A Will To Murder (12 page)

“And I have the right to veto you!” Armagnac retorted.

“And I’m going to the police!”

“Mrs. Salisbury,” said the housekeeper.  Jac turned, enraged.

“If you do so, you realize you must give forensic evidence, to make your charges stick.”  The housekeeper spoke with surprising calmness.  “It is well known that you would like to get rid of me, and nothing is stopping any one of us from making the countercharge that you placed that necklace there, and pointing out that your fingerprints are all over it, and
mine aren’t
.”

Jac paused.  She gazed silently through her heavy eyelashes at the sapphires in her hand, wearing the expression of a woman who had overlooked something.

“You filthy bitch!” she shrilled at the housekeeper, getting her second wind.

She was interrupted by the Mercedes-Knight squealing around the corner.  The Lincoln was in its way, and at the last second before the collision the Mercedes-Knight veered into the front flowerbed instead.  Pink petals went up like confetti as the antique car made for the marble steps.  Everyone scattered.

“Oh God, what now?” shrieked Jac.

The Mercedes-Knight halted just short of the front steps.  Lance was at the wheel, and an alarmed-looking Willowby was sitting beside him.  

“Hey,” Lance hooted, “scared you, didn’t I?”  He laughed stupidly.  

Katherine’s hands were clutching her heart as she stared at her once-beautiful peonies.

“Jesus. Christ,” said Jac slowly and menacingly.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Armagnac shouted at Lance.  “Willowby, get out of that car!  What’s he doing at the wheel?”

Just then Heydrick came around the corner, nose pointing downwards like a dog following a scent.  He halted at the sight of the floral carnage, then went over and faced the two culprits.  The gardener smiled vengefully at them, his eyes overflowing with promise.

“Uh, Heydrick,” said Willowby, “it was an accident.”

“Jesus God,” said Bert to Arthur, “I think they need to fire everybody on this place.”

Just then a Honda came motoring up the circular drive.  The new car parked behind the Lincoln, and a young man jumped out of the passenger seat.  He was wearing a black T-shirt, black leather pants, a long black leather coat, and a Zorro hat on top of his long blonde hair.  A rubber dragon dangled from a shoelace around his neck.  

“Hello there!” Bradley shouted, beaming.  “I hope you’re all having a wonderful time!  Doesn’t everyone just love these family reunions?”

Chapter 8

Willowby and Lance fled while Rose greeted the newcomers hastily.  Heydrick went to his gardener’s shed for tools to repair the damage, and Katherine signaled frantically for Armagnac and Jac to accompany her inside the house.  Once there, she hissed, “We’re going to have a truce here, understand?  We’re not going to disgrace ourselves in front of our guests!  We’re
Boyles
, remember.  So behave!”  The old lady hurriedly combed her hair with her fingers.  “At least it wasn’t the Margaret Merrill roses.  If they’d crushed the flower I was going to exhibit, I'd have
died
.”

Sulkily, Jac sat on the couch.  With a scornful glance at her, Mrs. Marshpool went off to replace the phone cord.         

“They’re coming in after us,” Rose announced as she entered with Bert. “But first they need to fetch a few things from their car.”

“Who are they?” said Jac, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

Just then the young man in the Zorro hat walked into the living room.  A full-grown calico cat was lying across one of his forearms, and a kitten was squirming inside his coat pocket.  He smiled brightly and said, “I brought the kitties!  This is Purrball, and the kitten is Muffin.”  

Bert was the first to recover.  “And who are you?” he asked.

The visitor cackled loudly.  “Oh, didn’t the lawyer tell you?  I’m Bradley Smith, your long-lost relative. Pleased to meet you.”

Another young man was entering the foyer behind Bradley.  This person was wearing a long dress coat, and he staggered under the load of luggage.  His taut fists held four suitcase handles, another bag was slung over his shoulder, and he clenched a sixth bag tightly underneath an armpit.

Bradley gestured at his companion with the calico.  “This is my manservant, Eric Maxwell.”

The porter halted as if thinking about dropping a suitcase on Smith’s foot.  “His friend, maybe,” Eric retorted, letting the luggage slide to the floor.

“He’ll be staying here, too, as I believe you know,” said Bradley.  From behind his back he produced a bouquet of white roses, and he handed these to Katherine with a smile.  “A little gift.”  

“Why, thank you,” Katherine replied graciously, “I just love this type of flower.   They’re white--Margaret Merrills,” she added in surprise.  She looked more closely at the flowers, and her face lost its smile.   

Eric grimaced.  Bradley had just picked the flowers outside, despite his friend’s frantically gestured no’s.  

“Well, isn’t this grand,” said Smith as he pulled Muffin out of his pocket.  “You have a very attractive house.  Weird black color scheme, though.  So what are all your names?”

Rose did the introductions.  Armagnac, as master of Rollingwood, was too busy staring, stunned.  Bradley didn’t shake any of the proffered hands, as he was too becatted, and he would not be divested of his pets.

“Do those cats shed?” said Mrs. Marshpool, slit-eyed.

“All cats shed,” Bradley replied proudly, smiling down at his pets.

“Won’t you two sit down?” said Katherine, trying to be civil.  She was put out about the roses, but was relieved to find that the blossom intended for the flower show was not among them.  “You must be tired.  Let me take your coats.”

Bradley placed himself and his pets down on the I-shaped couch, since Colette was still on the other.  Arthur and Briarly crowded close, stroking the cats gingerly with their palms.  Richie was slumped against the wall, pained to witness all this sissy cat stuff.  Eric sat next to Bradley.

“Mrs. Marshpool, bring in some refreshments for our guests,” said Katherine.  “What will you have?  We have wine, if you would like.”

“The fanciest bottle you’ve got would be perfect,” said Bradley.  

Armagnac blanched.

“A glass of warm tap water,” said Eric gravely, “if it’s not too much trouble.”

Muffin was trying to scramble up Eric's shirt, and Arthur watched the kitten’s progress with curiosity.

“Not at all,” exclaimed Katherine, “Mrs. Marshpool, you might as well break out a couple of the good bottles from James’ stash.  Since the family is finally together, we ought to celebrate with a good vintage.”

Armagnac caught Mrs. Marshpool’s eye, and the housekeeper gave a brief nod on her way out, understanding she was not to bring out the very best bottles.

“I wonder how my father knew about you,” said Jac to Bradley.

“The lawyer said a detective found me.”

“A detective?  Oh great!  He was probably spying on all of us.  That would be exactly like Father.”  Jac ignored the signal Rose was trying to give her and Katherine’s sudden frantic cough.

Mrs. Marshpool returned, rolling in a tea cart bearing several wineglasses, a pair of wine bottles in an ice bucket, and a cupful of warm tap water.

“So,” said Armagnac stiffly, “What do you do for a living?”

“I write the entertainment column for a newspaper,” replied Bradley.

“It sure is,” added Eric, “inadvertently.  When he reviewed the local symphony, I had to explain to him what that long black instrument was.  He did not know about bassoons.”

“Hey!  I learned.”

“At least he’d heard of Bach,” added Maxwell.

“They neglected me at my schools,” sniffed Bradley.

“Did you go to college?” Armagnac asked, pushing his glasses nervously upwards.

“Yep.”

“What was your degree in?”

“Nothing,” said Bradley.

“Didn’t finish?” Armagnac smirked at Jac, who gave him a twisted smile.

“Nope, never enrolled.”

“What!?” exclaimed Boyle.

“I just showed up for classes.”  Bradley shrugged.  “Some professors threw me out, but most didn’t.  They had to teach, anyway.  And I never had to take any tests or write any papers, which was neat.”

Eric grinned sardonically as he hunched over his tap water.  “Few can match Bradley for gall.”

“Well, I couldn’t afford to pay for college,” said Bradley thoughtfully.  “But I still went, anyway.  I don’t know why people make such a fuss about not being able to attend college.  It was easy for me.”

“Most people have a sense of ethics,” replied Eric.  Smith shrugged.

“I’m curious to know what your exact relationship is to us,” Jac mused.  “You see, we’ve never known we had any Smith relatives.”

“I didn’t know how we were related either until the lawyer explained it to me.  Okay, first there was Hiram Boyle.  I guess you know who he was.  Well, he was my grandfather.”

“Your grandfather!” exclaimed Katherine.  “Do you mean to say my father had another child besides James, Sophia, and myself?  Good Lord!”

“You’re very closely related to us then,” said Jac, staring at Bradley.  “You’re my first cousin.”

Smith nodded.

“Exactly how--,” probed Jac.

“Okay.  Hiram Boyle had a girlfriend, by the name of Marilou Smith, who was my grandmother.  She was a singer at his favorite nightclub, Hamilton told me.  I don’t know when they first met, but I understand it was well after his first set of kids were born.”

Horror crossed Armagnac’s face.  He was obviously wondering whether an entire brood of illegitimate children would be showing up.  Katherine looked shocked.

“She liked to have a good time, my grandmother.  I never knew her myself, so I can only go by what my mother told me.”

“Your mother, then, is the daughter of Hiram and this Marilou Smith?” Jac queried, drawing a family tree in the air.

“Was.  Her name was Nanette Smith, and she died a few years ago.”

“Did she have any brothers or sisters?” Jac added.

“No.  My grandmother really couldn’t afford to get pregnant in her line of work.  You know, she’d just--”  Bradley made a yanking gesture with his hands, as if jerking on a hook.  Katherine shuddered violently, and Armagnac put a hand to his forehead.

“Arthur, would you go fetch my purse?” asked Rose.  “It’s in our bedroom.”

“Mom!” the boy protested.

“Go,” Bert ordered.  Grumpily, Arthur left.

“What about you?” asked Jac.  “Do you have any siblings?”

“No.  My mother didn’t live the sort of life where she could raise kids easily, either.  She was always moving around and whatnot.”

“Well, tell us something about your family,” said Rose bravely.

“Okay.  First, my mother married Jimmy Clark.  But he held up a gas station and they put him in jail for ten years.  My mother didn’t want to wait that long, so she divorced him.  Then she married Elmer Joe Barger, but the cops shot him dead while he was holding up a liquor store--”

The listeners began to exchange looks.

“--then she decided she probably ought to stay away from those handsome, daring young men and married Howard Sueverbampfling, who was a plumber.  You know, quiet home life and steady income.  Well, that didn’t happen.  He was mean and beat her, so she divorced him.”

Purrball meowed, demanding attention, and Smith shook the rubber dragon around his neck so Purrball could bat at it.  The dragon was well-clawed and chewed, as if often used as a cat toy.  

“Then she married Presley Lee Tidwell,” Bradley continued.

“Gas station?  Liquor store?” prompted Armagnac, a hand over his eyes.

“Porno films.  He ran a home studio.  I’ve always had an interest in movies and stuff because of him.  He had all these neat cameras lying around.”

“Arthur,” said Rose.  “Would you go get me some kleenex?  I have some in a package by my bed.”

“Mom!” wailed Arthur.

“Kid,” threatened Bert.  The boy went off muttering.

“Why don’t you two go outside for a while,” said Phil to Briarly and Richie.

“They can stay,” Jac insisted.

All talk ceased for a long moment.  Bradley drank from his glass.  The motion brought Mrs. Marshpool to herself and she began to pour refills of wine.

“He got seven years,” Smith continued, “which was really unfair, because his films were the wholesome sort, lots of girls doing normal things.  But though my mother helped him with the technical side of the business, she was annoyed by all these naked girls hanging around.  After he went to jail, she got a sizeable sum by selling his cameras and other equipment, and we lived on the proceeds for a while.  I was sorry to see everything go.”

“Your mother must have had you very late in life, then, with all these marriages,” commented Rose.

“No, she was only twenty-four when she divorced Presley.  She got married to Jimmy Clark when she was fifteen.”

“And which of these fellows is your father?” blurted Armagnac, unable to stand the suspense.

“Mick.”

“Who was Mick?  I don’t remember you mentioning him,” said Boyle.

“That’s because I haven’t yet.  She never married him.”

“What was his last name?” Rose asked.

“Mom never learned.  She just met him at a truck stop one night and that’s the last she’s seen of him.”

“I knew it,” groaned Armagnac.

“Your mother was an adventuress,” concluded Katherine with softly chiding solemnity.

“Yeah, I guess she was,” Bradley agreed, “but I like people who live life that way.  I take after her, a little.”

“You ain’t kidding,” said Eric darkly.

Bradley was still stroking Purrball.  Muffin was roaming, trapped inside Smith’s bent leg.  

Armagnac smiled tightly.  “By the way, I hope you realize we have a dog.”

Smith looked blank.  “A dog?”

“Yes, a dog.  A black Labrador, and his name is Barksdale.”

“A dog?” Bradley repeated, as if unable to comprehend anyone actually owning a dog.

“Yes.  And he eats cats,” said Armagnac with malice.

“He does not!” exclaimed Rose.  “Barksdale wouldn’t hurt anything!  I’m sure we’ll have no trouble if we keep them in separate rooms.  Could you keep Barksdale in your bedroom, Aunt Katy?”