Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 06 - Behind the Walls (27 page)

We walked to the kitchen and I noticed that the floor that had looked like vinyl when I peered in the window was actually linoleum and it was cracked around the fridge and stove. Dana took two pot holders off their hooks near the fridge. Behind each was a ring of keys, with maybe ten or twelve keys on each.

I started to reach for one and Dana held my wrist.
“I suppose you shouldn’t touch anything. No one should dust again, but just in case…”

I grinned.
“I could get myself up on a murder charge.”

She put on latex gloves and took down the two rings.
“Only if Sergeant Morehouse has anything to do with it.”

Dana placed the key rings on the table and spread out the keys.
Some had tiny labels taped to them, but they weren’t words that looked like family names.

I started saying the label names as she flipped through them.
“Toby, Fluffy, Pete, Princess…”

“Nicknames I guess,” she said.

“Sammie, Pebbles!”

We stared at each other and said at the same time, “Pet names.”

I squinted at the one with Pebbles’ name. It was longer than most of the other keys and was not quite round at the head.

“I had all the locks rekeyed except the back door.
I thought it was a unique key.”

“So you think this is the key he used to get in your back door?”

“Probably. I’ll check it again to be sure. It’s an old fashioned lock. It has a brass plate around it, and the locksmith said that she couldn’t rekey it. We figured there was probably only the key I got at settlement.”

“So it looks as if he had an easy way in that day your neighbor saw him go in the back door.”

“Guess so.” I looked at the other keys on the table. “So, we know he kept keys to houses. We’ll never know who had pets with these names.”

“Ask your aunt.”

“Oh, and Lance.”

“And maybe a couple of vets,” Dana said.

My mind was trying to think of how to link the keys to auction files. I figured we’d have to try to develop lists of pet names and owners and compare them to the names on the folders. This is going to be a lot of work. Then I remembered probably no one on the police force would let me help, and for a change that felt good.

Dana took a folded black, canvas-like sack from the small bag she had slung over her shoulder.
“This place was printed after Fitzgerald died, and Dorner must have cleaned up the goop. I’m going to try some door jambs and areas that might not have been checked before.”

“Okay if I walk around?”

“That’s why I brought you. You think differently than most people. But if you want something opened, call me.”

“I’ll keep my hands in my pocket, mom.”

“Smart aleck,” she murmured as she unzipped the bag.

There were two floors, but each had only about six-hundred square feet.
I glanced at the boxes in Fitzgerald’s office, but didn’t want to ask Dana to interrupt her fingerprint lifting. I headed for the stairs. Not that I knew what I was looking for.

There were two bedrooms and a large, old-fashioned bathroom.
It even had a claw-foot tub. I stooped to look at it. It was not fastened to the floor. He probably got it at an auction and replaced the tub that had been there. I glanced at the faucet. It was built into the wall, but the tile surrounding it was probably less than ten years old. Maybe another hiding place.

One bedroom appeared to have been Fitzgerald’s.
A wooden butler stand sat atop the dresser and had an inexpensive watch, a few coins, and a pair of cuff links. The closet had the kind of clothing I’d seen Fitzgerald wear, including a brown cardigan sweater he had worn the day he returned the drawer to my chest.

A chair with an ottoman in front of it and a floor lamp beside it sat in front of the room’s lone window.
On the chair was a dog-eared paperback. An Earl Stanley Gardner book. So, he liked detective stories.

There were few personal touches to the room.
There were two photos on his dresser. One was fairly recent, and showed Fitzgerald with several of the nieces and nephews who had attended his funeral. The other was probably fifty years old. It was a head and shoulder shot, like a Kindergarten school photo, except the girl was only two or three years old. She had on a dress with the kind of smocked stitching that you saw in the 1950s, and her sweet face had a big smile. I’d have to ask Dana if she knew who she was.

The second bedroom seemed to be where Clive Dorner had slept.
An open suitcase of men’s clothes was on the floor in the corner and the single bed was unmade. Two bottles of expensive men’s cologne were on a small bedside table.

“Jolie?”

I walked to the head of the stairs. “How’s the practice?”

“Done.
Anything interesting up there?”

“Couple things, maybe.”

Dana walked up and followed me into Fitzgerald’s bedroom.

“It doesn’t matter, I guess, but who is the little girl?
I thought his obit said his only child died as an infant.”

Dana shook her head.
“Whoever gave the paper the information was wrong. The little girl died sixty years ago or so, and Fitzgerald’s nieces and nephews were born years after that.”

“So she was his daughter?

“Elizabeth, I think someone said. We wondered why he gave to so many children’s charities, so we looked into it.”

I stared at the photo.
“How did she die?”

“Meningitis.
It was initially misdiagnosed. Hours count with that, especially for such a young child.”

We both looked at the photo for another few seconds.
Losing a child was no excuse for stealing from others to make donations to children’s groups, but at least I thought I understood Fitzgerald’s motives.

“What else?” Dana asked.

“Could you poke through Dorner’s suitcase?” I asked.

She started down the hall.
“If you tell anyone I touched his underwear you’re toast.”

“I’m not George.”

Dana stood in the doorway and took in the room. “Kind of sparse if he was living here.”

“He had a house in foreclosure in Philly.
I guess most of his stuff was there.”

She stooped next to the suitcase and gently lifted clothes, patting them to see if there was anything in the pockets.
“Expensive shirts.”

“He dressed better than his bank account, apparently,” I said.

Dana flipped the lid down and put her hands in the zipper pockets on the front of the soft-side suitcase. She pulled out a wad of cotton swabs and a couple of the hotel shampoo packets that are thin plastic rather than bottles. She replaced it all and stood. “Nothing special that I can see.”

“Is there one of those thin pockets in the back of the suitcase?
That’s where I always lose earrings.”

She opened the main part of the suitcase again.
“I didn’t notice one…oh, there is one. It’s only a couple of inches tall.” She ran her hand through it and grinned as she pulled out something and held it up.

It was a camera memory card and it was the same brand that was missing from my camera.

MOREHOUSE CALLED WEDNESDAY morning to say my camera’s memory card had been found in Dorner’s suitcase.
They were sure it was my card because it had the photos I’d taken of the jewelry. I feigned surprise and delight.

“You can thank Dana.
She wanted to go through Fitzgerald’s house again on her own. Oh, there’s also a key we want you to check to see if it goes to your back door.”

“Sure.”
I thought for a moment. “So, we know who the purse snatcher was, and he must have looked at the photos on the card.”

“Yeah.”
I could hear Morehouse tapping his pencil on his desk or phone. “But it’s funny that he would even know to look in your purse.”

I had thought about this a lot since we found the camera card.
“I’ll bet Fitzgerald told him I took down that wall, and he and Dorner wanted to know if I’d found his bag of goodies behind it.”

“I gotta admit, I thought that purse thing was random.”

There was no point in irritating him, so I didn’t tell him it never seemed random to me. “Whatever happened to Reuben Harris?”

“Your Peeping Tom friend is out on his own recognizance, provided he stays in his rooming house or goes to the grocery store or the hole-in-the-wall where he rents videos.
Or a church, but I don’t imagine he goes.”

“Oh, swell.
He can still rent porn to feed his lewd habit?”

“It’s the family video place just off the boardwalk.
Did you ever thank him?”

With a guilty jolt I realized I should have.
Who knew if Betty had a gun that night?

“I take it that’s a no,” Morehouse said.
“We don’t think he’s dangerous.”

“How can…?”

“Talk to him. In a public place, if it makes you more comfortable.”

BECAUSE A POLICE SERGEANT told me I wouldn’t be in danger, Ruben Harris was sitting in the back pew of First Prez telling me the story of his life. It was a sad one. Three foster homes between ages ten and eighteen because his mother died and he had no idea who his father was. Kids made fun of him at school and there was no money for college or even to rent an apartment when he turned eighteen.

Reuben was a downtrodden-looking man in his mid-twenties who rarely looked at me directly.
His tone was almost pleading. “See, I wasn’t trying to see anything bad. I just like to look at families.” He emphasized the last word.

I wasn’t sure what to say, but I took a stab.
“If you tried making some friends, maybe they’d invite you to meet their families.”

His expression was glum.
“I’m no good at making friends.”

“What if…”

“And I’m not supposed to talk to anyone unless I’m in the grocery store or something.”

I nodded slowly.
“It may be harder for you now that people know what you did, but you’re the only one who can take the first step.”

He kept his gaze on the floor.
“You harvest people should have some dinners for people with no friends.” He looked at me with something bordering on interest. “The Knights of Columbus Hall has a fireplace. It’s almost like a house in the winter.”

“It’s a thought,” I didn’t want to commit us to something specific.
I stood. “Come on, we’ll go to the food pantry. You can get there through the community room area.”

“I can go there?” he asked.

“It’s part of the church, and it’s kind of like a grocery store.”

We filled one of the large donation boxes and I drove him back to the boarding house on
F Street. I wondered if more of Scoobie’s neighbors were as downtrodden as Reuben Harris.

I SAT IN THE PURPLE COW for an hour trying to write an ad that let people know that I had found some valuables and would be willing to return them to prior owners if an owner or descendant could offer a detailed description.

“Don’t you think it’s like saying come rob your house?” Ramona asked.

“You need to say items can be viewed someplace other than your home,” Roland said. He had come out to see why I had been sitting at one of his showroom desks for half an hour.

I crossed out a line and wrote a few more words.
“What do you think of this?”

Several valuable items found in a recently purchased Ocean Alley home. Possibly taken from local auctions many years ago. Will be returned to prior owners if they show proof of ownership, such as a photo. Items can be viewed at OA Police Station on the following two Saturday mornings.

“The police agreed to that?” Ramona asked.

“I’m thinking of asking forgiveness rather than permission.”

Roland shook his head and made for the storage area. He called over his shoulder, “Have a lawyer look at it.”

It was a good idea.
When I met Scoobie in Java Jolt late in the afternoon I tried to get him to agree to go with me to see a lawyer friend of Lance’s. “Then I’ll be done with it once and for all,” was my final point.

“You’ll only be through with it if your house gets razed.”

“I thought you liked that little place,” Joe said.

I gave him what I hoped passed for a polite smile.
“I wouldn’t dream of giving Lester a listing.”

Scoobie smiled, but he didn’t look pleased.
“Everyone will know it’s you. Too many other articles.”

“Do you know another way to reach people?”

“You know a lot of the auction clients. What about a letter?”

“A lot of them would end up at the dead letter office.”
I didn’t crack a smile.