Death by the Light of the Moon

by JOAN HESSS

  Ellie pushed a plate toward me. “Blackened toast,” she murmured. “Cajun style. Daddy made it himself from the last of the bread.”

  I did not groan, although I suspected my shudder was visible to anyone watching me. No one was.

  Phoebe blinked owlishly at her mother. “Bethel D’Armand might know the identity of the new attorney. Miss Justicia may have asked him to transfer files and documents.”

  “You are too clever for words,” Ellie drawled. “This display of ingenuousness is simply too dazzling for poor little me so early in the day. You will perform a second act after lunch, won’t you?”

  “Certainly. Surely by then you’ll have had a chance to do something about your hair. You must be ever so distressed by it at the moment.”

  “What’s wrong with my hair?”

  “The roots. They seem more…shall we say, dominant this morning.” She turned back to Maxie. “Shall I call D’Armand and see if he has the pertinent information?”

  Ellie was licking her lips in preparation for a retort, but Stanford intervened, saying, “Now, let’s not rush into this like stampeding cattle. We may not know this new fellow, and I’d hate to get off on the wrong foot with him. Miss Justicia’s not even cooled off yet, much less planted.”

  “A good point,” Maxie conceded as she lit a cigarette. “We do want to speak with him as soon as possible, but we don’t want him to think we’re more concerned with the estate than with the tragedy.” Smoke snaked from the corners of her mouth as she gazed at me. “The tragedy caused by the accident, that is. You do feel differently this morning, don’t you, Cousin Claire? You do realize what complications your hysterical remarks might have caused, had they been overheard by some lower-class sorts blessed with simian mentalities?”

  “That’s precisely who overheard them,” I said, considering my chances with the burned toast. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I seemed to remember it could function as an emetic in cases of poisoning. “But don’t worry about me, Cousin Maxie. Caron and I will stay in our room until the funeral, and then immediately leave for home. The rest of you can chop up the furniture or dredge the bayou until you find the old will, the new will, or William of Orange.”

  “‘Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?’” Ellie added.

  Stanford ignored all attempts at levity. “I can tell you all one thing—there’s no will hidden in this room. I checked real carefully”—he winked at me—“while I was hunting for my pocket watch.”

  “It’s not in the parlor,” said Phoebe. “I took the opportunity to measure for secret drawers while I looked for a magazine.”

  Ellie lifted her foot to admire her pink toenails. “Nor is it in Miss Justicia’s bedroom, unless it was tucked in the brandy decanter. And later last night, Keith and I searched the kitchen and pantry without any luck.”

  “This is highly frustrating,” Maxie said, putting out her cigarette on a triangle of toast. “As Cousin Claire so obligingly pointed out, we don’t even know how many wills there are floating about like scraps of paper. Miss Justicia was rather fond of signing new ones.”

  Stanford blew his nose, although I doubted he was overwhelmed with grief. “I suppose we’re gonna have to go through his lawyer, whoever the hell he is.”

  “I’ll call D’Armand,” Phoebe said. She left the room at a brisk gait.

  “This is so exciting,” Ellie said as she trailed after her at a more leisurely pace. Her voice drifted back to us as she said, “My goodness, Cousin Phoebe, I do believe all that sedentary research has added a couple of inches to your hips.”

  Maxie nodded at me. “I’m so glad you’ve come to your senses, Cousin Claire. It’s so much better for all concerned if we present a dignified family front. We are Malloys, after all. How is your daughter this morning? Was she so distressed that she felt unable to come downstairs for breakfast?”

  I was too interested in the rumblings of my stomach to produce an explanation, or even a polite lie. “Something like that,” I said. I raised my voice to cover the sounds of a germinal ulcer. “Is this all there is to eat? No cheese grits? No biscuits and red-eye gravy?”

  “The cook will stop at the market on her way to the house,” she said, continuing to reward my avowed penitence with a charitable smile. “You must tell me all about Carlton and his career at the college, Cousin Claire. He and I lost touch many years ago, and I often wondered how he and his little family were getting along.” I opened my mouth to reply, but I was not quick enough. “I spent my childhood summers here, you know. Stanford, Carlton, and I used to have such fun playing in the yard, climbing trees, riding bicycles into town to buy candy, and even venturing out into the bayous in a flat-bottomed boat.”

  “Remember how you squealed when Carlton put the leech down the back of your pretty white pinafore?” Stanford contributed genially. “You peed in your pants, and the two of us laughed so hard, we damn near tumped the boat.”

  She stiffened. “Miss Justicia failed to share your merriment, if I recall. Wasn’t there a little scene on the back porch with a hairbrush?”

  “And a bullfrog in someone’s bed that very same night?” he said, entwining his fingers on his belly and twinkling at her.

  All this good-natured reminiscing reminded me of my conversation with Stanford at dinner. “Was Miller around when you came to visit, Maxie?”

  She and Stanford exchanged quick looks. From their expressions, it was clear that I’d found a nerve, or at least a sensitive spot. Maxie lit another cigarette, aligned the pack and her lighter next to her saucer, and then said, “I saw him every now and then. He was quite a bit older than we were, and usually off with his friends.”

  “And he was killed in Vietnam?” I persisted.

  Maxie stared at Stanford until he bestirred himself to say, “They sent him over there long before those yellow-bellied hippies started marching in the streets.”

  “So Miller wasn’t drafted?” I asked. “He enlisted voluntarily?”

  This time, the look they exchanged was longer, more intense—and equally impossible to decipher. I was preparing to repeat my question when Pauline came into the dining room. She wore the same plaid housedress, but the jogging shoes had been replaced with loafers. Her face was the shade of wet concrete. Her eyes were bloodshot and ringed with red puffiness. Either blinded by her hangover or unwilling to acknowledge us, she drifted across the room and into the kitchen.

  “She looks worse than death warmed over,” Stanford said in a gloating voice. “Guess she’ll think twice before she goes swimming in the scotch again.”

  “I hope so,” Maxie began, “because discretion is—”

  “I have his name and telephone number,” Phoebe said as she entered the room, her notebook in hand. “However, I was unable to arrange an immediate appointment with him, despite my repeated expressions of urgency. His receptionist was extremely rude, not to mention incompetent and uneducated. I doubt she graduated from high school, or even elementary school.” She resumed her seat, threw down the notebook, and pulled off her glasses to rub her eyes. “She has no idea about the Malloy family’s historical significance in the parish, none whatsoever. I had to spell the name for her. Twice.”

  “So what’s the fellow’s name?” Stanford said, cutting short what might have become an entertaining display of indignation.

  Phoebe picked up the notebook and squinted at it. “Rodney Spikenard…a truly tasteless name. I was not at all surprised to discover his receptionist is named Florine.”

  Maxie snorted under her breath. “Did Bethel D’Armand tell you anything regarding this Spikenard person?”

  “He wasn’t very helpful. Spikenard claims to hold a law degree from Yale. He moved to town and opened his practice less than a year ago. He doesn’t participate in any civic organizations, nor does he socialize with fellow members of the bar. That’s all D’Armand would tell me.”

  “I’m not real comfortable dealing with this unknown factor,”
Stanford said. “I wish Miss Justicia’d seen fit to stick with ol’ Bethel. I could call him up right this minute, and he sure wouldn’t give me any nonsense about being too busy to see me. No sir, he’s worked for the Malloys so long he probably knows the first names of all our family skeletons, along with their birthdays and preferences in ice cream flavors.”

  Maxie dismissed the heresy with a dainty laugh. “As if Malloy Manor harbored any family skeletons. When will we be able to see this Spikenard, Phoebe? Were you able to make an appointment for later?”

  “Florine,” Phoebe said, making the name sound like a disease characterized by pustules, “said he had clients all morning, but he would return my call when he was free.”

  Stanford put down his napkin and pushed back his chair. “Then we’ll have to occupy ourselves making arrangements for the funeral until this character sees fit to call. I’ll check with the mortuary, see what all we need to do. Anybody have any suggestions for hymns?”

  Pauline opened the kitchen door. “How about ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’?”

  I decided it was time to rouse Caron. Mumbling something to that effect, I left the dining room and went upstairs. The bed was empty, but the bathroom door muted the sound of shower water running. I brilliantly deduced her whereabouts, and wandered over to the window to look down at the scene of the—I gritted my teeth and made myself continue—accident.

  I was repeating aloud the word, emphasizing the different syllables each time, when the bedroom door opened and Ellie came in. Even in her casual clothes, she radiated more confidence than I’d ever felt, even in graduate school when we’d sat in coffeehouses and condescendingly analyzed the failings of the bourgeoisie.

  “Has Malloy Manor finally gotten to you?” she said as she made herself comfortable on Caron’s bed. “First making faces at Great-Uncle Eustice, and now talking to the bayou?”

  “Very possibly,” I said. I doubted she’d dropped by for a girlish giggle, but I was not in the mood to cooperate by inquiring into her motives. What I was in the mood for contained scandalous amounts of cholestoral and calories, alas.

  “I want to ask you something. You’re sort of a disinterested party in this whole thing. The others would start snorting and harrumphing, and I’m simply too stressed out to deal with them.”

  I sat down on my bed and attempted to smile encouragingly, although my mind was far, far away, at a stainless-steel counter beneath an expansive plastic menu. “You’re welcome to ask, Ellie.”

  “I realize you’re not a lawyer or anything, but you did have to deal with Uncle Carlton’s estate. Suppose Miss Justicia’s will divides the estate among the six of us. If one of us was already dead, would the shares increase to fifths?”

  “Who’s dead?” I asked sharply, visions of special sauce banished in an instant.

  “I said suppose. No one’s dead…although Cousin Pauline did look rather gruesome this morning.” She arranged the pillows and leaned back. “I just wondered what would happen, that’s all. Another question: What if one of the heirs turned out to have murdered Miss Justicia? Would he—or she—still receive a share, or would we then be at fifths instead of sixths?”

  “I thought we all agreed it was an accident,” I said. The water was turned off in the bathroom. I held up my hand, and in a lower voice, said, “Caron doesn’t know what happened last night. Somehow or other, she managed to sleep through the entire thing. This is not a good time to continue our discussion of hypotheticals, Ellie.”

  “What? Oh, sure, I understand.” She gnawed on her lip for a moment, then sat up and clapped her hands. “I have a wonderful idea! Why don’t we run into town and drop by the library? They’ve got scads of books; surely some of them have legal information.”

  “Are there any restaurants in town?”

  “There used to be a café with the greasiest cheeseburgers in the state,” she said, lapsing into her sugary drawl as she regarded my famished expression. “French fries, onion rings, homemade pie.”

  “I’ll meet you downstairs in half an hour,” I said without hesitation. Ellie gave me a little wave and sailed out of the room.

  Seconds later, Caron came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and with her hair dripping, and gave me one of her darkest looks. “What is Going On, Mother? It’s bad enough to be dragged into this remote area and forced to converse with weird people and sleep on a mattress that ought to be standard issue in a penal colony, but then to—”

  I battled an impulse to fling a pillow at her and said, “If you’ll stop shrieking, I’ll answer your question.”

  “I should hope so.” She stalked over to an open suitcase and began to throw clothes over her shoulder in the direction of the bed. Each missile was accompanied by an indictment. “First everyone goes to bed, then everyone stomps around, then everyone vanishes, then everyone starts jabbering downstairs. Cars in the driveway. Doors slamming. Someone chanting, ‘bumpety-bump!’ About the only thing that Didn’t Happen was for some grandfatherly ghost to charge through the bedroom. It’s utterly impossible to get any sleep around here!” Her lower lip shot forward until I doubted she could see over it.

  “Are you finished?” I waited until she nodded. “I know that anything that happens that does not have a direct effect on your immediate comfort and welfare is of minimal concern, but—”

  “All I said was it was impossible to get any sleep. I didn’t say I was some sort of egotistical monster.”

  Her cheeks were flushed, although I wasn’t sure whether out of anger or repentence. I gave her the benefit of the doubt and gently told her about Miss Justicia’s death.

  She looked away, silently studying the wall for a long while. “I’m sorry about it,” she said in a small voice. “I didn’t know my grandmother very well, and I wasn’t sure I liked her very much, but still…it’s too bad. I feel like some invisible thread has been clipped, just like when Dad died. When I was born, there were all these threads that linked me to people all the way back in history. They went through you and Dad, through my aunts and uncles and grandparents. Maybe all my ancestors are watching to see if I do okay, maybe even cheering for me, but they feel farther away when someone dies.”

  I was surprised by her philosophical response. For a brief moment, I wondered if the last three years of hormonal turbulence was abating and she was within sight of maturity. Her analogies in the past had focused on her best friend Inez’s lack of discernment or her arch enemy Rhonda Maguire’s thighs.

  Caron then obliterated my flicker of sanguinity by widening her eyes and adding, “Do you think Miss Justicia left me anything? Not necessarily the house or a lot of money, but maybe one little diamond ring or some old-fashioned brooch with rubies and emeralds?”

  “You are not the only would-be heir lost in speculation,” I said as I picked up my purse. “I’m running an errand with Ellie. Get dressed and go downstairs for breakfast, and then amuse yourself until I return.”

  “With Those People?”

  “Those people happen to be your uncle and your cousins. You know, the threads.”

  I hurried downstairs and out to the porch. Ellie was leaning against the sports car, her hand lightly stroking its side as she stared at the ground.

  “Oh, good,” she said as I joined her. “It’s absolutely morbid inside. Daddy’s on the telephone bickering about casket prices, Pauline’s humming, and Maxie and Phoebe are rummaging through Miss Justicia’s closet for something suitably dignified for her to wear. Malloys wouldn’t be caught dead in inappropriate clothing, you know. Nothing less than the best will do at a funeral.”

  “When’s the funeral?” I asked unenthusiastically. Caron and I had reservations for the following afternoon, and as much as I wanted to look down at the cemetery from several thousand feet, I wasn’t sure I could bring myself to do it. Miss Justicia had been Carlton’s mother, I reminded myself. Caron’s grandmother. And, if I could bring myself to admit it, my mother-in-law.

  Ellie climbed into the driv
er’s side and patted the adjoining leather seat. “As soon as Daddy can get it on the schedule, I’m sure. The service has already been edited down to three hymns, a quick obit, and thank you all ever so much for coming.”

  I arranged myself beside her, and after a moment of piercing character analysis, put on the shoulder belt and made certain it was firmly engaged. A sheen of perspiration formed on my forehead as I noted the array of gauges, flashing buttons, and obscure digital messages. This was not the family station wagon. Ordering myself to continue coolly, I said, “Will the funeral be tomorrow or Monday?”

  I couldn’t hear her reply as the engine roared into action like a 747 and we shot out of the driveway like a 748 (or even a 750). The blast of humid wind flung my hair in my eyes and left me gasping for breath. What I gulped down was thick with dust and grit.

  We arrived at the highway long before the dust had settled in front of the house. The stop sign was not worthy of our attention. With an eerily familiar cackle, Ellie slammed into a gear I would have termed fatal accident and accelerated. Trees melted away as we sped along a mercifully straight and empty road. Billboards were blurred streaks. Normally unflappable crows abandoned lumps of roadkill as we swerved around them. My hair was not only slapping my eyes but also attempting to tear itself free of my scalp. My face felt as if it had been splashed with scalding water.

  “Isn’t this great!” Ellie yelled. She switched on the radio, and explosive rock music began to compete with the howling wind and the ear-shattering sounds of the beleaguered engine.

  “Just great!” I yelled back. I slumped down in the leather seat, covered my face, and, with admirable stoicism, awaited death.

  When the car stopped, the sudden silence was almost as alarming as the previous deluge. I felt Ellie’s fingertips on my shoulder. “Are you feeling ill?” she asked solicitously.

  “A bit of a headache,” I said as I forced my hands away from my face and looked up.