Free A Motor for Murder (Veronica Margreve Mysteries Book 1) by Valerie Murmel Page B

from the 1930s murals of Thomas Hart Benton. I assumed the safe was behind one of those; probably behind the one showing a speeding steam train, a propeller plane taking off, a flying zeppelin and a pumping piston, as it was further from the door. It seemed, true to form, George liked images of powerful machines and mechanical symbols of progress in action. A flat-screen TV was hanging on the other wall. There were two bookcases and what looked like filing cabinets by the window. I checked the desk drawers – they were locked. The room still vaguely smelled of cigars. There were no papers on top of the desk.
     
    I stood and looked around, trying to imagine what actually happened that night.
    If George stood by the window, someone could have pushed him off. George was apparently very drunk and unsteady on his feet, so it would not have been that hard to do. The person to push a body of George’s size would need to be moderately strong. I remembered Detective Davis mentioning that there had been cigar ash on the window sill. George was probably standing or sitting near there while he was smoking.
     
    Did this mean it was a pre-meditated crime, or not? Someone probably came into the office wanting to talk to George. They could have had a fight, and the other person could have pushed George, who, being so drunk, tumbled down to the pool below. Or the killer might have been thinking of a way to get rid of George Ellis for one reason or another, and saw the perfect opportunity. If it was pre-meditated, how could the killer be sure that George would die? George was so drunk, I thought that him drowning was extremely likely, but that a small chance remained that he would survive the fall. So I was leaning towards the idea that it was a spur-of-the-moment crime, maybe the result of an escalating argument.
     
     
     
     
    I checked on Rita: she was still asleep and her breathing sounded normal. I went back downstairs, towards the noise of the TV. I felt the need to make sure that there was another living, breathing person in the house besides the sleeping Rita, that the TV sounds were not just disembodied voices. I may have started to feel Rita's terror towards the house, like it was a malevolent entity; and wanted to find and talk to another living human in there.
     
    The door to the source of the TV noises was opened part-way. I knocked, waited a second for an answer, and then opened it all the way.
    The TV was on, images of blonde beautiful shallow 'reality'-TV people doing glamorous and shallow 'reality'-TV things floating on the screen, and some stilted dialog coming from it. Roger was sitting on the couch and not paying any attention to the TV, but typing on the laptop on his lap, with a look of concentration on his face. He looked like a kid more than ever, his hair sticking up on top of his head. He stopped hitting the keys and wrinkled his nose, thinking. I came closer and said “Hi!”
    “Oh, I didn't notice you.”
    “Sorry to intrude. Rita is asleep. She's really tired. I just wanted to...” Do what? I didn't really know how to put my thoughts and feelings into words: I was feeling sorry for both of them, wanted to protect them, envelop them in a safe cocoon. “... see how you were doing.”
    “Uh I'm fine. Just working.” He frowned. I obviously interrupted his train of thought.
    “I thought you worked at your office?” I felt like I was blabbing, and blushed. His face showed strain – probably from the funeral earlier in the day, and thinking about his work, and from having to talk to a stranger who just barged into the room. He had recently lost a close family member to a violent death in this same house – a death in which another human was at fault. And he must have understood that his own sister was under suspicion of the crime.
    “No, I usually go there around 11:30. In the mornings I do work from here, the grab a snack and go.”
    “What time do you normally have lunch?” This was a trivial and