Death by the Light of the Moon

by JOAN HESSS

  Shivering, I accelerated as much as I dared. Whenever the headlights closed in, I swerved across the lanes, tapped the brake lights, and in general tried to discourage him. He seemed to interpret my behavior as playfulness. Unless I was willing to continue this unpleasant game, I needed to take some sort of definitive action.

  I risked taking a hand off the wheel long enough to tilt the rearview mirror and wipe away an accumulation of sweat. Heroines weren’t supposed to sweat in gothic novels, I told myself with a hint of hysteria. Or in traditional mysteries, for that matter. As I drove at a dizzying speed, dodging a maniac in a yellow cab, I tried to think of a fictional ploy that might be useful.

  I really couldn’t attack him with a knitting needle or a brolly, unless I intended to get within striking range. I couldn’t cluck at him and tell him how he reminded me of the vicar’s younger brother. I couldn’t disarm him with cookies, or even flee across the countryside on a camel.

  Clearly, I’d been reading the wrong genre. If I’d forced myself to study the hard-boiled private eyes of both sexes, I’d now have some ideas how to rid myself of the problem.

  The problem took it upon himself to remind me of his presence by ramming the bumper. I veered toward the shoulder, veered the opposite way until I crossed the median, and forced myself to drive even faster. I also called him several names more suitable to the latter genre as we sped past the entrance to the driveway that led to Malloy Manor.

  In front of me lay a flat black stretch of nothingness. No cars had appeared from either direction since the taxi first loomed on my bumper. The house was behind me, and my distance from it was increasing at more than a mile per minute. At this speed, I told myself with a fierce scowl, we would be out of the parish before too long and on our way into the great unknown.

  The headlights tried to engulf me. I bit my lip and put the pedal to the floor. The car leapt forward as if it had been goosed, a reasonably accurate analogy; I clung to the wheel and warned myself not to look at the speedometer.

  LaRue was behind us, but I realized the airport was ahead of us. It was not my haven of choice. I could not expect to find a heavily guarded marine base, however, so I started trying to read the signs that materialized and vanished within seconds.

  I finally saw the dusty green sign. I adjusted the rearview mirror long enough to determine I had a hundred feet on the taxi, braked abruptly, and squealed into the road that curved toward a low brick building. It wasn’t La Guardia, by any means, but the lights were on and a few cars were moving.

  I halted at the end of a sidewalk that led to double glass doors, grabbed the key, and sprinted for the interior. Once I was on the side of the door that I preferred, I looked back for the taxi. I didn’t know if he’d turned on the airport road, but he hadn’t continued to the building.

  The decor here was less charming than in D’Armand’s office, but I felt a rush of fondness for the harsh white lights, rows of plastic chairs, metal trash containers, and even the bored women behind the car rental counters. Based on their expressions, they were not as thrilled by my presence, nor were the clerks at the airline counters, nor was the custodian pushing a mop across the floor.

  The lights above the airline counters went off at the same time, and the clerks went through doors behind them. One of the car rental agents announced it was eleven o’clock, and before I could realize what was happening, they, too, exited. La Guardia might buzz and hum twenty-four hours a day. Here, the runways were being rolled up for the night. The lovely white lights were going out one by one; the employees were going out the doors in droves.

  The custodian, an elderly black man in a khaki jumpsuit, shot me an incurious look as he aimed his mop at a discolored circle in front of a plastic plant. I myself would have been more curious about the entrance of a pale and harried woman, nevertheless becoming, who’d skittered inside the airport as it closed for the night and now seemed resolved to stand by the door on a permanent basis.

  “I’m lockin’ up in five minutes,” he said as he attacked the circle. “Ain’t no more planes tonight, comin’ or goin’.”

  This dashed my hopes of hopping on the next plane to Farberville, or to anyplace else. The only car visible was Ellie’s, but this did not preclude a yellow taxi parked along the road. I’d drawn the attentions of a psycho or two in the past, but this guy seemed to have dedicated his days and nights to insinuating himself in my affairs in a most unpleasant manner.

  “Got to lock the door shortly,” the custodian said. The mop was in the bucket, and the floor as pristine as it would ever be. He and I were the last two in the building, and for some inexplicable reason, he acted as though he had other ideas how best to spend what remained of the evening.

  “I know this sounds crazy,” I said humbly, “but there’s someone chasing me, and I’m afraid he’s waiting out there for me. Can’t we wait inside until he gives up and leaves?”

  “You can wait outside as long as you want,” the custodian muttered. He began to roll the bucket toward a short hallway. “After I put this away, I’m goin’ home. I’ve been here for eight hours, lady, and it ain’t that much fun. You got three minutes to pray your crazy man finds someone else to chase.”

  I scowled at his back. “I thought Southerners were warm and gracious. Here I am, alone and frightened, and…a widow! I’m a widow. I’d like to think you might do something to prevent a widow from being murdered in front of the airport.”

  The bucket squeaked as he went through a doorway.

  My oratorical talents were less impressive than my theatrical ones. I looked out the door once again, but all I saw was Ellie’s car and an empty parking lot. If the driver was waiting, he’d switched off his headlights.

  “Okay,” I called loudly, “but don’t blame me when you have to mop the blood off the sidewalk in the morning!” I darted into the ladies rest room, gingerly climbed on the commode in the last stall, and pulled the metal door closed. I had a few minutes to read the graffiti, all juvenile and anatomically impossible, before the overhead light went off.

  I held my breath as I waited to find out what he’d do if he noticed Ellie’s car. Apparently, he was not interested in the whereabouts of the imperiled widow who’d pleaded for help. A lock was secured noisily, followed by footsteps and the sound of a second lock being secured. After several more minutes of self-inflicted oxygen deprivation, I decided I was alone in the airport.

  The rest room was as dark as any crypt, thus making my turtlish journey through it an adventure in itself. I eased open the door. The main room of the airport was illuminated by a streetlight near the curb. I stayed in the doorway while I assessed the situation. Even the most moonstruck psychotic might realize the significance of Ellie’s car in the drive—and the significance of the departure of the employees.

  Who the hell could he be, I asked myself as I dug my fingernails into my palms, and why was he after me? Me, for pity’s sake? I peered around the corner and noted that the lock on the glass door was a dead bolt, and, in particular, the kind that requires a key from either side.

  I kept a cautious distance from the oblong of light as I explored the small building. The rear exit had a similar dead bolt. The doors behind each counter had more mundane locks, but they were locked, nevertheless.

  My pursuer could not get in, which was good. I could not get out, which for the moment was not bad. I had no intention of strolling out to the car and presented myself as a target to be gunned down or run down, depending on his preference of the hour.

  I read the board above the nearest counter. The first arrival was at seven o’clock. The other airline was anticipating no action until eight. The airport would open at six or so, I surmised, which meant I had no more than seven hours to amuse myself by memorizing arrivals and departures, and perhaps finding a print-laden ticket to study.

  There were vending machines in a corner, but my purse was in the car. There were also pay telephones along the wall, equally inaccessible to those without co
ins. Wondering if the clerks might keep change in their drawers, I went behind the counter and discovered that I would never know, since the drawers were locked.

  My frown faded as I noticed a telephone. I looked at the door to make sure the driver wasn’t peering back at me (while drooling on the glass, or preparing to attack it with a hammer), then took the telephone and sat down on the floor behind the counter.

  I didn’t know the number at Malloy Manor, and I didn’t especially want to talk to any of them. Bethel D’Armand would not be at his office, and, for all I knew, had taken the last flight out (the 10:42 to Shreveport). There was one obvious call, but I wasn’t yet in the mood to explain how I’d stolen a car and ended up locked in the airport.

  I wiggled until I was as comfortable as I could get on unrelenting linoleum, then compounded whatever felonies I’d already committed by dialing Peter’s number.

  “Yeah?” he answered grumpily.

  “So, how was your day?” I asked, charitably ignoring his initial lack of enthusiasm.

  “It’s after eleven.”

  “Very good. We must be in the same time zone, although it’s more twilight than central daylight down here. Have you made any progress in the thefts in the athletics department?”

  “Wait a minute,” he said, still grumpy. “Let me turn on a light.”

  While I waited, I took a quick peek over the counter. I was not exactly the master of my destiny, but I seemed to have the situation in hand, if I overlooked some of the small yet pesky issues that would require resolution at some point.

  “Okay,” Peter said, “what’s going on down there?”

  “It’s been hectic, and a few things have happened that are causing problems for me. I wanted to let you know that Caron and I are staying for the funeral, and therefore won’t be home until Monday evening.”

  “How hectic has it been?” he asked, missing the opportunity to mention how distressed he was by the delay of my arrival home and into his arms.

  “Pretty hectic. Did you fingerprint the coaches?”

  “Not yet. What’s going on, Claire?”

  We yammered back and forth, but I finally gave up and ran through the highlights of the day, including the sniper at the cemetery and his most recent reemergence on my bumper. I lamely concluded with a vague remark about my current incarceration.

  He reacted as I’d expected, with snorts and sputters and tediously repetitive remarks concerning his earlier advice. At one point, I put down the receiver to check the door; when I retrieved it, I doubted I’d missed anything of interest. I let him run down, then said, “Caron and I had an intriguing conversation about her father and about you. You needn’t worry, though. She’s more—”

  “Did you hear what I just said?”

  “Most of it, but you were repeating yourself and—”

  “Call the local police.”

  “I will when I get around to it,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “They’re totally incompetent. I don’t know how—”

  “Call the local police.” He paused, then added, “If you don’t promise to stop dithering and call them immediately, I’ll hang up on you and call them myself.”

  “Call them what?” I said lightly. “It would be accurate to call them irresponsible, but to call them irrepressible is—”

  Damned if he didn’t hang up.

  13

  “Where were you last night?” demanded Caron.

  I opened my eyes long enough to determine she had her fists on her hips and smoke streaming out of her ears, then rolled over, burrowed under the pillow, and muttered, “Go away, dear. We’ll discuss it later.”

  “I said, where were you last night? I searched the entire house, and then went all the way to the bayou to see if you’d drowned or something stupid like that. I stepped on a snake. Well, I thought it was a snake, anyway, and it’s an absolute miracle I didn’t sprain my ankle when I ran back to the house. Or break it and be permanently crippled.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  She jerked away the pillow. “I am not going to leave you alone, Mother! This whole thing is Utterly Crazy, and I’ve had enough! I’m seriously considering changing my name.”

  “To Madeline? Then you can live in an old house in Paris, covered with vines…”

  “I have no idea what you’re babbling about, but it’s clear that you’re just as weird as those other people.”

  “All right.” Yawning. I sat up, then regretted the movement. My neck, back, and upper arms were sore, and my fingers curled involuntarily, as if still clutching a steering wheel. I was relieved to note my knuckles were no longer white.

  Caron’s nostrils flared more widely than those on the moosehead in the attic. “Well?”

  “You want to know where I was last night, so I’ll tell you. I went to Bethel D’Armand’s office. He disappeared. On my return trip, a demonic yellow dragon chased me to the airport. A policeman named Bo came to rescue me, but he had to go find the custodian’s house to get a key. He then asked me several thousand questions, recorded my answers diligently, escorted me to the house, and advised me to seek legal counsel or psychiatric care. He did not imply the two are mutually exclusive. I’ve decided to make reservations at the Happydale Home. Every afternoon at tea, they serve cucumber sandwiches with the crusts trimmed and little cakes with pink icing.”

  Caron eyed me coldly. “You’re not as weird as those other people. You’re ten times as weird. Furthermore, you’re not Nearly As Funny as you think you are.”

  “I suppose not.” I went into the bathroom and began to brush my teeth, despite twinges from my fingers. “So what did I miss while I was battling for my life?”

  “Nothing. Phoebe made me get off the telephone so she could call her boyfriend. His name is Jules, but when I was leaving, I heard her call him Julie. I thought I’d barf on the carpet.”

  I finished with my teeth and leaned toward the mirror to examine the puffy bags beneath my eyes. The dark smudges were not of a cosmetic origin but of an organic one. “What about everyone else? Anybody invite you to play Scrabble or conduct a séance?”

  “Uncle Stanford stayed in the parlor. Most of the others kind of wandered around, searching for the dumb olographic will.” She slumped against the doorsill and sighed. “With my luck, one of them will find it and I won’t get any of the money. Then I won’t be able to have a big house with a swimming pool, and Rhonda Maguire will keep inviting Louis over to swim until his brain is waterlogged. They’ll go steady for the next three years, announce their engagement at the senior prom, get married while they’re in college, live in a really cute apartment—”

  “Stop, and I mean it,” I said as I returned to the bedroom and opened my suitcase. Although it was Sunday morning, church was not on my agenda, so I took out slacks and a shirt. “I assume no one dashed into the parlor, waving the will and shouting ‘Eureka!’”

  Caron had taken my place in front of the mirror, and was glumly dabbing cream on her chin. “I couldn’t say. After I gave up trying to find you, I came up here and read that idiotic book you brought. A butler and a blizzard—give me a break!”

  “Did Ellie happen to mention her car?”

  “She saw you take it, if that’s what you’re getting at. All she said was that you’d better not bang it up. When I get the money, I’ll find some world-famous dermatologist who’s invented zit medicine that actually works, even if you eat chocolate all the time.” She put her finger on the tip of her nose, pushed it up slightly, and tilted her head to study the effect. “And maybe a plastic surgeon.”

  Resisting the urge to make a reference to a Pekingese, I told her I was going downstairs, and was halfway out the door when she said, “The murderer made a really stupid mistake, you know.”

  I stopped. “What mistake was that, Caron?”

  “Hiding the weapon the way he did, of course. Can I wear your blue shirt? Everything I brought is dirty.”

  I managed to turn myself around, and, with modulated and well-
articulated deliberation, said, “What do you mean?”

  “Well, on the airplane I spilled a soda on my white shirt, and I brought this plaid thing, but I don’t know why because I don’t like it very—”

  “What do you mean about hiding the weapon?”

  She picked up the plaid thing, shook her head, and dropped it on the floor. “Oh, you know, the way Lord Diggs put the knife in the solarium after he strangled his wife and killed the cat. I mean, like the police are so dense that they aren’t going to search the—”

  “Lord Diggs?”

  “In that book you brought,” she said, digging through my suitcase and finally emerging with my blue shirt. “Then right at the end, he remembers that his nephew was making love to the parlor maid in the greenhouse and could have seen—”

  “Lord Diggs is the murderer? I thought the nephew was guilty. He mentioned that he was allergic to cat hair, and he was sneezing during the investigation.”

  “And also to pollen, from the flowers in the greenhouse. Didn’t you notice when he leaned over the centerpiece to pass the salt to—”

  “Of course I did,” I said, and left before I further disgraced myself in her steely adolescent eyes.

  The house seemed empty, but I doubted I was any luckier than Caron. I went to the dining room and determined I was not. Maxie and Phoebe sat silently, both staring at the tablecloth. Coffee cups, plates, and black crumbs littered the table, indicating others had come and gone.

  “Good morning,” I said as I headed for the kitchen. When I returned with a cup of what passed for coffee, I repeated my greeting.

  “I’m pleased you find it so,” said Maxie. “I myself had a restless night, tortured by thoughts of this house and its contents being lost to future generations. There are so very few examples of plantation architecture left in Louisiana, and it’s distressing to see one destroyed”—she snorted—“in the name of progress. It was such a vital era.”