Death by the Light of the Moon (7 page)

I wrenched myself out of what was, in my opinion, justifiable self-pity and considered this newest development. Cousin Pauline was not the meek, long-suffering sort I'd assumed her to be. In truth, it seemed she'd been nursing a grudge for nearly forty years—long enough to work herself into a murderous rage. As much as I hated to even entertain the thought, she was the only one among us with a shred of opportunity. “I could just kill her,” she'd said. It was an unfortunate comment.

It might play, I thought glumly. Miss Justicia heads off down one of her favorite trails. Pauline dashes off in pursuit, and seconds later catches up with Miss Justicia, who makes a typically brutal remark. Pauline grasps the handles of the wheelchair and gives a mighty shove.
Bumpety, bumpety, bumpety…splash
. She then returns to tell us she's unable to locate Miss Justicia. Fifteen minutes later, we find the body. Pauline collapses, but out of remorse rather than grief.

If she hadn't had a nip or two, none of us would have suspected how deeply she hated her benefactress, who'd promised her the house and an income, and then jerked it away with a cackle. Perhaps Miss Justicia had named her heir by the bayou, and the knowledge had sent Pauline over the edge…and the wheelchair into the water.

I blinked at the teapot. I'd filled it and poured one cup before going outside with the policemen. Unless we were into religious miracles (and we weren't), how had the innocuous tea been transformed into noxious booze? Pauline could have emptied the teapot, gone down the hallway to the parlor, refilled it with scotch, and then returned to the dining room. It didn't seem likely, though. No matter what had transpired beside the bayou, the woman was thoroughly stunned.

Maxie and Phoebe certainly hadn't done the little errand out of compassion; they were as startled as I by Pauline's inebriation. Stanford had been outside the entire time. Neither Ellie nor Keith seemed the type to worry about an elderly cousin's pallor.

I bent down and looked under the table, expecting to see a bottle. For my effort, I was rewarded with a view of scattered bread crumbs and a lump of bread pudding.

I was in this pose when I heard voices in the hall. The back of the chair must have hidden me, because there was no intake of breath or acidic comment as Ellie and Keith came to the doorway.

“I saw Daddy out front with a couple of cops,” she said. “He was telling them all the details of the tragic accident, and they were bobbling their wee heads and scribbling notes.”

Keith snickered. “Of course it'll be written up as an accident. We saw the wheelchair and heard that gawdawful cackle. We were all with somebody until we found the body, except for the few minutes when Pauline stumbled off in the dark. Only a certifiable idiot would think for a second that Pauline's got the balls to murder the old girl.”

“What about the guy in the parlor?”

“I don't know what the hell his game was, showing up like that at midnight and saying someone called him. Damn crazy stunt. Hey, the kitchen's open. Let's find something decent to eat.”

“Now if Cousin Pauline will just keep her mouth shut…” Ellie's voice faded as they went into the kitchen and closed the door.

The certifiable idiot stayed in the silly posture, scowling at the lump of inedibility and wondering if the blood rushing to her head might invigorate a few brain cells. Why was the taxi driver pulling a crazy stunt? What did Pauline need to keep her mouth shut about? If she hadn't done the dirty deed, then what could she possibly know that might implicate someone else?

The brain cells remained dormant. I was about to both give up and sit up when more travelers came down the hall. It was not the most dignified position for eavesdropping, but it did seem to work well, and by this time my sense of scrupulosity was history. To put it mildly.

“That was a close call,” Phoebe said with a sigh.

“It was indeed,” said Maxie, sounding no happier. “With Cousin Pauline in this disgraceful condition, she might have blurted out almost anything. I shall have a quiet conversation with her in the morning and point out the necessity of propriety. This ranting about…intimate relationships at a motel is…”

“Enlightening?” Phoebe suggested.

“To say the least. When she smiles, she is not unattractive, but I was under the impression she spent her evenings practicing the organ at the church.”

“You were partially correct.”

“Phoebe!” Maxie said. “That sort of innuendo is not appropriate. We must concern ourselves with the issues at hand.”

I held my breath on the off chance she wished to list them. She did not. As they came into the dining room, I was treated to an interesting perspective of their ankles and feet, which they could undoubtedly trace back to a Scottish thane or a mundane pope. They were both wearing white satin slippers, although one pair was pristine and the other grass-stained. This in and of itself was not especially fascinating. It did, however, remind me of something I'd noticed earlier.

In jack-and-the-box fashion, I popped up and said, “When did you change back into your slippers, Phoebe?”

Phoebe braked so suddenly that her glasses slid down her nose. She caught them at the last minute and, with a nervous laugh, settled them back into position. “Good heavens, Cousin Claire, whatever were you doing under the table?”

“I felt faint,” I lied smoothly. “Actually, I'm not really intrigued by when you changed back into your slippers. I'd like to know when you changed out of them earlier.”

Phoebe turned the color of her slippers. Maxie grabbed her arm and propelled her to the chairs they'd occupied previously. “I must say you're acting in a most peculiar way, Cousin Claire,” she intoned in a stern display of disapproval. “Why on earth does it matter what Phoebe chooses to wear on her feet?”

“At this moment, it doesn't matter,” I replied. “When I encountered her in the parlor at midnight, she was wearing slippers. Eventually, we went upstairs and stayed together until we split up to search for Miss Justicia in the yard. Phoebe was still in slippers, as were we all. But when we found the body fifteen minutes later, she as wearing shoes with very hard heels.” I held up my foot and wiggled my toes at them. “See? I have a bruise to prove it.”

“So?” Phoebe said, averting her eyes and squirming as if the chair were wired to the nearest outlet. “I was concerned that the wet grass would ruin my white slippers. Although I was frantic about Miss Justicia's whereabouts, I realized I could search more efficiently if I were shod in an appropriate manner.”

“I fail to see anything suspicious about that,” Maxie contributed. “And I find this inquisition most unamusing, Cousin Claire.” The final two words could have come from a machine gun.

I shook my head. “No one promised to amuse you, Cousin Maxie. When we went outside, Keith and I found Pauline. We then stayed together until we found the body in the bayou. I'd assumed Phoebe and Stanford did likewise. This appears to be erroneous. Unless Phoebe had her shoes stuffed in her pocket with the tape measure and notebook, I would offer the hypothesis that she went back into the house.”

“For a minute.” Phoebe was watching me from the corner of her eye as if leery of an attack on her person. We certifiable idiots garner more than our fair share of mistrust.

I flashed my teeth at her. “That means you were by yourself for an unknown portion of the fifteen minutes.”

“What difference does that make?”

“You might have chanced upon Miss Justicia beside the bayou and given her an unsolicited shove,” I said levelly.

“How dare you!” gasped Maxie. “How dare you accuse my daughter of such a heinous crime? This is an outrage! I insist you retract that absurd statement this moment and offer Phoebe an apology! I demand it!”

Phoebe's reaction was quite the contrary. She swiveled her head to gaze thoughtfully at her blustery protectress. “It also means that Cousin Stanford was out there by himself, Mother. When we first divided into search parties, I told him I'd be back shortly and went inside to change into my shoes. But when I did return, I looked all over that half of the yard and couldn't find him anywhere. I must admit I was not comfortable being out there alone, and I distinctly remember thinking that even Cousin Stanford would be better than no one. I finally found him only a few seconds before Cousin Keith came crashing through the shrubbery.”

“He said he was going toward an old barn,” I said. “Was that where you encountered him?”

“No, he said he'd already been down that way. We were fairly near the bayou at the time.” She stretched her thin lips into a semblance of a smile. “Cousin Stanford's company is in chaotic financial shape, Mother. I inadvertently came across the reports he sent to Miss Justicia. He's on the brink of bankruptcy, and the only thing that can save him is a major infusion of capital.”

“Do you think he found the will?” Maxie demanded, clutching Phoebe's arm and spewing flecks of spittle. She then noticed my brightly curious look and managed to compose herself. “Not that I would entertain for even one instant the possibility that Cousin Stanford would do such a dreadful thing to his beloved mother. I'm sure he had nothing but the deepest devotion to Miss Justicia, as did we all.”

“Damn straight I did,” Stanford said as he stomped into the dining room. “And furthermore, I was coming up the path from the barn when I spotted Cousin Phoebe.” He pointed at her with the fervor of an evangelist on the opening night of a tent revival. “She was coming from the direction of the bayou. At the time, I wondered why she'd gone that way when I'd told her as clear as branch water that I was going to the barn. Oh, yes, I wondered about it.”

“You were coming from the bayou,” Phoebe said firmly.

“I was not!”

“You were too! I saw you creeping along like some species of aquatic mammal.”

“You, missy, were doing what creeping was done!”

“I beg your pardon,” Maxie inserted, perhaps bored from the lack of attention. “If Phoebe says you were creeping, then you were creeping. Did you creep up behind poor Miss Justicia and push her into the water?”

Stanford snatched up a napkin and swished it across his forehead. “Miss Justicia was my dear mother. I may have needed some money, but I didn't have my greedy, beady eyes on the house and the entire estate. I didn't see myself as some snooty matron escorting garden-club ladies through the parlor!”

Maxie paused to light a cigarette and consider her rebuttal. “Some money, Cousin Stanford?” she said mockingly. “From what I've heard, you needed a bit more than that. All the money might be more accurate, don't you think? One small push for Miss Justicia, one giant push for Pritty Kitty Kibble?”

“I could say the same for the matron of the manor—or her daughter,” Stanford snapped.

I raised my eyebrows and said, “Then you're not certain Miss Justicia died in an accident, after all?”

That stopped everyone in mid-accusation. Stanford blotted his neck, tossed the napkin on the table, and took a noisy breath. “Now don't you start getting yourself all stirred up like a spider on a hot stove, Claire. Due to the grief we share, we may have exchanged a few thoughtless remarks here, but we're all certain in our hearts that Miss Justicia met her Maker in an accident. A very sad and senseless accident brought on by her own irresponsible actions. An accident that none of us could have prevented. The police have satisfied themselves, and arranged for some boys from a mortuary to help us in our hour of need. All we can do is prepare ourselves for the mournful ordeal we must face over the next few days.”

Maxie put out her cigarette and rose. “Indeed, Cousin Stanford, indeed. The shock must have overcome us. I would never accuse you of harming so much as a tiny hair on Miss Justicia's head.”

“Nor I,” Phoebe added. She joined her mother, and as the two swept out of the room, attempted to toss her chin at me. The effect was minimal.

Stanford smiled benignly at me. “There, you heard them. None of us would dream of accusing a member of the family of causing harm to Miss Justicia. She may not have been all that easy to get along with, and at times was downright trying, but she was the head of the family and we were all devoted to her.” His smile deepened as he continued to regard me. “I must say, that robe is most becoming, Claire, although it certainly doesn't begin to display your deliciously feminine attributes to their fullest.”

I instinctively retreated, then ordered myself to stop. “Let's get one thing clear, Stanford. I will not tolerate any more nonsense from you and your roving paws. You may outweigh me by a ton or two, but I won't hesitate to punch out your lights if you lay so much as a finger on me.”

“I think pastel pink might be a better color for you,” he continued, his eyes almost salivating. “With a few ruffles and a lace collar to frame your face, why, you'd be the belle of the ball.”

“And you'd be a dead ringer.” I left the room.

Despite the cruel foray into the bedroom of the dawn's early light, I managed a few hours of sleep. Caron, who had slept through the night in the hospital nursery and had rarely missed a night since, was still snoring when I came out of the bathroom and dressed. I went downstairs for breakfast, which I hoped would be an improvement over the preceding evening's meal. Gravel, for instance, would easily qualify. As I arrived in the foyer, I cast a wistful look at the door of Miss Justicia's bedroom, motivated not by grief but by the presence of a telephone beyond it.

I suspected I could predict Peter's reaction. We'd first met during a murder investigation, when he'd had the audacity to imply I had both the motive and the means to strangle a romance writer (I had, but I hadn't). He'd also implied that I was meddling in his official police business, despite avowals that I was merely doing my civic duty. Our relationship had grown more complex, to the point of allusions to matrimony, but I wasn't yet prepared to turn over half the shelf space in the bathroom, much less issue a permanent invitation to my bed. This isn't to say he wasn't welcome on occasion. Very welcome.

Grinning at my impure thoughts, I settled down at the desk, dialed the number, and waited impatiently until he answered.

“Guess what?” I began brightly.

“This is my morning off, and I'm not permitted to sleep late?”

“Try again.”

“If you were here, I wouldn't want to sleep late,” he murmured, his tone conveying what he might want to do instead. He proceeded to elaborate on several possibilities (most of them in compliance with the telephone company's encouragement to reach out and touch someone), and I must admit they appealed.

It was not the time for heavy breathing, however, so I waited for him to finish, assured him that when I returned home I would not be immune to his charms, and jumped right in with the recitation of the events of the previous afternoon, evening, and midnight hours.

The transition may have been too much for a sleepy mind. After a moment of silence, he said, “Repeat all that, but very slowly.”

“This is long distance, you know,” I pointed out, then once again began with our arrival and ended with my return to bed only a few hours earlier.

“But the local police determined that it was an accident, right? You have nothing to go on except your instincts and your unwillingness to accept their professional opinion?”

“My instincts are very good,” I said, ignoring the latter half of what amounted to an accusation. “And there were several things that failed to fit in neatly. Miss Justicia may not have worn a seat belt, but she's been cruising the yard for years and knew the paths, Why should she lose control last night—after those vaguely threatening hints at dinner? Don't you agree it's an odd coincidence?”

“I'll agree the police officers may have bought the family line. And it may not have been a coincidence. Perhaps she chose to stage a so-called accident at a time when most of the family might feel guilty. Or look guilty, anyway.”

“But something's missing.” I wrinkled my nose and tried to decide what it was. The wills, certainly. The taxi driver. A decent meal for approximately twenty-four hours. And not least of all, several hours of sleep. It struck with the intensity of a hunger pang. “The brandy decanter's missing,” I said excitedly. “It was in this room when Miss Justicia was settled in bed, but later Pauline mentioned that it was gone. Where could it be?”

“In the bayou,” Peter replied without hesitation. “She had it in her lap when she rolled into the water. It filled with water and sank.”

I sighed. “And is buried in several inches of mud.”

“Don't get involved in this, Claire. Let the family proceed with the funeral and the battle over the estate—and let the police deal with any further questions about the accident. If your instincts are wrong, you're only going to create trouble. If they're right, you and Caron might be in danger.”

“From these people?” I laughed merrily despite the prickles running along my spine.

He failed to sound convinced of my invincibility. “When are you leaving?”

“I suppose we'll stay for the funeral, and fly out as soon as possible afterward. I can hardly wait to tell Caron the news; she's been counting the minutes, not the hours.” We exchanged a few pleasantries and I told him I would call when I had an update on our travel plans.

After we'd disconnected, I sat for a long while, hoping I could come up with the significance of the missing decanter. My lack of success was enough to send me on to the dining room for a dose of caffeine. I was not pleased to find a few members of the dear family around the table.

Maxie and Phoebe sat in their usual seats, both somberly dressed to confront any upcoming challenges to the family honor. Ellie was draped over her chair, dressed in a skimpy blouse, shorts, and sandals. Stanford's teddy bear pajamas had been replaced by the white suit and pink bow tie. No one offered me a cheery good morning. In that we'd all been up most of the night, I hadn't been holding my breath—or planning to waste it on any efforts to brighten their respective days.

I went into the kitchen, poured myself a cup of coffee, opened the refrigerator, and sadly determined the only thing available to eat was the sinister fish from the previous night's dinner. I returned in time to hear Ellie say, “This whole thing's a bummer. When do we find out what's in the will?”

“I suppose I could call that lawyer fellow this morning,” Stanford said. “The damn thing's likely to be in his office. Knowing lawyers like I do, I wouldn't be surprised if he was charging a storage fee.”

Maxie noted my arrival with a frown, then looked at Stanford. “We don't know who he is. Miss Justicia failed to mention his name, and there are at least half a dozen lawyers in LaRue and three times that many in the parish.”

I chose a chair well away from Stanford and tried the coffee. It had the viscosity of pea soup, and a vileness all its own. I made myself take a few more sips, then put down the cup and looked around optimistically for something to eat.

Ellie pushed a plate toward me. “Blackened toast,” she murmured. “Cajun style. Daddy made it himself from the last of the bread.”

I did not groan, although I suspected my shudder was visible to anyone watching me. No one was.

Phoebe blinked owlishly at her mother. “Bethel D'Armand might know the identity of the new attorney. Miss Justicia may have asked him to transfer files and documents.”

“You are too clever for words,” Ellie drawled. “This display of ingenuousness is simply too dazzling for poor little me so early in the day. You will perform a second act after lunch, won't you?”

“Certainly. Surely by then you'll have had a chance to do something about your hair. You must be ever so distressed by it at the moment.”

“What's wrong with my hair?”

“The roots. They seem more…shall we say, dominant this morning.” She turned back to Maxie. “Shall I call D'Armand and see if he has the pertinent information?”

Ellie was licking her lips in preparation for a retort, but Stanford intervened, saying, “Now, let's not rush into this like stampeding cattle. We may not know this new fellow, and I'd hate to get off on the wrong foot with him. Miss Justicia's not even cooled off yet, much less planted.”

“A good point,” Maxie conceded as she lit a cigarette. “We do want to speak with him as soon as possible, but we don't want him to think we're more concerned with the estate than with the tragedy.” Smoke snaked from the corners of her mouth as she gazed at me. “The tragedy caused by the accident, that is. You do feel differently this morning, don't you, Cousin Claire? You do realize what complications your hysterical remarks might have caused, had they been overheard by some lower-class sorts blessed with simian mentalities?”

“That's precisely who overheard them,” I said, considering my chances with the burned toast. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I seemed to remember it could function as an emetic in cases of poisoning. “But don't worry about me, Cousin Maxie. Caron and I will stay in our room until the funeral, and then immediately leave for home. The rest of you can chop up the furniture or dredge the bayou until you find the old will, the new will, or William of Orange.”

“‘Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?'” Ellie added.

Stanford ignored all attempts at levity. “I can tell you all one thing—there's no will hidden in this room. I checked real carefully”—he winked at me—“while I was hunting for my pocket watch.”

“It's not in the parlor,” said Phoebe. “I took the opportunity to measure for secret drawers while I looked for a magazine.”

Ellie lifted her foot to admire her pink toenails. “Nor is it in Miss Justicia's bedroom, unless it was tucked in the brandy decanter. And later last night, Keith and I searched the kitchen and pantry without any luck.”

“This is highly frustrating,” Maxie said, putting out her cigarette on a triangle of toast. “As Cousin Claire so obligingly pointed out, we don't even know how many wills there are floating about like scraps of paper. Miss Justicia was rather fond of signing new ones.”

Stanford blew his nose, although I doubted he was overwhelmed with grief. “I suppose we're gonna have to go through his lawyer, whoever the hell he is.”

“I'll call D'Armand,” Phoebe said. She left the room at a brisk gait.

“This is so exciting,” Ellie said as she trailed after her at a more leisurely pace. Her voice drifted back to us as she said, “My goodness, Cousin Phoebe, I do believe all that sedentary research has added a couple of inches to your hips.”

Maxie nodded at me. “I'm so glad you've come to your senses, Cousin Claire. It's so much better for all concerned if we present a dignified family front. We are Malloys, after all. How is your daughter this morning? Was she so distressed that she felt unable to come downstairs for breakfast?”

I was too interested in the rumblings of my stomach to produce an explanation, or even a polite lie. “Something like that,” I said. I raised my voice to cover the sounds of a germinal ulcer. “Is this all there is to eat? No cheese grits? No biscuits and red-eye gravy?”

“The cook will stop at the market on her way to the house,” she said, continuing to reward my avowed penitence with a charitable smile. “You must tell me all about Carlton and his career at the college, Cousin Claire. He and I lost touch many years ago, and I often wondered how he and his little family were getting along.” I opened my mouth to reply, but I was not quick enough. “I spent my childhood summers here, you know. Stanford, Carlton, and I used to have such fun playing in the yard, climbing trees, riding bicycles into town to buy candy, and even venturing out into the bayous in a flat-bottomed boat.”

“Remember how you squealed when Carlton put the leech down the back of your pretty white pinafore?” Stanford contributed genially. “You peed in your pants, and the two of us laughed so hard, we damn near tumped the boat.”

She stiffened. “Miss Justicia failed to share your merriment, if I recall. Wasn't there a little scene on the back porch with a hairbrush?”

“And a bullfrog in someone's bed that very same night?” he said, entwining his fingers on his belly and twinkling at her.

All this good-natured reminiscing reminded me of my conversation with Stanford at dinner. “Was Miller around when you came to visit, Maxie?”

She and Stanford exchanged quick looks. From their expressions, it was clear that I'd found a nerve, or at least a sensitive spot. Maxie lit another cigarette, aligned the pack and her lighter next to her saucer, and then said, “I saw him every now and then. He was quite a bit older than we were, and usually off with his friends.”

“And he was killed in Vietnam?” I persisted.

Maxie stared at Stanford until he bestirred himself to say, “They sent him over there long before those yellow-bellied hippies started marching in the streets.”

“So Miller wasn't drafted?” I asked. “He enlisted voluntarily?”

This time, the look they exchanged was longer, more intense—and equally impossible to decipher. I was preparing to repeat my question when Pauline came into the dining room. She wore the same plaid housedress, but the jogging shoes had been replaced with loafers. Her face was the shade of wet concrete. Her eyes were bloodshot and ringed with red puffiness. Either blinded by her hangover or unwilling to acknowledge us, she drifted across the room and into the kitchen.

“She looks worse than death warmed over,” Stanford said in a gloating voice. “Guess she'll think twice before she goes swimming in the scotch again.”

“I hope so,” Maxie began, “because discretion is—”

“I have his name and telephone number,” Phoebe said as she entered the room, her notebook in hand. “However, I was unable to arrange an immediate appointment with him, despite my repeated expressions of urgency. His receptionist was extremely rude, not to mention incompetent and uneducated. I doubt she graduated from high school, or even elementary school.” She resumed her seat, threw down the notebook, and pulled off her glasses to rub her eyes. “She has no idea about the Malloy family's historical significance in the parish, none whatsoever. I had to spell the name for her. Twice.”

“So what's the fellow's name?” Stanford said, cutting short what might have become an entertaining display of indignation.

Phoebe picked up the notebook and squinted at it. “Rodney Spikenard…a truly tasteless name. I was not at all surprised to discover his receptionist is named Florine.”

Maxie snorted under her breath. “Did Bethel D'Armand tell you anything regarding this Spikenard person?”

“He wasn't very helpful. Spikenard claims to hold a law degree from Yale. He moved to town and opened his practice less than a year ago. He doesn't participate in any civic organizations, nor does he socialize with fellow members of the bar. That's all D'Armand would tell me.”