A Motor for Murder (Veronica Margreve Mysteries Book 1) (5 page)

He nodded. “I showed it to the police already.” So some such document existed, then. Although I doubted it fully outlined what the payments were for.

“Could I see it?”

He looked straight at me. “No. I've answered your other questions. That's enough. I don't have to show you everything.”

He held the front door open for me again.

“I didn't kill him. That is all I have to say”.

“Thank you for telling me the story. I wish you and Claire the best.” I walked through the open door.

As I drove home, I thought about Paul. The things we do for family. The dreams we have when we are young and idealistic. The promises we make. What remains of them after the years chip away at their crystal clarity; and the humiliations we are willing to subject ourselves to. I no longer though that he was a suspect in the murder.  Evidently, the police were of the same opinion – Paul has not been detained.

Even if he knew the camera was there, could he have been able to figure out whether it was on or off? Besides, he told me during the party that he was going to talk to George – if he had any thoughts of the conversation turning violent or lethal, he wouldn't have said it. The rain and the darkness weighed on my mind, and I didn’t know what to do next.

When I got home and opened my mailbox, I saw a full-color, plastic-wrapped booklet from Mayfair Motors, personally inviting me to test-drive a Maserati or Aston Martin, showing fancy and fast cars on the cover. I stood by the mailbox, turning the brochure over in my hand, making sure it was really addressed to me. The post mark on it said Saturday.

8 

The next morning I read what the local news said about the incident. The write-ups on the websites of the TV stations and the local paper were about a sudden death from unknown causes. George Ellis was described as both a “self-made man” and “belonging a well-known local family”, well-established in the area, and very rich. (That caused me to ponder for a little bit to what extent one can be a “self-made man” in the financial sense of the term if one comes from a very rich background). They talked about his recent marriage to Rita, and mentioned Roger in passing. I also learned about George’s support of various causes through car shows and auctions and participation in charitable golf tournaments.

I had Vinay's business card from the party, and decided to send him an e-mail. Maybe I could glean something useful from talking to him, since he and George apparently had been golf buddies. In any case, from conversing with him the evening of the tragedy, he seemed like an astute person to talk to.

I typed out a brief e-mail on my phone, telling Vinay I'd like to meet for 15 minutes whenever he had time. He wrote back quickly, saying he could do so that afternoon. I suggested we meet at a French bakery next to his office. His response said “I love baked goods!” Our meeting was all set.

I ducked out of work for a short while to talk to him. Entering the popular bakery on Capitol Hill that Tuesday afternoon, 5 minutes before our appointment, I looked over all the desserts laid out in the glass cases, savoring the moment of choice. The cases were full of delicious fruit tarts, elaborate chocolate and waffle creations, breakfast pastries, and on and on. The air smelled of apple pie and cinnamon. A couple of students, likely from a near-by college, dressed in a manner of Boy George (so much so that I fully expected them to have pink eye shadow and emulate his dance moves) were ordering coffee and getting a baguette to go. I picked a chocolate-almond-croissant. From experience, I knew it would be sheer croissant-y deliciousness. I got a hot chocolate as well, and found a table in the corner to wait for Vinay.

He walked in right on time, casually dressed, came over smiling and shook my hand, and ordered a coffee. From where I was sitting, I noticed he left a big cash tip for the barista. I was liking him more and more.

After the preliminaries of me saying that I appreciated him giving me some time out of his busy day, and that I was a friend of Rita’s who wanted to help her out, I fortified myself with a bite of the flaky croissant, got out my notebook, and dove into the questions I wanted to ask.

“How long have you known George?”

“Oh, I’d say 5 years. We met when I bought a car from his dealership. Then it turned out we played golf at the same club.” He gave a name of the best country club in the Seattle area, popular with the local super-rich – rumor was, Bill Gates and Steve Ballmer were members.

“How was he, as a person, I mean?”

“Very hard-working, ambitious. Could be single-minded. He was pretty generous, too, from what I saw – gave money to those who asked him.”

“How was he as a golfer?”

Vinay raised his eyebrows – the question surprised him. He thought about it.

“Full of himself. He though he was better than he actually was. A bit of a pain, honestly.”

“How so?”

“He liked showing off. And he’d be annoyed if people ahead of us were going too slowly.”

“Anything different recently about him?”

“No, not really. He didn’t commit suicide, if that is what you are implying.”

“Well, I was thinking about why he was killed during this party. Why this particular time? What has changed? What was different?”

“I don’t know for sure. He did win that car show very recently, he seemed delighted with that when we played golf on Wednesday morning last week. Besides that – well, the house remodel was done, hence the house-warming. ”

Yes, the Alluring Exotics car show kept coming up in conversation. I needed to look into that angle further. And maybe there was something connected with the house? The general contractor was at that party – Kevin from Moody Construction Co.

I took another bite of my food and asked:

“Was George happy, do you think?”

Vinay sipped his coffee and thought about my question. “He was very driven. Achieving his goals made him happy for a while. Then it was on to the next thing. I could understand that in him – I guess I’m sort of like that too, with all my start-ups.” He laughed.

Something occurred to me. “Speaking of which – you’ve done very well in starting companies. Are you connected in any way with Ba-Ele Tech Inc, Roger’s start-up?” I carefully tried to pronounce the name like Roger had.

“No, I’m not.”

“Not even in an informal or advisory role? I thought someone with your experience in start-ups would be helpful for Roger.”

“George played that one very close to the vest. It does sound very interesting, I wish I knew more about it. I don't know much besides what I got out of some short conversations with Roger a couple of times.”

“I hope he succeeds. Roger seems very dedicated and hard-working.”

Vinay nodded. “I hope he succeed too.”

“What about Stan Greenwich? He and George apparently were business partners when Mayfair Motors had just started.”

“I don't know Stan well personally. We run into each other socially sometimes. My opinion of him, based on what I do know, is that he got lucky, and George had been the business brains, and the passion, behind the operation.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I did talk to him at the party, he was talking… bragging is a better word for it – about some of the stuff he had been doing recently. I pressed him a little, and based on how evasive he became, I don't think any of his recent undertakings really got off the ground. It’s all talk.” Vinay took another sip of his coffee while I wrote that down in my notebook.

“Did George have enemies, do you know?”

“No, not anyone who would kill him, I don’t think. “

“What do you think was the motive?”

He paused and then said very carefully. “I’ve asked myself that. Most likely money.”

“Was there enough money to kill someone over?”

He spread out his hands on the table and shrugged. “People have been killed for much less. But yes, I would say George's estate is in the neighborhood of $20M, including the house, the business and the land in Bellevue that Mayfair Motors owns.”

This was the first concrete figure I had heard about George's money. Definitely an impressive sum.

“How much did he start with, do you know?”

“No, I don't. I would guess several million in seed money from the two of them. But I can’t say for sure, this is not my area of expertise.”

“What's your read on the whole situation?” I left the question open-ended on purpose.

Vinay said bluntly: “The police suspect Rita, and I can see the logic in that. She would inherit a lot of money at his death.”

“She seems genuinely upset.”

“I believe she is. I like her: she’s smart, generous, and dedicated to what’s important to her. But the circumstances don’t look good for her.”

“Well, lots of people have money, and their spouses don’t go around murdering them.”

He laughed and said “That's true, isn’t it?”

Then he got up and picked up his coffee cup.

“Well, I need to get going.”

“Thank you so much for your time! And for your honesty.”

He smiled again. “I looked you up before coming over, and called Rita as well. I believe you have her best interests at heart. I wish her luck.”

We shook hands and he left, and I continued to nibble on my almond croissant and think about what he said.

On one hand, Vinay had said that he liked Rita. On the other hand, he couldn’t name any other likely suspects.

He thought that money was the main motive. And that, quite logically, put Rita in a bad light as a suspect – as she would get the most money out of George’s death. And so far, I haven’t found anyone else that would definitely benefit from George’s being dead.

9

It rained the entire day, non-stop. Water seemed to come down from the sky in straight lines. Everything was grey. Pedestrians scurried along the streets, beaten down by the rain.

After work, I went to the Knotty Yoga aerial yoga class to try to blow off some steam. Mason brought fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies to the class, like he did regularly. I could not resist, and grabbed one (OK, two – one before class and one after). Surrounded by people climbing ropes and doing aerial exercises, I focused on the work-out as my abs begged for mercy.

When I got home, I was greeted with loud admonishments from Bitty. My cat had been a rescue, and had to go without food when she was young – and so was now very insistent on being fed on time. I opened a can of Turkey Giblets and she dove for them with ecstatic meows. I was watching her absent-mindedly, thinking of how what we went through when young shaped us.

Someone who grew up relatively poor was Rita herself; she told me that she worked 2 jobs to put herself through undergrad, and her parents weren’t able to help out at all. Around the time her brother Roger was about to graduate high school, they got over-extended on borrowing against their house, and lost it in a foreclosure – and not one of those strategic ones either; they were wiped out financially. Getting married to George must have been a relief for Rita, at least on the financial front. 16
th
century Polish poets are generally not very lucrative! And it afforded Roger some amazing opportunities – like the chance to study at Stanford university; that certainly wasn’t cheap!

I decided to put the topic of Rita and her inheritance out of my mind for the time being. I didn’t want to think of it, even hypothetically – of my friend killing her husband for money. But the topic of pursuit of money reminded me that there was someone else I really should talk to.

Rita gave me Stan's contact info last time we talked. Now I settled into the sofa with a cup of tea and dialed his number; he picked up on the third ring.

“Hello Stan, this is Veronica. We met at George's party.”

“Who? Oh yeah, I remember. Rita's friend. The very attractive friend. How may I be of service, my dear?” His voice sounded almost physically oily to me and made me want to hang up. Instead, I took a deep breath and continued.

“I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about George, since you have known him for a while. Is this a good time?”

“Yeah, sure. Go ahead.”

“You’ve known him for several years, including before he met Rita, correct?”

“Yes. I met him through his family. He had really good business sense. Wanted to start an exotic car dealership with some of his family money. Thought there would be a market for that here. I put in some cash too. Did very well, then he bought me out.”

“When was that?”

“Around 2007. I thought that the housing market was going bust and would take all that easy money with it, and I decided to get out before that.” He snickered. I had wanted to ask why he decided to sell, and he preempted my question.

“Well, that was really smart on your part, I'm sure.”

“Oh yeah, it was. “ He chuckled. “Made a very decent return on my money.”

“Why did you go with a car dealership?”

“George did the market research. All those dot-com millionaires in this area – some even had money left over once that bubble burst.” True, Microsoft, Amazon and small tech start-ups have made many people in the area very rich through the first dot-com run-up, then the drop, then the run-up again – and also helped insulate a bit from the subsequent economic shock and resulting stock-market deflation. Like large bodies of water, acting as temperature control. “And they were just the demographic to want these cars – fast and flashy imports.” Yes, from observing people around me – well-paid engineers, mostly male, but not millionaires at all – I could see that there was a market for the Lotuses, Maseratis and such that Mayfair Motors was selling.

“And I guess it helped that George really knew cars, so I heard?”

“Yeah. He was always into car stuff. Had good ideas about how to sell them, and what to sell. And that little car start-up of his – I think that might be big.”

“Oh, the one that Roger is working on?”

“Yeah, that one. That's a neat idea.”

“Yes, I wish Roger success with it.”

“That kid certainly had a lucky break – his sister marrying the guy with all that dough to finance it.” He chuckled again. The clear implication was that Rita had married George for his money. I liked Stan Greenwich less and less. Out loud I said:

“Your investment must have left you feeling pretty happy.”

“Yeah. I did well out of it. Always knew how to pick them.” He chuckled again.

OK, there didn't seem to be anything to the ‘former business partner’ angle. Stan was not a suspect on my list, from anything I heard from him so far.

While I still had him on the line, I asked Stan some questions about George’s past and character.

“I’ve heard that George was very smart, and very driven”.

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“By all accounts, a very successful businessman.”

“He did well. I taught him a lot, you know.” Sounded like someone wanted to brag a little. I tolled my eyes into the phone. “That’s what we talked about recently – other business opportunities to get into together.”

Here he was again, preempting the question that had been in my mind.

Did he have a reason to guide the conversation? Perhaps to make sure I didn’t suspect him? But why would I even start to suspect him? His former business dealings with George Ellis appeared to have been dissolved very amicably, and they still talked to each other.

I was about to wrap up the conversation, but then, fueled by my new dislike of him, decided to take a wild guess.

“Is that why you came to talk to him in his office the night that he died?”

“I … What? No. There is no way.” Stan’s voice sounded panicked. I decided to press on with my guess.

“There are security cameras around the house, you know. What would you say if I told you one of them recorded you going into George’s office?” Technically, I wasn’t lying – I wasn’t saying that such a recording existed, I was just asking him what he would say if I told him that.

“How would you even have access to that? Wouldn’t it be evidence?”

“Rita had a copy.” She did have copies of the footage, that showed absolutely nothing, as the hallway cameras didn’t cover that last bit of the the corridor in front of the office door. In his panic, Stan didn’t realize yet that if what I told him was true, the camera would have captured the killer as well, and would have identified the chief suspect. Not to mention, the police would know that he went into the office, and likely ask him about it when they talked to him.

“George was alive and well when I left! Very drunk, but very much alive!”

“When was that?”

“Don't you have a timestamp from the security camera?”

“Yes, we do; I just want to double-check.”

“OK, around 10:30”. That, if true, made it before Paul went to talk to George.

“What did you talk about?”

“Just business stuff. Investment options.”

“Investment options regarding what?”

“Oh just various businesses I’ve been considering.”

Hmm... now he was being evasive.

“Could you please elaborate, Mr Greenwich?”

“Just some investment options between business partners. I need to be going now.”

I could barely finish thanking him for his time when he hung up on me.

I thought that my guess about him going into George's office that night must have unsettled and angered him.

The question was – why? Did Stan have anything to hide?

I did a quick internet search on Stan Greenwich. His name came up in connection with a couple of local enterprises, an article in the free Bellevue paper about him talking at a community college class and giving business advice to students. One reference came up with his home address.

Out of curiosity, I searched for that too, and found a record of a recent foreclosure against him. From the names on the listing (a Felicia Greenwich in addition to Stanley Greenwich) it looked like he and his wife were going through a divorce. I checked the date – just 4 months ago. Well, if he kept flirting with unknown women at parties, no wonder they were divorcing!

It looked like Stan was in a lot of financial trouble, contrary to the “successful businessman” image he was trying to present. This was definitely interesting. And it also showed that Stan was a liar, at least in regards to his image (and I was guessing being a murder suspect would be bad for anyone's image – in particular, where an ex-business partner is concerned!). So I thought Stan could be lying about the time he went up to George's office.

Then I wondered whether the “investments” that Stan had mentioned talking about with George were just loan requests. That was worth considering.

However, even if that were so, I still didn't have a motive for him to kill George. Had George refused Stan’s loan requests? And Stan got angry and pushed George? And George lost his balance and fell out of the open window? It was possible, but I was not yet convinced.

“So he admitted to going into the office?”

“Yes. I'm not sure I believe his reason, though.”

I called Rita to tell her the results of my talk with Stan, as well as my speculation that it was to borrow money.

“Do you think the police know?” I wondered.

“They haven’t mentioned it to me, but then there’s no reason they should – I’m their number-one suspect!” Rita was trying to make a joke about her suspect status, but by her tone I could tell the possibility of another suspect on the horizon cheered her up. “You’re doing such a great job investigating!”

“How are you feeling today?”

“Oh, like, you know, I’m drifting. Going to my class today was a good distraction.” Rita volunteered teaching English as a Second Language classes to immigrants and refugees a couple of times a week at the local library – her fluency in Polish, French and Spanish came in handy.

Recalling Rita’s students reminded me of something else.

“What about George’s parents, Rita? I read in the paper that they are from around here.”

“Yes, they are. They came to see me yesterday.”

“Oh. It must have been hard for you. How was their attitude...” I hesitated.

“You mean, do they suspect me? I didn’t get that impression.”

“OK, that’s good, at least. I mean, it’s easier... It must have been hard to be the one breaking the news of their son’s death to them...”

“It wasn’t me. I believe John called them early Sunday morning and told them. Then Mrs Ellis called me back, with tears and condolences. Come to think of it, there isn’t anyone I had called to tell about George's death.” I could understand that – people important to one's life would learn about it from someone close anyway; and as for acquaintances, and institutions like banks and credit cards – I didn’t imagine that Rita could be up to all that at the moment.

“They are devastated. They said they intended to find whoever did it, that they’d hire a private investigator.”

“I guess it makes them feel like they can do something to help.”

“Yeah...”

“Speaking of which – have you considered hiring a private investigator to look into this yourself?”

“I thought about it. But I'm not feeling up to it somehow. Inviting a person I don’t know to rake over all the dirty laundry of my life doesn’t sound enticing at the moment. And if my in-laws are going to hire someone, I'm sure they would pick someone extremely capable.”

“Private detectives have plenty of tricks of the trade and might be very helpful.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’d be very competent. I just can’t deal with yet another stranger asking questions. The police are quite enough – but it’s their job. And who would they be investigating – me? The police are doing that already. Wait a minute – you’re not suggesting that because you yourself don’t want to do it any more?”

“Oh no, nothing like that. I just thought a professional would be much more helpful. And they would be on your side, not like the police.”

“Well, if I start feeling more heat from all the suspicions and need reinforcements, I’ll think about it more.”

We agreed that I should call Detective Davis and let him know about what I learned from Stan, so I got out the detective’s card, dialed his number and left him what I hoped was a sufficiently detailed message about my talk with Stan.