Murder: All in the Family

By Sara C. Folta

As Alexandra Langston, a 28-year-old security consultant living in Burlington, Vermont, prepares for an annual family reunion, she figures that the boredom will be the deadliest part. The reunion is going along about as Alex expected until her rich uncle Arthur is stabbed to death in the kitchen on the final evening, making a bloody mess and forcing the family to stay and eat warm bologna sandwiches for the next week. It seems that the maid did it, until Alex learns that her Uncle Fremont was murdered in a similar manner 40 years earlier. The family includes an eccentric cast of characters, and everyone has a motive. For example, there''s Claire, the beautiful model and raging cocaine addict; and her plain sister Christina, a raging television addict. Cousin Ian was planning on using the inheritance to send his toddler to Harvard. Even Aunt Elaine, whose main interests include chopped vegetables and pot roasts, was involved in a steamy affair. And some of the relatives suspect that Alex herself did it! Alex must sort through a myriad of clues, lies and sex scandals to try to find out who is guilty of the crime.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 28, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469755885

Sara C. Folta

Sara Folta keeps busy by pursuing a doctorate in nutrition when she’s not reading or writing mystery novels. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

She sat down and tried to recover. She was panting, out of breath. He lay at her feet, no longer breathing. She felt her bile rising, a bitter taste of equal parts horror, rage and fear. She was going to run, run far away and leave this behind forever.

But first, the blood. It had splashed on her shirt. She touched her shirt and the blood got on her hands. She went over to the sink and washed, succeeding only in spreading the spot into a larger, coppery oval. She ripped off the shirt and ran it under hot water, then cold, just like she did when she had an accident with her period. Hot, then cold, get the blood out, watch the drain till the flow runs clear. Satisfied, she put the wet shirt on.

There’s blood all over the floor. I’ve got to clean that up, she thought. Not the pool, just the splatters. There was nothing she could do about the pool, about him being dead, but she thought that somehow if she cleaned the periphery, it would be okay again. She set to work, realizing after a minute that she’d grabbed the dish rag and it was now another bloody testament to what she’d done. She walked to the sink. Hot, then cold. The flow ran clear and the spots were gone. She could leave this behind forever now.

Oh my god, it’s on my face, in my hair. She panicked, then walked to the sink once again. She let the water run over her scalp, scalding, flesh turning red. Then cold till the flow ran clear. Now she could leave.

That’s when she saw him. He stood in the doorway. He’d stood there watching the whole thing with Cheshire eyes. She looked away from him, ran away from him, but it was too late. He’d already seen.

CHAPTER ONE

Most people are thankful when it’s Friday. Let the fun begin. Most people don’t wake up and wish it were Tuesday. But I’m not most people, and I had a family reunion to go to over the long weekend.

Not that my family’s so bad—we only have one certified insane person, a couple of addicts, and general garden-variety levels of dysfunction. But then there’s Uncle Arthur.

The alarm clock was still blaring. To my two bed companions, I groaned out something sounding like a five-year-old whining, Do I really have to go? The cats interpreted the question as the breakfast signal and stretched before heading down the hall to the kitchen. I followed their lead, fed the beasts and wished there were someone to do the same for me.

"Of course there was someone," I said in my best imitation of my mother’s thick New York accent. On that thought, I poured a cup of the coffee that I’d set, along with the alarm, to wake me up. Jonathan, the former someone, had never understood the need for coffee. He was one of those annoying people who woke up feeling cheerful and well-rested. I needed the coffee to jumpstart my system, and then I needed a nice run to calm it back down. I still had time for a quick one before going off to look at Mrs. Hunter’s alarm system. On second thought, the run would clear my head to deal with the entire weekend.

The cat-feeding ritual always made me smile. I fed Betty and Buddy at the same time I fed my tropical fish, Dick and Head (they had been a gift from Jonathan just prior to the breakup). The cats could never decide whether they should eat their Moist ’N Squishies or go for the fish while I had the top open. The fish won out about fifty percent of the time and the cats would take flying leaps towards the tank. This time Moist ’N Squishies were a stronger pull.

Returning to the bedroom, I found a t-shirt and shorts in a pile on the floor, and noticed their slight odor. At least there was no one to complain about it—a mild thought referring to my failed relationship. A little smell made me feel as though I was working very hard out there. Sometimes all I had to do was put the smelly clothes on and it would be like I’d already had a great workout, so there was no need to do anything else, and I’d go back to bed. A little odor wasn’t doing the job for me that day though, so I went down to the lake for a four-mile run. It was a clear morning and the mountains were visible across the lake. Each time I ran I was reminded of how nice and healthy Burlington, Vermont was to live in, and I was grateful not to be in Queens, where I grew up, or even Long Island, where my mother had moved a few years back. Of course it was summer, and I wasn’t freezing my tush off, unlike fall, winter, or even spring.

As I neared the end of the run, I started to again feel despondent about the upcoming reunion. I’m twenty-eight, a big girl, but I still feel like a little kid when it comes to my family. Feigning illness and not going wouldn’t be very mature. Besides, the reunion was practically in my backyard, at Uncle Arthur’s summer house in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont.

I opened the door to the back of the house and the office space that I share with Bill. It seemed like a hundred years ago when Alex and Bill set off to conquer the world from PS 56 in Queens. Bill is a lawyer who ended up in Vermont about the same way I did: following our partners. Only his wife died of cancer while Jonathan chose to move on to what he decided are bigger and better things, namely to join his father’s psychiatric practice. Bill’s loss is about two years old while mine is just over the six month mark. I know I’m better off, since Jonathan didn’t die, but sometimes I have to wonder if death would have been better than the nasty break-up this past winter. It certainly would be more final, and my ex wouldn’t be sending me a check for his half of the mortgage and a neatly typed missive on a monthly basis. The good part about the check is that I am now one of the major donors to the local shelter for battered women. I think there is a smidgen of irony in his checks being used for that purpose. I wondered how long I would continue getting the checks. There were still a few things unfinished about that relationship.

Bill starts hours around eight, so fresh coffee was brewing downstairs in our conference room/kitchen. Today’s second cup was good since Bill had made it and not Martin. Martin’s coffee tastes like river sludge. Martin is an undergraduate at the University who is doing some sort of project with Bill over the summer. I helped myself to a cup and poked into Bill’s office to wave a good morning. He was already engaged in a lively telephone conversation about the merits of his current case against a discriminating school district. I moved down the hall to my east-facing office, thinking that all the windows and plants make it look a bit too much like a greenhouse. Other than the nine o’clock with Mrs. Hunter, the day was empty. I needed to get some other accounts going, which meant being ever so nice to Mrs. Hunter, who had lots of wealthy friends. I grimaced at the thought.

A quick shower, breakfast of Cheerios, and a read through weather and funnies: about all the paper was good for. I still hadn’t recovered from the shock that the New York Times couldn’t be home-delivered in this town. At least the lady at the corner market made sure I got a copy every Sunday. The weather was supposed to be sunny and warm, with thundershowers possible Sunday morning. It can’t possibly rain until Monday, I thought, now that would be truly hellish. I imagined being cooped up with all of those relatives in that house for an entire weekend and shuddered.

Somehow it was already twenty of nine, and being on time was a must. The cats gave me their don’t-be-gone-for-days look before clearing the stairs for my sandal-clad feet.

*            *            *

Mrs. Hunter greeted me warmly with her usual fragrant herbal tea. Mrs. Hunter spent the next forty-five minutes talking about her garden and the personalities that the various plants exhibited (they were generally laid-back, except for the marigolds, which tended to be a bit high-strung). I was glad I’d started billing on an hourly basis. Let her talk, I thought, although at this rate becoming a psychiatrist, just like Jonathan, seemed to be an option. Eventually she came around to the security problem. The delay time between opening the door and turning off the alarm was too short for her. Why this had taken her a month to figure out, I couldn’t say.

Have the police been coming by? I inquired.

Oh dear, no, should they have been?

I mean because the alarm has been going off?

I didn’t know it was going off. Did they tell you that?

I bit my tongue and asked if she had been able to deactivate the alarm in time. Oh, of course, dear. You know the story of the boy who cried wolf? Oh, probably not, you’re from New York City, it would mean nothing to you. I just get so nervous and I’m afraid that if I don’t get to it in time, and then the police come, and it was just me not getting to it in time, the next time, well, if it is for real, they won’t come at all because they will think it’s just me. Such is probably not the case in a town like ours, where the police barely have enough to do to justify their existence. I didn’t explain this, however.

Right, how long would you like? You have two minutes now.

Well, is five too long?

Five is a bit long—why don’t we try three minutes and see how it goes? I even felt like a doctor, prescribing medication, cajoling the patient to try it before giving up on it. I wondered if that was how Jonathan felt when he prescribed drugs to his patients. I wondered if he even felt at all. Unfair, but a good question to ask him at some point. Sorry, what was that, Mrs. Hunter?

My dear, you weren’t listening. I said three, well I said I’ll give three a try. It still seems a bit short but maybe it will keep me moving. For some reason, that made her chuckle to herself.

It took me all of a minute to reprogram the thing, and another half an hour to extricate myself from her garden. Even though I wanted to get out of there, and I didn’t buy into her psychology of plants bit, the garden was spectacular, seeming to have sprung from the depths of the mud of March. I also kept reminding myself of her connections to other wealthy homeowners in the neighborhood to keep from becoming sarcastic.

It was almost eleven by the time I was finally on my way down her half-mile drive. When I returned to my office, Martin had four incredibly neatly written messages waiting for me. He generally answers the phones when he’s there. I felt guilty when I first caught myself asking him to run errands or do photocopying, but he is generally so willing that now I take him for granted. Two of the notes looked promising: inquiries about improving security. Of course, you never could tell what a person might mean by that. I’m not a bodyguard, a bounty hunter, or a hitman.

The third message was from the University. I do forty billable hours of consulting work for them a month. I’ve given my professional opinion on everything from music theft from the campus radio station to date rape issues. Mostly I go to meetings and listen to them talk about spending money they don’t have. That’s what they wanted me to do on Monday afternoon at the monthly security commission meeting. The message was about nailing down the time and location.

I glanced with chagrin at the fourth message, from my Uncle Arthur, infamous host of the weekend gathering. Maybe his house burned down and he’s calling to cancel, I thought hopefully. And maybe Mrs. Hunter’s flowers have all pulled themselves up by their roots and declared mutiny. I returned the other two messages first. No one answered at the first. The second call was to a man who had heard that I specialized in security systems for older homes. I confirmed that he had heard correctly and he said he was concerned about security because his wife was going to have a baby. There wasn’t a baby-stealer running rampant in Burlington last time I’d checked, but I didn’t tell him that. I made the obligatory congratulations and told him that I had an opening at noon on Tuesday. Actually the whole day was free but I liked to make myself sound busier than I actually was. My business is successful but I was going through a slow period.

Noon would actually be perfect since Mary will be back from her exercise class. They say that it helps a lot to do that sort of thing before the actual birth. Great, Mary and Wally and exercise classes and security for the baby. At least the address was on a somewhat main road with a killer view of the lake. I explained how my fee schedule worked and we offered pleasant good-byes.

That left the message from Uncle Arthur. It was close to noon, so I decided to walk down to my favorite deli first and indulge in a Hummus Delight, consisting of Syrian bread, hummus, a ton of veggies, some dill dressing, and cheese. My mouth was totally watering as Martin yelled to me that my uncle was on the line.

Hello, Arthur.

Alexandra, why didn’t you return my message? I needed to speak to you urgently, and you didn’t bother to call me back. And please, dear, call me Uncle. I don’t recall when or why I stopped calling Arthur uncle. I just realized at a young age that he was a jerk. In almost every conversation I’ve had with him since, he’s told me to call him Uncle. I’m not giving in.

I just walked into the office this minute.

Yes, well, your male secretary said as much but. Well. I need you to be a good niece and bring a couple things out tonight when you bring your dear mother around. Now, do you have a pen and a piece of paper ready? Another one of his endearing traits—condescension. I thought he had raised it to an art form. Although Jonathan is quite a master.

Sorry, Arthur, I just don’t have time.

We need to get wine. That imbecile assistant of mine forgot to bring it here from the city. What they sell at the deli-mart here is certainly not drinkable. I’ve already called in an order to the Pearl Street liquor store, you need only pick it up. Furthermore, we will need some salad and my maid hasn’t time to pick up any more food. There should be sixteen or so of us tonight. Before I could protest, he said he had another call, and told me he looked forward to seeing me this evening. By six, at the latest.

I sat listening to the buzz of the dial tone, once again amazed at his ability to get people to do things for him. I sighed. This also went beyond just getting us to take care of dinner for him; it brought up an old familiar issue. My father died when I was four, and my mother had struggled to make ends meet. She hadn’t done as badly as some; she was a nurse, and her job did pay somewhat decently, and my grandparents had helped out as well. But I still remember hushed conversations amongst the family about how my rich Uncle Arthur should be helping out. My mother always defended him, but I couldn’t help wondering about yet another instance of Arthur getting Mother to pay for something he could amply afford. I would try every trick in the book to pay for the food and wine myself so that Mother wouldn’t have to. I sighed. Despite everything it would be kind of fun to do a little shopping with Mom. That thought brought me back to the Hummus Delight, and I went down to the deli before I could get sidetracked by another relative, or potential client for that matter.

*            *            *

I was still fuming about Uncle Arthur, or I would have noticed before I walked into the deli, and I would have gone somewhere else. Despite my craving for the Hummus Delight, my desire not to see Jim was even greater. In some ways I would be eternally grateful to him, since he was partly responsible for my breakup with Jonathan. On the other hand, the way it ended was entirely silly. Jonathan and I had had a fight. I think it started out about the car. Anytime something went wrong, we couldn’t agree on what to do about it. Jonathan knows absolutely nothing about cars but I think they taught him in medical school that testosterone and motor oil are the same substance. At the very least he thinks his diagnostic skills apply to cars as well as people, despite the fact that he tends to think it’s a problem with the muffler when the car doesn’t start, that sort of thing. Anyway it went from cars into a big, major fight. What bothered me the most was his underlying belief that he is so much smarter than I am, not to mention so much more important, because of his M.D. degree. He as much as said that running my own business didn’t mean anything compared to all the people he helped every day. At one point I stormed out and went to the local cop bar; I know a few cops from talking to them about security matters. I was actually looking for a couple female cops that I’d