by JOAN HESSS
In the middle of a cleared area was a child’s table, with four chairs populated by unblinking, unsmiling (and I dearly prayed, unscathed) dolls dressed in ruffled gowns. In front of the dolls were mismatched cups and saucers, and in the center of the table was a vase with a handful of droopy flowers.
“Oh, dear,” Maxie groaned as she and Phoebe bent over the dolls. “This one is the Rohmer, isn’t it?” She continued to mutter as they examined each hard china head for scratches.
Caron watched the scene with her arms folded, her expression flat. Only a person with a death wish would have commented on the childishly charming scene.
I did risk a closer look, however, and let out a whoosh of surprise. Pulling Caron to a corner, I whispered, “Where did you find that decanter?”
“Don’t start on me,” she said coldly. “I’ve had more than enough people howling at me already. Besides, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, and, in any case, I don’t appreciate—”
“The vase on the table. Where’d you find it?”
“The old glass thing? It was cracked, and someone had thrown it away. I didn’t steal it from the china hutch, Mother. Despite what Some People say, I’m not some sort of criminal. How was I supposed to know those dolls are worth zillions of dollars? Personally, I think they’re pathetically old-fashioned, especially in those dreary, moth-eaten clothes. Barbie wouldn’t be caught dead in an outfit like that!”
“Where did you find it?” I persisted.
“In the yard, if you must know. It was half-buried in the leaves under a bush by the library window. But it was broken, so I really don’t see what the big deal is.”
All this sibilant murmuring had attracted the attention of the other three, who were now staring at Caron and me.
“Something is broken?” Maxie said in a tight voice, no doubt gripped by the specter of a plummeting value. “What else has this dear little cousin put her hands on?”
I shook my head. “Caron found something that was already broken, and brought it up here to hold flowers.”
Ellie squatted beside the table. “Would you look at this! It’s the brandy decanter from Miss Justicia’s room, or a damn good replica. Where did Caron find it?”
“Outside Miss Justicia’s room, in the shrubbery,” I said.
Maxie squatted next to Ellie, although it clearly was more of a physical challenge. “It’s cracked,” she said grimly, “and there’s some sort of brownish stain. Isn’t this…?”
Phoebe flipped open the ubiquitous notebook. “Yes, Waterford, valued at three hundred fifty dollars, perhaps more in a private sale. Now, of course, it’s worthless.”
“I didn’t break it,” Caron said, inching backward until she bumped into a moose head. “I was wandering around outside this morning, and the sun happened to catch it at just the right angle. I had to crawl under a bush to get it. Otherwise, no one would have found it for years and years.”
Ellie reached out to pick it up, but I lunged forward and caught her wrist at the last second. “Don’t touch it,” I said. “The stain may be blood. The police need to send it to a lab.”
“Blood?” gasped Ellie, jerking her hand free and cradling it. “Why would there be blood? Whose blood?”
Maxie struggled to an upright stance. “I think some of us are being overly imaginative, and not for the first time. If the decanter was lying on the ground, then it’s only reasonable to assume the brownish material is dirt. I realize that’s not nearly as exhilarating as blood, but we mustn’t allow ourselves to be swept up in some dramatic concoction. Put down your notebook, Phoebe. Cousin Claire may indulge in her little fantasies, but we have work to do. We need to rewrap the dolls in tissue paper and pack them away where they’ll be safe from sunlight and moths, not to mention children who seem to have inherited a propensity for meddling.”
“Touch the table and your value will be zero,” I said. “I’m going downstairs to call the police. This time, I’ll demand an investigation of what happened last night, if I have to call the governor’s office. Those two so-called officers will return. They’ll send the decanter to the nearest laboratory, where the stain can be analyzed and the surfaces examined for fingerprints.”
Ellie sat back and stared up at me. Her expression was as stunned as Pauline’s had been when we’d pulled the body from the bayou, and her voice was devoid of any hint of a drawl. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Do you think this has something to do with Miss Justicia’s death? How could it?”
Despite my history of brilliant deductions and piercing insights into criminal activity, I was totally baffled. “I don’t know, Ellie. The decanter was in Miss Justicia’s room last night when Pauline prepared her for bed. When the taxi driver showed up at midnight, Pauline looked in on Miss Justicia and mentioned that the decanter was no longer on the night table. This morning, Caron found it outside the window, broken and buried in the leaves.”
Maxie gave me the smile she undoubtedly conferred on those who failed to meet the Mayflower Society’s rigorous membership requirements. “And you find this puzzling, Cousin Claire? I do not. I think it’s evident that Miss Justicia consumed the contents of the decanter, and then threw it out the window. As averse as I am to speaking ill of the dead, I’ve seen a lot of broken glass and porcelain in Malloy Manor. Whenever Miss Justicia felt the slightest bit vexed, she was apt to vent her frustrations on nearby inanimate objects.” Her smile faded, and she paused to wipe away a trace of wetness beneath her eye. “There was in the dining room at one time an exquisite Ming vase, its value astronomical. It was shattered beyond repair when the Brussels sprouts were served without butter.”
“Let’s stick to the point,” I said, unmoved by the account of the tragedy. “Caron said she found the decanter next to the house. It seems more probable that someone dropped it out the window.” I held out my hand and opened and closed my thumb and index finger. “Like this.”
“Why?” demanded Ellie.
“How should I know?” I curled the same finger at Maxie and Phoebe. “We’re all going downstairs together. You may rewrap the dolls after the police have collected the decanter. In the interim, no one will be left up here to tamper with what may be evidence.”
Maxie came over to me and leaned forward until I could feel her breath on my face. “You seem oddly determined to wash the family’s dirty linen in public, Cousin Claire. Miss Justicia had a drinking problem; that fact is inescapable and may have been a topic of gossip in the parish. However, there is no need to force each and every tawdry incident into the limelight. Miss Justicia finished the brandy and discarded the decanter, no doubt experiencing a twinge of malicious pleasure when she heard it break.” She mimicked my gesture. “Like this.”
“We must keep in mind that Miss Justicia was a Malloy by marriage,” Phoebe said, “although she and her husband were distantly related. Very distantly, that is.”
I wasn’t sure if that constituted a vindication or a condemnation, but I wasn’t interested in finding out which it was. “I am oddly determined, aren’t I?” I said to Maxie, although I was frowning to myself alone. “There are some inconsistencies, but I’m not sure exactly what they are.”
“What are you doing?” said a voice from behind me.
I spun around. Pauline had stopped partway up the stairs, and only her head was visible. The rest of her body was lost in the darkness, and to put it mildly, this disembodiment was unnerving. I managed a shaky laugh. “Come join us, Pauline. We’ve discovered something that might have a bearing on Miss Justicia’s death.”
She floated up the stairs, a handkerchief in her hands and an unnaturally somber expression on her long, pale face. “Why did you come to the attic? You have no business here. This is where the family has hidden its secrets for a hundred years.”
“Are we just a little bit too gothic?” Caron murmured, rolling her eyes in case any of us missed the rhetorical overtones of her remark. She then turned her back on us and began t
o stroke the moose’s nose.
“Don’t be absurd,” Maxie said briskly. “The attic is a treasure trove of memorabilia and insights into the family history. Rather than secrets, there are wonderful photo albums and boxes of letters and documents that must be carefully studied for inclusion in the parish annals.”
“And quite a few very good antiques,” Phoebe added.
“Why are you here?” Pauline repeated.
Caron glanced over her shoulder. “Why are we still here is a better question, Mother. Don’t you have a telephone call to make?”
Ellie stood up and brushed the dust off her knees. “I agree. Isn’t it about time for dinner?”
I studied the group. Caron was feigning fascination with the moose’s marble eyes and flared nostrils. Maxie and Phoebe were hovering above the table, as if protecting the dolls from further outrage upon their appraised value. Pauline was straight out of an early Hitchcock movie—a composition in black and gray.
“Yes, let’s go,” I announced with the chipper but nevertheless dictatorial authority of a tour guide. I waited by the top stairs until each of them had descended, then looked back at the brandy decanter and the sad assembly around it. The dolls were not toys; their faces were as sour and accusatory as the ancestors decorating the walls below. It was difficult to imagine a pigtailed child cuddling them, whispering to them, even daring to give them frivolous names. No, I thought as I went downstairs, they seemed much more comfortable in their roles as guardians of what might be a murder weapon.
With the exception of Caron, the others had continued downstairs. She was waiting for me in the middle of the halfway, trying to look defiant but not succeeding.
“Did you change the reservations?” she asked.
“We leave at four o’clock Monday afternoon,” I said. “I’m sorry if this messes up your plans with Inez, dear. It’s not my idea of a good time, either, but you and I have an obligation to your father to represent him at his mother’s funeral.”
“I know,” she said, sighing. “Dad wasn’t like these people, was he? He didn’t sit around like a vulture, hoping someone would die so he could get money?”
I leaned against the banister. “No, not at all. There were some aspects of his upbringing that he couldn’t shake loose. He could never quite relax, or stop feeling as if everyone was judging him and finding him inadequate. It caused him to…do things to combat his own sense of worthlessness.”
“Like have affairs with his students?”
Her face was obscured by shadows, but I could see unblinking eyes and an unsmiling mouth. I tried to find the right words, but perhaps there weren’t any. “The girls in his classes were young and pretty, and they let him know they were eager to idolize him.”
“And you didn’t.”
I considered flinging myself over the banister and allowing gravity to end the conversation. “No, I didn’t,” I said evenly. “We were adults. Carlton needed a certain amount of nurturing he didn’t get from Miss Justicia, but I wanted a relationship between equals—not between parent and child.”
“What about Peter? Is he adult enough for you?”
“Possibly, although I have some doubts that our relationship will ever evolve to the point of anything permanent. Are you worried about it?”
“No,” she said, opening the bedroom door. “I’m going to be so rich that it won’t matter what you and Peter do. I may go to a snooty boarding school in Switzerland. I’ll come home during vacations and try not to snicker at Rhonda Maguire’s pitiful attempts to speak French.”
She disappeared inside the room.
I rubbed my forehead and wondered how I’d failed, when I’d failed, or if I’d failed. Conversations with Caron had the consistency of jellyfish, along with the potential for painful stings. After a few more minutes of futile introspection, I went down to the foyer.
“Here you are!” Stanford said from the parlor doorway. “Rodney and I were beginning to worry about you. I was in the midst of telling him about a real smart colored boy who works in the Pritty Kitty Kollar division, when everybody came tromping down the stairs. Nobody would tell me what was going on, but they sure were acting strange.”
I told him what we’d found in the attic, ignored his sputters, and went into the library to call the police. Officers Dewberry and Puccoon were following up on a report of a yellow taxi, I was told, but would come to the house sooner or later. I suspected it would be later.
Dinner was dismal, of course. Everyone straggled in, including Caron and the often-elusive Keith, and said little as we tackled blackened meat of some sort and canned vegetables. Maxie kept an eye on Rodney Spikenard, or at least on his silverware. Stanford’s jokes were received without smiles, and his attempts to interest us in his plans for expanding the family business met frosty stares.
Caron put down her napkin. “I’ve absolutely got to call Inez,” she said to me, then left before I could offer any observations about long-distance bills.
Rodney carefully folded his napkin and placed it alongside the silverware, all of which was visible. “I realized the family is in shock over Miss Justicia’s untimely demise. I hope my presence has not caused any…problem.”
“Not at all,” Maxie said, gazing over his head. She lit a cigarette and slumped back in her chair. Beside her, Phoebe managed a small smile.
“I hate to see you run,” Ellie said, “but you might have a jollier time at the morgue. One little question, if you don’t mind. How long do we have to find this olographic will?”
“I must consult Mr. D’Armand about the intricacies of the trust before anything can be done. And the process of probate is lengthy and often delayed.”
Ellie shot her father a dark look. “So how much are we talking about, Rodney?”
“Generally, the principal of the trust is the net principal after payment of administration expenses, death taxes, any outstanding debts, and funeral and burial expenses. I’ve not yet had a current accounting from Mr. D’Armand, so it would be improper for me to speculate at this time.”
“But we’re talking big bucks, aren’t we?” Stanford demanded, utilizing his napkin to wipe his damp face.
“I must repeat what I told you earlier,” Spikenard said as he pushed back his chair and rose. “At this time, that question would be more appropriately put to Mr. D’Armand. As probation commences, I will have a complete record of the assets and liabilities of the trust. I’ll certainly keep you informed of the situation.”
I followed Spikenard down the hallway and caught up with him in the foyer. “I’d like to ask you something,” I said.
“I’ve already said numerous times that I don’t have the answers. I can’t do anything until I get the records. Even then, it will take time to study them and organize the information.” He picked up his briefcase. “I’m on my way to my office now to call D’Armand.”
I went out the door with him, in much the same fashion as a burr on his trouser leg (and as welcome as one). “That’s not what I wanted to ask.”
“Yes, then?” he said wearily.
“You mentioned Miller Malloy,” I said. “He’s been dead for thirty years, and, according to his obituary, was survived by only his parents, two brothers, and a few stray cousins. There was no mention of a wife or child.”
“No, I don’t suppose there would be.”
“Then why did you bring up the name? Did Miss Justicia tell you something that led you to believe Miller didn’t die in Vietnam?”
He edged away from me but was forced to stop when his back met the railing. “No, on the contrary, she showed me a copy of the official death certificate issued by the U.S. Army and dated December of 1960.” His smile glinted in the darkness, and his voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Although she never said she thought he was haunting the manor, maybe she heard rattling chains and creaking footsteps in the basement. Why don’t you and the others conduct a séance?”
I felt my face flush with anger. I am not easily provoked, but w
hen I am, I’ve been told the Surgeon General should issue a warning. “Mr. Spikenard, this is not the time for jokes. Miss Justicia died last night—either accidentally or with someone’s assistance. This morning, someone shot at me, and I didn’t care for it. These people are beginning to suffocate in their greed, including my daughter, who’s packing for Switzerland! I am sick and tired of this whole mess.” I advanced on him until I could poke him in the chest. I did so with unnecessary vigor. “However, I am going to sort it out and figure out what happened. Do not underestimate me, Mr. Spikenard.”
He did not applaud, but he did have enough sense to get the smile off his face before I did it for him. “My apologies, Mrs. Malloy. What Miss Justicia told me about her eldest son is covered by client-attorney confidentiality, and I would be risking both my license and my self-respect if I repeated it to you. It is possible that Mr. D’Armand might offer enlightenment. The Malloy family files are still at his office, and he might be willing to allow you to look through them for particular documents.”
Rodney Spikenard fled to a modest sedan and drove away.
12
I stayed on the porch for a long while, reluctant to go back inside Malloy Manor and face the family. At one point, I went around the corner and studied the shrubs below the library window, but the sound of Caron’s insufferably gleeful voice informing Inez of her newly acquired wealth was as much the cause of my indigestion as the food served at dinner.
The discovery of the brandy decanter was a contributor, too. If it had blood on it, and if the blood was Miss Justicia’s, then whoever had wielded it then brought it back from the bayou and buried it in the leaves beneath the window. It would seem much easier to toss it in the bayou, where eventually it would sink into the silt…if we were not supposed to find it. If we were (this in itself a poser), then why hide it?
The pseudo-driver was the only person downstairs when we’d heard the wheelchair in the yard. Ellie had told me she’d found him asleep on a sofa, and it was possible he’d dozed through the ensuing events. Before he vanished, that is.
