Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 06 - Behind the Walls (12 page)

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

I AM NOT A BIG FAN of funerals, but I’m even less a fan of finding dead people on my porch swing. Norman Fitzgerald’s funeral was to be held on a balmy Friday, and he was certainly someone I knew, even before the porch swing. Besides, maybe something someone said would give me a hint about why he was killed. Or at least what he was doing on my porch when he was killed.

Catholic Masses are very long, so I adapted a habit of George’s and took cookies with me.
I could already feel the Fig Newtons crumbling in my pocket.
I should have brought dried apricots.

Aunt Madge had declined to attend. She said nothing about me going to the funeral of someone I barely knew, likely figuring a death on my porch would trump any charge of me not minding my own business.
Scoobie was in class and Ramona was working, so I sat in a pew near the back of the church by myself.

St. Anthony’s is the largest church in Ocean Alley and its new building is only a few years old.
Its main section has about thirty long pews on each side of the center aisle, with fewer pews in the two transepts that go off to each side near the front. No other church in town has the side sections, which I thought of as wings.

I was trying to read a plaque near the Baptismal Font saying who had donated to it when George slid partway into the pew with me.
He whispered, “You need to move further up. You stick out like a dead fish on the beach.”

“You could have left out the dead part,” I grumbled.
I saw him give a small smile, which was immediately gone, probably because smiles are not the best things to wear to a funeral.

We settled in a pew about ten rows back from the altar.
It was the last row of mourners now, but probably would not be in a couple of minutes. I glanced at George. Even at Aunt Madge and Harry’s wedding and a prior somber occasion I had not seen him wear any kind of shirt other than a collared Hawaiian-style shirt. He did own a couple in darker colors.

Today George had on a rust colored, long-sleeved dress shirt, plus a tan tie with letters on it. Another sideways glance told me the letters were OAHS, which stood for
Ocean Alley High School. “School spirit at a funeral?” I asked, quietly.

He gave a short grunt.
“Hand painted. She sells them on the boardwalk some summers, and it’s my only tie.”

The she had to be Ramona, and I wondered why I hadn’t seen anyone else wearing them.
You’re at a funeral. Quit thinking about other stuff.

An altar boy was lighting candles, so it would not be long before Father Teehan came out to start the
Mass. I looked at the backs and profiles of the people in front of me, several of whom were talking to the people next to them in low voices. Many were older.

“Move on over,” said a man’s voice.

“Lance, hi,” I whispered. George moved further into the pew, and I followed. A glance at Lance told me he still looked more tired and worn than he had before Hurricane Sandy. An online article I read said that recovery could take a more emotional toll on the elderly than younger people. Something about knowing they might not be around long enough to recoup all they lost, even if they rebuilt. The article wasn’t talking just about money. In some of the harder-hit communities, many people moved inland, if only until homes were rebuilt. Friends would scatter, and life could be very different when they returned.

He patted me on the knee and glanced around the church. He surely knew a lot of people.
I saw the owner of the hardware store, the woman who worked in the office at Silver Times Senior Living Complex, Jennifer Stenner, several people from First Prez, and Dr. Welby. There were few others I could name. More that I could not name but had seen around town or picking up food at Harvest for All. One thing you could say about Mr. Fitzgerald, he knew people from all walks of life.

Just before Father Teehan came to the altar, a small group of family came down the aisle and sat in the first two rows.
Clive Dorner was among them, looking very solemn. Apparently he had not been as hard to find as Sergeant Morehouse thought he might be. Idly, I wondered if Lester had badgered Dorner about buying a house, or if Lester gave potential buyers a break if a family member died.

I knew none of the others in the first two rows of pews.
From Mr. Fitzgerald’s obit I had learned that his wife had died more than thirty years ago and they had lost an infant daughter, but had no other children. His only survivors were several nieces and nephews and their children. That seemed sad, but when I remarked on this to Aunt Madge she said she had decided it was better to outlive your friends than to have a lot of them around to mourn you. A couple of minutes later I remembered her only family survivors, besides Harry, would be nieces and nephew and their children.
Good one, Jolie.

A throat cleared behind me, and I turned to see Sergeant Morehouse and Lieutenant Tortino.
I knew they both worshipped at St. Anthony’s, and I remembered that Sergeant Morehouse sold Christmas trees on the church lot every holiday season. I wondered if Mr. Fitzgerald had also done that.

I gave the two police officers my four-fingered wave before I turned to face the front of the church again.
Lance shifted his position and I noted his small smile.

George whispered, “They could probably get you thrown out if you don’t behave, you know.”
I figured he was kidding.

Father Teehan said a number of short prayers and such.
Masses were way longer than services at First Prez, and it was some time before he went to the pulpit to give his brief sermon. I could feel the Fig Newtons getting soft in my pocket, but with Sergeant Morehouse behind me I decided to let them get gooey. Besides, if I made a mess George would never let me forget it.

“As we gather to celebrate the life of Norman Matthew Fitzgerald,” Father Teehan began, “let us take time to remember the many good deeds he did in our community.
Some you know about, such as his willingness to use his auctioneering skills for many local charities, including St. Anthony’s.”

“Others you may not know.
And if he were here, Norman would be red-faced because I am going to name a few of those. And the red would be anger at my telling of his good deeds, not embarrassment.”

There were a couple of quiet chuckles, and then Father Teehan began listing Mr. Fitzgerald’s efforts on behalf of children who had no school supplies (large annual donations to the Salvation Army, which distributed backpacks of supplies each August), donations to a large group home about ten miles away that housed young women who were pregnant and had no other means of support, and a formerly anonymous donation to the hospital when it needed to refurbish its pediatric wing.

George took notes, and I discreetly glanced around the church, at least the church I could see without turning around. There were looks and murmurs of surprise as Father Teehan named the many recipients of Norman Fitzgerald’s largess.

Lance said, softly, “I had no idea.”

I bet Mrs. Murphy would have an idea of why Norman Fitzgerald had so much money to give away.

I thought Mr. Fitzgerald’s anger would be because people might question where he got the money. Unless there was substantial inherited wealth, and I hadn’t heard anyone talking about it, it seemed that Mr. Fitzgerald must have hidden diamonds in a lot of places.
But how would he have gotten cash for the things he stole?
It didn’t make sense that he had gotten the money locally. Surely someone would have wondered where he had gotten all that jewelry or any other expensive item he wanted to sell.

Really, this was no different than laundering drug money, just perhaps something on a smaller scale.
So who did Norman Fitzgerald know who did not live here and might have the ability to essentially serve as a fence? As this question meandered across my brain, Clive Dorner stood in response to Father Teehan’s request that others could feel free to offer comments on Fitzgerald’s life.

Philadelphia
would be a larger market to sell stolen goods. Heck, most antique stores would take valuables on consignments, and there was always eBay. Of course, that made the sales more public, but if the seller used an assumed name…

“Thank you for gathering in Uncle Norman’s memory,” Dorner began.
“There was no more generous soul than Norman Fitzgerald, and I’m not just talking about the many financial donations he made to various groups.”

So what are you talking about?

Dorner said that his uncle had lavished attention and occasional financial assistance on his nieces and nephews. He described summers spent with “Uncle Normy and Aunt Gertie” and how he would never forget those happy times.

I was getting nauseous.
It wasn’t just the idea that a lot of Fitzgerald’s donations could have been made at others’ expense, it was the syrupy tone that Dorner, and later a cousin, used to discuss their uncle. It was more like they were talking about someone nominated for Catholic sainthood than a kind uncle.

There was a general shuffle in the crowd, and people got to their feet to begin the post-sermon rituals.
I followed George’s lead about when to kneel
(I should have brought a cushion)
and when to stand to let others go to the front to get Communion. I knew Lance and I could not partake here, though I was getting kind of thirsty and would not have minded a sip of the wine.

George returned from Communion and knelt for a moment in silent prayer, and then sat down, fairly close to me.
I had given up on the kneeling thing; Lance had not even tried. “Pretty big donations, don’t you think?” he whispered.

I nodded.
“More than I would have thought possible. And all to groups related to kids.” That thought had just moved to the front of my brain.
Does that mean anything?

Sergeant Morehouse and Lieutenant Tortino were returning from Communion, so George and I did not talk again until the service was over.

“A very generous man,” Lance said, as we walked into the bright sunlight of a warm late April afternoon.

George had moved away to talk to a few mourners, probably getting a couple of staid quotes if his editor wanted an article.
Because of the murder, and now the surprise of the number of donations, he probably would.

“Did you know him well?” I asked.

“He was a good bit younger than I am, maybe fifteen years, and of course he didn’t go to First Prez.” Lance nodded at two women who passed in front of us. “We both used to belong to the Lions Club here, but neither of us was terribly active.”

“Were you surprised at, well, I guess you’d say his wealth?” I asked.

“Surely,” he said. “He did a lot of nice things for local charities, but I thought he gave more of his time than his wallet.”

I thought I had learned all that I could from the funeral and declined George’s offer to ride to the cemetery with him.
Sharing information was one thing, but pretending like we were dating again would just encourage some of my wishful thinking. Though I had to admit, I had much less of a sense of loss than I had even a few weeks ago.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

SATURDAY WAS eighty-three degrees and the air felt as if a swamp had descended on Ocean Alley. In August, a day in the eighties would be a treat. But in April?

I opened the windows in the office I shared with Harry and then looked around on the first floor of his house to see if I could find a fan.
Nada. I decided that even if he was married to Aunt Madge, it was too intrusive to go to his second floor. Harry’s bedroom and a small study were up there, plus two other rooms he was still working to refurbish.

I periodically used a file folder as a personal fan as I sat at the computer entering data into the software.
I loved that I could enter measurements and the computer would spit out floor plans far more professional looking than any I could draw by hand.

Despite feeling clammy and wishing Harry would come over so he could turn on his central air for the first time this year, I was in a good mood.
Lester had faxed over information on two houses I could appraise this week, and another real estate agent had called to say she thought she would have one at the end of the week. After months of slow sales, things were looking up.

The last person I expected to see when I answered the doorbell was Clive Dorner.
“Well hello.” I stepped aside to let him in. Hardly anyone comes to Harry’s and my home office. There is no need to. Our work takes us to the houses we appraise.

“Thanks, Jolie.
Harry around?”

That relaxed me.
Dorner wasn’t looking for me. “He’s supposed to get here anytime. I can call to see if he’s left the Cozy Corner yet.”

“No need. Do you mind if I wait?” he asked.

“No problem. You’re in luck. He just bought a sofa for the living room.” Harry had had almost no furniture on this floor except in the office. Why he bought a sofa now that he mostly stayed with Aunt Madge was one of those questions I didn’t bother to ask.

I joined Dorner on the couch, two cushion-lengths away from him.
“I hope yesterday went as well as it could for you.”

“Funerals are never something you look forward do.
Because of the way he died, Uncle Norman’s was especially hard.”

And yet you’re calling on Harry only one day later.

“Of course,” he continued, “it would hardly have been easy for you.”

I nodded.
“It is a…difficult memory.”

“I hope you lose it quickly.”
His tone was very formal.

As if.

He looked around the large room.
At some point what had once been a formal living room had been divided, but Harry had taken down the dividing wall and had someone patch the floor and sand the entire room. “Is Harry about to refinish the floor?”

What I wanted to do was ask what he was doing here, but instead I simply said, “Yes, as soon as he can find someone.
So many of the local contractors are working further south.” Then I thought of something. “Did you go south, to Philly I mean, after he died?”

His look said he thought I was minding his business.
He should talk.

“I did leave for a day.
It seemed so unbelievable. He was such a gentle man, to die that way…”

His voice trailed off and I felt like an idiot.
What do you care if Morehouse couldn’t find Dorner immediately after his uncle’s death? Or if Lester was ticked because he couldn’t get hold of Dorner?

“I’m sorry,” I said, meaning it.
“I was in Sergeant Morehouse’s office the next morning, and he wanted to be sure you knew about your uncle.”

“He has been very helpful.”
There was a few seconds of awkward silence and then he seemed to get to why he was here. “Does Harry ever give bulk discounts?”

It was such an unexpected question I almost laughed.
“You know Lester. He’s never been able to talk Harry into a cheaper rate. I kind of doubt Harry would do it for someone else, but by all means ask him.” Before he could say anything, I added, “We are less expensive than Stenner Appraisals.”

“Lester did tell me that.”
He flashed what he probably thought was a disarming smile. “Never hurts to ask.”

“Are you thinking of buying a number of houses?” I asked.

“I am. I’m getting tired of living in Philadelphia, and Ocean Grove houses are ridiculously over-priced.” He frowned. “It has some beautiful neighborhoods, which Ocean Alley really doesn’t.”

I kept myself from responding.
All of the property in Ocean Grove is owned by the Methodist Church, and homeowners essentially buy long-term leases rather than the property itself. To compare real estate in Ocean Alley to Ocean Grove is like comparing Philadelphia slums to San Francisco.

“Of course, Ocean Alley has its charms.”
He said this quickly, as if he sensed my internal defense of the town.

I gave him a tight smile.
“Still on the lookout for those bargains, are you?”

“Lots of houses for sale.
Someone has to buy them,” he said, with what I thought was false cheerfulness.

“I guess it’s better that someone buy them than they continue to deteriorate.”

He nodded. “Exactly. It can’t always be people who want to live in them while they work on them.”

I decided to push this conversation toward something I wanted to know about.
“I didn’t know your uncle at all well, but from what I heard after the funeral yesterday, no one seemed to know what a wealthy man he was.”

Dorner adopted a somber expression.
“He was generous with family members, but none of us knew he had that kind of money.” He flashed a smile. “Better to find out that than learn you have to pony up for the funeral.”

I wanted to tell him to have some respect, but since I sometimes have none, I simply asked, “Where do you think he got it?”

Someone else might have told me to mind my own business, but Dorner just shrugged. “Don’t know. I’m his executor, so I may know later.”

“Not that it’s my business.”
When he didn’t say anything, I added, “I wish I had had a chance to know your uncle better. He came by my house the other day, but it never occurred to me that would be the only time I’d really talk to him.”

Dorner raised his eyebrows.
“Really? I didn’t realize he had talked to you recently.”

“I bought something at one of his auctions, and a piece was missing.
He found it later and brought it by.”

Dorner gave me a broad smile.
“That’s just like Uncle Norman…oh, you’re the woman who had the drawer taken from the chest. He told me about that.”

“He mentioned he had family who used to live in the house, and we had a nice chat.”
I was babbling inanely. I wanted to see if Dorner had much reaction to anything I said.

He frowned.
“Hmm. I’m not sure who that was.”

“His mother’s cousin, I think he said.”

“Must have been before my time.”

Bologna
. If he knew his uncle well enough to spend time here and serve as executor, he knew who had lived there.

Before I could say anything else, he asked, “Interested in a little proposition?
Investment proposition,” he said, apparently seeing my cool expression.

“No.
I’m happy with my new house, and looking forward to doing a few things to improve it.” After a couple of silent seconds, I asked, “Are you going to live in one of your new purchases?”

“Probably,” he said.
He stood and walked over to examine the fireplace mantle. “I may live in Uncle Norman’s house for awhile.”

“He must have all kinds of stuff in there.”
Maybe more jewelry?

He shrugged.
“He got rid of a lot when my Aunt Gertie died. I haven’t been in there since he died. I think the police are done with the house and I can go this evening.”

As he said this I heard Harry’s steps on the front porch.

“I hope they didn’t leave you a mess.”
Of course the police would have been through the house. I realized I didn’t even know what part of town Fitzgerald had lived in.

Harry came in and I made introductions before walking back to the kitchen to make coffee. I figured Harry would need a second cup after spending time with Clive Dorner.
Their conversation was over before the coffee finished dripping, and Harry came into the kitchen with a puzzled look.

“Did he really want a discount on appraisals?” I asked.

“That’s what he said. Given that he’s been in real estate for awhile I was surprised he asked. It’s not at all a common request. And investors usually don’t care that much.”

I shrugged and took two mugs from a cabinet.
“How many houses is he thinking of buying?”

“He thinks six or eight.
It would be good to get the business, though who does the appraisal is up to the bank doing the financing, of course.” Harry and I both knew this, as we also knew that real estate firms usually have a role in picking the appraiser, especially if it’s an out of town bank financing the sale. Harry shrugged. “Since the buyer pays for our work I don’t know why Dorner cares.”

“He told me he might live in his uncle’s house for awhile.”

“Hmm.” Harry took a mug from me. “He didn’t mention that. No reason that he should.”

“I don’t like him.”

Harry looked surprised. “That wouldn’t stop you from doing the work, would it?”

I grinned.
“Heck no. As long as he doesn’t try to come with me.”

Harry gave me a sort of knowing smile.
“I thought he might be more interested in you than the appraisal.”

Yuck
.

AFTER I’D FINISHED working at the computer I drove down to the police station and asked to see if Sergeant Morehouse was working on a Saturday. He was.

“What can I say this is about?” asked the very young officer.

“When he hears my name, he’ll know.”

“I still need to be able to tell him.”

I thought for a moment.
“Please tell him it’s about his jewels.”

“His jewels?”

“His jewels,” I repeated.

I didn’t bother to sit in one of the very uncomfortable plastic chairs in the small waiting area, and it was less than a minute later that Morehouse opened the secure door that leads to where the officers sit.
“Get in here.” When he stood back to let me in he added, “You aren’t nearly as funny as you think you are.”

“And yet you let me in.”
I followed him into his small office and sat across from him.

“You shoulda just called.
I don’t know anything new,” he said.

“No fingerprints on that business card?”

“Just yours. And lots of unidentified ones on the chest. Probably from the auction. Don’t you dust?”

I bristled.
“I’ve been busy, and…”

“I saw you at the funeral.
Stay outta anything to do with Fitzgerald.”

“Did you figure out why he was on my porch?”

“It don’t matter how many people we talk to, no one saw Norman Fitzgerald walk up to your house the night he was killed.”

“What about fingerprints on the porch swing or someplace else near, um, Mr. Fitzgerald?”

His look was shrewd. “If someone else asked I could just say murder investigations are not public business.”

“But it’s me, and he was on my porch.”
I tried not to sound as churlish as I felt.

His look softened a bit.
“I know this has been rough for you. There were some prints, but none matched anything in our database or the federal one.”

“I guess that would be too easy,” I said.

He just looked at me.

“I was thinking maybe it would help if we started to tell people what I found.
Maybe someone would recognize…”

“Maybe someone would think there was more where that came from and visit you in the middle of the night to find out,” he said, in his most surly tone.

I just looked at him.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s your stuff.
You can take your jewels wherever you want them. They aren’t officially part of any investigation.”

“I was thinking of wearing the bracelets.”

“Go to Target and buy something new,” he said.

“Not because I like them, because someone might recognize them and ask about them. That might help us figure out…”

“There is no
us
. Besides, the stuff isn’t here.” He looked a bit uncomfortable as he said that.

“You told Aunt Madge…”

“That I’d hold it here for awhile. I am. I asked Mark Foster at the downtown jewelry store to look at them. When he saw the stuff he said he could do a better estimate if he took them to his store. Guess he has some special thingamabobs to use to look at the diamonds.”