Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 06 - Behind the Walls (26 page)

“Here!” she squeaked.

I jumped. Intent on my task, I didn’t realize she had almost come into the closet. I handed her the bag and made to stand. She didn’t look at the sack, but pointed the gun toward me and I sat back on the floor. Panic hit me for the first time.
Maybe she’ll shoot me and leave me in the closet.

I kept my eyes on her hands.
The one without the gun held the sack and she fingered it, as if trying to gauge its contents. Her right hand still held the gun.

After a few seconds she stuck the bag in the pocket of her jacket and gestured at me with the gun.
I was pretty sure she was telling me to stay in the closet.

I yelled, “Point that somewhere else!”
I head butted her in the knee and she stumbled backwards a couple of steps.

Her gun discharged as she stumbled back and then she sat down, hard, on the edge of my bed.
It was a tiny gun, probably a twenty-two if I remembered from TV detective shows. It was still really loud in my small bedroom.

I crawled out of the closet and half-crouched.
I wasn’t sure what she would do next, and she was still holding the gun. Plus, her knee was a very hard place to head butt, and I was dizzy.

“Bitch!” she yelled, and rose awkwardly to her feet.

Apparently Pebbles likes gunshots even less than strange people, and she darted out from under the bed almost at the intruder’s feet. The woman shrieked and raised a foot to kick her. Faster than I could keep track of her, Jazz launched herself at the robber’s ankle. Pebbles swung around and raised her tail at the woman.

“Get away!
Get away!” she screamed.

She raised the gun, but she was really off balance, trying to shake Jazz off her foot.
As I had seen her do many times, Jazz sank her claws into skin and began to climb.

I launched myself at the gun and grabbed it with both hands, making it point to the ceiling. The woman started to fall backwards onto the bed, but not before she had grabbed a chunk of my hair.
I fell onto the bed beside her and inhaled her sweet-smelling perfume.

“Let go!” I yelled.
I wanted to pull her hand off my hair, but wasn’t willing to take both hands off of the gun. I might not have claws, but I moved one hand down a bit and dug my fingernails into the little bit of wrist that showed between the long sleeves and a cotton glove. She let go of my hair and hit me in the side of the head. I kept hold of the gun, but my ears were ringing and I felt my hands start to slide off the gun.

The woman reached her free hand up to grab at the gun, which was still pointing at the ceiling.
She fired it again, and my head throbbed with the sound.

I thought the second shot surprised her and her grip on the gun loosened.
Or maybe it was the smell that caught her off guard. Being this close to her gun I got a good whiff of the sort of acrid burning odor of what I assumed was gunpowder.

In the back of my mind I heard footsteps pounding up my porch and people calling my name.
I fastened my hand on the wrist of the hand holding the gun, wanting to get her finger off the trigger.

Suddenly someone grabbed me by the collar to pull me off the robber, and a man’s hand covered mine over the gun.
Whoever it was slugged the woman in the head with his other hand just as I let go of the gun and the other rescuer pulled me off the woman.

She sank onto the bed, moaning.
“Don’t shoot me.” The squeaky voice was gone, replaced by one that sounded a bit familiar.

George had hit her and now had the gun.
He held it at his side and said, “Stay down there, do not move!”

I looked to my left a bit and saw a white-faced Scoobie.
He gave me a quick look and let go of me, and then looked toward the floor. “Damn. That is one pissed off cat.” Only then did Jazz let go of her prey. She had made it up to the woman’s knee.

Pebbles was back under the bed even before George pulled the ski mask off the woman.

All three of us said, “Betty!” at the same time.

“It was supposed to be mine!
It was my payback!” she screamed at us. Her expression was truly crazed.

“I KNOW THIS ONE WASN’T your fault,” Morehouse said, “but you shoulda told me about that second sack of stuff.” He had handcuffed a crying Betty and two officers were putting her in a police car outside.

“Like I knew.” I sat in my rocker with my head leaning against its back.
George was pacing the living room and Scoobie sat, silently, on the couch. Morehouse sat next to him and opened his notebook.

“Where was it?” George asked, stopping for a moment.

“George, shut up. Where was it?” Morehouse asked.

In the back of the cedar closet in my bedroom.
You’ll see a hole at the bottom.”

Dana had just come in the front door, catching the end of my comment.

“Stick your head in that closet for a minute, would you?” Morehouse asked.

“Sure.”
She walked into the bedroom.

“One of the back boards.
It was sawed at the bottom and the piece put back in place. The sack was behind it.” I closed my eyes.

“You gonna be okay?
You didn’t get hit in the head or anything, did you?”

“You know,” I said slowly, “I believe she did try, but she mostly missed.”

Dana walked back into the living room. “Small piece of board on the bottom pulled out. I think I’ve spotted both bullets.” She pulled a small camera out of her pocket and returned to the bedroom.

There was an exchange of words on the porch.
“Get out of my way or I’ll throw you off this porch!”

“Madge.”
It was Harry’s voice now.

“She can come in,” Morehouse yelled.

The screen yanked open and I stood halfway up and then sat down again. I was feeling kind of weak. Aunt Madge then pulled at me, half in a hug and half I don’t know what.

“You’re all right.
Virginia said there was gunfire.”

I patted her on the back, and again tried to stand, but she kind of pushed me back into the chair.
“It was a little gun.”

“Little, schmittle.” Harry said.
“Who was it?”

“Betty Fowler,” George said.

“What?!” This was from Aunt Madge and Harry.

“Madge.”
Morehouse had stood. “Sit on the couch. You need to let me talk to her.”

She stared at him and sat next to Scoobie, and Harry gave me a squeeze on the shoulder and then went to sit next to her.
George took the two dinette chairs and swung them toward the rocker and couch, and Morehouse sat in one. I thought George might sit, but he didn’t.

“Okay,” Morehouse said.
“Start at the beginning.”

I stared at him without smiling.
“That’s kind of like TV.”

He grunted, and I took a breath.
“She came in after the last scavenger person left. Or about fifteen minutes after that.” I glanced at Scoobie. “What time is it?”

“Almost four.
That’s why we walked over,” he said.

“Oh, that’s later than I thought.
I went in to lie down for a minute, but I fell asleep. She must have come in then. I didn’t lock the door.”

“Swell,” George said.
“You have a security system but you don’t lock the door.”

“Shut up, George,” Morehouse said.

I told them that Betty had held up the sign telling me where to go, and that there had been a screwdriver on the floor. This caused a brief discussion between Harry and George about how it could have gotten there, and Morehouse told them both to “pipe down or leave.”

I finished telling the chain of events, including that I wasn’t sure she meant to fire the gun.
“It was a good thing, though. If Pebbles hadn’t come out from under the bed when Betty fired it, I don’t think she would have been distracted enough for me to try to grab the gun.”

“Did Pebbles go after her?” Scoobie asked.

Probably because it was the question he was about to ask, Morehouse did not tell him to shut up.

“She raised her tail to spray.
When Sam came the day I found her, he said that was instinct when they were threatened, even if their scent glands had been removed.” I thought for a second. “Betty was freaked out by Pebbles. And then Jazz latched onto her foot or ankle, or whatever it was.”

Morehouse shook his head.
“Saved by a skunk.”

I saw George’s face light up and quickly become serious again.
He was thinking of headlines, I was sure.

“Betty ain’t poor,” Morehouse said.
“Why in the hell would she do this?”

“She said something…” I paused.

“She said it was supposed to be hers. Something about payback,” Scoobie said.

“Ah.
I bet Dorner got her to give him some money for an investment property and told her he’d pay her back with money from the jewelry. He talked big, but his house was in foreclosure in Philly, remember?”

Morehouse nodded at me and then looked at his notes.

“Norman must have told him it was here,” Aunt Madge said, softly.

Morehouse ignored her and spoke to me.
“Dorner ask you for money?”

I shook my head.
“No, but remember, he got three thousand dollars from Fiona Henderson.”

“No wonder Betty called him a rat bastard,” Harry said, almost to himself.

I let Harry and Aunt Madge describe the encounter in Newhart’s and I added that Betty had apologized and treated me at Java Jolt.

When Morehouse had gotten as much information as he apparently thought he could wring out of me and asked me if I needed to go to the hospital—I most definitely did not—he left, taking George and Scoobie with him.

I realized I still had no idea what was in the bag.

CHAPTER THIRTY

ON SUNDAY the
Ocean Alley Press
only had a two-inch article because Morehouse kept George at the police station answering questions until late. Morehouse said it was because George had handled the gun. Scoobie got to leave a little earlier, which he said was a good thing because he had had it with people for the day.

After assuring my parents, sister, and Ramona that I was okay, I slept half of Sunday.

The Monday Press annoyed me. I wished George had focused more on Pebbles than on me. I read the article three times. It did not link Betty to either Fitzgerald’s or Dorner’s deaths, but said she recently learned about the jewelry that had been hidden behind the walls for “probably decades.”

Jewelry Thief Finds Prize

Betty Fowler, an Ocean Alley realtor, was arrested last night for an attempted robbery of the Bay Street home of Jolie Gentil, a local appraiser. Fowler had learned that the late Clive Dorner believed that his uncle, the late Norman Fitzgerald, had hidden some items in the house when it was owned by distant Fitzgerald cousins.

Because Dorner had an outstanding debt with her when he died, Fowler believed that she was entitled to at least a portion of the value of any hidden items she might find. Fowler had made at least one prior attempt to enter the home, and was frightened off by a passing citizen. She maintains that both times she tried to gain illegal entry she believed that Gentil was not at home.

Fowler forced Gentil to look for stolen items behind a panel in a closet. Police will only say that there were items of value in the sack Gentil retrieved.

The rest of the story described what Betty said was her “unintentional use” of her small handgun and said that she was cooperating with local police.

This did not answer all my questions, not even half, but Morehouse had said he would call me.
I was impatiently waiting to hear from him. At about noon, Morehouse actually invited me to his office to learn what he knew about the death of Norman Fitzgerald.

“IT FEELS FUNNY TO be sitting here when you aren’t trying to tell me to stay out of something.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Morehouse said.

He explained that Betty told the police that she had given Dorner money for down payments on houses he was buying for investment. This came about because Dorner had taken Betty to dinner and worked into the conversation that he knew of a couple of great bargains, but as he was in the middle of flipping three other homes, he was having a temporary cash flow issue. He asked if she was interested in partnering with him.

This woman is a realtor and doesn’t know how to do a credit check?

The bottom line, according to Betty’s version, was that Dorner said that he would repay Betty by selling some of Fitzgerald’s diamonds, which he claimed were stones his uncle had bought from some of the estates he auctioned. Stones that Fitzgerald planned to give to his favorite nephew. Stones that Dorner did not mention were not in his or his uncle’s possession.

Fitzgerald and Dorner probably figured that they could not get to the jewelry that Scoobie and I had found.
However, Fitzgerald had told his nephew that additional jewelry was in the cedar closet in my house, and Dorner confided this to Betty. Betty’s rose-colored glasses had turned clear by this time, and she was pressuring Dorner to give her back the thousands of dollars she had lent him, even if he had to break into my house to get the money.

But, when Fitzgerald, at Dorner’s urging, went to get the diamonds from the cedar closet the day I moved into the house, he was interrupted by the arrival of my friends and furniture.
He left the large screwdriver behind, in his haste.

“That maybe accounts for why Norman Fitzgerald was at my house on move-in day, but it doesn’t tell us why he died on my porch.”

Morehouse drummed his fingers on his desk. “Again, we only know what Betty Fowler said, but she’s tripping over her words to tell us what she knows.”

In the Betty version, Fitzgerald told Dorner that he had a key that would let them get into the house, but he was getting more afraid of getting caught.
Dorner agreed to meet his uncle at my house for what he called moral support. The day Dorner killed Fitzgerald, the auctioneer had begun to say that he wanted to use some of the money from the sale of the diamonds for charity.

Supposedly, Dorner and Fitzgerald went in through the back door of my house.
Fitzgerald was on the floor of my closet, trying to loosen the board with the long screwdriver. When he got insistent about giving away some of the money and Dorner was equally committed to lining his pockets, Fitzgerald stormed out. Dorner grabbed him as he started down the porch steps and pulled him back onto the porch. When Fitzgerald tried again to leave, Dorner grabbed a small flower pot from the edge of my porch and hit his uncle with it. He characterized this action to Betty as “a thoughtless act.”

Gee, you think?

“Do you know what flower pot he was taking about?” Morehouse asked.

I shook my head.
“There were some gardening things on the porch. They were inside the house when I bought it and I stuck them out there.” I felt queasy. If I had stored the stuff in the tiny shed in the back yard Dorner wouldn’t have had a ready murder weapon.

Morehouse sighed.
“We’ll never find the flower pot or whatever he killed Fitzgerald with. The autopsy showed it was a rounded object, so probably one of those little ceramic pots.”

“I think the couple of pots had dirt in them.
That would make them kind of heavy.”

“Huh.
Doesn’t really matter at this point. Dorner likely tossed it somewhere far from your house.”

Morehouse paused for a moment, as if debating whether to tell me something.
“Her story is plausible. After Dorner died we took his prints. They matched some unidentified prints that were on your porch and the swing.”

“You didn’t tell me that!”

“You do remember it was a police investigation, right? Anyway, he had never been arrested, so his prints weren’t in the system until after he died.”

I started to retort, but thought of something else.
“Hey, Dorner told Betty he killed his uncle and she kept it to herself?”

He gave a mirthless smile.
“Betty said that Dorner was frantic. He told her he ran down the porch steps and stayed out of sight for a day and a half. Said he was mourning his uncle.”

“Yeah, right.
More like working on an alibi.”

“He was never a suspect.
When he said he had driven back to Philly earlier in the day, and that’s where we found him, we didn’t even check.”

I raised my eyebrows and Morehouse looked at me and looked away.

“So, he told Betty what he did,” I mused.

“And Betty tells us that when she heard this story she urged Dorner to turn himself in to us.”

“And you believed her?” I asked Morehouse.

“No one believes her, but since anyone who could contradict her is pushing up daisies, there’s no one to challenge her version.
And her fingerprints were nowhere on your porch or in your house. Maybe accessory after the fact.” He shrugged. “That’s for the prosecuting attorney to decide.”

“Too bad
Virginia didn’t see Betty at my place with Dorner or Fitzgerald.”

He shrugged.
“I don’t think she was with him that night. Betty probably didn’t know where anything was until Dorner had to explain the delay in him getting the jewelry. Where he thought he’d sell it, that’s what’s nuts.”

I sighed.
“Thanks to Geo…the
Ocean Alley Press
, I bet there will be other people looking for treasure.”

Morehouse shook his head.
“I talked to the editor this morning. He knows I know he can print what he wants, but that headline…Anyway, in a day or two a story will say there’s no reason to believe there’s more of the crap in your house.”

“Damn George,” I said, almost to myself.

“You don’t think there’s more, do you?” Morehouse asked.

I shook my head.
“I would bet that there’s none. And I’m not doing any remodeling soon, so if diamonds or anything else are there, they’re staying where they are.”

“And you’ve already proved your security system works,” he said, with the hint of a smile.

“Yes…hey, when do I get to see what was in the bag? All I know is it was more jewelry.”

Morehouse looked surprised.
“I guess I figured you woulda looked at it. I only took a quick look before it was locked up. More diamonds, one in a setting, a couple colored stones of some kind, and a bunch of really old silver dollars. You can look at the evidence list. We’ll try not to keep it too long.”

“When can I have it?”

“You gonna keep it at your place or in a bank box?”

“Bank box.
I’m going to make George run an article saying that some items that were in my house may have been stolen decades ago, and if someone can describe them well I’ll consider giving them back.”

“Every nut job in town will call you.
Hell, every one of ‘em on the east coast.”

I shrugged.
“The article can say my attorney is holding them.”

Morehouse gave me a questioning look.
“Who’s your attorney?”

“I’m not paying an attorney.
Whatever’s not claimed I’ll split with Mrs. Murphy.”

I had originally planned not to keep any of the bounty, but I figured I had a boatload of trouble because of the stuff behind my walls, so I’d earned it.
I’d probably give a chunk of anything that came to me to Harvest for All.

“Don’t forget Shop with a Cop at Christmas,” he said, standing.

I gave him a small bow and left. I walked out of the police station figuring that Betty would probably only be charged with crimes related to breaking into my house. Given her use of a gun, I figured she’d get at least some punishment beyond community service. She was lucky she didn’t end up like Mr. Fitzgerald.
And so am I.

ON TUESDAY, I FOCUSED ON trying to get my life back to some semblance of order. I longed to be concerned only with feeding my pets, hanging out at Java Jolt, and appraising houses.

And Harvest for All.
Betty’s invasion of my space had overshadowed the results of the birthday fundraiser. Lance called Tuesday morning to tell me how much money we had raised.

“The thing is, Jolie, it’s still coming in. That article about Betty shooting up your house said it was just after the scavenger hunt.
It was good publicity.”

“I’m glad it was good for something.
George hasn’t had the nerve to find me.”

Lance gave a grunt that could pass for a stifled laugh.
“We should celebrate. When’s our next Harvest for All meeting?”

I wasn’t in the mood to have a meeting, but one thing I’ve learned is that volunteers stay motivated when they have a purpose.
I told him I’d get back with him.

Before I went to the office I called Reverend Jamieson’s secretary to see if we could use the First Prez conference room Thursday evening.
She must have thought my brush with Betty was punishment enough for the week, because she wasn’t her usual rude self and even volunteered to let the other committee members know about the meeting.

MY CELL PHONE CHIRPED as I was leaving Harry’s house to grab some lunch.

It was Dana Johnson.
“If you behave yourself, you can come to Fitzgerald’s house with me,” she said.

“Inside you mean?”
Despite swearing myself to normalcy, I felt a keen interest. Everything pointed to Fitzgerald as a thief, but there was nothing solid. Even Uncle Gordon’s missing rifle didn’t prove it was Fitzgerald who took it.

“Yep.
I told Tortino I plan to study for the sergeant’s exam, and I wanted to look at a crime scene for myself. He agreed.”

“And he said you could take me?”

She laughed. “Get real.”

“No wonder I like you so much.”

I forgot about lunch and drove the half-mile to Norman Fitzgerald’s forlorn-looking house. Dana pulled up a minute later.

As she unlocked the front door, she said, “I’m supposed to practice lifting prints to compare to Fitzgerald’s and Dorner’s.”

“But they should be all over.”

“Which is why it’s practice.
We have guys who specialize in crime scene stuff, but anybody sergeant and above has to know how to lift prints.”

We stood in the small entry foyer and looked around.
The house had the kind of musty smell of one that had been closed up for days.

“I guess we should start with what you think are keys behind the pot holders on those hooks,” Dana said.