Murder in the Family

by Ramona Richards

  I didn’t think you were working tonight. Are you moving things out of the house? Do you need help?

  Molly stared at her phone, alarm flaring through her. “No!” She shot up from the table, barely taking time to throw a twenty on the table, as she dialed 911. She was already out the door before the dispatcher answered, and she recognized Barbara’s sleepy tone.

  “Barbara, this is Molly McClelland. Someone’s robbing Aunt Liz’s house. Please send someone! I’m on my way!”

  Barbara was instantly alert. “Dispatching them now, hon. We have someone on patrol. Do not go in the house!”

  But Molly had already hung up, rage flaring from her gut all the way to the top of her skull. But she wasn’t surprised. Not knowing her family. She was only astonished that it hadn’t happened before now.

  With the Bistro so close, she arrived at the house before the patrol officer, to find a large blue panel truck backed up to the house. She knew she should wait, but fury drove her out.

  You will not do this again. Not this time, mister!

  She leaped from the rental, dug her gun case out from under the seat, and marched toward the porch, her Glock clenched in her hand. She pulled back the slide to chamber a round as she headed up the steps and put her finger on the trigger. No hesitation. Not this time.

  No one was in sight.

  Molly stopped to peer into the back of the truck. Several storage bins were stacked against the front wall. Furniture lined the outside walls, and Molly’s eyes narrowed as she recognized pieces that had been on Kitty’s list at the probate hearing. The ones Molly had missed.

  “Kitty,” she hissed. “What a surprise.” She spun to head into the house.

  The first blow came from her right, a blur of motion barely registering in her vision. A vicious spear of fire shot through her head and down her spine, and her world spun as she collapsed. Her fingers tightened instinctively, and the Glock fired, a thunderous echo near her head. A man cursed and something hard hit her arm. The gun skidded away from her hand, slamming into a porch post. Another bolt of pain hit Molly’s right side, and she heard the crack of her ribs.

  “Where is it!” A woman’s voice was followed by a string of profanities, as Molly tried to push up. A third punch slammed into her back, forcing her back down.

  “What have you done with it!” A harsh, panicked demand from the woman. “It’s gone!”

  Words wouldn’t form. A fourth blow shoved her face hard into the wooden floor of the porch, splinters slicing into her face. Then Molly’s breath caught as something tightened around her neck.

  Air stopped. A roaring built in her ears, as the binding on her neck cut into her skin. In the distance, screams. Shouts. Sirens. But a merciful darkness covered her.

  “Molly! My God, Molly!”

  Molly heard the voice, but the distance was too great, the darkness too consuming, too comforting. She sank back into it.

  The voice turned relentless. “No, Molly! Stay awake. Stay with me! Don’t leave me.”

  Not a woman this time. Molly tried to open her eyes, but everything was bright, so bright.

  Stay with me, Sarah. Please! Stay with me.

  A memory punched through the haze. Jimmy’s voice. Sarah hurt. Him cradling her. I should have known then, right? His voice had been that of a lover, not a friend. Sarah, so pale and wan, so lost. Sarah, my love.

  “Molly!”

  Definitely not a woman.

  “Jimmy?” Her own voice sounded like a frog’s grunt, not even really a word. She coughed, then moaned. Darkness was better.

  “Molly, stay with us. Help is here. Please, don’t leave me.”

  That voice again, closer now. No … not Jimmy.

  Her body moved. A jostle. Her neck confined. A roll. A lift. A landing. The pain hit then, with a fierce roar of agony. Molly screamed. She tried again to open her eyes, but it was too brilliant, too many colors, too excruciating. She clenched them shut.

  “We have to get an IV started. Hold her.”

  A hand clutched hers, caring but firm, strong, holding her arm down. She felt the pressure of the needle, but no pain. Everything else hurt far worse. A slight burning flooded her arm, then blessed darkness came again.

  The beeps came first. Low and muffled, they bounced around the room and inside Molly’s head. Then the pain, in her head, her throat, her shoulders, her back, every muscle. She groaned.

  “Molly?” Three anxious male voices at once, which made her moan again.

  “Give her a minute.” A fourth voice, a low, soft alto. A hand gently gripped her arm. “Ms. McClelland? Molly? Can you hear me? You’re in the hospital.”

  “Safe?” The word scraped her throat, and she swallowed.

  “Yes, you’re safe.” The alto tones were calm, soothing. Molly believed her. She tried to open her eyes. Again, too bright. She squeezed them shut.

  “Do you know why you’re here? Do you remember anything?”

  And the images came flooding back. The blow to her head. The gunshot. Then she was down, pummeled by fists and feet. But there were no faces, just limbs and pain. But there were two voices, one cursing, one calling her names, encouraging the others, demanding to know where it was. Where is it? Over and over. She remembered the voices.

  Tears burned her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered.

  The alto continued. “We wanted you to wake up, so we reduced your pain medication. I’m going to increase it a bit, to give you some relief. Stay awake for a while if you can. But if you want to sleep, do so. You need to heal and rest will help. Can you open your eyes?”

  Molly tried again, but everything was still too blurry and too bright. She squeezed them shut again, then could hear footsteps. The squeak and whiffle of blinds. The light dimmed.

  “Try again.”

  Much better. Molly blinked several times, and the blurriness began to clear. The alto came into focus, with dark brown eyes, auburn hair, and a sweet smile.

  “I’m Dr. Kantner.”

  “How bad?” Molly’s voice cracked. Pain radiated around her neck.

  The smile dimmed. “You have two additional cracked ribs and a concussion. Lots of internal and external bruising, but no bleeding, fortunately. You’re going to be extremely sore for a while.”

  “Why is my throat so sore?”

  Dr. Kantner paused. “Apparently, they tried to choke you. You have lots of bruising and abrasions around your neck. Fortunately, your assailants were frightened off before they could do too much more harm.”

  “You can thank Finn and Linda for that. They heard the gunshot.”

  Greg’s voice. Where is he?

  “You can have some ice for your throat but no liquids yet. I want to see how you’re doing first. I’ll be around later to check on you.” Dr. Kantner stepped back. She disappeared to be rapidly replaced by two people beside her bed and one at the foot of it.

  Greg, at her elbow, slipped his hand into hers. “Glad you’re back.” His voice sounded gruff, a little hoarse.

  “Me too,” she whispered.

  Finn’s unruly mop of hair shook as he crushed his cap in his hands. “Miss Molly. Man, it’s good to see you awake. I was so … I mean, we were so worried.”

  “I’m too tough to kill.”

  Silence followed that statement. Then a rich baritone from the end of the bed said simply, “But they did try.”

  Molly squinted, trying to see who it was. Not one of the neighbors, although his face was familiar. He wore a tunic made from a rough, grayish white fabric, with a brown shift-like apron over it. Around his neck hung a large wooden cross. A priest? Why would a priest …? The fuzz in Molly’s head clouded her recognition. She focused harder, taking in the dark eyes, the curly, russet-brown hair dotted with gray. His expression was somber, but his eyes focused on her in the same way her mother’s used to …

  Her chest tightened. “Mickey?”

  Greg and Finn straightened and moved away from the bed. The man at the end gave a single nod. “
Brother Michael now. Hello, Squirt.”

  “You’re a priest?” She cleared her throat as some of the pain eased.

  “A Trappist monk.”

  “That’s where you’ve been for twenty years?”

  “Not the entire time.”

  But the pieces began to fall into place, even in Molly’s medicine-blurred mind. The reason Liz stopped talking about him. Why he couldn’t inherit from her. Why everyone had been sketchy about where Mickey was. Michael. Good Lord in heaven … Brother Michael.

  “You could have told me.”

  Mickey tilted his head to peer at her, as he had twenty years ago. “Why?”

  Good question. “You left us.”

  “We both did. And you know why. We had to.”

  “But you left her.”

  Her. They both knew who she meant. Their mother.

  The room fell silent for a few moments as Molly and Michael observed each other. Every inch of her body ached with throbbing pain, and now her heart did as well. “You owe me some words,” she whispered. “Some answers. If only because I’m your sister.”

  Michael seemed to concede the point and glanced at Greg and Finn. They left, with Greg glancing back just once before the door shut. Michael pulled up a chair and sat next to her bedside. He adjusted his habit, then sat quite still.

  “Before you ask anything, let me speak for a moment. Please.”

  Molly nodded, watching him. This man … this man … was a far cry from the angry teenager who had bolted Carterton in a blinding, dangerous rage. Mickey had been angry every day, all day. After the beating by Bird, Leland, and Bobby, Mickey had been in frequent trouble, constantly getting into fights. He’d started drinking.

  This man, Brother Michael, had a calmness, a solemnity she would not have thought possible. He straightened his shoulders, and Molly found herself mesmerized by the power of his voice. Deeper than she remembered, almost a bass, and he spoke with a confidence, a resonance, that captivated her.

  “I have special permission to come see you because you were in danger. But now that you are awake and healing, I will have to return to the monastery. I want to answer your questions, even though it may be hard for you to hear now, like this. But I cannot stay to see you through all you’re dealing with, no matter how much I’d want to. I loved Liz, and Mother, more than you can imagine. When Russell told me about Liz’s death, I couldn’t move for hours. Like you, I’m still grieving, and the brothers have been good for me during this time. I cannot return to this life, Molly. Being a part of that community is the best decision I ever made.”

  “I can see that it was good for you.”

  He paused. “I’ve changed a lot.”

  “Me, not so much.”

  Michael peered at her. “More than you can imagine.”

  She fought the urge to squirm under his gaze. “Tell me what happened back then. Tell me what happened with Aunt Liz.”

  He hesitated. “You have to remember that you were five years younger. There were things you didn’t know because no one wanted to tell you. I tried to convince Mother you could handle it, but she refused. I had to respect her wishes.” He took a deep breath. “Mother was ill—”

  “Yeah, she caught something at the hosp—”

  “No. She didn’t.” The words were curt, pained.

  Molly waited, and Michael steeled himself and continued. “She had cancer, Molly. Liver cancer. It was aggressive and inoperable. Stage three before they found it, stage four before they tried to treat it. Do you remember her sending you to stay for long periods with Liz?”

  An odd numbness spread through Molly, and she suddenly felt very distant from her own body. “I thought she was just tired. Needed a break.”

  “She was tired. Exhausted. But from the treatments, which eventually gave her no hope. So she stopped them. She gave up.”

  Molly thought over what she’d learned from the journals. “Did you know that Bird never had a right to the farmhouse? That it wasn’t even Gram’s anymore? That Granddaddy had sold it to Mother before he died? She had the deed in her name.”

  Michael nodded. “Did you know that his blackmail wasn’t just about our possessions? Bird threatened to tell the world that Leland was her son. Worse, he threatened to tell Leland.”

  Molly closed her eyes. The line from Liz’s journal that had made no sense suddenly made all the sense in the world. Leland obviously has the cancer, even though they aren’t talking about it. Probably the same cancer his mama had. Hopefully, they’ll get better treatment for him than she got.

  “So all those childhood rumors were true. Leland isn’t Bird’s son.”

  “Nor Nina’s.”

  “Why did they take him in?”

  “Why do you think?”

  She didn’t have to think. She knew. “Money.”

  “Every month. Granddaddy paid every month, and Bird made sure they all never forgot about it. It’s why Gram was so quick to give him the farm equipment after Granddaddy died.”

  Molly’s numbness faded into a slow burn of anger. She tried to straighten in the bed, but every inch screeched in pain. She felt as if her entire body winced.

  Michael stood up. “Let me help you. What do you want to do?”

  “Mostly just sit up a little more. Some ice.”

  “Hang on.” He raised the bed up, then ran his arm under her shoulders. She grabbed his arm, and together they moved her higher and straighter. He handed her a cup from the bedside table, and she spooned a few pieces of ice into her mouth, let them melt. They felt glorious easing down her throat. After a moment, she took a deep breath, wincing. The soreness in her hips, torso, and lower back felt like coals of fire under her skin.

  Michael remained silent, sitting again as she waited for the pain to subside. When it did, she looked him up and down. “You’re awfully strong for a monk.”

  He chuckled, and for the first time seemed to relax. “It’s not like I sit around reading Scripture all day. The monastery is a working farm. Crops. Cows. Lots of cows. Part of our support comes from selling cheese, chocolate, and artwork the brothers produce.”

  “So you’re Amish in habits?”

  “Hardly. And we wear work clothes to farm and make the cheese.”

  She peered at him closer. “I’d really like to get to know this Michael better. You sound like a remarkable man.”

  His cheeks reddened. “Thank you. We can make that happen. Letters are permitted. And visits from family. We have a guesthouse.”

  She nodded. “It’s been a long time. We have a lot to learn.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Leland has cancer. He looks like Mother did before she died.”

  “Finn told me.”

  “Did you know Finn before today?”

  Michael nodded and sat down again. “The short version of a long story is that I spent ten years in the Marines, mostly overseas. I asked for it. I wanted to be as far away from Carterton as I could get. Liz stayed in touch. You know I came back twice before Mother died. I came back two other times to see Liz. I met Finn the last time.”

  “Why did you leave when Mother was so sick?”

  Michael looked down at his hands. “I had no choice.”

  “Explain.”

  He ran his hands through his hair, and Molly almost laughed. His hair looked so much like her own. And they both had run their hands through their hair when tense since they were kids. He sniffed, then finally looked at her. “After Bird and the boys did what they did, I was angry.”

  “We all were.”

  He rolled one shoulder. “Yeah, well, mine took an unfortunate path. Do you remember Bobby?”

  “Leland’s brother. Joined the military about the same time you did.”

  He paused. “He didn’t have a choice either. I was acting out, fighting, drinking, stirring up trouble. Bobby and I got into a fight that lasted over the course of three days. We basically tried to kill each other. We destroyed a lot of property in the process, including a
couple of cars. The cops hauled us up in front of a judge who— like everyone else in Carterton at the time—knew exactly what was going on. He gave us a choice. Jail … or enlist.”

  “You enlisted.”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Why didn’t I know any of this?”

  “Mother and Aunt Liz made a concerted effort to keep you naïve, innocent of all the tawdry parts of our family. They hoped that if they could protect you, they could get you off to college so you wouldn’t be smothered by the family drama.”

  “I did get away. Probably not the way they planned.”

  “Which is why Aunt Liz didn’t try to stop you. It hurt for you to leave, but she believed you’d have a better life away from here.”

  “Why did you stop writing her?”

  Michael looked off into a distance at something only he could see. “That was her choice. Something … difficult … painful had happened, about six years ago, and she’d written about it. You may have seen it in her journals.”

  Molly knew what he was talking about. Liz’s cousin Gene had gotten ill, and Buddy and Ashley brought his entire house of furniture to Liz’s without warning. “The furniture dump. When Gene’s family just left everything with her.”

  He nodded. “I wrote and told her to have the Salvation Army come and take everything out. She called, furious. Read me the riot act about not caring about family and the hard work that had gone into acquiring personal property, that people shouldn’t be punished for going through hard times.” He paused, looking back up at Molly. “I didn’t hear from her for a long time after that. Finally, I wrote to tell her I had joined the monastery, sent her the new address. I never heard back.”

  “That’s when the hoarding started. She became obsessed with what she called ‘preserving the family legacy.’ Somehow, she connected ‘legacy’ with ‘stuff we’ve collected.’ Russell said it all happened so slowly that it was out of hand before he became aware of it. Then, as she got more frail, it got even worse. People kept bringing stuff. She wouldn’t say no and she wouldn’t get rid of it.” Molly paused. “And I think I started it. Or at least planted the seeds.”

  “How?”

  “She had a lot of our stuff from the little house. Things I left behind when I ran. You said she was hurt when we both left. Did I let her down? Did we let her down?”