Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 02 - Rekindling Motives (17 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

WHEN HARRY STEELE called Monday morning I could almost hear the chuckle in his voice. “You’ll be glad to hear even the county prosecuting attorney’s staff is not above the law.”

“You mean Annie Milner?” I asked.

“I do indeed. Seems she was getting ready to move stuff into the old storefront Mary Doris left her when the executor told her it has to be appraised to determine its value for the estate. He wants it done before she makes any changes to the place.”

“And she wants you to appraise it?” I asked.

“Specifically, you. She said you were on her campaign committee.”

“She, I never…All I did was go to a meeting with her and a couple
of other people over the weekend.” If Annie was going to go around telling people I was on her campaign committee I’d have to put a stop to that.

“You have to watch politicians,” Harry said, but his tone was light.
“I take it you’ll do the work.”

I thought about it for a moment.
“You may need to review my comps. I only did residential appraisals in college.”

“Sure.
She wants it done pretty quickly, so stop by this morning and get the key. I’ll square it with the attorney who’s executor.”

I sat stirring the pulp around in my juice for a minute and thought about Annie and her run for county prosecut
ing attorney. I was more than mildly annoyed that she was throwing my name around, on the other hand, the chance to snoop in Peter Fisher and Richard Tillotson’s former Bakery at the Shore was way too good to pass up.

I was giving myself a head slap when Aunt Madge entered the kitchen.
“Good heavens, Jolie. What’s that all about?”

I explained Harry’s call.
“And I just remembered that Lester Argrow is the real estate agent. Or has been anyway. You know how he is.”

Aunt Madge smiled.
“I think he’s easier on you than he is on Harry.” She walked over to the electric kettle and turned up the heat, about to have what would likely be her third or fourth cup of tea, even though it was only about nine o’clock. “Besides, Lester likes you.”

THE
LOCK ON THE door to Mary Doris Milner’s building was surely not the original one, but it was close. I finally figured out that if I pulled the door toward me and jiggled the key I could get in. The smell of must and age was more pungent than during Annie’s campaign meeting; she must have aired the place for a good hour before we got there. I hated to close the door, but I’ve learned the hard way to lock myself in when I work in a vacant building.

I finally located the light switch in the back of the
room, not far from the old bar, and made a mental note that the electrical system was woefully out of date. It had been awhile since I’d been in a building with push-button light switches. Dollars to donuts if she were buying the building a mortgage company would require a lot of upgrading before they would underwrite a loan. Maybe Mary Doris left her enough money to do some remodeling.

With light from two overhead single bulbs I stood in the center of the room and turned slowly.
The mahogany bar was the only item that kept the room – the entire building, really – from being a true dive. The mirror behind it had been there for decades and had deep scratches in a couple of places. The floor must have been constructed with very hard wood, as it bore few marks. It had been painted white at some point in the past, so it was hard to tell what kind it was. Oak if I had to guess. The exception was a spot near the door that I assumed had led to a former kitchen. That piece of the floor had been replaced with pine and had a couple of deep gouges in it.

Reminding myself that there would be nothing worth finding so long after Peter and Richard had owned the bakery I pulled out my tape measure and got to work.
By the time I finished measuring the main room, two small offices behind it, and the old kitchen, which still had a rusty iron wood-burning stove in it, I could not understand why Annie wanted this building. It was a dump. The windows had single pane glass that would surely let in more heat and cold than they kept out, and every surface was likely covered in lead-based paint.

I took more photos than usual.
With a building this old I thought we might need more photos in the appraisal documents. I also wanted help from Harry, and I thought the pictures might help him work with me. I dropped the camera in my purse and stood with my back to the kitchen door and surveyed the main room from that vantage point. It was easy to envision glass bakery cases stocked with fresh bread and cookies, perhaps with a hollow area underneath to store bottles of illicit booze. When I was very young, my sister Renée took me to a candy store that would have been near this building, and I could imagine children running in and out of Bakery at the Shore as we had done at the old candy store.

My lower back was sore and I wished I had thought to bring one of Aunt Madge’s lightweight lawn chairs.
I leaned against the door jamb and pressed the small of my back into it. I sniffed. It smelled like some kind of heavy duty glue, sort of like the old rubber cement Uncle Gordon used to keep in his boat house. I was turning to look at the wallpaper behind me when there was a loud pounding on the front door.

I dropped my notebook and tape measure and jumped, then cursed up a storm at the pain this brought to my back.
At the door was Annie Milner, who had the good grace to look chagrined for scaring the crap out of me. I walked over and unlocked the door to let her in.

“I’m sorry, Jolie.
I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No big deal, I said.”
Why are you lying? Your heart is still pounding.

Her gaze went around the room and she said nothing for several seconds.
“Looks as if I have a lot to do, doesn’t it?”

“To be honest, this building’s in such bad shape it’s hard to imagine why you want it.”
I pointed to the molding at the top of the room, which had separated from the ceiling by at least an inch. “It’s settled quite a bit. If it did that twenty-five years ago and not since, then it’s not such a big deal, but my guess is it is more recent.”

“Why?” she asked, following my pointing finger.

“It doesn’t look as if there was ever a lowered ceiling put in, so anyone who looked up would see that spot. It would only take a ladder and a couple of minutes to move the molding up a bit and hammer in a couple of nails,” I said.

She sighed.
“I get it. I wish I hadn’t promised…” she chewed her bottom lip.

“Promised your aunt you’d keep it?”

She nodded slowly. “I don’t know why she liked this old building. She owned two houses in town, used to live in one and rent the other, until she went into the nursing home. She didn’t care if those were sold.”

I thought for a couple
of seconds before replying. “Aunt Madge might have some idea,” I began.

She gave a small, dismissive wave.
“If you mean that story about Mary Doris dating Richard Tillotson and him having a bakery here, I can’t imagine she’d be that impractical.”

I took that, and the pain in my tailbone, as my cues to leave.
“I’ll work up the appraisal tomorrow, I hope.” When she glanced at me, I added, “It may take some creative thinking. There haven’t been a lot of similar buildings sold lately.”

She nodded.
“This whole thing is ridiculous. Except for some specific bequests her entire estate comes to me. It seems silly to have this appraised before I move in and do some improvements.”

I couldn’t resist.
“You know how lawyers are.”

HARRY HAD GIVEN ME A
KEY to the side door nearest his large home office, and I made myself at home there early the next morning. I wanted to start work on the appraisal package before I went to the food pantry to do some paperwork. If I didn’t get an order to the main food bank by this afternoon we’d miss our monthly shipment of nonperishable goods.

It was too early to get into the courthouse to look at other commercial sales, so I spent half an hour entering data into the appraisal software program and was heading back out when Harry came downstairs.

“You’re up early,” he said and raised his mug of coffee to offer me a cup.

“No thanks.
Have to go over to First Prez to place a food order and then I’ll swing by the courthouse.”

“Have at it,” he said as he turned on his computer.

I like Harry a lot, but find it hard to imagine why anyone would want to retire to Ocean Alley and fix up an old Victorian house. None of his kids live within an easy drive. I reminded myself that I live sufficiently far from my parents so they can’t drop in; maybe he did the same.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

SCOOBIE WAS WAITING BY THE entrance that led to the food pantry, collar pulled up and hands in his pockets. “Scoobie! If you had called I wouldn’t have gone to Harry’s first.”

“I’ve only been here a couple of minutes,” he said, stamping his feet to warm them as we walked down the short hallway to the counter where volunteers distributed food.

I scanned the area, which was as neat as it had been every time I’d been in there. I’d only met a few of the volunteers who distributed the food and I made a mental note to thank them. I walked toward the file cabinet just inside the food storage area and pulled a file from the top drawer. “This is what I’d really like you to look at.” I handed Scoobie the master list of items we could order from the Lakewood Food Bank and a copy of our food pantry’s last order. “I want to order things people are used to seeing, but there may be some things you think should have been on the shelves but weren’t.”

“Mac and cheese,” he said, before looking at the list.

“That’s a staple for little kids,” I said and looked over his shoulder. “Is it one of the choices?”

Scoobie turned his head halfway to look me in the eye with an expression I can only call intense.
I held my hands up in submission. “I’ll leave you to look.” I wandered to the shelves which were organized similarly to a grocery store—canned fruits and vegetables together, crackers and soup next to each other, and so on. I wasn’t sure if all the empty spots were because it was time for an order or if there were always blank spots for sugar and cooking oil.

“Got a pen?” Scoobie asked, still looking at the list.

I took one from the empty can-turned-pen-holder on the counter and he began making small tick marks next to items. After a minute he handed me the list, which I read quickly. “What they ordered before is ok, I just added a few things,” he said.

He had checked mac and cheese, tuna helper, and canned pineapple as things to add.
At the bottom he had written “Coco Puffs.”

I looked up and saw the sparkle in his eyes.
“Because, you know, I’m koo koo for Coco Puffs,” he said.

“I think I can only order what’s on the list, but I can ask Aunt Madge to keep some Coco Puffs on hand for you.”

“You’ll be getting a lot of local donations in the next
couple or weeks.” At my blank expression he added, “Christmas. The one time of the year, the second time each year, that people think to give a lot.” Scoobie took a piece of paper off the counter and began tearing it into small pieces.

“What are you doing?” I asked as I pulled the order form from the folder.

“What you need – hey maybe it could be a fundraiser – is a contest, you know, like guess the number of jelly beans in a jar. Only this would be to guess how many cans of sweet potatoes would be left over on December 26th.”

I won’t say it went downhill from there, but Scoobie had been his most helpful when he was telling me items he thought people wished were available.
Coco Puffs aside.

I DROPPED HIM AT THE LIBRARY and went back to Harry’s to pick up my folder on the old bakery building.
I felt better knowing the order was completed. Rev. Jamison’s secretary would fax it to the food bank for me; grudgingly, I assumed, since she did not think me holy enough for the job as food pantry head honcho.

I had a pleasant surprise when researching the Bakery at the Shore building at the courthouse.
There were few good comps, which I expected, but in the Register of Deeds’ folder that held information on all the past sales were several drawings of the earliest floor plan. Usually the Register of Deeds would not keep such a drawing, since the original plan and major structural modifications are in the assessor’s office. I could see why these were kept. They were precision drawings on heavy paper stock, with notations on the side as to the purpose of each room. It was the kind of old-fashioned document you would expect to see on display in a local historical society.

It was a minute or two before I realized that the handwriting was Peter Fisher’s.
I would probably have recognized his tiny, perfectly formed letters, but the initials “PF” at the bottom corner and the date – May 6, 1928 – were a giveaway.

The layout was similar to today’s, with the kitchen of that day also parallel to the main room.
However, the old kitchen had a window that looked onto the street. The window and entry door were separated by only a couple or of feet. That surprised me, as I would have thought the two booze sellers wanted as little visibility as possible. But, it had been the custom in the early beach businesses to let people see candy makers, bakers, and others at work. It would likely have seemed odd if they did not have a view into the kitchen.

I looked for the closet Mary Doris said Richard had locked Peter in, and decided it could have been next to the kitchen door.
The closet must have been boarded over long ago. I frowned. The hallway was in the same place, and ran back from the main room, starting directly next to where the former closet door could have been. With no office on that side of the small hallway it meant there would be a lot of empty space behind that wall. That was odd. I’d have to ask Harry if that large former closet should be on my drawings.

Harry and I talked at length about the appraisal.
The building was assessed at $171,000, so Mary Doris’s taxes were based on that. However, there was no way it was worth that now. Aunt Madge thought it had been vacant for three or four years. Mary Doris had kept the utilities on, so the interior had not had to endure wide temperature swings, but it had probably been careworn when Little Mama’s Café stopped doing business and looked worse now. If I owned it I’d tear it down, and said so to Harry.

He shrugged.
“My kids would have torn this house down, and look at it now.”

I glanced around the refinished floors and other woodwork and fresh paint.
I knew he’d been doing a lot more than curb appeal type repairs, and figured he had sunk tens of thousands into his grandparents’ old house.

“Maybe Mary Doris and Annie had a vision for revitalizing the building,” he said.

I held my tongue, always an effort. I almost said that if that was their goal they should have started a decade or more ago. What mattered was what the evidence said the place was worth. We settled on $152,000, and I thought that was generous. “Annie should like it,” I said. “Should bring down taxes, at least until she gets it fixed up.”

LANCE WILSON’S CALL surprised me.
His urgent tone told me he wanted to see me for more than a discussion of food pantry finances. He offered me tea as I came in and poured a mug from a thermos on his small living room table.

“Mary Doris’ lawyer called this morning,” he began.
He struggled to compose himself. “In addition to the large donation to the food pantry, she had a small bequest for me.” He smiled. “She knew I’d always wanted to see the Grand Canyon, and left me a couple thousand for the trip.”

I grew a quick lump in my throat.
“You must have been very good friends,” I stammered.

He nodded.
“That wasn’t the big surprise, though,” he paused. “You remember what we talked about.”

I nodded.
Who would forget hearing that Mary Doris had had Richard Tillotson’s baby?

He continued, “As far as I know I’m the only one she told about the baby.
I guess she wanted someone to know more about that child.” He pulled a small envelope from his pocket and opened the letter. “I’m not going to read you the parts about our friendship.”

“That’s private,” I said, quietly.

“And the rest of it should be, too. But since we know she was murdered…” He cleared his throat and began to read her words.
“I appreciated you letting me tell you about my little boy. And even more that you never brought him up again.”

Lance looked at me.
“I don’t remember her telling me it was a boy.”

I nodded and he continued reading.
“
I don’t know why I need to let you know who he is. It just seems right that one person in town know. Of course, if you die before I do, my attorney will tear up this letter, and no one will know. Maybe that would be better (except for you dying, of course).”
He smiled at me. “She was a real kidder, Mary Doris.”

His slow pace was maddening.
I wanted to scream that he should hurry up.
“I told you I gave the baby up for adoption. I didn’t tell you that my brother John and his wife took him. They named him Brian, after our father. He never knew I was his mother, that was part of our agreement. As far as I know, John and his wife never told him he was adopted. Secrets were easier to keep back then.”

My head was spinning.
“Wait. Was Brian Milner Annie’s grandfather?”

Lance nodded and continued.
“So, Brian thought I was his aunt, and his son Matt called me, as you know, “Grammy” because my brother John’s wife died when Matt was an infant and I filled the grandmother role for him. Matt was such a sweet child.”
Lance looked up. “Matt spent every summer here. Mary Doris taught you know, so she was off and Matt’s mom worked. I know Matt brought Mary Doris a lot of joy.”

He went back to the letter.
“I never really understood why Matt and his wife – Jill, you remember? – had such a hard time with Annie as she got older. When I offered to have her come here to high school in her junior year I didn’t expect them to say yes, but it didn’t take them an hour to decide. Matt told me that later. Anyway, Annie has been as much a treasure to me as her father and grandfather. I never told her I was really her great grandmother, of course.”

Lance folded the letter.
“She talks a bit more about Annie, but you’ve heard the salient points.”

I realized I’d been holding my breath and let it out slowly.
“Wow.”

Lance shrugged.
“It doesn’t change anything. Knowing how good Annie has been to her, it didn’t surprise anyone that Mary Doris left her most of her estate. Turns out she was leaving it to a direct descendant.” He folded the letter and put it back in his pocket. “I probably shouldn’t have told you. Mary Doris placed great trust in me, to tell me all this.”

“Yes, she did,” I said softly.
“I won’t mention it to anyone, not even Aunt Madge.”

“Or Scoobie,” he smiled.

I could feel a blush coming. “Oh, we aren’t…we’re good friends, like you and Mary Doris.”

“You’re lucky there,” he said, and reached for a handkerchief.

IT DIDN’T CHANGE ANYTHING, of course. Still, it was hard to believe that Mary Doris had never told Annie that she and Mary Doris were great grandmother and granddaughter rather than great aunt and niece. It hit me that I knew more about Annie Milner’s family history than she did.

I was sitting in my car outside the former Bakery at the Shore.
I wanted to be sure where the closet had been and wished I knew why it had been covered up. If it hadn’t been such a cold December day I’d have peered in the window, but for some reason the cold made my tailbone hurt more.

Even looking through the large window in the main room – which Annie had cleaned completely – I could see that there were about five feet separating the door to the kitchen and the hallway entrance.
No closet door, just wall space with some old wallpaper. I closed my eyes, remembering how it looked today. When you walked into the kitchen you made a sharp turn, as it was parallel to the larger room, not behind it. Behind what I was pretty sure had been a closet was the uni-sex bathroom, clearly put there so that the plumbing could run straight back from the kitchen. The two small offices were on the opposite side of the hallway from the bathroom. Why waste all that space? They could have made a bigger bathroom, or had separate potties for girls and boys.

Really, it made no difference.
Or did it?