Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 02 - Rekindling Motives (23 page)

Ramona was skeptical.
“And these enemies waited until now to kill her?”

“I know, it’s lame.”
I thought for a minute. “Although the person I care about is Mary Doris, I’m still curious about what happened to Richard. Maybe Sophie will have some ideas, now that she knows he didn’t just run off.”

“Doubt it,” Ramona said.
“I went to the library to look at those articles, too. She was just a kid. Maybe ten or so.”

I sighed.
I’d forgotten that. “Oh well, she wouldn’t want to talk to me, anyway.”

IT TURNED OUT THAT Sophie Tillotson Morgan did want to talk to me.
I answered the phone at the end of the week, and Sophie said she was going to have her grandson bring her back to Ocean Alley and she would stay at the B&B a couple of days while she made burial arrangements for Richard now that the police were willing to release the body to her. “They were going to do it earlier, but then when dear Mary Doris was killed they said they wanted to hold onto it in case there was a link between… between the two.” Her voice caught.

If I had not known her age I would have thought I was talking to someone my own age.
Her voice was firm and purposeful. Only the mention of having her grandson drive her gave away her age. “Has anyone set a time for Mary Doris’ memorial service?” she asked.

“Not that I know of,” I said.
“I’ll call her niece, Annie Milner, and ask her.”

Aunt Madge was pleased to have a guest at Cozy Corner B&B, since winter is a slow time for business.
She suggested I let Gracie know Sophie was coming. “From what you’ve said about that attic, there could be some of Sophie’s old toys up there,” she said.

I called Gracie, who said she was back on her happy pills since the kids were back in school; she had stayed off them when they were home.
“They can get in trouble in five minutes.” She giggled. “Kind of like you.” It turned out she didn’t mind if Sophie took any of the pictures or toys. “I wish the damn attic had been empty. Except I like the quiltsh I took.”

SOPHIE MORGAN WAS IN terrific shape except for “a touch of arthritis in the knees,” as she put it.
Her grandson works as a nurse in Cape May, and was to come back for her in two days. She and Aunt Madge had talked until about ten the night before. For two women who didn’t know each other they knew a lot of the same people, many of whom were long dead.

W
e were having our coffee and rolls later than usual – all of eight o’clock. The weather was mild, with temperatures expected to go up to near forty degrees. I drove Sophie around town, and she commented on a number of changes. “Almost too many to count. I was here a long time after the Great Atlantic Hurricane in forty-four, but in my mind Ocean Alley looks the way it did before then.”

“With the big pier and the Ferris wheel?” I asked, smiling.
When she agreed I told her that Uncle Gordon had spent an afternoon on the boardwalk with me when I was five or six, and he described the pier and its Ferris wheel and small merry-go-round. “I went home and demanded to be taken to the ‘place with the rides,’ according to my mother.”

Sophie
specifically asked to see the burned out store, so we parked across the street from it and stared at the charred wood and police tape. I explained how it was laid out now, and she told me it used to have two chimneys instead of the one. “There was one in the kitchen for that monstrous stove Richard insisted on buying. Luckily it was delivered before they had the glass in the main window, because it wouldn’t go in the door.”

“Now I get why it’s still in there,” I said.
“It doesn’t look as if it’s been used in years.”

She nodded.
“Peter closed the bakery about the time the war started. Started for Europe,” she amended. “He rented it to several different businesses and finally sold it.”

“He sold it to Mary Doris?” I asked.

She shook her head vehemently. “Oh, no. He didn’t like to be around her. He knew how she felt about him.”

When I asked what she meant, Sophie added, “Mary Doris never said so directly to him, but I know she held him responsible for Richard’s disappearance.
She told me once that he may not have killed Richard himself, but he perhaps had someone else do it. After that I did not contact Mary Doris too often.” She paused, “My brother-in-law may not have been a saint, but I cannot believe the Peter I knew was a murderer.”

“I’m glad you have good memories.”
I didn’t know what else to say.

Sophie peered out the car window.
“Looks as if anyone could go in there.”

I followed her gaze.
“I think it would be pretty dangerous. You can see how half the back has collapsed.”

On impulse I said, “It was very nice of you to visit Mary Doris after Richard’s remains were found.”

She stiffened.
“We weren’t close for years,” she said, “But I always liked Mary Doris. I know my brother’s leaving – I didn’t believe he was dead for a long time – was really hard on her.” She thought for a moment. “But, if that hadn’t happened she likely would not have gotten her teaching certificate and taught all those years.”

Yeah, she’d have been married and raising a son.

I dropped Sophie at the funeral home.
She didn’t want to be accompanied, and I was glad of that. I popped into the library for a few minutes and sat with Scoobie as he worked on a poem. Given that there were two notebooks on the table, I gathered he had spent a lot of time writing recently. I suppose near-death experiences give you a lot to write about, if that’s your thing.

As I stood to go he looked up.
“Hang on one second.” He finished a line, and then opened the other notebook to a page marked with one of the library’s free bookmarks. He shoved it toward me.

The snow will melt and we will see

that the rivers will always flow to the sea.

The tide will always ebb and flow

the sun will rise and set aglow.

The rain will come and the wind will blow,

thunder and lightening will hit below.

The earth will tremble and start to shake,

our homes will sway and begin to break.

And when the mountains decide to explode,

we will have a sea of lava, without a road
.

This one I could almost understand. I reread it, and said, “You don’t usually use rhyme so much.” I looked up at him. “I like it.”

“Why?” He asked.

I had not expected his question. “Umm. I think I might get what you are saying. Maybe, that things are inevitable?”

He shrugged.
“I don’t always have a message that I know of, but I have been thinking a lot about how you can make all kinds of changes in your life, but if your time is up, it’s up.”

I shivered.
“I’m glad yours wasn’t up.”

He placed his hand on his neck and stretched it.
“I still have a headache, but it’s a lot better.”

“Seems like a long time.
Should you go back to the…”

“No more doctors,” he said.
“Took me a long time to explain to the guy in the hospital why I wouldn’t take the crap medicine they wanted to load me up with.”

I smiled.
“Congratulations.” I looked at my mobile phone, which serves as my watch. “Almost time to pick up Sophie at the funeral home.”

He grinned.
“I’d say it’s nice of you to take her around, but I’m familiar with your ulterior motives.”

“She doesn’t know anything about Richard’s disappearance; at least not that she’s talked about.
And, believe it or not, I’m not asking a lot of questions.”

Scoobie gave me a smirk and went back to his writing.

WHEN I GOT BACK TO THE FUNERAL HOME, Sophie was sitting on a small loveseat outside the funeral director’s office. Across from her, on a chair that looked too dainty to hold him, was George Winters. It occurred to me that he must have spies all over town that let him know who was where or what was going on.

They both looked up at me, and
George had the decency to look guilty. “Mr. Winters has given me a copy of all the articles that mention my family through the years,” Sophie said. “I shall treasure them.”

I know
George better than he thinks I do. He wanted to jog her memory. “How nice of him.” I tried not to sound as venomous as I felt.
Bothering an elderly woman while she was making her brother’s funeral arrangements!

Sophie looked back at George.
“You see, young man, I was only ten the day my sister got married.” She got a far-away look. “I remember many things about that day. For one thing,” she gave both of us a bright smile, “It was the first time I had a bouquet of flowers of my own. I wasn’t truly a bridesmaid, but my sister was very thoughtful. I had a dress like the grown-up girls and my own bouquet.”

I could sense George’s impatience.
He had not come to see here to hear of a little girl’s first bouquet. “Did you see Richard and Peter Fisher quarrel at the wedding?” he asked.

Sophie gave a dismissive wave.
“They didn’t really
quarrel
, just a bit too much to drink, I think. They were very close friends.” She paused. “I think someone thought that would sell papers. You know, after he went missing.” She leaned over to pat his hand. “You can’t believe everything you read in the papers, you know.”

To his credit,
George did not get churlish.

SOPHIE WENT TO
BED by 8:30 that evening. She said that the day’s activities had worn her out. Though we didn’t do a lot of walking, I figured she had run an emotional gamut. I was in bed by 10:30, but woke up abruptly about one o’clock. “Did you hear that?” I asked Jazz. No response.

After about ten minutes of tossing and turning I got up and went downstairs to heat some milk in the hope of falling asleep again.
Mr. Rogers and Miss Piggy were asleep on a throw rug near the washstand. They generally slept in Aunt Madge’s room, but I figured she let them out to stand guard over the chipmunks. I started to continue into the kitchen when something about their breathing struck me. It seemed a lot more shallow than usual.

I bent over and said both their names softly, then more loudly.
Neither stirred. Gently, mindful of the fact that a startled dog can nip or bite, I scratched Mr. Rogers’ head, then Miss Piggy’s. No response from either of them. These are dogs that can hear a squirrel on the patio from two rooms away. I shook them both, still nothing.
They’re breathing, they must be okay.

I studied them some more.
Somebody drugged these dogs
. I sat on the bottom step leading upstairs and considered waking Aunt Madge. Sophie’s face popped into my mind and I stood up. She was the only unknown person in the house.
She had seemed to like the dogs, why would she hurt them?

I walked quietly up the steps and stood outside her room.
If I opened the door and she was asleep I could startle her greatly. On the other hand, if she had drugged the dogs, Aunt Madge might do more than startle her. I eased open the door.

The bed was empty.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I think I stared at her bed for a full fifteen seconds, then took in the rest of the room. There was an adjoining bath, a so-called Jack and Jill bath shared with the next room’s guests. But, there were no other guests, and no light in the bathroom. I peeked in, hoping not to find her on the floor. No Sophie.

In ten seconds I realized there were no shoes in the room and the clothes she had worn earlier were not on hangers or in her small suitcase.
She drugged the dogs so she could sneak out.

I pulled on jeans and a sweat shirt and picked up my shoes so I didn’t wake Aunt Madge as I descended the stairs.
I knew exactly where Sophie had gone. The driveway was on the opposite side of the house from Aunt Madge’s bedroom, so I wasn’t too worried about her hearing the car start.

As I pulled out of the driveway I pushed the speed dial for Scoobie’s so-called burn phone.
Amazingly, he picked up. “Jolie?” said his sleepy voice.

“Who else?” I said, talking fast.
“I think Sophie went over to the old Bakery at the Shore building. Can you meet me outside your building, like now?” He hung up. Either he had gone back to sleep or I’d see him in a minute.

I rolled down my window so I could rub the outside mirror.
It had been warm enough to rain sometime since I’d gone to bed and the air smelled of rain and sea. Usually I love that smell, but now it brought no comfort.

Scoobie was coming out the front door of his rooming house as I pulled up and he slid into the front seat.
“Are you out of your mind? Wait. Is she?”

There was no one else on the roads so we made good time going the eight or nine blocks to the old bakery.
I parked on a side street. “Pull the flashlight out of the glove box, ok?”

Scoobie did so without comment and we walked toward the front of the building.
“At least we don’t have to worry about what door to go in,” he whispered.

The building didn’t have enough wood left to pound plywood over a window or door.
Still, if it had been summer, with hordes of tourists, the fire department would have found a way to more fully secure the building. Now there were several orange and white sawhorses and a lot of police tape.

When we got to the front of the building we could see a pinpoint of light moving in the area that had been the large front room.
I thought Sophie had some guts. She had to walk about four blocks to get to the fire ravaged building, and here she was wandering around with a flashlight after one in the morning.

Scoobie knelt and I followed suit.
It took a moment to adjust my eyes to the near-total darkness. Sophie had what looked like a metal tape measure that was extended at least a couple of feet and she was sliding it behind the mirror, near the bottom. Scoobie and I looked at each other and shrugged.

After about a minute, during which time my knees began to protest their position, she gave a quiet, “Aha!”
She worked the tape measure up and down and sideways, and finally something white appeared behind the mirror. She tugged and a long piece of paper appeared. I drew in a breath, and Scoobie stared at me.

I stood up and spoke in a normal tone of voice.
“Sophie?”

“Oh my God!” she turned toward us and dropped the paper.

“I saw you were gone,” I said, as Scoobie moved closer to me, so that our shoulders touched. “Thought you might have taken a night walk until I saw you drugged the dogs.”

“You forgot to mention that little detail,” Scoobie said to me.

“Sorry.” My eyes never left Sophie. She stooped and picked up the paper.

“It’s the deed, isn’t it?” I asked.

“How did you know?” she asked. She looked truly flabbergasted.

“I suggested that Gracie look for it, and she and her mother had no luck.
I figured it had been so long since the house was built that it had been thrown away decades ago.”

She gave a harsh chuckle.
“Not thrown away. But my dear brother was determined to use it as leverage against Audrey’s husband.”

I nodded.
“Peter Fisher figured out Richard was embezzling,” I said, quietly.

She walked a few steps closer.
“I don’t think Richard looked at it that way. I was just a little girl, so I don’t really know what was going through his head. Not long before the wedding I heard him tell Audrey that he thought Peter didn’t appreciate all the time Richard spent at the counter.” She smiled. “I do remember that everyone liked my brother. He had a smile for all the customers, and he’d give children pieces of cookie that broke.” Her countenance darkened. “Peter hated that.”

“So, how did the deed get behind the mirror?” I asked.

“Who cares?” Scoobie’s voice was harsh.
“It’s cold. We should get out of here.”

“But then you’ll never know how Richard died, will you?”
She spoke softly.

She had my attention.
“You know?” I asked.

She nodded.
“Richard had me walk down here with him. We had a lot of out-of-town company, so we were all awake very late even the day after the wedding. Me latest of all. I was still so excited.”

“
Peter and Audrey had gone to the hotel, and I read in the paper – the very paper that your friend George Winters gave me – that Richard sang under their window on their wedding night. ”

I nodded.
“That was supposed to be the last time anyone remembered seeing him with Peter, so to speak.”

“Except me,” she said, sadly.
“Mother put me to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. My big brother came home late the night after the wedding. He was probably out with Mary Doris.” She said the name almost as a sneer. “When he saw me sitting on the couch with my little bouquet, he didn’t look too pleased.”

She glanced at the deed.
“I would guess he did not expect to see anyone up. He said we’d go for a walk after he went upstairs. And we did, to the bakery.”

“We should really go,” Scoobie said, in a singsong voice.
I ignored him.

“We walked down, everybody walked back then, and when he opened the door you could smell that fresh bread smell.
Until that night I really loved it.”

She glanced toward the mirror and back at me.
“Richard went over to the mirror and took a piece of paper out of his pocket, and he slid it behind the mirror. It was a tight fit, and he was probably a little drunk, but he did it.”

She pointed to a spot across the room.
“And then he sat me in this little wire and wood chair at the edge of the display case, and gave me a cookie. And I sat with my big brother, and…” Her voice choked.

“And then what?” Scoobie asked.

Her tone grew bitter. “Then Peter Fisher came in. He said he’d looked out the hotel window and seen Richard go by. I don’t think he knew I was with him until he got to the shop. He was as mad as a hornet that just had its nest knocked down.”

“Did he say why?” I asked.

“It didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me until years later. I just knew Peter was mad about something with money. Later on I figured he was accusing Richard of stealing money.” She sighed. “If Richard had kept his temper in check, maybe… but he was never very good at that. He told Peter that if Peter “went public” that he’d have a heck of a time selling the building because he’d never find the deed.”

She reached into her pocket and took out a tissue to dab her eyes.
“I was scared. I’d never seen two people so mad. Richard started saying things like Peter had no idea how much work Richard did and Peter said something about putting up all the money. And then they just went at each other.”

She shook her head, then looked at me again.
“I was crying by then, I can tell you. They didn’t really punch each other much, but there was a lot of pushing. And then,” she gave a strangled sob, and I started toward her, but Scoobie put an arm in front of me.

“And then Richard kind of lost his balance, he was still tipsy, and Peter gave him a hard push.”
She pointed toward the bottom of the bar, across from the closet. “There was a glass display case there, and the corner was quite sharp.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “There was so much blood. All over the floor, just outside that stupid mirrored closet where they hid all the alcohol they were selling.”

I remembered that the floor there had wider boards than the rest of the floor.
You probably couldn’t see the difference now, the entire floor was covered in soot and tiny pieces of burned wood. I had a quick thought that Peter must have replaced the boards that had blood on them.

“And then what?” I asked.

“Then Peter said he was going to take me home and come back to help Richard. He said tomorrow it would be like a bad dream, that I should never again stay up so late. And I was never to talk about what happened.” She shivered. “It was very clear to me that Peter had hurt Richard and was letting me know he could hurt me, too.”

We were all silent for perhaps twenty seconds, then Sophie spoke again.
“I left that house the day after I graduated from high school and I hardly ever came back.”

“That’s a long time to live in fear,” Scoobie said, quietly.

“And I kept that secret,” Sophie said, “and I intend to keep keeping it.”

“That would be fine, if it weren’t for Mary Doris,” I said quietly.
“And I bet you started the fire.” I looked directly into Sophie’s eyes and saw a pair as resolute as my own staring back. Could this elderly woman really have killed Mary Doris? How on earth could she have done it? What would she know about making a poisonous alcohol?

“I know what you did,” Scoobie said softly.

I looked at him, amazed. “What?” I asked.

“I bet you had some old bottles of alcohol, spirits, whatever you want to call it, from Peter and Richard’s so-called bakery.
Or maybe something they bought from somebody else to sell.” Scoobie’s voice had a bitterness I’d never heard before. “You went to see Mary Doris, and you gave her some to drink. Only you didn’t drink any, because you knew it was wood alcohol, not grain alcohol. You also knew it would take someone several days to get sick after she drank the bad stuff. No one would associate her death with your visit.”

After a long ten or fifteen seconds, Sophie spoke.
“You are either a very smart man, or a very devious one.”

“Smart enough to recognize your deviousness,” he said, calmly.

Sophie’s voice was almost a hiss. “We helped her. My mother gave her money so she could get her teaching certificate. She owed us.”

I gave a violent shiver.
I had been so focused on Sophie’s story I had not realized my feet had become blocks of ice. It was a warm night for January, but it was likely just below freezing and not a night to stand in the cold as long as we had. Scoobie put one arm around my shoulders and gave me a quick hug.

She continued, more calmly.
“Peter kept a lot of the old bottles as souvenirs. Hid them in the basement in a wooden crate. It even said “poison” on the top of one of the crates. Audrey told me, this was years later, that some of the last stuff they bought to sell was bad. Bad hootch, she called it.”

Sophie paused for a moment.
“Pretty dumb to keep it around, with Peter and Audrey having kids. I took a few bottles as souvenirs after Audrey died. I can’t begin to tell you why I kept a couple of the poison ones.” She shrugged. “The labels were a bit different, I guess I wanted samples of each label.

She smiled sweetly.
“You’ll be pleased to know I made sure the other poison bottles were emptied.

“So, you took a bottle to Mary Doris. But why? What did she ever do to you?” I said, a catch in my voice.

“After everything we did for her, everything, that silly old woman was going to tell the whole story, let everyone know Peter killed Richard.
As soon as I heard she knew the DNA results, I was sure that’s what she’d do.”

“So what?” Scoobie said, stomping his own feet a couple of times.
“There’s no one to arrest, the sins of the father don’t always pass to the child.”

“That’s what you think.
It wasn’t just Richard. That bad hootch killed several people. You know City Councilman Grooms?”

I nodded.

“His grandfather.
Not that he knows the bad alcohol was from my family. The names Fisher and Tillotson mean something in this town. My mother and Audrey gave most of the money for Ocean Alley’s library. There’s a huge plaque.

“Yeah, there is,” Scoobie said.
“I’ll see it comes down.”

“And that’s the point!”
Her voice was more strident. “If people find out about all this,” she gestured around the ruin of Bakery at the Shore, “they’ll put it all together. All the good they did, my family’s reputation, it will all be down the drain.”

“Actually,” I felt my blood about to boil; if only it would get to my feet.
“If you hadn’t murdered Mary Doris, all people would guess, if they even thought about it, is that Peter killed Richard. And it was an accident you said.”