Murder at the Moonshine Inn

by Maggie King

  “Did you send him that list of PIs I gave you?”

  “Yes. And Lucy managed to get the name of the one that Foster’s mother hired to get the goods on her husband. I sent him that one too. Still, he calls me.”

  “Next time, hang up.”

  The book group “traveled” from the Dark Middle Ages to the High Middle Ages. We enjoyed Alys Clare’s and Maureen Ash’s tales of knights battling evil, as well as the renowned Ellis Peters’s popular series featuring twelfth-century monk and herbalist, Brother Cadfael.

  We continued to meet by Skype, but our visits got shorter and shorter. Beyond Brad’s weekly calls there was little to discuss as far as the investigation went, so we became a normal group of women discussing normal topics—whatever “normal” entailed.

  And then things started happening. Who knew that the Free Will Baptist Church would jumpstart this investigation?

  •••

  The Friends of the Chesterfield County Public Library were partnering with several local authors for a fall fundraiser. One Thursday afternoon in late August I drove home from a planning meeting. Many churches dotted my route and I didn’t pay them much notice—except for one.

  It wasn’t the unadorned white wooden structure with a simple cross above its front door that drew my attention. It was the sign on the lawn that jolted me: Chesterfield Free Will Baptist Church. Free will . . . hmm. I thought of Sarah and former book group member Maria Muller debating free will. And at a recent meeting we’d joked about wills in the legal context, where the costs involved in drawing up a will made “free” a laughable notion.

  But now free will gave me an idea—one that probably had little to do with the theology of the Free Will Baptists.

  Probated wills were public documents and it was high time I saw the actual terms of Marcie’s will. The next morning, with that in mind, I found my way to the City of Richmond Circuit Court. I wound up paying a tidy sum in a corner parking lot for a spot two blocks from my destination. As I had the day Eileen and I visited the Hamlin Group, I vowed to start using public transportation for downtown jaunts.

  As I approached the brick building that housed the Circuit Court, I noticed a woman with a cloud of yellow hair and volumes of smoke circling her. I asked her if I was at the correct entrance. She said I was, and cautioned me that I couldn’t take electronic devices, including my phone, into the building.

  “Oh, that’s right,” I sighed. Too late, I remembered the electronics ban from when I served on jury duty. So I trekked back to my car and locked my phone in the trunk. Back at the building I passed through security with no trouble and received directions to the Records Research suite.

  Fluorescent lights blazed throughout the space where the color gray prevailed. My cursory glance took in no pictures, plants, or anything of even minimal beauty. Despite the dismal décor, or perhaps to counter its depressing effects, the Records Research employees were bursting with cheer, ready and willing to serve the public with a smile. One such employee found Marcie’s will, made me copies, and gave me a receipt for the copying fees.

  I retrieved my car and crossed the river over the Manchester Bridge and made my way to Crossroads, an independent neighborhood coffee hangout that operated from a converted gas station. The décor was funky and comfortable, with big purple couches and mosaic-topped bistro tables.

  Once settled on a sofa with my latte, I read the Last Will and Testament of Marcia R. Jones.

  There was no question about it, Marcie bequeathed her entire estate—by all accounts a considerable one, worth millions—to one Roxanne B. Howard.

  When I went back over the document the first paragraph struck me with significance:

  “I, MARCIA R. JONES, a resident of Richmond, Virginia, do hereby make, publish, and declare this to be my Last Will and Testament, hereby revoking any and all former wills and codicils made by me at any time.”

  Revoking. Had Marcie made a former will? If so, how did it differ from this one? To the point, to whom had she previously bequeathed her “property, real and personal, tangible and intangible?”

  Where would I find another will? Would the lawyer who had drawn up this one have its predecessor? Foster had seen Rox and an elderly woman in the parking lot of his office building—were they en route to an estate lawyer? Foster couldn’t identify the elderly woman as Marcie when Lucy sent him my picture, but I now felt certain that she was indeed my deceased cousin.

  I checked the last page of the document and saw two names, Wendy Adamson and Fiona Darling, as witnesses. The date was October 14, 2011, just a month before Marcie’s death.

  I called Lucy and outlined what I needed from her.

  Late that afternoon Lucy called me back: “Foster does know those two witnesses, they work down the hall from him. He asked them if they kept copies of former wills. The answer is no.”

  “Hmmm. But there might be a copy somewhere. Who could have one? And did they know they had it?” I flashed to Patty’s remark about an uncashed check for a thousand dollars that Marcie had stuck in a book. Could Marcie have used her will as a bookmark?

  “She may have had a safe deposit box. If so, probably Rox claimed the contents and Brad has them at this point.”

  “No, Lucy, if that’s the case, we’ll never find the will even if it does exist. Let’s not even consider that option.”

  “If Marcie was as disorganized as everyone says she was, the will might have been buried in those piles of assorted items that Evangeline sorted through when she cleaned out Marcie’s place. Hopefully it wasn’t tossed or given to Goodwill. No pun intended.”

  How was I going to find answers to these questions? And what would the answers tell me? I might be wasting my time, but this investigation was dragging on too long, and doing something felt better than doing nothing.

  I thought of Evangeline finding her blackmail material. Had she seen a will? The only way to find out was to ask.

  “I’m going to call Evangeline. Talk to you later.”

  When I got home I looked up her number in the phone book. Thankfully, I found it and didn’t need to get in touch with Nichole.

  “Why, Hazel, how are you? You still need to sign my books.”

  “Sure, any time. Evangeline, when you were over at Marcie’s helping Rox clear out her stuff, did you come across a copy of a will?”

  “A will, huh? Let me think. Why do you need to know?”

  I kept my response vague. “There’s a family dispute going on.”

  “Hmmph. No, I put any papers aside without looking at them. Stupid of me, right? I might’ve found something really good.”

  Maybe Evangeline regretted losing an opportunity for blackmail. I didn’t commiserate with her. “So you didn’t find anything like a will?”

  “No, I put the papers in a pile. Of course, I got over there late in the process. There were two other rooms and someone had cleared them out already.”

  “Who was there with you?”

  “No one except for Rox.”

  “Evangeline, I need a favor. Will you look through those books you took and see if there’s a will stuck in the pages? And call me back either way? Or text me? It’s important.”

  “Will do.” Evangeline giggled at her pun.

  I ended the call after giving Evangeline my cell number and promising her that I’d come to Italian Delight the following Monday to sign her books. “But I can’t stay. I have another appointment that evening.” I didn’t know if Evangeline knew of Nichole’s unfavorable feelings towards me, or if Nichole still had such feelings. In any event, I didn’t care to suffer a replay of my dinner with them. But I had to cater to my enthusiastic fans, and I counted Evangeline as one of them.

  I should have asked Evangeline if she’d had an abortion or if she harbored some other secret. But how I’d have worded such a question was beyond me. Perhaps I could take her out for drinks. But using alcohol to trick people was sleazy and best left to the likes of Rox Howard.

  I continu
ed to mull over the will-stuck-in-a-book idea.

  Patty had all those books from Marcie. Where were they now? Did she sell them to a book dealer? I dismissed that futile thought. If she still had the books, where would they be? In Pittsburgh? Still in Virginia?

  I called Brad. Without preamble, I asked, “Have you seen Patty and Paul lately?”

  “Yeah, a week ago. Maybe two. They came by. For their handout.”

  “Did they say where they were staying?”

  “With friends. I don’t know who.”

  Well, at least I now knew they were probably still in the area. Not wanting to answer questions, I ended the call as abruptly as I’d started it.

  And then the answer, or at least a possible one, came to me out of nowhere: the storage space.

  I had forgotten all about the storage unit. Did they still have it? Where was it? Had Patty ever said where it was located? When I checked my computer I found no dearth of storage facilities, including some that were close to the Ratzenbergers’ former apartment.

  I could see that I needed to visit these places. Didn’t real investigators do that, pound the pavement? And would the facility managers tell me if Patty and Paul numbered amongst their customers? I really had to find the two of them and come up with a way to look through their books. I could say I’d heard they were packing up and I could offer my help. Why did I need to do this? Even if I found an old will, then what?

  Frustrated, I headed for the gym.

  •••

  Kat had lately been steering away from her signature leopard print, but that day she went all out. Her tank top, leggings and shoes all sported the distinctive design of the spotted cat.

  “Hazel, I’m so glad to see you. You haven’t been here for a while.”

  “I know.” I felt sheepish. “I’ve been lax lately. I still walk a lot, though.”

  “Look, I have a class now. Why don’t you work out and we can go next door to Starbucks? I want to know what’s going on with the investigation.”

  I laughed ruefully. “It won’t take long to tell you.”

  At Starbucks we took our lattes to a seat by the window. “So, what’s been happening?” Kat asked. “Hear anything from Andy?”

  “No, but Brad’s still calling and bugging me.” Kat knew about my now sort-of relationship with Brad, and the connection between Rox and Phyllis. Now I told her about finding Marcie’s will.

  “Sounds like you’ve unearthed a lot of information.”

  “True. But none of it amounts to a hill of beans. My latest quest is to find Patty and Paul’s storage space. Actually I’d like to find them. I’m thinking that Marcie’s former will, assuming there is one, might be in one of the books Patty got after Marcie died. And the books might be in the storage space. Provided they haven’t been sold to pay Paul’s debts.”

  “Why do you need to see her former will?”

  I laughed. “I asked myself that same question. Answer is that I don’t know. I guess because this investigation is stalled, and—”

  “You’re desperate, right?” Kat’s blue eyes twinkled.

  “Yeah. Curious, too.”

  “And you want to see justice done.”

  “That, too. And Brad, unpleasant as he is, is family. I have to know one way or another if he’s the killer.” I paused to sip my latte. “Problem is, I don’t think Patty and Paul want to see me. Either because they don’t like me or they’re embarrassed by their reduced circumstances.”

  “But they’re family, too.”

  I nodded. “I haven’t a clue as to where the space is. I just remember Patty saying it wasn’t far from where they were living before.”

  “And where was that?”

  When I said it was on Forest Hill Avenue near the Powhite Parkway, Kat said, “Jake runs a storage facility in that area.”

  “Who’s Jake?”

  Kat waved a hand tipped with long red nails. “Jake Madden. We had a thing once. He looks like Alice Cooper. At least, the way Alice Cooper used to look. I haven’t seen him in a long time, but he has to have a Medicare card by now.”

  “Who has a Medicare card? Jake?”

  “No, Alice Cooper.”

  I tried to remember what the musician looked like back in the ‘70s. I conjured up an image of unkempt long hair and copious amounts of makeup. “He still looks kind of ‘out there.’ Vince and I saw Alice Cooper a couple of years ago on a car auction show. He collects classic cars.”

  “Really?” Kat looked unimpressed. “I’ll go by and talk to Jake in the morning. Of course, he’ll bug me to go out with him again. But . . . whatever. He’s kind of hard to resist. But there’s Demetrios and I don’t want to screw up things with him.” Kat looked beleaguered at her romantic challenges.

  “Are things serious with Demetrios?”

  “Maybe.” Kat looked coy for a moment before returning to the matter at hand. “Anyway, I’ll call or text you afterwards. Oh, and Jake knows the owners and managers of other storage places, so he can check with them. Patty and Paul’s last name is Ratzenberger, right?”

  “Right.”

  Kat checked the time on her phone. “I gotta go. I’ll get back to you as soon as I find out something.”

  “Thanks a bunch, Kat. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  •••

  The next morning Vince and I enjoyed our coffee on the porch. All was quiet with no lawn mowing, leaf blowing, or other noise-making activities disturbing the peace of the day. But when I booted up my computer to work on my writing, I glanced at my phone. A text from Kat.

  It’s Forest Hill Mini Storage. Unit number is J29. Jake says they’re moving out by the end of the month and he’s seen them there a lot lately. Packing, probably. Here’s the address . . .

  In the middle of telling Vince my plan to visit the facility in the hope of finding Patty and Paul, I stopped, struck by a sudden thought. “Vince, you don’t suppose they’ve been living in that storage place, do you?”

  A smile and a shrug answered my rhetorical question. He launched his Word program.

  “Are those places air-conditioned? Are there toilet facilities? Maybe they’ve been sleeping in the van. Homeless, during the dog days of summer in Richmond.” Did I really want answers to my questions? I shook my head as if to erase the unwelcome mental pictures.

  “You’re certainly running with this. You might find out if you go over there. But how are you going to explain how you knew where to find them?”

  “That’s an excellent question. I could say I saw their van turning off of Forest Hill. And figuring they were there to pack up, I came to offer to help.”

  “So you really think you’ll find an obsolete will in a book?”

  “We’ve been over this already. I think it’s worth a try. Don’t leave any stone unturned, as they say.”

  “Well, remember to text me when you get there and when you leave,” Vince said, adding, “You know, they might be upset, angry even, by your showing up. Are you prepared for that?”

  “I guess I’ll have to be. But they’re so polite they won’t show their feelings.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  I PULLED INTO the driveway of Forest Hill Mini Storage and parked under a stand of evergreen trees. I’d driven by countless times but it was the kind of place one sees but doesn’t see—like auto parts shops or pawnshops.

  After sending Vince the promised text, I sent one to the book group as well. I’d been remiss at not updating them about the past twenty-four hours—not that there was much to tell. Evangeline texted two words: “No will.” After the flurry of texts, I locked my car and set off on foot, checking the numbers on the storage units as I went. Judging by the pattern, Number J29 was a good way down the long line of rental units. The roll-up corrugated metal doors were all closed and secured with padlocks, indicating little activity at this time of day.

  A frisson of something like unease came over me and a loud internal voice boomed, “Go back. Go back now.” I ignored the voice. />
  I came upon a parking area. Cars, trucks, boats, and a couple of RVs numbered among the dozen or so vehicles, most looking old and battered. A tan cover protected one of the cars but didn’t hide the boxy lines of the model. Cars weren’t my forte, but something made me think of the picture from Paul’s website: the blue Camry that I guessed dated from the ‘80s. Was this the same car? If it was, why did they still have it? Patty didn’t drive and they could probably get some cash for it. Not a lot, but some.

  I walked around the car, looking for a hint of the blue color. Not seeing it, I lifted the cover over the back bumper.

  I gasped.

  The frame around the plate advertised Bremer Motors of Tampa, Florida. But it was the Commonwealth of Virginia that had issued the plate itself, with “IT” in the number.

  I called the car color dark teal. But teal was a combination of green and blue, and so could appear to be either color, depending on the play of light, individual interpretation, and digital resolutions. On Paul’s website, the color had looked blue. Carl Ellbee called it green when he saw the car in front of Nina’s house the night she was killed. And the Florida dealer frame led him to believe the plates were issued by that state.

  So . . . was this Patty and Paul’s car? Much as I wanted to think no, I had to face it—the answer was yes. What was the likelihood that someone else stashed the car in the very parking lot where my cousins stored all their worldly possessions?

  I thought of the two women Mrs. Ellbee had seen in the car in front of Nina’s house. Who were they? A tall woman . . . hmm. Patty was tall. So was Paul. As for the white-haired driver . . . Paul or Patty in disguise?

  I flashed to the conversation I’d had with Patty after Nina’s murder. She’d heard on the news about a car with Florida plates and an “IT” in the number.

  Had I stumbled upon Nina’s killers and maybe Rox’s as well? Was this why that voice inside my head urged me to turn tail and run?

  Puzzle pieces bombarded my brain, but I had no time to assemble them. My hands shaking, I took my phone from my purse. To my dismay the camera feature displayed my mug. I felt sure I did not look this decrepit. Vanity aside, I needed pictures of the car, not a selfie. How did I switch the mode? I looked around frantically, hoping to get a few pictures before someone—like Patty or Paul—caught me in the act. But the place was a virtual ghost town and I turned back to my perplexing phone, vowing to replace it with the old flip phone I’d had, and enjoyed, for years. I touched an icon and voila, the car appeared in the camera window. Despite my trembling I got images of the plate and of the car itself. Before I could text the pictures to Vince, a voice behind me stopped me cold.