by JOAN HESSS
“I suppose we need to fan out,” I said unenthusiastically.
Stanford nodded sharply, now assuming the mantle of a battlefield general. “Phoebe, you come with me. We’ll cover the area by the old barn Claire, you and Keith go around that side of the house and work your way along the bayou. Gather up Cousin Pauline.”
I doubted Keith would be of much use should we encounter one of the less appealing denizens of the bayou, but I didn’t relish the idea of wandering into the yard on my own. “Let’s go,” I said to him as I went down the steps and to the driveway to check for wheelchair tracks. There were none.
We went around the corner of the house, past a ramp at the end of the porch, and into the vast wasteland of the backyard, where we found Pauline peering under a bush.
She let the branch fall. “I cannot believe Justicia would do this dreadful thing,” she said as she fell into step with us. “She’s in frail health, and this can’t be good for her.”
“Hey, the old girl just wants to have fun,” Keith said.
Pauline made a small noise of exasperation. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not responsible for her well-being, nor are you particularly concerned about it. How long has it been since your last visit—ten years?”
“Something like that,” he muttered.
“Then again,” she continued mercilessly, “how could you visit when you’ve been engaged in involuntary residence behind a fence topped with barbed wire?”
“So what? This place gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
I tried to ignore them as I squinted into the shadows. Miss Justicia was a tiny woman, but her wheelchair could not easily be hidden. I glanced at Pauline. “Has she ever vanished like this before?”
“I’m afraid so. Several months ago, the police picked her up more than nine miles from here and returned her. One of the officers indicated he might charge her with reckless driving and resisting arrest. She was very…indignant at the time. Luckily, he was a local boy and I was able to dissuade him from taking action that might disgrace the family.”
“She was heading this way,” I said as we walked toward the guilty bushes. I rubbed my temples and reminded myself Caron and I now had less than thirty-six hours left. It was possible I was going to spend a lot of them poking around a swampy yard for an old lady in a wheelchair, but like dental surgery, labor, and televised football games, this, too, would pass.
“Drunken driving in a wheelchair,” Keith said admiringly. “You know, that’s a class act.”
Pauline stiffened. “I do not think it proper for you to snicker at your grandmother, despite her propensity for immature behavior and overindulgence.”
“All I said was—”
“You snickered. I distinctly heard you snicker when—”
“Shall we continue the search?” I interrupted. Both subsided, and we arrived at the edge of the bayou without further analyses of Miss Justicia’s propensities. We followed the bank at a prudent distance. As we came around a clump of shrubbery, I saw a glint of silver in the water that was not the elusive glitter of moonlight.
I stopped in mid-step and took a deep breath. “You’d better wait here, Pauline.”
She must have seen the glint, too, because her face turned chalky. “Is that…is that…?”
“I’m afraid it might be.” I patted her on the shoulder, then gestured for Keith to accompany me. We halted at the edge of the odiferous water. As I’d suspected, the glint came from the rim of a wheel. The back of the wheelchair was visible, indicating the water was no more than a foot or two deep.
Keith took off his sunglasses and gulped. “Do you think she pushed it in here for some screwy reason?”
“Let’s hope so. Go find your father and Phoebe.” Once he was gone, I gave myself a minute to dredge up some courage, then stepped out of my slippers and into the water.
It was as tepid as discarded tea as it lapped against my calves. My feet sank in several inches of silky mud that oozed between my toes. A submerged branch scraped one leg, almost eliciting a bloodcurdling scream that would have brought Stanford at a run. On the far side, something slithered into the water with a soft plop. Two fierce red eyes regarded me from within a burrow. I ordered myself not even to speculate on what might consider the mud to be its home, sweet home.
When I reached the wheelchair, I grasped the handles on the back. The thing weighed more than I’d imagined, and my footing was not what I would have preferred. It took a great deal of puffing and slipping to wrestle the chair to one side. It relented with a drawn-out slurp and a splash that caught me in the face.
Whispy white hair floated to the surface. I yanked the chair the rest of the way over and grabbed Miss Justicia’s shoulder. I dragged her to the bank, laid her in the grass, and crouched beside her to listen for any sign that she was alive. Muddy water dribbled from her mouth as her jaw fell open, exposing sleek pink gums. Her eyes were flat and unseeing. Her concave chest was still.
Pauline approached, her hands clasped. “Is Justicia dead?”
“Yes,” I said gently. I sat back on my heels and tried to let the horror of the moment drain off me like the water on my legs and forearms. “It’s been at least fifteen minutes since we saw her drive across the yard. She could have been in the bayou most of that time.” I looked up as Stanford, Keith, and Phoebe came out of the bushes. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident,” I told them. “Miss Justicia must have become disoriented in the dark. She went off the path and drove into the bayou. Although the water’s not very deep, the wheelchair held her down.”
Stanford walked past his mother’s body and stared at the wheelchair. “The damn contraption’s heavier than a refrigerator, considering it’s mostly a collection of hollow metal tubes. I told her time and again to get a smaller model, but she insisted on state-of-the-art technology, maximum horsepower, and front-wheel drive.” He turned back with a misty smile. “She did enjoy her wild rides around the yard. We can all take comfort in knowing she died while having a mighty fine time.”
Pauline sank to her knees and began to rock back and forth as if she was on the porch in a cane-bottomed chair. Phoebe gave me an enigmatic look as she went to Pauline and bent down to comfort her. Keith came over to the body, his hands in his pockets and his sunglasses once again hiding his eyes.
“What do we do now?” he asked.
Stanford had recovered from his nostalgic mode. “I’ll call the funeral home and have them send some boys to—ah, handle the situation in a discreet fashion. Cousin Pauline, did Miss Justicia ever mention a favorite funeral home?”
Pauline continued to rock mindlessly in the grass.
Pencil and notebook readied, Phoebe frowned at her. “You really must pull yourself together, Cousin Pauline. We’re all aware that this tragic accident could have been averted if you’d noticed the wheelchair when you first searched for Miss Justicia, but I’m sure none of us intends to hold you fully responsible. If you can tell us Miss Justicia’s preference in funeral homes, I’ll take it upon myself to contact them. Otherwise, we’ll simply be forced to select names at random from the Yellow Pages and discuss the various package rates.”
“Wait a minute,” I said when I could trust myself. “The first thing we have to do is call the police and tell them what happened.”
“I don’t believe that’s necessary,” Stanford said, crossing his arms as he peered down at me.
“Of course it’s necessary. The local authorities have to be informed in the event of a fatal accident.”
He took the napkin from his pocket and wiped his forehead. “We’re not going to get all carried away with calling in any damn-fool authorities. In these parts, we’re accustomed to dealing with tragedy in a calm and dignified manner befitting our family’s position in the community. I don’t want my dear, departed mother being disturbed by some policeman she never met, much less allowed in the parlor.” He stuffed the napkin back in his pocket and said to Phoebe, “What say we stick a pin in the Yellow
Pages, accept the best deal they offer, and get on with it?”
“It would be the most expedient method,” Phoebe said, looking a bit disappointed as she retired her notebook and pencil.
“And cut down on delays,” said Keith. “I can’t hang around this place while the cops poke poles in the bayou and run blood tests to determine how drunk she was. I’ve got things to do.”
I stood up to stare at them. “You are the strangest people I’ve ever met, and I’ve met some real doozies in my day. Listen very, very carefully: The law says that the police must be called in on an accidental death. It doesn’t matter if it’s expedient or not—it’s the law.”
Stanford mulled this over for a few seconds. “I’ve got it,” he said brightly. “How about we take her back to the bedroom, dress her in some nice dry pajamas, and put her in bed? The doctor can have a quick look, then fill out a death certificate saying she died peacefully in her sleep.”
“There have been very few documented cases of drowning in bed,” I said, still battling with myself to stay calm in the midst of this incredible scene. Miss Justicia gazed blindly at the moon while her intimate family debated how best to expedite her interment. I wouldn’t have been overwhelmed with shock if Stanford had ordered Keith to fetch a shovel and Phoebe a prayer book. Pauline was the only one evincing any grief. The others apparently had internalized theirs and moved on to more pressing concerns.
“I suppose not,” Stanford admitted.
“I knew a smack freak who drowned in his water bed,” Keith said. “Nobody knew he was dead until the water started dripping from the ceiling of the apartment below, and that was four, maybe five days later. It was summer, too, and the dude didn’t have an air conditioner.”
Stanford gave him a sharp look, then resumed his discussion with Phoebe. “I don’t know if the doctor would cooperate with us on this or not. He may be able to tell that there’s water in her lungs. As Claire was so eager to point out, no one drowns in bed.”
“That junkie did,” protested Keith.
“Just hush!” Phoebe snapped at him. “Your father and I are trying to determine how best to deal with this problem. Your drug-induced fantasies are not worthy of notice, much less serious consideration.”
“Hey, it really happened. The guy punched holes in the plastic mattress with his needle, and then passed out.”
I had had enough. I urged Pauline to her feet and put my arm around her trembling shoulders. “Stanford, you stay here with Miss Justicia’s body. Pauline is in shock and needs a cup of tea. Phoebe, you can see to that while Keith lets Maxie and Ellie know what happened.”
“And you, dear cousin?” Phoebe said.
“I am going to telephone the police and tell them about the accident. They’ll want to examine the scene before they write an official report.”
Stanford assessed me for a moment, then conceded with a shrug. “All right, all right. I don’t see why that should take a whole lot of time. What’ll they say, anyway? The fact that Miss Justicia had these urges to overindulge in beverages of an alcoholic nature, then go whipping all over God’s green earth in her wheelchair is…why, I’d say it was a legend in the parish. The whole state, for that matter. Pauline can just remind them of a few unfortunate incidents from the past, and we’ll be done with the police before we know it.”
“It seems we have no choice,” Phoebe said as she took Pauline’s arm and tugged her forward. “Come along, Cousin Pauline. We’ll pour a pot of tea into you, with a nice slug of brandy. You’re going to have to pull yourself together so that you can relate all that to the police.”
“But it’s so…” Pauline said dully. “I don’t know if I can remember all…”
“Don’t worry about it,” I began. Despite the fact I was holding Pauline’s other arm, Phoebe managed to dig a hard leather heel into my bare foot. I bit back a snarl, took a breath, and said, “No one’s going to pressure you to tell the police anything.”
Phoebe gave the older woman a smile meant to be sympathetic. “That’s correct. No one’s going to pressure you, Cousin Pauline.”
The slight emphasis on the you gave the reassuring words quite a different message. It was received, but not appreciated any more than the incipient bruise on my foot.
We moved slowly toward the back door of the house. Stanford remained beside the body, his hands on his hips. Keith caught up with us as we guided Pauline through the back door and down the hall to the dining room. Phoebe briskly demanded the kitchen key, and after a few moments of fumbling, Pauline took it from her robe pocket and handed it over.
Once Phoebe had departed to make tea, I asked Keith where I might find a telephone. He mumbled a response and turned to study the dark oil paintings of dead, featherless fowl and mottled fruit. I once again patted Pauline on the shoulder, then went down the hall toward the parlor, which seemed as good a possibility as any.
As I entered the foyer, Ellie stepped out of the parlor and carefully closed the door. Devoid of makeup and with her hair hidden by a turban, she looked appreciably less glamorous. She hurried over to me, her satiny pink robe rustling, and grabbed my arm. “I was just coming outside to help you find Miss Justicia, but I discovered the most amazing thing in the parlor!”
“You did?”
She pulled me farther away from the door and lowered her voice. “There’s a man in there, an unclean and unattractive man. He’s lying on the sofa, and snoring away as if he lives here and fell asleep watching the late movie. You know, this place has always been a madhouse, but lately it’s been downright peculiar.”
“Has it now?” I said dryly. I gave her a short explanation of what had occurred, from the midnight prowlers to the discovery of the body in the bayou. I concluded with a request for the location of a telephone.
“The man in the parlor is a taxi driver?” Her fingernails bit into my arm. “Is that what he told you?”
“I suspected as much when he actually drove the cab from the airport this afternoon.”
“But why would anyone in this house want to be picked up at midnight? And who?”
“We don’t seem to have any confessions as of yet, and other things have taken precedence. I do need to call the police before your father concocts some scheme to transfer Miss Justicia’s body to a health club and leave it in the hot tub.”
“There aren’t any hot tubs in this parish. Trust me.” Ellie looked nervously at the parlor door, but she did have the courtesy to remove her claws from my arm. “Did you ask everyone abut this call to the taxi driver? Everyone?”
“A telephone, please?”
“God, I’m sorry, Claire. I must be in shock or something. This accident is so tragic, and I feel awful about Miss Justicia. She was a harridan, but she was my grandmother, and in our own way, we got along pretty well. I suppose that implies something less than charming about my personality, but I’ll save it for my shrink.” She gave me a rueful, if somewhat manic, smile. “There’s a telephone in her bedroom, on the desk by the window. I’ll get a couple of glasses from the kitchen and we can have a nip of brandy. I could use one, and you must be a basket case after discovering the body…like that.”
If I was, I was not the only one, I thought as I went into the library. Stanford, Phoebe, and Keith had stood over a corpse in the moonlight, debating their chances of claiming she drowned in bed. Ellie was more distraught over a cabbie on the couch than the death of her grandmother.
Dearly hoping Caron had avoided any of the family’s aberrant DNA, I went to the telephone, dialed the operator, and requested to be put through to the police. The operator told me I could dial direct, and thanked me for using AT&T. I told her it was an emergency. She asked in a hushed, almost reverent tone for details. I declined to share them and repeated my request that she ring the police. She told me I could dial direct, etc.
I would have taken a drink from the decanter, but if it was in the room, it was not within my sight. I barked at the operator, who, with a sniff of disapproval, at
last connected me with the police department. The officer sounded bored as I began, but his voice rose in both pitch and volume as I mentioned names and arrived at the unpleasant conclusion of the story.
I was told to wait right where I was, ma’am, and not touch anything at the scene of the accident. Although it was a little late in the game for that, I acknowledged his instructions and replaced the receiver.
Ellie came into the room with two glasses. “Where’s the decanter, Claire?”
I remembered an earlier remark, and said, “Pauline told us that Miss Justicia finished off whatever was in the decanter. I could use a drink, myself. Let’s avail ourselves of a little something from the cart in the parlor.”
“That man is in there.”
“Indeed he is,” I said as I started for the door. “We need to rouse him and give him a brief idea of what’s happened. He’ll have to stay until the police arrive.”
“You said he claimed someone called him from here, but that’s absolutely crazy. Maybe he came to case the joint in hopes of lifting an heirloom or two.”
“He knocked on the front door, Ellie. That’s hardly standard procedure when planning a burglary. I’d like to hear a more detailed version of the call, however. We were all so stunned that no one asked him for the exact wording.” Which, I admitted to myself and myself alone, was pretty damn stupid. On a more charitable note, the oversight was salvageable in the immediate future.
Or so I’d thought. The parlor was devoid of snoozing taxi drivers. Ellie gave me a bewildered look, then checked behind the drapes while I searched the shadowy caverns under tables and between sofas and walls. We met by the wicker cart.
“He was here not ten minutes ago,” Ellie said defensively. “I stood over him for I don’t know how long, trying to figure out who the holy hell he was and what the holy hell he was doing in here. Look, there’s a smudge of mud on the arm of the sofa where his feet were propped.”
