Murder at the Moonshine Inn

by Maggie King

  Then several things happened at once. A handsome young man whose name tag read “Todd Makin, Manager” appeared and asked if there was a problem. A member of the waitstaff trailed behind him with a wet cloth in hand.

  “I’ll say there’s a problem,” said a woman who had been sitting in the booth behind us. She stood and pulled off her up-to-then pristine white jacket, now splotched with coffee. Droplets of the brew clung to the woman’s blonde curls.

  By that time we were all standing and had the attention of the whole restaurant. Phyllis had vanished. Trudy handed Nina more napkins and escorted her to the restroom like she was a young child. As they walked away I noticed that Nina’s clothes hung on her, almost requiring suspenders to hold up her capris. A recent weight loss was my guess.

  The irate woman spoke up. “That woman, the one with the wild hair—” she pointed out the window. Phyllis was now headed for the parking lot, her hair and loose-fitting top flowing around her. “She threw a cup of coffee at that woman in the red shirt.” She turned and pointed out Nina, now almost to the restroom.

  “We’ll get you all seated at clean booths.” The manager smiled, his voice soothing. He’d make a great diplomat. Or playground referee. His assistant set to cleaning up both booths while Todd transferred our dishes.

  That left me standing with the irate woman who wailed, “My beautiful jacket is just ruined!”

  “Oh, the stain will come out,” I assured her. “I have the same jacket and once spilled coffee on it. Cold water works like magic. You’d better go to the restroom right away before the stain sets.”

  I’m not usually called upon for impromptu performances, but I did a fair job spinning this tale. The woman looked uncertain for a moment, like she suspected a trick. Then she sighed and went to join Trudy and Nina in the restroom.

  I sat in the new booth and waited for Trudy and Nina to reappear. When they did, Nina was still a bit damp.

  She explained, “They only have automatic hand dryers in the restroom. They don’t dry the rest of the body too well.”

  Having never found myself dripping with coffee in a restaurant, I hadn’t considered the limitations of hand dryers. Todd refreshed our beverages and offered any other services he could provide.

  We assured him that we’d let him know. When he left, the three of us looked at each other and laughed. We had some “other services” in mind for the attractive Todd.

  I said, “Nina, we’re sorry about Phyllis.”

  Nina’s shrug suggested that she tangled with enraged women on a regular basis. “It’s okay. Charlie’s whole family hated me. They thought he was so wonderful. But he wasn’t.”

  I knew Phyllis had been close to her brother and had taken it hard when Charlie died. Perhaps she had a blind side for her brother. Of course, she hadn’t known him in the same context as had Nina. Or so I hoped.

  “You know,” I said, “You could file assault charges. That’s what Phyllis did, assault you.”

  “No, no, no, no, no.” Nina waved both hands in front of her like they were windshield wipers. “Let’s just forget about it.”

  I waited a beat for Nina to offer anything else about Charlie. When she didn’t, I said brightly, “Well, let’s start over. You said you needed a favor.”

  My earlier reluctance to come to this meeting so early on a Monday morning had yielded to an eager curiosity. A woman who caused other women to throw coffee in her face had to be interesting. And a woman with a sexually weird man in the past—well, I was all ears.

  Nina bit her lip and set to twisting her napkin. “Um, yes. A favor.” Nina looked around, like she feared someone might overhear her or sneak up behind her. Was she about to confess to a crime? If so, she didn’t need me, she needed a lawyer.

  Leaning in close, she lowered her voice. “I want you to find out who killed my sister.”

  TWO

  BEFORE I COULD recover my power of speech, a melodious tune sounded from somewhere on Nina’s person. She pulled her phone out of her pants pocket, checked her caller ID, punched the talk key and said “Hi.”

  I welcomed the interruption of the phone call. The last thing I wanted to do was find out who killed Nina’s sister. Or anyone’s sister. Hopefully the caller would distract her and she’d forget about me.

  No such luck. She ended the call and gripped my arm a little too firmly as she said, “So how about it?”

  “Uh . . . I think I need some information.” Did she really expect me to agree to such a request on the spot?

  She laughed. “Yes, of course you do.”

  I sighed. How could I turn her down without seeming cold? “Nina, I’m sorry about your sister. Truly sorry. But I’m a writer, not a detective.”

  “You found that other woman’s killer. Trudy told me all about it.”

  When I turned to Trudy she held her hands up, miming “What could I do?” I made a mental note to tell her not to recommend my services.

  “That was years ago,” I said to Nina. “And it was luck, not expertise.” Nina referred to Carlene Arness. Eight years earlier, Carlene died after sipping cyanide-laced tea at a meeting of our book group. Somehow I’d managed to flush out the killer. I considered it a one-time thing and didn’t relish a sequel. I said to Nina, “Isn’t this a matter for the police?”

  “They’re stuck on Brad for my sister’s murder . . . and aren’t even looking at anyone else. And Brad’s such a nice man, he’d never kill anyone.”

  Brad? My ears perked. It couldn’t be that Brad. It just couldn’t be.

  But Nina’s next words told me that it could be. “Brad Jones. My brother-in-law. I guess he’s still my brother-in-law.”

  “Brad Jones, huh? If I have my facts straight, he was married to Roxanne Howard—and she would be your sister, right?”

  “Right. You must have read about her in the paper.”

  “Well, yes, I did.” Who hadn’t read about Roxanne Howard? Besides her stabbing death in the parking lot of a disreputable bar three months earlier, there were the various newsworthy deeds and misdeeds over the years, especially the DUIs and public fights with her young employee-lover. And Nina wanted me to find out who killed her? I imagined more than one person had wanted to end that colorful woman’s life: anyone that given to public displays was bound to have enemies.

  Now I said, “Nina, this is quite a coincidence, and an awkward one—Brad Jones is my cousin.”

  •••

  Conflict of interest. That meant I was off the hook. I hoped my sigh of relief wasn’t audible.

  Nina’s eyes widened. “Yes, Brad mentioned that. He said you and your sister contacted him out of the clear blue sky.”

  When my father was two years old his parents divorced and my grandfather disappeared from the lives of his child and former wife. In recent years, my sister Ruth took up genealogy and unearthed a slew of relatives previously unknown to us. I was now in touch with family members from around the country via e-mail and Facebook. A few of the relatives hailed from Richmond.

  Now I told Nina the story of Ruth’s family tree discovery. Trudy and the other members of the book group knew this tale. I explained that my deserter grandfather eventually remarried and had three more sons, each of whom had one child: Marcie Jones, Brad Jones, and Patty Jones Ratzenberger.

  “So Marcie, Brad, and Patty are all first cousins and I’m their half-cousin. I wish I’d met Marcie before she died. When was that? Two years ago?”

  “Almost,” Nina said. “November of 2011.”

  “And she had breast cancer?”

  “Pancreatic.”

  “My sister came down from New Jersey this past January and we met Patty. She and I hit it off and have lunch together most Thursdays.”

  Nina smiled. “Oh, I love Patty. She’s so sweet.” I allowed that she was indeed sweet.

  “But Brad chose not to meet us. He told Patty that Ruth and I were probably after his money, and so why else would we get in touch after all these years?” I had even sen
t Brad a sympathy card when Rox died in March. Not surprisingly, he didn’t acknowledge my gesture. But not sending it would have felt worse than dealing with his ignoring me.

  Nina waved her hand in dismissal. “Yes, I know Brad has some issue with you. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. Anyway, I’ll introduce you to him. He really is a nice man. Did you ever meet Rox?” Nina asked.

  “No, I never did.” I guessed that the woman was my half-cousin-in-law. Was there such a thing? Talk about unwieldy relationships.

  “Well, I’m sure Patty told you all about her.”

  “She didn’t, really. She said she didn’t know her that well, but she was pretty upset about how she died. Patty seems very private with her feelings.”

  “Yes, she is private. I noticed that when Marcie was so ill.” Nina excused herself to get more coffee. “Can I get you some?” Trudy and I assured her that we were fine.

  I turned to Trudy. Keeping my voice low, I asked, “Why did you suggest that she talk to me?”

  “I didn’t. It was all her idea.”

  “Later,” I muttered as Nina returned with a fresh mug of pale coffee.

  Nina said, “You know, don’t you, that Rox took care of your cousin Marcie during her final days and months. She even served as her power of attorney, medical and financial.”

  I recalled the little that Patty had told me about Rox’s role in Marcie’s care. She had mentioned that Rox was Marcie’s POA. When I’d asked why Rox and not a family member, Patty said that Rox had been POA for both her parents and so had a lot of experience.

  When I posed the same question to Nina, she gave me much the same response, adding, “Marcie and Rox had been friends for a long time and Marcie felt closer to her than she did to Brad or Patty.”

  Nina leaned toward me, all earnestness. “So, Hazel, you have to clear Brad as a suspect. He’s family. He needs your help.”

  How far does one go for one’s family? There must be limits, boundaries. Brad had certainly set clear boundaries with me.

  It would be interesting to meet Brad and see his reaction to me. I knew he was the chief suspect in Rox’s murder. Maybe he’d welcome my discovering who killed his wife—unless he killed her. No question about it, I could be putting myself in danger.

  Despite Nina’s impassioned plea, I saw a perfect opportunity to exercise that elusive skill of saying “no” and leaped on it. “Nina, my answer is no. I can’t investigate your sister’s murder. You have my deepest sympathy, but you’ll have to find someone else. A qualified PI.”

  A mixture of disappointment and anger flashed across Nina’s face. During a moment of uneasy silence it suddenly came to me why her name rang a bell.

  “You and Trudy are neighbors, right?”

  “Why, yes . . . yes, we are.”

  At the time of Rox’s murder, the book group had discussed the crime at length. Trudy and Eileen Thompson, another book group member and Trudy’s co-worker at the library, told us that their neighbor—Nina Brown—was Rox’s sister. Had Trudy withheld Nina’s name during our conversation the night before, thinking that I’d guess that Nina wanted to talk to me about investigating and would refuse to meet with her at Panera? If so, she would have been right. Maybe. I knew I’d regret bringing up the subject of Brad and Rox again, but I found myself asking, “How long had Rox and Brad been married?”

  I cringed at Nina’s hopeful look. “Three months. They got married last Christmas.”

  “How did they meet?”

  “I introduced them. He’s been my dentist for years and he’s on the board of the Alzheimer’s Research Society of Central Virginia. I used to run into him at fundraisers. My father had Alzheimer’s and so did Brad’s mother, so it’s a cause that means a lot to us.” That reminded me that I needed to get a medical history for this new-found wing of my family.

  Nina continued. “Brad recommended Rox for the Development Director position at the ARS—that’s the acronym for the Alzheimer’s Research Society—and when she left there he got her the job at the Hamlin Group. That’s where she was working at the time of her death.”

  Brad sounded like a tolerant and solicitous person to this woman who, by all accounts, ran on the wayward side.

  “And didn’t she become the Executive Director of the ARS?”

  “She did. She was there for a long time.” I recalled that the most colorful stories about Rox coincided with her tenure at the ARS.

  Nina’s dark eyes took on that now-familiar pleading look. “Sure you won’t change your mind, Hazel?”

  “No.” I put out my hand in a stop position. “Leave it to the police. And if you don’t like what they’re doing, hire a PI.”

  Nina sighed. “To be honest, I can’t afford one and Brad won’t foot the bill. Oh, I’ll pay you, don’t worry about that. But hopefully you won’t charge as much as a PI. Not that I know how much that is.”

  “I don’t either,” I said. “Why won’t Brad foot the bill?”

  “He’s against the PI idea. He wants to leave it to the police. They want it to be him, but apparently haven’t found enough proof. They probably think he hired someone, and they’re not looking for anyone else. At least that’s the way it seems to me.”

  “Why’s he content to leave it to the police?”

  “Because he figures they know what they’re doing and have the resources to solve the crime.”

  And if they think Brad did it but can’t prove it, he’s better off. Aloud, I said, “He’s right.”

  Nina pressed on. “Hazel, you did this before. You found that other woman’s killer. Carlene.”

  “I knew the people involved in Carlene’s death, so it was natural to talk about her and ask questions, but I had to be subtle. In your case, I wouldn’t know how to begin.”

  I instantly regretted my words. Nina knew how I could begin.

  “Let’s start with the Hamlin Group. I can set you up there and you can talk to people.”

  “What’s the Hamlin Group?”

  “It’s an association management firm for non-profits. Rox was vice-president.”

  “What would be my cover?” I held up a hand. “Not saying that I’m going to.”

  “Research for your books. You have a lot of fans who’d love to talk to you. Especially middle-aged women. You could say you had interviewed Rox for a book.” She gave me the same pleading look as my cats do when begging for food.

  Nina had a point. I did have a lot of fans, especially in the non-profit world that teemed with women of a certain age—meaning middle-aged. My core group of readers. And I enjoyed mingling with them.

  “Why would I have interviewed her?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Make up something. You’re a writer! I know,” she snapped her fingers. “You can say you’re writing a story set in a non-profit and want to soak up the atmosphere. Sex in the non-profit world.”

  Laughter broke the tension. Briefly. Trudy took our mugs to the coffee station for refills.

  Nina went on. “And Brad is still on the board at the ARS. He can get you in there.”

  “I doubt that he’d do that.”

  “I’ll talk him into it.” I noted Nina’s confident tone with interest. Did she have a lot of influence with my cousin? Did Brad know about this conversation? If I took this on, I wouldn’t want him to know. But I wasn’t taking it on, so the matter was a moot point.

  Nina was growing more animated. Perhaps doing something to uncover the mystery of her sister’s murder was cathartic. If I could help someone in need of healing—but wait. Should I be putting myself in danger just because nice-guy Brad won’t come up with the funds for a PI? I’m sure a PI would manage a better healing process than I could with my amateurish ways.

  “Look, Trudy thinks the world of you. And your husband could help.”

  Nina referred to Vince Castelli, a homicide detective-turned-true-crime-writer, who had amassed a file of information about Rox in preparation for his next project.

  I sippe
d my coffee. “Nina, my answer is still no. But I’ll ask Vince if he knows a good PI.”

  Nina gave me a long look before drawing a deep breath. “Okay.”

  Trudy looked at her watch and exclaimed in dismay. “Uh, oh. I’m going to be late for my meeting.” She gathered up her purse and the detritus of her breakfast. “See you all later.”

  Even though Trudy had contributed little to the conversation, I’d found her presence comforting. Fearing more arm twisting on Nina’s part, I lost no time in changing to a mundane subject. I asked about her reading interests.

  “I haven’t read much of anything lately. I’ve been taking a playwriting class. The last class meets tomorrow.”

  “That must be the same one Mary Anne’s taking.” Mary Anne Branch was a member of the book group who was taking a break in order to devote herself to the playwriting class. When I started to describe her as an attractive woman in her forties, Nina nodded. “I know who you mean. There are only five of us in the class.”

  “What got you interested in plays?”

  “Oh, I love plays. The, um, immediacy.”

  We spent a few minutes discussing plays, naming the ones we’d seen or wanted to see. Nina touted anything at the Firehouse Theater, a local venue that staged cutting-edge productions. I chimed in with a vote for Hay Fever, a Noel Coward play Vince and I had seen the previous Valentine’s Day.

  Then Nina’s phone sounded the same melodious tune as before. She assured the caller that she’d be there in less than an hour. “Gotta go,” she said to me. “Someone at the Hamlin Group went home sick and they’re asking me to fill in.”

  On our way out, Todd held the door open for us. “Have a nice day, ladies. Nice to see you again.”

  Outside, Nina gave me her card with her e-mail address, street address and phone numbers. I didn’t think it a good idea to provide so much information—I only gave my e-mail and website on my cards. But I kept my words of caution to myself and tucked the card in a side pocket of my purse.

  In the car I whooped and cheered. “I said no! At last, I’ve learned to say no.”