Death by the Light of the Moon (16 page)

“Your father was stuck here for eighteen years,” I said. I stared at the undergrowth beyond the driveway, but I could see no jarring patch of yellow in the muddy-colored shadows. “Let's take a walk, dear. This house is beginning to get to me, perhaps even more so than its occupants.”

“Did one of them murder Miss Justicia?” asked Caron as she and I went down the steps and started along the nearest path.

“I don't know if anyone murdered her. If the lab reports blood on the decanter, we'll have to assume it was used for something more sinister than a nightcap.” I hesitated for a minute. “The wheelchair's on the back porch. I wonder if the police checked its back for traces of blood…?”

“You are disgusting, Mother. Once I get my driver's license, I won't mind being an orphan. In the meantime, stop poking your nose in this before you get it—and other things—blown to smithereens.”

I headed for the back of the house. “That's what Peter said last night, and not nearly as politely. I really must discourage him from that sort of thing.”

“You don't want him to worry about you?”

I faltered, then resumed my pace. “I suppose I do want him to worry about me, in the sense he's showing concern. I don't like this paternalism, however.”

“You just don't want to share the closet space,” Caron said under her breath.

“Maybe not,” I said under mine.

We came around the corner of the house. The wheelchair was on the porch, folded and propped against the wall. With stern encouragement from me, Caron helped me drag it out to the grass. As Stanford had said, it seemed heavier than a refrigerator and it took us several minutes of struggling to pull the arms apart and open it. The seat was muddy, and bits of slinky green weeds were entwined in the spokes of the wheels.

“Look at this control panel,” Caron said, awed.

I chose to look at the back braces. If there had been blood, the water had washed it away. I stepped back and regarded what might have been an instrument of death, rather awed myself by the elaborate controls and sense of massiveness and power. “It must have cost a fortune,” I said.

“I hope the water didn't rust the controls,” Caron said as she sat down in the seat. “I'll bet this was fun to ride around in. Look, here's the brake, and the joystick to steer it, and the lever to change gears. It goes in reverse, too.”

“No headlights?” I said dryly.

“Maybe it still works.” Her finger touched a button, and the motor began to drone. “This is neat, Mother. If Rhonda was to step out from behind that bush, I could flatten her. Inez could write it up for the school newspaper, with the headline ‘Rhonda Maguire: Miss RoadKill of Farberville High.'”

“And you accused me of being disgusting?” I said, laughing. “Remember, dear, you only have a learner's permit, and it's not valid in this state. We'd better put the wheelchair back on the porch before…”

Mother's little darling smiled sweetly. “In a minute.”

The drone intensified, and before I could shriek out an order to the contrary, the wheelchair shot across the grass and disappeared around an azalea. There was no cackle, but I swore I heard a howl of delight.

Feeling a surge of empathy with Pauline, I lowered my head and took off down the path. I soon realized why she'd worn jogging shoes for such occasions. The path was slippery and uneven, and vines and branches grabbed at my ankles. And there were many paths as I went farther from the house, I discovered. Periodically, I could hear the wheelchair, but paths that pretended to go one way took turns that led in the opposite direction.

I finally abandoned the paths and pushed through the bushes to the bayou. I saw nothing, but I heard the wheelchair behind me and well back in the yard. I couldn't blame her too much for wanting to test-drive the chair. On the other hand, I could lecture her at length about ignoring my directives, and I most definitely would.

I headed back into the wasteland, trying to progress in the direction of the sound and feeling a vague kinship with blood-lusting hunters who tracked down animals. I came around a neglected magnolia tree with branches nearly brushing the ground, and caught sight of the barn.

I also caught sight of the runaway, who came speeding out of a path into the cleared area.

“Watch this!” she shrieked as she began to zigzag through the weeds, turning neatly each time.

Images of broken bones invaded my mind. “Stop right this minute!”

She looked back at me and yelled, “Hey, this is Really, Really fun!”

And crashed into the door of the barn.

I ran toward her, alternately cursing and offering sympathy. The chair was on its side, and all I could see were feet and one hand fumbling on the control panel. The motor went dead. Before I could get there to pull the twisted, battered body of my only child from the wreckage, she stood up.

“Wow,” she said as I stumbled to a halt. “That was quite a ride. You wouldn't believe how fast this thing will go on a straightaway. I mean, like wow.”

“Are you okay?” I gasped.

“I'm fine, but you don't look so good, Mother. Why don't you sit down for a moment?”

“If I sat down, I couldn't wring your neck.” I forced myself to take a few breaths. I was calmer but no less angry as I continued. “I have been thrashing through this—this jungle to find you before you killed yourself. Why on earth did you race away like that when I'd just told you we were going to put it back on the porch? You may think joyriding among the trees is perfectly safe, but what would have happened if you—”

“Mother,” she said solemnly, “look.”

I stopped sputtering and looked where she was pointing. The crash had knocked open the barn door. Less than ten feet from us was the yellow taxi, partially covered by a canvas tarp.

“What's it doing in here?” Caron said, moving toward the door. “It looks like someone tried to hide it. Do you think the driver's here?”

I grabbed her elbow and pulled her back. “Let's hope not. Come on, we've got to get back to the house to call the police.”

She gave me a blank look, and I realized she'd missed the updates on the identity of the driver and his recent antics. I explained as curtly as I could.

“That doesn't make any sense,” she said, refusing to be dragged any farther. “At least let's see if he's in there. He knows we're out here. I didn't exactly tap on the door, and you were ululating like an coyote.”

“Claire!” Ellie called. She came down the path, with Keith slouching behind her. “The lawyer called, and he's coming back to talk to everybody.”

“Safety in numbers,” Caron said. She freed her arm, went to the door of the barn, and timidly said, “Hello? Is anybody in there?”

“What's the taxi doing in there?” asked Ellie.

“And the wheelchair out here?” added Keith, although with less interest.

I shook my head. “I have no idea about the taxi. Caron was riding in the wheelchair and ran into the door.”

“But why would it be in the barn…?” Ellie murmured as she joined Caron in the doorway. “Is he in there? I thought he left the other night…?”

“I don't think he's in here.” Caron went into the barn and lifted the tarp. “He's not in the cab, and there's not anyplace else to hide.”

“Unless you're a rat,” Keith remarked to no one in particular.

Gritting my teeth, I went into the building. Calling it a barn was an exaggeration. It was simply a storehouse with four rough walls and a roof through which sunlight slanted. The walls were substantial enough to muffle the sound of the birds outside; the only thing I heard was heavy breathing, some of it (a good deal of it) my own. There were a few boxes, a shelf holding plastic flowerpots, and a lumpy discarded bag of Pritty Kitty Kibble.

Ellie and Caron pulled off the tarp. The driver wasn't crouched on the backseat, nor was a gun lying on the same. The keys were in the ignition.

“So where is he?” demanded Ellie, her eyes round and her chin quivering. “Why is this here?”

I looked at Keith, who was sitting on a carton, and, from all appearances, admiring his hangnails. “Was the taxi here yesterday afternoon?”

“No way. Even I would have noticed it.”

“Mother,” Caron said, wrinkling her nose as she moved around the taxi, “something smells bad. I think it's coming from the trunk.”

My mouth turned sour. “We're all going back to the house to call the police. All of us, now.”

“Cousin Caron's right,” Ellie said as she approached the trunk, making an increasingly carking series of faces. “Something in there smells worse than any meal I've ever had in Malloy Manor. Do you think the driver forgot about his creel?”

“We're going to the house,” I said, trying to swallow.

“Don't be a wimp, Auntie Claire. We have to look.”

“No, we don't.”

Ellie took the keys from the ignition and unlocked the trunk. As it rose, a stench flooded the barn. It was a mixture of sweetness and acridity, strong enough to have color and form and texture, vile enough to be the embodiment of the manor's malevolent personality.

Gagging, Caron stumbled out of the barn. Her hands on her mouth, Ellie backed away from the taxi, tripped over the doorsill, and fell on the ground. She scuttled away from the door, coughing. I managed a quick look in the trunk as I headed for the door, and what I saw was enough to eject the meager contents of my stomach.

The driver lay as if in a coffin, his hands folded across his chest and his eyes wide in a final, frenzied appeal. His mouth was covered with a piece of silver tape. His skin had been pasty; now it had a bluish tint.

Caron grabbed me and put her head on my shoulder, her body shaking violently. I held her tightly. Ellie was kneeling on the grass. Her hair shrouded her face but did nothing to soften her sobs. Keith came out of the barn, the visible areas of his face a pale shade of green, and said, “Nasty, nasty, nasty.”

“Nasty?” Ellie cried. “Oh, my God, how can you say that?”

“Well, it is nasty,” he said as he braced himself against the side of the building and doubled over as he retched.

I caught Caron's shoulders and steadied her. “Just don't think about it,” I said firmly. “Think about something else.”

“What?” she said, tears snaking down her cheeks.

“A swimming pool.” I gave her an encouraging smile, and then put my arm around her and nudged her into motion. After a minute, Ellie stood up and took Keith's arm. They followed us toward the house.

Officers Dewberry and Puccoon came almost immediately. I went outside and explained what we'd found, and agreed to escort them to the scene. As we walked along the path, they asked for details, but this time there were no smirks or derisive remarks. Not until I'd finished, that is.

“Read about you this morning, Miz Malloy,” said Dewberry. “Bo turned in this screwy report about you claiming to have been chased across the parish by a taxi. He wasn't real clear about why you ended up being locked in the airport after everybody went home for the night. Something about a commode.” Smirk, smirk.

“I indeed was chased by the taxi,” I said. “I assumed I knew who was driving it, but I was wrong. The man in the trunk hasn't driven anything in the last few hours.”

“You gonna do the preliminary autopsy for us?” asked Puccoon. Smirk, smirk.

“I'm sure you're ghoulish enough to handle it without me,” I said, thus breaking my resolution not to be irritated by them. “I had only a glimpse of the body, but the smell indicated he's been in a hot trunk for some time.” I froze as the implications of my remark hit me like a bucket of ice water. “The original owner of the taxi was found dead. The obvious explanation is that this unknown man in the trunk killed him and stole the taxi. He's the one who picked us up at the airport Friday afternoon, and then appeared at midnight, claiming someone had called him. I don't know what that was about, but I do know he didn't commit suicide in a fit of remorse for trying to run me off the road. Someone else was driving last night.”

“Maybe your imagination was overheating again,” Dewberry said. “Some kids out riding around with a six-pack decide to have some fun with you.”

“I saw the hood of the taxi.” I stopped at the edge of the grass. “There's the barn, and you should be able to find the taxi all by yourselves. I'm going back to the house to check on my daughter. She was very close to hysteria earlier, and I sent her upstairs to lie down.”

“You mean you're not going to supervise us and tell us what all to do?” Puccoon said, giving me a woeful look. “Why, I don't know if Dewey and me can investigate on our own.”

“Neither do I.” I retraced my steps to the porch. Stanford's Mercedes was back, and from within the parlor, I could hear him hurling questions at Ellie. She seemed to have no answers.

I sat down on the swing and let my head fall back. My thoughts were as tangled and unruly as the yard surrounding Malloy Manor, and although I had as many questions as Stanford, I had no more answers than Ellie. I set the swing into motion. The tiny squeaks and rhythmic motion were soothing, almost hypnotic. My eyes closed, I went back over everything that had been said and done since our arrival, visualizing expressions and replaying conversations.

I was not overwhelmed with crystalline insights, but a few key phrases were beginning to make sense—unless I'd drifted into a stage of semiconsciousness and was merely deluding myself.

The sound of a car door roused me. Rodney Spikenard came up the sidewalk, his briefcase in hand. He wore the gray suit, but his necktie was gone and the top button of his shirt undone.

“Mrs. Malloy,” he murmured with a nod. “Please excuse my frayed appearance. I was in a hurry to get here.”

Frayed
. I tried to hold on the phrase, to attach it to something, but it blinked out. “Good afternoon, Mr. Spikenard,” I said.

“The police are here?” he asked delicately.

When I told him the reason for their visit, he dropped his briefcase and sat down on the top step. If his hair had been longer, it would have been mussed beyond repair as he repeatedly ran his fingers through it.

“This is too much for this nice, bright colored boy,” he said, shaking his head. “I thought I was being engaged to straighten out some accounts and proffer legal advice. Hold the old lady's hand when she became upset over some imaginary slight, and keep her out of jail. Fend off the relatives when they wanted to borrow against the capital. I didn't know what I was getting into with Malloy dynasty, but I do believe I'll get out as soon as possible.”

“Can you?”

“There are plenty of qualified attorneys in the parish, Mrs. Malloy.”

“I wasn't suggesting you couldn't extricate yourself from the professional relationship, Mr. Spikenard.”

“Oh, really, Mrs. Malloy?”

“There are other relationships less easily dissolved.”

“I can't deny that.”

All of this was being conducted politely, like fencers warming up for the match. A flick here, an unspoken
touché
there, all in preparation for the first lunge.

I opted for a more diplomatic move. “Miss Justicia made it clear that your arrival for her birthday dinner would have more than a minimal impact on the family.”

He leaned back against the end of the rail and crossed his legs. “You may be naive in these matters, but there is a certain amount of racism lingering in Louisiana. Lingering like a bad case of the flu, but nevertheless a factor. You saw their faces, Mrs. Malloy. They weren't shocked at my age or the cut of my suit.”

“I won't argue that issue, Mr. Spikenard.” I set the swing back into motion. “In that we both know where this conversation's going, there's no need for formality. Why don't you call me Claire and I'll call you Rodney?”

“As you wish, Claire.”

“Miss Justicia was bubbling with glee over your upcoming appearance at the party,” I said, trying to keep my thoughts in a tidy line. “Part of this may have been caused by her anticipation of the family's reaction to your skin, but I think she had a second bomb waiting to be detonated.”

“She implied she was going to read the olographic will.”

I pointed my finger at him, although I did not lunge. “She had to write the will because you couldn't. You said the reason for that couldn't be discussed because of client-attorney confidentiality. In that I fit neither category, why don't I discuss it? Miss Justicia let you know that you would be one of the heirs. Therefore, you couldn't prepare the document.”

“One of her heirs?” Rodney laughed. “Why would this ancient Southern matriarch include someone like me in her will? Her eyesight was just fine. I may not be pitch-black, but I'm a long way from being alabaster.”

“Because you're her grandson.”

“What?” Stanford and Ellie said in unison through the parlor window.

If I myself hadn't been eavesdropping so much lately, I would have commented on their rudeness. Instead, I gazed at the murky faces behind the screen and said, “Rodney is Miller's son. He didn't use his father's name, but I think he used the proceeds of his father's life-insurance policy to finance his education.”

“That's preposterous!” Stanford sputtered. “I'm not saying Rodney here isn't a smart boy who did real well for himself by getting through college, but—there ain't no way—no, ma'am, no way at all he's a Malloy. You can see for yourself, plain as day. He's colored.”

Rodney smiled. “Keen eyesight must run in the family.”

“Why don't we go inside?” I suggested.

“Shouldn't I go around back and use the kitchen door?”

“The front door will do.” I opened it and gestured for him to precede me. “Remind me to show you the portrait of General Richmond Malloy. The cook said Miller was the ‘spittin' image' of him. She wasn't referring to physical attributes, I suspect, but this inclination to have relationships with black women.”

“I've heard stories,” Rodney said as we went into the parlor.

“Well, I can't believe the story I just heard,” Stanford said. He stood by the cart, attempting to splash whiskey in a glass. His hand, the cart, and the floor were receiving the majority. “Miller got himself in some trouble—that much I knew on account of I heard them talking behind closed doors. Yelling was more like it, him and my daddy, going at each other like a pair of hounds fighting over a bone. Hell, most of the parish could hear 'em that night.” He banged down the glass and gulped from the bottle. “But I'll tell you this—I didn't hear anything about a colored girl.”

“Afro-American,” Ellie drawled from a sofa. She'd recovered from her earlier shock, and she regarded us with a feline smile. “Poor Daddy is terribly behind the times.”

Stanford glared at her. “You watch your mouth, missy. I don't mean anything derogatory when I say
colored
. It's the word I grew up with in this very house, and I'm not going to start with some newfangled term.”

“No problem,” Rodney said. “I've heard worse.”

“And you're not a Malloy.”

“I haven't said I was.”

I made a face at him. “Well, you are. I explained it to you out on the porch.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, “but would your explanation stand up in a court of law?”

“Now that's being a sensible fellow,” Stanford said to him. He turned to me. “What's this Ellie's been telling me about a body out in the barn? I saw the police car when I drove up, but I thought you'd dragged 'em out here on another of your harebrained ideas.”

“Harebrained?” I said. “It wasn't my fault the decanter has blood on it, and I sure as hell didn't kill the taxi driver and hide the taxi in the barn. I only arrived here two days ago. I'm not the one who's been skulking around the house searching for wills, or creeping around the yard at the time of Miss Justicia's death.” I fixed myself a drink and stalked to the nearest sofa. “In fact, I'm the only one who
doesn't
have anything to do with all this. Stop gawking at me, all of you!”

“My goodness,” Maxie said as she and Phoebe came into the parlor, “Cousin Claire seems to be frothing at the mouth. Perhaps she might like to lie down with a cool compress.”

“Meet your new cousin,” I said tartly. “Cousin Maxie, Cousin Rodney. Cousin Phoebe, fetch the notebook; there's an addendum to be made to the family tree.”

Maxie's chins bulged one by one, as did her eyes. “I'm afraid you're mistaken, Cousin Claire. Mr. Spikenard is the family attorney—for the moment.”

Phoebe straightened her glasses and licked her lips. “It might be wise to retain him on a permanent basis. Yale is one of the best law schools in the country.”

“Those aren't the credentials under discussion,” Stanford said in a dark voice. “Paternity seems to be the issue. According to Claire, this boy is Miller's son. That makes him my nephew, your cousin, Miss Justicia's grandson.”

Maxie and Phoebe sat down on a sofa, each as pale and rigid as the china dolls in the attic. Stanford flopped down beside me, grumbling to himself.

“So welcome to the family,” Ellie said, yawning. “Is that why you came out here this afternoon, to tell us the glad tidings of great joy? For unto you is born in the town of LaRue…”

“I have tidings,” Rodney said, “but they're not glad. Mr. D'Armand told me last night that he would have all the trust information delivered to my office this morning. When no one appeared, I called his house and spoke to Mrs. D'Armand. He failed to come home last night or this morning. She sent Spencer to the office, and he discovered that the lights were on and the doors unlocked.” He looked impassively at me. “Mrs. D'Armand claims that the last person to see her husband was Claire.”

“What'd you do to good ol' Bethel?” Stanford snarled at me.

I was becoming seriously fed up with the accusations being heaped on me every few minutes. “I didn't do anything to good ol' Bethel.”

“Has this been reported to the police?” asked Maxie.

Rodney nodded. “Yes, but he's only been missing since last night. The police won't take any action for forty-eight hours.”

“Is that why you stole my car?” said Ellie. “I thought you'd gone to the local tavern for a few beers.”

“Stole your car?” Maxie and Phoebe echoed.

“Did you steal it to take Bethel somewhere?” Stanford said, no doubt thinking he was craftier than a church bazaar.

“You people are getting on my nerves,” I said.

“This is outrageous,” Maxie began, then stopped as the doorbell rang. “Phoebe, answer the door. It's probably a group from the church with food, or someone with flowers. This dreadful conversation will have to wait.”

Phoebe rose obediently and left the room. When she returned, the two police officers followed her. Although they held their hats, neither looked respectful.

“Mr. Stanford,” Dewberry said, “we came back to the house to use the telephone. Where's our car?”

“Where'd you put it?”

Puccoon looked sharply at me. “Miz Malloy suggested we leave it up here so's not to mess up any tire tracks by the barn. It was in the driveway.”

“Jeez, Lester,” said Stanford, “don't you realize we got better things to do than baby-sit your car? You boys are officers of the law. Can't you take care of your car yourselves, without intruding on the family in our hour of grief?”

“But, Mr. Stanford,” Dewey said, “we—”

“Most of us are here,” Maxie said, “and therefore innocent of this latest incident of car theft. I suppose we ought to ascertain the whereabouts of Cousin Keith, Cousin Pauline—and Cousin Caron. One never knows what a negative influence can engender in an adolescent mentality.”

“Cousin Pauline hasn't come downstairs all day,” Phoebe said. “I knocked on her door earlier and offered to bring her a tray, but she refused to answer.”

“So go knock again,” Stanford muttered. “Claire, you check on Caron, and Ellie, see if you can dig up that nogoodnick brother of yours.”

The three of us brushed past the policemen and went upstairs, although without any sense of jolly camaraderie, and separated in the hallway. I went to our bedroom and found Caron lying on the bed.