Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 05 - Trouble on the Doorstep (16 page)

I WAS IN JAVA JOLT in twenty minutes. The information on the two sets of estimates was in my trunk, and I had called Father Jamison, ostensibly to give him the good news about what could be another good-sized donation for Harvest for All. What I really wanted was someone to know who I was meeting with, and if I told George he might be able to guess I was nervous.

“What are you doing here in the middle of the afternoon?” Joe Regan asked.

“Slumming,” I said, in an amicable tone.

“Yeah, that’s what I feel like too.”
He looked around his temporary shop.

“I didn’t mean it that way.
I think you did a great job fixing up your temporary quarters.”

He half-shrugged and went back to the thermos he was filling.

I kind of felt bad, but not really. Joe knew I wasn’t putting him or Java Jolt down, he just wanted a reason to sulk.

I had just sat back down when the door opened and Andrew Markham walked in, followed by Fred Brennan.

Uh oh
.

They said hello and continued toward the counter.
I looked at them, each in what were surely very expensive clothes, and exuding self-confidence. I looked down at my dark blue casual slacks and yellow sweater and felt like a recent graduate who had just arrived at a job interview and realized she was very under-dressed.

Fred Brennan got to the table first.
As he sat he leaned toward me and quietly said, “I just want you to know that we know what you’re up to.”

I was pretty sure I was totally still for several seconds, trying to keep a disinterested expression as my stomach did flip flops.

As Andrew Markham joined us, Brennan was almost ebullient. He looked directly at me. “You certainly know how to clean up a place. I heard it was a good idea you took my advice and put plastic on the floor.”

“Must be all that practice at the B&B, now that Madge is out of town,” Markham said.

“I could never measure up to Aunt Madge’s standards,” I said, thinking that my voice sounded strained. I tried to smile and sort of did.

Markham reached into the breast pocket of his perfectly ironed shirt.
“People are really impressed with what you folks do at Harvest for All.” He handed me several checks.

There were five of them, and they added to two thousand dollars.
“Wow. This is a really meaningful donation,” I said.
Do I have to split these with the Red Cross? The hotdog contest is over
.

“Two are from board members,” Brennan said.
“They wanted you to know they support your work almost as much as what we do at Silver Times.”

I guess that lets me know he thinks the board is with him on whatever he’s doing
. “There are so many people who do so much in this town,” I said.

Markham nodded.
“I’m not sure some of us knew how many people the food pantry serves or how many are seniors,” he said. “If you hadn’t brought the kids out there for that contest, we still wouldn’t know.”

We talked for another ten minutes.
Andrew Markham was easy-going, almost glib. Fred Brennan threw in the occasional comment, each time looking at me very directly, rarely smiling or looking even friendly. I figured he was saying, “You mess with me and I’ll mess with you.”

I was about to say I had to get back to the Cozy Corner when the door opened to let in a cold gust of air, accompanied by Scoobie.
He didn’t notice us, but Joe nodded in my direction.

“Yo, Jolie.”
He gave a broad smile to Markham and Brennan. “Two of my favorite people,” he said.

“Which two?” Brennan asked.

Scoobie grinned and said, “Let me get some decaf and join you.”

“Actually,” Markham began.

“We were just heading out,” Brennan said, and both men began gathering their empty cups and napkins.

I didn’t stand when they left, but did say thank you to Andrew Markham.
He looked as if he was surprised they were leaving so quickly, but maybe I saw that because I wanted to think they planned to stay and torture me a little longer.

Scoobie sat down.
“You know, I have exams in three days. I kind of thought I’d be more nervous, but…” He looked at me. “Are you sick or something?”

“No.
What makes you think so?”

“How often do you just sit there staring at me like you’re looking right through me?”

I sat up straighter. “This year, you mean?”

That seemed to take his mind off me, and he talked for a couple of minutes about some practical exam that would test how well they could “aim the radiation,” as he put it.

I tried to listen, but all I could think of was that if Fred Brennan wanted to he could have me arrested and there was no way for me to deny I’d broken into his office. Well, not his office, his files.
I wonder if there were actually cameras in the office? Maybe they were just in the hall
.

“That does it,” Scoobie said.
“You’re either sick or thinking about something you don’t want to tell me.”

I hate it that he knows me so well
.

“Maybe I’m thinking of what George and I are planning for when Aunt Madge and Harry get back,” I said.

“Jeez, I had no idea
they
were that kinky,” Scoobie said.

Joe Regan laughed louder than Scoobie did.

“I HAVE
GOT TO quit doing this stuff.” I looked at Mister Rogers. He had been following me around the great room, apparently unsure why I stayed on my feet when there was a perfectly good loveseat to sit on. “You’d pace, too, if you could get arrested any minute.”

He gave a kind of mutter and nudged my hand.
I walked to the pantry to get a treat, and Miss Piggy was at his side in a second. “You’re worse than he is,” I said to her. She didn’t care.

I tried to calculate the odds that Brennan would turn me in.
I was pretty sure he wouldn’t, or he would have already done it.
Why not call the police?

I made a cup of tea and carried it to the loveseat.
Mister Rogers looked at me with a hopeful expression. Or I thought it was, anyway. I pointed to the sliding glass door and he loped over there and plopped on the rug next to Miss Piggy.

If Brennan wanted to be sure that I knew he knew I’d been in his office after hours, there had to be a reason for telling me he knew.
After all, if he said nothing I’d never have known whether I’d been spotted.
He wants to hold something over you
.

I sat up straighter.
He didn’t call the police because he didn’t want anyone asking me questions about why I was in the office after hours. “He knows the estimates are inflated,” I said.

I STARED AT THE WEDNESDAY paper without seeing it. There had been no guests last night, so I had slept until seven-thirty. Even then I didn’t want to get up, but Mister Rogers and Miss Piggy were insistent. I picked up my coffee mug and realized I had been sitting there long enough for it to get cold.

There would never be a good time to tell George I’d broken in, actually, stayed in, the Silver Times office.
If I’d told him right away and said I’d done it on impulse, he’d get over it quickly. Assuming I shared what I’d learned. But waiting a few days? He’d be livid.

I thought for a few moments about whether I would care if he stayed mad, and decided I did.

The phone rang and I jumped.

“Jolie, I just heard something that’ll make you think,” George said.

“As long as it doesn’t involve hot dogs, I’m good.”

“Guess who just had a lien placed against his house?” George asked.

“You know I don’t know,” I said.

“Nat Markham.”

“What? I thought they were rich,” I said.
A lien? What does that mean? It means he needs money really badly.

“I think they’re usually pretty well off,” George said.
“But he was working on that group of five houses on the edge of town. Remember?”

“I remember there were five monster houses going up halfway between town and Wal-Mart, is that what you mean?”

“Yep. And a couple of them had a fair bit of damage from Sandy…”

“They don’t look like it,” I said.

“Lemme finish. They were under roof, but most of the windows blew out, mostly from piles of construction debris on the site. Anyway, they got soaked, and the pipes weren’t behind walls, so they got all ripped up.”

He stopped and I could hear him flipping pages in his notebook.

“So he had some insurance, probably not enough, but that’s not the hard part.”

“And that would be?” I asked.

“Three of the buyers backed out,” George said. “They don’t want summer homes so close to the ocean now, plus I think one of the others had enough damage to his main home that he’s thinking of backing out.”

“Doesn’t Markham Construction get to keep their down payment?” I asked.

“Maybe some, but even if our boy Nat keeps all of it, he bought all the materials and now he has to rebuy a lot. He’s basically screwed,” George finished.

“What about his parents?
Can’t they help him?” I asked.

“Dunno.
I just picked all this up at the courthouse a few minutes ago. Wouldn’t be big news if it were Joe Schmo. But it’s a Markham.”

I guess that would be a reason to bid high for the Silver Times work,” I said, thinking slowly.
“But it doesn’t explain why Brennan and his board would be dumb enough to go with a high bid.”

“Maybe they’re pretty smart,” George said.

I could hear the excitement in his voice. He smelled a big story.
Now’s the time. Tell him you looked at Nat’s estimates.

“Listen, I’ve been meaning…” I began.

“What, huh?” George was talking to someone else. “I gotta run, Jolie. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Now what?

I put some more water in the dogs’ bowls and slung my purse over my shoulder. If there’s one thing I can do it’s understand any document related to real estate, and a lien certainly qualified.

I got to the courthouse and started to walk automatically to the Register of Deeds office, where I go through recent sales to come up with comps for the houses I’m appraising.
I caught myself, and walked into the Miller County Clerk of Court’s office and sidled over to a notebook on the counter.

Like a number of other Miller County offices, the Office of the Clerk of Court keeps a binder on the counter with information on recent filings.
There is a little note that says the documents of record are in the large court database that can be freely accessed on a state web site. The clerk doesn’t keep the paper list of docketed items more than a few days.

The three public computers give access to state and county records (but not email sites, I know because I tried), but it was not likely that a mechanics’ lien filed today would be in the database yet.

I opened the binder and tried to look only casually interested in its contents. The binder has basic information — who filed against whom, docket number — but most accompanying paperwork is scanned into the database and isn’t in the binder. It could be volumes of stuff.

The clerk had chosen to put a few pages of the material on Nat’s lien in the binder.
Either his staff was tired of questions about it or he didn’t like Nat Markham any better than most people seemed to.

The mechanics’ lien was for $120,000 and was for construction of an addition to his home.
It was filed by a general contractor, who surely knew Nat Markham well. There just aren’t that many builders who work along the Jersey shore.

“Jolie?”

I jumped and turned to see Sylvia Parrett. I hadn’t seen her since the last Harvest for All meeting.

“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I should have realized you’d be concentrating hard.”

There was no point in pretending I was here to see something else.
I kept my voice low. “George just told me about the mechanics’ lien on Nat Markham’s house.”

“Elmira called me,” Sylvia said.
“But she just said it was a lien. What’s a mechanics’ lien?”

“All property liens are called mechanics’ liens in New Jersey.
It places an encumbrance on the property that makes it difficult to resell or refinance the property without first removing the lien.”

“In other words, pay up or the person who filed the lien will…what?” she asked.

“Basically, they’ll stand in the way of you and a sales contract on your property.” I gestured to the binder. “You want to look?”

“Not really.
Elmira was talking about a huge sum,” Sylvia said, as we started to walk out together.

I shrugged.
“One hundred and twenty thousand is a lot of money if you don’t have it.”

“I graduated from high school with Andrew,” she said.

“Ah. Well, maybe he’ll be able to help Nat.”

“I doubt it,” Sylvia said.

We had stopped by the door that led to the courthouse parking lot. I wasn’t keen to keep chatting in the cold.

“He’s bailed him out a few times, starting with Marky ‘borrowing’ the neighbor’s car and crashing into a telephone pole when he was fifteen.” Sylvia shook her head.
“Marky wasn’t mean, but he was expensive.”

“Jeez,” I said.
“I didn’t see anything about that crash in the
Ocean Alley Press
files.”
Nuts! I shouldn’t have said that
.

“You better watch it.
People will start to lump you in with Elmira,” she said, with the slimmest of smiles.

“I guess I deserved that,”
I said.

“With those two young men dying I can see why it would interest you.
And he was a juvenile, so the paper wouldn’t have named him.”

“Does Nat have kids?” I asked, thinking maybe Andrew Markham would help his son to keep them in their home.

“He has two, very young, actually.” She shook her head slightly. “My guess would be that Andrew and Louise would rent a place for Marky and his wife. That way they can control what they give him.”

I nodded, thinking.
If Nat Markham had such money problems that he would blow off paying a contractor he probably knew, what else did he owe?

“I need to get going,” Sylvia said, with her hand on the large door handle.

“Sure. Listen, Sylvia…”

She kind of waved her other hand in front of me.
“It’s okay. Scoobie’s taking me for coffee after exams.”

“Oh, that’s good.
You both do so much,” I said, feeling relieved that I would not have to serve as a referee in future committee meetings.

“He’ll probably annoy me again.”
She had a grim expression. “He did say we didn’t have to go anyplace that served hot dogs.”

THERE WERE ONLY TWO CARS in the convenience store lot. That was good, because I didn’t want a bunch of people hearing me ask questions.

It had gotten even colder by afternoon.
There was talk of snow on Thursday, but it would be forty-five degrees again by Friday. That was New Jersey for you.

I walked into the store and went to the snack food aisle.
It was an older store, not as big as the ones they build now, and it didn’t have gas pumps any more. This street had been the main route into town from the west, but a highway built a few years ago had likely cut its business in half. I figured it wouldn’t be in business in a couple of years, unless somebody built a lot more houses near it.

I kept an eye on the counter so I would know when customers left.
I wasn’t sure why I had waited this long to talk to someone at the location where Steve Oliver had been killed. It had occurred to me the next day, but once Eric was killed I thought mostly about that.
Same as the police
.

The customer who had been paying for a newspaper left, so I picked up some caramel popcorn and walked to the cash register.

“Hi,” I began.

“Are you Jolie Gentil?” the young man asked.

I stared at him, and he grinned.

“Sgt. Morehouse told me you’d come in and not to talk to you.
I thought maybe you weren’t coming.” He was in his late teens or very early twenties, and clearly enjoying himself.

“He’s got a lot of nerve,” I said, firing up.

“Maybe, but he was right, wasn’t he?”

“How’d you know who I was?” I asked.
I was pretty sure I didn’t know him.

“He showed me a picture of you.
You look different in person.”

“Which picture?”
I asked, hoping it wasn’t one taken when I was sitting over the dunk tank at a fundraiser.

“I think it was part of a poster.
You had on a pirate hat.”

I literally groaned.
“It was from Talk Like a Pirate Day.”

“I kinda figured you didn’t wear it all the time.”

Nobody loves a smart aleck. “Look, I only want to know one thing.”

He shook his head firmly.
“The sergeant buys coffee in here all the time. I like him.”

“Me too.”
Well, sometimes
. I plowed ahead. “I only want to know if anyone said they recognized the car.”

He considered that.
“Don’t you read the paper? It said no one knew who was driving it.”

That seemed an odd choice of words.
He talked about the driver, not the car. “Okay, no one saw the driver, but probably everybody who was here saw the car.”

“Some people, but everything happened really fast.”

I decided to go for broke. “Listen, if you know who I am, you probably know that Steve’s partner, Eric Morton, was killed in my house. I found him.”

He regarded me with suspicion.
“Sgt. Morehouse didn’t tell me that.”

“Did you talk to Eric the day Steve was killed?”

“I don’t think I know the Eric guy,” he said.

I stared at him directly.
“The police are busy. I’m just trying to do a favor for Steve Oliver’s brother, Bill. He can’t believe it was a hit and run.”