Appraisal for Murder (7 page)

I resented how pleased Elmira looked. She wanted to sound as if she was somehow in the know about Ruth and her son. I could only imagine what she would say about me finding the body.

“I’ll see you at church Sunday.” Aunt Madge’s nod was curt. Elmira probably couldn’t tell that the look on Aunt Madge’s face was pain, but I could.

Elmira didn’t reply, but continued her walk to the cash register. I’d never seen Aunt Madge rebuff anyone. I leaned over and touched her hand. “I’m sorry. Do you want to go?”

NEEDLESS TO SAY, I did not get up at six a.m. the next day. Although I wanted to finish the appraisal, I thought it unlikely to be rescheduled until after Ruth Riordan’s funeral. I planned to stop by Harry’s office mid-morning. He had fixed up a small workspace for me and said that after we did a few more appraisals he would buy a second computer. I offered to bring my laptop to the office, but he said not to bother, I could use his whenever I needed it.

I took my time showering and blow-drying my hair. There was no urgency to the day, and I felt disappointed at that. Jazz, unaware that I was out of sorts, or perhaps ignoring this, was impatient with my slow pace. She walked across the small dressing table as I applied make-up and raced toward the bedroom door every time I stood up.

When Jazz and I went downstairs about nine-thirty, I first looked out the window to check on my car. All four tires were inflated. I was surprised to see the newspaper on the kitchen table. Aunt Madge usually left it in the dining room for guests to look at throughout the day. No sign of her. After Jazz had some dry food and a small saucer of milk, I carried her back to my room, then scribbled a note to Aunt Madge and struck out for Java Jolt.

The air was damp, though not too cold. I inhaled the smell of seaweed and ocean breeze and climbed up to the boardwalk. I had only gone a few steps when I saw a man sitting on a bench, carefully applying duct tape to his worn sneakers. Next to him was a bag from the local dollar store.

Something about him seemed familiar, but I didn’t think I knew anyone who had to tape their shoes. The man had an open knapsack on the ground beside him, and it was crammed. Sticking out of the top were a bottle of water and a couple of books. Homeless people were rare in Ocean Alley at this time of year. A small number appeared each summer, but most had left by now, heading for a warmer winter climate.

He must have been aware that I slowed my pace, and he lifted his head and looked at me. “Son of a bitch, if it isn’t Jolie Gentil.”

His greeting took me by surprise. I looked at him more closely and saw that his jeans had a small tear on the left knee and his brown hair hung to his shoulders; it was clean, but uncombed. The bangs that reached his eyebrows and full beard made it difficult to discern his features. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid I don’t remember you.”

“Sir!” His laugh revealed teeth that were white and straight, a sharp contrast to his ragged appearance. “Is that what you call the only person who had a higher score than you did in ‘Screw the Bunny?’”

“Scoobie? That’s you?” For the life of me I couldn’t think of his real first name. Scoobie and I had hung around a lot in eleventh grade. I wasn’t sure why he was allowed to stay out so late, but I had been glad of the company.

“Yep, it’s me. I saw you were back.” He grinned. “You look almost the same, except for the preppy clothes.”

I automatically looked down at my blue Dockers and cotton sweater of blue and yellow that showed under my unzipped jacket. “This is not preppy, it’s…stylish.”

“Stylish, preppy, take your pick. You look good.”

It was a simple compliment, and I felt myself flush. It seemed almost wrong that I lived in comfort and he couldn’t afford new shoes. “Gee, Scoobie.” I wasn’t sure what to say. “I’m going to Java Jolt. You want to join me and get caught up?”

His hesitation was brief. “You get it, and bring it outside. It’s warm enough.” He turned and waited for me to walk the few paces to him and we fell into step.

We walked in a fairly comfortable silence, but my thoughts were anything but comfortable. Where had Scoobie been the last ten years? How did he end up with what looked like all his possessions in a knapsack? When we had traversed the hundred yards or so to Java Jolt, I turned to him. “What’s your pastry preference?”

“I like their blueberry muffins.” When I started to push the door to enter, he added, “Decaf with cream, no sugar.” This was a change. In high school, Scoobie had lived on high-voltage soft drinks.

As I approached the counter I was conscious that Joe Regan was looking at me very directly. “You know him?” he asked.

“We went to high school together. I haven’t seen him since then.” I busied myself fixing the two cups of coffee and ordered two blueberry muffins.

Joe continued. “He’s been in and out of rehab. Be careful.”

I felt annoyed at the advice, but tried not to show it. “Thanks.” I paid for our food, and added, “I never thought of Scoobie as dangerous.”

Joe shrugged. “Probably not. As far as I know, his only arrests have been for using and selling pot.” He grinned as he gave me my change. “I hear it was good stuff.”

Swell.
I slipped the handle of the small plastic bag of muffins over my wrist and picked up the coffees. “Not that you’d know,” I threw over my shoulder.

Scoobie opened the door for me and took the paper coffee cups. “Thanks. Let’s go to a bench over there.” We walked on the boardwalk for about half a block and settled on a bench across from the small store I’d browsed in just before meeting Pedone.

“So, did Regan tell me to keep away from me?” he asked as I indicated which coffee was decaf.

“Not exactly. He said to be careful.”

Scoobie peeled the paper off a muffin and took a huge bite. He chewed and swallowed quickly. “Probably not the worst advice you’ll ever get, but I don’t think you’ll need it.” He grinned. “I’m reformed. In fact, it’s rare that you’ll see me raiding garbage cans these days.”

“I didn’t know you needed to. Reform, I mean.” I watched as he continued to eat, noting that even though his appearance was ragged his nails and hands were clean. “We used to goof around, but we never did anything really bad.” He said nothing as he tried to peel the plastic tab off the small opening on the coffee lid so he could take a drink.

I sipped my coffee and regarded him. “You could have stabbed me under the boardwalk any number of times, but you didn’t.” I smiled at him.

I peeled my muffin paper, wondering when Scoobie had become a walking psychologist. “Sounds like me back then. My life did get better though.” I took a bite, much smaller than his. “My parents got back together and had actually worked things out, and I liked college.”

“Me too, but my major was marijuana manufacturing, so I never graduated.”

“Do you, uh, still…?”

“Nah. I might have stopped anyway, but I’ve been arrested a few times for possession and once for selling. For that I spent several months boarding with the county.” He grinned. “I’m eventually trainable. Now I spend my evenings in Narcotics Anonymous meetings.”

“And your days here?” I asked, gesturing to the beach and boardwalk.

“A lot, unless it’s below freezing. Then you can find me in the library or Java Jolt.” He probably sensed my next question. “I have a room in a sort of permanent halfway house. It’s warm, but not where you want to spend a lot of time.”

Talk about different roads traveled.
I tried to think of something witty to say, but was fresh out.

I smacked my forehead with the palm of my hand. “That’s why Aunt Madge left the paper in the kitchen.” I picked up my muffin. “I gotta go. I’ll look for you again.”

He said nothing as I turned to half jog back to Aunt Madge’s.

I sat at the table and picked up the paper. “Police Investigate Suspicious Death of Prominent Resident.” The article was brief, noting that while she had cancer, Mrs. Riordan had looked and acted better in the last few weeks than she had in months.

I scanned quickly, wishing not to see my name, and was of course disappointed. Though it appeared near the end of the article, I was referred to as the “woman who found the body, Jolie Gentil, of Steele Appraisals.” Oh well, they say even negative publicity is a good thing. Maybe Harry would get some new business. If anyone remembered me from eleventhth grade, they’d know I was back and what I was doing. Instantly, I felt as if I’d trodden on a grave, not that I really know what that feels like.

There was also mention that Michael had been staying in the house, but that he was not home when I “discovered” the body.
As if I’d been looking for buried treasure.
When I reread the article, all it really said was that the cause of death was not yet determined, but suspicious. I couldn’t understand why the paper made such a big deal out of it; and on the front page, yet.

I pushed it aside and tackled the rest of the blueberry muffin. Miss Piggy came out of Aunt Madge’s bedroom and stretched. “This is not for you,” I said. She immediately plopped on the floor and put her paws over her ears. This was a trick she had learned before coming to Aunt Madge, and it must have earned her doggie treats in her prior home, because she always removed her paws and wagged her tail expectantly.

“You’re impossible.” I tossed her a piece of muffin.

“Don’t do that,” Aunt Madge said as she came through the swinging kitchen door with a small sack of groceries.

“Yes ma’am,” I said, immediately reduced to age twelve. I jumped up and opened the door to the fridge as she took a half-gallon of milk out of her bag.

The phone rang and I answered it, annoyed that my thought about Scoobie was interrupted. “Miss Gentle?” a man’s voice asked. Obviously not someone I knew well.

“That’s ‘zhan-tee.’ What can I do for you?”

“I’m George Winters at the
Ocean Alley Press
.”

“Heard what?” I held the phone away from my ear, aware that Aunt Madge was now standing next to me. The blonde color was already fading; I had a fleeting thought that she must have used a cheaper brand of color.

“I really don’t have any comment. I’m sure you can get any information from the police.” I hung up and looked at Aunt Madge. “That means she was murdered.”
This isn’t how it is supposed to be. Wealthy old ladies die in their sleep.

Suddenly, I started to shake and sat down quickly. “I was…whoever did it…might have...” Absurdly, I couldn’t finish the thought. Not out loud anyway.
Whoever killed her could have been in the house when I was.

Aunt Madge sat down across from me and held onto the edge of her chair as she stared past me. “Poor Ruth. How can this be happening?”

I realized Aunt Madge had just lost a close friend and went to her chair and leaned over and gave her a hug. “They have to be wrong.”

She let me rest my head on her shoulder for a second, and I could almost feel her sag an inch. I kissed her on the cheek. At that, she straightened. “I’m going down to the police station and find out what’s really going on.”

I took my hand off her shoulder and looked at her. My aunt, the no-gossip woman.

She picked up her purse and glanced at me. “Are you coming?”

I wouldn’t miss it for anything.
Next thing I knew, they’d be accusing me.

THE PANELED WALLS and hard plastic chairs of the police station’s small waiting area did not provide a welcoming atmosphere. Fortunately, the uniformed officer behind the counter said she didn’t think we’d have long to wait.

I’d only been in here once, in eleventh grade when I got picked up for smoking on the boardwalk. I didn’t realize it wasn’t a crime or I wouldn’t have gone with the cop, a guy in his early forties named Sgt. Tortino. He knew Aunt Madge and wanted to scare me straight or something. I was far more scared of her than him, of course. She hauled me home and wouldn’t let me watch TV for two weeks. Since I had only smoked a few times, to be cool, I decided to quit rather than fight.