I hummed as I showered and dressed. Maybe my life wasn’t going to stay in the toilet after all.
WHEN I GOT TO THE OFFICE, Harry had just gotten a call from Lester Argrow, but I could not appraise that house until tomorrow. Lester also thought he had a prospective buyer for another house, who would pay cash. While there was obviously no appraisal required because there was no mortgage, the buyer wanted an objective opinion, as Lester put it, on the value of the house.
“Your buddy Lester said he tried to talk the guy out of getting the appraisal, told the buyer it was a waste of money.” Harry chuckled. “I don’t think Lester ever thinks about what he’s about to say before it pops out.”
“I’m certainly not a waste of anyone’s money,” I informed Harry, who regarded me with an amused expression.
“Feeling your oats?” he asked.
“Just in a good mood.” I offered no explanation. Just then the doorbell bonged and the phone rang. I was closer to the door, and immediately wished I had gone for the phone option. Mrs. Jasper waved at me through the pane of glass.
“Come in, won’t you?” I said, wishing I had an appraisal. Maybe I could say I had to go to the courthouse.
“Phone’s for you, Jolie. It’s Jennifer Stenner.” Harry did not seem happy about that.
I picked it up and he turned to Mrs. Jasper. “Hey, Jennifer,” I said.
“We missed you yesterday,” she said.
It took me a couple seconds, and then I remembered the reunion planning meeting. “I should have called. Michael asked Aunt Madge and me to help him sort through some of his mom’s things.” There was no response. “Jennifer?”
“Of course,” she said sweetly, “that would take priority.”
“I am sorry,” I lied. “I just completely forgot once that came up.”
She told me the next meeting was the following Sunday and we hung up. I didn’t write it down. When I turned, Mrs. Jasper was at my elbow, and I quickly stepped back.
“You went through Ruth’s things?” She appeared more angry than upset. “I told Michael I would help him.”
“It was, uh, spur of the moment. He stopped by to see Aunt Madge, and she offered.”
She turned and headed for the door. “I’ll let you know more later about how we used your donation, Mr. Steele.”
As the door shut behind her I turned to Harry. “I did not have anything to do with that.”
He shrugged. “I guess she’s having trouble adjusting to her friend’s death.”
I looked at the door, making sure she was out of earshot. “I hope she doesn’t bother Michael.”
Harry picked up the file on the bungalow I would appraise the next day. “This one is right on the beach. You’ll have to look for water marks around the base. And ask them if they put up that vinyl siding in the last few years. I think that area had some flooding a couple years ago, and it might be hiding some water stains.”
I DROVE SLOWLY toward the Cozy Corner. Lester Argrow was still our biggest customer, but in terms of dollars he probably had the least sales volume of all the local firms. I wished I could think of new ways to market Steele Appraisals.
Almost on a whim, I turned around and walked toward the Purple Cow. Maybe Ramona could order some magnetic signs for me to put on my car.
Today the white board in front of the store said “Why is it called tourist season if we can't shoot at them?” George Carlin.
I was laughing as I entered the store, and barely had a chance to step out of Ramona’s way as she stormed out the door and began to erase the board. She did not look like her usual tranquil self.
I followed her out and watched her write, probably rewrite, her day’s slogan. “People are lonely because they build walls instead of bridges.” Joseph Fort Newton. This definitely had nothing to do with shooting tourists.
She turned to face me. “It’s at least once a week now. It’s always something insulting or crude.” She walked back into the store and I followed. I had unfortunately missed the crude ones.
Ramona put her marker in a cup that held pencils and pens, and turned to face me. Her expression switched to her usual serene self. “Can I help you with something?”
Still trying to hide my own smile, I asked her about the magnetic signs and she pulled a book off a shelf behind the cash register and began to describe the options. It wasn’t too expensive. For $75 I could get two small signs that said “Steele Appraisals” and the phone number. I decided to do it without asking Harry, and ordered them.
As she wrote the order, she asked. “A man was asking about you the other day. Did he find you?”
“Someone from high school?”
She shook her head as she wrote. “No. He was from a bigger city, I think.”
“Ramona,” I waited until she looked up at me, her glasses forward on her nose. “That’s really not the kind of description that can help me figure out who you mean.”
She went back to her writing. “He was probably a few years older than us and he had patent leather shoes.”
Patent shoes? Why was that familiar?
Joe Pedone.
“Did he have black hair, not too tall?”
“That sounds about right,” she said as she finished writing the order.
“When was this?”
“Mmm. Let’s see, he liked my Shakespeare quote, you know, 'To thine own self be true,' so that was, maybe, last Thursday.”
“Did he say why he was looking for me?”
She thought about that for a moment. “I guess not. He just said he knew you.”
As I walked out, I was more worried than I’d been since the night on the boardwalk. I headed for the police station.
AFTER TALKING TO SERGEANT Morehouse for what seemed like an eternity, I turned the car toward the Cozy Corner. My mind was playing two tapes almost simultaneously. I was finally really worried about Pedone, but I couldn’t think of anything more I could do to protect myself than tell Sgt. Morehouse and take precautions like looking into the back seat of my car before getting in it.
The other issue swirling in my brain, of course, had to do with Michael Riordan’s guilt or innocence. If Darla was in Paris, the only other person to benefit financially besides Michael was the maid, Elsie. She hardly seemed a logical suspect. Although…Jennifer Stenner had said that the money Darla would gain if Mrs. Riordan died before the divorce was “hardly worth killing for.” Who was to say what Elsie deemed worth killing for?
AFTER LOOKING THROUGH the library’s indexes of several years worth of the
Ocean Alley Press
, my neck was stiff and my stomach growling. The indexes had seemed the logical place to start looking for less-than-complimentary references to Elsie Hammer. The only mention was her photo as one of a group of volunteers at St. Anthony’s church’s bazaar. Wait. They called her ‘Mrs. Hammer.’ That made me think I should look for Mr. Hammer. Maybe there was more to him than just car trouble.
I changed my search of the index for the name ‘Hammer’ without the name Elsie and almost immediately found Mr. Paul Hammer, who had been arrested three years ago for a drunk driving offense. It also mentioned that he was cited for “driving while barred,” which meant that he had lost his license for a prior offense. I looked to see if the article gave his address, but it didn’t, so I could not tell if he lived where Elsie did.
However, two articles about arrests the next year did give his address, and it was the same as Elsie’s. One arrest was for public intoxication and the other for attempted burglary at a house near theirs. I thought about this. There would be fines to pay. I could look that up in court records. Other records at the old courthouse might also tell me if there were serious financial problems, such as a bankruptcy or possibly a court-ordered lien on the house.
I put the microfilm I’d been using back in the drawer and considered what to do next. I could look up the court records the next time I was looking up comps. Or, I could do it now.
AT THE COURTHOUSE I asked for help in looking up judgments against individuals. “Why do you want to know?” asked an older woman with bluish permed hair.
“Maybe I’m doing research for an upcoming trial,” I said, trying to be civil.
“No you aren’t. You’re Madge Richards’ niece.” She peered at me over the top of her half glasses. “You’re in some kind of trouble.”
“I’m not in trouble! George Winters just writes articles that make it look that way,” I said, hotly.
She literally sniffed. “You young people always want to blame someone else.”
I almost said something about her salary being paid with my tax dollars, but stopped myself. “It doesn’t matter why I want to know. Just show me how to look up the information.” She stared at me. “Please,” I added.
She told me there was a computer for use by the public in the Clerk of Court’s Office down the hall. “Instructions are next to it.” She turned her back on me and walked back to her desk.
I fumed as I walked down the hall.
In some kind of trouble
. How I would love to make trouble for George Winters.
There was only one person in front of me, and I practiced patience as I waited. On the walls were photographs of the courthouse, including one of the fire that Uncle Gordon’s grandmother had stopped from spreading to the records storage area.
The woman ahead of me left and I stepped up to the computer. A small sign said, “No Internet Access from this computer.”
So much for taking a peek at my email.
The instructions were clear, and I did a search for Paul Hammer’s name. I had expected it to pop up, but not nine times. He was a busy man.
Mr. Hammer had been arrested four times for driving under the influence, and had lost his license after the third time. He had two burglary convictions, three arrests for public intoxication, and one for lewdness on the beach. As I recalled, this usually meant relieving oneself on the sand. The fines for the second and third drunk driving arrests had been $1,000; for the fourth it was $2,500 and 30 days in the county jail. This was one expensive husband.
I can relate to that.
I didn’t bother to look up the other fines. Assuming Mr. Hammer’s job, if he had one, did not pay much more than Elsie’s housecleaning work, his brushes with the law could easily have put them in dire financial straits. So, Elsie could well have needed the money, but would she have killed for it?
I must have looked puzzled, because the woman behind the counter was looking at me. “Can I help you?” she asked.
She looked as if she meant it. “Would I be able to find out if someone had been served a foreclosure notice on their home?”
If she thought my question odd, she didn’t show it. “I can show you if there is a lien.”
She came through the swinging half-door and I moved aside. Fingers flying on the keys, she pulled up one screen and then several more, finally ending at a place where I could key in a name. “I’ll let you take over from here,” she said with a smile.
“Thanks.”
She’s worth my tax dollars.
I keyed in Paul Hammer’s name, and found nothing. However, Elsie’s name showed a foreclosure notice had been issued just four weeks ago and the bank had placed a lien on the property. I stared at the information for almost a full minute.
She must have used mortgage money to pay his fines, or maybe he was running up other bills. Now they were coming after her house.
She was a better wife than I was. I still resented paying the retainer for Robby’s lawyer.
WHEN I GOT BACK TO COZY CORNER I took the portable phone to my room and called Sgt. Morehouse. He wasn’t there, and when he called me back a few minute later he was most definitely annoyed at my question about whether he had looked into Paul Hammer as a suspect. When I started to outline my reasons he stopped me.
“I know who he is, and I know his wife had a key to the house.”
“And…?” I asked, letting my question hang there.
“And I’m really trying to find a nice way to tell you it’s not your business. Besides, the case is with the county’s Office of the Prosecuting Attorney and their investigators are doing most of the follow-up work now. You mighta noticed there was a probable cause hearing already.”
I deflected his sarcasm with my own. “I did notice. But whether the prosecutor's information came from your office or theirs, it still didn’t make a lot of sense to me.” He hung up.
SINCE I DIDN’T HAVE an appraisal until tomorrow, I got Aunt Madge and we headed for Michael’s. I debated telling her about Elsie or her husband’s potential motive, and decided against it for the time being. Besides, it might not be Elsie. She might not even have known of the upcoming inheritance until the will was read. I definitely wasn’t going to tell Aunt Madge that Joe Pedone had made another appearance in Ocean Alley. There was no point in getting her worried, too.
Aunt Madge and I were sitting amid a kitchen table piled with pots, pans, and plastic storage containers when the doorbell rang and Michael, who had been going through a credenza in the dining room, went to answer it.
Although I couldn’t hear what she was saying, I recognized Mrs. Jasper’s voice. Aunt Madge gave a low groan, and I grinned. “Maybe,” I offered, “You can get her to match the lids for the plastic containers.” She frowned at me.
A moment later Michael entered, looking irritated, with Mrs. Jasper close behind him. “I was just telling Michael that he should have called me. I so want to help.” She wore a huge smile and a pearl gray pants suit and rose knit top, with an elegant gray handbag. “I even wore pants, so I can get down on the floor.”
I thought about suggesting the basement floor, but said nothing.