by JOAN HESSS
No sniper stood at the top of the row, but that did little to relieve me. There were more than a hundred dandy places of concealment between the arch and me. I retreated to consider the situation, and concluded it was quite grim. I was several miles from town, and with the exception of the gnarly men on the bench, only one person knew where I was—and that person possessed a gun and a very bad attitude.
I had two choices. One was to stand up and find out if I was still a target. The other was to remain where I was indefinitely. After all, in a mere eight hours, it would be dark. I was still clutching the carryout order. As long as my unseen stalker was willing to wait, I certainly was. But would he be so accommodating? Although I was by now drowning in sweat, I began to shiver as though I was in a blizzard.
The sound of a car door slamming interrupted my bleak analysis of my chances. A querulous female voice demanded assistance, and a male voice answered soothingly. I wiggled forward, wondering exactly how painful a bullet between the eyes might prove to be, and poked my head out.
An elderly woman, dressed in black and using a cane, was being escorted beneath the arch. A younger man held her arm and carried an arrangement of flowers. Neither looked especially threatening, nor at all interested in terminating me.
I rose cautiously. The two seemed startled by my dramatic entrance, but after a moment of hesitation and a brief conference, they continued on their way. I wasn’t yet ready to find out whether the sniper was crouched behind a vault and willing to sacrifice a pair of witnesses, but as I waited, I heard a car engine come to life. I stepped forward in time to see a flash of canary yellow as the vehicle drove down the road. It was the same color as the taxi that had brought us from the airport.
I sank back down on Mr. Marileau. The driver had disappeared, but now it seemed he had rejoined in the game. His arrival the previous night was mysterious; this was totally bewildering. Was he so eager for a fare that he was prepared not only to claim the existence of one at midnight but also to shoot one in broad daylight?
The woman and her companion were several rows away. She was issuing orders about the placement of the vase, while he moved it accordingly. I smoothed down my hair, wiped my face, and tried to smile as I walked toward them.
“Did you happen to notice the taxi when you arrived?” I said in as normal a tone as I could manage.
“No.” She pointed a gloved finger at the flowers. “Over that way, but just an inch or so. Oh, you are such a dolt. I want them centered properly. No, no, no, now you’ve moved them too far. Do try to listen, Spencer.”
“Sorry,” the man said, shrugging at me. He made a minute adjustment to the vase of flowers and waited for a critique.
“Then could you please tell me where to find the Malloy family?” I said.
The woman halted her harrangue long enough to suggest I search the back row in the farthest corner, then resumed with renewed peevishness. I left Spencer to his Herculan task and zigzagged among the vaults to the corner.
The Malloys surrounded an impressive monument with phallic overtones. They’d been inhabiting the cemetery for well over a century, I determined, and in vaults of all sizes and degrees of adornment. Carlton had made known his desire to be cremated in Farberville rather than to be shipped home to the family plot. I could understand why. Here one did not sense the biblical admonishment of “ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” It was difficult not to visualize the remains of bodies forever held in abeyance from the earth by marble boxes. There could be no transition back to nature.
I grew gloomier and gloomier as I searched for Miller’s vault, and felt only a twinge of triumph when I finally found it at the edge of the plot. I brushed a patina of dust off the bronze plaque. Miller Randolph Malloy had been born on July 17,1939, and had died on December 16, 1960. Purportedly, he was Resting in Peace.
My mission accomplished, I headed for the arch and the long walk back to LaRue. I’d learned the date of Miller’s death, and I’d also learned that someone was so vehemently opposed to my well-being that he would indulge in the extreme behavior of shooting at me. The someone was likely to be the taxi driver, but it was impossible to imagine what his motives could be. I’d paid the fare and given him an adequate, if not astronomical, tip. I’d arranged for him to provide us with transportation back to the airport. As far as I was concerned, we’d both conducted ourselves properly for what was nothing more than an ephemeral professional relationship.
I stuck my hands in my pockets and began to walk along the side of the road. I was more lost in confusion than engrossed in thought; nevertheless, I almost stumbled into the ditch when a voice said, “Are you in need of a ride?”
Spencer smiled from the interior of the car. The woman sat in the backseat, staring forward with tight-lipped disapproval.
“Thank you,” I said, getting in the front seat before she could counteract the offer. “I didn’t realize the cemetery was so far from town.”
“May I assume you’re a Malloy?” the woman asked icily.
I glanced over my shoulder. “I’m Claire Malloy, Carlton’s widow.”
“So I see. When is Justicia’s funeral to be?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, struggling not to be intimidated by her hostility. “Stanford was making arrangements when I left this morning.”
“I shall attend, but only out of respect for the family’s prominence. Justicia behaved scandalously these last few years. Many of us became unwilling to call upon her, or to welcome her into our homes.”
“Mother,” Spencer said warningly, “there’s no need to speak ill of the dead. The Malloy family served the community generously over many decades. Miss Justicia herself donated money to the hospital and was a pillar in the church until she became…dehabilitated by arthritis and the deterioration of her mental faculties.” He gave me a faint smile. “Where may I take you, Mrs. Malloy?”
“The library, please.”
“What were you doing at the cemetery?” he asked, doing his best to drown out the grumbles from the backseat.
“Verifying a date,” I said.
“Oh, really?” Spencer glanced nervously in the rearview mirror, and his hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“I saw you at Miller’s tomb,” the woman said accusingly.
“He was my husband’s oldest brother,” I said, “and I was curious about him.”
“About his life—or his death?”
I gestured weakly. “About him.”
We arrived without further conversation, but as I climbed out of the car, the woman in the backseat said, “Allow me to apologize for my disparaging remarks about Justicia. We were friends for many, many years, and it was most difficult for me to accept the recent changes in her personality. I shall see you at the funeral service, Mrs. Malloy.”
“Of course, Mrs….?”
“D’Armand, Mrs. Bethel D’Armand.” She nodded dismissively at me, then poked the back of Spencer’s head with her cane. “This is not our final destination. Do stop gawking.”
I was the one who was gawking, but I closed my mouth and stepped back as the car pulled away. As I went up the steps to the library, I asked myself why I’d found her identity so amazing. I was unable to answer myself.
The library was cool and quiet. The rows of books were encased in dark wooden shelves, and the tables were antiques. Sofas provided seating for the patrons who thumbed magazines and newspapers. Two teenage girls giggled as they jostled each other to read what I presumed was a racy passage, despite the grim scrutiny of a woman hunched over a seed catalog.
A pleasant young librarian listened to my request for newspapers from the last month of 1960, settled me at a microfiche machine, and returned shortly with a canister. “At the time, there was only a weekly paper,” she whispered. “What precisely are you looking for?”
“An obituary,” I whispered back. She frowned but left me alone. I fed the film into the machine and located the issue from the thi
rd week in December. The front page contained little of interest, the pressing concerns of the week being a slump in cotton prices and a fire in a feed store. I moved on to the second page, and found what I was searching for—but not at all what I’d expected. Miller’s obituary was several paragraphs long. He was the son of…He’d attended…He was survived by…And he’d died a hero, the recipient of the Purple Heart and the Bronze Star, among other medals.
How very odd, I thought as I leaned forward and reread the final paragraph. Sergeant Miller Randolph Malloy had not died in disgrace; he’d been killed by an enemy mine while on a training maneuver with a South Vietnamese unit. Several of the medals had been awarded posthumously.
Why had the family decided to hush up the existence of a hero? It was right up Maxie and Phoebe’s ancestoral alley; they should have delighted in it. Stanford had no reason to choke on the name, nor Carlton to fail to mention his brother. Bethel D’Armand had blanched when I’d asked him an innocent question, and his wife had implied I’d done something dastardly at the cemetery.
I replaced the film in the canister and returned it to the desk, then went outside to stand on the top step.
Nothing out of the ordinary was taking place in LaRue. Pickup trucks and cars were still moving in the main street, and pedestrians were still doing the same on the sidewalks. My chums on the bench in front of the barbershop were sitting where I’d left them, and, from all appearances, had not moved even an inch. The sun was higher and hotter, and the sky perhaps paler, but it all looked depressingly normal to someone who was finding everything, as Ellie would say, muddlesome.
“Miz Malloy!”
I wrenched myself out of my befogged state. A car had stopped, and the two policemen who’d been at the scene of Miss Justicia’s accident were regarding me. Dewberry, the skinny one, was in the driver’s seat. Puccoon sat beside him.
“Good afternoon,” I said.
“Had a call about you over an hour ago,” Puccoon said with a smirk. “Miss Ellie reported you missing, and asked us to keep an eye out for you. Guess she thought you were in some sort of trouble, rather than merely catching up on your reading in the library.”
“I went for a walk earlier, and misjudged how long I’d be gone. As you can see, I’m not missing anymore.” I stopped and tried to decide whether to tell them about the incident in the cemetery. “I had a frightening experience, though, and I suppose I ought to report it.”
“Tell you what, Miz Malloy,” said Puccoon, “why don’t you get in the backseat and tell us all about it while we run you out to the house?”
I was surprised by the invitation, but not so much that I declined it. Once Dewberry pulled into the traffic, I said, “Thank you for the ride, Officers.”
“It was Miss Ellie’s idea,” said Puccoon. “We’re hardly in the business of delivering people all over the parish. But what with Mr. Stanford being who he is and all, I told the little lady we’d oblige her, since we’re going out there, anyway. What did you want to report? More suspicions about the accident?”
“Someone took several shots at me in the cemetery. When a pair of potential witnesses arrived, he left in what looked like a taxi.”
Dewberry swiveled his head to stare at me. “Bright yellow?”
“It was the same color as the one I took from the airport yesterday. I only saw it as it left, and I couldn’t see the driver.”
“Who were those witnesses? They see anything?” demanded Puccoon.
I had not expected them to take my story seriously, in that I knew I was not high on their popularity list. “The witnesses were Mrs. Bethel D’Armand and her son, Spencer. I asked them if they’d noticed the taxi, and they both implied they hadn’t. Surely you know the identity of the driver. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find him, should it?”
“We already found the taxi driver,” Puccoon said.
“You did?” I said excitedly. “Did he have a gun in the taxi?”
“He wasn’t in his vehicle, ma’am. He was in an irrigation ditch several miles past the airport. Been shot in the head several times.”
“But I was at the cemetery a little more than an hour ago. How’d you find his body so quickly?”
“One of the other officers found him about three hours ago. The driver’s name is Baggley, and he’s been driving that same cab for fifteen years, maybe more. What he hasn’t been doing is taking shots at you out at the cemetery. In fact, he hasn’t been doing much of anything except bloating up for the best part of two or three days.”
I leaned forward and grabbed onto the back of the seat. “I don’t understand. If he was already dead, then who was driving the taxi? And what about last night?”
Dewberry hit the brakes and we came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the road. “What about last night?”
I told them about the driver’s appearance and disappearance during the search for Miss Justicia. They both began to rumble unpleasantly, forcing me to point out that they themselves had opted to conduct only the most cursory of investigations.
Dewberry thanked me for the criticism, although he seemed to miss its constructive potential. Beside him, Puccoon cursed under his breath, then said, “Describe the man who was driving the taxi when you arrived at the airport.”
“Young, pale and fleshy, and dirty,” I said. “He knew the area, or the location of Malloy Manor, and he expressed some familiarity with the family’s reputation.” I closed my eyes and ran through the scene in the foyer. “He must not be local, however. No one recognized him.”
“Miss Justicia and Miss Pauline hardly ever came into town,” said Puccoon. “The others, like Mr. Stanford and his two, only come back to visit every once in a while.” He scratched his head. “She’s sure as hell not describing Baggley, Dewey. What about that stranger we picked up for brawling last week?”
“Fifty years old and his face carved up worse than a school desk,” Dewberry said as he resumed driving. “Other than that, and the snake tattoos all over his hands, it might be a positive ID.”
I uncurled my fingers and sat back, although I was far from relaxed. “So this person, identity unknown, killed the owner of the taxi and decided to make a little money picking up fares at the airport. Later he realized he wasn’t making enough and came to Malloy Manor with the story that someone called. Today he dropped by the cemetery and decided to engage in a bit of target practice. Who is he?”
“We’re looking into it, ma’am,” Puccoon said. “We don’t know that he murdered Baggley, but we’d sure like to hear his side of the story. Odds are we’re dealing with a psychotic. We’ll pick him before too long, in any case. There ain’t a whole lot of places to hide a bright yellow taxi. I don’t want to be snoopy, but just why were you at the cemetery?”
I considered lying, but at the last moment adopted a different ploy in hopes that candor would beget candor. “I was curious about Miller Malloy, and I went out there to ascertain the date of his death. When I returned, I found the obituary at the library. He was quite a hero when he died thirty years ago. Full military honors and lots of medals.” I held my breath and willed either of them to offer information.
“Before my time,” said one.
“Mine, too,” said the other.
9
As we entered the house, Officers Dewberry and Puccoon pulled off their hats. Their expressions were befittingly respectful (or toady, some might opine) as they asked me to find Mr. Stanford and inquire if they might have a word with him.
While I was debating which way to go, Pauline glided out of the parlor. Her face looked less puffy than it had earlier, but the only signs of color were two asymmetrical circles of rouge. The plaid housedress had been discarded for a dark gray dress. “Oh, here you are, Cousin Claire. We’ve all been worried about you.” She began to sag as she saw the policemen by the door, but stiffened herself and inclined her head. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Is there something you wanted?”
“They want to speak to Stanford,” I said.
“I was just going to look for him.”
“He’s using the telephone in the library. I shall be happy to convey any messages to him,” said Pauline, attempting to seize the role of mistress of the manor and run with it.
A stumbling block came out of the hallway. “Yes?” Maxie said to the policemen. “I thought we’d passed beyond the necessity of police intervention in this most stressful period of mourning. Has Cousin Claire”—ping, ping—“brought you here for a purpose?”
“They gave me a lift,” I said, then went into the library before she could get out a single incredulous snort.
Stanford was indeed on the telephone, barking as furiously as a hound that had treed a raccoon. “Don’t give me this crap! What do you mean we can’t have the service until Monday? Are you telling me that some old cleaning woman’s more important than Miss Justicia Malloy?” He paused. “I don’t care how long that old woman’s been dead! Three days, five days—so what? You’ve got a refrigerator, don’t you?” His cheeks ballooned as he paused again. “So pack some dry ice in the coffin, for pity’s sake. Nobody’ll notice, anyway. If she was a hundred years old, she started to decompose a long time ago. You listen up, and listen up good, buddy boy—my great-great-grandfather practically founded this parish, and not once since then has the Malloy family been treated with such disregard! You either reschedule that other service or be prepared to kiss your overpriced casket business good-bye!”
He slammed down the receiver and wiped his forehead, all the while cursing most creatively. When he spotted me, he spread his hands in apology. “I don’t believe I heard you come in, Claire. I was havin’ a slightly heated conversation with an ol’ friend about funeral arrangements.”
“And when is the funeral to be held?”
“Not till Monday morning at eleven, damn it. He’s got some mummified woman who died early in the week, and he was trying to act as if she was more important than my dear, departed mother.” He wiped his eyes, and, in a ragged voice, added, “May she rest in peace as soon as possible.”
