Cruel as the Grave (22 page)

Tiredly, patiently, Maggie outlined the theory which she, Helena, and Ernie had devised to account for the murder of Henry McLendon. For the moment, however, she did not divulge the various family secrets she had learned, stressing instead the unusual circumstances surrounding the death of Magnolia McLendon twenty-five years before. Latham could probe for the reasons later if he decided that their theory of the murders was the correct one.

Once Maggie had finished her recital, Latham regarded her in silence for perhaps two minutes. “That’s a very plausible theory,” he admitted with grudging respect. “Very plausible. But now your chief suspect is dead and, as you pointed out, died in the same manner as your grandmother. What now?”

“I think you are in a better position to follow that up right now,” she pointed out with gentle irony.

Latham stood up again. “Right you are. Send Worthington next, will you? And for now, please remain in the kitchen with everyone else—but don’t talk about our conversation. This shouldn’t take too much longer.”

Thankfully Maggie left him and made her way back to the kitchen. As she pushed open the door, she was surprised to hear the sounds of slightly raised voices. Claudine was standing over Retty, still seated at the kitchen table. “Well?” Claudine demanded angrily. “Are you going to tell us or not? What were you and Lavinia arguing about last night?”

For a long moment no one moved or spoke, and Maggie watched silently from the doorway. As she observed the direction of Claudine’s gaze, Maggie realized that Claudine had been speaking to Sylvia, and not to Retty.

“I think you’re forgetting yourself!” Retty spoke in a sharp voice, anger bringing animation and color back into her face. “You have no right to speak to my granddaughter like that!” “It's not likely I could forget myself,” Claudine said mockingly. “You’ve never let me, in all the years I’ve lived in this house! But your precious granddaughter has some explaining to do, so let her get the hell on with it!”

Retty wilted at this onslaught, and everyone waited to hear Sylvia’s answer.

The expression on Sylvia’s face betrayed her wretchedness.
What on earth can be the matter?
Maggie wondered.
What does she know?

“Well?” Claudine demanded impatiently. “Answer me!” Sylvia expelled an angry breath as she stood up to face Claudine. “If you really have to know, we were arguing over medicine. Lavinia called me last night about ten-thirty and asked me to come to her room. I went, and she told me she was having a terrible time getting to sleep. Her nerves were completely shot, and she wanted me to give her something to help her sleep.”

“So what was the argument about?” Claudine asked less forcefully when Sylvia paused.

“Lavinia insisted,” Sylvia continued, “that I give her a whole bottle of tranquilizers. I had offered her one of the mild ones the doctor prescribed for me, but she wanted a whole bottle, God knows why. When I kept on refusing to give it to her, she got angrier and angrier and started shouting at me. I finally just put a couple of tablets on her bedside table and left. There wasn’t anything I could do with her, the state she was in. I figured if I left, she’d settle down a little, take the two pills, and have a good night’s sleep.” She sat down again, her last words thrown defiantly in Claudine’s face.

“Thanks,” Claudine said laconically, but Maggie could tell from Claudine’s expression that she was disturbed by Sylvia’s answer. Maggie was disturbed also. What had Lavinia wanted with a whole bottle of tranquilizers? Had she intended to commit suicide? Maggie shuddered, then had to stifle a scream when a hand fell heavily on her shoulder.

Turning swiftly, she saw that the offending hand belonged to Arthur Latham. “Sorry,” he muttered, none too contritely, as she scowled at him. “I didn’t mean to startle you, but I’ve been waiting for Worthington. What’s going on?” He moved past her into the kitchen.

Latham looked around the room, but no one volunteered an answer. Sylvia stood up. “I guess I have something to tell you.” She shrugged. “I don’t know whether it has any bearing on what happened, but that’s for you to decide.”

“Well, then, if you’ll come with me, we’ll try to figure that out.” Latham spoke calmly enough as he turned to leave the kitchen, but from the telltale redness in his face, he seemed more than a little irritated, Maggie thought.

Once Sylvia had followed the policeman out of the room, Maggie moved to stand beside Ernie. Retty, Maggie was glad to see, had regained something of a more normal color in her face, but she still seemed shaky after her outburst. Helena had taken Sylvia’s place beside the older woman, and she spoke to her sister comfortingly. The others remained silent. Claudine stood somewhat to one side, aloof from the rest, a frown of deep concentration between her brows.

Ernie gave Maggie a welcoming smile which quelled some of her jitters. “How was it?” she asked in an undertone. “With Arthur, I mean?”

Maggie shook her head lightly. “Not so bad, really. He was very interested in some of the things I had to say.”

Ernie cocked her head interrogatively to one side. “Such as?”

Maggie grimaced as she glanced around the room. “I can’t really go into it all right now, but I’ll tell you more about it later. Okay?”

“Okay, I guess, but you’ve sure made me curious.”

“What are you two whispering about?” Gerard asked as he came to stand beside his daughter. His tone was light, but Maggie knew he wanted a serious answer.

“Oh, Ernie was asking me about my ‘interrogation,’ and I told her that it wasn’t too bad,” Maggie replied. More than this she didn’t want to say, because she didn’t want to involve her father more than was necessary at this point in her theorizing about the murders.

Gerard raised one eyebrow skeptically, a gesture that many of the undergraduates in his English literature survey courses found devastating, but Maggie wasn’t intimidated. She gazed back at her father unrepentantly, and he sighed. She wondered idly where the cook and the daily help were, then realized that Adrian, or someone, had probably called and told them not to come in today. Not that any of them probably wanted to. she thought dispiritedly.

Thereafter very little conversation disturbed the quiet of the room as each waited his or her turn to be called for questioning at varying intervals. After Adrian returned from his interview, he busied himself by cleaning up around the kitchen. Occasionally someone moved to the stove or to the refrigerator to replenish a cup of coffee or a glass of orange juice.

Gradually the family left the room, one by one, Latham having decided that they could return to their rooms, until only Gerard was left with Maggie and Adrian. Still they remained quiet under the watchful gaze of the policeman Latham had stationed in one corner of the kitchen. Ernie returned to give Gerard his summons. As he left, she turned to Maggie and Adrian.

“I don’t know about you two,” she said briskly, “but I have a feeling the rest of the family might be interested in a little breakfast pretty soon. And even if they’re not interested, we all need a good, hot meal.”

Adrian nodded. “You’re right. I suppose it’s okay with the police?”

Ernie laughed. “I expect Arthur Latham wouldn’t turn up his nose at some scrambled eggs and bacon right about now, so I don’t think we’ll have any problem with the police.” She started looking through cabinets and drawers, hunting for suitable pans and utensils. “Well? Are you two just going to stand there, or don’t you know how to cook?”

“Yes, ma’am!” Adrian saluted smartly, then guided Ernie to the hiding place of the cooking utensils she sought. In only a few minutes the three were busily engaged in brewing more coffee, scrambling eggs, frying bacon, and toasting bread. Half an hour later, when Adrian went to the kitchen phone to begin summoning the rest of the family to the breakfast table, Maggie’s mouth was watering. She hadn’t really expected to be hungry, but she was.

The rest of the family, once they had assembled in the dining room, made no demur about tucking into the plain but hearty breakfast that the three chefs had assembled. Keeping their mouths full obviated the necessity of having to talk about Lavinia’s death, and no one seemed anxious, at least for the moment, to delve any further into that particular mystery. Maggie from time to time glanced furtively around the table, and several times she caught Ernie doing the same thing, but for the most part everyone kept eyes firmly focused on plates.

Retty was first to break the silence. “Does anyone know,” she asked, her voice old and small, “what effect this all is going to have on the funeral this afternoon?”

“I can answer that, I believe,” Arthur Latham said from the doorway. He and his men had declined the offer of breakfast. He advanced into the room, fully aware that he had everyone’s attention.

“Well?” Gerard spoke tersely, eyeing his old friend in none too friendly a manner.

Inclining his head in Gerard’s direction, Latham spoke. “I think you ought to go right ahead and hold the funeral and everything as planned.”

“Right.” Gerard stood up, throwing his napkin down on his empty plate. He stalked out of the room, and Maggie stared after him in astonishment. What had happened that morning—besides Lavinia’s death, of course—to make her father behave this way? Normally, he kept his temper under better control, but obviously he was annoyed about something.

Latham watched Gerard’s departure sardonically, then turned back to the rest of the family.

Maggie pushed her chair back from the table, determined to find out what was bothering her father. Hastily she apologized to Ernie for not staying to help clear the table.

“It’s okay,” Ernie assured her. “You go see what’s wrong with Gerard.”

Maggie made her way to the back stairs, not feeling quite up to returning to the scene of Lavinia’s death yet. She tried her father’s bedroom first, and with some relief she heard a gruff “Who is it?” in response to her knock.

She opened the door and stuck her head inside. “Just me. Can I come in?”

Gerard turned from his rigid stance in front of the French windows and replied tersely, “Of course. What's up?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you,” Maggie said as she closed the door behind her.

“Oh, not much,” he responded in a bitter tone. “Except for the fact that Arthur thinks I murdered my father—and Lavinia, too, by the way.”

Maggie sank down on Gerard’s unmade bed. “Why does he think you’re responsible?” she managed to ask calmly.

“Because,” he said tiredly, “Father told me that afternoon that he was going to change his will.” Bemused, he shook his head. “All those years, even though we were estranged, he left me in the will as his chief beneficiary, but he had changed his mind and was going to make someone else the chief heir. And Arthur just happened to know that.”

Chapter Sixteen

Maggie stared wordlessly at her father. He stared back, looking defeated.

“Let’s get this sorted out,” she managed to say, motioning for Gerard to sit beside her on the bed. “Grandfather told you, the afternoon of the day he died, that you had been his chief beneficiary, but that he had changed his mind and he was going to make someone else his principal heir?”

He nodded confirmation.

“Well, then,” she continued, “did Latham tell you how he happened to know about this?”

Gerard grimaced. “Apparently he and Lyle Levering have been holding a few things back—only natural under the circumstances, I suppose. I assume from what Arthur told me that Father did tell Levering during their phone conversation what changes he wished to make in the will—at least in broad detail—so that Levering would be prepared to discuss it all with him the next day.” He rolled his shoulders tiredly. “And that’s about all Arthur told me. I’m certain there’s more to it than that, but obviously I wasn’t in much of a position to argue for more information.”

“Did he come right out and accuse you of murdering Grandfather? And Lavinia?” Maggie had to admit that the threat of disinheritance would be a hell of a motive—for someone besides her father. He might not mind having extra cash around, but he certainly wouldn’t murder his own father to get it. And what motive could he have for murdering Lavinia?

“No, he never really came right out and said it, but he sure as hell suggested it,” Gerard replied bitterly. “He talked about how difficult it must be to send a daughter to graduate school on a professor’s salary and the costs of living in the big, expensive city.” He grinned suddenly. “I think if I’d actually told him just how much I make a year, he might have backed down a little. I haven’t been teaching twenty-seven years for nothing.”

“Maybe you should have done it. Although the almighty dollar sign that all this represents”—she waved her arm around vaguely to encompass the whole house—“must surely seem like a prime motive to him.” She frowned. “That would explain Grandfather’s death, but what about Lavinia’s?”

Gerard snorted in disgust. “I have you to thank for that one. Arthur seemed rather taken with your theory about Mother’s death, and he has somehow worked out that Lavinia was responsible. The way Arthur sees it, once I realized the truth about Mother’s death, I pushed Lavinia down the stairs for revenge.”

Appalled, Maggie stared back at him. Finally she managed to sputter, “But that’s insane!”

“Not from Arthur’s point of view!” Gerard contradicted her. “And you have to admit that it makes a certain mad sense.” She shook her head. “I suppose it does, but we both know it’s not the truth.” She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry my theorizing has made things difficult for you. Dad, but I do think I’m right about your mother’s death. Lavinia’s death only confirms it. It’s too macabre otherwise.” She shivered suddenly, and Gerard stretched an arm around her shoulders. They clung together for a few minutes.

“I’m not keen on being Arthur’s chief suspect,” he admitted, “but until this hellish mess is settled I guess I’m stuck. I don’t know whom else he’s going to find to fit the ticket.” “Doesn’t it seem slightly odd to you, then,” Maggie said slowly, “that Latham hasn’t made any move toward arresting you? God knows I’m thankful that he hasn’t,” she added hastily as Gerard frowned, “but with the motive he can ascribe to you—and the opportunity—you’d think he’d have done something by now.”