THE NEXT MORNING I went to the library to search for business records. I also wanted to search the Ocean Alley Press index for material that related to Java Jolt. Usually the paper has articles on new businesses. Maybe in an interview Joe mentioned something I didn't already know.
Normally I would search on my laptop. However, Scoobie and I don't usually keep secrets, and if I'm not on my laptop, he would feel free to use it. I don't use his because he bought it used and it's slower than waiting for a Harvest Moon to rise. Scoobie certainly would not snoop around my files, but when you type in a web address sometimes a list of recent sites visited pops up.
I didn't want him to know the websites I'd prowled, and I only knew how to erase all site history rather than individual ones. Finding no history would look weird if he used the Internet on my computer. I didn’t want to have to lie if he asked me questions about the erased history. Bad enough that I’m creating the history.
It was with a mild pang of guilt that I waved hello to Daphne, a librarian who was in my year in high school and volunteers for Harvest for All. I'm not doing anything I said I wouldn't. I'm just looking at information.
The other side of my brain had a comment. You're kidding yourself. If you don't plan to discuss what you're looking for with Scoobie, you're lying by omission.
I hate it when both sides of an issue float across my brain when I'm trying to focus.
First was a review of the paper's index starting four years ago and moving toward the present. Three years and eight months ago, an article that featured the Ocean Alley Chamber of Commerce president of that time said the town "was ecstatic to have an independent coffee shop open in time for the upcoming summer season."
While there were several handsome photos of the Java Jolt interior, which had once been an arcade Scoobie and I snuck to sometimes during junior year, I found little personal information about Joe. It said that he had considered joining his "family's Midwest agricultural business" but decided that he wanted a chance to be near the ocean for a while.
Why don't they even name the state he was from? A glance at the byline answered that question. Katherine Hargrove used to write what papers today call lifestyle articles for the Ocean Alley Press. She was the daughter of the paper's founder. Several times I'd heard George refer to her as Katty Kathy. He thought she was little more than a gossip columnist. And she was dead, so there would be no chance to see if Joe had provided more information than she had included in the article.
At least I knew the date Java Jolt opened. I moved from the microfilm machine that let me read older editions of the Ocean Alley Press to a nearby computer. I began an online search of New Jersey business records. I quickly ascertained that since Joe was not a large business, there were few requirements that he give the state information.
The business records site required me to pay for anything I wanted, other than the list of businesses that popped up during my search. I didn't want to put in my credit card information, but couldn't think of an alternative.
That done, I had the paperwork Joe filed when he opened the business. It wasn't much. Just the date, address, type of business, and the fact that the expected number of employees was less than five. If he bought the building a realtor might know more. More likely he rented. Buying a building on the boardwalk, even a small one, would have cost a small fortune. Literally.
I was about to close the web page when a name jumped out at me. The owner was listed as James Rosen. Excuse me? Same initials, obviously, but definitely not Joe Regan.
Something in the back of my brain tried to move to the front, but was blocked. Probably by my somewhat guilty conscience. No amount of staring at the computer screen would bring the thought to mind.
Behind me a voice hissed. "Jolie, Jolie. I'm whispering."
I turned, and smiled. "Hi, Max. You look chipper."
He stared at me for a second, and then said simply, "I'm fine. Can I sit with you, Jolie? Sit with you?"
When I nodded, he moved the chair from the computer next to mine to be close to me.
That's it! "Max, when we were talking to Sergeant Morehouse, did you say something about Joe's name being different?"
"Dana. I told Dana."
"Right. I don't remember exactly what you said."
Max thought for a few seconds. "The man who was mad at Joe said Joe's name was different." He paused, and added, "Joe used a name that made him hard to find. Hard to find."
"Did the man say if Joe Regan was Joe's real name?"
"No. Do you want to go get a donut?"
"A...? Sure. You want to go to Newhart's Diner?" I asked.
He nodded. "It's for my sugar fix." As he sometimes does when he is repeating what someone has said to him, Max's words had a sort of sing-song cadence.
I exited the web browser, turned off the computer screen and stood. "Who told you you need a sugar fix?"
Max was examining the huge dictionary that sits on a podium. "Joe says that's why he gives me muffins." He lifted a batch of pages so the dictionary was open to a large color map and looked at me over his shoulder. "This is where Iraq is," he pointed to the Middle East, "and this is where we are."
"I'm glad you're here in New Jersey with me."
"Me too," he said, emphatically.
THOUGH WE SAT NEAR the rear of the diner, several people came over to talk to Max and me. Arnie gave Max his donut on the house -- a cake donut with chocolate icing and sprinkles. Arnie said it was because Max saved me.
"So Arnie," I asked, "how did you know it was Max?"
He shrugged. "Everybody knows. Same as always."
I did know how fast news traveled in Ocean Alley. I’d been pleased not to see Max’s name in the paper, and was sorry if the driver of the SUV could learn who Max was.
I had just asked Max if he had heard from his friend Josh lately when an intense-sounding voice came from behind me. "Jolie Gentil. Why is it always you?"
Elmira Washington stood next to our booth. She goes to First Prez with Aunt Madge. With her short-cropped hair and straight spine, she brings to mind a drill sergeant. They, however, are more likeable. Now I knew who was spreading Max’s name around.
"Hello, Elmira," I said. I looked across the table at Max. "You want one to take out, so you can eat it later?"
"Well?" Elmira's tone was even more demanding.''
"Well what?"
"I asked you a question!" Her face had red splotches where there had been none a moment ago.
"No you didn't. You made a rude comment and tried to disguise it as a question." I looked at her directly, but did not smile.
"Well, I never!"
"Never what?" Max asked.
Elmira turned and marched to the door, hands at her sides and fists clenched.
I heard a chuckle behind me, and Arnie came into view. He's in his sixties, not too tall, and very trim. Probably because he runs around the diner all day. "Pretty good, Jolie."
"Never what?" Max asked, again.
"It's an expression," Arnie said. "It means she doesn't like what Jolie said to her."
"She's trying to say nobody’s ever talked to her as I just did," I added.
Max leaned across the table and whispered. "No one likes her."
WHEN I DROPPED Max at his house I offered to come in to be sure no one was there who had not been invited.
"No one bad will be there. I have locks on my windows."
His steps were confident as he walked into the house. I pulled away from the curb. There was no reason that the person who shot Joe should think Max had seen him at Java Jolt two days ago -- assuming it was the same person who tried to flatten me. I was the one who saw Joe just after he was shot, not Max. Still, I worried.
DR. WELBY HAD managed to get the Harvest for All Committee together for a brief evening meeting in the small conference room at the church. I almost wondered if he had contacted the others before he called me. Not that it mattered.
First Presbyterian is a traditional Protestant church made of brick, with white trim and steeple. Aunt Madge said they've been offered what she called substantial sums to sell the land and rebuild the church on the edge of town. I figure that’s as likely as snow in August.
Behind the church, and a bit lower than the sacristy, is an attached flat-roofed building that houses Sunday School classrooms, a large community room, and the food pantry. One door of the pantry opens to the street and another to the hallway by the community room.
I talked to my good friend Lance Wilson as we waited for others to arrive. Lance is in his mid-nineties, with a mind much younger. His spirits are a lot better than a year ago. Then he'd been in a temporary apartment as his small home was renovated after water damage from Hurricane Sandy.
"Listen, Jolie, I think Sylvia and Monica are anxious that whatever we do this fall is a bit more...calm than the last couple of fundraisers."
I acknowledged his point with a nod. "I think the corn hole...I mean corn toss contest was a little rambunctious for them."
"To say nothing of the liquid string contest," Lance said, dryly.
Sylvia walked into the room. "We never need to talk about that again as far as I'm concerned."
Sylvia is efficient and has good ideas. Her posture is not the only thing rigid about her. She is the only person I've seen Scoobie be snotty with.
"Yes," I said, quickly. "We already agreed it would be more like a traditional canned food drive, with something fun combined with it. I think Dr. Welby has some ideas to try on us."
She gave a smug smile, and then her expression softened. "Have you heard anything about Joe?"
"Aunt Madge heard he’s recovering okay." I was not about to imply that I’d seen him.
"Good to hear," Lance said, and Sylvia nodded.
Laughter at the far end of the hall announced Aretha and Monica. Aretha makes sure we reach into the poorest communities, and Monica sort of organizes the bake sales. They greeted us, and I noted Monica's cardigan was not buttoned up to her neck. I think of this as her relaxed look.
An exterior door banged and Dr. Welby's booming voice came to us. "I know Jolie will be on board with this."
I figured he had to be talking to Megan, who organizes most of our volunteers at the pantry itself. She is quiet, efficient, and steady as a rock.
"Evening Jolie," Dr. Welby said, as he entered the room.
For some reason, I decided to make a point of asserting that I was the chair. I'm not usually like that. I smiled at him as he sat at the other head of the small conference table, opposite me. "Aha. The spiritual guide is here. I wouldn't think of starting a meeting without you."
He gave me a broad smile.
"Where's Scoobie?" Lance asked.
"He had a meeting. He'll be late," Dr. Welby said. "And Daphne had to work at the library."
Scoobie grew up in Ocean Alley, and half the town knows that he more or less raised himself and then majored in marijuana when he went to college just after high school. Most of those people also know how hard Scoobie worked to get his life on track. He and George have used varying levels of encouragement to get me to go to Twelve Step meetings in the past. They think I have control issues or something ridiculous like that.
"So, thank you all for coming on short notice," I said.
Sylvia had a self-satisfied look.
"I know we're a bit behind in planning something for the fall," I began.
"I thought I might save you some time," Dr. Welby said. "We talked about a location for a kids' Halloween party. I have a surprise."
"I love surprises," I said, not sure I did.
He smiled at each of us, individually. You'd have thought he was a tech mogul introducing a new product. "I talked to my club. They would be happy to host us one week from Saturday."
"You mean the country club, on the edge of town?" Aretha asked.
When Dr. Welby and Sylvia nodded, Aretha said, slowly, "As I recall, we try to make these events so that our clientele will be comfortable attending. I'm not sure everyone plays golf there."
Dr. Welby literally waved aside her comment. "All the better. It will give some people exposure to things they don't usually see."
All Megan did was straighten in her chair, but everyone noticed. As a single mom with a teenage daughter, she was likely the kind of person Dr. Welby was referring to. "Perhaps not everyone will be able to dress for your occasion."
People don’t actually turn green, but Dr. Welby sort of did. "I don't mean to be condescending. I mean, we'll be in costumes. I thought it would be a way to get some wealthier donors. Some of my friends said they would be willing to help..."
Megan relaxed her shoulders and threw him a lifeline. "That could bring in extra money for the holidays. Will you arrange for transportation for those who live closer to downtown? The bus doesn't go to the country club."