She waved her hand. “That’s silly. She’s going to get a lot of money from the divorce. It would hardly be worth killing for more.”
“Oh, sure,” I said, wondering how much money she would say was worth killing for.
“Besides,” she said, “She flew to the funeral from Paris. Didn’t Michael tell you she’d been over there shopping?”
That explained the exquisite suit. “No.” I couldn’t resist. “We rarely talk about her.”
Jennifer’s attitude was slightly frosty after that comment, but she warmed up again when I said I’d see her Sunday.
I KNEW A LITTLE MORE, but while it seemed to rule out Darla from personally killing Mrs. Riordan, it was of no obvious help in learning who did kill her mother-in-law. Impatiently, I put aside my list of “known and unknown” information. Why should I spend time on it when Michael had mentally turned everything over to his lawyer?
Because you think he’s a fool to do that, that’s why
. More important, because Aunt Madge believed him, and she would be distressed if her good friend’s son had to go to trial for murder. Most important because I didn’t want any more snide innuendos about me in the local paper.
I picked up the list again. In court the lawyer had said that the only beneficiaries besides Michael had been the three charities and Elsie. Idly I wondered why Elsie was so anxious to find more work if she stood to inherit $20,000 in the fairly near future. Admittedly, it was not enough to live on very long, but it would more than take the sting out of a few weeks with fewer work hours. I didn’t know anything about her life other than that she had a husband whose car had a problem. I frowned. I should probably see if there was a reason for Elsie to want that $20,000 now rather than later.
But there was not much I could check into now. It was Saturday morning and the dogs and I could be trotting along the boardwalk. I looked at Jazz, who was sitting in a chair near the window, basking in the morning sunbeam. “You want to come ride on Mister Rogers’ back?” I asked her. Since she did not reply, I left her there.
The temperature was not going to reach forty degrees, the first really bone-chilling day of the fall. Naturally, the dogs ignored the elements in favor of several seagulls, and spent half an hour trying to catch them. The birds could easily have flown far away, so I gathered they were playing with the dogs as much as the dogs were playing with them.
Unfortunately, Miss Piggy decided to follow one rather large gull into the water. She came out fast enough when she found out how cold it was, but she was still a mess. I’d have a job cleaning her up before I could take her into the house. To arm myself for the task, I stopped at Java Jolt for some strong coffee.
Michael was sitting at a table with a steaming mug and a scowl. The latter seemed to relate to something he was reading in a newspaper spread in front of him.
“Hey,” I said, as I stepped to the take-out counter. “You’re back.” I winced inwardly. He obviously knew that.
“Yeah, got in last night.”
He went back to the paper and I paid for my coffee and left, figuring he was still pretty angry with me about the Kenner article. He’d been friendlier the night we had crabs, but he’d just been in Houston, so people had probably talked to him about the story.
I let Mr. Rogers into the house and attached Miss Piggy’s leash to the stair rail at the side entrance to the B&B. As I wrestled with her and a towel outside Cozy Corner, Michael’s Toyota pulled up. Miss Piggy tried to get loose from me to greet him, and I lunged at her.
“Are you trying to clean her or dirty yourself?” he asked.
Miss Piggy tried to sit on me, which meant we both sat on the blacktop. “Very funny. Next time I’ll let her get to you.”
“OK, I won’t needle you when you can aim a dirty dog at me.” He stooped next to her and picked up the other towel. “Give me your paw,” he said sternly. She obliged, and immediately sat still.
“That’s so...so...” I began.
“Irritating?” he asked, with what could only be called a wicked grin.
When I nodded, he continued. “Same as the deal with Jazz. She’s picking up on your nerves.”
His certainty about this was even more irritating, but I was still glad to see him. “Are you over being angry with me?”
He glanced at me as he cleaned another paw. “Depends. What were you up to when I was gone?”
I sidestepped that by blaming my visit to Elsie on Lester, implying that he had waylaid me in the Register of Deeds Office and would have gone to see her alone if I had not agreed to accompany him.
“Lester Argrow?” He frowned. “What does he care?”
“I, uh, guess it’s because I told Ramona I didn’t think you did it, and he thinks you were respectful to your parents in high school.” At his raised eyebrow, I added, “And he talked to Elsie about selling her house.”
He frowned. “Ramona repeats everything you tell her, in case you didn’t know that.” He stood, and I realized Miss Piggy was as clean as she was going to get without a visit to the dog groomer.
“Thanks.” I took Miss Piggy’s leash. “You coming in?”
“Yeah. What did she say?”
“She...Oh, Elsie. We, Lester, asked her who’d been around the day before your mom died, and if she knew if anyone was coming over Wednesday night.” Mister Rogers was barking in the kitchen, and Aunt Madge opened the door to the kitchen to let us in. I let Miss Piggy off the leash and he gave her a good smell.
“I’m asking Jolie about her detective work,” he said as he gave Aunt Madge a kiss on the cheek.
“And I was afraid you wouldn’t like that,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow at me again, and I ignored the apparent question there. “Anyway, Elsie thought Mrs. Jasper was going to come over Wednesday night, but Mrs. Jasper only told me she called.” Damn! I hadn’t planned on telling him who else I talked to.
“You talked to Mrs. Jasper, too?”
Thunderclouds were gathering on the Riordan horizon. “You know how she is. She was in Harry’s office, and she talked to me.”
“Don’t I know her style.” He grimaced as he took the cup of tea Aunt Madge handed him.
“Do you know if Mrs. Jasper was there?” I pressed.
He shrugged. “I knew she was supposed to come, so I went to the movies by myself. Mother was in bed when I got back, and I didn’t…have a chance to talk to her again.” He looked away.
“Hmm.” Aunt Madge said. “I suppose if Henriette had been there she would have been letting people know she was the last person to see Ruth alive.”
It made perfect sense, of course. “That sounds like a very catty thing for a person to say, if she says she doesn’t like to gossip,” I teased.
“It’s true,” Aunt Madge and Michael said together, and they both laughed.
Michael’s expression quickly changed. “It will all be moot when the judge issues his ruling. Could be any day now.”
Thinking I would divert to a safer topic, I asked, “How was Houston?”
“Not good. I have some difficult decisions to make about the business.” He paused. “The good news is Kenner did another article, and he talked about the flaws in the DA’s case.”
His look said to change the topic, so I did. “Jennifer asked me to help on reunion planning.”
“And you told her no, right.” He stated it as a given rather than a question.
“I said I’d go to a meeting Sunday, but that doesn’t mean I will.” I looked away as he gave me a hard stare. “It’s the first time she talked to me that she wasn’t snotty. I figured I’d be polite.”
“You’d hate it. It’s all the people who’ve stayed here because they had no choices.”
“Wait a minute,” Aunt Madge said.
That caught him up short. “You like it here,” he said quickly, "And you have a business. People like Jennifer and her crowd had it made here as kids and by the time they realized they should have left it was too late.”
I was staring at him, and he met my gaze almost defiantly. “So,” I asked, “does that mean you think someone would be crazy to come back here?”
“You’re twisting my words.” He was impatient now.
Apparently sensing his mood, Aunt Madge asked, “When will the house transfer be final? I know a few people on the Arts Council, and they are so grateful that you will do as Ruth planned.”
“In a month. I hate to think of it. There’s so much to do.” He ran his fingers through his hair and suddenly looked very tired.
“Do you need some help?” Aunt Madge asked. “It’ll take awhile to go through things, you know.”
“Elsie needs some work,” I added.
“I was volunteering our time, dear, not finding ways for Michael to spend money,” she said.
I shrugged, and grinned at Michael. “I guess since Aunt Madge found me paying work I can find ways to make you Elsie’s donor.”
“Gee,” Michael said, ignoring my humor, “When I told Elsie she didn’t need to come for awhile, I wasn’t thinking about her income going down.”
“I’m sure there’s plenty Elsie can do for you,” Aunt Madge continued, “but you will need a lot of help going through family things, and that might be a better job for friends.”
Before I had a chance to say anything else, she and Michael had arranged for us to go to the Riordan’s Sunday afternoon to help Michael go through his mother’s clothes and jewelry and such.
SUNDAY MORNING I TOOK the dogs to the beach while Aunt Madge went to church. I was as much looking for Scoobie as I was getting exercise for me and the guys, and I was rewarded by seeing him in Java Jolt, sitting near the window. Since the guys had had a good run, I figured it was safe to tie them to a lamp post at the edge of the boardwalk.
“Hey,” I slid into the chair across from him. He had his steno pad open, but wasn’t actively writing. It looked as if he had filled half the pad.
“Yo, Jolie.” He raised his cup as if toasting me. I had forgotten that he had often used that greeting, putting emphasis on the ‘yo’ and the ‘lie.’ “Sorry I was kind of short with you the other day. I had some demons I had to get out.”
“It’s okay.” I nodded to his pad. “Did you get the little devils into your book?”
“Mostly.” He gestured to the coffee thermoses. “Get your battery acid and come back.”
I winked at Joe Regan as I put my coffee money in the ‘honor bowl’ and returned to the table, where Scoobie was studying his words.
“The thing is,” he said, “I’ve filled about twenty of these pads, and I still have wild thoughts puttering around in my head.” His smile didn’t pack a lot of joy.
I was uncertain what to say. I remembered that when Robby first started going to Gamblers’ Anonymous he grumbled about the fact that some of the others stressed writing down his thoughts. He had gone so far as to question when ‘journal’ became a verb, which was one of the few times I was able to laugh with him about what was going on. I’ve never been one for writing much.
“I know some people who swear by putting your thoughts on paper to help think more clearly.” Well, I didn’t, but Robby did. Wherever he was.
He shrugged. “Yeah, but they probably have a better idea where they want to go with what they’re thinking about.”
I snorted. “I wouldn’t know. I’m more into the ‘ignore it and it’ll go away’ gig.”
“Take this,” he said, and began to read.
I'm still rehearsing arguments
We never even had
And even when I let me win
I end up feeling bad
Conversations
I've rehearsed so many times
We'll never get 'em right
Concerning
What I'll say when
You say what I know
Will start a fight
Argument Infinite
With no clear goal insight
He pointed to the last word, to be sure I knew he wasn’t talking about visibility.
“Wow.” My inarticulateness contrasted with his eloquence.
“Is that a good ‘wow’ or a ‘that really sucks’ kind of wow?” He stared at me intently, and I felt my eyes fill with tears.
“It’s a, a, ‘I think I’ve been there' kind of wow,” I almost whispered.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“No, your poem is wonderful.” I dabbed at my eyes. I could almost sense Joe Regan looking at me, and felt embarrassed. But I wasn’t embarrassed at Scoobie seeing my tears.
What does that mean?
“Here you are,” I struggled for words. “Trying to get at what’s gone on in your life, and I’m sitting here, Miss Preppy,” I gestured at my fashionable sweats, “just pretending everything is okay when it really stinks.”
He grinned. “It’s not always a bad defense mechanism.” He grew more serious. “As long as you don’t let it go on too long.”
“But, enough about me, what do you think about me?” I needed to let the smart ass in me take charge.
He shook his head, but still smiled. “You did that all of eleventh grade, you know.”
“What?”
“You know,” he said. And I did. If anyone got too close for my comfort zone, which was quite small at that point, I deflected with humor or sarcasm. With Scoobie, usually humor.
I picked up my coffee cup with both hands. I wasn’t actually shaking, but no sense making Joe get out the Java Jolt mop.
“You’re right. And I guess your poem gets at me now because I argued with Robby so much about his gambling.” I grimaced. “Once I caught onto it, dummy that I am.”