Death by the Light of the Moon (9 page)

“I'll have a cheeseburger and fries,” I said, “and an order of the same to go in a few minutes.” I then found a path through the tables to the booth occupied by Bethel D'Armand, the ex-family retainer.

He stood up as I approached the table. Based on what I'd heard, I assumed he was of Miss Justicia's generation. His silver hair was thin but neatly styled; in contrast, his bristly white eyebrows shot out as if he'd been struck by lightning. His face was covered with hairline wrinkles, and his teeth were much too even to be original. His white suit was dotted with cigar ashes, the origin of said ashes smoldering in his hand. Despite the smoke, I could smell cologne from several feet away.

“Mrs. Malloy,” he said, extending a manicured hand, “I am delighted to meet you, although my pleasure is diminished by the tragedy that has settled like a heavy fog upon all of us.” Still holding my hand, he looked past me and raised his voice. “As I'm sure you all know, this is Mr. Carlton's widow. She and her daughter came all the way down here to LaRue for Miss Justicia's eightieth birthday, which would have been this very day, had she not been snatched from us and carried aloft to the waiting arms of her beloved husband, Hadley Malloy.”

The ladies and gentlemen (using the terms charitably) of the jury offered a smattering of applause, but when he failed to continue the eulogy, they resumed eating, drinking coffee, and no doubt doing their best to overhear whatever might be said in the immediate future.

“I wasn't aware we had an appointment,” I said as I sat down across from him.

“Neither was I, Mrs. Malloy. Even though I've retired, I still like to drop by the café every morning to visit with my friends.” He put down the cigar to pat my hand. “I do hope you'll consider me a friend. I knew Carlton from the day he was born, and I watched him grow up. I must say I was secretly pleased when he defied his mother by choosing to stay in the realm of academia. If he hadn't had such an untimely death, I'm sure he would have outshone us all.”

“I'm sure he would have,” I murmured, keeping an eye out for the food I'd ordered, “or at least have been awarded tenure.”

“And I was so distressed to hear about Miss Justicia, for whom I had nothing but the deepest admiration and respect. She was the epitome of Southern gentility.”

I forgot about my hunger pangs and gazed through the smoke. D'Armand was playing the role perfectly, from his eloquent pronouncements to his mournful smile. With a small cough to express my distaste for either his habit or his facade (he was welcome to choose one), I said, “Was she the epitome of Southern gentility when she fired you?”

“Fired me? I'm afraid you're mistaken.” He stopped as the waitress arrived with my food, then continued in a quieter voice. “I informed her that I intended to retire within a few months, and suggested she find a younger attorney who would be able to handle her affairs for years to come.”

I resisted the urge to stuff the cheeseburger into my mouth in the manner of an ill-bred chipmunk. “Did you personally recommend the new man?”

“Rodney Spikenard? Why, I seem to recall passing his name along to Miss Justicia, but I didn't recommend him per se. He does have impressive credentials, however, and I certainly did nothing to discourage her in the matter. He's young, hungry for work, and…” D'Armand picked up the cigar, and, with a faint look of amused complacency on his face, inhaled deeply.

“And what?” I said.

“Interested, Mrs. Malloy, interested. He has a solid background in the field of wills and trusts. He was somewhat alarmed when I mentioned the quantity of documents, but he seemed eager to tackle them and familiarize himself with the family's affairs.”

A man in overalls approached the table and asked D'Armand about a lawsuit that involved fences and heated remarks made over them. I grabbed the cheeseburger, which well might have been the greasiest in a state that thrived on offshore oil rigs, and managed a few ladylike mouthfuls. Once the man left, I swallowed and said, “The family's already attempted to contact Spikenard. They're in an uproar about the estate. No one seems to know what was in the previous will—or if a new one supercedes it.”

“I'm sure they are concerned,” he said blandly. “I would be.”

“Do you have any idea if indeed Miss Justicia revoked the will of”—I thought for a moment—“five or six years ago that settled the bulk of the estate on a sperm bank?”

He gave me a shocked frown. “I am an adamant believer in the sanctity of client-attorney communications, Mrs. Malloy. Even if I felt it would prove of benefit to the probation and eventual dispersal of the estate, I would never betray that confidence.”

“I just thought I'd mention it,” I said as I crammed a few french fries in my mouth.

“I'm sure Rodney will enlighten all of you when the times comes.” D'Armand seemed in awe of the velocity with which I was eating but was too polite to stare openly. He gave me a few minutes to finish wolfing down the food and licking my fingers, then said, “Have the date and time of the funeral been settled as of yet?”

“You'll have to ask Stanford,” I said as I wiped my chin with a napkin and leaned back against the seat. “I'm merely the widow of the prodigal son, and no one feels compelled to keep me informed.”

“I assume I'll be asked to be a pallbearer. It seems to happen more often these days, although it's not unexpected. Most of my friends have passed away, and I keep glancing over my shoulder, waiting for my turn.”

“It's unexpected for a mother to outlive two of her three sons,” I said casually. “Carlton died ten years ago, but Miller's been dead for more than thirty years, hasn't he?”

“Miller?” D'Armand croaked. His hand shook as he took a drink of coffee, and when he replaced the cup, it rattled in the saucer.

I waited, wondering why he looked as if the Grim Reaper had just walked through the door.

Ellie Malloy walked through the door, spotted us in the last booth, and continued across the room, nodding graciously at a selected few who mumbled condolences. “Why, Uncle Bethel,” she said as she sat down beside him and kissed his cheek, “I haven't seen you in a coon's age. What have you been up to, you sexy ol' scoundrel?”

He beamed at her. “And you're prettier every time I see you. How long has it been since you brightened us with a visit? Five years?”

“Not long enough,” she said, laughing. “Doesn't anything ever change around here, Uncle Bethel?”

They lapsed into a conversation about people I did not know and recent local events about which I cared even less. The waitress refilled my coffee cup, and I listened idly to them while I pondered D'Armand's reaction to hearing Miller's name. Stanford and Maxie had reacted in an odd way, also. And the man I'd married until death did us part had not once mentioned the existence of an older brother.

Maxie had pooh-poohed the possibility of family skeletons, but I suspected I'd chanced upon one hidden deep within a closet of Malloy Manor. I tried to piece together what I knew about the elusive Miller. He'd been twelve years older than Carlton, which meant he was born circa 1939. He'd died in Vietnam in 1960, at the age of—I dipped my finger in my coffee and did a bit of calculation on the tabletop—twenty-one (circa, that is). Had he died in disgrace, court-martialed for some reason? The atrocities committed against civilians were news in the late sixties and early seventies, but that did not preclude an earlier existence. The same applied to fragging, or the less interesting commission of an ordinary crime.

Even if that was so, I told myself, thirty years was a long time to remain worried about it, or to act as though I'd suggested we dig up the body and prop it in a chair at the dining room table. Miss Justicia's death might be nothing more than an unfortunate accident, but the mystery surrounding Miller's life/death seemed worthy of my attention.

Ellie and D'Armand stopped their conversation while she ordered lunch. Once the waitress was gone, I said, “Did you find any answers at the library?”

“It was absolutely muddlesome,” she said, sighing. “Louisiana's blessed with some silly system called the Napoleonic Code. Every time I came across something promising, there'd be a footnote that said it didn't apply here. All I wanted was a little enlightenment about wills and things like that. What's a girl to do, Uncle Bethel?”

“I have all the law books you could ever want. You're welcome to come by the office and look through them.”

“You're a sweetheart, but I really do think Auntie Claire and I ought to get back to the house. I haven't decided what to wear to the funeral, and I can almost hear Maxie's snorts this minute. Why don't I just ask you a few questions?”

I already knew the questions, and I wasn't sure the answers would interest me. “Ellie,” I said quickly, “I think I'll have a look around town. Why don't I meet you in front of the library in about an hour?”

“Doing a little research yourself, Mrs. Malloy?” D'Armand said as he studied me with a shrewd expression. The amiable Clarence Darrow pose slipped for a moment, and I felt a chilly breeze from across the table.

“Panty hose for the funeral,” I said. I took my bill to the front counter, paid it, and waited until a sack with Caron's lunch was brought from the kitchen.

Thus armed with provisions, I left the café and started back toward the library to see what I could dig up—in the newspaper files rather than in the cemetery. As I walked past the stores, however, the
circa
drifted into my mind and I realized I had no definite dates, nor did I have an entire day to work my way through an entire year.

My facetious thought about the cemetery evoked one of my more brilliant flashes of inspiration. I halted in front of the toothless wonders on the barbershop bench. “Would one of you be so kind as to give me directions to the local cemetery?” I asked.

I assumed I'd spoken in perfectly reasonable English, but their blank looks did not reassure me. “The cemetery?” I repeated, dearly hoping we wouldn't be reduced to a round of charades (four syllables; first one rhymes with ‘dim' as in witted).

“Down that way a piece,” one of them finally conceded. He spat in the direction of the side street next to the shop.

I winced. “How far is it?”

“A piece. Not what I'd consider a far piece, but a piece,” he said after a moment of what was clearly pained thought. The other three nodded with equal animation, and one mouthed
piece
, as if it was an unfamiliar word.

I thanked them and took off down the indicated street, not sure how they differentiated between a “piece” and a “far piece.” I went past several small shops, a school with a haunted air about it, and shabby houses set increasingly far apart. Then, to my dismay, I found myself at what I perceived to be the edge of town. I shaded my eyes from the glare and strained to see anything in the distance that could be the cemetery. Beyond the pasture was a mobile home, and beyond it, a stretch of brush and scraggly trees that hinted of swampland. On the other side of the road was an endless field dotted with small green bundles.

My watch was on the bedside table, but I figured I had at least forty-five minutes to find the cemetery and Miller's tombstone. “Not what I consider a far piece,” I told myself as I headed down the road.

As I may have mentioned in previous narratives, I do not care to perspire, and I never do so voluntarily. I am opposed to the very concept of sweat. I have never owned a sweatshirt, and I rarely wear sweaters. I will admit that Lieutenant Peter Rosen has elicited a glow on more than one occasion, perhaps even a damp flush. That was an entirely different matter, and one in which I was a willing participant.

Striding along what soon became a dirt road, however, was hardly in that category. My brisk pace was causing dribbles to run down my back, salt to flood my eyes, and an intolerable stickiness to spread beneath my arms. The local population of mosquitoes must have been dieting for months; they more than compensated as they swarmed in to feast on every patch of exposed skin. My scalp began to tingle moistly and my curls to droop in a most unattractive manner. The corners of my mouth followed.

It goes without saying that I was not in a cheerful mood when I finally found a rusty wrought-iron arch with paint-flecked letters. “I might consider it a far piece,” I growled as I went under the arch.

To my initial surprise, I was not confronted by a grassy expanse of rows of tombstones. Here the caskets were placed in concrete and marble vaults above the ground, giving it the illusion of a vast field of scattered blocks. Vague recollections of the more renowned cemeteries in New Orleans provided me with an explanation. We were at sea level. Interment below ground was unthinkable; the omnipresent seepage precluded it.

The vaults were of all sizes, from the starkly compact to the expensive affairs with coy cherubim and simpering angels, and of all states of maintenance, from pristine to mossy and corroded. Based on the dates on the nearest vaults, the residents of LaRue had been in need of eternal housing for more than 150 years. There seemed to be dozens of vaults down every row, and dozens of rows confronting me. The Malloy family could be stashed anywhere, I thought bleakly.

I used the hem of my shirt to blot my face, then squared my shoulders and went down the row in front of me, scanning names. When I reached the end, I headed up the next one. By now, I'd left Ellie at least an hour ago, and still faced the interminable walk back to town.

“So what?” I said aloud, hoping to startle the mosquitoes into allowing me a brief respite. I sat down on someone named Marileau and wiped my face again. The worst scenario was that Ellie would grow tired of waiting and drive back to the house. I would be forced to call and request that someone pick me up. I might even end up with a chauffeur who observed the speed limit and shunned the radio.

It would also give me time to find out what I needed from the library files, that being the point of what had evolved into a mission of madness—and sweat. Feeling much better about standing Ellie up, I stood up. Seconds later, I heard a pinging noise. I glanced down at Mr. Marileau, wondering if my modest weight had caused the marble to crack. Another ping sounded louder, and a puff of dust exploded from a neighboring monument.

I cannot say if the third ping caused a puff, because I dove to the ground and squirmed my way between two vaults. The ground was as unrelenting as concrete. A noseful of dust elicited several sneezes that made my eyes water and my head reverberate. It was certainly the appropriate place for one's life to pass before one's eyes, I thought as I peered around the base.

No sniper stood at the top of the row, but that did little to relieve me. There were more than a hundred dandy places of concealment between the arch and me. I retreated to consider the situation, and concluded it was quite grim. I was several miles from town, and with the exception of the gnarly men on the bench, only one person knew where I was—and that person possessed a gun and a very bad attitude.

I had two choices. One was to stand up and find out if I was still a target. The other was to remain where I was indefinitely. After all, in a mere eight hours, it would be dark. I was still clutching the carryout order. As long as my unseen stalker was willing to wait, I certainly was. But would he be so accommodating? Although I was by now drowning in sweat, I began to shiver as though I was in a blizzard.

The sound of a car door slamming interrupted my bleak analysis of my chances. A querulous female voice demanded assistance, and a male voice answered soothingly. I wiggled forward, wondering exactly how painful a bullet between the eyes might prove to be, and poked my head out.

An elderly woman, dressed in black and using a cane, was being escorted beneath the arch. A younger man held her arm and carried an arrangement of flowers. Neither looked especially threatening, nor at all interested in terminating me.

I rose cautiously. The two seemed startled by my dramatic entrance, but after a moment of hesitation and a brief conference, they continued on their way. I wasn't yet ready to find out whether the sniper was crouched behind a vault and willing to sacrifice a pair of witnesses, but as I waited, I heard a car engine come to life. I stepped forward in time to see a flash of canary yellow as the vehicle drove down the road. It was the same color as the taxi that had brought us from the airport.

I sank back down on Mr. Marileau. The driver had disappeared, but now it seemed he had rejoined in the game. His arrival the previous night was mysterious; this was totally bewildering. Was he so eager for a fare that he was prepared not only to claim the existence of one at midnight but also to shoot one in broad daylight?

The woman and her companion were several rows away. She was issuing orders about the placement of the vase, while he moved it accordingly. I smoothed down my hair, wiped my face, and tried to smile as I walked toward them.

“Did you happen to notice the taxi when you arrived?” I said in as normal a tone as I could manage.

“No.” She pointed a gloved finger at the flowers. “Over that way, but just an inch or so. Oh, you are such a dolt. I want them centered properly. No, no, no, now you've moved them too far. Do try to listen, Spencer.”

“Sorry,” the man said, shrugging at me. He made a minute adjustment to the vase of flowers and waited for a critique.

“Then could you please tell me where to find the Malloy family?” I said.

The woman halted her harrangue long enough to suggest I search the back row in the farthest corner, then resumed with renewed peevishness. I left Spencer to his Herculan task and zigzagged among the vaults to the corner.

The Malloys surrounded an impressive monument with phallic overtones. They'd been inhabiting the cemetery for well over a century, I determined, and in vaults of all sizes and degrees of adornment. Carlton had made known his desire to be cremated in Farberville rather than to be shipped home to the family plot. I could understand why. Here one did not sense the biblical admonishment of “ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” It was difficult not to visualize the remains of bodies forever held in abeyance from the earth by marble boxes. There could be no transition back to nature.

I grew gloomier and gloomier as I searched for Miller's vault, and felt only a twinge of triumph when I finally found it at the edge of the plot. I brushed a patina of dust off the bronze plaque. Miller Randolph Malloy had been born on July 17,1939, and had died on December 16, 1960. Purportedly, he was Resting in Peace.

My mission accomplished, I headed for the arch and the long walk back to LaRue. I'd learned the date of Miller's death, and I'd also learned that someone was so vehemently opposed to my well-being that he would indulge in the extreme behavior of shooting at me. The someone was likely to be the taxi driver, but it was impossible to imagine what his motives could be. I'd paid the fare and given him an adequate, if not astronomical, tip. I'd arranged for him to provide us with transportation back to the airport. As far as I was concerned, we'd both conducted ourselves properly for what was nothing more than an ephemeral professional relationship.

I stuck my hands in my pockets and began to walk along the side of the road. I was more lost in confusion than engrossed in thought; nevertheless, I almost stumbled into the ditch when a voice said, “Are you in need of a ride?”

Spencer smiled from the interior of the car. The woman sat in the backseat, staring forward with tight-lipped disapproval.

“Thank you,” I said, getting in the front seat before she could counteract the offer. “I didn't realize the cemetery was so far from town.”

“May I assume you're a Malloy?” the woman asked icily.

I glanced over my shoulder. “I'm Claire Malloy, Carlton's widow.”