Murder Most Persuasive

“Why don’t I call Stephen Guilford?” said Miles. Stephen Guilford had been the family lawyer for years.

Scott nodded. “He’s a good guy. He’ll know what to do. He was really good with Reggie’s first divorce.”

“And her second,” added Frances.

“And her third,” said Ann with a smile.

Reggie good-naturedly rolled her eyes. “And no doubt one day he’ll be wonderful with my fourth. Point taken, ladies.”

“So I’ll call him in the morning?” asked Miles.

“Fine. Call him. But the publicity is going to be awful. I just know it,” said Reggie. “The Post is going to have a field day with this. I can see the headline now: Is D.C.’s Best Wedding Planner a Black Widow?” Looking over at Ann, she added, “I guess hindsight is twenty-twenty, but it might have been a good thing if you’d stayed with Joe after all. At least we’d have someone in the police department on our side.”

“Reggie, don’t be absurd,” snapped Laura. “Ann made the right decision and you know it.”

Next to me, Ann bent her head low and said nothing. 

Chapter 10

It was a delightful visit;—perfect, in being much too short.

—Emma

An hour later, the rest of the family left Ann and me surrounded by dirty dishes and empty glasses. Scarlett, who clearly had no Mammy to advise her to eat like a bird in front of others, freely gobbled up the scraps of food left behind. Miles had promised to call Stephen Guilford in the morning, although Frances and Reggie remained unconvinced of the wisdom of that plan. Pouring the last of the coffee into Ann’s cup, I said, “How are you holding up?”

After taking a sip, she said, “I don’t even begin to know how to answer that. It’s bad enough to have to remember that horrible night with Michael, but then to have to process the fact that someone killed him and buried him under our pool! And who’s in charge of it all? Joe!”

“Yeah. I guess it was kind of a stupid question. I was thinking, though, about something Scott said. He mentioned that Michael’s car was gone the morning after the party.”

“So?”

I paused. “Well, I just wondered what happened to it. Did Michael leave and then come back another way, or did someone else drive the car away?”

Ann considered the question. “Does it matter?”

“I think it might. Did his car ever turn up?”

Ann frowned at her coffee cup. “I believe the police eventually found it at the airport in Baltimore.” She nodded as if to confirm this fact. “Yes, they found it at BWI. I remember thinking that the only reason Michael would have left that car behind was if he’d left the country. Do you remember it? He had that Mercedes. I’ve never seen a man love a car so much. I wouldn’t be surprised if he rubbed it nightly with a diaper.”

I did remember the car. It was a C-class Mercedes, which a boyfriend of mine at the time had referred to as a “starter Mercedes.” It was perfect for Michael. Image was all-important to him, and he thought that his car labeled him as an up-and-comer in the world. I remember laughing at the time at how wrapped up into cars guys can get. All I noticed about the car was that it was black. Of course, men probably would say the same thing about women and shoes. Silly men.

“Well, Michael obviously never left the country,” I said. “I guess whoever killed him drove his car to the airport to make everyone think that. The question is, when did that person put it there?”

“I don’t see how the timing really matters,” Ann said.

“It might not, but there are only a few options. One, Michael left St. Michaels the morning of the fifth and then returned later for some unknown reason. Two, Michael left on the fifth, was killed, and then brought back. Three, Michael never left St. Michaels the morning after the party, meaning…”

“Someone who was at the party must have driven it away,” finished Ann, realization dawning.

“It would look that way.”

Ann stared at me. “Shit,” was all she said.

It wasn’t a terribly elegant thought—but wholly accurate. We didn’t say much after that, about the murder or anything else, for that matter. We were both too caught up in our own thoughts. I imagined that Ann was trying to process the sudden reappearance of Joe in her life and the grim possibility that someone we knew had killed Michael. I was wondering how Michael’s car ended up at the airport. I debated bringing it up again, but seeing Ann’s drawn face, I decided that she’d already dealt with enough tonight.

As we cleaned up the dishes, I found myself working out various scenarios in my head, scenarios revolving around different people killing Michael and hiding the body in the construction area for the pool. Could someone have really buried a body there without being seen? Was more than one person involved? I thought about Scott. He was familiar with the construction site and might have resented Michael, but was that really a motive for murder? Hell, I hadn’t liked Michael even before I found out about his attack on Ann, but I still couldn’t fathom someone killing him. Unless, I thought with a sick feeling, Michael’s attack on Ann was the very reason for his murder. I quickly glanced over at Ann, wondering if she’d thought of that. Her face, as she dried the cheese platter and put it away, was unreadable.

We said good night around ten o’clock and went upstairs to bed. I called Peter and quickly brought him up to speed on what had happened. After quietly listening to my tale, he said, “Another murder? Jesus, Elizabeth, I hardly know what to say. For a fact checker, you certainly have a fair amount of excitement thrown your way. Well, at least this time, thank God, you have no reason to get involved.”

When I didn’t answer right away, Peter said, “Elizabeth? You’re not actually thinking of getting involved in this, are you?”

“Well…” I paused, unsure how I really felt.

“Elizabeth! No! Please, no! I know you’ve been thrown into investigations in the past, but in those cases it was because the murder happened when you were there!”

“But in a way, I was there! I was at the Fourth of July party and no one saw Michael after that—or at least no one is admitting to it. After the party, Michael disappeared, and about a week later it was discovered that he’d embezzled Uncle Marty’s money. For all we know, he might have been killed during the party!”

“Yes, but he might not have. I don’t see why you think you need to get involved! Let the police handle this!”

“But this is family! I think Ann wants me to help—”

“Did she ask you to?” Peter interrupted.

“No, not in so many words but—”

“Did she ask in any words?”

“Peter! What is your problem? Ann is upset; she needs me now!”

“Fine! Hold her hand, talk to her, listen to her, but don’t play detective!” Peter took a deep breath and continued in a calmer tone. “I know you helped the police in the past, but Elizabeth, that doesn’t make you some kind of expert.”

“Hey, if it wasn’t for me, the police would have never figured out who killed Gerald Ramsey! I helped clear Aunt Winnie’s name!”

“And you also came very close to getting yourself—and me, I might add—killed!”

I squirmed a bit when he said that. I preferred to gloss over that part when I thought of my first success at sleuthing. “Peter, I’m not doing anything dangerous—nor am I going to do anything