Taping butcher paper to the walls of her hotel room, Molly began constructing a grid of items, origins, and possible contacts for all the major items in the house. Russell had already told her she’d have to provide an inventory of anything of major value in the estate to the court before any of it could be sold or distributed. Any items that had been sold or given away so far were minor pieces not worth enough to be inventoried.
The journals had turned out to be a wealth of information, and Molly had been able to break the entries down into three major categories: everyday events, items being moved in, family stories. Almost every entry related in some way to one of those topics. As she broke down each journal and translated the information onto the charts, an odd history of what had happened to Liz began to emerge.
Thomas Morrow and Rebecca Jenkins Morrow, Molly’s grandparents, each had two siblings. Those siblings had seven children between them, plus the three Thomas and Rebecca raised—Bird, Liz, and Molly’s mother, Regina. That second generation—the ten cousins—had created the most trouble, borrowing from their parents, swapping possessions faster than underwear, and all of them apparently more interested in what a piece of furniture stood for in the family history than what it took to take care of it. Nobody wanted to keep them; nobody wanted to get rid of them.
So Liz, the family genealogist, suddenly became the keeper of all things family history, whether it was a letter from a great-grandparent or a highboy dresser. Over the course of eighteen months, three families had abruptly dumped almost entire households of furniture and boxes on Liz, asking her to “keep it for a while.” Only they never came back to get anything. And their kids certainly didn’t. Ashley, Tate, and Buddy were Molly’s age, more interested in moving to Montana and living in a tiny house than dealing with family furniture. But they were still too connected to a sense of “family history” to get rid of anything.
Molly crossed her arms, staring at her charts. “Heaven forbid you sell Grandma’s buffet, even though you didn’t want it in your house. No wonder one of America’s fastest growing businesses is storage facilities.”
With a house overloaded, Liz found cleaning next to impossible. So more stuff, trash, and the detritus of everyday life piled up around her. She’d tried the auction idea—she’d sent three large items, which had brought in a nice bit of cash—but Bird and some of the others had created such a ruckus, she had no energy to continue. That’s when Liz began to plot Molly’s involvement. Starting in late 2013, almost all the journal entries were addressed to “Mollybelle.”
Molly finished another journal entry and made a note on the butcher paper. “Liz, you old dog, you set me up a long time ago, didn’t you? No wonder you kept sending me so many letters.” She drew an arching line between two family events from the journal, then sat back at her desk. The next few entries were of the “everyday life” type—grocery shopping, menu planning, a trip to the hairdresser—Liz left nothing out. Then came the entry that made Molly’s eyebrows arch.
August 12, 2014
Ah, Mollybelle! A sweet day! I heard back from Mickey. I had written him about my plans to set everything up for you to handle once I was gone. He doesn’t write much these days, which I can understand. I do hope you two can meet again someday, so he can tell you why he’s not part of this. It’s just not my place, or I would have told you long ago. He has asked for your address, but since you don’t really have a physical address, just the phone number and email, I don’t know if he’ll reach out. Or if he can. But I gave them to him. Anyway, I had explained, and he completely approves. He thinks that if anyone in this family can deal with this in the way I want it to happen, it’ll be you. He said you had great moxie. I always liked that word—moxie. It’s so you.
Molly pushed the journal back. What in the world had Mickey done? Prison? Overseas, like Bobby? What? Whatever had happened, he’d never reached out to her. But, could he reach out to her?
Stop it. This will make you crazy.
Her phone beeped. She scooped it up to check the text from Greg, which made her pause almost as much as Liz’s entry.
Church tomorrow? I can pick you up at 10.
Molly stared at it. Church? Is he kidding? Molly set the phone aside, staring idly at the labyrinth of names, possessions, and events on the butcher paper covering her wall. Church had always meant family, and she hadn’t been inside one since her mother’s funeral. For her, church had nothing to do with God. God was in the storms, the power of His creation. Molly marveled at what God had brought forth on a regular basis.
But church? No.
She picked up the phone, and typed her reply. Thanks, but I’ll pass tomorrow. Need to get ready for the interview.
But she paused before she hit send. No. Don’t lie to him. Not him. She backspaced and retyped the last sentence. Thanks, but I’ll pass tomorrow. Not ready for church yet.
She hit send. That was absolutely the truth. But she also doubted that she’d ever be ready. Molly pulled a journal toward her and kept reading. Greg did not reply.
At 9:00 a.m. Sunday, just as Molly took the last bite of her powerbar-and-Coke breakfast, a knock on the door startled her away from the latest journal. She scowled. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Molly checked her phone for texts, to discover she’d missed one while she had showered. From Greg: I’ll be there around 9.
Still, Molly checked through the peephole, just to make sure. Greg stood there, quite handsome in a three-piece navy blue suit. She ran her hands through her hair in a vain attempt to smooth the curls and pulled open the door. “Wow. You clean up nice.”
A twinge of red flashed on his cheeks. “Thanks.”
“I’m still not going to church this morning.”
The red spread and his eyes widened. “Oh. No. I didn’t think …” His voice trailed off and he cleared his throat. “The forensics techs are finished with the house. I thought you might like a ride over, not be alone the first time. We have plenty of time before church.”
Molly felt her own flush of heat, not quite sure why. “Sure. Let me get my phone and purse.” Greg waited at the door while she grabbed them. As they settled into the Charger, she asked tentatively, “Anything you can share?”
He hesitated for a moment, his eyes focused on the road. “He was shot twice with what looks like a 9mm. That’s the pathologist’s preliminary estimate. She found entrance and exit wounds on both. The techs didn’t find the bullets, but they didn’t really know where to look. If we can find where he was shot, that would help, but 9mm guns are as plentiful in this county as snakes. Unless it’s been used in a crime, ballistics won’t be on file.”
He paused as he turned onto Maple Street. “I talked to Freddy’s boss. The kid was a virtual saint. Always on time. No conflicts. No arguments. Customers loved him. He wasn’t, as Bird would say, ‘slow.’ He was just a sweet kid who liked people.”
“So this isn’t about him.”
“My guess is he saw something or got in someone’s way.”
“When do they think it happened?”
Greg hesitated again, just as he turned into the drive. He put the Charger in park and turned off the ignition. He finally looked at her. “It’s hard to pinpoint, given the decomposition, but he thinks it’s about the time Liz died. Maybe before.”
Molly felt an icy calm settle over her. “You think they were killed at the same time.”
“Yes. And I need you to promise me something.”
“What?”
“We’re releasing the house to you, but you know there’s no way it’s been completely processed. With the condition it’s in, that’s impossible. What I want you to promise me is that if you see any sign, any inkling of another crime scene, you stop, clear the house, and call me.”
“What am I looking for, besides blood?”
His mouth twisted. “Normally I’d say anything that looked odd …”
Molly coughed. “But in this case, that might be a little difficult.”
He looked ba
ck at the house. “I don’t know. You seemed to be getting a feel for the place. And you’re the one who’s questioned the lack of bruising on Liz. You’re used to spotting patterns in everchanging clouds. My guess is that if something is off, you’ll spot it. How’s the work with the journals going?”
The change of subject startled Molly, and she stumbled over the first few words. “Uh, good. I’m finding … speaking of patterns … I’m finding a method to Liz’s madness. I only started with the ones from a few years ago. I suspect that the older ones will be an intriguing look at Carterton. But these mostly chronicle what happened since people started dumping stuff on her.”
She looked out at the house again. “You know, for more than twenty-five years, I’ve tried to understand the need for collecting possessions. I know what psychologists say. I know all the theories.” She tapped the side of her head. “I get it … here. Intellectually. Maybe. Sort of.” She tapped her chest. “But here. I don’t think I’ll ever truly understand.”
Greg shrugged and opened his car door. “You’re wired not to.”
Molly followed him, and they headed toward the house. “What do you mean?”
“Molly, everyone is unique. God wired us all in different ways so that we could use our gifts in ways He intended. You see patterns. Developing storms. Liz’s method of surviving. You have an artistic eye with a camera lens. You are outwardly focused. That’s why you can do this.”
Molly peered at him as they stepped up on the porch. How does he know I have an artistic—? Wait. “You looked me up?”
The twin spots of red reappeared in his cheeks, but his face remained stoic. “You’re a stranger in my town. Of course I looked you up.”
“What did you think?”
“You’re a great photographer. A risk-taker. Odd sense of humor, but you do chase tornadoes for a living. Are you going to open the door or not?”
Grinning, she pulled out her key and opened the door.
Not much had changed, but Molly hadn’t expected it to. The forensic techs had mostly confined their work to the attic. The front rooms, their raw wooden floors and tattered wallpaper looking sadder than ever, echoed as they walked through, looking at the lines of furniture. Molly ran her hand along the edge of one table.
“This table has been in the family since 1880. Liz wanted it to go to one of the nephews. I’ve got an extensive inventory for the probate on Wednesday, but there’s still a lot of work to do.”
“What about Liz’s room?”
Molly shook her head. “It’s been a little hard to tackle that one. But I’ll start today.”
Greg checked his watch. “I need to—”
“It’s okay. I’ve got everything I need here to start. I don’t have to go back to the room. Maybe pick me up after?”
He nodded. “We’ll get some lunch.”
“And I have that interview this afternoon. So I won’t get much done here today. We’ll start fresh tomorrow.”
Greg left, pulling the front door shut, a solid sound that bounced around the walls. The house was definitely well built. The windows still stood wide open, and a light breeze stirred the tattered and dirty lace curtains on the windows. With most of the downstairs garbage removed and lots of fresh air circulating through the house the week before, much of the mustiness had cleared, and with Freddy removed, the remaining odors weren’t as toxic. Molly decided that she could forgo the Tyvek suit. But a lingering scent of decay and rot still tickled her nose.
Get to work. You’ll get used to it.
Molly headed for Liz’s room and opened the door slowly, standing in the frame. After she’d pulled the journals out from under the bed, Molly hadn’t spent much time in here. Now she gazed around the room slowly, trying to take all of it in.
The room measured almost twenty by twenty, big enough for a bed, dresser, couch, recliner, large screen television, and two walls of shelves. And ceiling-high stacks of magazines, newspapers, books, boxes, and storage bins, looking like cumbersome columns towering over everything else. Two of those columns had collapsed, allegedly killing Liz, and their piles still lay scattered over what little floor space remained. Molly skirted those to get to the shelves behind the bed.
“Hi, Mr. Bromby.” She gingerly picked up the bear, cradling it in both hands to keep it from flopping around. “You must have kept Liz company for a long time.” Molly frowned. “How did she end up with you anyway? Last time I saw you was—”
In the house by the tracks.
She looked up at the picture of her with Jezebel. That had been next to her mother’s bed.
Molly scanned the shelves, her gaze lingering on each object for only a moment, as a deep dread grew in her gut, spreading as she took in the bed, the stack of twenty-year-old magazines in a corner of the room, the table in the corner. The bed had been her mother’s. Regina’s. Aunt Liz always slept in a huge four-poster antique bed that she’d found at an auction. In a bedroom on the second floor. The table had been next to their couch.
Molly moaned. Almost everything in this room had been left behind when she left for Tulsa. “Oh, Aunt Liz! I am so sorry!” She sank down on the bed. “Did we start this? Did I start this?”
Something brushed her leg.
Molly jumped high and left. Her screech echoed through the house as she looked down into golden eyes and a fluffy orange coat. Molly finally inhaled, even though her heart still raced. She put a hand on her chest. “Blossom?”
“Merroow.” The orange tabby leaped up on the bed. Molly offered a hand for the cat to sniff. Which he did, then head-butted it affectionately.
She stroked him. “Where have you been? You haven’t been hiding out here, have you? If you have, don’t go eating any of the dead stuff you find. It won’t be good for you. Nasty stuff.” But he would. Molly knew she couldn’t leave him in the house. She wondered if Linda could keep him. She’d been feeding him as an outdoor cat, but now that the house was open a lot, Molly knew he’d find his way back into his home.
She picked the cat up, and he nuzzled into the crook of her neck, purring. “Hope Leon likes cats,” she whispered. “If I couldn’t save Aunt Liz, at least I can save you.”
After a few moments, she put Blossom down and set to work. Back in the front yard, she found a box of rubber gloves left behind when they’d had to walk away, and she set to removing boxes and bins from Liz’s room. She grabbed an empty box from the yard and packed up the few things Lyric had requested—some gossip magazines, a journal, sparkly pens, a few clothes. Finally she reached for Lyric’s feather pillow, which had been tossed onto the foot of the bed.
She paused, staring at it, thinking about the down in Liz’s nostrils. She knew the argument could be made that the house was filthy, feathers probably floated in the air as a matter of due course. There were other items stored in the house that contained down: they’d already dropped two moldy down comforters into the dumpster outside. One of the rooms upstairs had a stack of pillows in the corner that reached to the ceiling. Still …
Molly tugged the pillowcase smooth, looking closely at it. Nothing, just the usual smears of makeup—Lyric wore makeup?—and rings of saliva stains. Molly slowly flipped the pillow over. More makeup. More spit.
And a heart-shaped rust-colored stain, right in the middle. Blood.
16
“It could be Lyric’s. She could have scratched herself.”
“Yes.”
“People do that you know. Scratch themselves in their sleep. I’ve done it.”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t think so.”
“It has to be tested.”
“Down feathers in her nose. Her blood on the pillow. But it still wouldn’t be enough.”
“No.”
“No idea who held the pillow.”
“Exactly.”
“I hate this. And I want the house back.”
Greg and Molly stood in the front yard, watching as forensic techs scurried in and out of the house again,
this time removing everything from Liz’s room, including the boxes Molly had already pulled out.
“You were right to call me back.”
One of the techs paused on the porch and raised his arm at Greg. “Sheriff?”
Greg nodded and started toward the house. When Molly followed, he stopped her. “Not this time. Stay here.”
“I hate this.”
“So you’ve said. I’ll be out in a minute. What time is your interview?”
“Three.”
He checked his watched, nodded, then headed into the house.
Molly crossed her arms and hugged herself. “I hate this,” she whispered. “Liz, what in the world happened here?”
The sound of a muffler-deprived Impala drew her attention to Maple Street, where Kitty’s car chugged to a halt, dieseled a few times, then fell silent. Kitty shoved her way out of it, then headed toward Molly. Molly strode toward her, not wanting Kitty to get far into the yard. “What do you want, Kitty?”
“What’s mine! What’s Lyric’s! Someone called me and said strangers were taking stuff away. You said you wouldn’t get rid of anything without telling us.” She waved a hand at the forensic techs, who were packing boxes into a large white van. “What are they doing?”
“Collecting evidence.”
Kitty stopped, staring at Molly. “Evidence of what?”
“Murder.”
Kitty ran a hand across her mouth. “So it’s true. I just thought you were being cruel. Freddy’s dead?”
“Yes.”
Kitty twisted back and forth, looking from the house to Molly, around the neighborhood, behind her, back to Molly. “No, this ain’t right.”
“It’s not. But it’s happened. They removed his body, and they’ve been going over the house. More evidence was found today. What do you know about this?”
Kitty stilled, her eyes wide. “Me? What would I have to do with it?”
Molly made her voice as monotone as possible. “In and out of the house all the time. Your daughter lived here. She and Freddy were seeing each other—”
Murder in the Family Page 19
