A Motor for Murder (Veronica Margreve Mysteries Book 1)

by Valerie Murmel

  “What does your start-up do?” I always enjoyed talking to fellow techies, even if their field was different from mine. And Roger was dying to talk about it more, even if he stood there sipping his beer nonchalantly.

  “I work on battery technology for electric cars, extending the battery storage capacity.”

  “That sounds so interesting! I would love for my next car to be electric. And increased battery storage is one of the things that could really popularize them, since it would mean increased driving range. How much progress have you made?”

  “A bunch. In fact, I have an idea and I think I’m really close to a break-through in how to manufacture it at scale.”

  “That's great! Where have you been doing your experiments?”

  “We have some space in Redmond for our office, and the lab is there, too”.

  “Is your company big?”

  “Oh no, it’s pretty much just me so far. I do all the experiments, all our R &D”.

  “So it’s your baby. How did you get started on this?”

  “I was always interested in cars. And now electric cars are really taking off, becoming popular.” I agreed with him on that. Electric cars, from Teslas to Nissan Leafs (or is it Nissan Leaves?), have become a common sight on the streets of Seattle. “I spent 3 years at Stanford studying engineering, and I had this idea about the batteries, and I thought it might work. And George shares my interest in cars, and of course has a car dealership, so that's been convenient – I can look at a lot of the gas-powered super-cars and compare.”

  “What about funding? Do you have investors? Did you have to pitch them? If you don't mind me asking, of course.” I hurried to add.

  “Umm, George has given us a bunch of money. We have enough for now”. This seemed like a ticklish subject for him – maybe because he was embarrassed that being funded by his brother-in-law meant nepotism? Or that he didn’t have “real” angle investors?

  “That's good not to have to worry about that for a while. What's your plan for your idea? It sounds like it might cause a massive change in the industry.”

  “Not sure yet. I'll patent it first. Maybe also manufacture. Or maybe go another route. John, George's lawyer, has been advising my company on trying partnerships.” He waved his plate in the general direction of the back of the house, to indicate that John was somewhere inside. Underneath his bravado, there was some uncertainty about the future. “He thinks this idea has a lot of potential. Here, here's my card – as old-fashioned as that may seem”. He got out his wallet from his jeans pocket and extracted a business card. It had his name, and title: CTO of Ba-Ele Tech Inc, and their logo (which looked to me like a swirling white-yellow solar flare) and office address on it, in some Redmond office park.

  As I read the card, he clarified “It stands for Battery Electric, and is pronounced ‘Belle’”.

  Well, he certainly had big plans! It was nice to hear the kid so excited about technology and improvements in electric cars. I thanked him and put the card in my purse.

  At that moment, a portly, mostly bald guy in a bowling shirt and jeans, and holding a beer joined us. He was also under-dressed, and I took him for another fellow nerd.

  “Oh hi Mr. Kempler!” Roger said.

  Mr Kempler saluted Roger with his beer and told me that his name was Wayne. During small talk, I learned that Wayne was a retired accountant. We chatted about the Alluring Exotics Car Club that Wayne was the president of a member and George a member for the last 8 years; his fabulous cars – he referred to a vintage Rolls Royce as “his pride and joy”; the recent car show that the club held; Wayne's disappointment on missing out of the top prize in his category (his comment to Roger then was: “Your brother-in-law is very proud of himself!”); and how he stored his two cars. He seemed like a bit of a bore, and after a little more chit-chat, I wished Roger luck with his ideas and excused myself to head to another part of the house, still on the trail of more delicious food.

  In the kitchen, I grabbed another treat off the full plate stacked high: caprese skewers. As I was fumbling around with my food and my drink, I bumped into an Indian man in his 50s, short, round and jovial. He introduced himself as Vinay and said that he was George's golf buddy, and bought all his cars from him. Amid small talk, it came out that Vinay was a serial entrepreneur, having started and sold 3 software (game development) companies to the likes of Facebook and Microsoft. I was familiar with the products of one of his ventures, and knew that he was a millionaire many, many times over (probably close to being a billionaire). He was now working on his next start-up, in mobile gaming. We talked about software development and the trends in it for a while, exchanged business cards, and then moved on.

  As I grabbed the next bite of food, I reflected that I was pleased with myself – I was successfully mingling at the party! Meeting strangers, smiling at them, being polite, making small talk. Overall, an outgoing and social evening! It was nice to have one of those every once in a while, I decided, instead of just sitting at home with my cat, as smart and cute as she was.

  And by this point in the party, I felt I deserved a break. More so since being un-used to wearing 5'' heels (no matter how fabulous), I got tired of being on my feet all evening. I decided to head back down towards the pool, where I had seen some big chairs on the patio near the fireplace. On the way there, I passed another catering station. The staff has updated the selections there – now miniature desserts. Eating those by the roaring fire, on a warm evening was going to be fun. My introvert personality had about enough of people and conversations for the time being. But the glutton in me didn't have enough of the wonderful food yet. As I was curled up in a big comfy chair by the outdoor fireplace near the pool, the plate piled with varieties of mini-desserts, I contemplated that I had achieved what was surely the pinnacle of earthly pleasures from my cat's point of view: I was comfortable, warm, already had some delicious food and was about to dig into some more, and had free access to more piles of food just steps away.

  As I was contemplating the cat's philosophy of life, I heard determined clicking of high heels, and then voices. By the sound and the rhythm of the steps, I realized that one of the people heading my way was Caitlin. Since she previously caught me with double servings of food and was so unpleasant to me, I decided to try to make myself smaller, lest she noticed and judged the 5 different desserts on my plate – I was not in the mood to have her bitchiness directed at me again. I tucked in my feet and ducked behind the tall back of the chair.

  The steps got closer.

  Caitlin was saying “Don’t I deserve better?”

  The male voice responded “You know the situation I'm in. It is not possible right now.”

  “When would I get mine, then? You go and buy this – you could bear to part with some more of the money for my sake!”

  “You know I can’t, not right now. And this is not the time to talk. I have to get back to my guests.” That meant that the man was George. Then I heard steps going back into the house.

  “You idiot! You’ll regret it!” Caitlin cried at his back. I heard her pacing on the patio behind me, then she abruptly turned and went back into the house with determination. I waited until the sound of her footsteps on the Italian-stone floor has died down, then peeked out from my chair.

  Hmm, sounds like Caitlin was arguing with her boss about money – getting a raise? The soothing music coming out of the outdoor speakers on the patio likely made the entire conversation inaudible to people inside the house. I idly pondered whether what I just heard meant that, behind the facade, George's fancy car dealership was not doing that well. And whether Caitlin had some anger issues.

  2

  By this point, the party grew to probably sixty or eighty people, wandering through the huge house and gathering in clumps by the catering stations. Because of the house’s sheer size, it didn’t feel crowded. I saw again some of the people I’ve met – Wayne Kempler went to get another beer, John telling another story in the middle of a g
roup of guests, Roger grabbing a mini-burger off the heaping plate on the kitchen counter and heading upstairs. I didn't see Rita or George – both, undoubtedly, occupied by giving tours of the house to more newly-arrived guests.

  Wandering aimlessly on the ground floor of the house, I turned the corner. The dining room was deserted. Music was flowing from hidden speakers. The bartender with the name tag Tim was at his station. I was very happy to see that he had some of my favorite wine open in front of him; I came up and asked for a glass of Ransom pinot noir. He declined my tip, saying everything was already covered.

  A paunchy medium-height man in his late-forties, with a bald spot at the top of his head (that I could see since in heels I was a couple of inches taller than he was), in khaki slacks and a dark-blue sports coat, came up to the bar.

  He ordered a martini and then turned to me.

  “How are you doing? I’m Stan Greenwich.” He extended his hand. I shook it and mumbled my own introduction.

  “I was George’s business partner in some of his earlier ventures. Where he first made all of his money.” He laughed very loudly. “How do you know him?”

  I explained that I didn't know George, but had known Rita back in the old days, before their marriage.

  Tim the bartender handed Stan his drink, and we stepped away from the bar.

  “George sure knows how to spend money – food and drink and everything covered,“ he said, taking an appreciative sip from his glass. “He learned it from me.” He laughed. “And learned how to make the money from me as well.”

  He expected me to say something, so I said,

  “That's important.”

  “Knowing how to spend well is more important.” He winked and laughed again. “And our hostess sure is great too.” I agreed with that assessment.

  “And very attractive,” He said and smirked.

  I looked closer at Stan, to try to figure out what he meant by that comment. The most polite thing I could muster in response was “Yes, she looks great tonight, doesn't she?”

  Stan laughed again, and winked at me. “And she has such cute friends, too”.

  I looked around. OK, that settled it. The guy was mostly likely drunk. There was no way he could be addressing that comment to me.

  “Ummm.... I'm sure she does.”

  “And I have the pleasure of talking to one of them right now.” He tried to bow and take my hand. I took a step back.

  I was never at ease with people flirting with me. Especially strangers who I suspected were drunk. Especially those a good decade older than I was. Especially when the interest was not mutual.

  I mumbled something like “You flatter me too much” and decided I needed an escape route.

  I saw a waiter carrying a tray of mini-spider rolls at the other end of the room, and with “Excuse me, please. Those rolls, they are my favorites.” sprinted after the tray as fast as my heels allowed.

  Having left Stan Greenwich behind at the other end of the cavernous room, I helped myself to a couple of yummy-looking rolls – making a solemn promise that I would go to my workout studio, Knotty Yoga, three times next week. The aerial and yoga studio was located in Redmond, and has been doing an excellent job on building up strength in my abs, obliques and arms – despite my regular diet of cookies and an otherwise-sedentary lifestyle. In fact, Knotty Yoga was responsible for the fact that I could still fit into my wardrobe, at all. I had the habit of eating when stressed or annoyed, and there were many such moments in the past year.

  At the catering station, I ran into a big guy in his late fifties, with a muscled frame that started to go to fat, casually dressed in jeans and a checkered shirt. He put down his beer on the table to load some more chicken skewers on his plate.

  After replenishing the small mountain of food of his plate, he turned to me and said: “Hello, I'm Kevin.” He had a low, slightly raspy voice.

  “Veronica”. We shook hands.

  “This is so delicious.” I continued.

  “Yes, George sure does know how to throw parties! And he finally has a gorgeous space for that, even if I say so myself!”

  “Oh, definitely, the house is beautiful! How do you know the hosts?”

  “I did the remodel on this place. I'm Kevin Moody of Moody Construction.”

  I had heard the name of the firm: Moody Construction advertised in fancy “shelter” magazines that I sometimes leafed through and was known as one of the best – or at least, most expensive – construction and remodel companies in the Seattle area.

  “Oh! So you were the general contractor? I must say, everything looks marvelous!”

  “Thank you.” He took a sip of the beer.

  “This must have been a big job.” I continued. During the house tour, Rita explained the changes they’ve made to the house: an elevator to the garage for George’s cars, a swimming pool with a retractable roof, full remodel of both kitchens and all bathrooms.

  Kevin grinned. “That's about the size of the residential remodels that I do. That's about a standard job size.” I thought that this house was about three times the size of an average Seattle-area house, and thought about what Kevin's clientele were like. Money was no object for them, no doubt.

  “Do you also do commercial?”

  We continued like this for a little bit, until someone else joined us, looking to graze at the catering station. I wanted to grab another drink, so I excused myself and headed upstairs.

  Stopping by the bar station, I got another glass of Ransom Pinot Noir from Tim, and went upstairs.

  I saw that the upstairs living room was empty, and sat down on the couch for a bit, sipped my wine and closed my eyes.

  As I relaxed and stretched out my legs in front of me, I heard a clicking noise behind me and someone saying “Oh, sorry”. I turned around but the door was closed again. Probably someone looking for the second floor bathroom, lost in the big house with lots of rooms.

  After a couple of minutes of sitting motionless, I got up and went out to the balcony that faced downtown Seattle.

  Out on the balcony, in the darkness beyond the light falling from the room, I saw a tall balding man who looked to be in his late fifties looking out towards the sunset. He heard me step out through the french doors and turned.

  “Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt...”

  “No, you didn't interrupt anything.”

  “Beautiful view! I'm Veronica”.

  “Paul”. We shook hands. I looked around and tried to come up with a subject for the conversation.

  “The neighborhood is gorgeous. And the house is so spacious and nice!” I took a sip of my drink.

  “I was just looking at the view and thinking of all the changes in this neighborhood. I'm a neighbor, but I live down the hill and don't have a view like this”. He gave a slight smile that looked sardonic and bitter in the low light coming from the room. “And the house is too big, if you ask me. All these huge houses and people flaunting their money! They are remodeling the place that’s 5 years old! It doesn't need remodeling.” Yes, someone was bitter all right! I wondered why Rita and George even invited Paul if that's how he felt.

  “In fact, I need to find George to talk about the remodel. I'm the president of the home-owners association here”.

  “Oh I see. You've lived in the neighborhood for a while then?”

  “Yes, for twenty years. I have an old house, no pool, no view.” He gave a small laugh.

  “I am sure it is lovely. This is such a nice neighborhood.” I finished my glass of wine.

  “It was even nicer before assholes with too much money moved in.” He muttered, I assumed to himself. “Excuse me, I need to find the host.”

  Wow, someone was definitely a bit hostile! Taken aback at his remark (and unsure whether his words were somehow meant to apply to me – I didn't even live in the neighborhood, and was nowhere close to being able to afford the house prices there), I watched him go back into the house. Then I picked up a glass of champagne and a caviar
sandwich from a waiter that came in, and sat my empty wine glass down on his tray. George might have been an asshole, I thought, but he sure liked to spend money on tasty food and excellent and efficient waitstaff, to make sure his guests had fun at his party!

  The music was streaming softly from the built-in balcony speakers, and I stood for a while looking at the sunset over Seattle, not yet covered by rain clouds. I was sipping my champagne and munching on a second caviar sandwich when I heard a loud splash coming from the pool on the side of the house.

  I was contemplating what it might have been (someone jumping into the pool?) when a scream pierced the music.

  3

  I hurried down to the pool, as fast as I could run in my heels. Once I got to the patio, I saw a crowd of about 15 people gather at the end of it. There was a commotion and confusion and raised voices. I came to the edge of the crowd and saw what caused the scene. In the pool, face down, was a man. Rita ran out through the crowd to the very edge of the water and dropped to her knees, sobbing and shouting: “George! George!”

  Her cries broke the sort of stunned suspended animation that had enveloped the entire group. I heard someone say “I am a doctor” above the noise, then there was a shuffle in the group of people in front. Someone jumped into the pool and turned George over, and pushed his body along the surface of the water to the deck. The woman who said she was a doctor kneeled by it, checking the pulse and starting on CPR. A man near me got out his phone and dialed 911. I stood by, feeling helpless and lost about what to do or how to help.

  I, perhaps due to being an introvert and an engineer, never knew what to do in such trying and potentially emotional moments. I could not do better than the doctor who was trying to revive George. The medics were already on their way. I didn’t know how to comfort Rita, who was now sitting on the ground in silent sobs, or whether it was the right time for it. I looked around – several people seemed to have had the same emotional predicament, looking shocked and lost, standing around with their hands in their pockets or on their purses, illuminated by the fireplace and the light coming from the house.