Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 05 - Trouble on the Doorstep (10 page)

After Marky took over the tone of some articles changed.
While the company still seemed to donate to a lot of local charities, there was also a fine for using sub-grade materials in one housing development, and a couple citations for workplace safety violations.

Then nothing, nothing at all, for almost a year, about five years ago.
Then there was a spate of articles about Andrew Markham rejoining his son to put in a bid to construct none other than the Silver Times Senior Living complex. Judging from how a couple articles touted the older Markham’s experience and ‘strong community interests,’ my guess was that Marky was not held in the same high regard.

The ribbon-cutting ceremony for the first residences on the complex, the independent living apartments, was a big deal.
Later, Andrew Markham and his wife, Louise, were the first to move into one of the duplexes. It seemed he bowed out of the business again, because as future buildings opened it was ‘Nat’ Markham who was mentioned. Looked as if he was trying to get away from the Marky moniker.

I sat back and rubbed my eyes.
I always strain them when I look at microfilm for a long time. All of this seemed to add up to a big nothing. The way good old Hank Bauer talked I had expected to read about Marky, or Nat or whatever he was called, getting arrested for everything from shoplifting toys to mouthing off to the police after a drunk driving arrest. And then somehow all of it getting thrown out for some technicality like his father had a lot of money. If Andrew Markham was a better builder than his son was, that didn’t make Nat a brat. Or a killer.
And why kill for a contract? There’s lots of work
.

But the paper never tells the whole story.
I knew George was an honest reporter, but he puts his own emphasis on every story. I’d figured that out a couple of times, when he highlighted my role in something more than warranted. Now he admits he did some of it to get my attention.
High-brow journalism in action
.

I stared at the computer screen for another minute, mindlessly going over an article about hurricane clean-up that came up because Markham Construction volunteered people and construction equipment, including hauling away portions of the damaged boardwalk.
Maybe they would get an award for…“Hey,” I said aloud.

It occurred to me that if Hank Bauer knew the bid meeting was tomorrow it must be an open meeting.
Even if it was supposed to be for bidders only, who would throw me out? Or George?

“What are you heying about?” Scoobie asked.
He sat in the chair at the vacant microfilm reader next to mine.

I thought fast.
George can appreciate my intensity about finding out things, sometimes anyway, but Scoobie and Ramona think I should leave well enough (or messed up enough) alone. “I was reading about the company that built Silver Times.”

“Why do you care?” he asked, and frowned at the article I had on the screen.

“I guess because Elmira’s apartment had more damage than I would have expected in a newer building that had gutters,” I said.

“You appraising something out there?” Scoobie asked.
He gave me a kind of suspicious look.

“Nope.
Elmira wants me to stop by again, but so far I’m ignoring her.” I switched off the machine. “Any progress on planning the hotdog eating fundraiser?”

“Some, but listen to this.”
Scoobie leaned back in the chair he had pulled up next to mine and held the paper closer to his face. When he reads his poems he’s very focused.

I thought they were special, brought meaning to my life.

Born to be touched, much favored by my heart.

Then came the foam, sliced through them like a knife.

When I thought things mattered we were soon apart.

“How do you come up with all of this?” I asked.
I could tell from his expression that he’d been hoping for something more profound.

“Something you aren’t too keen on,” he said.

I detected a coming barb.

“Sitting quietly and thinking,” he added.

“Very funny.”

“Not really,” he said, closing the notebook that had his poem.
“I’d bet the cost of at least one textbook that you’re reading about Silver Times because you’re up to something.”

I dodged his comment.
“So, what about the hotdog contest?” I asked.

“It’ll take awhile to get set up.
In the meantime, the guys who’ve been volunteering for Sandy clean-up have talked Father Teehan and Reverend Jamison into a practice round.”

“Meaning a contest where those two will eat lots of hot dogs?”
I could sort of see Reverend Jamison being willing to do it, but Father Teehan is in his early fifties and is kind of stodgy.

“I’d pay to see that,” Scoobie said. “No, they’ll just buy the dogs and buns and let us use the First Prez community room for the guys to practice fast eating.
I’m pretty sure it’s mostly to impress girlfriends.”

“Sounds like a good way for your volunteers to get a lot of free food,” I said.
I still didn’t like the idea of overeating being part of a fundraiser for people who had little food, but I’m trying to learn to let other people be in charge. It doesn’t mean I like it.

Scoobie shrugged.
“I thought so, too, but now that we’re planning for the practice dog eating, it’s helping me figure out what we need to do when we have it as a fundraiser.” His eyes brightened and eyebrows arched. “You should come over. We’re doing it Sunday.”

“Why don’t you invite the whole Harvest for All committee?”

He pulled a face. “I guess I have to make up with Sylvia sometime.” He stood. “Gotta get to school.”

“Want a ride?” I asked.

“Nope. Have the bus routes and times all figured out.” He grinned. “I’m literally saving you for a rainy day.”

“Charming,” I said, and watched as he walked back to get his back pack from the table where he always sits.

I turned back to the index, which I had up on a computer near the microfilm machine, and flipped the microfilm reader back on. I realized I hadn’t specifically searched for Nat or Marky Markham. After about ten minutes I was convinced that the entire Markham family was boring, and set about putting microfilm back in the right boxes.

Not everyone’s a bad guy.
Yeah, but we know there’s at least one in this mix
.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

GEORGE
AND I HAD gotten to the Silver Times well before the bid meeting was to start. He was tired because the night before was a weekly ‘guy thing’ he goes to. I think they bowl, but he won’t tell me.

“Excuse me, Mr. Winters?”
The woman was so far the only staff member from Silver Times who had come into the small meeting room where the “Board of Directors was to accept bids for “remediation, repair, and retrofitting” of Silver Times Senior Living. At least that’s what the notice outside the door said. There was no sign of any board members.

The woman had been in and out of the room, looking increasingly nervous each time, but this was the first time she’d done more than nod at us.
George looked up from the cup of coffee he had just poured. “Hi,” he said, “you’re Molly Springer from the Methodist church office, right?”

George knows everyone.

Her face brightened momentarily and then resumed its worried expression. “I worked there for twelve years, and I loved it. But,” she lowered her voice, “the pay here is almost twice what the church can pay, and I’m the only one saving for my retirement.”

“I hear you,” George said.
“Can I do something for you, Mrs. Springer?”

“For me?
No, no. It’s just,” she paused, “this isn’t really a public meeting. It’s just an opportunity for people to turn in their bids to make repairs. You know, after Sandy.”

I have to admire George in action.
He’s smooth and polite. Unless someone ticks him off.

“I know,” he said, in his best formal reporter voice.
“I thought I would do a story on how different it is for people who live in this complex compared to those who had to arrange repairs themselves. It’s so hard since so many skilled laborers are working further south.”

She seemed to consider this.
“I think our executive director, Fred Brennan, could talk to you about that. He’s kind of overseeing all of it.” She looked at me and looked away. I figured she knew George was a reporter but she didn’t know me so wasn’t sure about asking me to leave.

George and I had anticipated this.
We had arrived separately, he ten minutes before I did. I brought a clipboard with a bunch of papers and a brochure about Silver Times, so it looked as if I at least expected to be at the bid drop-off, even if I didn’t look like a builder.

If no one would talk to George, I was going to pretend to be the daughter of someone who owned a construction company.
Or something like that. Scoobie said since it was the twenty-first century I could say I was the owner, but Ramona said my nails were too nice. And if anyone asked me about anything construction-y I could only tell them I knew which end of a hammer to use. It’s always easier to fib about something you know about.

“I would love to talk to Fred.
I don’t really know him well,” George said. “Would you be good enough to walk me down there?”

Schmooze time for George.
They left, with George asking Ms. Springer if she liked not having to talk to so many people about funeral services.
Where does he get these lines
?

I glanced toward the entrance to the room.
We had come in through the hallway, and there was a closed door opposite the hallway door. It appeared to lead from the conference room into what I assumed was an office. I could hear someone on the other side of the door, though they were too far away for me to make out what they were saying. I looked at the time on my mobile phone. It was fifteen minutes after ten. Seemed as if Nat knew Markham Construction could show up anytime.

The room had the same aura of good taste that all the public areas seemed to have.
The round table had a mahogany finish and looked expensive. Judging by the catered coffee service, the place wanted to roll out the red carpet for bidders, or look that way, anyway.

Feet came quickly down the hall, and I recognized one voice.

“I don’t get the damn hurry, Dad.”

“You always put your best foot forward.
You can’t assume…” began the senior Markham.

“Who are you kidding?
This is a lock for…”

It was as if there was a concrete barrier at the entrance to the room.
Both men stopped and stared at me. On the one hand, I couldn’t pretend to be anyone’s daughter. On the other hand, I had father and son together.
And George isn’t here. Ha!

I stood and extended my hand.
“Mr. Markham. A pleasure, sir.”

Andrew Markham recovered quickly.
“Miss, um, Gentle, is it?”

“Gentil.
Jolie Gentil. Please call me Jolie.”

“That means ‘pretty nice,’ in French, doesn’t it?” the man I assumed to be Nat asked.

“Yes.” I held out my hand to shake his, and he moved a thick envelope from his right hand to his left. “My father is French Canadian. I can hardly thank him enough.”

Both men caught the mild sarcasm in my tone, and seemed to relax as they moved into the room.

“Are you waiting for someone?” Andrew Markham asked, as he poured himself some coffee.

“I guess it sounds odd, but after being touched by the deaths of two other people who planned to bid on the project, I sort of felt an obligation to be here.”
I noted that Nat looked at his father, who kept his gaze on me. “Steve Oliver’s brother is my good friend.”

“Tragic,” Andrew Markham said.
“And Eric Morton was found in your residence, was he not?”

I nodded.
“My aunt’s bed and breakfast, the Cozy Corner.” I turned toward Nat, who had never actually given his name. “Looks as if you won’t have any competition this time.”

He flushed. “If you’re implying…”

“Of course she’s not,” Andrew Markham said in a voice that could be described as a calm warning to his son. “Grief takes us many places we would not have expected to go.”

Excuse me?

“That’s an interesting way to put it,” I said, and smiled. I turned to Nat, deciding to needle him a bit to see how he reacted. “It’s Marky, right?”

He looked irritated for a moment and then seemed to force himself to give me a tight smile.
“A childhood name. People call me Nat now.”

“I imagine it’ll be a lot of work.
Probably lots of individual units needing repair.”

“There are a number of duplexes that had small amounts of damage, a couple where the residents had more and had to be moved elsewhere on the complex.
If it weren’t for the roof damage to the independent living complex and the assisted living building it would be less of a job, of course.” He glanced at his father and back to me. “I’m hoping to get that work underway while there’s no sleet or snow falling.” He seemed to realize he was talking as if he had the bid, and shut his mouth rather tightly.

I looked at Andrew.
“I didn’t know what to expect. I thought this would be a sort of meeting about Silver Times, and the damage, or something.”

He gestured toward the coffee and indicated I should serve myself, so I walked to the table and picked up a mug.

“They put out a request for bid that had a list of potential repairs,” Andrew Markham said. “That way everyone would be providing a bid for the same amount of work, and they don’t need to verbally explain it in detail.”

I looked at the man I needed to remember to think of as Nat.
“What happens if the work is different than you expected, or you find more damage?”

“We submit an estimate on the work they put in their request for bids, and if there is more we add on.”
His tone was clipped.

“Ah.
Good system. I get paid the same whether I do an appraisal on a three-thousand square foot house or a tiny cottage.”

Both men gave me what probably passes for polite stares.
“I’ve taken too much of your time.” I shook Andrew’s hand and turned to Nat. “Good luck.”

All he did was nod, rather stiffly.

Andrew Markham called to me as I was almost out the door. “Will I be seeing you at Elmira’s?”

I had a split second to consider, and decided to go with my first thought.
“Not if I can help it.”

Both men were chuckling as I left.

I made a point to take a right out of the conference room, hoping the men wouldn’t notice I was walking away from the building exit. What I wanted was to get into that room on the other side of the conference room door. But how? The time-honored excuse a woman can always use is the need for a rest room, but I didn’t know if there was one in the office area.

There was no one at the small front desk in the lobby area.
If I didn’t quickly get into the room next to the conference room where the Markhams were I would miss everything. Sometimes the best way is the obvious way. I opened the door and walked into the open area in which I’d spoken to Fred Brennan previously. No one was in the outer area. A door just to the right of the larger room had to be the one that led into the room behind the conference room. The room was dark, so I walked toward it.

“Is someone out there?”
The voice came from the office on the left. I took three quick steps and was in the small office. I stood against the wall just inside the door.

“Guess not.”
It sounded like Mrs. Springer’s voice, and she was talking to someone else in the office on the left. Her voice grew softer, and I figured she was back in the other office. George must have left. His voice I couldn’t miss.

The room I was in was small for an office, no more than ten by eleven.
There was no window, and unfortunately the door that led from it into the conference room would be visible from the open area outside the small office, so I couldn’t listen right at the door. A desk sat next to the door that led into the conference room. I ducked under it and curled myself into a compact rectangle with my hands around my knees.

All I could hear were murmurs from the conference room.
I hoped I hadn’t wasted my time and risked my reputation by sneaking around. Harry Steele’s face entered my head.
Why can’t you remember that your behavior could cost him business?

Someone walked through the outer office and out the doorway into the hall.
I was glad I’d found the spot under the desk.

My attention went back to the conference room.
“It’s not just that.” Andrew Markham’s voice had risen.

“It’s always that, Dad.
You act like I’ve never done this. I’ve put in bids on dozens of projects.” Nat’s temper sounded barely controlled. “As long as you use the same factor of…”

“That’s exactly what you don’t do!”
Andrew Markham sounded furious. “You need to vary the percentage. It would be like sending a kid to the store and he always tells you stuff cost an even dollar amount. You’d know that was impossible. You need to vary the percentage.”

I couldn’t hear Nat’s response.
Were they talking about the percent of overhead they would add to the project? The percent of union versus non-union workers they would use? Percentage of times Nat ripped off a customer?

“There you are lads.”
I recognized the voice of Fred Brennan. The Silver Times executive director would never need a megaphone.

“Good morning,” Andrew and Nat said together.

“Looks like you’re it this time,” Brennan said.

I felt myself growing hot.
Only because someone killed Eric Morton and Steve Oliver.

“I made sure there’s lots of backup.
For the numbers, I mean.” Nat said.

Did he not have backup for what he had the other day?
That would mean Brennan had looked at an earlier version of the bid, which sounded unethical as all get out.

“Great, great.”
There was the sound of an envelope being opened, and I remembered the large one Nat had been carrying when he entered the room. I guessed he had given it to Brennan.

“I think you’ll find Nat has developed detailed estimates,” Andrew Markham said.

“Mmmm.” There was a pause as Brennan seemed to be rapidly turning pages. “This looks all in order. Ah, yes, we should be able to work with this very well.” He put emphasis on the word ‘very’ and I could almost see a sly smile on his face.

“And your board will go over it tomorrow evening?” Nat asked.

“Yes. Come on down to my office and I’ll show you how I’m arranging the agenda.”

Really ethical.
The bidder hearing about the agenda in advance
.

Their voices faded.
I was about to relax when I realized they were coming to this office. I more or less lunged sideways to get out of the cramped spot under the desk and stood, feeling like a pretzel unwinding.

I peered out of the room I was in.
I could see Molly Springer’s back. She was standing in the office on the other side of the larger room. I moved to the door leading into the lobby area in three steps and opened it very quietly and stepped into the lobby. I had just pulled it shut behind me and moved away a couple of steps when the three men rounded the corner. I wished I had a camera to capture their looks of surprise.