by JOAN HESSS
“Yes, and it’s a complex procedure that requires in-depth knowledge and familiarity with the federal tax regulations.”
“This house has significance as an example of pre-Civil War plantation architecture,” Maxie said, pink with passion. “It was built by Richmond Malloy in 1853, and it once stood in the midst of several thousand acres of prime farmland. He himself was a most respected member of the community, a deacon in his church and a member of the city council from…”
She faltered, but Phoebe was poised with her notebook. “He served from 1884 until his death in 1891. Cholera, complicated by gout and chronic obesity. He left behind his wife, Rosalee, nee Duchampion, a very good family from the next parish, and eight legitimate children, five of whom survived the epidemic. The eldest son, Sturgis, married his maternal second cousin, thus further unifying the two lineages and—”
“What’s this crap about the National Historic Register?” Ellie said, saving us from what might have developed into an all-night marathon of trivialized history.
Maxie turned to smile at Miss Justicia. “It’s vital that the trust be managed by a person who is intimately acquainted with the Malloy family’s glorious history. The girl would have the house bulldozed for a subdivision of tacky little houses.”
“People have to live somewhere,” Ellie muttered.
Stanford stopped exploring my kneecap. “Ellie’s making a small and unamusing joke, Miss Justicia. She has a great fondness for this house, as do we all. She and Keith have warm memories of playing in the yard, then coming inside so Cousin Pauline could give ’em fresh cookies and milk.”
“And pinch the silver when they thought I wasn’t looking?” Miss Justicia cackled.
“Now, now,” said Pauline, “they were dear children. Keith was always eager to help me with the chores, and I still remember his lovely curls and wide, innocent eyes.” She looked across the table. “His twin sister, on the other hand, did have a bit of a temper.”
“I did not!” Ellie snapped, then realized the incongruity of her response and batted her eyelashes at Pauline. “He always was your pet, wasn’t he? Did you ever count the money in the sugar bowl after one of his visits?”
Stanford’s hand was still twitching above my knee, but all his attention was on Miss Justicia. “They were mischievous tykes, but they loved every minute they were here.” Without turning his head, he added in a cold voice, “Isn’t that so, Ellie? Why don’t you tell your grandmother all about it?”
Miss Justicia rang a silver bell. “It’s time for food, not fairy tales.” She sat back and regarded us with the complaisance of a cat with a bloodied mouse between its paws.
I was finding all of this quite dreary, and I could see from Caron’s expression that she concurred. Two more days, I reminded myself as the door to the kitchen swung open. Two more tiresome days with these tiresome people, and Caron and I could go home and revise the Christmas card list.
The meal was served by a grim black woman with a few gray hairs and a badly wrinkled uniform. The food was as unappetizing as those who pretended to partake of it. The only incident of interest occurred when Caron studied a gray lump on her plate and, with a sharp intake of breath, realized what it was—or had been in the distant past.
“The taxi driver said not to eat any fish!” she said, horrified.
Phoebe frowned. “Fish is a good source of protein, low in saturated fats and high in omega-three oils, which prevent heart disease.” She looked down at her plate more carefully. “Fresh fish, that is. I’m not sure about this.”
“He warned us about tapeworms,” Caron added.
Pauline conveyed a tiny bite to her mouth. “When they did the autopsy on Annabel D’Armand, they discovered a tapeworm that was forty-one feet long. I believe that’s the parish record.”
Caron was not the only one of us to put down her fork very quietly.
After we’d shoveled down what we could of dry bread pudding covered with a sticky yellow sauce, Miss Justicia threw down her napkin and switched on the motor of the wheelchair. “I’m looking forward to tomorrow, as I’m sure all of you are. Until then, my devoted family, nighty-night.”
The wheelchair banged against the kitchen door as it moved backward, banged against a table leg as it surged forward, and banged against the doorsill as it disappeared.
Stanford filled his wineglass and glowered across the table at Maxie. “What the hell was all that nonsense about the house being turned into some sort of national monument?”
Maxie made a production of daintily touching her mouth with her napkin, but I could see her mind moving more briskly than Miss Justicia in third gear. “Well,” she said at last, “for some time I’ve been trying to persuade Miss Justicia of the importance of preserving Malloy Manor as a perfect example of its architectural period.”
“Which will, of course,” Phoebe said, “require the establishment of a nonprofit trust to be used judiciously for upkeep, repairs, and the acquisition of antiques until each room is brought up to proper standards.”
Ellie stood up and reached for the decanter. “And let’s not forget the hefty salaries of the administrators.”
Maxie snatched the decanter at the last moment and filled her glass. Then, with a condescending nod, she set it down within Ellie’s reach and settled back in her chair. “The money is in no way as important as the obligation to posterity.”
“What’s the matter, dear?” cooéd Ellie. “Did ex-Cousin Frazier finally quit sending those hefty alimony checks after all this time? How long has it been since he dumped you for that sweet young thing with the big tits?”
“A paradigmatic midlife crisis,” Phoebe explained to me, although I hadn’t planned to demand the details.
Maxie lit a cigarette. “His checks stopped about a year ago, but Frazier’s temporary lapse has nothing to do with the establishment of the trust. It will be a time-consuming and demanding task, and I feel strongly that it requires the services of those members of the family who have shown a dedication to its traditions and lineage.”
“All this talk of the National Historic Register is poppycock,” said Stanford. “Sheer poppycock. You may think you can weasel up to Miss Justicia and convince her to leave all the family money to some idiotic trust to convert this mausoleum into a museum, but I won’t have it.”
“You won’t have it, Cousin Stanford?”
“No, ma’am, I am the custodian of the family business, and it’s a damn sight more important than this transparent scheme of yours. We’re undercapitalized at the moment, but with a substantial influx of cash, we can develop a gourmet line and dominate the market within the year.”
“What market?” Caron asked.
“Kibble,” he told her curtly, then turned back on Maxie. “Don’t think you’re going to get away with this, dear cousin. The money rightfully deserves to go to Pritty Kitty Kibble, and Miss Justicia agrees with me.”
Ellie tapped her glass with her fork. “Hey, wait just a minute. My money isn’t going into a new recipe for codfish pâté, nor is it going to be used to purchase Louis the Fourteenths for the parlor. I have some rather pressing promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.”
“With every biker in Atlanta,” Phoebe inserted neatly.
“I do so admire your wit.” Ellie snatched up her glass, drained it, and then studied it as if judging its potential as a projectile.
Cousin Pauline fluttered her hand. “Justicia assured me that the house would be mine as long as I wished to live here, along with an income from the capital.”
“Come now,” Maxie said with a short laugh, “you’re hardly capable of doing this house justice. I’m sure we can find a suitable apartment for you once Phoebe and I become administrators of the trust.”
Phoebe took out her notebook and made a notation. “One bedroom ought to be adequate, although you may have to make do with an efficiency if it proves more economical.”
Pauline attempted to smile. “But I’ve lived here for
forty years, as Justicia’s companion and nurse. I put aside my personal aspirations in order to care for her. I once dreamed of being a concert pianist. As a child, I was told I had great promise. My études, in particular, were considered exquisite.”
“I’m sure they were,” Stanford said soothingly. “We’re all aware of the sacrifices you made, and I for one am not going to see you living in some seedy apartment building. Hell, I’ll find you a condominium where you can be surrounded by old people like yourself.”
Pauline’s face hardened. “Malloy Manor is my home. I have spent my life here. I will not be discarded.”
“This is too comical for words,” Ellie said. “Miss Justicia told me that the grandchildren will share the bulk of the estate. She called last week and said that if Keith and I came this weekend, we’d be pleasantly surprised with the new will. Well, both of us are here.”
Maxie ground out her cigarette in a saucer. “She told me she was committed to the preservation of Malloy Manor. The new will establishes the trust.”
“With Mother and me as administrators,” Phoebe added.
Stanford rapped on the table. “Hold your damn horses! I am sorry that you four are under any kind of delusion about who will receive the bulk of the estate. Last week, Miss Justicia assured me that I would realize more than enough money to revitalize the company.”
“The money goes to Keith and me!” Ellie said.
“She told me I would receive the house and an income,” Pauline said sharply.
“Poppycock!” Stanford roared, banging his fist hard enough to rattle the china.
I sat and wondered how best to escape the asylum now that the inmates were in control. I was toying with faking an attack of botulism when Caron poked me and whispered, “I’m a grandchild.”
I glanced at my little angel, who had a calculating expression not unlike those of our dinner companions. “Forget it,” I whispered back. “It’s obvious Miss Justicia has more than enough would-be heirs to bicker over the family fortune. I make a decent living. You don’t have cardboard soles in your shoes and dresses from Goodwill.”
“I don’t have a closet filled with Esprit jeans, either.”
Stanford’s fist regained my attention in time to hear him snarl that he was going to Miss Justicia’s room to find out who all was getting what. Maxie announced that she and Phoebe would be on his heels. Ellie said she loved parades and had no intentions of missing this one. Pauline murmured that she would feel much better when the misunderstanding was resolved.
The five of them marched out of the room, although not in the precise order of their avowals. After a certain amount of jostling in the doorway, they were gone.
Caron sighed morosely. “Don’t you want me to be a wealthy heiress?” she asked as her lower lip crept forward.
“No.” I pushed back my chair and rose. “I think we ought to scurry upstairs while the others are occupied.”
The cook came out of the kitchen. “Are you done? I got to clear the table and wash up so I can go home. I don’t plan to be here any longer than I have to, not with a full moon.”
“Why not?” asked Caron.
The cook leaned forward and in a husky voice, said, “Whenever there’s a full moon, ol’ General Malloy comes riding through the yard on a big shadowy stallion. He’s dressed in his Confederate uniform, waving a saber over his head and crying out for his beloved mistress.”
“I don’t believe that,” Caron retorted with a supercilious smile. “Creepy old legends have no historical basis.”
“This one does, because the mistress was my great-great-grandmother Lavinia. She was as black as coal, with a fine figure and eyes that blazed like embers. He kept her in a shack at the far end of the bayou, and whenever the moon was full, he’d gallop down on his stallion to visit her.”
“Like, sure he did,” Caron said, although her smile was increasingly strained.
“But one night,” the cook continued, “he rode to the shack to bring her a handsome gold necklace. When he went inside, he stumbled over her mutilated body. Somebody’d killed her with an ax, and there was blood everywhere—on the floor, on the walls, even on the fancy brass bed he’d had brought all the way from New Orleans. He went crazy with grief, and came charging up the hill to find her murderers and hack ’em to pieces with his saber. He never did find ’em, but whenever the moon is full, he tries again.”
Caron marched to the door, then looked back at me. “Have I mentioned the G word lately?” With a sniff, she went down the hall.
“Ronald Colman?” I asked politely.
“And Greer Garson as the wife.” The cook began to stack plates and cutlery. She noticed Caron’s untouched dessert. “Is she done?”
“More than done,” I murmured.
4
I left the dining room and went down the hall to the foyer. It seemed I was not quick enough, however; before I could flee upstairs, the double doors flew open and Stanford strode out. Ellie followed more slowly, as did Maxie and Phoebe. No one looked cheerful, although none of them looked as enraged as the purported ghost of General Malloy.
“This is a fine barrel of pickled herring,” Stanford muttered. “I’m not opposed to a small wager every now and then, but I do not relish a game of Russian roulette—when she loads the revolver. She’s more than capable of filling the damn thing with bullets so all of us can have a turn at blowing our brains out for her entertainment.”
Maxie took a cigarette from a black beaded evening bag and lit it. “Nor do I, Cousin Stanford, nor do I. Perhaps it’s time to form an unholy alliance. One-sixth of the estate is preferable to nothing.”
“But, Mother,” Phoebe protested, “she promised us.”
“I know she did, but it appears that she also promised cousins Stanford, Ellie, Keith, and Pauline. I’m not at all sure which promise she intends to keep—if any. She very well may give the entire estate to a home for prodigal alligators.”
“It’s a shame we can’t take a tiny peek at this new will,” Ellie said pensively.
“As well as the old one,” Stanford added. He noticed me and winked. I regretted not stabbing him with a fork.
Maxie dropped her cigarette in a vase. “Miss Justicia said she would reveal the contents of the new will tomorrow at dinner, and we must abide by her wishes.” She regaled us with an elaborate yawn. “Come along, Phoebe, it’s time to retire.”
“Yes, Mother. I am fatigued after the day’s journey. Traveling can disrupt one’s diurnal biological rhythms.”
Stanford pulled out an ornate silver pocket watch and harrumphed in disbelief. “My goodness, it’s after ten, and I’m feeling a bit bushed, myself. How about you, Ellie?”
“I can’t imagine anything more appealing,” she said.
I realized it was my turn, and said, “Caron’s already upstairs. I suppose we’ll see all of you at breakfast?”
They all assured me that we certainly would.
No one moved.
Maxie glared at Stanford, who was glaring at Ellie, who was glaring at Phoebe, who was glaring at me. I was merely gazing at them when the double doors opened and Pauline slipped out.
“Justicia is settled for the night,” she said in a hushed voice. “She insisted on a nightcap from the brandy decanter in her bedroom. Her doctor will be most displeased.”
Maxie tucked her bag under her arm. “Then we can all retire, content in the knowledge that Miss Justicia is resting peacefully. Until the morning, dear cousins?”
On that note, we all trooped upstairs in a tight group. I continued to my cell and went inside with a sigh of relief.
Caron sat in the middle of her bed, dressed in a T-shirt. Her face was speckled with green cream, as if a baby with a mouthful of strained peas had sneezed in close proximity. “Do you think that painting out in the hall is of General Richmond Malloy?” she asked ever so casually.
“Does he resemble Ronald Colman?”
“Who?”
“Never mind, dear.�
� I drew the curtains and sat down on the edge of the bed to pull off my shoes. “What a crazy group they are. No, I take that back. They’re greedy; Miss Justicia’s the crazy one. Why would she privately promise each one the majority of the estate? She’s asking for trouble, and these people are more than prepared to give it to her.”
“I think Miss Justicia enjoys it,” Caron said. She crossed her legs and pulled up one foot to study its bottom. “There aren’t tapeworms in the carpet, are there? I don’t want to end up like that person in Alien whose guts exploded. Talk about disgusting…”
“Why do you think she enjoys it?” I asked, unable to deal with the latter part of her remarks.
“None of them ever visits her except when they want money. This is her way of getting even with them.”
“Your perspicacity amazes me at times. Your father wasn’t any better than—” I stopped as I heard a creak in the hall. “Sssh, someone’s outside the door.”
I tiptoed to the door and opened it to a slit. Keith was moving furtively down the hall. He tapped on Ellie’s door, and was admitted after a whispered word from its occupant.
A second door farther down the hall opened and Stanford’s head popped out. Another opened, and Maxie and Phoebe peered out, their two faces poised in totem-pole fashion. Phoebe was on top; her chinless face fit snugly into her mother’s beehive. Pauline’s door opened only a few inches, but I could see her elongated face in the shadows.
Various eyes met, and then all doors, including mine, closed with perceptible clicks.
“Okay, so they’re crazy, too,” I said as I opened a suitcase and began to rummage for my nightgown. “And the situation is becoming more gothic by the minute, in an oddly off-key fashion. We’ve got a creepy house, a full moon, a mysterious will, dark family secrets, at least one ghost, and carefully staged scenes that are straight out of one of Azalea Twilight’s five-hundred-page bodice rippers. I might have a better grasp of things if I’d forced myself to read one of them.”
