Appraisal for Murder (5 page)

“About her illness?” I asked.

“About the house.” She took jars of jam from the fridge and began spooning some into small bowls. “Ruth isn’t going to sell the house, she…”

“Why am I doing an appraisal then?” Aunt Madge’s look was enough to silence me and I made a zipping gesture across my lips.

“She wants to give it to the local Arts Council to use for shows for area artists and for poetry readings and such. They can use the downstairs for that and have their offices upstairs. They’re crammed into a tiny space in the library. The appraisal is largely to establish the worth of the property for tax purposes.”

I gave a low whistle. “That’s one heck of a gift.”

She nodded. “Since Michael is her only heir, she wanted to be sure he didn’t mind. She’s concerned that,” she paused as she put the jam and some butter on a tray, “he may somehow feel cheated.”

“Maybe all that’s why he seems a bit...moody.”

She waved a hand as she sat down next to me to wait for the muffins to cook. “He’s always been like that. Although, his mother says he’s mellowed a bit the last year.” She seemed about to say more, and stopped.

I shrugged. “I didn’t really know him at school.” I started to say he didn’t want to know me, but instead I stood and kissed her cheek. “I’m going upstairs to shower. I didn’t want to wake anyone earlier.”

I took more time than usual getting ready. Scrubbed and dressed in a light wool, tan pantsuit with a hunter green turtleneck and earrings that matched the suit, I appeared in the kitchen for Aunt Madge’s compliments. With her encouraging words in my ears, I walked out to my Toyota to drive to the Riordan’s.
Why does my car look lopsided?

“Damn.” The right front tire was flat. I must have driven over a nail. It just reinforced my current opinion that anything with tires or testicles was trouble. I looked closer. The back one was equally deflated. For some reason, Joe Pedone’s face flashed to my mind. I glanced at my watch. Nothing to do but tell Aunt Madge I had a flat (and hope she didn’t notice two) and borrow her car. It was too far to walk.
Double damn.

I made my way to the Riordans' large home on the north edge of town, the neighborhood of two and three-story homes built from the 1890s to early 1940s. Many of the newer ones were brick or had brick facades, not too common at the beach. The older homes are Victorian and much larger than Aunt Madge’s. Several have guest cottages behind the main house. It is easily the priciest area of Ocean Alley.

I had tried to look up prior sales for the Riordan’s home, but it was pointless. Her parents had bought it more than fifty years ago, and they left it to her. At least the appraisal when Ruth’s parents bought it (for all of $21,500) listed the size of all the rooms and showed the appraiser’s hand-drawn layout. Jennifer Stenner’s grandfather had had a steady hand. “Third-generation family business,” as their ads said.

I was about to push the doorbell to the Riordans' when Michael opened the door and said, “Don’t ring the bell.”

I almost stumbled into the house. “It’s just such a handy way to let people know you want to come in.” Probably not the reaction Harry Steele would have. I needed to remember I was working for him.

“Sorry,” he said, grudgingly. “My mother’s still asleep. Late for her, so she must need it.” His tone was protective.

“I’m glad you caught me before I rang.” I looked around the elaborate foyer, with its faux-marble floor (
or maybe it was real?)
and elegant crown molding. “Will you be showing me around, then?”

“No. I have some business in town. You can find your way around, can’t you?” He was pulling on a light suede jacket.

“Of course. Since I have to measure every room and closet, I’ll probably be here awhile. Will your mother mind getting up to a stranger in the house
?” My mother certainly would.

“I told her you’re Madge’s niece. She’s looking forward to seeing you. If she’s not up, just go in her room.”

“Oh, I could come back…”

“No,” he said with his hand on the door, “Go on in. She has a meeting of the church’s Social Services Committee at eleven, and I doubt she has her alarm set.”

“I’ll, uh, knock first.” I said this to his back as he walked out and he didn’t reply. What a turd, I thought.
Thou shalt not call clients turds
. I decided I didn't care about his promise to call me at Aunt Madge’s.

The house was set up in a common style for center-hall colonials. On the left was a huge living room, with a twelve-foot ceiling, more elegant crown molding, and beautiful hardwood floors. It was surprisingly stylish, with bright white paint for the molding and window trim and a deep tan on the walls. The furniture had a mix of tan and burgundy tones, and I liked it immediately. Anything wood was antique oak.

I chastised myself about admiring the furniture, which has nothing to do with a house’s value, and set about measuring the room and checking the windows. The room to the right of the foyer was a truly formal dining room, with a stunning color scheme of bright yellow walls and naturally finished chair rail and molding. As with the living room, there were hardwood floors and very expensive area rugs, these in a light brown that accented the molding. A large oak hutch and antique ice box were along one wall, matched perfectly to an oak table. Oak seemed to be the preference for the over-sixty Ocean Alley crowd. This room was almost twenty by forty feet, and the table seated twelve. I wondered idly if Michael Riordan had children who spilled orange juice on the rugs.

The kitchen was behind the dining room and had newer windows in three adjoining sections, with the middle one somewhat wider and taller than the two side sections. They were natural wood, perhaps oak, and matched the thoroughly modern cabinetry.

I hurried my measurements a bit, anxious to get to the large family room across from the kitchen and to the upstairs. The family room was clearly where Mrs. Riordan spent most of her time, though it was still
House and Garden
quality. Furnishings were more modern, almost contemporary, except for what I took to be Mrs. Riordan’s favorite spot. There was a tall rocker with comfortable-looking cushions and a foot stool in front. A small table next to it held a basket of needlework and a small stack of books. Not a television in sight.

I finished the measurements and hurried up the open stairway to the top floor. I tried to imagine what the master bedroom would look like; it probably had a four poster with a canopy. I paused, counting doors. Four were wide enough to be bedroom doors, and were shut. A bathroom door stood open, and there were two smaller doors I took to be linen closets. I glanced at my watch. Ten o’clock. Surely Mrs. Riordan would want to be up by now. I would knock on her door and call out that I was Madge Richards’ niece. I hoped that would not startle her too much.

I assumed she would sleep in the master bedroom, and guessed it was the one at the end of the hall. I knocked lightly, then harder. “Mrs. Riordan? It’s Jolie, Madge’s niece, the appraiser.” No answer.

I opened the door slightly. The room was still dark, shades drawn. I pushed the door open a little more to let some light into the room. Mrs. Riordan was on the left side of her bed, with open eyes staring at the ceiling.

I SAT ON A LOW BRICK WALL that encircled a raised garden, just outside the Riordan front door, sipping a can of soda that a policewoman had placed in my hand. She had escorted me out so they could “secure the scene.” I’d watched enough TV to know she meant they didn’t want me in the way while they looked around, but I vaguely wondered why someone had called a police photographer to take pictures of an elderly woman who died in her bed.

I had never seen a dead person outside of a casket, and was quite shaken. There had been no real logic to my immediate decisions. I called Harry rather than an ambulance, and sat on the floor in Mrs. Riordan’s room until an ambulance crew and the police arrived, thanks to Harry’s call to them. It didn’t seem right to leave her.

The EMS staff didn’t need more than a quick look to tell Mrs. Riordan really was dead, and then one of them turned his attention to me. He said something about me being in shock. I didn’t think I really was, though never having been in shock, how would I know? I do know that I can’t say “kick the bucket” again. It now seems very disrespectful.

An older police officer walked out of the house and asked me if I knew where “the son” was, making him the third one to ask about Michael Riordan. I repeated his “business in town” comment, and was tempted to remind him that ‘town’ was so small they should be able to find him easily. Instead, I said, “He does buy coffee at Java Jolt.” I wished I had thought to say this earlier.

“Yeah, we knew that,” he said. He was probably in his mid-forties, but he dressed like someone in their seventies – polyester pants and a tie with a pattern that had been in fashion about the time I was born. Only his shoes could be called modern, a dark-colored athletic shoe that I know sells for well more than twice as much as I spend for my jogging shoes. I supposed he was on his feet a lot, so he acquiesced to comfort over cost.

His badge said ‘Sgt. Morehouse.’ “Why are there so many police here?” I gestured with the soda can to the three cars, which I figured were a good portion of Ocean Alley’s force.

“Unattended death. We have to investigate.” He waved to what looked to be a hearse.

I realized it said “County Coroner” on the side. It seemed the investigation meant poor Mrs. Riordan was not going directly to the funeral home, not that it would matter to her either way. Still sitting, I touched Morehouse’s elbow. “But she was sick.”

“Yeah, but not that sick.”

I drew a quick breath and his tone grew kinder. “We just have to document the cause of death. Probably a heart attack or something.” He turned his attention to the coroner’s staff. “You can take her in about twenty minutes. We’re almost finished dusting.”

For prints?
All I could think of was the beautiful paint and woodwork. Before I could ask him why they were looking at fingerprints when it looked like a heart attack, a silver Mercedes pulled up and Michael Riordan got out. It must have been in the garage, I would have noticed that car in the driveway.

“Where is she, what happened?” he demanded of Morehouse, and tried to follow the coroner staff into the house.

“Whoa. Just hang on a minute,” Morehouse said. “I’ll explain…”

Riordan turned on the man. “Explain now!” His face was reddening fast and I sensed that if Morehouse hadn’t had a badge pinned to his sport coat Michael would have shaken him.

That ought to endear him to the police.
I glanced back to Michael and realized his gaze had shifted to me. “I’m sorry Michael, she seems to have passed away.”

“That’s not possible,” he said, as if there was simply no option for that. “She was fine when I left.”

“I thought she hadn’t been up,” Morehouse said, quickly.

“No, but I looked in on her a couple of times. She was breathing and…everything.” His voice trailed off, and he suddenly looked a lot less arrogant. I held out my soda can. “No thanks,” he said, and turned to Morehouse. “When can I go in?”

“It won’t be too long. Why don’t you have a seat with the young lady,” Morehouse gestured to me, “and I’ll come get you soon.” He went back in the house.

“They throw you out?” he asked, looking at me.

“They brought me out. I needed some fresh air.” I wasn’t sure what to say. “I sat with her, until the ambulance people came.”

“I appreciate that.” He turned his gaze from me and looked straight ahead, so I studied his profile for a moment. His angular face was taut. After a moment I could tell his thoughts had gone elsewhere. It was a relief for me not to feel I had to comfort him. I was still kind of jittery myself.

I began to reflect on the last hour. I had gone upstairs and called to her, and Mrs. Riordan didn’t answer. Since I hadn’t heard her moving around, I’d opened the door and looked in, and there she was. There was nothing more to it than that. Nothing suspicious, like a loud thump before I went upstairs.

The female police officer, who was quite a bit younger than Sgt. Morehouse, walked toward Michael and me and addressed her question to me. “Ms…” she glanced at her small notebook, “um, Gentle.”

She pronounced it way most people did when they first tried out my name. I corrected her. “The “L” is silent. It’s pronounced zhan-tee, it’s French.” I have this memorized.

“I’m sure it is,” she said. “I have a couple of questions for you, if you feel calmer now.” Michael cast a glance at me, and then moved farther away. When I didn’t object, she continued. “Exactly what did you see when you went into the bedroom.”

I told her what I’d seen, which did not require a detailed explanation. She took notes, and only interrupted me once. “Her eyes were definitely open, then?” I assured her they were. I wouldn’t forget that expression for a good while.

As she stood to go back into the house, Harry Steele’s car pulled up and Aunt Madge got out of it faster than I’d seen her move since the time I fell down her front porch steps. But, she didn’t come to me; she went straight to Michael. I saw her take one of his hands in both of hers, and then she gave him a hug. I also noticed her hair was now blonde.

Harry walked toward me. “Are you all right? I wanted to come sooner, but I thought I should bring your aunt, and one of her guests said she had walked to the grocery store. I missed her there, and then went back to her house, and…”

I smiled at him, and he stopped. “I’m okay. It was just a bit of a shock. I’m really sorry if I scared you, calling like that.” I couldn’t resist. “You didn’t mention anything like this in any of your other appraisal reports.”