“Well, he don’t like to be put in that position, you see.” He looked sideways toward the ocean, and then back to me. “He wants me to talk to you about paying some of that debt.”
My laugh was so harsh and loud that two seagulls squawked and flew off the bench next to us. “I don’t think so.”
“You see…” he began.
“My lawyer said that since I saw no benefit from the money I’m not responsible for any gambling debts Robby incurred on his own, or for money he embezzled. The law firm published some notice to that effect in the newspaper.”
“Yeah,” he said, “we saw it.”
“Who’s we?” I was growing more than a little tired of these illusions to a boss I figured might not exist.
This guy is trying to con me.
He slipped off one of the narrow black patent loafers and began massaging his foot. “You could say that my boss lends money to people down on their luck, especially when they frequent certain casinos in Atlantic City.”
Suddenly, I felt chilled all over.
Am I in some sort of mob movie or is this real?
“I don’t like casinos. Too much cigarette smoke.” I stood. “I need to go now.”
“Please,” he shoved his foot back in his shoe and stood. Despite his seeming friendliness, I felt nervous. “The next request, it might not be so nice.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“No, I’m really not. It’s just how things are.”
I turned and walked away quickly, without looking back.
I SPENT THE NEXT TWO DAYS trying to put Joe Pedone out of my mind. This was easier than it would have been a few days ago because I was driving around Ocean Alley looking at the houses Harry Steele had appraised and the prior sales that he listed as comparably priced to each one he was working on. I had thought of Ocean Alley as a place to relax rather than in terms of its real estate values. I was going to have to spend a lot of time looking at past sales.
I spent several hours researching a bunch of other prior sales in the Miller County Court House. It was built in the early 1920s, the previous one having been severely damaged by fire. Uncle Gordon’s mother was the county elections clerk at the time. She heard the fire engines and ran to the building in her bath robe to try to save records. When the firefighters refused to let her in, she snuck in the back and closed several of the heavy interior oak doors, thus keeping the fire from spreading into several offices. Every time someone told that story when I was young my mother would add that while her actions had saved a lot of valuable records, no one should ever run into a burning building. This was not a lesson she really needed to reiterate, but I suppose she felt obliged to stress this.
This court house was built on the site of its predecessor, and includes several of the old oak doors and some other fixtures that survived the prior court house’s fire. It sits in the center of town. As I entered the building, I detected what I always think of as the smell of history. It’s a mix of musty books, worn hardwood floors, and the stacks of files that sit atop old filing cabinets.
As I looked through the records for the homes Harry had appraised, I said a silent thank you to Uncle Gordon’s mother. While none of the seven houses were built in the early 20th century, many other houses in town are that old. If Uncle Gordon’s mother hadn’t shut those old oak doors, it would have made title searches tough for those properties. Unclear titles can reduce prices and thus agent commissions.
You idiot, you aren’t selling real estate now.
I concentrated harder on what I was doing. Harry Steele had supported the prices of six of the seven homes, so I paid special attention to that seventh sale. He had believed the sales contract was for more than the house was worth, and he seemed to have the comps to prove it. There were a couple of really nasty faxes in his file from the real estate agent, none other than Lester Argrow. “If you’d spent more than 20 minutes in this town you’d know the Marino’s house is worth a helluva lot more than $228,000.”
When Harry stuck to his guns, with a much more polite reply, Argrow had fired back, “Next time I’ll get a professional appraiser. You don’t know your ass from your elbow.” Perhaps that is what passes for professional real estate talk in Ocean Alley.
In the end, the sellers had come down $15,000 in price, since no bank would write a mortgage for more than a house is worth. This reduced Lester’s commission. Probably there had been no other offers and the sellers realized Harry was right. They appeared to have a better grasp of anatomy than Lester did.
Now that I was working, even though I had not been paid yet, I felt better about life. I had a reason to get up in the morning other than to feed Jazz or respond to my own hunger pangs. I even considered an evening run along the boardwalk. It would be 50 degrees at about seven o’clock, and since Jersey was still on daylight savings time, it would not be pitch dark. I try not to be unreasonably concerned about safety stuff, but I’m not stupid, despite not having wondered about the amount of time my husband said he spent with clubs or clients when he was actually in casinos.
I stopped back at Harry’s to drop off the three files I’d reviewed that day. It had taken me the better part of the day because of the time I’d spent at the courthouse to look at some more sales that were similar to the house Harry had found was overvalued. I wanted to form my own opinion, and it was that Harry was right to stick to his guns.
Harry was applying extra coats of paint to the new porch boards, apparently trying to get them to look the same color as the repainted older boards. Would never happen. “Hey, you still at it?”
Duh
.
“Getting ready to close the old paint can for the day,” he said. “What did you think?” He nodded toward the files I was carrying.
He must have figured I would really dig into the Marino’s house sale. “I think Lester Argrow won’t bring you any more business, but if you let people know that, you might get some from other agents.”
He laughed. “I won’t call him again, that’s for sure. You can, if you want, of course,” he said, genially.
Since I wasn’t up for turning away any business, I thought I might use Ramona’s name to get my foot in the door with him. What did I care if he called me names?
He stuck his paint brush in an old can that held turpentine or some other foul-smelling stuff. “I got a call today about another house. Thought you might want to tackle it.”
Who would have thought I’d get an adrenalin rush from the chance to appraise a house, I who had negotiated top-dollar deals in Lakewood? “You ready to trust me?”
“More than willing to let you take the first stab at it. We’ll go over your results together, of course.”
“Of course.” That was fine with me. I figured him for a gentle tutor rather than a ‘see-what-you-did-wrong’ kind of guy. “I can get started tomorrow.”
“You know Mrs. Riordan?” he asked.
The surprise must have shown in my face, because he gave me a quizzical look. “I don’t think I know her, but I know her son Michael a little. I talked to him a couple of days ago on the boardwalk.”
“Small world,” he said. “I asked him how he got my name, and all he said was that he didn’t want to go to Stenner’s.”
I grunted, with half a laugh. “He dumped Jennifer Stenner in high school. He probably doesn’t want to deal with her.”
“You are going to be useful to have around.”
“I don’t really know either of them well, just girls’ bathroom talk from eleventh grade.”
“Either way we, I should say you, have a nine a.m. appointment tomorrow.” He placed all his painting paraphernalia in a small plastic tub and started for the door. “You won’t need a key. Someone will be there.” This simplified things. I wouldn’t have to fuss with picking up the key at the realtor’s office and returning it after I did the appraisal.
I stepped in front of him to open the door for him. “You sure it’s OK if I go alone?”
“How else will I find out if you’re worth what I plan to pay you?” He winked.
That night, Jazz drank from the glass of ice water I fixed for myself after my run, and I didn’t even care.
THE NEXT MORNING, I got up at six a.m., full of energy. I set the table in the breakfast room for Aunt Madge’s two sets of guests and turned on the coffee pot, which she always leaves ready the night before.
I love Aunt Madge’s kitchen, probably because I helped her redesign it. A few years ago I received a large commission for convincing a developer that the site of the old bowling alley in Lakewood would be perfect for luxury condos, and he bought the lot for half a million dollars. My half of the six percent commission might not seem large by New York City standards, but it was the most money I’d ever made for about forty hours of work.
Robby and I toyed, yet again, with buying a house, but we didn’t want to be bothered with shoveling sidewalks and trying to decide whether to use pesticides on a lawn. Since he probably would have done a second mortgage on a house behind my back, this turns out to have been a particularly good decision.
In any event, I told Aunt Madge I was going to buy her a really big present, so she might as well pick it out, and she surprised me by saying her kitchen counter tops were getting a bit old. This was an understatement. Even oak will show its age after several thousand loaves of bread are punched into shape on its surface.
Aunt Madge did not have in mind anything as elaborate as I did, and we had to do it in the winter, so she wouldn’t have to turn away many guests. I convinced her that her cabinets were falling apart, which was nearly true, and even talked her into a garbage disposal, dishwasher, and a stackable washer and dryer, so she would not have to go down to the cellar so often. She drew the line at a double sink, which she deemed impractical in case you had a really big turkey to stuff.
The pecan cabinetry with butcher-block countertops looks new but blends well with her oak table and antique ice box. Aunt Madge is quite pleased with the lazy susan in the corner cabinet, and I’m partial to the trash compactor, since it means less garbage for me to take out.
I was alone in the kitchen, reading the paper, when Aunt Madge came in about six-thirty. Breakfast is not until seven, unless someone asks for an early one. “Aren’t you the early bird,” she offered, as she glanced at the coffee pot, which had finished brewing.
“I have paying work today. Who would have thought I’d get so excited about that?”
She smiled, “Good for the soul.” She bustled about, taking the batter she mixed the night before from the fridge and placing it in paper-lined muffin tins. I had known better than to do this for her. She has precise ideas about how much dough makes the perfect muffin.
“I meant to ask you last night if you knew how sick Mrs. Riordan is. I’m wondering what to expect when I get there.”
She didn’t answer right away, and I looked up. She was holding a spoon with dough poised over the muffin tin. “Aunt Madge?”
“Oh, yes. Ruth’s not too bad, yet. I mean,” she took a little dough out of one muffin cup and put it in another, “it’s terminal, unfortunately, but she was in church Sunday looking quite good. She’s taking chemo, but she’s on a break.”
“Why’s she taking chemo if she’s not going to make it?”
Aunt Madge shot me what novelists call a withering look. “It could buy her considerable time, months or a year, not weeks.”
“Of course,” I said, appropriately chastened. I always wondered what I would do in that situation. Would I be willing to feel horrible for weeks at a time so that I would live longer, even if I knew I’d eventually kick the bucket? I guess it would depend on what was going on in my life. Mrs. Riordan must like her life at the moment, or at least she didn’t want to let go.
“You know her pretty well, right?”
“Yes. We’ve known each other through church, of course. Since she and her husband divorced we’ve done quite a bit together outside of church.” She smiled at me. “We’ve even gone to bingo at St. Anthony’s a couple of times.”
“Did you win?”
“Good heavens, no. It’s just money down the drain, but it’s kind of fun.” She smiled at me but her smile faded as my face must have shown I knew all about money going down the drain.
To change the subject, I took her electric kettle to the sink and dumped out yesterday’s leftover water and began to fill it. “Is this what you use to fill the hot water thermos in the dining room?”
She gestured toward the stove. “You can fill the tea kettle on the stove for that. And don’t ask me why I do it that way, I don’t know.” Miss Piggy ambled into the room from Aunt Madge’s bedroom and sniffed. “Not for you, dear,” Aunt Madge addressed her. “Would you let her out, Jolie? Mister Rogers is already out there somewhere.”
I opened the door and Miss Piggy went out, still sniffing. In a moment she had spotted Mister Rogers and leaped down the steps. From the amount of nose-to-brick sniffing going on out there, I figured the rabbits had been out the night before. “I saw Mrs. Riordan’s son on the boardwalk and talked to him for a minute a couple days ago. He seemed a bit…distracted.”
Aunt Madge glanced at me as she put the muffins in the oven. “I hear he has a lot on his mind.”
“OK, it’s not gossip unless you embellish it,” I said, wanting to know more.
“Well, in addition to Ruth dying, his wife left him a few weeks ago, and I hear he’s had a falling-out with some business partners.”
“Wow.”
That is a lot.
“I suppose the up-side of it is that he’s able to spend some time with his mother. Ruth was forty when she got pregnant; she was more than a bit surprised, I can tell you. Anyway, since Ruth and Larry divorced several years ago, she’s really wanted to spend more time with Michael.”
She set the timer for twenty minutes and continued. “Ruth also has a lot to talk to him about, and I think she wanted to do it in person.”