Appraisal for Murder (13 page)

My face must have reflected my lack of enthusiasm for the message, because Harry seemed sympathetic. “You can just say you don’t have anything to tell him.”

“He already has the general impression that I don’t want to talk to him.”

I was in a funk as I drove back to Aunt Madge’s. I decided to change into jogging clothes and do my half-run-mostly-walk exercise earlier than usual. The day was cool, but there wasn’t much breeze, so it wasn’t the kind of damp chill that makes you understand why people go to Florida in the winter. I walked slowly toward the boardwalk, stopping every now and then to stretch my calf muscles.

I hadn’t counted on seeing Joe Pedone again. He was sitting on a bench outside Java Jolt, reading the paper. It was about 45 degrees, and he was wearing a winter coat. Not used to October beach weather, I thought.

I felt my chest tighten. “That’s not only more than I could make some months, you don’t seem to get the point that I’m not repaying any of my husband’s gambling debts. They’re his.”

“I warned you,” was all he said, and walked away.

“Who was that?”

I turned sharply. Michael must have just walked out of Java Jolt. “He wants me to pay some of Robby’s gambling debts. I don’t think they were the kind of loans you get at a bank.”

He frowned. “It’s against the law to collect on some gambling debts.” My face must have brightened, because he added, “Of course, not all the people who lend the money would feel obliged to abide by that.” His attitude was decidedly cool.

“Don’t,” he said. “It’s dangerous for all concerned.” He turned and walked away, but I figured he probably wouldn’t have hollered if I followed him. Remembering Aunt Madge’s axiom about not chasing boys, I began my steady jog, going in the opposite direction.

I knew I needed to talk to the police about Pedone, but I was still reluctant to do it. I kept thinking that if I ignored it he would go away. I have often tried this, and once or twice it has worked. It cannot always be said that I am always a fast learner. Since my talk with the prosecuting attorney’s staff was scheduled for the next day, I figured I’d see if Sgt. Morehouse was there and talk to him.

MY APPOINTMENT IN THE OFFICE of the Prosecuting Attorney was scheduled for ten a.m., and I arrived early. I was supposed to appraise a house in what Harry called the Popsicle District at eleven-thirty. I figured I had plenty of time to get there.

As I walked slowly down the hall looking for the office to which I’d been told to report – “Trial Team One” – I saw Sgt. Morehouse sitting on the narrow bench outside that office. He greeted me almost coldly, and I wondered if I had somehow managed to offend him. “I thought I’d get a cup of coffee to take in with me. Can I get you one?” I asked. This seemed to relax him a little.

“I’ll walk down to the cafeteria with you,” he said. He didn’t speak until we were by ourselves in the elevator. “Noticed you been gettin’ pretty friendly with Riordan.”

What a crock
. “Then you would have noticed we only spoke for a minute when he came out of the coffee shop.”

“So, he’s not your buddy?”

“My buddy,” I repeated.
Do not mouth off to cops
, I reminded myself. “He’s fond of my aunt. You already know she helped him make funeral arrangements, and he’s stopped by to talk to her other times. I do live with her, you know.”

“Yeah.” The elevator opened and we walked to the coffee machines in the small courthouse cafeteria.

“I’m curious, when do we get to find out why you suspect Michael?” He shot me a quick glance and I continued. “It just seems that he’d be kind of…stupid to have done it. Especially to have done it and had me discover her, when he had just left.”

He finished adding cream to his coffee. “No one said murderers are smart.”

“If they were, we wouldn’t have so many good cop shows and murder mysteries on TV.” I gave him what I hoped look like a sincere smile.

He grew businesslike. “I can put you in touch with another officer who works almost full-time on stalking cases and domestic violence.”

“I’m not sure this would fall into either of those categories.” As we made our way back to the prosecuting attorney’s suite of offices, I described my experiences with Pedone, including my suspicion that he had flattened my tires.

He was definitely interested. “If he’s threatening you, this is very serious. I could have him picked up.”

As we again sat down on the bench outside the Trial Team One office, I went over Pedone’s language. “When he says stuff like his ‘offer was implied’ it seems like a threat to me, but maybe he could convince a judge he was kidding, or something.”

A woman came out of the office and invited me in. “I’ll see if I can find out who he is,” Morehouse said, crushing his coffee cup and tossing it into a waste basket. He strode down the hall. I realized he had only been sitting there so he could talk to me, and I didn’t like it.

The room in which the staff was questioning me was very small, barely big enough for the tiny desk and three wooden chairs that looked about forty years old. “Annie Milner,” said a woman about my age as she extended her hand, “and this is Paul Damon. He’s a special investigator in the prosecuting attorney’s office.” He was even younger, and gave me a slight wave without getting up.

“Do I know you?” I asked Annie.

“We may have been in the same class in high school for the year you lived here.” Her eyes met mine. “I looked quite different then.”

Noting her tailored clothes and what looked to be an expensive haircut, I figured she could well look better as a lawyer than a high school girl. “Paul will ask most of the questions today,” she said, nodding to him.

At first it seemed to me as if the prosecuting attorney’s staff could have asked me the questions over the phone. I told them exactly what I had told the police. After a few minutes of this, the tone of the session changed, at first almost imperceptibly. “How well did you know Michael Riordan prior to the day you first went to his house?” asked Paul.

“I didn’t really…” I began.

“Surely you remember him from high school,” he interrupted.

“If you had let me finish, you’d have heard that I knew who he was in high school, because he ran for student body president.” I wasn’t about to say I’d liked him. He nodded as if to acknowledge that he shouldn’t have interrupted, and I continued. “I talked to him for a minute on the boardwalk one day not long ago and, frankly, he pi...ticked me off. He mentioned that my aunt had thrown him out of Sunday School class, and I could understand why.”

“Sgt. Morehouse said your aunt seems pretty sure Riordan didn’t kill his mother. Why is that?”

What an odd question, I thought. “If you want specifics, you’d have to talk to her.” I paused, thinking I really didn’t want her to have to go through this, and continued. “She’s known him a long time, and despite the Sunday School stuff, she just doesn’t think he would do it. He was good to his mother.” I shrugged. “Aunt Madge knew Ruth Riordan a lot better than Michael, of course.”

I was now thoroughly annoyed and, I had to admit, nervous. He was implying Aunt Madge was hiding information about someone he thought to be a murderer. I glanced at Annie Milner and back at him. “Again, you’d have to ask her, but I think their confidences have been limited to discussions about the funeral, the fact that she knew his mother loved him, the kind of stuff people say to someone who’s lost a parent.”

I stood. “I am happy to answer any questions about what I remember the day I found Mrs. Riordan, but I really can’t think of more that I can add.”

“Thanks,” he said. They didn’t get up as I left, but Annie did nod at me.

As I did the appraisal I had an internal debate about how much of the conversation to relay to Aunt Madge. On reflection, I decided to give her full details. I didn’t want them surprising her with questions later.

“That’s balderdash,” she said as she unloaded some towels from the dryer. “Those people are paid to think of all kinds of things; angles, I think they call them.”

I took some of the folded towels and put them in the basket she used to carry them upstairs. “Maybe it’s not. Maybe they think you’re hiding something.”

“I’m not,” she said, in her usual practical manner. “I don’t care what they think.”

Miss Piggy barked once, and I opened the door and let her in. I sat on a kitchen chair, and she placed her head in my lap. I bent down to pat her and smelled something distinctly unpleasant. She dropped a mangled piece of what had probably been a bird in my lap. I screeched and jumped up.

“Sorry, dear,” Aunt Madge said as she resumed folding. “I should have told you never to let them put their heads in your lap when they first come in. They sometimes bring presents.”

AS MICHAEL HAD TOLD ME EARLIER, you learn what the prosecutor has for evidence at the probable cause hearing. It was scheduled for Monday and would be open to the public; according to George Winters’ article, the hearing would be “the first time
Ocean Alley Press
readers learn the facts and issues of the case.” Most of the article repeated the circumstances of Mrs. Riordan’s death, but this time Winters added that not only had I “discovered” the body soon after I had been with Michael Riordan, but that he and I had gone to high school together.

“He writes as if Michael and I plotted to kill his mother!” I had been pacing around Aunt Madge’s kitchen and sitting room as I read the article aloud to her.

“You’re reading that into it, dear,” she said as she shaped her bread mixture into a loaf.

“And so will anyone else.” I threw the paper on the couch.

“No, they won’t,” she said, more firmly than she usually spoke. “You’re upset. Have some tea.” She gestured toward the electric kettle.

I avoided telling her tea was not the panacea for major problems by telling her I would take the dogs for a walk and grabbing their leashes. I let myself out the sliding glass door and into the back yard.

WHEN SGT. MOREHOUSE CALLED the Friday before the probable cause hearing, he said that I was not likely to be called as a witness. He would be asked questions about what I had told him. “Now, if youdda seen somebody wielding an ax, they’d have you up there.” Cop humor. Not funny.

Before the hearing, I had to get through a weekend in the B&B with two guests from Houston, one of whom was Joel Kenner. It had to be more than a coincidence that they picked Aunt Madge’s Cozy Corner. I was sorely tempted to stay in a motel or go visit Reneé and her family in Lakewood. I discussed this with Aunt Madge who tactfully told me she thought I considered myself more important to what Mr. Kenner and company were doing than they did.
Point taken.
Plus, Renée and I would shop, and I shouldn’t spend money I didn’t have.

At least Friday night was Halloween. I put an orange ribbon around Jazz’s neck, and she wrestled with herself on the steps trying to get it off. Aunt Madge opened the kitchen door so that the dogs could see through the dining room into the hall. Since she didn’t want them bolting to the door every time Trick-or-Treaters appeared on the porch, she put a child barrier across it. They would have had to take a running leap to get over it, and Aunt Madge had learned they couldn’t get the proper traction on the tiled floor, so they were safely relegated (from Jazz’s point of view) to the kitchen.

To avoid Joel Kenner, I put eyeholes in an old sheet and distributed candy in costume. When a little kid was afraid to come to the door, Aunt Madge would go out to them with raisins or candy. While she was not fond of my ‘get-up,’ as she called it, she didn’t insist I behave like an adult.

Kenner and another man, whose name I did not get since I stood on the front porch as they checked in, arrived about seven-thirty and then went out in search of crab cakes. Avoidance tactic #1 had worked, and I had not scared too many children.

SATURDAY MORNING I STOPPED by the Purple Cow, ostensibly to buy envelopes but hoping to see Ramona. She seemed to be a good source for the kind of information Aunt Madge was not willing to hear, or at least pass on. The message on the white board was, “Change is not merely necessary to life, it is life.” Alvin Toffler. I was tired of change, at least the disruptive kind that had characterized my life lately, and asked Ramona who put up the quotes.