A Motor for Murder (Veronica Margreve Mysteries Book 1)

by Valerie Murmel

  “Well, my sources say you've been involved since pretty early in the year, about 7 or 8 months, at least.” I bluffed.

  “That’s none of your business!” she snapped. I thought that meant my guess was close to the truth.

  “Did you think he’d leave his wife for you?”

  She clicked close the small mirror. The question might have struck a nerve.

  “Why are you nosing around, wasting mine and everyone’s time? What is it to you?”

  “I feet involved because of Rita. I can not believe that someone I knew, and liked, for several years could murder her husband. The police suspect her, and I want to help her clear her name. I don’t want her living with a dark cloud of her husband’s unsolved murder over her head.” That was all true. But there was more to it. To myself, I had to admit: on some level I was enjoying this detective stuff. I loved reading mysteries, and being part of a real-life one felt exciting. This is why I got into this probably deeper than I should have. And the victim was a relative stranger to me, someone whom I met only once – making it easier to feel detached, and look at the investigation as a problem to be solved. As an engineer, I liked logical puzzles, and was trying to treat this entire situation as one. And, to be honest, I wanted to see whether I could do it, whether I could find the solution and the killer.

  “Well, your Rita is no saint herself. She’s after his money. And her brother and his start-up are also after George’s money big-time. Money and all the benefits they can get. He ‘borrowed’ a car without permission from here and crashed it 2 months ago.”

  Hmm... more dirt from Caitlin. Not sure whether to believe it, under the circumstances – she might have been blowing a minor incident out of proportion. But I was intrigued.

  “Really? What car?”

  “A Maserati. Totaled.” She said with evident satisfaction. I gave a low whistle. That certainly was not a trifling loss.

  “How was the relationship between them since?”

  She shrugged.

  “Not great, as you’d expect. George even cut off the funding for his start-up. Look” – she reached into a drawer, ruffled through some papers and pushed a folder towards me. I opened it and saw accounting print-outs. I looked up at Caitlin. “This is the last set of funds he allocated to Ba-Ele Tech Inc. Roger thought that he could just play around with cars that were not his, and call it ‘testing’. But George was having none of that.”

  Clearly, she was of the opinion that the kid was wasting his time on his brother-in-law’s dime.

  “Thank you, I did not know that.” I leafed through the folder again. The stuff in it looked real enough. Might as well ask her, as she seemed to have plenty of background info: “Who do you think did it?”

  She shrugged. “Hell, maybe it was the two of them who pushed George out of that window.” Then she reached for the folder and put it back into the drawers. “OK, enough. You are wasting my time. You’re not here to buy a car, I don't want to talk to you any more.”

  “Perhaps I’m just looking at cars right now? Browsing, maybe even planning to test-drive?”

  “I’ll call security if you don’t leave”. She was seething with cold anger at my continued presence in her office.

  “Oh that’s going to look nice – security escorting out a potential customer! Especially one with a personal invitation for a Maserati or a Lamborghini test drive! Your new boss, Rita, is going to be so thrilled!” I pulled the Mayfair Motors brochure out of my purse with a flourish, knocking over a bottle of water that was standing on the desk and spilling it down my pants.

  Caitlin begrudgingly took the paper, as I grabbed a tissue off her desk and was frantically trying to dabble out the wetness on the front of my thighs.

  “Oh, these went out to all the party guests the day of the party.” Caitlin said dismissively. “This was one of the ways George wanted to keep expanding his business.”

  “OK, whatever. So what about my test drive? I’m still entitled to one.” I was a natural klutz, in wet pants at that particular moment, and driving an extravagantly-expensive and powerful new car was making me nervous – but I didn’t intend to get blown off like that.

  “Would your insurance be able to cover the liability on a Lamborghini?” Caitlin asked, while her eyes told me “Oh please. You wouldn’t be able to afford the front bumper on one of those cars. And a slob like you knows nothing about nice performance cars anyway”.

  “Oh yes, my insurance can cover it, thanks. For your information, I drive that.” – and I nodded through the window towards where my bright-red sports car was parked. Yes, I drove a fast, fun, red sports car – had driven it for 9 years, in fact (it was one of my earliest splurges, before I realized that I was such a klutz that I couldn't actually have nice things). The car model’s appearance hasn’t changed since I bought it, and you couldn’t tell what model year it was from a casual glance. I was hoping that, at this distance, and the car being clean and shiny, Caitlin wouldn’t immediately realize its age.

  She paused and mentally appraised my vehicle. Having decided that I could in fact afford the front bumper on one of the four-wheeled creations in the showroom, she reluctantly walked me over to a smiling freckled assistant in his very early twenties. He enthusiastically told me the cars available for a test drive at that time, and when I, surprising myself, picked the Lotus, said “Excellent choice!” and led me to ooh and aah over the car while he did the paperwork.

  And the test drive? Oh yeah, it was fun! The car was British racing green, low to the ground. So low, in fact, that I pretty much fell in when getting in – and fell in again when trying to exit. I swore for the millionth time to go work out at Knotty Yoga more, and develop the core muscles that would enable me to deal with transitioning into and out of British sports cars gracefully. The rain had stopped for a while and it was a sunny, bright autumn day – perfect for a fast drive with the wind in my hair! I did 3 laps around the block, and with getting on the highway – it was fun to speed up and pass everyone else on the curved on-ramp.

  After the exhilarating whirl-wind of the test-drive, I returned the car, got back into my own, put it in gear and started riving while trying to re-arrange my thoughts on the case. I felt like I owed it to Rita – and to George, whose dealership had provided me this test drive – to sort out this case.

  I did now know for sure that Caitlin was status-focused and more than a little obsessed with money. She was someone who would have definitely stuck with George as long as he had cash to spend. The way she treated me showed that she could be a bitch – but I already knew that. Was she cold enough to have been the killer? Over the possibility that George left her something in the will?

  The one time I actually got a reaction from her was when I asked whether she thought George would leave his wife. So likely she had not only wanted it, but expected it to happen – expected more than just some fancy shiny bags and a couple of trips to Europe out of it. She had been serious. Killing George would not bring her closer to that goal, but instead take her further away from it.

  Caitlin wasn’t stupid. By all accounts, the dealership was busy and successful – and she was George’s right hand in running it. Besides her anger at George, I didn't really see a substantial motive for her to kill George.

  And what would happen to the dealership after George’s death? Most likely Rita would inherit it, I thought. Would she fire Caitlin, in revenge for the affair? If so, by killing George, Caitlin would have destroyed her hopes for a steady stream of expensive gifts, a possible Mrs status, as well as her job. I thought she was too smart to do that.

  Where did it leave me? Did I have myself a new suspect, Roger? But that car accident was 2 months ago. Roger was now driving a used BMW, a trade-in from Mayfair Motors, according to Rita. So he stayed in George’s good graces enough for that, at least. I thought back to the events of the party. He introduced himself as the CTO of his start-up, and said that they had enough money to be going for a while – but he was clearly un
comfortable telling me that; and who knows how long ‘a while’ is? Rita told me they were funded for 12 months, but she might not have known all the details. For all I knew, ‘a while’ meant ‘till the end of the week’.

  When I got home, I looked up more about Roger on the internet. On LinkedIn, he was listed as “CTO and founder of Ba-Ele Tech Inc, working on breakthrough technologies in electric batteries for automotive needs”. I got the business card Roger gave me out of my purse and looked up the office address, searching for its location on a map, street view, as well as any ads or rental terms regarding it that I could find. The space wasn't being actively advertised as being for lease, which meant that the rent was paid at least for another 6 months. That made sense – when they were setting up the office, they probably paid rent for a year ahead; the money to do that for someone of George’s means what insignificant, but provided stability and better ability to do any needed modifications to the space.

  17

  I dialed Rita’s number.

  “Yes?” her voice sounded tired.

  “Hi Rita, it's Veronica. How are you?”

  “Oh. I'm OK. Teresa and I have been talking with the police for five hours. It was exhausting. They finally let me go and I just got home.”

  “Oh poor you! That sounds awful. Anything I can do for you?”

  “Convince them I didn’t kill George? Maybe then this will stop. Better yet: hand them the real killer on a silver platter!”

  I really felt for her: the situation was a big burden to carry.

  “Any news from Roger?”

  “No.”

  “Did you tell them about him being gone?”

  “No. I didn’t tell Teresa either.”

  “Is that really the best course of action, you think?” I thought it was foolish of her, and wanted to find out her reasoning.

  “Well, I don’t want him to become a suspect if they know he’s missing.”

  “By the way, did he crash a car from Mayfair Motors when he was here?”

  “Yes. A Maserati. George was mad at him, they had a big shouting thing. But then George gave him the BMW, so I thought it all got settled.”

  “I see.”

  “Oh, by the way, we also opened the safe today. The police were here, and John, and Teresa. We found a copy of the will, identical to the one that John had in this office. What was more interesting was a bank withdrawal slip for $5K in cash from George’s personal account, dated the day before the party. It did match with the bank’s records, I checked.”

  “So he withdrew 5K in cash the day before?” That meant Friday, and he would have had to go into a bank brunch to do it.

  “Yes, and gave it to someone during the party.”

  “Hmmm... any idea who?”

  “No, not really. With everything that I am finding out about people around me, it could have been anyone.”

  That was true, I thought.

  “Hey, I wanted to ask you: what was in George’s will?”

  “It’s pretty straightforward. A bunch of the money goes to me; there is a trust set up for it. Some left to a couple of charities. Some to his parents. It’s a remarkably boring will, actually.” She tried to laugh, but her laugh also sounded tired.

  “Do you also get the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything to anyone else?”

  “No, not really. Oh, the 2 cars he had, the exotics, they go to the car club, to be auctioned off for charity.” Probably to be expected, but I made a mental note of that.

  “What about Caitlin? Did he leave her anything?”

  There was a pause. “No, he really didn’t. Considering how she was asking him for money, she ended up with nothing.”

  “What about Mayfair Motors? ”

  “I inherit the dealership.”

  “How are the business affairs of the place?”

  “They look OK. I’ll have lawyers check them. I’ve not been feeling up to it.”

  I had another question, and although I felt too materialistic about asking it under the circumstances, I forged ahead.

  “Was there a pre-nup between you and George?”

  “Yes, there was. Obviously, when we got married, George already had lots of money, and I had none. Per our pre-nup, I don't inherit everything – his parents get half. But I do get the life insurance proceeds.”

  I had tried to think this through, lining up the facts as Rita told them to me. A lot of money was going to Rita ($10M, per Vinay’s estimate); as was the house. The 2 exotic cars were going to the Alluring Exotics car club. So far, so predictable. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Seemed like I knew what there was to know about George Ellis’s will. (A thought crossed my mind – if Rita was telling me the truth about the will, of course. But I couldn’t imagine why she wouldn’t be. So I let it go at that.) Now I had to think it through and figure out what it meant.

  I thought of – and immediately discarded – the (senior) Ellises as suspects. First, they were not at the party (and the idea of them hiring one of the guests to do the murder was ridiculous). Second, they were well-off, well-known, and had no dire need of funds. Third, the idea just seemed preposterous.

  The cars were the only items not going to direct family or a charity. Were the cars enough for Wayne to kill George over? They were certainly expensive, and Wayne probably couldn’t afford to buy them at an open auction. But if they were willed to the club, Wayne as president could have at least a short-term glow of the pride of ownership – being able to say you possess such remarkable vehicles. Did Wayne seem to have that “collector’s fever”, the desire to have the best of everything? I thought about what I read in books about collectors – apparently, some went crazy over their collections and what do anything, including murder, to add a particularly rare specimen. In fact, in a recent mystery I read, the killer had committed five elaborate murders over several decades, all to add to his collection of rare books.

  What if someone was trying to frame Rita for the murder? Doing that would get her out of the way of the money – since, per the “slayer statute”, the money would by-pass her and be distributed according to what’s outlined in her will; i.e. go to lose family, most likely. The obvious person to benefit from that would be Roger. It would make a pretty nice motive for him: some of the money might go to him directly. But even for the money that would go to Rita’s parents – I knew they didn't have any other children, it was unlikely that they would refuse their son, the young inventor, anything that he desired. I couldn’t believe that someone so nerdy and tech-y and young could be the killer, of his brother-in-law no less. And the invention he was working on sounded very cool. I wanted his idea to succeed. I wanted to continue to believe in it – and in him.

  But it was at least possible that he planned all this – and that having Rita be a suspect and take the fall for it was part of the plan. And Roger didn’t have an alibi for the time of the murder, as far as I knew. Rita told me that he had said he had gone to his room and was reading things on his laptop on there. True, his internet browsing records showed he had accessed some online forums on electric cars about 5 minutes before George's body was found – but that was plenty of time to step out of his room and push George to his death.

  Now that he was gone, missing, that probably made it more likely that he was the perpetrator, in the eyes of the police. But for me, somehow, knowing that he was so shocked at the discovery of the affair that he took off, made him less likely to be the plotting mastermind of such a scheme. Maybe he was just scared, suspicious that his sister was a murderer? Or just confused with everything that happened?

  I sat for a long time at the kitchen table, trying to figure it out. Then I got hungry, and got out the pot of chicken soup I made over the weekend – one of my few attempts at cooking, and warmed up a bowl of it in the microwave. I sat down to eat, and Bitty, following the smell, galloped from the bedroom, jumped onto the table and was plotting to stick her nose into it. Now with the weather getting
colder, she was busy trying to put on weight, and was a lot more interested in my food. I was a softie who deserved to struggle with cat interest in my food, since I allowed her onto the kitchen table in the first place. So I ate, using me free hand to try to keep cat whiskers out of my soup.

  18

  I rummaged in my closet and pulled out a black polo shirt, with a giant “Security Shield” sign on the left side of the chest. It was given out at work to all participants in a big, important, and crazy security project (got to love the tech companies and their fondness for giving out logo-wear to employees!). We worked non-stop for three months, and managed to launch the new set of security features on time. The polo was far from stylish, but on this occasion it looked generic enough to help me pass for a security guard of an office building.

  Next – I found some black pants and a black belt; tucked in my shirt to complete the look (now I looked sufficiently shapeless), and finally fished out a baseball cap with the same “Security Shield” logo and put on sneakers.