Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 05 - Trouble on the Doorstep (7 page)

“Side door?” Morehouse asked, as we were getting out of his car.

“Yep. Hey, did you ever figure out if Steve Oliver’s death was really an accident?” I was curious what he’d say before he talked to Eric.

“None of your beeswax,” he said.

“So, you don’t know?” I asked.

He just gave me an evil-eye kind of look as I unlocked the door and gave an exaggerated bow to let him walk in before me.

“In the kitchen,” I said, and he knew where to go.

When we opened the swinging door the first thing I saw was a bunch of bloody paw prints on the floor.
Then Sgt. Morehouse and I both looked at Eric Morton, lying in the middle of the great room, with a knife in his chest.

“Holy crap,” Morehouse said.
He gave me a shove out of the kitchen and drew his gun from his side holster.

THE THING ABOUT a dead body in the kitchen is that it’s not at all a welcoming image for B&B guests.
Which is why I sent the two guests to Ocean Alley’s main hotel, Beachcomber’s Alley. Our treat, of course.

The other thing is that you feel sick to your stomach for hours, and you have to repeat what you know — in my case, basically nothing — to five different people.
But I only started that process after I made sure the dogs were okay. Traumatized, given they initially wanted to walk around bolted to me, but okay.

I cleaned Miss Piggy’s paws with water from the pitcher on the breakfast room sideboard and walked the dogs out the side door to put them in the back yard.
I wasn’t going back into that room.

Jazz was nowhere in evidence, and I was afraid she had followed the killer out of the B&B.
Mister Rogers and Miss Piggy gave a yip now and then, and I could imagine them sitting in the small back yard, staring in through the sliding glass door. Since Jazz runs really fast, I tried to remind myself no one could have caught her to hurt her.

The only really useful thing I knew was that Eric said he had come in through the basement window.
It wasn’t hard for the police to decide that the killer must have seen Eric go into the window, followed him in, and — obviously — killed him. It wasn’t hard because there were bloody partial footprints heading back into the basement. Right shoe only, and becoming lighter each step down. Vaguely I wondered if it would be like on TV and they would find out the print matched some rare brand that was only sold in one place on the East coast. Not likely.

I sat in the breakfast room with Lt. Tortino and looked at the notes he had made as I was telling him what Eric told me.

“Just think and don’t look at what you already said. Might make what you remember seem set in concrete when you see it in writing.” When he saw my perplexed look, he added, “Details may come to you later tonight, or even in a few days. That’s natural, after what you saw.” He got up and went back into the kitchen, leaving me sitting alone at one of the small breakfast tables.

I sat there trying to think of anything else that mattered.
If it had been summer there would have been a lot of people on the street or in the surrounding houses. The house on the side with the window Eric and whoever crawled through was livable year-round, but the owners were rarely there after October. The person wouldn’t even get dirty, since there are about two feet of gravel around the sides of the B&B.

I thought of Pooki and how I thought she’d been overly dramatic, and wondered if she knew something she hadn’t told me or the police.
What do you care, you aren’t a detective
. Before I had been curious about Steve’s death and the seeming link to Silver Times. Now that I’d seen Eric on the floor of the great room, I cared a lot more.

“Come on, Dana, let us in!”
George, who picks up everything from a police scanner, sounded frantic.

I couldn’t hear Dana’s reply.
I glanced at Morehouse, who was sitting at another of the small breakfast room tables talking quietly to the medical examiner. He nodded at me. I walked toward the side door that leads to the parking lot and stood behind Dana, who was keeping George out. When George saw me he looked more relieved than mad. But that didn’t last long.

“You should have called,” he said.
“Why didn’t you call me?”

I flared up.
“So you could get a story?”

“Hey.”
It was Scoobie, behind George.

George actually did look hurt.
“That’s not what I meant.”

I closed my eyes for a second.
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t a ‘call you’ kind of thing.”

George gave Dana an imploring look.
“Come on, Dana. I know you won’t let me in. Let Jolie outside.”

A bunch of people had gathered, at the edge of the B&B parking lot, and I could see Lester Argrow craning his neck to see what was going on.

“You okay, kid?” he yelled. Lester makes up for his short stature with a very loud voice.

“Can I go out, Dana?” I asked her.
Dana is about the same age as I am, and she’s the one person on the Ocean Alley force who doesn’t treat me as if I stink like a dead jelly fish on the beach. But she doesn’t cut me any slack, either.

“Sorry, Jolie,” she spoke quietly and inclined her head behind her.
“Sgt. Morehouse thinks you should stick around a little bit longer.” Almost as an afterthought, she asked, “You aren’t going to stay here tonight, are you?”

“I have the dogs,” I said.

“Scoobie and I will stay here,” George said. When he saw my face he lowered his voice and said, “I was thinking of your reputation.”

“Oh yeah,” Dana said.
“Two guys over at the same time.” She blushed a deep shade.

“George and I aren’t like that anymore,” Scoobie said.

I knew he was trying to make me smile, but he hadn’t seen Eric Morton’s body.

Before I could say anything a late-model Volvo pulled behind the small crowd of onlookers and Pooki streaked out and ducked under the crime scene tape.
“Eric! Eric!” The only thing that stopped her from running into the house was Dana’s firm arm across her chest. I saw her father swear at a couple guys who were blocking the car door so Mrs. Sapperstein couldn’t get out.

“Pooki,” I said.
“I’m so sorry.”

“You did it?” She looked incredulous.

“Of course not!”

“Mrs. Morton.”
Sgt. Morehouse was behind me. “Let me drive you to the station and we can…”

“I want to see Eric!”

“No, you don’t,” I said, very quietly.

She stared at me, eyes wide and darting from Sgt. Morehouse to Dana, to me.
Then she swayed and Scoobie managed to catch her before she hit the steps. George was no help at all.

AUNT MADGE IS GOING to kill me. No she’s not. You didn’t invite Eric here. You certainly didn’t kill him
. I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

George, still in his clothes, was asleep on top of the bed covers.
He said he wanted to be able to get up quickly, “if the killer comes back.” Since the security alarm was on and he and Scoobie had worked until ten last night to install a new deadbolt on the door leading to the basement, I wasn’t too worried.

The door to my bedroom was ajar, and I could hear Mister Rogers and Miss Piggy, breathing slowly from where they slept on the hallway floor.
Still no Jazz.

I thought about Eric on the floor with the knife and a circle of blood around it, and put a hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t sob out loud.

I tried to think of something different, but had no luck.
I told myself an advantage of living in a town like Ocean Alley is that help happens fast. A young man whose truck said, “A-3 Cleaning Service,” stopped by as the police were leaving. Dana had called him. He said one of his specialties was ‘forensic cleaning.’ Yuck.

He was quiet and fast, and said he would come by again in the morning to take another swipe at it, as he put it.
He said we would worry about money, later.

My mind would not relax.
All I could think of was that if I had called the police to come to the Cozy Corner instead of driving to the station Eric wouldn’t be dead. Why did I have to leave him?
Maybe you’d be dead, too.

I got up and made my way quietly past the bedroom next to mine, where Scoobie slept.
I smiled briefly. He had said he was staying to supervise the dogs.

There was a large piece of white mesh and one of those orange and white “wet floor” signs over what had been spots of blood on the floor.
I wasn’t in the kitchen when the medical examiner put Eric on a gurney to transport him to the van that would take him to the county morgue. My guess was that there would have been a lot more blood if he had been shot.

Stop thinking about it.
That was hard.

I sat on the loveseat and stared at the mesh.
I didn’t actually remember much about how Eric looked. Sgt. Morehouse had turned and literally shoved my shoulder to get me back into the breakfast room. I stayed there until the police and cleaning guy left.

I closed my eyes and tried to conjure the image of Eric on the floor with a knife implanted roughly where I thought his heart was.
A tear fell down my cheek onto my hand. I sat up straighter. Crying doesn’t help.

I opened my eyes and looked around the familiar room.
All the kitchen appliances and the sink are along the far wall. Across from them are the large oak table with six chairs, and the doorway that swings into the breakfast room. At the other end of Aunt Madge’s so-called sitting room is the living room-type furniture, with a small TV wedged into a spot that abuts the wall next to the refrigerator.

I glanced at the sliding glass door, which was behind where I sat on the loveseat.
The pole that prevents the door from sliding — in case the lock doesn’t work, according to Aunt Madge — was as firmly in place as it had been when I left to tell the police that Eric was at the Cozy Corner.
You’re making yourself nervous.
I looked at the mesh again and closed my eyes.

Eric’s face had held a look of surprise, and the one eye I could see was partially open.
It looked as if he had fallen straight back. His arms were at his sides and his legs seemed straight. I didn’t actually see a lot of blood. My guess was that Miss Piggy had put a paw on him, perhaps with some doggy sense that Eric needed comforting.

I forced myself to remember the knife.
All I could remember was that it was a darker handle and didn’t seem to be stuck in very far. I shivered. My eyes went to the kitchen counter. I walked over to look at Aunt Madge’s butcher-block style knife holder. Given that most of what I cook is in the microwave, pretty much Aunt Madge and Harry are the only ones who use the sharp knives.

The knife set was gone.

WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?
I hadn’t looked at the counter or much of anything else last night. I’d gone upstairs and cried (okay, it helps a little) and George went to pick up pizza and Ramona while Scoobie stayed with me. They stopped at the police parking lot and she drove my car home.

Maybe the murderer used one of the knives and took the set.
Maybe Sgt. Morehouse and the others noticed the knife in poor Eric looked like part of the set, so the police took it. Either way, I needed to tell them there had been a set there and now it was gone. My eyes traveled to the clock. It was four-thirty in the morning. Too early to call the police station. I supposed I could call, but no one would be there who would talk to me about it.

I walked around the loveseat several time
s. I have never paced before. “Stop it,” I said aloud, and sat back on the loveseat.

After several minutes of deep silence I stood to go upstairs.
There was a squeak from the kitchen area. I stopped and looked toward the sink, where I thought the squeak had come from. I walked softly and stood in front of the sink. The squeak came again.

I stooped down and opened the doors under the sink, and the squeak turned into a plaintive meow.
I began pulling things out, paying no attention to where they landed. Finally, all that was left was a small box of scrubbing pads. In frustration, I opened a drawer next to the sink.

There was a rustling noise and the scrubbing pad box fell over and my tiny cat walked out, meowing loudly now.
I grabbed her and hugged her to me and she gave a high pitched meow and jumped down and ran under the loveseat. As I began to pick things up to store back under the sink I touched a scrubbing pad. Steel wool. She must have a lot of little pieces of sharp wool, or soap, in her fur. I knew she could lick them off, and I would be scarred if I tried to do it, but I still didn’t like to think of her being so scared.

With a small saucer of milk in hand, I sat on the floor in front of the love seat and looked under it.
Green eyes peered back. I knew better than to reach for her. I put the saucer under the loveseat and went back to the mess on the floor.

As I finished Jazz curled around my ankle.
I stooped and petted her. “I’m sorry, baby. You must have been so scared.” She swatted my hand, so I knew she was okay. I poured some dry cat food into a bowl and she gave me the satisfaction of hungrily gulping food.

I stood back and looked at the cabinets.
I knew I hadn’t left them open. Jazz can get the lid off a shoe box, but she could never have opened the cabinet under the sink. That must mean the murderer did that, maybe even to throw her in there. I gave a small smile of satisfaction.
I hope she bit him.

The police had used their black goop to get some fingerprints, but I didn’t see any of it near the cupboard under the sink.
And I had just touched everything. “Damn!”

I COULDN’T GO BACK to sleep, so I made another practice batch of muffins. It was supposed to be my first real batch for guests. I decided I would wrap up two and leave them as gifts for the two guests who had been forced to stay at the hotel. They might not be perfect, but they’d be better than the continental breakfast the hotel provided.

I went upstairs to shower about six-thirty and tip-toed back downstairs with my makeup and hair dryer so I wouldn’t wake up Scoobie and George.
As I was about to go into the half bath near the staircase I spotted something on the great room floor near the pantry. It hadn’t been there when I went upstairs, and a surge of panic went through me.

And then I noticed Mister Rogers and Miss Piggy waiting by the sliding glass door, tails wagging very fast.
“I can’t believe it!” I opened the sliding glass door. “You’re going to be out there for awhile,” I hissed.

I picked up the chewed remains of a small plastic bowl.
Aunt Madge has to have the only dogs on the planet that eat prunes, and they pick up the scent so well she has to put them in plastic containers. “For all the good that does,” I said aloud. At least the next time I sent an email to the ship I could tell her there was something on the floor besides Eric.

What is wrong with you?!
I sat on the loveseat and cried some more.

George and Scoobie wandered down about seven-thirty.
I was supposed to drive Scoobie to the community college campus at eight-thirty, and I knew George would want to get to work. He went back upstairs pretty quickly to take a shower. Last night he had talked to his editor a couple of times so they could write a piece on Eric’s murder. I could tell his editor was mad George would not go in and do it, but he was adamant about staying with me.
Great. He’ll probably lose his job and it’ll be your fault
.

I told myself to shut up.

“Jolie.”

It was Scoobie, and from the expression on his face it was not the first time he’d said my name.
“Sorry,” I said. “What?”

“I said it’ll be okay, just not right away.”

George walked through the kitchen and grabbed a muffin without stopping. “We should all go to a meeting tonight.” The swinging door flapped back and forth as he headed through the breakfast room.

I looked at Scoobie.
“You said no shoulds.” I’m sure I sounded as grouchy as I felt. George and Scoobie banded together to get me to my first All-Anon meeting a few weeks ago. I don’t think you’re really supposed to trick people into going to those, but now I go two or three times a month. I guess they’re right that having an overbearing mother and a husband who gambled your lives into broke could cause some issues. I still haven’t figured out what they are.

“With George it’s a figure of speech,” he said.
“Get dressed, we gotta go.”

Scoobie can take the city bus to campus and usually does.
As he gets to know more of his classmates better he often gets lifts home. People were used to seeing him looking pretty scruffy and sitting on boardwalk benches a lot, even in the couple years after he got clean and sober. Now that they know him better, and know that he won’t rat on them because he saw some of them smoking pot years ago, some of the students are friendlier.

We didn’t talk about anything important during the five-minute ride to campus.
As Scoobie started to get out of the car, he said, “Yo, Jolie. Don’t be too tough on yourself.”

“I’m okay,” I said, automatically.

“Not,” he said, and leaned over to give me a light kiss on the cheek. “I can see right through you, remember?”

It was almost a full minute before I realized he’d told me an x-ray joke.

IT WAS EARLY afternoon and I’d had enough frustration to last for about six weeks.
“I don’t understand why you won’t tell me anything.” I was sitting in Sgt. Morehouse’s small office, and he looked as tired as I felt. He’s not that much older than I am, maybe eight or ten years, but between the polyester pants and haggard expression, right now he looked about fifty.

He was more patient than usual.
“If there is something you need to know, I’ll tell you. Otherwise, the fewer people who know the specifics about any investigation the more we have a chance to find the perp.”

“Aunt Madge is going to ask me about the knife set.
Did you take it?”

“Right now she don’t know it’s missing.”
He pointed an almost accusatory finger at me. “Did you tell George?”

I shook my head.
“He ran out to go to work, and I drove Scoobie to the college.” It was just lucky George had been in such a hurry. Even I knew it was the kind of thing a reporter probably shouldn’t know. “Hey.” My expression surely grew pleased. “You said the knife set is missing.”

He stood.
“Out.”

He rarely raises his voice, and for a second the open area where more junior officers have desks was totally quiet.

Morehouse closed his eyes briefly. “I want you to call anytime you remember something that could help. That’s remember what happened, not dig up anything new. Got it?”

I nodded and walked out, still thinking about the knife set.
Morehouse had been in Aunt Madge’s kitchen at least a few times, and nothing is ever out of order. Still, it was odd that he remembered the set used to sit on the counter. Maybe seeing the one in Eric reminded him of the ones that usually sit there. I winced.

My mobile phone chirped and I glanced at caller ID.
Uh oh. Aunt Madge and Harry must have read the email I had sent from the library and be someplace where they could call. “Aunt Madge, I’m sorry I had to tell you by email,” I said.

It was Harry.
“Madge is pretty upset, so for now she’ll just listen. What in blazes happened?”

I had sent them a fairly detailed email so I gave them only a 30-second rendition.
“I just left Sgt. Morehouse. He’s not too forthcoming, but I didn’t get the sense they know much.”

I heard Aunt Madge say to Harry, “We really should get home.”

“No!” I said. “Look, there’s not one thing you can do, and I’ve heard both of you call this the trip of a lifetime. You need to stay with your ship. Where are you anyway?” I had the schedule in my room, but hadn’t looked at it a lot.

“Spain.
We…” Harry stopped talking and there was a rustling noise.

“Goodness, the guests.”
Aunt Madge spoke directly into the phone. “Were you supposed to have some last night, or am I mixed up?”

“Two men, and they couldn’t have been more gracious.
I put them in Beachcomber’s Alley and I dropped off muffins this morning.”

“What a good idea,” she said.

I detected surprise in her voice.
She had been nervous about leaving the Cozy Corner in my care. I do lousy hospital corners on the beds.

“I didn’t even ask about you, Jolie,” she said.
“You said in your email that you were coping. You must have been terribly upset.”

“It was pretty bad.
I didn’t actually see much. Sgt Morehouse kind of pushed me out of the kitchen real fast.”

“Good for him,” Harry said, from the background.

“Um, Aunt Madge.”

“Yes, Jolie.”

“It sounds kind of gross, but I thought you’d want to know that Dana called a guy to, um, clean the floor. He was there last night and this morning. He did a really good job.”

There was silence, and it sounded as if their phone changed hands again.
Harry came on again. “I think we’ll stay with the cruise. You said in your note that George and Scoobie stayed last night. Can one of them stay every night until we’re back?”

“George is quite keen on that,” I said, dryly.
I could almost feel Harry smile. “Oh, and he and Scoobie put a deadbolt on the door that goes down to the basement.”

“Make sure you keep the alarm on,” Aunt Madge’s nose was stuffy from crying, something she rarely does.

I wanted to say something comforting, but had no clue what it would be. “I didn’t even ask you. Is the food good? Are you meeting some nice people?”

“Cruises are even more than you’d expect,” Harry said. “We’ll have lots to tell you.”
Aunt Madge blew her nose.

I let them fuss over me for a couple more minutes, and finally got off the phone by saying I was going to work.
Harry was all for that.

THERE WERE SIX messages on Steele Appraisals’ phone, and none was about appraising a house. Two were from George. He had called my mobile when I was with Sgt. Morehouse, but I hadn’t answered.

George’s second message said, “Okay, Jolie, I just talked to Morehouse and he said you were there a few minutes ago, so I’m not worried anymore.
Call me, okay? I want to be sure you’re doing okay.”

Two were from Elmira.
The first one sounded as if it was before she read the paper. She wanted me to tell the management at Silver Times to fix her duplex first. “Jeez, Elmira,” I said aloud. “If it bugs you go to a hotel for awhile.”
A hotel far away.

The second message actually star
ted out sounding concerned. “I’m sorry, Jolie, I didn’t know about the Morton boy when I called first.” Then she adopted her usual clipped voice. “You don’t need to come today.”

As if.

I dreaded calling George. I tried to pretend that not talking about the knife set wasn’t a lie. But as my mother told me when I kept taking things from Renée’s room when I was about six, when you withhold information it’s a lie of omission.

After the second time I said I was fine, I think George could tell I was getting impatient.

“So, uh, did Morehouse say anything interesting?” George asked.

“Same old same old.
He told me to mind my own business.”

“This is your business,” George said, clearly irritated.

“He also more or less told me to keep you out of the loop.”

“I figured he would.
Tell Scoobie stuff. He’ll tell me.”