by JOAN HESSS
“If that was a correct assessment of the situation,” Spikenard said.
As mother of the heir, I decided to jump in. “Oh, come now, Stanford, how can we be sure Miller didn’t marry a nice Vietnamese girl and have children?”
“Miller wouldn’t do a fool thing like that, and we’d have heard something if he had.”
“We’ll make inquiries through the military,” Spikenard said. “However, we’re by no means in a position to concern ourselves with that at this time.” He tugged at his collar, and then glanced at a legal pad on which he’d made notes. “As I mentioned previously, Miss Justicia arranged for an appointment for several reasons. One was to request that I begin the process to become administrator of the trust, since she no longer wished Attorney D’Armand to serve in that capacity. She also asked me a great many questions concerning the construction of a valid olographic will.”
“Way to go, Miss Justicia!” Ellie said, brightening.
“Olographic will?” Stanford said. He took out his handkerchief, wiped his neck, and gazed suspiciously at Spikenard. “What’s that?”
“I’ve heard of an holographic will,” Maxie murmured.
“It’s this Napoleonic code thing,” Ellie explained, still sounding much improved from a few minutes earlier. “The h fell off along the way. But this is so exiting, Mr. Spikenard—or may I call you Rodney?” He nodded, amused. “This means that Miss Justicia wrote up her own will, and it’s just as good as one fancied up by a lawyer. I knew she wouldn’t let me down!”
“Hush, Cousin Ellie,” Maxie said coldly. “Mr. Spikenard, be so kind as to elaborate on your remark.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. Malloy-Frazier. Miss Justicia asked me to explain what was necessary for a valid olographic will. I assured her it was not at all complicated, that she needed to date the page at the top, spell out her desires as carefully as possible, and sign it at the bottom. The courts are fairly lenient about their interpretation of the intentions of the testator, as long as it’s written by hand and has the components I mentioned.”
Stanford looked as if a stack of money had been placed beneath his nose and then snatched away, leaving only the scent to tantalize him. “But why would she go to the trouble of writing out this olographic will? Why didn’t she tell you what she wanted and have you write it up?”
Spikenard hesitated, then said, “I’m afraid that falls into the realm of client-attorney confidentiality, Mr. Malloy.”
“Bethel was throwing that phrase around, too,” Ellie said. “I think it’s a cop-out, a way to avoid answering sticky questions.”
Phoebe cleared her throat. “The concept has its origin in English common law, actually. But are you implying, Mr. Spikenard, that Miss Justicia did write an olographic will and that it now delineates the division of the estate?”
“Poppycock!” Stanford said, spinning around to glower at her. “Even if she’d thought about writing up some will, you know her arthritis was something fierce. She couldn’t hold a pencil, much less write a whole mess of who-gets-what.”
“You’re mistaken,” Pauline said from the sideline. She took a folded paper from her pocket. “I found this under Justicia’s desk some days ago.”
“Is it…?” said Stanford, retreating, as if she’d brandished a lethal snake.
“No, it’s a very curt letter to Bethel D’Armand, telling him to”—the pink blotches on Pauline’s cheeks seemed to throb—“get his fat ass out here before her birthday. It’s dated Tuesday. Although the handwriting is unsteady, I did recognize it as Justicia’s.”
“Proving,” Ellie said with a chuckle, “that she was still of sound mind, if not body. So what next, Rodney? I’m assuming Miss Justicia labored over a new will, ever mindful of the needs and desires of her adoring grandchildren. Did she send it to you or what?”
“No; she implied that she wished to read it aloud on the occasion of her birthday dinner. One thing she was most curious about was the possibility of setting out conditions in this olographic will. The condition she seemed to find most interesting was to disinherit any heirs not present in Malloy Manor on that occasion.”
“Then we don’t have to worry about any bastards from Miller’s branch,” Stanford said. “Let met see if I’ve got this straight—if Miss Justicia died without writing this new will, then everything’s divided between little Caron and me. If she did write it, then nobody knows where it is, so it really doesn’t matter either way. Am I right, Spikenard?”
“As an officer of the court, I am obliged to make known that Miss Justicia intended to make an olographic will. A proper search must be conducted, but if it cannot be found, the court will be forced to conclude it does not exist and probate accordingly.”
“Hot damn,” Stanford said, chortling. “How about a bottle of champagne so we can drink a toast to Miss Justicia Malloy of Malloy Manor?”
Maxie put out her cigarette and clamped her hand around Phoebe’s arm. “I think not, Cousin Stanford. Phoebe and I have much to discuss, and we shall do so in private. Mr. Spikenard, it was very kind of you to come to the house. It must have been inconvenient for you, however, and I’m confident that any future conferences can best be conducted in your office.”
“I invited him for dinner,” Phoebe said, her chin nearly flat against her throat. “Earlier, on the telephone, before…”
Stanford grinned. “And why not? How about it, Spike? Maybe the cook can rustle up some chitlins and blackeyed peas.”
“It sounds delightful,” Spikenard murmured. He rearranged the contents of his briefcase as Maxie and Phoebe left the room. After a moment, Ellie grabbed Keith and herded him out of the room. Pauline followed silently.
I studied Spikenard as he continued to shift papers and notebooks. His mouth was set in a rigid line, not to prevent an angry retort but to hold in a smile. I’d seen a similar expression only the evening before, when Miss Justicia had dropped her verbal bomb at the dining room table. Then, I’d wondered why the engagement of a new lawyer had amused her. Now I knew.
“Miss Justicia was quite a character,” I said. “It’s unfortunate that I never had a chance to get to know her. She must have had a…capricious sense of humor.”
“I would agree,” said Spikenard, glancing at me. He closed he briefcase and put it on the floor. “It’s fairly obvious she did not warn the family of—shall we say, the extent of my credentials.”
“So you went to law school up North,” Stanford said. “I find that real interesting. Only last year, I myself had to go to a trade show in New York City, and I was downright scared for my life by the time I left. I stayed at a dumpy little hotel that still cost a bundle, and from my window I could see drug dealers and prostitutes. They didn’t even look up when the police drove by. The doorman, a colored fellow like yourself, kept an eye on me. One night, he had to pull me out of a taxi and kinda roll me into the lobby. I gave him a dollar the next morning.”
“Oh,” Spikenard said wisely. “Now that we’ve finished with business, perhaps I might have a drink?”
“Sure thing. Any lawyer of my dear, departed mother is always welcome to have a drink in the parlor and dinner in the dining room. You just name your poison, and I’ll fix it myself.”
Stanford was in such an expansive mood that the drink was liable to end up in Spikenard’s lap. I hastily took both glasses and went to the cart. “Allow me, Mr. Spikenard,” I said. He admitted to a mild preference for bourbon, and I took the opportunity to do some additional fortifying for myself. “Did you hear about the Baggley murder?” I asked as I sat down.
Spikenard nodded. “It was all over town by noon. The man was somewhat of a fixture at the airport, and left behind a wife and several children, some of whom were actually legitimate.”
Stanford stopped gloating long enough to frown at us. “He a colored boy, too? Get hisself knifed in an alley or something?”
“He was shot several times in the head and left in an irrigation ditch on the far side of the airport,”
said Spikenard. “He was a white boy, about your age, and a taxi driver.”
“Isn’t that peculiar?” Stanford said as he sat down, although not across the room from the cart by any means. He shook his head solemnly. “I guess we’re talking about that fellow from last night, huh? He didn’t strike me as the kind to get himself killed, but you never know. Maybe Ellie was correct when she said he was a criminal who was casing the house to burglarize it at a later time. Must have had a falling-out with his partners or something.”
Spikenard looked mystified, as well he should have. I explained what had transpired at midnight, which only deepened the creases in his forehead. “What’s more,” I said, including Stanford, “I think this impostor took several shots at me this morning at the cemetery.”
“At the cemetery?” Stanford said, apparently less concerned with my continued well-being than with my itinerary. “What were you doing out there, Claire? Ellie mentioned that you’d gone off on your own in town somewhere, but she didn’t say anything about you going to the cemetery.”
Spikenard took a slim gold box from his pocket and lit a cigarette several shades darker than his complexion. “Did you find it of historical significance, Mrs. Malloy?”
“I found more significance in being a target, to tell the truth. It rarely happens, and I’m just not sophisticated enough to laugh it off. The police took it seriously, too.”
“I am deeply relieved that you were unharmed,” Stanford said. “I feel responsible for you, since you’re my baby brother’s widow, and I’d be unable to forgive myself if so much as a single hair on your lovely head was disturbed.”
“Are you sure he was shooting at you?” asked Spikenard.
“No,” I admitted. “I heard gunshots, and something did strike a monument near me. I flung myself behind a vault, and a couple of witnesses frightened him away. All I saw was a flash of yellow; I’m not even sure it was the taxi.”
Stanford leaned back, and after a false start, he managed to get his ankle on his knee and give me a speculative look. “So you might have heard something and you might have seen this taxi, right? Have you considered the possibility that you’re still so agitated from the recent tragedy that you were imagining things?”
I shook my head, albeit indecisively. “Someone did fire a gun at the cemetery, but he may have been doing so randomly rather than attempting to shoot me.” I thought for a moment. “Or merely to frighten me, which he certainly did. He didn’t follow me to the cemetery. I would have noticed any cars along the road, which was depressingly flat and empty. Unless Mrs. D’Armand had a rifle concealed in her cane—”
“Say what?” Stanford said, startled enough to slosh part of his drink onto his leg.
“Mrs. D’Armand was with you?” Spikenard asked with a frown.
I tried to envision the elderly woman aiming her cane at me while Spencer steadied her arm. It wouldn’t play, not even in the most contorted gothic plot. “When Mrs. D’Armand and her son arrived, the sniper fled,” I said. “They left some flowers and offered me a ride back to town. I did some research in the library, and when I went outside, the policemen appeared and brought me back here.”
Stanford was wiping at the wetness, but he still caught what he felt to be the pertinent word. “Research?”
I fluttered my eyelashes at him. “Maxie has inspired me to take an interest in the Malloy family history. I hadn’t realized what splendid contributions the Malloys have made to the parish, all the way back to General Richmond Malloy.”
“Cousin Claire!”
I looked over my shoulder at this suppositional source of inspiration. Everything about her quivered, from her chins to her clenched fists. At best, she could have inspired an apoplectic fit.
“Cousin Claire,” she repeated, “I must speak to you immediately.”
“Oh, really?” I said.
“It’s about your daughter.”
Oh, really, I thought as I finished my drink.
11
I accompanied Maxie to the foyer, where a gunmetal gray storm system had rumbled in from the west. Although there was no flicker of lightning, no reverberation of thunder, no smell of ozone in the air, there might as well have been. Caron Malloy stood by the stairs, and she was not a happy child.
Maxie was equally grim. She glowered at Caron, then turned on me. “Do you know where I found your daughter? Do you?” When I admitted that I didn’t, she paused for a stifling moment, then jabbed an ornate finger at the ceiling and said, “In the attic. She was in the attic.”
“Goodness gracious,” I said, “the child’s incorrigible. Boarding school’s too good for her; reform school’s the only solution. A few years on bread and water and she’ll mend her wicked ways.”
Caron failed to appreciate my wit. “I wasn’t Doing Anything, Mother. I was just messing around up there so I wouldn’t be exposed to these people while in my impressionable teenage years.” She stuck out her lower lip at Maxie. “Besides, there’s not a lock on the door or a sign that says to stay out.”
“Furthermore,” Maxie continued, caught up in her self-imposed role of prosecuting attorney (and if she prevailed, executioner), “she was playing with some of the family’s most treasured heirlooms. Playing, mind you. I was appalled.”
“Well, since she’s likely to be an heir,” I said, shrugging, “she ought to be allowed to play with the looms.”
Caron gave me a shocked look. “I am?”
“We’ll discuss it later.” To Maxie, I said, “Okay, what exactly was she doing in the attic?”
“She was playing…with the dolls.” She narrowly missed a capital letter or two in the pronouncement, which clearly was intended to horrify me. I waited politely. “The dolls have china heads, and many of them are more than one hundred fifty years old. Those of us with knowledge of antiques realize the value of these heads is incredible, yet this girl was using them to stage a tea party.” Her ensuing shudder jangled most of her jewelry.
Caron was devastated with embarrassment at having been caught in such an activity. Her ears were pink and her cheeks scarlet. The pimple on her chin pulsated. Her lower lip was well beyond the tip of her nose and headed for a personal-best record. Refusing to meet my eyes, she said, “I wasn’t playing with them. I arranged them to create a historical setting.”
“Is this where you were yesterday afternoon?” I asked. I did so without a hint of mockery or amusement in my voice, thus earning a plus mark on the maternal tally card.
“So what?” she said, flopping down on the bottom step.
Phoebe came down the stairs, a spiral notebook in her hand, and flipped to a page covered with squiggly pencil marks. “I’m so glad I thought to bring along the appraisal figures. One of the Rohmer dolls had been appraised at over five thousand dollars—in mint condition, that is. Once chip or scratch and the value decreases dramatically.”
Maxie clutched at her heart. “I didn’t stop to examine them. When I chanced upon this child rooting through the trunk in which the dolls are stored, it was all I could do to restrain myself.”
“I wasn’t rooting,” the accused said sullenly.
Maxie was unswayed. “I saw you rooting.”
Ellie came out of the library. “What are we rooting for? The olographic will? If it’ll help us find it, I’ll gladly lead a few rounds of hip-hip’s and hoorays.”
“This is hardly the time for levity, Cousin Ellie,” Phoebe said. “There is a possibility that Cousin Caron has damaged valuable antiques.”
“Half of them are hers,” Ellie said as she sat down beside Caron and patted her knee. “If Daddy dies anytime soon, I’ll make sure you get all the toys, little cousin, along with the house and furniture and any other souvenirs your heart desires. The dull ol’ money will suit me just fine.”
“What is she talking about?” Caron asked me. She had recovered from her initial discomfiture, and I could see tiny little dollar signs glinting in her eyes as she began to piece together the references to h
er status. Her eyes were as green as I’d ever seen them. Mint green, that is—and not the kind of mint one puts in juleps.
“I shall return to the attic to examine the dolls,” Maxie said. “For the child’s sake, I hope there’s been no chippage.”
Ellie clapped her hands. “Oooh, let’s all go together. I haven’t been up there for years, but I seem to remember all these old trunks filled with funky clothes. I used to spend hours and hours up there on rainy afternoons.” She fluffed back her hair and gave us a view of her profile. “It’s what inspired me to follow a career in the theater, dahlings.”
Maxie and Phoebe were stomping up the stairs. As Caron, Ellie, and I followed them, I said, “I thought you worked for a television station.”
“I do, but I’m hardly the weather girl. The noon talk show, commercials, and for a fleeting time, the star of Peppy the Clown’s Cartoon Circus. I think one of the requirements for the children to be on the show was a yucky nose. It was dreadful, but at the same time very challenging.”
“I’m sure it was,” I murmured.
We arrived at the second floor, and in parade formation, went past the portraits and bedroom doors to a door at the end of the corridor. It was open, and beyond it was a steep flight of narrow wooden steps. Our footsteps echoed noisily, as did acidic remarks about the age of the dolls and the consequences of chippage.
The attic was an interesting arrangement of angles and recesses. The main room was large, with two alleys leading to filth-encrusted windows. A second room, partially visible behind a rack of clothes, appeared to be a newspaper burial ground. Trunks and cardboard boxes were stacked haphazardly, some listing and others reduced to shadowy rubble. Hatboxes formed slender columns, suitcases more substantial barriers along the walls. Chairs with splintery seats were crowded next to three-legged tables and drawerless dressers. The only light came from a bulb at the end of a cord; its pale glow reminded me of the moonlight that had made the backyard a surreal stage for Miss Justicia’s death.
