Cruel as the Grave (23 page)

“I’ve wondered the same thing myself,” he admitted, “but I think there must be something else about Father’s conversation with Lyle Levering just before he died that Arthur knows and that we obviously don’t. There’s something holding Arthur back—certainly something other than our old friendship—and that’s the only thing I can imagine it would be. Unless, of course,” he added thoughtfully, “there’s some scrap of evidence they found.”

“Well, we definitely aren’t going to leave you as his only choice for murderer,” Maggie stated in defiance. “Somehow or other we’re going to figure this out, and soon.”

Then she thought of a question she should have considered earlier. “If Grandfather was going to replace you as his chief heir, who was going to take your place?” She looked at her father expectantly.

He shrugged. “Father didn’t tell me specifically, but I gathered from his hints that it was probably going to be you.”

“Oh,” Maggie responded, taken aback. This was a possibility she hadn’t considered—at least not too strongly. She thought furiously for a moment.

“But I should think that would dilute the strength of your alleged motive, wouldn’t you say? I mean, the money would still be in the family, right?”

Again Gerard shrugged. “That’s the way I’d look at it, but right now I think Arthur simply wants to have someone to ride hard, and I’m his best choice at the moment. Like I said, there’s something he’s holding back. What it is, and why, I don’t know.”

“Well,” she responded, “like I said before, we’re not going to let you be his only suspect.” She gave her father a fierce hug.

Gently disengaging himself from Maggie’s embrace, Gerard stood up. “It’s nearly noon, so we’d better stop speculating and start getting ready for the funeral. Did you happen to bring anything suitable to wear?”

Her nose wrinkled in distaste. “I have that charcoal gray suit I usually wear to give papers in—I guess that’ll have to do.” She knew that her father would be suitably attired. He favored dark suits anyway, and more than likely he had brought a black or navy one with him. Standing up, she said, “I think I’ll go take a bath.” She kissed Gerard on the cheek.

“See you downstairs about one-thirty, then,” he responded.

Some ninety minutes later, feeling slightly restored by her bath, Maggie met the rest of the family, all still subdued from the events of the morning, in the drawing room downstairs. There were two large and imposing black Lincolns to drive them to the church where Henry McLendon’s obsequies would be held. Adrian ushered Maggie and Gerard, along with Ernie and Helena, into the car that he would be driving. Claudine drove the second car.

The church—Baptist, Maggie saw from the sign in the churchyard—was noticeably grand. Her mind was so busy chasing tangents that she observed little of the ceremony which followed. She had attended few funerals in her life since the death of her own mother, and she always attempted to block out whatever was going on around her. Today was no exception, and afterward she could recall nothing of what the minister had had to say about the life of Henry McLendon.

Once the service had ended, the Lincoln transported them to the cemetery for the interment. The day was a beautiful one, as if in denial of the grim occasion. The heat of the sun was welcome after the chilly air of the church. Again, once she was seated under the capacious tent near the graveside, Maggie resolutely thought of other things until her grandfa¬ther was at last laid to rest. Though she endeavored to keep her mind occupied elsewhere, she finally was unable to hold at bay the waves of sadness. She began quietly to cry, reaching out to her father beside her, seeking comfort from his nearness.

Emerging from under the tent, Maggie retrieved her sunglasses from her handbag. The bright sunlight cared little for the fact that her eyes were sensitive from crying. Clasping Gerard’s hand once again, she walked with him back to the car, where they waited patiently for Adrian and the others to join them. A few people came up to Gerard to offer their condolences. Those he recognized he introduced to Maggie, who could never afterward remember any of their names.

There were also a number of reporters in attendance, and a couple of them accosted her and her father, asking incredibly insensitive questions. Adrian, with the help of a couple of Latham’s men, got them out of the way very quickly.

When Maggie thought her nerves could stand no more, Adrian ushered them all again into the car, and in restful silence they drove home.

A sleek and powerful foreign sports car followed the two Lincolns into the driveway of The Magnolias. As the family began to mount the front steps, the sports car pulled up quietly behind the second Lincoln, and Lyle Levering emerged from the passenger side of the car. With a polite nod of greeting he followed the family into the house.

In the hallway everyone turned to look at the elderly lawyer, clearly waiting for instruction. Clearing his throat discreetly, he spoke. “As you know, I am here to discuss the provisions of Henry’s will. If you will all return to the drawing room in about fifteen minutes, we’ll get started.”

Without waiting for their acquiescence, Levering then moved to the drawing room as the family began to drift up the stairs to their bedrooms.

By the time Maggie returned downstairs, Adrian had rearranged the chairs and small sofas in the drawing room to provide a more comfortable grouping for listening to Levering, seated at the head of the group behind a small secretary desk. Adrian had also thoughtfully provided a large pitcher of water, in addition to the drinks tray. Maggie helped herself to a glass of water before joining her father on one of the small sofas.

Almost everyone else was there. Levering fussily consulted his watch every few seconds as they waited for Helena, the last to arrive. Finally she slid guiltily into the room, casting an apologetic glance toward Levering, who remained unappeased.

“Now we may begin,” he said in a pompous tone. He peered at them through his glasses, and Maggie was reminded once more of a cranky old turtle. “I’m not going to sit here and read it to you word for word, because there’s no need. Any one of you who wants to may examine this later, but I can assure you—and you certainly ought to know this as well as I—that Henry knew his own mind and the business of will-making. As do I.”

He cleared his throat yet again, and Maggie wondered whether the will would prove controversial from the family’s point of view. Levering’s prefatory remarks had given her that impression, but then she hadn’t been present at many will- readings before. Except, of course, in the pages of mystery fiction.

“First,” Levering said, “Henry made arrangements for the law firm. He had an agreement with his chief partner, Terence Lackey, that Terence would, upon Henry’s death, buy Henry’s interest in the firm. Henry arranged it this way, since there was no family member interested in a career in law. Had he had someone to whom he might bequeath his interest in the firm, he doubtless would have done so.” Here Levering glared pointedly in Gerard’s direction, but Gerard returned the malicious glance with one of boredom.

“Well,” the old lawyer continued with a snort, “the rest of the bequests are fairly straightforward. To Adrian Worthington, for ‘his outstanding organizational abilities and his knack for always convincing me that the best ideas were my own when they were, in reality, his, and in hopes that he will pursue his literary career, the sum of one hundred thousand dollars,”’

A gasp came from somewhere in the room, and Maggie thought it might have originated with Adrian. She didn’t quite have the nerve to turn around to catch the look on his face, fearing that he wouldn’t appear surprised, only satisfied.

Levering continued. ‘To Claudine Sprayberry, niece of the late Mrs. Henry McLendon, he left also the sum of one hundred thousand dollars. To Sylvia Butler, granddaughter of his sister Henrietta, also the sum of one hundred thousand dollars. To his siblings—Henrietta, Harold, and Helena—and to his sister-in-law Lavinia, now unfortunately deceased”—here Levering peered at them with some distaste over his glasses— “Henry left the right to live in this house for as long as they live, should they so wish. He arranged that each of the aforementioned four would have access to a generous monthly income for other than the normal household expenses already provided for.” Levering looked up from his papers. “Henry set aside funds for the maintenance of this house and for the continued management of the estate. And he directed that you, Mr. Worthington, were to continue in your present position as the estate and household manager for as long as you should wish.” He consulted his papers again.

“In addition to providing for his siblings, Henry also stated that both Sylvia and Claudine could remain here, but upon the death of his last surviving sibling, the possession of the house should devolve upon his only son, Gerard McLendon, and in the event of Gerard’s predeceasing his aunts and uncle, possession would then devolve upon his only grandchild, Magnolia Amelia McLendon.”

Somewhat in shock, Maggie ignored the use of her full name, which under normal circumstances made her cringe. She had been expecting this, more or less, since her conversation that morning with her father, but hearing it read aloud still was surprising.

“The bulk of the estate is left to Henry’s only offspring, his son, Gerard, except for the sum of seventy-five thousand dollars to the aforesaid Magnolia Amelia McLendon. This money is to be used to enable Miss McLendon to travel to European archives for research, either for her dissertation or for later projects.” Levering let the papers fall lightly onto the desk. “And that is that.”

Maggie found herself short of breath. Seventy-five thousand dollars. Seventy-five thousand dollars! She couldn’t believe it. And all to be used on research trips. Why, she could spend six months, or even a whole year, in England if she wanted. The realization was staggering. It was impossible at the moment for her to sort out her feelings, but she found it somewhat difficult to reconcile such generosity with the insensitivity and even cruelty which had been imputed to Henry McLendon. A nasty little voice inside her whispered that redemption has a price tag just like anything else.

Lyle Levering stood up, shuffling his various papers together before stuffing them in his briefcase. Slowly the family left their seats and began to move toward the door. From what Maggie could see, everyone seemed reasonably satisfied with Henry McLendon’s will.

And the murderer must be satisfied, because he or she had definitely forestalled disinheritance. Of course, when the murders were eventually solved, as Maggie knew they surely must be, the murderer would have gained no benefit from the crimes. But she was convinced that the murderer’s chief motive had not been a desperate ploy to avoid being disinherited. Rather the murderer had killed to avoid being revealed as Magnolia McLendon’s killer.

If only I knew what my grandfather had told Lyle Levering during that fateful phone conversation!
Maggie thought. The fact that Arthur Latham probably did know only frustrated her further. Having that missing bit of information would help her put a lot more of the puzzle together.

As she frowned and nibbled at the cuticle of her right thumb, she gradually realized she was alone in the drawing room. She could hear a conversation in progress as she approached the door.

“... remarkably generous, I must say,” Retty was telling Sylvia, who was guiding her grandmother toward the stairs. “Certainly more than I had expected, but then Henry really had mellowed a good bit in the last year. Ten years ago he would have left everything to fund a scholarship or to some obscure charity, and to hell with the family. Despite the way he always carried on about how important family was.” Sylvia nodded silently, more intent on seeing her grandmother safely upstairs than on discussing the will.

Where did everyone else go so quickly?
Maggie wondered. Sylvia and Retty, moving steadily up the stairs, were the only others present in the hall. She decided to go in search of a Diet Coke and headed for the kitchen, realizing on the way that she had never had lunch and that she was surprisingly hungry.

So, as it turned out, were the rest of the family. Adrian and Ernie were busily making sandwiches while Claudine and Harold fixed glasses of iced tea for everyone. Gerard and Helena desultorily prepared the table.

Adrian sent Maggie into the pantry for potato chips, and soon the impromptu meal was ready. Sylvia had appeared by then to prepare a tray for her grandmother and herself. She departed quietly upstairs while the others were devoting their attention to the food.

As they ate, no one mentioned the will. In fact, apart from requests to pass the bowl of potato chips or the tea pitcher, they ate in relative quiet. Once they had finished, Adrian insisted that they all leave the kitchen to him, and no one argued.

Harold, Claudine, and Gerard left at once, but Ernie rather pointedly indicated that Maggie and Helena should follow her.

Ernie led Maggie and Helena out onto the patio near the pool. Ignoring Helena’s protests that she really must change out of her black silk, Ernie motioned the other two women to seats beneath one of the huge umbrellas.

“Now we can get back to business,” she said briskly. “Why do you two suppose Lavinia wanted to commit suicide?”

Chapter Seventeen

“Guilty conscience?” Maggie responded in a mild tone to Ernie’s provocative query.

“Probably,” Ernie snorted in reply. “But the important question is, what exactly was she feeling guilty about?”

“Well,” Helena said, “it could have been any number of things, I suppose. Maybe she was the one who told Magnolia that Gerard and Henry were arguing. And even if she didn’t push her down the stairs, she might have felt morally responsible for Magnolia’s death.” She squinted into the afternoon sunshine. “Of course, if she was the one who pushed Magnolia, and maybe killed Henry too, then I guess that would be enough—if she was feeling remorseful.” Her tone indicated that she thought the idea of a remorseful Lavinia was a trifle far-fetched.