Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 06 - Behind the Walls (28 page)

“Seriously,” he said.

“I was serious. Many, maybe most of the clients are dead and I have no idea who their relatives would be.”

“I guess George did buy you that security system.”
Scoobie took a final swallow of his large cup of tea and looked at me. “He told me what you said.”

“I think he was okay about it.”

Scoobie looked at Joe.
”If you lean that far over the counter you might fall over.”

“You must be channeling George,” Joe said, and turned to finish adding coffee beans to his large grinder.

“It would be nice to have a private life,” I said.

“Move,” said Joe and Scoobie.

BY THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY, AFTER THE AD RAN for two days, I thought about moving.
I had decided to ask permission, and Lieutenant Tortino had surprised me by saying it was all right to view the items at the station. He thought it might help the police get a better sense of the scope of Fitzgerald’s thefts. Since Fitzgerald was dead it seemed moot to some of the officers, but Tortino and Morehouse reasoned that more stolen stuff could pop up in other places around town.

No one who thought they had a claim could look at items unless they had a photo or described it well.
So far, no one had come close. It looked as if I might have a cache of valuables to sell, or whatever.

The problem was that, as Scoobie and the attorney predicted, the people who crawled out of the wood work or through a worm hole or wherever they came from knew that the jewelry had been found at my house.
My phone was through an Internet company so it wasn’t in the phone book, but that didn’t stop folks from trying to find me. Elmira knew where to look, which was a problem. Today she was on my front porch.

“
Elmira, Mrs. Murphy said she gave you the folder from your mother’s auction. You know there were only two things you weren’t paid for, and I don’t have either of them.”

“There might have been something else,” she said, in a stubborn tone.
“Or maybe you want to keep the amethyst bracelet.”

“Enough already!” I shouted.
“Go away.”

“Well I never,” she said.
“Jolie Gentil your manners…”

“Are almost as bad as yours.”
I shut the door and sat in my rocker and put my head in my hands.
I should have listened to Scoobie.

SCOOBIE IS NEVER one to say I told you so, but he did invite me to go with him to an All-Anon meeting. “I’ll go to NA, but we can drive over together. Since you’re the one with the car and all.” He grinned.

Scoobie and George had sort of tricked me into going to my first meeting, and I don’t go to a twice-weekly meeting nearly as often as they do.
However, I have grudgingly admitted that my All-Anon group has helped me take worrying off my regular to-do list.

I like the All-Anon group because anyone who is a friend or family member of someone with an issue, which is the most neutral word I can think of, can go.
My mother was a control freak. My husband gambled our assets into the toilet, but since I didn’t know that until just before we split up, I didn’t find I had too much in common with the people who went to the family group associated with Gamblers’ Anonymous.

What I have are trust issues.
Big time. And finding a dead man on the porch of my house and then having a woman I barely know come at me with a gun only exacerbated them.

This night’s All-Anon meeting started with a reading about “learning to identify illusions that make life unmanageable.”
After about ten seconds of thinking about it I started to giggle. I didn’t have illusions. I had realities that made my life unmanageable.

I tried to pretend I was coughing, but that only worked for about five seconds.
Though the meetings are fairly relaxed, there is a certain decorum. Laughing uncontrollably when someone else says something is not considered respectful. And I couldn’t stop.

No one chided me, there was just companionable quiet (from everyone else) until I calmed down.
When I had finally gotten to the point of wiping my eyes the woman who had done the reading said, “That might be the most open comment you’ve made in a meeting, Jolie.”

I lost it again, but I did make it to the bathroom before I peed my pants.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

MONICA HAD BAKED a birthday cake for the Harvest for All meeting, and Jennifer and Ramona joined our usual group.
All of the birthday people were invited, but Bill was seeing patients in Newark and Daphne had to work at the library.

“It’s lovely, Monica,” I said.
“You must have been up half the night decorating it.”

“I’m very quick with my icing gun.”
She pointed to a picture she had drawn on the cake. “Can you see that you’re getting squirted?”

Scoobie ducked under the table, apparently pretending that he had dropped something.

Ramona looked at the cake more closely. “You’re very artistic, Monica, but I do think Jolie got sprayed with every color of liquid string we had.”

“I know.”
Monica was very serious. “But I didn’t have time to mix all of them. They don’t sell chartreuse and orange at Mr. Markle’s store.”

I smiled at her one more time, and turned to Lance.
“Why don’t you give us a quick update on what we took in?”

“It was far more than I anticipated, and our expenses were fairly low.”

“No hot dogs to gorge on?” Sylvia sniped.

“I can cook you some,” Scoobie offered.

“Ahem.” That was all Dr. Welby needed to say. Scoobie wiggled his eyebrows at me and I tried not to laugh at him.

Lance acted as if no one had spoken.
“We had generous donations in the form of a lot of people’s labor, of course, and Ramona’s talented sketches gave us almost three hundred dollars. And of course we had the very nice gift from Stenner Appraisals.”

Jennifer beamed, and I made a mental note to ask Harry if he wanted to do a late donation.
Good publicity when we publish our annual list of donors.

“Thanks to the tennis club we had no facility fees, and I have already given the manager a bottle of his favorite scotch and I deducted that as an expense.”

Aretha laughed. “If he tells people maybe it’ll help us get space somewhere the next time we want it.”

“And Mr. Markle always comes through for us,” Lance continued.
“We paid a fairly small amount for the oxymoronic liquid string.”

Scoobie laughed aloud, unusual for him in these meetings.

“Markle donated all the paper goods that we used,” Lance concluded.

“We really owe that man,” I said, softly.

“Yes, we do. With what we earned that day and a few individual donations, including five hundred dollars from Jolie’s friend Lester,” Lance smiled at me, “we made just more than nine-thousand dollars.”

There were murmurs of pleased surprise.

“Lester may think the way to Jolie’s heart is through his wallet,” Dr. Welby said, with a clear smirk.

“You’re as bad as Harry,” I said.

“Not even close,” Scoobie said.

We didn’t have a lot of new business, and Megan’s report on volunteers was concise.
For a change Scoobie did not hijack the meeting, so we were eating cake within twenty minutes and had cleared away the remnants of cake and paper plates within forty-five minutes.

“Sometime in the next month I’ll have an open house, and you folks will be the guests of honor.”

There were polite comments of “no need” and “happy to serve” as we left the church.

“Ride?” I asked Scoobie after we had said good-bye to Jennifer and Ramona.

“Of course.”

“Thanks for everything, and I mean help with the house and all that.”

“Including serving as protector in chief when you find bodies on the porch.”

I winced but he didn’t notice.
“And helping empty Pebbles’ litter box a time or two.”

“That really is above the call…”
He stopped talking as a fire engine pulled close to my car and I quickly veered right to get to the curb. Another truck, a police car, and two ambulances were immediately behind the truck.

Scoobie and I looked at each other.
“Maybe follow those trucks,” Scoobie said. “It’s probably someone we know.”

There was no need to attempt to match their speed in a town the size of Ocean Alley.
We made a left on Conch and I was surprised to see the back of the second ambulance turn onto F Street. “God, you don’t think…”

Scoobie’s tone was grim as I pulled to the curb a half block from Scoobie’s home.
“The rooming house.” He yanked open the car door and was twenty feet away before I could say anything.

There was a lot of dark smoke, but I could only see fire from one window in the front.
Maybe the second floor. I realized I shouldn’t park anywhere on F Street and backed up a few feet so I could turn left on Sea Shore.

As I ran toward the fire I saw Scoobie standing with two fire fighters.
He was pointing to different rooms and yelling at the men. I realized he knew who occupied which rooms and was guiding them in a search for residents.

Two hoses were streaming on the large Victorian House. I briefly noted that flames were coming out of three windows now, but the hoses had begun to have their intended effect.
Still, there was enough smoke to kill anyone trapped inside.

Two additional police cars careened to a stop behind one of the ambulances and the officers talked to the firefighter I knew to be an assistant chief.
Then they turned quickly, grabbed crime scene tape from one of the cars and began to cordon off the rooming house. It wasn’t really necessary just yet, as onlookers were standing far back to avoid the smoke.

George’s voice came from behind me.
“Anyone hurt?”

“I don’t know.
Scoobie ran up there, I think to tell them which rooms had people.”

“Good thing it’s mostly long-term residents.”
George said this more to himself than to me.

He walked closer to the yellow tape, but I hung back.
There were maybe fifty people spread out on the streets and sidewalks, and they began to murmur as one. I looked at the house and saw that firefighters were carrying out a body. I hoped a living one. The shock of red hair made me think of Reuben Harris. They almost threw him on a gurney and left him to the paramedics as they went back inside.

They run in when we run out.

I realized there was a knot of people to one side of the rooming house, and from their attire I thought they were the residents. Few had jackets, and it was only about fifty degrees. Almost magically people in Red Cross vests began passing out blankets and guiding the residents to a large van that had pulled into a driveway a few houses behind the rooming house.

It was dusk and I couldn’t pick out Scoobie, but I wasn’t worried about him.
I hoped he was able to help the firefighters find everyone. Just then the flashing lights lit up on one ambulance and it began backing up, very fast. That was good. It could mean the person they were transporting was alive.

“Yo, Jolie.”
Scoobie was walking toward me. He had soot in his hair and a distressed look on his face, but otherwise looked okay.

“You could help them?”

“I think so. The owner ran up a couple of minutes ago, and he had a list of every unit and who lived in them.”

He stood next to me and we stared at what was now a soggy scene with only wisps of smoke.
I knew Scoobie’s room was on the side of the building that had been on fire. I remembered which window was his and hadn’t seen flames break through. But everything he owned had to reek of smoke and be soaking wet.

“At least you like the futon.”

He grabbed me in a bear hug and we clung to each other.

FOR ONCE THE
OCEAN ALLEY PRESS
article was helpful. I had spread the Friday edition across the kitchen table so I could read it while I made bacon.

Rooming House Fire Follows Pattern

The fire at the F Street Rooming House appeared to have started in the residence of Reuben Harris, who has lived in the building for four years.

As with several other fires that damaged or destroyed cottages in Ocean Alley, there was no obvious use of accelerants. The Fire Marshal plans to have a tentative cause for the fire by late Friday.

Though he was not burned, Harris inhaled a great deal of smoke and was unconscious when fire fighters found him. He was lying near the door that led to the hallway, but it is not clear whether he was sleeping when the fire started, or if he started it.

The rooming house is often touted as a good example of single-room-occupancy living and there is little turnover in the eighteen rooms. However, it was built before today’s fire codes, so there are no fire walls (which are of thicker construction) to prevent a blaze from spreading fairly quickly.

Chief Watterson of the Ocean Alley Fire Department said it was fortunate that the fire was spotted quickly. “It would likely have destroyed the structure if it had made it to the attic. Prompt resolution was possible because Ocean Alley’s main station is only three blocks from the rooming house.”

The Press was unable to learn more about the condition of Reuben Harris by its deadline. Harris is alleged to have been the Peeping Tom who troubled Ocean Alley for more than six months. His public defender has been in discussions with the prosecuting attorney’s office.

I went back to the turkey bacon I was frying. I’m not a big cook, but Harry was okay with me delaying an appraisal until mid-afternoon so Scoobie and I could have breakfast together. Scoobie is a big boy, but he would be mad or sad or both. Everything he owned was in his room.

The shower went off and I told myself not to be uncomfortable.
When Scoobie stayed at the B&B we were far apart when performing what he called morning ablutions. When he stayed with me after Mr. Fitzgerald’s death he’d gone home to shower.

We’re both adults.
And good friends.

I chalked up my nervousness to being queasy about last night’s fire and reached down to pet Jazz, who was weaving around my ankles.
Pebbles was under my bed, though she had poked her head out a couple of times last night.

While I cracked eggs to scramble the door to Scoobie’s bedroom opened and shut, so I knew he’d be in the kitchen soon.
I turned the electric kettle to high so he’d have his morning tea.

“Yo, Jolie.”
He surveyed the kitchen. “I’m not company, you know.”

“Tis true.
After this it’s cold cereal. I thought we deserved a treat this morning.”

He picked up the paper and scanned the article, then looked up.
“I don’t know Reuben well, heck, no one does. He’s the classic loner.”

“And feels really alone.”

“How do you know that?”

“I talked to him the other day.”
Sensing that Scoobie was about to ask if I was nuts, I added, “We did it at First Prez. Anyway, he said he wasn’t trying to spy on people. He just wanted to see what families were like.”

“Damn.”
Scoobie sat in the chair next to my small kitchen table. “You believed him?”

“I think so, but I have no idea what a pathological liar or sociopath looks like.”

“Just like anybody.”

“Anyway, he said he’d been in several foster homes after his mom died, and he had no idea who his father was.
And he just looked…sad.”

Scoobie sighed.
“So maybe it wasn’t accidental. Maybe he was trying to commit suicide. But, damn, to try to take everybody else with him.”

I had finished the eggs and slid them on two plates with bacon on each.
I was about to take my first bite when I heard someone on the front porch. The doorbell received two pushes in quick succession.

“George,” Scoobie said.
“Eat your eggs fast.”

I carried a piece of bacon with me and looked out the living room curtain.
Lester’s face was staring back at me, his nose almost on the glass. “Jeez Louise! Lester!”

Scoobie’s laugh drowned out whatever Lester said, and I opened the door to let him in.

“They got pictures on the paper’s web page and I saw you and Scoobie watchin’ the fire. What smells good?”

“Bacon and eggs.
Come on in,” came from the kitchen.

Lester started when he heard Scoobie’s voice.
“If I’m interruptin’…”

“Nope.
You can have toast and bacon. I’m not sharing my eggs,” I said.

Lester declined the toast and munched on bacon.
We ate in awkward silence and then I saw the look Lester gets when he has what he considers to be a terrific idea. He looked at Scoobie. “You’re gonna be needin’ digs, right? Maybe do a rent with option to buy, and then when you graduate…you could…”

Apparently cold stares can silence even Lester.