to steal much from his bank and he had no prior record, his lawyer is encouraging about no jail time if he pleads guilty and makes restitution. I don’t figure he’ll get that fortunate. He’s lucky I’m not suing his ass for forging my name to steal from our IRA. My father advised me that I would spend a lot in legal fees and the amount I would recover, since Robby is broke, might not be worth the time and trouble. Fortunately, I was able to talk my parents out of coming up from Florida for Robby’s hearing. My mother would have made me nervous. And my father might have hit Robby.

I checked out the ocean as I quickened my pace. I know that it won’t go anyplace, but it amazes me how different it can look from one day to another. Today the breakers were foamier than yesterday and there was a gray cast to the sky, making the water seem darker. The wind was from the land, so the smell of saltwater and brine did not reach the boardwalk.

I determinedly pushed thoughts of Robby out of my mind as I entered Java Jolt, one of the few boardwalk businesses open year round. The year I lived in Ocean Alley it had been an arcade, and I had spent a lot of time trying to make the highest score in a video game called “Screw the Bunny.” Every time you could make the male and female bunnies run into each other there were suddenly six more bunnies. However, if you made two females or males collide, four vanished. I regret to say that I sometimes fed my bunny addiction with quarters that guests left as tips on Aunt Madge’s small breakfast tables.

Java Jolt owner Joe Regan nodded at me as I slipped off my jacket and draped it over a chair. Although he only moved to Ocean Alley about five years ago, you’d think he had lived here forever. He has the lean good looks of a strong surfer. All he’s missing is the sun-enhanced blonde hair, his being brown with a hint of red.

I’m not into designer coffee, so I helped myself to the regular brew that sits on the counter in large thermoses. Once the tourist season is over, Joe leaves an oversized sugar bowl on the counter and you pay for your coffee on the honor system. I eyed the pastries longingly. I had no reason to eat any; Aunt Madge has a well-stocked breakfast nook. I reached for a chocolate chip muffin, chastising myself even before I took the first bite.

“The usual, I see,” came Joe Regan’s voice. He has a way of smirking with words that can be annoying.

“I wish you’d keep the chocolate chip ones behind the counter so I’d have to ask for them. Then I wouldn’t be so tempted.”

“That’d be good for sales,” he said, grinning as I turned my back on him and moved toward the two computers that sit against the window. The Cozy Corner B&B does not have Internet service, so I do a lot of my job hunting with Joe’s open access computers.

I settled into my email inbox, where I had offers to order products as diverse as Viagra, cappuccino recipes, and Bibles.
You could buy all three and stay up all night reading scripture
. I started to giggle when the door to the coffee house opened with more vigor than usual. The man who entered looked to be in his late twenties, and I wondered idly if he had been at Ocean Alley High when I was. The voice confirmed it.

“Black, large, extra strong,” he said to Joe. No pleasantries here. Michael Riordan had run for senior class president at the end of junior year. He got his butt kicked. To an outsider, this might have seemed hard to believe, given his good looks and dark blue convertible. However, he tended to date girls for a few months and then drop them. Thus, he was not the candidate of the girls I heard talking about him in the bathroom in between classes. This had not been discussed much prior to the election, in case he won.

I had my own reasons not to remember him too fondly. We were in the same homeroom, and he came up to me the first day of eleventh grade. At lunch that day, he sat with me and introduced me to a number of other classmates who stopped by the table. Nearly tongue-tied in his presence, I rehearsed a couple of lame jokes and tried them at lunch the second day. By the third day, it was as if he didn’t know me. Didn’t say hello in homeroom and sat with a couple of cheerleaders at lunch.

In the grand scheme of life it was not a big deal. At the time, stinging from what I saw as my parents’ rejection and mad at being away from my own friends, it really hurt. I spent a couple of days wondering what he was saying about me to others, and the rest of the school year practicing rude comments in case he talked to me again. No worries there. Now, I can ruefully acknowledge he probably felt as awkward as I did – what do you say to a new kid who doesn’t seem able to talk in your presence?

As I returned my gaze to the computer screen Michael turned slightly to his left and I could feel him look at me. I wasn’t up for pleasantries any more than he seemed to be, so I didn’t acknowledge his vaguely quizzical expression. I’d seen it a number of times in the ten days since I’d moved in with Aunt Madge. The “do-I-know-her?” look. I ignored him.

My attention went to the Internet classifieds, and I searched job listings for the area. Pickings are slim unless you want to work in a hotel or restaurant or maintain an office computer network. This was also the sixth day in a row I had read the listing for an exciting career in the trucking industry (“short hauls only, no overnights”), but I wasn’t up for regular tours of Jersey and Manhattan. Since I didn’t know what I was looking for, I didn’t spend a lot of time at the site. Despite my hopes, there just isn’t going to be something interesting, well paying, and fun with my name on it.

The door banged again as Michael Riordan left, and I turned to meet Joe Regan’s glance. He held up a five dollar bill. “Not exactly Mr. Personality, but he tips well.” He grinned.

“That’s too bad.” Not sure what else to say, I turned back to the computer. I hadn’t seen the guy for ten years and couldn’t recall meeting his mother, though I thought she was a friend of Aunt Madge’s.

I went back to the job listings, expanding my search to towns as far as twenty miles north or south of Ocean Alley. A sidebar offered advice for job seekers. “Define your best skills and look for jobs that use them.”
That qualifies as remedial job seekers’ advice.
I define my best skill as persistence, although others tend to label this as my stubborn streak.

After a few minutes, I logged off, refilled my coffee cup and started a slower walk back to Aunt Madge’s. She lives three blocks back from the ocean, which she says gives her the illusion of being safe from hurricane damage. Ocean Alley is almost two miles long but only twelve blocks deep, with each street that is parallel to the ocean named for a letter of the alphabet. I’ve heard that when Ocean Alley incorporated there was a move to change the names of all the streets and arrange them alphabetically, but the City Council could never agree on the names so they just used letters. However, the alphabet starts with ‘B.’ The Great Atlantic Hurricane removed the old boardwalk and most of ‘A’ Street in 1944. It’s the main reason Aunt Madge won’t live any closer to the ocean.

At the corner of C and Main I entered the Purple Cow, Ocean Alley’s small office supply store. If I was going to get serious about looking for a job, I probably needed some bond paper for my resume. Of course, I had to figure out what ‘career objective’ to write on the paper. Near the door was a white board on which someone had written, “It does not take much strength to do things, but it requires great strength to decide on what to do.” Elbert Hubbard.

I realized the sales clerk was staring at me.
What, did I dribble coffee again?

“Didn’t you go to high school here?” she asked.

“Yes, I did, but just for one year.” Her face was familiar. I didn’t have any negative memories, so I held out my hand. “Jolie Gentil. I was here for eleventh grade, but that was more than ten years ago.”