NOT LONG AFTER SCOOBIE left for work the next morning Max said he needed to go. I had heard him tell Scoobie the futon in the guest room was not comfortable, and I expected him to say he was going home. However, when I asked him his plans for the day, Max said that he visited Mr. Markle each day when the store opened.
"You want me to drive you?" I asked.
Max stared at me.
"What?"
Max smiled. "Sergeant Morehouse drove you here. Your car is smashed. Very smashed."
Damn. "Your memory is better than mine."
His smile faded. "Only today."
"You can stay here tonight, you know."
Despite what I heard him tell Scoobie earlier, he seemed to consider this. "Jazz slept with me. Right next to me."
"So, you'll come back later?"
Max shook his head. "Can I look under your bed?"
"Sure. Pebbles likes you, she's just shy."
Max, followed by Jazz, walked into the room Scoobie and I share, and knelt to look at my pet skunk. Not everyone has one of those. It had been my luck to inherit the one that had belonged to the house's prior owner, a widow who died about eighteen months ago. Fortunately, Pebbles' scent glands had been removed. Even so, her presence probably cuts down on the number of people who would otherwise drop in unannounced.
Jazz walked under the bed and Max scratched the carpet at the edge of the bed, presumably to encourage Pebbles to come out. She did not.
"If you sit on the couch for a while she'll forget you're here and wander out to use her litter box," I said.
Max stood quickly. "I don't want to bother her. Bother her."
Max declined my offer to make him breakfast. I reminded him that he could not get muffins at Java Jolt, and he said Arnie, who owns the popular Newhart’s Diner in town, lets him order only one pancake and water.
"I have to go out for a while, but you can stop by the Cozy Corner and see Aunt Madge if you get lonely later."
"I know everyone. I'm never lonely." He put on the lightweight brown windbreaker that he'd worn yesterday. "I could go visit Aunt Madge's dogs, though. Her dogs."
Max left. Before I called Aunt Madge I wanted to read the paper.
Java Jolt Owner Shot
Joe Regan, who owns the Java Jolt Coffee Shop on Ocean Alley’s boardwalk, was shot on Seashore Street near the corner of E and Seashore. He collapsed on E Street. Regan was taken first to Ocean Alley Hospital and later transferred to a larger hospital. His condition was unknown at press time, but he was reported to have spoken soon after being wounded.
This was not Regan’s first problem of the day. At about 6:45 A.M., a customer entered the shop and found it vacant. The customer, real estate appraiser Jolie Gentil, said she found the front and back doors unlocked and Regan’s bank deposit bag on the floor near the back door.
Investigating officers found no sign of Regan between 6:45 and when he was shot about 8:25 A.M. Just before the shooting, Regan visited another downtown business, but he had no substantive conversation with anyone.
Because police have not been able to interview Regan they cannot say whether anything was stolen from Java Jolt. A small amount of money in the cash register was not taken. Java Jolt is closed until further notice.
That’s not too bad. Not great for Joe or his business, but at least it wasn’t his obituary. I turned the page and groaned at the site of another article.
SUV Appears to Target Resident
Ferry Street was nearly the site of a hit-and-run yesterday afternoon, when Jolie Gentil was barely able to jump out of the way of a speeding SUV.
Gentil told police that she was behind her car, walking toward the driver’s side door, when a dark-colored SUV pulled out of a nearby parking space and came toward her. Neither Gentil nor a companion was able to get the vehicle’s license tag number.
Sergeant Morehouse of the Ocean Alley Police said the department would like residents to call if they saw a black or dark green speeding, late model SUV at about one PM yesterday afternoon near the vicinity of G and Ferry Streets.
The article provided the public police department phone number but, mercifully, not Max’s name. Had it been any other adult, the Press would have identified him. I assumed police had asked the paper not to publicize Max’s involvement, since he would be considered vulnerable to anyone who thought Max might be able to identify them.
That concept hadn’t kept the Press from using my name. I picked up the phone and called the paper. When Tiffany came on the line I tried to keep my tone neutral. "Tiffany, are you trying to tell a prospective murderer how to find me?"
"What do...oh, you mean your name? I can't leave a name out unless the police tell me."
"You left Max's out."
"Well, yeah," she stammered, "but you're not, like, disabled."
I took a breath. "I'm not. But I'm in and out of vacant houses, and I don't own a crash helmet." Tiffany started to say something, but I interrupted. "Just tell your editor I'll ask him to pay hospital bills if someone comes after me again." I hung up. That went well. Not.
It took me thirty seconds to calm down. If the SUV attack, which was how I was beginning to think of it, was the only major event yesterday and police believed it to be an accident, I might understand using my name. But since I saw Joe just after he was shot? The first article not only named me, but said I was a real estate appraiser. It was like leaving bread crumbs to my location.
What did the SUV driver think I knew or had seen?
Now that I knew what Aunt Madge would have read in the paper, I called her.
"I was going to call you in a bit," she said. "I thought you might sleep in today."
"Scoobie gets up early, and Max stayed here last night."
"That's good. Were the people in that car yesterday after Max, do you think?"
"It's hard to know." I chose my words carefully. If I told her I thought Max was in danger, she would infer I was. "I don’t know if they were really aiming for anyone. Max didn't see who hurt Joe, and I certainly didn't. I think whoever shot him would know that."
"Scuttlebutt has it that Max may have seen someone with Joe early yesterday morning, well before the shooting."
For someone who hates gossip, she hears everything. "He says he didn’t, but the driver might think he did. Max didn't want to hang around here. He said he might stop by to see you and the dogs."
"Glad you told me. I have to go out once or twice, but I'll leave a note and tell him to sit on the porch." Her tone changed to sound less social and more serious. "Even if that car was aiming for you, it's not your job to find the driver. Leave it to the police."
"Yes, ma'am." I might try to figure out who was so angry with Joe. That's not exactly looking for the driver.
"You're being coy."
"I promise not to look for the car's driver."
"Good. Call Renée later." Aunt Madge said good bye and hung up.
I felt a bit irritated. I never look for trouble, and I'm thirty-one, not twelve. People should trust my judgment more.
THE RENTAL CAR office is just off the lobby of the town's oldest and largest hotel, Beachcomber's Alley. Unfortunately, the hotel is almost half a mile from my bungalow. Since I didn't want to bother Aunt Madge I set out, reminding myself that some of the buildings on my college campus were almost that far apart.
Not too many people rent cars in Ocean Alley, so the woman who rents the cars, Ginger Perkins, also works part-time at the hotel front desk. I waited while she checked out a hotel guest who thought the towels should be larger.
A notepad with the hotel’s logo was on the small table I sat next to, so I helped myself to a sheet and started a to-do list.
1 .Call hospital about Joe.
2. Call Renée for sure
3. Visit Joe?
4. Call Lester about Mortimer Fielding
Ginger, loose-flowing brown curls bouncing on her shoulders, walked from the hotel counter to the alcove that housed the rental car desk. "I thought I'd see you today, Jolie."
Gotta love small towns.
"Yep. If I'm going to walk it'll be for exercise." Which I need to do more of. My jeans are tight.
Ginger opened a notebook and frowned slightly. "I only have two cars, and I don't know if your insurance will cover the full rental on them. They're bigger and rent for more than most companies pay for accident rentals."
"Swell. I called them this morning. I can call them back."
After ten minutes of phone conversation with my agent, during which time Ginger checked out a guy who sported a blue spiked Mohawk, my agent agreed to pay the higher price, with the proviso that Ginger would get me switched to a smaller model when she had one available.
At least whoever's mad at Joe wouldn't know what I was driving.
RENTAL CAR AT THE READY, I called Jersey Shore Hospital in Neptune. The operator said there was no patient named Joe Regan. I decided not to believe her, and drove to Neptune, which is only about eight miles from Ocean Alley.
The two towns have little in common. Where Ocean Alley has twenty thousand residents after September and no buildings higher than four stories, Neptune has about twenty-eight thousand people and could be a town in any state. Several eight or ten story buildings are spread through the town, and life does not revolve around the ocean and the tourists it brings.
The hospital was a lot newer than Ocean Alley's, which was built in the 1950s. I walked by the information desk, having decided that if the hospital didn’t acknowledge Joe was a patient, I couldn’t ask for him. If I did, it might also alert hospital security that a gunshot victim had an unexpected visitor.
The elevator was just off the lobby. A glance at a sign next to it indicated patients were on floors three to five. That would mean a lot of wandering around peering into rooms.
Before getting on the elevator I followed signs that directed people to the hospital gift shop. I had no plans to buy helium-filled balloons or a large vase of flowers, but wanted to carry something that indicated I was going to visit a patient. A coffee mug filled with lollipops seemed appropriate, so I paid for that and a card that was blank inside.
What do you say to a gunshot victim? How are the holes healing?
I decided just to say that "all of us" (whoever that would be) looked forward to his return to Ocean Alley and Java Jolt. A dose of paranoia made me sign with just a J.
I boarded the elevator, pressed the fifth floor button, and studied a framed sign on the elevator wall that gave specific information on what was on each floor.
The Intensive Care Unit was on three, which was the same floor as the operating rooms. If Joe was in ICU I'd never get to see him. Given how quickly patients are moved out of ICU these days, I thought he might be on a regular patient floor or in the Step-Down Unit. That was for people who needed less attention than ICU but more than somebody who'd had a routine operation.
The Step-Down rooms were on the fourth floor. When I got to the fifth floor, a nurse got on the elevator. I pressed four and she pressed Lobby. The elevator opened to a fourth-floor hallway that offered two choices. Step Down was on the left and General Medical/Surgery was on the right. I decided to go to the right. It was nine-thirty; maybe a nursing assistant would be walking Joe down the hall.
No such luck. It was probably too soon after surgery for him to be out in the hall. I finished a leisurely stroll through the Med/Surg wing, as I'd heard Scoobie call it, and walked past the elevator into the Step-Down Unit.
Computers the nurses used to record patient status sat on carts with wheels; it looked like one for about every three or four patients. No patients were in the hall, but as I walked to the end of the hallway and turned left, a group of people in scrubs and white lab-jacket type clothes came out of a room and walked quickly ahead of me. "The next one," said an officious looking man with a bald head and very straight spine," is recovering from a gunshot wound that collapsed his left lung. He also has a broken left..."
The group, which I gathered was doing some kind of hospital rounds, walked into a room on my right. I kept going. When I got to a small waiting area at the end of the hall I sat down and placed the coffee mug, now minus an orange lollipop, on a table next to me.
There could be other patients getting over a collapsed lung, but not likely another who had gotten it from a gun. Could I really be this lucky?
I had half-expected to see a police officer at the door to Joe's room. If he was not listed under his own name, maybe the police thought he'd be safe. Not that Joe had to worry about me, but what about someone else?
I leafed through a local magazine, wishing I could do as it proclaimed possible and make room dividers from driftwood. I had a second lollipop in my mouth when the entourage of medical staff walked by. They were talking quietly, and the only words I picked up on were "full recovery." I hoped they were talking about Joe.
After another minute, I put down my magazine, retrieved my purse and the coffee mug of lollipops, and made my way toward the room I thought was Joe's. I walked slowly by the door. When I heard no voices, I turned and went back a few paces and into the room.
Like rooms in most newer hospitals, it was a single that had a privacy curtain around the bed. I walked quickly to the far side of the room and stood between the curtain and the window, wondering if I should peek in.
I whispered, "Joe?"
Nothing.
"Joe?"
"Mmm?"
I tugged on one end of the curtain and pulled it back a few inches so I could peer in.
Joe was very white, a fact made more apparent by his auburn hair. A tube went from his chest to a hidden container of some kind on the other side of the bed. An IV line was in his right arm and an oxygen cannula graced his face, but there was no other paraphernalia. He had a cast on his left arm, which was in a sling and slung across his chest. The fingers that stuck out of the cast were swollen. He had probably broken the arm when he fell after he was shot.
Joe looked at me and closed his eyes. He mumbled what sounded like, "Shoulda known." Then his eyes opened wide and he stared at me. In barely more than a whisper, he asked, "Max?"
I spoke as quietly. "He's fine. He found Scoobie at the hospital, and then he stayed with us last night."
Joe's face relaxed, but his expression looked as if he had questions he was too tired to ask.
I tried to think of what he wanted to know. "Max doesn't think anyone saw more than his back when he ran away."
Joe shook his head lightly. I wasn't sure what that meant, but figured I could come back to it. "Do you know who shot you?"
For a second his expression seemed cagey, then it cleared, and he whispered, "Accident."
"Baloney." I said this in an almost normal tone of voice, and paused to see if anyone had heard me. The coffee mug was still in my hand and I placed it on the rolling table that sits by all hospital beds.
Joe had a trace of a smile, but as I reached for the card in my purse, the smile vanished. We both heard a loud voice in the hall, maybe a couple of doors down from Joe's room.
"Sposed to be near the nurses' station so they can keep an eye on him."
Morehouse!
Feeling panicked, I moved outside the curtain and turned a full 360 degrees. A tiny closet was on the wall opposite Joe's bed. Without pausing, I opened it and almost dove in, then turned so I faced the now-closed closet door.
My heart was beating so hard it seemed anyone within ten feet would hear it. Footsteps came into the room and someone pulled aside the curtain that surrounded Joe’s bed.
Morehouse's tone was almost kindly. "You look better than I thought you would."
Joe didn't say anything, but he must have acknowledged Morehouse in some way, because the sergeant continued, "Don't want to badger you, but I'm hopin' you can give us an idea of who did this to you."
When Joe didn't say anything, Morehouse added, "Don't want anyone else to get hurt, especially Max, or everyone's favorite busybody, Jolie."
I could hear Joe's sheets rustle, and it sounded as if he whispered something.
"Max is okay," Morehouse said. "I saw him yesterday. Max said he was comin' to see you to get some muffins, real early yesterday, and he heard someone arguing with you. He hasn't really said if he heard anything specific, except a lot of swear words he don't want to repeat."
Finally Dana spoke. I had hoped what sounded like a second set of footsteps entering the room was hers. "We'll keep an eye on him, and let some of the other business owners know to call us if it looks as if a stranger is bothering him. Or maybe it's not a stranger?"
Dana's question invited a response, but Joe did not seem to have one.
"Thing is," Morehouse continued, "we lifted prints from your shop. Lots of 'em, of course. But one set on the back door came up when we ran it. A guy from a not-so-big town in Kansas. Just got out of the slammer after doin' a three-year sentence for bank robbery. Armed robbery, but first offense and he didn't use the weapon. He mighta had a partner, but he wouldn't say."
Plastic tore and I figured Morehouse had unwrapped a lollipop. I felt angry at Morehouse's insinuation. Grouchy as Joe could be sometimes, the idea of him being in cahoots with a bank robber seemed far-fetched.
Why question Joe about a crime from a few years ago--especially when Joe was so very badly injured? Unless Joe really was a partner in a bank robbery. Joe was in Rotary, for heaven's sake. He sold coffee at Harvest for All fundraisers and gave us the profits. But Joe didn’t ask the robber’s name.
Morehouse continued. "I'm not sayin' you know the guy."
Yes you are.
"Just wonderin' if you know anyone like that. Or anything."
Joe's voice was a rasp I could barely hear. "Lived in Kansas. Didn’t know," he paused to take a breath, "any thieves."
"Glad you mentioned you used to live there."
I inferred Morehouse was saying that if Joe had not said he had lived there it would mean Morehouse thought Joe was holding back something important. When did Joe live in Kansas?
"Lemme tell you the description we heard."
I could hear Morehouse turn pages in the notebook he always carries, but it was Dana who spoke. "Max didn't have a description. He thought the man arguing with you had a Southern accent. But because someone was running down the boardwalk fast at that time of the morning, a guy attracted attention. After word got around that you were hurt, a couple folks called. Man was maybe five ten, white, no idea of hair color because he had on a ball cap. Had on blue jeans and a dark-colored, long-sleeved shirt."
"Had back door open, for light." Joe cleared his throat and paused for several seconds. "Guy came in, wanted my deposit money." He sounded as if he needed to cough.
"Did he get it?" Morehouse asked.
The bang of a door hitting the wall almost made me jump out of the closet.
"Who are you?" The woman's tone was authoritative.
Sergeant Morehouse spoke. "This is Corporal Dana John..."
"This man is much too sick for an interview. You have to leave right now."
"Just anoth..." Morehouse began.
"Now, or I call hospital security."
Dana said, "Thanks," and Morehouse muttered, "Later Joe."
They left and the nurse's shoes squeaked as she moved on the tile floor to be close to Joe. "I'm sorry, Mr. Smith. I have three patients here in Step-Down, and one of them needed more of my attention for a few minutes."
The sound of Joe's bed being moved up--or down--reached me. The nurse added, "Your call button is right here. If anyone else tries to make you talk, just press it. Do you need anything?"
Joe must not have answered, because she started for the door. "We'll keep this mostly closed so you can get some rest."
I waited almost a full minute and then opened the closet door. I walked close to Joe's bed and peered around the curtain. The nurse had raised the head of his bed a few inches.
Joe's gaze fell on me and he shook his head very slightly.
"I'll leave you alone, too," I said, softly. "I just wanted you to know Max was okay and we're all pulling for you."
That wasn't totally true, I wanted to know more. But I had to accept that I couldn't ask him now. I took the card out of my purse and laid it next to the coffee mug of lollipops. Thank goodness the card wasn't out when Morehouse was here.