| REKINDLING MOTIVES |
Rekindling Motives
Elaine Orr
Chapter One
I WOULD RATHER HAVE WALKED barefoot over shards of glass on the
boardwalk in January than go to the Ocean Alley High School reunion.
However, Scoobie and Ramona combined their charms, so on the Saturday
after Thanksgiving I was in the so-called ballroom of Ocean Alley’s largest
hotel, Beachcomber’s Alley. I'm such a wuss.
The ‘ballroom’ is actually a large multi-purpose room that is the site of the high
school prom, but can just as easily be used for after-funeral gatherings for
prominent townspeople. For the latter, the room is not adorned with crepe
paper in high school colors nor does one wall have a series of poster boards,
each sporting dozens of pictures of former classmates in various poses – all
appearing happy, popular, and cool. Since this was not how I spent 11th grade,
my only year at Ocean Alley High, I was not in any of the photos. I know
because I looked.
There were pictures of students at high school football games posing with the
school mascot (a large crab), and others showing students eating lunch on the
beach. There was also one of Scoobie. He was lying on the small brick wall
that bears the school’s name, and the caption is, “Enjoying the spring clouds.”
Since Scoobie spent a lot of time stoned, he would have been higher than the
clouds, which was likely the point.
“You’re Jo-lee Gen-teel, aren’t you?” A woman who did not look at all familiar
was approaching, hand extended. Since she had mispronounced my name (Jolie
Gentil is pronounced Zho-Lee Zhan-tee; the “J” and “G” are soft, and the “L”
on the end of Gentil is silent) I knew she was not someone who knew me well.
I smiled weakly, scanning the space behind her, hoping to see Scoobie or
Ramona. “It’s pronounced Zho-Lee, but yes, that’s me.”
“I’m sorry,” she continued. “We didn’t really know each other in high school,
but I’ve been reading about you in the Ocean Alley paper. I get it mailed to me
in Connecticut. You’ve had a rough couple of weeks.”
Elaine Orr
Chapter One
I WOULD RATHER HAVE WALKED barefoot over shards of glass on the
boardwalk in January than go to the Ocean Alley High School reunion.
However, Scoobie and Ramona combined their charms, so on the Saturday
after Thanksgiving I was in the so-called ballroom of Ocean Alley’s largest
hotel, Beachcomber’s Alley. I'm such a wuss.
The ‘ballroom’ is actually a large multi-purpose room that is the site of the high
school prom, but can just as easily be used for after-funeral gatherings for
prominent townspeople. For the latter, the room is not adorned with crepe
paper in high school colors nor does one wall have a series of poster boards,
each sporting dozens of pictures of former classmates in various poses – all
appearing happy, popular, and cool. Since this was not how I spent 11th grade,
my only year at Ocean Alley High, I was not in any of the photos. I know
because I looked.
There were pictures of students at high school football games posing with the
school mascot (a large crab), and others showing students eating lunch on the
beach. There was also one of Scoobie. He was lying on the small brick wall
that bears the school’s name, and the caption is, “Enjoying the spring clouds.”
Since Scoobie spent a lot of time stoned, he would have been higher than the
clouds, which was likely the point.
“You’re Jo-lee Gen-teel, aren’t you?” A woman who did not look at all familiar
was approaching, hand extended. Since she had mispronounced my name (Jolie
Gentil is pronounced Zho-Lee Zhan-tee; the “J” and “G” are soft, and the “L”
on the end of Gentil is silent) I knew she was not someone who knew me well.
I smiled weakly, scanning the space behind her, hoping to see Scoobie or
Ramona. “It’s pronounced Zho-Lee, but yes, that’s me.”
“I’m sorry,” she continued. “We didn’t really know each other in high school,
but I’ve been reading about you in the Ocean Alley paper. I get it mailed to me
in Connecticut. You’ve had a rough couple of weeks.”
Tell me about it. Since coming to Ocean Alley to stay with my great Aunt Madge to decompress after the end
of my marriage, I had found a dead body and nearly been killed by a man who was angry with my ex-
husband. I had made him angry, too, but in all fairness, that was not my fault.
“Yes, it’s been…wild.” I shook her hand as I looked at her name badge. “So, your name is really Gracie
Allen?”
She was tall, slim, and dressed in a stunning burgundy dinner dress that clung to her like a bathing suit. She
looked nothing like the photo of the round-faced girl who was on her name badge. Her laugh was
contagious, and I smiled as she explained. “My maiden name was Grace Fisher, and I married Jeremy
Allen. I get a kick out of being Gracie Allen, so I told the committee to put my married name on my badge.”
I nodded. In a way she looked a bit like the iconic radio and TV actress, but without the curls. I had not
shown up for the junior class pictures, so the reunion committee made my badge from a photo that had
recently appeared in the local paper. It was not my best picture.
“It’s good you have a sense of humor,” I said, unsure what else to add.
“Actually,” she said, “I wanted to talk business with you for a minute. I heard you do real estate appraisals.”
“I do,” I said, seeing dollar signs. “I work through Harry Steele’s company.”
She waved a hand. “I know all about that. It was…”
“In the paper,” I finished for her.
“Right. Jeremy and I have to sell my grandparents’ house. I have no idea what it’s worth.”
I didn’t understand why she wanted my help. Usually a real estate agent helps the seller set the price, and
the appraiser is not called for until after there is a contract with a potential buyer. “Umm, you won’t really
need me until after you have a contract,” I began.
“I know how it’s usually done. But this real estate agent we’re working with has suggested a price that
seems awfully high.” She frowned slightly. “We don’t want to sell it under market, but if we price it too
high it won’t sell quickly. I want to be done with all this estate stuff.”
A warning bell dinged in my brain. Ramona’s uncle, Lester Argrow, has a well-earned reputation for listing
a house for more than the market will usually bear. He wants a higher commission. This has put him at
odds with Harry Steele, though Lester and I get along okay.
I was saved from an immediate response as the lights in the room dimmed and a portable spotlight aimed
toward the center at the far end of the ballroom. Gracie and I turned to watch Jennifer Stenner, one of my
competitors in the appraisal business and a former cheerleader, step into the light.
She was wearing a dress of what I (hardly a fashion maven) would call party-dress material. As Jennifer
welcomed everyone to the 10th reunion of our Ocean Alley High School class, I scanned the room again for
Scoobie and Ramona. While I wouldn’t put it past Ramona to forget, even though we had talked about the
reunion the day before, I had really expected Scoobie to be on time. In the two weeks since we made the
papers for solving a murder, he has made a point of seeing me on the boardwalk every day or stopping by
Aunt Madge’s Cozy Corner B&B.
Jennifer had just awarded the prize for coming the longest distance to a couple who now live in London.
Their prize was a large plush dog dressed in school colors, making me glad I wouldn’t win anything. It was
big enough that it would need its own airline ticket, so I figured it would get left under a table.
“And now to the most successful Ocean Alley graduate of our class, Annie Milner.”
There was more applause for Annie, whom I knew to be an attorney who worked in the county's Office of
the Prosecuting Attorney, so I turned to see if she was in the audience. As I did so, my eyes met those of a
very pregnant woman who had apparently been trying to get my attention. She waved and pointed toward
the back of the room, and started walking that way. Feeling it would be rude to ignore her, I whispered to
Gracie, “I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes.”
Gracie, busy clapping for Annie Milner, didn’t seem to hear, which was fine with me. I threaded my way
through the crowd, trying to remember why the woman looked familiar. She was about my height, which is
five feet, two inches, and had light brown hair. Her only remarkable feature was the watermelon that
preceded her.
When we were a few feet from each other, she started to laugh. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”
“Ohmigod, Margo.” I threw myself at her and hugged. Or tried to anyway, in spite of the watermelon.
Margo was my best friend in 11th grade, the only person other than Scoobie who knew that I was staying
with Aunt Madge while my parents 'worked things out' in their marriage. I told everyone else they were
touring in Europe.
“I’m sorry, I just didn’t…” I stammered, embarrassed at not recognizing her.
“I wasn’t exactly pregnant in 11th grade.” Her eyes laughed at me, but she wasn’t making fun. “Although, I
was kind of lucky not to be.”
I felt my jaw drop. “No. You and Eddie...?”
“Just once. Then we were so scared for a month we didn’t do it again until we got married.”
It was my turn to laugh. “Scared straight. I should have kept in better touch. Aunt Madge told me when
she saw your wedding announcement, but I didn’t know you were expecting a baby.” I looked at her belly.
“Boy or girl?”
“I never let them tell me,” she said, suddenly very matter-of-fact. “The little devil kicks like a boy, though.”
“So it’s not your first?” I, caught up in my own life, could not imagine parenting, much less having a second
child at twenty-eight.
Margo laughed so loudly we got a couple 'keep it down' looks from people near us. She covered her mouth
and we moved into the hall. “More like my fourth.”
This did not strike me at all funny, and it must have shown in my expression, because she continued, with a
slightly defiant look. “Eddie and I always said we wanted four, and we wanted to finish having them
before we were 30.” She patted her belly.
“Lucky for her,” said a familiar voice behind me, “they look more like Margo than Eddie.”
I turned toward Scoobie, about to lambaste him for leaving me on my own for an hour, but the words died
on my lips. Gone were his traditional unkempt look and blue jeans. Instead, he wore an old-fashioned tux,
reminiscent of Rock Hudson in Pillow Talk, and his blonde hair and beard were neatly trimmed.
“Don’t let Eddie hear you say that, Scoobie,” Margo chided. “Everyone says our little Jack looks like the
UPS guy. You’ll get me in trouble.”
As usual, Margo had taken whatever came before her in stride. Probably why she could handle three kids
with one on the way. I, with no such aplomb, blurted, “Wow! You look really …”
It was a mistake. Insecurity replaced his joviality in an instant and he interrupted. “You don’t like it?”
“I do,” I said quickly. “It’s just...”
“Different,” said Margo, in her no-nonsense way. “But you look good.”
“Thanks,” he said, acting somewhat cocky again. “I figured since Jolie and I spent junior prom night at Pizza
Hut, I’d dress for this occasion.”
“Oh God, we did.” I had actually been asked by a guy in math class whose name escaped me, but I barely
knew him and couldn’t imagine spending an entire evening talking to him. Scoobie and I had hung out a lot
together, but not as an item, as Aunt Madge would say. It seemed perfectly natural to argue over who got
the last piece of pepperoni pizza rather than get dressed up to see if we could get a local restaurant to serve
us alcohol.
“Eddie and I went,” Margo said, as she looked over me into the ballroom. “I think someone’s calling you or
something,” she said.
Sure enough, I heard Jennifer saying my name into the mike. “Oh, no.” I felt my color rise in sync with the
case of nerves I felt.
“Ha! Serves you right for being in the paper so much,” Scoobie said. He gave me a small shove.
As I walked the few feet into the room, the spotlight shone on me, and I shielded my eyes. “There she is,
folks,” Jennifer said, and the spotlight swung back to her.
Which was good, though all I could now see were blinking lights. I ran into something firm, which turned
out to be a good-natured classmate.
“Go on up front,” he urged.
I could feel my face turn even more crimson as I walked toward Jennifer, who was looking very pleased
with herself. “And for the super sleuth,” she began, as several people laughed, “we have a special award.”
I stood next to her, trying to look at ease and as if it was perfectly normal for me to be in front of a couple
hundred people who knew my name when I didn't know most of theirs. “I can’t believe you did this,” I
said. What I really wanted to say was that I would try to steal some appraisal business from her, but that
would be rude.
From a small table just to one side, she took a package about the size of a shoebox and handed it to me.
“Open it,” Scoobie yelled from the back.
I looked at Jennifer and saw genuine delight in her face, no trace of the usual pretentious attitude that she
wears about town. I struggled with the lid for a moment, and then pulled out tissue paper and looked
beneath it. Tucked inside were a magnifying glass, bubble pipe, and tweed cap, which someone had
inexpertly tried to fashion to look like Sherlock Holmes’ hat. I took out the hat and plopped it on my head.
The applause and catcalls had me laughing in spite of myself. “Read the card,” Jennifer said.
Uh oh. I recognized Aunt Madge’s handwriting. She knows everyone in town, so I couldn’t say I was
surprised. I removed the card and read aloud, “To the best girl detective in Ocean Alley.” An arrow
indicated I was to turn the card over. “Now learn to mind your own business.” This brought another
round of laughter, and I gave a small bow and tried to edge out of the spotlight.
Jennifer would have none of that. She put her arm through mine and drew me to the center of the
spotlight. “Now, not everyone knew Jolie when she was here for 11th grade, but we’re sure glad she’s
back.” Only scattered applause for this, as people had started talking to others again. “Even,” she raised an
eyebrow as she looked at me in mock sternness, “if she is competition for Stenner Appraisals.”
I knew she’d get her business name in there somewhere. I suddenly realized people expected me to say
something; Jennifer was, after all, holding the mike in front of my face.
“I think I’d like to crawl under the boardwalk.” This brought a couple guffaws, and I remembered coming
across two or three couples under there, during junior year.
“Get your minds out of the gutter,” Margo yelled from the back.
Everyone laughed, and I felt the tension – my self-created tension, as usual – lessen. “It’s nice of you guys to
think of me,” I said. “But, I have to warn you, I might use this,” I held up the magnifying glass, “To see
what you’re up to. Watch out.”
After that lame attempt at humor, Jennifer let me leave the front of the room. As she began to award the
prize for most children – no doubt who would win that one – I made my way back to Scoobie. Standing
next to him, finally, was Ramona. I could understand why she was late. She had taken the time to fix her
long blonde hair into a stunning French twist, but she had done it in such a way that there were strands of
hair along her neck at perfect intervals. Often known for dressing somewhere between a stylish hippie and
a Gypsy, tonight she was in a sleek blue evening dress that was perfect for her height of five feet six inches.
Clearly I, in a knee-length hunter green dress that I used to wear to the office, had not gotten the memo
about how one is to dress for a high school reunion.
“You look terrific,” I said, as Scoobie reached for the box to examine the pipe.
“I should have told you people get dressed up for this.” I raised an eyebrow at her. “But you look good
too,” she said, quickly.
“They should have given you a bong,” Scoobie said, handing it back.
“You’re the one who used to smoke that stuff, not her,” Ramona said.
“Jolie. We need to finish.” Gracie Allen walked up and extended her hand to Ramona. She ignored
Scoobie, which made me angry. Just because he lived in a rooming house and spent most of his time on the
streets did not mean she was better than he. I was about to turn away when Scoobie caught my eye and
winked.
“I heard you were trying to get rid of your grandparents’ dump,” he said to Gracie.
She stiffened. “It’s not a dump, just older and...”
“I’m sorry, that’s right. I heard someone down at Java Jolt saying you were trying to dump their place.”
I had to keep my lips together to keep from laughing.
“I do want to sell it,” Gracie said, formally. She turned to me. “Would you be willing to come by and take a
look? I’d really appreciate it. We’d pay you, of course.”
Since my budget is lean, thanks to my former husband’s draining our bank accounts to support his gambling
hobby, I tend not to turn down a chance to work. “As long as you go through Harry Steele, I’d be happy to
do it.” This made Gracie happy, and I jotted Harry’s number on the back of a napkin she held out for me.
As Gracie walked away the band started to play and almost everyone made a beeline for the food. I
stepped back to stand next to Ramona while Scoobie joined the group loading their plates. She smiled at me
broadly.
“What?” I asked.
“Jennifer said I had to be sure you came, so you’d get your box of prizes.”
“Ramona! You tricked me.”
“Not really,” she said. “I could tell you really wanted to come. Besides, you did get a bong.”
I laughed. “I’ll probably use the bubble pipe with my nieces.” She was still smiling. “OK, it is a good place
to meet people.”
I had often visited Aunt Madge in the years since I’d lived with her, since my town of Lakewood, New
Jersey was less than 40 miles away from Ocean Alley. However, Margo had moved to Connecticut, and
Scoobie and I had lost track of each other, so I rarely ran into anyone I knew. If I was going to settle in here
for awhile, I needed to meet more people than those who lived in the houses I was appraising.
Scoobie rejoined us. His plate was piled high. “You two should get over there before all the good stuff is
gone.” He picked up a roast beef sandwich and took a huge bite. “Isht good,” he said, between chews.
As Ramona and I walked toward the spread, someone touched my elbow. “You don’t say hi when you
bump into people?” asked an auburn-haired man.
“Sorry,” I said. “All I saw were colored spots.”
“I’m Bill Oliver.” My face must have reflected my blank memory, because he added, “Math class?”
“Oh, sure. You, huh, sat across from me.” I racked my brain. Was he the guy who asked me to the junior
prom? If so, he looked much better now, with broad shoulders that said he worked out.
“Yep,” he said, handing Ramona and me a plate and taking one for himself.
“Hey, Bill,” said Ramona, in her more typical airy-fairy voice. “You haven’t been in the store for awhile.”
“Nope. I moved to Newark. Joined a dental practice up there.”
Instinctively I moved my tongue over my teeth to be sure there were no bits of food showing. I felt like my
awkward 11th-grade self. He joined a dental practice, and I had a room in my aunt’s B&B because I had less
than $4,000 to my name, a car payment, and student loans.
“Deviled egg, Jolie?” he asked, lifting one off the tray with the small tongs.
“Sure.” He put half a deviled egg on my plastic plate and it skidded back onto the table.
“Oh well.” I picked it up and popped it into my mouth.
“You’re as bad as Scoobie,” Ramona murmured.
“Yeah, Scoobie.” Bill glanced behind him. “I heard he’s had some tough times.”
“He’s doing better.” I could hear the defensiveness in my voice as I tried to speak with the egg in my mouth.
“Scoobie says he majored in marijuana growing in college,” Ramona said, as she picked up a fork. “He’s
getting back on track.”
Bill looked dubious. “I was down here a couple times this summer, and I saw him on the boardwalk,
wearing a knapsack. Looked like it had all he owned in it.”
I shrugged, which was difficult as I was trying to balance several olives and some miniature quiches. “He
has a room, spends a lot of time in the library. And he writes great poetry.”
“But how does he live?” Bill persisted.
I led the three of us toward some chairs in the back of the room, keeping my eyes alert for Scoobie. It
occurred to me that I didn’t know what Scoobie did for money.
“He’s on some sort of Social Security disability,” Ramona said. “But he’s getting a lot better. He’s thinking
of taking some writing classes.”
Bill’s questions, which didn’t seem mean-spirited, were still making me uncomfortable, so I figured I’d turn
the conversation to him. “How long have you been out of dental school?”
This being a subject Bill was familiar with, he talked for several minutes about finishing undergraduate
school a semester early so he could travel to Europe, going to dental school for four years, and then doing a
one-year residency in pediatric dentistry, his specialty. I half-listened as I looked for Scoobie. I spotted him
dancing with Jennifer. She did not look to be having as much fun as he was.
By the time Scoobie rejoined Ramona and me – after we ditched the very attentive Bill by using the time-
honored method of going to the ladies room together – I had looked at pictures of Margo and Eddie’s three
kids and the sonogram of the one on the way, and Ramona had told me that the reason Bill stayed near the
door was that he was divorced from another classmate and they had a deal not to go near each other during
the evening. This seemed quite civil to me. I, on the other hand, have no idea where my ex-husband Robby
is. Since he agreed to testify against a big-time loan shark who preys on gamblers, there's a chance he'll go
into the federal witness protection program.
“Listen, Jolie,” Scoobie said in a low voice, “Want to help me stash some food?”
“You’re not serious.”
In response, he pulled a couple plastic food storage bags from his tux pocket, and grinned. “Health
department rules say they can’t save the stuff, and the hotel won’t give it away. They’re afraid somebody
would get food poisoning and sue them. Or not get it and sue.”
He took my elbow and guided me toward the table. I suddenly realized that half the crowd had left. Had I
been talking to Margo that long? “You know,” I took a bag from him,“ I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Right. That would be the one about being in cahoots with Michael Riordan over the murder of his mother?”
“You know very well that George Winters just implied that because I hung up on him.” I had since decided
that it was not a good policy to hang up on newspaper reporters.
We were at the long food table, and I took in what was left. “What kind of stuff do you want?”
“I don’t have a fridge, so just get bread and crackers and cookies.” He poured the remains of a bowl of
crackers into his large bag. “Cheese would be OK. I can put it on the window sill.”
Feeling as if every eye in the room was on me, I stuffed cheese into the bag he had given me. As I zipped it
shut, he handed me another one. I put cookies and a bunch of deli bread slices into it. I was reaching for
crackers when a camera flashed just to my right.
“This is great,” George Winters said. “Reunion attendees load up for the ride home.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” I moved a foot toward him and he just grinned. He has a cocky grin that seems to go
with his red hair. I have thought several times that I could like George if he would stop writing about me.
Which it seems he won't.
“Wanna bet?” George nodded to Scoobie. “You want a picture with Jolie?”
“Sure.” Scoobie draped an arm over my shoulder and I glanced at him. He looked happier than I’d seen
him since I’d come back to Ocean Alley.
“Smile for your fans, Jolie.”
WHEN I SAW THE OCEAN ALLEY PRESS the next day, I wished more than ever that I hadn’t stuck out my
tongue. He had taken a second picture, at Scoobie’s insistence, but I knew that if the local paper printed a
reunion photo, Winters would be sure it would show my screwed up countenance.
“Why were you holding those bags of food?” Aunt Madge asked as she leaned over to pick up my little cat,
Jazz.
“Scoobie wanted to take home some of the leftovers.” We were drinking tea at the oak kitchen table. We
were in her L-shaped open living area, which has a kitchen at one end and the bedroom and bath behind it.
Guests are upstairs, so she has some privacy. This part of the house had been the huge ballroom before the
house was subdivided, long before she and Uncle Gordon bought it.
“That makes sense,” she said. “Adam is probably on a tight budget.”
Aunt Madge is the only one who calls Scoobie by his given name.
I glanced at her as I scanned the page to look at more reunion photos. Today her hair was almost a honey
blonde. She uses temporary color so she can easily change the shade of her shoulder-length hair, which she
usually wears in a soft French twist.
There she sat, widowed for more than 20 years and reading the obituary section of the paper to see who she
knew, getting ready to go upstairs and change beds in her guests’ rooms because her husband had left little
life insurance and she, with a degree in art history, did not have a lot of job prospects. Someone else might
find it sad, or at least dull, but Aunt Madge never complains about a thing. Instead, she has used her
creative talent to decorate her B&B and has developed some carpentry skills. She makes built-in shelves and
small end tables, and she’s been working on a doll house for one of my nieces for ages.
She glanced at me and smiled. “Did you see a lot of people you knew besides Scoobie and Ramona and
Margo?”
“A lot of people who looked familiar and a few that I did remember. And one woman who wants me to
appraise her grandparents’ house. Gracie Allen. Her maiden name was…” I couldn’t remember.
“Fisher,” said Aunt Madge. “It’s a great old house. One of the few older homes that wasn’t subdivided for
apartments. Probably needs some work if she wants a decent price.”
“I think Ramona’s Uncle Lester is trying to talk Gracie into listing it kind of high. That’s why she wants me
to look at it.”
“You know the story?” she asked. I looked at her blankly, and she continued. “About the house?”
I shook my head as I reached for my tea. “What kind of story?”
“You’ll like it, lots of unanswered questions.”
I stuck my tongue out at her and she pointed her finger at the newspaper. “You said you were going to stop
that.”
“What fun is a bad habit if you can’t do it at home?”
Aunt Madge shook her head, but I knew she didn’t mind what she has called my “somewhat impertinent
view of the world.”
“Mrs. Fisher, Gracie's grandmother, grew up there. Let’s see, what was her name?” She paused for a
moment, and waved her hand. “Doesn’t matter. She was one of four children, two boys and two girls.”
For a moment that sounded familiar, and then I remembered it was Margo’s goal.
“Mrs. Fisher, oh, Audrey Tillotson, that was her maiden name, got married in that house. Her brother
Richard gave her away, because her father had already died. Why was that?”
I waited patiently. Aunt Madge is not usually one to digress, so I figured she had a point. “Oh, of course.
He died of the flu, but after 1918. Anyway, Audrey, Gracie’s grandmother, was married in 1929, not long
before the Crash.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s part of the story.” She gave me a reproachful look and continued. “Richard was apparently nervous
about his father-of-the-bride type of duties. He was pretty young himself, and he helped himself to a good
bit of the rum punch before going upstairs to escort Audrey down the front staircase for the service.”
“Wasn’t that during Prohibition?” I asked.
“They weren’t after the people who had it for weddings. The press would have made police look like fools
if they raided weddings. Anyway, Richard was halfway down the stairs with Audrey when he stepped on
her dress and she fell forward and then missed a step. He caught her elbow, she wasn’t hurt. But
supposedly she was mad as a hornet, and so was the groom.”
I tried to feign interest. This sounded pretty dull so far. “Doesn’t sound like a story for the paper.”
"Stop interrupting. The ceremony went fine, but about halfway through the reception, Audrey’s husband,
what was his name?”
“Fisher?” I said.
“I meant his first name. Peter, that’s it. Peter Fisher had had enough to drink that he went over to Richard
Tillotson and started accusing him of stepping on Audrey’s dress on purpose, to make her look bad, because
Richard was mad that Audrey was getting married and leaving him in the house with their mother and the
two younger children when he, Richard that is, wanted to move out on his own.”
I didn’t realize I’d been tapping my foot until Aunt Madge glanced under the table. I stopped.
“Audrey’s mother and someone else pulled Richard out of the room because he was ready to hit Peter
Fisher. Oh, did I say he’d already thrown his drink on him?”
“You left out that gory detail,” I said.
She ignored me. “So that was it, but two days later Richard was gone. Just gone.”
“Gone as in he never came back?”
“That’s right. After a few weeks, Audrey and her husband moved into the house. They had rented an
apartment, but Audrey’s mother was supposed to have a ‘weak constitution,’ and she really needed another
adult in the house.
I’m not sure why, the two younger children were close to their teens, I think.”
“That’s it?”
She stood up and picked up both of our empty tea mugs. “Not every story has an exciting ending. I just
thought you’d like some local history.”
“It’s very interesting,” I said quickly.
Aunt Madge shrugged. “I suppose not.” She glanced at the door. “Would you let the dogs in?”
Mister Rogers and Miss Piggy are Aunt Madge’s two shelter-adopted mutts. Both have enough retriever in
them to be incurably exuberant, and they have a fondness for prunes, which Aunt Madge now keeps on the
top shelf of her pantry in plastic containers. When Mister Rogers saw he had achieved his goal of getting
attention he lowered his head to his front paws and, butt sticking in the air, wagged his tail so fast it was
hard to keep track of it.
I slid open the sliding glass door and he and Miss Piggy bounded into Aunt Madge’s large sitting room, as
she calls her open living area.
Mister Rogers ran around the couch several times, Miss Piggy in pursuit. It was unusual enough behavior
for them that I watched for several laps until I realized that Mr. Rogers had something in his mouth. I knelt
down and clapped a couple of times. “Here, boy.”
Aunt Madge was onto them now, too. “Sit!” she said, sternly, and they both skidded to a stop, Miss Piggy
landing on Mr. Rogers’ rump. That caught him by surprise, and he opened his mouth to give a small yelp.
As he did so, a tiny chipmunk sailed out, landed on the throw rug in front of him, and made a beeline for
the tiny space under a nearby bookcase. It didn’t look any the worse for wear; Mr. Rogers had probably
held it between his tongue and the roof of his mouth rather than between his teeth.
I laughed, and my cat Jazz sailed off the back of the couch and stuck a paw under the bookcase. This
stopped Mr. Rogers from doing the same, as Jazz tends to terrorize him by jumping on his back for a ride
from time to time. For a couple of seconds we looked at Jazz and listened to the chipmunk chatter at her
paw. “No, Jazz.” I picked her up, still laughing.
“Bad dogs,” Aunt Madge said, which had no effect on them. Instead, they went to her, tails wagging, as if
they expected a treat. She glanced at me. “I forgot to tell you. They must have found a nest of ground
squirrels, because he had one yesterday. I’ve no idea where it is now.”
This stopped my laughing. That and the fact that Jazz was trying to claw her way back to the floor. “You
mean it’s still in the house?”
“Yes. I just hope they don’t make it to a guest room.” She opened the sliding glass door, and the dogs went
back out. “Can you imagine if one of them found it in a bathroom at night?”
“Can you imagine if I did?”
of my marriage, I had found a dead body and nearly been killed by a man who was angry with my ex-
husband. I had made him angry, too, but in all fairness, that was not my fault.
“Yes, it’s been…wild.” I shook her hand as I looked at her name badge. “So, your name is really Gracie
Allen?”
She was tall, slim, and dressed in a stunning burgundy dinner dress that clung to her like a bathing suit. She
looked nothing like the photo of the round-faced girl who was on her name badge. Her laugh was
contagious, and I smiled as she explained. “My maiden name was Grace Fisher, and I married Jeremy
Allen. I get a kick out of being Gracie Allen, so I told the committee to put my married name on my badge.”
I nodded. In a way she looked a bit like the iconic radio and TV actress, but without the curls. I had not
shown up for the junior class pictures, so the reunion committee made my badge from a photo that had
recently appeared in the local paper. It was not my best picture.
“It’s good you have a sense of humor,” I said, unsure what else to add.
“Actually,” she said, “I wanted to talk business with you for a minute. I heard you do real estate appraisals.”
“I do,” I said, seeing dollar signs. “I work through Harry Steele’s company.”
She waved a hand. “I know all about that. It was…”
“In the paper,” I finished for her.
“Right. Jeremy and I have to sell my grandparents’ house. I have no idea what it’s worth.”
I didn’t understand why she wanted my help. Usually a real estate agent helps the seller set the price, and
the appraiser is not called for until after there is a contract with a potential buyer. “Umm, you won’t really
need me until after you have a contract,” I began.
“I know how it’s usually done. But this real estate agent we’re working with has suggested a price that
seems awfully high.” She frowned slightly. “We don’t want to sell it under market, but if we price it too
high it won’t sell quickly. I want to be done with all this estate stuff.”
A warning bell dinged in my brain. Ramona’s uncle, Lester Argrow, has a well-earned reputation for listing
a house for more than the market will usually bear. He wants a higher commission. This has put him at
odds with Harry Steele, though Lester and I get along okay.
I was saved from an immediate response as the lights in the room dimmed and a portable spotlight aimed
toward the center at the far end of the ballroom. Gracie and I turned to watch Jennifer Stenner, one of my
competitors in the appraisal business and a former cheerleader, step into the light.
She was wearing a dress of what I (hardly a fashion maven) would call party-dress material. As Jennifer
welcomed everyone to the 10th reunion of our Ocean Alley High School class, I scanned the room again for
Scoobie and Ramona. While I wouldn’t put it past Ramona to forget, even though we had talked about the
reunion the day before, I had really expected Scoobie to be on time. In the two weeks since we made the
papers for solving a murder, he has made a point of seeing me on the boardwalk every day or stopping by
Aunt Madge’s Cozy Corner B&B.
Jennifer had just awarded the prize for coming the longest distance to a couple who now live in London.
Their prize was a large plush dog dressed in school colors, making me glad I wouldn’t win anything. It was
big enough that it would need its own airline ticket, so I figured it would get left under a table.
“And now to the most successful Ocean Alley graduate of our class, Annie Milner.”
There was more applause for Annie, whom I knew to be an attorney who worked in the county's Office of
the Prosecuting Attorney, so I turned to see if she was in the audience. As I did so, my eyes met those of a
very pregnant woman who had apparently been trying to get my attention. She waved and pointed toward
the back of the room, and started walking that way. Feeling it would be rude to ignore her, I whispered to
Gracie, “I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes.”
Gracie, busy clapping for Annie Milner, didn’t seem to hear, which was fine with me. I threaded my way
through the crowd, trying to remember why the woman looked familiar. She was about my height, which is
five feet, two inches, and had light brown hair. Her only remarkable feature was the watermelon that
preceded her.
When we were a few feet from each other, she started to laugh. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”
“Ohmigod, Margo.” I threw myself at her and hugged. Or tried to anyway, in spite of the watermelon.
Margo was my best friend in 11th grade, the only person other than Scoobie who knew that I was staying
with Aunt Madge while my parents 'worked things out' in their marriage. I told everyone else they were
touring in Europe.
“I’m sorry, I just didn’t…” I stammered, embarrassed at not recognizing her.
“I wasn’t exactly pregnant in 11th grade.” Her eyes laughed at me, but she wasn’t making fun. “Although, I
was kind of lucky not to be.”
I felt my jaw drop. “No. You and Eddie...?”
“Just once. Then we were so scared for a month we didn’t do it again until we got married.”
It was my turn to laugh. “Scared straight. I should have kept in better touch. Aunt Madge told me when
she saw your wedding announcement, but I didn’t know you were expecting a baby.” I looked at her belly.
“Boy or girl?”
“I never let them tell me,” she said, suddenly very matter-of-fact. “The little devil kicks like a boy, though.”
“So it’s not your first?” I, caught up in my own life, could not imagine parenting, much less having a second
child at twenty-eight.
Margo laughed so loudly we got a couple 'keep it down' looks from people near us. She covered her mouth
and we moved into the hall. “More like my fourth.”
This did not strike me at all funny, and it must have shown in my expression, because she continued, with a
slightly defiant look. “Eddie and I always said we wanted four, and we wanted to finish having them
before we were 30.” She patted her belly.
“Lucky for her,” said a familiar voice behind me, “they look more like Margo than Eddie.”
I turned toward Scoobie, about to lambaste him for leaving me on my own for an hour, but the words died
on my lips. Gone were his traditional unkempt look and blue jeans. Instead, he wore an old-fashioned tux,
reminiscent of Rock Hudson in Pillow Talk, and his blonde hair and beard were neatly trimmed.
“Don’t let Eddie hear you say that, Scoobie,” Margo chided. “Everyone says our little Jack looks like the
UPS guy. You’ll get me in trouble.”
As usual, Margo had taken whatever came before her in stride. Probably why she could handle three kids
with one on the way. I, with no such aplomb, blurted, “Wow! You look really …”
It was a mistake. Insecurity replaced his joviality in an instant and he interrupted. “You don’t like it?”
“I do,” I said quickly. “It’s just...”
“Different,” said Margo, in her no-nonsense way. “But you look good.”
“Thanks,” he said, acting somewhat cocky again. “I figured since Jolie and I spent junior prom night at Pizza
Hut, I’d dress for this occasion.”
“Oh God, we did.” I had actually been asked by a guy in math class whose name escaped me, but I barely
knew him and couldn’t imagine spending an entire evening talking to him. Scoobie and I had hung out a lot
together, but not as an item, as Aunt Madge would say. It seemed perfectly natural to argue over who got
the last piece of pepperoni pizza rather than get dressed up to see if we could get a local restaurant to serve
us alcohol.
“Eddie and I went,” Margo said, as she looked over me into the ballroom. “I think someone’s calling you or
something,” she said.
Sure enough, I heard Jennifer saying my name into the mike. “Oh, no.” I felt my color rise in sync with the
case of nerves I felt.
“Ha! Serves you right for being in the paper so much,” Scoobie said. He gave me a small shove.
As I walked the few feet into the room, the spotlight shone on me, and I shielded my eyes. “There she is,
folks,” Jennifer said, and the spotlight swung back to her.
Which was good, though all I could now see were blinking lights. I ran into something firm, which turned
out to be a good-natured classmate.
“Go on up front,” he urged.
I could feel my face turn even more crimson as I walked toward Jennifer, who was looking very pleased
with herself. “And for the super sleuth,” she began, as several people laughed, “we have a special award.”
I stood next to her, trying to look at ease and as if it was perfectly normal for me to be in front of a couple
hundred people who knew my name when I didn't know most of theirs. “I can’t believe you did this,” I
said. What I really wanted to say was that I would try to steal some appraisal business from her, but that
would be rude.
From a small table just to one side, she took a package about the size of a shoebox and handed it to me.
“Open it,” Scoobie yelled from the back.
I looked at Jennifer and saw genuine delight in her face, no trace of the usual pretentious attitude that she
wears about town. I struggled with the lid for a moment, and then pulled out tissue paper and looked
beneath it. Tucked inside were a magnifying glass, bubble pipe, and tweed cap, which someone had
inexpertly tried to fashion to look like Sherlock Holmes’ hat. I took out the hat and plopped it on my head.
The applause and catcalls had me laughing in spite of myself. “Read the card,” Jennifer said.
Uh oh. I recognized Aunt Madge’s handwriting. She knows everyone in town, so I couldn’t say I was
surprised. I removed the card and read aloud, “To the best girl detective in Ocean Alley.” An arrow
indicated I was to turn the card over. “Now learn to mind your own business.” This brought another
round of laughter, and I gave a small bow and tried to edge out of the spotlight.
Jennifer would have none of that. She put her arm through mine and drew me to the center of the
spotlight. “Now, not everyone knew Jolie when she was here for 11th grade, but we’re sure glad she’s
back.” Only scattered applause for this, as people had started talking to others again. “Even,” she raised an
eyebrow as she looked at me in mock sternness, “if she is competition for Stenner Appraisals.”
I knew she’d get her business name in there somewhere. I suddenly realized people expected me to say
something; Jennifer was, after all, holding the mike in front of my face.
“I think I’d like to crawl under the boardwalk.” This brought a couple guffaws, and I remembered coming
across two or three couples under there, during junior year.
“Get your minds out of the gutter,” Margo yelled from the back.
Everyone laughed, and I felt the tension – my self-created tension, as usual – lessen. “It’s nice of you guys to
think of me,” I said. “But, I have to warn you, I might use this,” I held up the magnifying glass, “To see
what you’re up to. Watch out.”
After that lame attempt at humor, Jennifer let me leave the front of the room. As she began to award the
prize for most children – no doubt who would win that one – I made my way back to Scoobie. Standing
next to him, finally, was Ramona. I could understand why she was late. She had taken the time to fix her
long blonde hair into a stunning French twist, but she had done it in such a way that there were strands of
hair along her neck at perfect intervals. Often known for dressing somewhere between a stylish hippie and
a Gypsy, tonight she was in a sleek blue evening dress that was perfect for her height of five feet six inches.
Clearly I, in a knee-length hunter green dress that I used to wear to the office, had not gotten the memo
about how one is to dress for a high school reunion.
“You look terrific,” I said, as Scoobie reached for the box to examine the pipe.
“I should have told you people get dressed up for this.” I raised an eyebrow at her. “But you look good
too,” she said, quickly.
“They should have given you a bong,” Scoobie said, handing it back.
“You’re the one who used to smoke that stuff, not her,” Ramona said.
“Jolie. We need to finish.” Gracie Allen walked up and extended her hand to Ramona. She ignored
Scoobie, which made me angry. Just because he lived in a rooming house and spent most of his time on the
streets did not mean she was better than he. I was about to turn away when Scoobie caught my eye and
winked.
“I heard you were trying to get rid of your grandparents’ dump,” he said to Gracie.
She stiffened. “It’s not a dump, just older and...”
“I’m sorry, that’s right. I heard someone down at Java Jolt saying you were trying to dump their place.”
I had to keep my lips together to keep from laughing.
“I do want to sell it,” Gracie said, formally. She turned to me. “Would you be willing to come by and take a
look? I’d really appreciate it. We’d pay you, of course.”
Since my budget is lean, thanks to my former husband’s draining our bank accounts to support his gambling
hobby, I tend not to turn down a chance to work. “As long as you go through Harry Steele, I’d be happy to
do it.” This made Gracie happy, and I jotted Harry’s number on the back of a napkin she held out for me.
As Gracie walked away the band started to play and almost everyone made a beeline for the food. I
stepped back to stand next to Ramona while Scoobie joined the group loading their plates. She smiled at me
broadly.
“What?” I asked.
“Jennifer said I had to be sure you came, so you’d get your box of prizes.”
“Ramona! You tricked me.”
“Not really,” she said. “I could tell you really wanted to come. Besides, you did get a bong.”
I laughed. “I’ll probably use the bubble pipe with my nieces.” She was still smiling. “OK, it is a good place
to meet people.”
I had often visited Aunt Madge in the years since I’d lived with her, since my town of Lakewood, New
Jersey was less than 40 miles away from Ocean Alley. However, Margo had moved to Connecticut, and
Scoobie and I had lost track of each other, so I rarely ran into anyone I knew. If I was going to settle in here
for awhile, I needed to meet more people than those who lived in the houses I was appraising.
Scoobie rejoined us. His plate was piled high. “You two should get over there before all the good stuff is
gone.” He picked up a roast beef sandwich and took a huge bite. “Isht good,” he said, between chews.
As Ramona and I walked toward the spread, someone touched my elbow. “You don’t say hi when you
bump into people?” asked an auburn-haired man.
“Sorry,” I said. “All I saw were colored spots.”
“I’m Bill Oliver.” My face must have reflected my blank memory, because he added, “Math class?”
“Oh, sure. You, huh, sat across from me.” I racked my brain. Was he the guy who asked me to the junior
prom? If so, he looked much better now, with broad shoulders that said he worked out.
“Yep,” he said, handing Ramona and me a plate and taking one for himself.
“Hey, Bill,” said Ramona, in her more typical airy-fairy voice. “You haven’t been in the store for awhile.”
“Nope. I moved to Newark. Joined a dental practice up there.”
Instinctively I moved my tongue over my teeth to be sure there were no bits of food showing. I felt like my
awkward 11th-grade self. He joined a dental practice, and I had a room in my aunt’s B&B because I had less
than $4,000 to my name, a car payment, and student loans.
“Deviled egg, Jolie?” he asked, lifting one off the tray with the small tongs.
“Sure.” He put half a deviled egg on my plastic plate and it skidded back onto the table.
“Oh well.” I picked it up and popped it into my mouth.
“You’re as bad as Scoobie,” Ramona murmured.
“Yeah, Scoobie.” Bill glanced behind him. “I heard he’s had some tough times.”
“He’s doing better.” I could hear the defensiveness in my voice as I tried to speak with the egg in my mouth.
“Scoobie says he majored in marijuana growing in college,” Ramona said, as she picked up a fork. “He’s
getting back on track.”
Bill looked dubious. “I was down here a couple times this summer, and I saw him on the boardwalk,
wearing a knapsack. Looked like it had all he owned in it.”
I shrugged, which was difficult as I was trying to balance several olives and some miniature quiches. “He
has a room, spends a lot of time in the library. And he writes great poetry.”
“But how does he live?” Bill persisted.
I led the three of us toward some chairs in the back of the room, keeping my eyes alert for Scoobie. It
occurred to me that I didn’t know what Scoobie did for money.
“He’s on some sort of Social Security disability,” Ramona said. “But he’s getting a lot better. He’s thinking
of taking some writing classes.”
Bill’s questions, which didn’t seem mean-spirited, were still making me uncomfortable, so I figured I’d turn
the conversation to him. “How long have you been out of dental school?”
This being a subject Bill was familiar with, he talked for several minutes about finishing undergraduate
school a semester early so he could travel to Europe, going to dental school for four years, and then doing a
one-year residency in pediatric dentistry, his specialty. I half-listened as I looked for Scoobie. I spotted him
dancing with Jennifer. She did not look to be having as much fun as he was.
By the time Scoobie rejoined Ramona and me – after we ditched the very attentive Bill by using the time-
honored method of going to the ladies room together – I had looked at pictures of Margo and Eddie’s three
kids and the sonogram of the one on the way, and Ramona had told me that the reason Bill stayed near the
door was that he was divorced from another classmate and they had a deal not to go near each other during
the evening. This seemed quite civil to me. I, on the other hand, have no idea where my ex-husband Robby
is. Since he agreed to testify against a big-time loan shark who preys on gamblers, there's a chance he'll go
into the federal witness protection program.
“Listen, Jolie,” Scoobie said in a low voice, “Want to help me stash some food?”
“You’re not serious.”
In response, he pulled a couple plastic food storage bags from his tux pocket, and grinned. “Health
department rules say they can’t save the stuff, and the hotel won’t give it away. They’re afraid somebody
would get food poisoning and sue them. Or not get it and sue.”
He took my elbow and guided me toward the table. I suddenly realized that half the crowd had left. Had I
been talking to Margo that long? “You know,” I took a bag from him,“ I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Right. That would be the one about being in cahoots with Michael Riordan over the murder of his mother?”
“You know very well that George Winters just implied that because I hung up on him.” I had since decided
that it was not a good policy to hang up on newspaper reporters.
We were at the long food table, and I took in what was left. “What kind of stuff do you want?”
“I don’t have a fridge, so just get bread and crackers and cookies.” He poured the remains of a bowl of
crackers into his large bag. “Cheese would be OK. I can put it on the window sill.”
Feeling as if every eye in the room was on me, I stuffed cheese into the bag he had given me. As I zipped it
shut, he handed me another one. I put cookies and a bunch of deli bread slices into it. I was reaching for
crackers when a camera flashed just to my right.
“This is great,” George Winters said. “Reunion attendees load up for the ride home.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” I moved a foot toward him and he just grinned. He has a cocky grin that seems to go
with his red hair. I have thought several times that I could like George if he would stop writing about me.
Which it seems he won't.
“Wanna bet?” George nodded to Scoobie. “You want a picture with Jolie?”
“Sure.” Scoobie draped an arm over my shoulder and I glanced at him. He looked happier than I’d seen
him since I’d come back to Ocean Alley.
“Smile for your fans, Jolie.”
WHEN I SAW THE OCEAN ALLEY PRESS the next day, I wished more than ever that I hadn’t stuck out my
tongue. He had taken a second picture, at Scoobie’s insistence, but I knew that if the local paper printed a
reunion photo, Winters would be sure it would show my screwed up countenance.
“Why were you holding those bags of food?” Aunt Madge asked as she leaned over to pick up my little cat,
Jazz.
“Scoobie wanted to take home some of the leftovers.” We were drinking tea at the oak kitchen table. We
were in her L-shaped open living area, which has a kitchen at one end and the bedroom and bath behind it.
Guests are upstairs, so she has some privacy. This part of the house had been the huge ballroom before the
house was subdivided, long before she and Uncle Gordon bought it.
“That makes sense,” she said. “Adam is probably on a tight budget.”
Aunt Madge is the only one who calls Scoobie by his given name.
I glanced at her as I scanned the page to look at more reunion photos. Today her hair was almost a honey
blonde. She uses temporary color so she can easily change the shade of her shoulder-length hair, which she
usually wears in a soft French twist.
There she sat, widowed for more than 20 years and reading the obituary section of the paper to see who she
knew, getting ready to go upstairs and change beds in her guests’ rooms because her husband had left little
life insurance and she, with a degree in art history, did not have a lot of job prospects. Someone else might
find it sad, or at least dull, but Aunt Madge never complains about a thing. Instead, she has used her
creative talent to decorate her B&B and has developed some carpentry skills. She makes built-in shelves and
small end tables, and she’s been working on a doll house for one of my nieces for ages.
She glanced at me and smiled. “Did you see a lot of people you knew besides Scoobie and Ramona and
Margo?”
“A lot of people who looked familiar and a few that I did remember. And one woman who wants me to
appraise her grandparents’ house. Gracie Allen. Her maiden name was…” I couldn’t remember.
“Fisher,” said Aunt Madge. “It’s a great old house. One of the few older homes that wasn’t subdivided for
apartments. Probably needs some work if she wants a decent price.”
“I think Ramona’s Uncle Lester is trying to talk Gracie into listing it kind of high. That’s why she wants me
to look at it.”
“You know the story?” she asked. I looked at her blankly, and she continued. “About the house?”
I shook my head as I reached for my tea. “What kind of story?”
“You’ll like it, lots of unanswered questions.”
I stuck my tongue out at her and she pointed her finger at the newspaper. “You said you were going to stop
that.”
“What fun is a bad habit if you can’t do it at home?”
Aunt Madge shook her head, but I knew she didn’t mind what she has called my “somewhat impertinent
view of the world.”
“Mrs. Fisher, Gracie's grandmother, grew up there. Let’s see, what was her name?” She paused for a
moment, and waved her hand. “Doesn’t matter. She was one of four children, two boys and two girls.”
For a moment that sounded familiar, and then I remembered it was Margo’s goal.
“Mrs. Fisher, oh, Audrey Tillotson, that was her maiden name, got married in that house. Her brother
Richard gave her away, because her father had already died. Why was that?”
I waited patiently. Aunt Madge is not usually one to digress, so I figured she had a point. “Oh, of course.
He died of the flu, but after 1918. Anyway, Audrey, Gracie’s grandmother, was married in 1929, not long
before the Crash.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s part of the story.” She gave me a reproachful look and continued. “Richard was apparently nervous
about his father-of-the-bride type of duties. He was pretty young himself, and he helped himself to a good
bit of the rum punch before going upstairs to escort Audrey down the front staircase for the service.”
“Wasn’t that during Prohibition?” I asked.
“They weren’t after the people who had it for weddings. The press would have made police look like fools
if they raided weddings. Anyway, Richard was halfway down the stairs with Audrey when he stepped on
her dress and she fell forward and then missed a step. He caught her elbow, she wasn’t hurt. But
supposedly she was mad as a hornet, and so was the groom.”
I tried to feign interest. This sounded pretty dull so far. “Doesn’t sound like a story for the paper.”
"Stop interrupting. The ceremony went fine, but about halfway through the reception, Audrey’s husband,
what was his name?”
“Fisher?” I said.
“I meant his first name. Peter, that’s it. Peter Fisher had had enough to drink that he went over to Richard
Tillotson and started accusing him of stepping on Audrey’s dress on purpose, to make her look bad, because
Richard was mad that Audrey was getting married and leaving him in the house with their mother and the
two younger children when he, Richard that is, wanted to move out on his own.”
I didn’t realize I’d been tapping my foot until Aunt Madge glanced under the table. I stopped.
“Audrey’s mother and someone else pulled Richard out of the room because he was ready to hit Peter
Fisher. Oh, did I say he’d already thrown his drink on him?”
“You left out that gory detail,” I said.
She ignored me. “So that was it, but two days later Richard was gone. Just gone.”
“Gone as in he never came back?”
“That’s right. After a few weeks, Audrey and her husband moved into the house. They had rented an
apartment, but Audrey’s mother was supposed to have a ‘weak constitution,’ and she really needed another
adult in the house.
I’m not sure why, the two younger children were close to their teens, I think.”
“That’s it?”
She stood up and picked up both of our empty tea mugs. “Not every story has an exciting ending. I just
thought you’d like some local history.”
“It’s very interesting,” I said quickly.
Aunt Madge shrugged. “I suppose not.” She glanced at the door. “Would you let the dogs in?”
Mister Rogers and Miss Piggy are Aunt Madge’s two shelter-adopted mutts. Both have enough retriever in
them to be incurably exuberant, and they have a fondness for prunes, which Aunt Madge now keeps on the
top shelf of her pantry in plastic containers. When Mister Rogers saw he had achieved his goal of getting
attention he lowered his head to his front paws and, butt sticking in the air, wagged his tail so fast it was
hard to keep track of it.
I slid open the sliding glass door and he and Miss Piggy bounded into Aunt Madge’s large sitting room, as
she calls her open living area.
Mister Rogers ran around the couch several times, Miss Piggy in pursuit. It was unusual enough behavior
for them that I watched for several laps until I realized that Mr. Rogers had something in his mouth. I knelt
down and clapped a couple of times. “Here, boy.”
Aunt Madge was onto them now, too. “Sit!” she said, sternly, and they both skidded to a stop, Miss Piggy
landing on Mr. Rogers’ rump. That caught him by surprise, and he opened his mouth to give a small yelp.
As he did so, a tiny chipmunk sailed out, landed on the throw rug in front of him, and made a beeline for
the tiny space under a nearby bookcase. It didn’t look any the worse for wear; Mr. Rogers had probably
held it between his tongue and the roof of his mouth rather than between his teeth.
I laughed, and my cat Jazz sailed off the back of the couch and stuck a paw under the bookcase. This
stopped Mr. Rogers from doing the same, as Jazz tends to terrorize him by jumping on his back for a ride
from time to time. For a couple of seconds we looked at Jazz and listened to the chipmunk chatter at her
paw. “No, Jazz.” I picked her up, still laughing.
“Bad dogs,” Aunt Madge said, which had no effect on them. Instead, they went to her, tails wagging, as if
they expected a treat. She glanced at me. “I forgot to tell you. They must have found a nest of ground
squirrels, because he had one yesterday. I’ve no idea where it is now.”
This stopped my laughing. That and the fact that Jazz was trying to claw her way back to the floor. “You
mean it’s still in the house?”
“Yes. I just hope they don’t make it to a guest room.” She opened the sliding glass door, and the dogs went
back out. “Can you imagine if one of them found it in a bathroom at night?”
“Can you imagine if I did?”
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