Murder at the Moonshine Inn

by Maggie King

  “So, is Nina’s funeral tomorrow?” Kat asked when Tammy finally paused.

  “Yes, tomorrow,” I confirmed.

  “Anyone here going?”

  “Vince and I are. And Patty and Paul.” I waited for someone to comment about the funeral. When no one did, I smiled and asked, “So—anyone seen any good movies lately?” Still trying to include them in the conversation I turned to Patty and Paul and asked, “How about you two?” But my cousins hadn’t seen a movie in five years so it wasn’t long before Tammy, who apparently binge-watched movies, listed and fully described her own favorites.

  As everyone was leaving, I said to Patty and Paul, who’d been virtually mute throughout the evening, “I guess I’ll see you two tomorrow.”

  •••

  “Vince, I’ve decided that Brad killed Nina. And that both of them killed Rox.”

  Vince looked amused. “You’ve said that before, more than once. Why so adamant about it now?” Guests gone, cleanup done, Vince and I relaxed in the family room with Morris.

  “The way I figure it is this: Brad and Nina wanted to get back together. Brad only married Rox for the money she might have got from Marcie. Nina wanted to kill Rox to get back at her for marrying Brad. And Brad and Nina were always actually an item, probably had this plot brewing for years. But maybe Nina got too demanding and Brad didn’t want to share his wealth. Maybe Nina even blackmailed him. So he killed her.”

  “Could be. But, like I said, we’ve gone over all this before.”

  “Don’t the police ask suspects the same questions over and over?”

  Vince laughed and allowed that repetition often worked because the police might get different answers to the same questions. “The police still think it was Brad. It may look like him, but we don’t have proof.”

  “Don’t forget, he may have killed before. Remember his first wife?” I ran down Tammy’s tale about the philandering Brad with a wife who loathed him. “It’s not a good idea to be married to Brad. Or hope to be, considering Nina’s fate.” I admonished myself to presume the man innocent until proven guilty.

  Vince let me go on airing my views. “It’ll be interesting to finally lay eyes on the man.”

  “But you’ve seen pictures of him, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, he has a website.” I recalled Brad’s smile—a smile that didn’t reach his hard-as-marbles eyes. A rictus really. But the smile allowed him to advertise his even white teeth, promising a similar look to anyone who walked into his office.

  “I haven’t seen an obituary for Nina,” I said. “I’ve been on the lookout but all I’ve seen is the article about her murder.”

  “Possibly no one had any information. Brad may not have known much about her. And they’re expensive now, too.”

  “Brad could spring for an obit.” I fumed at the injustice of the poor woman exiting the world obit-less.

  “She didn’t have much family, did she?” Vince asked.

  “No, she didn’t. She mentioned some distant cousins. That’s it, unless Nina forgot about some of her relatives.”

  “So what did you guys talk about outside?” I asked.

  “The investigation, what else? Dave and Paul asked about it. They probably thought I knew all about it, being a true crime writer and still with close ties to the force and all, and that I was being tight-lipped. But there’s little to tell at this point.”

  Later, I sat up in bed reading Aristotle Detective by Margaret Doody. I’d given up on the one I’d labored to read at the imaging center. Morris stretched out on my lap and I propped up my Kindle on him. The famed philosopher Aristotle becomes a reluctant investigator when one of his trainees needs to defend a family member suspected of murder. I identified with Aristotle—not with being a famed philosopher, but as a reluctant investigator. It would be interesting to see how much book discussion went on the next night.

  Vince watched something on PBS with his headset so as not to disturb me. My mind wandered to the cruise Vince and I had taken a few years before—we sailed from Istanbul to Athens, and stopped at a number of islands in between. My musing made me want to return to Greece and visit the places we’d missed, but the thought of my upcoming biopsy rudely broke into my reverie.

  I started praying.

  TWENTY-ONE

  ON MONDAY MORNING Vince and I got gussied up for Nina’s funeral. For me, that meant my femme fatale outfit—a fitted black suit that I was proud to still be able to wear. Vince wore a navy blue suit that brought out the color of his already blue eyes. He secured his burgundy striped tie with a sapphire pin I’d given him for our fifth anniversary. Too bad the temperature and barometer readings weren’t a good match for our finery.

  “When we die, let’s do it in better weather and not put our mourners through this misery.”

  Vince snickered. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  The parking lot of the funeral home was half full, more than I’d expected. I knew that Nina didn’t have much family but I had no idea how many friends she had. As I got out of the car I muted my phone.

  A somber undertaker greeted us at the entrance to the chapel and invited us to sign the guest register. I signed for myself and Vince, noting the tasteful arrangements of flowers and candles on the table with the register. In fact the whole place was tasteful with its intimate furniture groupings in restful peaches and soft greens. A box of tissues topped each table. I scanned the page of the register, seeing several familiar names, including those of Nina’s neighbors.

  Inside the chapel an older woman pounded on the keys of an organ, putting her whole body into the effort. A closed coffin blanketed with multi-colored flowers presided over rows of tufted pink chairs.

  Vince and I planned to sit in one of the back rows so we could see everyone. Several people waved and I waved back. I saw Sandy and Nichole from the Hamlin Group. Nichole turned her nose up at me. I recognized Mrs. Ellbee and Carl in funeral-appropriate garb, not pink sweats or Moody Blues shirts. On second glance, I realized that Mrs. Ellbee sported black sweats, tastefully accessorized with pearls.

  Patty and Paul sat in the front row next to two men. I recognized one of the men when he turned and did a double-take when he saw me. If looks could kill—well, I’d be in a convenient place. He stood and bore down on us. None other than my dear cousin, Brad Jones. He wasn’t flashing his pearly whites as he’d done for his website photo, but it was him all right. Brown eyes blazed in a face as red as an overripe tomato. The redness extended to his scalp, visible through his brush cut.

  “Out!” He pointed at the door.

  “Excuse me?” I looked him in the eye.

  “Out!” He thundered. “It’s your doing. It’s completely your doing and I want you out of here!”

  Honestly, the man wasn’t even a blood relative of Nina’s. But apparently they were in short supply. I stood my ground in my too-high heels (not that high by today’s standards, about three inches—but at this juncture in my life span, anything over an inch was tantamount to stilts).

  “Is there a problem, Mr. Jones?” The undertaker approached in his smooth-as-butter voice.

  Brad ignored him and repeated his demand that I make my exit. “Get out! You’ve no business here. It’s your fault that she’s dead.”

  Vince touched my arm. “Let’s go.”

  Brad shook his finger dangerously close to my face. “You killed her. If it wasn’t for your meddling—”

  I could feel twenty-five or so pairs of eyes glued on us. We could have been actors in a play. I lowered my voice, trying to defuse the situation. “Brad, I’m sorry for your loss, but perhaps we could discuss this privately?”

  Brad went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “You couldn’t keep your nose out of our affairs. You had to investigate my wife’s murder, probably hoping to get money—”

  A man who had been hovering interrupted Brad’s rant. “Mr. Jones, that’s enough.” I recognized him as Detective Fischella, the one who had earlier taken my statement. He’
d abandoned his goofy manner for a stern one.

  I felt like shushing the detective. Something interesting could come out of Brad’s considerable rage. “Brad, I’m not investigating anything. I’m a writer. A romance writer.”

  Was his snort of derision a commentary on my writing? I doubted that he knew it firsthand. If I had to depend on men for my sales I’d be doomed from the get-go. Likely anything I did nettled Brad.

  “According to Nina, you were making so-called discreet inquiries. Well, we all know how discreet you are not! You killed Nina!” He stepped closer to me.

  “Mr. Jones,” Vince said as he stepped between Brad and me. He used what I called his cop voice, a voice he reserved for criminals and unruly citizens. As I didn’t live in that world, I had rarely heard that hard-edged, no-nonsense voice. Brad backed off, but still fumed.

  “Let’s go, Hazel.” Vince took my arm.

  “Again, our condolences, Brad,” I said as I turned to leave. I wanted to add a sarcastic “Nice to meet you, cousin.” But so far in this unfortunate exchange I’d maintained a semblance of dignity and didn’t want to stoop to Brad’s level.

  “And keep your nose out of our business. Let the police do their jobs.”

  I felt tempted to say that Nina hadn’t thought much of the job the police were doing, but as the police were present, I kept that rejoinder to myself and let Brad have the last word.

  But that wasn’t his last word. “I said to Nina, ‘Let the police handle things.’ And they did. They have. They are.” I let Brad work out his tenses.

  I’d managed to hold my own and remain calm, but by the time we reached the car I shook like the temperature had dropped fifty degrees.

  “The nerve of that man. The unmitigated gall.”

  Vince shook his head. “He certainly has it in for you.”

  I gave a short laugh. “You think?”

  “Well, to use an old cliché, every cloud has a silver lining. At least we don’t have to endure an interment service in this weather.”

  “True. On the other hand, we’re missing out on the funeral lunch. And the chance to observe people.”

  “Don’t worry. Tom Fischella is a good observer.”

  “I’m sure he is, but he’s a cop observer. Not . . . not a regular person observer. I mean—” I saw Vince’s amused look. “Oh, you know what I mean.”

  “I do. But some of your book group people are there. And they’re ‘regular people observers,’ as you put it.”

  “I didn’t even see any of them. Once Brad started in on me . . . “ I huffed and shook my head. “But you’re right, they’ll do a great job. But I wanted to do my own observing.”

  “It’s the control freak in you,” Vince said as he pulled me close and kissed me on the forehead. “Let’s go and have our own lunch.”

  •••

  We picked Mosaic’s for lunch. “Do you think the funeral proceedings got back on track?” I asked after our orders were taken.

  “Oh sure. Those kinds of outbursts aren’t unusual at funerals. I’ve seen fistfights. Emotions run high.” Vince knew what he was talking about. As a former detective he’d attended many funerals. Cops did that because often the killer showed up and revealed himself or herself in some covert way. Sometimes even overt.

  Vince continued. “That funeral director is a pro at getting things back on track. They all are.”

  “Did they ever find the knife that killed Nina?”

  “No, but the medical examiner guesses it was a standard kitchen knife.”

  The server delivered my chicken salad and Vince’s turkey burger.

  “What’s with Brad anyway?” Vince asked. “What’s he got against you? It can’t just be that he thinks you want his money.”

  “No, he’s way too intense.”

  “He’s hiding something that he’s afraid you’ll figure out.”

  “Yeah, that he’s Nina’s killer. He’s trying to hide that he killed Nina and he wants to take any attention off of himself and put it on me.” I sniffed. “I’ve never in my life been accused of killing someone. I hope I didn’t say something that put Nina in danger.” I reviewed my conversations. “At the Hamlin Group, Nina was there so of course she was mentioned. At the Moonshine people referred to Nina, but not by name, and I certainly didn’t say anything about her. That leaves Evangeline, Maisie, and Foster. I don’t know if Lucy used Nina’s name but I’m almost positive I didn’t.”

  “Hmm.” Vince looked lost in thought. “Brad’s problem with you might not be about murder—maybe it does have to do with money.”

  “Well, he is focused on money, that’s for sure. And he’s determined that I’m out to part him from his. The man doth protest too much, methinks.” Not being an expert on Shakespeare I couldn’t say which of his plays included this oft-quoted line. I felt lucky to know the quote well enough to paraphrase it. But my point was that Brad was doing much protesting.

  “Hazel, you need to stay away from Brad. He’s dangerous. Who knows who he’ll go after next?”

  “Well, there are no more sisters—”

  “Hazel, this isn’t funny.”

  “No, it isn’t. I’m sorry. But I am staying away from Brad. Today’s the first time I’ve laid eyes on him. And he’s probably all hot air anyway.”

  “It wasn’t hot air that killed the two sisters. Or Brad’s wife.”

  “I won’t be bullied.”

  “Hazel, this isn’t an opportunity for you to prove how strong you are.”

  “I’m always with someone. I’ve been quite good about that.”

  If only I’d honored that promise.

  Lucy’s call interrupted the waitperson’s litany of Mosaic’s dessert selections. “Are you okay?” she asked. When I assured her that the only danger I faced was being lured into dessert, she laughed. “You know that under normal circumstances we would have left the funeral with you, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but I expected you to stay and be on the lookout. Plus you have to go to the lunch.”

  “Right. That’s where we’re headed now, to Brad’s house. We were just concerned you might think we deserted you.”

  I felt touched by their concern for my feelings. “Thanks for telling me that.”

  “See you later at book group. My house, remember.”

  I passed on dessert, thinking ahead to the inevitable concoction that Lucy would serve. Vince decided that he didn’t need dessert either. I suspected that he had his mind on the ice cream stash in our freezer.

  For the first time since arriving in the restaurant I took a moment to survey the décor. “I haven’t been here for a while. It’s all changed.” Blown glass light fixtures shaped like exotic sea creatures hung from the ceiling, and decorative plates lined the walls. “Very pretty.”

  Vince followed my gaze and offered an “Uh huh” of agreement.

  When we got home I silenced my phone and made feeble attempts to work on my writing, but felt bombarded by distracting thoughts. At three o’clock I gave up, switched the phone back to sound mode, and saw that I had a voice mail message.

  Trudy said, “Hi Hazel. I’m glad you survived your little exchange with Brad. We just finished with the lunch. Will catch up tonight.”

  Two seconds later, Patty called. “I’m so sorry about Brad. He wasn’t very nice to you.”

  I almost laughed out loud at her understatement. Instead, I tried to inject some compassion into my voice. “I suppose he was stressed.” There. I could wield the understatements with the best of them.

  “Hazel,” Patty started, sounding tentative, “I didn’t know you investigated murders.”

  I gave a short laugh. “I don’t. I think I told you that Nina wanted to hire a PI. I don’t know how Brad got the idea that I was the PI.”

  “But later, at the lunch, Brad said you investigated another murder.”

  I explained. “Years ago, someone in our book group was killed. I happened to stumble across the killer.”

  “That sou
nds scary.”

  “It was.”

  “Oh, Hazel, please be careful,” Patty’s voice trembled. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  I laughed to lighten the mood. “I can assure you that I’m being careful, Patty. I’m not doing anything and I can’t get more careful than that.” Wanting to leave the subject, I asked, “Are you still planning on leaving tomorrow?”

  “Yes, we are.” Patty sounded distracted. “Oh, I hope you don’t mind that I gave Andy your phone number. He feels so bad about how Brad behaved.”

  “That’s fine.” I hid my elation at the prospect of talking to Andy. “Was he there today?”

  “Yes, he was. I’m sorry you didn’t get to meet him. Oh, hang on a second, Hazel.” Two seconds later Patty returned. “Our landlady’s at the door. I’ll talk to you later.”

  •••

  My editor had sent my manuscript along with a letter that started out with “Great story, love it, etc. However . . . “ and went on to list a number of suggestions to enhance the “great story.” She thought an additional scene at the end between two lovers who decided to go their separate ways would provide closure for the reader. I rolled my eyes at the overused “closure” but, as always, I thought her ideas sound ones.

  By late afternoon, I saw that I had another voice mail. The call must have come in when I stepped outside to get the mail. “Hi, Hazel. This is your cousin, Andy Jones. Brad’s son. Look, I’m sorry about how my dad acted today. Guy can be such a hothead!” He rattled off a number in a low, seductive voice. I called him and left a return voice mail.

  The phone tag had begun.

  TWENTY-TWO

  DAVE OPENED THE door when I arrived at Lucy’s house for book group. I had a key but thought I should knock, especially since the couple were still newlyweds of sorts, having tied the knot less than a year before.

  “Hi, Hazel,” Dave said as we bussed cheeks. “You’re the first one here.”

  “I have to check out the morning room,” I said as I walked towards the back of the house.

  “Yes, Purple Rain,” Dave quipped. I assumed he referred to the song of the same name made famous by Prince.