Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 05 - Trouble on the Doorstep (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

I GRABBED THE PHONE before she dropped it.
When I couldn’t quickly see how to turn it off I pulled out the battery, all the while with a sopping wet woman of about twenty clinging to me.

“Okay, okay.
You’re here.” I pulled her further into the foyer and shut the door with my foot.

There was a loud hiss and then a growl from Jazz.
The woman stopped crying and stared at Jazz and the two retrievers, both of whom were sitting on their haunches. I took advantage of what was probably only momentary silence. “Come into the kitchen. I’ll make you something hot.”

She took a deep breath.
She was older than I initially thought, maybe twenty-five, and petite. Dark curls were flattened against her head and she was a mass of goose bumps. “I’m all wet.” She wiped her nose on the back of her sleeve.

“Then we need to get you dry.”
I said this as gently as I could given that a terrified stranger had shown up at close to midnight. When she didn’t move, I put my hand on her elbow and began to guide her through the guest breakfast room into the large great room/kitchen combination area that had hosted Aunt Madge’s wedding only hours before.

We went through the swinging door and I pointed to one of the chairs sitting next to Aunt Madge’s large oak table.
“Sit.” I grabbed a few dish towels from a drawer by the sink and tossed them to her as I turned up the dial on Aunt Madge’s electric kettle. I took a tea bag from a small canister on the counter and stuck it in a mug.

“Do you have anything stronger?” she asked.

I stared at her for a second. “Maybe. My aunt puts Amaretto in her tea in the winter.” I walked to the nearby pantry and pulled the squat bottle from behind a large sack of flour just as the kettle started a gentle whistle.
Who is this woman?

With the mug in her hand and hair slightly drier, she looked a bit less frantic, but not much.
I pulled up a chair and sat catty corner to her and our eyes met. “Do you know Aunt Madge?” The more I thought about it the odder it seemed that she had picked the Cozy Corner. The porch light and dim foyer lamp were on, but the only other light would have been in my room, which is toward the back of Aunt Madge’s three-story Victorian.

“My parents do.
I’m Pooki Morton. Sapperstein. My parents know her pretty well.”

“Yes,” I said, slowly.
“They were here today, for Aunt Madge and Harry’s wedding.”

“Your aunt got married?
I thought she was, like, really old.” She looked around the large room as if expecting to see a walker sitting by the love seat.

“She would probably describe herself differently,” I said, dryly.

She gave half a smile and then tears began to fill her eyes again. “Could you hear the message?” she asked.

“Yes, who was that?”

“My husband, Eric. We got married this summer…”

“And your parents stayed here because they don’t live in Ocean Alley anymore.”
They were in their early fifties, maybe younger. I thought Mr. Sapperstein liked puns and made Aunt Madge laugh a lot, but I could have had him mixed up with another guest. A lot of the people who stay at the Cozy Corner have known Aunt Madge for years. The Sappersteins had been at the wedding today, but had not stayed long since they wanted to drive back to Pennsylvania.

I had a dozen questions, but I didn’t want another tearful deluge, so I focused on her parents for a moment.
“Your mom and dad looked good. They said that you and Eric live about twenty miles north of Atlantic City, right?”

She nodded and took another deep breath, sitting up straighter as she did so.
“And a few miles inland, luckily. I was jogging a few hours ago. I had headphones on, so I didn’t hear my phone ring.” She gestured to the now batteryless phone sitting between us on the table. “When I listened a bit later, that was the message.”

I stared at her.
“Has your husband been in some kind of trouble?” I knew all about Atlantic City loan sharks. One of them had lent my ex-husband money to fuel his gambling in the city’s casinos.

“No.
Well, maybe. I don’t know. He’s quiet, not someone who would leave a message like that to be funny.” She stared at me. “What does it mean?”

Her teeth were chattering again.
I stood and nodded toward the short hallway near the back staircase that leads from the great room to the second floor. “I’ll get you some dry clothes. Then we’ll talk more. There’s a half-bath in the hallway, just there.”

As I turned to walk toward the stairs there was a short yip from the breakfast room.
I had forgotten about the dogs and Jazz. She strode in as I opened the door and Mister Rogers and Miss Piggy just stood there, wagging their tails. “In here if you’re coming.” Mister Rogers gave me a quick sniff as he went by and Miss Piggy ignored me and walked toward the cupboard where we keep dog treats. I ignored her and moved quickly up the stairs.

TEN MINUTES LATER, Pooki
(who names anyone Pooki?)
had on dry clothes and was fingering the phone battery as I again sat across from her. “Did you leave your phone on or off after the message?”

“Off until I got here.
I didn’t know if your aunt would remember me, and I wanted her to know she really needed to let me in.”

“So, you don’t know her well?”
Why are you here, lady?

She shook her head.
“I tried to think of a place where no one would look for me. I was afraid to call my parents, and I didn’t have any cash with me. My car was almost out of gas, so I left it near that little park just outside of town and walked in.” She stared at me. “What is this about?”

I didn’t say anything about not knowing her from a sand crab on the beach.
“Let’s think about that, okay? Maybe you need to call the police or something.” She was shaking her head firmly. “Maybe your husband’s fine now, and he’s got people looking for you…”

“No!
He would have called.”

“But your phone was off,” I said, quietly.

“I looked when I turned it on. He hadn’t called.”

We stared at each other for several seconds.
“I don’t know your name,” she said.

“It’s Jolie Gentil.
The “J” and “G” are soft.” I repeated it, “Zho-lee Zhan-tee.” I’m used to people not knowing how to pronounce my French name. Luckily, most people also don’t know it translates to “pretty nice” in English.

“Where is your aunt?”

“She’s about to start her honeymoon cruise.” I wanted to move this conversation to Pooki. “Okay, let’s figure this out. Do you know what your husband was doing today?” I asked.

“I thought about that the whole time I was driving up here.
He’s partners in a construction firm, with another guy from Ocean Alley. Do you know Steve Oliver?” she asked.

“Is his brother Bill?”

She nodded.

“Bill was in my year.
How long have you been out of school?”

“Eight years.
Steve and Eric and I all went to Rutgers together.”

Ooh la la.
“So, was your husband with Steve? Did they have a meeting with clients or what?” The part of me that had been in commercial real estate in Lakewood before I came to Ocean Alley was rearing its head. Real estate is always a cutthroat business, but since the hurricane even people who worked together for years are trying to beat each other out of deals. There’s far less property to sell, a lot of property that needs to be sold is in less than pristine condition, and there’s just all around less money to make.

She nodded.
“Ummm. Yes, I’m pretty for sure they had a meeting up here. There’s an old folks’ place on the edge of Ocean Alley. Apartments, assisted living, all that stuff. Can I have another shot?”

“Sure.”
I took her tea mug and added water.

Pooki interrupted me.
“I don’t need the tea.”

I dumped the water in the sink and just added Amaretto.
When she saw me stop pouring, she said,” Can I have more?”

Great.
Soon I’ll have a terrified drunk on my hands.
All I said was, “Not now. We need to talk.”

The beginning of a pout formed, and she took the tea mug and drank half of what I gave her in one gulp.
“That’s better. Okay, where was I? Oh, right. Today the bids were due on a big renovation for the place. You know, because of Sandy. They wanted one firm to oversee all of the work. They could use subcontractors, but they wanted one company in charge, so they couldn’t blame each other if they were late. Or something like that.” She eyed the Amaretto bottle with a sorrowful expression.

“And you think something about the bidding process led to Eric’s call?” I asked.

She shrugged, betraying irritation. “I wouldn’t know. You asked what he did today, and I think he was dropping off that stuff. For the bid.” Her eyes brightened. “It was a lot of work. We were going to have a lot of money.”

I couldn’t wait to get Pooki out of the B&B, but there seemed to be at least a chance that she was in some kind of danger, and her parents were Aunt Madge’s friends.
“Anything else Eric said that might make you think someone was mad at him or something?”

She yawned broadly as she shook her head.
I studied her more closely for a moment. I don’t know much about drug use, but she didn’t show obvious signs of being high and her pupils weren’t dilated. I thought that meant something, but I wasn’t sure what. And I was really, really tired.

“If you don’t want to call Eric or your parents or the police, I don’t know what else we can do tonight.”

“Can I sleep here?” she asked.

“Of course.”
What am I getting into?
“Let’s go upstairs and get you comfy. Things may look different tomorrow, or you can figure out how to get in touch with Eric.”

We both stood, and I pointed toward the back stairs.
“You can start up. I’ll just turn off some lights.” As she began to walk across the room, both dogs got up from where they were lying on the floor and began to follow her.

She turned and grinned at me momentarily.
“I have an escort service.”

I nodded and went through the swinging door into the guest breakfast area.
I double-checked to be sure the front door was locked and reset the security alarm and turned off the breakfast room light as I walked back toward the great room. I decided to leave a light on above the kitchen sink, but turned off the overhead light and started up the steps.

“This place is much bigger inside than it looks,” Pooki said.
She was looking down the second floor hallway, and I gestured that she should walk down the hall.

“There are four guest rooms on this floor, and two have a private bath,” I said, “so there is a lot of space between the rooms.
My room is just around that corner, and there’s a room next to it. There’s a shared bath between those two rooms, so you’ll be close.” We had gotten to the room where she would sleep. “I’ll bring you some pajamas.”

“That’s okay, I sleep nude,” she said, and walked into the room and closed the door.

I looked down at Mister Rogers and mouthed, “She sleeps nude.” He cocked his head, but I don’t think he got it.

I GROANED AS I SHUT off the alarm clock and closed my eyes for a few more moments.
It was five thirty, and I was getting up at Aunt Madge’s usual rising time so I could do a full practice of her morning routine. Get out the pre-mixed dry muffin mix, thaw a can of orange juice, put the toaster on…My eyes flew open. “Pooki.”

I turned on the light by my bed and threw back the covers.
Mister Rogers and Miss Piggy were already at my bedroom door. In the interest of doggie bladders, I shoved my feet in slippers and went downstairs to let them into the small backyard.

Back upstairs, I placed my ear almost on Pooki’s door and listened.
She had a tiny whistle as she inhaled. So she was there, it wasn’t a nightmare. I glanced at the floor and saw the shorty pajamas I’d placed there last night.
What the hell am I supposed to do with her?
I didn’t know Eric, so I couldn’t assume his phone message was some kind of sick joke. Her fear was certainly real.

Pooki had to leave my mind long enough to do my dry run for the Cozy Corner breakfast, and I rationalized that there wasn’t anyone to call this early.
Aunt Madge left me a set of three by five cards with simple muffin recipes. She knows my baking skills are poor. I always manage to leave out something or set the oven wrong. One of my more spectacular mishaps was a batch of brownies that I cooked in mini cupcake papers. Except they weren’t paper, they were shiny with aluminum or something and meant for party candies, not baking. I never knew brownies could burn from the inside out.

I padded back downstairs in my slippers and turned on lights in the kitchen.
I mixed dry ingredients and stirred in applesauce before I realized I shouldn’t have put the frozen cranberries for the apple cranberry muffins in the refrigerator overnight. They were waterlogged. “Oh well, can’t stop now.” I took the waterlogged cranberries from the refrigerator and added them.

“YOU KNOW, MOST people probably don’t know that cranberries can bleed,” Scoobie said. He had come by at seven-thirty to check out my first batch of muffins. Aunt Madge gave him a key before she left, in case I locked myself out. She should have more confidence in me.

“Shut up.
It’s kind of like cranberry juice, because I put the berries in when they were still frozen.”

“Can I have some?”
Pooki stood on the landing of the back staircase, having come down from upstairs. Thank heavens she put on the shorty pajamas this morning.

I thumped Scoobie hard on the back, and he stopped choking before Pooki sat at the table with us.
“Pooki, Scoobie. Scoobie, Pooki.”

“Is that for real your name?” she asked as she took her first bite.

She has the nerve to ask?

Scoobie swallowed some really hot coffee and his eyes watered even more.

“You remember the Sappersteins, Scoobie?” I asked. It really was kind of mean to enjoy his expression. And I would have told him about Pooki in another minute or two. Once he showed up I plain forgot. “Pooki is their daughter.”

“It’s a nickname,” he said, eyeing her.

“So’s Pooki,” she said, solemnly.

Scoobie looked at me.
“Thought you weren’t having guests last night.”

He knows full well guests don’t come down the back staircase, and I have yet to see one wandering around in shorty pajamas.

“I came late, very late,” she said.

“You seem to be feeling better,” I said, hoping she had learned the phone message was some kind of hoax or something.

“Can I use your phone? Eric told me not to use my phone, but he didn’t say anything about anyone else’s. I want to see if he left me a message at home.”

“Of course.”
I nodded toward the wall phone. “Use that one, or there’s one on the serving buffet in the breakfast room.” She walked through the swinging door and I heard her lift the guest phone from its cradle.

“And…?” Scoobie asked.
He had regained his usual color, and with his dirty blond beard and hair trimmed more neatly than usual, he could have been a college professor asking a question rather than a fairly new radiology tech student.

“And she showed up here soaking wet, almost midnight, and played this weird phone message from her husband, I guess it really was, saying she shouldn’t go home or use credit cards, and she should hide.”

He stared at me. “And you let her in?”

“She was crying.”

“That always works,” he said, and stood to let the dogs in from the back yard.

“She’s married to Eric Morton, and he works with Bill Oliver’s brother, and they live near…”

“You mean Eric is Eric Morton?” he asked, seeming a bit alarmed.

“Yep.
You know him?”

“I do, or maybe did,” Scoobie said.
“He’s missing and his business partner is dead.”

I MANAGED TO GET Pooki back into the kitchen before she saw the paper, which I had brought in and placed on the guest breakfast table, per Aunt Madge’s routine. Unfortunately, I had not read the paper, and I certainly hadn’t watched the news after Aunt Madge and Harry left last night.

I told Pooki there was a pair of jeans in my closet that would fit her, they fit my five-foot two frame five pounds ago, and took the paper from Scoobie.
It was a short piece, with the young reporter Tiffany’s byline, which explained why George hadn’t called me about this last night.

Hit and Run Kills Builder
.

I scanned quickly.
It said that Steve Oliver had been hit by a car that had not stopped, and was only identified as a “dark, late-model sedan.” He was about to go into a meeting at Silver Times Senior Living, where he and his partner had planned to present a bid for post-hurricane renovation. The meeting had been postponed. The article also said his business partner, Eric Morton, had not been heard from since early yesterday afternoon.

“You’re sure she doesn’t know?” Scoobie asked, quietly.

“No way.”

“We should call her parents, or Morehouse, or somebody,” he said.

Sergeant Morehouse of the Ocean Alley Police credits me with some help in solving a couple earlier crimes, but he basically thinks I’m a busybody. Or something less polite. But talking to him wasn’t what concerned me. “We don’t even know who might be looking for her.”

“Not our problem,” Scoobie said.
“You need her out of here.”

“Her husband told her to hide.
You don’t need to be a detective to know she shouldn’t be walking around in the open,” I said.

“Jolie…” he began.

“I’m not saying we should help her or anything, but we should make sure we get her somewhere safe.”

There was a shrill scream from upstairs, and I ran up the steps faster than I’ve moved in a long time.
Pooki was on the floor sobbing, her phone in her hand. It looked as if she had used her phone to browse the Internet and read something on a web site.

I
put my arm around her shoulder. “I know, we just heard. I’m so sorry.” She sobbed harder and pounded the floor with her hands and feet, which is not easy when you’re sitting on the floor.

“How can that happen?
How can that happen?” she screamed.

Jazz poked her head from under the bed’s dust ruffle and quickly withdrew.

“Turn off your phone.”

She stared at me blankly.
I picked it up from the floor next to her and pulled the battery out again.