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  STICKY-FINGERED BOOKS

  Jolie Gentil Cozy Mystery

  Book 12

  Elaine L. Orr

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright 2021 by Elaine L. Orr

  ISBN: 978-1948070829

  www.elaineorr.com

  https://elaineorr.blogspot.com

  DEDICATION

  To all the teachers and school staff who kept kids engaged during the pandemic and afterwards. And to all the parents who had no such thing as a “schedule” during those trying times.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, thanks to the Decatur Critique Group for their insightful comments and the speed with which they give them.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Dedication and Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  MORE BOOKS BY ELAINE

  ABOUT ELAINE

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE TEXT MESSAGE SAID someone had broken a window at Ocean Alley’s Sand and Sea Daycare Center last night. Since I'm on the board, I know the impact that will have on our already-strained budget.

  A follow-up text said nothing appeared to have been taken or damaged, but the open window had let in a lot of rain. That put more on my mind Monday morning than getting the kids to daycare before I rushed to appraise a house.

  Fall thunderstorms let everyone at the Jersey Shore know what the term ‘rain coming down in sheets’ means. The one advantage of today's downpour was that my twins wanted to be put in their car seats as much as I wanted them to be there.

  Four-year-old Lance always has an observation. “Mommy, did you know your backside is getting all wet?”

  “I'm pretty sure she knows,” Leah said. The twins can be quick to bicker on a topic, but there was no denying the spreading dampness on my derriere.

  In less than a minute, I was behind the wheel of our van, mentally ticking off what I had to do after I dropped off the kids. The house I was about to appraise was one of Lester Argrow’s listings, which meant I would have more discussion than usual if the appraisal didn't support the price the buyer and seller had agreed to.

  I had to prepare an order for the Harvest for All Food Pantry, which I thought would take at least a couple of hours. If I got lucky, I would finish in time to have a cup of coffee with my friend Ramona at her art gallery.

  As I backed out of the driveway in front of our Cape Cod style home, I spotted Jazz on the table in the front window. My black cat likes to pretend she’s aloof, but I think she misses our company. To counter my empathy, she flounced off the table.

  My cell phone chirped as I pulled into the daycare parking lot. From the back seat, Leah advised, “You can answer it after you put the van in park.”

  “Thank you, Leah.” I turned off the ignition and answered the phone.

  My husband did not have his usual teasing tone. “Geez Jolie, I had no idea it was going to rain like that. I would have stuck around to put the kids in the van.”

  “It's OK. No need for two of us to get wet. Besides, didn't you have an early patient to assist with?’

  “I did, but he hasn't shown up yet. I know he will because he's already done the colonoscopy prep. Nobody wants to do that twice.”

  “I could have gone all day without thinking about that. “

  Scoobie laughed. “Have fun, Mom.”

  From the back seat came simultaneous clicks as the twins unfastened their seat belts. I craned my neck to look at the sky. “We're going to stay in the van for a minute or two, because I think the rain will let up.”

  “But then the puddles will be gone,” Lance said.

  I turned and gave him a semi-evil eye. In return I received a lopsided grin that was so like my husband’s.

  “You can't stomp on them. We don't have our boots,” Leah said.

  A lightening flash followed by a loud clap of thunder gave all three of us a start.

  “I changed my mind about the puddles,” Lance said.

  As the rain began to slow, I grabbed the large golf umbrella that Scoobie had placed in the front seat of the van. “I’ll get out and come to your door. You guys climb out and stand right next to me while we head inside.”

  We almost made it into the center without Lance finding a puddle, but that’s why I keep spare shoes in their ‘personal stuff’ box at the school. “Make sure you put your wet shoe in the bathroom to dry. Don’t put it in your box.”

  “Yeah, Lance. Remember the green stuff that grew on your socks?”

  Before I could ask about green stuff, Lance dashed toward the bathroom.

  “Leah, remember, Mommy and Daddy are the ones who tell Lance what to do, not you.”

  “You should boss him more.” She waved at her friend Heather and made for the play dough table.

  I stuck the still-dripping umbrella in the stand with several others, waved at staff member Marie as she tried to tie a wiggling two-year-old’s shoe, and walked toward the office.

  The smell of Lysol recently used on the scuffed wood floors mingled with the odor of pineapple-orange juice and graham crackers – all constants in the seventy-year-old, three-story building. It stood fourth-highest in Ocean Alley, after the county courthouse, Beachcomber’s Alley Hotel, and our church, First Presbyterian, affectionately referred to as First Prez.

  Since it’s a co-op nursery, all parents have duties. Mine is to inventory and order food for the snacks, a job assigned to me because I run Harvest for All. I know all about squeezing the last dime from a dollar when it comes to feeding people.

  I also know more about daycare center operations than the typical mom or dad. Most parents do play activities or monitor the nap room. I interact with the staff a lot.

  A glance in the office showed a window with a garbage bag taped over it and a pile of wet towels on the floor beneath it. Director Natalie Fremont sat at her desk, head in hand. Her light brown hair was in its usual French braid, but strands stuck out at odd angles.

  “How can I help, Natalie?”

  She lifted her head. “We’re getting cleaned up. I wish we had a lower deductible on our insurance. Whoever did this broke the wooden window sash. It’ll cost a pretty penny to fix.”

  “I bet I can get the hardware store to give us a discount. Send an email to the parents and maybe someone will volunteer to install the new one.”

  She sat up straighter. “You’re right, Jolie. At least nothing was taken.”

  I glanced at the bright Halloween drawings that covered half the wall space and the filing cabinet. “You’d think other businesses would give a thief a bigger payday.”

  She frowned and looked to her right for a moment. “I hadn’t deposited all of the money from our rummage and bake sale last weekend.” She shrugged and pointed to the file cabinet. “But it’s in the bottom drawer, in the back. Hardly anyone knows that.”

  Except now I do, and I wish I didn’t. “I’ll get an empty trash can to carry those towels in, and stick them in the dryer.”

  I lugged the heavy towels to the laundry room in the back and twisted them over the sink to get excess water out. Then I realized they needed to be cleaned anyway and stuck them in the wa
sher. The hiss of water filling the machine was almost drowned out by rain on the windows.

  As I approached the office again, a man’s angry voice snarled, “Someone could have found those books. Were they secure?”

  Natalie’s response was too low to hear. I stood still, ears straining. The daycare center had a lot of books, many with a few toothmarks, but I had a feeling these books didn’t tell fairy tales.

  A chair scraped the floor as someone stood. I raised my voice and resumed walking. “Natalie, I decided to wash the towels before putting them in…” I stopped at the door jamb. “Sorry, didn’t realize you had anyone with you.”

  “Thanks, Jolie.” She nodded to the man who stood next to her. “This is Aaron Taylor. He delivers a lot of our supplies.”

  I had expected someone with a hat pulled over their eyes and an overall shady appearance. Instead, a tall, sandy-blonde man in his late thirties or early forties – and hatless -- extended a hand. “Nice to meet you. I think groceries are the only items I don’t deliver.”

  I took his hand in a firm shake. “Mr. Markle is very gracious about bringing them over. I don’t think we’ve met, but you look a little familiar.”

  He took his hand back and grinned. “Remember that fundraiser you did for the food pantry, where you had the tank of water and people threw tennis balls to try to dunk anyone sitting on the board?”

  “At the carnival at St. Anthony’s. I wish I could forget.”

  “I was one of the people who tried really hard to dunk Lester Argrow.”

  I laughed loudly. “A man after my own heart.”

  Natalie’s smile seemed forced. “He charms all the women.”

  I didn’t think her remark was all humor, so I decided to vamoose. “I can drop by after the appraisal I’m doing and stick the towels in the dryer.”

  Natalie shook her head. “No need. Shoo. I know how busy you are.”

  I stuck my head in the play room to say good-bye to the kids, and found them sitting in a circle on the floor with two small pumpkins on newspapers spread out in front of them.

  Play aide Dolly Adams, whose curls were as damp as the paper towel she held, picked up a pumpkin. “We did want them to be bigger, but this is the first time we tried growing pumpkins. These are perfectly round.” She began to wipe off some dirt.

  I backed out of the room without saying anything. For the umpteenth time, I felt grateful that our kids went to such a great daycare. I would also have to be prepared to answer a lot of questions about why the pumpkins didn’t grow larger.

  THE HOUSE I WAS TO appraise was in the Popsicle District, a neighborhood of colorful small bungalows. As I drove, my thoughts turned to Natalie’s visitor. Aaron Taylor’s tone, though quiet, had sounded menacing. Maybe he tended to speak harshly and she ignored it.

  He certainly seemed friendly enough. But I had work to do and needed to disregard what I’d heard. For now.

  Thankfully, the homeowners had already moved out, so I could quickly measure the five rooms, kitchen, and bathroom. The latter was barely big enough to turn around in and I almost fell into the tiny tub. As with a lot of century-plus, beach-town bungalows, its original privy had been outdoors.

  The rain let up enough that I didn’t get soaked taking exterior photos. Not that the sandy soil and old-fashioned shed would add to the house’s value.

  As I locked the house, my phone chirped. Scoobie’s name appeared on caller ID.

  “Yo, Jolie.” He talked fast. “I just heard about the break-in at the daycare. Everybody okay?”

  “Just rainwater, mostly. They’ll use a lot of extra towels today. I did hear…”

  Scoobie called to someone who must have been in the hall. “Be right there.”

  “We’ll talk this evening,” I said. “It’s all good.”

  “Cool. See ya.” He hung up.

  Rain splattered again. I raised my umbrella, not possible when taking pictures, and dashed to the van. My thoughts alternated between wondering about the overheard words at Sand and Sea, needing to budget my time to make it to Aunt Madge’s Cozy Corner to put the bread in the oven by three, and mentally calculating whether the house I’d just appraised was worth its contract price.

  Aunt Madge’s face popped into my brain. Mayor Madge, as she is now known in the town she leads, allocates her time to be home at four o’clock each day to serve afternoon tea to the B&B’s guests. My job is to pop the bread in the oven so it’s ready when she gets there.

  If I didn’t get a call to pick up a sick kid or something, I could get it all done. My thoughts turned back to work. This year’s real estate prices were competitive. Still, Lester’s characterization on the sales flyer that the bungalow had an eat-in kitchen would be accurate for only one person eating on a TV tray.

  As I pulled into the parking lot of Steele Appraisals, a light came on in the office Harry and I share. I smiled, anticipating his good-natured barbs about appraising a house that Lester had sold.

  Lester thought that if he recommended our firm to local banks, Harry and I should be sure to support the sales price he negotiated with the seller and prospective buyer. Generally, we could tell the bank the price was a good reflection of the value.

  But sometimes Lester’s clients were from New York City. They were used to more expensive real estate, and Lester was never one to encourage realistic offers if he thought he could make a higher commission.

  I left my umbrella and soggy shoes on the porch to dry and entered the small Victorian house in my stocking feet. “Your local wet mop has arrived.”

  Harry chuckled. “I left a reward on your desk.”

  I almost squealed at the sight of a cup of coffee from Java Jolt. “Thank you, thank you.”

  He looked up from his computer. “Megan said to tell you she added extra sugar in case you needed a kick.”

  I picked up the cup and grinned. Megan had written, “From your Uncle Harry,” on the cup.

  “Thanks, ‘Uncle’ Harry.”

  When he married Aunt Madge six years ago, I was close to thirty. Neither my sister or I call him uncle and he’s never introduced us as his nieces. Harry and I were already professional and personal friends. It tickles Megan’s college-age daughter that we are now family.

  I turned on my desktop computer. “I think I can support the house value so the buyers can get their loan, but it’ll be a stretch.”

  “Walking distance to Markle’s In Town Grocery.” He winked at me. “Try throwing that in.”

  AN HOUR LATER, I finished loading room measurements and basic information into the appraisal software and headed for the Miller County Courthouse to look for comparable bungalows that had recently sold. I continued to hold out hope that I could justify the sales price so the bank would approve the loan the buyers wanted.

  I drove toward the center of Ocean Alley. While not a town square in the true sense, the Main Street block that houses the courthouse also had the post office, police station, library, and Mr. Markle’s grocery, so it’s as close to a downtown as a small beach town can get.

  To my surprise, Scoobie’s best friend, George, stood at the counter along the side wall, apparently looking at some recent house sales. It’s not common to see a local private investigator in the Office of the Registrar of Deeds.

  He glanced and me and I thought I detected a flush beginning to form on his suntanned skin. I decided to see if it would spread. “Getting ready to buy a different house?”

  “Just checking out something for a friend.”

  I put my notebook on the counter next to a second computer. “Would her name be Ramona?”

  He turned back to the screen. “Shut up, Jolie.”

  From the staff area came Sarah’s voice. “That’s not nice, George.”

  I glanced in her direction. A tall counter separates the public area from her desk, and she’s short. I stood on my toes to grin over it at the clerk, taking note of her smirk. “It’s an expression. He’s not really telling me to be quiet.”
>
  More reddened skin. “Because it wouldn’t work.”

  Sarah and I laughed. George ignored us.

  I began researching prior sales. Ocean Alley is so far north on the Jersey shore that it’s more like a town with a beach than a tourist town, like Ocean City or Wildwood. We were lucky that it was well developed before the condo craze hit resort towns. But it does mean there are fewer houses to compare to those that are on the market. I began making a list.

  George closed his screen. “I’ve been looking at a house on Seashore, just a few blocks from you guys and the Cozy Corner.”

  “The one with the grey front porch and bright red shutters?”

  “Yeah. They’re asking a lot. You think it’s worth it?”

  “I appraised it when it sold a few years ago. I don’t know what these owners have done, but the last ones put in all new laminate flooring and added a half-bath on the main floor. Everything was immaculate.”

  He brightened. “So, maybe I could put the few thousand I thought I might have to use for upgrades into the down payment?”

  “Possible. Have you looked at it?”

  Lester blustered in just as I asked the question. “You lookin’, George? I got time.” His squat posture was poised for the hunt.

  George seemed to do a mental groan.

  “I haven’t really decided what I can afford.” He began to inch toward the door.

  Lester pointed his perennial unlit cigar toward George. “Yeah, but it’s only when you look at a couple that you really know what your money can buy. I could line up appointments.”

  In a teasing tone, I said, “Make sure Ramona can go.”

  Lester stopped pointing and looked from me to George. “You saying you and my niece are movin’ in together?”

  From the staff area, Sarah said, “George, aren’t you going to tell Jolie to shut up again?”