Murder in the Family Sample

Murder in the Family

Ramona Richards

“If you can’t get rid of the skeleton in your closet, you’d best teach it to dance.”

—George Bernard Shaw

MURDER IN THE FAMILY BY RAMONA RICHARDS Published by Firefly Southern Fiction an imprint of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas 2333 Barton Oaks Dr., Raleigh, NC 27614 ISBN: 978-1-946016-76-8 Copyright © 2019 by Ramona Richards Cover design by Elaina Lee Interior design by AtriTex Technologies P Ltd Available in print from your local bookstore, online, or from the publisher at: ShopLPC.com For more information on this book and the author, visit: www.ramonarichards.com All rights reserved. Non-commercial interests may reproduce portions of this book without the express written permission of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, provided the text does not exceed 500 words. When reproducing text from this book, include the following credit line: “Murder in the Family by Ramona Richards published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas. Used by permission.”

Commercial interests: No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means— electronic, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trademarks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.

Brought to you by the creative team at Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas (LPCBooks.com): Eva Marie Everson, Jessica R. Everson, Shonda Savage Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Richards, Ramona Murder in the Family / Ramona Richards 1st ed.

Printed in the United States of America

1 “Aunt Liz, you can’t keep doing this. It’s going to get you killed.”

A

nd it had.

Molly McClelland’s own words to her aunt now haunted her. Elizabeth Morrow was gone.

Accident?

Murder?

Whatever it had been, Aunt Liz’s death had turned Molly’s carefully crafted world upside down. Now Molly found herself in the one place she never wanted to be: sole heir to a disaster.

Molly sat in her ancient blue Explorer, staring at the building that housed her aunt’s attorney, unwilling to go in. Exhausted from a two-day drive, part of her wished all of this would just go away, that she’d wake up from a dream to find she had never left her friends, never trekked back to the one place she swore she’d never see again.

Molly squeezed the steering wheel, her knuckles white, as family duty warred with the urge to flee back to her real life, her real family in Missouri.

What there is of it.

“Stop it!” Her words hissed through clenched teeth. She refused to let this place—these people—worm their way back into her soul.

She’d spent too many years divesting herself of the past. “I love my life now.” All of it.

No, she didn’t live in Missouri. Molly didn’t really live anywhere.

But she’d come to Alabama from a series of supercell thunderstorms near St. Louis and photos that would pay a lot of bills. The month

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had just started, and April had always been one of their busiest months for storm chasing. But after only one phone call, Molly had been forced to bolt for Alabama while her business partners and best friends, Jimmy and Sarah, had remained behind. And at a moment when Sarah needed her most.

Molly closed her eyes, the image of a gray and comatose Sarah swimming behind the lids. No, this is no time for tears. Focus. Get through this quickly so you can get back to them. She brushed her eyes and sniffed, glancing up at the third-floor windows again.

Dear God, what a phone call that had been. Aunt Liz had died, leaving Molly her entire estate. “I still can’t believe you did this to me, Aunt Liz.” Molly squared her shoulders, peeled her fingers from the steering wheel, and ran her hands through her dark, windblown curls. “But I’m here now. No second thoughts. Jimmy will take care of Sarah till I get back. Just get this over with.” She paused. “And stop talking to yourself.”

This was the meeting with Russell Williams, Liz’s attorney, to find out why—despite all Molly’s requests otherwise—Liz had left the estate to Molly. Williams seemed to be a nice man, at least over the phone, but he apparently had little idea what kind of chaos her aunt’s will was about to unleash.

It’s just stuff. I don’t want any of it. Molly knew without a doubt that Liz had died because of a houseful of stuff. Williams had explained that a stack of storage containers had toppled, crushing Liz’s chest, smothering her. Why? Why had she lived like that, to the point that her own hoarding had killed her? Why hadn’t someone helped her?

Or maybe … just maybe … someone in her family had killed Liz because of something in the estate. It did sound like a most convenient accident.

Molly hated the thought. But Molly knew her family, even if she hadn’t laid eyes on most of them for nearly twenty years. She despised them, and she wouldn’t put it past any of them to murder for greed. She’d left and never looked back. Even when she’d returned to Alabama to photograph tornadoes, Molly had avoided Carterton and her entire family.

She grinned wryly. Must be quite telling that you’d rather face an F5 than your family. There is something desperately wrong with you.

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Molly looked up at the sky. “So what in the world am I doing here now?”

No answer. No need. Molly knew why. Face it. The estate was now hers. Although what she was going to do with it, she had no idea. “Maybe I can refuse it. I could be back in Missouri by Monday.”

She checked her watch one more time. It was time.

The law office occupied the top floor of the three-story Georgian redbrick, with a small parking lot ringed by an overabundance of shrubbery, primarily azaleas and knockout roses in bright reds, pinks, and whites. Irises and tulips filled in the bare spaces along with lines of monkey grass. Molly had parked in a corner space, away from the building and close to the shrubs. She took a deep breath and released it slowly, steeling herself for the next few hours, watching the blossoms shift and wave in a light breeze. She grabbed her purse, a narrow crossbody bag she draped over her shoulder, and swung her legs out.

The springs of the rickety Explorer squeaked as Molly slid into the warm morning, sneakered feet thumping on the pavement. The scent of the rich blooms wafted over her, and she hesitated, looking up at the sky, this time at the bright blue contrasting with puffy cumulus clouds. Amidst the floral swirls, her stormchaser’s nose picked up a hint of ozone.

A front’s moving in. Rain by late tonight, early morning. Not a surprise. Alabama in the spring and summer almost always held the promise of some strong, juicy storms. Molly used her key to lock the door, tucked the ring into her jeans pocket, and turned, drawing up short so she didn’t trip over the two women who seemed to have materialized in the empty space next to the Explorer.

“Molly? Molly McClelland?”

They were a matched set, although at least twenty years separated them. Stout women in denim skirts, they also wore too-tight t-shirts and sneakers. Wild shocks of brownish hair that longed for a brush wafted in a dozen directions.

Molly, at five-nine, towered over both of them, and she took a step back, trying to get a better look, and bumped into her SUV. “Do I know you?”

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“You’re Molly McClelland, aren’t you?” The older one stepped closer, while the younger stared mostly at the ground, glancing up occasionally at Molly. The older one wore glasses, and her hair had unruly shoots of gray throughout. Her t-shirt was a plain yellow that added a sallow tone to her pale skin. The younger one’s dark brown t-shirt declared her allegiance to a country music star who would probably be amused by the shape his face took when stretched across her substantial bosom.

Molly moved to go around them, grazing her shoulder against the Explorer’s mirror. She winced. “I am, but you’ll have to excuse me, I have an appointment—” They blocked her path, planting their feet in a wide stance, like twin sumo wrestlers. “Oh, we know all about that appointment. We have to talk before you see that interfering lawyer.”

Greed brightened their eyes, and Molly bit her lower lip. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. They had to be family, probably cousins, although she didn’t recognize them. Typical. This is why she left Alabama in the first place. She tried to go around them again. “I’m sorry, but—” The older one put up an arm to stop her, and Molly got a whiff of rotten food and stale tobacco. She grimaced as the woman leaned toward her. “What gives you the right to inherit? We’re the ones who took care of Elizabeth, right up to the end, especially Lyric here.”

Lyric grunted an affirmative, and Molly shot a glance at her.

Lyric? Who names their kid Lyric? “I’m sure, but—” “No buts, Miss Molly. That estate is properly ours. You need to sign it over. Liz had no right to give it all to you.” A hand shot out, two fingers poking Molly in the chest.

Molly froze, her eyes narrow, annoyance building in her gut. Her voice dropped, a harsh growl sounding in her tone. “Don’t touch me.

Ever.” The woman stiffened, but Molly continued. “You want more stuff. So you must be kin to me.”

“We are. You don’t recognize us? We’re cousins! I was Kitty Peevey.

Filbyhouse now. Lyric’s my daughter. You don’t remember me?”

The angry words were out of Molly’s mouth before she could stop them. “Certainly not like this. The Kitty Peevey I remember dreamed of being a ballet dancer and getting out of Alabama. She

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would never assault a perfect stranger in a parking lot and demand that she give her more stuff ! Especially if you were involved in her death. Were you? If you were taking care of her, why did you let her die like that?” Molly lunged at them, and both women took an astonished step backward. Molly dodged left, then right, scooting around the two. Kitty and Lyric couldn’t move fast enough as Molly sprinted toward the front door, but they squawked after her.

“How dare you! We didn’t have anything to do with it! That old woman died ’cause she was a fool!”

Their shouts faded as Molly fled into the coolness of the lobby, desperately bounding for the elevator. A glance to her right revealed Kitty and Lyric lumbering through the doors, voices still raised at her, along with at least one fist. Molly bolted for a door marked “Stairs,” and headed up, hoping she could reach the third floor before the elevator. She did, pushing into Russell Williams’ office through glass-paned double doors, shaking and confused.

The receptionist’s head snapped up in alarm. A tidy, richly dressed woman in her fifties, her eyes widened at Molly’s abrupt appearance.

Then, without missing a beat, she said, “Lock the door, Miss McClelland. We’ve been expecting you.” She then pressed a button on her desk phone and spoke into her headset. “Miss McClelland is here. And, from the look of things, Kitty and Lyric are still lurking in the parking lot.” The receptionist paused, listening, although she kept her eyes on Molly, who fumbled for the deadbolt and turned it.

After a moment, the receptionist spoke again into the headset.

“Yes, sir.” She pushed two more buttons, paused, then said, “Security? Third floor. Stat,” before severing the connection. She unplugged the headset from the phone and stepped from behind the desk.

Molly ran her hands through her hair again, trying to fan away some of the heat in her face as the older woman approached. Molly stood almost a foot taller, but the receptionist clearly had command of the office. Her pixie-cut, steel-gray hair framed a petite face sculpted by smooth and natural-toned makeup. Her tailored navy suit gave off the air of a commander awaiting battle orders.

“I’m Shirley. Have a seat, hon.” She touched Molly’s arm with reassurance. “Would you like a beverage? We have Cokes of all kinds, plus filtered, spring, and sparkling water.”

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Molly barely mumbled, “Filtered water would be fine—” “I’ll be right back. Mr. Williams will be out in a moment.” Shirley motioned at the door. “Ignore what you might hear out there.” She disappeared down a hall behind her desk.

Molly couldn’t sit. Too much energy from the encounter still surged in her veins. She paced, breathing deeply, brushing her curls out of her face. Who were those women? And why were they here? In her mind, she paged through her aunt’s most recent letters, searching for a mention of either Lyric or Kitty Filbyhouse.

The outer office of Russell Williams & Associates allowed for a long pace. Soft dark-green carpet padded her steps around the cherrywood receptionist center. The desk matched the walls, with their beveled panels and subtle, impressionistic artwork. The Queen Anne chairs for waiting clients looked comfortable in their sophistication. A faint scent hung in the air, masculine but clean, like linen dried outdoors.

Molly stopped, remembering. Several months ago, her aunt had mentioned someone moving in with her, to take care of daily tasks.

Was that Lyric? But why would they think …?

Shirley returned, and Molly accepted the offered goblet of ice water gratefully. “What was that?” She motioned toward the door.

“We’ve had a few … visitors this week.”

“My relatives?”

“Kitty and Lyric have been the most persistent.”

“They said they’d been with Aunt Liz at the end.”

Shirley paused. “Did they? Well … Mr. Williams will have to explain all that. But if I were you, I wouldn’t believe anything any of your relatives say in regards to your aunt.”

Molly smiled down at her. “Friendly advice?”

“Survival skill.”

Molly laughed, but her nerves made the sound quiver, and she ran one hand through her hair yet again, her fingers tangling in the dark curls.

A look of concern crossed Shirley’s face. “Would you like a brush, dear?”

Molly jerked her hand free. “It wouldn’t do any good.”

“It might help calm you down.”

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A roar sounded outside the door. “Molly McClelland! You’re a thief ! You belong in jail!”

“Dear heavens,” Shirley muttered.

Molly scowled at the door. “It never stops. The greed. It hasn’t stopped in three generations. Destroyed my family, everything I cared about.”

The ruckus changed as two deeper, muted voices joined the fray.

Molly took another step back away from the doors. Shirley touched her back. “Security guards, dear. No worries. They’re familiar with the situation.”

“Molly?” The bass voice behind her sounded smooth, dark, and soft, and it overpowered the commotion outside the door.

She turned … and tried to hide her surprise. Her imagined picture of a Southern lawyer ran between Ben Matlock and Atticus Finch, but the tall man in front of her was nothing like either. More like a retired NBA point guard, was her first thought.

Close-cropped white hair emphasized the deep brown of his skin and eyes. He stood a straight and lean six-foot-five at least, and his three-piece, pinstriped suit looked as if it cost more than a new car, seeming to flow over and caress him instead of just “fitting well.” The elegance of his image extended to his cuff links, tiepin, and the silk handkerchief tucked in the pocket. Even the fine lines in his broad face seemed to have been placed there by an artist instead of age.

His face twitched a bit as an odd thump hit one of the doors, but a smile lit his eyes as he extended an arm toward Molly. “Russell Williams.”

She shook his hand. “Molly McClelland.” But she couldn’t ignore the sounds from the hallway. Molly pointed a trembling hand at the door. “They killed her, didn’t they? Tweedledum and Tweedledee out there. My whole family would gladly kill for more stuff. One of them killed her.”