Murder at the Moonshine Inn

by Maggie King

  “Anyway, there was something about the guy that seemed familiar, but then I realized that I didn’t know him after all. Oh, and I think I saw a glint of something, like metal.”

  “Metal. Like in a knife?” I asked.

  “Maybe. But it could have been a gun . . . after all, Moonshine is a redneck bar. But I don’t know. Belt buckle?”

  Under the circumstances, I couldn’t dismiss the knife idea, though the knife that had killed Rox was left at the crime scene—a kitchen knife, with no prints. “So this metal thing was on his person?”

  “Yes. Around his waist area. I’m surprised I remember as much about him as I do . . . I keep thinking someone’s out to kill me. Someone who thinks I saw him. Or her. Maybe this guy. Or the driver. I don’t know.” She waved her hand across her face like she was swatting at a bug. “Sorry. I still get so upset.”

  “Understandable,” I assured her. “Three months isn’t that long. And if you think someone’s trying to kill you, it makes things worse.”

  “That’s another reason I went to Florida. But I have to face things.”

  The omelet was good but I found myself mindlessly eating. Something about this account of the baseball-capped and possibly armed guy struck a false note—a red herring. The term “red herring” referred to anything that misled or distracted, a practice often employed by mystery writers to lead readers astray. But I’d have to ponder my doubts later. “Do you remember anything else about this guy?”

  Nina thought for a moment before shaking her head. Figuring it was time to line up the suspects, I asked, “So, do you have any idea who could have done it?”

  “Well, I don’t like to point fingers.” I waited for the finger-pointing to start. I didn’t have to wait long. “There’s Andy Jones. Brad’s son. Your second cousin.”

  Actually, Andy was my first cousin once removed, but it wasn’t the time and place for illuminating Nina on the mind-boggling distinctions that made up a family tree. “Why do you suspect Andy?”

  “Andy loathed Rox and Brad. He blamed Rox for his parents’ breaking up and he blamed both of them for his mother’s death.”

  Ah, the mysterious drowning. Back when I investigated Carlene Arness’s death, I often asked questions even when I knew the answers. More than once it had proved useful to see if the answers matched up to my knowledge. Plus, the person I questioned often provided new information. So even though I knew that Veronica Jones had drowned, I asked, “How did Andy’s mother die?”

  “Veronica drowned in the James River, near Lynchburg. It was ruled a suicide, but Andy is sure his father and Rox murdered her. Either that or they drove her to suicide.”

  “Really? That’s quite an accusation.”

  “Yes, well, it is. And totally unfounded.”

  “How did Veronica come to be in Lynchburg?”

  Nina shrugged. “No one ever knew how or why she came to be there.”

  Nina went on. “When your cousin Marcie died, Andy showed up drunk at her funeral. He started in on Brad and Rox and wouldn’t shut up. He was really loud and abusive. Finally, Paul took him outside and got him calmed down.”

  “Paul? You mean Paul Ratzenberger, Patty’s husband?”

  “Right. Paul and Andy were always chummy. I remember when we all visited Marcie how the two of them would leave to go outside or go to the kitchen and make coffee. Male bonding. So Paul was a godsend that day at the funeral. At Rox’s funeral Andy was sober and nice as could be. Go figure.”

  “Well, I don’t think it’s unusual for an alcoholic to act one way drunk and another way sober. Assuming he is an alcoholic. But I am surprised that he showed up for Rox’s funeral if he loathed her so much.”

  “I know. Maybe he was just happy to see her dead.” She twisted her mouth and added, “Or congratulating himself for a job well done.”

  I continued with my pretense of not knowing certain facts. “Was Andy ever questioned?”

  “He has an alibi—he conveniently managed to get a DUI in Owensboro, Kentucky the very night Rox was killed.”

  Without prompting, Nina explained the Kentucky aspect. “Andy lives in Kentucky, at least some of the time. That’s where his mother came from and he has lots of relatives there. He also has a girlfriend there with their young son. When he fights with the girlfriend he hightails it back here. When he fights with Brad, he goes back to the girlfriend. The cycle repeats over and over.”

  “And where is Andy now?” I asked.

  Nina shrugged. “In Kentucky, I guess. I haven’t seen him since Rox’s funeral, but I haven’t been around. Brad hasn’t seen him either . . . hasn’t even heard from him.”

  Andy’s silence must mean that peace reigned on the Owensboro home front. Had Brad tried to contact his son—or was their relationship a one-way street?

  “The only other suspect I have is Foster Hayden. But that was years ago, 2007 or so. Why kill Rox now?”

  Ah, yes, Foster, the most memorable of all the players in Rox’s soap operatic life. I said, “That name sounds familiar. Tell me about him.”

  “They worked at the Alzheimer’s Research Society. Rox was executive director and Foster interned for the communications director. She picked Foster as her special pet and showed him preferential treatment. She was just crazy about him.”

  Yes, it sounds like she was crazy about him, I thought. Crazy being the operative word.

  I asked, “Wasn’t there something about a theater incident?”

  “Oh yeah, the movie incident.” Nina sighed. “That was unfortunate. Rox was so distraught when they broke up and Foster went to work someplace else. When she saw him at the movies with that other woman, her grief just overwhelmed her.”

  And caused her to go on a rampage, barely escaping charges of assault and property damage.

  “So Rox was seeing Brad and Foster at the same time?” I tried for a matter-of-fact, judgment-free tone.

  Nina thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. Rox and Brad were kind of on and off over the years.”

  “Were you ever involved with Brad?”

  Nina looked startled, then wary. “I have been. At times.” Had her involvement alternated, or coincided, with Rox’s? A middle-aged threesome?

  “Are you now?”

  The server appeared and refilled our mugs. We stirred creamer into our coffee and didn’t say anything for a full minute.

  I broke the silence. “Look, I’ve heard that you are involved with Brad.”

  Nina took a deep breath. “Brad and I are just friends. We decided a long time ago that we weren’t well-suited romantically.” Nina looked right into my eyes as she said this and didn’t look away. I figured she either told the truth or had passed Lying 101 with flying colors.

  I noticed that she didn’t question how I acquired my information. Maybe she assumed I was a crackerjack detective and wasn’t surprised by any information I could unearth.

  “Maybe Foster’s girlfriend did it,” I offered. “You know, the one with him at the theater.”

  “Maybe.” Nina didn’t sound convinced.

  “Anyone else?”

  Nina thought for a moment before saying, “No.” She stretched out that no to a length that suggested doubt. “It could be someone at the Hamlin Group. Or the ARS. It’s unlikely but they are possibilities. Oh—there’s Rox’s ex-husband. But that’s pretty remote. They split up years ago and he lives in Australia with his wife and family.”

  “So he’s a possibility, but an unlikely one. Did Rox have any children?”

  “Yes, she and the Aussie had a daughter. She lives in Seattle. She flew in for the funeral and went back immediately. I haven’t heard from her since.”

  “What about someone at the bar?”

  “I don’t know. They were all questioned, or at least the police took their names. Maybe you could go there and question people.”

  I didn’t even respond. The mere idea horrified me.

  I thought of Phyllis’s unflattering remarks about Rox,
and in particular her drinking habits. “Did Phyllis know Rox?”

  Nina scowled at the mention of Phyllis. “I’m not sure. Maybe. They might have met back when I was keeping company with Phyllis’s brother. Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondered. So tell me about your family.”

  “No one really, just some distant cousins. And I have an ex, but he’s not a relative.”

  After a pause, Nina said, “So you’ll do it?”

  I took a deep breath before agreeing. “But the book group will investigate with me. It’s a joint operation.”

  “Does that mean they all have to go everywhere with you?”

  “Not necessarily. But we will travel in pairs.”

  “Okay. I’ll set something up at the Hamlin Group and Brad can get you in at the ARS—”

  I held up my hand. “Don’t tell Brad anything.”

  “Why? Maybe this is a way to get you two together.”

  “Don’t tell Brad anything,” I repeated. “Sarah from the book group volunteers at the ARS and she can nose around. Don’t worry, she’s good at it.”

  “Okay. You’re the boss.”

  When Nina didn’t look me in the eye, I asked, “Does Brad know you’re talking to me?”

  Her “Um, no” sounded tentative. “Not exactly. I mean, he doesn’t know we’re talking today.”

  “Nina, does he know or doesn’t he?”

  “Well, I brought up your name when Brad and I first talked about this. I told him about that other murder you investigated. That’s when he said you were his cousin.”

  I sighed. If Brad even guessed what I was up to I had to watch my step. “If the subject comes up again, tell Brad I’m not investigating.” I looked Nina straight in the eye and she nodded.

  “Nina, I have a question for you, and you don’t have to answer. But you need to keep it in mind: what if it’s Brad?” To myself I added, What if it’s you?

  “It isn’t,” she said.

  I relented. “Okay, fine.”

  “Let’s start with the Hamlin Group—when can you go?”

  “Friday. Nine o’clock?”

  “Fine.”

  “What about my cover story?”

  “Hmm.” Nina smiled for the first time, like a burst of sunshine after days of rain. “The other day one of us suggested you say you’re researching sex in the workplace. How’s that?”

  I laughed. “It’s as good a cover as any. Maybe even a real story idea for me.”

  Nina paid the check, and we walked past Vince sipping his coffee and feigning absorption in his paper.

  “Nina, Vince e-mailed me a list of PIs. I’m going to forward them to you. I still think you should consider hiring a professional.”

  “I’ll consider it,” Nina assured me, but with little conviction.

  As she got into her Mitsubishi she said, “I’ll let the Hamlin folks know you’ll be there, so be ready with your research questions.”

  SEVEN

  THAT EVENING, THE book group members assembled for our first Skype session. It took a few minutes of fumbling, cursing, and adjusting audio settings, but at last we each declared ourselves connected, voices coming through crystal clear.

  I kicked off the discussion by sharing my morning conversation with Nina at Joe’s Inn, including Nina’s top suspects—Foster and Andy—who both conveniently had alibis. When I got to the guy in the parking lot, Sarah blurted, “Oh, what a load of crap! That’s a red herring if ever I heard one.”

  “It could very well be a red herring, Sarah,” I said. “In fact, I had that very thought when Nina told me about this guy. But at this point we have to be open to all possibilities.”

  “Whatever. I just know that Brad did it. Probably Nina does, as well.”

  “Well, I’m going to the Hamlin Group on Friday morning. Are any of you free to go with me?”

  Eileen rushed to volunteer her services. “I’m off on Friday, so I can go. I’ll be your research assistant. Is that okay with everyone?”

  When no one objected, Lucy said, “That’s a great idea, Eileen—being a research assistant.”

  “Actually, it is,” I agreed. “But I feel kind of high and mighty having a research assistant. I’m not a big-name author.”

  “Act as if you’re a big name and you will become one.”

  “I don’t know if I want to be a big name, Sarah. But that’s beside the point. Eileen, I’m happy to have you as my assistant. And protector. Just to give you a heads-up, my cover story is that I’m researching sex in the workplace.”

  They shrieked in delight. After a good long laugh, the kind that involved clutching our sides, I said, still gasping for breath, “Okay, Eileen, I’ll pick you up at eight-thirty on Friday.” I thought about traffic going into downtown Richmond at that time of day and amended the time: “Make that eight-fifteen.”

  “I’m having lunch with Foster next Wednesday,” Lucy said.

  “Not ‘til then?” I sounded whiny to my ears.

  “He’s in Atlanta, visiting his mother. He’ll be back on Tuesday.”

  Sarah said, “And I think I told you the other night that I won’t see Maisie Atwater ‘til Tuesday.”

  I felt impatient, but resigned myself to having to wait. “Vince and I are going to the Moonshine Inn on Friday night.”

  “You’re kidding!” Trudy exclaimed. “I wouldn’t go near the Moonshine Inn.”

  “Yes, it’s a weird place. Be careful,” Eileen advised.

  “Bet you could pick up some good writing material there,” Sarah said.

  “Yes,” Lucy said. “Baby boomer rednecks having hot and steamy sex.”

  We shared another laugh, a replay of the earlier round. “Hey, that could work,” I managed between gasps.

  “But you and Vince are so, well, conventional looking. No offense.”

  “None taken, Trudy. But I’m going to a couple of thrift stores tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’ll come up with something rednecky. We’ll be fine.”

  “You need big hair,” Lucy said. “And blue eye shadow, sparkly red nail polish, and let’s see . . .”

  “Can’t I use green eye shadow? My eyes are green.”

  “No. Blue is more redneck.” Eileen was firm on that point.

  “Show some cleavage,” Sarah put in.

  “Okay, okay, I get the picture.”

  “I have some cowboy boots,” Eileen offered. “Hand-tooled. They’re a little beat up.”

  “Beat up is good.”

  “What’s your size?”

  “Seven and a half.”

  “I wear an eight. They’ll probably be okay as long as you don’t go hiking in them. I’ll bring them on Friday when we go to the Hamlin Group.”

  “Hazel, when are you seeing your cousin Patty next?” Trudy asked.

  “Tomorrow. We’re having lunch. I may be able to extract something helpful from her, but that’s iffy. She’s not forthcoming and insists on saying only nice things about people.”

  “That’s too bad,” Sarah commiserated. “Investigating requires nasty people, not Pollyannas.”

  “Are you going to tell Patty you’re investigating?” Eileen asked.

  “Absolutely not! And don’t you tell anyone either, other than spouses and significant others. The fewer people who know about this, the better.”

  “I’m zipping my lips as we speak,” Eileen assured us.

  “We operate like the CIA, on a need-to-know basis,” Trudy put in.

  “Exactly.” I went on to summarize our assignments. “Okay, Lucy’s having lunch with Foster, and Sarah will set something up with Maisie. Friday’s the Hamlin Group and the Moonshine Inn. When should we Skype again? Next week at this time?” My suggestion met with everyone’s approval.

  “Wait, what about me?” Trudy asked. “I don’t have anything to do.”

  “Oh, there’ll be plenty later,” I assured her. “I have high hopes that we’ll unearth all kinds of dirt on Rox in the next week. Maybe on Nina and Brad as well.” />
  Lucy suggested that we let her or Sarah know if we find out anything useful before they talked with Maisie and Foster. “And be very careful,” she cautioned. “I know we said this the other night, but it bears repeating: don’t be alone when you’re questioning people. Everyone remembers Carlene’s death. It was a long time ago, but not long enough.” Murmurs of “absolutely” and “you’re right” followed.

  “And let’s have our phones with us—turned on and unmuted,” Eileen added.

  “Just so you know,” I said, “I sent Nina a list of PIs. So maybe she’ll decide to go that route.”

  “Well, that would be better . . . but not as interesting.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it, Sarah,” Eileen said. “I’m sure Nina won’t hire a PI.”

  “I do have a question and maybe Trudy and Eileen can answer it,” I said. “How truthful do you think Nina is?”

  “I think there’s truth in what she says—just not the whole truth. She does leave out stuff.”

  “I agree with Trudy,” Eileen said. “But I think she does want to find out who killed her sister. Or for someone to be found to take the fall. Then she and Brad are off the hook.”

  “And can live happily ever after,” Sarah quipped.

  EIGHT

  LAWN MOWERS, LEAF blowers, and weed whackers created a din at Patty and Paul Ratzenberger’s apartment complex on Forest Hill Avenue. Thankfully, it was quieter where they lived in the back. The community accepted families with children—toys in primary colors strewn about attested to that. At the moment no one, adult or child, was out and about.

  Patty opened the door, wearing an aqua cotton robe. “I’ll be just a minute. Make yourself at home.” She gave me a quick hug before turning back to her bedroom. Pleasant aromas came from the countertop convection oven in the kitchen.