A Grave Issue Read online

  “Who helped? Her parents?” I didn’t think they had anywhere near that amount of money either.

  Michelle sat back in her chair. “Alan Brewer cosigned on all four loans.”

  Alan and Monique? My mind began to race. Monique had that same honey-blonde hair as Christine, Marie, Trixie Warner, Ella Keller, and Mandy Smith. The color that Rosemarie had dyed hers to be. Could Monique be in line to be the next entrepreneur that Alan was helping finance her dreams? Or maybe she was in line to be the next Mrs. Brewer? Easy terms on a loan were one thing. Huge chunks of cash invested in property were another. What had I heard Christine saying at the funeral? That she always thought there was more money hidden somewhere? Was Alan buying things in Monique’s name to hide assets from Rosemarie? Had he done the same thing to Christine?

  We are all creatures of habit. It’s the way most of us are hardwired. We like the rhythm and order of routine. Maybe Alan’s routine was to trade in one wife for another every few years and to take as much of his money with him as he could. Had it led to his death?

  “Thanks, Michelle.” I closed up the binders. “This has been very helpful.”

  “No problem at all.” She grabbed her purse and walked to the door with me.

  “So what was that flavor-of-the-week crack about?” I asked.

  “Seriously?” She laughed.

  “Yeah, seriously.”

  “Well, let’s see. Nate Johar is moping around like someone kicked his dog. You’re on the front page of the Free Press every other day. Luke Butler chases you to Tappiano’s every chance he gets. That all pretty much started when you came back to town.”

  I blushed. I hadn’t thought of any of it like that. Flavor of the week, huh?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I took the addresses of the four properties and went looking to see what Monique had purchased. It was a gorgeous day for a drive. The sky soared above me, blue and blank. The hills in the distance looked golden and soft, dotted with clumps of green live oak. I knew up close they’d be sunstruck brown grass, but it didn’t stop me from admiring the beautiful golden shades against the blue sky. The map program on my phone told me to turn off the highway onto a county road. I followed it for about a mile, then the road took a hard left. I stayed with it. After a series of three more zigs and at least one zag, I turned into a driveway and then stopped. A substantial gate rose in front of me.

  I got out and tugged on the gate. It wasn’t budging. Then I noticed the rather substantial lock it had to go with its height and breadth.

  Lots of people out here fenced their properties. But six-foot-high fences? Not so much. With fences come gates, but locked gates? Also not so typical. Kyle and Lola were much more the norm with their lack of locks. I peered through the bars but couldn’t see much. Someone had planted oleanders along the fence line. Oleanders grow like weeds in Northern California. They need next to no water and make great privacy breaks. Plus they have pretty flowers. Poisonous as hell, but as long as you’re not in the habit of munching on your landscaping, it doesn’t matter too much. It’s why you see them on so many highway medians and along so many properties. At any rate, these oleanders were doing just fine, with glossy green leaves and sprays of delicate pink flowers. They were pretty much all I could see. What I could see didn’t look so great. In fact, it looked an awful lot like the areas around my favorite hike that were coming back from the fire. Black scorched soil with a few shoots of green coming through. So Michelle was right. This property was one that had been burned in the King Snake Fire and then sold rather than rebuilt. But what the heck was Monique doing with it? She certainly wasn’t living on it, and if anyone else was, they hadn’t gotten around to landscaping anything but the fence line.

  I got in my car and drove to the second property on my list. Another fence. Another gate. Another lock. More oleanders. On the third address, though, I got a better look at what was inside. The oleanders planted along the edge of the property hadn’t been doing quite as well as they had at the others. I could only see the corner of the structure at the top of the driveway, but it was enough to figure out what it was: a greenhouse.

  I walked back to the Element, kicking at the gravel of the driveway, and opened the door. Before I could get in, a dirt-spattered pickup truck pulled into the drive next to me. I hesitated, torn between getting more information and possibly getting into a confrontation. The man who jumped out of the truck didn’t seem very threatening. Something about the pajamas and that whole slightly-hunched-shoulder thing made me think I could take him if push came to shove. “Can I help you?” Professor Moonbeam asked.

  I smiled. “No, I was just curious. Something about big fences and gates makes me want to know what’s on the other side.”

  He smiled back. “A questioning mind. I understand. Want to see inside?”

  I hesitated again. Was it a ploy? Was he going to hit me on the head with a shovel once we were out of sight? I decided I’d make sure not to walk in front of him and said, “Sure.”

  He unlocked the gate and slid it open, then motioned for me to follow him. The smell hit me pretty much about ten yards in. There’s a reason they call it skunkweed.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Oh,” he said. “You mean the smell. Yeah. You get used to it after a while. I barely smell it anymore.”

  “You’re around it that much?” I asked.

  “Pretty much every day, all day.” He stuck out his hand. “Kevin Moonbeam, by the way.”

  “Desiree Turner,” I said back, shaking his hand.

  “I know. From the funeral home. The prodigal who has returned.” He turned and kept walking up the drive. “I read about you from time to time in the newspaper.”

  Well, that was embarrassing. If I’d had any illusions that everyone wasn’t talking about me, they were gone now. We were only about ten steps closer to the greenhouse when a man emerged from behind it with a rifle slung casually over his forearm. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I said, backing up.

  Moonbeam held up his hands. “It’s okay, David. I invited her in.”

  David didn’t say anything. He looked from Moonbeam to me and back again. “You sure?”

  “Completely.”

  David went back where he came from, and I relaxed my sphincters. “Kind of heavy artillery for a greenhouse, don’t you think?” Something bothered me, though. I could have sworn I’d seen David before. Of course, at first, he was nothing but the big gun he’d handled so casually. I’d seen almost nothing else. Once Moonbeam calmed the situation, though? Then I was sure I’d seen him before. I just wasn’t sure where.

  He held his hands out to the sides. “I’m afraid it’s a necessary evil of the moment. We’re getting near harvest, and poachers are a problem.” He motioned to some trees to the side of the driveway. “Let’s get out of the heat.”

  I followed him to the shade. “Why the marijuana business?”

  Professor Moonbeam ran his hand over his face. “My mother died.”

  I pulled up short. “I’m so sorry.”

  He held up his hand. “It was years ago. Long before I left the university. Cancer.”

  I stood still and waited. There was more to the story. Sometimes you had to wait for people to be ready to tell you.

  “She spent her last weeks either in terrible pain or so drugged that she didn’t know where she was or who any of us were. She was a wonderful woman. Smart. Creative. Funny. It still hurts me to think of how much pain she was in. It hurts me even more to know that it wasn’t necessary.” There was a sadness in his face that was truly heartbreaking.

  “What could they have done?” I asked.

  “Marijuana can provide an amazing amount of pain relief without the side effects of opiates.” He took a deep breath. “I can only imagine what my mother’s last days would have been like if she’d had access to that kind of palliative care. I want to be sure that no one else has to go through what she went through.”

  I nodded. “So you decided to start
developing medical marijuana?”

  “Exactly. I started doing research on specific strains and began to develop my own. It’s an amazing plant.” He gestured for me to follow him to the greenhouse and opened the door and peeked in. It was thick with beautiful, lush, green plants, but the smell had me taking steps back.

  “You didn’t feel you could stay at the university and do this work?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Too many rules. Too many regulations. The constant scrambling for grant money, for position, for power.”

  “Lots of money involved in the cannabis trade,” I observed. “It didn’t have anything to do with that?”

  He shrugged. “Sure. I like my creature comforts as much as the next guy. It’s not the only goal I have for my work, though.”

  I looked around at the greenhouse and irrigation system. “It couldn’t have been cheap to get started, though, right? That must have taken some money upfront.”

  “Luckily, there are people who understand that this is just the beginning for the cannabis industry and are willing to invest in one man’s dream.” He smiled.

  “Isn’t the money stuff pretty complicated still?” I asked.

  “Very.” He gestured around the property. “This here? This is all legal in the state of California and in Pluma Vista County. It’s not legal on the federal level, though. I think the feds will eventually catch up to the rest of the country. Your grandchildren will hear stories about the legalization of marijuana and think about it the same way you probably think about prohibition.”

  “How do you get around that now, though?” I asked.

  His smiled faded a bit. “That’s an area I’d rather not discuss too much. Let’s just say that there are ways around things.”

  “Not even a hint?” I pressed.

  “No, young lady. Not even a hint.” His face became more serious. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get to work.”

  “Sure. Thanks for the tour.” I headed back to the gate, got back into the Element, and drove away.

  I called Jasmine on my way home. “You are not going to believe this.”

  “I am a therapist,” she said. “You would not believe eighty percent of what I know about this town. What’s more, you wouldn’t want to believe it. People are crazy, and that’s a professional opinion.”

  “It keeps you in business,” I pointed out.

  “True. Now what is it I’m not going to believe?”

  I explained what I’d found out at Michelle’s and what I’d found at the different properties. “It explains Monique’s shoes,” I said.

  “Her shoes?”

  “Yeah. At the memorial service, I thought she was wearing Louboutins, but then I decided she couldn’t be. How could she afford that? Now I know.”

  “That doesn’t make sense either,” Jasmine said. “If she has enough money for Louboutins, why is she still pulling double shifts at Cold Clutch Canyon Café and Tappiano’s?”

  I didn’t have an answer to those questions. “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”

  “How? When?”

  I glanced at the dashboard clock. “I’m not sure and tomorrow. I’ve got Jamal Pitt’s service in about an hour.”

  “You sure you want to do that?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure I’ve got a lot of choice. Donna’s still on bed rest, and you know how awful Uncle Joey can be at a service.” He had a tendency to cry.

  She hesitated. “One more thing . . .”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Be careful around Moonbeam, okay?”

  Then it hit me. I’d seen him coming out of her office on a Saturday. He was part of her anger management group. It hardly seemed possible. “Moonbeam? He’s a creampuff. He’s all about relieving people’s pain and doing good in the world. I’m way more worried about his friend with the rifle.” I shuddered a bit thinking of how casually David carried that rifle.

  “Just remember that appearances can be deceiving.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Verbena Free Press

  MONDAY, JULY 22

  Firework Safety Reminder

  Detective Luke Butler of the Verbena Police Department wants to remind citizens that while there will be fireworks at the Fire Festival, it is still illegal for private citizens to light fireworks themselves.

  “No one wants a repeat of the King Snake Fire of 2015,” he said. “Leave the fireworks to the professionals.”

  So Monique owned the land that Professor Moonbeam was farming marijuana on. Alan Brewer had cosigned on the loans and was a banker who might well know some ways around the regulations that made money such an issue for entrepreneurs like Moonbeam. It was quite the cozy arrangement. Cozy arrangements can go terribly wrong sometimes, though. You had money and drugs and sex all rolled up together. I took my laptop into the kitchen and settled down at the table with some cookies I found in the cupboard. First, I went into the program that let me monitor the motion-sensitive security camera I’d installed on our back porch, the back porch where someone had left that yarn and the charm for Donna. Sure enough, there was Uncle Joey coming in from bowling at about eleven. And a squirrel that I could swear was mocking me an hour after that. That was it.

  Next, I typed “marijuana and banking” into the search engine. I was blasted with pages and pages of information. I narrowed it by adding California into the search. There were still reams of information. It took a few hours to sort through, but it eventually boiled down to this: there was no good way for marijuana growers and dispensary owners to bank their money. Banks were federally insured, and marijuana was still illegal under federal law. Banks couldn’t knowingly open an account for someone who was getting that money through illegal means.

  People resorted to all kinds of different measures to get around it all. One person who was interviewed said he’d actually buried his money around his property in different places and had kept a map of all the spots so he wouldn’t lose any of it. “I felt like a pirate with a treasure map,” he’d said. Money that had been buried would smell funny, wouldn’t it? Damp gets into a lot of places even when you think you’ve sealed it up tight. Just ask any coffin maker. Rosemarie had given me a pile of moldy cash that Alan had stashed in his own personal safe. Could he have been skimming some of the profits from the marijuana business? That could have soured the relationship between him and Moonbeam.

  There was a lot of money to be made in marijuana these days. Other people found ways to launder the money, and a few simply carried around sacks full of cash.

  Then I did a little research on Professor Moonbeam. The name change made it a little tricky, but only a little. Professor Moonbeam was originally Professor Grady Hammon. Four years ago, he had taken a hoe to the windshield of his department head’s Prius after a dispute over greenhouse space with another faculty member. That had earned him probation. Two years later, he had used a soil cultivator to break into another lab when he thought they’d taken supplies he’d ordered for his own lab. A pattern was emerging: Someone who solved his problems with violence. Someone who was growing marijuana on land owned by Alan Brewer. He smashed up a car over greenhouse space. What might he have done if he thought someone was stealing money from him? What had Luke said about the marijuana business? Someone was going to get shot? Well, someone definitely had been shot. Was it because of his involvement in the marijuana business?

  I picked up the phone and called Lola. “Hey, about that garden tour thing you mentioned . . . you said all kinds of gardeners were on it, right? Not just rose growers?” Marijuana was a plant. Somebody interested in plants might well go on a garden tour.

  “Right,” she said.

  “Do you remember Professor Moonbeam being on it?” I asked.

  She laughed. “It’s hard to forget Professor Moonbeam. He sent me a poem about the rose arbor about a week later. So sweet.”

  Yeah. Sweet. “Do you see him around your area much?” The greenhouses weren’t far from Lola and Kyl
e’s place, but they weren’t exactly right next door.

  “Not me. Let me check with Kyle.” I heard her call the question to Kyle, and then he got on the phone.

  “I’ve seen him out in the morning sometimes. He does this thing where he clasps his hands behind his back and sort of bends forward as he walks. Always looks like he’s walking into a stiff headwind.”

  So he’d been to Lola and Kyle’s house. He might know Kyle’s walking habits. I thanked Kyle and we hung up.

  Donna came into the kitchen, yarn and crochet hook clutched to her chest. “What are you working on?”

  “I’m solving Alan Brewer’s murder.” I smiled up at her. It was good to see her up and moving around a bit. She’d stopped moping too. “It’s all tied up with Monique Woodall and marijuana.”

  “Monique is growing marijuana?” Donna asked.

  “Not exactly. She owns the property that someone else is growing the marijuana on and has some kind of business interest in it. I’ve been trying to get to the bottom of it to clear Kyle.”

  Donna shook her head like there was something in her ear. “What does Alan Brewer have to do with any of it? Did this entire town go to hell in a handbasket in the few short days I was on bed rest?”

  “Close to it. I’m pretty sure Alan had everything to do with it. He cosigned the loans for Monique. Moonbeam said something about forward-thinking investors giving him the seed money to get started, as it were. I think it’s possible that Alan was footing the bills for a lot of the start-up expenses. Plus, right now, the most difficult part of the whole business is the money thing. No one can put the money into a bank account because marijuana is still illegal on a federal level. Who better to figure out ways around that than a banker? Especially a banker like Alan, who was always looking for an angle.” Someone who would exploit old people to make a buck wouldn’t think twice about getting into the marijuana business.

  Donna tapped her finger against her lips. “So what would he have to do with the money to make it so it could go into the bank?”