Death by the Light of the Moon

by JOAN HESSS

  “Read about you this morning, Miz Malloy,” said Dewberry. “Bo turned in this screwy report about you claiming to have been chased across the parish by a taxi. He wasn’t real clear about why you ended up being locked in the airport after everybody went home for the night. Something about a commode.” Smirk, smirk.

  “I indeed was chased by the taxi,” I said. “I assumed I knew who was driving it, but I was wrong. The man in the trunk hasn’t driven anything in the last few hours.”

  “You gonna do the preliminary autopsy for us?” asked Puccoon. Smirk, smirk.

  “I’m sure you’re ghoulish enough to handle it without me,” I said, thus breaking my resolution not to be irritated by them. “I had only a glimpse of the body, but the smell indicated he’s been in a hot trunk for some time.” I froze as the implications of my remark hit me like a bucket of ice water. “The original owner of the taxi was found dead. The obvious explanation is that this unknown man in the trunk killed him and stole the taxi. He’s the one who picked us up at the airport Friday afternoon, and then appeared at midnight, claiming someone had called him. I don’t know what that was about, but I do know he didn’t commit suicide in a fit of remorse for trying to run me off the road. Someone else was driving last night.”

  “Maybe your imagination was overheating again,” Dewberry said. “Some kids out riding around with a six-pack decide to have some fun with you.”

  “I saw the hood of the taxi.” I stopped at the edge of the grass. “There’s the barn, and you should be able to find the taxi all by yourselves. I’m going back to the house to check on my daughter. She was very close to hysteria earlier, and I sent her upstairs to lie down.”

  “You mean you’re not going to supervise us and tell us what all to do?” Puccoon said, giving me a woeful look. “Why, I don’t know if Dewey and me can investigate on our own.”

  “Neither do I.” I retraced my steps to the porch. Stanford’s Mercedes was back, and from within the parlor, I could hear him hurling questions at Ellie. She seemed to have no answers.

  I sat down on the swing and let my head fall back. My thoughts were as tangled and unruly as the yard surrounding Malloy Manor, and although I had as many questions as Stanford, I had no more answers than Ellie. I set the swing into motion. The tiny squeaks and rhythmic motion were soothing, almost hypnotic. My eyes closed, I went back over everything that had been said and done since our arrival, visualizing expressions and replaying conversations.

  I was not overwhelmed with crystalline insights, but a few key phrases were beginning to make sense—unless I’d drifted into a stage of semiconsciousness and was merely deluding myself.

  The sound of a car door roused me. Rodney Spikenard came up the sidewalk, his briefcase in hand. He wore the gray suit, but his necktie was gone and the top button of his shirt undone.

  “Mrs. Malloy,” he murmured with a nod. “Please excuse my frayed appearance. I was in a hurry to get here.”

  Frayed. I tried to hold on the phrase, to attach it to something, but it blinked out. “Good afternoon, Mr. Spikenard,” I said.

  “The police are here?” he asked delicately.

  When I told him the reason for their visit, he dropped his briefcase and sat down on the top step. If his hair had been longer, it would have been mussed beyond repair as he repeatedly ran his fingers through it.

  “This is too much for this nice, bright colored boy,” he said, shaking his head. “I thought I was being engaged to straighten out some accounts and proffer legal advice. Hold the old lady’s hand when she became upset over some imaginary slight, and keep her out of jail. Fend off the relatives when they wanted to borrow against the capital. I didn’t know what I was getting into with Malloy dynasty, but I do believe I’ll get out as soon as possible.”

  “Can you?”

  “There are plenty of qualified attorneys in the parish, Mrs. Malloy.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting you couldn’t extricate yourself from the professional relationship, Mr. Spikenard.”

  “Oh, really, Mrs. Malloy?”

  “There are other relationships less easily dissolved.”

  “I can’t deny that.”

  All of this was being conducted politely, like fencers warming up for the match. A flick here, an unspoken touché there, all in preparation for the first lunge.

  I opted for a more diplomatic move. “Miss Justicia made it clear that your arrival for her birthday dinner would have more than a minimal impact on the family.”

  He leaned back against the end of the rail and crossed his legs. “You may be naive in these matters, but there is a certain amount of racism lingering in Louisiana. Lingering like a bad case of the flu, but nevertheless a factor. You saw their faces, Mrs. Malloy. They weren’t shocked at my age or the cut of my suit.”

  “I won’t argue that issue, Mr. Spikenard.” I set the swing back into motion. “In that we both know where this conversation’s going, there’s no need for formality. Why don’t you call me Claire and I’ll call you Rodney?”

  “As you wish, Claire.”

  “Miss Justicia was bubbling with glee over your upcoming appearance at the party,” I said, trying to keep my thoughts in a tidy line. “Part of this may have been caused by her anticipation of the family’s reaction to your skin, but I think she had a second bomb waiting to be detonated.”

  “She implied she was going to read the olographic will.”

  I pointed my finger at him, although I did not lunge. “She had to write the will because you couldn’t. You said the reason for that couldn’t be discussed because of client-attorney confidentiality. In that I fit neither category, why don’t I discuss it? Miss Justicia let you know that you would be one of the heirs. Therefore, you couldn’t prepare the document.”

  “One of her heirs?” Rodney laughed. “Why would this ancient Southern matriarch include someone like me in her will? Her eyesight was just fine. I may not be pitch-black, but I’m a long way from being alabaster.”

  “Because you’re her grandson.”

  “What?” Stanford and Ellie said in unison through the parlor window.

  If I myself hadn’t been eavesdropping so much lately, I would have commented on their rudeness. Instead, I gazed at the murky faces behind the screen and said, “Rodney is Miller’s son. He didn’t use his father’s name, but I think he used the proceeds of his father’s life-insurance policy to finance his education.”

  “That’s preposterous!” Stanford sputtered. “I’m not saying Rodney here isn’t a smart boy who did real well for himself by getting through college, but—there ain’t no way—no, ma’am, no way at all he’s a Malloy. You can see for yourself, plain as day. He’s colored.”

  Rodney smiled. “Keen eyesight must run in the family.”

  “Why don’t we go inside?” I suggested.

  “Shouldn’t I go around back and use the kitchen door?”

  “The front door will do.” I opened it and gestured for him to precede me. “Remind me to show you the portrait of General Richmond Malloy. The cook said Miller was the ‘spittin’ image’ of him. She wasn’t referring to physical attributes, I suspect, but this inclination to have relationships with black women.”

  “I’ve heard stories,” Rodney said as we went into the parlor.

  “Well, I can’t believe the story I just heard,” Stanford said. He stood by the cart, attempting to splash whiskey in a glass. His hand, the cart, and the floor were receiving the majority. “Miller got himself in some trouble—that much I knew on account of I heard them talking behind closed doors. Yelling was more like it, him and my daddy, going at each other like a pair of hounds fighting over a bone. Hell, most of the parish could hear ’em that night.” He banged down the glass and gulped from the bottle. “But I’ll tell you this—I didn’t hear anything about a colored girl.”

  “Afro-American,” Ellie drawled from a sofa. She’d recovered from her earlier shock, and she regarded us with a feline smile. “Poor Daddy is terribly b
ehind the times.”

  Stanford glared at her. “You watch your mouth, missy. I don’t mean anything derogatory when I say colored. It’s the word I grew up with in this very house, and I’m not going to start with some newfangled term.”

  “No problem,” Rodney said. “I’ve heard worse.”

  “And you’re not a Malloy.”

  “I haven’t said I was.”

  I made a face at him. “Well, you are. I explained it to you out on the porch.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said, “but would your explanation stand up in a court of law?”

  “Now that’s being a sensible fellow,” Stanford said to him. He turned to me. “What’s this Ellie’s been telling me about a body out in the barn? I saw the police car when I drove up, but I thought you’d dragged ’em out here on another of your harebrained ideas.”

  “Harebrained?” I said. “It wasn’t my fault the decanter has blood on it, and I sure as hell didn’t kill the taxi driver and hide the taxi in the barn. I only arrived here two days ago. I’m not the one who’s been skulking around the house searching for wills, or creeping around the yard at the time of Miss Justicia’s death.” I fixed myself a drink and stalked to the nearest sofa. “In fact, I’m the only one who doesn’t have anything to do with all this. Stop gawking at me, all of you!”

  “My goodness,” Maxie said as she and Phoebe came into the parlor, “Cousin Claire seems to be frothing at the mouth. Perhaps she might like to lie down with a cool compress.”

  “Meet your new cousin,” I said tartly. “Cousin Maxie, Cousin Rodney. Cousin Phoebe, fetch the notebook; there’s an addendum to be made to the family tree.”

  Maxie’s chins bulged one by one, as did her eyes. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Cousin Claire. Mr. Spikenard is the family attorney—for the moment.”

  Phoebe straightened her glasses and licked her lips. “It might be wise to retain him on a permanent basis. Yale is one of the best law schools in the country.”

  “Those aren’t the credentials under discussion,” Stanford said in a dark voice. “Paternity seems to be the issue. According to Claire, this boy is Miller’s son. That makes him my nephew, your cousin, Miss Justicia’s grandson.”

  Maxie and Phoebe sat down on a sofa, each as pale and rigid as the china dolls in the attic. Stanford flopped down beside me, grumbling to himself.

  “So welcome to the family,” Ellie said, yawning. “Is that why you came out here this afternoon, to tell us the glad tidings of great joy? For unto you is born in the town of LaRue…”

  “I have tidings,” Rodney said, “but they’re not glad. Mr. D’Armand told me last night that he would have all the trust information delivered to my office this morning. When no one appeared, I called his house and spoke to Mrs. D’Armand. He failed to come home last night or this morning. She sent Spencer to the office, and he discovered that the lights were on and the doors unlocked.” He looked impassively at me. “Mrs. D’Armand claims that the last person to see her husband was Claire.”

  “What’d you do to good ol’ Bethel?” Stanford snarled at me.

  I was becoming seriously fed up with the accusations being heaped on me every few minutes. “I didn’t do anything to good ol’ Bethel.”

  “Has this been reported to the police?” asked Maxie.

  Rodney nodded. “Yes, but he’s only been missing since last night. The police won’t take any action for forty-eight hours.”

  “Is that why you stole my car?” said Ellie. “I thought you’d gone to the local tavern for a few beers.”

  “Stole your car?” Maxie and Phoebe echoed.

  “Did you steal it to take Bethel somewhere?” Stanford said, no doubt thinking he was craftier than a church bazaar.

  “You people are getting on my nerves,” I said.

  “This is outrageous,” Maxie began, then stopped as the doorbell rang. “Phoebe, answer the door. It’s probably a group from the church with food, or someone with flowers. This dreadful conversation will have to wait.”

  Phoebe rose obediently and left the room. When she returned, the two police officers followed her. Although they held their hats, neither looked respectful.

  “Mr. Stanford,” Dewberry said, “we came back to the house to use the telephone. Where’s our car?”

  “Where’d you put it?”

  Puccoon looked sharply at me. “Miz Malloy suggested we leave it up here so’s not to mess up any tire tracks by the barn. It was in the driveway.”

  “Jeez, Lester,” said Stanford, “don’t you realize we got better things to do than baby-sit your car? You boys are officers of the law. Can’t you take care of your car yourselves, without intruding on the family in our hour of grief?”

  “But, Mr. Stanford,” Dewey said, “we—”

  “Most of us are here,” Maxie said, “and therefore innocent of this latest incident of car theft. I suppose we ought to ascertain the whereabouts of Cousin Keith, Cousin Pauline—and Cousin Caron. One never knows what a negative influence can engender in an adolescent mentality.”

  “Cousin Pauline hasn’t come downstairs all day,” Phoebe said. “I knocked on her door earlier and offered to bring her a tray, but she refused to answer.”

  “So go knock again,” Stanford muttered. “Claire, you check on Caron, and Ellie, see if you can dig up that nogoodnick brother of yours.”

  The three of us brushed past the policemen and went upstairs, although without any sense of jolly camaraderie, and separated in the hallway. I went to our bedroom and found Caron lying on the bed.

  “Is everybody dead so we can go home?” she asked.

  “Not yet. You didn’t steal a police car, did you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Just checking,” I said as I went to the window and pulled back the curtain to look out at the bayou.

  “Have you found out who was driving the taxi last night?”

  Sighing, I let the curtain fall back. “No, and it’s too bad I never had a glimpse of his face. All I saw was the bright yellow of the taxi, and I rashly assumed…”

  “What?” she said impatiently.

  “I rashly assumed that I knew who was driving,” I said. My knees began to tremble so violently that I barely made it to my bed. “That’s the problem. I saw what I was supposed to see, and it never occurred to me to question it. Nor, obviously, did the others. It’s a good thing we weren’t a flock of lambs frolicking outside a slaughterhouse. We’d all be accompanied by mint jelly.”

  “Then who was driving it?”

  The plastic bag containing my bedroom slippers had been kicked into a corner, nearly hidden by a plaid shirt. I picked up the bag. My frayed bedroom slippers only appeared to be frayed. In reality, they were coated with tiny white objects. “Who was driving what?” I said distractedly.

  She frowned at me. “The taxi. That’s what we were talking about, remember?”

  “That’s not what I was talking about.”

  Her frown deepened. “You’re beginning to make me nervous, Mother. Did you get a bump on the head last night?”

  “I wish I had.” I went into the bathroom, applied lipstick, and ran a comb through my hair (one always hopes to look one’s best in a classic drawing-room denouement). I picked up the bag with the slippers and beckoned to Caron. “Come along, dear. This is likely to be educational, if not entertaining. Furthermore, you can say a proper hello to your new cousin. His reception thus far has been chilly.”

  I ignored her spate of questions and went to the hallway. Ellie came out of her bedroom and shrugged at me. “I don’t know where Keith is,” she said. “Under a rock, I suppose.”

  I didn’t bother to tell her that she was lying. Phoebe joined us at the top of the stairs, saying, “I knocked very loudly on Pauline’s door, but she won’t answer me. Uncle Stanford will have to break down the door.”

  “She’s not in her bedroom,” I said, then went downstairs. I halted only long enough to watch Caron gliding down on the elevator seat, and con
tinued into the parlor.

  “Caron’s on her way,” I announced. “Keith and Pauline are not upstairs.”

  “Did one of them steal the police car?” Maxie asked, clearly worried about the quality of the lineage.

  “No, neither one of them stole the police car.” To the officers, I said, “But your car has been stolen. You need to put out an APB immediately. The driver’s armed. He’s already killed twice, so he’ll have no qualms about killing again.”

  Dewberry gasped. “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know, but trust me—he’s dangerous. He hasn’t had time to go too far, so you might want to make the call as soon as possible. The telephone’s in the room across the foyer.” Once the officers were gone, I went to the cart. “Rodney, shall I fix something for you?”

  “Soda water, thank you.”

  “I don’t understand,” Stanford said petulantly. “You know who he is, but you don’t know his name? Sounds like poppycock to me. I think we ought to stick to familiar faces. It’s hard to imagine Cousin Pauline hunkered over the steering wheel, but Keith’s missing, too, and it’s not hard to imagine him doing anything criminal. Besides, he has a history of car theft.”

  “Keith did not steal the police car,” I said as I dropped ice cubes in a glass.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m very sure,” I said, nodding.

  “Where is Cousin Pauline?” Maxie asked. She looked up as Phoebe, Ellie, and Caron came into the parlor. “Phoebe, what is going on—and where is Pauline?”

  Phoebe hung her head. “Her door’s locked, but Cousin Claire says she’s not inside.”

  Maxie marched across the room and leaned over the cart. “Then where is she?”

  “I don’t know her precise whereabouts, but she’s not in her bedroom.” I gave Rodney his drink and sat down.

  He raised his eyebrows as he noticed the plastic bag, but merely said, “Two down, one to go. Do you know where Bethel D’Armand is?”