In my dream I was on a ship trying to find a pier to tie to in Ocean Alley. I was in Uncle Gordon’s old dory, which was painted bright red. The boat started to shake and I sat up suddenly. Michael grinned at me. “I hope you were dreaming about me.”
I shook my head to clear it. “Indirectly.” I held up my arms and he knelt down for a quiet hug. He smelled like the brisk sea breeze, and I could have sat there for an hour. The popping of a champagne cork jarred us after a few seconds, and Michael stood.
“I would have opened that, Madge,” he said.
She looked at us both. “It’s my pleasure.” She held up the bottle. “Our guest brought celebratory alcohol.”
I laughed and swung off the couch. Jazz was zooming around the floor, batting the cork, and Mister Rogers and Miss Piggy appeared to be agonizing on the porch because they were not included.
Aunt Madge poured and Michael handed me a glass. When we each had one, he raised his. “To the American system of justice, which only cost me my reputation and almost $20,000.”
I almost spit into my champagne. “Wow.” I recovered in time to take a sip. “Do you get it back?”
“No way.” He seemed bitter, and I didn’t blame him.
“We need to focus on gratitude,” Aunt Madge said.
From anyone else it would have sounded patronizing, or at least corny.
“It’s hard for me, Madge, but I’ll work on it,” Michael said quietly. Then he took a long gulp of champagne.
We moved to the couch and Aunt Madge let the guys in. “Stay down!” she commanded, and they walked rapidly around the room and settled at her feet as she sat across from Michael and me. I looked around and saw that Jazz had jumped on the back of the sofa and sat next to Michael.
“So,” I said, feeling a need to break the silence. “What’s next now that you’re footloose and fancy free?” I wanted him to say something about going over to his place, and not to sort his mother’s belongings.
“I’m not free yet,” he looked moodily at the dogs. “I’ve got to go to Washington.”
“Washington!” Aunt Madge and I said in unison.
“My firm seems to have inflated some oil prices when we passed costs to customers in California. We’re being investigated by some federal energy regulators and maybe a congressional committee.”
Several seconds passed before Aunt Madge said, “Were you involved?”
“Not knowingly,” he said. “And I think the investigators believe that.”
“Why?” I regretted the speed of my question as soon as the word was out of my mouth.
“Because, Ms. Detective, my bank account did not inflate at the rate of my partners’.”
“Thank heavens for small favors,” Aunt Madge said.
“Yeah, less for Darla to get.” He finished his champagne.
“When do you go?” I asked.
I saw the amusement in his eyes, and figured he knew why I asked. “Not for a couple days.”
The phone rang and I jumped. As Aunt Madge got up to answer it he slipped his arm around me and leaned close. “Any reason you’re so jumpy?”
His breath was warm on my temple and he kissed me lightly. Warmth spread through me and I felt my nipples tighten. “Must be the change in your legal status.” I didn’t want to be a smart ass, but it is my most familiar behavior.
“Jolie,” Aunt Madge held out the phone. “It’s Sgt. Morehouse.”
“What does he want?” Michael asked, in a harsh tone.
Aunt Madge’s face asked the same question as I took the phone.
“Ms. Gentil,” he began, “You didn’t happen to call the station early this afternoon, did you?”
“Absolutely not.”
He sighed. “I figured it wasn’t you.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Can’t tell you that. Might be nothing.” He said goodbye and hung up without giving me a chance to say anything else.
“He’s just trying to harass you,” Michael said when I explained what the sergeant had asked. I wasn’t sure I agreed with him, but chose not to pick a fight.
“Why don’t you two go out,” Aunt Madge suggested.
The phone rang again and she smiled as she listened and handed it to Michael.
He took it with a questioning look, and then his face lit up. “Dad.”
Aunt Madge and I walked back toward the couch. “I think he’s in town,” she said.
My heart sank.
Are we never going to get a break?
Michael hung up and turned to us. “I can’t believe he did that. I called him this morning to say the judge was going to announce his findings, and he got in his car and drove straight to the airport. I wondered why I couldn’t get him this afternoon.”
“That’s great,” I said, not meaning it.
“And the best thing is that Honey doesn’t get here until tomorrow.”
“Keep an eye on your mom’s knick-knacks,” I said, then clapped my hand over my mouth.
He shook his head. “You don’t have to tell me she’s a gold digger.” He turned to Aunt Madge. “I can’t thank you enough.”
She waved a hand. “You just did. Your mother would be proud.”
When he bent to give me a kiss I thought his eyes looked misty.
THOUGH I HAD AN APPRAISAL TO do the next day, I was slow to get up. I was happy, wasn’t I? As I fed Jazz I told myself I was just impatient at having to wait to spend time, quality time I told myself, with Michael.
It was well past guest breakfast time so I padded around the kitchen in my slippers and bathrobe. Aunt Madge must be at the grocery store. I had finally figured that she went each day as a way of seeing people.
The phone rang and I was surprised to hear Scoobie’s voice. “Could you, like, come bail me out?”
In the background, I heard Sgt. Morehouse say, “I told you, you aren’t under arrest.”
“You want me to come down there?” I asked him.
“Yeah.”
I dressed without showering and drove the short distance to the police station. The desk clerk seemed to be expecting me and ushered me into Sgt. Morehouse’s very small office. A visibly upset Scoobie sat in the chair next to his desk, his foot tapping fast and his eyes anxious.
“What’s up?” I wasn’t sure who to ask, so I looked at both of them.
“He thinks I did it!” Scoobie shouted.
“No, I don’t,” Morehouse yelled. “Put a cork in it for one minute!”
“Both of you, calm down,” I said, in my best Aunt Madge voice. They stared at me. “You start.” I pointed at Sgt. Morehouse.
“I got this call yesterday, and this woman with a funny voice says I should look for Scoobie if I wanted Ruth Riordan’s murderer.”
“Wrong!” Scoobie said.
“Lemme finish,” Morehouse growled. “She said to check his knapsack and I’d find some rare coins that had been in the house.”
“Your basic circumstantial evidence,” Scoobie said.
Morehouse looked like he would like to gag him. “I know that,” he snapped. “I found Scoobie this morning at Java Jolt, and the coins were in his knapsack.”
“Along with some other great-smelling stuff,” I said, with a smile to Scoobie.
“Nah, I tossed the old crab cakes before that.” He seemed to be getting calmer.
“All I’m asking,” Morehouse said, “Is that you think where you were with that knapsack.”
“That’s all?” Scoobie asked.
“That’s what I been trying to tell you for half a damn hour,” Morehouse said.
Scoobie thought about this. “Well, I was at the courthouse yesterday, with Jolie.”
“And the library before that.” I added, and he nodded. “And after the courthouse?”
“The library, and the diner near it, and then the library again.” He thought some more. “Then back to where I sleep.”
“Still at the place on F Street?” Morehouse asked. When Scoobie nodded, he continued. “And you had the knapsack with you the entire time?”
“Heck no. I always leave it at my table in the library when I go to the diner.” I must have looked at him oddly, because he added, “It’s near the reference desk. Nobody bothers my stuff.”
Morehouse sighed. “Anyone could have dropped them in there.”
“I’m glad you don’t think it’s Scoobie,” I said, quietly. “How do you even know the coins were from Mrs. Riordan’s house?”
“Michael and his father are coming down later this morning, but they checked and a small bag of silver dollars from the 1800s was missing from a cabinet in the den.”
“Which I didn’t take,” Scoobie said.
“I think,” Morehouse glared at him, “that whoever killed her took them back then, in case their frame of Michael didn’t work.” He shrugged. “Or maybe they wanted a memento. Some weirdoes do that.”
“So, Scoobie can leave?” I asked.
Sgt. Morehouse nodded at him. “Just do me a favor and think if you saw anyone near the knapsack.” He paused. “And try not to let it get to you. You been having a good couple years.”
Scoobie didn’t say anything, but picked up his knapsack and walked out. “Thanks,” I said quietly to Morehouse.
“I’ll say it again,” he said, this time with a hint of a smile. “You sure know how to pick 'em.”
I hurried from his office, wanting to catch up to Scoobie, and bumped into Larry Riordan, with Michael behind him, his head turned and eyes on Scoobie as he walked out of the station.
“Miss Richards, is it?” Larry asked.
“It’s Jolie Gentil. I’m Madge Richards' niece,” I said, extending a hand, reluctantly accepting that I’d have to find Scoobie in a few minutes.
“Jolie, were you here with that loser?” Michael asked, frowning.
“He called me. He was upset.” I was angry at his characterization of Scoobie, but tried not to let it show.
“He may have killed my mother you know,” he said, voice rising.
“He didn’t. Ask Sgt. Morehouse.”
“Why were you sitting with him in the courtroom yesterday, anyway?” he asked.
Larry Riordan shifted slightly, and I sensed his discomfort. “Because,” I said, “he’s my friend.”
“Your friend? He’s a pothead. He hasn’t done anything with his life.” Michael’s face was red.
“He, he writes beautiful poetry. And you’re, you’re arrogant as hell!” I nearly ran out of the station.
I DROVE AROUND for quite awhile, checking the library and Java Jolt before I gave up on finding Scoobie.
When would I ever learn?
I went by Harry’s to pick up the material about the house I was to appraise. My anger was so close to the surface that I almost snapped at Harry.
Men are such jerks.
“You don’t look as happy as I thought you would, after the judge’s ruling yesterday.” He started to say something else and stopped.
“I’m sorry.” I almost sighed the response. “Just a lot on my mind, and I’m a little worried about Scoobie.”
He nodded. “I don’t really know him of course, just see him around town.” He fiddled with a file on his desk. “He’s lucky to have you for a friend.”
I sensed he wanted to say something else. “And…” I said.
“You’ve had a lot going on in your life lately.” He looked at me very directly. "It might be tempting to help Scoobie in some way, but you know he has to find his own path.”
With a brief nod, I picked up the appraisal file from his desk and managed to thank him for caring.
ELSIE HAMMER’S HOUSE was half a block from the house I was appraising, and I glanced at it as I drew close. An unkempt looking man of indeterminate age walked out the side door. I slowed a bit and watched him light a cigarette and walk toward the pickup truck in the driveway. I frowned.
Didn’t Paul Hammer have his driving license revoked?
A voice in the back of my brain chimed in.
Is this really any of your business?
A couple houses down I pulled over and looked in the rear view mirror. Sure enough, the pickup pulled out of the driveway with a man at the wheel. I told myself it didn’t have to be Paul Hammer, though if anyone met the stereotype of a disheveled drunk it was he. I busied myself with my purse as he drove by, then for reasons unknown even to me I waited for him to drive a block down the street and followed him. He drove around the block and made his way toward the center of Ocean Alley and pulled into the Burger King parking lot.
I sat at a traffic light.
See Jolie, not everyone’s up to no good.
But no sooner had I chastised myself than he walked across the street, toward the building on the opposite corner – the Sandpiper Bar and Grill. He tripped as he got to the curb and almost stumbled. He seemed to have had a good start on his drinking. For a couple seconds I wondered why he had parked at Burger King, then realized the police probably knew his truck and if they saw it on the street near a bar they’d look for him inside.
I didn’t even think of minding my own business as I got to the next red light. My cell phone was in the side pocket of my purse. “Nuts, I don’t have a phone book.” Under my seat was the Lakewood phone directory, a good resource for any realtor working there to have at hand, but useless in Ocean Alley. I debated whether I wanted to call 911; I didn’t. The Purple Cow was two doors down, so I headed there.