A Will To Murder (20 page)

He stopped.  

Jac was lounging next to Katherine's bedroom door, smiling.  “I have to let people know I'm returning later than I thought,” she said.

“Uh, have to say goodbye,” said Eric with an over-hearty laugh into the receiver.  “Someone needs to use the phone.  Bye.”  He hung up and hastened into the living room.

As Jac reached for the receiver she said to the air, “He's good-looking, but he's
always
on the
phone
.”

Eric went outside, seemingly to visit his car.  He paused to meditate over the carriage house and its bays, and to recover from the surprise of Jac.  One of the bays was open, and Willowby was there, bent over the open hood of a Jeep that seemed to be his own vehicle.

For a moment or two, the reporter rummaged inside his Honda, trying to think of an excuse to get inside the shed.  Then he began to stride offhandedly in its direction.

Willowby looked up and gave him a nod, then continued with the Jeep.  Eric glanced at the house.  Luckily, the curtains were still closed, Mrs. Marshpool having forgotten to open them this morning.  Then he inspected the lock on the shed and gave it a tug.  It held firm.  He made a quick circle around the building, but it was well-made, with no splits in the wood, and no windows.  

Frustrated, he returned and addressed the chauffeur.  “Do you have an oil can?  I’ve a car door that needs a dose.  I tried that toolshed over there, but it's locked.”  It took effort to sound innocent, but he managed it.  No sign of suspicion was on the chauffeur's face.

“Here’s my spray lube,” replied Willowby. “That's not a toolshed, by the way; that's Heydrick's gardening shed.”  He followed Eric a little way out of the carriage house, wiping his greasy hands on a rag.

“You don't have a problem with theft around here, do you?”  

“Heydrick doesn’t normally keep it locked.  But he’s a paranoid guy, and I think he put a lock on the day the painters were here to do the test patch.  Wait a minute.” Willowby squinted at the shed.  “That’s a different lock.  He had a padlock on it earlier this week, and this one’s a combination lock.  He must have broken or lost the other one.”  The chauffeur returned to his Jeep.

Eric doctored his car door and returned the can, saying nonchalantly, “I’ve the impression your former boss was pretty difficult.”

Willowby straightened.  “He wasn’t so bad.  Of course, it helped that he was my employer, not my father, so being impartial was easier for me.”  The chauffeur wore a rueful expression.  “Boyles are just too combative.  They all fight like hell.  Even Rose and Katherine would, if they were mad enough.  The family gave my boss a lot of hassle.  He was just this old, patriarchal guy who was trying to run things the way he thought proper.  I got to hear the other side from him, you see.”  

“About what?”  

“Rose, for example.  He didn’t cut her out of the will because she married Mr. Cummings, he cut her out because she wouldn’t speak to him.  ‘She's bringing this on herself,’ Mr. Boyle told me.  He was trying to force Rose to start talking to him again.  I know because I was the one who drove him to the lawyer’s that time.”

“Was this several years ago?”

“Yeah, a few months after Rose’s marriage, I think.”   

“Had he paid any visits to his lawyer recently?”

“I took him about a month ago after he'd had a yelling contest with his son.  Armagnac was having an affair with Mrs. Marshpool, and everyone knew about it except the old man.  Finally, someone told him.  Blow-up, I'm telling you.  Mr. Boyle said Mrs. Marshpool was okay as a housekeeper, but as a daughter-in-law, no way.  I can see his point.  The boss thought she was after the family money and I don't think he was wrong about that.  Armagnac and Mrs. Marshpool were looking pretty worried the day I took Mr. Boyle to Hamilton’s.  I guess that was when he disinherited his son.  Mr. Boyle told me not to mention the trip to anybody, but I think Armagnac and Mrs. Marshpool must have figured it out.”

“I’d heard something different--that James threatened to cut his son out of the will because he wouldn’t work.”

“That too,” replied Willowby, “Mrs. Marshpool was just one provocation too many, I think.”  

“Do you remember the exact date you drove him to Hamilton’s?”

“I really don’t.  It was just too many weeks ago.”  The chauffeur thought a bit, then shook his head.  “I couldn’t tell you.”

“Is it possible to have a look at the Mercedes-Knight?”

The chauffeur hesitated.  “Uh, there was a little accident with it earlier this week, and Armagnac has forbidden any use of it.  It’s behind that bay over there.  You really can’t see much of anything, except that part of the carpet’s loose in the back where the police pulled it up.”

Guessing the ‘incident’ meant something about a flowerbed, (which still puzzled him) Eric stepped inside the bay.  He noted that Willowby had an unusually well-stocked place to work, judging from all the bottles of oil, coolant, tar remover, and other fluids.  There were enough polishes and waxes to stock a store.  Spare tires and other parts hung on the walls, and he could hear the hiss of an air compressor.  Then he felt something underneath his feet and halted.  A
much
better garage than most.  He’d never seen carpeting in a garage before.  There sat the Mercedes-Knight, resting on imperial crimson.  James appeared to have done everything for this vehicle except have its booties bronzed.  The reporter tried to look through a back window, but even with the garage’s strong florescent lighting he could see little.  Oh well, he thought, the police had already gone over the car.  

He shrugged, a gesture meant for Willowby, and began to leave.  Through an open door leading to the center hallway he saw a telephone and realized this must be the only other one on the property.    

He traveled across the lawn to the kitchen, hoping to find Sheila alone.  The loud sound of frying onions came from the stove as he opened the side door.  

“Oh hello,” the reporter said pleasantly.  “It smells good in here.  Is that for dinner?”  

“If they turn out,” replied Sheila as she turned the onions with a spoon.  

“I was wondering about something in my bedroom.  Maybe you can tell me what it was.  Your former boss had all this revolutionary war stuff.  Was he a re-enactor or something?”

“Yes.  He had his group over a few times to practice maneuvers on the grounds, then they’d march off to Chichiteaux.  They were the only people he’d ever invite here.”

“Wasn’t he sort of old for marching?”

Sheila laughed.  “Oh no.  He was an officer.  Sat on a horse and yelled orders.  I could see him from the kitchen windows, and some of the privates didn’t look very happy about him.  Sometimes he’d jab them with the point of his sword.  ‘Get along there, soldier.’”

“Bit of a Prussian, I see.  If you don’t mind my asking, what’s your theory about his death?”

The cook shrugged.  “Anyone could have installed that CD player.  This is farm country, and people haven’t lost their mechanical skills like city folk.  I know plenty of guys who can fix tractors and other things.”  For a second she looked uncomfortable, then gave an embarrassed smile.    

“By the way, are you preparing anything strange for us tonight?”

“Why?  Do you have food allergies?”  

“Oh no, it’s just that I was offered a glass of dandelion wine the other day and thought this place sure seems to have some unusual foodstuffs.  I like to try exotic things from time to time, but I didn’t sample the wine, and I was regretting that I missed the opportunity.  Do you still have any of that bottle?”

“It should be in the wine cooler.”  She pointed towards a refrigerator in the corner.  Eric opened the door, saying, “I’ve never seen one of these before.  It keeps the bottles at cellar temperature?”

Sheila nodded.  “It holds about two hundred bottles.”

Quickly, Maxwell studied the racks.  “I don’t see the dandelion wine here,” he said.

The cook frowned.  “It should be there.  Wait a minute.  I don’t think it was on the tea cart when Mrs. Marshpool brought it back into the kitchen.”

“When was that?”

“She wheeled it in this morning.  I guess that was when she remembered the tea things had been left out in the living room ever since the tea party.  I forgot all about them myself.  I remember storing the rest of the cake and other things, but I don’t recall putting anything back into the wine cooler except the spruce beer, which hadn’t been opened.  Yes, I’m sure of that.  There wasn’t any bottle of dandelion wine.  You people must have finished it at the tea.”

Eric shook his head as if in mild puzzlement, then shut the cooler’s door.  “Oh well, we must have.”  Mrs. Marshpool? he thought.  The housekeeper could easily have taken that bottle.  Or anyone else, if the bottle was just sitting out in the living room overnight.

“One other thing,” Eric asked, taking a deep breath first.  “Did anyone know the contents of Katherine’s will?”

“No one knew the exact details,” Sheila replied, “but everyone knew she intended to be more generous than her brother.  Why are you asking, Mr. Reporter?”  

“I’m just nosy.  Looks like I have the right job, hm?”

She smiled a little.  “It seems.”

When Jac finished her phone call, she turned the ringer off so the family would have privacy, then went up the back stairs to her bedroom.  Arthur, who had been waiting at the top, pounced.  “Want to see my penny?” he asked.

Jac looked weary and cross.  “Not now, Arthur.  This has been an awful day for me, and I need to lie down.”

The boy supposed this was so, but was disappointed.  “No one wants to see my penny,” he said plaintively.

She paused.  “All right, Arthur.  Go ahead and show it to me.”

He took the penny out of his pocket.  It was enclosed in a hard plastic case and had a printed label.  “It’s a 1793 Liberty Chain cent with flowing hair in MS-60 condition.  It’s been valued at thousands and thousands of dollars,” said the boy happily.

Jac bent over as if suddenly nearsighted, and her lips silently shaped words as she read the label.  When she finished, her eyes stayed fixed on the coin.  “Father gave you this!?” she asked, straightening.

“Yes,” Arthur burbled.

She stayed silent for a moment, then said,  “Why didn’t he give either of my kids something like this?”

Though his aunt seemed to be speaking to herself, Arthur tried to answer.  “Because he didn’t like them?”

“
Arthur,
” Jac rasped.  Then she looked thoughtful again and frowned.  “You know, your father’s been complaining nonstop that he’s gotten nothing out of the inheritance.  Why is he carrying on this way if you’ve received that penny?”

“He doesn’t know about it!  He ignores me when I try to show it to him, and Mom’s the same way.  I can’t get anyone to look at it.  You’re the first one I’ve shown it to.”

“Ooooh,” she said, comprehending.  “Arthur, you have to understand, everyone’s very preoccupied with Dad’s and Aunt Katy’s deaths.  It’s a very nice coin, but don’t bother people with it right now.  Wait until you go home before showing it to your parents.  Some things are more important than nice coins.  If anyone asks for me, tell them I’m taking my afternoon nap.”  She went inside her bedroom and shut the door.

Disappointed, he watched her door for a moment.  But he supposed Aunt Jac knew best.

Later that night, Colette inspected the smelly old bedroom they had foisted off on her.  So far, unknown to both the family and Mrs. Marshpool, she had slept only on the living room couch.  Every night after the others had gone to bed, she had slipped downstairs, then returned to her bedroom the next morning before the others woke.

A vaporizer was sitting on a table, delivered to the room just as Colette had requested.  A plastic watering pitcher stood next to it with the water.  

“You lazy fucker,” she said, “why didn’t you go ahead and pour it in?  Hey, you little shit,” she added, looking inside the pitcher, “you barely gave me any water.  I’m damned if I’m going to lug this thing down to the bathroom to fill it myself.  I’m sick, dammit, and shouldn’t have to do errands like that.  You’ll hear from me in the morning, you worthless fuck of a housekeeper.”

She coughed badly for a moment, then recovered herself.  A noise came from the door, a muffled creak like floorboards, then a click.  Colette walked over and tried the knob.  It turned, but the door wouldn’t open.

“Hey,” she called hoarsely, “who’s locked the door?  I need to get out.”

But the floorboards were creaking again as someone moved away.  Colette considered the room.  No one was going to force her to stay here tonight.  She struck a match and held it against the wooden door, and a scorch mark began to climb up its finish.

“I’m burning the house down,” she called out, “you have to let me out.”

No one came by.  Colette let the match blacken the door some more, then gave up in disgust.  The smoke from the varnish was making her cough.  She shook the match out and tossed it aside.  Her lungs were already tightening from the dust and filth, and she saw with irritation that the vaporizer wasn’t even clean.  A little loose powder was on the bottom, barely noticeable.  With an obscenity, she put it on the floor, plugged the unit in, and added the water.  The vaporizer came with a breathing mask to fit over the mouth and nose, and she sat down cross-legged and inhaled phlegmily through this.  Oddly, it didn’t seem to help.  An ache like a tight cramp spread through her lungs, and the outlines of the room grew dim.  She tried to inhale more deeply through the tube, but it was like the mask was blocking all the air.  Her lungs hurt even more.  Dazed, she let go of the mask and fell backwards.  Then she vomited weakly, and for one long, desperate moment she tried to breathe through the thick clog of burning juices in her throat.  Her body began to spasm on the carpet.

Within two minutes, all motion had stopped.  The vaporizer steamed away for another ten minutes or so, then quit when the water level dropped below the heating element.

Chapter 13