A Will To Murder (16 page)

“Now that you remind me of it--”

Wendy’s face brightened.  

“I happened to look inside a desk drawer in James’ bedroom.”

“Tsk tsk.”

“Yeah.  And I saw a draft of a letter James wrote to his lawyer arranging a meeting about his will.  The date he suggested was July 11th.”

“And he died August 8th,” said Wendy thoughtfully.  “The draft was just sitting in his drawer?  Anyone could have read it?”  

“I don’t know if the letter was there continuously, but it’s possible.”  He told her about Armagnac listening at the kitchen door and Heydrick’s criminal record.  “Heydrick lives in the carriage house, too.”

“Not good,” said Wendy.  “A guy with a manslaughter charge living right above the car and another spying on people?  Try to find out more about Armagnac and James, will you?  I guess you won’t be there very long, though.  I’ll look into that manslaughter conviction.  Was there anything else you noticed while snooping in James’ room?”

“I wasn’t snooping,” Eric replied, miffed.  “That’s the room they assigned me.”

“Aha.  Gimme details.”  Wendy smiled when he told her about the tricorn, the swords, and the costume.  “James Boyle was a Revolutionary War re-enactor,” she told him.  “My boss, Linzy Fowler, is in the same re-enactor’s group.  He told me about James’ death the day after it happened.  That’s why I paid attention when Bradley said he was related to James.”

“One other thing,” said Eric.  “I found an old bathrobe of his--slashed, like someone had taken a knife to it.  Do you still think the motive was money?”

“I can’t be sure.  If someone hated him, my instincts tell me that person would have killed James years ago.  I’m certain it’s money.  Any time a rich old man dies a strange death it’s usually because someone else wants his cash.”

“I’m not sure I agree.  Slashing a bathrobe is malicious, and so was planting that CD player.  Oh wait, have you even heard about the player?  You won’t believe this.”

“Actually, I have.  My boss told me some details.  The player was a battery-operated boombox, wired to a timer that could be started by a remote.  But it was wired so that the timer could be bypassed and the player started directly with the remote.  No one seems to know which method was used.  No remote’s been found, and there’s no fingerprints on anything.”

“The range on the remote ought to give you a clue,” Maxwell suggested.  “I’d suppose it wouldn’t be farther than an indoor car starter.  You’d have to be in sight of the car.  Someone watching from the lawn, or a window.”

“Or,” Wendy reminded him, “someone standing on the sidewalk in Chichiteaux.  There might have been an accomplice.  I suspect the timer was a backup device, in case the person with the remote was delayed.  No one would have noticed a guy standing there with a small remote in his hand, even if he was pointing it--if everyone else was gawking at the car.  That means someone at Rollingwood knew when James was leaving for Chichiteaux and must have called the accomplice on the phone to warn him James was coming.  Does anyone there listen to rap music?”

Eric rolled his eyes.  “Lance does.”  He mentioned Lance’s behavior at dinner the other night.

“Hmm.  He sounds pretty stupid, but not guilty.  Does anyone know what James altered in his will and why?  Who was in the house, or had gone to town the day he died?  Who had access to the grounds, who had keys to the gates and the carriage house, and are they even kept locked, and were any strange people or cars seen at any point?  My main suspect after Heydrick is the chauffeur, Willowby.”

“But Sheila told me Willowby was practically the only one who liked James, and I couldn’t think of any motive for him.  None of the servants were getting anything from James’ will, and Sheila said old Boyle let them know this.  Besides, Willowby was gone on vacation for two weeks right before James died.”

“What?!  Then anyone might have installed that CD player.  Two weeks is a lot of time.  There goes my wonderful theory.”

“You realize, of course, who the main beneficiary of James’ death is--Katherine.  I don’t want to accuse anyone without evidence, and she appears to be a nice old lady.  Sort of irritable with Bradley, but then anyone would be.  I’ll try to discover more, but I might not come up with much.  This family is pretty wacko.”

Just then Eric glanced upwards.  Jac was leaning against the wall beside him.  She wore a flirtatious look, which altered at the word ‘wacko.’

“I need to use the phone,” Jac said.  Her lips were smiling, but her eyebrows had scissored together with temper.

“Uh, someone needs the phone here, so I have to say goodbye.”  Eric cut the connection.  Before he could hang up, Jac took the receiver, wrapping her hand around his.  Her eyebrows softened slightly.  “Wacko, huh?” she purred.  “Pretty fine words for a guest.”

Maxwell smiled idiotically.  “Joke,” he chirped.

She eased him out of the way with a hip.  Befuddled, Maxwell let himself be pushed back.  Her hand was still gripping his on top of the receiver.  Jac smiled again and chucked him under the chin with the receiver.  Then she released him.  Even more befuddled, he fled up the back stairs.

That afternoon, Arthur was blowing bubbles behind a pine tree when he heard a gruesome yell from Richie.  His cousin had tracked him down.  But this time Rose and Briarly were with him.

Rose was clutching her purse.  “Do you want to go see Woofie?” she asked in an excited camp-counselor, wouldn’t-it-be-nice-to-row-across-Lake-Michigan-sort-of-way.

Arthur scowled at her suspiciously.

“She wants to get us out of the house.  Mom’s still upset,” Richie added.  He tried to laugh again, but it petered out.  For once, even he appeared uneasy.  Briarly looked scared.

Rose said, much too brightly, “I want you kids to have a chance to see the family farm before you go.  There’s a barn and a herd of sheep, and we grow many fruits and vegetables as well, some of which you’ve eaten at your meals.  Of course you want to see the farm, Arthur.  Close that bottle and come on.”

Glumly, her son obeyed.  

Rollingwood Farm consisted of, as far as Arthur could tell, a herd of sheep, a barn with decaying boards but new-looking paint, a metal watering trough and pump, and an apple orchard off in the distance.  There was no sign of an ostrich, and Arthur guessed that Woofie must be housed inside the barn.

The children whooped and yelled at the sheep, and Rose had to shoo both children and animals away before she could swing the gate open.  Arthur wasn’t sure about the sheep.  He had studied them in school, but had never seen a live one.  The sheep seemed too big, at least in comparison to himself.

Rose took Richie by the hand and made for the barn.  Too surprised to resist, the boy allowed himself to be led, making a nauseated face at Rose’s back.  Arthur was surprised as well.  He hadn’t known his mother understood Richie.  Loose, his cousin would have destroyed the farm before he’d gone ten feet.

“We’re going through the barn on the way to Woofie’s pen,” Rose said.  Curious sheep began to crowd the newcomers, bleating, and Arthur watched them anxiously.  Was it safe to stroll among them like this?  One sheep halted directly in front of Arthur, looking at him in a wall-eyed way.  Its dirty brownish wool was stuck with burrs.  This was surprising, as Arthur had always thought sheep were supposed to be cotton-ball white.  The sheep looked kind of punk to Arthur.  It was making chewing motions.  Probably tobacco, the boy guessed.  The sheep bleated, startling him backwards.

“Do they bite?” Arthur asked his mother.

“Of course not, sheep are perfectly nice,” Rose replied without turning around.  The boy doubted it, but followed the others into the barn.  

The top of the barn door was lined with hairy birds’ nests and inside were several stalls, bales of hay, and an empty grain bin.  Old leather harnesses and some peculiar-looking tools hung on the walls.  The whole place had a smell of rotting hay, leather, old motor oil, and manure, the latter drawing the inevitable remarks from Richie.  The others ignored him.

It was so dim that Arthur had to strain to see.  “What’s that?” he asked, pointing at a long wooden rod with a curved knife and a short handle sticking out the side.  The knife-thing hung on the wall.

“That’s a scythe,” Rose explained, “it’s used for cutting grass.  Woofie’s pen is right out here.  Let's all go see the ostrich.”

Arthur hesitated.  There seemed to be a dark stain along the blade of the scythe-thing.  A little pool was on the floor beneath it, maroon and sticky-looking.

“Where’s Woofie?”  He heard his mother saying outside.  “Can anyone find Woofie inside his pen?  Oh!”

At the latter sound, a wobbling gasp, Arthur ran to join the others.  Rose’s hand was over her mouth.  Next to the barn was a tall chicken-wire pen with a sand floor.  Briarly and Richie were pressed against the chicken-wire, staring.

Then Arthur saw it.  On the ground was a large, blackish lump covered with feathers, some of which were waving lightly in the wind.  A long, hairy stalk with a few reddish hash-marks on it extended from one side of the lump, leading to a round, bird-like head.  The hairy eyelids were closed, but the beak was gaping open.  On the other side of the lump were two thick but flamingo-ey legs, bent at an angle and ending in some large toes with heavy nails.  The lump had a wet crack across it, streaked with something that looked like blood.  Flies were taking off and landing on the lump and around the head.  Arthur tilted his own head and realized the splayed-out thing was an ostrich.

“Oh, oh, oh,” Rose was moaning, her hand over her mouth.

Chapter 10

They made the drive back to Rollingwood in heavy rain, both inside and outside the Camry.  In the back, Briarly was emitting gasping sobs and blotting her face with her shirt.  Arthur was wailing thinly in the passenger seat, a box of kleenex on his lap.  As keeper of the tissues, he had to dispense one now and then to his mother.

Rose sobbed openly as she drove, alternating between blowing her nose, wiping her eyes, and scrubbing the windshield.  So much moisture was inside the Camry that though the fan was blasting away, the windows were still fogged up.

“That was really, really, cool,” gloated Richie for the twentieth time.

“It was not!” said Rose sharply.  “You don’t know the consequences!  I can’t believe this horrible thing happened.  Arthur, what color is the traffic light?  I can’t tell.”

“Green, Mom,” Arthur sniveled, helping himself to a tissue.

“I mean, that was so cool,” said Richie for the twenty-first time.  “If only I could have seen that old ostrich being offed.  I wonder how it happened?”

“It was probably a wild animal,” said Rose sadly.  “Wolves and bears live around here.”

Arthur said nothing.  In the stress of the last half-hour he had forgotten the bloody scythe.

“Cool!  That would have been really great to watch, ostrich-wolf-bear death-slam!” replied Richie.

When the car reached Rollingwood, they ran inside to tell their bad news, but were stopped by a confrontation in the foyer.  

“This is your doing!” Armagnac was shrieking.  Boyle was facing his aunt, holding an object in a purple-knuckled grip by the neck.  Two identical pairs of glasses and protruding teeth were meeting face to face, and the sight jolted Arthur.  “You’re trying to make fun of me!” Armagnac galed on, shaking the stuffed rabbit.

“Oh, don’t be so ridiculous,” Katherine replied.

“Frederick!” Arthur wailed, forgetting Woofie in this new peril.

Armagnac lurched around, saw the newcomers, and focused on their tear-stained faces.

“There!” he yelled, vibrating a hand in the air, “there, see?  Somebody empathizes with me!  Unlike you!”

“Woofie’s dead!” Rose keened.

Lance entered, attracted by the noise.  His expression froze neanderthalically.  “What the hell does that matter?” bawled Armagnac as he waved the rabbit. “Look at this outrage--”

“Oh shut up!” said Katherine to her nephew. “Are you sure?” the old lady asked Rose.  Rose nodded tearily.

Katherine took a deep, ragged breath.  “Well, it looks like we need to call Hamilton.”

“Probably a vet too,” added Bert somberly.

“Hey,” said Lance, “this isn’t going to affect my inheritance?”

“I’m afraid it might,” said Katherine wearily.

“Hey!  That’s not fair!  I hadn’t even gotten custody of the damn bird yet.  I think I’m entitled to some sort of compensation here!  Did anyone have some insurance on that animal?”

“Get out!” Armagnac squealed.  “Get out, all of you!  Go talk to Hamilton!  None of you cares about me!  You don’t understand!  Whoever brought this rabbit here just tried to kill me the way he killed Father with that CD!  You don’t care about me at all.  Letitia!”

“Rose, I hate to ask you this,” said Katherine, ignoring her nephew, “but could you return to the farm?  Someone needs to be there to meet the vet.  I’d ask my nephew,” she added icily, “but he’s too self-absorbed right now.”

“Self-absorbed?!” bawled Armagnac.

“I’ll go with her,” said Bert.  He guided Rose out the door.

“Who’s taking me?” Lance demanded.

“Looks like we’ll have to take the rest in the Lincoln,” said Phil.  “Are you coming?” he asked his wife.

“I might as well, since my brother refuses to shut up.” Jac gave Armagnac an acid look.

Once the Salisburys and Lance had left, Briarly escaped up the stairs.  Boyle’s arms were quivering as if he had Parkinson’s.

“Aw, isn’t that cute?” said Richie, pointing at the rabbit.  “Do you collect dollies as well, Uncle Armagnac?”

Armagnac lunged, but Richie had already run off.  

“Stop squeezing Frederick!” Arthur shouted angrily.  In that moment, the boy felt brave enough to face down a dozen uncles.

“Frederick!  Who the hell is Frederick?” gabbled Armagnac.  “Letitia!”

Mrs. Marshpool appeared on the stairs.  “Letitia,” Boyle wailed.  “I was going to confront and expose the perpetrator, but they’ve all just ignored me or laughed at me.”

Mrs. Marshpool gasped.  Armagnac sniffled.  The housekeeper snapped at Arthur, “Go away!”