Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 06 - Behind the Walls (13 page)

“Oh, that’s okay.”
Part of me wished he had asked me about this, and the other part knew that since the diamonds and bracelets were not part of a crime that he was doing me a favor by having anything to do with them. I’d probably have to pay a pretty penny for an appraisal, but Mark Foster would probably look at the diamonds as a favor to Morehouse.

“He also said his store safe might be a lot safer than keeping them here, but I told him I’d have to talk to you about that.”
He looked at his watch.

“Why do you suppose he thought that?”

“I don’t think anybody would steal them from our evidence room, but a lot of people have at least some access to the place.”

“I don’t think anyone would either.”
No way would I imply I thought any of Ocean Alley’s finest would steal. “But if you would be more comfortable if he kept them that’s okay with me.”

“I got work to do.
You hear anything about Fitzgerald I want to hear it.”

I got up and turned back from the doorway.
“Clive Dorner said he might live in his uncle’s place for awhile. Where is that, anyway?”

“Lookin’ for a new boyfriend?”
He was going through a couple of papers on his desk and looked up when I didn’t say anything.

“No.”

“Hey, listen…” It was the first time I’ve seen him look almost stricken.

I kept moving.
I wasn’t sure my burning eyes were because I was mad at Morehouse or missing George.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

BETWEEN PAINTING the interior of windows at my house and working one afternoon at our twice weekly food pantry distribution, I had little time to think of diamonds or my front porch swing.
A professional cleaner had taken out all the stains and applied a coat of primer so it looked unsoiled. I still hadn’t used the front door.

Despite a to-do list that included two appraisals, I wanted to talk to the jeweler who was storing the diamonds and bracelets.
I had seen Mark Fisher around town, but didn’t really know him. When I walked into his store on the following Wednesday he was with another customer and gave me a nod of recognition.

His small store was five blocks back from the ocean.
While there had probably been relatively little storm damage, it looked as if the ravages of the damaged economy had hit his business. Jewelry and crystal figurines were spread somewhat sparsely among the display cases. That told me that sales were not good and he was not replenishing his inventory as he might have in previous years.

The tinkle of the door chimes marked his customer’s exit and I looked up from a glass case that contained gorgeous watches.

“Guess you know I have some things of yours,” Mark said.
He had a pleasant expression, reinforced by a round face and dimples that reminded me of a cherub.

“And I really appreciate you keeping them here.
I was just wondering, is there anything distinctive about any of it? Something that might help me figure out who it might have belonged to?”

He looked surprised.
“Isn’t it rightfully yours?”

“Probably, but someone could have been looking for it.
Maybe it was even stolen a long time ago. If it belongs to someone else I want them to have it.”

“Good of you.”
He shook his head slowly. “The diamonds used to be in settings. You can tell because there are some minute scratches on a couple of them. Likely made when someone other than a jeweler took them out of a ring or earrings, or whatever. If you had the item that used to hold them you might come up with a match, but even then, maybe not.”

I nodded.
“Kind of what I figured. Are the diamonds worth a lot?”

“Two are quite nice, possibly worth several thousand dollars.
The smaller ones are lovely, but a jeweler would call them imperfect stones.”

“I was just curious…” I began.

“Now, the bracelets are more distinctive.” He warmed to his topic. “If someone had taken pictures of them, say for insurance purposes, that would make identifying a prior owner fairly easy. Even without photos, someone might be able to describe them well enough for you to feel certain that you’d found the owner.”

It didn’t seem likely that someone had taken photos decades ago, but I didn’t say that.
“Do you think I could wear one of the bracelets?”

He smiled.
“They are yours.”

“I know.
But, I don’t want all of it. I mean, if you don’t mind keeping it for awhile longer, until I can find where it came from. Oh, do you need storage fees or something?”

“No, I hope you find who used to own it.
When you decide what you want, I’ll write up an informal receipt, so it’s clear you have it.”

“Of course.”
I thought for a moment. “The wide bracelet, I think.”

Mark walked into a room behind the display area, and in about three minutes he was back with the bracelet and a handwritten receipt for me to sign.

I thanked him and looked at the bracelet on my wrist as I walked to my car. It was elegant, my knit top was not. I took it off and stuck it in my purse before I drove to Java Jolt for a dose of caffeine.

Lester gave me his usual enthusiastic greeting.
“Hey kid. Got some appraisals for you soon.”

Lester was no longer mad at Clive Dorner, who had contacted him soon after his uncle’s funeral and made offers on two of the houses Lester had shown him.
“And the guy says he wants to get another couple before the end of the summer. I told him the sooner the better, of course.”

“Of course,” I smiled.
“It seems like I see more for sale signs than a month ago.” I didn’t mention that I’d seen two that had Betty Fowler’s name on the sign. Apparently Lester still didn’t know that Clive was also working with her.

“Yeah,” he frowned, “I’ve got about the same number of listings as before, but I guess some of the high-fallutin’ agents got a few more recently.”

“Probably more summer dwellers selling. You have more all year round,” I said, trying for tact.

“Yeah.”
His expression brightened. “Your buddy Dorner…”

I rolled my eyes.

“…says he’ll use me to sell the houses he’s goin’ to fix up.”

“Why?
Doesn’t he have a New Jersey license?”

“Yeah, but he’s mostly used his
Pennsylvania license, and he says if he tried to sell them himself buyers’ll think he’s not being truthful or something. He said he wants third party involvement.” Lester said the last words as if making fun of Dorner.

“So, you make money twice on the same house.”

“Except,” he lowered his voice, “since he’s giving me all his business he wants me to charge a reduced commission.”

I laughed.
“He’s a piece of work.” I started to tell him that Dorner wanted Harry to charge less, but stopped, realizing Harry would say that was confidential. Again, I chose not to say anything about Betty.

“You back with George?” Lester asked.

“You asked me that before. You need to give it a rest.”

He flashed me a quick grin.
“Can’t blame a guy for asking.”

I did an internal groan, but smiled just the same.
“I suppose I could take it as a compliment.”

My phone chirped.
“Jolie.” It was George, and I knew Lester could hear the voice.

“Yesss.”
I drew out the word.

“I’ve been hearing some stuff.
Meet me at Java Jolt.”

“I’m already here.
When are you coming?”

“Now.”
He hung up.

“He don’t say goodbye?” Lester asked.

I shrugged. “He’s not as bad about it as Morehouse is.”

“Gotta get back to the office.”
Lester picked up his mug and placed it on the counter. Whaddya doin’ Joe, making it weaker?” He didn’t wait for an answer.

Joe hollered to his back.
“You want the enamel to come off your teeth?” He looked at me and shook his head. “At least he stopped bringing his real estate clients here. He’d buy two cups of coffee and they’d each have three refills.”

“He is unique.”
I stood, giving Joe a smart ass attitude. “You don’t’ mind me getting a refill, do you?”

“You know I don’t.”

Since it was still before Memorial Day the coffee thermoses were on the counter instead of behind it, so I helped myself.
By the time I had put cream in my coffee George was coming in the door.

“You have any more of that hazelnut stuff?” he asked.

“Just got it in. Have a seat. I’ll bring it to you.”

George sat with me and almost whispered, “He wants to hear what we’re talking about.”
He pulled out a notebook. “I heard some interesting stuff about Dorner.”

“Why do you care about him?” I asked.

“Because,” George said in a tone implying the answer should be obvious, “I can’t ask his uncle any questions, and I think it’s kind of funny Dorner is going to be living in his uncle’s house.”

Joe put the coffee on the table.
“I heard he lost a house in Philly, to a foreclosure.”

“Yeah,” George said.
“I heard that, too. Thanks.” His expression was anything but grateful.

I watched George seem to have an internal argument with himself.
Should we stay in Java Jolt where Joe might try to listen to what we said, or should we go to the boardwalk?

“He’ll get busy in a minute,” I said, quietly.

“I shoulda ordered something he has to make in one of those loud machines.”

“I heard that,” Joe said.

“Surprise.” George turned his chair so his back was to Joe. “So, I found the foreclosure information in court records in Philadelphia. It’s not a finished process yet. If he gets a bunch of cash within the next few weeks he could probably get it back.”

“So, he really needs to live at Uncle Normy’s,” I said.

“It’s more than that. Uncle Normy had a lot of antiques and some other valuable stuff. Seems he told a couple of people that he sometimes bought items that didn’t sell at some of his auctions.”

“I guess he had to have some way to explain why he had stuff that he couldn’t steal by sticking it in his pocket,” I mused.

“The interesting part is, Dorner took some to your favorite pawn shop.”

“So?” I asked.

“Your good friend Elmira Washington pitched a fit because she said a pair of candlesticks at the pawn shop was part of her mother’s estate, and Fitzgerald supposedly sold them at an auction about ten years ago.”

“And
Elmira figures he kept the candlesticks so she got less from the auction. That’ll tarnish that reputation everyone talked about at Fitzgerald’s funeral. Can she prove it?” I never thought I’d be on Elmira’s side about anything. She goes to First Prez, and she’s such a gossip people even hate to talk to her after the Sunday service.

“She has pictures that have the candlesticks in them.”
George grinned. “I heard she was waving them around the waiting room at the police station, demanding to talk to the officer in charge.”

“I can hear her now.
So, did you talk to Dorner yet?” I asked.

“I figure he likes you.
Maybe you could invite him for coffee…”

As I gave a firm no Joe laughed.

“Shut up, Joe,” George groused. He lowered his voice. “Okay, sorry. But Lester’s selling him houses, maybe Lester knows something.”

“I don’t think credit problems are something you tell your realtor about.”

George looked at me very directly for a couple of seconds and I returned his stare. “I guess you’re right. Kind of odd that he thinks he can buy when he’s losing his house.”

I shrugged.
“He could be buying as a business.”

“I should’ve thought of that.”
He sighed. “Bottom line is I can’t find him to ask about it. I mostly thought he’d return your phone call even if he ignores mine.”

I took my last swallow of coffee.
“You’re on your own, pal.”
In more ways than one
. I made to stand up.

“Stay with me while I finish my coffee,” George said.

“Nope. Have a place to appraise, and it’s supposed to rain. I want to get done.” I gave him my four-fingered wave and said goodbye to Joe as I left.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I STEPPED INTO a Wednesday afternoon that had clouds hovering over the boardwalk.
It had stayed warm for a couple of days, but the humidity had been lower until just a bit ago. The planet needed to remind itself that it was springtime in our hemisphere, and spring was supposed to be cool in New Jersey. A glance up told me April showers were definitely in my immediate future, so I hustled to the popsicle district.

The house I was to appraise was newer than some in the neighborhood.
I’d have to remember to ask Aunt Madge if she knew whether the lot had been divided or if the house replaced an older one. I could find this out at the courthouse, but since somebody else gets paid to do a title search, I wasn’t willing to spend the time on it.

I had just wrestled the front door open when there were two short beeps of a car horn on the street.
Clive Dorner pulled into a parking space behind mine on the narrow street. Now what does he want?

“Jolie.
Just who I’m looking for.” Dorner gave me a mega-watt smiles as he walked up the sidewalk.

“I guess you found me.”
I tried to keep my tone pleasant, since it seemed I would see him around town a lot. “What’s up?”

“Mind if I come in with you?”

He had climbed onto the stoop with me, which was a bit close for my comfort zone. “It’s really not appropri…”

“Somebody beat the price I offered for this house. I want to figure out how I got beat.”

I did a mental shrug and stepped into the house, and he walked in after me. “Don’t like to lose, do you?” I asked.

“Nope.”
He looked in the kitchen and quickly walked back out. “I didn’t remember anything special about this little place and I want to see what I missed.”

It seemed best to allow him to prowl by himself, so I began measuring the front room. It was a tiny house, but the traffic flow was efficient.
The bedrooms were to the left of the front door, and the kitchen was straight ahead. There wasn’t a formal dining room, but there was a breakfast bar that would be sufficient for most meals.

As I measured I thought about how to ask Dorner about the items he was selling.
It occurred to me that Elmira Washington had probably let half the town know she thought Norman Fitzgerald had kept candlesticks that she thought had been sold with her mother’s other things.

“Heard you had a run-in with
Elmira Washington.”

He gave me a blank look.
“Who?”

“She goes to First Prez with Aunt Madge.
She thinks some stuff you took to the pawn shop should have been in her mother’s estate sale, or something like that.” I wrote down the living room measurements, being careful to avoid his eyes.

“Gee, I guess I should call her.
Uncle Norman would sometimes buy an item before a sale started. I bet there’s a receipt or something.”

I looked up.
“That would certainly explain it.”

Dorner walked quickly through the rest of the house.
Since it seemed he had been prepared to follow me around while I worked, I took this to mean that what I’d said worried him.

“I guess I’ll head out,” he began.

“How’s it going, living in your uncle’s house? Personally, I’d find it hard to be in Aunt Madge’s house so soon after she died.”

He flushed.
“I’ve spent a lot of time in that house through the years. I’m familiar with every nook and cranny, so it almost feels like home.”

“I can relate to that.”
I gave him what I hoped was a winning smile. “Did you ever spend time in the house I just bought?”

“You asked me that earlier.
I don’t think I’ve been in it.” He studiously examined a window sill as he spoke.

“I knew your uncle’s cousin lived there. I thought you might have gone over there with him.”

“If I did I would have been very young. Don’t remember it at all.” He seemed in a hurry to leave. “I have a couple more houses to look at this afternoon, better hit the road.”

I looked up from the clipboard on which I was writing measurements.
“Tell Lester I said hello.”

“Will do.”
He almost sprinted to his car.

I figured I had made him uncomfortable, which should tell me something, though I wasn’t sure what.
My guess would be that he knew good old Uncle Norman had hidden jewelry behind what were now my walls. He was probably snooping around his uncle’s house trying to find things to take before he had to do the formal inventory of the estate.

WHEN I FINISHED TAKING photos and measurements I headed for the Purple Cow. In my mind everything that had happened in the last couple of weeks started with the jewelry, and Ramona had said she would look at it.

After she finished with her customer Ramona walked over and I pulled two of the bracelets out of my purse. “These two are kind of funny.
They sort of look like heavy plastic and sort of don’t. They were in the pouch with the other stuff.”

As she took them, she said, “Bakelite, I love these.” She slid them over her slim wrists and held them at arm’s length to examine them.

I pulled up my sleeve an inch and held out my arm, which again sported the gold bracelet. “Your clothes would probably go better with this one.”

She almost squealed, and I took it off my wrist and handed it to her.

“This is beautiful,” she breathed.

“How old do you think it is?”

“It kind of looks like one you would see in pictures of the 1920s flappers. But I don’t know that they were often gold.” She held it to the light. “It’s not solid gold, I think it’s gold over some kind of metal frame. Tin maybe? Still somewhat valuable.”

“It looks as if it’s in really good condition.”

Ramona nodded. “What makes me think it’s from the 1920s or 1930s is the size. You’re pretty small, and it just fits you. Women are bigger now, so bracelets have been made bigger for decades.”

“It reminds me of the metal wrist bands that Roman soldiers wore.”

“So,” she concluded, “all you need is a Roman soldier and you’re all set.”

We both laughed, but I quickly stopped. Every now and then Mr. Fitzgerald’s image came to me.
Sleeping and yet very much not sleeping on my porch.

“What’s the matter?” Ramona asked.

“Sometimes I can separate finding the jewelry from finding Mr. Fitzgerald. Right now I can’t.”

She studied the bracelets again.
“The Bakelite ones were popular quite awhile ago, maybe even before World War II. Anyone could buy them at an antique store or on eBay today, but the lack of any wear means these could have been put in that pouch not terribly long after they were popular.”

“Maybe.”
I hesitated, thinking. “That might mean they were put in there in the 1950s which would make that wall older than I thought.”

She shrugged. “Or they could have been in an estate sale much later, and Mr. Fitzgerald thought they might be worth something at some point. An auctioneer would think about future value more than you or I would.”

“I feel as if I’m back to not knowing much.”

“Maybe you need something else to occupy you, so you don’t think about this all the time,” she said.

THAT’S
JUST WHAT that night’s Harvest for All meeting did for me.

“We need a place where we can make a mess,” Dr. Welby said. He had essentially taken charge of planning for the so-called birthday party.
His rationale was that I shouldn’t have to plan a party for myself. When I reminded him that it was not just a party for me he had ignored me.

“Why would that matter?” Sylvia asked.

“Have you heard of liquid string?” Scoobie asked.

I wanted to slide under the table.

“That should be an oxymoron,” Lance said.

“Or just moronic,” Sylvia said, in quite a sharp tone.

Scoobie gave her an engaging grin. “You spray it from a can. It’s not something he usually orders, but Mr. Markle said he can get us a few cases really cheap. We could have contests. Like who could spray it really far without it touching the ground, or who can empty a can fastest.”

Aretha laughed.
“If you have more colors you could try to make pictures, maybe on the sidewalk, and give a prize for the best one.”

“That would argue for an outdoor venue,” Dr. Welby said, dryly.

“How do you spray it?” Monica asked.

“It’s like a thing of whipped cream,” Megan said, “but in more colors. It’s actually a foam, and I think it’s made of soap.
It gets used a lot at the high school on April Fool’s Day.”

“So, you can wash it up easily?” Lance asked.

“Yeah,” Scoobie said, “but it probably would be easier with a hose, so outdoors would be good.”

“YOU COULDN’T THINK of something less messy?” I was driving Scoobie back to his rooming house after the meeting.

“You want a lot of people to come.
There has to be something really different from a regular birthday party.”

“Won’t everybody be all gooey after they get sprayed?
They’re supposed to go on a scavenger hunt after that.”

“We’re all going on a scavenger hunt.”
He looked thoughtful for a second. “I guess people should bring a change of clothes.”

We had decided to have the birthday party at the local tennis club, if they’d have us.
I had thought of using the courts as a place to spray the so-called liquid string freely, but Dr. Welby pointed out it would make the courts slippery and offer a lot of business for his friends who were orthopedists. So, we would use the parking lot and people could clean up or change clothes in the locker rooms. Megan said her daughter Alicia and her friends would enjoy hosing down the parking lot when we were done.

I sighed.
“I hope we have good liability insurance.”

Scoobie shrugged.
“Make them sign a waiver. Like before an operation. You agree not to sue unless they accidentally cut off a foot or something.”