A Will To Murder (11 page)

“No,” she hissed back.

“Okay,” said Arthur impatiently.  “Did you hear anyone walking on your floor besides me?”

Briarly gave him a sidelong look.  Encouraged, Arthur pressed further.  “Did you see who it was?”

“I didn’t say I saw anybody,” she retorted.

An outcry from the dining room interrupted them.  It was Richie’s voice.  Briarly sighed heavily.  So did Arthur.  “That’s Pugsley,” said Arthur.  “It must be tough to live with him.”

Briarly screwed up her face, but didn’t reply.

“Pugsley Poophead,” the boy corrected, deciding he liked this better.  “I was looking for bats in the attic the other day,” he added, “but couldn’t find any.”

“Look at my sister,” Richie said, entering the kitchen.  He sat down at the table and Sheila put a plate down for him.  Arthur felt bleak.  Richie would start something, he just knew it.  His cousin’s nails were clean, so Richie must have found his mother’s polish remover.  Arthur had been picking at his own polish and it was flaking off.

Richie looked pleased with himself.  When Sheila turned away, he quietly lit a cigarette under the table and began to sneak puffs.  The cook was too busy to notice.

“You can smoke?” whispered Arthur, astounded. “Where’d you get the cigarette?”

“From my shithead father, of course.  Stupid fuck doesn’t know I steal them.”

Arthur considered tattling, but decided against it.  His cousin would be vengeful, and Arthur didn’t know when his parents were going to leave.  

“You can’t guess what I’ve done,” Richie said.

Briarly stopped chewing and looked sideways at her brother.  She rolled her eyes warningly towards Sheila.  Richie blasted smoke into Arthur’s face, and Arthur, irritated, blew it back.  Richie menaced him with the burning tip.

Arthur shrank away.  You couldn’t win with a boy who could always out-creep you, he thought bleakly.  

The cigarette was coming closer, and Arthur knew he was going to have to yell for help or fry, when the door leading to the side yard opened.  Richie whipped the cigarette underneath the tabletop.

It was Willowby.  “Do you have my sandwich, Sheila?” he asked the cook.  “What are you kids doing?” he added sharply.  The chauffeur had noticed Richie’s violent twitch.

“Nothing,” said Richie, threatening Arthur with a look.

“I smell cigarette smoke.  Has Colette been in here?”  the chauffeur asked eagerly.

“She was earlier,” said Sheila.  “Here’s your sandwich.”

“Thanks.”

Willowby began to eat while leaning against the door  just behind Richie.  “So, what have you kids been up too?” he asked conversationally.

A marveling look crawled across Richie’s face.  The cigarette was still burning somewhere, and none of the children dared look for it.  Arthur thought the smell of smoke was getting stronger.

“What do you have in your lap!?” exclaimed Willowby.

Arthur wasn’t sure who the chauffeur was talking to, until he realized curls of smoke were rising in front of his face.  He flung his napkin aside and fell backwards, his chair crashing to the floor.  Richie howled with delight.

“What happened, Arthur?” asked the cook, “did you fall?”

Willowby scooped up the burning napkin and cigarette and quickly doused them in the kitchen sink.  Then he picked out the cigarette and his eyes narrowed.  Before Sheila could turn, he threw both the napkin and cigarette in the trash.   

“The kids were just horsing around,” Willowby said.  “Why don’t you get Arthur another napkin?”

The cook had to step out for this, as Mrs. Marshpool stored the napkins in the linen closet upstairs.  As soon as she left, Willowby grabbed one ear from both Arthur and Richie and forced their heads back.  Arthur yelped in surprise and Richie tried to squirm away.  The chauffeur sniffed their breath, let go of Arthur, and jerked Richie out of his chair.  Then he dragged the boy into the laundry room.  The running washer muffled their speech.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Richie whined.

Willowby gave him one short, fast punch to the stomach, and the boy doubled over.  

Arthur and Briarly watched, dumbfounded.  Richie raised his face, still clutching his stomach.  “You can’t hit me like that,” the boy strained out, “I’m a kid.”

Willowby stared coolly.  “If you’re big enough to smoke, you’re big enough to take a punch.  You’re a little fuck, aren’t you?”

“I’m telling my mother,” Richie blazed.

“Go ahead.  I’ll tell her you tried to set your cousin on fire and a lot more besides.  And she’ll believe me.  She’s known me longer than you’ve been alive.”

“I’ll get you,” said the boy, his face blotchy with rage.

“And I’ll break your arm,” Willowby retorted.  “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I give a damn about your welfare.”

Richie saw Arthur and Briarly gaping at him, and he ran out the side door.  Sheila entered just as Willowby was retrieving his sandwich.  When she handed the napkin over, Arthur was too dazed to take it, so the cook placed it in his lap herself.  Only then did Arthur think to see if his clothes were all right.  He couldn’t find any burn marks.  

“See you later,” said Willowby to Sheila.  The chauffeur left by the side door, heading towards the carriage house.

Arthur and Briarly stared at each other.  The boy didn’t know what to think.  He had always been told no adult should ever hit a child, but he also knew Richie was not an ordinary kid.  Why was it, he wondered, that none of the other grownups (except Willowby) could deal with Richie?  Somehow, they never seemed to notice his misbehavior, and even when they did, they never punished him properly.

Briarly was still agog.  Arthur shrugged his shoulders and ate his bacon.

Willowby was not yet free of obnoxious Boyle relatives, however.  At the carriage house Lance was standing just inside a car bay, gazing down at the Mercedes-Knight with contempt.

“Hey,” said Wiley, “can this old piece of crap do anything?”

“What do you mean, do anything?” replied the chauffeur.

Lance laughed idiotically.  “What the hell do you mean what I mean?  I asked if this old piece of shit can do anything.  
Go
, I mean.”

“I’ve never driven the Mercedes-Knight at top speed because it’s bad for the engine,” replied Willowby, nettled.

“Christ, what the fuck does that matter?  The old geezer who owned it is dead.  I bet I could make this car do shit you’d never believe.”

“I doubt that,” said the chauffeur angrily.  “Antique cars operate very differently from modern ones.  You need a lot of specialized knowledge of the sort I have to be able to drive this car at all.”

“Fuck, these old cars have practically no controls.  I could drive this thing easily.”

“Oh yeah?” said Willowby.

A moment later, a scream came from the second floor of Rollingwood.  In the dining room, people leapt out of their chairs, dropping silverware and tossing napkins aside.  Colette even looked up from her couch.

Jac was standing on the stairs.  “My sapphire necklace is gone!” she screamed.  

At this, Phil exhaled hard and lit a cigarette.  “You just forgot where you put it,” he said.  

Jac’s black-rimmed eyes were starting from her head.  “The closet and all the drawers have been ransacked!  Everything’s on the floor!  Come and look, dammit!”

Phil’s cigarette went still, and Katherine opened her bottle of heart medicine and hurriedly swallowed a pair of pills.

A suppressed giggle came from the front door, and Arthur saw Richie watching the uproar with a grin.  Immediately, Arthur knew he was the culprit.  But why?  Richie didn’t seem worried that he’d be killed for it.             

Everyone ran upstairs.  At the door of his aunt’s bedroom Arthur saw that Jac had not been exaggerating.  Richie had pulled out every single drawer and dumped the contents.  The bureau had been emptied of underwear, and the mattress was askew as if someone had been searching underneath it.  All the clothes were off their hangers, heaped on the closet floor (Arthur wondered if Richie had permission to do
that
, or if it were an improvisation; if not, his mother would murder him).  Jac’s jewelry box was open on the vanity, jewelry spread all over the floor, but there still seemed to be quite a lot left, to Arthur’s eyes.  Finally, Jac’s shoes had been flung around the room.  Richie must have had fun pitching them, Arthur guessed.  

At the sight of the shoes, Briarly began to cry, remembering all the straightening that had gone into them.

“Will you stop that?!” Jac yelled at her daughter. “Jesus Christ, we don’t need a scene right now!  Go away if you can’t stand to look!”

“We’re going to have to call the police,” said Rose, aghast.  

“I’m afraid you’re right, honey,” said Bert solemnly. “I’ll do it.  Everyone has to leave this room to keep it from being disturbed before the police show up.”

Armagnac gave an involuntary hoot of laughter at Bert’s phrasing.

“Will you shut up!” Jac shouted at her brother.  She seized a handkerchief and began to daub her eyes.

Cummings began to usher everyone out.  “How valuable was that necklace?” he asked in the hallway.

“Quite valuable,” said Phil.  “Most of her jewelry’s costume stuff, but that necklace is expensive.” Salisbury was watching his wife sidelong, for he had not been married to her for many years for nothing.  Armagnac too, was eyeing his sister.

Jac turned red at this revelation about her costume jewelry and snarled, “If you had a better job you’d be able to afford the real stuff!”

“Hey, everybody,” said Bert.  “Just calm down until I can call the police.  Are you sure the necklace is gone?  Maybe it’s lying around in that mess somewhere.”

“Yes, it’s gone,” said Jac passionately.  “I kept it locked up in a case.  The lock’s been torn off and the case is empty!”

“What are you up to?” Armagnac said in a low voice to his sister.  “You’d better confess before the police arrive and things get serious.”

Jac wiped her nose and regarded her brother silently.  Then her eyes fell on Mrs. Marshpool’s face.  The housekeeper was watching Jac without sympathy.

“Look at that expression,” said Jac, twitching her kleenex in the direction of the housekeeper.  Everyone stared at Mrs. Marshpool.

The housekeeper replied, “I doubt you’ll need the police, Mrs. Salisbury.  I’m sure it was one of your children, probably your son, up to some little stratagem.”  The housekeeper’s tone was perhaps too cool.

“One of my kids!  How dare you say that!”  With this, Jac dashed up to the third floor and the others followed her, startled.  Jac threw open the door to the housekeeper’s bedroom and began to rummage furiously in the drawers.

“Mrs. Salisbury!  I insist you leave my room!  That is my private property!”  The housekeeper tried to shut a bureau drawer that Jac had opened, but Jac had already extracted something from it.  She was holding up a sapphire necklace.  The others were just entering the room, and they saw Jac giving Mrs. Marshpool a look of deadly triumph.

“Jesus,” mumbled Bert.  Both Katherine and Rose were speechless.  Even Mrs. Marshpool looked momentarily rocked by the sight of the necklace emerging from her bureau.  Then the housekeeper stared hard at Armagnac.  Armagnac nodded at her, his expression taut.

“Fire her,” said Jac venomously to her aunt.

“Jacquelyn,” replied Katherine feebly.

“Knock it off, Jac, you planted that necklace there,” said Armagnac with disgust.

“Are you insane?” Jac yelled.  “Your housekeeper has just stolen my twenty-thousand dollar necklace and you’re defending her!  I’m calling the police!”

“Stop this, you two,” cried Katherine.  “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for that necklace being in the bureau.”

“Jac planted it,” said Armagnac conversationally to Bert.

“I’m calling the police!” Mrs. Salisbury insisted.  She shoved past and jumped down the stairs.  Armagnac bounded after her, and the rest of the family followed.

As Jac began to dial on the hall telephone, Boyle unclipped the phone connection from the wall.  She grabbed the cord away from him, but her hand slid along its length and accidentally stripped the plastic connector off, breaking it.  Jac swore and her brother grinned.  She dashed for the front door.

“What are you doing?” Armagnac yelled.

“I’m driving to the sheriff’s office!”  She opened the driver’s side door to the Lincoln.

“Stop!” commanded Boyle, placing himself in front of the car to block its path.  The rest of the family was pouring down the marble steps, and Katherine joined Armagnac in front of the car, waving frantically at her niece.

Jac rolled down the window.  “Get out of the way, dammit!”

“You’d better change your mind!” Armagnac shouted.

Katherine grabbed the glass of Jac’s window.  “There must be some mistake,” the old lady insisted.  “Mrs. Marshpool wouldn’t steal anything!  She’s worked here for years!”

Jac’s furious eyes rolled.  “Look,” she said to her aunt in a lower tone, “I’ll make you a deal.  Fire her, and I won’t report her to the police.”

Katherine drew back, befuddled, and Jac said urgently, “Listen to me, Aunt Katy, you’re going to lose the whole damned property to her, house and all, if you don’t fire her.”

“I heard that!” Armagnac yelled.  “Come out of that car and I’ll tell you something, sister!”

Mrs. Marshpool whispered in Armagnac’s ear, and Boyle’s eyes widened.  Then he stalked around to the car window and inserted his face.  “Come out of there, Jac,” he said smugly, “and quit bluffing.  You can’t leave because you don’t have your car keys with you.”

Jac glared at him.  Then she threw the car door open and stepped out to confront her brother.

“As master of Rollingwood, I won’t put up with any of this nonsense about firing,” Armagnac woofed.  “Now get back inside that house and behave yourself.”

This was not the thing to say to his hot-blooded sister.

“Oh, you’re in charge?” sneered Jac.  “Let me explain to you, my stupid brother, that our father has several heirs, including me as well as our aunt.  I have as much right to fire anyone on this property as you do.”