Death by the Light of the Moon (2 page)

Caron's nostrils flared as she took in the dingy wallpaper marred with blotches of mildew, the worn carpet, the battered furniture, and the two narrow swaybacked beds. “You must get the name of their decorator, Mother—and have him put out of his misery.”

I held back the curtain and gazed out the window. Beyond the tangle of shrubbery was the bayou, an expanse of swampy water and half-submerged skeletal trees. Rather than dark and mysterious, it merely looked unappetizing. Carlton, a fastidious sort who ran notoriously tight seminars (and, would have alphabetized his clothes had I allowed it), had not related stories of his boyhood adventures. Now I could understand his general aversion to any memory of it.

I closed my eyes and imagined myself in my lovely, dusty store, where there were boxes to be unpacked, invoices to be checked, quarterly tax reports to be decorated with whimsical figures, and even a customer or two to be cosseted. Then, in a display of maturity that impressed only me, I told Caron it was time to go downstairs to meet the family.

“No way. You may go downstairs or upstairs or out to the swamp to shoot snakes. I'm staying right here on this pitiful excuse for a bed.” The treacherous child flopped across the nearest pitiful excuse and pulled a pillow over her face.

I debated the wisdom of attempting to drag a recalcitrant teenager, who was, among other less charming things, a skilled actress in the gentle art of melodrama, down a flight of stairs and into a parlor to meet her eighty-year-old grandmother.

“I'll tell everyone you're taking a nap,” I said, acknowledging defeat. “You will appear for dinner, and make a sincere effort to be attentive and well bred. Deal?”

Her reply was somewhat muffled by the pillow. “I think I'm getting a pimple on my chin. I'll probably be covered with them before morning—if I live to see the sun rise. Talk about your haunted houses! This has to be the—”

I closed the door and started down the hallway, pausing periodically to study the portraits of the family. The pouty expression at which Caron was so adept seemed to have a genetic basis, I thought as I peered at one particularly tight-lipped woman with eyes so small, they were almost invisible in the fleshy folds of her face. The man in the next painting was dressed in a Confederate uniform several sizes too small for his girth, and looked painfully constipated.

I stuck out my tongue at a bewhiskered man with a walrus mustache. And at that moment, of course, a door opened and a very attractive young woman stepped into the hallway. She had thick auburn hair, a generous mouth emphasized by scarlet lipstick, and the flawless complexion of a model. Two cool blue eyes appraised me.

“Like, hi,” she said in an amused drawl. “Trying to butter up Great-Uncle Eustice?”

I pulled in my tongue and stuck out my hand. “I'm Claire Malloy. Are you Ellie?”

She continued to study me for a few seconds, then briefly touched my hand. “You were Uncle Carlton's wife, right? Yeah, I remember Daddy saying you were coming this weekend. Isn't this whole thing ghastly? It's straight out of some dreary old black-and-white movie.”

“The house or the family reunion?”

“Is that what she told you?” Ellie chuckled, although with a malicious tinge. “You really don't know, do you? This might be entertaining, after all, Auntie Claire.” She slipped her hand through my arm, escorted me to the top of the stairs, and pointed at the elevator seat. “Walk or ride?”

I halted. “Neither. I'm in the mood to chat, Ellie. What is it that I don't know, and why is it likely to be entertaining?”

“How could I possibly know what you don't know? I met you less than three minutes ago, so I'm hardly able to make any sort of in-depth analysis of your deficiencies.”

Her glibness was beginning to annoy me, and I allowed my expression to indicate as much. “I have had a difficult day. It took three plane changes to get to the ultimate airport, each plane smaller than the preceding one. My daughter currently is supine and moaning about the likelihood of being throttled by the ghost of Great-Uncle whatever. I'm not in the mood to play games. Will you please explain your remarks?”

Her smile faded. “Sorry. It's so bizarre, so…” She searched for a word, and I wasn't surprised when she said, “Gothic, if you know what I mean.”

“I don't know what you mean,” I said grimly. “Caron received an invitation to visit on the occasion of Miss Justicia's eightieth birthday. What's so gothic about that?”

She sat down on the top step and gestured for me to join her. “She's changing her will. Haven't you ever seen those old movies where the matriarch demands that the family gather to find out who's to be the heir apparent and who's out in the cold—or in this case, out in the stupifying humidity?”

I had, and they were pretty darn gothic. “Miss Justicia is using the birthday ploy to announce she's changing her will? Why didn't she just do it and send everyone a postcard?”

“You obviously haven't met her yet,” Ellie said with a shrug. “She loves this kind of thing. Ten years ago, she informed us that every penny was going to a televangelist in Shreveport, and when I was in high school, she decided to give it all to a sperm bank in Baton Rouge. Daddy sputtered like a lawn mower all weekend. It was classic.”

“What's the existing situation? Is the bank still at the top of the list?”

“No one's sure, of course, but the prevailing theory is that the estate's divided among the loyal family members who show up whenever she tells them to. Not divided evenly, mind you, because then we wouldn't squabble across the coffin.”

“That would include Stanford, your brother, and you, I suppose,” I said.

“And Cousin Pauline, who's been an unpaid companion for a million years or so, and Cousin Maxie and dear little Cousin Phoebe. I'm afraid your branch was cut off years ago when Uncle Carlton refused to scurry home with his tail between his legs to listen to her threaten to cut him off.”

“Then why were Caron and I invited to this…party?”

“Only the shadow knows,” she said in an appropriately lugubrious voice. She stood up and dusted off her fanny. “I'm sure we'll find out, Auntie Claire. Come along; it's time for a spot of sherry in the parlor.”

I've always disliked sherry, but suddenly I realized that I loathed it.

Ellie led me into the room opposite the double doors. It might have been spacious had it not been crowded with sofas and love seats, brocaded chairs, tables cluttered with ceramic bric-a-brac and brass boxes, enough spindly lamps to comprise a small forest, and a vague redolence of furniture wax and camphor. Heavy draperies hung like folds of liver-spotted skin, blocking out most of the late-afternoon sunlight. The cobweb-encrusted chandelier glinted weakly, its low wattage bulbs unable to conquer the gloom. Ellie's hand on my back was the only thing that prevented me from retreating upstairs to pack my bags.

Stanford stood in front of a wicker cart, a bottle of liquor in one hand and a glass in the other. “So I see you two have met,” he said as he poured himself a stiff drink and gulped it down without spilling a drop. He had the decency to ask if he might be honored to offer me a wee libation, and I assured him that he certainly could. Once I was settled with scotch and Ellie with bourbon, he frowned at her.

“Where's your brother? I told him we were having drinks before dinner. Not that he necessarily heard me, since he goes around with that foolish thing on his head, and those sunglasses over his eyes so we can't tell if he's awake, asleep, or dead. And that hair's a disgrace. I ought to drag him down to the barbershop and—”

“Cool it, Daddy,” Ellie said. “It's a little late in the game to start with the paternal authority routine. You're liable to get yourself all fired up and have a heart attack in the middle of the parlor. That'd play holy hell with Miss Justicia's plans, wouldn't it?”

“I don't want to hear that kind of language from you, young lady,” Stanford began, then broke off with an uneasy smile. “Why, here's Miss Justicia now, and Cousin Pauline.”

I stood up and turned around. The photograph I'd seen of Carlton's mother had been taken at least thirty years ago. She had shriveled with age and barely managed to fill the shiny wheelchair she drove into the room. White hair dotted her scalp like clumps of cotton. Nestled in a high lace collar, her face was emaciated and harshly wrinkled, but her faded blue eyes were as sharply appraising as Ellie's. Although her hands were misshapen with arthritis, her fingers darted over the control panel of the wheelchair. She braked in front of me.

“So you're the gal Carlton married, are you?”

“I'm Claire,” I said. “My daughter, Caron, is napping upstairs, but she's looking forward to meeting you at dinner.”

“It was kind of the two of you to come all this way for a pathetic old lady's birthday. It well could be my last, you know.” Miss Justicia shifted into first gear and spun around neatly. “Stanford, my dear boy, why are you standing there like a wart on a toad's butt? Fix me a drink.”

The woman in the plaid housedress approached me. Her face was long and angular, and her oversized teeth added to the unfortunate equine effect. I doubted she was sixty years old, but her aura of grayness made her seem older. When she smiled, however, the effect was surprisingly appealing, and I found myself smiling in return.

“I'm Pauline Hurstmeyer, Justicia's cousin,” she said, so softly that I could barely hear her.

Miss Justicia had the same problem. “Speak up, Pauline. This isn't the front room of a funeral parlor, so you don't have to whisper.”

“Of course I don't, Justicia,” she said, although without any appreciable increase in volume. “I'm pleased to meet you, Claire. We're so glad you and your daughter have come to Malloy Manor for our little party.”

“I'm pleased to meet you,” I responded mendaciously, in that I wasn't pleased about anything that had taken place since the airplane had landed several hours ago. She again gave me a warm smile before she sidled away from me and sat down on a love seat near the window.

Stanford placed a glass in his mother's hand. “Here you are, Miss Justicia. A nice glass of sherry.”

The old lady sniffed the contents of the glass, then held it to one side and dropped it on the rug. “Oh, my goodness,” she said, “how terribly clumsy of me. I've spilled this glass of dog piss. You'll have to fix me another, but this time I'll have a vodka martini, straight up, with two olives.”

“Absolutely not,” said Pauline. “Justicia, you know what the doctor says—”

“The doctor says, the doctor says,” she said mockingly. “If I want to hear his words of wisdom, I'll call him on the telephone. Better yet, I'll drive over to his office and park in the hydrangeas. Stanford, please stop hovering over me like the Goodyear blimp and fix me a martini.” She wheeled around and drove back to me. Resting her hand on my knee, she said, “Isn't it wonderful for us to have this chance to get acquainted, Claire? I wanted to attend the wedding, but my doctor wouldn't allow it, and the funeral was out of the question. May I hope Stanford represented the family well?”

“It was a short, simple service, as Carlton would have wanted.” I ignored the reference to Stanford's presence, but I shot him a dark look.

Turning red, he said, “I was happy I could be there to stand beside you and Caron.” Neither of us added that he'd offered to lie beside me that same night. I was amused to see he still remembered the well-articulated vehemence of my response.

“Stanford told me that you own a bookstore,” Miss Justicia continued, her hand bearing down on my knee. “Is it profitable?”

“It's pleasant, but not impressively profitable. I opened it in order to be surrounded by books. I didn't realize they'd all be ledgers filled with red ink.”

“And in a train station. So very quaint and clever of you.” She gave me a vaguely reproachful smile. “Women of my generation would never have competed in what was considered a male dominion. It would have been quite ill-bred, so we were obliged to occupy ourselves with charitable endeavors and taking proper care of our families. Do tell me, dear, why did you and Carlton have only one child?”

The others may have been willing to be bullied, but I was not. I took a sip of scotch, then said, “It was our decision, Miss Justicia.”

“But here you are in the bosom of the family, surrounded by your loved ones, and you can confide in us. Was it on account of money, or did Carlton lose his…Oh, what shall I call it? His resolve?”

“Miss Justicia, you are such a hoot,” Ellie said languidly.

Stanford bristled. “Ellie, I won't have you speaking like that to your grandmother. Apologize right this minute.”

“She doesn't need to apologize to anyone,” Miss Justicia said, cackling. “She's blunt, and I like that. She doesn't pretend to have any great fondness for me. She simply wants my money, as do the rest of you.”

“Don't be absurd,” Stanford protested weakly. “Ellie is very fond of you, as am I. I know I don't visit too often, but what with the business and all, it's difficult to get away for even a weekend. I can't remember when I last had a vacation.”

“I can, Daddy,” said Ellie. “Weren't you way down yonder in New Orleans a week ago? That's what your secretary told me when I called.”

“That was business.” He busied himself with a plastic pick, trying to coax olives out of a jar. “Darn these things,” he muttered as several of them popped out and bounced on the floor like marbles.

“Good heavens, Stanford,” Miss Justicia said, “where did I go wrong?” She took the glass from him and drained it. A purplish tongue flicked out to catch a drop on her lip. I stared, mesmerized. Ellie's face was lowered, but I could hear her throaty chuckle in the silence. Stanford looked as though he wanted to speak, his lips quivering as he blinked at the old woman. Pauline sadly shook her head.

The doorbell interrupted the unsettling stillness. Stanford flinched, then hurried out of the room and into the foyer. The front door creaked open and the sound of footsteps was accompanied by the mumbling of low voices and the thudding of what I presumed was luggage. A great deal of luggage.

“More vultures,” Miss Justicia said. She maneuvered the wheelchair to the wicker cart and picked up a bottle. Vodka splashed on the carpet as she refilled her glass. “Stanford can no more make a decent martini than he can profit from the family business. My grandfather founded it more than seventy years ago, and it was a decent company until my incompetent son took over and ran it into the muck. Don't you agree, Ellie?”

“Daddy doesn't have much of a head for business,” she said, facetiously sympathetic. “He says he's undercapitalized, but I suspect his girlfriend in New Orleans has expensive taste. It's really not fair for him to keep her in diamonds while I'm reduced to rhinestones. He cut off my allowance last year when he found out about my fondness for roulette and my teeny-tiny problem with a gentleman in Atlantic City. Can you imagine such a brutal thing?”

“So you're hoping to get all my money?”

“Every last penny of it. I'm going to buy a penthouse in Manhattan, a town house in Paris, and a doghouse for Daddy, should he ever visit.” She paused for a moment to study her scarlet fingernails, then gave Miss Justicia an angelic smile. “But I'll have to wait until you're dead, won't I? It's so utterly boring. I don't suppose you'd advance me a few thousand? Lately Big Eddie's been saying all kinds of crude things about my line of credit and my kneecaps.”

Miss Justicia began to cackle. The sound grew until it filled the room like a sickly sweet perfume. Tears zigzagged down the creases in her cheeks, and her hands jerked spasmodically in the air. Seconds later, I realized she was struggling for air, her face red and her eyes bulging. She snatched at the cameo holding the collar around her throat as if to rip it off. Pauline and I both rose, but even in the midst of the attack, her glare warned us not to approach.

“Isn't it nice to see we're having fun?” oozed a voice from behind me.

Feeling very much as if I'd been dropped in Oz, I spun around to look at the woman in the doorway. She was short and round, with a monumental bosom, a soft jaw, and too many chins to count. Her hair, twisted into a cone of improbable height, was the color and texture of bleached hay. She wore a linen dress that spoke of money, and a strand of pearls that screamed of it, as did the assorted rings on her fingers. If she was wearing bells on her toes, I had no doubt they would be made of the finest crystal.

“Maxie, my dear,” Miss Justicia managed to gasp, “I should have known you'd be here in a Bosier City minute. Rest your tonnage and have a drink.”

“I could do with a glass of sherry after riding with that dreadfully unclean taxi driver.” She curled a bejeweled finger at someone in the foyer. “Stop dawdling and come into the drawing room to greet Miss Justicia, Phoebe. She may nibble, but she won't bite.”

The girl who entered the room did not appear frightened, but merely reluctant, an attitude I could appreciate. She was the antithesis of Maxie—tall, thin, and almost chinless. Her hair, a utilitarian brown cap, framed her face with no concession to style. Her sallow complexion, devoid of makeup, matched her pale yellow dress. What light there was glinted off the round lenses of her glasses, disguising her eyes.

“Hello, Miss Justicia, and happy birthday,” she said without enthusiasm.

“Cousin Phoebe,” Ellie said from the sofa, “now that you and Cousin Maxie are here, we can get on with the party. You will stay off the chandelier this year, won't you?”

Phoebe crossed her arms and stared. “I cannot imagine why you'd say something so absurd, Cousin Ellie. Unlike others of us, I do not drink alcoholic beverages, nor do I engage in those primitive rituals you find so diverting. Is penicillin still adequate for your condition, or have you moved on to one of those trendy new Asian strains?”

“The results of the test aren't back. It's a risk one takes when one has contact with men who haven't been freeze-dried as a prerequisite for tenure.”

“I have a perfectly reasonable social life, when time permits,” she said with a sniff. “I have a significant relationship with someone at the moment. Unlike your invariably imprudent choices, he is not covered with matted hair and obscene tattoos.”

“And you didn't bring him along so we could meet him? Oh, I am so very disappointed with you, Cousin Phoebe! What does he do for a living—rob graves?”

“It's hardly any of your business, but he happens to be in the transportation industry.”

“A grease monkey at a truck stop?” Miss Justicia said with a short laugh. “At last you've found someone who'll take a shot at deflowering you, although I wouldn't put any money on the outcome. Come over here so I can take a look at you, my dear child. You're so thin, I lose you in the lamps. Don't they feed you at that college you've been attending for what? The last ten years?”

“A doctorate requires both time and diligence. I'm currently working on a dissertation that I've been assured is of publishable quality. It focuses on the complexity of management's bilateral relationship with—”

“I'll be sure to keep a copy by my bed,” Miss Justicia interrupted.

Phoebe's voice dropped half an octave, and only her mouth moved as she said, “Then I'll make a note to send one to you, Miss Justicia.”

“And to me, too,” Ellie chirped, clapping her hands. “I'm having a terrible time with insomnia.”

“You sleep in your bed, too?” Phoebe permitted herself a small smile, then sat down beside Pauline and began to talk quietly with her. Ellie scowled but said nothing.

Maxie went to the cart and poured herself a glass of sherry. She then noticed yours truly, who'd been trying to hide in the upholstery in case the cozy reunion escalated from verbiage to violence. “You must be Cousin Carlton's widow,” she said, studying me as if I were a potential arsonist. “I'm Maxine Rutherford Malloy-Frazier.”

“I'm Claire,” I admitted.

“It's so nice of you to visit after all these years. It must mean so much to Miss Justicia to finally meet you. What a shame you wouldn't come while Carlton was still alive. Are you interested in genealogy?” Before I could manufacture a reply, she continued. “I've done extensive work on the family's genealogical charts for inclusion in the parish historical society's files. Are you aware we are in direct descendancy from the
Mayflower
, and that William Malloy opened one of the first blacksmith shops in the Colonies in 1623?”