Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 04 - Any Port in a Storm (22 page)

George joined me at the door.
“We probably gotta go now. People who work the early shift at the regional hospital will be getting up about now.”

I looked at him and murmured, “The things you know.”
I reached for the door knob.

“Wait a second.”
George took a used napkin from his pocket and placed it over the knob, rubbing it a bit as he opened it. He did the same on the outside of the knob.

“Good thinking,” I said, and we walked quickly down the driveway and continued around a corner toward his car.

We were about twenty feet from it when a voice behind us said, “Hey!”

I heard George’s locks pop open and we darted into the car, each slamming a door.
He had it started and was pulling away in less than two seconds. I could hear someone running and a wobbling beam of light bounced in and out of the rear view mirror. We turned a corner and George sped up.

I looked behind us.
We had traveled almost a block and a man had just run up to the corner behind us. He stopped and raised his flashlight as if shaking a fist. “Wow.”

“No kidding,” George said.
“He wouldn’t have been able to get the license. Put your belt on.”

I was already reaching for it, and I took his from his hand after I did mine and slid it into the plastic receptor on the side of his seat.
Our fingers touched, and I had the warm sensation I felt when he kissed me.

After a long minute, I said, “I’m not sure I’d do that again.”

He half laughed, half grunted. “So what did we learn except that Ricardo Bruno runs fast?” he asked.

“That whatever is in that shed is so important they have a silent alarm on it,” I said.

I HELD MY EYELIDS OPEN, literally, for part of the first half-hour of the drive back to Ocean Alley, telling myself George should have some stimulation to stay awake to drive. Didn’t work. It was almost five in the morning when I jerked awake. George had just stopped his car a couple houses down from the Cozy Corner.

“Sorry,” I said, through a yawn.

“S’okay. You were really out. I kept putting the window up and down to stay awake, and you never moved. You know you snore, right?”

“I do not!”

“My camera can make videos, you know,” he said, with a smirk.

“You didn’t…” I turned to face him and was ready to search his pockets for the camera.

“Only because I was too tired,” he said, yawning.

There was the sound of a door banging shut, and in the silence of dawn someone said, “Damn.”

George and I both looked toward the side door of the Cozy Corner as Harry crept out, shoes in hand.

HALF OF ME wanted to find a way to tell Aunt Madge I thought it was great she and Harry were getting to be way more than friends, and the other half couldn’t figure out why they were trying to keep their…what?…relationship a secret.
Maybe they’re just sleeping around and they don’t want to look loose.
I laughed aloud at how ludicrous that thought was. It got me a shushing sound from someone nearby.

I was in the library later in the day Wednesday trying to keep my eyes open and looking up articles on Ricardo Bruno.
George was at work looking in some of the arrest and judicial databases he could get to at the
Ocean Alley Press
. There wasn’t much. If he’d been what Aunt Madge would call a hooligan in his younger years it hadn’t made it into the papers.

What did show up was his car business was almost put out of business when General Motors disenfranchised a bunch of less-profitable dealerships.
There were petitions saying GM should keep it open, and the local congressman wrote to GM and sent a letter to the editor. Bruno kept his dealership, but my sense was it wasn’t a big money maker. Maybe making some extra money selling pot was his way of groping for solvency.

I logged out of the computer and picked up my purse and notebook.
None of this told me who put the mallet in my trunk, and as far as I knew, the wrongful death suit had not been withdrawn. As I walked toward my car, a squirrel holding two acorns chattered at me, apparently thinking I was out to rob him rather than just walking to the library parking lot. “You can keep your nuts,” I said.

I was giggling to myself when my phone chirped.
“Mrs. Gentil?” a girl’s voice asked.

“Agnes?”

“Oh you recognized me. That’s good.” She drew a breath. “I’m at work.”

I sat on a bench.
“I heard you were a massage therapist.”

“Yes.
I can sit down. I mean, some therapists stand, but I…” Her voice trailed off.

“Is there something I can help you with, Agnes?”

“I just wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell you Hayden’s not all bad.” She said this almost defiantly.

“That’s good to know,” I said, not wanting to say anything that would make her stop talking.

“And I know why he was in Ocean Alley.”

Ok
ay, come on, spit it out.

“Ma’am? Are you there?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m listening.”

“His sister, Veronica, she’s not so bad, but I don’t think her husband was very good for Hayden,” she said.

“You were talking to him, weren’t you?” I asked, trying to keep a gentle tone.

“Yes, almost every week.
He felt really, really bad. He knows what…knew what kind of candy I like, and he’d give some to one of my girlfriends to give to me. I really miss him.” She started to cry.

I hadn’t expected this.
Agnes had been reserved when I visited her family, but it had not occurred to me that she was still in touch with Hayden. “Take your time, Agnes.”

She sniffed a few times, and blew her nose.
“Okay. What I wanted to tell you was that Ricardo really didn’t like Hayden being around. He said Hayden ate more food than all three of his kids combined, and he was lazy.”

At first I said nothing.
When she didn’t speak for about ten seconds, I asked, “And he told Hayden to leave?”

“Not really.
He said Hayden had to make some money, and nobody would hire a jailbird. He called him that all the time.” Her voice held a lot of bitterness. “Hayden hated being called that. He got so mad one time that he stole some of Ricardo’s gardening stuff, because he said all Ricardo cared about was his yard.”

I realized that she probably didn’t know Ricardo grew his own pot.
She certainly didn’t sound as if she knew the “gardening stuff” was hydroponic growing equipment.

“So Hayden told you about ‘developing new markets,’ not his friend Mark?” I asked.

“Mark wouldn’t even talk to him anymore. His wife is pregnant. She didn’t want Hayden in their lives at all.” She drew a breath. “Ricardo gets pot from someplace, and pain pills. Supposedly he sells to ‘a select few’ people. But he thought Hayden should help him sell more.”

It seemed terribly risky to me.
A local businessman should have better sense than to sell drugs in his own town. Or nearby. And to involve someone like Hayden? That was asking for trouble.

“I appreciate that you told me this,” I said.

“There’s one more thing,” she said. “Ricardo wanted Hayden to find people to buy who were not so far from Matawan, but Hayden picked Ocean Alley. He laughed when he told me. He said Mary Jo, that’s his godmother, said there was something she wanted him to do there.”

“Did she say what?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Agnes said. “But he said she was going to give him $200.”

GEORGE SAID I WAS as phony as an oyster in fresh water, but eventually he believed I’d talked to Agnes again. “Where does it get us?” he asked. “I don’t think it would be too bright to track down this Mary Jo woman.”

Not if she’s anything like her brother.
“I don’t either. It shows I was right. Hayden was here because of Joe Pedone’s sister.”

“Okay, you were right.
Are you happy now?”

“Not really,” I said.

THE ARTICLE IN the
Ocean Alley Press
said police were frustrated at “the lack of leads in the murder of Hayden Grosso.” I knew I should care about this. Surely his mother loved him, and I didn’t like the idea of any killer walking the beach. Or trying something else to frame me for the murder.

What I cared more about was that my life was getting back to normal, and George and I had a date to go to the movies on the weekend.
I had seen Megan at Harvest for All the day before, and we spent half an hour unpacking eight boxes from a food drive at the Unitarian Church. Megan said that Alicia was doing better, and that Claude from Mr. Markle’s store walked her home from school every day “to be sure she was all right.” She smiled when she quoted Claude.

I drove into Mr. Markle’s parking lot and pulled a note from my purse.
Since he’ll buy food for us almost at cost, I had a list of refrigerated items I wanted him to order, starting with twenty dozen eggs.

I shivered as the store’s air-conditioning hit me, and waved to Mr. Markle, who seemed less grouchy than usual.
“Why do you look so jolly?” I called, immediately realizing that the term ‘jolly’ was hardly called for.

“Good morning, Jolie.”
He gave me something that looked almost like a smile as he took the list and attached it to his clipboard. “Things are finally getting back to normal,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Kids aren’t shoplifting, and nobody’s knocked over any of my outdoor pots for more than two weeks.”

I walked beside him as he moved to the back of the store.
“Summer kids, you think?”

He half glanced at me.
“I think it was locals. Part of some sort of game or other, looked like.”

“You mean you recognized the kids?” I asked.

“A couple.” He kept walking.

“Mr. Markle.”
I had stopped walking, so he did, too and faced me. “Do you mean kids I would know?”

He looked away.
“I was going to get them on camera and call their parents in. Didn’t want to get them arrested the first time out.”

Mr. Markle has a heart.
“Like who?” I asked.

He stared at me.
“Your little friend who helps at the food pantry. Plus a couple of her friends.”

I was honestly stunned.
I couldn’t imagine Alicia stealing. “That’s just so hard to be…”

“I know what I saw,” he said sharply, and started to continue walking.

“I didn’t mean that,” I said. “I was just surprised.”

He didn’t acknowledge me, so I walked down to the customer service counter and left the money for the food he would order.

Why would they do that?
What did he mean, some sort of game
? I had a vague memory of an article about gangs in Camden and how older gang members would groom young kids by giving them gifts. Then they’d ask kids to do something illegal, and the kids were grateful for the gifts and they’d pick up drug money or something. Maybe Hayden encouraged the shoplifting. Maybe he was trying to groom Alicia and her friends to buy or sell pot by getting them used to committing petty crimes.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.

I was almost to the automatic door to head back outside when I saw Max coming in.
I rightly assumed Josh would not be far behind.

“Jolie, Jolie.
I’m so glad to see you.” He walked up to me and gave me a big hug and then stood back.

I’m sure surprise was all over my face.
“I’m glad to see you, too,” Max.
Am I really? No more hugs!

“I’ll get the fudgesicles,” he called over his shoulder, as he walked toward the freezer section.

“Sorry about that, Jolie,” Josh said, his gaze following Max before he turned to me. “He says you are always nice to him. I’ll talk to him when there’s a good opportunity.”

“A good opportunity…?”
I asked.

“If I just say, ‘Don’t hug people you don’t know really well,’ it won’t sink in.
I’ll think of a way to tell him so he’ll remember.”

I shook my head slightly.
“What would he do without you?”

“It’s not all a one-way street.
Nobody’ll make you laugh like Max.” Josh flashed me a quick smile.

“Fudgsicles?
Won’t they melt?”

“It’s a pack of four.
I eat one and he eats three,” Josh said.

“How does he stay so thin?” I asked, wishing I could eat a bag of bake sale cookies and three ice cream bars and still look lean.

“You’re kidding, right?” Josh asked.

I gave him a puzzled look, and then got it.
“Mr. Non-Stop?”

“Burns more calories in an hour than you or I burn in a day.”

I laughed. “Where are your bongo drums and pack?” I asked, looking around.

“I rented us a tiny cottage in the popsicle district.
Lester found it for us,” Josh said, his eyes scouting for Max.

“So you’ll be here all the time?
That’s great.”

He nodded slowly, and gave a small wave to Max, who was heading toward the cash register.
“People are good to him here, and there’s that sheltered workshop that the Methodist Church helps run.”

I’d heard the term, but wasn’t sure I understood it fully.
My confusion must have shown, because he continued. “A place where people with mental disabilities, or maybe physical I don’t know, can do kind of menial jobs, with a lot of supervision. It’s not so much about making the money as having a place to go, some structure.”

“Max would do that?” I asked.

“I talked to them one day when Max was at the library computers. We’ll go together for awhile, and if it works out Max can be there by himself some,” he said.

Max walked up, hands in the paper freezer bag trying to open the ice cream bars.
“Too cold to eat in here.” He looked up.

I smiled at him.
“I heard about your new place,” I said.

He nodded vigorously.
“Yep. A room for Josh and a room for me.” He laughed. “Our pirate ship has a port.”

Josh gave me a short raised-eyebrow look.
“You have no idea how I wish I’d used a different term.”

Max giggled, then grew serious.
“We need beds.”

“I think George knows someone with a pickup truck.
Maybe they’ll have some beds at Goodwill.”

“Josh can sleep all night.
He won’t have to go walking,” Max said.

Josh shook his head.
“I only do that when I think you’re asleep.”

Max gave me a delighted grin and they walked out.

I gave them a minute to get ahead of me and walked out, thinking again how little time Josh had to himself. Josh walks the beach at night.
Did Josh see anything the night Hayden was killed? Would he tell the police if he had?

IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL fall day, but my mood didn’t match it. I was frustrated. Harry only had one house for me to appraise, and I couldn’t do it for a few days. It’s not like I was broke, but another month or two like this and I’d be scraping the bottom of my bank account.

When I opened another letter from the Grossos’ lawyer, I felt even worse.
They weren’t dropping the suit. They expanded it to include “members of the board of directors of the organization known as The Harvest for All Food Pantry.”

“That does it!”
I yelled.

“Jolie.
One of the guests is upstairs,” Aunt Madge said as she came into the kitchen. “What’s bothering you?”

She reached into a cabinet to get flour and yeast to make the afternoon bread for her guest or I couldn’t have gotten away with the lie.
“I just looked at my bank statement. I really don’t want to go a few more weeks with so little work.”

She turned.
“Do you need some money?”

“No, I’m okay.
I’m just mad at people for saying they don’t want me to do the work.” I held the envelope at my side so she couldn’t see who sent it. “I guess I just needed to distract myself.” I blew her an air kiss. “I’m heading back out in a bit. Meeting Scoobie.”

“Good.
He’s so busy at school we hardly ever see him.”

I thought about that as I climbed the steps to get a sweater before going back outside.
Scoobie did seem to be doing a lot more studying than he had a few weeks ago. Of course, classes would get harder as the semester progressed.

I sat on my bed and reread the letter.
It noted that the Grossos were “willing to discuss a modest settlement” if I would meet them at the office of their lawyer, and it gave an address in Matawan. “Great, I’ll spend five hundred dollars to take a lawyer with me to talk to his parents, and then they’ll name some ridiculous figure that’s twenty times more money than I’ll make in ten years.”

Jazz meowed and stretched, and I stroked her gently.
“I don’t have any treats here.” She sat on my foot.

I called the phone number on the letter and asked what times would be available for my attorney and me to meet with the Grossos.

The woman who answered was very accommodating.
“I’m really not supposed to tell you this, but I think Mr. and Mrs. Grosso just want to talk to you. They wish they hadn’t been talked into filing that suit.”

“Talked into?” I asked.

“Oh well, no matter,” she said. “I just brought it up because, well, maybe you don’t want to pay your lawyer to drive up here with you. You could always come without your lawyer, and if you need him, or her, come back. Mr. and Mrs. Grosso can come almost any time.”

“And it’s just with Hayden’s parents?” I was relieved not to have to deal with Victoria and Ricardo Bruno.
I didn’t think I was on their Christmas card list, and that was before George and I tried to get into their shed.

“Just them,” she said.

“You know, I think I’ll come without my attorney.” I tried to sound very formal. “As you say, we can reschedule if necessary.”

We set up a time for Friday afternoon, and I hung up feeling a lot less worried about my bank account.

“NO, I’M GOING ALONE.”
I said this to Ramona, and since it was the third time I had said it I was quite annoyed.

She started to say something, but a customer’s voice came from the copy machine area.
“I’m not sure what buttons to push for back-to-back copies.”

“Don’t leave,” she commanded, and walked toward the customer.

I wasn’t in a particular hurry. It’s not as if I had any work. But I wasn’t going to debate my plans with her. I deliberately hadn’t told Aunt Madge or George I was heading up to Matawan alone, but I didn’t figure Ramona would be so hostile about the idea.
That’s what you get for confiding in anyone.

I glanced at the digital clock on my phone.
I needed to leave in about fifteen minutes. I wanted to give myself plenty of time to get to the Grossos’ lawyer’s office without feeling rushed.

“Okay,” she said, walking up beside me again. “I can’t talk you out of it.
Why don’t you take George or Scoobie?”

I gave her a look.

“Okay, I’ll go with you,” she started to take off the apron she always wears when she fools with the copier. It protects her brightly colored skirts.

“Sure.
Just walk out of work,” I said.

“I get off at four anyway.
Roland won’t care. I never leave early.” She walked back to Roland’s small office, which is really a corner in the storage area.

At first I was annoyed, then I figured Ramona and I would have fun.
Maybe we could even stop at Asbury Park on the way back and eat at Buckey’s, my favorite place for crab soup.

We were on the road in ten minutes.
I could tell Roland didn’t like having to work on the floor of the store, but as Ramona said, she didn’t leave early very often.

“This is a day I’d like a convertible,” I said.
And it was a perfect fall day. The leaves had just barely started to turn, and it was maybe sixty-five degrees and there was a light breeze from the ocean. Couldn’t smell it on the highway, but I’d enjoyed it all morning as I ran errands and walked the dogs.

Ramona and I aren’t by ourselves too often, so we had plenty to talk about, especially since she wanted to talk about George and me.