Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 04 - Any Port in a Storm (11 page)

“Can you swing by? I know I told you to bring an attorney next time, but what I want to talk to you about is the break-in at Harvest for All.”

“Uh, sure.
I’ll come by now.”

I had been on my way to Harry’s to pick up information on a house to appraise, so I turned around in a gas station and made my way to the police station.

It was Dana Johnson who came to the front counter to lead me into the office area.
“You doing okay?” she asked.

“People who don’t know me well probably think I killed a guy, so no, I’m not okay.”

She didn’t respond, but gestured that I should take a seat in the small conference room and left. I stared around the room, which had a large bulletin board with a huge map of Ocean Alley affixed to it with thumb tacks. I walked up to it, noting there were push-pins on several points on the map. One was right on the spot where Harvest for All is, and several were in a cluster around Ocean Alley Middle School, which was near where Megan and Alicia lived.

A throat cleared and I turned to see Lt. Tortino.
“Have a seat,” he said.

“It’s kind of odd,” he said, as he sat across from me, “but the fingerprints we found at the food pantry…”

“I thought you didn’t have the results back,” I said. I had called on Friday, since I figured at least one person would ask me about it at Talk Like a Pirate Day.

“Corporal Johnson said you called, and that she explained that the New Jersey State Police Office of Forensic Sciences would compare the prints to any on record.
What she didn’t tell you is that this can take months for a non-violent crime.”

“Why so long?
What if the person broke into lots of places?”

Tortino’s look was almost pained.
“This isn’t a TV crime show, and we’re too small a department to have a crime lab.” He seemed to sense I was about to interrupt and held up his hand, palm facing me. “Anything associated with a murder has a much higher priority. When we sent Mr. Grosso’s fingerprints to Forensics Sciences we asked them to compare his fingerprints to your break-in and a couple other recent burglaries.”

When he saw my puzzled expression, he added, “The coroner takes fingerprints from murder victims.
The only local crime that matched his prints was the break-in at Harvest for All.”

“Yuck.”
He continued to stare at me, so I added, “I mean, are you saying he was behind the counter or something? The only time I saw him in there he was standing at the door talking to me and Reverend Jamison.”

“So Reverend Jamison tells me.
I thought maybe you’d know if he came in another time.”

“I’m not always there when Harvest for All is open, but customers stay on one side of the counter and we pack food for them on the other side.
There’s no reason for them to be behind the counter.”

He sighed.
“Well, he’s likely the person who broke in. We had elimination prints from you on file, and we got them from Megan and a couple other volunteers. Grosso’s were the only ones that didn’t appear to belong there.”

“So what does it mean?” I asked.

“You may not have had it in for him, but he was certainly out to irritate you.”

HARRY STEELE THOUGHT I needed some time off. After the last few days and my talk with Lt. Tortino, I didn’t disagree with him, but I didn’t want to relax. I wanted to find out who was trying to frame me for Hayden’s murder.

“Surely you don’t have to stay in town,” he said, when I told him I wanted to hang out at home.

“I’d rather stay busy.”

“Doing what?” he asked.

“A suspicious nature probably takes years off your life.”

He gave me a look very similar to Aunt Madge’s ‘is she trying to pull one over on me?’ expression.
“If you don’t go away, sit on the beach for a few hours. The weather’s still terrific and there aren’t a thousand tourists,” Harry said.

Suddenly a loud bell rang in my head.
“Well,” I hesitated, hoping it looked as if I was really thinking about his suggestion. “Maybe I’ll go shopping in Lakewood or someplace out of town on Wednesday. I haven’t looked at any of the summer sales.”

Harry beamed.
I wish Aunt Madge were that easy.

I ONCE ADDED highlights to my hair, but I have never done a full dye job. It’s like pouring chemicals into your nose with a straw. I glanced at the clock. Seven-thirty, with the funeral at ten. I was in the Dew Drop Inn Motel on Highway 34 in Colts Neck, and had told the owner I’d been driving all night and wanted the room for a day rather than a night.

I didn’t just need to color my hair, I needed a place to change into the navy blue dress that is my uniform for funerals and really serious business meetings.
With luck, I would be able to change back into my khakis and wash my hair thirty times this afternoon and be home before Aunt Madge was suspicious.

A low-throated growl reminded me Jazz sat on the bed.
She hates her carrier. I was supposed to be taking her to the vet to get her annual shots and pills for worms. I figured no one, not even Scoobie, would suspect me of going out of town with Jazz. A vet in Perth Amboy assured me I could drop her off and pick her up in two hours.

“It’s okay, Jazz.”
I wrapped a towel around my now very black hair and poked a kitty treat into her carrier. “Ouch!”

Jazz stared at me, seemingly asking if I’d learned my lesson.

“It’s for a good cause. If I get sent to jail, no more cat treats.”

Her stare was impervious, and she apparently thought it was the height of insult not to eat the treat, because she ignored it.

I PULLED INTO THE parking lot of the large drugstore across from Our Lady of Perpetual Help at five minutes before ten.
My strategy was to slip in as the service started and slip out as it ended, so no one would pay any attention to me. There were still people walking up the church steps, so I walked into the store and bought a bottle of water and small pack of tissues. I had no plans to cry during this funeral, but you never know.

As I was walking out, an Ocean Alley police car pulled into the church parking lot across the street.
I backed into a guy with very pink skin who was holding a can of after-sun spray. “Sorry!”

He glared at me as he walked around me and onto the sidewalk.

Why didn’t I think of the police?
In all the TV shows, police always hang out at victims’ funerals. Sgt. Morehouse and Dana Johnson, in civilian clothes, walked hurriedly into the church. Having my hair in a French twist and wearing high heels and large sunglasses would not be enough of a disguise.

I walked slowly to my car, glad I had planned to park across the street.
I was already here, there was no point in going home. I moved my car to the far end of the drug store parking lot and locked my purse in the trunk. The less to bother with the better.

When I crossed the street I kept looking around for more police or, worse, Megan and Alicia.
I glanced at the front of the church. The Catholic Church in Ocean Alley has a choir loft, and this one was tall enough to host one. Maybe I’d get lucky.

The hearse was parked in front of the church, and I walked behind it, nodding at the wizened older man who stood sentry in the traditional funeral home black.
I eased into the vestibule and gave myself a minute to adjust to the darker lighting. I opened the door a crack and peeked in.

Unlike the usual Sunday service in any church I’ve been to, people were clustered in the front.
It was a smaller crowd than I’d expected, perhaps only fifty people. I eased into the church and saw the narrow stairs on my right. Undeterred by the velvet ribbon hanging across them, I unhooked it, refastened it, and headed up.

It is very hard to walk quietly in heels.
On the second step I took them off and walked up in my stocking feet. George grinned at me as I got to the top of the steps.

I sat on the wooden chair next to him, mildly thankful that he wasn’t in his usual Hawaiian style shirt and knee-length shorts.
“Touché,” I whispered. “And wipe that grin off your face.”

“You saw Morehouse, right?” he whispered back.

I nodded and looked toward the front of the church. A very elderly priest was now on the altar, but there were none of the young altar boys I associated with a Catholic service. With a sinking feeling, I remembered how long a Catholic Mass could be. George is Catholic, and had come prepared. He passed me an Oreo.

We sat in silence throughout the first part of the service.
My mind bounced through the last few days.
Why me?
With just the smallest amount of guilt I realized the more accurate question was “Why Hayden?” Even if he annoyed people as regularly as he did me he certainly didn’t deserve to be killed. He either annoyed others at a much higher level or he picked the wrong person to tick off.

Other than the fact that Alicia was so grief stricken, Hayden’s death would not have made many waves in my world.
Except that someone is trying to frame you for murder
. Or were they? There would be — should be — no way to truly link me to Hayden’s death. Perhaps whoever did it simply added hurting my reputation to their list of evil deeds. Who could I have possibly ticked off that much? I had a vague thought of making a list.

George came immediately to mind.
I assumed it was because I was sitting next to him, not because I really thought he was that angry with me. I shifted my eyes to him without turning my head. He was staring intently at the priest as the man made his way to the pulpit to talk about Hayden.

I guess I’m starting to like George.
He even makes me laugh, when he’s not putting lousy pictures of me in the paper. If he’d just grow up or something.

“Family members, friends.
Today is a sad day. We can pray for Hayden’s soul, and we can celebrate his life. We can talk about the fact that he is now with our Lord and is in a better place. But it does not lighten our sorrow.”

The priest and mourners had my full attention now.
At any funeral I’ve been to this would bring at least one loud sob or a bunch of stifled but still audible ones. None came.

The priest, whose name I never did get, spoke largely in platitudes.
When he finally said he had “never had the pleasure of meeting Hayden Grosso,” I figured it was no surprise to anyone in the church. When he asked if anyone had memories to share, a man I guessed was about Hayden’s age walked to the pulpit.

He took a deep breath.
“Hayden and I were best friends from kindergarten through high school. There’s not one thing we didn’t do together. We competed for a spot on the relay team before every swim meet, and when we got up the nerve to ask out girls, we double-dated.”

I noticed that did bring a couple smiles and glanced at the mourners below me.
A young woman who looked to be about twenty sat very straight. She stared at the speaker without any reaction to his words. Old girlfriend, maybe, I thought.

“I wish I’d seen more of Hayden the last few years,” the man continued.
“I wish I could introduce him to the son my wife and I are about to have.” He paused, struggling with tears. “I’ll hold onto those good memories.”

That’s it?

Footsteps came softly up the stairs. I looked around the choir loft with a sense of dread, and then followed George’s pointing finger and almost slid into the batch of choir robes hanging on a long rack. I just had time to get behind them and make sure my feet were not showing. And then pinch my nose so I didn’t sneeze.

Whoever came up the steps also sat on one of the small wooden chairs.
It squeaked. I couldn’t see whether George and the new person nodded at each other, but they definitely didn’t speak.

It might not be Morehouse or Dana.
But it almost had to be.

The robes and my pounding heart kept me from hearing most of the second person’s remarks.
Words such as “great promise” and “really enjoyed playing junior varsity” and something about Yosemite reached me. Sounded as if the man had been one of Hayden’s teachers.

I’d been to Catholic Masses before.
There would be at least another twenty minutes of praying and listening to the priest. I suddenly had to pee really badly. Or really well.
Just get me to a bathroom
. I suppressed a giggle.

Finally it was over.
When I heard Morehouse’s voice I could have kissed George for pointing me toward the robes.
Kissed George?

“Always good to have a different perspective on a crowd,” Morehouse said, in a low voice.

“I hear you,” George said.

“Notice anything?” he asked in a casual tone.

“You know our deal. I don’t pass on stuff unless somebody could get hurt if I don’t,” George said.

“Notice anything?” Morehouse asked again.

George must have shaken his head.

“Me either,” Morehouse said.
“Can’t figure out why they’re over here when the family is from Matawan.”

“Maybe his parents were from here, or something,” George replied.

“Headin’ out?” Morehouse asked.

“I’ll walk down with you,” George said, and I heard them walk down the stairs.

Now what?
For another minute or two there were murmurings below me, and then it got quiet. I waited another minute and ducked out from behind the robes. I took a deep breath, glad to be away from the smells of ten different kinds of perfume and aftershave.

I padded toward my seat, realizing as I walked that I’d left my shoes by the chair I’d been in.
They were nearby, as if George had quickly slid them as far from him as possible.
Pretty smart
. I picked them up and tucked them under my right arm. Instinctively I looked for my purse, and remembered I’d left it in the car.

I got to the bottom of the steps and put on my sunglasses and was putting on my shoes when the priest and a couple came out from behind the altar.
It was the young man who gave the talk and the woman who sat with her back so straight.

They seemed surprised to see someone still in the church, and I straightened up, thinking if I didn’t greet them it would seem very odd.
I wished I’d made it to the bathroom before I had to talk to anyone.

“Good afternoon,” the priest said.

“Hello. I enjoyed your remarks. Both of you.”

The woman winced.

“Well, not enjoyed…”

The young man smiled and held out his hand.
“Mark Montgomery. This is my wife, Melanie Morgan.”

Hard to forget all those M’s.
I shook Mark’s hand. Melanie did not offer hers. “Ramona Argrow,” I said.

“Father, did you order the candles?”
The voice was from the front of the church, an older woman who appeared to have come in looking for him.

“Excuse me,” he said, and walked away.

The outer door to the church opened and someone entered the vestibule.

There was a pause, and I added, “Sounds as if you knew Hayden well.”

“Yes, we…” his tone sharpened. “You aren’t a reporter, are you?”

“Goodness, no.
Nosy people.” I smiled at him, and the door that led from the vestibule back to the street opened and closed.

Now what?
I couldn’t say we worked together, he’d ask where. “Hayden volunteered at a charity event in Ocean Alley last Saturday. I didn’t know him well, but he was a big help.”

Mark’s face brightened.
“I heard that.” He looked at his wife. “He was coming back around.”

She nodded briefly, and Mark looked uncomfortable, perhaps thinking he had said too much.

“We all change courses at least a couple times in our lives,” I said, trying to come up with something Aunt Madge would say. “Enjoy your son.” I smiled at the two of them and walked out.

If only I wasn’t in disguise!
No, I needed to be in disguise. What I also needed was a reason to talk longer to Mark Montgomery, but today was not the day.

The hearse was gone, as were all but two of the cars in the lot.
George had his at the curb and was leaning against it. He did a half-bow and walked to the driver’s side.