Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 03 - When the Carny Comes to Town (16 page)

Nada.

“Okay.  If you do want to stop by, it’s at First Prez, First Presbyterian Church.”

“We know,” said the younger man, who appeared short for a guy.  “We’ve been there already.”  He spoke very fast, and then seemed to be self-conscious and shut his mouth very deliberately.

After a few seconds I turned to continue toward Java Jolt.

“Thanks,” said the older man.

I was doing an internal cringe as I walked into Java Jolt.  Did I offend them?  Would it look like the “rich” lady was being condescending?
  I decided I couldn’t worry about that.  At the food pantry meeting last week I’d learned we didn’t have any outreach to the homeless, and I had planned to think more about that. 
You have other things on your mind.

I paid for my coffee and a chocolate muffin, my favorite and a treat to myself, and sat in front of one of the two computers.  I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I had to be able to find out something about Penny or Turk or somebody.  I wasn’t sure why I thought I’d be able to find something the police couldn’t, but I told myself my mind probably worked differently than the state police or Morehouse’s.  I almost giggled.  He’d certainly think so.

First I searched for the name of the prison Penny had been in, Taconic Women’s Correctional Facility. 
Correctional facility.  Who are they kidding?  You couldn’t correct her in twenty years.
  The facility web site was little help.  There were descriptions of how the women were housed, what kind of work they did while incarcerated, and how much time they could spend “recreating” each day.

There was a link to inmates, which showed their prisoner number and some info about their sentence.  I keyed in “Penny Pittsen” before I remembered Morehouse implied she made up the name after she got out of the facility.  I wasn’t sure if the information would help even if I knew her name. 

“What are you doing, Jolie?” Joe asked.  “You’ve been scowling at that screen for twenty minutes.”

“Trying to figure out more about Scoobie’s mom.”

“Why?”

“How many people do you know who get murdered soon after visiting their son in a hospital?”

“The key word there is murdered,” Joe said.  “I’d stay the hell out of this one.”

“Nice to know what you would do, Joe,” I said.

He went back to making some fresh coffee.

I decided to try a different tack.  I googled various combinations of Penny, check kiting, New York, Taconic Women’s Correctional Facility, forgery and sentenced.  Plus a few other terms as I thought of them.  If I could just get her name I could look her up in the “courts on line” database.  I was about to give up when I substituted Ocean Alley for New York. 

Bingo.  One article had a photo of Penny Marks, formerly of Ocean Alley, who had been arrested for forging a total of eighteen checks that she had stolen from a woman’s purse.  The woman had foolishly left her open purse in the top of a grocery store cart and Penny helped herself.  She had bought a lot of stuff with the checks and then tried to sell it.  “Wow.”

“Find something?” Joe asked.

“I’m not sure,” I lied.  “I was just looking at some of these identity theft articles.  Makes you want to bury your money in your backyard.”

“Unless you live near the ocean,” Joe said.

I found a couple more articles, including one from the Binghamton paper that had mug shots of Penny and two others who were arrested with her after they tried to sell, on eBay and to pawn shops, some of the items they bought with the forged checks.  Who knew Penny could use a computer?  The other woman’s hair was even more unkempt than Penny’s, though Penny had a better smirk for the camera.  The man looked a lot younger than the two women, but it was harder to gauge his age because he had brown hair longer than mine and facial hair that could have been a true beard or just a week’s stubble.  He squinted as he looked at the camera.

I entered Penny’s name in the “courts on line” database and was rewarded with a list of court cases for everything from public drunkenness in Brooklyn to forgery in Manhattan to possession of stolen property in Binghamton.  She certainly got around.  There was not a statement of resolution for every case, and I could tell she had pleaded guilty to lesser charges in several cases.  The Binghamton article noted she was considered a habitual offender and probation was no longer an option.  I remembered Dana thought Penny would likely still be in the women’s prison if it weren’t for overcrowding. 
Too bad for her, she might still be alive
.

So, I knew what she had been arrested for — though probably not everything — and had no idea what to do with it.  If I had to guess, I’d say she was funding a drug habit, but I supposed it could have been just plain old unwillingness to work.  Despite the joints in her luggage, there weren’t any drug arrests.

I jotted down the web addresses of a couple articles and was irritated that I didn’t have a printer.  That meant the library. 

DAPHNE TOOK MY MONEY for the article copies I printed and didn’t even ask what I was doing.  Since we would generally chat about such things, I had been prepared to tell her I was looking up articles on Ocean Alley’s growth.  After all, a real estate appraiser should know something about a town’s economic history. 

I had the articles on Ocean Alley on top of my small pile and stood to one side of the front desk as Daphne checked out books for a mother and two young sons.  After they left, Daphne began to tell me about the many comments about Scoobie’s attack.  “Sign the card, Jolie,” she said.  “Everyone except Elmira signed it.”

Elmira Washington is a first-class busybody who made sure everyone knew that I moved to Ocean Alley because my ex-husband embezzled money from the bank where he worked.  In Newhart’s one evening I let her know I knew this, and she didn’t like that.  She probably wouldn’t sign Scoobie’s card because she considered him guilty by association.  Of what I don’t know.  The card was one of those foot-tall ones, so there was a lot of room left.  I signed it, “Yo, Jolie,” and drew a smiley face.

I was about to leave when Aunt Madge’s writer-guest came in.  He saw me and his fac
e
lit up.  “Jolie, I hope you can vouch for me.”

I might if I knew your name.

“I went to the coffee shop to use the computer and it’s packed and noisy.  Joe, I think that was his name, didn’t think I could use these because I’m not a card holder.”

I turned to Daphne.  “You know Aunt Madge has the B&B, right?”

“Of course.  And still no Internet I take it?”  She looked from me to writer man.

Daphne’s smile is always dazzling, in part because her perfect white teeth are offset by her coffee skin tone.  The guest responded with an equally large smile and I felt as if I was in a toothpaste commercial. 

“No Internet.  She says it’s to give guests time to relax, but this gentleman is here to work.  Finishing a book, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”  He reached across the desk and Daphne took his hand for a firm shake.  “Marcus Hardy, mystery writer.”

“We have that cardholders-only policy so we don’t have every wet bathing suit in town coming here to check their email.”  She came from behind the counter and walked toward a computer, with Marcus-the-mystery-writer following her.  “Now, if it was next week, I’d probably have to enforce the policy or people would accuse me of favoritism.”

I realized this weekend would be Memorial Day.  I was about to be reminded of the element of Ocean Alley I least like — tourists.  I said a quick good-bye as Daphne was asking Marcus-the-Mystery-Writer if he had a web site so she could read about his books.

I HAD THOUGHT HARRY would have gotten over his snit about me taking pictures in Asbury Park, but I was wrong.

He was literally pacing around his large office as he talked.  “The house in Manasquan?  Burglars hit it last night.  You think that’s a coincidence?”

I looked him in the eyes.  “Probably not.  I’m really sorry, Harry.  What can I do?”

That took some of the wind out of his sails.  “I already told them I’d pay the deductible on their homeowners insurance.  Your half would be $250.”

“I’ll pay all of it,” I said, with as much meekness as I could muster.  “I agree it’s because of the photos on the camera card.  What, uh, makes them so sure?”

“Because everything taken was visible in the rooms where you took photographs, and that’s all that was taken.  Mostly electronics.  They didn’t look in closets or even take her purse, which was on the dining room table.”  He ran his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair.  “The police think they planned based on the photos and were in and out in less than ten minutes, while the Parkers were walking on the beach.”

“I’m really…” I began again, and he interrupted.

“You know what makes it worse?  You lied to me, Jolie.  I thought we were friends.”

I haven’t felt so thoroughly miserable about my own behavior since I “borrowed” my sister Renée’s high school class ring.  I was twelve and tired of hearing about proms and graduation parties.  I gave it back, of course, but not for about a week.  After my mother found it in my sock drawer.

“We are friends.  I didn’t want to worry you. I shouldn’t have…”

“You’re damn right you shouldn’t have.  As of right now I’m not worrying about you one bit.  You don’t come back from an appraisal on time it won’t be me looking for you.”  He stopped, having noticed my wide-eyed expression.  “I might look after a couple of hours.”  He walked to his desk and pushed the button to turn on his computer’s monitor.

I swallowed hard.  I didn’t want to tear up.  “I promise I won’t lie again.”  I paused.  “I can’t promise that I will always tell you what you want to hear.”

He gave me a shrewd look.  “Fair enough.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I SAT IN NEWHART’S to read the articles again.  It was the middle of Friday afternoon and it was crowded with “first day of summer” beach-goers.  Even so, I figured I wouldn’t see as many people I knew as I would in Java Jolt.  In case someone did join me, I kept the Ocean Alley articles on top of my small pile. 

I pulled out the most recent article about Penny, assuming it could be most relevant to what happened to her. 
You know what it means to assume.  Makes an ass out of you and me.
  It was one of the few things I could remember Uncle Gordon saying, probably because it was the first time I, at age five, heard an adult say ‘ass.’ 

The article in the Binghamton paper was from slightly more than three years ago.

Local Woman Sentenced to Five Years

Penny Marks of Binghamton was sentenced to five years for forgery and possession of stolen property, third offense.  In her two years in Binghamton, Marks has become a fixture on the police blotter, with regular arrests for public drunkenness. 

Though never charged with a violent crime, Judge Patterson warned her in June, when she was arrested on a prior charge of receiving stolen property, that he was giving her only one more chance and would then order her incarcerated.  In announcing the sentence, he said he was “outraged by the sheer volume of your thefts in the last three months.”

Marks would place an ad for work as a cleaning lady, work long enough to know a family’s schedule, and then return at a time they were out and steal laptops, jewelry, cash, silver, and any collectible items, such as baseball cards or glassware.  Because she worked in different parts of the city it took police almost two months to associate the thefts with her work in the homes.  Marks is originally from Ocean Alley, New Jersey and has also lived in New York City and Albany.

Arrested with Marks in August were Alex “Fun boy” Masterson and Gina Rathway.  Masterson was given thirty days in the county jail for his second offence, and Rathway, with no previous record, was placed on
probation.

I reread the article.  I would never have guessed Penny was smart enough to orchestrate a series of burglaries.  On the other hand, Scoobie had to get his brain from somewhere.  Hers probably worked better before she pickled it.

George Winters had agreed to meet me at Newhart’s, but he was almost a half-hour overdue.  I ordered another glass of iced tea and looked at the de
s
serts.  If he didn’t come soon I would be forced to order the warm brownie with vanilla ice cream.

The door banged open and George scanned the room for me.  “Sorry.  Got a couple calls.”

“That’s okay.  Look at these.”  I shoved the articles across the table.

“Before you buy me coffee?” he grinned.  Spring had officially morphed into summer temperatures, and George was wearing his usual Hawaiian style shirt, but with what I think of as long shorts for men, rather than jeans.

I signaled to the waitress and mouthed “coffee” and pointed to George as he started to look at the articles.

“Jolie, I wrote the one on the change in the local business climate.”

“Not the top ones.  Underneath.”

He flipped through them and looked at me wide-eyed.  “I was searching under Pittsen,” he said.  “I never found these.”