Death by the Light of the Moon

by JOAN HESSS

  My foray into inductive logic was swampier than the bayou, and I reluctantly dismissed it as the ravings of a semistarved gothic heroine. Fully expecting to see a ghostly general on a translucent steed, I sat down on the swing and dejectedly told myself this lapse into lunacy would pass when I had put a reasonable distance between myself and Malloy Manor. Many hundred miles, for instance.

  Neither General Richmond Malloy nor Ronald Colman was doing any haunting, but Miller Malloy was stirring up more than his fair share of trouble from the marble vault in the corner of the cemetery. I reminded myself that he was as dead as the General and Mr. Colman. Miss Justicia had shown the death certificate to Rodney Spikenard. I’d seen the brass plaque and read the obituary.

  No one inside the house would give me any information. Spikenard had suggested I speak to Bethel D’Armand, who’d choked on his coffee when I mentioned the name. He had not refused to discuss him, though; Ellie had interrupted us and seized the conversation.

  I could pace on the porch or I could do something that might alleviate at least a part of my perplexity. I could not, on the other hand, use the telephone to find out if D’Armand were willing to talk to me, unless I waited a contracoeur until Caron finished describing, à haute voix, her proposed revenge on Rhonda Maguire. Celui qui veut, peut (idiomatically; Where there’s a will, there’s a way).

  Glancing over my shoulder every step or so, I went to Ellie’s car and ascertained that the key was to the ignition. Surely she wouldn’t mind if I was to borrow the car for a brief visit, I told myself without conviction. She and other deposed heirs were busy searching nooks and crannies for granny’s will. With a final furtive glance, I got to the car and located necessities like the clutch, shift, headlight control, and brake. I then proceeded to steal the car and sedately drive to LaRue.

  The library was closed, as were most of the stores along the main street. Undaunted, I stopped at a convenience store. I found a telephone directory and looked up Bethel D’Armand’s office address, purchased sustenance of little nutritional worth to sustain us until our flight, and asked for directions.

  A few minutes later, I parked to front of a clapboard house on a side street. The shingle was more of a sign, but it confirmed that Bethel D’Armand, Attorney at Law, conducted business within the premises between the hours of nine and five.

  Lights were on in the front room. It was decidely after business hours, but I went up the walk and into an attractive reception room that was devoid of a receptionist attractive or otherwise. The door to a second room was closed, but light shone from beneath it and I heard a male voice.

  A scrupulous visitor would knock and politely announce her presence. I crept to the door and strained to hear more clearly what was being said in D’Armand’s private office.

  “Just throw a few things to a bag,” D’Armand was saying, “and stop worrying. We don’t know what the weather will be like, and we can pick up whatever we need when we get there.”

  I wafted for a response, but D’Armand reiterated his suggestion and then fell silent. It was not necessary to let him know I’d been eavesdropping, I decided, especially when I’d heard nothing meritous of the minor breach of etiquette. I returned to the front door, stealthily opened it, and then banged it closed.

  “Mr. D’Armand?” I called loudly and ever so politely. “It’s Claire Malloy.”

  In the ensuing lull, I heard a mutter that hinted of his disinclination to receive visitors, but he opened his door and came into the reception room with a smile.

  “Why, Mrs. Malloy, what a fascinating surprise to find you here. I was just tying up a few loose ends at a time when I didn’t expect to be interrupted.” His smile widened, but I was feeling the same arctic breeze I’d felt in the café. “Even though I’m pretty much retired, I still have some clients wanting me to handle minor affairs for them.”

  I gazed past him at his office door. “I can imagine how irritating it must be to have clients dropping by on a Saturday night.”

  “What?” he said, looking genuinely puzzled. “No, there’s no one else here. I was doing paperwork, and I’d be delighted to take a break. Please, come sit in here and let me offer you coffee or a taste of some fine Kentucky bourbon nearly as old as I am.”

  His office was befittingly masculine and tastefully decorated with a mahogany desk, leather chairs, bookshelves, and a globe. On the walls hung examples of that which is the epitome of southern macho decor: framed prints of ducks. He waited until I was seated, then took a bottle and glasses from a drawer.

  “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?” he said as he handed me a glass and sat down on the far side of the desk.

  “To be blunt, Mr. D’Armand, I’m confused,” I said with a rueful look meant to elicit avuncular sympathy. “Caron and I arrived at Malloy Manor only yesterday afternoon, and since then, it’s been a nightmare.” A more skilled actress, such as Ellie, could have produced silver tears; the best I could do was a sniffle. “I hardly had a chance to meet Miss Justicia before she was killed in that tragic accident. Poor Caron is so distraught that she’s taken to hiding in the attic.”

  “Is that so?” D’Armand said dryly, unaffected by the performance. “By the way, I had a call from young Spikenard half an hour ago. He said he’d been out to the house to explain what he could and to have dinner with you all.”

  “Such a bright young man.”

  “Oh, yes, a bright young man.”

  It was evident I lacked even primitive talent in theatrics. “Okay,” I said, “he suggested that I ask you about Miller Malloy, and that’s why I’m here. My husband never once mentioned an older brother, and the others in the family make odd little noises when they hear the name. But I’ve been to the cemetery.”

  “So I heard,” he said.

  “From Mrs. D’Armand?”

  He laughed. “She mentioned it at dinner, but you’re underestimating the interest generated by a new face in a small town. The ol’ boys in front of the barbershop were still discussing your motives when Ellie and I left the café.”

  I saw no reason to acknowledge that we both knew I’d lied. “I went to the library, too, and his obituary was published in the newspaper. What’s the deal with Miller?”

  “The deal with Miller?” He thought for a minute, his eyes drifting beneath the bristly white eyebrows, then said, “I suppose I would have to admit he was a black sheep. Hardly the first in the family, to be sure. Old Richmond was rumored to have had a string of mistresses, despite his less than captivating appearance. There’s a legend that his wife went crazy and chopped up one of them in a shack across the bayou. Miss Justicia caused tongues to wag for decades. More recently, there are some titillating stories afoot about Stanford’s expensive lady friend in New Orleans.”

  “Let’s talk about Miller. What did he do to have his particular leaf yanked off the family tree?”

  “He sowed some wild oats, and then, with encouragement from his parents, joined the army.” D’Armand glanced at the antique captain’s clock on the bookshelf. “Mrs. Malloy, if you’ll excuse me, I need to make one quick call. Afterward, if you’re really determined to fret about Miller, I’ll tell you in more detail which oats he sowed and where he chose to sow ’em.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” I said.

  He picked up a briefcase and went into the reception room. The conversation was inaudible from my chair, and I was making too much progress to risk further eavesdropping. I heard D’Armand replace the receiver, and I was preparing a compliment on the bourbon when a door closed somewhere in the house. Seconds later, a car door slammed. An engine came to life, purred noisily, and then receded.

  In that I was loathe to jump to any conclusions, I waited a solid five seconds before I went into the reception room. It and the storage room beyond it were uninhabited, and the gravel parking lot behind the house was empty.

  I returned to his office and sat down to contemplate the novelty of the situation. He was gone, but I had no idea i
f he’d run an errand or run away. The latter seemed more likely, since he’d been alluding to travel arrangements earlier. But he hadn’t popped in to say good-bye, which was less than gallant of him, even if he was a lawyer.

  I decided to give him fifteen minutes, and took a legal tome from the shelf. It was more entertaining than the fine print on airline tickets, but most of it was cloaked in the convoluted jargon favored by the profession. They did so out of self-preservation; if the law was comprehensible to reasonably literate people, we’d be more likely to take Shakespeare’s advice concerning its practitioners.

  The wherewithins and wheretofores eventually lost their appeal. I replaced the book and looked around for less erudite reading matter. Along the wall behind the desk were a dozen cartons, each sealed and neatly marked with the word Malloy. Once again, the issue of scrupulosity reared its head. I was a Malloy, but most likely not (or most definitely not) the particular Malloy on the cartons. Then again, my daughter had a legitimate concern in the status of the family financial situation.

  It took me another five seconds to resolve this minor moral dilemma. I sat down in D’Armand’s chair and opened the nearest carton.

  Nearly an hour later, I was lamenting my lack of knowledge of trusts. My eyes were aching, and occasional clouds of dust from antiquated files had kept me sneezing most of the time. The Malloy trust seemed to require numerous ledgers, along with the retainment of every tax document, receipt, inventory, appraisal, invoice, petition, certificate, and yellowed paper with any sort of print/signature.

  I reached the penultimate carton before I found a file with Miller’s name on it. It was less bulky than the others through which I’d blindly stumbled. I put the ledgers on the floor, pushed stacks of folders aside, and opened the file.

  The first paper was a photocopy of his death certificate—the date as expected. A second photocopy was of a letter from Miller’s commanding officer, expressing sympathy and praising his valor. It occurred to me I was working through the file in the wrong direction, and flipped to the bottom paper. It was not the record of his birth but, rather, the documentation of his first entanglement with the police.

  It did not describe unspeakably vile acts, however. At the tender age of sixteen, Miller had been caught in the possession of a six-pack of beer. He’d been fined twenty-five dollars. I moved on, as he had done. There were several other arrest reports, none for anything more serious than speeding, partying at a bayou, again possessing beer, and a final report of an altercation outside a bar. Misdemeanor charges had been dismissed.

  None of it qualified him as a hardened criminal, nor did the next document, his enlistment contract. I was rapidly approaching the photocopies at the end of the file, and all I’d learned was that Miller had required the services of a lawyer a few times and that his father had been billed by the hour.

  I was ready to acknowledge defeat and allow Miller to rest in peace when I found the letter. It was written on a piece of notebook paper, and although the handwriting was unexceptional, its content was enough to elicit an abrupt inhalation. The date indicated it was written on June 23, 1960. In the event of Miller’s death, D’Armand was to locate Miller’s child and see that he or she received the proceeds of a life-insurance policy and any accrued benefits from the army. The final sentence warned D’Armand not to inform anyone of the letter or any actions taken because of it. Miller’s signature was a scrawl, but I could identify enough of the letters to confirm it.

  I turned it over, hoping for an elaboration. The page was blank, and there was nothing else in the file concerning “he or she.” I resisted the urge to fling the whole thing into the air. Miller had fathered a child, gender unknown, mother unnamed. He had written what qualified as an olographic will.

  The only person who could enlighten me had departed for a place where the weather was apt to be unlike that of downtown LaRue, or the surrounding parish.

  I refolded the letter and put it back where I’d found it, then replaced the file in its carton. I restored everything else as best I could, turned off the light, and went to the reception room. Neither Bethel D’Armand nor his receptionist had returned. I was heading for the door with the telephone rang. To say it startled me would be an understatement; I reacted as if it had fired a bullet at me.

  It blithely continued to ring, and I finally went back to the desk, took a deep breath, and picked up the receiver.

  “Bethel, it’s nearly ten o’clock,” said a woman’s voice. I recognized it from an earlier encounter. The recognition, regrettably, did not give me any clues how best to respond. “Did you hear me? Why don’t you answer me?” she continued, her pitch rising.

  “He’s not here,” I said. It wasn’t inspired, but at least it was true.

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Claire Malloy, Mrs. D’Armand. I came to your husband’s office to ask him a few questions.”

  “But you said he’s not there. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. He made a call about an hour ago, and then left without saying anything to me.”

  “He left an hour ago? Where did he go? Why are you still there?”

  They were reasonable questions, I admitted to myself as I desperately tried to fabricate answers that would not implicate me too severely. I finally settled for evasion. “I’ve been waiting for him to come back. It’s getting rather late, however, and I think I’d better return to the house. Shall I leave a note for him to call you?”

  “I do not think so, Mrs. Malloy,” she said, then hung up.

  I left the light on in the front room and went out to Ellie’s car. D’Armand had not been discussing luggage with his wife earlier, nor had he informed her of an impromptu business trip. For his sake, I hoped he had a compelling explanation when he returned. If he returned, I amended as I drove back through LaRue.

  Once I was on the highway, I chose a moderate speed and let myself consider what I now knew about Miller Malloy. He’d had some minor skirmishes with the law and then enlisted in the military—with encouragement from his parents. The siring of an illegitimate child was probable cause for said encouragement.

  The letter was noticeably lacking in details. Miller presumed D’Armand could locate the child; this implied the scandal was local. Ergo, the mother was local. There was no evidence in the file that D’Armand had followed Miller’s instructions.

  Which meant, I thought as I groped for the lever to turn the headlights on bright, nothing. D’Armand might not have been able to find the mother and child, or he might have followed the instructions impeccably but excluded any telltale papers from the file. Or the child had not survived.

  But if the child had survived, he or she would be approximately thirty years old. He or she would be a direct descent of Miss Justicia and entitled to one-third of the estate. He or she would not be popular. Stanford was counting on half of the proceeds. Maxie might have to make an addition to the family tree, with a notation that would not enhance her status in the Mayflower Society. Keith, Ellie, and Phoebe would have a new cousin with whom to contend, as would Caron Malloy.

  I hadn’t stopped to consider how Caron and I would deal with whatever she received from the estate—particularly if it involved a lot of money. Although our lifestyle would never be the subject of a television show, we survived off the bookstore. There were periods of relative famine, when microwavable entrées were replaced by boxed macaroni and canned soup. We shopped at the discount store, but we also shopped at the mall when I was courageous enough to withstand the sanitized music and the piranhas with their plastic cards. To her eloquently vocalized diegust, she was allowed to augment her allowance by working at the bookstore, and in rare moments of desperation, she did.

  But now she was rapidly becoming a greedy green monster. I made a mental note to warn her that probate could take years, especially when several members of the family would contest the intestacy. The legal fees would diminish the estate, radically. Rodney Spikenard might be the only one to realiz
e any profit from the sordid business.

  Because, I thought as I dimmed the lights for an oncoming car, he had not written out Miss Justicia’s new will. He’d said the reason fell into the realm of client-attorney confidentiality.

  Headlights flashed in my rearview mirror, banishing any potential blossoming theories. Annoyed, I slowed down and pulled to the right side of the lane to allow the car to pass me. It was only a gesture, in that the highway ahead of me was devoid of oncoming traffic. “Get on with it,” I said irritably.

  The headlights continued to blind me. They’d drifted to the right, too, and seemed closer. Feeling as if a dragon were bearing down on me, I decelerated even more and pulled farther to the right until I was partially on the shoulder.

  The car behind me did the same. I’d been confused for the last day and a half, and my confusion had deepened in the last several hours. I was not brain-dead, however, and I had a fairly decent idea who was driving the car. Not who, I corrected myself with a grimace. It was the color of the car that was not challenging to surmise, and if it wasn’t yellow, then I wasn’t hyperventilating while driving down a deserted highway in a stolen Jaguar.

  While being chased by a stolen taxi.

  A glance in the mirror confirmed my theory. I couldn’t think how far away the driveway of the house was. Ellie had made the trip in less time than it takes to plan one’s memorial service, but I’d driven to LaRue slowly, and had been returning at the same speed.

  And what was he—whoever he was—planning to do? I wasn’t going to park at the side of the road, roll down the window, and wait for him to approach the car. If he wanted to follow me to New Orleans, the night was young and he was welcome to try it. It occurred to me it might be prudent to move away from the shoulder. I was assisted by a sudden jolt to the bumper. The steering wheel jerked to one side, but I clenched my hands and steadied it.

  “You’d better watch it!” I growled, then clamped my lips together and considered what to do. He wasn’t going to wait for me to park, nor was he interested in a marathon chase to the Gulf of Mexico. Instead, it seemed he’d selected the less time-consuming approach of running me off the road.