A Motor for Murder (Veronica Margreve Mysteries Book 1) (8 page)

13 

The dealership was a cross of an ultra-modern spaceship with an old English club, and managed to give off the atmosphere of a comfortable flying library, a repository of mankind's knowledge and a symbol of its progress at the same time. It even had a hushed sound of concentrated expertise – like an orchestra far away tuning up to play an extremely complicated piece – that I imagined would go with that. A neat trick, if you can figure out how to do it. I took it all in, trying to get a feel for the place.

People were standing around the open showroom space, looking with great interest and desire at the large mechanical beasts placed here and there. A couple of sales people were sitting with the customers in glass-walled offices, finalizing paperwork on purchases of these dream-cars. Judging by that afternoon, the dealership’s affairs were indeed going swimmingly!

In the middle, on the gleaming floor, stood a yellow Lamborghini from the late 1960s, by the looks of it, with a plaque describing its illustrious history and a sign in the window proclaiming it the Alluring Exotics Car show first-place winner. This was George's winning car, then! It was definitely a beauty, and I spent a couple of minutes admiring its sleek lines and polished exterior. A smiling assistant, noticing my wonder, said that it was “the famous Miura”, it belonged to the dealership, was very rare (he said that George bought it from a collector in Europe earlier this year), and that they were very proud of their car-show win, and “dedicated to bringing high-performance automobiles to the Pacific Northwest!” That was also the dealership's slogan.

“Is it for sale?” Just idle curiosity – I was not in the market for a rare antique sports car.

“No, it is not. But people do ask often. Especially other Alluring Exotics club members.” Yes, I would bet they did.

The glass walls in the outer office surrounded Caitlin, and her hands were flying over the computer keyboard on the polished table top. In this environment, surrounded by the glistening stream-lined high-powered cars, Caitlin looked right at home with her straight blonde hair and stream-lined ponytail.

I had called a couple of days before and made an appointment for Saturday afternoon. Now, I walked up to her desk and waited until she raised her eyes at me from the computer screen.

“Hello. It's Veronica, we met at George's party.”

“I remember. Hi.”

“I'd like to ask you a few questions, since you knew George Ellis well.”

She sighed. “OK. It is such a pity about George”. She did seem subdued. If she had wondered about why I was asking questions, she didn't show it. I thought for a moment about whether she'd get her raise now, and who she would ask about it – probably Rita?

“Yes, such a tragic death.” I paused, and allowed what I felt was sufficient time to acknowledge the solemn topic. “How long have you known George Ellis?”

“As long as I worked here. About a year.”

“How has the business been going?”

“Very well.” She gave me a plastered-on “customer-service” smile.

“The dealership making money?”

“Oh, definitely.”

“Any of the customers especially mad at George?”

“Well... There was some dissatisfaction from some people. Pretty normal for a business this size.”  I had previously looked up the dealership's reviews on the Internet, and she was correct – they were better than of other car dealerships around. “But not enough to kill over, I don't think. And I don't think our customers are the murderer type.” She scrunched up her nose at the thought.

“No, of course not.” I hastened to add. To myself, I thought that someone from a similarly illustrious crowd did kill George Ellis at his own house-warming party only a week ago.

“That is a beautiful car.” I nodded towards the Lamborghini out in front. “That one – I heard George was very proud of it!”

“Yes. It won at the Alluring Exotics show just two weeks ago.”

“Quite well-deserved, I am sure.” I said to keep the conversation on the topic and to give her a chance to say something about any scandal surrounding the show, if she'd heard anything at all – she didn't seem the type to keep gossip or dirt quiet.

Caitlin didn't disappoint. “Not everyone thought so. Wayne Kempler came in and was yelling after he lost at that car show.”

Ah. So Wayne was upset enough to cause a scene!

“Wayne? Yelling in here?”

“Yup, in here. Said that George was a cheater and that Wayne would make sure there was justice. Very dramatic!” She rolled her eyes at the memory.

“Hmm, that must have been something!”

“Oh yeah.” Caitlin said, clearly relishing the memory.

“Was George here then? Did he hear all this?”

“No, he was out.” She said, seemingly regretful that such a reality-TV-worthy encounter didn't materialize.

“When was this?”

“About 2 weeks ago. Monday after the show”. That meant less than a week before George’s death. Wayne’s anger might have been plenty fresh on the night of the party, then. Especially if that was the first chance he had to talk to George in person.

The party invites had gone out a while before that. I thought back – I received mine in mid-August, a month prior to the party. But mine was the result of accidentally running into Rita. I assumed the majority of the “planned” invites had been sent before then. And Wayne had most certainly been on the list at the time the guest list was put together. Why would Wayne come to the house party if he were so angry at his host? He might have viewed the evening as his chance to talk to George face-to-face over the perceived wrong. If so, he would have made an attempt to talk to him alone, at the house. Maybe even go up to George’s office?

And what would George do, if faced with such a potentially disruptive guest?

“Did you tell George about it?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“What was his reaction?”

“He said that it was just a bunch of nonsense and that Wayne was just mad he didn’t win. Said it was Wayne’s own fault for not planning properly.”

“Did he seem worried in any way about Wayne coming to his party?”

“I don't think so. He probably forgot about it.”

“Another thing about that party. Caitlin, I heard you and George arguing that night.”

“So? I didn’t kill him.” She raised her eyes to mine defiantly.

“What were you arguing about?”

“I thought he should appreciate me more, and show his appreciation in a more … tangible way. I did so much for him. Everyone wants that, right?” She nodded in agreement with herself.

“Did you think you were underpaid?”

“No, not that. Just that the dealership was successful, and I was a large part of the reason it was successful recently, and I thought George should realize it too.”

So that was her explanation for the encounter I witnessed at the party. I wasn’t sure it accounted for all the emotion I heard in her voice that night.

“I thought, from your tone, that you were angry with him.”

“Poor George.” She suddenly became somber. “I guess I got rowdy that night. I had a drink or two. But I didn’t kill him.”

Caitlin definitely gave me some food for thought, and some intriguing tidbits on a possible suspect, Wayne. But I didn’t feel like I could trust her. She was not thrilled with our topic of conversation this afternoon, but seemed to honestly regret George’s passing. Is that because she helped him on his way and was now fleeing guilty? Or because she thought she might not get her raise now? She was hiding something – what?

14 

As I drove home, I kept thinking about cars: the powerful sleek machines I just saw at George’s dealership, the ideas of the future at Ba-Ele Tech, the rare collectibles at Alluring Exotics.

To be thorough, I felt that I needed to talk to Wayne again. Caitlin had told me that he was very upset right after the car show. He seemed OK at the party (he didn’t impress me as a man full of anger  about to boil over), but I didn’t recall seeing him talk to George that night. He might have taken the opportunity to talk to the host alone, in the office.

I looked up Alluring Exotics car club on the internet, found that their website listed a phone number, and called it, hoping that it went to Wayne's cell phone. As Wayne was the club president and apparently kept the club’s paperwork at his home, I thought it was a reasonable assumption.

I was in luck – he picked up.

“Hello, this is Veronica.”

“Oh, hello”. He half -grumbled, half-grunted.

“I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about the night of George’s party.”

“I've talked to the police already about it all, several times. And you asked me a bunch of questions just this morning!” I had a feeling that he wasn't too thrilled with the subject.

“It’s just one more quick question: I heard that you were very upset about George sabotaging you at the car show. That was just a week before the party. And witnesses say that you stormed into Mayfair Motors the day after, yelling that he was a cheat and that you would ‘make sure there is justice’.” I stopped.

“Yeah.. What’s your question?” He grumbled.

I thought for a moment about asking him directly whether he had killed George, but chickened out of such a blunt phrasing.

“Did you go into his office during the party?”

“I've already talked to the police about all of this.”

“Does that mean a yes?”

“Yes, I was there. He was drinking and smoking that ugly cigar. The damn cigar smoke was getting into my lungs and eyes, I could barely talk to him. He laughed and said some nonsense. He was several sheets to the winds at that point. I couldn't really understand anything he was saying. I left.”

Wayne was a big guy – big enough to easily pick up and throw George out the window, especially if the latter had been drinking and not putting up much resistance or wasn't realizing what was happening. Wayne was a viable suspect.

“Why did you go up there?”

“He asked me to come up.”

“So he wanted to talk to you about something?”

“Yeah... But I couldn't make out anything he was saying. He wasn’t making any sense to me. I told you, he was drunk.”

“You left him there?”

“Yeah.”

“When was that, do you recall?”

“A little bit before the body fell in.”

“How long before, do you remember?”

“Nah, I don’t”.

“Did anyone see you come out?”

“Not really. The police already asked me that. The cigar smoke got into my throat, and I was coughing when I left, and had a big coughing fit. I felt like I was coughing forever, I went downstairs and wanted to get a drink from that bartender, but there was no-one at that bar station. I had to go to the kitchen and get a glass of water. ”

Wayne mentioned that he had discussed this with the police. They would have found his account of going to George’s to be plenty suspicious – if they even had considered anyone else besides Rita. How did Wayne prove his innocence to them?

Paul did say that George seemed argumentative when he went it to talk to him, and kept mentioning “your own fault for not planning properly”. He – and I – had assumed that remark applied to Paul or Claire. But what if it was just a snippet of his conversation with Wayne, that happened shortly before, stuck in his drunk mind?

But still, this didn’t prove Wayne didn’t do it – it only made it possible that he came into the office before Paul.

So Wayne was high up on my suspects list. Double-checking on him wouldn't hurt.

I was silent, with the phone still in my hand, while I was trying to think this through.

“I apologize if my answers don't satisfy you, lady. I didn’t think I was going to need an alibi for anything.” Wayne grumbled, and hung up the phone without saying good-bye.

Rain was beating against the window, coming down staccato. I sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea, listening to it for a while. Bitty jumped up on the chair next to mine and also listened.

Then I took Detective Davis’s card and dialed his phone number.

This time, he picked up. He told me that they had already known about Wayne’s visit to George’s office.

Taking the opportunity to get my suspicions of Wayne addressed, I asked him about Wayne'’ alibi, and was told that one of the waiters heard him coughing about five minutes before the body was discovered. The loud cough was what attracted her attention to him. She saw him drinking a glass of water and staying in the kitchen , while she was arranging the mini-desserts at one of the tables. She said she had him in view until the commotion started.

If Wayne was coughing when he came out, then the cigar was probably still burning when he left the office, meaning George was still alive. After his death, the smoke would have dissipated fairly quickly through the open window. Wayne could have faked the cough, but that noise would – and did – attract attention to him. If he were the killer, why take the risk of making yourself more noticeable on your way back from committing the crime?

So, it seemed like Wayne did have a alibi. Back to the drawing board for me.