Appraisal for Murder (3 page)

I was going to go see Harry Steele. The only question was, should I tell Aunt Madge before or after?
Manners, Jolie.
I mentioned it to her on the way out.

I drove along G Street to Harry’s, slowing every now and then to see how a house I’d been in during high school had changed. My good friend Margo had lived in a small blue bungalow, and I thought I’d missed it until I realized it now had a second story and yellow vinyl siding. Ocean Alley, town of transitions.

Harry Steele’s place also looked as if it had been built in the Victorian period, but it had not been kept up as well as Aunt Madge’s. Paint was in early stages of peeling and a gutter dangled from the right side.

The house looked as if he was working on it. The front porch, with its rails and intricate lattice work, had some new boards and was partially painted. It looked as if he was going to go with what I think of as a gingerbread house design. The rails themselves were a dark green, the latticework beneath them was yellow, and trim on the windows on the porch was a lighter green. I never understand why people make painting so complicated.

I rang the old-fashioned bell and heard a deep bong inside the house. Hurried footsteps brought an older man to the door and he greeted me as if he’d known me for years. “Madge Richards’ niece. What an honor. Do come in.”

“I take it Aunt Madge called.” I should have figured.

He laughed, showing a full set of teeth. He was quite a bit taller than I, but then, who isn’t? He had a red face and hair that was auburn mixed with white. Though you wouldn’t call him exceptionally fit, he was in pretty good shape for a man I judged to be in his mid-sixties, not much younger than Aunt Madge. Despite his Anglo-Saxon name I pegged him for someone with a lot of Irish blood, which I also have, through my mother’s side of the family.

I murmured something polite and followed him into the room on the right. It had once been the formal drawing room, but had at some point been divided in two. He had taken out the partitions that had split the room and replaced the wood in the floor that had been damaged by the two-by-fours that had held the partition wallboard. There was an ornate fireplace at one end, a huge pie safe in a corner, and a large, old-fashioned desk. Under the windows near his desk was a table similar to Aunt Madge’s kitchen table, and on it were piled stacks of file folders. The only truly modern thing in the room (besides his computer) was his desk chair, which looked very ergonomically correct.

I glanced at him, and realized he was watching me survey the room. “I was just admiring your progress at renovation,” I said, feeling myself flush under his gaze.

“It’s a labor of love, I tell you. Madge has been advising me on where to get wood that comes close to matching the old trim in this room. She’s quite a lady. Did she tell you that my grandparents owned the house for thirty years?” He spoke fast, almost as if he was nervous.

“She said you enjoyed your time here.” I tried to imagine a five-year old Harry in a wet swimsuit, tracking sand into this house.

“Boy did I. My kids think I’m nuts to be renovating it, but if you don’t do something crazy in your life, why bother living?” He gestured that I should sit in one of two chairs in front of his desk, and he sat next to me.

I liked this man immediately. “My mother thinks I’m crazy to come here to live, so we’re even.”

He smiled. “And you might be interested in doing some appraisal work?”

“I’m thinking about it. I’ve kept my appraisal credentials in order, but I haven’t used them in more than six years. I’ve been doing commercial real estate work in Lakewood.” I hesitated. “Did Aunt Madge tell you why I came back?”

“Nope, but do you know Elmira Washington? She did.” His eyes looked kind.

“I keep trying to remember that compulsive gambling is an illness. He’s in some kind of treatment program now, and he goes to a lot of meetings.” I didn’t add that I figured with the extent Robby avoided talking about his compulsion, he’d be stuck for five years on step one, admitting he had a problem.

“Good attitude.” He grew businesslike. “I don’t have a lot of business yet. Truth be told, I spend more than half my time renovating this place.” He waved his hands toward the hallway. “I’m doing a lot myself. The rest of the house doesn’t look nearly as good as this room.” As his eyes met mine he continued, “I’d be willing to talk to you about some part-time work, pay you on a case-by-case basis. I could use a colleague who has a better feel for the town’s neighborhoods than I do at this point.”

I almost told him I hadn’t spent much time here the last few years, and then remembered I was supposed to be selling myself, not selling myself short. “I’ve never thought of Ocean Alley as having neighborhoods, but I guess it does.” My humor returned. “Do you appraise much near the bowling alley?” “Best Bowl” is on the far southern end of town, and the area around it has houses in various stages of repair. A few years ago, someone painted theirs a garish chartreuse and since then nearly every repainting job has entailed an equally prominent color.

“More people than you think want those popsicle houses. That neighborhood has the only real bargains left in Ocean Alley.”

That stopped my jokes. I really was out of date. “I figure you’ll want me to spend some time going over your recent appraisals, and I’d be happy to do that on my own time.” I decided I wanted to work with this man, and needed to demonstrate some level of personal commitment.

We talked about his family for a few minutes and I sidestepped most discussion of mine, except for Aunt Madge. When we shook hands as I was leaving, he said he would have some cards printed for me, and that I could feel free to pass them out at local real estate offices.

Instead of driving straight back to Aunt Madge’s I drove the few blocks to the boardwalk and walked along it. I was restless and anxious, two emotions I don’t usually have, and wanted to walk. More than half of the boardwalk stores had closed for the season, and the few that were open had huge sale signs as they tried to get a little more business before shuttering for the winter, which they would do after Thanksgiving weekend. It had not been a good tourist season for Ocean Alley. It was cool and rainy on Memorial Day weekend, and that set the tone for a cooler-than-normal summer. Threats of the remnants of a hurricane, which had not materialized, kept Labor Day traffic light, too.

I turned toward the ocean and took a deep breath. The wind had shifted, so there was a hint of salt in the cool sea breeze. As I started walking again, I saw Michael Riordan about fifty yards ahead, sitting on a bench facing the ocean. He certainly seemed to have a lot of free time. I should talk. I debated going up to him, and decided that if I was going to let people know what I was doing in Ocean Alley I was going to have to talk to more than Aunt Madge, Jazz, and the dogs. Maybe he wasn’t as big a jerk as he was in eleventh grade.

I paused near his bench. “You’re Michael Riordan, aren’t you?”

He jumped slightly in surprise. He must have been concentrating very hard on something. “Yes.” He stood. “I saw you this morning. You look familiar.” He had a very direct way of looking you in the eye as he held out his hand, which I took.

“We didn’t know each other well. I spent a lot of summer time here, and went to high school at OAH for eleventh grade. Jolie Gentil.” He was quite tall, maybe 6’2” and there were a few flecks of gray in his dark brown hair. Oil business in Texas must be pretty stressful.

He nodded in recognition and started to say something, then seemed to change his mind. He gestured to the bench. “Would you like to join me in the view?” he asked.

His attitude was one of perfunctory politeness, but I sat anyway. “I’ve decided to move here. I’m staying with my Aunt Madge. She owns Cozy Corner B&B.”

His look was friendlier now. “Sure. She goes to First Presbyterian, same as my mother. Every now and then I see her when I visit Mom.”

Church is not part of my life’s routine, has not been since I first went to college. I had forgotten that so many of the permanent residents here described one another in terms of the church they, or someone else, attended. “In fact,” he continued, “she taught Sunday School for a few years. She threw me out of her class a couple of times.”

“You must have really been a bad boy. I didn’t know she ever tossed anyone out.”

He grinned. “My parents would say I was so bright I was bored, but I just hated to sit in a classroom on a Sunday. Nothing personal to your aunt. Why’d you move back here?”

I must have stiffened, because he half turned his head to look at me, and his look softened somewhat. “Sorry,” he said. “I guess I’m a little self absorbed at the moment.”

A little?
I figured his mother had the bigger problem. I struggled for something to say. “I’m sure your mother’s glad you’re here.”

At that he gave a half-smile. “She loves it when I visit. Older parents of only children tend to be that way.” His expression darkened again. “I just wish I could do something that would really help her. She helps everybody else.”

He gave a genuine smile and held out his hand. “Does the high school have your address? The ten-year reunion is at Thanksgiving.”

“Ramona told me, I might...”

“Ramona,” he interrupted me. “Talk about someone stuck in a time warp.”

Just when I had started to cut him a little slack. I returned his handshake and was surprised that he held my hand a couple seconds more than a customary shake requires. “You look really good,” he said, looking at me very directly.

“Thanks,” I said, withdrawing my hand as I felt myself blush.

He grinned and turned to walk north on the boardwalk, tossing me a look over his shoulder. “I’ll give you a call at Madge’s.”

His friendliness surprised me, and I hadn’t liked his comment about Ramona.
You could use a friend.
I told myself he was going through a bad time because his mother was dying. Maybe he was less critical of people when he wasn’t dealing with something that tough. I decided it would be okay if he called, though I certainly wasn’t looking to date anyone. The ink was barely dry on my separation agreement.

Feeling directionless, I walked into one of the few tourist traps still open and stood looking at the conch shells lining a display
. If anyone ever finds one of those on the beach in Ocean Alley, I’ll eat cat food.
As I glanced up, a man in what could only be described as a very loud golf outfit—lime green shirt and pants with a small green plaid—looked away. I was sure he had been staring at me, then remembered the time a woman on the New York subway had hit me with her umbrella because she was certain I’d been eyeballing her, when all I was doing was studying the subway map above her head.

I walked up and down aisles of useless knick knacks, ashtrays, and magnets. I soon tired of wondering how small a person’s fingers had to be to make miniature crabs out of shells and left the store. After standing idly for a second I turned, to walk north on the boardwalk, and almost walked into the loud golfer. He jumped almost as high as I did.

Since he knew how to pronounce may name correctly, I must have known him, but he looked a good ten years older than I am. “Yes. Are you my personal bodyguard?”

He smiled sheepishly. “I’m Joe Pedone. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

“No thanks.” I didn’t mean to be unfriendly, but the more I looked at him, black patent shoes and well-coiffed hair, I didn’t think I recognized him. “Do I know you?”

“No, but I know your husband.” He studied me as he backed up half a step, apparently trying to ascertain if knowing Robby would make me slug him.

“I’ve learned there were a lot of people who knew him who didn’t know me. And it’ll be former husband as soon as my lawyer makes it legal.”

He cleared his throat. “I’m really sorry about what you’ve been through.” He gestured to a bench. “Could we sit for a minute? My bunion’s killing me.”

I hesitated, then figured the boardwalk was as good a place as any to talk to a stranger. “Sure.” We walked to a bench, one facing the boardwalk rather than the ocean.

He cleared his throat again. “Sinus,” he said.

The man is a walking calamity.

“The thing is,” he continued, “your husband owed some money to some people.”

“I’d be top on that list, I think. He raided all our joint assets, even my personal retirement account. And his bank is more than a little irritated at him.”

“Yeah, I read about that.” He cleared his throat again. I was tempted to tell him just to have a good spit in the sand, but I didn’t. “See, my boss lent him some money, to kind of help him out.”

“Your boss was a fool,” I said.