Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 05 - Trouble on the Doorstep (5 page)

He seemed to choose his words carefully.
“A couple of us have wondered if maybe, well…if she had a few days without her usual meds or something. You know, during the storm.”

“I don’t really know much about Elmira, or any medicines she takes,” I said.
Though it might explain a lot about her moods. Or not.

He smiled again, and I was reminded of an unctuous uncle of my father’s.
“She’s been more upset than usual, especially about the repair estimate, anything storm-related.”

I looked at him directly.
“It does seem a bit high.”

He shrugged.
“My wife Louise and I are simply thrilled to have the complex handle everything.” He gave an expansive wave. “Everything in the yards was cleaned up within two days.”

“You are fortunate,” I said, still not sure why he was talking to me.

He gave a firm nod. “I thought I’d give you my card. Would you like us to call you if she seems more distressed?” Before I could choke out a strong “no” in response, he took a small business card from his pocket. It said, “Andrew Markham, Experienced Retiree.”

I smiled at him.
“Lots of experience?”

“More than ten years.
My wife and I made some good investments.”

I sensed he wanted to chat more, and nodded toward Scoobie.
“I’m glad for you.”
Thanks to Robby raiding our retirement funds, I won’t have savings again for years.
“I need to say goodbye to my friend and get to my next appointment.”

After a couple more mindless pleasantries, he walked back into his house, and Scoobie walked over.

“What the heck are you doing here?”

I gave him a thirty-second summary.
“That estimate was ridiculous,” I concluded.

“What do you care?”

“It just makes me wonder about the bids for those repairs,” I said. “I wonder how much Eric and Steve were going to bid for this job?”

“Did you just hear my question?” he asked.

I stuck out my tongue, and then lowered my voice, “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about her. But some insurance company is going to get rooked.”

Scoobie shrugged.
“They can look out for themselves.”

I left Scoobie and his volunteers to their digging and drove to the complex office.
I was going to give them a couple business cards and try to turn the conversation to the hurricane repairs.

The office for the entire complex was in the independent living apartment building.
As I made my way up the short walkway I took in the meticulously groomed flower beds, minus flowers on a late November day, and the expensive-looking porch furniture sitting by the entry door. It didn’t look like a place where people gathered for a smoke.

When I opened the office door, which was just off the small lobby, a man of about forty glanced up and cut off my hello.
“We don’t have any comment for the media.”

I had met Fred Brennan at Rotary.
He was one of those people who looks perpetually sure of themselves and doesn’t mind interrupting anyone if he wants to make a point.

“Then you’re in luck.
I’m not with the media.” I gave him my friendliest smile and introduced myself.

He looked at me more closely and I thought he recognized me but wasn’t sure why. “Don’t mean to be rude.
I just got off a five-minute phone call trying to say no comment ten different ways. We’ve had a lot of questions about a hit-and-run that occurred just outside the complex.”

I nodded.
“Actually, I know some of the family, but that’s not why I’m here.” I gave my usual spiel about a real estate agent writing a sales contract, and that Harry and I could do an appraisal expeditiously, so a sale could go through quickly. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep us in mind when you hear that there are residents who want to sell.”

As I handed him a couple of cards he nodded slowly.
“I remember now, Rotary.” He shook my hand. “People don’t really need an appraiser,” he said. “They sell the property back to us and we resell it. It’s one of the many ways we maintain quality.”

I figured that was a euphemism for keeping out people they thought would not keep up their property.
“I know how it works. Sometimes people just like to know what it’s worth before they sell it back.”

Brennan looked at me more closely.
“Do I know you from somewhere else?”

“Maybe you know my aunt, Madge Richards.”

I saw his memory click in and gave an internal groan. He was remembering that I chaired the Harvest for All food pantry committee and had found a body not long after our Talk-Like-a-Pirate-Day fundraiser.

“I do know Madge,” he said, letting go of my hand.
“Saw your name in the paper a couple of times? Food pantry, right?”

“Yes, but I’m not here to ask for a donation.
One of your residents asked me to stop by for something else. And I’m generally interested in what you do here. I hope it’s a long way away, but eventually Aunt Madge might want an assisted living apartment.”

“Ah, well.
We would be delighted to have her. And Harry, too, of course.” He gave the kind of broad smile that almost everyone in town gives when they say they know Aunt Madge.

Of course
.
How can I ask who did the inflated estimates?
“Looks as if you weathered the hurricane pretty well.”

Brennan did half a shrug.
“Most of our damage was from rain as much as wind. We’ve already done a lot of cleaning in some units and hauled away a lot of debris from the lawns. I’ve worked for two weeks to line up all the paperwork so contractors can start soon to get things as good as new.”

I nodded, trying to look sympathetic.
“I bet a lot of other senior citizen residences wish they had management that handled everything.”

“We basically self-insure, so we don’t have a lot of red tape to go through with an insurance company or a bunch of individual policies if residents had their own insurance.”

“Isn’t that a bit risky?” I asked.

He smiled, but I could tell he was getting tired of my questions.
“Some people would say so, but risk is part of any business, isn’t it? You’re a business woman.” He smiled again, almost perfunctorily. “We have steadily amassed a large escrow account just for major repairs. We more or less build what someone would pay for a homeowner’s policy into the rent or the monthly fee for the duplexes. It would only be an issue if we didn’t save a good amount monthly.”

I wanted to ask him if he was nuts, or what they would do if there was the equivalent of a Hurricane Sandy next year.
They couldn’t have that much socked away and easily replenished. Instead, I asked, “What about the contents of a home? Do residents still buy insurance for that?”

“Since our residents essentially buy long-term leases for the duplexes, they only need insurance for property loss or, if they choose, liability.
We handle all maintenance and repairs.” He said this last sentence quickly and looked toward a clock on the wall.

“Ah.
So someone here gave Elmira Washington her estimate? She knows that I know just a bit about home repairs and such, and she wanted me to look at the water damage from the storm “

His friendliness vanished.
“Mrs. Washington tends to have a direct point of view.”

I nodded.
“I’ve run into it before.” When he said nothing I made to go. “I appreciate you talking to me.”

He nodded, but looked anything but pleased.

COFFEE IS NOT MEANT to be a calm-yo
u-down sort of drink, but Elmira is enough to rattle anyone. I did feel soothed after I got to Java Jolt and had my first sip. I glanced around the very tiny coffee shop, a temporary location on C Street until Joe Regan has his boardwalk shop fixed up.

Most of the few boardwalk businesses that stay open in the winter had been badly damaged, and the owners hadn’t bothered to look for alternate space during the off-season.
Given that most of the skilled repair workers were in southern New Jersey, I thought they would be lucky if they could open in the summer.

Joe’s Java Jolt is the only coffee shop in town after October 1st, and I also figured it’s his only income.
While he didn’t seem too pleased with the space, his shop was usually a contribution to my sanity.

I took a deep breath.
Elmira has ticked me off from my first day back in Ocean Alley. You should never have gone over there. That was the opinion of one side of my brain. The other reminded me that Aunt Madge would have helped her, and she didn’t like Elmira any better than I did. Then yet another corner thought knowing about the ridiculous repair estimate might help me figure out why Eric Morton and Steve Oliver…

Do you hear yourself?
Butt out!

The door to the shop banged as George walked in.
From the scowl he gave me I figured he’d heard Pooki had been with me, and he was ticked. He poured himself a cup and left money in the large sugar bowl Joe has out for winter customers.

He slid into the seat across from me.
“I shouldn’t even talk to you.”

“Promises, promises,” I said.
There have been times that I’ve avoided George to the point of looking in the Java Jolt window before I walked in. I’m mostly over that.

“Why didn’t you tell me she was with you?” he asked.
He took his narrow reporter’s notebook from the breast pocket of his Hawaiian style collared shirt, which is what he wears year-round. Only with khakis instead of shorts when it’s winter.

“You would have had to compromise your ethics, or something like that.”

“What the devil do you mean?”

“I mean you might have felt you had to tell your editor…” I began.

“Damn straight,” he said.

…and then I wouldn’t have talked to you for ages.
Or done anything else.” I gave him my most suggestive look. “So, this way you didn’t have to make a choice.”

“Bull,” he said.

I could tell he was trying not to look amused. “She was scared, her husband said she should hide, and she was just a few feet away from me when you called. Have you met her?” I asked.

“Thanks to you, no.”

“She cries at the drop of a hat. And I’m pretty sure it’s more for attention than anything else. I didn’t need her blubbering all over the floor again.”

“Huh?”

“You two lovebirds having a spat?” Joe asked, with his trademark smirk.

George flipped him one finger without turning around, and I said, “Just our usual afternoon chat.”

George leaned closer. “So what else do you know?”

“Not a lot, really.
She said she picked the Cozy Corner because her husband’s voice mail said she shouldn’t go anywhere where people knew her and she shouldn’t use her credit cards. She knew her parents stayed with Aunt Madge when she got married last summer, so she took a chance and came by.”

“So why was her car by that park on the edge of town?” George asked.

“Almost out of gas. Hey.” I thought of Elmira. “Have you heard anything about pricey hurricane repairs at Silver Times Senior Living?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Nothing more to tell. But Elmira thinks she’s gotten a ridiculously big estimate for repairs at her place, and I might have to agree with her,” I said.

“You don’t talk to Elmira,” George said, in an accusatory tone.

“She wanted me to look at the damage and her estimate.”

George stared at me.
“She thinks you know about repair costs? Wait. You didn’t go, did you?”

I shrugged.
“She probably thinks I do estimates on what houses are worth, rather than just comparing them to previous sales in the area. Anyway, we didn’t talk much. Scoobie came to the door with the teens…”

“Yeah, he said if they do a couple half-days of volunteer clean-up either Reverend Jamison or Father Teehan will spring for pizza Friday night,” George said.

The two clergymen banded together to ask Scoobie to take the lead on an ecumenical teen group that would do some volunteer work, but mostly have fun in a safe environment. Scoobie’s near the end of his first semester of a program to be a radiology tech, his return to school after a long bout with depression following years of alcohol and pot. He wasn’t too keen on the teen group idea, but as a reformed juvenile delinquent he saw the value.

“As I was saying, when Scoobie came to the door with them to dig up her tree’s root ball she as good as slammed the door in his face, so I left.”

George grinned. “Now that’s the Jolie I know and…”

He was going to say love, but Joe listens to every conversation.

“…try not to stay too mad at,” he finished.

I gave him a smile of sorts.
I truly am glad George and I are dating. He’s fun, and he and Scoobie and Ramona are my good friends, so we do a lot together. After the rough time I had at the end of my marriage, it’s good to be having fun again.

“So, you know anything else?” he asked, taking a big gulp of coffee.

I realized it was time for him to be writing a story, not talking to me.
“Not about anything you want to write about,” I said, and slid my foot over to rest on top of his.

He flushed.
“Okay, okay. But if you hear something, you’ll tell me? Even if it involves an hysterical woman at midnight.”

IT HAD ONLY been drizzling for a short time and the rain wasn’t coming down that hard, but it was the kind of damp that goes through you in about ten seconds. I shivered as I went from my parked car to the side door of the Cozy Corner.

I left my umbrella on the porch and walked straight to the breakfast room.
I’m trying to remember to turn off Aunt Madge’s security system as soon as I come into the Cozy Corner. That’s harder than it might sound, because even though it’s right by the door that leads to the small parking lot, we don’t usually turn it on during the day or if the B&B has a lot of guests. Aunt Madge’s philosophy is that there is safety in numbers.

This time I looked at it and made to move to the drawer where we keep the security code, and then saw that I hadn’t turned it on.
Huh, I thought
I did that. Jazz bounded down the stairs as I walked through the swinging doors into the kitchen. Unlike their usual sitting position on the rug by the sliding glass door, Mister Rogers and Miss Piggy were sitting in the middle of the great room, looking alert. “What’s with you guys?”

Miss Piggy’s response was to walk to the sliding glass door to be let out, but Mister Rogers remained sitting, very straight, staring at the door to the pantry.

“Now don’t be scared,” a man’s voice said.
“Honest, I’m just here about Pooki.” Eric Morton opened the pantry door and stared at me as I bolted for the powder room so I didn’t pee my pants.