Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 06 - Behind the Walls (18 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

WHEN I’M TRYING to decide whether to tell Sergeant Morehouse something, my primary criterion is whether he could hear it from someone else first.
The business with the key to my house was probably a toss-up in terms of him finding out, but I decided I was better off telling him about it, even if George disagreed. I debated whether to tell him what Fiona had told me about Clive offering to make her a partner in a couple of rehabbed houses.

I was not sure if Morehouse would be in on a Saturday, but the young officer at the desk said he was, and this time he did not ask why I was there.

Morehouse waved me into his office and I sat across from him.

“And?”

“There’s something I need to tell you,” I began.

“It damn well better be something like what you feed that skunk,” he growled.

“She likes beans better than cauliflower, but no, it’s more like I think Mr. Fitzgerald had a key to my back door.”

“What?!
And you didn’t tell me this? Where’s the key?”

“First, I’m not one hundred percent positive, but Virginia Mulligan said that on the day I moved in she saw him go in the back door, which would have been before I got there.”

“That was Sunday a week ago. You shoulda told me right away.” He pulled his notebook to him and scribbled something.

“She just told me.
She assumed I’d given it to him so she didn’t think it was odd. If I hadn’t gone over to her place to see if she’d had Pebbles over the winter, we wouldn’t have even talked.”

“She had the damn skunk?” he asked.

I nodded. He stared at me for a couple of seconds, then put both hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling for at least fifteen seconds. Finally, he looked at me. “This could mean a couple of important things. Or nothing.”

“But more likely important, don’t you think?
It means he could have gone in there the night he was murdered, or the killer did, too.”

“Which begs the question, what were they looking for?”

Morehouse said “the jewelry” and I said, “Stuff that Mr. Fitzgerald took from the auctions.”

He shook a finger at me.
“What makes you say that? Who have you been talking to?”

I gave him what I hoped was a cool stare.
“I read in Mr. Fitzgerald’s obit that his partner was Francis Murphy, and I know his wife.”

“You mean your aunt knows his wife.
You don’t.”

“Excuse me, I know who I know.
I met her at Ruth Riordan’s funeral, and she’s funny. I visited her a couple of times.”

His expression was almost amused.
“People you visit end up dead sometimes.” Then he got serious again. “But you must have talked to her about your jewelry or something like that.”

“I did tell her what I found, yes.”

He massaged his temples as he spoke. “It’s not likely she goes around killing people, though she could have told someone that there might be valuables hidden in your house.”

“Her daughters, maybe, but they both work and have young children.
Even if they wished the guy dead I doubt they could find the time to do it. Anyway, I didn’t talk to her until after Fitzgerald died.”

“It was a strong blow to the head.
A strong woman could have done it, of course, but more likely a man. Besides,” he hesitated, then said, “Even if you told her before he died, I’ve known her girls all their lives. They’d be near the bottom of any list of suspects I had.”

“If you had one.”

“Don’t you have to be somewhere?”

I DID HAVE PLACES TO GO. But first I wanted to know if Clive Dorner had bought houses in Ocean Alley. From Lester, I knew that Dorner had signed contracts to buy a couple, but the contracts hadn’t gone through yet. He could have bought through Betty or another agent. If he had been a more up-front person, Dorner would have worked with only one local agent, and I could ask that person. Since Dorner was apparently pitting agents against one another, and I had no idea how many he used, I thought about the title company.

Title companies search the past owners of a property to make sure the current owner has the right to sell it and there are no liens on a property.
They often know who has made recent offers on properties. True, they may not be brought into the process for a time after a potential buyer makes an offer, but in a town like Ocean Alley they generally know the status of properties on the market. Banks might, too, but no banker would talk to me about a client, dead or alive.

I pulled into the parking lot for Ocean Ally Title Search, glad it was before
noon. They weren’t open Saturday afternoon. A married couple owned it, Cassie and Glenn Stetson. I always remembered their name because Glenn wore the large hat of the same name and liked to pretend he was from Texas. I happened to know he was from Hoboken.

The door tinkled as I entered.
There were two doors off the main room, and a narrow hallway that I assumed led to rest rooms or a small kitchenette. A counter separated the entry area from all of this. I stood on the public side of the counter.

Cassie looked up from a desk on the far side of the office.
“Jolie. Goodness. You found Norman Fitzgerald.” Cassie was about fifty, with hips that showed that she had had several children. She wasn’t heavy, but had the air of someone who was comfortable with a middle-aged body. Which I doubted I would be.
Not that I have immediate plans for kidlets.

“I did.
It was not a good day for either of us.”
Lame.

Cassie walked to the counter and stood across from me, elbows resting on the counter.
“He was a good man. We’d known each other for at least twenty years.”

I nodded.
It seemed safer than commenting on what I had learned about the ‘good man’ in the last few days. “I’m actually here about his nephew, Clive Dorner. I wondered if you would be comfortable giving me some information.”

She frowned.
“Gosh. I didn’t realize Mr. Dorner was Norman’s nephew.”

Aha.
She’s been working with Dorner.

“He wasn’t from here, though he grew up in Ocean Grove, so he was apparently here a lot as a kid.”

“Dorner spoke at his uncle’s funeral.” Glenn Stetson spoke from the doorway of one of the two offices.

“Oh, he did?”
Cassie looked at me. “We need to keep the office open, so usually only one of us goes to funerals or meetings.”

“I believe I saw you at
Norman’s funeral.” Glenn’s tone was not as welcoming as Cassie’s had been. “Kind of odd that his nephew died so soon after he did.”

“I thought so, too,” I said.

“What was your business with Clive Dorner?” Glenn asked.

Cassie stepped back to the desk, apparently having decided that her husband had a reason for being somewhat distant with me.

“He called me a couple of weeks ago.
I guess he thought I was still working in real estate rather than just doing appraisals, because he wanted me to show him around town…”

“He was working with Betty Fowler,” Glenn said.

“And, at my recommendation, with Lester Argrow.”

“Lester!”
Cassie and Glenn looked at each other as they said this together.

“He said he wanted bargains, and Lester is pretty good at sniffing those out.
I didn’t know he’d been working with Betty, of course.”

“I bet Betty doesn’t know that,” Cassie said.
“I can only imagine the fight over commissions.”

“And it’s not really our business,” her husband said.
He kind of implied it might not be mine.

“Clive also talked to me a couple of times about how I might fix up the little house I just bought.”
Okay, a slight exaggeration
. “And he talked to a friend of mine about investing with him.”
Friend? A bigger exaggeration.
“It seemed as if he was…into a lot at once. I suppose I’m just being plain nosy, wondering if he ever closed a deal.”

Cassie looked as if she might understand my interest, but Glenn did not seem to share that view.
“And you don’t want to talk to Betty or Lester?”

I raised an eyebrow at him.
“How far away do you think I’d have to stand from either of them if they found out Dorner was using two agents? And that I might have had something to do with that.”

At that Glenn relaxed.
“Good point.” He glanced at his wife, who shrugged. “We had just begun a couple of title searches. I don’t think it would be right to tell you which properties. They’ll probably go right back on the market.”

“I appreciate you telling me that.
I had been about to appraise the house Clive was found in and…”

“He put in a contract on it?” Glenn asked.

“Uh, no. I was appraising it on behalf of a bank.”

Glenn frowned.
“I supposed the bank was about to sell it. We were doing a title search on it, but not with him as the buyer.”

“I wonder what he was doing there?” I mused.

“That might be a question better left to the police,” Glenn said.

That was when I knew I had made a mistake coming to their office.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I DIDN’T RETURN Sergeant Morehouse’s phone call Sunday morning.
I figured he was calling me about the visit to the Stetson’s rather than about something I needed to know. He didn’t call me back.

I was making a second cup of instant coffee when something furry nudged my ankle.
“What are you looking at?” I asked Pebbles.

She nudged again, harder.
“I know you didn’t nudge Mrs. Peebles that hard. She probably would have fallen over.”

The skunk turned and waddled toward the bathroom.
Since she usually only bugs me when she wants food, which is often, I finished stirring my coffee and followed her. Jazz was sitting on the bathroom sink, swatting at something in it.

“Tattle tale,” I said to Pebbles, and peered into the sink.

“Ugh!” The cicada was at least two inches long. With its translucent wings and colorful orange and black back it looked like something that should be in an exhibit in a science class. Certainly it had no place in my house.

“Where did that come from?”
Jazz, intent on her pastime, did not respond.

I picked up a washcloth and laid it over the cicada.
Jazz double-swatted my hand as I began to lift it out of the sink. “It isn’t yours.” She thought differently and tried to climb up my arm. Even as small as she is, when a cat tries to claw its way up one of your appendages, it hurts.

“Cut it out.”
I jiggled my arm and she jumped to the floor. That put her nose to nose with Pebbles, and for a moment I thought they’d go after each other, but they just sniffed, and Jazz walked around Pebbles, with her tail in the air.

I looked back at the washcloth, which was moving slightly.
I didn’t want to kill the damn cicada, just let it outside. I was loathe to pick it up. I’m not overly afraid of bugs, but it was as long as my pinky.

Someone pounded on my front door, and I jumped.
I walked into the living room, careful not to show myself, and peered out of the window. Sergeant Morehouse was on the front porch.

“Nuts.”
I opened the door. Before he could say anything, I said, “Could you get the cicada out of my bathroom sink, please?”

“You’re kiddin’ right?”
He walked in.

“Nope.”
I pointed to the small hallway that led to the bathroom and two bedrooms.

He shook his head as he walked in and looked at the washcloth in the sink.
“You’re saying it’s under here?”

“Yep.
I didn’t want to kill it, but I want it outside.”

He picked up the washcloth, carefully cupping the cicada in it, and walked to the door and shook the bug outside and threw the washcloth at me.
I caught it.

“Isn’t it early for them?” I asked, as I gestured to the rocking chair.

“I didn’t come over here to talk cicadas with you.” He sat. “But it’s April so the first crop is out. What in the hell were you doing talking to the Stetsons about Dorner’s real estate dealings?”

“Why would they call you about that?
They know me.” I countered.

“Which is probably why they called.
What were you doin’?”

“Two people died near me in the last few days.
I want to know why.” I held his gaze, which was intense.

Morehouse spoke slowly.
“I’m here rather than screaming at you on the phone because I’m trying to figure what makes you tick before I arrest you for interfering with a police investigation.”

I started to tell him Dorner probably rooked Fiona Henderson out of $3,000, but that was her business and she likely had not told this to Morehouse.
“I want to know…” I began.

“No, you want to meddle.
Jolie, these deaths are likely related, and the person who killed these two men could just as easily add one more notch to his murder belt.”

“So, Dorner didn’t die because of smoke or fire?
Do you know if they were both killed by the same person?” I asked.

“Damn it to hell, listen to me!
Lay off. Don’t get involved. Mind your own beeswax. Can I be any clearer?”

“Do you know if Dorner spent a lot of time with his uncle?” I asked.

He briefly put his head in his hands, then stood. “I’m not kiddin’ about arresting you if you interfere.” He pointed at me. “And then I’ll ask the judge to recognize that you’re a danger to yourself so you can only get out on bail if you stay with Madge and Harry.”

“Why punish them?” I asked.

Morehouse slammed the door on his way out.

BECAUSE PLANNING the so-called Harvest for All birthday party took a lot of time, I decided to wait a couple of days before I looked into Dorner’s death any more. Neither he or I was going anywhere, and the diamonds and two of the gold bracelets were secure in the jewelry store’s safe.

Ramona had worn the other gold bracelet several times.
While she’d had several compliments about it, no one mentioned that it looked familiar.

We wanted the birthday party to be held before the full tourist season was underway, which was Memorial Day weekend.
That meant we had to hustle, so I spent part of Tuesday collecting door prizes and asking businesses to donate cake and ice cream and such.

Aunt Madge, who would never admit that the party idea was hers, had suggested asking businesses to donate cakes that said, “Happy Birthday from” and then named the business.
Jennifer was coordinating this. She’s active in the Chamber and knows everyone, plus she’s good at sucking up. I was glad she agreed to find the cakes. She had been even more rattled by the fire than I had, and I thought she might want to stay away from me. She probably did, but she’s good to Harvest for All.

I was working on donations for door prizes.
They cost us nothing and people are generally willing to spend one dollar for each chance to win. We did have one prize that people could register to win without making a donation. Charlotte Evans said she would donate a basket full of, as she said, anything that a person could use on the beach—sun screen, towel, bug spray, a visor cap, inflatable beach ball, and more.

Lester wanted us to raffle a one percent discount off of his commission if he sold a house, but I told him it was blatant self-advertising and people would rather have a tangible prize, even if it was a gift certificate or something.
He said he would donate two cases of the liquid string and a bunch of long handled scrub brushes to clean up the soapy string foam.

At Java Jolt one day he said, “I’m thinkin’ I can ask Ramona to put my business name and phone number on the scrub brush handles.”
He said this with a certainty I did not share. Ramona had her hands full organizing her supplies to do the caricatures she does for a donation to Harvest for All.

Scoobie had two big tests coming up, but he managed to convince the two local radio stations to do public servant announcements, and said he would personally record them.
I was not sure I would want to hear them in advance, and when he asked why, I simply said that way I didn’t have to share the blame. He saw my point.

George was not focusing on the birthday party.
I remembered that he wiggled out of doing a lot at last year’s hotdog eating contest. Now he was working on an article that tied together the so-called pilfering at the auctions to Mr. Fitzgerald’s recently evident wealth. It would not be a popular article, and his editor was demanding “rock solid proof.”

“Does that mean you don’t always have proof?” I asked.
“I can think of some examples.”

He bristled.
“I always think what I print is true.”

He, Scoobie, Ramona, Jennifer and I were at Newhart’s.
The diner is an Ocean Alley institution. Its walls have dozens of photos of local people and events, including one of Uncle Gordon.

We were meeting to talk about the business contributions Jennifer was garnering.
I pressed George again about how he would get rock solid proof. Jennifer and Ramona were at the salad bar, and Scoobie had ordered his favorite, a grilled cheese on wheat, and he was following the conversation George and I were having, eyes traveling between us.

“Are you kidding?
I don’t get you. After you told Morehouse about Fitzgerald having a key, I’m not sharing much with you.”

I frowned.
“I’ve told you what I know. I just thought the police should know about the key.”

“Plus, Morehouse would kill her if he found out later,” Scoobie said.

Scoobie gets me more than George does.

“What key?” Jennifer asked.
She placed her salad bowl on the table and swung into the booth.

“Nuts,” George said.

“Nuts what?” she asked. She was carefully slicing lettuce in her salad and did not see him wince.

This ought to be good.

“You can’t tell anyone this,” he said in a warning tone.

I cleared my throat and he looked at me.
“Whose house is it we’re talking about?” I asked.

“Oh, right.”
It was clear he had not considered this.

I looked at Jennifer.
“You know Mrs. Mulligan?” Jennifer nodded. “She thought Mr. Fitzgerald had a key to my house. I don’t know that he did.”
Oh yes I do
.

“That’s interesting.”
She popped a cherry tomato in her mouth and chewed for a few seconds. “He could have had keys to a lot of places, you know?”

George choked and dribbled water down his chin and Ramona handed him a napkin.
“What makes you think that?” Ramona asked.

She shrugged.
“I don’t know, but a lot of people gave him keys so he could take stuff out of houses. You know, to take things to an auction. Or even if they had the auction at their house, it might be that the people who lived there had died or gone into a nursing home. Norman’s people would go through everything.”

“So, he could have made copies,” I said.

“If he did,” Scoobie said, “there could be a bunch of them in his house.”

“In his house? Why would he keep them?”
Jennifer asked.

I chose my words carefully.
“Some people wonder how he accumulated the kind of wealth he must have had to make all those donations. Especially the one to the hospital for the new pediatrics wing.”

“Oh!
You mean he took things from houses? Like a cat burglar?” Jennifer asked, eyes literally wide.

George had recovered his voice.
“A cat burglar breaks into a house, usually when people aren’t home. There is some question about whether Mr. Fitzgerald took some things he was supposed to auction.”

“She waved a hand as she picked up her iced tea.
“Only Elmira.” She took a drink and set it down. “We need to get to work.”

I was happy to get off the topic.
Newhart’s was not crowded, and we were not yelling, but it still seemed better to keep a conversation like this private. Plus, I had to think about how to get into Norman Fitzgerald’s house to see if there were extra keys.

ON WEDNESDAY I went to visit Mrs. Murphy again in part because I wanted to and in part to keep George from doing it. He wanted quotes from Elmira Washington and Mrs. Murphy about how Fitzgerald may have swindled them. Elmira was all for it, and it was to the point that he had stopped returning her phone calls. She was demanding to know when the article would be printed. But Mrs. Murphy very politely told George she would think about it, and that she would call him if she wanted to talk to him.

However, when I visited her she was very interested in hearing that others might think Fitzgerald did not get all his money honestly. “Have you heard of anyone other than
Elmira?” she asked.

“Not yet.
One issue is that a lot of the items were part of estate sales, so the people who best knew the merchandise were not there to see if anything was missing.”

“I won’t mind saying something publicly at some time,” she said, “but right now Peter, that’s Fiona’s boyfriend, is working with the lawyer handling
Norman’s estate. I don’t want to create hard feelings. Not yet, anyway.”

I knew that a local attorney had become executor after Clive’s death.
Apparently sensing it could be a dangerous job, none of his cousins wanted to do it.

“Is the attorney someone you know?”
All I knew was that the name was Charles Jessup. I didn’t know him.

“No.
Very young, I hear.” As I settled on one of her overstuffed armchairs, she continued. “Peter is sharp. Fitzgerald’s surviving nieces and nephews have banded together and they want a fifty-fifty split from the sale of the business. That’s me getting half. Peter thinks that if we can show that Norman stole items and it reduced Francis’ income, I might be able to get more.”

“How can you prove that?” I asked.

“In the basement of the house the girls share there are a lot of files for auctions. I had forgotten about them. They were in my basement, and I wanted to throw them away when I sold our house and moved in here.”