A Motor for Murder (Veronica Margreve Mysteries Book 1)

by Valerie Murmel

  I stood and looked around, trying to imagine what actually happened that night.

  If George stood by the window, someone could have pushed him off. George was apparently very drunk and unsteady on his feet, so it would not have been that hard to do. The person to push a body of George’s size would need to be moderately strong. I remembered Detective Davis mentioning that there had been cigar ash on the window sill. George was probably standing or sitting near there while he was smoking.

  Did this mean it was a pre-meditated crime, or not? Someone probably came into the office wanting to talk to George. They could have had a fight, and the other person could have pushed George, who, being so drunk, tumbled down to the pool below. Or the killer might have been thinking of a way to get rid of George Ellis for one reason or another, and saw the perfect opportunity. If it was pre-meditated, how could the killer be sure that George would die? George was so drunk, I thought that him drowning was extremely likely, but that a small chance remained that he would survive the fall. So I was leaning towards the idea that it was a spur-of-the-moment crime, maybe the result of an escalating argument.

  I checked on Rita: she was still asleep and her breathing sounded normal. I went back downstairs, towards the noise of the TV. I felt the need to make sure that there was another living, breathing person in the house besides the sleeping Rita, that the TV sounds were not just disembodied voices. I may have started to feel Rita's terror towards the house, like it was a malevolent entity; and wanted to find and talk to another living human in there.

  The door to the source of the TV noises was opened part-way. I knocked, waited a second for an answer, and then opened it all the way.

  The TV was on, images of blonde beautiful shallow 'reality'-TV people doing glamorous and shallow 'reality'-TV things floating on the screen, and some stilted dialog coming from it. Roger was sitting on the couch and not paying any attention to the TV, but typing on the laptop on his lap, with a look of concentration on his face. He looked like a kid more than ever, his hair sticking up on top of his head. He stopped hitting the keys and wrinkled his nose, thinking. I came closer and said “Hi!”

  “Oh, I didn't notice you.”

  “Sorry to intrude. Rita is asleep. She's really tired. I just wanted to...” Do what? I didn't really know how to put my thoughts and feelings into words: I was feeling sorry for both of them, wanted to protect them, envelop them in a safe cocoon. “... see how you were doing.”

  “Uh I'm fine. Just working.” He frowned. I obviously interrupted his train of thought.

  “I thought you worked at your office?” I felt like I was blabbing, and blushed. His face showed strain – probably from the funeral earlier in the day, and thinking about his work, and from having to talk to a stranger who just barged into the room. He had recently lost a close family member to a violent death in this same house – a death in which another human was at fault. And he must have understood that his own sister was under suspicion of the crime.

  “No, I usually go there around 11:30. In the mornings I do work from here, the grab a snack and go.”

  “What time do you normally have lunch?” This was a trivial and banal conversation, but some mixture of awkwardness and politeness was compelling me to stay in it. Maybe I wanted to pretend that everything was OK, that we were just having small talk, discussing his exciting new inventions.

  “Around 3 or 4.”

  “That's pretty late.”

  “I normally stay at the office till around 9 pm”.

  “Oh wow. You are working hard!” I was mentally kicking myself for this platitude. I knew that working a lot could be a way of coping with grief, especially of a sudden or unexpected death, a way of retreating into the familiar and supposedly controllable (and in a way, comforting) surroundings of the tasks needing to be done.

  “Yeah, I’ve been working pretty non-stop for 4 months, since I had this idea. I really think it can change the electric-car industry. I almost have it ready for manufacture, I think.” His voice rose, and his words sped up with pride and excitement. “You know Tesla, and how excited people were when Model S first came out? Well, my stuff is going to be just as revolutionary! The idea that I'm working on – when manufactured at scale, I think it can increase the storage of a battery an electric car by 3x for the same upfront cost! And that will enable all sorts of scenarios and popularize the electric cars. Imagine, you would be able to make a cross-country trip in your new Tesla, only stopping to charge up overnight! ”

  “Best of luck in that! I think what you’re working on is so cool. There is a big future in that. And I admire your dedication!” I said sincerely. I wanted my words of encouragement to give him support somehow – even as I realized that they, coming from a stranger, might not matter much to him. “Well, I wanted to check on how Rita and you were doing. I'll go now. I'll show myself out.”

  “OK”. His eyes went back to the laptop.

  11

  That evening, when I came home after my aerial work-out, I made calls to set up some appointments. Then I dusted off some specialized tools that I had and practiced using them. The miniature black panther with yellow eyes and shiny soft fur stalked up to me and meowed. She put her paws on the seat of my chair and showed me her claws, and then settled on the chair behind me, so that my back was feeling the warmth and softness of her fur.

  And now I was talking to Mr Kevin Moody of Moody Construction about his relationship with George Ellis. We were in his office, with big comfy chairs, huge windows and views of Bellevue. That was one of the appointments I set up the night before.

  2pm was the only time available on his calendar for us to talk. (Made sense, I thought – the type-A go-getters who constitute the bulk of his clients probably take all the early morning, lunch-time or after-work appointments – when they are not at the gym, of course. I was once again thankful for being a software engineer – taking an hour to run some errands in the middle of the day wasn't a big deal at my job, and barely merited a mention to my boss. We both knew I was going to make up the time later.). The ambiance of his office brought to mind an impression of a Tuscan villa viewed through a hunting lodge lens. His secretary, a slightly plump woman in her mid-fifties wearing a pale-pink cashmere sweater and a burgundy skirt, was making busy noises outside, running the copy machine and taking care of the incidentals of the day.

  “Yes, we had a disagreement over the cost of the swimming pool. There was a leak and we had to re-do part of the tiling of the sides. It was all settled though.”

  I moved and sat carefully, as my triceps, and various small muscles in my back that I didn’t know the names of, were sore after doing assorted inversions and so-called “tango turns” the night before.

  He was drinking coffee, and the strong aroma whiffed over to me. There was a half-eaten pastry on a paper plate on his desk. He nodded at the office coffee machine, inviting me to have a cup, but I waved the suggestion away with a “Thanks”. I had thanked him for seeing me, and continued with my questioning.

  “I heard he threatened to sue?”

  “Pfft.. Just a threat to get some leverage.”

  “How was it settled? In whose favor?”

  “You know what they say – the customer is always right!” I nodded. “We re-tiled.” He took another bite of his pastry and chewed.

  “Did you bill him?”

  He swallowed and said. “We ate the cost.” He took a sip of his coffee. He didn't seem too happy about it – either the coffee, or having to absorb the cost of re-tiling the swimming pool. “I know what you're thinking. But in any case, killing your customers is bad for business!”

  “From what I heard, he had paid you by the time he had his party, so you wouldn't have lost any money at his death.” I tried to match his joking tone.

  “Still, word might get around that my clients are dying violent deaths, my firm would get a bad reputation.” His tone was trying to be light-hearted, but his eyes were cagey and grumpy.

  “Y
es , I see that it might not be in your best interests. In all seriousness, Mr Moody – did you go up to George Ellis's office that night?”

  “Yes, I was up there. I told the police that as well. I wanted to have a talk with him. George was drunk, loud and stubborn.” He shook his head. “I came back down.”

  “I see. A talk about what?”

  He sighed. “Just to smooth things out. You know.”

  “You wanted to make sure that he definitely wasn't going to sue? A lawsuit like that would also be quite damaging to your company's reputation, I'd say.”

  “We had already settled everything, he had paid me, he wasn't going to sue.” The big man was becoming a little agitated, his words coming out emphatically, his hands hitting the desk with his last words. “He was just behaving like an asshole during the party. I wanted to make sure he wasn't going to change his mind later.” Kevin thought about what he just said. “Oh God, that came out wrong. I did not kill him or harm him in any way, I swear.”

  “What was your opinion of George Ellis?”

  He shrugged and leaned back, calmer now. “I didn't know him well, and from what I did know, he was demanding and annoying, bordering on unreasonable.”

  “Did you know him before he became your client?”

  He shook his head. “No, never met him before he came into the office with his wife, wanting to remodel the house they just bought. “

  OK, Kevin Moody had an opportunity. Did he have a motive as well? Strong dislike of George Ellis perhaps? Rage over having to eat the cost of re-tiling the swimming pool? Fear for the reputation of his firm, if George does sue at a later date? Something like that could kill the business. Each of these might be a possible motive. And Kevin could be loud and aggravated, as I just saw. He was a big and strong guy who could easily push someone like George over the railing. On the other hand, he didn't strike me as being a “loose cannon”. Someone running the business the size of his would have learned long ago to control his emotions when it came to business situations. And I imagined that plenty of his firm's other clients were annoying and demanding, used to getting their way in everything. Most likely, Mr Moody wouldn't have killed George Ellis unless it was somehow personal. And so far, I didn't find a personal angle to this death.

  I had mulled things over a bit more after finishing up work and getting home, and then called John Sargent’s law firm, Powell, Sargent & Nguyen. It was after hours, and I got their call answering service. John Sargent was busy, a woman’s melodious voice said, could he call me back in 25 minutes? Yes, he certainly could. While I waited for his call, I assembled a sandwich for dinner. Of the things interesting to Bitty, it contained only a piece of cheese. She jumped up on my lap, sniffed at my food and curled up, keeping my thighs warm.

  The phone rang, 26 minutes after my call.

  “Hello, this is John Sargent. I understand you’ve been trying to reach me?”

  “Oh, hello. Thank you for calling me back. You are very punctual. This is Veronica, I wanted to ask you about George Ellis’s death. I hope I am not interrupting anything.” It was Friday after business hours – of course I was interrupting something.

  “Oh, don’t worry about it. I just got done with my hang-gliding.” It had barely gotten dark outside. Hang-gliding as a hobby seemed just the thing for the person so proud of his heli-skiing exploits. “Rita has told me you might be asking me some questions. How can I be of service?”

  “You’ve dealt with George’s business affairs – for how long, would you say?”

  “10 years.” He replied readily.

  “Can you think of any reason someone might try to kill him, based on what you knew about him and his business dealings?”

  “I’ve asked myself that question. No, I can’t think of anyone. George was smart, and hard-working, and driven – but I don’t think anything he did would make a motive for a competitor or a business associate to kill him. He didn’t generate such powerful negative emotions in people, I don’t think. Of course, I am wrong on some level, because someone did kill him. But I don’t think it was over anything business-deal-related.”

  “Thank you. What was George’s relationship with Stan Greenwich like?”

  “A productive and cooperative one, I would say. They both made a lot of money out of starting Mayfair Motors. I don’t think there is any kind of motive there, if that is what you are asking.”

  “Anything else related to Mayfair Motors that might worth looking into? Disgruntled employees? Disgruntled customers?”

  “Oh no. Not to the extent of committing murder! And don’t forget – the person who killed him was at the party.” Yes, good point.

  “What about Ba-Ele Tech?”

  “It is too new to amount to much yet. It doesn’t have any disgruntled employees or customers. I think the idea has potential, and Roger is a smart kid, but it is a sort of a speculative venture at this point.”

  “Were there any other start-ups that George invested in, besides Ba-Ele Tech?”

  “No. He was too busy with establishing Mayfair Motors, then running it by himself after buying out Stan. Then the recession happened, and making sure the dealership was successful through that was consuming all his time. I think his backing of Ba-Ele Tech had a lot to do with Roger and Rita, honestly.”

  “OK, thank you so much. Do you have any suggestions for me on where to look next?”

  “No, I don’t really.”

  “Well, thank you for your time.”

  “Always happy to help. I hope the killer is brought to justice.”

  12

  The next morning I was at the Redmond Saturday Market. A week had passed since George's death. The day was chilly and rainy, and at the market, held next to an outdoor shopping mall, the vendors huddled in their hoodies to keep warm. The market advertised various organic or “chemical-free” produce stands for the harvest from mostly Eastern Washington (although a couple of places said they grew theirs on the Western side of the mountains), as well as several prepared-food stands – crepes, tacos, pizza, soup (which today was very popular with people wanting to warm up while shopping). This late in the season, there was more clothing, bags, jewelry, body lotions stands or various bric-o-brac like candles, coasters, decorative plates, than at the peak of the summer. Despite the weather, the market was crowded, with couples and their dogs, or young families, checking out the stands.

  Part of me was happy about the market's popularity – I have been coming here for close to 10 years already, wanted the farmers to be successful for all their hard work, and I liked the “eat local / know where your food comes from” movement (minus the sanctimonious overtones its proponents sometimes acquired). And part of me was ambivalent about it, wanting to keep a good thing to myself – as its popularity made the market more crowded, and parking harder to find.

  I went around the square, making my way through a crowd, even on this drizzly morning, buying apples, peppers and eggplant from my “usual” vendors. I am a thoroughly mediocre cook, although I do cook dinner a couple of times a week – as I've not quite mastered the appropriate portion sizes for cooking for one person, it leaves me with left-overs which I usually get tired of eating after 2 days and push into the back of the fridge. On an average week-night I have barely anything edible in my refrigerator, besides some cheese, some take-out or those left-overs of questionable age, and half a can of cat food for Bitty's dinner – but I try to at least eat the fancy organic things I buy at the market, both fruits and veggies. So, I bought my assortment of things: some that I genuinely liked, some that I thought would be more “virtuous” of me to eat (and I promised myself, like I usually do, that I wouldn't forget these at the bottom of my fridge).

  Walking back to my car, I saw a bright white and green sign for the Alluring Exotics car showcase in the outdoor mall. I remembered that this was the car club that George Ellis had been a member of, and headed over to check it out. Besides, I have a weakness for vintage cars and trucks (just like I have one
for old houses) – I like their looks, and seeing a shiny restored one on the road makes me smile.

  I walked towards several red and yellow Ferraris from the eighties, nineties and a couple of years ago, ooh-ed and aah-ed with a small crowd at a fire-engine-red sparkling 1950s Chevy truck, a black Ford from the 1930s, and came to a stop next to a black vintage Rolls Royce.

  As I bent down to peer through the windows and saw the right-handed steering wheel, the polished wood inside and the dark hand-tooled leather upholstery, the owner came up on the other side of the vehicle.

  “Hi! This is such a beautiful car! What year is it?”

  “1948”. As he replied, I straightened out and saw his face over the black polished top of the car, and realized that I had met him before – it was Wayne Kempler.

  “Hi, I think we've met – a week ago, at George's and Rita's party? When the... unfortunate event occurred?” I felt uncomfortable referring to George's death in such a public place, even though I had talked about it with several people since then.

  “Oh yes, I do recall that. Nice to see you again, Virginia?”

  “Veronica”.

  “Ah yeah, Veronica.Yes, that death – tough, very tough!”

  I was sincerely glad to run into him in this informal and un-arranged manner – it made my asking him a couple of questions easier.

  “You knew George well?”

  “Yes, he was very active at the club. And his dealership showed some of our cars periodically.”

  “How long has he been with the club?”

  “Let me think... At least 8 years, I'd say. He was really into cars, enjoyed them.”

  “How many cars did he have in the club?”

  “Two. Nice, rare ones. Worth a pretty penny each. Very, very expensive.”