Death by the Light of the Moon (13 page)

“Are we just a little bit too gothic?” Caron murmured, rolling her eyes in case any of us missed the rhetorical overtones of her remark. She then turned her back on us and began to stroke the moose's nose.

“Don't be absurd,” Maxie said briskly. “The attic is a treasure trove of memorabilia and insights into the family history. Rather than secrets, there are wonderful photo albums and boxes of letters and documents that must be carefully studied for inclusion in the parish annals.”

“And quite a few very good antiques,” Phoebe added.

“Why are you here?” Pauline repeated.

Caron glanced over her shoulder. “Why are we
still
here is a better question, Mother. Don't you have a telephone call to make?”

Ellie stood up and brushed the dust off her knees. “I agree. Isn't it about time for dinner?”

I studied the group. Caron was feigning fascination with the moose's marble eyes and flared nostrils. Maxie and Phoebe were hovering above the table, as if protecting the dolls from further outrage upon their appraised value. Pauline was straight out of an early Hitchcock movie—a composition in black and gray.

“Yes, let's go,” I announced with the chipper but nevertheless dictatorial authority of a tour guide. I waited by the top stairs until each of them had descended, then looked back at the brandy decanter and the sad assembly around it. The dolls were not toys; their faces were as sour and accusatory as the ancestors decorating the walls below. It was difficult to imagine a pigtailed child cuddling them, whispering to them, even daring to give them frivolous names. No, I thought as I went downstairs, they seemed much more comfortable in their roles as guardians of what might be a murder weapon.

With the exception of Caron, the others had continued downstairs. She was waiting for me in the middle of the halfway, trying to look defiant but not succeeding.

“Did you change the reservations?” she asked.

“We leave at four o'clock Monday afternoon,” I said. “I'm sorry if this messes up your plans with Inez, dear. It's not my idea of a good time, either, but you and I have an obligation to your father to represent him at his mother's funeral.”

“I know,” she said, sighing. “Dad wasn't like these people, was he? He didn't sit around like a vulture, hoping someone would die so he could get money?”

I leaned against the banister. “No, not at all. There were some aspects of his upbringing that he couldn't shake loose. He could never quite relax, or stop feeling as if everyone was judging him and finding him inadequate. It caused him to…do things to combat his own sense of worthlessness.”

“Like have affairs with his students?”

Her face was obscured by shadows, but I could see unblinking eyes and an unsmiling mouth. I tried to find the right words, but perhaps there weren't any. “The girls in his classes were young and pretty, and they let him know they were eager to idolize him.”

“And you didn't.”

I considered flinging myself over the banister and allowing gravity to end the conversation. “No, I didn't,” I said evenly. “We were adults. Carlton needed a certain amount of nurturing he didn't get from Miss Justicia, but I wanted a relationship between equals—not between parent and child.”

“What about Peter? Is he adult enough for you?”

“Possibly, although I have some doubts that our relationship will ever evolve to the point of anything permanent. Are you worried about it?”

“No,” she said, opening the bedroom door. “I'm going to be so rich that it won't matter what you and Peter do. I may go to a snooty boarding school in Switzerland. I'll come home during vacations and try not to snicker at Rhonda Maguire's pitiful attempts to speak French.”

She disappeared inside the room.

I rubbed my forehead and wondered how I'd failed, when I'd failed, or if I'd failed. Conversations with Caron had the consistency of jellyfish, along with the potential for painful stings. After a few more minutes of futile introspection, I went down to the foyer.

“Here you are!” Stanford said from the parlor doorway. “Rodney and I were beginning to worry about you. I was in the midst of telling him about a real smart colored boy who works in the Pritty Kitty Kollar division, when everybody came tromping down the stairs. Nobody would tell me what was going on, but they sure were acting strange.”

I told him what we'd found in the attic, ignored his sputters, and went into the library to call the police. Officers Dewberry and Puccoon were following up on a report of a yellow taxi, I was told, but would come to the house sooner or later. I suspected it would be later.

Dinner was dismal, of course. Everyone straggled in, including Caron and the often-elusive Keith, and said little as we tackled blackened meat of some sort and canned vegetables. Maxie kept an eye on Rodney Spikenard, or at least on his silverware. Stanford's jokes were received without smiles, and his attempts to interest us in his plans for expanding the family business met frosty stares.

Caron put down her napkin. “I've absolutely got to call Inez,” she said to me, then left before I could offer any observations about long-distance bills.

Rodney carefully folded his napkin and placed it alongside the silverware, all of which was visible. “I realized the family is in shock over Miss Justicia's untimely demise. I hope my presence has not caused any…problem.”

“Not at all,” Maxie said, gazing over his head. She lit a cigarette and slumped back in her chair. Beside her, Phoebe managed a small smile.

“I hate to see you run,” Ellie said, “but you might have a jollier time at the morgue. One little question, if you don't mind. How long do we have to find this olographic will?”

“I must consult Mr. D'Armand about the intricacies of the trust before anything can be done. And the process of probate is lengthy and often delayed.”

Ellie shot her father a dark look. “So how much are we talking about, Rodney?”

“Generally, the principal of the trust is the net principal after payment of administration expenses, death taxes, any outstanding debts, and funeral and burial expenses. I've not yet had a current accounting from Mr. D'Armand, so it would be improper for me to speculate at this time.”

“But we're talking big bucks, aren't we?” Stanford demanded, utilizing his napkin to wipe his damp face.

“I must repeat what I told you earlier,” Spikenard said as he pushed back his chair and rose. “At this time, that question would be more appropriately put to Mr. D'Armand. As probation commences, I will have a complete record of the assets and liabilities of the trust. I'll certainly keep you informed of the situation.”

I followed Spikenard down the hallway and caught up with him in the foyer. “I'd like to ask you something,” I said.

“I've already said numerous times that I don't have the answers. I can't do anything until I get the records. Even then, it will take time to study them and organize the information.” He picked up his briefcase. “I'm on my way to my office now to call D'Armand.”

I went out the door with him, in much the same fashion as a burr on his trouser leg (and as welcome as one). “That's not what I wanted to ask.”

“Yes, then?” he said wearily.

“You mentioned Miller Malloy,” I said. “He's been dead for thirty years, and, according to his obituary, was survived by only his parents, two brothers, and a few stray cousins. There was no mention of a wife or child.”

“No, I don't suppose there would be.”

“Then why did you bring up the name? Did Miss Justicia tell you something that led you to believe Miller didn't die in Vietnam?”

He edged away from me but was forced to stop when his back met the railing. “No, on the contrary, she showed me a copy of the official death certificate issued by the U.S. Army and dated December of 1960.” His smile glinted in the darkness, and his voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Although she never said she thought he was haunting the manor, maybe she heard rattling chains and creaking footsteps in the basement. Why don't you and the others conduct a séance?”

I felt my face flush with anger. I am not easily provoked, but when I am, I've been told the Surgeon General should issue a warning. “Mr. Spikenard, this is not the time for jokes. Miss Justicia died last night—either accidentally or with someone's assistance. This morning, someone shot at me, and I didn't care for it. These people are beginning to suffocate in their greed, including my daughter, who's packing for Switzerland! I am sick and tired of this whole mess.” I advanced on him until I could poke him in the chest. I did so with unnecessary vigor. “However, I am going to sort it out and figure out what happened. Do not underestimate me, Mr. Spikenard.”

He did not applaud, but he did have enough sense to get the smile off his face before I did it for him. “My apologies, Mrs. Malloy. What Miss Justicia told me about her eldest son is covered by client-attorney confidentiality, and I would be risking both my license and my self-respect if I repeated it to you. It is possible that Mr. D'Armand might offer enlightenment. The Malloy family files are still at his office, and he might be willing to allow you to look through them for particular documents.”

Rodney Spikenard fled to a modest sedan and drove away.

I stayed on the porch for a long while, reluctant to go back inside Malloy Manor and face the family. At one point, I went around the corner and studied the shrubs below the library window, but the sound of Caron's insufferably gleeful voice informing Inez of her newly acquired wealth was as much the cause of my indigestion as the food served at dinner.

The discovery of the brandy decanter was a contributor, too. If it had blood on it, and if the blood was Miss Justicia's, then whoever had wielded it then brought it back from the bayou and buried it in the leaves beneath the window. It would seem much easier to toss it in the bayou, where eventually it would sink into the silt…if we were not supposed to find it. If we were (this in itself a poser), then why hide it?

The pseudo-driver was the only person downstairs when we'd heard the wheelchair in the yard. Ellie had told me she'd found him asleep on a sofa, and it was possible he'd dozed through the ensuing events. Before he vanished, that is.

My foray into inductive logic was swampier than the bayou, and I reluctantly dismissed it as the ravings of a semistarved gothic heroine. Fully expecting to see a ghostly general on a translucent steed, I sat down on the swing and dejectedly told myself this lapse into lunacy would pass when I had put a reasonable distance between myself and Malloy Manor. Many hundred miles, for instance.

Neither General Richmond Malloy nor Ronald Colman was doing any haunting, but Miller Malloy was stirring up more than his fair share of trouble from the marble vault in the corner of the cemetery. I reminded myself that he was as dead as the General and Mr. Colman. Miss Justicia had shown the death certificate to Rodney Spikenard. I'd seen the brass plaque and read the obituary.

No one inside the house would give me any information. Spikenard had suggested I speak to Bethel D'Armand, who'd choked on his coffee when I mentioned the name. He had not refused to discuss him, though; Ellie had interrupted us and seized the conversation.

I could pace on the porch or I could do something that might alleviate at least a part of my perplexity. I could not, on the other hand, use the telephone to find out if D'Armand were willing to talk to me, unless I waited
a contracoeur
until Caron finished describing, à
haute voix
, her proposed revenge on Rhonda Maguire.
Celui qui veut, peut
(idiomatically; Where there's a will, there's a way).

Glancing over my shoulder every step or so, I went to Ellie's car and ascertained that the key was to the ignition. Surely she wouldn't mind if I was to borrow the car for a brief visit, I told myself without conviction. She and other deposed heirs were busy searching nooks and crannies for granny's will. With a final furtive glance, I got to the car and located necessities like the clutch, shift, headlight control, and brake. I then proceeded to steal the car and sedately drive to LaRue.

The library was closed, as were most of the stores along the main street. Undaunted, I stopped at a convenience store. I found a telephone directory and looked up Bethel D'Armand's office address, purchased sustenance of little nutritional worth to sustain us until our flight, and asked for directions.

A few minutes later, I parked to front of a clapboard house on a side street. The shingle was more of a sign, but it confirmed that Bethel D'Armand, Attorney at Law, conducted business within the premises between the hours of nine and five.

Lights were on in the front room. It was decidely after business hours, but I went up the walk and into an attractive reception room that was devoid of a receptionist attractive or otherwise. The door to a second room was closed, but light shone from beneath it and I heard a male voice.

A scrupulous visitor would knock and politely announce her presence. I crept to the door and strained to hear more clearly what was being said in D'Armand's private office.

“Just throw a few things to a bag,” D'Armand was saying, “and stop worrying. We don't know what the weather will be like, and we can pick up whatever we need when we get there.”

I wafted for a response, but D'Armand reiterated his suggestion and then fell silent. It was not necessary to let him know I'd been eavesdropping, I decided, especially when I'd heard nothing meritous of the minor breach of etiquette. I returned to the front door, stealthily opened it, and then banged it closed.

“Mr. D'Armand?” I called loudly and ever so politely. “It's Claire Malloy.”

In the ensuing lull, I heard a mutter that hinted of his disinclination to receive visitors, but he opened his door and came into the reception room with a smile.

“Why, Mrs. Malloy, what a fascinating surprise to find you here. I was just tying up a few loose ends at a time when I didn't expect to be interrupted.” His smile widened, but I was feeling the same arctic breeze I'd felt in the café. “Even though I'm pretty much retired, I still have some clients wanting me to handle minor affairs for them.”

I gazed past him at his office door. “I can imagine how irritating it must be to have clients dropping by on a Saturday night.”

“What?” he said, looking genuinely puzzled. “No, there's no one else here. I was doing paperwork, and I'd be delighted to take a break. Please, come sit in here and let me offer you coffee or a taste of some fine Kentucky bourbon nearly as old as I am.”

His office was befittingly masculine and tastefully decorated with a mahogany desk, leather chairs, bookshelves, and a globe. On the walls hung examples of that which is the epitome of southern macho decor: framed prints of ducks. He waited until I was seated, then took a bottle and glasses from a drawer.

“To what do I owe the honor of your visit?” he said as he handed me a glass and sat down on the far side of the desk.

“To be blunt, Mr. D'Armand, I'm confused,” I said with a rueful look meant to elicit avuncular sympathy. “Caron and I arrived at Malloy Manor only yesterday afternoon, and since then, it's been a nightmare.” A more skilled actress, such as Ellie, could have produced silver tears; the best I could do was a sniffle. “I hardly had a chance to meet Miss Justicia before she was killed in that tragic accident. Poor Caron is so distraught that she's taken to hiding in the attic.”

“Is that so?” D'Armand said dryly, unaffected by the performance. “By the way, I had a call from young Spikenard half an hour ago. He said he'd been out to the house to explain what he could and to have dinner with you all.”

“Such a bright young man.”

“Oh, yes, a bright young man.”

It was evident I lacked even primitive talent in theatrics. “Okay,” I said, “he suggested that I ask you about Miller Malloy, and that's why I'm here. My husband never once mentioned an older brother, and the others in the family make odd little noises when they hear the name. But I've been to the cemetery.”

“So I heard,” he said.

“From Mrs. D'Armand?”

He laughed. “She mentioned it at dinner, but you're underestimating the interest generated by a new face in a small town. The ol' boys in front of the barbershop were still discussing your motives when Ellie and I left the café.”

I saw no reason to acknowledge that we both knew I'd lied. “I went to the library, too, and his obituary was published in the newspaper. What's the deal with Miller?”

“The deal with Miller?” He thought for a minute, his eyes drifting beneath the bristly white eyebrows, then said, “I suppose I would have to admit he was a black sheep. Hardly the first in the family, to be sure. Old Richmond was rumored to have had a string of mistresses, despite his less than captivating appearance. There's a legend that his wife went crazy and chopped up one of them in a shack across the bayou. Miss Justicia caused tongues to wag for decades. More recently, there are some titillating stories afoot about Stanford's expensive lady friend in New Orleans.”

“Let's talk about Miller. What did he do to have his particular leaf yanked off the family tree?”

“He sowed some wild oats, and then, with encouragement from his parents, joined the army.” D'Armand glanced at the antique captain's clock on the bookshelf. “Mrs. Malloy, if you'll excuse me, I need to make one quick call. Afterward, if you're really determined to fret about Miller, I'll tell you in more detail which oats he sowed and where he chose to sow 'em.”

“I'd appreciate it,” I said.

He picked up a briefcase and went into the reception room. The conversation was inaudible from my chair, and I was making too much progress to risk further eavesdropping. I heard D'Armand replace the receiver, and I was preparing a compliment on the bourbon when a door closed somewhere in the house. Seconds later, a car door slammed. An engine came to life, purred noisily, and then receded.

In that I was loathe to jump to any conclusions, I waited a solid five seconds before I went into the reception room. It and the storage room beyond it were uninhabited, and the gravel parking lot behind the house was empty.

I returned to his office and sat down to contemplate the novelty of the situation. He was gone, but I had no idea if he'd run an errand or run away. The latter seemed more likely, since he'd been alluding to travel arrangements earlier. But he hadn't popped in to say good-bye, which was less than gallant of him, even if he was a lawyer.

I decided to give him fifteen minutes, and took a legal tome from the shelf. It was more entertaining than the fine print on airline tickets, but most of it was cloaked in the convoluted jargon favored by the profession. They did so out of self-preservation; if the law was comprehensible to reasonably literate people, we'd be more likely to take Shakespeare's advice concerning its practitioners.

The
wherewithins
and
wheretofores
eventually lost their appeal. I replaced the book and looked around for less erudite reading matter. Along the wall behind the desk were a dozen cartons, each sealed and neatly marked with the word
Malloy
. Once again, the issue of scrupulosity reared its head. I was a Malloy, but most likely not (or most definitely not) the particular Malloy on the cartons. Then again, my daughter had a legitimate concern in the status of the family financial situation.

It took me another five seconds to resolve this minor moral dilemma. I sat down in D'Armand's chair and opened the nearest carton.

Nearly an hour later, I was lamenting my lack of knowledge of trusts. My eyes were aching, and occasional clouds of dust from antiquated files had kept me sneezing most of the time. The Malloy trust seemed to require numerous ledgers, along with the retainment of every tax document, receipt, inventory, appraisal, invoice, petition, certificate, and yellowed paper with any sort of print/signature.

I reached the penultimate carton before I found a file with Miller's name on it. It was less bulky than the others through which I'd blindly stumbled. I put the ledgers on the floor, pushed stacks of folders aside, and opened the file.

The first paper was a photocopy of his death certificate—the date as expected. A second photocopy was of a letter from Miller's commanding officer, expressing sympathy and praising his valor. It occurred to me I was working through the file in the wrong direction, and flipped to the bottom paper. It was not the record of his birth but, rather, the documentation of his first entanglement with the police.

It did not describe unspeakably vile acts, however. At the tender age of sixteen, Miller had been caught in the possession of a six-pack of beer. He'd been fined twenty-five dollars. I moved on, as he had done. There were several other arrest reports, none for anything more serious than speeding, partying at a bayou, again possessing beer, and a final report of an altercation outside a bar. Misdemeanor charges had been dismissed.

None of it qualified him as a hardened criminal, nor did the next document, his enlistment contract. I was rapidly approaching the photocopies at the end of the file, and all I'd learned was that Miller had required the services of a lawyer a few times and that his father had been billed by the hour.

I was ready to acknowledge defeat and allow Miller to rest in peace when I found the letter. It was written on a piece of notebook paper, and although the handwriting was unexceptional, its content was enough to elicit an abrupt inhalation. The date indicated it was written on June 23, 1960. In the event of Miller's death, D'Armand was to locate Miller's child and see that he or she received the proceeds of a life-insurance policy and any accrued benefits from the army. The final sentence warned D'Armand not to inform anyone of the letter or any actions taken because of it. Miller's signature was a scrawl, but I could identify enough of the letters to confirm it.

I turned it over, hoping for an elaboration. The page was blank, and there was nothing else in the file concerning “he or she.” I resisted the urge to fling the whole thing into the air. Miller had fathered a child, gender unknown, mother unnamed. He had written what qualified as an olographic will.

The only person who could enlighten me had departed for a place where the weather was apt to be unlike that of downtown LaRue, or the surrounding parish.

I refolded the letter and put it back where I'd found it, then replaced the file in its carton. I restored everything else as best I could, turned off the light, and went to the reception room. Neither Bethel D'Armand nor his receptionist had returned. I was heading for the door with the telephone rang. To say it startled me would be an understatement; I reacted as if it had fired a bullet at me.

It blithely continued to ring, and I finally went back to the desk, took a deep breath, and picked up the receiver.

“Bethel, it's nearly ten o'clock,” said a woman's voice. I recognized it from an earlier encounter. The recognition, regrettably, did not give me any clues how best to respond. “Did you hear me? Why don't you answer me?” she continued, her pitch rising.