Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 06 - Behind the Walls (5 page)

“I wondered what had happened to you, sugar,” she said, all smiles.
“I have two new listings that are just perfect…”

“I would, but I have to be back in
Philadelphia before six.” Dorner flashed her a broad smile. “We do need to pick up where we left off.” He glanced at Fiona, seemingly expecting her to follow him.

“Call me,” Betty gushed.

“Will do. Thanks, Joe. See you soon.” Dorner carefully avoided looking at me. He was busted and he knew it.

“Next time I’ll bid higher,” Fiona said, and gave me a small smile as she followed Dorner out the door.

As the door shut behind them, Betty turned her one hundred-watt smile on Joe. “You know what I like, don’t you sugar?”

“Sugar-free iced mocha coming up,” Joe said, without the wattage.

I paid Joe and moved aside so Betty could pay for her order, then claimed a table by the window while Joe finished mixing my drink. Idly I wondered why Fiona was with Dorner. She had struck me as a nice woman when I saw her at the auction. Given her cringe at one of Dorner’s comments, she didn’t like his methods any better than I did.
Maybe she doesn’t know him any better than I do.

Joe called my name and I walked to the counter to pick up my drink. There were only two other couples in the shop, and it was quieter than it usually was in the late afternoon.

“Taa ta, all.” Betty gave me a friendly nod as she walked out with her coffee.

Joe rolled his eyes in her direction and then looked at me directly.
“You know Dorner well?”

“Nope.
He called about looking at houses and I gave him Lester’s name.”

“He’s kind of sure of himself,” was Joe’s only comment.
I sensed Joe didn’t like Dorner any more than I did.

I carried my drink back to my table and thought about what I’d learned in the sixty seconds or less that Dorner had talked to Betty Fowler.
It seemed that Dorner had been looking in Ocean Alley before he called me, meaning his request that I show him around was a pretense for…what?

I wasn’t rolling in money, so I certainly wouldn’t be an investor if he wanted cash for his lowball offers for properties.
There was no way he knew about the jewelry. Scoobie and I had only just found it when he called. How would he have even have known who I was?

The annoying voice in my head reminded me that I was mentioned in the
Ocean Alley Press
from time to time, but those articles never made me sound like someone who would be, to use Harry’s phrase, a good catch.

The door opened and Scoobie greeted me with his usual, “Yo, Jolie.”

“Don’t even go there,” I said.

He laughed.
“Could have been worse. At least the picture wasn’t in color. And no one would really believe they were your pants.”

“I believe I said not to go there.”

`“How are your walls?” he asked, as he sat across from me. “Any new revelations?”

“Nope.
I got the drawer back, though.” I relayed Mr. Fitzgerald’s visit. “He thought it must be some kind of joke. A stupid one if you asked me.”

“Can’t imagine anyone stealing that for a joke.”
He stood and walked over to Joe and paid for his large decaf coffee. As usual, no small talk between the two men.

He rejoined me.
“At least you have it back.”

“Did you see a couple leaving as you got close to Java Jolt?
He was maybe forty, kind of good looking. She looks like thirty-fiveish, about five-five and had auburn hair.”

“Trying to hone in on her boyfriend?” he asked.

“Yeah, like I have a lot of time for that right now. That was Clive Dorner, and the woman’s name is Freda, no Fiona.”

“Dorner?” he asked.

“He wants to buy some houses on the cheap. I referred him to Lester.”

“That’s pretty harsh,” Scoobie said as he took a sip of coffee and then blew on the steam rising from it.

“Lester’s shown him a few places. I saw them at Burger King right after my purse was taken.” I gave half a shrug. “You know Lester, if he smells a commission he can be quite easy to get along with.”

“I don’t think I know any Dorners, and I didn’t take a good look at the guy.”

“How about the woman?”

Scoobie looked at me intently.
“She looks like somebody I might have seen around, but I never met her. What do you care?”

“I just don’t like the guy.”
I decided not to mention that I thought Dorner was already looking for property with another agent before I sent him to Lester.

Scoobie half turned in his chair and looked at Joe. “People don’t have to like each other to get along, do they?”

“Talk about living proof,” Joe mumbled, and went back to the coffee mugs he was drying and stacking on the counter.

“Cleared up?” Scoobie asked, facing me.
When I didn’t answer, he took a large slurp of his coffee. “So, you get a drawer and a purse stolen but get them back ASAP, and your money’s still in your wallet. What do you think that means?”

“I think it means people think I have more money than I do.”

Scoobie just looked at me.

“I don’t know what it means.
I think whoever took the drawer was either mad they didn’t win the bid or thought Mrs. Peebles or somebody kept something valuable in that drawer.” I had just realized that it might not even have b

een Moira Peebles’ chest of drawers.

“When I called George to congratulate him on the photo of you and your bloomers…” Scoobie ducked as I threw a wadded napkin at him, “we talked about your purse snatching for a minute.”

“And?” I asked.

“I was at that city bus stop near your house when I told him about the jewelry. There were other people around, so I wasn’t specific about the type of jewelry or where you lived. But someone could have overheard, and they might have seen me leave your house before I went to the bus stop. And then you came out of the house a few minutes later.”

“It’s a stretch.”
I thought about it for a few moments. It seemed to me that the person almost had to know about the jewelry to understand what Scoobie meant when he talked to George.

When I didn’t say anything, Scoobie changed the topic.
“George said you might give him ideas for his piece on ignored news, or whatever he’s calling it.” His tone was nonchalant.

I don’t think he cares one way or the other whether George and I are dating, but he’s not big on tension.
He has indirectly accused us both of being busybodies who should learn to share better.

“I told him I’d tell him if I thought of…”
My phone chirped. I was frazzled and didn’t even look at the display, just pushed the silence button. The call would go to voice mail. I hadn’t said two words more to Scoobie when it rang again.

“Somebody’s persistent,” Scoobie said.

I answered it.

“Where you at?” Morehouse asked.

“Java Jolt. Where are you?” I asked, needling him.

“Your aunt’s.
I’m no jeweler, so I wanna take the stuff to somebody, see what they’re worth. You gotta sign for me.”

“Can I come to the station to do it?”
I had just gotten my drink and didn’t feel like heading to the Cozy Corner.

“I can’t take ‘em without youse signing for ‘em, and you shouldn’t be carrying the stuff around.”
When he’s rushed or especially irritated, Morehouse’s Jersey accent is more pronounced.

“Okay, I’ll see you in a couple.”
I hung up and told Scoobie where I was heading. “Want to come?”

“Nope.
You still want help painting the cabinets in your kitchen later?”

“Yep.
I’m getting closer to moving in, I think. See you this evening?”

We agreed and I drove to Aunt Madge’s.

Morehouse sat catty-corner to her at the large oak table and they each had a mug of tea in front of them.
Neither one of them looked happy.

“What’s up, you guys?” I asked.

“This all there was?” Morehouse asked, by way of a greeting.

“All I found.” I sat next to Aunt Madge, more or less facing Morehouse.
“Why? Do you think there would be more?”

“How would I know?
These are likely worth somethin’. Shouldn’t keep them at your place.”

“Can you keep them at the station?” I asked.

He shoved a property receipt form toward me. “Do I look like a safe deposit box?” he asked.

I scanned his written list of the jewelry, and murmured.
“You’re really giving me a chance to say you have a square head? Your list misses the brownish bracelets.”

He didn’t reply, and I looked up to see that I had, yet again, irritated him.
“You started it.”

“They look cheap.
You keep ‘em.”

“If you can’t keep the rest until Jolie figures out what to do with them, please let her have a day or so notice before you return them, so she can open a safe deposit box.”

“We’ll hang onto ‘em for awhile.” He took the form I signed and stood.

“How come you do it when Aunt Madge asks but not me?”

“Because your aunt isn’t a pain in the backside.” He looked at her. “Thanks for the tea, Madge.”

He’s been at the Cozy Corner enough that Aunt Madge let him show himself out.
I regarded her for several seconds, taking in her blondish-red hair. Her one frivolous habit is to change her hair color every few weeks. She doesn’t use permanent color, so it washes out pretty fast.

“Did he tell you why he’s annoyed?” I asked, only half caring.

“Apparently he thinks a few of the loose diamonds could be worth quite a bit. It makes him wonder why they were placed behind the wall.”

I shrugged.
“If it was a crime it would have been awhile ago. It’s not like he’s going to solve it.”

“I think that’s probably what bothers him.”

CHAPTER FIVE

ALTHOUGH I chair of the Harvest for All Food Pantry Committee, anyone on the committee can call a meeting. It’s just that no one else does. While I was sitting with Aunt Madge, Reverend Jamison telephoned to say he’d been asked to phone me to set up a meeting for this evening. He said he had another call and hung up as I was asking him who had asked him to call me.

Mentally I went through the committee roster. Dr. Welby (who abides no teasing about his name) is our informal leader. He retired from active practice a few years ago, though he did some volunteer work after Hurricane Sandy. He would have called me if he wanted a meeting.

Sylvia Parrett is a very rigid person, but she’s also a hard worker. With her buttoned-up cardigans and low voice, Monica Martin can only be described as mousy. Though they work as hard as anyone for the food pantry, it did not seem likely that either one of them took the initiative.

I know I shouldn’t have favorites, but Lance Wilson, our treasurer, has become a dear friend.
Who knew I would have a friend more than sixty years older than I am?

Aretha Brown is our only black member, and I finally got up the nerve to ask her to think about friends who could join us. I didn’t say black friends, but I think she knew I meant that. Our pantry users are a diverse group and I think that our committee should be, too.

Megan Ortiz has been a regular volunteer during pantry giving hours, and I finally convinced her to join the committee. She’s the one who most knows what she’s talking about when we discuss what’s needed. She’s also almost shy when she comes to the meetings, so she wouldn’t have asked Reverend Jamison to call me.

And Scoobie, who invited himself onto the committee.
Scoobie would never have gone through Reverend Jamison. He would have blithely invited all of us to a meeting himself.

First Presbyterian Church, First Prez to locals, is red brick with white trim on the windows and at the steeple. Very traditional.
I parked my car on the street by the side door that opens into the pantry, which is set up like a dry cleaning shop, except with shelves instead of rows of clothes. And it doesn’t stink.

I entered the pantry and went through the interior door to the corridor that leads into the to the community room area of First Prez.

Laughter came from the small meeting room and I felt myself relax. This couldn’t be some kind of emergency. I walked in and raised a hand in greeting. “Hi, guys.”

Choruses of “hello Jolie” and “hi” came back to me, and I could swear prim Monica actually had a pleased expression.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“We’re waiting for Scoobie,” Sylvia said.

Uh oh. To say that Sylvia and Scoobie rub each other the wrong way would be an understatement of some magnitude. In fact, they have only recently gotten back on sort of friendly footing after some unkind remarks (on both sides) about our last fundraiser, a hot dog eating contest.

“Hello, girlfriend,” Aretha said, with a broad smile.

If Aretha’s smiling it must be good news
.

Megan winked at me.

As I sat, I heard footsteps coming down the steps from the main church area. Given the speed it had to be Scoobie. “Is Lance coming?” I asked, as Scoobie walked in.

Scoobie shrugged and Dr. Welby said, “In a couple of minutes. Did I hear you had some excitement at your new house?”

Nuts!
I looked at Scoobie, who said, “Not from me. Probably Sylvia.”

She sat up straighter, but when he wiggled his eyebrows at her she relaxed, and asked, “What does Dr. Welby mean, Jolie?”

“You know I have to be really sure there’s no mold. Scoobie helped me pull down a piece of wallboard and there was a small pouch of jewelry behind it. Nothing that looked especially valuable.”

I rushed the last few words.

“Oh, that’s disappointing,” Dr. Welby said. “I heard it was quite the pile of loot.”

I did an internal groan and Scoobie asked, “How did you hear?”

Dr. Welby considered this. If it had been anyone else, I would have thought they were pausing for effect, but he’s a very direct person. “I ran into George Winters at Java Jolt. He said he’d love to do a story on it, but putting it in the paper would be like advertising a burglary opportunity.”

“I can’t believe that would stop him,” Aretha said.

Slower footsteps in the hall were probably announcing Lance. I looked toward the door, but all I saw was his head as he peered in. “Scoobie’s behaving, it’s okay to come in.”

He grinned more broadly than I’ve seen since the hurricane.
He put his hand, which held several helium balloons, into the room. One said Happy Birthday.

“Ha. Fooled you,” Aretha pointed a finger at me.

Megan added, “I didn’t think we’d pull it off.”

Dr. Welby literally beamed.
“There’s an idea for the next food pantry fundraiser.”

“It’s your birthday?” I asked Lance.

“Nope, yours. And Scoobie’s.”

“And Ramona’s,” Sylvia said.
“You all work at the fundraisers, and you’re all turning thirty this year.”

“Jennifer Stenner, too,” I said, referring to the high school classmate who had taken over her family’s longtime appraisal business and usually helps at the fundraisers.

“And Bill Oliver’s,” Scoobie said, referring to a classmate who was now a dentist in Newark. “And Daphne at the library.”

“Good!
The more birthday people the more of their friends to come to the party,” said Dr. Welby.

“What about George?” Megan asked.

“He was a year ahead of us,” I said.

Lance was passing out balloons.
Scoobie’s expression was hard to read. He is a lot more comfortable with groups of people than when we renewed our friendship a year and a half ago, but he is far more at ease creating situations that embarrass me rather than those that put the spotlight on him. He’s in recovery from excess alcohol use and what he calls his love affair with pot. Scoobie avoided looking at me.

“Now, we can get going.”
Sylvia pulled a small notebook out of her purse. “People don’t have to pay to get into birthday parties, so we have to figure out what we can charge money for.”

“The food, of course,” Monica said.
“I’ll…”

“…organize the bake sale,” Aretha said in tandem with Monica.

Monica always says she’ll do the bake sales, but she can get quite flustered. Today, however, she looked very pleased with herself.

“And to play any games,” Megan said, “Like at Talk Like a Pirate Day last year.”

“We can charge a small admission fee,” Dr. Welby said, “and waive it if they bring cans of food.”

I let them all talk for a couple of minutes.
Scoobie was uncharacteristically quiet, but after a minute or so he looked at me and gave a small shrug.

“Whose idea was this?” I asked, when there was a brief lull in the conversation.

There was a chorus of “I’m not sure,” and “Do you remember who?”

For some reason, Aunt Madge’s face came to mind.
Despite her air of propriety, she can be a trouble maker sometimes.