A Will To Murder (7 page)

“Kid!  Don’t joke about CD cases right now, okay?  They’re a very sensitive topic in this household, especially ones by the name of Jazzy F*KU.  If you try to sucker me again I’ll spank hell out of you.  Got that?”

Arthur was defeated.  Once his father threatened a spanking, no one could argue with him.  Yet Arthur knew he had seen a CD case in the attic, and that somebody had stolen it.

“We’re getting ready for the funeral service,” Bert continued, “so don’t run off.  Now where did I put that glass?  It must have had at least a teaspoonful of drink left.”

Arthur watched his father disappear.  He considered hunting for the CD case again, but there was another question he had to ask.  He found his mother in the kitchen and tugged wordlessly on her arm until she let herself be guided upstairs.

“What is it, honey?”

Arthur didn’t reply, instead urging her up to the third floor and into the schoolroom.  When they reached the skeleton, he asked, “Is that Grandad Boyle?”

“No, that’s Herbert Maxillamus.  Or that’s what we named him.  He’s a skeleton your great-grandfather bought so his children and grandchildren could learn the bones of the body.  This is our old schoolroom.  Your uncle and aunt and myself all had private tutors back then.  No, your grandfather’s in a coffin at the Chichiteaux Cemetery, and we’re going to be burying him in an hour or so.”

The boy felt much better.  He had been positive that the skeleton was actually his dead grandfather.  Now that it was nobody, he felt braver about it.

“Is there anything else in this house that’s frightening you?”

“I am
not
scared,” Arthur bellowed, puffing.

“That’s good.  Now, we need to get ready to leave.  Try to behave, will you?  The service is probably going to be a little dull.”

Humiliated, the boy followed his mother downstairs.

The cars decanted their passengers near a freshly dug grave in the Chichiteaux Cemetery.  An unseasonably cold wind was rising and the clouds threatened rain.  Douthit’s Funeral Parlor had already delivered the polished brass casket, and it lay on top of two iron rails next to the grave.  Someone had hidden the excavated earth under a green tarp, and a wreath of flowers, donated by Katherine, lay on top of the casket.  Crosgate, who was one of Douthit’s men, had just laid out two rows of folding chairs in front of the casket.

Katherine, Rose, Jac, and the children took the front row, with Richie squirming and grinning.  Jac glared at him and the boy subsided, to Arthur’s surprise.

In the second row sat Bert, Phil, Mrs. Marshpool, and Armagnac.  There was no minister or priest because James Boyle had never been a churchgoer.  And except for the housekeeper, none of the other servants had chosen to come, despite invitations.  Nor were there any family friends, for Mr. Boyle had none.

The relatives contemplated the casket silently. Crosgate stood with hands behind his back, his expression curious.  He was obviously wondering what the family was going to do.

Armagnac stood up and took a position at the head of the casket.  With a tight expression, he began to speak.  “We are gathered here today to bury James Elmont Boyle; our father, brother, father-in-law, and grandfather.”  Armagnac paused, trying to decide what should come next.  A cry interrupted him.

“Cease!  Stop the funeral!” a man shouted.

“What the hell?” asked Jac.

A hefty man was running towards them.  Crosgate paled.

“Oh Christ,” said Jac, “it’s Douthit.  What can he want?  And what’s wrong with his face?  My God, he’s wearing makeup!”

“He practices putting cosmetics on his own face so he can get the corpses’ makeup right,” Katherine whispered to her niece.  “Sometimes he just forgets to take it off before he goes out in public.  I thought you knew that.”

“Well, NOW I do,” Jac groaned.

Arthur gazed hard at the approaching man.  Douthit’s eyes did appear to be rimmed with black.  The undertaker was bald, and his powder-white face was strangely hairless on top of his formal black suit.  Arthur decided that he had never seen anyone who looked so much like Uncle Fester from ‘The Addams Family.’

Douthit halted by the grave, panting hard.  “You have to stop!” he insisted.

“Is anything wrong, Mr. Douthit?” Katherine asked in a stately way, a hint to the undertaker to compose himself.

“See here, Douthit,” said Armagnac.  “We’re in the middle of a service.  Can it wait?”

“Absolutely not.  Something has been forgotten,” the undertaker gasped.  “Crosgate, assist me.”

Before the eyes of the startled family, Douthit began to open the casket.  A moment later, James Elmont Boyle lay before them on red satin plush.  His arms were crossed over his chest and his face bore a sour expression.  His hat and cane were in situ.

“My God,” said Bert.  “They buried him with his bowler on!”

Arthur goggled.  Briarly’s little black purse slid out of her lace-gloved hands.  Even Richie was impressed.  The boy leant forward and sniffed hard, expressively.  Jac yanked him back down into his seat.

“Doesn’t he look magnificent?” Douthit sighed.

“Is this all!?” yelled Jac.  “Do you mean you’ve interrupted us just to show Father off?”

The undertaker drew back, offended.  “Can it possibly be that you don’t care to see him?  You didn’t take a look at him when you stopped by the funeral home.”

“Mr. Douthit,” began Katherine in a pained way.

“Douthit,” Armagnac interrupted.  “None of us came by to see him because none of us
wanted
to see him!  Now will you close that goddamned casket?”

“But doesn’t he look wonderful?” the undertaker insisted.  He gazed down at James with the satisfaction a chef might give to a well-garnished entrée.  Crosgate was clutching the wreath, eyes closed.  Judging from his expression, he had obviously witnessed this type of scene before.  

“Douthit.  I’ll say it again.  Close the damned casket and let us get on with the burial.”  Boyle’s narrowed eyes and protruding teeth made him look like a were-rabbit.

“The families
always
say that they adore my handiwork,” complained the undertaker peevishly.

“He looks wonderful, Mr. Douthit.  Now will you let us go on?” said Katherine.

Reluctantly, the undertaker closed the casket again with Crosgate’s help and replaced the wreath.  Douthit’s gaze lingered on the casket, as if pained to see such a fine job vanish into the earth.  Armagnac took up his position again, and the undertaker turned away from the funeral, looking vexed.

“Wearegathered heretodaytobury JamesElmontBoyle,” began Armagnac in a rush, “ourfatherbrother--”

“They didn’t even say how good the hands looked,” said Douthit loudly. “Arranging the arms and supergluing the fingers together for that prayerful, sleeping look is an art.  Few undertakers can accomplish it like Marvin Douthit.”   

“Iwouldliketoask eachofthefamily torecallafew memoriesabout JamesElmontBoyle,” Armagnac continued fortissimo, glaring across at Douthit.

“Nor did they comment about the mouth,” said the undertaker to the empty air. “When a client wears false teeth like James Boyle, the lips will sink inward when he lies like that, but not when Marvin Douthit works on a body.  Douthit’s Funeral Parlor is unsurpassed at positioning a mouth former to bulk the lips outward and at sewing them shut to retain that natural look.  They didn’t even mention that.”

“I’m going to strangle him, I’m going to strangle him,” chanted Jac, her eyes squeezed shut.

Douthit glanced sadly towards the mourners.  “Why, what with exfoliating the scaly skin, dressing the hair, cleaning the nails, massaging and relaxing the limbs into place, and applying cosmetics, my subjects might as well be at a spa!  A
spa
, I tell you.  But does anyone appreciate my efforts?  No!  They just complain about the cost!”

“Excuse me,” said Bert.  Cummings went over to the mortician and led Douthit firmly away.

Armagnac exhaled with feeling.  “Rose, would you like to recall a few memories?”

As Rose stood up to take Armagnac’s place, Arthur stared at the casket.  He was still stunned at having seen his dead grandfather.  After a moment he looked at the others.  Mrs. Marshpool’s face was serious and intent, and Phil was hunched over, guiltily sneaking a cigarette.  Douthit was speaking to Bert, and Arthur noticed his father was turning a funny color.

Rose finished and sat down in her chair.  Armagnac gave Jac a questioning look.

“Pass,” said Jac with a touch of disgust.

Boyle gazed at his aunt.  But Katherine, who was holding a tissue over her nose, only shook her head sorrowfully.  Realizing he was running out of relatives, Armagnac glanced at Phil, who only mumbled that he hadn’t known the deceased that well.  Boyle even looked at Mrs. Marshpool, but she fanned her palm ‘no’ at him in an alarmed way.

Having run out of speakers, Armagnac started to close the too-short service.  Pointedly, Boyle hadn’t recalled aloud any memories of his father, either.

Bert returned, looking green, and said to Rose, “I didn’t want to hear all that.”

The funeral party rose and began to make its way back to the cars.

“Ms. Boyle,” said Douthit.  “While you’re here--”

“No, Mr. Douthit,” said Katherine with the air of having had this conversation before, “I do not want to discuss my funeral arrangements right now.  This is not the time.”

“Still,” Douthit continued.  “You shouldn’t balk at using this occasion to consider the subject.  My clients are always being caught unprepared.  Then the family has to decide all the details, and they often quarrel viciously among themselves.  It’s a tragedy, Ms. Boyle.  Here, I have this photocopy of casket types you can peruse at your leisure.”

“Get him away,” whispered Rose to Phil.  Salisbury stepped between Douthit and Katherine long enough to allow the old lady to dash for the Lincoln.  Once inside, Katherine quickly locked the car door, but the undertaker lunged for her open window.

“You will think about it, Ms. Boyle, and let me know?  I have some suggestions if you’re at a loss for ideas.”

Katherine was grabbing in vain for the window crank.  Phil hit a button, and the Lincoln’s power windows rose so fast that Douthit was forced to jerk his head back or be decapitated.  He still managed to drop the casket sheet inside the window, however.

“Just give me a call and I’ll make an appointment!” cried the undertaker cheerfully.

Salisbury put the accelerator down and the car leapt forward.

“Could we stop somewhere for a drink before we go home?” Katherine groaned.  “I need something to take with my heart medicine.  If he’d kept his spiel up any longer he’d have gained another client.”

“Douthit gets more freakish every year,” said Jac tartly. “Stop at a fast-food place in Chichiteaux, Phil.”

Once back at Rollingwood, the family gathered in the living room for a talk with the lawyer, Douglas Hamilton.  Hamilton was fiftyish and greying, and his weathered skin showed much evidence of his yachting hobby.  

Arthur decided to hang out, since Richie and Briarly were absent, and patted Barksdale while the grownups talked.  Unfortunately, the Labrador was turning out to be one of those sleeping dogs that were good for nothing except for being mooshed around the floor like Play-doh.  

Jac was sitting with crossed legs on the sofa, slowly raising and lowering a loose navy pump on her panty-hosed toe.  Rose stood gnawing her hair.  Bert sat a little down from Jac.  Mrs. Marshpool was alone on the I-shaped sofa, her expression severe.  Phil lounged uncomfortably against a wall.  In the center of the room stood Hamilton, and facing him were Katherine and Armagnac.

“There!” Boyle hooted, arms crossed.  “You hear him!  You can’t carry out any more alterations!”

Katherine only huffed in a bear-like way at her nephew.

“So what are you going to do about that test patch?” Boyle asked smugly.  “It’s defacing the house.”

The old lady stared at him.  Then she picked up something from a side table and slapped it into his palm.  “There!” she yelled.

Armagnac looked down.  He was holding a black felt-tip marker.  Irritably, he tossed it aside.  The lawyer’s face was bland.  Everyone was giving Hamilton curious looks, for he had no paperwork or briefcase with him.  The lawyer seemed strangely unprepared to begin a will-reading.

When Katherine dropped down on the couch next to Bert, Arthur took the opportunity to complain to her, “I couldn’t find any bats in the attic.  I really wanted to see one.”

“That’s because they’ve all been exterminated, dear. We had that done a few months ago.”

“Oh,” said the boy, disappointed.

Hamilton’s gravelly voice spoke.  “You’re probably expecting me to start the will reading.”  He smiled a little.

“If you’d get on with it,” drawled Armagnac.

Taking no notice, the lawyer continued, “But I can’t until all the family have turned up.  Two more of your relatives will be arriving tomorrow.”

Armagnac gaped, and Jac’s shoe stopped moving.  Rose bit a nail through.  The only face not surprised was Katherine’s.  The old lady reddened.

“Who’s coming?” said Jac to her aunt, eyes sharp.

“The Wileys,” Katherine whispered hoarsely.

“Aunt Sophia’s children?” exclaimed Rose, coming over to sit by her sister.  Katherine nodded eagerly.

“Wasn’t Sophia cut out of the will?” Jac asked.

Sophia Boyle was the youngest sister of James and Katherine.  Nearly forty years ago she had run away, after a violent row with her autocratic father Hiram.  None of the Boyles had heard from her since.  They knew that Sophia had died recently.  But she had married a man named Wiley late in life and had borne him two children.

“Out of Grandfather’s will, yes,” Katherine explained.  “But I expect that Hamilton’s found some sort of provision for her children in James’ will.”

“What do you think it could be?” asked Jac.

“I have no idea,” Katherine said.  “But I’m not worried for the Wileys.  There’s a boy called Lance and a girl called Colette.”

“How old are they?” Jac asked.

“Lance is nineteen, Colette seventeen.”