A Will To Murder

by Hilary Thomson

  Reluctantly, the undertaker closed the casket again with Crosgate’s help and replaced the wreath. Douthit’s gaze lingered on the casket, as if pained to see such a fine job vanish into the earth. Armagnac took up his position again, and the undertaker turned away from the funeral, looking vexed.

  “Wearegathered heretodaytobury JamesElmontBoyle,” began Armagnac in a rush, “ourfatherbrother--”

  “They didn’t even say how good the hands looked,” said Douthit loudly. “Arranging the arms and supergluing the fingers together for that prayerful, sleeping look is an art. Few undertakers can accomplish it like Marvin Douthit.”

  “Iwouldliketoask eachofthefamily torecallafew memoriesabout JamesElmontBoyle,” Armagnac continued fortissimo, glaring across at Douthit.

  “Nor did they comment about the mouth,” said the undertaker to the empty air. “When a client wears false teeth like James Boyle, the lips will sink inward when he lies like that, but not when Marvin Douthit works on a body. Douthit’s Funeral Parlor is unsurpassed at positioning a mouth former to bulk the lips outward and at sewing them shut to retain that natural look. They didn’t even mention that.”

  “I’m going to strangle him, I’m going to strangle him,” chanted Jac, her eyes squeezed shut.

  Douthit glanced sadly towards the mourners. “Why, what with exfoliating the scaly skin, dressing the hair, cleaning the nails, massaging and relaxing the limbs into place, and applying cosmetics, my subjects might as well be at a spa! A spa, I tell you. But does anyone appreciate my efforts? No! They just complain about the cost!”

  “Excuse me,” said Bert. Cummings went over to the mortician and led Douthit firmly away.

  Armagnac exhaled with feeling. “Rose, would you like to recall a few memories?”

  As Rose stood up to take Armagnac’s place, Arthur stared at the casket. He was still stunned at having seen his dead grandfather. After a moment he looked at the others. Mrs. Marshpool’s face was serious and intent, and Phil was hunched over, guiltily sneaking a cigarette. Douthit was speaking to Bert, and Arthur noticed his father was turning a funny color.

  Rose finished and sat down in her chair. Armagnac gave Jac a questioning look.

  “Pass,” said Jac with a touch of disgust.

  Boyle gazed at his aunt. But Katherine, who was holding a tissue over her nose, only shook her head sorrowfully. Realizing he was running out of relatives, Armagnac glanced at Phil, who only mumbled that he hadn’t known the deceased that well. Boyle even looked at Mrs. Marshpool, but she fanned her palm ‘no’ at him in an alarmed way.

  Having run out of speakers, Armagnac started to close the too-short service. Pointedly, Boyle hadn’t recalled aloud any memories of his father, either.

  Bert returned, looking green, and said to Rose, “I didn’t want to hear all that.”

  The funeral party rose and began to make its way back to the cars.

  “Ms. Boyle,” said Douthit. “While you’re here--”

  “No, Mr. Douthit,” said Katherine with the air of having had this conversation before, “I do not want to discuss my funeral arrangements right now. This is not the time.”

  “Still,” Douthit continued. “You shouldn’t balk at using this occasion to consider the subject. My clients are always being caught unprepared. Then the family has to decide all the details, and they often quarrel viciously among themselves. It’s a tragedy, Ms. Boyle. Here, I have this photocopy of casket types you can peruse at your leisure.”

  “Get him away,” whispered Rose to Phil. Salisbury stepped between Douthit and Katherine long enough to allow the old lady to dash for the Lincoln. Once inside, Katherine quickly locked the car door, but the undertaker lunged for her open window.

  “You will think about it, Ms. Boyle, and let me know? I have some suggestions if you’re at a loss for ideas.”

  Katherine was grabbing in vain for the window crank. Phil hit a button, and the Lincoln’s power windows rose so fast that Douthit was forced to jerk his head back or be decapitated. He still managed to drop the casket sheet inside the window, however.

  “Just give me a call and I’ll make an appointment!” cried the undertaker cheerfully.

  Salisbury put the accelerator down and the car leapt forward.

  “Could we stop somewhere for a drink before we go home?” Katherine groaned. “I need something to take with my heart medicine. If he’d kept his spiel up any longer he’d have gained another client.”

  “Douthit gets more freakish every year,” said Jac tartly. “Stop at a fast-food place in Chichiteaux, Phil.”

  Once back at Rollingwood, the family gathered in the living room for a talk with the lawyer, Douglas Hamilton. Hamilton was fiftyish and greying, and his weathered skin showed much evidence of his yachting hobby.

  Arthur decided to hang out, since Richie and Briarly were absent, and patted Barksdale while the grownups talked. Unfortunately, the Labrador was turning out to be one of those sleeping dogs that were good for nothing except for being mooshed around the floor like Play-doh.

  Jac was sitting with crossed legs on the sofa, slowly raising and lowering a loose navy pump on her panty-hosed toe. Rose stood gnawing her hair. Bert sat a little down from Jac. Mrs. Marshpool was alone on the I-shaped sofa, her expression severe. Phil lounged uncomfortably against a wall. In the center of the room stood Hamilton, and facing him were Katherine and Armagnac.

  “There!” Boyle hooted, arms crossed. “You hear him! You can’t carry out any more alterations!”

  Katherine only huffed in a bear-like way at her nephew.

  “So what are you going to do about that test patch?” Boyle asked smugly. “It’s defacing the house.”

  The old lady stared at him. Then she picked up something from a side table and slapped it into his palm. “There!” she yelled.

  Armagnac looked down. He was holding a black felt-tip marker. Irritably, he tossed it aside. The lawyer’s face was bland. Everyone was giving Hamilton curious looks, for he had no paperwork or briefcase with him. The lawyer seemed strangely unprepared to begin a will-reading.

  When Katherine dropped down on the couch next to Bert, Arthur took the opportunity to complain to her, “I couldn’t find any bats in the attic. I really wanted to see one.”

  “That’s because they’ve all been exterminated, dear. We had that done a few months ago.”

  “Oh,” said the boy, disappointed.

  Hamilton’s gravelly voice spoke. “You’re probably expecting me to start the will reading.” He smiled a little.

  “If you’d get on with it,” drawled Armagnac.

  Taking no notice, the lawyer continued, “But I can’t until all the family have turned up. Two more of your relatives will be arriving tomorrow.”

  Armagnac gaped, and Jac’s shoe stopped moving. Rose bit a nail through. The only face not surprised was Katherine’s. The old lady reddened.

  “Who’s coming?” said Jac to her aunt, eyes sharp.

  “The Wileys,” Katherine whispered hoarsely.

  “Aunt Sophia’s children?” exclaimed Rose, coming over to sit by her sister. Katherine nodded eagerly.

  “Wasn’t Sophia cut out of the will?” Jac asked.

  Sophia Boyle was the youngest sister of James and Katherine. Nearly forty years ago she had run away, after a violent row with her autocratic father Hiram. None of the Boyles had heard from her since. They knew that Sophia had died recently. But she had married a man named Wiley late in life and had borne him two children.

  “Out of Grandfather’s will, yes,” Katherine explained. “But I expect that Hamilton’s found some sort of provision for her children in James’ will.”

  “What do you think it could be?” asked Jac.

  “I have no idea,” Katherine said. “But I’m not worried for the Wileys. There’s a boy called Lance and a girl called Colette.”

  “How old are they?” Jac asked.

  “Lance is nineteen, Colette seventeen.”

  “Have you met th
em?” Jac exclaimed, noticing something odd in her aunt’s face.

  The old lady looked furtive. “I wasn’t supposed to, since James refused to let any of Sophia’s family inside the house, but I visited Lance and Colette when they were children. They’re sweet.”

  “Did Dad ever meet them?” Jac asked.

  “No,” sighed Katherine. “I asked him if he would, just once, but he refused. He never forgave Sophia for discarding the family.”

  “This is just wonderful,” gobbled Armagnac. “Perfect strangers are dropping in on us, and God only knows if they’ll inherit the entire estate. This is another of Father’s filthy little games.”

  Rose exploded. “The Wileys are our cousins, and it wasn’t their fault they were cut off from the family!”

  “I wouldn’t care about these damn Wileys one way or another,” Armagnac replied hotly, “if Father hadn’t intended to use them against us. It is intolerable that he can treat us this way even after he’s dead.”

  Cautiously, the lawyer interrupted. “By the way, you will have another family member arriving as well, on the day after tomorrow. His name is Bradley Smith. You will need to prepare two bedrooms for him, since a friend is driving him to Chichiteaux. I will arrange a time for the will-reading once we finally account for everyone.” Hamilton stepped towards the foyer with Armagnac sputtering questions after him.

  “Bradley Smith!?” cried Jac. “Who on earth can that be? We don’t have any Smith relatives.”

  Everyone was staring at Katherine for an explanation, but even she looked blank.

  “Would you pry this cat off the steering wheel?” Eric was saying testily. He and Bradley were driving to Chichiteaux in Eric’s Honda. With them were Bradley’s cats, a calico named Purrball and a white kitten called Muffin. Both cats were wandering loose in the car because Smith thought caging animals was a crime.

  “God, Eric, you must never have owned pets before.” Bradley tugged Purrball off and lowered her into the backseat, which he had turned into a playpen for the cats. A tangle of extension cords plugged a pair of battery-heated cat beds into the cigarette lighter, allowing the cats to lounge like pashas. Of course, Bradley had brought along their scratching posts, chase balls, plush toys, feather twitches, and wind-up mice. Smith had looped a pair of swat toys around the head rests, causing Maxwell to fret about his upholstery. And Bradley had not forgotten the more practical items like combs and brushes. Two suitcases alone had been necessary for the cat’s luggage.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Eric said with disapproval, “You know, those cats have more toys than I ever did in all the time I was growing up.”

  “Want a catnip-stuffed mouse to make you feel better?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I was getting rid of one anyway. The seams are coming loose.”

  “And a dozen more shall take its place,” Eric proclaimed in Biblical tones. “God only knows what your relatives will say when you show up with those cats.”

  “Why are you so worried about my family?”

  Eric could not resist grinning. “I’m afraid they’ll be like you.”

  “Pah. If they’re like me, they’ll be wonderful people.”

  “Besides, I think they might be rich.”

  “So?”

  “Hey, I grew up poor but respectable. I’m still poor but respectable. And I’m poor by choice. You don’t become wealthy on a reporter’s salary for a small paper. But rich people don’t understand guys like me. They’ll ask why I don’t have a better paying job, and I’ll have to hurt their doltish feelings when I tell them I don’t give a damn.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, rich people are just like you and me. They just have--weirdly dead relatives,” Bradley said with rising surprise.

  “What are you looking at?”

  Smith was holding a newspaper. “I borrowed this from the library. It’s the latest issue of the Chichiteaux Weekly and it has James Boyle’s obituary in it.”

  “You’ll have to return that. Libraries don’t take to thieves,” Eric chided.

  “All right. But listen to this. ‘Mr. James Elmont Boyle, 71, died in Chichiteaux on August 8th, while out for a drive in his beloved Mercedes-Knight town car. He was killed by a CD. Mr. Boyle was the son of Hiram Boyle, a local manufacturer, and Christina Howland. He had spent all his life in this community and was well-known as a fancier of antique cars. He was also an honorary colonel in the 1st Chichiteaux Regimental Militia. Mr. Boyle was preceded in death by his wife, Anna Newcombe Boyle. Survivors include his sister, Katherine Boyle, his son, Armagnac Boyle, and his two daughters, Jacquelyn Salisbury of New York City and Rose Cummings of Albany. He is also survived by three grandchildren. The burial was held Friday at the Douthit Cemetery. The family requests that all memorials be sent to the Chichiteaux Garden Club.’ Killed by a CD? What’d he do, swallow it?”

  “Any other details?”

  “None.”

  “Doesn’t sound probable.”

  “Maybe he tripped over it.”

  “Doesn’t sound likely, either. We’ll find out what happened from your family.”

  Chapter 6

  The next morning Arthur sat down to breakfast. Someone had apparently decided that he could graduate to the dining room table, for this is where his mother placed him. Of the family, only Rose and her son were up. The sound of frying bacon could be heard, and Rose strode into the kitchen to quell a whistling teapot.

  Thumps came from the ceiling. The chandelier swayed a little. Richie must be up, Arthur decided. He stared hard at the kitchen door, willing his mother and Sheila to bring him his breakfast before Richie came down. Rose arrived a moment later with his plate.

  “Here you go, honey. Scrambled eggs and bacon.”

  Arthur was aghast. “No! Noooooo! Noooooo!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “You broke all my bacon slices in two,” wailed the boy. Rose ceased her breakfast of verbena tea and nibbled hair ends. “What’s wrong with that? It was the only way to fit the bacon on the plate with the eggs. It still tastes the same.”

  Arthur stared at her, astonished that she didn’t understand. Richie entered the dining room at that moment and took a chair with a bump that slopped Arthur’s milk over the side of the glass.

  “Hey!” said Richie, “Mom told that old witch Marshpool off, and I get to eat in here!” He leaned over to have a look at Arthur’s plate. There was, unfortunately, no way to hide the damage.

  “Look at that! All the bacon is broken in half. Arthur’s eating sissy bacon! Arthur’s eating sissy bacon! Arthur’s a fa--hag! Arthur’s a fag!”

  Arthur gave his mother a look of woe and accusation. How could she not have foreseen this?

  “Richie, stop that,” Rose said. “I’m going to get your breakfast from Sheila. Is your sister up?”

  “She’ll be down in a moment,” Richie replied with disdain.

  The kitchen door swung shut after his mother, and Richie raised a fork, tines poised over Arthur’s face. Arthur picked up his plate and threw it at his cousin. Normally, he wouldn’t have had the courage for this, but he was feeling desperate.

  Unfortunately, Mrs. Marshpool walked in right at that moment. “Oh! This is exactly what I knew would happen! Get out!”

  She seized arms from both boys and jerked them off their chairs. Arthur squalled with outrage. Richie, delighted to have caused such trouble, managed to knock his chair over as Mrs. Marshpool dragged him away. Rose’s startled face appeared at the kitchen door.

  “They were throwing food!” Mrs. Marshpool snapped at Rose. She shook each of the imprisoned boys’ arms hard, digging her long nails in. “I will not stand to have such ill-mannered and ill-bred children in this house! They are going outside where they belong. If any more of this behavior continues, I will insist that the children be sent home for the good of this household.”

  Rose’s jaw wobbled as she tried to protest, but the housekeeper’s steely ego overwhelmed her. Mrs. Marshpool
brushed past her and chucked the boys out the kitchen door. They landed in the yard, and the door slammed shut behind them.

  Richie laughed wildly. Arthur gazed back at him with disgust, rubbing the nail-marks in his arm. He could tell Richie was the sort who didn’t care how much trouble he got into as long as he could drag someone else there with him. “Go ahead and laugh,” Arthur growled. He stalked off to go play with the Opel.

  Still howling, Richie followed. Just before they reached the car, they heard the kitchen door open and saw Briarly being thrown out by Mrs. Marshpool. Richie guffawed like an idiot. Somberly, Arthur viewed his cousins. If he wasn’t mad at Briarly, he would have felt sorry for her. She was looking wretched, sitting on the grass all bewildered by Mrs. Marshpool’s treatment of her. The housekeeper must not have explained to Briarly why she was being robbed of her breakfast.

  Then Briarly saw her brother. She climbed to her feet, hiked over to the Opel, and kicked her prone brother in the side. Richie, however, was laughing too hard to be able to punish her.

  “You little shit!” Briarly yelled.

  Arthur was impressed. He had never heard an eight-year-old girl swear with such venom before.

  Richie sat up. “Hey, knock it off. You ought to thank me for making old Marshpool blow a gasket.”

  “What do you guys think Mrs. Marshpool might do next?” Arthur said queasily. He knew his mother was no match for the housekeeper, and Bert might not defend him if he found out that his son had thrown the plate. Briefly, Arthur pondered running away.

  “Who cares? I’m going to get her back. She owes us for last night, too.” Richie began to move from bush to tree, working closer to the house like a guerilla in enemy territory.

  “What happened last night?” Arthur asked.

  “Mrs. Marshpool locked our doors after we went to bed.”

  Arthur remembered his own locked door, and his eyes narrowed. This Marshpool business was getting serious. “She did mine, too,” he said, “but I can still get out through my parents’ door.”