Death by the Light of the Moon (15 page)

I didn't know the number at Malloy Manor, and I didn't especially want to talk to any of them. Bethel D'Armand would not be at his office, and, for all I knew, had taken the last flight out (the 10:42 to Shreveport). There was one obvious call, but I wasn't yet in the mood to explain how I'd stolen a car and ended up locked in the airport.

I wiggled until I was as comfortable as I could get on unrelenting linoleum, then compounded whatever felonies I'd already committed by dialing Peter's number.

“Yeah?” he answered grumpily.

“So, how was your day?” I asked, charitably ignoring his initial lack of enthusiasm.

“It's after eleven.”

“Very good. We must be in the same time zone, although it's more twilight than central daylight down here. Have you made any progress in the thefts in the athletics department?”

“Wait a minute,” he said, still grumpy. “Let me turn on a light.”

While I waited, I took a quick peek over the counter. I was not exactly the master of my destiny, but I seemed to have the situation in hand, if I overlooked some of the small yet pesky issues that would require resolution at some point.

“Okay,” Peter said, “what's going on down there?”

“It's been hectic, and a few things have happened that are causing problems for me. I wanted to let you know that Caron and I are staying for the funeral, and therefore won't be home until Monday evening.”

“How hectic has it been?” he asked, missing the opportunity to mention how distressed he was by the delay of my arrival home and into his arms.

“Pretty hectic. Did you fingerprint the coaches?”

“Not yet. What's going on, Claire?”

We yammered back and forth, but I finally gave up and ran through the highlights of the day, including the sniper at the cemetery and his most recent reemergence on my bumper. I lamely concluded with a vague remark about my current incarceration.

He reacted as I'd expected, with snorts and sputters and tediously repetitive remarks concerning his earlier advice. At one point, I put down the receiver to check the door; when I retrieved it, I doubted I'd missed anything of interest. I let him run down, then said, “Caron and I had an intriguing conversation about her father and about you. You needn't worry, though. She's more—”

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“Most of it, but you were repeating yourself and—”

“Call the local police.”

“I will when I get around to it,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “They're totally incompetent. I don't know how—”

“Call the local police.” He paused, then added, “If you don't promise to stop dithering and call them immediately, I'll hang up on you and call them myself.”

“Call them what?” I said lightly. “It would be accurate to call them irresponsible, but to call them irrepressible is—”

Damned if he didn't hang up.

“Where were you last night?” demanded Caron.

I opened my eyes long enough to determine she had her fists on her hips and smoke streaming out of her ears, then rolled over, burrowed under the pillow, and muttered, “Go away, dear. We'll discuss it later.”

“I said, where were you last night? I searched the entire house, and then went all the way to the bayou to see if you'd drowned or something stupid like that. I stepped on a snake. Well, I thought it was a snake, anyway, and it's an absolute miracle I didn't sprain my ankle when I ran back to the house. Or break it and be permanently crippled.”

“Leave me alone.”

She jerked away the pillow. “I am not going to leave you alone, Mother! This whole thing is Utterly Crazy, and I've had enough! I'm seriously considering changing my name.”

“To Madeline? Then you can live in an old house in Paris, covered with vines…”

“I have no idea what you're babbling about, but it's clear that you're just as weird as those other people.”

“All right.” Yawning. I sat up, then regretted the movement. My neck, back, and upper arms were sore, and my fingers curled involuntarily, as if still clutching a steering wheel. I was relieved to note my knuckles were no longer white.

Caron's nostrils flared more widely than those on the moosehead in the attic. “Well?”

“You want to know where I was last night, so I'll tell you. I went to Bethel D'Armand's office. He disappeared. On my return trip, a demonic yellow dragon chased me to the airport. A policeman named Bo came to rescue me, but he had to go find the custodian's house to get a key. He then asked me several thousand questions, recorded my answers diligently, escorted me to the house, and advised me to seek legal counsel or psychiatric care. He did not imply the two are mutually exclusive. I've decided to make reservations at the Happydale Home. Every afternoon at tea, they serve cucumber sandwiches with the crusts trimmed and little cakes with pink icing.”

Caron eyed me coldly. “You're not as weird as those other people. You're ten times as weird. Furthermore, you're not Nearly As Funny as you think you are.”

“I suppose not.” I went into the bathroom and began to brush my teeth, despite twinges from my fingers. “So what did I miss while I was battling for my life?”

“Nothing. Phoebe made me get off the telephone so she could call her boyfriend. His name is Jules, but when I was leaving, I heard her call him Julie. I thought I'd barf on the carpet.”

I finished with my teeth and leaned toward the mirror to examine the puffy bags beneath my eyes. The dark smudges were not of a cosmetic origin but of an organic one. “What about everyone else? Anybody invite you to play Scrabble or conduct a séance?”

“Uncle Stanford stayed in the parlor. Most of the others kind of wandered around, searching for the dumb olographic will.” She slumped against the doorsill and sighed. “With my luck, one of them will find it and I won't get any of the money. Then I won't be able to have a big house with a swimming pool, and Rhonda Maguire will keep inviting Louis over to swim until his brain is waterlogged. They'll go steady for the next three years, announce their engagement at the senior prom, get married while they're in college, live in a really cute apartment—”

“Stop, and I mean it,” I said as I returned to the bedroom and opened my suitcase. Although it was Sunday morning, church was not on my agenda, so I took out slacks and a shirt. “I assume no one dashed into the parlor, waving the will and shouting ‘Eureka!'”

Caron had taken my place in front of the mirror, and was glumly dabbing cream on her chin. “I couldn't say. After I gave up trying to find you, I came up here and read that idiotic book you brought. A butler and a blizzard—give me a break!”

“Did Ellie happen to mention her car?”

“She saw you take it, if that's what you're getting at. All she said was that you'd better not bang it up. When I get the money, I'll find some world-famous dermatologist who's invented zit medicine that actually works, even if you eat chocolate all the time.” She put her finger on the tip of her nose, pushed it up slightly, and tilted her head to study the effect. “And maybe a plastic surgeon.”

Resisting the urge to make a reference to a Pekingese, I told her I was going downstairs, and was halfway out the door when she said, “The murderer made a really stupid mistake, you know.”

I stopped. “What mistake was that, Caron?”

“Hiding the weapon the way he did, of course. Can I wear your blue shirt? Everything I brought is dirty.”

I managed to turn myself around, and, with modulated and well-articulated deliberation, said, “What do you mean?”

“Well, on the airplane I spilled a soda on my white shirt, and I brought this plaid thing, but I don't know why because I don't like it very—”

“What do you mean about hiding the weapon?”

She picked up the plaid thing, shook her head, and dropped it on the floor. “Oh, you know, the way Lord Diggs put the knife in the solarium after he strangled his wife and killed the cat. I mean, like the police are so dense that they aren't going to search the—”

“Lord Diggs?”

“In that book you brought,” she said, digging through my suitcase and finally emerging with my blue shirt. “Then right at the end, he remembers that his nephew was making love to the parlor maid in the greenhouse and could have seen—”

“Lord Diggs is the murderer? I thought the nephew was guilty. He mentioned that he was allergic to cat hair, and he was sneezing during the investigation.”

“And also to pollen, from the flowers in the greenhouse. Didn't you notice when he leaned over the centerpiece to pass the salt to—”

“Of course I did,” I said, and left before I further disgraced myself in her steely adolescent eyes.

The house seemed empty, but I doubted I was any luckier than Caron. I went to the dining room and determined I was not. Maxie and Phoebe sat silently, both staring at the tablecloth. Coffee cups, plates, and black crumbs littered the table, indicating others had come and gone.

“Good morning,” I said as I headed for the kitchen. When I returned with a cup of what passed for coffee, I repeated my greeting.

“I'm pleased you find it so,” said Maxie. “I myself had a restless night, tortured by thoughts of this house and its contents being lost to future generations. There are so very few examples of plantation architecture left in Louisiana, and it's distressing to see one destroyed”—she snorted—“in the name of progress. It was such a vital era.”

“Those unschooled in regional history assume cotton was the major crop,” Phoebe inserted, apparently on automatic pilot. “However, indigo was the major crop for export until the market declined at the end of the eighteenth century. After that, sugarcane dominated the area.”

“Really,” I murmured, wondering how much sugar it might take to counter the bitterness of the coffee, or if there were a handy cane with which to stir it.

“Very interesting, dear.” Maxie frowned at me. “The police officers came last night. They were less than impressed with your theory that the decanter has significance, but they agreed to have it tested. I took it upon myself to assure them none of us will be surprised when the mysterious substance is determined to be dirt.”

Caron's white shirt was dirty, the brandy decanter was dirty, and so was something else. A pair of something elses, to be precise. I ordered myself to take a swallow of coffee, then put down the cup and said, “Your bedroom slippers are dirty.”

“No, they aren't,” Phoebe said promptly. “We went over this Friday night, Cousin Claire. You were wiggling your toes at the time. Surely you remember that; heaven knows it's indelibly etched in my mind.”

“Not your slippers. Your mother's.”

Maxie solidified as if the temperature had plunged. After what Caron would describe as a Distant Lull, she said, “It's possible they're a bit dusty, but the floors are not cleaned on a regular basis, or on any basis whatsoever that I've thus far noticed.”

“I'm talking about grass stains,” I said.

My comment did not generate any explanations, much less any confessions. The two exchanged quick looks, then stared at me. The temperature had indeed plunged, and we were approaching absolute zero.

“Give me a minute to think,” I said, forcing down more coffee. “Let's try this: When we went outside Friday night to search for Miss Justicia, Phoebe returned to change into shoes and told you what was happening. You decided to avail yourself of the fortuitous opportunity to search her room.”

“I went to her room in hopes she had returned. I was worried about her.”

“If you truly were worried about her, why did you first go outside and peek through the window to make sure she was still in the yard?”

She plucked a cigarette from her case and lit it. “If Miss Justicia had returned, I did not wish to disturb her further by entering her room.”

I refused to wince as smoke wafted into my face. “That was very thoughtful of you, Maxie. Did you step on something hard while in the process of being so very thoughtful?”

“I assumed it was a rock. And I didn't find a will, so you can save yourself the necessity of further innuendos.”

“But you were outside during the pertinent time, and by yourself. Someone who frolicked in the yard as a child should know the quickest path to the bayou.”

“One would think so.” She jabbed out the cigarette and rose. “Come along, Phoebe, and bring your tape measure. There is a secretary in the parlor that warrants a second scrutiny. It might have a secret drawer.”

I let them reach the doorway before I said, “I discovered Miller's big secret, by the way. Baa, baa, black sheep…”

“Who's Miller?” asked Phoebe.

Maxie's hand tightened on the cigarette pack until it crinkled, but her voice remained cool. “He is no one worthy of your attention, Phoebe, or yours, Cousin Claire. Miss Justicia made it clear a long time ago that his name was not to be said aloud in Malloy Manor. Even though she has passed away, we owe her the respect of obeying her wishes in this matter.”

“Because he got a girl pregnant?” I said. “Isn't that an overreaction?”

“It was not a topic of debate then, nor is it to become one today.” Maxie took Phoebe's arm and led her down the hall.

The coffee wasn't any worse cold, and I sipped it as I inserted Maxie into the night's activities. Like Stanford, Phoebe, and Pauline, she had been alone outside. She was strong enough to shove the wheelchair into the water, and she'd admitted she was in the precise spot where the decanter had been found. But why would she risk killing Miss Justicia until the will—any will—had been perused in private?

I was beginning to regret the decanter had been found. I was regretting quite a bit more than that, such as fishing the invitation out of Caron's waste basket in the first place. Borrowing Ellie's car was high on the list, along with allowing myself to become obsessed with Miller, which was what I'd done and for no reason beyond curiosity.

Also high on the list, and in contention for first place, was taking the yellow taxi from the airport when we arrived. The conversation in the backseat had been lively but had contained nothing to merit the man's continued attacks on me. He'd been agreeable during the drive; now he had an attitude I did not appreciate.

And he'd been following me, I realized. He hadn't shown up at the cemetery by coincidence, and he surely hadn't been cruising the highway at the exact time I was returning from D'Armand's office. This newest idea turned the coffee in my stomach to burning, churning acid.

The gloom in the dining room deepened. It was probable that a cloud had blocked the sun, but I became uneasily aware of the water-stained ceiling, peeling wallpaper, depictions of raw meat on the walls, and droopy, dusty cobwebs. I could hear no one, not even Maxie and Phoebe in the parlor. The only other person I'd encountered was Caron, and she was likely to be upstairs pondering her chances of getting in the witness-relocation program. I would have welcomed any company, including Stanford, his offspring, or Pauline. I listened, but all I heard were creaks and wheezes, as if the house had developed a malevolent personality.

It seemed we'd moved from gothic to horror, I thought as I pushed aside the coffee, told myself I was losing my few remaining vestiges of sanity, and went down the hall to the parlor.

Maxie and Phoebe were examining the suspicious secretary. “Where is everybody?” I asked.

“Stanford and Ellie are at the funeral home,” Maxie said. “The cook doesn't come in until noon. Pauline has not yet appeared for breakfast, which is for the best. I have no idea of Keith's whereabouts, nor do I have any interest in them. Forty-three inches.”

“Forty-three inches,” Phoebe echoed. She recorded the figure in her notebook, then kneeled and stretched the tape along the base. “If you're that desperate for company, Cousin Claire, try the opium den under the stairs. Forty-eight and one-half inches.”

“Forty-eight and one-half inches.” This time, Maxie recorded the figure. “There is a discrepancy. This is ever so promising. If you'll be so kind as to excuse us, Cousin Claire, we must concentrate on our calculations. Malloy Manor is at stake.”

I returned to the foyer, a now-familiar home base, and frowned at the little doorway. Since I wasn't anywhere near that desperate, I went outside.

Ellie's sports car and Stanford's Mercedes were gone, thus depriving me of both transportation and the means by which to commit additional felonies. Then again, grand theft auto hadn't been all that entertaining, and the mini grand prix to the airport had been downright grim.

The door behind me opened, and Caron came out to the veranda. “I cannot believe we're stuck here an entire extra day,” she muttered, her hands in the pockets of her white shorts. They went nicely with my blue shirt.