Appraisal for Murder by Elaine Orr

door and sat expectantly in front of it. She gave them an absent pat as she entered and stopped when she saw me and the empty loaf bags, which were on the table. “Oh, good. I knew there was no way to save the bread dough; I thought I was going to have to make muffins, and people don’t like surprises.” She took off her coat and poked a few stray hairs into her blonde French twist.
    “I’ve had enough for one day myself,” I said. Jazz had gotten onto my shoulder from the top of the fridge and was now trying to climb to the top of my head. Aunt Madge took her from me and gave me a kiss, then reached into a small canister and took out two large dog treats. “Outside, you two.” They slobbered as she led them to the door.
    “What, no prunes?”
    She returned Jazz to my outstretched arms, and turned the warmer on her electric kettle to make her tea. “Very funny.” But, she didn’t look amused.
    “Where were you?” I sat Jazz on the floor, took a fresh tea bag from the tiny basket next to the kettle and dropped it in a clean mug for her.
    “At the funeral home with Michael Riordan.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    She raised one eyebrow. “He showed up at the front door and said he’d like some company while he made arrangements. I didn’t mind, of course.”
    I was astounded. “Why you? Isn’t there family, or something?”
    She shook her head. “He knows I was good friends with his mother. His father moved to Atlanta after the divorce. Apparently he met some young woman at one of those resort things in the Bahamas, and he moved to where she lived.”
    “No shit.” I thought that stuff only happened to rich people. Wait, the Riordans were wealthy.
    Aunt Madge ignored what she had once referred to as my “shit slip” and continued. “Ruth has a sister, but she’s in Phoenix. And,” she hesitated, “Michael isn’t too popular around here.”
    “What do you know that I don’t?”
    “Quite a bit,” she said, dryly, pouring the water into her mug.
    “Let me rephrase that. Would you like to let me in on any of it?”
    “Since anyone who lives here knows, I guess it isn’t gossip.” She ignored my rolling eyes. “When Michael married, the wedding was here, because his bride’s parents were supposedly unable to host the event. Ruth and Larry went all out, even though they’d been divorced for a year. They could not have been more gracious to her, never a word about arranging, and paying, for everything.”
    “Dad would have liked that,” I said.
    “Your father always jokes a lot about the costs of your and Renee's weddings, but you know how proud he is of you.” I nodded, mildly chagrined.
    She continued, “Within two months, it was as if Ruth and Larry were Michael’s wife’s worst enemies. She wouldn’t come to visit, and she didn’t want Michael to. No one ever knew what happened, but I can’t believe either of them did anything so awful. Anyway, if one of them did, why would she have been mad at both of them? They were divorced.”
    I thought about this for a minute. “So, how does that translate to Michael not having anyone else to ask to go to the funeral home with him?”
    “It was very hard on Ruth. Larry had remarried and I guess she felt pretty alone. People thought Michael should have been here more often. He did come occasionally, maybe once a year. By himself, of course.”
    It seemed to me to fall in the ‘nobody’s business’ category, but Ocean Alley is a small town. There is a collective mindset about some things, like “tourism is good” and “the ocean never really warms up until July,” but it seemed in this case it had been applied to Michael Riordan. Sort of a town perspective on gratitude, or lack of it.
    Later I helped Aunt Madge put out margarine and jam with the warm bread, but excused myself and Jazz before the two couples came in to eat. I thought I would take a slow jog on the boardwalk before supper, maybe even try to talk Aunt Madge into letting me