Murder in the Family

by Ramona Richards

  Michael’s eyes widened in surprise. “Did we—?” He coughed. “You do remember that three other nieces and nephews live right here in town, and they all have children. Bobby got out, like we did, but Leland, RuthAnn, and Tommie Jane are here. And their children are mostly grown as well. They all had better opportunities than we did to change their lives. They chose not to.”

  “But we’re the ones who—”

  “No.” Michael’s voice was firm. “Molly, you can’t take on the burdens of the world. They are not your responsibility.” His tone softened, and he leaned closer to her. “When you were still little, maybe eight or nine, you were already a fixer. It was your way of trying to control a life that was already way off track. When Aunt Liz told me you’d started work as a storm chaser, I thought you’d realize how little of life is really under your control. Only God has any sort of control over this existence.” He leaned back in the chair. “You could not have saved her. You could not have fixed this.”

  “But we can now.”

  He nodded. “Finn told me about the remarkable work you’ve been doing.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d want anything out of the house. For the monastery.”

  Michael shook his head, his smile sad. “You and I both escaped the craving for possessions, Squirt. Different paths. But we really are the lucky ones, remember?”

  She did, and she reached out her hand for his. He took it, squeezing gently. Molly yawned, but tried to shake it off. “I can write when I have more questions?” she asked.

  “Anytime. And I don’t have to be back to the monastery until Tuesday. I thought we could go back to the house when they release you.”

  She grinned at the thought. “You’re going to cause quite a stir in that getup.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll cause quite a stir just by being Mickey McClelland back from the dead.”

  Molly blinked as a wave of sadness swept over her. “I was close to thinking you were dead, ya know.”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry about that. Liz did give me your contact information …” his voice trailed off.

  “But you weren’t ready.” She yawned again.

  He shook his head. “Do you remember what you said to me the last time we saw each other?”

  Molly felt heat in her cheeks. “I was angry. And I was a kid.”

  “I believe the exact words were, ‘I hope you get shot in some foreign hellhole, never to see the light of day.’ They are imprinted on my brain.”

  “You were leaving us.”

  “And you were scared.”

  Molly nodded, then pressed her head back against the pillows. Nodding had not been a great idea. “Terrified. The last thing I wanted was to be left alone with Mother and Bird at each other’s throats.” She paused. “Forgive me?”

  His eyebrows arched. “Oh, I forgave you a long time ago. I know you were furious. I just didn’t know if you’d forgiven me. If you’d even want to hear from me.”

  “Ah.” She looked down, plucked idly at the tape on her IV. “We have some healing to do.”

  “But we’ll get there.”

  Molly yawned yet again. “I think the pain meds are kicking in.”

  Michael stood, leaned over, and kissed her forehead. “You sleep. Rest. The doc said they might discharge you as early as tomorrow morning. We’ll talk then.”

  Molly nodded, feeling a blissful sleep settling over her. Michael waited until she closed her eyes, then she heard him slip out. As the door closed, she heard Greg ask, “Did you tell her?”

  “No,” Michael replied. “She needs to rest. Tomorrow is soon enough.”

  Molly tried to call out, to fight her way back to consciousness, but the meds overwhelmed her. The door closed, and sleep took over.

  21

  The nightmares arrived later that night, after Dr. Kantner had reduced the pain meds again. The blurred images of arms and legs hitting, and hitting again. The screams that echoed in her mind—Where is it? What did you do with it? Then came the fire, a raging inferno that consumed the house, the yard, and flashed up her arms and legs, filling her with an unbearable heat and excruciating pain.

  Molly jerked awake, chilled and shivering. A shadow near her bed moved, and she gasped, fear rocking her.

  But this time, the shadow grabbed her arm with a whispered, “Sh! It’s just me.” And Greg stepped into the gray light cast by the moon and streetlights outside. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Nightmare?”

  Shaking violently, Molly nodded.

  Greg reached toward the foot of the bed and pulled up a blanket and tucked it around her, helping her to settle back against the pillows. She clutched it, mouthing, Thank you. It brought some warmth, but not enough. “Is there another?” she whispered.

  He went to the closet and pulled one from the shelf. He shook it out and draped it over here. “These rooms are always frigid. Are you hurting?”

  “Not as bad as before. How long have I been asleep?” Her throat remained sore, her voice raspy.

  “Want me to get the nurse? I think you’re due for some meds.”

  “What time is it?”

  He checked his watch. “Around 3 a.m. So you’ve been out about eighteen hours since we talked.”

  She wrapped the blankets tighter around her, and the warmth began to ease some of her soreness. “What are you doing here now?”

  He sat back in the chair next to the bed, scooting it a bit closer. “We’re taking turns. Michael stayed until seven, then I relieved Finn at midnight. Russell will be here around five.”

  “You don’t have to do this. The nurses—”

  “The nurses didn’t get to see you stretched out on a porch as if you were dead.”

  Her eyes widened. “That was you? Who kept calling me?” Please don’t leave me. The panic in his voice lingered in Molly’s mind.

  He hesitated, then nodded. He looked down at his hands. “Finn was there too. He and Linda heard the shot, saw a lot of it going down, ran the … the guys fled when Finn and Linda came flying out of their houses with baseball bats. They said the thieves wore masks. Finn got a license plate, but it was stolen.”

  “Not guys.”

  He looked up. “What?”

  She swallowed hard. “Not all guys. One, the voice was too high. A woman kept asking, ‘Where is it?’”

  “Where’s what?”

  She shook her head. “No idea.” She looked at a small pink pitcher on the bedside table. “Is there ice?”

  Greg stood. “It’s probably water. I’ll get it.” He’d snagged the pitcher and headed out the door before she could stop him. In a few moments, he returned, and handed her a Styrofoam cup full of ice and a small spoon. She dug her arms out from under the blanket and took the cup, using the small spoon to scoop a few chips into her mouth. They melted quickly and felt blissful. “I can’t believe how good that feels.”

  Greg winced.

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “Later. How’s the rest of your pain?”

  Molly let out a long breath. “I hurt, but it’s tolerable. At least for now. Probably the meds. I have a headache. I was still sore from the wreck, so it’s a step up.”

  “We found a fingerprint on the brake line, but it’s not in the system.”

  “So, if you had a finger, you could match it?”

  He smiled. “Something like that.”

  She handed him the cup, and burrowed back under the blankets. “What was Mickey … Brother Michael supposed to tell me that he didn’t?”

  Greg looked down again. “You heard that?”

  She waited, and he finally leaned back in the chair. “They took some of the more valuable pieces out of the house, some of the items designated for specific people. They also broke into your hotel room, probably looking for whatever they were demanding from you. It’s completely trashed.”

  “They didn’t find much of anything. Everything of value, even the journals, have been moved to Russell’s condo or office.”

/>   He didn’t respond, and Molly waited for a few moments before she asked, “Are we okay?”

  He looked up, an odd brightness in his eyes. “We?”

  “You and me.”

  He stood, leaned over, and kissed her gently on the forehead. “Yeah, we’re good,” he whispered.

  As he straightened, a nurse popped open the door and strode in. “Good,” she announced. “You’re awake. Time for medicine.”

  Molly slept for another five hours. Two nightmares jerked her awake, just before she was consumed by waves of flames, but she drifted off again almost immediately. She finally emerged from a more natural sleep just before nine on Sunday morning, stiff and starved. Her nurse shooed Russell out, who had indeed arrived around five, then she brought Molly some broth, gelatin, and a toothbrush. As Molly opened the small mirror embedded in the bedside tray, she saw why Greg had winced.

  The right side of her face was swollen, and her eye a mass of black and red abrasions. A massive bruise extended from her right forehead down to her neck, where it spread across her throat and disappeared into her hairline. The bruise on her throat was hand-shaped, and was a delightful mix of blue, purple, and scarlet. “Oh my word!” she said to the nurse. “Does the rest of me look this bad?”

  The nurse, a chipper, efficient woman in her thirties, nodded. “Pretty much. Are you ready for a bath? They tell me you might go home today.”

  And with that, the lengthy discharge process began. By the time the last paperwork arrived and the IV came out, the cafeteria had sent up more broth and gelatin for lunch, and three men—Greg, Russell, and Michael—waited for her outside the door. As the nurse helped her get dressed in clothes Russell had delivered, she whispered, “We need to get you out of here so they’ll stop clogging up the hallway. You’re a popular lady.”

  Molly couldn’t answer that. She didn’t really know how.

  As they all headed downstairs to the lobby, Michael pushed her wheelchair. They got a few odd looks along the way, but Molly couldn’t tell if it was because she was a giant, swollen bruise or because the bruise’s wheelchair was being pushed by a monk. Russell explained that Linda and Sheila had emptied Molly’s hotel room into his guest bedroom, and that Michael was staying with Greg. As they loaded her into Russell’s car, she looked around, and said softly, “I want to go to the house. With Michael. Please.”

  Greg squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll see you later.” He nodded at Michael, who slipped into the back seat of the Benz.

  The silent ride back to Carterton gave Molly a lot of time to think.

  They stood in the yard for a few moments, looking up at the top gables of the house. Molly sighed. “I’ve spent a lot of time the past few weeks looking at this house. I almost hate to leave it.”

  Michael shaded his eyes against the sun. “Looking at the house or at the past?”

  “You always did love trying to make me think.”

  His smile was gentle. “You get pushy. People sometimes forget they can push back.”

  “You know Mother used to call us the irresistible force and the immovable object.”

  He laughed. “Yep. We could go at each other for hours, snark becoming sarcasm becoming a trial of insults and battle of wits.”

  “You usually won.”

  “I’m older. I had read more.”

  “What do you think would have happened if we’d—”

  He held up a hand, shaking his head. “No, Molly. Don’t play the ‘what-if ’ game. It goes nowhere, makes you crazy, and discounts what you have achieved.”

  Molly looked at him, feeling a swell of love in her chest. “Always the practical one.”

  “Someone had to be.”

  “Are we ever going to talk about who Leland’s parents are?”

  Michael remained still, his focus on the house. A breeze rustled through the leaves above them. Molly waited.

  “You mean the fact that he’s our brother?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Probably not enough for your curiosity. The short version is that Mother and Daddy were in love and thought they’d get married when he got out of the army. Then he went to Vietnam, was declared MIA, which Mother took to mean a death sentence. She found out she was pregnant, and couldn’t face it alone. Daddy came back, but by that time, the fix was in and Leland belonged to Bird and Nina.”

  “You think Daddy ever knew?”

  “No. Daddy hated Bird. He’d have fought tooth and nail to get his child back.”

  “You realize that as Bird’s heir, Leland would have gotten the farm, the same as if he’d been Mother and Daddy’s heir?”

  Michael looked down at her. “You can’t always count on a silver lining. If what Greg told me is true, Leland won’t be inheriting anything.”

  “Keep an eye on your liver, will ya?”

  Her brother smiled. “We have great health care.”

  “So when did you become Catholic?”

  “In the military. When did you stop going to church?”

  “In Oklahoma. Storms are my sanctuaries now.”

  “Is that where you’re closest to God?”

  “Sometimes. But they will definitely make you think about Him.”

  “I’ll concede that.”

  “Do you want to go in?”

  “Not particularly. But we need to do this, don’t we?”

  “I think so. If only for closure.”

  “Did Russell give you the new key?”

  Molly pulled it from her pocket and wagged it at him. “That man is fast on getting the locks changed on this place.” She headed for the porch. Walking hurt, but she had to try, to work out some of the stiffness. Michael followed, moving much more slowly, giving her time to reach the steps. He offered his arm, which she took gladly, but still annoyed that she needed help.

  It’ll pass. You’ll heal. Let’s just hope the nightmares do too.

  Molly slid the key in the shiny new lock and pushed the door open. Michael’s steps were measured as he entered the foyer, looking up the stairs, then to the right. Molly waited, remembering all too well how she’d felt first entering the house. He turned and moved into the parlor, looking at the now sparse bits of furniture—a side table, a small desk, a highboy. He paused to run his hand along the edge of the table.

  “You’ve done a lot of work.”

  She followed him into the room, fighting a wave of sadness. “So much is gone. They took— And there’s still a great deal more to do. We haven’t brought down everything from the attic, and the cleaning—”

  “Molly.” He turned to face her.

  She stopped, waiting.

  “Eventually, you’ll have to learn how to accept a compliment.”

  She smiled, looking down at the recently polished desk. “Bad habit, huh?”

  “Always was.”

  “You’re sure you can’t stay.”

  “Just tomorrow. We can talk more then.”

  “Longer.”

  “The bus leaves Tuesday morning.”

  She paused. “I’ll take you.”

  “Thank you.” He walked around the room, pausing to open the drawer on a highboy. His brow furrowed as he spotted the paper inside. He pulled it out, scanned it, glanced at Molly, then read aloud. “Highboy, circa 1880, belonged to Loretta and Ronald Jenkins, from Alpharetta, Georgia. Brought to Carterton after marriage in 1925. Passed to daughter, Rebecca (born 1927), who married Thomas Morrow in 1947.” He looked up. “Granddaddy and Gram.”

  Molly nodded. “Keep reading.”

  He did. “Loaned to Thomas’s nephew, Randall Morrow, in 1966. Returned to Elizabeth Morrow in 1998, upon Randall’s death, along with other items in his estate.” He looked up at her. “So who does it belong to?”

  She shrugged. “You tell me.”

  Michael put the paper back in the drawer. “According to the law, it would be Aunt Liz. And now you.”

  “According to Bird, it belonged to Gram, so it should have been his, as her remaining next
of kin. The rest of that was just ‘loaning’— not gifting.” She paused. “I’m surprised they didn’t take it as well.”

  “They probably would have taken more if you hadn’t … interrupted. And there are squabbles like this on everything that was here?”

  “On almost every piece. Even the dishes.”

  He paused and looked around the room. “I can see why Aunt Liz and Russell picked you to do this. You’re the only one in the family with enough moxie to stare people down.”

  “Is that another compliment?”

  Michael smiled. “Yes.”

  “Some people have not been so pleased with my moxie.” She gestured at her face. “As you can see.”

  “‘Never attribute to malice, that which can be reasonably explained by stupidity.’ They apparently have no clue who they’re dealing with.”

  “You still quote Robert Heinlein?”

  “Hanlon’s razor, actually.”

  “Ah. Yet another compliment?”

  “An observation. If they knew you well, they would know that the more they come at you, the more you will dig in your heels.”

  She shook her head and crossed her arms, hugging herself. “I don’t know, Michael. This took a lot of wind out of my sails. I don’t know if I can finish what I started.”

  “Going to head back to St. Louis early? Leave this as it is?”

  She looked out the window, down across the yard toward Finn’s. “It might be better for everyone.”

  “Or maybe just for you. Molly, you’ve come too far, and done too much, to abandon Aunt Liz now.”

  “Guilt trips do not become you, brother.”

  “And giving up has never been your style either. And you have something they don’t.”

  “Righteous indignation?”

  He chuckled. “That. And ammunition. And a compassionate heart. The law is on your side, as are Sheriff Olson and Russell. Your neighbors, from what I’ve been told. And you have all the information you need from Aunt Liz to make the wisest decisions. But they have a greater incentive than you. They are outlaws, guilty of murder, assault, attempted murder, and burglary. If you fail, people will be disappointed, but life will go on. If they fail, they go to prison for the rest of their lives. But I know your heart. That you could use all this to help others drives you, and this is a once in a lifetime chance to help a lot of people. You’re not going to give that up easily.”