A Will To Murder

by Hilary Thomson

“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.

  “Didn’t you bring one?” Katherine gasped.

  “No. I thought everyone had litter boxes,” Smith replied. “Um, well, we need one right now.”

  Katherine made a pitiful gabbling sound and hunted for a drip catcher among her plants. She and Bradley disappeared upstairs to deal with the damage, followed by a livid Mrs. Marshpool.

  “My old room!” wailed Jac.

  “There’s no great loss without some small gain!” Armagnac shouted from the library, where he was setting up his tripod. Boyle had already placed the chairs in position, and now he was focusing his camera. “This is going to be great,” Armagnac gloated, a strange expression on his face, “with grandfather’s portrait as a backdrop.”

  In a few minutes the trio upstairs arrived, Bradley with both cats hugged to him. Katherine and Mrs. Marshpool had their arms crossed, and the ladies wore the same flushed, choleric expression.

  “They’re relatives, too, so they’re going to be in the picture,” said Bradley to Armagnac, indicating the cats.

  “All right, now that we’re all here,” Boyle said. “Eric? Here’s the shutter.” In a lower tone he added, “Give my aunt a moment to compose herself. We don’t want to immortalize that.”

  “Can we have Barksdale in the picture, too?” Arthur asked eagerly.

  “No!” everyone shouted.

  “Ready?” said Eric hurriedly. Expressions were growing fouler by the second.

  “Set the light meter on kill!” said Bradley.

  The shutter clicked twice, rapidly. No one knew that this particular set of people could never be photographed together again.

  Soon after the photo, the newcomers made their excuses, and went upstairs. “God, you have a lot of nerve to say I’m rude,” said Bradley as they climbed. “Why didn’t you just yell out, okay, who did it?”

  “I felt obliged to ask, considering that they’re your family. Whoever put that CD player in the car sounds both cracked and dangerous.”

  “Do you think the entertainment critic for the Adirondack Aboard! is going to be scared by a little rap CD? If anyone’s cracked, it’s you.” The two men separated, a little irritably, at the top of the stairs.

  In James’ room, Eric lifted his suitcase on top of the bed to unpack it, then examined the room uneasily. It was surprisingly plain. The furniture consisted of a bed, a bureau, a night stand, a desk, a trunk, and a chair. A framed photograph sat on the bureau, showing the same antique car that had plunged into the flowerbed. Strangely, there were no family photos displayed. Mounted on the wall were a pair of crossed swords above a tricorn hat. A knitted afghan lay across the foot of the bed, its threads snagged and fuzzy with age. A pair of dirty slippers rested on the floor by the bed, exactly, Eric supposed, as James had left them on the day he died. On the night stand was a set of false teeth, a yellowed toothbrush with splayed bristles, and a drinking glass that looked like it had been untouched since his death. A white fog of mineral stain was still visible above the water level. The bureau held a stray bowler, an ancient celluloid tie box, and an old brass bowl of dusty cufflinks and lint.

  This shabby and worn room troubled him. Why hadn’t the housekeeper thrown out the toothbrush? The family weren’t planning to fight over it, were they?

  He slid open the top drawer of the desk, and a small picture of a boy caught his eye, framed in tiny seashells. It was Arthur. If Eric had known more about James, he might have wondered why it was here. Then he noticed a letter and picked it up. It was from James Boyle to his lawyer, Douglas Hamilton.

  ‘I would like to schedule an appointment to make some alterations to my will,’ Boyle wrote. There were no details. Eric guessed this letter was only a draft. Possibly the final version was more specific about the alterations. The letter suggested July 11th as a good day to meet. Since James had died on August 8th, this meant James had almost certainly had time to make those changes. He replaced the letter and shut the drawer. Then he opened the heavy wooden trunk at the foot of the bed. Inside was a Revolutionary War uniform that seemed to go with the hat on the wall, and a powder horn. Underneath were some old coats and sweaters.

  “Hey!” Bradley interrupted, opening the door. Eric hopped backwards at the noise and dropped the lid. It slammed shut much too audibly.

  “They’re twenty billion old outfits in my room. I’m in bell-bottom and boa heaven!”

  “Close that door, for God’s sake! And you be careful,” Eric added, trying to compose himself. “If those are Mrs
. Salisbury’s old clothes I don’t think she’d appreciate finding you in them or making comments about her taste. By the way, what condition is your floor in?”

  Bradley wrinkled his nose. “Muffin didn’t do any harm. I’m sure they won’t mind the smell. I never do, anyway. So, have you looked in all the drawers and closets yet?”

  “No,” replied Eric, nettled.

  “Well, that’s a first. You’re the worst snoop I know.”

  “Oh, be quiet. If you want to snoop, do it yourself. I have to admit, though, this place bothers me. Especially that black paint outside. Did they think the whole house had to go into mourning too?”

  “They may have,” said Bradley thoughtfully. “My relatives appear to be more old-fashioned than I expected.”

  “Someone really wanted to humiliate your grandfather with that CD player, at the very least. I gather the old guy wasn’t too pleasant.”

  “You can’t always have likeable relatives.” Bradley shrugged.

  “Do you realize the culprit was probably at dinner tonight?”

  Smith stared at the floor. “Probably,” he agreed slowly. Then he changed the subject. “Was Colette flirting with you at dinner?”

  “Oh God, did you notice that? I bet she’s the sort of girl whose boyfriend mysteriously shoots himself one day.”

  “Hey! Don’t you insult my cousin. She might actually like you, you know.”

  “Hogwash. She’s only known me a couple of hours.” Eric was opening James’ closet.

  “You’re snooping! You’re snooping!” Bradley crowed happily.

  “I am not! I have to find hangers for my clothes.”

  “Well?” said Smith, looking over his friend’s shoulder.

  “Get out of here. I am not snooping.”

  Bradley snickered. Reddening, Eric began to shove James’ shirts down along the rack to make room for his own, when a bathrobe caught his attention. It was a black quilted one, and white stuffing showed through several long tears. He lifted the bathrobe off the rack and held it up. His eyebrows rose.

  “Boy,” said Bradley with wonder. The bathrobe had been slashed, as if someone had taken a knife to it.

  “I think someone really hated that old guy,” said Eric.

  Chapter 9

  The next morning Eric came downstairs and hesitated in the dark living room, unsure if any of the family were up yet. He had donned a white dress shirt in an attempt to look more formal than usual, but it was draped over a pair of jeans. On his feet he wore leather sandals with socks.

  He noticed the odd sight of the Opel through a window and stared at it. Unknown to him, Muffin was stalking him. Bradley, who had brought his pet noiselessly down the stairs, was crawling silently alongside the kitten. Smith opened his jaws wide and made a ferocious face, then stopped to watch the kitten. There was no response from Muffin, who was darting at a sofa leg. Smith bared his teeth like an angry lion, then watched the kitten brightly. Muffin gave him a wide-eyed look in return.

  Right behind Eric now, Bradley opened his jaws again and feinted at the leg in front of him. Muffin opened her jaws wide in imitation. Pleased, Bradley feinted at the leg again. Muffin took a jump forward and made a swiping gesture with a paw. But the kitten still hadn’t gotten the idea, so Bradley champed down hard on Eric’s leg.

  “Yaaaaaaagh!” Maxwell slammed into the wall. “What the hell are you doing?” he yelled, stumbling around.

  Bradley sat back on his haunches. “Biting you,” he replied. “Didn’t you notice?”

  Muffin lunged. Her tiny teeth sank into Eric’s sock-footed big toe, then she ran under a sofa in fright.

  “This is, this is,” Eric fumed.

  “Insult to injury,” Bradley completed for him. “I’m so proud of her! She bit you. I’ve been trying to teach her how to be fierce and defend herself.”

  Muffin took a few cautious steps out from under the sofa, and Smith lowered himself beside his pet, fluttering his tongue in a low, purring tone. Then he licked the kitten’s back and fluttered his tongue again.

  “What the hell is that?” Eric asked.

  “Don’t you know?” Bradley replied scornfully. He scraped loose fur off his tongue. “God, you’re stupid. I’m congratulating her. Mother cats always lick their kittens and purr to reward them.” Smith held a hand to the side of his mouth and whispered, “I have to do it because Muffin doesn’t have a mother.” He dropped back down for another purring and licking session.

  “I don’t know about that,” was the saucy reply.

  Just then Armagnac came into the living room, and Bradley snatched up Muffin.

  “There!” said Boyle, nodding smugly at the empty sofas, “Letitia has finally moved her off the couch and into her bedroom.”

  Eric and Bradley exchanged mystified looks.

  “The will reading is scheduled today in the library, at nine o’clock,” Boyle added.

  While Bradley carried the kitten upstairs, Eric went into the kitchen to be nosy. James’ odd death had made him curious, and he wondered what the cook might be able to tell him. Sheila appeared to be in her late twenties or so. Her face was rounded and Swedish-looking, and her forearms were hard, as if used to much pounding and kneading of dough. She was just putting a fritatta into the oven.

  “Might I bother you for a glass of orange juice?”

  “I’ll be getting a pitcher out of the fridge in a moment. You don’t have to wait around here.”

  Maxwell shrugged. “Practically no one else is up, yet. You don’t live here, do you? Or do you commute?”

  “I live in Chichiteaux,” she replied over the loud rattle of beans in a coffee grinder.

  “Who else lives here besides the housekeeper?”

  “Heydrick.” Sheila made a face. “And Willowby.” Her expression returned to neutral. “They both have apartments in the carriage house.” She put the grounds into a filter and started the coffee brewing.

  Eric glanced out a kitchen window and saw Heydrick opening a padlock on a work shed door. Richie was also watching the gardener, hiding behind a tree. The boy flung a clod of earth at the gardener’s head and did a bunk. At the explosion of dirt, Heydrick dropped the padlock, (it landed in a bush) and shot after the boy, leaving the shed door open. Richie seemed to be quite a poisonous child, Eric decided.

  “Do you think that either Heydrick or Willowby could have--” Eric jerked his thumb towards the window. Sheila hesitated as she sliced raisin bread, then spoke. “Well, Willowby was on vacation for two weeks right before Mr. Boyle died, and he always got along with Mr. Boyle. I don’t know about Heydrick. He scares me, frankly. He’s been in jail. Manslaughter.”

  Eric was startled.

  “A bar fight, some years ago. I can’t say I’ve seen him doing anything criminal, but sometimes he’ll do things that are--mysterious. I know James Boyle regretted hiring him. Heydrick’s sort of made himself Katherine’s employee, instead of Mr. Boyle’s, and Mr. Boyle thought Heydrick was manipulating his sister. She’s a little naive. Of course, Katherine always defends him. Heydrick would stand up for her too, when her brother bullied her, and that was one reason why Mr. Boyle disliked him. I never knew how Katherine could endure her brother.”

  “Is it possible to see the car?”

  Sheila looked doubtful. “It’s locked up in the carriage house.”

  “What did the police find inside it?”

  “I really don’t know. The family hasn’t told me anything, and I’m not sure the police said much to the family.”

  “Was there any reason for--” He paused, assuming she knew what he meant.

  “He didn’t have many friends,” Sheila replied cagily.

  “Would anyone gain from his death?”

  “The family. They’ll inherit. Mr. Boyle made it plain that none of us was going to receive anything.” Her face was sour as she loaded the toaster.

  Maxwell knew she meant the servants, and the will ought to confirm this. Only the family, then, would have a mat
erial reason for killing James Boyle, if that CD player had not been intended as a joke--and Eric suspected it hadn’t been, if James’ medical problems had been well-known.

  “One other thing,” he said, “are the front gates locked during the day?”

  “Only at night. It’s pretty safe in this area, and Mr. Boyle had a reputation for being such an ogre that few dared visit. Katherine always had to meet her friends in town. Here’s your orange juice, by the way.”

  “Thanks. I think I hear the others coming down the stairs, so I won’t bother you further.” He opened the door into the dining room, and it slammed into something that yelped. Armagnac was on the other side, holding his ear.

  “Sorry,” said Eric. Boyle stamped off towards the living room, muttering.

  “He was listening at the door,” Sheila hissed. “He does that a lot.”

  Troubled, Eric took a seat in the dining room.

  Just before ten the family assembled in the library. Of the children, only Arthur was there. The lawyer said James had left Arthur a bequest. Eric, who had not been asked to attend, was upstairs shooting pool in the sin room.

  “You should have dressed him properly in a sweater, a vest, and a tie,” Jac said to Rose as the two sisters entered. Jac motioned towards Arthur’s jeans and T-shirt, and exasperation crossed Rose’s face.

  Two rows of chairs were laid out, with Bert, Rose, Jac, Lance, and Katherine in front, and Arthur, Bradley, Colette, Phil and Armagnac behind them. Hamilton stood before Armagnac’s desk. To his left was his firm’s junior partner, Kyle Walker. Walker, in suit and wire-rimmed glasses, looked much like a younger and paler version of Hamilton, except for his slicked-back hair.

  Two sealed bags of felt rested on the desk, labeled and tied with cord. Hamilton was studying the will thoughtfully. The lawyer’s demeanor was blankly professional, yet apprehensive. He whispered to Walker, “I’m not certain we might not need the police here.”

  Walker laughed a little, but smothered it before any of the family overheard.

  “Has everyone arrived?” Hamilton asked formally.