Murder in the Family

by Ramona Richards

  Russell did as well, and slid a thin folder toward her. “Before you look at the autopsy report, know that it could be rough. Do you want to look at it in private?”

  She shook her head and pulled the folder closer. “No, but I have some questions you may find awkward to answer.”

  “More awkward than you asking if I had slept with my client?” A smile lit his eyes.

  Molly relented. “Well, I hope not. Thanks for getting this.”

  “No problem. Autopsy reports are public record in Alabama. The rest came as a few favors.” He nodded at the folder, and she pulled her list of questions out of her purse. Taking a bracing breath, she opened the folder.

  He had gathered everything she wanted to see: the autopsy report, the official police report, the officer’s notes, signed by Greg, and the EMT’s report. She wasn’t entirely sure what she hoped to find—more like she’d know it when she saw it.

  At first, everything seemed straightforward: an older woman—who’d fallen before had gotten up from her bed at about two in the afternoon. She was found wearing her nightgown. She had tripped and fallen again, hitting her head on an accent table. On her way down, she had grabbed for a stack of books, magazines, and boxes, which had collapsed on top of her, the weight apparently causing her to suffocate. Her live-in caregiver, Lyric Filbyhouse, had not been home at the time. She returned around four.

  Molly stopped and added a question to her list: Where was Lyric at the time?

  A neighbor, Finbar Eccles, who had been trying to reach Elizabeth Morrow on the phone for more than an hour, had come over to check on her and found her body. He called 911 and performed a rudimentary attempt at CPR.

  The EMTs arrived, but it was clear Ms. Morrow was deceased. They called the coroner and retreated until needed further. The sheriff, Gregory Olson, arrived shortly after the EMTs. He surveyed and mapped the scene, took photographs, and waited for the coroner.

  Molly paused and searched through the file for Greg’s map. It was neat, thorough, and a fairly accurate representation of the way the room looked right now. She went back to reading.

  The coroner had arrived, pronounced Ms. Morrow’s approximate time of death, and had given instructions for his team to remove the body to the morgue in Gadsden. Since she had died at home under complicated circumstances, an autopsy would be done. The home was released to Mr. Russell Williams, the deceased’s attorney, who had arrived shortly after the coroner.

  Molly looked up. “How did you get there so fast?”

  “Greg called me the minute he got the 911 from Finn.”

  “Prearranged?”

  “Yes. Liz had left the information with him after she called 911 the second time due to a fall. She wanted to make sure he would not be obligated to call the next of kin first.”

  “Who would be Bird.”

  “Correct.”

  Molly turned the page to the autopsy report. The clinical descriptions on a blank outline of a human figure helped ease the impact that this was about her aunt. Official cause of death was suffocation, but Molly read each detail carefully. The bruises from previous falls. Four broken ribs, probably from the collapsing boxes or CPR, or both, along with an old, long-healed fracture of the tibia. No signs of sexual assault. The blow to the head caused by a hard, pointed object, which had obviously been the corner of the table.

  There was a significant amount of dirt and debris on her back and in her hair. The bottoms of her feet were coated in mud.

  Molly stopped. Mud? She made a note. The house was filthy, but not enough to coat her feet. Then, as Molly came to the bottom of the page, she froze, and every nerve snapped to attention. Ms. Morrow also had a significant amount of dust and goose down in her nostrils, probably from having just gotten out of bed.

  Molly sat very still, finally looking up at Russell. Her face felt hot, and her hands trembled as she turned the file around and pointed at the note. He read it, and at first he shook his head. “I don’t know what—” He broke off suddenly as realization hit and his eyes widened.

  Molly said it, even though she didn’t have to. “Aunt Liz was allergic to feathers. She’s never slept on a feather pillow or under a down comforter a day in her life. The only feather pillow in that room is Lyric’s.”

  14

  “They killed her, Russell.”

  “Molly, we cannot go accusing them of this.”

  “They knocked her down, and when she was unconscious, they pressed Lyric’s pillow over her face until she suffocated. Then they covered her up in her own garbage.”

  “Molly—”

  Molly had been pacing Russell’s office with long, loping strides ever since she realized what the down in Liz’s nostrils had to mean. “They killed her. I don’t know if it was Lyric or Kitty or Nina or one of those rotten grandchildren, but one of them killed her!” She pointed at the report, still lying on the table. “I swear I’ll hunt every one of them down and beat them till they confess!”

  “Molly, stop it!”

  She halted, chewing her lip. “Russell, I swear—”

  “Don’t say it, Molly. Don’t say it out loud again. Don’t think it. You blurt this out in front of someone, and you’ll be in far more trouble than they will be. You cannot be dragged into thinking about revenge. They are not worth it!”

  “But Liz is!”

  “I know. Believe me. I know.” His words were low, dark, and choked.

  Molly felt some of her fury drain away. His words, those two words, carried with them the weight of love, loss, and regret. Two words.

  I know.

  Molly ran her hands through her hair, pulling free the headband, and she shook her fingers as if to fling away spiderwebs. “Okay. So what’s your plan?”

  “Sit, please.” When Molly dropped reluctantly into the chair, he spoke slowly. “First, we have no hard evidence she was murdered.”

  Molly jerked her finger at the report.

  He relented. “Fine. We have no hard evidence as to who killed her. That house was an open-air landfill. People came and went whenever they pleased. Finn said that Freddy worked odd shifts. Lyric and Kitty both were in and out, as were most of the grandkids. They wanted something special for a party? No worries. Aunt Liz won’t miss it.”

  Molly crossed her arms, hugging herself. “So what do we do?”

  “First, we call Greg and Judge Keeley. Tell them our suspicions, see what they say. I’m fairly sure that finding feathers in her nose will not be enough to overturn the coroner’s ruling on cause of death.” He paused. “But it might be probable cause to have her exhumed.”

  Molly leaned over the table toward him. “Are you sure? Wasn’t she embalmed?”

  “Yes. But if they pressed the pillow over her hard enough to kill her, there may be other traces in her lungs the coroner didn’t find. We’ll have to talk to him.” Then, after a moment, he shook his head. “Do I want to do it? No. But with Freddy’s death, there’s already proof that someone’s willing to kill over what’s in that house. It’s not a great leap that Liz’s death might not have been accidental.”

  “What would a second examination prove?”

  He gestured at the description. “What’s missing in this report?”

  Molly didn’t understand and shook her head.

  “She supposedly died under the weight of boxes and books that fell on her.”

  Molly straightened. “But the only bruises were old ones, from previous falls.”

  Russell nodded. “Exactly. Liz was frail. She bruised easy. She used to tell me that she’d bruise if you looked at her funny. So why were there no signs of impact on her skin? In some accidents, bruising doesn’t show up until after death. But an exhumation would confirm the lack of injury.” He sighed. “Pure speculation. We need to talk to the coroner.”

  Molly shook her head. “Let’s hope Greg and the judge can come up with something so we don’t have to do that.”

  He closed the report. “What were your other questions?”
r />   “Where was Lyric when this happened?”

  “Supposedly out getting food. It was about two in the afternoon.”

  Molly thought about it for a second. “Where was the food from? New York?”

  Russell scowled. “What?”

  “Finn had been trying to call Aunt Liz for more than an hour. He got there around three, called 911, started CPR. The EMTs showed up. Greg showed up. The coroner showed up. Only then did Lyric return, after four. Seriously, how long does it take to get takeout in a town not much larger than a Super Walmart?”

  “Obviously, something we need to ask her. And?”

  “Why were Aunt Liz’s feet coated in mud? She supposedly had just gotten out of bed. Two in the afternoon. In her nightgown. Feet covered in mud. Does any of that make sense to you, knowing Liz as you did?”

  Russell leaned back in his chair. “No. None of it.”

  Molly closed her eyes, suddenly exhausted. Nothing about this made sense. Her entire body ached with grief and anger, frustration and a determination to find answers. She just didn’t know how to start.

  Greg. Start with Greg.

  He is with Lyric right now.

  Molly’s eyes snapped open. “We need to call Greg. Now.”

  Molly strode back and forth throughout the sheriff’s bullpen, but the pacing did little to dampen her irritation. Russell sat at one of the empty desks, making notes on a legal pad. The one deputy in-house seemed torn between keeping his eye on Molly and Russell and the occupied interview room, where Greg had been interviewing Lyric Filbyhouse and her father for almost two hours. When the sheriff emerged, the young deputy eagerly took his place in the room and shut the door.

  Greg, carrying his own legal pad full of notes, motioned for Russell and Molly to follow him into his office. Inside, Greg shut the door as Russell sat. Molly stood. “Well?” she demanded.

  Greg shook his head and dropped the pad on the desk. “Nothing helpful.”

  Molly crossed her arms. “She has to know something!”

  Sitting down, he peeled back a couple of pages. “She’s a mess. When we started out, she was crazy to talk about Freddy, what a good man he was, how he’d been great to her—”

  “But—” Molly started.

  Greg held up a finger and continued talking. “How he was visiting friends in Tennessee but had a good job here and would be back, and they were going to get married next summer and finally get away from Kitty …” His voice trailed off and he looked up at her, then Russell.

  Russell sighed. “She didn’t know he was dead.”

  Greg shook his head. “Nope. And I believe her. The kid is a superhero in her eyes. She started talking about him taking her to Vulcan Park in Birmingham, then it evolved into this odd adventure story that became more unbelievable, until her father realized she was talking about a movie they’d both seen.” He looked from Russell to Molly. “That took a full half hour.”

  “Dear Lord,” she muttered.

  “Indeed. When I did finally get her focused on what was going on at the house, she kept insisting that Freddy had nothing to do with whatever LJ and his buddies were up to.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “No idea. She did keep repeating that Kitty should just adopt LJ since she liked him better than she liked her own daughter.”

  “That poor girl,” Russell said. “Kitty has done a number on her.”

  “No doubt about that,” Greg agreed. “I did get her to admit that Liz never used that down pillow. Said it gave Liz hives.”

  Molly looked at Russell. “Told you.”

  Russell dismissed her with a wave. “It’s still not evidence of murder.”

  “No, it’s not,” Greg said. “But it does create suspicion where none existed before.” Before Molly could speak, he pressed on. “When … WHEN … we gather enough, it’ll be ammunition to put before a judge.”

  Molly gestured in the direction of the interview room and her voice caught, her throat tight. “Did you tell her?”

  Greg paused. “Yes. About fifteen minutes ago. She hasn’t stopped crying since. And with that news, her father realized that Lyric could be in some serious trouble. He stopped the interview and asked for a lawyer.”

  Russell straightened. “I could recommend a good one. She won’t cost much. And I know a couple of the legal aid folks.”

  Greg nodded, and Russell stood, straightened his suit, and left the office. Greg remained silent, watching Molly as she crossed and uncrossed her arms, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. The war inside her felt as if it were tearing her apart. Her entire being ached, and not a single thought would focus in her mind. “I don’t—” she started, then stopped, wiping her mouth with one hand, pure frustration making her tremble.

  Greg waited.

  She thrust her arms down by her sides, her fists clenched, and it all came out in a rush, in one breath. “I don’t know what to do. Or how to feel! I should be angry at Lyric, but she seems more a victim than villain. We have no evidence on anyone else. There’s a dead body in my house, some kid—a good kid!—I didn’t even know existed and now he’s dead. Shot, maybe somewhere else in the house. There are a thousand requests for stuff out of the house—and not just Bird or Kitty or any of them. Liz left journals that are part memoir, part conspiracy theory, part recipe book, part family history. People are shooting at me, trying to burn me out. Sarah’s still unconscious and Jimmy’s ended the partnership, and I have a job offer in St. Louis, but they have to know by the end of the month, and I don’t think I can finish here by the end of the month. I literally don’t know which way to turn!”

  Greg simply observed her, still waiting. Molly’s rush of energy drained away, and she slumped in the chair.

  Greg came from behind his desk and sat in the chair next to her. He took one of her hands in his. “Molly, you’re trying to photograph the storm, the supercell, the vista, instead of the farmhouse underneath it.”

  She looked at him, slowly absorbing what he was saying. The heat of his hands sent reassuring warmth through her. “I’m trying to take it all in at once.”

  He nodded and leaned forward, focusing on her face. “And you can’t. You want to see the end of the story when you haven’t even made it through the middle yet. Stop. Don’t just read the journals for information. Read them for bits of understanding. Start making lists—you’re good at it. But compartmentalize. Don’t jumble what’s going on with you and Bird with what’s going on with the house or what’s going on in Missouri. Or the attacks. Or Lyric and Freddy. Or Liz and Freddy. Break everything down. Look at one thing at a time. Make a plan of action and stop getting derailed by sudden hits of inspiration. None of this is going anywhere.”

  “So … focus on the journals while you finish with the house. Don’t think about the crimes right now.”

  “Exactly. First and foremost because that’s my job.”

  “That’s why you get the big bucks.”

  He smiled. “Such as they are.” He released her hand and leaned back in the chair. “Freddy’s body has been removed, but it’ll be at least another twenty-four hours before we’re done. I’ll keep you posted. Now you and Russell go away. I’ll wait for Lyric’s lawyer, then get back over to the house.”

  They stood, and Greg returned to his desk chair. Molly hesitated at the door. “How do you do this? Do you do it all the time?”

  “I like puzzles. Mostly I like people.”

  “People are the reason I chase tornadoes.” And Molly left his office, pulling the door shut.

  15

  August 10, 2010

  Gene’s kids delivered the remainder of his household goods this morning. Most of it, gratefully, fit in the attic. Some went into the front parlor. Ashley kept thanking me and making noises that they’d be back to get it out as soon as they could, but I know she’s lying. Wouldn’t meet my eyes. I don’t know why they don’t sell it. Goodwill it. Something. They all know Gene won’t be leaving the facility.
Buddy kept saying things like, “This was Grandma’s, and it’s been in the family for a long time.” Like I’d think that Hoosier cabinet had been bought last week …

  Christmas Day, 2010

  I called Buddy and Ashley to wish them a Merry Christmas. They didn’t answer the phone. I left a message. Gene’s been gone a month now. They never answered my letter either …

  June 12, 2011

  Buddy and Ashley have moved to Montana. I called Tate (Ashley’s sister), but she has no interest in the stuff either, even the Hoosier cabinet. And it’s worth some money. I checked it out on eBay. But Tate’s sorry they just dumped the stuff on me. We talked for a long time, and she told me the missing pieces of the history on the Hoosier and some of the other pieces. I think I’ll write them up and tape them inside the pieces.

  July 4, 2011

  Happy Birthday, America! Great cookout today. Some of the family showed up, but mostly the neighbors. Finn’s been a big help lately. My sugar’s getting worse, so I’m trying to lose some weight, but boy can Linda cook a fantastic red-white-and-blueberry pie! Yum. Stole a second piece for later. Roy hung around later, asked if he could store some stuff in the basement. Yeah … whatever. Everyone else is doing it, why not him …

  February 3, 2012

  Tried to clean some today. The clutter in the front rooms is starting to get to me. Snow on the ground, so I was stuck here. Made some progress, but it’s hard to clean when you don’t feel like you can get rid of items belonging to other people. I got Buddy’s address from Tate. I sent him a letter asking permission to sell some of the items. No response yet …

  February 18, 2012

  Carter Jackson stopped by today, told me he could definitely move some of this furniture down at the auction house. No word from Buddy.

  September 5, 2012

  Betty June died last week. Her daughter stopped by today to ask if I could keep some things while they finished cleaning out the house. Somebody tell me why I can’t ever say no to these people …