Death by the Light of the Moon

by JOAN HESSS

  We were parked in front of a squatty brick building, artfully landscaped with bleached grass and a solitary, leafless tree. A sign proclaimed it the LaRue Public Library. LaRue itself appeared to be a moderately prosperous town of perhaps ten or so thousand residents. One-and two-story buildings lined either side of the main street. There was a fair amount of traffic, predominantly of the pickup truck persuasion, but with a well-seasoned sedan every now and then. Pedestrians moved slowly but steadily along the sidewalks. A bench outside one establishment was lined with elderly men in caps. It looked a great deal more civilized than I felt.

  “I’m going to pop in here,” Ellie said as she removed the keys and opened the car door. “The café’s in the next block. After you’ve had something to eat, why don’t you come back and read legal textbooks with me? We can pretend we’re college students boning up for a big test.”

  “How entertaining,” I said, then got out of the car, waited until my knees stopped wobbling, and walked up the sidewalk. The department store promised incredible deals on back-to-school clothes, and the drugstore abutting it promised as much on notebooks and pencils. The occupants of the bench, which proved to be in front of the barbershop, eyed me suspiciously despite my smile.

  I gradually became aware of scrutiny from within stores, from within vehicles on the street, and even from within the occasional offices. I paused in front of a window to check my hair; it was slightly aboriginal but hardly worthy of more than a sneer. My pants and shirt were unremarkable. My lipstick had been sucked off during the drive, and I still looked pale, but I found nothing in my general appearance that alarmed me.

  A trio of women stopped on the opposite sidewalk and gawked with the subtlety of malnourished refugees. A carload of teenagers almost came to a halt in the middle of the street, and only the blare of a horn propelled them back into motion. A stout male clerk came to the doorway of a record store to stare at me.

  It was disconcerting, to say the least. My steps faltered as I contemplated a retreat to the library, where I might cower between the shelves while Ellie pored over laws of intestacy. My stomach protested such a craven act. I continued on numbly, feeling as if I were Lady Jane Grey transversing the lawn of the Tower of London—for the last time.

  Moments later, I found the cafe. A faded menu with curled edges and the residue of many generations of fly droppings was taped in the window. A bell tinkled as I opened the door. Much like the shrill cadence of a burglar alarm, the sound was enough to cause conversations to be cut short and all eyes to turn to determine the identity of such a bold intruder.

  The stools along the counter were occupied, as were the booths along the wall and a few tables in between. Saturday mornings at the cafe were obviously as busy as Saturday nights at trendy New York bistros—where the patrons enjoyed a certain amount of anonymity. Here, I did not.

  Rather than an oily maître d’, an obese waitress approached me. “He’s in his regular booth,” she told me with enough of an accent to give each word roughly twice it’s assigned syllables.

  I felt a mischievous urge to mock her, but I managed to squelch it. For all I knew, I might be interrupting the weekly meeting of the Ku Klux Klan. “Who’s in his regular booth?” I asked.

  “Why, Lawyer D’Armand, honey. That’s why you’re here, ain’t it?”

  “I’m here to have something to eat.”

  “Then you just settle in back there in the corner and I’ll fetch you a menu.” She put her hands on her hips and waited impatiently. All around us, heads nodded and eyes darted from my face to the farthest booth. The consensus seemed to be that I needed to quit stalling and do as I was told.

  “I’ll have a cheeseburger and fries,” I said, “and an order of the same to go in a few minutes.” I then found a path through the tables to the booth occupied by Bethel D’Armand, the ex-family retainer.

  He stood up as I approached the table. Based on what I’d heard, I assumed he was of Miss Justicia’s generation. His silver hair was thin but neatly styled; in contrast, his bristly white eyebrows shot out as if he’d been struck by lightning. His face was covered with hairline wrinkles, and his teeth were much too even to be original. His white suit was dotted with cigar ashes, the origin of said ashes smoldering in his hand. Despite the smoke, I could smell cologne from several feet away.

  “Mrs. Malloy,” he said, extending a manicured hand, “I am delighted to meet you, although my pleasure is diminished by the tragedy that has settled like a heavy fog upon all of us.” Still holding my hand, he looked past me and raised his voice. “As I’m sure you all know, this is Mr. Carlton’s widow. She and her daughter came all the way down here to LaRue for Miss Justicia’s eightieth birthday, which would have been this very day, had she not been snatched from us and carried aloft to the waiting arms of her beloved husband, Hadley Malloy.”

  The ladies and gentlemen (using the terms charitably) of the jury offered a smattering of applause, but when he failed to continue the eulogy, they resumed eating, drinking coffee, and no doubt doing their best to overhear whatever might be said in the immediate future.

  “I wasn’t aware we had an appointment,” I said as I sat down across from him.

  “Neither was I, Mrs. Malloy. Even though I’ve retired, I still like to drop by the café every morning to visit with my friends.” He put down the cigar to pat my hand. “I do hope you’ll consider me a friend. I knew Carlton from the day he was born, and I watched him grow up. I must say I was secretly pleased when he defied his mother by choosing to stay in the realm of academia. If he hadn’t had such an untimely death, I’m sure he would have outshone us all.”

  “I’m sure he would have,” I murmured, keeping an eye out for the food I’d ordered, “or at least have been awarded tenure.”

  “And I was so distressed to hear about Miss Justicia, for whom I had nothing but the deepest admiration and respect. She was the epitome of Southern gentility.”

  I forgot about my hunger pangs and gazed through the smoke. D’Armand was playing the role perfectly, from his eloquent pronouncements to his mournful smile. With a small cough to express my distaste for either his habit or his facade (he was welcome to choose one), I said, “Was she the epitome of Southern gentility when she fired you?”

  “Fired me? I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” He stopped as the waitress arrived with my food, then continued in a quieter voice. “I informed her that I intended to retire within a few months, and suggested she find a younger attorney who would be able to handle her affairs for years to come.”

  I resisted the urge to stuff the cheeseburger into my mouth in the manner of an ill-bred chipmunk. “Did you personally recommend the new man?”

  “Rodney Spikenard? Why, I seem to recall passing his name along to Miss Justicia, but I didn’t recommend him per se. He does have impressive credentials, however, and I certainly did nothing to discourage her in the matter. He’s young, hungry for work, and…” D’Armand picked up the cigar, and, with a faint look of amused complacency on his face, inhaled deeply.

  “And what?” I said.

  “Interested, Mrs. Malloy, interested. He has a solid background in the field of wills and trusts. He was somewhat alarmed when I mentioned the quantity of documents, but he seemed eager to tackle them and familiarize himself with the family’s affairs.”

  A man in overalls approached the table and asked D’Armand about a lawsuit that involved fences and heated remarks made over them. I grabbed the cheeseburger, which well might have been the greasiest in a state that thrived on offshore oil rigs, and managed a few ladylike mouthfuls. Once the man left, I swallowed and said, “The family’s already attempted to contact Spikenard. They’re in an uproar about the estate. No one seems to know what was in the previous will—or if a new one supercedes it.”

  “I’m sure they are concerned,” he said blandly. “I would be.”

  “Do you have any idea if indeed Miss Justicia revoked the will of”—I thought for a moment—“five or s
ix years ago that settled the bulk of the estate on a sperm bank?”

  He gave me a shocked frown. “I am an adamant believer in the sanctity of client-attorney communications, Mrs. Malloy. Even if I felt it would prove of benefit to the probation and eventual dispersal of the estate, I would never betray that confidence.”

  “I just thought I’d mention it,” I said as I crammed a few french fries in my mouth.

  “I’m sure Rodney will enlighten all of you when the times comes.” D’Armand seemed in awe of the velocity with which I was eating but was too polite to stare openly. He gave me a few minutes to finish wolfing down the food and licking my fingers, then said, “Have the date and time of the funeral been settled as of yet?”

  “You’ll have to ask Stanford,” I said as I wiped my chin with a napkin and leaned back against the seat. “I’m merely the widow of the prodigal son, and no one feels compelled to keep me informed.”

  “I assume I’ll be asked to be a pallbearer. It seems to happen more often these days, although it’s not unexpected. Most of my friends have passed away, and I keep glancing over my shoulder, waiting for my turn.”

  “It’s unexpected for a mother to outlive two of her three sons,” I said casually. “Carlton died ten years ago, but Miller’s been dead for more than thirty years, hasn’t he?”

  “Miller?” D’Armand croaked. His hand shook as he took a drink of coffee, and when he replaced the cup, it rattled in the saucer.

  I waited, wondering why he looked as if the Grim Reaper had just walked through the door.

  8

  Ellie Malloy walked through the door, spotted us in the last booth, and continued across the room, nodding graciously at a selected few who mumbled condolences. “Why, Uncle Bethel,” she said as she sat down beside him and kissed his cheek, “I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age. What have you been up to, you sexy ol’ scoundrel?”

  He beamed at her. “And you’re prettier every time I see you. How long has it been since you brightened us with a visit? Five years?”

  “Not long enough,” she said, laughing. “Doesn’t anything ever change around here, Uncle Bethel?”

  They lapsed into a conversation about people I did not know and recent local events about which I cared even less. The waitress refilled my coffee cup, and I listened idly to them while I pondered D’Armand’s reaction to hearing Miller’s name. Stanford and Maxie had reacted in an odd way, also. And the man I’d married until death did us part had not once mentioned the existence of an older brother.

  Maxie had pooh-poohed the possibility of family skeletons, but I suspected I’d chanced upon one hidden deep within a closet of Malloy Manor. I tried to piece together what I knew about the elusive Miller. He’d been twelve years older than Carlton, which meant he was born circa 1939. He’d died in Vietnam in 1960, at the age of—I dipped my finger in my coffee and did a bit of calculation on the tabletop—twenty-one (circa, that is). Had he died in disgrace, court-martialed for some reason? The atrocities committed against civilians were news in the late sixties and early seventies, but that did not preclude an earlier existence. The same applied to fragging, or the less interesting commission of an ordinary crime.

  Even if that was so, I told myself, thirty years was a long time to remain worried about it, or to act as though I’d suggested we dig up the body and prop it in a chair at the dining room table. Miss Justicia’s death might be nothing more than an unfortunate accident, but the mystery surrounding Miller’s life/death seemed worthy of my attention.

  Ellie and D’Armand stopped their conversation while she ordered lunch. Once the waitress was gone, I said, “Did you find any answers at the library?”

  “It was absolutely muddlesome,” she said, sighing. “Louisiana’s blessed with some silly system called the Napoleonic Code. Every time I came across something promising, there’d be a footnote that said it didn’t apply here. All I wanted was a little enlightenment about wills and things like that. What’s a girl to do, Uncle Bethel?”

  “I have all the law books you could ever want. You’re welcome to come by the office and look through them.”

  “You’re a sweetheart, but I really do think Auntie Claire and I ought to get back to the house. I haven’t decided what to wear to the funeral, and I can almost hear Maxie’s snorts this minute. Why don’t I just ask you a few questions?”

  I already knew the questions, and I wasn’t sure the answers would interest me. “Ellie,” I said quickly, “I think I’ll have a look around town. Why don’t I meet you in front of the library in about an hour?”

  “Doing a little research yourself, Mrs. Malloy?” D’Armand said as he studied me with a shrewd expression. The amiable Clarence Darrow pose slipped for a moment, and I felt a chilly breeze from across the table.

  “Panty hose for the funeral,” I said. I took my bill to the front counter, paid it, and waited until a sack with Caron’s lunch was brought from the kitchen.

  Thus armed with provisions, I left the café and started back toward the library to see what I could dig up—in the newspaper files rather than in the cemetery. As I walked past the stores, however, the circa drifted into my mind and I realized I had no definite dates, nor did I have an entire day to work my way through an entire year.

  My facetious thought about the cemetery evoked one of my more brilliant flashes of inspiration. I halted in front of the toothless wonders on the barbershop bench. “Would one of you be so kind as to give me directions to the local cemetery?” I asked.

  I assumed I’d spoken in perfectly reasonable English, but their blank looks did not reassure me. “The cemetery?” I repeated, dearly hoping we wouldn’t be reduced to a round of charades (four syllables; first one rhymes with ‘dim’ as in witted).

  “Down that way a piece,” one of them finally conceded. He spat in the direction of the side street next to the shop.

  I winced. “How far is it?”

  “A piece. Not what I’d consider a far piece, but a piece,” he said after a moment of what was clearly pained thought. The other three nodded with equal animation, and one mouthed piece, as if it was an unfamiliar word.

  I thanked them and took off down the indicated street, not sure how they differentiated between a “piece” and a “far piece.” I went past several small shops, a school with a haunted air about it, and shabby houses set increasingly far apart. Then, to my dismay, I found myself at what I perceived to be the edge of town. I shaded my eyes from the glare and strained to see anything in the distance that could be the cemetery. Beyond the pasture was a mobile home, and beyond it, a stretch of brush and scraggly trees that hinted of swampland. On the other side of the road was an endless field dotted with small green bundles.

  My watch was on the bedside table, but I figured I had at least forty-five minutes to find the cemetery and Miller’s tombstone. “Not what I consider a far piece,” I told myself as I headed down the road.

  As I may have mentioned in previous narratives, I do not care to perspire, and I never do so voluntarily. I am opposed to the very concept of sweat. I have never owned a sweatshirt, and I rarely wear sweaters. I will admit that Lieutenant Peter Rosen has elicited a glow on more than one occasion, perhaps even a damp flush. That was an entirely different matter, and one in which I was a willing participant.

  Striding along what soon became a dirt road, however, was hardly in that category. My brisk pace was causing dribbles to run down my back, salt to flood my eyes, and an intolerable stickiness to spread beneath my arms. The local population of mosquitoes must have been dieting for months; they more than compensated as they swarmed in to feast on every patch of exposed skin. My scalp began to tingle moistly and my curls to droop in a most unattractive manner. The corners of my mouth followed.

  It goes without saying that I was not in a cheerful mood when I finally found a rusty wrought-iron arch with paint-flecked letters. “I might consider it a far piece,” I growled as I went under the arch.

  To my initial surprise,
I was not confronted by a grassy expanse of rows of tombstones. Here the caskets were placed in concrete and marble vaults above the ground, giving it the illusion of a vast field of scattered blocks. Vague recollections of the more renowned cemeteries in New Orleans provided me with an explanation. We were at sea level. Interment below ground was unthinkable; the omnipresent seepage precluded it.

  The vaults were of all sizes, from the starkly compact to the expensive affairs with coy cherubim and simpering angels, and of all states of maintenance, from pristine to mossy and corroded. Based on the dates on the nearest vaults, the residents of LaRue had been in need of eternal housing for more than 150 years. There seemed to be dozens of vaults down every row, and dozens of rows confronting me. The Malloy family could be stashed anywhere, I thought bleakly.

  I used the hem of my shirt to blot my face, then squared my shoulders and went down the row in front of me, scanning names. When I reached the end, I headed up the next one. By now, I’d left Ellie at least an hour ago, and still faced the interminable walk back to town.

  “So what?” I said aloud, hoping to startle the mosquitoes into allowing me a brief respite. I sat down on someone named Marileau and wiped my face again. The worst scenario was that Ellie would grow tired of waiting and drive back to the house. I would be forced to call and request that someone pick me up. I might even end up with a chauffeur who observed the speed limit and shunned the radio.

  It would also give me time to find out what I needed from the library files, that being the point of what had evolved into a mission of madness—and sweat. Feeling much better about standing Ellie up, I stood up. Seconds later, I heard a pinging noise. I glanced down at Mr. Marileau, wondering if my modest weight had caused the marble to crack. Another ping sounded louder, and a puff of dust exploded from a neighboring monument.

  I cannot say if the third ping caused a puff, because I dove to the ground and squirmed my way between two vaults. The ground was as unrelenting as concrete. A noseful of dust elicited several sneezes that made my eyes water and my head reverberate. It was certainly the appropriate place for one’s life to pass before one’s eyes, I thought as I peered around the base.