A Motor for Murder (Veronica Margreve Mysteries Book 1)

by Valerie Murmel

  The ambulance arrived several minutes later, and the paramedics took over from the doctor in working on George. I sunk into the deep chair by the outdoor fireplace where maybe an hour ago I heard, unobserved, the conversation between George and Caitlin. I felt like I was under water myself and couldn’t breathe, from the impact of this sudden death. The cliché about the fragility of life went though my head. The evening seemed like a movie before my eyes; it now played back in slow-motion, and I felt sure I would remember every word said to me that night.

  After what seemed like several eons, the paramedics had confirmed that George was dead. Apparently he was intoxicated, fell through the window of his office and had drowned in the pool. A tragic accident.

  The Bellevue police came, four of them. They had moved us all, the staff and the guests, to the second floor while they looked around downstairs. The catering staff set out the remainder of the food to be nibbled on for the remainder of the night, and then stood around, until the police got their statements and let them leave. The alcohol was no longer available – although I was sure some people might have found it helpful to deal with the strain of the situation. People were milling about; but there was nothing that any of us could think of to talk about that would be in good taste, under the circumstances. Some guests had their phones out, calling babysitters or their older children, saying that they would be a bit late. There was tension, almost electricity in the air somehow, and that caused me to shiver as I stood in the corner of the second-floor living room.

  I saw John sitting in a deep chair and leafing through his notebook, looking like someone doing some last-minute studying before a big exam – probably in “lawyer mode” already and thinking about the provisions of George's will. Teresa was sitting on the arm of his chair and every once in a while would say something into his ear, and he would give a short reply back. Wayne was sitting on a sofa in the corner, staring into the distance; then he took out his phone and started making movements on the screen with his fingers – reading his e-mails, or writing something, I couldn't quite see. Paul was pacing back and forth through the upstairs living room, then sitting down, and then jumping up and pacing again. While we were waiting, I heard Caitlin's raised voice somewhere, impatiently asking someone (presumable a police detective) about when we could go home, and saying that she had nothing to do with the death. Stan was rocking back and forth on his heels, his hands checking his pockets nervously; at one point, he half-took out a cigar and lighter, paused for a moment and then put them back, his hands again drumming on the outside of his pockets. Vinay was sitting in a chair and had his eyes closed, but I didn't think he was sleeping.

  The night felt surreal – someone I had just met was now dead. I was a guest in his house, surrounded by his other guests, whom I had also just recently met. I felt isolated and lonely inside the house, among the people, so I went and stood on the second floor balcony, and watched the moon over Seattle. Then the sky clouded over and it started raining, a small cold rain. The view disappeared, I got cold and went back inside.

  From the top of the stairs, I saw Rita, apparently still in shock, white as a sheet. She was sitting on the couch in the downstairs living room, her hands on her lap, totally motionless except for her hands clutching and un-clutching the material of her dress. One of the policemen was talking to her. Roger was standing nearby and watching them, very pale and looking very young, like a teenager.

  The police asked us each a quick set of rudimentary questions: name, contact info, occupation, where we had been when the body was found. The questions were finally over around 2 am, and people were free to go. I headed down the steep hill towards my car in 5'' heels. The rain clouds consumed any moonlight, and I tried not to stumble head-first in the dark down the slope slicked with water, as I stomped out of the bright shiny world that George Ellis used to inhabit into the rainy cold of a northwest night.

  4

  Till morning I slept a fitful sleep that seemed to be populated by shadows and black figures dressed as in a masquerade. They were jumping up from balconies, zig-zagging in the air and flying away like crows, using their capes as wings, and screaming like crows.

  The door bell rang Sunday morning at 11:30 am. Having come home so late the previous night – or, rather, the same morning from the ill-fated house-warming, – and not getting much rest during the night, I was still yawning into my breakfast when I heard the door bell noise. Bitty, who already finished her morning meal and was angling to stick her nose into my plate, jumped down from the table, went into the hallway and paused. I followed her. There was a short stocky man in a dark coat and pants standing on the porch.

  “Detective Davis, Bellevue Police Department.” He said through the door. I recognized him as one of the police from the night before. He put up his badge against the glass in the door and I read it. “I want to ask you a few questions.”

  “What about?”

  “George Ellis's death.”

  “Ah OK. Please come in.” I opened the door.

  “This shouldn't take long.”

  We walked in to the kitchen. I indicated a chair and sat down opposite, moving my half-eaten breakfast to the side and scoping up my little cat into my lap.

  “We are investigating George Ellis's death, that occurred last night”. He repeated.

  I nodded. “He fell out of the window”

  “He was pushed out of the window. We know that now, from examining the body.” The detective looked at me unblinkingly as he said it.

  “On purpose?”

  “Yes, most definitely.”

  He paused to let that sink in.

  “So someone killed him, someone at the party?”

  “Yes.”

  Oh. I was involved in a real-life murder. Someone had killed someone else, on purpose, when almost a hundred people were nearby. When I was practically in the next room. The person killed had been maybe 5 or 7 years older than me... I felt tears in my eyes as I thought of Rita. Finding out that your husband has been killed, seemingly intentionally, has got to be worse than finding out he died tragically in an accident. I swallowed my tears. The detective waited a moment and continued.

  “We are talking to everyone who was at the party. Do you have any info about the death, in the light of what I said?”

  “I am not sure. What kind of info?”

  “Did you perhaps know of someone arguing with George?”

  “... Yes, I think Caitlin was.” I told him what I've overheard of their conversation. Detective Davis listened and wrote things down in his notebook.

  “That's when you were sitting outside by the outdoor fireplace?” I nodded.

  “And where else were you during the party?”

  “Oh, all over the place. It was a big house, and Rita was proud of showing it off. We went on a tour. Then I went to the balcony, and then I used the bathroom too, and went back to the kitchen I think... I talked to a bunch of people.”

  “Can you please give me their names?”

  I concentrated, to name everyone I've met that night in chronological order. I closed my eyes and played the beginning of the evening over in my mind, mentally moving from room to room in the Ellises' new house. “I met George. John and Teresa, both lawyers. Vinay, he’s a software entrepreneur and George's golf buddy. Roger, Rita's brother. Oh, and Wayne, who is in that exotic car club. The bartender, Tim, just to get a drink. Sam Greenwich, he does some sort of investments. And Kevin Moody, who said he was the general contractor on the Ellises' remodel. And then Paul, who's the neighborhood HOA president, apparently. That is everyone.”

  He noted the names down as I spoke.

  “How did you learn of the incident?”

  “I heard a loud splash and what sounded like a scream. I thought that something happened downstairs.”

  “Where were you when you heard that?”

  “On the balcony that was looking at downtown. It wasn't raining yet, and I was admiring the sunset.”

  “Anyone
with you?”

  “No, not at the time. I had just talked to Paul, and he left to talk to George. A waiter came in and brought champagne. I had a glass and was drinking it when I heard the splash and then the scream”.

  The detective was writing in his notebook.

  “So Paul went to talk to George? How long before the event?”

  “Yes. He said he needed to talk to the host about the remodel. I don't know how long, maybe ten minutes? My remaining champagne hadn't gone flat yet.” The detective gave me a sideways look at that method of measuring time. “Did you talk to Paul?”

  He nodded. “Yes. When you came downstairs, was there already a crowd?”

  “Yes, I saw maybe twelve people at the edge of the pool”.

  “Anyone that you recognized?”

  “Yes, a waiter from catering. None of the others were people I actually talked to at the party.”

  “Did you notice whether anyone arrived at the scene after you?”

  “Not really. I wasn’t paying attention to anything besides the pool.”

  “Did you see Rita?”

  “Oh yes, she ran out to the water, screaming.”

  “Was she in the crowd when you came down, then?”

  “I didn’t see her. I could have missed her, I suppose, but I didn’t notice where she was.”

  “So you came from the second floor.”

  “Yes, the balcony that was facing downtown”.

  “Did you notice anyone coming down the stairs behind you?”

  “No, I didn't. At least no-one in high heels.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Why do you say that?”

  “I noticed my heels clicking on the stairs, and I think I heard only my own steps. Unless someone was exactly in step with me. Of course, someone could have just waited a bit longer and then came down”. George was pushed out of the window that was facing the pool. The way the house was laid out, anyone on the top floor would need to come down the same stairs as me.

  “Did you hear anyone using the elevator on the second floor?”

  “Elevator? I thought that was just from the garage?”

  “No, the elevator goes to the second floor as well. It's in the back.” So there was another way down, besides the stairs.

  “No, I didn’t know it was there. But things became pretty loud when people realized George fell into the pool. I might not have heard the elevator noise.”

  “I see. Did you hear any noises shortly before the discovery of the body?”

  “No, nothing special... Someone did look in, I assumed looking for the bathroom, but that was before I talked to Paul.”

  “Did you notice who that was?”

  “No.” I thought that the voice saying “Sorry” was somehow familiar, but I wasn't sure who it belonged to.

  He made a mark in the notebook, and then continued.

  “How well did you know George Ellis?”

  “I just met him that evening.”

  “I see. How come you were at the party?”

  “I knew Rita, years ago, before she married George. I ran into her about a month ago at the Redmond Farmer's Market, and she invited me to the house-warming.” He noted this down.

  “When was the last time you’ve seen her or talked to her, prior to that meeting?”

  I thought back.

  “Three years ago, at least.”

  “Did you see anyone else that the party that you knew?”

  I shook my head.

  “No-one from your old crowd of friends?”

  “No.”

  “Would you say that everyone else there seemed to know George?”

  “The people I’ve talked to all knew George. For others, you would need to ask Rita. And... If I may ask... Do you think someone from the outside might have come in and killed George?”

  “Extremely unlikely. There are cameras over the front, side and back doors to the house and the outside gate. We’ve reviewed the footage with Rita, as well as the caterer. Between them, they confirmed everyone who came in during the entire day of the party was either invited as a guest or was an employee of the catering company.”

  “And the footage hasn’t been tampered with?”

  He gave me a quick look. “No, it hasn’t; we’ve double checked everything with the footage recorded and stored by the security company.”

  He got up and handed me a card. “If you think of anything else, please let me know.” I promised to do so, and he went out the front door.

  5

  As things were sinking in, I was realizing that I – together with pretty much anyone else at the party – was a suspect. Somehow, being involved in a murder at a fancy party didn’t seem as thrilling in real life as it does in a book or a movie! In fact, I was feeling downright dismal – for George; for Rita, who had to come to terms with the fact that her husband was murdered; for the rest of the party guests and wait staff, who realized they might have met a murderer (and might perhaps think that they could have prevented the death if they had been in the right place at the right time).

  Events of the previous evening were crowding in my mind. Paul had gone to talk to George right before George fell out of that window. Was Paul the killer? I remembered his sour mood that evening. At least, he would have to be the main suspect at this point. The police said they've talked to him already. Did that mean they didn’t consider him a suspect?

  I thought I should call Rita, check on how she was doing. I didn’t know how appropriate that would be, under the circumstances, but writing an e-mail felt too impersonal and disconnected.

  She picked up the phone on the fifth ring.

  “Hello?” Her voice sounded like she spent all night trying to herd zombies. I immediately regretted calling her instead of, say, texting. Obviously, my call was going to be a nuisance to her.

  “Hi, it's Veronica.” I said, silently kicking myself and plotting how best to cut the conversation short and not burden Rita further.

  “Oh hi... I'm actually glad you called. It's good hearing from one of my own friends for a change – a lot of the people at the party were George's friends, or those who only knew us together.”

  “Did I wake you? How are you holding up?”

  “Oh... no you didn’t wake me. It's a nightmare. I can't believe George is gone. I mean, we had our problems, but still, to wake up in the morning and remember that he is dead!..” Her voice trailed off.

  “I'm sorry.” There was silence on the phone.

  “Do you need anything? Can I do anything for you?” I said awkwardly.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Well, I just wanted to check on you.”

  There was silence again. Finally, I swallowed my feeling of awkwardness and brought up the next subject.

  “Did you hear from the police today?”

  “Yes. They said the death was intentional. I'm sure you've talked to them – they said they were going to question all the guests again because of that.”

  “Yeah, I had a talk with Detective Davis this morning. I was extremely shocked to hear. Obviously, it must have been so much worse for you... with… with everything...” I didn't know what to say next, having tied myself into this conversational knot of mumbling insensitivity. “Are they asking you a lot of questions?”

  “They were here again today. I mean, in the morning, around 8 am. They stayed a couple of hours.”

  “It must have been tough. How did it go?”

  “I think they suspect me.”

  “Why? Whatever gave them that idea?”

  “Well, I am the beneficiary of George's estate, I assume. And haven't you heard – it’s always the spouse?” Rita gave a small bitter laugh. Yes, I had indeed heard it – that people are most likely to be killed by those they know, and family and spouse are most probable.

  “When I talked to officer Davis today, I also thought he suspected me, even though I didn’t even know George! I think that's just the vibe they give off, to keep you scared. Don’t worry about tha
t!” I was saying it but wasn't sure whether I believed it. “You do have a lawyer, right?”

  “Oh, of course. It’s Teresa, you met her at the party.” Teresa – I remembered her fashionable dress and well-put-together appearance. I was told then that she was a lawyer – apparently a criminal lawyer. “I called her and she agreed to help out. She was here when they talked to me.”

  “Is there anything I could do to help?”

  It sounded like Rita was blowing her nose on the phone. I realized it was probably a sob.

  When she swallowed, she said. “Could you please find out who did it?”

  6

  “Finding the real killer would be a huge relief, in light of everything. I'm kidding, of course.” She hastened to add.

  I didn't know what to say. I had always enjoyed reading detective novels and watching murder mysteries on TV. Now I was involved in one, however tangentially. It wasn't quite “a body in the library”, instead it was a body in the office – or out of the office, as the case may be, but it did have certain literary and genre charm.

  My real-life work was finding the bad guys of the computer world and stopping them from breaking into computer systems. This was perhaps not that different. And my brain was already occupied with the idea, wanting to find out what happened and who the culprit was. Still, agreeing to do it, trying to actually investigate a murder would be a big step.

  As I was thinking all that, Rita said “For the record, I didn't do it.” Not that I really thought her to be the killer, but hearing her say this helped break my hesitation.