Death by the Light of the Moon (18 page)

“You did seem upset when we found the body,” I said, “but I'll be the first to acknowledge your acting skills. Miss Justicia's cackle was perfect, and you fooled me when you claimed to be bewildered by the man asleep in the parlor.”

“Buzz is the one who killed them,” she said, her eyes welling with tears. “He thought everything was okay until he heard you talking on the telephone about the decanter. He took a few shots at you at the cemetery to frighten you into packing your bags.”

“How did he know I was there?”

“The old men in front of the barbershop asked Bethel and me if we knew you were there. I may have mentioned it when I called the house, but I had no idea that he would do anything like that. Last night, he totally lost it when I told him about the decanter's discovery. I tried to stop him, Claire, but he insisted on going into town to look for you.”

“And what did you think he was driving? The wheelchair?”

“I didn't ask,” she said in a low voice.

“Perhaps you didn't need to,” I said. “The cackle was well practiced, and the sound of your humming and singing in the bathroom was taped in advance. You did bring a tape recorder, didn't you? Is it in the closet, along with the pieces of feather boa?”

She bit her lip, then turned to Rodney and gave him a dazzling smile. “Since you're a member of the family…?”

“I'm delighted to be of service,” Rodney murmured, “but I bill by the hour in criminal cases, and require a retainer.”

“You are such a card, Cousin Rodney,” she drawled.

“A veritable ace of spades,” he said, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.

Maxie began to sob, although I suspected she was distressed not by Ellie's involvement in Miss Justicia's death but by Rodney's entrance into the lineage. Phoebe handed her a handkerchief, patted her shoulder, and then looked at me with a cool smile. “Since you've proved how clever you are, Cousin Claire, why don't you impress us more by sharing your theory about the location of the will?”

“She never wrote it,” Stanford said as he headed for the cart. “Maybe she was going to, but she was struck dead by that long-haired hippie before she had a chance.”

“She spoke as if she had,” Phoebe countered.

Maxie wiped her cheeks. “Indeed, she hinted very strongly that the will was ready to be read.”

I once again had everyone's attention, including my daughter's. “I think we can assume the house was searched very thoroughly. Miss Justicia knew you all would be sniffing for it every time she turned her back on you. There is one place no one had access to during the day, and limited access at night—unless you were willing to search her room while she was asleep.”

“The wheelchair?” Caron said, proving at least some of her genes were from a pool rather than a bayou.

Puccoon cleared his throat. “Excuse me, but when Dewey and me was dragging it back to the house, the armrest fell off.” He took a rolled paper from his back pocket. “Is this what you folks are looking for, Mr. Stanford?”

After an intolerable amount of spirited debate, it was agreed that Rodney would read the will aloud. Ellie demanded to be allowed to stay, and the police officers seemed in no rush to leave in the midst of the impressively melodramatic scene, even though Officer Bo and the coroner were waiting outside for them.

“It's dated last week,” Rodney began, wrinkling his forehead as only a lawyer can do, “and appears to be in order. We'll have to confirm that it is written in her own—”

“If you don't mind,” Maxie said, puffing furiously on a cigarette. Ashes littered her bosom, but she was unconcerned, perhaps for the first time in her life, with appearances.

“As you wish. ‘I, Justicia Beauville Malloy, being of sounder mind than any of you greedy, slobbering scavengers, am going to do the right thing. Oh, I know you've been kicking each other under the table and stabbing each other in the back, but blood is thicker than swamp water. We've been decaying for generations, and what's left is a sorry lot.'”

“Look who's talking,” Puccoon whispered to Dewberry. He realized he'd been heard, and edged behind the door.

“Please restrain yourselves,” Rodney said sternly. “There are a few more observations concerning the present individuals, but I'll provide each of you with a copy so that you may read it at your leisure. Shall we cut to the bequeaths?”

An odd ripply noise came from Maxie's flaccid mouth. Stanford harrumphed and downed his drink. Caron's lip shot out as she gazed into a dismal future bereft of wealth and Louis Wilderberry. Ellie softly clapped her hands.

“Good idea,” I said, doing nothing at all.

Rodney cleared his throat. “All right, here we go. ‘To Maxine Rutherford Malloy-Frazier, an appropriately pretentious name if ever there was one, and her daughter, Phoebe Malloy-Frazier, I leave Malloy Manor and its contents. The house is haunted, but only by termites and dry rot and peeling paint. It's a perfect setting for you.”

“Oh, dear”—Maxie panted—“I'm feeling quite woozy. Phoebe, fetch me a glass of sherry. How wonderful of Miss Justicia to ensure that the house will—”

“Get on with it,” Stanford said.

“‘To my sniveling son, Stanford, I leave all my stock in Pritty Kitty Kibble. I don't know what it's worth now, but if nothing else, it'll make fine toilet paper.'” Rodney paused, but Stanford was slumped over and any comments he was making were inaudible. “To continue, ‘To Pauline Hurstmeyer, who dedicated her life to despising me, I leave the proceeds of all my life-insurance policies in hopes that it's not too late to purchase herself a companion.'”

“Where is she, anyway?” Maxie asked, having gained enough self-control to feign curiosity, if not concern.

“Making the last payment on a companion,” I said. “Bethel D'Armand, to be precise.”

“They…ah?” Maxie sought a phrase appropriately genteel to reflect her newly enhanced status. “They have gone away together? Is he the one to whom she referred when she so coarsely mentioned an unrequited love?”

Phoebe blinked at her mother. “She implied it was requited often at the Econolodge. Her exact words were—”

Maxie cut her off. “I remember her remarks. She was in shock at the time and rambling.”

“I'm happy for her,” Ellie said, “but could we get on with it, Cousin Rodney? These policemen are breathing down my neck and I'd like to hear the rest of the will before I'm dragged away to the dungeon.”

He resumed reading. “‘Everything else is to be divided among those of my grandchildren who are present at the dining room table of Malloy Manor on the evening of my eightieth birthday. You're the new generation. You might as well enjoy disgracing the family in the future.'”

Ellie's eyes glistened. “Miss Justicia, if you weren't embalmed, I'd kiss you! Let's take roll: Cousin Caron and I were at the table, and so was dear Cousin Rodney. Poor Keith was absent, although it certainly wasn't his fault, since he was dead. We're down to thirds. I could have used all of it, but this is an improvement over nothing. Champagne?”

“Actually,” Phoebe said, removing her glasses to clean them on a tissue, “as an accessory to Miss Justicia's murder, you're not entitled to inherit from her estate.”

Ellie blanched. “Don't be silly. I still get my share of the money, don't I? I didn't kill Miss Justicia. All of you heard how Buzz did it. I just—helped him make it look like an accident. Big Eddie's getting impatient. I need the money.”

“At least room and board will be provided by the state,” Maxie said with a malicious smile. “So, Cousin Caron, it seems you and this”—she swallowed what must have been bitter taste—“son of Miller's will divide the money in the trust. Isn't that a lovely surprise? It would be a nice gesture on your part to make a donation in honor of Miss Justicia, to ensure the continued preservation of Malloy Manor.”

“Tax-deductible, of course.” Phoebe poised her pencil over the notebook to record any offers.

“Yeah,” Caron said dazedly, hundreds of miles away in a swimming pool. And not alone.

“I get my share!” Ellie said savagely. Her perfect complexion marred by angry blotches, she stood up and glared challengingly at each of us in turn. “Nobody would get a damn penny if we hadn't hurried along Miss Justicia's death a little bit. You think it's easy to make that sound? You know how much practice it took?” Her hands began to jerk and her voice grew more shrill. “Hours! It took hours! You sorry amateurs never could have done it!”

She threw back her head. The cackle came from her mouth like a ribbon of bile, coiling through the dreary room, stinging our ears, and scalding our skin. The noise hung in the air long after the policemen escorted her out of the house.

Caron rolled her eyes at me.

 

Rodney's car was the only one in the driveway as he came to the porch. Ellie's had been impounded, and she and Buzz were rumored to be implicating each other more quickly than an gator slipping off a log. Immediately after we'd returned from the funeral (sparsely attended and minus one pallbearer), Stanford had packed his bags and stormed out of the house, muttering about an appointment in New Orleans. Maxie and Phoebe had gone straight to the attic to commence an inventory that would end in the darkest corner of the basement.

Our suitcases were on the porch. I sat in the swing, idly listening to Caron on the telephone in the library. Rhonda Maguire's future had taken a downward turn.

“Hello,” I said to Rodney. “Thanks for offering to give us a ride to the airport. It's going to be a while before I take any taxis. You look exhausted.”

“I stayed up all night sorting through the files and ledgers in D'Armand's office,” he said as he sat down beside me. “They were jumbled, as if someone had taken everything out and then stuffed it back in without regard to date or content.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding,” he said without inflection.

“Did you find the file with Miller's name on it?” I asked. He nodded, watching me closely. “I've been thinking about it. D'Armand kept every last document pertaining to the family—with the singular exception of anything to do with the distribution of Miller's life-insurance policy and army benefits. Supposedly, no one would have access to the files until he retired and turned them over to another attorney, so he had no reason not to include the paperwork. There was no indication he ever attempted to locate the woman and her child.”

“And what did this lead you to theorize?”

“Several different things. One is that there was no child,” I said. “Bethel D'Armand was the defender of the Malloy family name, and he might have felt an illegitimate child sullied its reputation. The mother, of course, would have to bought off—and kept bought off for the rest of her life.”

“Are you hinting that D'Armand convinced the woman to have an illegal abortion, and, in return, she was promised lifelong employment?”

“I could be hinting that,” I said, although I was doing more fishing than hinting. “One possibility comes to mind, and she's had countless opportunities for revenge, hasn't she? I've never been confronted with worse food in my life. Imagine facing thirty years of it!”

“One possibility,” he murmured.

I gave the swing a push, and we sat companionably in the sunshine, the squeaks of the swing in harmony with the cries of distant birds and the sound of an airplane taking some lucky souls out of the parish.

“But,” Rodney continued, “that would make me an impostor—if I'd ever claimed to be this child. I did not I was planning to emphasize that yesterday, but I couldn't bring myself to rescue Mrs. Malloy-Frazier from her worst nightmare.” He gave me a quirky little smile that melted my frown. “Oh, come on, it was pretty damn funny, wasn't it? For awhile there, she looked as if she'd swallowed her tongue, her teeth, and all of her platinum fillings.”

“It was definitely the highlight of the weekend.” I stopped to think, then shook my head. “But abortions were hard to come by thirty years ago, even illegal ones. If the woman had moved away, Bethel simply could have pocketed the money and thrown away the paperwork to cover his tracks. She and her now-grown child could be anywhere in the country.”

“I suspect we'll never be sure,” Rodney said. “In any case, only one qualified heir was at the table Saturday night.”

“Which means Caron is the sole beneficiary of the Malloy fortune. She was unbearable as a pauper. I don't know how I'll handle her once she ascends the throne.”

“It won't be too high off the ground.” Rodney glanced at the open windows and lowered his voice. “You guessed why Bethel fled so abruptly, didn't you?”

I wanted to pretend I had, but the sunshine was an opiate and I'd been malnourished and deprived of sleep for several days. I admitted as much.

“Miss Justicia discovered he was embezzling money,” Rodney said. “She wanted to divide the estate fairly—well, somewhat fairly, and she told me to examine everything as soon as possible. He stalled for a week. My call two nights ago sent him over the edge.”

“It sent him somewhere,” I said dryly. “How bad is it?”

“He'd been stealing money for years, with the aid of Miss Hurstmeyer, who controlled the household accounts and signed Miss Justicia's name to various financial documents. A preponderance of these were withdrawal authorizations. The house has three mortgages. D'Armand was on the board of directors at the local bank, and he persuaded them to make some hefty loans against it, resulting in a considerable negative equity. There's a lien against the contents, too. Mrs. Malloy-Frazier and her daughter are facing some severe challenges, beginning with back property taxes for the last few years.”

“Oh dear,” I said, clucking softly. “You will let them know before the dealers arrive?”

He nodded. “And you might have a word with Caron before she applies to a Swiss boarding school. There are federal and state death taxes to be paid, along with an accumulation of unpaid debts and claims on the estate. Income taxes are in arrears. The jewelry is missing from the safe-deposit box, but the personal property taxes and insurance must be paid.”

“All in all?”

“I'll do my best to cut a deal with the government to allow her to make monthly payments.”

The squeaks were loud, but they weren't originating from the chains holding the swing. He caught my hand before I could strangle myself, and said, “Just kidding, Claire. I can jiggle assets and liabilities, and even things out. Neither of you will have to go to debtor's prison.”

I stood up. “Rodney, I think I'll let you explain this to the heiress. We have a few minutes before we leave for the airport. I'm going to take a walk.” I stopped at the bottom step and frowned at him. “But if you're not Miller's son and a potential heir, then why did Miss Justicia write an olographic will?”

His teeth glinted in the sunlight, and dimples appeared on both sides of his mustache. “Client-attorney confidentiality.”

“With a degree from Yale, you must have had tempting offers from prestigious firms all over the country. Yet you chose to open a practice in LaRue, Louisiana, where you knew you'd be faced with a two-hundred-year-old tradition of bigotry and discrimination.”

“My mother worked two jobs and took in laundry so that I'd have the opportunity to concentrate on my studies and do well enough to receive scholarships. She was the one who suffered from the bigotry and discrimination, and I promised myself I'd return to the South to carry on the fight. Substantial fees from families like the Malloys enable me to take on clients less able to afford decent representation.” His smile of complacency was eerily familiar. “That doesn't mean I'd ever care to make public any entanglement with such a family. I have a reputation to protect, and the last thing I need is to be considered an offshoot of loons.”

“But I won't be out of line if I send you Christmas cards?”

“Of course not, Claire. I'll be delighted to keep in touch with you and Caron in the future. I suppose I'd better tell her the bad news.”

I went around the house and took a series of paths to the bayou. The silky brown water was placid, although by no means inviting. An egret watched me from the smooth knee of a cypress tree, and a mammal of some sort fled into a hole. Something sent ripples splashing on a mossy log. A few muddy footprints remained in the grass, but the next rain would erase the last vestiges of Miss Justicia's death.

General Malloy might continue to gallop across the yard when the moon was full, but it seemed likely that in the future no one would be watching him from the second-story windows of Malloy Manor. His legend would fade. The moon was waning, and, with each passing night, would less and less be able to diminish the stars surrounding it. As Miss Justicia had diminished those surrounding her.