Phoning in a Murder: Jolie Gentil Cozy Mystery Series, #14

By Elaine L. Orr

14th Jersey Shore Cozy Mystery

    More than most faculty, the band director at Ocean Alley High School doesn't want students to have phones in class, and he especially doesn't want the band distracted by them when they march on the football field. Imagine his reaction when one goes off during the National Anthem. When no student will apologize, Mr. O'Halloran cancels band practice the week before a big competition. Talk about a good way to tick off students, parents, and band boosters. With Scoobie's brother Terry as one of the bass drummers, Jolie and family have strong opinions. But someone is a lot more upset. At least the knitting needle in the band director's neck seems to say so.

    If Jolie hadn't been the first to find the man, she would be less insistent to know what happened to him. What really gets the Ocean Alley crew invested is the last two people the school security system shows talking to Mr. O'Halloran – Scoobie's brother and his best friend. Rumors abound.

    With appraising houses, running the food pantry, and keeping four-year old twins in line, Jolie has her hands full. Scoobie's best friend George is always willing to butt into a mystery. Sometimes that's helpful. Other times, not so much.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lifelong Dreams Publishing
• Release date: Jun 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9781963251012

Elaine L. Orr

Elaine L. Orr writes four mystery series, including the fourteen-book Jolie Gentil cozy mystery series, set at the Jersey shore. "Behind the Walls" was a finalist for the 2014 Chanticleer Mystery and Mayhem Awards. The second book in the River's Edge series--set in rural Iowa-- "Demise of a Devious Neighbor," was a Chanticleer finalist in 2017. The Logland series is a police procedural with a cozy feel, and began with "Tip a Hat to Murder" in 2016 The Family History Mystery series, set in the Western Maryland Mountains began with "Least Trodden Ground" in 2020. The second book in the series, "Unscheduled Murder Trip," received an Indie B.R.A.G. Medallion in 2021. She also writes plays and novellas, including the one-act play, "Common Ground" published in 2015. Her novella, "Falling into Place," tells the story of a family managing the results of an Iowa father's World War II experience with humor and grace. Another novella, "Biding Time," was one of five finalists in the National Press Club's first fiction contest, in 1993. "In the Shadow of Light" is the fictional story of children separated from their mother at the US/Mexico border. Nonfiction includes :Words to Write By: Getting Your Thoughts on Paper: and :Writing When Time is Scarce. She graduated from the University of Dayton and the American University and is a member of Sisters in Crime and the Independent Book Publishers Association. Elaine grew up in Maryland and moved to the Midwest in 1994. Her fiction and nonfiction are at all online retailers in all formats -- ebooks, paperbacks, large print, and (on Amazon, itunes, and Audible.com) audio in digital form. Paperbacks can be ordered through Barnes and Noble Stores as well as t heir online site. Support your local bookstore!

Book preview

DEDICATION

To my husband, brothers, sister, nieces and nephews, and assorted in-laws.

Thanks for your continuing support.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to beta readers Karen Musser Norman, J. Dave Webb, and

Angela Parson Myers.

Special thanks to my sister Diane,

who really should consider being a book publicist.

I’m grateful to knowing so many wonderful teachers and

administrators from my years substitute teaching.

I promise, none are models for any characters in this book!

CHAPTER ONE

I LOVE THE JERSEY shore in the fall—the cool ocean breezes, fragrant warm apple cider, and piles of pumpkins at the local farmers’ market.

Fall also means high school football, so I wasn’t surprised that loud voices reached me as I drove past the school parking lot Thursday morning. Two bits, four bits, six bits a sand dollar. All for Orcas, stand up and holler!

Cheerleaders were practicing for the Friday night Ocean Alley football game, which Scoobie and I would take our four-year-old twins to watch. Our cheers would be for Scoobie’s much-younger brother, Terry, as he played the bass drum in the marching band.

I was headed for a block of small businesses that looks little different from postcards I’ve seen of it in the 1960s. Probably the awnings were not as colorful then. The postcards are in black-and-white, so I can’t tell.

I never get bored appraising houses and the occasional small business in our Jersey shore town—all twelve blocks deep from the mile the town runs along the shore. I checked the clock on my dashboard. I’d have time to visit the store and get to the Miller County Courthouse before four-thirty.

I parallel parked in front of Oceanside Small Electronics and dug a notepad and pencil from my purse as I walked in. Jeremy Johnson was behind the glass-topped counter when the bell above the door announced my entry. The look he gave me was not one of welcome.

What’s up? I knew he was selling his building so he could downsize to a smaller space a couple of blocks away, but I’d heard he was happy about the move.

He lightened the scowl under his salt-and-pepper hair as I moved to the customer side of the counter. I didn’t know much about real estate appraisals, so I asked your boss about them. He said you’re determining the value of a property for the bank, so they know if it’s worth sponsoring a mortgage. Or something like that, anyway.

Harry Steele had explained it well. You’ve nailed it. We consider a building in and of itself, but also in terms of similar structures in town that sold recently.

Yeah, I guess that’s fair. Then I ran into that windbag Lester Argrow in Java Jolt. Jerry gave me a look of skepticism. Lester said you always say places are worth less than they really are.

I closed my eyes for half a second, opened them, and smiled. Okay. He’s my good friend Ramona’s uncle, so I’m not saying he really is a windbag.

Jerry grunted a smile.

But Lester, like all real estate agents, wants to sell a house or other property for top dollar. He gets more commission.

I get that, Johnson said.

I nodded. But Lester advertises to potential buyers who live in New York City or expensive suburbs in New Jersey. They look at our housing stock and think about what they would pay for a similar house where they live. With...encouragement, they may make an offer that’s not realistic. From a bank’s perspective for writing a mortgage in Ocean Alley, anyway.

Jerry shrugged, exasperated. What the daylights does a bank care what somebody pays to buy my place?

If you sell for cash, no one much cares except you and the buyer. And Lester, of course, if he’s your agent. But if a bank is underwriting a mortgage, they need to be sure a house or business is worth what they’re going to lend.

Jerry looked as if he was about to say something, but I plowed on.

If a property is overvalued, you might not get enough to pay off the mortgage when you sell it later.

He frowned. Usually prices go up.

Over time, yes. But no one walks into a real estate transaction wanting to pay more than they need to. You wanted the best deal you could get for the new store you’re buying, right?

Jerry nodded slowly. So, Lester’s full of it?

That’s another issue.

Jerry smiled and shook his head.

I felt encouraged. We’re really fair when we evaluate a building and draft the appraisal report. The bank is the client, but you get a copy. If you think we made a mistake, you can raise questions.

Do people do that a lot?

Only Lester. And he rarely, and I mean almost never, brings information to convince us to change an appraisal report.

Humph. He moved from behind the counter and gestured I should follow him. I’ll show you around, then I’ll leave you in peace.

Johnson gave me a brief tour of the showroom, the store’s half-bath, and storeroom, Then I put my shoulder-length brown hair in a ponytail so I could bend over to measure rooms without hair falling in my face.

Johnson went to the counter to help a customer who needed a cell phone screen replaced. I measured the rooms and made notes about the well-maintained building.

Neatness has nothing to do with an appraisal report, but if it did Jeremy Johnson would get an A+. Hung neatly on pegboards were hundreds of small electronic components, cell phones, headphones, and computer mice. I couldn’t name half of the stuff, but Terry probably could.

The difficult part of my appraisal would be finding comparable recent sales to use for comparison. Ocean Alley, led now by Mayor Madge – Aunt Madge to our family – has carefully managed its growth so the town doesn’t become what people refer to as a condo canyon. It has the look and feel of a small town.

However, many older buildings have been replaced by more modern ones. There aren’t a lot of small, older retail stores other than the colorful ones along the boardwalk. And most of them weren’t constructed for year-round use.

I glanced at the listing sheet, which had an asking price of $270,000. The sales contract had been for $325,000, the result of a bidding process between two potential buyers. That happened more than it used to. Along the Shore, towns like Ocean Alley are uncommon these days. People who want its ambiance will pay dearly to work or live here.

The customer at the counter spoke in a raised voice. Jerry I don’t know how you compete with these big cell phone providers. Maybe you need a can-you-hear-me-now commercial on TV.

Jerry kept his voice neutral as he flipped out the old phone screen and began to replace it. We use a regional mobile provider, but, he gestured to the shelves and walls. I sell a lot more than cell phones.

I wish the damn things had never been invented.

I looked up, expecting the voice to belong to a seventy-year old curmudgeon, and was surprised to see the high school band director, Henry O'Halloran. He glanced at me and I saw his expression shift as he tried to figure out how he knew me.

I moved toward him and held out a hand. Jolie Gentil. Terry O’Brien is in your marching band. He’s my brother-in-law, though he’s more like a brother to Scoobie’s and my twins.

Right. You brought those twins to the band open house at the end of September. Pretty well-behaved for what, three-year -olds?

Four. It was an unusual day.

O'Halloran and Jerry Johnson both laughed.

I’m appraising the store for Jerry. I’ll get back to work.

As I moved away, O'Halloran asked, Are you allowed to sell phones to high school kids?

Generally, parents put their children on a family plan with them, Johnson said.

Parents shouldn’t let their kids have them, O'Halloran groused.

Johnson continued working on the phone, but said nothing.

O'Halloran warmed to his topic. As soon as they get phones, they plant their faces in front of them and text each other instead of talking. And the damn games. That’s all they do, play games. The kid they’re playing with could be sitting right next to them.

O'Halloran turned to me. Does Terry have a phone?

I tried to smile. We like to be able to reach him so he can pick up the twins sometimes.

O'Halloran grunted. Yeah. I guess parents want to know if someone’s shooting up the school.

My lips parted, but then I shut my mouth. What was he thinking by flippantly referring to a school shooting? He was a teacher.

Here you go. Johnson handed him his phone. Good as new.

Yeah, yeah. O'Halloran finished paying for the new cell phone screen and the door jingled as he left.

I met Jerry’s eyes. Maybe he’s having a bad day.

I’ve heard he has a lot of them these days. He shook his head. Don’t remember him that way a few years ago.

Friday evening

WHEN THE OCEAN ALLEY High School marching band blasts its way onto the football field, I want to put my head under the bleachers and cover my ears. I don’t, because I would miss the joy on our four-year-old twins’ faces and the sight of Scoobie cheering for his brother as he pounds on the bass drum under the Friday night lights.

The bleachers shook as the enthusiastic crowd of students and townspeople stomped hard. Four-year-old Lance joined in by jumping up and down and poking his head in between the two people in front of him. His twin, Leia, tugged on Scoobie’s jacket and he leaned sideways to hear her. He nodded and lifted her onto his shoulders so she could see the field.

Next to me, my friend Ramona raised a sign she’d made that said, Go OA Orcas. The colorful poster reflected her strong sense of style, which I do not share. I'm perfectly happy in khakis or jeans. She makes a lot of her clothes because she favors the tie-dye skirts and loose vests that were popular in the early 1970s. She wears them well. Tonight, she made concessions geared to sitting on bleachers, and had a denim skirt that hit her mid-calf.

Ramona’s boyfriend and Scoobie’s best friend, George Winters, was in his usual cargo pants and Hawaiian-style shirt. He’d only recently moved from summer shorts to long pants. He and Ramona contrasted with Scoobie and me, who both wore blue jeans and Ocean Alley High School sweatshirts.

Prancing on the field – that’s the only word for it – were the Orca Originals. They wore onesie pajamas, which were white in front, black in back, and had an open-mouthed orca head on top. A fin on their backs wiggled as they walked. The students’ heads peeked out from the shark mouths, just below pearly white teeth. I often wondered why they didn’t run into each other.

The twenty or so orcas danced to the school theme song until the announcer’s voice boomed from the box, Make way for the Ocean Alley High Marching Band!

The orcas split into two lines and bowed slightly to welcome the band to the field. Clapping their front fins, they moved to the sidelines.

The band reached center field and the marching line spread into single-file formation and lowered the volume. This signaled to the crowd that the National Anthem was eminent, and fans began to ratchet down the enthusiasm.

Dad! Is it time to be quiet? Lance yelled.

People around us laughed.

Scoobie turned toward me and grinned, and we both looked down at Lance. Leia beat us to a response, Yes. Don’t you remember anything?

Lance frowned and Scoobie said something to Leia that would have been along the lines of, Remember not to be bossy.

Lance folded his arms. I remember everything.

From my left, George said, You can holler again in a minute, Buddy.

Distracted, the twins turned their attention to the field.

The two bass drums stood at each end of the line. In their stovepipe hats and dress uniforms, I couldn’t tell which one was Terry.

Band director O'Halloran stood mid-line, facing the band, and raised his baton with one hand and patted the air with the other, indicating they were to play softly. With several microphones in place, sound carried easily as the band began the anthem lead-in.

An announcer’s deep voice said, "Please stand and sing together as the band plays the Star-Spangled Banner."

Nearly everyone had been on their feet already. Even rustling of the game program stopped as hundreds of people began, Oh-o say, can you see...

For a group that had been rowdy thirty seconds ago, we sang the melody perfectly. I can’t say the same for the words. The song neared the end, O’er the la-and of the free...

We all took a breath in the half-second pause. But before we sang, And the home of the brave, a cell phone chimed loudly from the field. Clearly, the band member who carried it stood near a microphone.

The band director’s baton froze for a split-second before continuing. A laugh rumbled through the stands as Queen’s We are the Champions reverberated through the stadium.

THE END-OF-GAME whistle blew and all of us raised our hands and jumped around to celebrate the high school win. The Orca Originals ran or stumbled onto the field, applauding with their front fins.

George leaned across Ramona to call to Lance. You yelled loud enough, Buddy.

Lance looked up at me. See, Mom, it’s okay to be the loudest.

If everyone else is yelling, too, I said.

Scoobie stood on the bleachers and pointed toward the far side of the field. Band’s packing up.

Mom, can we go down on the field? Leia asked.

I looked toward Scoobie. I wasn’t sure I wanted to trek down the bleachers and wade through the crowd with two four-year-olds.

Scoobie nodded to me and said, Hey, George, you put Lance on your shoulders and I’ll get Leia.

Ramona said, Works for me.

Me, too. I stooped to glance under our seats to be sure we hadn’t left any gloves, stray kids, or empty cups. Nope.

Police uniforms on the sidelines near us momentarily distracted me. I got Ramona’s attention and nodded in that direction. Two officers were encouraging a man in perhaps his early thirties to leave the stadium.

He probably brought in alcohol, Ramona murmured.

The man stomped off, not under arrest.

I forgot about the man when Lance walked on my foot as he moved to George. Leia raised her arms to Scoobie. Okay, Dad, just remember not to jump around, okay?

Ramona murmured, Your husband gets more excited than the kids. She and I followed just behind the men with their shoulder loads.

I have a theory about Scoobie’s enthusiasm. Part of it is his general sense of fun and support for his sixteen-year-old brother. It’s likely also because he didn’t have traditional high school fun when he went to Ocean Alley High. He’s making up for years living with his neglectful mother and, though we don’t tell the kids this, occasional experimentation with pot on the front steps of the high school.

CHAPTER TWO

I PULLED INTO the driveway of our Cape Cod home Monday afternoon and glanced at the Cozy Corner B&B across the street. Workers had just finished the every-ten-year repainting of the Victorian style house and its large porch. Cornflower blue was my favorite house color, but I was glad our mostly brick home didn’t require such regular, expensive maintenance.

The kids get a snack after daycare, so I was in the kitchen when a beep sounded in our driveway. It announced that Terry had gotten home from school.

I smiled. It was hard to believe that only four-and-a-half years ago, Scoobie and I didn’t know Terry, the product of their father’s second marriage. A marriage to a much nicer woman than Scoobie’s late mother.

After the death of his second wife, the elderly, ailing, Terence O’Brien planned to bring his then eleven-year-old son to meet Scoobie—unannounced. His death soon after arrival