A Will To Murder

by Hilary Thomson

  “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.”

  “Just watch everyone else,” Eric hissed. Then he straightened uneasily and studied the contents of his pew. Alongside him were a bevy of elderly Garden Club members, with Kyle Walker at the end. The lawyer's thoughtful gaze was resting on the persons in the two pews ahead.

  Behind Maxwell, two old ladies were making audible comments about various members of the Boyle family. Their croaking voices caused the reporter to mentally style them ‘iron harpies'.

  “Right over there, Alma. That's the elder daughter next to the gardener, married that whatever he was, the plumber or something. James couldn't stand him and disinherited her for it. And that's the younger daughter with the short black hair, the one James spoiled. Married the rich lawyer. That’s him sitting next to her, and the two children are hers.”

  “Look at that, Flo. Little boy takes after his mother,” said the other harpy. “Won't behave. He'll probably go to jail, the way she did.”

  “Was she the one who went to the Mountain State Mental Hospital?”

  “That was Rose. James committed her for a couple of years.”

  “The family makes a hobby of committing each other, I understand. Old Hiram tried that with James' sister, Sophia, but she ran off. Armagnac tried to commit James only last month, and was looking all over for a lawyer to do it, but they all skittered aside like grasshoppers.”

  “Of course, you know who killed James. It was that gardener. He’s killed before.”

  “Look at him sitting there like he owns the church. Lord, he hated James. Never could stand to see the old man abuse his sister. He knew that CD would kill James. And I’ll tell you, Alma, another one is going to die soon--that gardener will have his revenge on whoever killed Katherine.”

  “But wasn’t it her heart? She had a bad heart.”

  “You can’t listen to what that fool Douthit says.”

  A hymn started, and the iron harpies broke off. Eric was very curious by now. He pondered Rose and Bert. Cummings was undoubtedly skillful enough to have installed that CD player, and Rose must be resentful about being cut out of the will. But would she have killed her own father for it? She didn’t seem like the parricidal type. Anyway, how could Bert have stolen unseen onto the grounds? Lance and Colette had the latter problem, too. Also, if Colette was going to a Swiss boarding school, didn’t that mean the Wileys must have a fair amount of money? Privately, Eric thought the Wileys callous enough to have killed James, but too stupid to have managed it. As for the Salisburys, they lived out of state and were supposed to be wealthy. The guilty person must be someone who lived or worked at Rollingwood. He would have to try to verify the old ladies’ stories. That was something Wendy could help him with.

  After the funeral, the family returned to the house. Rose burst into tears at the sight of the flower-arranging supplies on the summer room table. Even Barksdale was upset. The dog was pacing the house miserably, looking everywhere for Katherine.

  “I can't believe this. She was alive only hours ago.”

  “Remember, Rosey, she had that heart condition,” said Bert.

  Armagnac wore a peculiar expression. Eric saw him peer at the housekeeper, and Mrs. Marshpool scowled, as if signaling him not to look at her. Before Maxwell could wonder about this, Bradley said to him in a low voice, “I'd like to leave, but it would be sort of rude right now.”

  “Maybe tomorrow afternoon,” his friend suggested softly. “I’m going upstairs to give the family some privacy.” Eric left, but just as he was passing the smoking room, Phil, who was inside, called out to him, “What a scene. Bet you didn't expect all this to happen.”

  “No,” Eric admitted.

  “Neither did I. That's why I'm up here. How about a game?”

  Eric glanced at the stairs. A game of pool right after Katherine's funeral sounded pretty repulsive to him, but it would allow him to ask Phil some questions. Besides, he loved pool. “Sure,” he said.

  While Phil racked the balls, the reporter selected a cue. “Speaking of scenes, what was going on when Bradley and I arrived? I never did find out what it was.”

  “Mrs. Marshpool was locking people in their rooms at night,” Salisbury replied laconically.

  “Why?” asked Eric, stunned.

  “God knows. She’s a real Nazi about this house. Jac tried to talk Katherine into firing her, but failed. You know, it would infuriate Armagnac if he heard me telling you this.” Phil hung up the rack while Eric chalked his cue.

  “Oh?”

  “Armagnac had a terrific fight with his father before the old man died. James threatened to cut his allowance off if he didn’t find a job. We only found out because Katherine called Jac and told her about it.”

  Eric was jolted. Now Armagnac had a motive.

  “But that type of row is just average for the Boyles. I’m glad Hamilton’s the family lawyer and not me.”

  “Apropos of James and that CD, do you think one of the servants could have done it? Possibly the housekeeper?”

  “Why?” Phil retorted, removing his cigarette long enough to reply. “If they’d hated the old man, they could have just quit. It was the family who was stuck with him.” Salisbury replaced the cigarette and began to line up for his first shot.

  “I was hearing some pretty strange gossip during the funeral from some old ladies behind me.” The reporter hesitated, trying to think of a tactful way to ask his question. Unable to arrive at one, he blurted, “Is it true that Rose was committed to a mental institution by her father?”

  Phil's shot bounced feebly off the tight triangle of balls, barely spreading them. Eric took his turn, and the cue ball struck the mass
smartly, and sank a couple.

  “That's ridiculous,” said Salisbury. “That's just the sort of crap everyone said about James. It's not true. He was a pain, but people also made up urban myths about him. Care for a drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  The reporter sank a couple more balls, while Phil poured himself some whiskey. After sampling his glass, Salisbury continued. “James told Rose she must be deranged to want to marry someone so unsuitable as Bert. Rose just swore at him and replied she was over twenty-one. The old man threatened to commit her, but didn’t actually do it. He was just spouting off. But Rose was so incensed she never spoke to him again, never even visited. Too bad, but I can understand Rose. When Jac and I would come to visit he'd make obnoxious remarks like, so how come you aren't giving my daughter the money for that new car she wants, are you keeping a mistress or something? Old man had eyes like Heydrick's. You really had to hang on to your temper around him.” Phil emptied his glass.

  “Sounds nice.”

  “Yeah. He was something of a legend to the townsfolk.” Eric’s next shot missed, so Phil took his turn. The cue ball clicked and sank its mark, and Salisbury prepared for another shot.

  “Another thing those old ladies claimed was that your wife had been to jail.”

  Phil scratched. He jerked the cigarette out of his mouth. “What the hell? Oh fuck, that's not true, either. Jac's never been that stupid. I can't believe they're going around saying that.”

  Eric sank a few more balls while the lawyer poured himself a refill. Maxwell finally missed one and the other man lined up for his shot.

  “They also said that Armagnac tried to have his father committed.”

  The cue ball struck its target weakly, and both balls moved only a few inches.

  “Sorry. I seem to be destroying your game,” said Eric blandly.

  A low sound came out of the lawyer’s mouth, but he said nothing. Eric sank his last few balls, then popped the 8-ball in.

  “I haven’t heard anything about that,” said Phil as he placed his cue on the rack. “Those people talking about Jac and Rose were wrong, so they’re probably wrong about Armagnac as well. But I'll say this, if James Boyle was my father, I'd have tried to commit him, too.”

  “Is it true that Heydrick detested the old man?”

  “He certainly didn’t care for him.”

  Those old ladies seemed to be wrong, Eric reflected. Still, at least three people had reason to hate James: Heydrick, Armagnac, and Rose. And Phil, for that matter.

  After the game, Eric called Wendy to tell her about Katherine’s death.

  “What did the autopsy report say?” she asked.

  “Nothing. There wasn’t one.”

  “What?! What’s on the death certificate?”

  “Coronary. The Boyles claim she had a heart condition and was taking medicine for it. No one seemed to think she needed an autopsy. The mortician (his name's Douthit) just filled out the death certificate without doing any examination. He’s also the county coroner. From the remarks Mrs. Salisbury's been making about him, she thinks he's both stupid and incompetent.”

  “Oh my God, I've heard about that guy. He's very weird. Still, she can be exhumed.”

  “It really could have been a heart attack. I saw her right before she died, and she was doubled over and had a hand clutched to her chest.”

  “Yeah, it could have been,” Wendy replied noncommittally. “What did she eat and drink at the tea party?”

  “The same things the rest of us did--tea, a cucumber sandwich, chocolate cake, and--wait a minute, dandelion wine. She was the only one who drank it. Rose gave her the bottle.”

  “Had it been opened previously?”

  “I didn’t notice, but it seemed full.”

  “You couldn’t tell from the seal? How did it open?”

  “Ordinary screw top.”

  “Where’s the bottle now?”

  “Damn and blast, I have no idea. I’ll have to ask the cook. You know, Katherine offered that bottle to the rest of us.”

  “You’re Mr. Lucky then,” Wendy replied lightly. “But maybe I’m wrong, since anyone could have drunk it. But see if you can find that bottle. What else about James’ death?”

  Eric pulled a small notepad out of his pocket and mentioned Katherine’s remarks about strangers, keys, and Heydrick’s work schedule. “I think it would have been impossible for a stranger to have done the job. There’s the hours spent installing the CD player, plus having to smuggle the equipment onto the grounds without being seen.”

  “I agree.”

  “I’ve also found out who was here at the time of James’ death--Armagnac, Katherine, Mrs. Marshpool, and Sheila. But I still don’t know where Heydrick was. The Salisburys, Wileys, and Cummingses were all out of state. If hatred was the motive, I’d assume the perpetrator was someone who had to deal with James every day.”

  “But you can’t be certain that the distant family members are innocent in the case of a large inheritance. Especially if there was an accomplice.”

  “Okay,” Eric admitted. “Katherine was pretty defensive about Heydrick.” He also told her Sheila’s remarks about James bullying his sister, the gardener defending her, James’ suspicions about Heydrick, and Katherine’s naivete. “And I’ve added another pair to my list.” He mentioned Armagnac’s allowance and Mrs. Marshpool locking people in at night.

  “That’s bizarre,” Wendy declared. “Either she’s guilty or she’s a nut.”

  “Possibly both? Phil says she’s a real house Nazi. Appears to have it in for the three children here, I understand. Phil also said Armagnac’s been asking people not to talk to me.”

  “I wouldn’t tell you anything either, dearie, if I wanted it kept a secret.”

  “Thank you,” replied the reporter modestly. “Before I forget, here’s some gossip.” He mentioned the iron harpies.

  “I’ll see if I can confirm any of that,” Wendy said.

  “You know, one of my suspects was Katherine, and now she’s dead.”

  “So.”

  “So,” he echoed.

  “She was murdered.”

  Eric did not reply.

  “Anyone there who hated her?”

  “No way,” the reporter said firmly. “Everyone liked her. A natural death sounds like the best explanation for her, but--I think not. And it would be logical to assume the same person did both James and his sister.”

  “Okay. Now we have a motive.”

  “We do?”

  “Katherine inherited the estate. Now that she’s dead, who inherits from her?”

  “I hadn’t thought about that. I have no idea what’s in her own will, except--wait a minute. She told me she intended to remember everyone James cut out.”

  There was silence at the other end of the line.

  “Wendy?”

  “I’m just thinking. Is that bequests to all the relatives, even the distant members, and all the servants as well?”

  Eric blinked. He had just realized the implications of this. “Everyone.”

  “So. Everyone benefits from both James’ death, and his sister’s, if they died in that order. Who knew the contents of Katherine’s will?”

  “I’ll try to find out.”

  “Is Hamilton around?”

  “No one’s been able to contact him because he's off yachting. They've left a message about Ms. Boyle's death on his answering machine, and--”

  The reporter halted. “God almighty, I forgot Woofie. He was killed. The vet said it was a wolf, but now Lance and Colette have lost the money they were supposed to inherit.”

  “I’m not happy about this. A CD, a natural heart attack, and a wolf? Someone’s damned clever. How are the Wileys taking their disinheritance?”

  “Lance, badly. He’s contesting the whole business. Colette’s an enigma.”

  “Who has keys to the farm gate?”

  “Well, obviously Heydrick does. As for the rest, I dunno.”

  “
Could you find out?” Wendy asked sweetly.

  Eric paused. “You know, we’re planning to leave tomorrow.”

  “Damn!”

  “Maybe James’ death was a malicious joke, Katherine died naturally, and the ostrich was slain by a wolf.”

  “There’s too much money involved here,” Wendy replied sharply, “and these deaths are too bizarre. Did anyone have a reason to hate Lance and Colette?”

  “Well, they haven’t made themselves liked.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Oh yeah. The CD case.” He pocketed the notepad, then told her Arthur’s story.

  “Does the shed have a window? Is there a crack you can see through?”

  “I'll go see and call you back--”

  He stopped.

  Jac was lounging next to Katherine's bedroom door, smiling. “I have to let people know I'm returning later than I thought,” she said.

  “Uh, have to say goodbye,” said Eric with an over-hearty laugh into the receiver. “Someone needs to use the phone. Bye.” He hung up and hastened into the living room.

  As Jac reached for the receiver she said to the air, “He's good-looking, but he's always on the phone.”

  Eric went outside, seemingly to visit his car. He paused to meditate over the carriage house and its bays, and to recover from the surprise of Jac. One of the bays was open, and Willowby was there, bent over the open hood of a Jeep that seemed to be his own vehicle.

  For a moment or two, the reporter rummaged inside his Honda, trying to think of an excuse to get inside the shed. Then he began to stride offhandedly in its direction.

  Willowby looked up and gave him a nod, then continued with the Jeep. Eric glanced at the house. Luckily, the curtains were still closed, Mrs. Marshpool having forgotten to open them this morning. Then he inspected the lock on the shed and gave it a tug. It held firm. He made a quick circle around the building, but it was well-made, with no splits in the wood, and no windows.

  Frustrated, he returned and addressed the chauffeur. “Do you have an oil can? I’ve a car door that needs a dose. I tried that toolshed over there, but it's locked.” It took effort to sound innocent, but he managed it. No sign of suspicion was on the chauffeur's face.