Evil Under the Moon (Moon Mystery Series Book 5)

  EVIL UNDER THE MOON

  By

  Helen Haught Fanick

  EPIGRAPH

  Where there is mystery, it is generally suspected

  there must also be evil.

  Lord Byron

  For Carol and Lyle

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  MOON SIGNS EXCERPT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  It actually was a dark and stormy night when Lea Logan was murdered. Her death occurred almost five years ago, but I managed to find weather information for that night on my new computer. I also found that the moon was waning then, which, as everyone knows, is a time of turmoil and trouble.

  I said everyone, but not everyone believes the phases of the moon affect our lives. Our Grandmother Flynn taught us all she knew about the subject, but my sister Andrea looks upon these ideas as superstition and nonsense.

  In spite of our conflicting opinions on the subject, Andrea and I work well together when it comes to investigating murder. This is a talent that manifested itself slowly over the past few years, mainly because of Andrea’s brilliant and analytical mind. It was because of this that Jordan McAlister, who was just elected sheriff of Baxter County, welcomed us as volunteers to help with a backlog of old cases. These cases had occurred over a period of years, mostly when Walter Stanley was sheriff.

  It appears Stanley had shuffled cases he considered less important to the bottom of his to-do list. Lea Logan was a waitress at the Martindale Country Club where he was a member, and maybe that’s why Stanley preferred to ignore her murder. He may have considered her a peon whose death wasn’t worth wasting a lot of time on. Maybe he was influenced by the fact that her family didn’t seem overly concerned about her death. Or maybe it was something more than that.

  I don’t want to sound like a drama queen, but Andrea and I made a serious enemy of Walter Stanley last year. We had unsatisfactory dealings with him when we were investigating a disappearance, and we were determined to get him out of office. I even went so far as buying a computer and learning how to use it in our campaign for Jordan. We enlisted all our friends to help, and we were successful in getting her elected.

  When we volunteered to work in the sheriff’s office, our plan was to spend one day a week checking out leads or researching in the tiny office she set up for us in the basement of the courthouse. The room previously was used for storage of discarded furniture, and then Jordan turned it into a room for volunteers. After most of the old furniture was hauled away, I noticed a large safe in a corner of the room, which remained there after the room was cleared. I didn’t give it much thought at the time; I was too interested in getting started on our case.

  Most of the desks and other pieces were sold at an auction on the courthouse lawn—we’re pretty informal here in Baxter County. Two battered and scratched metal models that looked as if they’d been made in the forties were left for Andrea and me. In addition, we had two wobbly office chairs, two straight chairs against the wall, and two computers. Andrea always brought her laptop for reasons known only to her.

  A high window stretched across the wall near the ceiling. We hadn’t even considered figuring out whether it could be opened, because it’s still chilly in Martindale, Baxter County, West Virginia, in April. Maybe when spring arrived—in actuality and not on the calendar—we’d see if we could open it and let in a refreshing breeze. For now, we’d breathe the faintly musty air of the basement. We could see the feet and legs of people passing by on the sidewalk.

  The room was intended for all volunteers, but so far Andrea and I were the only ones who had offered our services. Well, that isn’t exactly the case. Our friend Jack Bradley, a local jeweler who helped us a lot recently when we were investigating the disappearance I mentioned earlier, wants to assist us in any way he can, but he’s busy most of the time at his shop.

  It took Jordan a while to get her office organized before she asked us to help. She wanted us to look at cold cases, and the first one she asked us to investigate was the murder of Lea Logan. The three of us went through the janitor’s area of the courthouse basement and into a smaller room at the back where files are kept. We found a box of meager notes on the case along with the medical examiner’s report, a photo of Lea, and a cell phone. We found nothing on the sheriff’s computer system. It seems Walter Stanley was slow in bringing the office into the computer age, at least for the cases he considered less important.

  Inside the box we brought back to our office—that’s what I’m calling the volunteer’s room—we found the report of the investigating deputy and notes made by various officers who had interviewed Lea’s friends and family. I looked at the ME’s report. “The medical examiner says Lea Logan was strangled. Her body was found on the golf course by the greenkeeper. This was early on the morning of July 19. The medical examiner determined that her death had occurred between one and two a.m.”

  “I think the person who used to be called the greenkeeper is now known as the course superintendent,” Andrea said.

  “Okay, we’ll call him that from now on.” I went back to thinking about the location of the body. “If she died on the golf course, wouldn’t this be a case for the city police?”

  “I understand the country club is located within the city limits, but not the golf course. That’s the reason the county’s handling this.” She shuffled through the rest of the papers from the box. “This is interesting—I don’t see anything from the course superintendent.” She went back through the documents carefully again.

  “It must have been lost. They surely interviewed him,” I said.

  “That would have been a must. Let’s read through this material, but I think we have to go back and talk to everyone, plus a few more if we can find anyone who might know something.”

  Andrea’s a stickler for doing things right, and I must admit she gets results. “I agree,” I said. “Hand me each page when you finish with it. I’ll make a list of those we need to talk to and where we can find them after I read their record.” Jordan had stashed a few office supplies in each desk, and I pulled out a legal pad and a pen.

  We had barely gotten started when a young woman appeared at our door. She was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt under a parka that was unzipped. Her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail. “Are you the ladies that are working with the sheriff’s office on Lea’s case?”

  “Yes. Come in. I’m Andrea Flynn, and this is my sister, Kathleen Williamson. We’re volunteers here.”

  I’d have preferred it if Andrea would call us consultants, like Castle, or Sherlock and Joan. It sounded so much more sophisticated and important. She informed me early on, however, that consultants are paid, so we’d have to be satisfied with being known as volunteers.

  Our office was so small that our desks faced each other with no room between, so to confer with the young woman, we rolled our chairs to where the two stood against the wall. “Please have a seat,” Andrea said.

  She took a deep breath. “I’m Cindy Atkins. Lea and I were friends.”

  It was obvious that she was nervous. I wished we had a cup of tea or something to offer her, but we hadn’t gotten that far with setting up the office.
I smiled reassuringly. “How can we help you?”

  “I don’t know if I should be here. Can I tell you something confidentially?”

  Andrea was looking as if she couldn’t decide how to reply to this. Finally she said, “We can’t guarantee that what you tell us will never come out, but we’ll try to keep our source a secret if possible.”

  “I feel I have to do this for Lea. She would have done it for me.”

  “I’ve just finished reading the statement you gave at the time. You and Lea were close friends and roommates.”

  “Yes. We were roommates at West Liberty, and we worked down here in the summers to earn some money for the fall semester. It was our second summer working at the country club when Lea was killed.”

  Andrea hadn’t passed Cindy’s statement to me yet when she appeared at our door, so I didn’t know what it said. “Were you and Lea roommates here in Martindale?”

  “Yes. We lived at the Riverview Apartments.” She sat there with her hands folded in her lap.

  I could see she was going to have to be prodded. “Did you have something more to tell us than what’s in your statement?”

  She looked as if she were about to cry. “I think I know who killed her.”

  “Please go on,” Andrea said.

  Cindy glanced at the door, and I got up and closed it. “I’m not being recorded, am I?” she said.

  “No, we’re not that sophisticated around here yet,” Andrea said. “I’ll take a few notes on my pad, that’s all.”

  “I think it was Chester Hubbard.”

  Andrea wrote the name on her pad. “What makes you think he killed Lea?”

  Now that she had given us the name, Cindy seemed more relaxed. “He was always, like, stalking her. She said he found her in the kitchen one night when she was working late, helping clean up. He grabbed her and kissed her before she knew what was happening. She pushed him away and told him to leave her alone. He kind of threatened that she’d be fired if she didn’t cooperate.”

  “This is Chester Hubbard who owns the Chevy dealership?” I asked.

  “Yeah, that’s the one. He was president of the country club. Still is.”

  “And by ‘cooperate,’ you mean have sex with him?” Andrea asked.

  Cindy looked startled that someone Andrea’s age—we’re both in our sixties—would use the word. “Yes, that’s what I mean.”

  Andrea went to the desk, picked up a document, and looked at it again. “You don’t mention him in the statement you gave the sheriff.”

  Tears were running down Cindy’s face now. “I know. I’m embarrassed about that. I was afraid.”

  “Why were you afraid?” I asked.

  “He and the sheriff were close…still are. I was afraid he’d find out I accused him and kill me, too.”

  I was a little annoyed that she was calling Walter Stanley “the sheriff,” when the whole county knows he was ousted by Jordan. “You’re talking about the former sheriff, Walter Stanley?”

  “Yes, I meant the former sheriff. I’m back at West Liberty now, but I heard about the election.”

  “Did Lea tell you anything more about Chester Hubbard?” Andrea asked.

  “She mentioned frequently that he was bothering her, and then one night she didn’t come to the apartment after work. I was afraid that maybe he had threatened her so often that she agreed to go to a motel or something with him. Then the next morning her body was found.”

  “Did she have a boyfriend?” I asked.

  “She was dating Henry Weaver at West Liberty. Everybody called him Hank. He was from Benwood, too. I don’t know where he is now. We didn’t stay in touch after he graduated.”

  “What was his major?”

  “I think it was something called athletic training. I’m not sure…”

  “What about Lea?” I asked

  “She was in elementary education, although she told me she wasn’t sure she wanted to be a teacher. She didn’t know what she wanted to do, exactly.”

  “How did you find out we’re looking into Lea’s murder?” I asked.

  “I came down to have lunch with friends at the Garden Room—and to tell the manager I want to work again this summer if he has a spot for me. My friends had heard about you and told me.”

  “I take it the Garden Room is the restaurant at the country club?”

  “That’s right. Mr. Kerr said I’ll be needed this summer, and I’ll need the money. I’m working on my master’s degree.”

  The name of the place conjured up a vision of white tablecloths, sparkling crystal, and shining silverware, all surrounded by lush greenery. “Can anyone eat there, or is it for members only?”

  “It’s members only—and their guests.”

  Shucks. It sounded like the type of place where I’d love to have lunch. Doubtful we knew a member who could invite us, unless it was Jack Bradley, our jeweler friend.

  “How can we get in touch if we need more information?” Andrea asked.

  Cindy gave her cell number and address, and Andrea recorded both on her notepad. “I’ll call or text if something comes up that I need to clarify with you. I’d appreciate it if you’d ask around at school about Henry Weaver. Maybe someone there knows where he is now.” She tore off a sheet of paper and wrote her number on it. “Call me if you find out anything about him.”

  Cindy agreed and left, and I sat there thinking about Chester Hubbard. I didn’t want to admit it to Andrea, or anyone else for that matter, but I knew I’d be intimidated by interviewing those in high places in our county. Fortunately, the same couldn’t be said of Andrea. She’s totally at ease in any situation that comes up, or seems to be. Now if I could just avoid confronting someone like Hubbard on my own, I’d be okay.

  I rolled my chair back to my desk. “It sounds like we’re well on the way to solving this case. What’ll it take to get Chester Hubbard charged with Lea’s murder?”

  “It’s called evidence, and we don’t have any. He may have been hitting on Lea, but that doesn’t mean he killed her.”

  “I suppose he’s married.”

  “Probably. I’ll find out soon enough.” She clicked away on the computer. “His wife is Sue Temple Hubbard. He has two kids.”

  “You’ll have to show me how to find people on the computer,” I said.

  “Someday soon—for now, let’s finish reading through these documents.” She handed me one she’d just finished.

  I read the report of the deputy in charge of the case at the time:

  I received a call at 6:37 a.m. on July 19 and was dispatched to the Martindale Country Club golf course. I was admitted at the country club entrance and made my way to the 15th hole on the golf course. I met the greenkeeper, Farley Harper, there and he directed my attention to a body under a large tree. Farley said the tree is a sycamore. It was barely getting daylight and I asked him how he happened to notice the body. He said his dog started barking under the tree and he went to see what was wrong. The dog wasn’t around and Farley said he ran on down to the river. The body was that of a young woman. I looked in her purse and found out that her name was Lea Logan. A pay slip showed she worked in the Garden Room at the country club. I couldn’t see any visible signs of trauma but it wasn’t fully light yet. She was fully clothed and a purse was beside her on the ground. I secured the purse in an evidence bag. Medical Examiner Dr. Phil Grant arrived with his assistant. They took the body away and advised me that the young lady appears to have been strangled. An autopsy will be done to determine the cause of death.

  Deputy Edmund Brady

  “I wonder whether this Deputy Brady is still employed by the sheriff’s office, now that Jordan has taken over,” I said.

  Andrea opened a desk drawer. “She gave me a list of all the sheriff’s office personnel…let’s see…there’s no Deputy Brady on it. I guess she got rid of him.”

  “Do you think she fired most of the people who were here with Sheriff Stanley?”

  “She told me she kept two di
spatchers and five deputies she thought did good work when she was working with them.” Jordan was a deputy working for Walter Stanley when we first met her. She was fired later because she was helping us on the disappearance case I mentioned earlier.

  Andrea took a phone book from her desk drawer and leafed through it. “There’s an Edmund Brady listed here. We’ll interview him as soon as he can see us.” She made a note of the phone number and address.

  We continued through the rest of the documents without finding much of importance. The chef of the Garden Room, Tony Calabria, said he hadn’t noticed anything unusual about Lea’s behavior prior to the murder. She finished her shift and left the restaurant at 10 p.m. July 18, the night before the murder.

  “I wonder where Lea was between 10 p.m. on the 18th and the time she was murdered on the 19th…sometime between 1 and 2 a.m., according to the coroner.”

  Andrea passed another paper my way. “That’s the last one, and there’s not a clue in any of them as to where she was during that time. Finding that out might solve the case for us—or it might not, of course. I think one of the first things we need to do is to check out the area where her body was found.”

  “There wouldn’t be anything left there after all this time. Besides, we’ll never get permission to go through the country club and onto the golf course.”

  “There’s a hike and bike trail along the river, remember. We can walk that way, and then climb up the bank when we see a big sycamore. If we see the 15th hole, we’ll know we’re on the right track.”

  The river, of course, is the Ohio River, which flows beside Martindale on its way to the Mississippi. One of the main streets ends in a boat ramp, and we walked down that way to get to the trail. As we went along, we could see a line of houses on the bank and finally, a fence and a large building that we were sure was the country club. Trees surrounded it, and its white façade shone through the branches.

  Soon we were beyond the fence and could see above us the manicured golf course. Unfortunately, it was lined with trees, and many of them were sycamores. Neither of us understood golf courses, but we guessed the 15th hole would be near the end. We kept on till we could see where the golf course ended at a fence with more houses beyond.