A Will To Murder (10 page)

Armagnac took his aunt patronizingly by the shoulder and smiled his I-need-to-help-this-silly-old-lady-along smile.  “Aunt Katy, come into the library for a moment,” he oozed.  

Katherine jerked her shoulder away.  “All right,” she said challengingly.

Inside the library, Armagnac began.  “We cannot have these Wileys roaming loose around the house at night,” he said.  “There is the possibility--”

“Of what?” Katherine demanded.

“That one of them placed that CD in my father’s car.”  Armagnac cocked his head wisely and blinked rapidly at his aunt, looking more like a rabbit than ever.

“Who put this wretched notion into your head?” the old lady asked finally.

“Why, Letitia,” Boyle replied, taken aback.

“You unmitigated jackass!  First, Mrs. Marshpool tries to blame Jacquelyn for that CD player.  Then she blames Colette, simply because Mrs. Marshpool has taken an irrational dislike to the ailing girl.”  Katherine put her face so close to Armagnac’s that her nose almost went between his buck teeth.  “I am beginning to see that Jac has a point.  Mrs. Marshpool may need replacing.”

Armagnac blanched.

“My niece insists,” continued Katherine, “that Mrs. Marshpool has developed an unhealthy hold over you.  I’m beginning to agree.  Now be quiet about this nonsense.”

“If you try to fire her,” he replied hotly, “I’ll never speak to you again.”

“At this point that would be a relief.”  She reached for the doorknob.  

“When I inherit, you won’t be able to interfere with the staff anymore!”

“
If
you inherit,” Katherine corrected.  “You may not.  In which case the power to hire and fire stays with me.”  The old lady left.

Armagnac stood staring at the door for a long while.

“Mrs. Marshpool,” said Katherine in a calm voice. “Colette will stay here for the night if she wishes.”

“What did Mr. Armagnac say?” asked the housekeeper, eyeing the library door.  The door flew open, and Armagnac walked past with great angry strides.  

“He agrees with me,” said Katherine.  The housekeeper took a step after Boyle.  

“Mrs. Marshpool,” said the old lady.  

Angrily, the housekeeper paused.

“We need the weekly shopping done.  Sheila has the grocery list.”  The imperious Boyle blood had rushed into Katherine’s face.

Mrs. Marshpool gave a wild look in the direction of Armagnac, but headed towards the kitchen door, defeated.

“Ask Ms. Wiley if she needs anything for her bronchitis, Rose, and add it to the list.  I need to take my heart pills,” the old lady groaned.

“Do you need anything for yourself, Aunt Katy?” Rose asked with concern.

“Only some new relatives, but that can’t be helped.”

In the bathroom upstairs, Arthur spent several minutes trying to wash off the Lily-of-the-Valley scent, but failed.  The spray had sunk into his clothes as well.  He gave up and went towards his bedroom to change.

“Come here, Arthur,” Jac called from the open door of the Salisbury’s bedroom, “and I’ll do your nails.”  She was sitting at a small table painting her own nails red.

“I can’t,” said Arthur warily from the doorway. “Colette poisoned me with perfume.”  After being dosed, he couldn’t imagine anything worse than having his nails done.

“I haven’t been able to pay much attention to you because of all this business about Father, and I’ve been neglecting you.  Come and sit with me a while.”

Cautiously, Arthur entered.

“Aren’t these nice?” Jac asked, displaying her hand. “Apple red.  Doesn’t it go well with my complexion?”

“Uh-huh.”  Arthur had no idea what a complexion was, but he nodded vigorously.

“Here, I’ll do yours.”

“Uh--,” said Arthur, not too sure about this.

“It’ll look nice.  I’ll do yours silver.”

“Okay,” the boy agreed reluctantly.

She took his hand between two fingers.  “Let’s clean them first.  You’ve been out playing, I see.”  She started to apply the point of a metal file carefully under each nail, lifting out the dirt.

“Have you ever noticed that old ladies always say you shouldn’t have boldly colored fingernails?” said Jac.  “It’s because they don’t want anyone looking at their hands and seeing all those bulging purple veins and tortoise-shell skin.  A beautiful manicure always draws the eye.”  She spread her fingers on the tabletop and gave Arthur a hinting look.  The boy reddened and nodded.

“What was that?” asked Jac.

“They’re very pretty hands,” he said feebly.

She smiled with approval.  “Now, let’s put your base coat on.”

“Do you ever do this to Briarly?” Arthur asked curiously.

His aunt made a noise of disgust.  “Lord, no.  She’d chew the polish off.  She bites her nails the way your mother does.  Now, we let this dry a moment under the lamp, then we put the second coat on.”

Bert had once said that Jac didn’t care that much for her daughter.  Cautiously, Arthur asked,  “Is Briarly a difficult kid?”  

Jac gave a deep sigh.  “Richie is good-natured,” she replied finally.  (Arthur was taken aback, but supposed, after a moment’s thought, that Richie did take a sick pleasure in his own malevolence).  “You’re good-natured.  Briarly is not.  She snivels and cries all the time.  She takes after your mother, who was always fussy.  No one likes to admit it, but there is such a thing as one of your children wearing you out.  And she refuses to look after her appearance.  She’s always destroying her clothes, tearing them and staining them, and it drives me frantic.  She doesn’t understand how much they cost.  The real problem, Arthur, is that nature hasn’t helped Briarly very much.  She’s not very pretty and she’s not very bright.  She doesn’t understand that the other kids will bully her if she keeps looking and acting like a pariah.  I keep telling her to stay neat and be cheerful, and she'll be more popular with the other kids, but she won’t listen.  Now for the second coat.  Aren’t your nails nice and silvery?”

“Uh-huh,” Arthur was forced to agree.

Richie walked in, sniffed the air, smelled Lily-of-the-Valley, and noticed Arthur’s nails.  Instantly, he squealed with nausea.

Jac cut him off.  “Richie, come here and have your nails done.”

“What!?!”

His mother leaned forward.  “Sit down and have your nails done,” she commanded.  

Richie gaped.  Arthur had been about to hoot with revenge, but Jac’s face stopped him.  Unprotesting, Richie extended his hands, his face flinching and mushy.  Arthur couldn’t believe it.  He hadn’t known anyone, even Aunt Jac, could make his cousin grovel like this.

“I think pink would do nicely,” said Jac.  She worked in total silence, an odd twist to her lipstick that was not quite a smile.

Later that night, when Arthur was asleep in bed, something rammed into his face and chest.  A scream exploded in his ear.  Arthur woke up and flailed madly, throwing his attacker off.  There was light coming from the hallway, light that winked out as the bedroom door shut rapidly.

Shaking, Arthur switched on the bedside lamp and leaned over.  Herbert Maxillamus lay on the floor.  The skeleton hadn’t walked here on his own, Arthur knew.  That scream had been a boyish one--Richie’s.

But even with the human source pinpointed, the shock had still rattled him badly.  Lip quivering, he opened the connecting door to his parents’ room.  “Richie dumped Herbert Maxillamus on me,” Arthur whined to his mother.  “I don’t want to sleep in that room anymore.”

“Oh for--,” began Bert.

Arthur burst into tears.  Instantly, Rose clasped her son to her chest.  “It’s all right, you can sleep here with us tonight, honey.”

“There’s not enough room in the bed.  He’s a big kid now,” Bert protested.

“Then you can go next door and sleep in Arthur’s bed,” replied Rose primly.

For a moment Bert studied his wife and tearful child.  Then he sighed, went next door, and settled into Arthur’s bed.  As he turned out the lamp, however, he got a glimpse of what was on the floor.  Bert stared.  A minute later he was shaking Rose and saying, “Move over, I’m squeezing in.”

Obligingly, his wife shifted with Arthur in her arms. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

“There’s a skeleton on the floor,” said Bert tersely.

“That’s Herbert Maxillamus,” Arthur told him.

“Where’d the sonofabitch thing come from?”

“He’s been in my family forever.  He usually hangs in the nursery,” said Rose.

“Christ!  The
things
your family has.  You know what?  I’m going to have a word with your sister about that rotten kid of hers right now.”  Bert donned his bathrobe.  “Hey,” he said as he tried to turn the doorknob, “I can’t get this open.”

“It’s locked,” said Arthur.  “I told you Mrs. Marshpool was locking everybody in at night.”

Bert bared his teeth savagely and fought for a moment with the brass door handle, as if trying to tear it off.  Rose exclaimed.  Bert smacked the handle, giving up.  “Mrs. Marshpool, huh?  Let me try Arthur’s door.”

A moment later he came back, irate.  “That one’s locked too.  She must have done it right after Richie left.  I’ll have it out with that blasted woman in the morning.  All right, you guys, move over.”  Bert set the alarm for five a.m.  “I intend to be ready for her.”

Chapter 7

A key turned softly in the lock.  Bert sprang out of his chair and yanked the door open.  Mrs. Marshpool was bent over the other side, keys in hand.  Bert snatched them from her.

“What are you doing, Mr. Cummings?  Give me back those keys!”

“The hell I am.”  Bert grinned savagely.  He looked terrible, his face sagging and gray, his eyes red.

Mrs. Marshpool tried to smile.  “Mr. Cummings, I need those keys.”

“So you’ve got other people to unlock, eh?”

“What’s going on?” asked Rose, woken by the duel.  Grumpily, Arthur came to life as well.

“Never mind, honey,” said Bert.  “I'll be back in a moment.”  He set off down the hallway, testing doors and trying keys wherever he found them locked.

“Now, Mr. Cummings, you just hand me those keys.  I won’t hold this little prank against you.”

“Prank?  Is locking us in a little prank?  Seems to me I’ve been hearing a lot about irresponsible pranks lately.”

Mrs. Marshpool tried to grab the keys, but he held them out of her reach, and resumed his walk.  

“Bert,” she oozed.  “Don’t be absurd.  I need those keys to carry out the household chores.  The key to my own door is on there.”

“Hey, you even locked Armagnac’s door,
Letitia
.”  Bert began to climb to the third floor.

“I’m telling you for the last time, Mr. Cummings,
hand over those keys
.”

He ignored her and began to work on the third floor locks.

“All right then,” sputtered the housekeeper.  “I’ll have a locksmith come and re-key the locks.”

“No, you won’t.”  

Mrs. Marshpool only raised her eyebrows contemptuously.

“Or,” continued Bert, “I’ll tell Armagnac you locked him in as well.”

For a moment the housekeeper whitened.  Then she ran furiously down the stairs.  

Cummings shivered.  Though he’d won, Mrs. Marshpool still made him uneasy.

The living room was dark when Arthur came down the stairs for breakfast.  A dim bundle was lying on the couch.  He tried to tiptoe, but Colette must have already been awake.

“What’s that disgusting smell?” her weary voice asked from the couch.

“That’s Mom’s sage gruel,” Arthur said.  He headed into the kitchen.  Rose was distributing plates of pancakes and bacon around the table in the nook for the children while Sheila loaded them at the stove.  Once seated, Arthur stared at his bacon in dismay.

“What’s the matter?” Rose asked.  “Your bacon’s whole this time, and I even put maple syrup on it, just the way you like it.”

“No!” wailed Arthur.  “It’s supposed to be by accident! The syrup is supposed to run off the pancakes and get the bacon just a little wet.  You’re not supposed to pour it on!  That’ll make the bacon soggy!”

“Honey, just try to eat it.  You are the pickiest child.”

Arthur made a face at his mother’s back.  Considering the way his mother ate, he thought that comment unfair.

As the housekeeper was setting out the silver, Bert walked in.  Mrs. Marshpool paused.

“No!” Bert said firmly.

The housekeeper glared at him, but left the room.

When Briarly joined Arthur at the breakfast table, the boy said to her in a genial way, “Last night I dreamed that you and me ate your father, but we couldn’t finish all the pieces because we ran out of mustard.”  He added thoughtfully, “I can still taste him, a little.”

“They warned me about you,” said Briarly.

“Who?” asked Arthur.  Someone thought he was tough and dangerous?  The boy was flattered.

But the girl did not explain.  She only watched him listlessly, ignoring her plate of pancakes.  

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.  It’s just that I have to do the laundry.”

“Whose?”

“My family’s.”

Sheila, who was at the stove, looked over her shoulder.  Arthur was surprised.  Doing laundry at the age of eight sounded formidable to him.  And he had been impressed that he could unpack his own clothes without help.

“I don’t know how to use the washer and dryer here,” Briarly added.

“I think they have servants who do that.  Just ask them.”

“That’s the problem.  Mrs. Marshpool does the laundry.  Mom won’t let Marshpool touch her clothes--she says Marshpool would vandalize them.”

Sheila’s apron was suddenly looming over them.  “You don’t have to do the laundry!” the cook exclaimed, laughing a little.

“Yes I do.  It’s my chore.”

Sheila tucked a strand of blonde hair back under her head scarf.  “No, you don’t!  You’re a guest.  Ask your great-aunt about it, okay?”

Briarly’s face lightened at this notion, and she began to eat.  The cook went back to the stove.  Then Arthur remembered the CD case in the attic and whispered, “Hey, are you sure you didn’t take that CD case?”