Death by the Light of the Moon (11 page)

I gave it one last try. “I found Miller Malloy's vault, and later learned from his obituary that he was a highly decorated hero during the first years of the Vietnam involvement.”

“It's not like Rhonda's mother cares how many guests she has. On her birthday, she must have had a hundred people. Now she says”—resorting to the simper—“that her mother doesn't want too many kids around because she's worried that some of them might start groping each other in the pool.” Caron's cynical laugh was so polished that she must have practiced for hours before the bathroom mirror. “Barracudas wouldn't touch Rhonda, even though she's a floating chunk of cellulite. Her thighs jiggle when she walks.”

“We're staying for the funeral,” I said. “Why don't you call the airlines and see what flights we can get on in the middle of the afternoon on Monday?”

“I cannot believe you're Doing This to me.” She slid off the stool and left the room, although her words of condemnation seemed to hover like a haze of acid rain.

The cook's head was lowered, but her shoulders were twitching and portions of her body were jiggling just a bit. I took Caron's seat and said, “I don't suppose you're old enough to remember Miller, are you?”

“Oh, I remember him. He was a year or two older than me, and he used to come by my grandpa's grocery store and drink beer. I liked to see him out there on the porch. He'd prop his feet on the rail just like the old men, and listen to their stories. Always seemed to have his share of jokes to tell.”

“He hung out at this place when he was a teenager?”

She chuckled. “The store was real popular with the white boys, because they could buy beer. Some of 'em were smart-mouthed and meaner than gators, but Mr. Miller was always respectful.”

We were making progress, although at this point it could be measured in millimeters rather than in leaps and bounds. “But then he enlisted in the army,” I prompted her.

“In a manner of speaking.” She removed a dripping pan from the water and reached for another. “I should have soaked these last night,” she grumbled. “I knew better than to leave them, but I wanted to get away early. Now I'm paying the price for the sin of slothfulness, and I got nobody to blame but myself.”

I attempted to divert the digression. “Why in a manner of speaking? He did enlist, didn't he? The draft wasn't until 1968.”

She turned around and looked at me, not angrily but with a trace of coolness. “The truth is, Miz Malloy, my folks didn't much mix with the white boys, partly because it wasn't done and partly because we didn't give a rat's ass about 'em. We were more concerned with the poverty in our community, with the unemployment and piss-poor schoolhouse, with the occasional truck with drunken rednecks dressed in sheets. Mr. Miller bought beer from my grandpa, but not because of any deep friendship. He listened to the stories because he thought they were quaint. He sat on the porch late at night because he didn't want to come back here and watch his family pretend they were living in middle of the nineteenth century, surrounded by loyal darkies singing spirituals by the light of the moon.”

Not for the first time in the last two days, I was at a loss for words. I wasn't sure how I'd accomplished it, but somehow I'd managed to insult the woman. “I'm sorry,” I said sincerely. “I was simply trying to get a picture of Miller. No one seems willing to talk about him, and I was beginning to wonder if he'd done something ghastly.”

“You want a picture of Mr. Miller? Go upstairs and look at the portrait of General Richmond Malloy. Mr. Miller was the spittin' image of him.” She turned back and bent over the sink.

The conversation was over. I murmured a farewell and wandered back to the foyer, which was still unpopulated. There were no clinks from the parlor; Stanford either had departed or regained control of unsteady hands. No one peered over the banister from the second floor. No one scratched from inside the tiny closet.

Sunlight splashed through the narrow windows on either side of the front door, illuminating drifts of dust and exposing deep scratches on the hardwood floor. A fat fly settled on the lip of a vase and began to explore it; both of us were going in circles.

I heard a nervous laugh from behind the double doors of the library. It was difficult to imagine Caron enjoying a chat with an airline-reservations operator, but she was frantic enough to go home to have done what I'd asked her to do…for once. I went into the library and was not especially surprised to find Ellie on the telephone.

In contrast, she seemed very surprised to find me in the room. “Hold on,” she said, then covered the mouthpiece of the receiver with her hand. “It's personal, if you don't mind.” She hesitated, her forehead furrowing, and, as if in response to my nod, added, “I'm talking to my boyfriend in Atlanta. I promised him I'd call today.”

“Have you seen Caron?”

She shook her head and stared at me until I retreated, carefully closing the doors behind me. This time, I took a wicked pleasure in riding the elevator seat to the second floor. It lacked the exhilaration of a roller coaster, but in its staid way, it was modestly entertaining.

All the doors were closed. I found the portrait of General Malloy in his Confederate finery, but I doubted Miller Malloy was the “spittin' image” of the old man with the dour face and button-popping belly. Maybe he would have become so, I thought as I went into our bedroom, but it would have required an additional forty years of overindulgence.

The bedroom and bathroom were empty. If I had unwittingly been invited to engage in a game of hide-and-seek, I was at a disadvantage, in that Caron had a half-hour's head start on me. I looked out the window. The yard was a sea of weeks, bushes, and mossy branches, and the only activity came from indolent insects. The water of the bayou did not so much as ripple; if Caron had decided to follow Ophelia's example, she'd left no telltale traces.

On this hot summer afternoon in the rural Deep South, it seemed as if everyone and everything had shut off. We weren't talking slow motion; this was no motion. The urban areas weren't gripped with this suffocating sense of lethargy, perhaps, but here, it was time to take to one's bed with a fan and a glass of iced tea. In Miss Justicia's case, it might well have been something more potent, but I could easily envision her on the plump mattress, plotting revisions in her will as she awaited the passing of the midday heat.

Resisting the urge to collapse on the bed, a victim of tradition, I took a shower and changed into clean clothes. Caron had not returned to further analyze the extent to which I had ruined her life forever. I was disappointed. Her flair for melodrama was rivaled only by her capacity for indignation, and even a recitation of Rhonda's perfidy could have livened up what was closing in on me like a marble vault.

I had another hour before the gathering in the parlor. I had no intentions of missing it, either. Miss Justicia may or may not have been technically demented, but she certainly had a devious sense of humor. It was no wonder that the family members were finding it necessary to take to their beds to await the revelations to come. Who was in and who was out? Sixths, halves, all of it—or none of it? Would the televangelist be able to construct a new broadcasting tower? Would the sperm bank be able to take new deposits?

I was grinning as I glided downstairs. The library was vacant, and I called the airline to find out about changing our reservations. Admittedly, I was ambivalent. If they refused to allow a deviation, then Caron and I would be forced to return to Farberville as originally scheduled. I practiced a look of regret and composed a few pious sentences to explain how disappointed we were to leave before the funeral.

The brittle voice at the opposite end of the toll-free number told me that the airline always accommodated those travelers who'd experienced family tragedies. She confirmed us on a flight late Monday afternoon. My response may have lacked genuine gratitude, but I choked it out and replaced the receiver with a sigh.

I went outside, on the off chance I might find my fugitive offspring cooing over a baby gator or measuring tapeworms. Ellie's sports car and Stanford's Mercedes were in the driveway, indicative that Caron had not yet descended to grand theft auto. As long as she hadn't called for a taxi—and been driven away by a psychotic to the nearest irrigation ditch, she had to be around somewhere.

The previous night, I'd been assigned to the right side of the house. Being a mildly curious sort, I headed around the left side to discover what botanical delights I had missed. The path I chose was wide and well marked with narrow ruts, clearly one of Miss Justicia's favorite racetracks. Although I preferred my encounters with nature to be on PBS, I benignly regarded the shrubs, clumps of wildflowers, tiny butterflies, and even the masses of Spanish moss hanging from the live oak trees.

Options presented themselves occasionally. This was hardly a maze in a palace garden, but I was rapidly losing my sense of direction as I followed the winding paths. The sun was blocked by the foliage above me, and the land was level rather than sloping toward the bayou. This was in no way alarming, however; even though I was not of the Daniel Boone school of trailblazing, I was in the yard surrounding Malloy Manor and apt to find something of interest before too long.

And I did. As I rounded a mass of bushes, I saw a weathered gray structure. It was not the shack inhabited by the
femme de couleur libre
, but merely the old barn that had been mentioned by Stanford and Phoebe. Barns were known refuges for rodents, both ambulatory and winded, along with spiders, snakes, and other stars of those PBS documentaries.

If Caron was in there, she'd been dragged in by both heels and everyone within the ambit of the parish would have heard her squeals. I was toying with the idea of taking a quick look when Keith came out of a door. Despite the sunglasses and headphones, he spotted me and came up the path. His hair looked dirtier, if possible, and his clothes more tattered. I wondered whether he might be able to use my bedroom slippers.

“Yo,” he said with a vague smile. “Another body in the bayou?”

The redolence of marijuana that accompanied him gave me a fairly astute theory as to his activity in the barn. I wrinkled my nose slightly as I said, “I dearly hope not. I'm looking for Caron.”

“Who?”

“My daughter. The girl who was beside me when you opened the front door yesterday,” I said. “Red curly hair, green eyes, probably pouting or ranting about cellulite.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, running his fingers through his long, greasy hair. “A real spooky little kid, that one. Why would she be in the barn?”

“I have no idea.” I considered asking him the same thing, but I was worried that he might answer truthfully, thus giving me information I preferred not to have.

“I didn't see her here, but…” He began to walk away from me, his hands flapping as though he was conducting an orchestra of his own making.

“But what?” I demanded as I caught up with him. “Have you seen her this afternoon, Keith? Is she somewhere in the yard?” His shoulder blades rippled, but he continued to walk at an increasing rapid pace. “Did you see her?”

I managed to crunch down on his heel hard enough to stop him. He gave me a wounded look as he rubbed his heel, then said, “I thought I saw someone by the bayou. That's where we're going, right?”

“Of course,” I said.

We arrived at the bayou with a minute, but there was no sign of anyone lingering in the area. The place where Miss Justicia had been pulled from the water was easy to locate. The bank was a mess of muddy footprints and flattened grass. Two brown furrows indicated where the wheelchair had been pulled from the water.

Keith went to the edge of the water and shook his head. “That was really weird, wasn't it? One minute she's acting like she's in the Indy Five Hundred, and the next she's gator bait.”

“She being your grandmother,” I pointed out acidly.

“Yeah. I hadn't seen her for a long time. Nor my old man, for that matter. All he'd have done is yap about my hair and about how I should get a job. A job's a bummer. You have to show up every day, listen to some moron telling you what to do and when to do it, and all for a measly paycheck.”

“You're playing in a band?”

“Bass guitar for Satanic Slimebuckets. If we had the dough to cut a demo, we'd make it big, but it hasn't happened. Every time we get a little cash, it ends up going for bail.”

“Hmm,” I said sympathetically. “So you could make it big if you could cut a demo. Perhaps Miss Justicia understood your dilemma and left you enough money to”—I had to force the words—“realize your dream?”

“She better have,” he said, turning back to stare at the place the body had reposed. “This whole thing's been nothing but a pain in the butt. She insisted that her precious grandchildren be here in person to collect the dough. Ellie totally lost it and spent forever moaning and groaning like she was having a baby. You'd have thought she had to shave her head or donate an organ or something. Sheesh! All she did was miss a day of work at that stupid television station. The Slimebuckets had to cancel a gig that would've paid a couple hundred bucks.”

I lacked the depth of character to offer further sympathy. “I'm going to the house,” I said. “The lawyer's coming at four o'clock, in theory with information about Miss Justicia's will.”

“About goddamn time,” Keith said as he fell into step with me.

Although I wouldn't have expressed it in quite that way, I had to admit to myself that I agreed with him.

Keith and I went through the back door and down the hallway to the foyer. Ellie came down the staircase, now dressed in a demure skirt and blouse, and mutely followed us into the parlor. Stanford was straightening the bottles on the cart. I had no idea if he'd been there for the last hour, or had returned in honor of the upcoming event, but the faintly unfocused look he gave us implied the former. He nodded approvingly at Ellie and me; Keith's less formal attire elicited a quick scowl. We settled on various sofas and awaited developments.

Maxie and Phoebe drifted in and sat down, and moments later Pauline took a seat near the window. No one seemed in the mood for conversation, or even eye contact. I wasn't sure if they were drowsy from naps or so taut that a single word might shatter their facades like so much plate glass.

It was tempting to test my theory, but I instead crossed my legs and sat back to watch the fun. The ambience grew more oppressive as watches were checked discreetly, mouths pursed, exhalations carefully regulated to avoid attracting attention. The silence not only could have been sliced, it could have been run through a food processor and served on crackers.

Stanford finally cracked. “If we're going to have to wait for this fellow, we might as well make ourselves comfortable. May I offer any of you a drink?”

Five minutes later, we were fortified but no more animated than the furniture on which we sat. I was about to suggest a game of charades when the doorbell rang. Facades did not shatter, but they certainly slipped far enough to expose simmering avarice.

“That must be Mr. Spikenard,” Phoebe said. She licked her lips, then stood up and smoothed her skirt. “I'll…uh, let him in…” As she left, she closed the door behind her.

Maxie examined her diamond wristwatch. “He's nearly fifteen minutes late. I, for one, am unaccustomed to being kept waiting as if I was a common housewife. I do hope we're not going to continue to be treated quite so casually by this young man.”

Staring over her head at the door, Stanford said, “I am truly sorry that we're not dealing with Bethel. However, there's no call to be down on this young fellow because he's running late, Cousin Maxie. I'm sure he has a perfectly good excuse for keeping us waiting.” He turned his head sharply. “Has he been to the house before, Cousin Pauline?”

“Once, I believe,” she said, “last week while I was handling some bank chores for Justicia. I myself have never met him.”

We could hear voices in the foyer, but the words were not audible. Everyone was watching the door as if expecting something to crash through it with the fury of a freight train.

“Whatever are they doing?” demanded Maxie. “What can they be discussing, and why doesn't Phoebe escort him in here immediately? Cousin Stanford, I really do think you ought to find out the cause of this interminable delay.”

Ellie put her feet on the coffee table and carelessly swirled the contents of her glass. “Maybe he's single and terribly attractive, Cousin Maxie. Phoebe may be so starved for sex that she's willing to do it with a lawyer. I myself would never sink so—”

“Ellie!” Stanford snapped. “How many times have I warned you that these…”

He halted as the door opened and Phoebe slipped into the parlor. She made sure the door was closed completely, then moved her mouth as she struggled to form words. She was not successful.

Maxie stood up. “Where is Mr. Spikenard?”

“I—I asked him—Mr. Spikenard—uh, to wait in the foyer,” she stammered. “I just thought—I thought it might be—well, I wanted to—”

“Please cease this unbecoming behavior and have him join us,” commanded Maxie.

“But I do—I really do think—” Phoebe said, her hands clasped tightly as if pleading for her life.

“Nonsense,” said Stanford. “We've had enough of your thinking to last us the rest of the month. Hop to it, gal, and bring him in here.”

Phoebe's throat rippled, but she nodded and opened the door. “Mr. Spikenard, the family will—oh, yes, they will see you now.”

I had no idea what to expect. Phoebe was acting as if she were ushering in an alien life-form, resplendent with antennae and malformed appendages. What appeared in the doorway was strictly an earthly apparition in a three-piece suit.

“How do you do,” he said gravely, nodding.

Behind him, Phoebe grimaced and said, “This is Rodney Spikenard, Miss Justicia's lawyer.”

He looked at each of us in turn, his smile widening as he took in the varying degrees of shock. His suit was pale gray, and his tie dark red and knotted impeccably. His shoes were polished, his briefcase expensive, and his appendages ordinary. His mustache was trimmed and his hair short and unremarkable. The few words he'd spoken had been melodious, with only a faint Southern accent.

What was creating the impact on the Malloys was the undeniable tint of his skin. It wasn't ebony, by any means, but it was several shades darker than any late-summer tan. It went nicely with his facial features, which mildly hinted of a classic Afro-American heritage.

“I'm Claire Malloy,” I said as I crossed the room and offered my hand.

“Yes,” he said, raising his eyebrows as he shook my hand, “then you're Carlton's widow. I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs. Malloy.” He waited for a moment, then said, “Miss Justicia told me about the family, but I'm not quite sure who's who.”

Neither were they. Although I found this newest development highly entertaining. I took pity on them and pointed at them one at a time, murmuring names. Ellie responded with a smile and a flip of her hand, and Pauline nodded. Keith whistled softly. Maxie and Stanford, in contrast, were gaping as if they were guppies confronting a higher denizen of the food chain.

“Would you like a drink?” I asked.

“A glass of soda water, please,” Spikenard said. “Is there any place in particular where you'd like me to sit?”

Before Maxie could mention the back of the bus, I took his arm and led him to an unoccupied sofa. Once I'd fixed his drink, I sat down beside him and said, “I understand you're a Yale graduate?”

To my regret, Stanford came out of his trance. “Basketball scholarship?”

“An academic scholarship,” Spikenard replied easily. “I did my undergraduate work at Duke, and was at the top of my class. I had several offers, but I chose Yale.” He gave Stanford a puzzled frown. “Does the Yale law school have a basketball team?”

Stanford muttered a reply as he replenished his drink, and in a spurt of sympathy, Maxie's, as well. Phoebe sank down near her mother, who'd landed on the cushion like a load of topsoil.

Spikenard set his briefcase on the coffee table and opened it. “Miss Justicia engaged my legal services within the past week, and I'm still not familiar with all the details of the trust. The trust itself is of a highly complex nature, having been in existence throughout several generations. The administrator of record, Mr. D'Armand, has agreed to send over the documents, but I've received nothing thus far. To complicate matters, Miss Justicia had instructed me to—”

“What about the will?” drawled Ellie.

“All this twaddle about the trust can wait,” Stanford said. “Stick to the point—sir.” He'd stopped himself before he said
boy
, but we'd all seen the initial consonant on his lips, and the beads of sweat on his forehead when he'd choked out the
sir
.

“It is my understanding,” Spikenard said, “that Miss Justicia revoked the previous will. She did so in the presence of Mr. D'Armand, by verbally stating her intentions and subsequently destroying the document itself. As long as she had capacity and freedom from undue influence and fraud, this revocation would appear to be valid.”

Stanford drained his glass. “Can't you lawyers get out a simple answer? What's in the new will?”

“Beats me,” Spikenard answered with eloquent simplicity.

Maxie managed a bloodless smile. “Miss Justicia revoked her old will. I assume you were hired to write the new one, and to keep it for her. Please stop spouting off legal gobbledygook and produce the document.”

“I fear you have made a false assumption, Mrs. Malloy-Frazier. Miss Justicia made an appointment for me to come to the house to provide her with certain legal information. At no time did she ask me to prepare a will, nor did she tender a document of that description to me for safekeeping.”

“Would that have been last Tuesday, Mr. Spikenard?” Pauline asked.

“Yes, Miss Hurstmeyer. I believe you were out of the house at the time. Miss Justicia met me on the front porch. I was impressed with the agility with which she operated her wheelchair.”

Stanford refilled his glass. “This ain't the time for compliments about her driving prowess. Are you telling us that Miss Justicia died without signing a new will?”

“I don't believe it,” inserted Ellie. “She wouldn't do that, not after all her promises and threats.”

“I have reason to think she did not die intestate,” Spikenard said, shifting through papers in his briefcase.

“Now look here,” Stanford said, beginning to bluster like a winter day, “first you say she tore up the old will, then had you come out here but not write up a new one. I don't know what this ‘intestate' business means, but I do know when someone's talking through both corners of his mouth!”

“She didn't die intestate,” Ellie insisted in a thin voice. Her face was pale, and she was twisting a curl around her finger so tightly that it cut into the flesh. “She must have signed a will.”

Stanford noticed her distress, and a crafty look crossed his face. “Just what would happen to the estate if Miss Justicia died before she made out a will, Spikenard?”

“The estate would be divided among the heirs.”

“And who might that be?”

“Her descendants. In this situation, the first generation of issue who did not predecease the intestate, and the issue of those who did.”

Maxie's hand shook as she tried to light a cigarette. “Is there any hope that you might speak plainly?”

“As you wish,” he said, acknowledging her with a grave nod. “If Miss Justicia died without a will, the estate would be divided among her three sons. Thus, one-third of the estate would go directly to Stanford Malloy. The remaining two shares of one-third each would go to any offspring of Carlton Malloy and of Miller Malloy.”

“That's it?” Maxie said, stunned. “But…”

Pauline put her face in her hands and began to snivel. Ellie prodded Keith with her foot, and, when he looked at her, gave him a dispirited shrug. Phoebe seemed relatively calm, but Maxie was still struggling to regain control of her flaccid jaw.

I was sorry that Caron was not present. Her reaction would have enlivened the room, if perhaps enraging certain occupants in the process. I was watching Rodney Spikenard closely, in that I seemed to be the only one who'd heard the emphasis on the
if
at the beginning of his sentence. He was trying to appear professionally disinterested, but he was keenly attuned to each and every person in the room. As his eyes met mine, I gave him a wink intended to disconcert him. I was disconcerted by his flicker of warning.

“But Miller's dead,” Stanford said cheerfully, “and he didn't have any offspring. I guess that means little Caron and I get to divvy up the estate fifty-fifty, right?”

“If that was a correct assessment of the situation,” Spikenard said.

As mother of the heir, I decided to jump in. “Oh, come now, Stanford, how can we be sure Miller didn't marry a nice Vietnamese girl and have children?”

“Miller wouldn't do a fool thing like that, and we'd have heard something if he had.”

“We'll make inquiries through the military,” Spikenard said. “However, we're by no means in a position to concern ourselves with that at this time.” He tugged at his collar, and then glanced at a legal pad on which he'd made notes. “As I mentioned previously, Miss Justicia arranged for an appointment for several reasons. One was to request that I begin the process to become administrator of the trust, since she no longer wished Attorney D'Armand to serve in that capacity. She also asked me a great many questions concerning the construction of a valid olographic will.”

“Way to go, Miss Justicia!” Ellie said, brightening.

“Olographic will?” Stanford said. He took out his handkerchief, wiped his neck, and gazed suspiciously at Spikenard. “What's that?”

“I've heard of an holographic will,” Maxie murmured.

“It's this Napoleonic code thing,” Ellie explained, still sounding much improved from a few minutes earlier. “The
h
fell off along the way. But this is so exiting, Mr. Spikenard—or may I call you Rodney?” He nodded, amused. “This means that Miss Justicia wrote up her own will, and it's just as good as one fancied up by a lawyer. I knew she wouldn't let me down!”

“Hush, Cousin Ellie,” Maxie said coldly. “Mr. Spikenard, be so kind as to elaborate on your remark.”

“My pleasure, Mrs. Malloy-Frazier. Miss Justicia asked me to explain what was necessary for a valid olographic will. I assured her it was not at all complicated, that she needed to date the page at the top, spell out her desires as carefully as possible, and sign it at the bottom. The courts are fairly lenient about their interpretation of the intentions of the testator, as long as it's written by hand and has the components I mentioned.”

Stanford looked as if a stack of money had been placed beneath his nose and then snatched away, leaving only the scent to tantalize him. “But why would she go to the trouble of writing out this olographic will? Why didn't she tell you what she wanted and have you write it up?”

Spikenard hesitated, then said, “I'm afraid that falls into the realm of client-attorney confidentiality, Mr. Malloy.”