Murder Wins the Game

by Maddie Cochere

  I would talk with Pepper tonight about what we were going to do about Mama, but I didn’t want to think about her now. I wanted to start working on who was breaking into homes in Buxley.

  I started a new column on the board and listed my stolen items. I was disheartened to realize the only other information I had to add was that the burglaries were now happening more often and were taking place during the day as well as at night.

  Because the break-ins had always happened to someone else, and Arnie and I weren’t working any of the cases, I hadn’t paid attention to the details. And paying attention to details was the one thing Arnie kept pounding into my head. Observe everything he would say. I should already know the details of this particular crew and their crime spree.

  I let out a heavy sigh and felt wholly inadequate as a private investigator. Maybe Mama was right. Maybe I should go back to the mortgage company. I wouldn’t ever be good enough to have my own practice. Arnie was a fool to keep mentoring me.

  I plopped into the swivel chair at the desk, took a sip of coffee, and stared at the whiteboard. Depression washed over me. I couldn’t do this anymore.

  I erased the board, took the coffee to the kitchen, and dumped it in the sink before settling on the sofa to stare at the empty space left by the missing chair and stand.

  Hard banging on the front door startled me, and I jumped in my seat. I wasn’t surprised I had fallen asleep. I tried to shake the cobwebs as I walked to the door. Part of me hoped it was Glenn, but there wasn’t any reason for him to come back, let alone bang on the door.

  Keith stood on my doorstep. “Mom said the pizza will be here any minute, and why aren’t you answering your phone?”

  “Someone stole it.”

  “Did they steal your cell phone, too?”

  A car from Patricia Anne’s Pizza pulled into the cul-de-sac. Keith took off for home.

  Dinner already? I’d been sitting in an upright position on the sofa. How could I have fallen asleep for over two hours? Maybe I did need to see a doctor. What if I had narcolepsy? I would never be able to drive again. I couldn’t risk falling asleep while I was driving. Even if I didn’t have narcolepsy, I knew I wasn’t healthy. I needed to lose weight, I snored, and now I was depressed.

  I grabbed the blueberry pie from my truck on my way to Pepper’s.

  Dinner was a quieter affair than usual. Kelly was on her phone with a girlfriend, and Keith was trying to level up in a video game, so both kids took their pizza to their rooms. Pepper attempted to carry on a conversation, but when most of my responses were grunts, she turned her attention to a long list of details she had compiled for the farmer’s market on Saturday.

  I knew I wasn’t good company, but my depression was overwhelming. I should have stopped eating after one slice of pizza, but I consumed two more before moving on to a slice of peach pie and a blueberry sliver chaser.

  Pepper stared at me with her mouth open. “All right, that’s enough,” she said. “I haven’t seen you eat this much food at one time in ages, and you’re way too much of a downer tonight. What’s the problem? That mess with Glenn today? You know it’ll blow over, so stop sulking.”

  “I’m not sulking. I’m done. I’m giving up.”

  “Giving up what? On Glenn?

  “On everything. I’m not a good private investigator, I don’t do well in relationships, I’m overweight and have no control over my eating, and I sleep and snore in public. There’s nothing in my life that’s right. I’m going to talk with Brian McCray on Monday and see if I can get my old job back at the mortgage company.” I grabbed the knife to cut another sliver of blueberry pie.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said and grabbed the knife from my hand. “No more pie for you.”

  She became a whirlwind as she quickly removed food from the table and took it to the kitchen. She set a large mug of coffee in front of me, slapped me upside the back of my head, and said, “Drink this. If coffee works to help someone out of a drunken stupor, it might help you out of a sugar stupor.”

  I reached around and rubbed the back of my head. I couldn’t believe she hit me. She wasn’t just acting more and more like her kids, she was acting like Mama, too.

  “Coffee isn’t going to help this,” I said. “I feel hopeless right now.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s your diet. You said yourself you’ve been eating too much junk food while following Kristy, and you’ve had loads more sugar this week than you usually do. You need to get back to drinking water and eating more fruits and salads. You’ll feel like yourself in no time.”

  Part of me knew she was right, but part of me wanted to wallow in my miserable feelings. It was too difficult to deal with the problems in my life right now. Even something as simple as making healthy food choices was too much of an effort.

  “Listen to me,” Pepper said, leaning in and staring hard into my eyes. “Just this past weekend, you had the world by the tail. Everything was perfect with Glenn, you were happy with your job, and Arnie was telling everyone what a great job you’re doing. You were already talking about cutting back on snacking, and now that you no longer have to follow Kristy, you’ll easily drop the few extra pounds you picked up. You need to snap out of this.”

  “I don’t want to,” I said.

  Pepper pulled her hand back as if she was going to slap me again. I flinched.

  “This all started when Mama slapped Lou at the liquor store,” I said. “Everything’s been snowballing out of control ever since.”

  Pepper sat back in her chair and said calmly, “There’s nothing wrong, Jo. Glenn loves you, and you two will make up. He wouldn’t have been in your bed today if he didn’t want to be there. You’re doing a great job at work, and I think you should tackle the Richard Munson murder. I heard at the beauty shop Kristy is the number one suspect, and you and I both know she didn’t kill her grandfather. You’ll get your confidence back when you solve the case, and I know you can do it. And stop worrying about Mama. I’ll talk to Hank, and we’ll get her settled down. Leave her to us.”

  I gave her a grateful smile. Her words made sense. There really wasn’t anything happening in my life that couldn’t be fixed. If I focused on Richard’s murder, it would help take my mind off the things I couldn’t control – like when Glenn was going to come to his senses and quit being a baby about his lasagna.

  I stood and leaned over to give her a hug. “Thank you. That’s what I needed to hear, and if you don’t mind, I’m going to go home. I might as well get started right away on the murder.”

  “I don’t mind,” she said, returning the hug. “And put me down as one who thinks Libby Munson killed him. I know she said she was outside planting flowers, but I don’t believe her. She’s been pretty vocal about hating him, and I also heard at the beauty shop she’s upset Kristy is getting so much money and Mark isn’t getting a penny. She’s the one you should focus on.”

  She was intense in her conviction of Richard’s daughter-in-law.

  “Her alibi should be easy enough to check. I’ll look into it tomorrow.”

  I started for the front door. She called after me, “Wait. Take your blueberry pie home with you.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want it. It has a funny taste anyway. Keep it or toss it in the trash.”

  I didn’t tell her that’s where I found it in the first place.

  Chapter Seven

  I opened the blinds and winced at the bright light. I still wasn’t used to the sun being up at six thirty in the morning.

  I slipped into my fuzzy orange slippers and shuffled down to the kitchen to make coffee. I wanted to have time to drink several cups before I showed up at the courthouse for jury duty. I didn’t dare fall asleep and end up snoring in the jury box.

  What was I supposed to take with me? The jury instructions didn’t say anything about taking notes. Were we allowed to take notes? I grabbed a large notebook out of my kitchen junk drawer and set it on the counter to take with me.
/>   I poured a cup of coffee and sipped it on my way to the murder room. I sat on the loveseat and concentrated on the whiteboard. After coming home from Pepper’s last night, I had added the information I thought was most relevant in Richard Munson’s murder.

  I had listed the date, the approximate time of the murder, and the murder weapon, making a note that the candlestick had been removed from the dining room to commit the crime. To me, that showed premeditated murder, not an accident or self-defense by the killer.

  I noted Kristy as the number one suspect by the police, even though I agreed with Pepper she didn’t do it. Other suspects included his son Mark, his son’s wife Libby, Richard’s ex-wife Judith, and the new girlfriend. I would have to find out who she was. I also listed the maid. She could have been lying about not being in the house at the time of the murder.

  It was possible the murderer was a business associate or even someone who simply walked to the house from the street, but I was going to focus on the people closest to him, and my focus was going to be on his ex-wife and his girlfriend. I think Greg Thompson was on to something when he put his money on Judith. Sergeant Rorski most likely wouldn’t suspect her, as she had no motive.

  Time was getting away from me. I rushed from the room to get dressed for jury duty.

  ~ ~ ~

  “What are you doing here?”

  My voice was on the shrill side, but I couldn’t believe Mama was sitting on a bench in the courthouse hallway with what appeared to be nearly fifty other people waiting as well.

  “I have jury duty,” she said. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at work? Did you get fired?”

  I frowned. “No, I didn’t get fired. I have jury duty, too. Why didn’t you tell me you had to serve? We’re a conflict of interest, and I could have gotten out of this if I’d known you were going to be here.”

  “I told you a long time ago I’m part of the senior jury program. I serve once every three months. I’ve been doing it for over a year now.”

  I was flabbergasted. She never said a word about serving jury duty four times a year. She may have told Pepper and Hank, but she never said anything to me.

  “Never mind,” I said. “What happens now? Do they choose twelve people from this crowd?”

  “Ten, because Old Man Montgomery is here, and he’s part of the senior program, too. They’ll probably seat both of us.” She pointed to two women at a counter. “Go over there and get yourself checked in. They need to know you’re here.”

  I added my name to the paper. I was the sixty-fourth person to sign in. Why in the world did they take so many people away from their homes and jobs if they only needed twelve people to serve? There was something wrong with their system.

  I walked back and sat down next to Mama. She was deep in conversation with a woman I didn’t know but recognized from the flower shop in the grocery store.

  “I’m telling you,” the woman said. “There are this many people here, because they’re seating the jury for that woman who beat her boyfriend within an inch of his life when she found him in bed with her best friend. The women will side with her and the men will side with the boyfriend, so they’ll have a hard time finding impartial jurors.”

  “Oh, that would be a good one,” Mama said gleefully. “I can be impartial. I just won’t let the judge know I think the boyfriend deserved it.” She turned to me and said, “Jo, this is Wilma. She’s not in the senior program. She’s just been called up like everyone else.” To Wilma she said, “This is Jo’s first time for jury duty.”

  I gave her a half-hearted smile and a nod of my head.

  “Now that we’re all here, they’ll start the very dear process,” Wilma said.

  “What’s so dear about it?” I asked.

  “It’s not very dear,” Mama said. “It’s very dire.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. “Very dear. Very dire. What does that mean?”

  A man sitting on the other side of Wilma leaned forward and said, “The term is voir dire.” For some reason he began speaking in a French accent. He repeated the term again. It sounded like vwah deer. “It’s a Latin expression meaning you have to take an oath and tell the truth. They’ll swear us in and then ask us questions to see if we’re suitable or not.”

  Mama glared at him. “Do you mind?” She looked at Wilma. “That’s what I said in the first place – vory dire.”

  A clerk came into the hallway and divided us into groups according to the number on our summons. Mama, Wilma, and I were in the same group, and as luck would have it, we were the first group called into the courtroom.

  “Excuse me,” I said, trying to get the clerk’s attention. “We have a conflict in our group.”

  The clerk didn’t look up from his clipboard. “Tell it to the judge,” he said and walked away.

  “There’s no conflict,” Mama said. “Our last names aren’t the same, so no one will know we’re related. Keep your mouth shut and don’t volunteer any information.”

  Our group of twenty people was ushered into the courtroom and seated on wooden benches identical to church pews.

  The judge was already seated at the bench. I was disappointed there wouldn’t be a call for everyone to rise while he walked into the room.

  Attorneys, a court stenographer, and a man seated at the defendant’s table were also in the room, which, by the way, was much smaller than anything I had ever seen on television.

  The clerk swore everyone in at one time, and the judge wasted no time getting down to business.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I’m judge Denton. I’d like to start by introducing you to the case we’re about to try.” He motioned toward the man seated at the table. “This is the defendant Wilbur Finch.”

  Wilbur Finch visibly flinched as the judge said his name.

  “He’s guilty,” Mama whispered under her breath to me.

  “He’s accused of breaking and entering the home of Ellen Grimes.” The judge looked to the attorney standing in front of the empty plaintiff’s table.

  “Miss Grimes is ill today,” the attorney said. “She signed a waiver for today’s proceedings.” He handed the paperwork to the judge.

  The judge barely glanced at the paper. “You may start your questioning.”

  The two attorneys had obviously talked before we entered the room as the same attorney quickly said, “We’re in agreement to accept the two members of the senior pool – Estelle Frasier and Carl Montgomery.”

  Mama dug her elbow into my side and whispered, “Told ya. I’m the best juror this county’s got.”

  The attorney continued, “We’ve also agreed to excuse Greene, Anderson, and Millbanks from this group.”

  The judge accepted the information and excused the three unsuitable jurors.

  “We’d like to call Jo Ravens to the stand.”

  Mama dug her elbow into my side again. “They like you. You’re first.”

  I took my seat in the uncomfortable wood chair next to the judge.

  The defendant’s attorney spoke first. “Good morning, Mrs. Ravens. I’m Josh Howell. It says here you’re a private investigator. Is that correct?”

  My first instinct was to correct him on the term Mrs., but I refrained. “That’s correct, but I can’t serve on this jury.”

  The judge frowned and said, “Mrs. Ravens, you had every opportunity to give your reasons for not serving before today. You are instructed to answer counsel’s questions and only those questions.”

  “But there’s a conflict.”

  The judge made a note on the paper before him. “Do you know any of the parties in this case?”

  “No, but Estelle Frasier is my mother, and you’ve already selected her for this jury.”

  The judge removed his glasses and deepened his frown. “Will she influence your ability to make a fair and informed decision? Are you unable to think for yourself?”

  “No, but I didn’t think it was-”

  Attorney Howell cut me off.
“I have no problem with this juror,” he said.

  “The prosecution also accepts this juror,” the other attorney said.

  The judge smiled as if he had just won a victory and said, “You may step down.”

  I was disillusioned by the entire process. I wasn’t asked any questions pertinent to the case. I would have told them how angry I am about the people who broke into my house, and I would be more inclined to find this guy guilty just because I was so mad right now.

  Questioning the rest of our group went smoothly even though several people tried as I had to get out of serving. One woman claimed a history of uncontrollable flatulence. They excused her without taking her up on her offer of a demonstration.

  We were released with instructions to be at the courthouse at seven thirty on Monday morning when the trial would begin.

  “What did you think?” Mama asked when we were outside on the sidewalk.

  “I thought it was ridiculous they let us serve together. They know we’ll discuss the case.”

  Mama pooh-poohed the idea. “They don’t care. This trial won’t take long. That guy’s guilty.”

  “Why do you keep saying that?” I asked, exasperated with her. “You don’t know anything about him or the circumstances of the case.”

  “They wouldn’t have arrested him if they didn’t think he did it, and did you get a good look at him? Dirty shirt, torn pants, and he slouched the whole time. He’s no good, that one.”

  “I’m sure it’s not his fault his attorney didn’t get him anything decent to wear. Quit judging.”

  “It’s my job to judge. That’s why they put me on so many juries. And I’m never wrong. He’s guilty. You’ll see.”

  Wilma walked up to us. “Where do you want to go for brunch?”

  “I’ll have to take a pass,” I said. “I need to check in at the office.”

  “Now that you’ve lost Richard Munson as a client, do you even have any work right now?” Mama asked.

  “Richard Munson,” Wilma said. “Wasn’t that terrible what happened to him? I heard it was the maid. They had an argument over money.”