Appraisal for Murder (12 page)

I went into the side entrance of First Bank, which led to the offices housed upstairs. It was a frame building that had been covered in yellow vinyl siding. Though the front had a plate glass window that revealed the small bank, the windows on the side of the building were trimmed in a shade of green clearly meant to resemble the ocean. As I walked up the exterior stairway I was treated to several plastic fish that were fastened to the siding. The interior hallway was well-lit and brightly painted, so you didn’t have the feeling of being in a corridor as narrow as it was. Lester’s small office was at the end of the hall and the door stood open. The smell of cigars wafted into the hallway, and my heart sank. I hate cigars; they give me a headache.

He had his feet propped on the small desk and was reading the comics. He looked about 45, and his balding pate looked as if it had been sunburned many times. So, he smoked and let himself get sunburned.
Smart guy.
Viewing him in profile, I could see a neatly trimmed mustache. He also had a large mole beside his nose.
Definitely a distinctive look.

At my knock, he threw the paper on the desk and rose, stubbing out his cigar as he did so. “Hello,” he extended his hand. “Sorry about the smoke, I wasn’t expecting anyone.” He was very short, and he seemed to buy his suits in a regular size, since the jacket was way too long, even in the sleeves. He did have a friendly smile and firm handshake.

“I can come back…”

“No, of course not. I just meant I wouldn’t have been fouling the air for company.” He gestured to a chair. “Please sit down.”

I introduced myself and he nodded. “Ramona said she told you to stop by. Glad you did.” He grinned. “Heard you’re working for my favorite appraiser.”

I handed him a couple of my cards. “Yes, I read some of your poetry in Harry’s files.”

He barked a laugh and thumped his fist on the table. “Yeah, my friends say no one should let me near a pen or a phone when I’m pissed.”

I had not expected to like him, but found his frankness appealing. “That would probably be good advice for me, too.” I grinned back at him. “I thought maybe you might be willing to try Harry’s company again. I hear we’re $25 cheaper than the competition.”

“Yeah, that’s why I went there. Would you do the work?”

“Yes,” I said, “But, I have to be honest and tell you I agreed with Harry’s appraisal on the Marino house. I reviewed it pretty carefully, and pulled up some other comps.”

I nodded. “I just don’t want to give the wrong impression. I think I’m pretty flexible, but I have to go with my professional judgment.”

He studied me for five seconds, which is a long time if someone is staring at you. “Okay, I hear you.” He looked at my card. “I’ll call again.” His tone changed. “Too bad about Mrs. Riordan.”

“Actually, she was strangled.”
What the hell is wrong with me?

He stared at me before barking another laugh. “You’re a pisser.” He grew somber. “A lot of people think Michael’s big-headed. Maybe he is, but he was always respectful to his parents. I heard his father say that, when the kids graduated from high school.”

“Some people seem to think he wasn’t so good to them after he married Darla.”

He shrugged. “Dames. He came every Thanksgiving, I can tell you that. By himself. That woulda pissed off any of my wives. Shows guts.”

Any of his wives?
If there’d been only two, he probably would have said both wives. All I said was, “I see what you mean.”

I stood to go and held out my hand. “I hope we get to work together.” I meant it.

THE ARTICLE IN THE TUESDAY HOUSTON paper was very one-sided. I knew that because Aunt Madge had a faxed copy, which Michael had left when he stopped by earlier. “I tried to give it back to him before he left, but he said he wanted you to read it.”

Uh-oh.
I figured that was my guilty conscience reacting, because there was no way he could know I’d talked to Joel Kenner. Kenner’s article was long, but he listed only one source by name.

“Some people just have a problem with their tempers,” is how Sgt. Morehouse of the Ocean Alley Police characterized Michael Riordan, when asked why he might have murdered his mother, as he is accused of having done earlier this month.

Kenner had not bothered to get quotes from anyone who questioned Michael’s arrest or had anything positive to say. He did say he had learned of the murder from a friend of Riordan’s. I figured it hadn’t taken Kenner long to learn there was no Georgine Winters at the
Ocean Alley Press.

Interspersed with the details of the crime were references to the fact that Michael and his partners had “mutually agreed” that he should resign as vice-president for operations for USA Energy Distributors. Again, no mention of why he had not yet acted on that resignation, or even why he was leaving.

I glanced at the top of the fax to see where it had come from. Someone at Michael’s firm had sent it, as it bore their name and fax number across the top. This was terrible, and it was all my fault.

When he returned a few minutes later, I could tell that Michael was at least entertaining that possibility. “You up for coffee at Java Jolt?” he asked. He didn’t extend the offer to Aunt Madge. Probably wanted to talk to me out of her earshot. He picked up the article from the kitchen table as we left.

“I’ll tell you why I think it was you.” His tone was mild, but I sensed he was controlling it. I said nothing and he continued. “First, you’re pretty quick, and if you hadn’t done it, you’d be following what I’m saying better, probably jumping in with more than just ‘Oh.’”

Gulp.

“Two, you know how to be cagey, so I don’t think you’re above calling Kenner and using an assumed name. Though that was probably not the brightest one to choose.”

He has a point there
.

“And, three, the article said he heard about this from a ‘friend of mine’ and you seem to be one, and to think I’m innocent. Although,” he said almost amiably, “I’m not sure that’s to my advantage.”

I had to smile at that. But, I should have known his seemingly good mood would not last. He stopped and faced me.

“So, I’m telling you for the last time, Jolie. Stay out of my business!” His face was inches from mine. He turned and started to walk away and turned back pointing his finger at me. “And I’ll tell you one more thing. My parents told me to be nice to you at school, because you were Madge’s niece. I never would’ve talked to you otherwise.”

I TOOK AUNT MADGE TO SUPPER that night. Newhart’s was extra busy because the blue plate special was crab cakes, and the ones Arnie Newhart makes taste as if they have more crab than breading. Plus, he always serves pasta with the crab cakes. I needed something to distract me from the acid in my stomach ever since Michael had yelled at me. I kept hearing him say, “I never would’ve talked to you otherwise
.” What did I care?
The thing was, I did.

We ate in companionable silence for most of the meal. Aunt Madge had the decency not to ask about Michael’s article. As well as she knows me, she had probably figured if Kenner had a call from someone in Ocean Alley it was me. Bless her, she would have assumed my motives were good but, like so many other aspects of my life, things had not worked out as I’d planned.

I swore that the only business I would mind from then on was my own. I would emulate Aunt Madge, no gossip, no poking into anyone else’s life.

Arnie stopped at our table, picture frame in hand. “What do you think of this?” he asked Aunt Madge.

She took the eight by ten-inch frame and laughed. “Local rumrunner gets his boat back,” she read aloud, and passed it to me.

The old photo was dark, but I recognized Uncle Gordon and the small dory that Aunt Madge still keeps in the garage. The photo looked to be a good copy made from the original print, but the small article was a photocopy of one from an old
Ocean Alley Press.
I looked at Aunt Madge, who was asking Arnie where he would hang it and following his gaze to a spot not too far from our booth.

I turned back to the article. The two paragraphs said only that the local police had confiscated Gordon Richards’ boat the day before Prohibition ended and that Mr. Richards had traded the local police chief two bottles of “pure Jamaican rum” to get it back. As Arnie walked away I looked at Aunt Madge. “I thought Dad just called Uncle Gordon a rumrunner for fun.”

She shrugged. “I met him much later, of course. You can see how young he was in the photo.” I nodded and she continued. “He told me that he helped an uncle if there was a lot of fog. He’d stand on the beach and have a line in as if he was surf fishing, and a very small fire next to him, like he was going to cook what he caught. If he saw any local police or revenuers he’d quickly add to the fire so his uncle wouldn’t come in along the cove, he’d go further down.”

“I thought all the bootleggers were in the Mafia.”

She shook her head decisively. “First, true bootleggers usually made the stuff, and rumrunners just went out to sea a mile or so to bring in cases of liquor. Some of it was really big business.” She took a bite of her cooling crab cake and continued. “Your Uncle Gordon’s uncle just brought in a few cases at a time, what the local hotel needed for its speakeasy.”

“But,” I protested, “if it was Prohibition, what was the hotel doing selling it?”

“You don’t think that stopped people from drinking, do you?” she asked dryly. “Speakeasies were sort of underground bars. I’m told this one was on the third floor of the hotel. The rooms on that floor were only rented to people who were going to be imbibing.”

Aunt Madge kept eating, and her expression reminded me more of Ramona’s faraway look than her own practical alertness. When she met my gaze again she was smiling. “It was Uncle Gordon’s boat – he had spent two months building it. His uncle’s boat had been seized a few weeks before.” Her smile faded. “People did what they could to feed their families.”

“He’s lucky he got it back,” I said, turning to my pasta.

“No luck about it. You remember me telling you about his grandmother, the one who closed the doors in the courthouse during the fire?”

“I thank her every time I visit the Registrar of Deeds,” I said.

“Uncle Gordon said she marched into the police chief’s office the day after they seized the boat and gave him, if you’ll pardon me, hell. Told the chief he only took the boat because he wanted a good fishing boat for himself, and if he didn’t give it back to her grandson she’d make sure everyone knew that the chief snuck off to go fishing a lot of Friday afternoons in the summer.” She was smiling again, and craned her neck to look at the framed photo, which Arnie had since hung on a nail a short distance from us.

That reminded me about the seemingly fresh coat of paint I’d seen on the boat in her garage. “Who painted the boat for you? Looked as if it was just done.”

She waved her spoon dismissively. “I get it painted every couple of years. Salt air will weather it too much if I don’t.” When I started to ask another question, she added, “I picked up two guests for the weekend. Pretty good for late October.”

“Where are they from, or are they from different towns?” I asked.

“Texas. Houston.”

Uh oh.

THE NEXT DAY, THE county prosecuting attorney’s office called to schedule a time to have his staff talk to me. “But, I don’t know anything,” I said, distressed that I would once again be butting into Michael Riordan’s life.

What a stupid answer, I thought, as I drove to Harry’s office. I wondered if I should call my divorce lawyer, but he would say I should have someone with me and recommend a lawyer who would probably cost quite a bit of what little money I had in my bank account. I had just bought two tires and made my student loan and a credit card payment – the only card that a bank had not canceled – but Harry was supposed to pay me today. We had agreed on every other week, and I would get $200 of the $400 of each appraisal fee.

I would feel better after I deposited my paycheck in the bank. If I thought of my pay in terms of an hourly wage, it was far lower than I was used to. However, I was able to be with Aunt Madge and had little pressure in my life, other than that I created for myself, that is.

Harry had a house for me, but I couldn’t go until tomorrow. Still, I could drive by today, and get a sense of what houses I could use for comps and pull that information. He also had a phone message for me, from George Winters.

The big disadvantage to not having your own place is that you don’t have your own phone line. You can’t screen calls, and you really can’t hang up on people if you are in someone else’s house or place of business.