Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 06 - Behind the Walls (11 page)

Before I checked the Press’s digital index, my guide to the microfilm copies of older papers, I did a quick web search for Clive Dorner.
There was little. His name came up as a licensed realtor in Pennsylvania, which I didn’t think Morehouse knew but would surely find out.

However, I couldn’t seem to find Dorner affiliated with a particular real estate agency.

I switched to the
Ocean Alley Press
. Dorner was on the
Press’s
short list of New Jersey residents who graduated from LaSalle University the year he finished. That explained why he moved from Ocean Grove to Philly.
Not that an explanation was required.

T
hat was all there was in the
Press
. I didn’t expect much, since he’d lived in Ocean Grove. The one helpful thing was his father’s obituary. It mentioned that Clive was the only child of Stanley G. Dorner and his late wife, Norma (Fitzgerald) Dorner.

I
t also named two Fitzgerald brothers-in-law as survivors, one of whom was Norman. Both of the in-laws lived in Ocean Alley. I glanced at the date of the obit, which was fifteen years ago. Though the auctioneer had been alive until last night, the other man could have passed away. And I found his name in the
Press’s
obituary index, so there would be no information from him.

So, Norman Fitzgerald appeared to be Dorner’s mother’s brother
. Norma and Norman. Maybe they were twins.

I had spent a lot of time each summer with Aunt Madge, perhaps Dorner was here a lot with his mother’s relatives.
It was funny he had never mentioned any ties to Ocean Alley, but there really wasn’t any need to do that. Still, when I sold real estate in Lakewood I spent a lot of time with potential buyers. Usually they would mention something if they knew the town or any people in it.

Dorner had something to hide. But what? And where is he?

Getting my house ready for move-in and then finding Mr. Fitzgerald had pushed the purse thief to a back corner of my mind. Clive Dorner made me think of the diamonds and gold bracelets and whether the purse thief knew about them. Dorner had called soon after I found the jewelry. He was slim enough to have been the purse thief, but could he move that fast?

“That’s ridiculous,” I said, softly.
Then, since there was nothing useful about Dorner in the newspaper’s archives, I used search terms like burglary and stolen jewelry.

There were too many items for burglary, even when I narrowed it down by searching for diamonds and dates of twenty to forty years ago.
I thought that could be when the stuff was placed behind my walls.

I stared at the screen, my thoughts flitting from jewelry to Jazz and Pebbles to Clive Dorner to poor Mr. Fitzgerald.
The chest of drawers was from Fitzgerald’s auction of Mrs. Peebles’ things, and Fitzgerald brought the seemingly stolen drawer back to me. And he was related to Clive Dorner, and a distant cousin of Mr. Fitzgerald’s had lived in my house. He could also have known Mrs. Peebles.
Damn.
I had forgotten to ask Sergeant Morehouse why he thought Mr. Fitzgerald may have had Pebbles.

I did another search of the
Ocean Alley Press
index, this time looking for Norman Fitzgerald’s auction company. I didn’t know the formal business name, but it popped up quickly—Beach Treasures and Trash.
No marketing consultant helped with that name.

Since the first article was from almost forty years ago, the business could have been formed about then.
Aunt Madge would probably know. What was more interesting was that he had had a partner, Francis Xavier Murphy. The only local person I knew named Murphy was an elderly woman who had a good sense of humor and liked to read mysteries. I had visited her in her apartment more than a year ago. Mrs. Murphy was a widow, but had two daughters who I thought lived in or near Ocean Alley, with their children.

“
That would be too big a coincidence.”

“But you won’t know until you check it out.”
George slid into the chair in front of the second microfilm machine.

“True,” I said, careful not to seem overly pleased to see him.

“I might be able to help you on the Fitzgerald thing,” he said. “Oh, are you okay?”

“As much as a person can be the day after finding a nice man dead on her front porch.”
I crossed my arms in front of me and kind of hugged myself. “Help how?”

He pulled out his ever-present reporter’s notebook.
“You know who his partner was, before that guy died?”

“Francis Xavier Murphy.”

He gave me a look bordering on respect. “Not bad.”

“Is Mr. Murphy’s wife in that really small assisted living building that’s in town?” I asked.

“Yep. You know her?”

“I visited her last fall.”
I avoided saying I sought out Mrs. Murphy because I thought George was all wrong on a story he was doing at the time.

George gave me a slightly quizzical expression and continued.
“I talked to Father Teehan this morning. He said that the two guys were in business for decades, but that the last few years before Mr. Murphy died, which was maybe ten years ago, Father thought they’d had some sort of falling out. After some point, you never saw them work together at an auction, and they never sat together at coffee after Mass.”

In a town like Ocean Alley, those were strong hints of disaffection.
People usually put aside disagreements at church. “Did he know why?”

“People don’t gossip too much to a priest.
You could talk to Madge or, since you know her, Mrs. Murphy.”

I raised an eyebrow at him.
“Are we friends again?”

He appeared to have hoped this question would not arise.
“We’re always friends. Sometimes I’m just more pissed off at you than usual.”

“Now see,” a woman’s voice said, “that’s why you have to keep it low in a library.”
Daphne shook a finger at him. “Not everybody wants to hear who you’re mad at, George.”

“Plus,” I grinned at her, “a lot of people already know he’s mad at me.”

George rested his head on his folded arms for a moment. “This is almost like when you and Ramona gang up on me.”

“I love a challenge,” Daphne said, but very quietly.
She sat on the edge of the table I was in front of. “I heard a couple things about Mr. Fitzgerald and Mr. Murphy.”

George raised his head, on full alert.

“Like what?”
I asked.

“Seems Mr. Murphy thought he might not be getting his full cut from some of the auctions.
But I don’t think there was proof.”

“Seems like something they could have proven one way or the other,” George mused.

“They have a full inventory of everything when they start bidding. And if you win a bid they give you a receipt that shows not just what you paid but the inventory number for what you bought.” I knew this from seeing the list of items Mr. Fitzgerald had worked from at the recent auction, and from my own receipt.

“And it’s probably audited,” Daphne said.

I remembered that she was not only the only black cheerleader in high school, but the only girl on the math team.

“And there’s not likely a chance they’d let me look at old records,” George said, glumly, “if they even exist.”

“Maybe Mrs. Murphy can authorize something,” I said, slowly.
“But, it still seems a stretch to see a link between them falling out years ago and Mr. Fitzgerald’s murder.”

There was a ding from the area near the check-out desk, and Daphne left to wait on a library patron.

After about fifteen seconds, George asked, “So, who calls her, you or me?”

“If you don’t know her, better be me.
As long as Aunt Madge doesn’t find out. Morehouse always tells her when he orders me not to look into something.”

George grinned.
“Never stopped you before, did it?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

MRS
. MURPHY WAS AS pleased to have a visitor when I stopped by on Thursday as she had been a year or so ago. She looked a bit more stooped with age, and her small apartment in the assisted living building was more cluttered, but not messy. There were several books on the small dining table and sweaters were draped on her recliner and a couple of dining chairs. The overall impression was one of coziness.

“And how is Madge?
I kept meaning to send a card to them when they were married, but you know how it is. Best laid plans of women and wombats.”

I was again reminded that I liked Mrs. Murphy’s independent nature.
“I’ll tell her and Harry that you said hello.”

She offered me iced tea.
“But you’ll need to pour it yourself. These old hands aren’t too steady.” Mrs. Murphy made her way to a recliner, her walker making gentle thumps as she raised and lowered it with each step.

I declined the tea and sat across from her.
“I wanted to ask for your help with something, but if the topic is too uncomfortable, just say so, okay?”

“Norman Fitzgerald died on your front porch,” she said, in a quiet tone.
“I despised that man, but I don’t wish murder on anyone.”

I wasn’t surprised that she had figured out what I was interested in.
Mrs. Murphy had more of her faculties than some people half her age. “You’re right, that’s my topic. It’s okay?”

She nodded, but I couldn’t read her passive expression.
I plowed ahead. “A couple of weeks ago, when I was fixing up the house I bought, I found a small pouch of jewelry behind one of the walls.”

She looked at me more directly.
“I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Really?
I was.” I gave her a quick smile. “I wondered…”

“Could you tell how long it had been there?” she asked.

“I have an idea, but it could be way off. That section of wallboard was newer than some of the rest. Scoobie and I thought it was maybe twenty years old, it could have been older.”

She looked thoughtful.
“That could mean he was skimming a lot earlier than my Francis thought. If Norman was the one who put the pouch there. Who owned the house before you?”

“Moira Peebles, but only for about fifteen…”

“Oh! Did you find Pebbles? I heard she might have bought it during the hurricane.”

What is it with this skunk?
“Actually, she found me.” I described how Pebbles had wandered in with Jazz and Mister Rogers. “And Sam, the animal control guy, said it was really funny, because they don’t usually find their way back, like a dog could.”

“She probably didn’t.
Did you talk to Virginia Mulligan?”

“
Virginia? Oh, a Virginia lives in the Cape Cod sort of behind me. Is that who you mean?”

“Yes.
She turned the top floor into an apartment and rents it out. She always liked that skunk.”

“But she didn’t have it, did she?” I asked.

“Virginia gets around just fine, and everyone knew that Sam fellow took Pebbles to the wildlife area. I bet Virginia went out and got her before Sandy got here. Pebbles would have gone right to her.”

I stared at Mrs. Murphy for a moment.
“I guess I’ll have to ask her.”

“Now, you said it was Mrs. Peebles’ house.
That makes sense, because some aunt or cousin or somebody related to Norman owned it before Moira.”

“Mother’s cousin I think.
He told me.”

She spoke sharply.
“You talked to him the day he died?”

“No, Ma’am.
He stopped by to return, well, it sounds funny, but return the top drawer of a chest of drawers I bought at an auction. Someone had stolen it after I won the bid. Or at least taken it, whether they meant to keep it I don’t know.” I did not tell her about the hidden space.

She shook her head slightly.
“So many shenanigans at that auction house.”

“Shenanigans that would make someone angry?” I asked.

“Humph. Francis and I were certainly angry. Francis was convinced that a few things that seemed to have been pilfered from the auction tables actually ended up in Norman’s pockets. Ultimately, his bank account.”

“What kinds of things?” I asked.

“Usually small things. A Cartier watch, which should never have been on a table. Things on the tables were generally not all individually inventoried. Valuable items were generally in a locked case so no one could walk off with them before the bidding started. Francis said later he thought the watch was listed as being on a table so it would appear that someone took it. And let’s see, an engagement ring, a child’s comb and brush set made of ivory. Lots of little things.”

I thought about this.
There were probably many items that Mr. Murphy did not know about. Maybe the diamonds in the small pouch were taken from several rings. “And your husband discussed this with Mr. Fitzgerald?”

“Discuss would be mild,” she said, with a grim expression.
“My Francis was not a violent man. He was going over some paperwork at home one day and realized that watch had not made it to the auction block. He was so angry when he left to find Norman that I was afraid he would get in trouble for hitting Norman, or doing something worse.”

“Did your husband compile any list of vanished objects?” I asked.

“Not that I know of. After he died I sorted through Francis’ personal files myself. I didn’t see anything like that, though I didn’t go through every piece of paper.”

That reminded me that I wanted to ask Mrs. Murphy if she had any old auction files.
“Could I possibly see…?”

“What was in your pouch?” Mrs. Murphy asked.

“Several loose diamonds, three gold bracelets, and some others that were some kind of plastic,” I responded.

She nodded.
“Probably bakelite. Popular, oh, twentieth century, up until the war. It’s an odd form of plastic, and it’s not worth a lot, though you should check eBay or something to see what it’s selling for now.”

“I never heard of it.”

“Why would you? Unless Madge or your mother had some. Ask Madge,” she said.

“Um, I might.”

She laughed. “Madge doesn’t know you’re here, does she?”

“No.” I gave her a weak smile.
“I’m not going to ask you not to mention it, but…”

She waved her hand to interrupt me.
“I won’t see her, and she won’t ask me. What are you trying to find out?”

“Why someone killed Norman Fitzgerald on my front porch.
It was a very hard thing to see him sitting there like that.”

“I’m sure it was,” she said, quietly.

“The thing is, a lot of people talked about him as this nice guy who did charity auctions, and donated to St. Anthony’s and other places. It makes sense that he might be the one who hid the jewelry, but no one seems to say negative things about him.”

She shrugged.
“People change, I suppose. Maybe he stopped stealing from his clients, not that anyone except Francis figured it out. Or maybe he just kept his ill-gotten income really quiet.”

“Do you know if there was any old paperwork related to the business that I could look at?” I asked.

“You know, my daughter reminded me that if Norman ever sold the business we were supposed to get something.” Her smile was bitter. “I hadn’t thought much about it because that business provided a good income for us for years, but there weren’t assets other than what was about to be auctioned.”

“And that wouldn’t be much, unless he had a big sale coming up,” I said, thinking.
“Just whatever commission or whatever you called it after the sale…Oh. I suppose the business could be sold based on its reputation. There could be money from that sale.”

“Ah, yes,” she sighed. “I’m to a point where I just don’t want to stay angry about it all, but I suppose I need to check.”

“And if there is some paperwork, could I, uh, maybe look at it?”

She smiled. “You’re as smart as your aunt. But a bit more devious. I think any auction files Francis had are long gone. I have no idea if Norman Fitzgerald had heirs or if they get a portion of the business. My daughters can look into it.”

That reminded me of one more thing.
“Did you know Mr. Fitzgerald’s nephew, Clive Dorner?”

She thought for a moment.
“I don’t think so. There were a couple of Dorners in Ocean Alley many years ago, but I don’t recall a Clive.”

Mrs. Murphy didn’t ask me why I wanted to know, and she was beginning to look tired.
I thanked her for talking to me and had stood to walk out when I noticed a photo of a woman and three young children on her bookshelf, one of many framed pictures. This one was a bit bigger than the others, so it stood out. “She looks familiar.”

“Oh, that’s Patricia, my daughter, and her children.
You might have met her after that funeral, the first time we met.”

I nodded slowly.
I had steadied Mrs. Murphy on a walker after a child had knocked into both of us. I’d ended up throwing away a silk blouse because red Jello is not forgiving. “There were a bunch of people there. I remember you of course.”
And I just met Patricia in the store where she works sometimes.

“Oh, it was a work day for her.
She was in the hall some of the time. On her phone thing that gets the Internet.”

“I used to have one.
Kind of felt like it was tattooed to my hip when I lived in Lakewood.” On impulse, I stooped and kissed her cheek. “Thanks for talking to me.”