Moonlight Can Be Murder

    Moonlight Can Be Murder

                     A Ned McNeil Cozy Mystery by Blanche Day Manos

        My car’s headlights cut a yellow swath through the swirling snow. Forty years ago, Uncle Javin’s driveway had not seemed so long but memories dim with time. Gray clouds with their burden of snow, trees crowding either side of the driveway, plus the lateness of the December day made it impossible to see more than a few yards ahead, but at last the dark shape of Javin Granger’s Victorian house loomed through the winter twilight. The sight brought a lump to my throat as I thought of the last time I had seen this lovely home.

My parents and I had lived on the other side of my hometown of Ednalee, Oklahoma. We visited Uncle Javin often and I, as a youngster, ran all through the upstairs, downstairs, and the basement. Those visits ended when he was sent to prison, in 1974 for killing his neighbor, Eldon Decker. The house which Mom called the old home place remained locked and empty until Uncle Javin’s release from prison last year. When I was twelve, my parents and I moved to Atlanta and there had been no need to return to Ednalee – until I received his letters.

My uncle sent me two letters, the first one mailed three weeks earlier, written in the shaky hand of the aged.

“Please come, Nettie,” he wrote. “You need to come home.”

His letter was noteworthy not only for its terseness but also for its rarity. Never before had my mother’s older brother written to me. And then, a few days later came the second message: “You’ve got to get here soon. I must talk to you. Strange things are happening, and there’s something you should know before it’s too late. Please stay here in my house. I think you’ll be safe enough. Hurry.”

Those words shocked me. There was something I should know? And why should there be any question about my safety? I started making plans to close my Atlanta apartment. Then, I packed my suitcase and drove the 800 miles to Oklahoma.

My mother died only last year and Dad, the year before. Mom’s younger brother suffered a fatal fall while repairing the roof of his house. Being an only child, I grew up pretty much alone. My husband Sloan died five years ago and we have no children, I did not particularly relish the idea of being left on this earth with no family. Uncle Javin’s letters worried me. Was he in danger?  He was evidently concerned and fearful about something. He needed me; this seemed even more important than my job as a bookkeeper with Krohman Department Store.

Besides, there was another, more sinister reason for leaving Atlanta. It had to do with something I saw, or perhaps something that someone thought I saw.

One evening in October, I went shopping at a near-by mall. When I left the store and started walking back to my car in the crowded parking garage, I noticed a flurry of activity in the aisle behind me. Two men, dressed in sweaters and knit caps held the arms of a third, well-dressed man. As I watched, they hustled him toward a long, dark car.

Obviously, the third gentleman did not want to go with these two and put up a fight. While I stared, shopping bag slipping from my hand, the man wearing the suit looked straight at me and shouted, “Help me!”

I yelled for them to stop but the two assailants pushed their victim into the dark car, jumped in, and sped off. As they drove under a light in the garage, I glimpsed the car tag. I called the police, reported a possible kidnapping, and gave them the car’s description and tag number.

The next day, the Atlanta papers trumpeted the story. Congressman Edward Langlier had been kidnapped. The police located the car but not the congressman. He was missing.

Since I was the only witness, I spent some time in the police station, describing what I saw. No, I had not gotten a good look at the kidnappers but I might be able to recognize them again. Possibly.

After that, strange things started happening. Several times, as I drove, I noticed a gray sedan following closely behind me. I got a dozen strange phone calls; just calls with no number or name on caller ID and nobody on the other end of the line. A dead bird showed up outside my apartment door, and an anonymous letter arrived with words clipped from a newspaper advising me to forget what I had seen in the parking garage.

Now, I’m no coward, but then, I’ve never considered myself overly brave. I reported these instances to the authorities, and took them the letter and dead bird, but they seemed unable to get any leads. They simply told me to be careful and keep in touch.

In that large, impersonal police force, one particular detective, Max Shelman, took a special interest in the case. He phoned several times to ask if I was all right. He even took me to lunch once, after I went to the station with anonymous note in hand. Max Shelman was of medium height, slim, with brown hair cut very short, brown eyes, and an engaging warmth about him. With a little encouragement, our friendship might have grown, but I simply was not interested. The romantic part of my life died with my husband. I had neither time nor inclination for another attachment that could be severed suddenly and completely, leaving me with an even more damaged heart.

So, I did a most extraordinary thing. I, Nettie Elizabeth Duncan McNeil, resigned from my job, packed my bags, climbed into my black Ford Escape, and headed west.

Dad and Mom never wavered in maintaining Javin’s innocence even though he himself confessed, forty years ago, to the murder of Eldon Decker.

“He didn’t do it,” Mama had said. “He’s protecting somebody.”

Dad would nod his head and mutter, “Sure as the world, that’s what he’s doing.”

However, the jury in Ednalee found Javin guilty and sentenced him to forty years in the state penitentiary. My parents were crushed. A small town has its share of gossips and armchair jurors and my hometown of Ednalee became uncomfortable for us. We moved to Georgia and began a new life there.

When at last the house emerged fully through the curtain of snow, it seemed strange that no light shone from the living room windows. Surely Uncle Javin re-activated an account with the electric company. My grandparents wired the house with electricity many years ago.

I parked in front of the wrought-iron fence surrounding the Granger yard. Scooting out of my SUV, I yanked one suitcase from the rear seat and locked the doors behind me. Tomorrow would be time enough to unload more luggage. Right now I felt an urgency to talk to my uncle.

Pulling my flashlight from my purse, I pushed open the gate and waded through the snow toward the house.

The two-storied residence was built in an L-shape, with a square porch in the angle of the L. Steep wooden steps led to this porch. With relief, I stepped under its sheltering roof. The beautiful brass door knocker looked just as it had many years before. Banging it against the large strike plate, I waited. Not getting any response, I knocked on the door.

“Uncle Javin!” I called. “Uncle Javin, it’s Nettie.”

Still, no answer. The cold penetrated my coat and I shivered. It felt strange to stand outside the silent, familiar old house, waiting for my uncle to unlock the door. Set back from the street and surrounded by trees, this imposing Victorian was isolated from any near neighbors. No one in town knew I was here. Nobody would be checking to see if I had arrived safely.

Taking hold of the doorknob, I pushed. Creaking mightily, the heavy door swung on its hinges. Inside was as dark as pitch. Shadowy shapes of loveseat, chairs, and tables appeared in the beam of my flashlight.

Some premonition nibbled at my mind. My uncle had asked me to come. He knew when I would arrive, but where was he?

Finding the light switch by the door, I pressed it and the crystal chandelier hanging from the ten-foot ceiling blazed, revealing a deserted parlor, silent and cold.

My flashlight no longer needed, I stepped hesitantly through the parlor and into the dining room. A few coals glowed in the fireplace in the dining room, like red eyes winking at me. Uncle Javin and my grandparents before him, used this large room as a combination living/dining area mostly because the fireplace made it warmer. In the summer, the family ate in the small sunroom just off the dining room or in the kitchen itself. I didn’t bother turning on other lights until I got to the kitchen. When I flipped the light switch inside the kitchen door, sudden brightness revealed a room exactly as I remembered it. Evidently, my uncle did not believe in updates or simply liked the kitchen the way it was. Small, with outdated fixtures, the kitchen was straight out of the past; however, those stainless steel fixtures shone. A wood table with four chairs, gleaming white stove with yellow trim, small refrigerator and single porcelain sink, and a yellow vinyl cabinet top free of clutter completed the room; but, there was no aroma of food or fresh-perked coffee. The room had an empty, unused feel.

Where was Uncle Javin? What should I do now? I gripped my cell phone in my coat pocket. Who should I call? What acquaintances were left in my home town?