A Motor for Murder (Veronica Margreve Mysteries Book 1) (4 page)

5

As things were sinking in, I was realizing that I – together with pretty much anyone else at the party – was a suspect. Somehow, being involved in a murder at a fancy party didn’t seem as thrilling in real life as it does in a book or a movie! In fact, I was feeling downright dismal – for George; for Rita, who had to come to terms with the fact that her husband was murdered; for the rest of the party guests and wait staff, who realized they might have met a murderer (and might perhaps think that they could have prevented the death if they had been in the right place at the right time).

Events of the previous evening were crowding in my mind. Paul had gone to talk to George right before George fell out of that window. Was Paul the killer? I remembered his sour mood that evening. At least, he would have to be the main suspect at this point. The police said they've talked to him already. Did that mean they didn’t consider him a suspect?

I thought I should call Rita, check on how she was doing.  I didn’t know how appropriate that would be, under the circumstances, but writing an e-mail felt too impersonal and disconnected.

She picked up the phone on the fifth ring.

“Hello?” Her voice sounded like she spent all night trying to herd zombies. I immediately regretted calling her instead of, say, texting. Obviously, my call was going to be a nuisance to her.

“Hi, it's Veronica.” I said, silently kicking myself and plotting how best to cut the conversation short and not burden Rita further.

“Oh hi... I'm actually glad you called. It's good hearing from one of my own friends for a change – a lot of the people at the party were George's friends, or those who only knew us together.”

“Did I wake you? How are you holding up?”

“Oh... no you didn’t wake me. It's a nightmare. I can't believe George is gone. I mean, we had our problems, but still, to wake up in the morning and remember that he is dead!..” Her voice trailed off.

“I'm sorry.” There was silence on the phone.

“Do you need anything? Can I do anything for you?” I said awkwardly.

“No, thank you.”

“Well, I just wanted to check on you.”

There was silence again. Finally, I swallowed my feeling of awkwardness and brought up the next subject.

“Did you hear from the police today?”

“Yes. They said the death was intentional. I'm sure you've talked to them – they said they were going to question all the guests again because of that.”

“Yeah, I had a talk with Detective Davis this morning. I was extremely shocked to hear. Obviously, it must have been so much worse for you... with… with everything...” I didn't know what to say next, having tied myself into this conversational knot of mumbling insensitivity. “Are they asking you a lot of questions?”

“They were here again today. I mean, in the morning, around 8 am. They stayed a couple of hours.”

“It must have been tough. How did it go?”

“I think they suspect me.”

“Why? Whatever gave them that idea?”

“Well, I am the beneficiary of George's estate, I assume. And haven't you heard – it’s always the spouse?” Rita gave a small bitter laugh. Yes, I had indeed heard it – that people are most likely to be killed by those they know, and family and spouse are most probable.

“When I talked to officer Davis today, I also thought he suspected me, even though I didn’t even know George! I think that's just the vibe they give off, to keep you scared. Don’t worry about that!” I was saying it but wasn't sure whether I believed it. “You do have a lawyer, right?”

“Oh, of course. It’s Teresa, you met her at the party.” Teresa – I remembered her fashionable dress and well-put-together appearance. I was told then that she was a lawyer – apparently a criminal lawyer. “I called her and she agreed to help out. She was here when they talked to me.”

“Is there anything I could do to help?”

It sounded like Rita was blowing her nose on the phone. I realized it was probably a sob.

When she swallowed, she said. “Could you please find out who did it?”

6 

“Finding the real killer would be a huge relief, in light of everything. I'm kidding, of course.” She hastened to add.

I didn't know what to say. I had always enjoyed reading detective novels and watching murder mysteries on TV. Now I was involved in one, however tangentially. It wasn't quite “a body in the library”, instead it was a body in the office – or out of the office, as the case may be, but it did have certain literary and genre charm.

My real-life work was finding the bad guys of the computer world and stopping them from breaking into computer systems. This was perhaps not that different. And my brain was already occupied with the idea, wanting to find out what happened and who the culprit was. Still, agreeing to do it, trying to actually investigate a murder would be a big step.

As I was thinking all that, Rita said “For the record, I didn't do it.” Not that I really thought her to be the killer, but hearing her say this helped break my hesitation.

“Well, I will try to help out in whatever way I can. I'd like to find out who did it.”

“Thanks. I mean it. Your logical engineering mind should be able to remove any trace of suspicion from me in to time at all.”

“Well, thanks for your vote of confidence.” I was now feeling embarrassed by her apparent faith in me, even though she was probably very stressed and grasping at straws.

So now I had a murder to get to the bottom of; and, I imagined, a friend who was relying on me to clear her name.  I was already thinking myself a sort of a knight in shiny armor. It was just like in books – I would solve everything and neatly explain it all. I allowed myself a moment to bask in the thoughts of riding to Rita's rescue and setting everything right.

Then I opened my eyes, realized that no shiny armor was hanging in closet just yet, and jumped right in with questions.

“Speaking of engineering – the police mentioned to me the security footage outside. Are there security cameras inside, too?”

“Yes, there are, in some hallways. The police took all footage.”

“Then finding out who did it might be just a matter of reviewing it? It should be case-closed then, right?” It seemed to me it was all plain sailing from here.

“No. George turned the security camera in the office off himself before the party, because he was getting some stuff out of the safe, and he didn't want that showing up on the surveillance footage for the security company to see. There is no footage from the office. And I don't think you can see the entire hallway leading to the office on the hallway camera – it doesn't show you the office door, and you can't tell between people going to George's office, my office, or the upstairs hall bathroom.”

So much for plain sailing. The video surveillance wasn't going to be of much use.

“Were there any helpful fingerprints found, do you know?”

“I wouldn't expect it. George and I both opened the office door when we gave the tour of the house several times during the party. And other people would have gone in there since we bought the house – John, Roger, even Kevin. So likely lots of fingerprints on the door handle.”

“Who do you think might have done it? Do you have any suspicions?” I thought this might be a sensitive question to ask Rita.

“I don't know. During the evening, I didn't go around taking note of people who might be likely to kill my husband... Knowing that it was someone at the housewarming..” Her voice trailed off.

I thought back to the people I met the previous night. By and large, a moneyed, respectable and polite crowd. There were only a couple of instances of broken decorum that I witnessed during the party.

Thinking about them, I asked. “Did the remodel approval go smoothly on the HOA side?”

“Well, I think there was an initial opposition to it. But George talked to Paul and Paul as chairperson got it taken care of”.

“Oh. I'm asking because on the night of the party Paul seemed upset, kept going on and on about the ‘stupid’ remodel. It didn't sound like he was totally on board with it. Are you sure it was Paul that George talked to about it earlier?”

“Oh yes, I'm sure. Paul was originally against it, and then came about. That's why we thought it would be a good idea to invite Paul to the party.”

And it seemed he would be exactly the type of embittered person to show up and then complain all night! If he held a grudge like that, what else might he be prompted to do? I thought I should pay Paul a visit, soon.

Then I moved on to another awkward thing I witnessed that night. I remembered cringing inwardly when Stan was bragging about his business success.

“Rita, what about Stan Greenwich?”

“You mean George's former business partner?”

“Yes. What do you know about him? Why is he a ‘former’ partner? What was that business venture about?”

“They started the dealership together, George took some of the family money that was in his trust fund to do it. He bought Stan out after about 5 years. My impression was always that Stan was the ‘silent partner’, not taking an active role in the day-to-day, and not really that much into cars. Once the dealership started making money, George wanted to buy him out.”

Rita continued, as I got a sheet of scratch paper and was scribbling stuff down.

“George really loved cars. You met Wayne Kempler?” I made affirmative noise into the phone. “He could talk about them with Wayne for hours on end. Mayfair Motors was his baby and his dream, and he worked hard on it.”

“And what is Stan doing now, do you know?”

“Something advertising-related, I think. According to him, successfully.”

“So there was no big fight between them over the proceeds, or the split, or over the business, or anything that you know of?”

“None that I heard about. But this all happened years before I even met George.”

“And they've continued talking, like everything is fine?”

“Yeah. Stan had been coming by a couple of times a year, discussing stuff with George.”

So far, nothing was pointing at Stan – besides a vague suspicion based on him being a ‘former’ business partner; and being a little bit of an ill-mannered boor. I made a note to talk to him later.

“By the way, do you know what George kept in the safe?”

“No, I don't. And I don't have the combination – I assume after the will proceedings are over, some sort of a record with the safe combination will come out, and I will be able to open it then.”

“Did he keep his check book there, as a rule?”

“I don't think so. It’s probably in his desk.”

After I hung up, I realized that I still wanted to ask Rita about Caitlin. Oh well, I thought it would wait till the next time. I had plenty to get started.

7 

I drove from work Monday evening thinking thing over, and trying to remember everything that happened at the party in as much detail as I could. The air was chilly. Small rain drops were drumming non-stop on the roof of the car. The deciduous trees still had most of their leaves, green tinged with yellow and red. It was an autumn day in the Pacific Northwest.

Paul’s house was 3 streets over from George and Rita’s, but much smaller, older, with a minuscule yard and no view, just like he said. It looked to be one of the original ones built in this part of Bellevue in 1950s.

The small lawn out front was mowed. Trees at the edges, a bit overgrown – not much, but in this neighborhood of weekly garden service, it was noticeable that Paul didn’t have a gardener, and didn’t consult an arborist for several years. The roof was old, covered in moss and pine needles, as regularly happened in the Pacific Northwest – apparently not cleaned for the last couple of years at least. The windows were old-style, single-pane. As a homeowner who had to make numerous repairs and upgrades on my 60s-era house, I noticed such things.

I headed up the cracked-concrete walk and rang the door bell. I heard some shuffling and footsteps inside the house, and then Paul opened the door.

“Veronica, we met at Rita and George's party?”

“Oh yes, I remember you”. He was in a red fleece and jeans, and he stood by the entry slouching. He made no motion of inviting me in.

“Could I come in please? This might take about 5 minutes”.

He reluctantly moved to one side, and I stepped into the foyer. The old brown carpet stretched in the living room on my right. Ahead was the kitchen with dented linoleum, which is where I followed Paul. The kitchen smelled of strong coffee. The inside of the house confirmed what the outside told me. Obviously, Paul’s family has been of modest means for a while.

“I assume it’s about that party?” He remained standing and didn't indicate a chair for me, so I stood as well.

“Yes.” I decided to get right to it. “Please forgive my bluntness. I wanted to ask: You made no secret of your displeasure with the remodel that evening. As HOA president, you could have blocked it & resisted it – as you apparently did for a while. But then, you turned around and gave it your approval. Why?”

“I don’t feel like I owe you an answer to that.”

“Do you mean that there was something in particular that made you change your mind?”

“No. It’s just none of your business”.

“If it was perfectly legitimate, why don’t you tell me what it was?” I pressed.

“I don’t understand how it is any of your business.”

“It seems like you were the last person to talk to George before he was killed.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. We talked for a minute in his office, and then I walked out.”

“And George was OK when you left?”

'Yes, of course he was OK.” Paul's voice rose and his face showed his annoyance at this direct question. “Please leave now, I don’t appreciate these types of questions in my own home.” He walked out of the kitchen and held open the front door.

“I was thinking that you were one of the few guests that would even know that there was a security camera in the office, since you've seen the remodel plans. That makes you a suspect if you noticed that it was off.” I improvised that bit – I didn't know whether Paul would or remember the security camera lay-out from the plans.

I hadn't moved to follow him towards the door and was still standing in his kitchen.

“You can’t seriously be accusing me of murder?! Get out now!” He yelled and pointed through the open door with both hands.

I decided to switch tactics.

“I am sorry, that was uncalled for. Rita is a friend of mine. Her husband has been killed. I want to figure it out. I apologize if I offended you.” I tried to make eye contact, but he didn't look at me. I followed his eyes and saw on the kitchen counter a photo of a young woman in a graduation gown, smiling, with an imposing building behind her with a sign in red letters spelling Seattle. I made a wild guess.

“George paid you to get the remodel plans through the HOA! Your daughter graduated law school fairly recently. Seattle University by the looks of that photo – that took money. ”

“That is none of your business. Please leave, or I’ll call the police”.

He didn’t deny it – so I guessed right. I didn't know what else to say. No point in trying to discuss further, if he wasn’t going to answer any questions. I turned towards the door. That law school photo, however, triggered a thought.

“My ex was a lawyer. I know how much those loans grow to, and how big a burden the repayment can be. He wanted to be an environmental lawyer, work for the Sierra Club – but then realized that there was no way to make the finances work with the loan payment schedule. He does bankruptcy law now. He had to give up what he really believed in...”

It was true. My ex was a lawyer. Smart, charming, handsome, ambitious. Very image-conscious, with great (and expensive) taste in clothing, cars, the gifts he gave me. The student loans certainly put a dent in his monthly budget, and he was spending so much to keep up his image that he was constantly broke. I originally found his drive and single-mindedness towards a goal (whether advancing his career, or getting me to date him) flattering, and thought our life together would be “happily ever after”. And back then, he was still very idealistic in some ways – e.g. trying to be vegetarian due to the concern about animal rights and treatment of animals, being involved with the Sierra Club. Later, that changed. He showed his true colors by going to work for a sleazy bankruptcy firm – but I was too blind to see them when it first happened. He had repeatedly said that at his firm, you had to be an asshole to advance. And then that disdain that he felt towards everything that he didn’t think would help him reach his goals finally turned on me – or maybe I just came to my senses...

I stood in the hallway, thinking about the past, lost in thought for the moment.

Paul sighed and kept looking at the photo. We were both remembering. He finally spoke. “Her mother left me when Claire was in junior high school, moved to Oregon and filed for divorce. Didn’t want to have anything to do with Claire since then. I got the house, as you can see. I wanted to keep Claire in the same school, to provide some stability for her during a very tough time. My ex got most of the money, so I’ve had to struggle to have enough for all the bills, try to save for retirement. We could have moved to a cheaper area, but we stayed for the schools.” I nodded – the schools in the neighborhood were widely known to be some of the best in the state. “I put Claire through undergrad – she got some scholarships and had a part-time job, so that helped.”

He sighed. “I could have, and maybe should have, sold the house when she started college – the prices hadn’t dropped too much yet.” The housing market crash came to Seattle a bit later than to the rest of the US, and prices here haven’t started dropping till about the end of 2008. “But I still thought that I could get more money out of this house by getting a home equity loan. I didn’t see the housing bust coming.”

“When she graduated, the Great Recession was going on, and she couldn’t get a job.” Paul continued. “She was always interested in law, so she applied to law school, partially to try and ‘wait out’ the bad economy. Claire dreamed of using her law degree in working at a women’s defense non-profit. I tried to get a loan against the house to help her pay for law school – and, as you can guess, with the mortgage bubble bursting, that option has all dried up by that time. She lived at home to cut costs, got student loans, and ended up with loan amount of around 80K. There was no way she could work at the non-profit and pay back that money in anything under 20 years.” I felt genuinely sorry for him. He looked down, swallowed and continued.

“Around that time, George and Rita wanted to purchase and remodel that big house, and were being... very obstinate about the HOA rules. He came to the HOA meeting a couple of times, was very pushy about his remodel proposals. He knows… knew a lot of lawyers. You know his father was a very big lawyer? George was well-versed in the rules around it all. I thought Claire could talk to him about the options for paying off the school loans. I also secretly hoped that she could get some sort of position with a law firm through him or his family. I was all out of ideas for what else to do to help her. She came away from their conversation discouraged. Did you know law graduates’ salaries have plummeted recently?” I nodded. Having a lawyer ex, I had a passing interest in the state of the legal profession. I’ve seen several reports on law school graduates’ starting salaries in the news lately, all pointing to sharp decreases in salaries for the vast majority of new grads. “Well, George gave me a call the next day and said that he had a proposition. It was, essentially – approve his remodel plans, in exchange for him providing money for the balance of the loan.”

He swallowed again.

“I didn’t sleep for several nights. I talked to Claire – she’s been crying. She said she wasn’t sure she could get any more loans, and that she was thinking of dropping out, in her last year. Of course, if she did that, it would mean the end to her dream. And she’d have to start re-paying the loans anyway – it would put her in a financial bind no matter what she did. And what George was asking for wasn't technically illegal, I just had to exert some more influence over the board. I reasoned that no-one was getting hurt if the remodel plans passed. So I decided. I talked to board members individually and made sure the plans got approved by the home-owners association.”

Paul sighed.

“George provided the loan balance – in monthly installments, barely enough for Claire to pay what she owed and live on. Every month, it was a struggle for her to pay the bills, even with all my help. I swear, he enjoyed having us in his power so much. And for him, the monthly amount was small change – I guarantee that last party of his cost more, just in the alcohol expenses! He liked writing out a paper check for each monthly installment, and having me be there in person to see it and feel grateful, insignificant, humiliated. I think that’s why he also invited me to the party – to show off his money and power yet again, and remind me how cheap and small-time I was compared to him.”

He clutched and un-clutched his fists, leaned against the kitchen counter and finally raised his eyes to me. His emotions were written on his face: anger, frustration, embarrassment.

I said:

“The police, of course, will trace the funds coming out of his accounts. You will have to tell them.”

Paul gave me a rueful smile. “I told them already about the agreement. They would find out anyway.”

He looked around and down on the floor and continued.

“Since I was at his house already the night of the party, I thought I’d ask for more money. That's what I went to his office to talk to him about. “

“Did he give you another check that night?”

“Yes. I wanted to get an advance on next month's installment; things were tough for Claire this month. I had to practically beg for it before he wrote that check.”

“What did you want the money for, if I may ask?”

“Claire had some car trouble, needed the money for repairs.”

“Did you get it?”

“Yes, yes I did. As you can see, it would be better for me and Claire financially if George had lived. “

“How was George during that conversation with you?”

“He was pretty drunk, agitated, waiving his cigar around.” Yes, the medics said that George was very drunk by the end of the evening. That was my original assumption as to why he fell in, before Detective Davis told me he was pushed. “He kept saying something like ‘It was your own fault, you know, you should have planned better’. That was pretty hard to take – him preaching to me about it being my fault. I feel guilty about not being able to give Claire a head start in the world, so that stung.”

“Did you raise your voice at him as well?”

“Yes, once.”

“How long where you in his office?”

“Maybe... 5 minutes. It wasn't a very long conversation.He was drunk and stubborn, as drunk people can be. And then suddenly laughed out loud and wrote me the check”.

“Did you cash the check?”

“Yes, I did. It went through OK, after my conversation with the police”.

I didn't know whether I would cash a check under such circumstances. But then, Paul and Claire needed the money, that much was evident.

“What do you do, by the way?”

“I am an editor for a vegan food website and magazine. And I do freelance writing and editing. But life is expensive.” Yes, definitely – on what I estimated he earned, it would be tough to live in the fanciest part of Bellevue, trying to support a daughter through college and law school. “The house prices are back up, though. I am planning to put this house on the market, maybe next week, and move somewhere smaller when it sells. “

I thought that it was a good plan – the place, even in its current semi-dilapidated condition, should draw several offers. And the sale would provide him and Claire an infusion of cash.

I thought some more and said:

“Did you have a written agreement for these payments?”