Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 06 - Behind the Walls (17 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY

I WENT DIRECTLY to the hardware store and bought one of those locks that are hard metal and make it impossible to open the door from the outside if it’s locked from the inside.
Much better than a chain lock, and I had no idea how to install a deadbolt. Aunt Madge or Harry would. In fact, I thought George and Scoobie put one on Aunt Madge’s basement door for her. But I wasn’t sure if I wanted them to know about Fitzgerald having had a key.

Then I remembered I was supposed to share information with George.
“Crud.”

I had to share.
It was the only way he’d tell me what he found, and I kind of liked having a reason to talk to him. I had begun to tell myself that whether George and I got back together was okay either way. We hadn’t dated that long. I’d had a life before that.
A lot of it spent being angry with George…

I pushed that thought aside.
It had been two weeks since I had taken a fast walk or jog, and I ached from painting above my head and packing and unpacking boxes. Heck, there was enough boardwalk reconstructed that I could walk on it. That would be a treat. When I finished I’d find George.

MY WALKS AND JOGS provide good opportunities for clear thinking. However, when my thoughts were as muddled as they were now, clarity was elusive. I moved quickly down the boardwalk, not running but walking with my arms pumping at my sides, taking deep breaths of the salty smell of the ocean.

Every now and then I glanced in a store that was being readied for the first post-Sandy summer season. The Hurricane had damaged a number of boardwalk businesses, with most having a lot more damage than broken windows.
A couple of smaller hotels fronted the boardwalk, and they had fared the best. They were newer construction. Even so, their lowest floor had taken water from the storm surge.

All of the boardwalk stores were painted in bright colors, and most of them either had been or were being repainted.
Wind had blown sand so hard that it was as if the frame buildings had been sandblasted.

I forced myself to stop looking at boardwalk activity and focus.
As far as I knew, no one had seen Clive Dorner and Norman Fitzgerald together in the few days before Norman’s death. There was no reason to think that they had been constant buddies, but since Clive was Norman’s executor, Clive must have been closer to his uncle than some of the other nieces and nephews.
So what?

I assumed that the jewelry behind the wall in my house had been placed there by Mr. Fitzgerald.
He was the thieving auctioneer related to the woman who owned the house when it seemed the wall had been redone. Though it would be hard to get at the diamonds, if he didn’t plan to sell them right away (and maybe he couldn’t because they would be recognized), the wall was perfect. Maybe his cousin even knew what he was doing. Maybe he stole the stuff he put in my house early in his criminal career and had forgotten it.

So why not remove the jewelry before Naomi Bridler moved?
It occurred to me that I didn’t know if the elderly cousin had died somewhat suddenly, making it hard to get at the diamonds. Mr. Fitzgerald must have been pleased that another relative had bought it. And why not get the jewelry when Moira Peebles lived there?

Of course, if he had one of the back door keys, what did it matter who lived there?
I supposed it would be hard to explain if you were caught cutting into the wall board, whether you had a key or not. Again I wondered if he had forgotten he hid jewelry there long ago.

And then there was Clive Dorner.
Why call me to look around Ocean Alley? He must have learned that the jewels were hidden in the house. And only Norman Fitzgerald could have told him that.

“Jolie!
Jolie!”

I slowed and turned to see Max hurrying down the boardwalk toward me.

“Hi, Jolie. Do you like your house? Your house?” he asked, breathless.

“I do.
Thanks for helping me move in.”

He stopped a few feet in front of me and looked around.
“The boardwalk’s really different. Really different.” He looked sad.

“It is, but I think it will be as nice as it ever was, once everything is finished.”

“There’s holes,” he said, very seriously.

“Holes? Oh, where a couple of the stores were torn down.
I think there will be more stores, just not all for this summer.” Technically, all of the buildings probably could have been repaired, but some were so old that the owners were glad to be able to take them down and build a more modern facility.

I gestured to one of the benches that had only recently been installed on the boardwalk.
They were the kind with large concrete legs, with wooden seats and backs. The benches were fastened so well there was no moving them. Apparently the city council hoped they would be sturdier should we get another major hurricane.
Not if, when.

As we sat I remembered what I wanted to ask Max.
“You said a friend of mine came to the house before I got there with the truck, on moving day.”

“I said that, yes I did.”

“Did you know him?” I asked. At the time it did not seem he did.

“I do now.
He was in the paper.” He frowned. “I don’t want to sit on your porch swing again. Not again.”

“So it was Mr. Fitzgerald?” I asked, quietly.

He frowned and nodded. “You should throw it away.”

“You’re probably right.
But I have to wait a bit. It’ll be kind of expensive to get another swing.”

His expression brightened.
“The VA gives me money.” He frowned. “But I can’t spend it all.”

I realized that he probably had some kind of financial guardian.
“Do you, uh, get what you need?”

He nodded emphatically.
“I have a nice house. Nice house. You can visit. Scoobie comes.”

Scoobie is full of surprises.
“Good for him. I’ll come sometime.”

He got up quickly.
“I’m walking. Walking.”

I watched him move down the boardwalk, toward Java Jolt.
Joe sometimes gave him day-old muffins.

When I lived at the Cozy Corner it was an easy walk to the boardwalk, but my house was not as close, so I had driven.
I stood slowly and began to walk to my car.

All my conversation with Max had done was confirm what Virginia Mulligan had told me.
Norman Fitzgerald had been in my house the day I moved in.

I needed to call George.
With a small pang of guilt–very small–I realized I should tell Sergeant Morehouse as well.
He wouldn’t tell you. True, but he can toss you in jail, and you can’t toss him anywhere.

GEORGE DIDN’T ANSWER my phone call, which meant he was working on a story or in his editor’s office. Or ignoring me.

I was in Harry’s office trolling the Internet looking for banks or mortgage companies Harry and I had not previously contacted.
I wanted to make sure every one of them knew Steele Appraisals would appraise any house, any time.

Now that Harry mostly lived at the Cozy Corner, his house had a kind of forlorn feel.
He comes to the office, of course, and he was still doing some renovation work upstairs. But there was no longer the smell of coffee in the morning and there was a layer of dust on the file cabinet in the office.
I should dust them.

My phone chirped.
“Find anything?” George asked, before I could say hello.

“Would finding out that Mr. Fitzgerald apparently had a key to the back door of my house be anything?”

“You’re kidding. You’re not kidding?”

“The day we moved in Max said a friend of mine had stopped by, and I didn’t think anything of it.
This morning Virginia Mulligan said she thought Fitzgerald helped me move in because she saw him go in the back door the day we brought all my stuff over there.”

“Damn,” he said, softly.
“Maybe looking for the jewelry, you think?”

“Maybe. But he knew I’d taken the walls down to studs.”
I paused. “It’s not so important for that day, but it tells me he may have had other hiding places. And that he could have been in there the night he died, or maybe…”

“Maybe someone knew he had a key and killed him for it,” George said.

“I guess I should tell Morehouse.”

“Are you nuts?
He’d tell us, you, to lay off.”

“Like I care.
Besides, it’s murder, George.”

I was going to tell Sergeant Morehouse, I just hadn’t decided when.

CHAPTER TWENTY-
ONE

CLIVE DORNER’S FUNERAL was in Ocean Grove on Saturday, but I did not plan to attend. I hadn’t known him well, and while that in and of itself was not a reason to stay home, there was the Sergeant Morehouse reason. He or someone else from the Ocean Alley Police Department would go to the funeral, and I’d be reminded that I was to stay away from anything to do with Norman Fitzgerald or Clive Dorner.

Since no one had said to stay away from people Dorner knew, I decided to find Fiona Henderson.
She wasn’t in the phone book. Scoobie had said he thought he’d seen her around town, but he didn’t seem to know much about her. Since Scoobie thought I should butt out, he might not tell me how to find her even if he did know.

That left Aunt Madge, and all I’d get from her was more advice to mind my own business.
You could ask George.
Yes, I could, but I opted for Java Jolt first, since I had seen Fiona in there with Dorner. I had not counted on Lester being there.

“Hey, kid.
Lemme know when you want to look for a bigger place.” He was busily pouring multiple packs of sugar into his coffee.

Joe gave me an amused grin and slight shake of his head.

“Lester.” I waited for him to look at me. “I like my little house.”

“Sure, sure.”
He patted the table. “Come over after you get your cuppa joe.”

I ordered a mocha latte and waited for Joe to turn on the milk scalding machine before I asked, quietly, “Did you know the woman Clive Dorner was with the other day?
I mean, I know her name is Fiona Henderson, but I wanted to talk to her. Does she live in town?”

“I figured you’d know her.
She’s one of the Murphy girls. Lives with her sister and a bunch of kids.”

It took me a few seconds to work it out.
“Her mom is the Mrs. Murphy who lives in the assisted living place?”

“Bingo.
I take it you’re going to bug her?”

“Bug who?” Lester asked.

My back was to Lester, and Joe could see my expression, which surely looked as frustrated as I felt.
Joe smirked. I smoothed my expression and turned toward Lester.

“Bug Fiona Henderson.
You know her, right?” I sat next to Lester.

He frowned lightly.
“If she’s who I think, she’s Francis and Mary Murphy’s daughter.”

“I saw her in here with Clive Dorner one day.”

“Jerk God rest his soul.” He said this in one fast sentence.

“Do you have a phone number for her, or know her address?
I couldn’t find her in the phone book.”

“Cause she had a restraining order on her ex,” Lester said, slurping as he took a drink of his coffee.
“You’re better off stopping by her place.” He gave me the address, which was not far from First Prez.

“Thanks.”
I jotted it in my small notebook.

“Um…”
I started to tell him about Betty Fowler and decided against it. If Lester thought Dorner was a jerk for being in a vacant house without his agent, I could only imagine what he’d say if he learned Dorner had probably been looking with another agent. It occurred to me that maybe Betty knew something more about Dorner, but that would have to wait.

“Um what?” Lester asked.

“Um, I can’t remember what I was going to say. Too much going on, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Lester said, seeming to be sympathetic.
“You know what would distract you? I gotta house on Conch that…”

He ducked as I hurled a sugar packet at him.

FIONA HENDERSON look embarrassed as she offered me a seat in the family room of the large frame house she shared with her sister and all of their kids.
“You probably wonder why I didn’t mention who my mom was the first time we met.”

“Not really.” I smiled.
“I have actually been known to deny who my mother is, but she’s a special case.”

That seemed to relax her.
“I wasn’t embarrassed. Patricia had a kind of new boyfriend, Arman, so I didn’t want to keep us standing there talking about mom. You said you thought I could help you with something.” She gestured to an upholstered chair that had seen better days, and took a plastic truck off its mate and sat across from me.

“You can imagine what a shock it was to find Norman Fitzgerald on my front porch.”

“I’m sure it was very hard for you.” She hesitated. “You talked to my mom, so you know he was in business with my father.”

“And I have heard he may not have been a very scrupulous business partner.”

“When we were little he always gave us peppermint candies.” She shook her head slightly, with a frown. “The stealing wouldn’t have been so bad, except my mother has to live on very limited resources. Assisted living costs a lot, and even with watching every penny, she’ll be out of money in about eighteen months.”

“And she might not be in that situation if the proceeds had been split evenly?”

“You never know how retirement investments are going to work out, but my parents were very frugal. Anytime they had something extra they socked it away. Some of the things Norman Fitzgerald kept for himself were quite valuable.”

“And,” I wanted to be sure I understood here, “if your parents had had that money twenty or more years ago, then the investment would have grown quite a bit.”

She shrugged. “Grown, and maybe my dad would have been comfortable buying a riskier mutual fund or something that would have grown even more. Or it all could have gone down the drain, I guess.”

“But you don’t think so.”

She shook her head firmly. “Like I said, my parents saved and invested well.”

“So, how does all that put you with Clive Dorner?” I asked.

A look of what I guessed to be frustration or dislike crossed her face. “You already know he was Fitzgerald’s nephew. He called me, maybe three weeks before you saw me with him. He said he knew his uncle had “rooked” my father, those were his words, and while he could not change that, he could help me make some money for my kids and me. And Patricia’s, but she didn’t want anything to do with him.”

“Make some money?”

“He said he was really good at buying houses that needed just a little bit of work, like paint and such, and then selling them for a lot more. He said he could make me a partner for a couple of the houses.” She shrugged. “Sounded good.”

The words that went through my mind were too good to be true.
“How much did you have to put up?”

“He said only three thousand dollars, to cover some of the closing costs.
I took it out of my 401(k).” She guessed my skepticism from my expression. “I know, sounds pretty generous, since he said he’d give me half of the profits.”

Generous?
Not likely.
“Did he explain that, uh, generosity?” I asked.

“He said he spent a lot of time in Ocean Alley when he was little, with Norman and his wife.
You know she died a long time ago, right?”

I nodded.

“Apparently Norman used to do some nice things for him then, and later, like send him money when he was in college. He said he felt kind of guilty because some of that money should probably have been my parents’, or ours. Patricia’s and mine.”

I sat back in my chair and just looked at her.
“You know, I only talked to Clive a few times. I guess this doesn’t sound very charitable, but he never struck me as being too concerned with anyone but himself.”

“That’s what Patricia said. And mom.
I dunno, maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to meet him at Java Jolt that day. It’s just,” she waved her hand around the room, “divorce doesn’t leave you with a lot to raise your kids with.”

I knew about divorce cleaning your clock, but I couldn’t imagine having to raise kids without a partner’s income. From what little I knew, even if a high-wage earning spouse paid child support, it’s nothing like having another wage earner under the same roof.

“Did you ever see any of your $3,000 again?” I asked.

“I had only just given it to him. He had me wait until he found something that would be really good.
He wanted me to see it before we, I guess I should say he, actually invested the money.” She sighed. “He had left me a message a couple of days before he died. He said he’d found a good one and would call back when I could look at it. Then he died. I know I should feel really bad for him, and of course I do, but it would have been so nice to have something saved for the kids’ college.”

“Do you have any way to get your money back?” I asked.

“Peter, my boyfriend, said he would find out who is handling Dorner’s estate. I have my canceled check.”

“I bet that’ll work.”
If you’re really, really lucky. After another second, I asked, “Did you know that I was at the house where he died?”

Her eyes widened and her mouth opened in a small oh, and she almost stammered.
“You mean at the same time? That wasn’t in the paper.”

“Jennifer Stenner and I were both there.
The paper played it down, just said a few people saw the fire at the same time.”

“That’s really weird.”
She looked at me with an odd expression. I figured she was wondering if it had been a smart thing to let me into her house.

“I don’t really think anyone knew we’d be there then.
It was just a house to appraise, and I didn’t have a schedule.”

“Still…you are either very lucky yourself or very unlucky for other people.”

“I’ve heard that before.
I guess because I was around both of them right after they died I’m more than just interested.”

“Are you helping the police?” she asked.

“They would definitely say no.”

Fiona didn’t say anything, but she radiated
what do you care
?

“I just…didn’t like finding Mr. Fitzgerald like that.”

We spoke for another couple of minutes about her three children, ages five, seven and nine, and as she walked me to the door, Fiona said she was really glad I wasn’t hurt at the house fire.

I had my hand on the doorknob when it was pushed open, very fast, and I stepped back a couple of steps rather than get bowled over.
I recognized the man as one of the two who had been with Fiona and her sister at the auction. He didn’t look pleased to see me, but recovered quickly.

“Gosh, I’m sorry.
With the kids at soccer, I didn’t think anyone would be here except Fiona.” He pulled the screen door shut and left the main door open as he held out a hand. “Peter McManus. We saw each other at the auction where you beat out the girls.”

He had an air of self-confidence that seemed to go with his kind of rugged good looks.
Piercing blue eyes stared into mine as I took his hand, which he had extended in a forthright shake. “I remember. I think you were the one who said the drawers would be too shallow. I have to agree.”

He laughed.
“Damn, I love to say I told you so.” He leaned over and gave Fiona a kiss on the cheek. “Do you have time for coffee before the kids get home from soccer?”

Fiona nodded and smiled at him, and then me.
“Peter has the independent insurance agency next to Mr. Markle’s grocery store.”

“I’ll have to remember that.”
I put my hand on the screen door’s knob.

“Hang on.”
Peter took out a card and handed it to me. “Never let it be said that a good sales agent is shy.”

As I drove away, I thought about Fiona and Patricia and their children.
I figured some of the money from the jewelry hidden behind my walls should be theirs, maybe all of it. But before I raised their hopes, I thought I should do more digging. What if it had been Moira Peebles’ jewelry, or another prior owner’s? A premature assumption could lead to a court fight and a lot of disappointment.