GIVEN THE EVENTS OF THE last couple of days, I peered in the Harvest for All storefront window before I unlocked the door. I could have gone into the church and walked through it to the community room area to enter the food pantry, but that would mean talking to Reverend Jamison's secretary. She usually has a snide comment about some aspect of my behavior.
The pantry looks like a dry cleaner’s shop except with shelves of food behind the counter instead of racks of clothes. There are a couple of huge refrigerators in the back. They were a bequest from a good friend of Lance's, and enable us to accept donations of milk, eggs, fruit and, during the holidays, frozen turkeys and ham.
Though it can be a hectic place, when it's empty the pantry is as quiet as the church. I picked up a clipboard and pencil from the counter and started a quick inventory.
The aisle with pasta, cereal, and dried beans would not have to be restocked before our next delivery of supplies from the food bank in Lakewood. The canned food aisle was another matter. I'd probably have to ask Mr. Markle to sell us some applesauce and canned corn or peas at cost.
A knock on the door made me look up. We have to have a pretty strict policy about only providing food on the three days a week that we distribute, but if someone's desperate we'll give them a couple of canned items. If we're in the pantry.
Two people stood there. One was a regular customer, a women in her late fifties who had no local family. She gave me a sort of sheepish look. The other woman was much younger and maybe five-four. She looked over her shoulder as if nervous.
It’s too bad some people are ashamed to come.
I unlocked the door. "Hi. I'm Jolie."
The new woman seemed surprised by my friendliness. "Oh. I'm, uh, Connie. Are you allowed to give me anything today?"
The woman I knew, Mary Margaret, said, "I saw her getting soup at the market, and she didn’t have enough money. I told her it was okay to come here."
I opened the door to let them come in. "Good for you Mary Margaret. Are you okay until tomorrow?"
She nodded, and turned to leave. "I’ll be here bright and early." She looked at the younger woman. "See, it’s okay."
I shut the door and smiled at Connie as I walked behind the counter. "Tomorrow's a day we pass out, so I can only give you a few items today. Are you registered with Salvation Army or maybe Family Services? We can give you food only a couple of times if you don't register with anyone."
Connie stood on the customer side of the counter and looked at the rows of shelves. "Wow. You have a lot."
"We feed a lot of families. Would you like a bag of rice and cans of vegetables and fruit?"
She appeared to be more comfortable, and her smile was engaging. "Yes, please. I left my Medicaid card at home, but I can bring it tomorrow."
"Perfect." I walked behind the counter and made for the fruit. "Applesauce or peaches?"
"Peaches." She was the epitome of politeness. "Is this your full-time job?"
"No. We're all volunteers. Peas, beans, or corn?"
"Um, corn. Do you have to be here every day?"
"No, in fact I usually only help with distribution one day a week. I chair our committee that raises funds and things, so that keeps me kind of busy."
"What's your real job?"
I had finished loading my arms with the cans and bag of rice and set them on the counter. "I'm a real estate appraiser. We help figure out what a house is worth when it's being sold."
She nodded, then looked more interested. "Were you in the paper today?"
My smile was grim. "Yep. The paper made it sound as if someone was trying to run into me, but there's no way to be sure of that."
Connie frowned. "No one should run over a nice lady like you."
I smiled as I put her items in a plastic bag. "You tell 'em, kid." Kid, she's probably thirty or thirty-five. She had a kind of waifish look and her blue jeans were too loose. That's often a sign of what policy makers call food insecurity and we at Harvest for All call hunger.
That earned me another smile as she accepted the bag. "Thanks a lot."
"Sure. Tomorrow is a day we're open in the morning. You can see the hours on the door, or I'll write them down for you. You can come once or twice a month. If you come once we provide more, but then we then really have to stick to once a month."
"Sure, I get it." She turned to leave.
"Connie." She turned to face me. "You have a place to sleep? If not a couple of the churches..."
"I'm good." She walked toward the door without looking back. She left, and was soon out of sight.
Usually someone says what brought them to Harvest for All. Not that they have to. But they often want to emphasize their lack of money was beyond their control. Connie’s clothes were well-worn, but not dirty, and her dark blonde hair was clean. I pegged her as someone who was having a short-term problem, and was glad that when I left my husband I had Aunt Madge and her well stocked kitchen to go to.
AT THE APPRAISAL office I picked up information on two appraisal requests. One was actually from a local bank. So many banks have consolidated that more than half of our requests for work come from bigger banks around New Jersey, or even other states.
It sounded as if a car pulled up in front of the house. Don’t be so nervous. I decided I wasn’t nervous, just careful. The driver of the dark blue sedan was not a large person, but I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. The person consulted a piece of paper, looked at Harry's house, and then pulled back into traffic. It's nothing. Someone trying to find an address.
I glanced at my watch. It was almost two-forty-five. Scoobie would get off work soon. I love that we live together now. Sometimes it feels as if we always did. The only disadvantage is that he more or less expects to know where I am when he gets off work. I know it's just him being companionable, but I've gotten used to being pretty independent. I wish he had what I think of as a more traditional work schedule.
After making a photocopy of the two emailed appraisal requests and checking the fax for anything from Lester, I left for home. I had just pulled into the graveled section of my small lawn that passes for a driveway when Scoobie drove up and parked next to my Toyota.
He got out of his recently purchased used VW and waved a plastic bag at me. "I brought dinner."
Since it was from the vet, I knew it was Skunkie Delight, the smelly food that Pebbles eats. "You want it warmed up?"
He laughed. "Pebbles might."
Scoobie can't talk about individual patients in any way that would identify them, but he usually has a story or two from his day. Today's was about a four-year old who didn't want his head x-rayed.
"He was sure the x-ray machine would suck his brain out. Where do you think he got that idea?"
"TV space show, probably." I unlocked the front door. "What did you tell him?"
"That I'd put an invisible cover over the part he said was the machine's mouth, and it would prevent any sucking."
"His parents will love that."
Scoobie shrugged. "They should keep a better eye on him. He was balancing on the back of the sofa, pretending it was a tight rope."
"Tough job, parenting," I said. I was trying to decide if I should tell him about my day before or after he had his usual snack of a banana with peanut butter. After, I decided.
While he changed I mashed a banana in a cereal bowl. He puts on whatever amount of peanut butter he wants and sticks it in the microwave for fifteen or twenty seconds. I think it's gross.
Scoobie came into the kitchen and picked up the bowl from the counter. "Thanks. I'll handle the haute cuisine part."
He heated his concoction and looked at me as he stirred the results. "You look pensive. Have a tough appraisal?"
"Nope. Thought I'd tell you about my day while you eat." He stopped eating midway through his bowl of banana and stared at me as I recounted the trip to the hospital.
"So, Joe was really pale, but he looked better than I expected," I finished. I had decided to let him think I was in the room when Morehouse saw Joe, and that’s how I heard about the fingerprints the police found in Java Jolt.
Scoobie took a bite and swallowed. "You know what this means?"
"That Joe might have, maybe, been involved in..."
"No." Scoobie's retort was quick. "That we'd be nuts to try to talk to Joe about any of this. Unless we want our petard run over by the next SUV that aims at us."
"Is that the editorial we?" I asked, trying to be funny.
"Come on, Jolie, is it really worth risking all of this," he gestured around the living room with his spoon, "to figure out why Joe got shot?"
I stared at him. For a second I thought he meant he'd leave, and I felt a quick chill. I decided he just meant we had a nice house, a nice life. "I don't want to risk anything. I just went to visit him."
Scoobie gave me a kind of evil-eye look, but before he said anything else we heard footsteps on the bungalow's porch. Unfortunately, I recognized the sharp rap on the door.
"Morehouse," I said to Scoobie, as I stood.
"What did you do now?"
I made a face. "Very funny." I opened the door. "Hello Sergeant, what a lovely surprise."
Morehouse snorted as he walked in. "Yeah, like you think so. Hey Scoobie, glad you're here."
That doesn't sound good.
Scoobie held out his mostly empty bowl so Morehouse could see the contents. "Want any?"
Morehouse accepted my gesture and sat in the rocking chair, which faced the couch Scoobie and I now sat on together. Morehouse eyed the bowl again. "That's grosser than some of the stuff on the sidewalk outside the Sandpiper on Saturday night."
Scoobie laughed and my stomach did a roil. "Nice."
"Sorry. Just wanted to give you some advice, Jolie.
"Orders work better," Scoobie said.
"Not in my experience with her," Morehouse said.
"I'm in the room." I looked at both of them and then back at Morehouse. "What's up?"
"I wanna be sure you don't nose around about Joe. Fingerprints at Java Jolt, which you can't tell anybody about, show that a pretty unsavory character was at his back door, probably the day he got shot."
Scoobie looked at me, and I avoided his gaze. I knew he was thinking that Morehouse had already told me this in person.
"Anyone I know?" I asked.
"Not unless you're pals with the FBI in another state."
Rats. He isn't going to tell me anything I don't know.
Morehouse tapped his foot for a second. "I know neither one of you tells the other what to do, but I think it's good you both hear this."
I didn't want the conversation to linger on the person who was in the store. "You'd better tell George. I saw him at the courthouse today and he was thinking of talking to you about going in there to clean up the place."
Morehouse looked surprised. "Him and Joe don't like each other."
"He's worked there part-time since he got fired from the Ocean Alley Press," I said.
"In addition to doing stuff for the insurance agency," Scoobie said.
"Why didn't I know that?" Morehouse asked.
"Because you don't spend three dollars for a cup of coffee," Scoobie said.
"That's for sure." Morehouse looked at me. "I'll talk to George. You get my drift?"
"Yep. Thanks."
"Butt out," Morehouse said.
"I'll remind her," Scoobie threw in.
I stood. "If you see Joe, tell him we said hi."
Morehouse looked at Scoobie. "I'm gettin' kicked out."
Scoobie grinned. "It happens."
After perfunctory good-byes, we walked back to the living room and Scoobie looked at me. "Why do I think I didn't get the full story about what you did today?"
Jazz wrapped herself around my ankle and Pebbles, who had gone under our bed when Morehouse knocked, stuck her head around the corner from the hallway.
"I think I forgot to mention I wasn't exactly sitting by Joe's bed when Morehouse talked to him."
"Where were you? Listening at the door?"
"In the closet in Joe's room."
It was very quiet in our house for the rest of the evening.