A Will To Murder (18 page)

“So that means,” said Eric, perturbed, “with Willowby gone for two weeks, and Heydrick often away, someone else could have slipped inside the carriage house unnoticed?  And spent many hours there?”

“I’m afraid so,” Katherine said, pouring herself a glass of wine, “if that person knew Heydrick’s work schedule.”

“Who would have known when Willowby was leaving for his vacation?”

“Everyone.  James always insisted that the staff tell him months in advance if they wanted time off, and Mrs. Marshpool would mark the dates on her calendar.  Everyone knew Heydrick’s schedule as well.”  

“Was the carriage house locked when Willowby was gone?  Is it usually locked?”

“Just at night, and we only lock the front gates at night, too.  We’re so far out in the country that people rarely visit.  A stranger would be noticed.  None of us remember any odd vehicles or persons on the grounds before James died.  The car bays were also closed--but not locked--when Willowby was gone, which means you couldn’t have seen inside them from the house, since they don’t have windows.  Willowby usually leaves the bays open for better light while he’s working on the cars, if the weather allows.”  

“Who has keys to the carriage house and the rest of the property?”

“Everyone does who needs one.  All the family and all the staff.  I think we all have keys to the carriage house as well, except Sheila.  Mr. Maxwell,” she added, her tone growing formal, “I’ve known Heydrick for many years.  It upsets me very much that anyone would suspect him of installing that CD player.  He deserves better.  All the staff does, really.  In my own will I’ve made far more generous provisions for them--and my relatives--than my brother did.  Although I admit I’m rethinking what I intended for Mrs. Marshpool,” she added grimly.

Arthur slid a finger into the frosting of the cake but was noticed by Katherine.  Instead of scolding him, though, she cut slices of it instead.  

Eric was wondering whether Heydrick could have killed James as a favor to Katherine and whether Katherine suspected it, or had maybe even ordered it.  With her brother dead, his bullying would have ended, and she would be left one very wealthy woman.  Yes, he decided.  Katherine had good reasons for wanting James dead--if she knew she would be the main beneficiary of her brother’s will.  

“If it’s not too personal,” Eric said hesitantly, “might I ask what you thought about your brother?”

“No comment,” she replied flatly.  “That
is
too personal.”

“Sorry.”               

“You realize, Mr. Maxwell, that I would never consider discussing this subject with anyone, but I am determined to clear Heydrick of suspicion.”  

Eric sensed he had reached the limits of her politeness and fell silent.  Still, it seemed impossible that a stranger could have slipped onto the grounds with several pounds of bulky electronics and spent many hours working on the Mercedes-Knight unnoticed.  The killer must have been one of the family, or one of the servants.  

Upstairs, Bradley had almost finished.  He had decided his silver Mexican cross would work with his white silk shirt.  A gauzy, almost transparent tea hat was on his head, looted from Jac's closet.  He was searching for something to decorate the hat with when he remembered the garden.  A fast trip outside brought him to the Margaret Merrill roses, and Bradley inspected them thoughtfully.  There was one especially fine blossom with a piece of red yarn tied to its stem.  A snip brought this prize to his hand.  The yarn didn’t clash too badly with his hat, he decided, so he stuck the flower, yarn and all, into his hat band.  Pleased with himself, he went back inside.

When Bradley smiled his way into the parlor, Katherine was drinking some dandelion wine.  “Hello, everybody!  I'm late!” Smith crowed.

The old lady saw the blossom in his hatband.  Her face drained of color, and she put a hand to her chest.  “Would you please take my place, Mr. Maxwell?” Katherine gasped.  “I'm feeling unwell, all of a sudden.”  She headed for her bedroom crouched over, her napkin fluttering to the floor.  The others watched her sudden exit with surprise.

“Well, that's too bad,” said Bradley, plopping down into Katherine's vacated chair.  “Something in the tea or the cake must have made her ill.  Is it safe for us to eat?”

“The three of us have already had some,” said Eric, nodding towards the children on the sofa.  “I have the feeling she became ill for some other reason.”  Eric slouched deeply into his wing chair and inspected Bradley's outfit.  “Where'd you get that flower with the red yarn?”

“From the garden.  Isn't it beautiful?”

“You know,” his friend chided, “some people don't like other people cutting their flowers without permission.”

“Foo.  They've got ten thousand roses out there.  They can spare a few.  Now pour me some tea.  Hey, look at these cups!”

“It was the dandelion wine that made her sick,” said Arthur morbidly.  “I know.  Mom made it.”

“Dandelion wine?” said Bradley, holding the porcelain bottle up by the neck.  “Is that what this is?  No wonder she became ill.  I've tried it before, and it tastes like you've eaten a green salad with a really sugary, vinegary dressing, digested it for a while, then vomited it all back up.  You know, the aftertaste?”  Smith wiggled a hand. “That's what it tastes like.”

“Then your wine must have turned,” Eric commented idly, eyes vague with thought.  “I doubt it was the wine that made her ill.  Alcohol kills bacteria.”

“You don't know Mom's wine,” Arthur warned.

A silent gloom settled over the tea.  Bradley left after he downed a cup.  Briarly, who had been watching Katherine’s door, suddenly ran up the back stairs.  Arthur cut himself another slice of cake while Eric mused.  It occurred to Arthur that he had an opportunity here.  “Want to see my penny?” the boy asked.

“I think I know what it looks like.”   

Arthur's face scrunched with disappointment.  “No one wants to see anything I show them.”  The boy hesitated.  Eric wasn’t a relative, so maybe it was all right to tell him.  “I tried to show my Dad a Jazzy F*KU CD case, but then it vanished.  Now it's locked inside Heydrick's shed.  I think Heydrick put that CD player in Grandad’s car.”  

Eric looked up.  “What CD?”

“Jazzy F*KU.  I found it the first time in the attic, but when I took Dad up to see it, it was gone and he yelled at me.  Now it's in the shed.”  Arthur ate some more frosting.

“Are you sure the shed is locked?” the reporter asked.  The boy rose, cake plate in hand, and led him over to the summer room to show him the combination lock through the window.

“Do you remember exactly where you saw it in the attic?” Eric asked, staring thoughtfully out at the shed.  At this invitation, Arthur put down his plate and galloped up the back stairs, the reporter following.  The boy led the way to the stacked boxes and pointed out where the case had lain.  Eric knelt and sighted his eye along the top of the box.

“The dust on the lid’s been disturbed.  Something was resting here.”

This hadn't occurred to Arthur, but he could see the spot himself when he examined the box carefully.

“Well, if that CD case is locked in the shed, there's not much we can do about it.”  Despite the dust, Eric was skeptical.  Children did like to make up stories, and Katherine’s account of the CD player may have inspired Arthur to tell a tall tale.

When Eric came back down, he found a nervous-looking Briarly at the bottom of the stairs.  Arthur had gone to his parents' room to play with Frederick.

“I can't get Aunt Katherine to answer her door,” said the girl urgently.  “And Barksdale’s upset.”

“Is she asleep?”

“I don't know.  She asked me if I would help her make some bouquets this afternoon.”

“She may be too ill to want company just now.  Some people are like that when they're sick.”

Briarly only gnawed a fist in reply, staring at him.  Eric studied her silently a moment.  “Does Mrs. Marshpool know if she’s feeling any better?” he asked.

“I can't ask her.  She hates me.”

Eric's face screwed up.  “Well, I suppose I could try your aunt.”  He stepped around her to knock softly on the closed bedroom door.  The girl watched, still gnawing her fist.

“Ms. Boyle?” Eric called, not too loudly.  He expected to hear a startled ‘Yes?’ and the sound of someone turning over, but there was none.  However, he could hear the dog whining plaintively inside the bedroom.  Surely Katherine wasn’t sleeping through that, the reporter thought.

“Ms. Boyle, are you feeling any better?”

There was no reply.  He turned the knob and opened the door a few inches.  A weak afternoon light was trickling in around the closed curtains.  Katherine was lying in bed covered up, turned away from the door.  Barksdale, who was sitting beside the bed, whined more loudly when he saw the intruders.

Eric looked hard at the figure on the bed.  Then he glanced at Briarly.  Briarly was watching him, paralyzed.  He shut the bedroom door gently and said to the girl, “Find Bradley, will you?”

After she left, Eric hesitated, then entered the bedroom.  “Ms. Boyle,” he called.  

She did not respond.

“What’s up?” asked Smith from behind him.  Hurriedly, Eric blocked the doorway with his body to keep Briarly from seeing inside.  “Here, go see if your Uncle Armagnac has gotten back from the lawyer’s,” he told the girl.  Then he shut the door.

“What’s the matter?  Has she gotten sicker?”  The dog was nosing at the sheets, still whining.

“Much worse than that, I think.  Can you find a pulse?” his friend asked urgently.  

“Do you count lubs or dubs?” said Bradley, trying to find a wrist in the sheets.

“Whatever,” Eric replied sharply.  He was holding out his palm to feel for Katherine’s breath.

“There isn’t any pulse,” Smith exclaimed.  

Eric straightened.  “I think she’s dead,” he said finally.

“Well, crud!  My relatives can’t keep dying like this before I get to know them!  It’s not fair.”

The children were shooed out of the house in the uproar.  Mrs. Marshpool had seen to that.  “Jesus,” Richie protested from a bush.  “That Marshpool could scare Satan.”

“She was really mean,” Arthur agreed from the next bush over, where he was crouching with Briarly.  No one had explained what was happening, so the children were trying to spy in Katherine’s bedroom windows.  Unfortunately the curtains were still closed.  Frustrated, Richie moved to the door under the arch, and looked through the stained glass window there, trying to see down the hallway.  Arthur and Briarly knelt behind him, but Richie and an urn blocked their view.

For several long moments Richie watched, then he began to quietly open the door.

“What are you doing!?” Briarly hissed.

“Shut up!  They’re all out of the bedroom now, and Uncle Armagnac’s off the hall phone.  They’ve taken the dog away.  No one’s in the hallway, and they’ve closed her door.  I’m finding out what happened.”

Arthur and Briarly crept down the hallway after him.  Upset voices were coming from the living room, and Arthur heard his mother weeping.

Carefully, Richie opened Katherine’s bedroom door and eeled inside.  The other two followed, and Richie shut the door, silently for once.

Katherine was lying in bed, but on her back now, with the bedspread pulled down a little.  Her white hair was mused, and her eyes and mouth were closed and still.

“Aunt Katherine?” Arthur’s small voice called out in bewilderment.

“Hey,” said Richie, “she’s dead.  Well,” he continued with a show of insouciance.  “What do you think she looks like underneath her clothes?”

“Don’t you dare!” snarled Briarly.

“Who are you talking to, cockroach?  I can look under her fucking dress if I want to.”  He started to lift the bed spread.  

To Arthur’s amazement, Briarly hit her brother so hard he bounced off the side of the bed to the floor.  

“Hey,” Richie hissed, “knock it off!”

Briarly only jumped on him and began pummeling him crazily.  Arthur panicked and ran out of the room.  Even Richie was taken aback by the extent of his sister’s rage.  Finally, he managed to heave her off to follow Arthur.  The girl lingered behind, gazing down at Katherine.  Then she began to bawl.

Chapter 12

The mourners took their seats inside the Chichiteaux Episcopal Church to the sound of quavering, weepy organ music.  The casket was open, lying in front of the altar.  Katherine's Garden Club friends had contributed some magnificent flower arrangements for her funeral service, and some of the finest came from the Rollingwood grounds, from Heydrick.

Despite the wishes of both Armagnac and Jac, the gardener was sitting in the front pew.  Heydrick was staring hard at the open casket.  The rest of the pews were full, something that might have surprised those who had experienced the snobbery and arrogance of Hiram Boyle and his son James.  But Katherine had been well-known and liked.

Just to the right of the gardener sat Armagnac, his face rigid and unreadable, watching Father Williams.  On the other side of Heydrick sat Rose, with one of Katherine's cherished flowers pinned to her dress.  Bert’s hair bore a more formal set of wet comb tracks this morning.  Arthur was between his parents, watching the coffin apprehensively.  Jac too, wore one of Katherine's roses.  Beside her Phil looked grim.  He was holding Briarly's hand as his daughter sat numbly, gazing from casket to priest.  Richie was at the end of the pew, swinging his legs with bored energy.  Phil scowled, but his son ignored him.  A glare from Jac, however, made the boy stop and straighten.

In the pew behind the family sat Mrs. Marshpool, followed by Colette, Lance, Willowby, Sheila, and Bradley.  Mrs. Marshpool was stealing looks around the church and regarding the backs of the necks in front of her coldly.  The stained glass windows obviously interested Colette more than the service.  Lance was slumping in a rented suit, face sullen, as if resentful that Katherine's death was costing him time he could be using to fight with the lawyer.  On the other side of Lance, Willowby was intent on the priest, his expression far more respectful than Wiley’s.  Sheila kept glancing aside at Bradley, who was shuffling his program noisily.  In the pew behind Bradley sat Eric, fighting the urge to swat him.  Sensing this irritation, Smith whispered, “I've never been in a church before.  I don't know what to do.”