A Will To Murder

by Hilary Thomson

  “So,” said Armagnac stiffly, “What do you do for a living?”

  “I write the entertainment column for a newspaper,” replied Bradley.

  “It sure is,” added Eric, “inadvertently. When he reviewed the local symphony, I had to explain to him what that long black instrument was. He did not know about bassoons.”

  “Hey! I learned.”

  “At least he’d heard of Bach,” added Maxwell.

  “They neglected me at my schools,” sniffed Bradley.

  “Did you go to college?” Armagnac asked, pushing his glasses nervously upwards.

  “Yep.”

  “What was your degree in?”

  “Nothing,” said Bradley.

  “Didn’t finish?” Armagnac smirked at Jac, who gave him a twisted smile.

  “Nope, never enrolled.”

  “What!?” exclaimed Boyle.

  “I just showed up for classes.” Bradley shrugged. “Some professors threw me out, but most didn’t. They had to teach, anyway. And I never had to take any tests or write any papers, which was neat.”

  Eric grinned sardonically as he hunched over his tap water. “Few can match Bradley for gall.”

  “Well, I couldn’t afford to pay for college,” said Bradley thoughtfully. “But I still went, anyway. I don’t know why people make such a fuss about not being able to attend college. It was easy for me.”

  “Most people have a sense of ethics,” replied Eric. Smith shrugged.

  “I’m curious to know what your exact relationship is to us,” Jac mused. “You see, we’ve never known we had any Smith relatives.”

  “I didn’t know how we were related either until the lawyer explained it to me. Okay, first there was Hiram Boyle. I guess you know who he was. Well, he was my grandfather.”

  “Your grandfather!” exclaimed Katherine. “Do you mean to say my father had another child besides James, Sophia, and myself? Good Lord!”

  “You’re very closely related to us then,” said Jac, staring at Bradley. “You’re my first cousin.”

  Smith nodded.

  “Exactly how--,” probed Jac.

  “Okay. Hiram Boyle had a girlfriend, by the name of Marilou Smith, who was my grandmother. She was a singer at his favorite nightclub, Hamilton told me. I don’t know when they first met, but I understand it was well after his first set of kids were born.”

  Horror crossed Armagnac’s face. He was obviously wondering whether an entire brood of illegitimate children would be showing up. Katherine looked shocked.

  “She liked to have a good time, my grandmother. I never knew her myself, so I can only go by what my mother told me.”

  “Your mother, then, is the daughter of Hiram and this Marilou Smith?” Jac queried, drawing a family tree in the air.

  “Was. Her name was Nanette Smith, and she died a few years ago.”

  “Did she have any brothers or sisters?” Jac added.

  “No. My grandmother really couldn’t afford to get pregnant in her line of work. You know, she’d just--” Bradley made a yanking gesture with his hands, as if jerking on a hook. Katherine shuddered violently, and Armagnac put a hand to his forehead.

  “Arthur, would you go fetch my purse?” asked Rose. “It’s in our bedroom.”

  “Mom!” the boy protested.

  “Go,” Bert ordered. Grumpily, Arthur left.

  “What about you?” asked Jac. “Do you have any siblings?”

  “No. My mother didn’t live the sort of life where she could raise kids easily, either. She was always moving around and whatnot.”

  “Well, tell us something about your family,” said Rose bravely.

  “Okay. First, my mother married Jimmy Clark. But he held up a gas station and they put him in jail for ten years. My mother didn’t want to wait that long, so she divorced him. Then she married Elmer Joe Barger, but the cops shot him dead while he was holding up a liquor store--”

  The listeners began to exchange looks.

  “--then she decided she probably ought to stay away from those handsome, daring young men and married Howard Sueverbampfling, who was a plumber. You know, quiet home life and steady income. Well, that didn’t happen. He was mean and beat her, so she divorced him.”

  Purrball meowed, demanding attention, and Smith shook the rubber dragon around his neck so Purrball could bat at it. The dragon was well-clawed and chewed, as if often used as a cat toy.

  “Then she married Presley Lee Tidwell,” Bradley continued.

  “Gas station? Liquor store?” prompted Armagnac, a hand over his eyes.

  “Porno films. He ran a home studio. I’ve always had an interest in movies and stuff because of him. He had all these neat cameras lying around.”

  “Arthur,” said Rose. “Would you go get me some kleenex? I have some in a package by my bed.”

  “Mom!” wailed Arthur.

  “Kid,” threatened Bert. The boy went off muttering.

  “Why don’t you two go outside for a while,” said Phil to Briarly and Richie.

  “They can stay,” Jac insisted.

  All talk ceased for a long moment. Bradley drank from his glass. The motion brought Mrs. Marshpool to herself and she began to pour refills of wine.

  “He got seven years,” Smith continued, “which was really unfair, because his films were the wholesome sort, lots of girls doing normal things. But though my mother helped him with the technical side of the business, she was annoyed by all these naked girls hanging around. After he went to jail, she got a sizeable sum by selling his cameras and other equipment, and we lived on the proceeds for a while. I was sorry to see everything go.”

  “Your mother must have had you very late in life, then, with all these marriages,” commented Rose.

  “No, she was only twenty-four when she divorced Presley. She got married to Jimmy Clark when she was fifteen.”

  “And which of these fellows is your father?” blurted Armagnac, unable to stand the suspense.

  “Mick.”

  “Who was Mick? I don’t remember you mentioning him,” said Boyle.

  “That’s because I haven’t yet. She never married him.”

  “What was his last name?” Rose asked.

  “Mom never learned. She just met him at a truck stop one night and that’s the last she’s seen of him.”

  “I knew it,” groaned Armagnac.

  “Your mother was an adventuress,” concluded Katherine with softly chiding solemnity.

  “Yeah, I guess she was,” Bradley agreed, “but I like people who live life that way. I take after her, a little.”

  “You ain’t kidding,” said Eric darkly.

  Bradley was still stroking Purrball. Muffin was roaming, trapped inside Smith’s bent leg.

  Armagnac smiled tightly. “By the way, I hope you realize we have a dog.”

  Smith looked blank. “A dog?”

  “Yes, a dog. A black Labrador, and his name is Barksdale.”

  “A dog?” Bradley repeated, as if unable to comprehend anyone actually owning a dog.

  “Yes. And he eats cats,” said Armagnac with malice.

  “He does not!” exclaimed Rose. “Barksdale wouldn’t hurt anything! I’m sure we’ll have no trouble if we keep them in separate rooms. Could you keep Barksdale in your bedroom, Aunt Katy?”

  “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 cr
ossed 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?”