Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 03 - When the Carny Comes to Town (15 page)

George caught my eye.  “You can drive him back, right?”  When he saw my hesitation, he added, “You don’t have to really help, just provide the transportation.”

“Yeah,” Scoobie said.  “Because she’s a great helper.  Never any problems in her life.” 

Now he was looking at me, a big grin on his face.  I nodded to George and just gave Scoobie a raised eyebrow.  I still wasn’t too sure about tears.

There were murmurs of “you look good,” and “so glad to see you.”

“Ahem.”  They quieted as I spoke.  “Now that Scoobie has finished disrupting a meeting once again, we can get back to business.”  They knew I was kidding.  Not about the disruptions, but about being irritated about them.

“Lance, you want to tell us where we stand with money?”  He explained that we had almost $3,000 in the checking account and he was looking at commercial refrigerators, which we would be able to buy because of a separate generous bequest that can only be used to upgrade our facility.  If you can call a large room with shelves a facility. 

“So we can have eggnog next Christmas?” Scoobie asked.

“Zip it,” I said, and he grinned again.  This was my Scoobie.  He also looked one-hundred percent comfortable with all of us.

“You’re buying,” Lance said.  “Since most of the food we get from the food bank in Lakewood is without charge, we have enough cash to buy apples and carrots almost every week, probably as long as we need to, since we are bringing in money more steadily.”

I nodded.  Until we got a refrigerator we could only get fresh food that could be stored in cool temperatures rather than cold.  “OK, thanks.  I want to spend most of our time on other fundraising or food donation ideas.”

Scoobie gave me a huge grin.  “I’m going to be quiet until everybody else says their ideas.”

“That’s a first,” I said, and he pretended to be offended.

Dr. Welby spoke first, as is the tradition.  “I’ve talked to Mr. Markle at the market, and he is willing to let us place a couple of pickup trucks with “Harvest for All” signs in the grocery store lot, and he’ll give people ten percent off on items shoppers say they are going to donate.  We would stand outside with the truck.”

“We’d need a lot of volunteers,” Sylvia said.  “We could ask at the other churches in town.”

“Or at the high school,” Aretha said.  “Get them used to helping us.”

Monica favored a bake sale and Dr. Welby gently suggested combining it with the ‘truck day’ at the market.  I was glad of that.  People would donate items, but bake sales always seems like a lot of work for not so much money.

After a couple more ideas and a brief lull in the conversation, Lance said, “You’re up, Scoobie.”

Scoobie had begun to look increasingly tired, but he perked back up.  “I’ll bet none of you know that September 19th is ‘Talk like a Pirate’ day,’ Scoobie began. 

Sylvia sat up straighter and pursed her lips, something you read about in books but very rarely see someone do.

“What kind of a pirate?” Monica asked.

“Well…I guess any kind.  Did you have something in mind?” Scoobie asked.

“Oh my.  Well, I don’t think there were any lady pirates anyway.”

“You need to get out more, Monica,” Scoobie said, but he winked at her and she gave him a small smile.

“What exactly do you do on ‘Talk like a Pirate’ Day,” asked Dr. Welby.

“I can only imagine,” Lance said, dryly.

“There is water involved in this, too, but you don’t actually have to get in it.”

We didn’t exactly go downhill from there, but to say our concentration was broken would be an understatement.

SCOOBIE KEPT HIS EYES shut for most of the drive back to the hospital.  “I can’t believe you came to this,” I said.  “Thanks.”

“Sure.  I needed to get out of there for awhile anyway.”  He grinned, but still didn’t open his eyes.  “Plus, I knew you’d like the pirate day idea.”

Scoobie had a list of ideas for the day, all of which would cost small amounts of money for participation.  The final item on his list was to pay to be allowed to not talk like a pirate.  “Do they give you a pass or something?” I asked.

“Heck no.  They said George could wheel me to the cafeteria.  I have to get back before supper or they’ll come looking for me.”

No head slaps when you’re driving
.  “You really are nuts.” 

“I gotta admit, I’m way more tired than I thought I’d be.  And my back’s killing me.”

“How’s your head?”

“It mostly only hurts when I’m up for awhile.”

“Kind of like now?” I asked.

“You don’t miss a trick, kiddo.”

We drove the last few blocks in silence.  I hadn’t told Scoobie about the money his mother had, and I gathered Morehouse had not either.  While I knew Morehouse didn’t want me to talk about it, it felt like there was an elephant in the back seat, and I didn’t like it.  I figured Scoobie would be really angry that I hadn’t told him, and I was getting closer to confiding in him.  But not now.  He looked exhausted.

I snagged a wheelchair from the lobby and stood next to it as Scoobie got in it, then parked the car and carried in his walker, which I placed across his lap.  He insisted he didn’t need it and only used because one of the therapists threatened to beat him with it if he tried to walk without it. 

We were just getting off the elevator on his floor when Nurse Ratched came walking down the hall really fast.  She stopped when she saw us.  “Adam, we’ve been looking all over for you.”

“George and I traded him,” I said.  “I thought he might like some fresh air.”

“Hmm,” she said. 

I sensed she didn’t believe me.  I suppose Scoobie had been gone well over an hour.

“Dr. Cahill has come and gone for today.  Now that your head is healing well, she and Dr. Nobles are going to release you for rehabilitative care, and…”

“I’m not going to a nursing home,” Scoobie said.

“You don’t have to,” she said, in what for her was probably a gentle tone.  “We have a rehab unit on the second floor, near where you already go for physical therapy.”

“Good,” he said.  The three of us were walking down the hall toward his room.  “I like old people, I just don’t want to be with them all day.”

“You’ll prefer it to alternatives when you get up there yourself,” she said.

IT WAS ALMOST five-thirty when I got back to the Cozy Corner.  In the parking lot was a rental car with New York plates, so it looked as if the tourist season was picking up.  Aunt Madge was in the kitchen making dough for the next morning’s muffins and her greeting was slightly less chilly than it had been for a couple of days.

“New guests?” I asked.

“Guest.  He’s a writer who said he wanted a few days of peace and quiet while he finishes a book.”

“What kind of book?” I asked, wanting to have something to talk about with her besides my trip to Asbury Park.

“Murder mystery, he said.  He can’t tell the title, something about being under contract.”

“Does he know you don’t have Internet?”

“He does now,” she said.  “He almost went to one of the newer hotels, but I told him about Java Jolt and he has Internet on his phone.”

Since Aunt Madge didn’t seem inclined to talk more I went upstairs and jumped out of the way as Jazz ran out of the room.  She used to be content to have our bedroom and bath as her space and just go downstairs when I did.  No more.  “Nuts.”  Apparently her psychology of irritation is branching out.

I walked halfway down the back stairs and called down to Aunt Madge. “The door to the breakfast room is closed, right?  I don’t know if your guest will want to see a cat.”

“No problem at all.” 

I jumped and turned to see the smiling face of a man with snow white hair but a face that looked more like someone in his late thirties or early forties.  His close-cropped hair made me think of the military, but his wire rimmed glasses said scholar.  “Oh.  When Aunt Madge said you were a writer I expected someone with a pony tail.”

“I’ve heard there are no molds for writers.”  He smiled.  “I’m just on my way out.  Your aunt has recommended Newhart’s Diner.”

He turned to walk down the hall to the main stairs and I called after him.  “Try the crab cakes.”

MOREHOUSE WAS SO IRRITATED with me that I was no longer privy to his thinking about Penny and her murder.  It was annoying, but was more like how he usually treats me. 

I was in the courthouse Wednesday morning looking up recent sales to use as comparables for the multi-family house I had just visited when I spotted Morehouse coming in the door of the courthouse.  I couldn’t leave the material I was using on the table to chase after him so I finished quickly and sat on a bench in the main foyer to waylay him when he came back down. 

After about twenty minutes I figured he must be there to testify in one of his cases, so I stood to go.  I was about to push the glass exit door when he came down the steps from the second floor.

“Hello, sergeant,” I said, in my best formal voice.

“Cut the crap,” he said.  “You been doing anything you shouldn’t the last couple days?”

“Just working, visiting Scoobie, and figuring out how to run the food pantry.”  When he didn’t say anything, I asked, “Anything new on Penny’s murder?”

I could almost hear his brain working for a few seconds and he finally said, “Not really.  Has Scoobie talked about it?”

“Nope.  All he said is he’s trying to process it without…without thinking ugly thoughts about her.”  I wasn’t about to say Scoobie had said he wished her dead many times.  When Morehouse didn’t say anything else I asked if he knew more about the money and silverware Penny had placed in the closet.

“Not a damn thing.  I was hoping someone would at least report the silver missing.  If Penny had it she was doing something hinky.”

I suddenly remembered George Winters said her parole officer mentioned Penny said she was about to come into family money.  What she told him was surely a lie, but it meant she knew she was going to do something that would get her some money, whether she was supposed to keep it or not.  But, that was George’s business, not mine.

“Drugs, you think?” I asked.

He shrugged.  “Or maybe somebody’s poker winnings.  Who knows?  Bills aren’t sequential, so they likely didn’t come straight from a bank.”

WHEN I GOT BACK TO the Cozy Corner there were two more cars in the small parking lot and I could he
ar Aunt Madge laughing with the guests o
n the second floor.  She came down as I was pouring myself some milk. 

“Sounds like you like your guests,” I said.

“
Mark and Nancy Sapperstein.  They live in Pennsylvania now and their daughter’s getting married this weekend.  They thought they’d stay here so they didn’t put a damper on their daughter and her friends at the hotel.”

“A damper?”

She shrugged.  “Usually the bride’s parents live in the town, so they aren’t at the hotel.”

“So are the groom’s parents a couple of swingers who get to stay at the hotel?”

“Don’t think so.  They’re checking in later.”  She turned off her tea kettle.  “We’re all going out to supper.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said, as I started up the back stairs to my room. 
My aunt has more friends than I do.

I COULDN’T SLEEP, so at midnight I still had my small bedside lamp on and was trying to read the newest Sue Grafton book.  Daphne knows I like the books, so she had put my name on the waiting list and called to say it was in.  Leave it to a librarian.

My eyes were finally getting heavy and I was about to turn off the lamp when I thought I heard a noise in the hall.  It wasn’t my imagination; Jazz had lifted her head and looked toward the door.  It wouldn’t be Aunt Madge, and I couldn’t imagine it was the guests.  Their rooms weren’t near mind.  Why don’t you lock your door?

I gave myself a mental scolding.  A noise didn’t mean something bad.  “Maybe it’s a mouse,” I said aloud to Jazz.  “You want to look?”  She curled herself back into her usual ball at the foot of the bed. 

I walked to the door and put my hand on the knob, and then thought better of waltzing into the hall in the middle of the night.  I locked my door and for good measure locked the one that led into the bathroom I share with the now-vacant room that adjoins mine. 
Get a grip Jolie.

I DIDN’T WAKE UP THINKING about the noise, but by the time I went downstairs on Thursday I had remembered it and told Aunt Madge about it.  “You haven’t let a ghost move in, have you?”

“Not knowingly,” Aunt Madge said.  “I have been thinking of getting the plumber to look at one of the third-floor bathrooms.  The pipes have started to creak.  I don’t want water cascading down the walls.”

Pipes.  Of course.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I WAS ONLY GOING to see Scoobie once a day.  Rehab meant physical therapy would be morning and afternoon for at least a couple of hours.  Though they still thought the vertebrae would heal without surgery, he had a lot of other sore back muscles and he said the therapists were doing some great massage and teaching him ways to sit, stand, and lift without putting too much stress on his back or neck.  They would get to “the really hard stuff” in about a week, according to Scoobie.

“I mean, I think if I were going to be a veg that would already have happened, but why take any chances?”  He was cutting up an orange I brought him, and the steno pad was open on this wheeled table.  Since he had to hold the orange almost level with his face, it appeared to be a challenge not to drip on the paper.  Of course, he would accept no help.

“Looks like you’re writing again,” I said.

“Yeah, I had a poem in my pocket.  I was working on it when I sat in the bushes watching for Turk.  Don’t know what happened to it.”

Uh oh.

“You might want to talk to Sgt. Morehouse about that.”

He stopped cutting.  “What do you mean?”

“He showed me part of a poem that had blown against a piling under the boardwalk.  I told him it looked like…”

“And Morehouse still has it?”

I shrugged.  “I assume so.  Why don’t you call…”

“Could you please leave?” he asked.

No doubt the shock showed in my face as I picked up my purse.

“I’m not made at you, or even him, Jolie.  I just,” he paused, “well you know I don’t let just anyone read my stuff.”

“Right.  Call him.”  Seeing his still stony expression I blew him a kiss as I left.

I debated calling Morehouse. 
Scoobie is a full-fledged grown-up, he can handle himself.  And I sometimes have trouble leaving things alone.

I was glad I called.  “I can’t give it to him, Jolie, it’s evidence and has to stay with us.”

“You mean it’s, like, in an evidence room?”

“That is where we tend to put stuff,” he said, and I detected amusement in his voice.

“That might not be something you want to say to Scoobie.  He’d have a hard time with the idea that a lot of people could see his poem.” 
Hard time?  Could set him back a lot.

Morehouse sighed.  “Thanks for the warning.”  He hung up.

I STOPPED AT THE
Ocean Alley Press
on my way home from the hospital.  I had never been in the two-story building and thought it looked very much as it might have in the 1950s.  There was a long wooden counter just inside the door and behind it was a row of metal desks, maybe six or eight.  There was a partition that stood about two feet tall on the top of each desk, but the concept of privacy clearly did not extend to this news room.  And I hated the smell.  Ink, I supposed.

I could swear the woman at the desk smirked at me when she heard my name, but maybe I was imagining things.

George came out, looking harried.  “I’m on deadline whaddya need, Jolie?”

“I don’t need anything.  Just wanted to talk to you about Scoobie and stuff.  Call me.”  As I turned to go I caught the receptionist’s eye. 
Definitely smirking
.  And I could swear I heard George chuckling to himself as he walked back to his desk.

GEORGE CALLED ABOUT SIX-THIRTY.  “I’m frustrated as all get out,” I told him.  “The state police aren’t going to keep after Penny’s murder.  They have nothing.  And what if someone thinks Scoobie has the money and goes after him?”

“What money?”

Crud, crud, crud, crud.

“Uh, Morehouse didn’t tell you?”

“Jolie.  We were going to help each other, remember?”

I sighed.  I honestly had not meant to tell him about Penny’s mountain of money.  I just plain forgot.  “I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone.  Morehouse made Aunt Madge and me swear.”

“What money?”  George’s voice had gone up a few decibels.

“She had a small bag in the closet, and Morehouse came and got it after they found her.  He opened it and it was packed with cash and silverware.”  There was perhaps ten seconds of silence.  I wasn’t sure if George was counting to one-hundred or about to explode.

“That kind of puts her murder in a different light,” he said, sarcasm almost dripping through the phone.

“I’m sorry, George.  Morehouse was pretty firm about not talking about it.”

“Yes, he was,” said Aunt Madge, from behind me.

Uh oh.  I dropped the phone and bent over to pick it up.

“What the hell are you doing, playing pick-up sticks with the phone?”  George asked when I put the receiver back to my ear.

“I was talking to Aunt Madge.”  I looked at her, stony expression and hands on her hips, something she rarely does.

“Oh boy,” George said.

“I gotta go.”  I hung up.

There are times when I assert myself as an almost-thirty year old woman with a responsible job, and there are times when I feel about twelve.  This was one of the twelve-year-old times.

“Think of all the times you were furious with George Winters for printing things you would rather not have had half the town read.”  Her voice was quiet, but that was almost worse.  “And here you are, babbling to him about something you have no business telling him.”

She turned and walked back toward her bedroom. 

I ALMOST SLUNK OUT OF THE HOUSE Friday morning.  Certainly I left a lot earlier than I normally would.  Aunt Madge was sitting in the breakfast room with her old friends, and the mystery writer guest was telling them about the time his computer crashed, and he lost a nearly complete manuscript.  He retyped it from a printed copy and then learned that there was a way to recover it from his lifeless machine.  I know this because I listened at the door.  Reaction to his riveting story sounded more like polite acknowledgement than interest. 

I left Aunt Madge a scribbled note that said I’d be back in the late afternoon.  It was only eight o’clock, but I thought Joe Regan would be open so I drove down to Java Jolt.  I normally walk, but it seemed better not to stroll back to the Cozy Corner to get my car until Aunt Madge had a lot of time to cool off.  I figured I’d find things to do around town all day.

As I walked down the boardwalk I saw the two homeless men I’d seen last week.  Today they were sitting on a bench a couple doors down from Java Jolt.  They didn’t have the grocery cart now, so I hoped that meant they had a place to stay.  On impulse I stopped in front of them.  “Hi, I’m Jolie.  Can I talk to you for a second?”

The younger of the two said, “I guess,” but the older man, whom I judged to be about thirty-five, just stared at me mutely. 

“I hope I don’t offend you, but I work with the “Harvest for All” Food Pantry.  I wanted to be sure you know where it is.
”