Death by the Light of the Moon (6 page)

Stanford gave him a sharp look, then resumed his discussion with Phoebe. “I don't know if the doctor would cooperate with us on this or not. He may be able to tell that there's water in her lungs. As Claire was so eager to point out, no one drowns in bed.”

“That junkie did,” protested Keith.

“Just hush!” Phoebe snapped at him. “Your father and I are trying to determine how best to deal with this problem. Your drug-induced fantasies are not worthy of notice, much less serious consideration.”

“Hey, it really happened. The guy punched holes in the plastic mattress with his needle, and then passed out.”

I had had enough. I urged Pauline to her feet and put my arm around her trembling shoulders. “Stanford, you stay here with Miss Justicia's body. Pauline is in shock and needs a cup of tea. Phoebe, you can see to that while Keith lets Maxie and Ellie know what happened.”

“And you, dear cousin?” Phoebe said.

“I am going to telephone the police and tell them about the accident. They'll want to examine the scene before they write an official report.”

Stanford assessed me for a moment, then conceded with a shrug. “All right, all right. I don't see why that should take a whole lot of time. What'll they say, anyway? The fact that Miss Justicia had these urges to overindulge in beverages of an alcoholic nature, then go whipping all over God's green earth in her wheelchair is…why, I'd say it was a legend in the parish. The whole state, for that matter. Pauline can just remind them of a few unfortunate incidents from the past, and we'll be done with the police before we know it.”

“It seems we have no choice,” Phoebe said as she took Pauline's arm and tugged her forward. “Come along, Cousin Pauline. We'll pour a pot of tea into you, with a nice slug of brandy. You're going to have to pull yourself together so that you can relate all that to the police.”

“But it's so…” Pauline said dully. “I don't know if I can remember all…”

“Don't worry about it,” I began. Despite the fact I was holding Pauline's other arm, Phoebe managed to dig a hard leather heel into my bare foot. I bit back a snarl, took a breath, and said, “No one's going to pressure you to tell the police anything.”

Phoebe gave the older woman a smile meant to be sympathetic. “That's correct. No one's going to pressure you, Cousin Pauline.”

The slight emphasis on the
you
gave the reassuring words quite a different message. It was received, but not appreciated any more than the incipient bruise on my foot.

We moved slowly toward the back door of the house. Stanford remained beside the body, his hands on his hips. Keith caught up with us as we guided Pauline through the back door and down the hall to the dining room. Phoebe briskly demanded the kitchen key, and after a few moments of fumbling, Pauline took it from her robe pocket and handed it over.

Once Phoebe had departed to make tea, I asked Keith where I might find a telephone. He mumbled a response and turned to study the dark oil paintings of dead, featherless fowl and mottled fruit. I once again patted Pauline on the shoulder, then went down the hall toward the parlor, which seemed as good a possibility as any.

As I entered the foyer, Ellie stepped out of the parlor and carefully closed the door. Devoid of makeup and with her hair hidden by a turban, she looked appreciably less glamorous. She hurried over to me, her satiny pink robe rustling, and grabbed my arm. “I was just coming outside to help you find Miss Justicia, but I discovered the most amazing thing in the parlor!”

“You did?”

She pulled me farther away from the door and lowered her voice. “There's a man in there, an unclean and unattractive man. He's lying on the sofa, and snoring away as if he lives here and fell asleep watching the late movie. You know, this place has always been a madhouse, but lately it's been downright peculiar.”

“Has it now?” I said dryly. I gave her a short explanation of what had occurred, from the midnight prowlers to the discovery of the body in the bayou. I concluded with a request for the location of a telephone.

“The man in the parlor is a taxi driver?” Her fingernails bit into my arm. “Is that what he told you?”

“I suspected as much when he actually drove the cab from the airport this afternoon.”

“But why would anyone in this house want to be picked up at midnight? And who?”

“We don't seem to have any confessions as of yet, and other things have taken precedence. I do need to call the police before your father concocts some scheme to transfer Miss Justicia's body to a health club and leave it in the hot tub.”

“There aren't any hot tubs in this parish. Trust me.” Ellie looked nervously at the parlor door, but she did have the courtesy to remove her claws from my arm. “Did you ask everyone abut this call to the taxi driver? Everyone?”

“A telephone, please?”

“God, I'm sorry, Claire. I must be in shock or something. This accident is so tragic, and I feel awful about Miss Justicia. She was a harridan, but she was my grandmother, and in our own way, we got along pretty well. I suppose that implies something less than charming about my personality, but I'll save it for my shrink.” She gave me a rueful, if somewhat manic, smile. “There's a telephone in her bedroom, on the desk by the window. I'll get a couple of glasses from the kitchen and we can have a nip of brandy. I could use one, and you must be a basket case after discovering the body…like that.”

If I was, I was not the only one, I thought as I went into the library. Stanford, Phoebe, and Keith had stood over a corpse in the moonlight, debating their chances of claiming she drowned in bed. Ellie was more distraught over a cabbie on the couch than the death of her grandmother.

Dearly hoping Caron had avoided any of the family's aberrant DNA, I went to the telephone, dialed the operator, and requested to be put through to the police. The operator told me I could dial direct, and thanked me for using AT&T. I told her it was an emergency. She asked in a hushed, almost reverent tone for details. I declined to share them and repeated my request that she ring the police. She told me I could dial direct, etc.

I would have taken a drink from the decanter, but if it was in the room, it was not within my sight. I barked at the operator, who, with a sniff of disapproval, at last connected me with the police department. The officer sounded bored as I began, but his voice rose in both pitch and volume as I mentioned names and arrived at the unpleasant conclusion of the story.

I was told to wait right where I was, ma'am, and not touch anything at the scene of the accident. Although it was a little late in the game for that, I acknowledged his instructions and replaced the receiver.

Ellie came into the room with two glasses. “Where's the decanter, Claire?”

I remembered an earlier remark, and said, “Pauline told us that Miss Justicia finished off whatever was in the decanter. I could use a drink, myself. Let's avail ourselves of a little something from the cart in the parlor.”

“That man is in there.”

“Indeed he is,” I said as I started for the door. “We need to rouse him and give him a brief idea of what's happened. He'll have to stay until the police arrive.”

“You said he claimed someone called him from here, but that's absolutely crazy. Maybe he came to case the joint in hopes of lifting an heirloom or two.”

“He knocked on the front door, Ellie. That's hardly standard procedure when planning a burglary. I'd like to hear a more detailed version of the call, however. We were all so stunned that no one asked him for the exact wording.” Which, I admitted to myself and myself alone, was pretty damn stupid. On a more charitable note, the oversight was salvageable in the immediate future.

Or so I'd thought. The parlor was devoid of snoozing taxi drivers. Ellie gave me a bewildered look, then checked behind the drapes while I searched the shadowy caverns under tables and between sofas and walls. We met by the wicker cart.

“He was here not ten minutes ago,” Ellie said defensively. “I stood over him for I don't know how long, trying to figure out who the holy hell he was and what the holy hell he was doing in here. Look, there's a smudge of mud on the arm of the sofa where his feet were propped.”

“You don't have to argue with me. I stuck him in here in the first place.” I fixed a drink, then sat down on the sofa under discussion. “He probably grew tired of waiting and simply went away. I can't see how he could be involved in what happened, but, in any case, the police should have no difficulty finding him tomorrow. He was parked at the airport when Caron and I arrived. It's most likely his regular stand.”

Ellie poured a full glass of bourbon and sat down beside me. “You know, Claire, maybe we ought to do him a favor and not mention anything about his being here tonight. After all, he's just a dumb jerk trying to make a living, and as you said, he couldn't possibly have anything to do with Miss Justicia's accident. He was on the sofa the entire time she was…” She slumped back and covered her eyes. “Jesus H. Malloy,” she added softly.

“Was there one of those, too?” I heard myself ask.

“You'll have to ask Maxie, but I wouldn't be surprised. She can trace the family all the way back to Adam Malloy and his lovely wife, Eve, who was a third cousin twice removed from a very good family in the next garden.”

Our attempted diversion dwindled into a long silence. I studied the amber liquid in my glass, doing my best not to compare it to the quickening waves in the bayou when I'd struggled with the wheelchair. When I'd struggled with the body. I realized I was about to splatter my robe, and put the drink on the coffee table.

The doorbell rang.

“That must be the police,” I said to Ellie. “Phoebe's in the kitchen making tea for Pauline. I have no idea if your brother bothered to wake Maxie and tell her what happened. Caron can sleep through this, but Maxie needs to come downstairs.”

When we reached the foyer, she turned and went upstairs, and I opened the front door. A uniformed officer stood there, his hand resting on his holster. He must have been in his twenties to have graduated from an academy, but he had a boyish face dotted with blemishes, twitchy eyes, and the uneasy bravado of a playground bully. He was so thin that his uniform hung on him like a saggy elephant skin, presuming the existence of blue elephants.

“You the woman who called?” he asked.

“Yes, and I'm also the one who discovered the body. Let me tell the others you're here, and then I'll take you down to the…scene of the accident.”

His eyes left mine to meander down my body, which was less than fashionable in a terry-cloth robe. He lingered on its muddy hem for a moment, then flinched as he noted my bare feet.

“Where are your shoes?” he demanded accusingly.

“I took off my slippers when I waded into the water.”

“Why'd you wade into the water?”

“To pull Miss Justicia from under her wheelchair.”

“Why'd you tamper with the scene?”

“Because I didn't know it was ‘a scene' at the time.”

“Then why'd you wade into the water?”

I thought of numerous clever responses, most of which were likely to result in the necessity of raising bail in the morning. I even caught myself wishing Maxie would swoop down the stairs to deal with this boneheaded excuse for a policeman, or Stanford to come forward brandishing his handkerchief to defend me. Ellie with a mud pie. Keith with his headphones. Caron with her capital letters. Even Phoebe with a sharp pencil and a sharper frown.

After less than twelve hours in residence in Malloy Manor, I was in a very sorry state—and I don't mean Louisiana.

I asked the officer to wait, then went to the dining room to check on Pauline. She was slumped at the table, her head bowed and her fingers playing with the frayed cuffs of her peignoir. There was no cup of tea in evidence, much less a medicinal shot of brandy. I asked her where Phoebe was and received a numb look in response. I asked her where Keith was and received another.

I continued into the kitchen, a large and awkwardly arranged room, the primary function of which, I suspected, was to provide a habitat for nocturnal insects. Beyond the stained sink and peeling countertops, I found a metal pot whistling forlornly on a black cast-iron stove. A cup, saucer, flowered teapot, and several tea bags were laid out on a tray. It seemed Phoebe had lost her zeal, tut, tut (this from a woman who was fairly sure she herself had lost her mind).

Once I'd gotten Pauline marginally interested in tea, I went back to the foyer and the policeman, who was peering suspiciously into the umbrella stand. He had been joined by a colleague, although this latest arrival was a slightly more mature man who'd been stuffed into his uniform only by the grace of God. Name tags identified the thin one as J. Dewberry, the pudgy one as L. Puccoon. What can I say? I read the backs of cereal boxes and the fine print on airline tickets, too.

As we walked across the yard toward the bayou, J. Dewberry asked me to describe the events that led to the accidental drowning. When I reached the point at which Miss Justicia raced through the bushes in her wheelchair, cackling satanically, they both began to chuckle.

“So she was drunk,” J. Dewberry said, punching L. Puccoon on the arm. “I personally don't have a lot of trouble believing that. How about you, Lester?”

“You know me, Dewey; I'll believe most anything. I always set out cookies and milk on Christmas Eve. 'Xactly how much did she drink this time, ma'am?”

“She consumed several martinis before dinner, a quantity of wine during dinner, and a decanter of brandy after dinner,” I said with nary a chuckle. “I think it's probable that she was more than minimally intoxicated, but the lab report will establish the precise level of alcohol in her blood.”

Dewberry punched Puccoon again. “Hey, Lester, we can find out the precise level of alcohol in her blood just by sending it to the lab. Ain't that good to know?”

“Gee, Dewey, we don't have a lab.”

“We don't?” Dewberry slapped his forehead. “I must have forgotten. For a minute there, I was thinking we were in New York City, New York, or Los Angeles, California, or even in one of those big plastic buildings in Florida with palm trees out front and cops what dress in pastel shirts.”

“Sorry, Dewey, we don't got anybody what dresses in pastel shirts. All we got is you and me on this shift, and Bo and Cap'n Plantain on the other one. Do you think we ought to get ourselves pink shirts?”

“And look like a pair of flamingos? Wouldn't the boys over at the diner be impressed!”

If I'd held one itty-bitty Uzi in my hand, the two would have ended up splattered over the magnolia blossoms. As it was, I was obliged to bite my lip while they amused each other. I stalked around the azaleas and along the bank of the bayou to where Stanford stood guard. He was down to his pajamas, having covered the body with his bathrobe.

“The police have arrived,” I said sourly.

“Why, Dewey Dewberry and Lester Puccoon!” Stanford said as he came over to slap them on their respective shoulders (others of us would have aimed higher). “You boys still going out on Saturdays nights in that rusty ol' johnboat to shoot gators? How's that little bride of yours, Dewey? She as perky as ever? And Lester, you still goin' to night school to get your equivalancy certificate? I must say I have unflagging admiration for that kind of dedication to self-improvement.”

“Thank you kindly,” said the purported student, shuffling his feet. His cohort would have tugged his forelock, had his receding hairline not precluded it.

Stanford nodded graciously. “Boys, I want you all to know how deeply, how very deeply, I appreciate your coming all the way out here at this time of night. We've had a terrible tragedy this evening. Knowing you boys will do everything you can to help us through this time of grief and mourning is a great comfort to us all.”

“It's the least we can do for your family,” Dewberry said obeisantly.

Puccoon squatted next to the body, pulled back the bathrobe, and sniffed. “Oh, Lordy, she must have been really plastered when she took off in the wheelchair. I can still smell the booze through the swamp water. I think it's clear what happened, Mr. Stanford. You have the condolences of all of us in the department.”

“And we'll do our best to keep it quiet,” Dewberry added. “I don't see any reason to make things worse by making public a lot of irrelevant details. We'll just say it was dark and she lost her sense of direction while taking a small drive around the yard.”

Stanford put his hand on his chest and bowed ever so slightly. “I'm very moved, boys. So very, very moved by your sympathy and understanding of what some might see as an uncomfortable, not to mention potentially embarrassing, situation for the Malloy family.”

I wasn't moved one centimeter. “Don't you intend to investigate the accident? For one thing, there's a lot of moonlight tonight, and Miss Justicia's lived here for decades. For another, we all know she's had some experience driving while under the influence.”

“Meanin' what?” Dewberry said, giving me a beady look.

“I don't know,” I admitted. “I just don't think you should write up a report without making some effort to determine exactly what took place.”

Stanford put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder. “Now, now, Claire, it's clear that you're in a state of shock from having found poor Miss Justicia's body the way you did. It was an act of heroism I shall always admire. But don't you think it might be wise for you to go back to the house and have a bracing cup of tea with Cousin Pauline while the boys and I work out the minor details? I hate to see you all upset like this and saying wild things you're apt to regret in the light of day.”

I removed his hand. “No, Stanford, I think it might be better for me to stay right here until these clowns agree to conduct a proper investigation of the accident.”

“The accident,” Stanford repeated emphatically. “That's exactly what it was—a straightforward accident with a tragic conclusion. I've known these boys since the day they were born, and I played poker with their daddies before that. I can assure you they'll proceed in a professional manner befitting our fine, upstanding police department. We'll take care of things here. I'd be most grateful if you run along and have that tea with Cousin Pauline.”

The policemen were looking displeased by my characterization of them, and Dewberry was once again fingering his weapon. I realized there was nothing to be gained by arguing with them. Stanford had pulled the undeniable rank of an old, established, moneyed family, and the local serfs had bought it. To add to the problem, I wasn't sure why I was disturbed by the accident.

As I trudged back to the house, I searched for a crack in the scenario. Miss Justicia did careen around the yard in her souped-up wheelchair; I'd seen her doing so three times since my arrival. I had no doubt she was an habitual offender who did as she damn well pleased. She had consumed enough alcohol to pickle the occupants of several fraternity houses. Pauline had settled the old woman into bed, and had remarked on the emptiness of the decanter when she'd peeked into the room later.

At that point, we'd all been preoccupied with the inexplicable appearance of the taxi driver. Everyone was accounted for: Phoebe, Stanford, Pauline, and I had been questioning Keith when we heard the door slam and the wheelchair race across the yard. We'd stood together at the window and watched Miss Justicia disappear. Ellie was in the bathroom. Maxie and Caron were asleep. The cook had left for the night, and the driver was in the parlor, hoping to collect at least a portion of his fare if we could determine who'd called him.

It must have been an accident, since no one had the opportunity to manipulate the situation. Motive, however, was an entirely different matter, courtesy of Miss Justicia's threatening remarks at dinner. Excluding the cook, the driver, Caron, and myself, the house was waist-deep in people with motives. Maybe. No one claimed to know the contents of the old will. No one claimed to know the contents of the new will. Therefore, no one could be sure he or she would profit more from the status quo or from what might transpire at the birthday dinner.

But a brief unauthorized reading of either would be illuminating for any of the would-be heirs. It was obvious from the earlier antics that at least a few mendacious souls were searching for one or both wills. Magazines, pocket watches, and voices in the dark. Right. And do let me show you the prospectus for some prime beach frontage in Wyoming.

I sat down on the back porch for a moment to rub my foot and curse Phoebe. I could hear low voices from the area I'd just left; Stanford was winning over the cops with words as silky as the silt in the bayou. Maybe it was an accident, rather than some ominous puzzle with too many pieces missing to even guess at its solution. Stanford, Phoebe, and Keith had opined as much within seconds of arriving at the scene. Ellie concurred. Maxie would leap onto the bandwagon as soon as she heard the tidings. The two so-called professionals were no doubt jotting down suggestions from Stanford as to how best to phrase the official report.

And I had to admit that I myself had described it as an accident. Paranoiacs could have enemies, hypochondriacs could have medical problems, and manipulative old women could have accidents. Motives did not a murder make. It also took opportunity, and no one had that.

I told myself to stop brooding over something that lacked definition, and continued into the house and the dining room. Pauline was in the same chair I'd left her in, but the cup of tea was nearly empty. At one end of the table, Phoebe and Maxie were whispering to each other. They broke off as I sat down next to Pauline and refilled her cup from the teapot.

“So here you are, Cousin Claire,” Maxie said without warmth. “Phoebe has told me the dreadful news, and how you insisted the police be called in to investigate what might have been quietly dismissed as an accident. Our family can be traced back to the
Mayflower
, and many generations before that, as I told you earlier. There is a distinct possibility of a connection with William of Orange. Although there have been a few scalawags in the lineage, we've rarely produced a branch that was involved with the police. The Malloys prefer to handle their private problems with dignity.”

“The Malloys are off the hook,” I said. “Stanford has already persuaded the police to write up an unadorned report that handles things ever so discreetly.”

Phoebe smirked at me. “If you were a Malloy by birth, you wouldn't have been so mulish about it. Breeding shows, doesn't it?”

“I can trace my family back to the Bordens of Boston,” I said, doing my best to look as if I had an ax in my bathrobe pocket—and the willingness to wield it. “Borden was the spelling we adopted when we came to the United States. Before then, we went by Borgia.”

Maxie peered at the teapot for a moment, then whinnied. “How witty you are, Cousin Claire. Especially at this tragic time when it might be more appropriate to express grief for poor Miss Justicia.”

Pauline gulped down the contents of the cup, then banged it down and hiccuped. “Poor Miss Justicia. That's what they'll all say. She was a screwy old bitch, you know. Never could stand her. Just stayed 'cause I had no place else to go. Parents died when I was seventeen. Miss Justicia's family took me in and pretended I was one of them, but she never let me forget who was the wealthy, prissy lady of the manor and who was the scrawny orphan. Prissy, pissy Miss Looney Tunes.”

Her hand was unsteady as she refilled her cup and took another gulp of what I'd assumed was tea. The slurring cadence of her voice, coupled with the rhythmic hiccups, made it clear I'd aided and abetted in the consumption of a liquid of a similar color but vastly different genre.

“How difficult for you,” I murmured-as I reached for the teapot.

She snatched it up and huddled over it protectively. “I never married, you know; it could not be. But I've known passion—lustful, steamy, sweaty passion. I'm not the withered virgin you think I am. The cruelty of others kept us from proclaiming our love to the world, but not from countless nights of mindless sex at the Econolodge.”

“Cousin Pauline, dear,” Maxie said in a shocked voice, “it's clear you're upset about Miss Justicia's death, but I—”

“Upset?” Pauline giggled. “I can't tell you how many times I wanted to push the old bitch and her wheelchair down the stairs.
Bumpety, bumpety, bumpety, bump
. Fine sound, doncha think?
Bumpety, bumpety, bumpety, bump!
”

Maxie stood up. “I don't think it's prudent for the police to find dear Cousin Pauline in this unseemly condition. Help me with her, Phoebe, and we'll tuck her in bed. Claire, should the police desire to have a word with her, tell them she was overcome with shock. They'll have to return at a more convenient time.”

Once they'd escorted a hiccupy woman gleefully shouting, “
bumpety, bumpety
,” down the hall, I sagged back in the chair and resisted the urge to polish off the contents of her teacup. The evening had begun dreadfully, and we'd been going downhill ever since then. Acrimony, accusations, an accident, and a pair of accommodating cops. It was by no means a cozy case for an amateur sleuth who wanted nothing more than a few hours of sleep and an early-morning flight. I had no illusions that I would get my wish. Caron and I were stuck in this contorted Southern gothic plot, complete with a cast of characters from a B-grade movie and enough wrinkles to drive the mildest of us to polyester.