A Will To Murder (3 page)

Richie was chubby and short-haired, without either of his parents’ good looks, and his grin made Arthur queasy.  The boy was holding a knobby piece of pink granite, studying the empty police car next to the Lincoln.  Arthur’s eyes widened.  His cousin scraped the rock down the side of the patrol car, leaving a long scratch.  The traffic was just loud enough to muffle the noise.

Arthur was stunned.  None of the grownups had noticed anything.  They were still talking to each other, oblivious.  Just then Bert said to Phil, “Okay, we’ll switch.  You and Richie come with me and Arthur.”

Arthur had been idly bouncing Frederick on his knee, but when he heard this, he stopped and stared at his stuffed animal.  Then he looked through the window at Richie.  He was doomed.  He was going to suffer unspeakably because of a rabbit.  Panicking, he tried to find a place to hide Frederick.  The glove compartment was completely full.  He considered shoving the rabbit underneath the car seats, but from the condition of things down there he knew Frederick would never be the same again.  And somehow, Arthur couldn’t bring himself to destroy Frederick so soon after winning her.

Now the three males were close, and Richie lunged forward, his ugly face framed by the car window.  The back door began to open, and Arthur nearly went crazy with fear.  So when his cousin climbed inside, horrible grin on his face, Arthur hit him with all his might with Frederick.  Swings and punches detonated all over, Arthur swearing as hard as he could.  He only knew two bad words so he had to make do, yelling them over and over.  Richie balled up protectively.

“What the--!” Bert shouted, “Knock it off!”

“You two behave yourselves,” Phil added lamely, fumbling for a cigarette.

The boys stopped.  Richie sat up and scowled at Arthur.  Arthur panted back, wild-eyed.

“Okay, you want to hold a stuffed rabbit, you can hold a stuffed rabbit,” sneered Richie.  “Hey, do you know what ‘Arthur’ sounds like?”

“Don’t say it,” the other threatened, menacing him with Frederick.  The two boys studied each other silently.  Then, with the primate’s instinct for making a peaceful gesture, Richie said, “Want to see me stick this piece of plastic thread up my nose and pull it out my mouth?”

Arthur wasn’t interested, but he paid attention.  It was better than getting beaten up.  He stayed wary, however, for he knew Richie’s type.  If his cousin smelled fear, he would attack.       

“Hey,” said Richie as the car drove off, “why don’t you have a TV in here?”

“Because it’s a car,” retorted Arthur.

“We have one in our car,” his cousin taunted.  “It’s a flat screen and it plays videos, too.  You can play computer games on it as well.”  Richie gloated, then pulled out a long whip of chewing gum and bit the end off.  He didn’t offer any of it to Arthur.

“Dare you to shove that up your nose and pull it out your mouth,” said Arthur, positive that his cousin could never manage it.  

To his dismay, Richie did.

A yell from Bert and a violent wobble in the car’s steering got everyone’s attention and made Phil drop ashes all over his lap.  Rollingwood was in the distance.

“It’s black!”  Bert shouted.  “The whole house is fucking black!”

“James Boyle had it painted black this year,” Salisbury replied.  “I don’t know why.”

“Jesus, that evil old man!” said Bert in wonder.

“Place also has a bat problem, Jac says.  This your first time here?”

“Not quite.  I saw the living room when I was dating Rose, but didn’t get any further.  The old man wouldn’t let me in the house after Rose and I married.  An appliance repairman wasn’t good enough for him.  He didn’t come to the wedding either, though Katherine and Armagnac showed up.”

Arthur didn’t properly heed this information about bats, because Richie was creeping towards him, bedewed plastic thread held out menacingly, and Arthur had to kick him back.  Bert’s hand shot over the seat and smacked them both, quelling them momentarily.

“So what have you been doing lately?” asked Rose, wincing.

“I’ve been trying to persuade the museum board to start purchasing more late 19th- and early 20th-century French ceramics for the permanent collection, but haven’t gotten anywhere.  They think pottery is too feminine, and only oil paintings can be considered real art.”  Jac clamped her lips together for a moment, but did not disturb the resinous luster of her lipstick.  “Then I get this news about Father.  I envy Aunt Katy.  With Father gone she can do whatever she likes.”  

Rose bit down on an antacid so hard it went off like a gunshot.

“Will you stop cracking those things!?  You’re driving me crazy.”  Jac pursed her mouth musingly as she steered the Lincoln.  “Do you have any idea who could have put that CD in Dad’s car?  Was anyone angry with him?”

“You know everyone was!  Father couldn’t go five minutes without infuriating somebody.  What amazes me is that someone went to all that trouble to install a boombox in his car.  Whoever did it must feel awful.  I’m sure they didn’t expect him to--to die.”

Briarly was watching the two women from the backseat.  Only her eyes could be seen peering over the top.

“I bet it was Heydrick,” said Jac.  Heydrick was the family gardener. “He’s been crazy for years, and Father did hire him out of that halfway house, remember.”   

Her sister only gnawed a strand of lank hair and said, “We shouldn’t discuss this in front of Briarly.”  Rose teared up.

“Oh for God’s sake, you’re not really upset that Dad’s gone, are you?  Don’t be such a hypocrite.”

“Yes, I am upset!  He was
my
father, and yours too, if you don’t remember.”

“He terrorized Aunt Katherine and Armagnac, and joined Grandad in disowning Aunt Sophia.  He used to threaten to disinherit us every other week and finally did that to you when you married Bert.  He was a pig.”

“How can you say that?” Rose wailed.  “You were his favorite.”

“I was not!  He had no favorites because he wasn’t capable of normal human affection!  Rosey!  Stop crying.  Look, we’re almost home.  My God,” Jac shrieked, “what did he do to the house?”

“It’s black,” Rose marveled.

“He would!  He always wanted to embarrass the family as much as possible!  I’m driving around to the carriage house.  I refuse to pull up in front.”

Arthur stepped out of the Camry onto the circular driveway and stared at the black house.  His three companions were also goggling.  Elegant flowerbeds surrounded the mansion, and roses were just beginning to open.  Enormous pink peonies reigned over the beds at the moment.  The house looked like a black eye rimmed with pink eyeshadow.  Beyond was a carefully trimmed lawn that stretched for acres, dotted with huge conifers.

“House looks manic-depressive,” Cummings said.  A few white marble steps led up to large mahogany doors, and someone had tied black crepe bows around the brass doorknobs.  Thoughtfully, Richie hefted a rock, studying the stained glass fanlight above the door.

“At least he liked flowers,” Bert commented.

“Those are Katherine’s,” said Salisbury, tossing away his cigarette.  “I think the old man would have preferred planting land mines and barbed wire.”

At that moment they heard footsteps on the maroon gravel.  The circular driveway branched off to the right and went back to the carriage house, ending at a small parking area.  On the left side of Rollingwood was a disused arch covered with vines, showing that the driveway had once lead in that direction before being repositioned.  The women were approaching from the parking area.  

“Now, who is this handsome young man?” said Jac.  “You must be my nephew, Arthur.  Why didn’t you come out to greet me at the restaurant?” she teased.  Arthur blushed, and wondered how this nice lady could have such a putrid son.

Just then an old man appeared around the side of the house.  He was wearing a sagging hat with a frayed brim, and his skin was so leathery it did not have wrinkles, but cracks and crevices instead.  His black eyes stared unwelcomingly at the newcomers, almost demented in their intensity.  When the old man looked at Arthur, the boy remembered he was holding Frederick and tried to hide the rabbit behind his back.  The watcher bared his teeth in amusement.  They were tinted green.  The boy gulped.

“There’s Heydrick,” Jac said in disgust to Rose.  “My God, he’s a notch below pushing a shopping cart.  Why didn’t Father get rid of him?”

Then Heydrick moved.  The gardener knocked the stone out of Richie’s hand with a punch to the boy’s arm and thumped Richie’s ear.  The boy screamed.

Everyone turned.  Heydrick was bending over, feeling for something on the ground.

“What are you doing?” Phil snapped.

“He hit me!” Richie bawled.

“Good,” murmured Bert.

“Hey, you--,” said Phil, stabbing a finger at the gardener.

Heydrick straightened.  He was holding Phil’s discarded cigarette, plucked out of the roses.  The old man looked from the cigarette to Salisbury, and his lip rose lopsidedly, baring a green fang.

Salisbury gazed at the cigarette, then turned away.  “Are we ready to go inside?” he asked his wife.

Heydrick walked off, disappearing again around the side of the house.

“He didn’t even say hello to me,” said Rose, taken aback.  “He always has before.”

“Of course.  It’s because he’s deranged,” Jac said as she rang the intercom button.

“Who is it, please?” said a female voice from inside the house.

“It’s the family, Mrs. Marshpool,” Rose called over her sister’s shoulder.

“Oh, that’s all we need,” the voice replied.

Chapter 4

They were let into the foyer by Mrs. Marshpool, the housekeeper of Rollingwood.  Mrs. Marshpool was a tall woman in her early fifties with a deeply-lined mouth and blunt-cut blonde hair.  She wore a white blazer and slacks.  Bert whispered to his wife, “Looks like the sadistic head psychiatrist of an all-female institution.”  

Rose swatted him.

The housekeeper was barring the way with crossed arms.  She had not yet blinked, and indeed, didn’t seem to need to.

“Hello,” said Rose.  “Does Aunt Katherine know we’re here?”

“Don’t keep us standing here, Marshpool,” added Jac in an acid tone.

“We’ve had a long drive,” said Rose hastily, trying to soften her sister’s rudeness.  “This is my husband Bert.  I don’t think you’ve met him before.”

The housekeeper lifted an eyebrow.  Bert gave her a cold nod.  He knew the Boyles thought him vulgar, but he wasn’t willing to take crap from the servants as well.

“--and my son Arthur.”

Arthur gulped.  “Hi,” he said weakly.

“You children mustn’t touch anything,” said the housekeeper with a scowl.  “We have many valuable antiques here at Rollingwood and they must not be damaged.”  

“Not even the doorknobs?” asked Richie with a grin.

“Stop lecturing my children,” Jac flared.  “Father’s dead and you have no authority anymore.”         

“Just wait until the will is read,” replied Mrs. Marshpool, unperturbed.

“Oh, I hope you’re let off with a handshake and a fiver,” snarled Jac.

“Jac, please don’t start a fight,” Rose begged around another antacid.

“Yeah, honey,” added Phil.  “By the way, where are your aunt and your brother?”

“Mr. Armagnac is in the library,” said the housekeeper coldly, “and he’ll come out to greet you when he’s ready.”

“Oh, he will, will he?” growled Jac.  

“--and Ms. Katherine--”  The housekeeper paused.  A gray-haired old lady was heading towards them.  This was Katherine Boyle, the deceased James’ sister.  Mrs. Marshpool stepped aside, professional composure replacing the threat on her face.  As Katherine clutched armloads of family in greeting, Arthur looked to see how Briarly would react to her great-aunt, but the girl was gone.  

Katherine also tried to embrace Richie, but Phil, with the insight of a parent, yanked the boy back before the old lady could impact.  “He’s very pleased to meet you,” said Phil hurriedly.  “Richie, go find your sister.  She seems to have gone outside.”

“I have a housegift for you, Aunt Katy,” Rose said, “a bottle of my dandelion wine.”

“Wonderful!  We’ll have it for tea.”

“What’s with your clothes?” Jac asked.

Katherine was wearing a paint-splattered flannel shirt and old khakis.  She giggled.  “I’m redecorating.  Don’t tell Armagnac.”

“Madam,” Mrs. Marshpool interrupted, “you need to tell them about the arrangements?”

For a second Katherine looked blank.  “Oh yes!  James, well.”

“I’m beginning to feel sorry for the old guy,” said Bert in an undertone to Phil.

“Don’t bother,” replied Salisbury.  

At this point, Rose keened her condolences to her aunt, and the two women hugged again.  Jac gave her husband a sour look at such hypocrisy.

“There won’t be any church service, I’m afraid,” said Katherine, releasing her niece.  “You know he hated churches.  His remains are over at the funeral home right now.  Douthit claims the shock did his bad heart in.  Well, we can’t all have sound hearts at our age.  I’ve got a weak ticker myself.  But anyway, someone needs to go with Armagnac to tell Douthit what’s necessary for the funeral.”

“I refuse to face that sick freak Douthit!” Jac declared.  “Rose, you’ll have to do it.”  Addressing the housekeeper, she added, “Go tell my rudely missing brother that Rose is accompanying him to the funeral home.”

“In a few minutes,” replied Mrs. Marshpool calmly. “First, I need to say that Mr. Boyle instructed me to inform you that Mr. Hamilton wants to talk with everyone tomorrow about the will.”

“Armagnac has already spoken to him?” asked Jac sharply.  Douglas Hamilton was the family lawyer.

Mrs. Marshpool eyed her.  “Yes.  I do not know what was said.  But the police were asking questions about the late Mr. Boyle’s death.  It was a very peculiar way to die.”

“They questioned me and Armagnac,” said Katherine hesitantly.  “They questioned the staff too, but they couldn’t find out who put that CD player in James’s car.  No fingerprints were found on the player.  The police took the car to check it over, but they returned it yesterday.  Willowby had been gone on vacation for two weeks and he had just returned the morning James died.  We don’t usually lock the car bays during the day, and they weren’t locked while Willowby was gone.  We have no idea who could have gotten at the Mercedes-Knight.  Well, that’s all of that,” she concluded in a warily treading voice.  “Now, come see the house!  Mrs. Marshpool, have Willowby get their bags.”