Appraisal for Murder (18 page)

“Who else?”

“Roland said that Mrs. Jasper said she was her best friend, at the hearing.” When I nodded, she added, “I wonder why George Winters didn’t interview her before?”

I snorted. “He’d have to talk to her for an hour to get one quote.”

“That’s true,” she sighed. “I have a very hard time waiting on other customers when she comes in here. And she always wants Roland to give her a discount on office supplies. She says they’re for the church.” Her tone implied she did not think so, but I really didn’t care. I already knew about Mrs. Jasper.

“Mrs. Riordan and Mrs. Murphy were friends,” she continued. “I remember when the paper interviewed them about the bazaar to benefit the First Prez Social Services Committee. They joked that they were the most Irish people in their church.”

I did not recognize Mrs. Murphy’s name, and said so.

“She’s very short, and she walks with a walker. You don’t see her out much, unless her daughter takes her.”

I remembered the woman whom I had almost knocked over at the Riordan’s after the funeral, and when I described her Ramona felt certain this was she. She was likely to remember me, that was for sure, and Ramona told me she lived in an assisted living facility on the north side of town.

Feeling as if I’d worn out my welcome, especially given Roland’s looks in our direction, I bought a mechanical pencil and some refills for it. At least I wouldn’t have to sharpen pencils for awhile.

MRS. MURPHY WAS DELIGHTFUL. She was definitely in a lot of pain (“just a crushed vertebra here and there”), but did not want me to focus on that.

Her eyes teared when I mentioned Ruth Riordan. “She was one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. She visited me once or twice a month, and there were a lot of people I used to know better who always say they’ll come by, but don’t.”

I said I wished I’d known Ruth and was trying to get a handle on who might have killed her. She eyed me with some suspicion. “Are you a reporter?”

“No, ma’am. I’m a friend of Michael’s, and…”

She interrupted me. “Of course. The girl from the paper.”

It was hard not to sigh. What a way to get known in Ocean Alley. “Yes, but we really are just friends.” It was not so long ago that I denied this. I mentioned that I was Madge’s niece.

“A very hard-working woman. Ruth really liked her.” She nodded, as if agreeing with herself. “Ruth would be glad Michael was friends with Madge’s niece.”

I decided to plunge ahead with my theory. “Can you think of anyone Ruth thought was a friend, but really wasn’t?”

She shook her head. “I’ve thought all week about that. I can’t believe anyone would murder her. She never riled anyone.”

This might be true, but it was not helpful. I needed her to describe someone who disliked Ruth, or envied her for her money, or something.

“Of course, there was Michael’s wife.” She frowned. “Even at the wedding, I thought she was a user.”

“Of...drugs?” I asked, in surprise.

This made her throw back her head and laugh, which then brought a grimace of pain. “No, not drugs, people. She seemed phony, and it wasn’t but a few months after the wedding that she started telling Michael his mother was against her, and he shouldn’t visit so much.”

I nodded, this was helpful, and she leaned forward. “She might have had a key, you know. Michael had one. She could have copied it.” She laughed, and pointed at a large bookshelf full of books, mostly mysteries. “I have an active imagination.”

The key was, well, the key. Even with the security system off, someone had to be able to get in the house without breaking a window or jimmying a lock. Michael would not have left a door unlocked, not with his mother in there.

“Can you think of anyone else she knew well enough to give a key to?”

She thought for a moment. “Not really. She was a friendly person, but she didn’t have a lot of close friends. She and that jerk husband of hers socialized a lot as a couple, but you know how that is.”

I was surprised at her characterization of Larry Riordan (not that he might not be a jerk, but that she would say so), and told her I didn’t understand her point.

“When a woman is widowed or divorced, people just don’t ask her around as much. Of course,” and she seemed a bit bitter, “they keep inviting the men. Even try to fix them up.”

I decided not to ask about her own experience, but turned instead to Larry. “Was the break-up not mutual?”

“They had drifted apart some, but a lot of people do after thirty or more years of marriage. I think,” she leaned forward onto the walker parked in front of her chair, “that if he hadn’t met that young slut he’d have come back by Christmas of that year. Ruth made a huge deal out of Christmas.”

Mrs. Murphy was full of surprises. I plowed on. “I can’t think of any reason Larry would have for harming her, can you?”

She shook her head vehemently. “They were very civil about everything. Ruth even told him he could bring that Honey-thing to Michael’s wedding, but he had the good manners not to.”

I stayed a few more minutes and asked her where she had lived in Ocean Alley before coming to what she called the “old folks' home,” and she described a house not too far from Aunt Madge’s. She said her two daughters still lived there, both divorced. “But,” her eyes lit up, “I have wonderful grandchildren. Two boys and a girl.”

I admired their photos, which sat in front of the books, and left her on that happy thought. I took a close look in the dining room and reception area as I left. It was all very elegant, and I figured her ‘old folks' home’ cost a bundle. It hit me that Aunt Madge might eventually need to live in one of these small apartments, and I didn’t like the thought.

Mrs. Murphy seemed to have a pretty good grasp on Ruth Riordan’s life. I decided not to explore for more friends, but knew I would have to talk to Mrs. Jasper. I decided to wait a day.

WHEN I GOT BACK to Aunt Madge’s after my afternoon run there was a message to call Sgt. Morehouse. I looked at her and all she said was, “He didn’t offer so I didn’t ask.”

All he had to say was that they had found Joe Pedone’s apartment in Atlantic City, but a neighbor had seen him leave a couple days ago with a suitcase. The woman didn’t know which day and didn’t really care. “I figure he’s going to stay out of the picture until he thinks we’ve forgotten about him. Which we won’t.”

In Morehouse’s opinion, I shouldn’t worry about Pedone. “He knows we’re onto him. He’s a bully, but nothing in his record says he’s stupid.”

Maybe, but I’d underestimated the funny-looking guy with the bunions the first time I’d met him, and I had no intention of doing so again. Instead, I asked about Robby. It seemed I should.

Though I did not at all like the way Morehouse had treated Michael, I was grateful to him for helping Robby and said so. “You sure know how to pick 'em,” he said. Grateful, but I still didn’t like Morehouse’s supposed humor.

I told Aunt Madge what he’d said, and she remembered to tell me that Michael had called and said he was going to be in Houston for a few days. I was surprised he could leave the state, and felt a sense of loss. I realized that when he finalized the transfer of his mother’s house to the Arts Council, which could be in the next few weeks or so, he’d be gone. What else had I expected?

With this less-than-cheerful thought, I wandered back to the boardwalk in search of Java Jolt coffee. It was almost dinner time, and I tended to go in the morning. I was surprised at the larger number of people there, and more surprised when Lester Argrow waved at me from the back of the shop. I did not associate him with a smoke-free coffee house.

He cheerfully held out a chair and thanked me for the appraisal “of the purple place.”

“It’s not a matter of thanks,” I told him. “I thought it met that value.” I then asked him if he’d skied in the great room, and he laughed.

“They should have flattened the soil better before they poured the concrete. I really don’t think it’ll settle much more.” He then changed tacks with the speed of a sailor in a race. “Ramona tells me you’re investigating Mrs. Riordan’s murder.”

I put my forehead on the table and wondered how I could have been so stupid. If Ramona spoke freely to me, whom she hadn’t seen in years, she’d talk to her uncle. When I sat up, I realized people at a couple of other tables were looking at us, and I made a face at one of them. The woman looked away, offended.

“That’s too strong a word,” I said, in a much lower tone than Lester’s. “After George Winters mentioned me in that article the day of the hearing, I got a little more interested in who did it.”

His face showed disappointment. “That’s too bad. I was gonna offer to help. I always wanted to be a detective.”

“Your fax is enough of a weapon. I don’t think you’d be a good person to have a gun.”

He laughed loudly, again attracting attention. “I haven’t shot anything but deer.” He grew more somber. “Listen, kid, I know everyone in town. What do you want to know?”

Kid?
He probably was a golden opportunity, but what could I ask? I was hitting dead ends. “I guess you never heard anyone say bad things about Mrs. Riordan either.”

REVEREND JAMISON WAS MUCH younger than I had expected. He was not wearing his black garb when we met, but was in a pair of thin-lined corduroy pants and a green turtleneck. He looked more like a college professor than a minister.

Aunt Madge had called him on my behalf. Heaven only knows how she described me, because he talked to me as if I were a wayward child. Which some would say I had been, but that was quite awhile ago.

“Don’t you think that’s up to the police?” His smile was polite, but I could tell he thought I was poking into something I shouldn’t.

“With all due respect, I think they made up their minds pretty quickly.”

He digested that. “Ruth was thrilled when her son said he planned to visit for a few weeks. Frankly, though she’d never have said so, I think she was glad his marriage was ending.”

“Did you marry them?” Irrelevant, but I was curious.

“I only came two years ago, and they were married before that.”

“You probably read that at the hearing Michael’s attorney mentioned that his wife would get some of his inheritance if Ruth died before the divorce was final.” He nodded. “Did you ever meet her, Darla I mean?”

He shook his head. “From what I gather, most people only saw her at the wedding. If you want more on her, you might talk to Mrs. Jasper. She knows a lot. Or,” he hesitated, “talks a lot about things.”

Even a man of the cloth felt a need to comment on Mrs. Jasper’s loose lips. There was no way around it, I’d have to talk to her sooner rather than later. I thanked him and left.
So much for Lester Argrow’s detection ideas.

Mrs. Jasper lived just three blocks from the church, in a well-cared-for bungalow. There were pansies in the front yard, with a half-empty bag of mulch next to the pansy bed. The last couple of years, more people have planted pansies in the fall, the thinking is that they would last until there is snow. I never understand why people create more garden work just when they are raking leaves, but I chose to live in an apartment.

Judging from the brown slacks she was wearing and the tennis shoes neatly placed on paper just inside the front door, Mrs. Jasper must have been working in her garden very recently. She welcomed me and offered coffee, which was very gracious considering I hadn’t called.

While she was in the kitchen making coffee, I took in her living room. Her small bungalow had been built as a summer cottage. The floors may never have been varnished; in any event, they were now painted a bright white, which matched the wide trim around the windows. The walls were a pale blue, and the stuffed furniture – which I judged to be at least fifty years old – had lace doilies where a head would rest. On each of two end tables were large photos of a man I took to be her late husband. All in all, the décor reminded me a lot of Mrs. Jasper; a bit frilly, but serviceable.

She reentered the room, with two steaming mugs of coffee on a small tray. “Of course I know you and Madge don’t think Michael killed his dear mother. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” She sat on the edge of her chair, as if waiting for me to outline exactly who had committed the crime and how.

“You knew Ruth Riordan so well, I thought you could help me understand what she had been doing the last couple of days before she died, maybe help me figure out who she'd been spending time with.” Mrs. Jasper was the only person I’d talked to who seemed to accept that Michael might be innocent. I should be gratified, but I found even her eagerness to help to be annoying.
I really need to work on my attitude.

“Hmm. You know she died on a Thursday, right?” She sat up a bit straighter. “Of course you do, you were there. So, you’re talking about Wednesday, or even Tuesday.”

I nodded. “But if you think the days before that would be helpful, that’s fine.”

“Of course, Sunday we were all at church. Ruth sat in her usual pew, third back on the left.”

I listened without comment for several minutes as she talked about the church service, and when she wore out that topic she said she knew that Ruth and Michael had eaten out Sunday evening, because she had seen Ruth at the grocery store on Monday and she had mentioned this.