Murder in the Family

by Ramona Richards

  “Liar!” Kitty screamed. “She and LJ—” Her voice broke, and she backed away from Molly. “You’re a liar!” She spun around and marched back to the Impala, gunning it forcefully as she turned it around in Linda’s drive and sped off.

  “What was that all about?”

  Molly jumped at Greg’s voice, then let out a long sigh. “Kitty being Kitty. I’m not even sure what she was talking about, except that she apparently didn’t know about Lyric and Freddy. I’ll have to think about it. What did they find?”

  Greg watched the Impala disappear around the corner, his face somber. “Bullets.” He held up a small paper evidence bag and shook it. “Four of them. And more blood. I’m on my way to the lab. I’ll need to drop you off.”

  Molly’s heart raced, as did her words. “Bullets? Where? In Liz’s room? Where? Where was the blood? Four? I thought he was only shot twice.”

  Greg released a long exhausted sigh. “Freddy was. The walls of Liz’s bedroom held three, however, and a fourth was in the floor. That one was covered up by the trash that had buried Liz. That’s where the blood was as well.”

  “So the shooting took place before she died? And they missed twice standing in the same room?”

  He shrugged. “Speculation. There could have been a struggle. We have a lot more investigating to do.”

  Molly’s heart sank. “So I’m out of the house for a while longer.”

  Greg looked down at the bullets, then spoke without facing her. “We need … you and me … to keep our distance as well.”

  Molly felt an odd sensation wash over her, part amusement, part … loneliness? “Why?”

  “I should not have let you back in the house. We should have continued investigating the rest of the house.”

  “I’m clouding your judgment?”

  Greg finally looked up at her. His eyes lit with a smile. “Something like that. Also, our relationship could taint the evidence.”

  Molly’s eyebrows arched and she pointed at the house. “Sheriff Olson, any lawyer worth his shingle is going to get anything found in that house tossed. Let’s start with the fact that it’s been tented and fumigated, has a history of hoarding, and has had a hundred people traipsing through the rooms in the last week.” As a stubborn look crossed his face, she relented. “But I get your meaning. I don’t like it, but I understand it.”

  He tucked the bag in the inside pocket of his coat. “Let’s get you back to the hotel.”

  Molly watched the Charger pull out, closing the door only after it had vanished from sight. The ride back to the hotel had been uncharacteristically silent, and the odd sense of loneliness she’d felt back at the house settled over her again. “Everyone’s leaving,” she whispered. Jimmy. Sarah.

  Greg.

  The last time she’d said the exact same thing, Mickey, leaving for the Marines, had hugged her, one of the few times brother and sister would ever share that moment of affection. The Morrows, he’d once told her, were just not a huggy family.

  “You’re leaving. Everyone’s leaving.”

  Mickey released her. “All right now. No self-pity, Squirt. Not allowed in this family, remember. We’re the strong ones. We stand on our own and get the job done. Let the rest of them whine. They’re good at it. But you, me, and Mama. We get it done.”

  “You could stay. Get it done here.”

  Mickey had grimaced, a look of pain that had puzzled Molly. “What?” she asked.

  “I’ll explain it someday. I can’t stay. But you have to. Take care of Mama. She’s going to need you.”

  Molly had not realized exactly how much their mother would need her over the next two years, or that by the time Molly turned eighteen, their mother would be dead, and Molly would bolt for Oklahoma.

  “No self-pity, Squirt,” she whispered, looking over the scatter of papers, journals, and butcher-paper-covered walls. “We get it done.” She dug back into the journals, emerging just before three from a stupor brought on by unending family stories that left her numb. When the Skype tone sounded for the magazine interview, she was glad for the break.

  The journalist, a pleasant-looking man in his twenties, had prepared well. He knew her history and had seen a number of her published photos. Their chat lasted more than an hour, and Molly relished the brief return to her regular world of clouds and wind. She shared some of the more remarkable stories from her years as a storm chaser. After the standard questions (yes, it’s expensive; no, you don’t make a lot of money; yes, it’s extremely rough on family and friends), the reporter asked some pointed questions about both the thrills and the aftermaths, the adrenaline and the letdowns, the dangers and the successes. She uploaded several of her recent photos to him, and he promised to get back with her about updating the contract for their publication.

  In discussing the dangers of storm chasing, Molly avoided talking about Sarah, that a piece of wood traveling at seventy miles an hour had put the younger woman into a coma. But the sight of Sarah’s pale, bloody frame lingered in Molly’s mind, along with Jimmy’s extraordinary affection toward their injured friend. She should have seen it then, that with Jimmy and Sarah becoming more than friends, their partnership would change.

  “But I didn’t want to,” she whispered to herself as she put aside the laptop and pulled another journal closer. “I didn’t want to see that what we had was coming to an end.”

  Like Mickey leaving. And Mama’s death bringing our time in Carterton to a close.

  Maybe it was time to go out on her own. Put Carterton permanently in her rearview. Stop putting others in danger. To take the job in St. Louis, and go back to doing what she did best. Making her own way and getting the job done.

  The text from Linda Allen popped up on her phone as Molly put the finishing touches on the draft of her inventory list for Wednesday. She’d take it to the house as soon as she could to finalize it, hoping she’d be able to do that by Tuesday. But Aunt Liz’s journals—and the information she had left with Russell—had been a wealth of organized lists detailing everything that had been dumped on Aunt Liz over the years, as well as meandering rambles about things she’d acquired.

  Molly wasn’t the only one in the family good at lists.

  I absolutely hate that I’m acting like an accountant with these lists. They are family. I should be able to trust that when they come back they’ll take just what they left. But … then again … I did grow up with them. And Bird. They might just snatch up something they want and pack it “by mistake.”

  I guess that’s pretty cynical of me. Or maybe just realistic. Which is why I’m also going to make lists to go with the will.

  Oh, Mollybelle! What have we wrought! Greed is going to kill us all.

  And it had.

  The text tone on Molly’s phone sounded its second alert, and she leaned over and picked it up.

  We’ve heard what’s going on at the house. Sorry. Come over for dinner? Finn’s doing steaks and burgers on the grill, and I’m providing the potato salad and veggies. Campfire with s’mores to follow. His house. Please come. 6pm.

  Molly smiled. She liked Linda. And she adored Finn and Sheila. Reminders that not everyone in town snatched and clawed for whatever they could get. Linda had opened her home to her brother after both their spouses had died. Now he provided the main income for the household. Finn and Sheila were unbelievably open and kind to everyone around them.

  I’ll be there. Thank you.

  Linda responded with a smiley face.

  Molly spent the next hour or so researching the television station in St. Louis, and making a list of questions she wanted to ask Hunter Bradley. Then she leaned back in her chair, and stretched, working the kinks out of her muscles. It felt good to make plans, to have a touch of certainty in her coming week. She would go to dinner, and she should hear from Bradley tomorrow. Wednesday would be the probate hearing. If the will was approved, she’d start sending out messages to potential heirs to see if they actually wanted the things Liz planned to leav
e them.

  And whatever else happened, she’d cope. And get the job done.

  At 5:40, she headed for the Explorer, which coughed but started. Molly made herself a note to talk to a mechanic tomorrow. Now was not the time for the most reliable thing in her life to stop being so. She pulled into a station for gas and checked all the fluids under the hood, but she still arrived at Maple Street just before six.

  The neighborhood was hopping, crowded with families of all ages spilling out into the street and across the adjoining yards, playing soccer and tossing footballs. She parked at Liz’s house, glancing briefly at the yellow crime scene tape still fluttering in the breeze. A white Chevy Suburban sat in the yard, the blue “Crime Scene Unit” on its side announcing to the world what was going on. The house seemed still, but she knew they had to be working inside.

  Molly wandered toward Finn’s back yard, dodging balls and heys and hellos from a dozen folks as she went. No one stared at her anymore, as though she were the intrusive stranger. As she rounded the rear corner of his house, explosive laughter burst from a group of kids splashing in an above-ground pool near the back of the property. An array of lawn chairs clustered loosely around the grill, where Finn held court with some of the men. Linda and Sheila directed women here and there as they put out a spread of food on a series of picnic tables. One held nothing but drinks and a cooler of ice. Another held desserts, while two others held buns, sandwich fixings, veggies, salads, and chips.

  Molly approached Linda, who greeted her with a quick hug. “So glad you came!”

  “Can I help?”

  Linda cast a glance around the tables. “Yep. We need utensils.” She pointed at Finn’s back door. “In the kitchen, you’ll find some little boxes of plastic forks and spoons in a bigger box on the table. Just grab the little boxes. In the drawer next to the stove will be big spoons for the veggies.”

  “You got it.” Molly headed inside, amused that Linda knew so much about Finn and Sheila’s kitchen. “Kitchen friends,” she muttered, a term she’d learned from her mother. “True friends are kitchen friends,” her mother had told her. “They live in your kitchen and know as much about it as you do.”

  Did they know this much about Liz?

  When Molly emerged with the utensils, Linda and Sheila helped her distribute them across the spread of food. Then they looked at Finn, and Sheila put two fingers in her mouth and sounded a blasting whistle. Finn turned and held up five fingers.

  Linda immediately headed for the pool. “Everybody outta the water! Dry off! Rest! Time to eat!” She began herding children and tossing towels over them as Sheila urged the adults to get a drink and pick a chair. That’s when Molly spotted Russell sauntering into the back yard in his polo shirt and khakis. She greeted him with a grin.

  “Coming here from the golf course?”

  He chuckled. “Yep. Finn called me. Told me you were coming.”

  Molly’s eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

  Russell shrugged. “I’d mentioned to him that I wanted to have a chat with you away from … everything else. The office. The house. The sheriff’s office.”

  “How come? Is that why they invited me?”

  “Nope. I think it’s why they invited me. Finn called after he found out you’d be here.” He looked around a moment. “It’s not like I’m part of the neighborhood.”

  “Neither am I.”

  Russell’s brows furrowed. “Oh, but you are. At least …” he gestured around the yard. “… they think you are. Finn and Linda both talk as if you’re a permanent resident.”

  Molly shook her head. “I’ve already decided to go back to St. Louis. I’ll be talking tomorrow to someone about a job.”

  Russell fell silent long enough for Molly to become slightly uncomfortable. She cleared her throat. “Let’s grab drinks and chairs.”

  He nodded and followed her. They settled, watching as a dozen or more kids grabbed buns and gathered around Finn to collect burgers and hot dogs. Molly opened her soda and leaned forward, watching Russell. “What’s up?”

  He took a sip of his own drink. “I was golfing with Judge Petrie.”

  “Who is …”

  “The judge who will probate Liz’s will on Wednesday.”

  “And?”

  “Scuttlebutt is that Bird is planning to show up with a holographic will to contest the one we have. Kitty is planning to show up with an inventory list of items she knows are in the house. If your inventory doesn’t match hers, she’s going to claim yours is inaccurate. It won’t stop anything, but it could delay the process. Give them time to marshal more resources.”

  “Holographic?” Molly swallowed. “So Bird claims to have a will in Liz’s own handwriting?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think it’s legit?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Handwritten wills aren’t legal in the state of Alabama. Even if she wrote it, it’s worthless.”

  “You think he knows that?”

  “Maybe. Mostly they are determined to stir the pot.”

  “As you said, delay the distribution until they can find a loophole.”

  “Something like that.”

  “So what happens Wednesday?”

  Russell took another sip. “Sometimes these things are held in chambers, but Judge Petrie doesn’t want Bird or Kitty anywhere near his chambers. We’ll gather in the courtroom, where he’ll preside over the reading of the will. The point of the probate is to prove the will is Liz’s, not to oversee its execution. That’ll be done by you. He’ll ask for verification of the will’s authenticity, and I’ll present the affidavit. He’ll ask if you have any objection to being the executrix and for your inventory. Then he’ll ask anyone else in the room to present documents to the contrary.”

  “Which is when Bird and Kitty put their two cents in.”

  “Yes, and the judge will most likely disallow them. If he doesn’t, then he’ll ask for more proof on both sides and set another date.”

  “So this could drag out for weeks.”

  Russell nodded, then stood, motioning for her to do the same. “I’ve known probates that took years. But it probably won’t. Let’s get food before the kids scarf everything up.”

  “Which is why you played golf with the judge today.”

  He grinned. “We talked about no specific case. Just generalizations.”

  Molly laughed. “Even though you both knew what you were talking about.”

  “Of course!”

  They grabbed plates, and Molly went for a burger and potato salad, while Russell chose what looked like a ten-ounce sirloin. Linda finally stopped hovering and joined them, along with some of the other neighbors. From then on, the talk turned to anything but Liz Morrow’s hoarding house. Kids, church events, the local doings at the community center. Basketball, upcoming proms and graduations, and the start of the local farmer’s market. All of it contemporary small-town life. No one brought up the past or dwelled on what happened twenty years ago. No one asked Molly about her family—and none of the showed up to spoil the party.

  A blessed evening, and Molly couldn’t believe how blissful she felt at the end of it. She hugged Russell and Linda goodbye, and made her way back up to the Explorer. Lights still shone out of the windows of Aunt Liz’s house, although she didn’t know if it would ever feel like a home again, to her or anyone. She could see shadows of the techs moving back and forth, and wondered how long they’d take this time.

  Sliding into the Explorer, she pulled her phone and purse out of the glove box. No messages. Not from Greg. Or Jimmy. Anybody. She pushed everything back into the glove box and slammed the door. Forget about them. You had a nice time. Just cherish it and get on with yourself.

  She turned the key. The Explorer’s engine resisted with a grinding noise, but then coughed and cranked. Molly rubbed her hand along the dash. “Wow. You do need a checkup. Tomorrow. I promise.”

  She put the SUV in reverse and backed out into Maple Street. As she reached the main road and t
urned, her brakes felt a little soft. “Geez … not them too.” Her thoughts strayed back to the last oil change and brake check she’d had on the Explorer, and she frowned, puzzled. Just a couple of months ago. She never neglected her vehicle; it was her lifeblood. Her mechanic back in Missouri had been insistent that everything was fine. Tires still had at least ten thousand miles on them, the brakes probably as much. Molly would not have headed for Alabama if she hadn’t thought the Explorer was up to it.

  She headed into the downhill curve where her motel was located, the lights and VACANCY sign as welcoming as most of the places she’d spent the last twenty years. And she couldn’t wait to wash off the woodsmoke of the campfire and grill. Time for bed. She signaled her turn and pressed the brake.

  It slid all the way to the floor. The Explorer picked up speed on the downward grade. Molly pumped the brake. No resistance. She gripped the wheel as the SUV shot by the hotel.

  Every muscle tensed. Molly shifted into neutral. The engine roared its protest. The SUV slowed some, but the steep grade tugged hard at it. Molly stamped on the emergency brake. Nothing.

  She headed into the tightest part of the curve with only one thought: Too fast! She tried to swing right for more space going into the turn. The rear end skidded out onto the shoulder of the road. Molly yanked the wheel into the skid, but her momentum was too great. The right side of the Explorer slewed out over the shoulder and toward the waiting ditch.

  Molly felt gravity take over, pulling the Explorer over the edge. She braced herself, waiting for the impact. The SUV slid, tipped onto its side, then pitched hard onto the roof. It slammed to a halt against a tree, the sounds of crunching metal and cracking glass ringing in her ears. She smelled gas, oil, and hot rubber.

  I have to get out!

  Her entire body quivered, and she fought to orient herself. She hung upside down, the seatbelt still holding her in place. Breathing hurt, but nothing else seemed to be injured. Her legs, arms, ached and trembled, but nothing felt broken.

  She reached for the buckle.

  No! Don’t release it yet. Brace.