INSTINCT PULLED ME toward and away from Joe. I wanted to help him, but my muddled thinking said the noise had been a gun. I compromised by crouching and looking toward Joe for several long seconds.
When there were no more ominous pops I stumbled toward him, leaning forward as I went. Some TV show must have taught me I’d be less of a target if I bent over.
Joe was on his side and his eyes were open. I knelt next to him, unsure what to do. I need to call 9-1-1! Sirens headed toward us made me drop the phone I’d just taken from my pocket and I looked at Joe. "Help is coming."
He whispered. "Jolie. Don’t let them hurt him." He coughed and drew a raspy breath.
"Hurt who?"
Joe closed his eyes.
A heavy vehicle door slammed and two EMTs sprinted toward Joe and me. "Move back!"
I obeyed by falling from my squatting position onto my butt and kind of crab walking backwards for a few steps. I could only stare at Joe. He was so…white.
"Back, Jolie, back!"
It was Sergeant Morehouse, now dressed for business. Somehow I couldn’t move any more. He reached down and yanked me into a standing position by grabbing my elbow. "What did you see?" he yelled.
I pointed to Joe and looked at Morehouse, still unable to speak.
He lowered his voice. "Are you hurt?"
"I…no. Joe, he came towards me…" I looked toward the corner of E and Seashore Street. There were several bright red spots on the sidewalk behind Joe. Blood?
Morehouse grabbed my elbow and moved me a couple meters away from Joe and the EMTs. "Did you see anyone with a gun?"
"No. I think…he was just around that corner." I gestured to the end of the street.
Morehouse pointed toward the corner and two uniformed officers who had been running toward us turned and ran with Morehouse in that direction. They ran to the right and disappeared.
"Jolie, come inside." Mr. Markle called from the door to the market. His tone was insistent.
I walked toward him and asked, "What happened?" I had seen Joe fall, it just didn’t seem real.
A ledge runs at the bottom of the plate glass windows that face the street. Little kids try to walk on it and their parents shoo them off. Mr. Markle more or less pushed me to sit there and he walked to the coffee pot and poured me another cup.
"Thanks." I took a small sip, careful not to scald myself. Not until the hot liquid hit my throat did I realize I was shaking.
"You aren’t going to hit the floor, are you?"
I looked up at Mr. Markle. He’s about five-ten and kind of pear shaped. The front side of the pear is rounder than it was a few years ago. I couldn’t help it. I started to giggle. I put my hand over my mouth. "I’m sorry. It’s not funny."
He stared at me, both hands now on his hips. "You’re in shock or something."
The whoosh of the hydraulic entry door made both of us turn in that direction. Sergeant Morehouse walked in with Dana Johnson, my favorite officer on the Ocean Alley Police Force, a couple of steps behind him.
Morehouse pointed at me. "You okay?"
I nodded as Mr. Markle said, "Jolie said earlier that she saw Joe coming out of my back storage area."
Dana started for the back of the store. Morehouse put the radio to his lips. "Check behind the store. Seems Joe was just in the store room." Someone on the other end of the radio crackled an okay.
Morehouse glanced toward Dana’s back. "Wait up." Morehouse did a half-jog to catch up with her and they were soon out of sight.
I looked at Mr. Markle. "Thanks a lot."
"That’s the third time you’ve thanked me today." He turned and walked a few feet from me to peer around the huge sale signs that covered the plate glass window. "Ambulance is gone."
"Do you think he’ll be okay?"
Markle looked at me in mild irritation, and his expression softened a bit. "They left in a hurry. That’s usually a good sign." He walked to the cash register to pick up his clip board and started writing on it.
How can he do normal work now?
Two more police officers came in, but they didn’t look to be in a particular hurry. They looked at Markle. "Where are…?"
"Back," he said, in his more common clipped tone.
"Here," Morehouse said. He and Dana were approaching from the soup aisle, which is across from the cash register. "Nothing obvious. Markle, would you mind seeing if anything looks out of place?"
"You’ll drive away business again," the store owner muttered, and led the two younger officers toward the back of the store.
What he said might not be exactly true, but I understood his thinking. The In-Town Market was robbed last fall. No one hurt and not much taken, but for a time patrons had stayed away.
Morehouse walked outside and Dana sat next to me. "The sergeant said something about you saw Joe in the store?"
I nodded. "I was in the back, looking at some coffee, and he walked out of the store room going to the front of the store."
"Did you talk to him?" Dana had pulled out a thin spiral notebook and I studied her for a few seconds as she uncapped a pen. Dana is roughly my age, and taller than my five foot two inches, but not much. She’s pretty, but you don’t notice her soft brown hair when it’s pinned under her police hat.
"Just for a second. I told him I’d been to Java Jolt, and was glad he was all right."
"Did he respond?"
"Not directly. He just asked if anyone else was there and walked away. He said he had, I think he said stuff to do."
"Anything look odd? Did he seem stressed? Was he carrying anything?"
"I saw him just for a second. He seemed preoccupied. Then he walked down the aisle next to mine to go out."
Dana turned toward Mr. Markle, who had returned to the front of the store. "When did Joe come in?"
"I didn’t see him come in. He’s not what you’d call chatty, but I order things for the coffee shop for him sometimes, so he talks to me more than to some."
Dana’s head turned from right to left and settled back on Mr. Markle. "Security cameras?"
"No." He pointed to a larger round mirror that sat high on the wall near the ceiling. "Can’t afford ‘em. Keep my eyes on the mirrors, same as always. Have four of them."
She looked back at me. "I heard you said you think Joe got shot just around the corner on Seashore Street. Did you see anyone?"
"Not a soul."
Morehouse came back into the store and stood a few feet from me, frowning. "So, you talked to him?"
Dana went over what Mr. Markle and I had just said, in sort of police shorthand style.
"I was about to call you guys," I said to Morehouse. "Joe just seemed really odd, and I wasn’t sure you knew where he was. That he was safe."
Morehouse snorted. "Safe."
I flushed and looked at him. "Will Joe be okay?"
"Not sure. He lost some blood. EMTs said he was semi-conscious when they loaded him. Where you gonna be today?"
His clipped tone annoyed me, but I knew him well enough not to press. "I’ll go to the courthouse to look up some comps, and then to Harry’s to write up the house I visited this morning."
"The courthouse’ll have cops around. Harry’s house locked up tight?"
"I didn’t see anything when Joe got shot."
"Yeah, and a puppy thinks if he’s under a rug you don’t see him when he takes a leak."
As a uniformed officer sniggered and then moved away, I said, "I get what you're saying, but no one was near me. And I didn't see anything."
"Yeah, and I’m sure whoever it was is real sure of that and will leave you alone."
I STARED AT THE computer screen while the appraisal software loaded. Morehouse had instructed me to call him when I got to the office. I had done that, and for good measure checked to be sure all the doors and windows were locked on the first floor of Harry’s former home.
A fly buzzed near the crown molding and then flew toward the window. The large office is to the right of the entry foyer, the living room on the left. Like Aunt Madge’s, Harry’s house is an older Victorian, with a large porch that he painted in several shades of green not long ago. Her house is larger and was better cared for through the years. She bought it about twenty-five years ago and converted it to a B&B, which she called the Cozy Corner. Because Harry had to replace a lot more fixtures and such, his front door is new and the windows are mostly double-paned. Not too many drafts.
My phone chirped and caller ID said it was Dr. Welby, a retired physician who serves on the Harvest for All Committee with me. I'm supposedly in charge, but he is a commanding presence with a lot of good ideas, so I'm happy to let him take the lead when he wants to. I figured he had heard I was near Joe's shooting and was calling to see if I was okay.
"Morning, Jolie. Say, didn't we talk about maybe some kind of fall canned drive or something?"
I guess he hasn't heard about Joe. "We did. Scoobie was just saying maybe we could do it as part of a Halloween party for kids. So many people with kids come to Harvest for All."
There were two beats of silence. Scoobie's fundraising ideas are sometimes off the wall. I could almost hear Dr. Welby assessing the extent to which a Halloween party could get out of hand.
Apparently he decided a party was safe. "That sounds doable. Do you have any ideas for a location?"
"How about we meet, um, soon to pick one? I bet Reverend Jamison or Father Teehan would let us use space at their churches."
"I might have another option. You free any evening?" he asked.
"Pretty much. Your calendar's busy. Why don't you check with the First Prez secretary and pick a date?"
"Will do. I'll get back to you later today or tomorrow."
I hung up, marveling that mundane life was so welcome after the morning I'd had. The software finished loading and I began entering the measurements of Mr. Fielding's house so the computer could draw a floor plan.
Living room, eleven by fourteen feet. Where could the shooter have been standing?
Hallway leading to kitchen, six feet by three feet. Had to be around the corner on Seashore Street.
Kitchen with breakfast area, fourteen by sixteen. Joe walked toward me when he rounded the corner a few seconds after the shot. Had he been moving away from the person who shot him, or just coming back to the In-Town Market?
Largest bedroom, eleven by thirteen feet, with small master bath, seven by six feet. What could have caused Joe Regan to leave Java Jolt in such an apparent hurry?
Middle bedroom, ten by twelve feet. Was he deliberately walking toward me? What would he have had to say to me?
Smallest bedroom, ten feet by eleven feet. Who is the 'him' I’m supposed to not let get hurt?
For some reason, I had given little thought to Joe’s request. It better not have been his dying request.
I suddenly realized I had not told Morehouse what Joe had said to me. How could you overlook that? My forgetfulness could have hindered the police investigation. I swallowed some acidic saliva and blamed it on Mr. Markle’s coffee.
"Nuts." I picked up the desk phone and dialed the non-emergency police number, wishing that I didn’t have it memorized. The officer who answered said that Sergeant Morehouse would be with me in two minutes.
I knew nothing of Joe’s private life. I bantered with him occasionally at Java Jolt, and he always donated something to Harvest for All when we had a fundraiser. Joe and Scoobie never seemed to get along too well, and our friend George has always butted heads with Joe. While that did not mean I’d been too reserved with Joe, I do trust Scoobie’s judgment, so I hadn’t gotten to know Joe well.
"What Jolie?" Morehouse’s tone was brusque.
"Um, I forgot to tell you something." I paused.
"What the hell are you waiting for?"
"Joe said something to me."
It only took a few seconds to relay Joe’s request, but longer for Morehouse to tell me what he thought about my memory lapse.
"I don’t always see people bleeding on the sidewalk, you know."
He sighed. "Okay. You were shook. Anything else? You positive he didn’t say who you were supposed to be sure didn’t get hurt?"
"He definitely didn’t say. Is he going to be able to talk to you?"
"You gonna keep this to yourself?" he asked.
"Sure."
"They stabilized him at Ocean Alley Hospital. Gave him a unit of blood. Then they moved him to Jersey Shore Hospital in Neptune for surgery."
"Surgery!"
"He had a bullet in the back, under one shoulder. Think it might have nicked a lung. Coulda been a lot worse. "
I thought about Joe lying on his side, looking up at me. "Yes, I’m sure it could have. Thanks for telling me."
As soon as I hung up my mobile phone chirped. Uh oh. Aunt Madge. I should have called her.
She didn’t even say hello. "Jolie, you didn’t really get shot at this morning, did you?"
"No, Aunt Madge, but I did see Joe Regan soon after someone shot him." Like three seconds soon.
There were two beats of silence, and she must have passed the phone to Harry. "I was just leaving the house for the office. Were you at Mortimer Fielding’s place? Are you okay? How is Joe?"
"I don’t know much about Joe, but Sergeant Morehouse seemed to think the hospital was taking care of him. I’m fine. I was on the sidewalk on E Street, outside Mr. Markle’s Market. It was just a coincidence that I was near Joe. And I had already been to the house."
"That wasn’t my first concern," he said, in a dry tone.
In the background, Aunt Madge said, "When you see her be sure she’s in one piece."
Harry said something to her quietly.
"But it will be Mr. Fielding’s concern," I said. "He wants results before he decides on an asking price. With your favorite realtor, I might add."
"Just what I need," Harry said. "Maybe you should do something to make Lester angry at both of us."
I laughed. It felt good. "All we have to do is low-ball some appraisals and he’ll go back to Stenner’s." We wouldn’t do it, of course, and I doubted my friend Jennifer Stenner, who inherited the larger appraisal business in town from her father, would want Lester’s business. She knows he refers to her as "the Jennifer dame who charges too much for appraisals."
Harry said he would see me soon, and I had barely gone back to my computer screen when my phone chirped again.
"Did you honest to God get shot at?" George Winters gets excited easily.
"No. Who told you that? I was just nearby."
"Elmira Washington told Father Teehan and he called me to see if you were okay."
I suppressed a sigh. George and I dated briefly. It’s annoying that people still expect him to know what I’m up to. "I’m surprised you aren’t calling to give me a status update on Joe. You have lots of ins at the hospital."
"Joe who?"
"Geez. Sorry. Joe Regan."
"Joe got shot! You gotta be kidding."
I had momentarily forgotten that George had worked Saturday mornings at Java Jolt since the Ocean Alley Press fired him a few months ago. George is doing investigative work for an insurance company for a while, so he can qualify for a private detective license at some point. The pay at the insurance company isn’t great.
It took less than a minute to tell George what happened. When I finished, he said, "I’m coming to Harry’s," and hung up.
"Men," I muttered as I pressed the print button. "The men in my life know I can take care of myself, but they’re always trying to ride to my rescue." An image of Harry on a horse came to mind, and I smiled.
I studied the printed floor plan for several minutes and noted where I had to give the computer different instructions. As I keyed in the changes that would put the kitchen on the right side of the house instead of the left, I thought more about what Joe had said.
I had no idea who he was talking about. Even in the off-season, dozens of people are in Java Jolt every day. Joe never mentioned family to me, though maybe he talked to George about that. Except they don’t seem to do a lot of chit-chat, so probably not.
A key in the lock signaled Harry’s arrival, and it was accompanied by a bark.
"Good. Mister Rogers." I stood to greet them. Harry’s about five-nine. He has a reddish face and hair that has more white sprinkled in it than when I met him three years ago. He’s in pretty good shape for a man in his seventies.
Harry shut the door and then let Mister Rogers off his leash. I bent down to pet the exuberant retriever. He, however, looked beyond me. "Are you looking for Jazz?" He and my small black cat sometimes have play dates at my bungalow.
"You look okay. I’m supposed to call Madge if you seem stressed." He gave me a peck on the cheek as Mr. Rogers headed for the kitchen in the back of the house.
"It’ll catch up with me when I slow down. Joe spoke to me for a second, and I just talked to Morehouse about his condition." I paused.
Harry grinned and walked toward his desk. "Tell me and I won’t tell George."
"Morehouse said Joe was stable."
"Good, good." Harry was distracted by seeing a page in the fax machine, which I had forgotten to check. He picked up the fax. "Lester wants us to call him before we give Mortimer Fielding the results."
"No surprise there." Someone knocked at the front door as I handed Harry the floor plan. "I loaded some pictures of the house in our photos folder."
George was visible through the door glass. He's almost six feet tall, and his dark auburn hair has a couple specks of grey. Not that I've heard him acknowledge this. Now that he works in an office rather than roams town snooping, George can’t wear khaki shorts with a collared Hawaiian shirt. He wore tan casual slacks today, with a long-sleeved blue dress shirt that needed ironing. His blue and green tie was loosely knotted.
I let George in and he glanced across the foyer to the office Harry and I share. "Hey Harry, thanks for letting me barge in."
"No problem. Jolie, did you get comps?"
I guided George to the couch that sits in the living room and called over my shoulder. "Three good ones. I think they’ll support the value I put in the computer."
"I can take a hint," George muttered.
"Harry’s focused, not grumbling," I said. "What else did Elmira say?" Elmira Washington is one of those gossips who can have a mean edge to what she passes on. I don’t like her.
"I think she really wanted to know what I’d heard. I didn’t tell her she was the first person to tell me."
It was more than a gentle dig. As a former reporter, George thinks he should still be in the know about everything. Especially if it's something I know. "I had work to do, and Morehouse asked me not to talk much about it." Not exactly true, but true enough.
"Yeah, I’ll let Tiffany bug Morehouse. He gets off easy with her." George frowned for a second, thinking of the reporter who replaced him at the Ocean Alley Press. "Did you see anything?"
"I heard two pops." I described Joe’s look as he collapsed.
"Collapsed!"
"As in fell onto the sidewalk." I thought for a second. George could know who Joe was talking about. I lowered my voice. "He said something."
George leaned forward. "What?"
"Joe said, ‘Don’t let them hurt him.’ Do you know who that could be? Someone who comes into Java Jolt?"
George frowned as he thought. "Hard to say. I don’t think of him as protective, except maybe for…"
"Max!" I nearly shouted.
"Damn," George said, but softly.
"What’s wrong with Max?" Harry called.
Max is an Iraqi War vet who sustained a head injury that was serious enough to make him almost child-like. He repeats half of what he says in a staccato tone, and Joe gives him day-old muffins if Max comes by early in the morning.
Max could have been at Java Jolt early today.