A Will To Murder (13 page)

“Of course.  I often do, anyway.”

The front door opened and Lance walked in, hunched a little guiltily.  Barksdale appeared as well, ambling in from the dining room when he heard his name called.  No one saw him because of the arrival of Lance.  Barksdale made his way behind the I-shaped sofa and halted.  His breathing quickened.  Nonplussed, the dog began to track the strange scent to its source around the end of the couch.

“Hey!” said Bert, “your dog’s in the room!”

Barksdale halted in bewilderment at the cry, then took an uncertain step backward.  Then he noticed the cats.

“Uh-oh.  Barksdale, come here, boy,” Katherine called.

A look of shock crossed Barksdale’s face.  The dog gave two barks of fury and lunged at the intruders.  Katherine tried to grab his collar, but was too slow.  Yowling, the terrified cats fled as they tried to evade the dog.

Bert and Phil both grabbed for the dog but collided with the tea cart instead, tipping it over.  Mrs. Marshpool gasped as the wine spilled all over the carpet.  The ice bucket rolled across the floor scattering half-melted ice cubes everywhere.  Bert trod on a wineglass and shattered it, and Phil lost his balance on another and fell heavily onto his wife’s lap.

Frustrated in his first attempt, the dog rounded the sofa barking madly as Purrball ran underneath it.  Confused, Lance made a dive for the dog as Barksdale loped past, but missed and hit a Chinese urn with his head hard enough to make it totter.  Rose had snatched up Muffin and was holding the kitten safely out of reach, but Barksdale and Smith were both struggling to get at the calico under the couch.  

Arthur caught hold of Barksdale’s collar and tried to drag the animal away, but couldn’t make the dog budge.  Barksdale strained and scrambled against the carpet, and Arthur had to lean backwards just to hold him at all.

Suddenly Purrball escaped from the couch and ran for the side hallway.  Barksdale switched directions too quickly for Arthur and the boy fell over.  The dog dragged the boy after him until Arthur hooked a foot around one of the sofa’s legs, stopping them.  It felt like Barksdale was trying to rip him in two.  Arthur couldn’t believe such a lazy old dog could pull so hard.

Then Eric grabbed Barksdale’s collar.  At Maxwell’s order, Arthur let go, and Eric hauled the barking black mass to the front door and shoved it outside.

Slowly, people began to pick themselves up.  Mrs. Marshpool moaned at the purple liquid settling into the carpet and sprinted out of the room for towels.  Armagnac was snatching up bottles and glasses, wailing at their empty contents.  Shaking her head, Katherine followed the housekeeper.  With a grunt of disgust, Jac shoved Phil off her lap, and Salisbury thudded among the ice cubes, stunned.  “God!” she said to her husband.  “You’re such an idiot!  Why didn’t you grab the dog like Eric did?”

Briarly was sobbing, afraid one of the cats might be hurt, and Richie was beating the floor and weeping with laughter.  Colette, who had risen and stepped away from the fracas, was coughing vigorously.  It took a moment for people to realize that she too, was laughing.  When she stopped, she gave Eric a considering look, her cigarette drooping.

Bert surveyed the roomful of in-laws darkly, then discovered his wineglass was still miraculously untouched on the coffee table.  He tossed its contents down, only to cough violently on a cat hair.  “Christ,” he groaned.

Cautiously, Smith put his face around the corner of the summer room, as did Purrball, who was in her master’s arms.

“The dog’s outside,” said Eric wearily.

Smith beamed when he saw Rose had Muffin safe.  “Poor little kitties,” he said.  “You’re trembling.  I had better put you to bed.  You’ve had far too much excitement today, what with that nasty old dog trying to kill you.”

At that moment Katherine appeared with some towels, and she stiffened.  “Barksdale was only trying to defend this house against what he thought were intruders,” she said frostily.

“He was trying to kill two poor defenseless baby kittens,” Smith retorted.

They were interrupted by Sheila, who announced, “Dinner is ready.”

As people began to enter the dining room, Armagnac motioned for the two newcomers to follow him upstairs.  Eric hefted suitcases and climbed after Boyle, followed by Smith with the cats.  When they arrived on the second floor, Armagnac showed them their rooms.  “That’s yours,” Boyle said to his newfound cousin, “my nephew Arthur had it earlier, but he’s moved in with his parents.”

Eric divested himself of all the suitcases except one.

“Poor kitties,” cooed Bradley at his pets.  “I need to get them settled.  I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

At Armagnac’s puzzled look, Maxwell said, “Those are all his suitcases.”

“He needs five suitcases?”

“He thinks he does.”

“I see he’s definitely kin to my sister Jac,” said Armagnac with a shake of his head.  He led Eric down to the room with the black crepe bow on the doorhandle, and Maxwell looked questioningly from the crepe to his host.

“My--father’s old room.  Of course, you understand none of the family can sleep here.”  Boyle seemed ill at ease.

“It won’t bother me,” Eric replied, wondering if it would.  He slid his suitcase just inside.  Then he turned around and saw Armagnac staring straight at the hall wallpaper.  Boyle jumped when Eric shut the door, then grinned feebly.

“I’ll leave you two to freshen up, and the dining room is just off the living room downstairs.”  Boyle scuttled away.

Bradley emerged sans cats, and Eric said, “Look, try not to make this visit any more of a disaster than it already is, okay?  I didn’t expect to be mortified so soon, though I know what you’re capable of.  And God only knows what was going on out front when we arrived.  They looked ready to kill each other.”

“Hey, I didn’t know they had such a vicious dog.”

“You could have
asked
if they had a dog, first.”  

The two went downstairs.  At the bottom, they saw Mrs. Marshpool scrubbing furiously at wine stains on the rug.  The housekeeper’s eyes blazed when the two men passed, and Eric shivered.

In the dining room, Armagnac took the seat at the foot of the table.  Eric was placed directly on his left, followed by Colette, Lance, Jac, and Richie.  Then came Katherine at the head, followed by Phil, Briarly, Bert, Arthur, Bradley, and Rose.  Everyone still seemed numb as they started on the artichoke-pea soup, except Bradley.

“That bedroom you’ve given me is interesting,” Smith commented.  

“Comes with a skeleton,” Arthur said.  Bert gave his son a threatening look.   

“You people have such a great big house,” Bradley continued, “with all sorts of cool doodads.”  He nodded at the candelabrum.  Eric scowled at him, trying to signal his friend to avoid sounding so covetous right before the will reading.  Smith didn’t notice.  “But you really ought to repaint the outside; black’s not everyone’s color.  You know, maybe something in cream and blue and pink.”

Armagnac choked.  Katherine gave her nephew a triumphant nod.  Eric scowled harder.  

“So, what do you do, Mr. Maxwell?” asked Phil with a desperate air.

“I’m a features writer for the same newspaper that Bradley works for, and our sometime editor, when the regular editor is on vacation.  I’m also a freelance book reviewer.”

“You’re a reporter?” Armagnac squawked.  Boyle laughed nervously.  “I’m sure, of course, that you recognize the confidentiality of what has happened here.  None of the family wants any notice of our unfortunate tragedy in the newspapers.”

“They usually don’t take any notice of the occasional death,” Maxwell assured him.

“Unless it’s really juicy,” added Bradley.  

Armagnac gulped.  “But my father’s death would not be of any interest,” he said hastily.

“So you work in the same office?” Phil asked.

“Yeah, and Eric always destroys my copy.”

“I wish.”

“Hey, I write a beautiful entertainment column, and it’s only one of my many skills.”

“What’s the other?” Eric asked.

Bradley wrinkled his nose at his friend.  “I can fly an airplane, among other things.”

“What?!  You cannot!” Eric retorted.

“I can too.”

“You cannot,” Maxwell insisted, putting down his soup spoon. “You’ve never even mentioned taking lessons.”

“I can too,” replied Bradley, offended.

“No way,” said Eric, “there’s no way any trainer alive would get in an aircraft with you at the controls.  Besides, flying lessons are expensive.  You have to pay for plane rental, gasoline, instruction manuals, and an instructor.  How could you afford all that?”  Eric was perturbed.  It wasn’t like Bradley to lie.  

Smith only stared haughtily at him.  “They were free.”

“No way!”

“Yes, they were.  A pilot owed me a favor and gave me flying lessons as payment.”

“So where’s your license?”

“Okay!  I didn’t go all the way to the end of the course, all right?”

Bradley glanced around uneasily.  Several people were politely studying their food, so Smith changed the subject.  “Could you tell me how my grandfather died?  The obituary wasn’t clear.”

Eric winced.

“He had a heart attack while out driving,” said Armagnac.

“Caused by a CD he didn’t like,” Jac added.  “Someone secretly installed a CD player in Dad’s car and awful music started playing when Dad was right in the center of Chichiteaux.  The shock killed him.”  

Armagnac tried to signal her to be quiet.   

“It was a very strange death all right,” added Rose softly.  

Bradley stared, and Eric grew solemn.

“Is that how the old guy went?” asked Lance.  “That’s got to be the world’s stupidest way to die.”  Wiley chortled rudely.

Bradley gave his friend a look of triumph, meaning that he, Eric, had been wrong to suppose that he, Bradley, was the biggest clod here.  Eric decided that Lance must have thumped his head pretty hard on that Chinese urn.  “He must have had a heart condition,” said Eric with lifted brows.

“He did,” replied Armagnac.  “As well as high blood pressure.  His doctor warned him he was in danger of a stroke.  Father’d had one heart attack already.  Of course he wouldn’t take his medicine.  He was too stubborn and quarrelsome.”  

“Dad was a screamer all right,” Jac added disgustedly.

“But how can hearing music kill you?” asked Arthur.

“Yeah,” Richie echoed belligerently.  “How can a guy die like that?  That’s so retarded.”

“Richie,” said Jac.  Her son’s face became sullen.

“It was rap music,” drawled Armagnac.  “Father hated the stuff.”

“Hey, what group?” asked Lance.

“Someone by the stupid name of Jazzy F*KU.  Why on earth is that asterisk in there, anyway?”

“Hey!  Jazzy F*KU?  I’ve got all his CDs!  He rules!”  Lance punched the air.

Eric decided he had been wrong, Lance was just a moron. He also thought he detected a pronounced familial resemblance between Bradley and these people.

Arthur’s mouth opened at the name of the CD.  But he also recalled his father’s threat and stayed silent.  Still, he could not refrain from asking, “But how can you die that way?”

“It was a joke gone wrong,” said Katherine firmly.  

“We think,” added Boyle.

“Arthur, this is a family dinner.  Let our guests talk, honey.  We’ve only just met them,” said Rose.  

Sulkily, Arthur fell silent.  But neither Bradley nor Eric responded.  Eric felt too awkward to say much, and even Smith was disquieted at hearing this explanation of his grandfather’s death.  No one else appeared to be in the mood to talk, either.  Fortunately, Lance filled the silence by stating all the day’s sports scores to the company, whether they wanted to hear them or not.  Then Sheila interrupted with the Beef Richelieu.  Lance began giving critiques of various players, unaware that no one was listening.  Eric was grateful for this.  “Does anyone know who did it?” he asked in a low aside to Armagnac.  “Or why?”

Boyle almost choked on a stuffed mushroom.  Rose grimaced.  Bert’s eyes were hooded.  “No one knows,” Cummings replied.

Eric and Bradley exchanged looks.  Meanwhile, there was a growing smolder of annoyance on Maxwell’s left.  He had been passing dishes to Colette and holding platters for her while she used the serving spoons, but he had been too preoccupied to pay any further attention to her.  Colette was not used to this.

Finally, Sheila brought in the dessert, figs poached in wine, and Arthur poked at his bowl dispiritedly.  It was one of those weird adult desserts with a burning flavor.  It looked like stewed prunes.  Worse, it looked like something his mother would make.  “Do you want my dessert?” he asked Bradley.

“Why, you thoughtful child!  How kind of you.  I’ll save your life some day.”

“Now that we’re all here,” said Katherine, “how about a family photo after dinner?  Armagnac, get out your camera and tripod.  Mr. Maxwell, would you mind clicking the shutter?”

“Not at all.”

Sheila began to pass out coffee cups, and Eric took the opportunity to slip one last question to Armagnac.  It wasn’t very discrete, but he felt he must ask it.  “Was there anyone who would have enjoyed giving your father an awful shock?”       

“Everyone,” Boyle replied.  “He was that sort of man.”

Maxwell studied his coffee silently.

“Excuse me,” said Smith, sliding his chair back.  “I have to check on my cats.”

When the meal ended a few minutes later, Colette lifted her arms in a stretching motion just as everyone began to rise from the table.  Then she lowered her arms and caterpillered her fingers right down Eric’s thigh, not even looking in his direction.  Maxwell, in the act of rising, fell back into his chair.  When he glanced at her again, she was already up and lighting a cigarette, still not looking at him.  Then she walked out of the room.  For a moment Eric gazed after her in surprise, but Katherine interrupted his thoughts by calling for him to come see the camera.  When he passed Colette again, she was studying a painting in a bored way, smoking.

Bradley was coming down the stairs uncertainly.  “Um, does anyone have a litter box?”

The housekeeper was still working on the carpet, and her head flew up at this request.  Eric put a hand over his face and escaped into the library.