Murder in the Family

by Ramona Richards

  Her mother paused and glanced over her shoulder, as if someone might hear, then cleared her throat. “I was thinking about it. I know you and Daddy spent a lot of time on that tractor, but we could really use the—”

  “Sell it all.”

  Her mother froze, looking more closely at Molly. Concern narrowed her blue eyes. “Molly, honey, you never want to make such a big decision in the midst of grief.”

  Molly kept her focus on her mother’s eyes. “If you don’t, the vultures will pick Gram clean. She’s so kind, she’ll give it all away, even stuff she needs. Aunt Liz too. She won’t stand up to them. You’ll have to take over.”

  Her mother cupped Molly’s face in her palms. “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of Gram. Family takes care of its own. That’s what we do.”

  “Barbara asked her for some of the quilts this morning. Kept saying they were for Kitty’s hope chest.”

  Her mother hesitated, then started to respond, but the door on the opposite side of the kitchen opened, and Molly’s grandmother emerged, clutching a pair of black lace gloves. Aunt Liz followed her, teary-eyed and red-faced.

  “Found them!” Gram exclaimed, waving the gloves. She looked around, searching through the sea of faces until she spotted Molly and her mother. “Regina, let’s go now. Please.”

  The buzz of a disturbed beehive filled the kitchen as the cousins swarmed her, chattering softly. Gram accepted them graciously as she gently but firmly pushed her way to the back door. The crowd pushed by Aunt Liz, separating her farther and farther from Gram.

  Molly and her mother exchanged quick glances, then headed that way as well. Outside, her mother grabbed Aunt Liz by the arm, then shoved their way to Gram. Dark looks and grumbles followed as the sisters entered the waiting limo. As the cousins vied for the remaining spots in the two black Lincolns the funeral home had sent for the family, Molly whispered a quick prayer.

  “God, save me from this. Save me from stuff.”

  Molly jerked awake. The dream hovered with bright, harsh colors and twisted images, unlike the hot and gritty reality of the actual day, which still hung in her mind all too vividly.

  The covers suddenly felt oppressive and smothering, the Southern humidity making the entire world feel damp. Molly flung them back, gulping deep breaths. She sat up and dropped her feet over the side of the bed. She reached for the lamp, needing to be free of the dark, and glanced at the clock. Only eleven; she’d barely been asleep.

  “‘One of the lucky ones.’ Right.” She stumbled to the air conditioner and turned it down two degrees.

  She’d had the dream before, but not in a long time. She knew it had been brought on by her revelations that afternoon in Linda’s kitchen. She prayed that everything before her with Aunt Liz’s house would not make her continue to relive the pain of those last couple of years in Carterton.

  For twenty years, Molly had put it behind her and healed. She had a great life, one carefully built and embraced. She didn’t want it destroyed by two years from her teens.

  Molly picked up her phone and typed in Pls I need to hear from you. Pls. Hope we’re okay. She hit the key to text Jimmy, not caring what time it was. Her heart craved connection to the world she loved.

  As usual, Jimmy heard, and he read between the lines. The returned text came through with few abbreviations.

  Sorry. Lots going on but not much to tell. Swelling has lessened but not gone. Still in a coma. Her family’s here. It’s been hectic. I called the tv stations; they’re cool. I’ve been working on the pictures and videos when I can. May have something to send them anyway. Taking care of y’all. Not mad. Just thinking.

  Molly smiled. The three of them—Jimmy, Sarah, and her—this was her true family. One of their own making. Siblings, with Molly the older sister, and the three of them looking out for each other. When Sarah’s boyfriend dumped her a year ago, Jimmy offered to beat him up, only half joking. As they had all grown closer, Molly thought maybe Sarah and Jimmy would make a good couple.

  Russell’s call had, indeed, come at the worst possible time. They’d been shooting a storm, a supercell that had produced a fabulous F4 tornado, when debris struck Sarah. They rushed her to the hospital, and were still in the surgical waiting room when Molly’s phone started ringing and wouldn’t stop. After she finally answered it, she and Jimmy had fought—she wanted to ignore the summons; he insisting she go and get closure. Jimmy finally convinced her that she couldn’t make Sarah well, that it was finally time to handle her family’s issues, once and for all. Blood family.

  But not her real family.

  Sarah had to get well. She had to.

  Her phone pinged again. What about you? How’s the house?

  Molly punched to reply and began one of her longest texts ever.

  The rest of the night passed dreamless, and Molly slept until almost nine. After a shower and a vending machine breakfast, she called the StayLodge and made arrangements to move. She couldn’t check in until three, but had to be out of her current room by eleven. Molly packed the few things she had in the room, secured her camera bag, checked out, and headed back into Carterton, hoping to find a restaurant or library that offered free wifi.

  On the way, she spotted Linda Allen’s minivan parked in the crowded parking lot of the red-brick Baptist church. On the other side of the boulevard, the Eccles’ crimson pickup stood out among the cars massed around the white clapboard Methodist church. Most of the stores along the boulevard remained dark and closed, as did the tiny town library. A couple of restaurants posted hours that started at 11:30.

  “Right. Sunday in the South.” She did a U-turn in one of the breaks in the boulevard and pulled into a parking spot marked for visitors at the Methodist church. Almost every other spot had already been taken. The ancient marquee in front of the steps announced that the congregation had been founded in 1859, which made it slightly older than the town itself. Sunday school started at 9:15. Service at 10:45.

  “So some things in Carterton haven’t changed. Wonder if they still have coffee between 10:15 and 10:45.” Probably. Molly remembered when she’d been old enough to ask about those peculiar times. Gram had explained that they’d been set in the late ’60s when they’d shared the sanctuary with a black congregation that had lost their building to a Klan fire. “We wanted to show that evil would not consume us. You have to take a stand sometimes, otherwise evil wins.”

  The community was scandalized, but they persevered. With the new arrangement, the white folks would be gone by 11:45, and the black folks would take over at noon. The black church had been rebuilt and the congregation hadn’t worshiped in the Methodist chapel since 1969, but the Methodists had voted to retain the new service times. Gram loved the reason for that as well. “As it turned out, it put us at the restaurants before the Baptists let out. And we got home before the football games started.”

  “Welcome to Alabama,” Molly whispered, “where we stand against evil, fry up great chicken, and make football a third religion. Right after the Methodists and Baptists but before the Presbyterians.”

  Her phone rang and she dug it out of her clutch. Jimmy. Eagerly she answered. “What’s the news?”

  His gentle baritone couldn’t contain his excitement. “I’m on the way over to the hospital. Her dad just called. The swelling is down, and they’re going to try to bring her out of the coma.”

  Molly’s spirit soared, and her eyes stung. “Oh, hallelujah! You’ll let me know what happens.”

  “You know it. I’ll call as soon as I can. They said it could take several hours before they know anything for sure.”

  “No problem. I’m moving into a hotel with wifi, and Russell has hooked me up with a computer. Not doing anything with the house today. It’s still stewing in the pesticides. So I’ll be around. Don’t forget.”

  “Oh, I won’t. Did you get some rest after the dream?”

  “I did. Pretty good. Texting with you helped, I think. How are you doing? I know you’re worried abou
t Sarah. Getting any rest?”

  Jimmy hesitated. “Molly, you’d have to see her to understand this, but she looks so peaceful. Like she knows she’s going to heal just fine, and we’re all crazy for running around like this.”

  “Maybe she does.” Molly paused. “Do you talk to her?”

  “I do. They think coma patients sometimes know what’s going on. I told her you’d run off to Alabama to take on your uncle. You know that would make her laugh. Oh, and I told her that she and I—”

  Molly thought for a moment the call had dropped. Then he cleared his throat and went on. “Listen, I need to mail you something. Could you send me the address at the hotel?”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “A surprise. I’m about to turn into the hospital garage, so I’ll lose you. Remember to tell me lots about tomorrow’s unveiling. Miss you, girl.”

  With that, the call went dead. Molly leaned her head back and relief flooded through her. She stared up at the church steeple. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Her phone rang again, and she lifted it quickly, thinking Jimmy might be calling back. She froze when she saw the caller ID, then answered slowly. “Molly McClelland.”

  Sheriff Greg Olson’s voice was somber. “Molly, could you come to the station? Now.”

  She swallowed hard. “Has something happened to the house?”

  “No. But we caught Lyric Filbyhouse trying to cut her way through the tarps.”

  Molly’s elation over Sarah vanished in a poof. “Are you kidding? Does she not realize how dangerous that is?”

  “Apparently not. Lyric has never been real quick on the uptake.”

  “Did she damage the tarp?”

  “No. The deputies caught her before she got the knife in.”

  Molly felt confused. “Why do you need me? I really don’t want to cross paths with Kitty. It’s been a good day so far.”

  Greg cleared his throat. “That’s just it. Lyric didn’t want us to call her mother. She asked us to call you.”

  Molly’s confusion deepened and her voice squeaked. “Me? Why me?”

  “She won’t say. Molly, this is your decision. You don’t have to come. We can charge her with trespassing and violation of the restraining order and let the system work.”

  “What would happen to her?”

  “She’s insisting we don’t call Kitty. She’s not a minor so we don’t have to. She’ll stay in our holding cell tonight, then go before a judge tomorrow. It’ll be up to the judge whether she’s fined or held over, although she’d probably be allowed bail.”

  Curiosity began to edge out confusion. “What do you think?”

  Greg hesitated. “Molly, to be truthful, I don’t know Lyric well. No one does, not really. She seems slow, but that could be the result of Kitty’s browbeating.”

  “In other words, you’re as curious as I am.”

  “It is a puzzle, to be sure.”

  “Okay. What’s the address?”

  Molly plugged his answer into her GPS and backed out of the visitor’s spot. Carterton had grown, but not so much that it took more than ten minutes to traverse the length of the town. The sheriff’s department resided in a utilitarian concrete block building at the western edge, noted by one small sign near the parking lot entrance. The four green-and-white patrol cruisers next to the front door clearly identified what lay inside.

  She entered a small lobby filled with hard plastic chairs and dusty silk plants. To her left, a young woman ensconced behind thick Plexiglas motioned her toward a heavy metal door to her right. She hit a buzzer to allow Molly into the main bullpen of the sheriff’s department. The low hum of an active department greeted her, and a couple of the officers looked up and nodded at her. She recognized them as some of the men who’d stood guard on the house.

  Eight desks clustered in the bullpen, five of them occupied. At the far end of the building, three empty cells waited patiently. In a glass-walled office on the opposite side of the room, Greg Olson sat behind his desk, typing on a keyboard with a rapid, two-finger style. He paused to peer at the screen, then typed more. As she headed for him, he caught her movement and looked up at her. He stood, motioned her to enter his office, and held out his hand as she did so.

  She shook it. “I didn’t think Carterton was the county seat. Why is the sheriff’s department here?”

  He smiled. “Pineville, the county seat, grew enough that they got a city police system. We were … inconvenient. It’s better for us over here. They take care of the county seat and we take care of the rest of the county.”

  “Small town politics.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “So where’s Lyric?”

  “I put her in one of the interrogation rooms. We want to record your chat.”

  “Isn’t this a little odd?”

  “Definitely. A lot odd. And normally we wouldn’t grant her request. But, to be honest, it’s made us more than a little curious. She doesn’t want a lawyer. Or her mother. Just you.”

  “Turns things on its ear a bit.”

  “More than a bit.”

  “I definitely want it recorded. I don’t trust any of them right now. And I don’t know why she trusts me. Could you be in there as well?”

  “I have to. Are you ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  When they entered the room, Lyric, who had been staring at her hands, stood abruptly and backed away from the table, startling Molly. “What’s wrong?”

  Lyric took a couple of deep breaths. “Oh, it’s you. Good. I thought it might be Mama coming in.” She appeared visibly relieved to see Molly. Today her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, and she wore dark jeans and a loose black t-shirt, which made her appear smaller than before.

  “Sit down, Ms. Filbyhouse,” Greg said evenly. As she did, he motioned for Molly to take the chair opposite Lyric. “We’re going to video this interview for the protection of everyone involved.” He moved to the corner, where a video camera sat, and adjusted the focus. He started the camera, then remained close to the door in a casual “parade-rest” stance.

  Molly eased into the straight-backed metal chair. The block room epitomized the word “gray”—gray walls, gray table and chairs, gray floors. No windows broke up the solid bulk of the walls, and recessed lights were at least twelve feet overhead.

  “Sheriff Olson said you wanted to see me.”

  Lyric clutched her hands together, fidgeting her fingers around each other. She stared at the table, but nodded, making the ponytail bounce.

  “Why?”

  Lyric stilled, her gaze still on the table. A few moments passed in silence before Molly spoke again.

  “Lyric, why did you try to cut into the tent? That was incredibly dangerous. The pesticide gas is still in there. It could have poisoned you.”

  Lyric’s words spurted out in a burst. “Did Bird really take your house and throw you and your brother out? Is his house your house? Was your house?”

  Molly’s eyes widened, then she nodded. “Yes. And my mother’s. It was a long time ago, but you don’t forget something like that.”

  “He tried to do it to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Lyric glanced up, meeting Molly’s eyes briefly. She looked down again. “We didn’t know about you. That you would inherit it all, I mean.” She stopped, rubbing her cheek with her shoulder, wincing. “We thought—” She hid her face in her hands.

  “Go on.”

  The words came out in a rush, so fast Molly struggled to follow the girl’s thoughts. “Mama’s wanted me out of her house for a while now. She has a new boyfriend, so I’m kinda in the way, if you know what I mean. When Aunt Liz needed somebody to stay with her, Mama jumped at the chance. She thought moving me in with Aunt Liz would give me a place. Set me to inherit. We thought I’d get the house. We even talked to Aunt Liz about it, telling her that I would be the best to get everything, that I could take care of it, even though it’s a really big house,
but there’s a lot of good stuff. But I overheard LJ—”

  “Leland’s son.”

  Lyric stopped cold, staring up at her. “What?”

  Molly glanced at Greg, but he gave no sign. She looked back at Lyric. “LJ. He’s Leland’s son, right? I just want to get it straight.”

  Lyric looked puzzled a moment, as if she didn’t understand the comment. “Yes. Leland Junior. Everyone calls him LJ.” Lyric’s eyes narrowed. “You really don’t know us, do you?”

  Molly scowled. “Why would I know who any of you are? When I left, your mother was eighteen and just married. Kitty is a distant cousin I only talked to at family reunions, like most of my cousins. Bird’s sons were like Mickey and me. Leland wasn’t married. Bobby had just joined the service. No one my age had children, and most of my cousins I knew by sight, but not personally. I’ve not talked to anyone except Aunt Liz in more than twenty years.”

  “Mama says you’re lying. That Aunt Liz kept you informed. She wrote to you all the time.”

  “And I burned the letters when she talked about anything from here. Lyric, I begged her not to leave me a scrap. I would rather have walked hot coals than be here, and I’ll be leaving as soon as I can carry out Aunt Liz’s wishes.”

  “Do you know if I’m in her will? It would really help if I was.”

  Molly hesitated. This time, it didn’t sound like one of Bird or Kitty’s demands. For some reason, Lyric was really hurting. “To be honest, Lyric, I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to look at everything she left, including the will. Some of her instructions are in the house.”

  Lyric looked down at her hands again. “She was good to me, Aunt Liz was. She didn’t always like me, but she was good to me, to let me stay there. She knew what Mama was like, so she didn’t push me out. I thought I might get to stay there after she died, maybe even inherit, but at least until things got settled. Then I heard LJ say they were going to ‘pull a McClelland swap’ on me when Aunt Liz died. Do you know what that means?” She peered at Molly from under her bangs.

  Molly’s chest tightened, and she tamped down the anger. Now was not the time. She gritted her teeth. “I suspect I do.”