Death by the Light of the Moon (10 page)

“So I see. When is Justicia's funeral to be?”

“I'm not sure,” I said, struggling not to be intimidated by her hostility. “Stanford was making arrangements when I left this morning.”

“I shall attend, but only out of respect for the family's prominence. Justicia behaved scandalously these last few years. Many of us became unwilling to call upon her, or to welcome her into our homes.”

“Mother,” Spencer said warningly, “there's no need to speak ill of the dead. The Malloy family served the community generously over many decades. Miss Justicia herself donated money to the hospital and was a pillar in the church until she became…dehabilitated by arthritis and the deterioration of her mental faculties.” He gave me a faint smile. “Where may I take you, Mrs. Malloy?”

“The library, please.”

“What were you doing at the cemetery?” he asked, doing his best to drown out the grumbles from the backseat.

“Verifying a date,” I said.

“Oh, really?” Spencer glanced nervously in the rearview mirror, and his hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I saw you at Miller's tomb,” the woman said accusingly.

“He was my husband's oldest brother,” I said, “and I was curious about him.”

“About his life—or his death?”

I gestured weakly. “About him.”

We arrived without further conversation, but as I climbed out of the car, the woman in the backseat said, “Allow me to apologize for my disparaging remarks about Justicia. We were friends for many, many years, and it was most difficult for me to accept the recent changes in her personality. I shall see you at the funeral service, Mrs. Malloy.”

“Of course, Mrs….?”

“D'Armand, Mrs. Bethel D'Armand.” She nodded dismissively at me, then poked the back of Spencer's head with her cane. “This is not our final destination. Do stop gawking.”

I was the one who was gawking, but I closed my mouth and stepped back as the car pulled away. As I went up the steps to the library, I asked myself why I'd found her identity so amazing. I was unable to answer myself.

The library was cool and quiet. The rows of books were encased in dark wooden shelves, and the tables were antiques. Sofas provided seating for the patrons who thumbed magazines and newspapers. Two teenage girls giggled as they jostled each other to read what I presumed was a racy passage, despite the grim scrutiny of a woman hunched over a seed catalog.

A pleasant young librarian listened to my request for newspapers from the last month of 1960, settled me at a microfiche machine, and returned shortly with a canister. “At the time, there was only a weekly paper,” she whispered. “What precisely are you looking for?”

“An obituary,” I whispered back. She frowned but left me alone. I fed the film into the machine and located the issue from the third week in December. The front page contained little of interest, the pressing concerns of the week being a slump in cotton prices and a fire in a feed store. I moved on to the second page, and found what I was searching for—but not at all what I'd expected. Miller's obituary was several paragraphs long. He was the son of…He'd attended…He was survived by…And he'd died a hero, the recipient of the Purple Heart and the Bronze Star, among other medals.

How very odd, I thought as I leaned forward and reread the final paragraph. Sergeant Miller Randolph Malloy had not died in disgrace; he'd been killed by an enemy mine while on a training maneuver with a South Vietnamese unit. Several of the medals had been awarded posthumously.

Why had the family decided to hush up the existence of a hero? It was right up Maxie and Phoebe's ancestoral alley; they should have delighted in it. Stanford had no reason to choke on the name, nor Carlton to fail to mention his brother. Bethel D'Armand had blanched when I'd asked him an innocent question, and his wife had implied I'd done something dastardly at the cemetery.

I replaced the film in the canister and returned it to the desk, then went outside to stand on the top step.

Nothing out of the ordinary was taking place in LaRue. Pickup trucks and cars were still moving in the main street, and pedestrians were still doing the same on the sidewalks. My chums on the bench in front of the barbershop were sitting where I'd left them, and, from all appearances, had not moved even an inch. The sun was higher and hotter, and the sky perhaps paler, but it all looked depressingly normal to someone who was finding everything, as Ellie would say, muddlesome.

“Miz Malloy!”

I wrenched myself out of my befogged state. A car had stopped, and the two policemen who'd been at the scene of Miss Justicia's accident were regarding me. Dewberry, the skinny one, was in the driver's seat. Puccoon sat beside him.

“Good afternoon,” I said.

“Had a call about you over an hour ago,” Puccoon said with a smirk. “Miss Ellie reported you missing, and asked us to keep an eye out for you. Guess she thought you were in some sort of trouble, rather than merely catching up on your reading in the library.”

“I went for a walk earlier, and misjudged how long I'd be gone. As you can see, I'm not missing anymore.” I stopped and tried to decide whether to tell them about the incident in the cemetery. “I had a frightening experience, though, and I suppose I ought to report it.”

“Tell you what, Miz Malloy,” said Puccoon, “why don't you get in the backseat and tell us all about it while we run you out to the house?”

I was surprised by the invitation, but not so much that I declined it. Once Dewberry pulled into the traffic, I said, “Thank you for the ride, Officers.”

“It was Miss Ellie's idea,” said Puccoon. “We're hardly in the business of delivering people all over the parish. But what with Mr. Stanford being who he is and all, I told the little lady we'd oblige her, since we're going out there, anyway. What did you want to report? More suspicions about the accident?”

“Someone took several shots at me in the cemetery. When a pair of potential witnesses arrived, he left in what looked like a taxi.”

Dewberry swiveled his head to stare at me. “Bright yellow?”

“It was the same color as the one I took from the airport yesterday. I only saw it as it left, and I couldn't see the driver.”

“Who were those witnesses? They see anything?” demanded Puccoon.

I had not expected them to take my story seriously, in that I knew I was not high on their popularity list. “The witnesses were Mrs. Bethel D'Armand and her son, Spencer. I asked them if they'd noticed the taxi, and they both implied they hadn't. Surely you know the identity of the driver. It shouldn't be too difficult to find him, should it?”

“We already found the taxi driver,” Puccoon said.

“You did?” I said excitedly. “Did he have a gun in the taxi?”

“He wasn't in his vehicle, ma'am. He was in an irrigation ditch several miles past the airport. Been shot in the head several times.”

“But I was at the cemetery a little more than an hour ago. How'd you find his body so quickly?”

“One of the other officers found him about three hours ago. The driver's name is Baggley, and he's been driving that same cab for fifteen years, maybe more. What he hasn't been doing is taking shots at you out at the cemetery. In fact, he hasn't been doing much of anything except bloating up for the best part of two or three days.”

I leaned forward and grabbed onto the back of the seat. “I don't understand. If he was already dead, then who was driving the taxi? And what about last night?”

Dewberry hit the brakes and we came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the road. “What about last night?”

I told them about the driver's appearance and disappearance during the search for Miss Justicia. They both began to rumble unpleasantly, forcing me to point out that they themselves had opted to conduct only the most cursory of investigations.

Dewberry thanked me for the criticism, although he seemed to miss its constructive potential. Beside him, Puccoon cursed under his breath, then said, “Describe the man who was driving the taxi when you arrived at the airport.”

“Young, pale and fleshy, and dirty,” I said. “He knew the area, or the location of Malloy Manor, and he expressed some familiarity with the family's reputation.” I closed my eyes and ran through the scene in the foyer. “He must not be local, however. No one recognized him.”

“Miss Justicia and Miss Pauline hardly ever came into town,” said Puccoon. “The others, like Mr. Stanford and his two, only come back to visit every once in a while.” He scratched his head. “She's sure as hell not describing Baggley, Dewey. What about that stranger we picked up for brawling last week?”

“Fifty years old and his face carved up worse than a school desk,” Dewberry said as he resumed driving. “Other than that, and the snake tattoos all over his hands, it might be a positive ID.”

I uncurled my fingers and sat back, although I was far from relaxed. “So this person, identity unknown, killed the owner of the taxi and decided to make a little money picking up fares at the airport. Later he realized he wasn't making enough and came to Malloy Manor with the story that someone called. Today he dropped by the cemetery and decided to engage in a bit of target practice. Who is he?”

“We're looking into it, ma'am,” Puccoon said. “We don't know that he murdered Baggley, but we'd sure like to hear his side of the story. Odds are we're dealing with a psychotic. We'll pick him before too long, in any case. There ain't a whole lot of places to hide a bright yellow taxi. I don't want to be snoopy, but just why were you at the cemetery?”

I considered lying, but at the last moment adopted a different ploy in hopes that candor would beget candor. “I was curious about Miller Malloy, and I went out there to ascertain the date of his death. When I returned, I found the obituary at the library. He was quite a hero when he died thirty years ago. Full military honors and lots of medals.” I held my breath and willed either of them to offer information.

“Before my time,” said one.

“Mine, too,” said the other.

As we entered the house, Officers Dewberry and Puccoon pulled off their hats. Their expressions were befittingly respectful (or toady, some might opine) as they asked me to find Mr. Stanford and inquire if they might have a word with him.

While I was debating which way to go, Pauline glided out of the parlor. Her face looked less puffy than it had earlier, but the only signs of color were two asymmetrical circles of rouge. The plaid housedress had been discarded for a dark gray dress. “Oh, here you are, Cousin Claire. We've all been worried about you.” She began to sag as she saw the policemen by the door, but stiffened herself and inclined her head. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Is there something you wanted?”

“They want to speak to Stanford,” I said. “I was just going to look for him.”

“He's using the telephone in the library. I shall be happy to convey any messages to him,” said Pauline, attempting to seize the role of mistress of the manor and run with it.

A stumbling block came out of the hallway. “Yes?” Maxie said to the policemen. “I thought we'd passed beyond the necessity of police intervention in this most stressful period of mourning. Has Cousin Claire”—ping, ping—“brought you here for a purpose?”

“They gave me a lift,” I said, then went into the library before she could get out a single incredulous snort.

Stanford was indeed on the telephone, barking as furiously as a hound that had treed a raccoon. “Don't give me this crap! What do you mean we can't have the service until Monday? Are you telling me that some old cleaning woman's more important than Miss Justicia Malloy?” He paused. “I don't care how long that old woman's been dead! Three days, five days—so what? You've got a refrigerator, don't you?” His cheeks ballooned as he paused again. “So pack some dry ice in the coffin, for pity's sake. Nobody'll notice, anyway. If she was a hundred years old, she started to decompose a long time ago. You listen up, and listen up good, buddy boy—my great-great-grandfather practically founded this parish, and not once since then has the Malloy family been treated with such disregard! You either reschedule that other service or be prepared to kiss your overpriced casket business good-bye!”

He slammed down the receiver and wiped his forehead, all the while cursing most creatively. When he spotted me, he spread his hands in apology. “I don't believe I heard you come in, Claire. I was havin' a slightly heated conversation with an ol' friend about funeral arrangements.”

“And when is the funeral to be held?”

“Not till Monday morning at eleven, damn it. He's got some mummified woman who died early in the week, and he was trying to act as if she was more important than my dear, departed mother.” He wiped his eyes, and, in a ragged voice, added, “May she rest in peace as soon as possible.”

“The two police officers would like to speak to you,” I said, unimpressed by his emotionalism and dismayed by the knowledge Caron and I were stuck in Greedy Gulch for another forty-eight hours:

“They do? What about?” He moved toward me, his eyes narrowed. “I understand from Ellie that you disappeared in downtown LaRue this morning. I'd like to hope you didn't go to the police station and try to persuade them to reconsider their report, Claire. It'd be like poking a hornets' nest with a short stick.” He loomed over me until his face was inches from mine. “A real short stick.”

He brushed past me and went into the foyer. I listened to him slapping backs and welcoming the two, but I was too unnerved to follow immediately. Peter had warned me that if my instincts were wrong, I would stir up trouble—and if they were right, I'd put myself and Caron in danger. At that moment, I regretted possessing any instincts, except for those concerned with survival. They were likely to come in handy.

As I came to the doorway, Dewberry was saying, “I am sorry to have to disturb you all, but the captain wanted me to let you know what the acting coroner said in his report.”

Maxie nudged Pauline aside to vent her outrage on Dewberry. After a series of huffs and puffs that would have leveled a subdivision, she said, “Are you telling us that poor Miss Justicia was subjected to an autopsy?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said unhappily.

Puccoon attempted to save him. “But you'll be comforted to know we had Fred Spies do it, rather than our regular coroner, on account of he was out of town visiting kinfolk in Mississippi. The regular coroner—not Fred.”

“And why are we to find comfort in that?” demanded Maxie, giving each word maximum impact.

“At least Fred's an anesthesiologist Gordie's…well, he's what you might call an animal doctor.”

“A veterinarian? If this person had not been out of town, he would have conducted the autopsy on Miss Justicia?” Maxie sat down heavily on the bottom step and began to fan herself with her hand. “Pauline, see if there are smelling salts in the bathroom cabinet. I'm feeling quite dizzy.”

Pauline hesitated, then went upstairs.

“Why, Dewey,” said Stanford, “I must say I'm a might disappointed, particularly after our conversation last night, that you'd involve the coroner in this sad, sad business. I thought we'd agreed that a substantial donation to the police benevolent fund in Miss Justicia's honor might suffice?”

“Cap'n Plantain didn't see it that way, Mr. Stanford. He's been in a bad mood since he started his sessions with a proctologist, and he ordered me to hunt up somebody to do the autopsy. None of us thought Spies would find anything. I didn't think it would matter much, to tell the truth, and I'd like to let you know Cap'n Plantain says he'll be most grateful for that donation you mentioned.”

Stanford stalked into the parlor. A bottle clinked against a glass as he said, “You tell Plantain I'll send a check about ten minutes after the bayou freezes over. You can use it to buy yourselves some ice skates.”

Maxie struggled to her feet. “And what, Officer Dewberry, did this small-town doctor have to say about Miss Justicia Malloy, a leading lady of the parish for eighty years?”

“It wasn't as bad as you think, ma'am,” he said, blanching under her beady gaze. “In fact, it'll probably help you through this terrible time to know Miss Justicia didn't suffer while drowning. Fred said in the report that the back of the wheelchair must have busted her on the head hard enough to crack her skull, which was as thin as parchment paper due to her advanced age and all. There wasn't any water in her lungs.”

“‘Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink,'” Pauline chanted from over the banister at the top of the stairs. With a giggle, she disappeared into the shadowy recesses of the hallway.

“She is still feeling the shock,” Maxie said in the ensuing silence.

Puccoon shook his head. “Most understandable. We'll send you a copy of the report, but basically we can say the investigation is completed. You can commence with the funeral arrangements whenever you want.” He thrust a plastic bag at me. “We don't need these anymore.”

I took the bag, which contained my white terry-cloth bedroom slippers. The mortal remains of them, anyway. Not only were they stained and muddy, they were also badly frayed, as if I'd shuffled through low-lying thorns. They were deserving of a few kind words and a decent burial, but in a trash can rather than a marble vault. “Thanks,” I said unenthusiastically.

“There was no indication of a heart attack?” came another voice from the top of the stairs. Ellie was leaning over the banister at a perilous angle.

“No, ma'am,” Dewberry said. “Just the one blow from the back of the wheelchair. The damn thing's heavy enough to knock the socks off a full-sized man. It took us better than half an hour to drag it out of the water.”

“Thank heavens,” Maxie said, now recovered enough to light a cigarette and send a stream of smoke into Dewberry's face. “I speak for all of us when I say it is a great comfort to know that Miss Justicia did not suffer the indignity of drowning in her own bayou. Don't you agree, Stanford?”

“A great comfort,” he rumbled from the parlor.

She raised her voice but not her face. “And, Ellie, aren't you heartened to know that your grandmother felt no moment of panic, and that it was over in a single moment?”

“Very heartened,” she answered.

“As am I,” Phoebe said from farther down the banister. “So is Cousin Pauline, who's gone to lie down for a while.”

Maxie had found her rhythm. “And even you, Cousin Claire, must be relieved that you can put aside your silly ideas and join the family in our time of mutual grief and mourning.”

I crossed my arms and leaned against the doorsill. “Oh, absolutely, Cousin Maxie. Absolutely.”

The two officers might have intended to ask about the taxi driver, but this unified front was too much for them, and they left with a few mumbles. The rest of us stayed put like garden statuary.

At last, Maxie dropped her cigarette in a vase, and said, “I do believe I'll lie down for a few minutes. Like poor Cousin Pauline, this whole thing has simply twisted me inside out and left me as limp as last night's salad. I shall see you all in the parlor at four o'clock.” She began to ascend the stairs.

“What's happening at four?” I asked.

She turned back, and her elevation allowed her to make it clear she was looking down at me in more ways than one. “Phoebe has arranged for Rodney Spikenard to come to Malloy Manor to provide us with information about the dispersal of the estate. You're more than welcome to sit in on the discussion, but if you'd prefer to remain in your room, I'm sure none of us will object too strongly.”

“I wouldn't miss it for all the fish in the refrigerator,” I said sweetly.

Shortly thereafter, I was alone in the foyer. I could hear clinks and curses in the parlor, but I would have crawled into Keith's hole before I joined Stanford. The presence of Maxie, Ellie, Pauline, and Phoebe on the second floor made my bedroom seem less a haven.

It occurred to me that Caron had missed this latest familial meeting. I was till clutching the sack from the café, although its having been squashed, dragged through the dirt, toted all over LaRue, and even taken for a drive in a police car had diminished its visual appeal. On the other hand, it might be more edible than anything she might have encountered thus far.

I darted upstairs, tiptoed to our room, and ascertained that she was not there. I dropped the bag containing my bedroom slippers in a corner and went back down to the foyer. Yesterday Caron had vanished, and her story of wandering around the yard had not rung true. I finally went down the hallway to the dining room to see if she had materialized at the table.

Crumbs were scattered on the tablecloth, but the table itself had been cleared, and not even the ghost of Miss Justicia presided over it. In that Caron's prime motivation was self-gratification, I continued into the kitchen.

She was perched on a stool, listening to the cook with all the wide-eyed amazement of a child half her age. She must have suspected as much, because she sniffed at me and said, “I've decided to do a paper for social studies on the folklore of the region. This woman has been providing me with some of the more infamous legends.”

The cook stood in front of the sink, her hands buried in soapy water. “That's right,” she murmured.

“Did you know, Mother,” Caron continued, “that this woman's great-great-grandmother was a
femme de couleur libre
and was chosen at a quadroon ball by General Richmond Malloy to be his
placée
? Before the Civil War, she kept a boardinghouse in New Orleans, but afterward, during Reconstruction, she had to come back here and live in a shack on the bayou? Isn't that the most tragic thing you've ever heard?”

“Except maybe getting herself murdered,” the cook inserted dryly.

“Well, yeah, that was pretty tragic, too.” Caron stuck out her lower lip just enough to warn me not to think for one second that she'd been giving serious attention to a ghost story.

I valued my winsome looks too much for that. “I'm sure your social studies teacher will be impressed.” I held out the sack. “Cheeseburger and fries, if you're interested. They've had a few adventures in the last couple of hours, but—”

“Where have you been? You told me you were going into whatever that town is with Ellie, but then Ellie came back and said you'd just gone poof! I had to hang around this dreary place all morning, and there was absolutely nothing to eat. I thought I would faint. I Really Did!”

“Do it now,” I suggested. “Make my day.”

“I fixed her up just fine,” the cook said. “I made her some biscuits and a nice cheese omelet.”

The teary-eyed martyr realized her case was weakening. “But that wasn't until nearly noon, Mother.”

I found a biscuit in a pan on the corner and began to nibble on it. The cook had finished with the dishes and was now scouring a pan. Although she appeared to be engrossed in her work, I figured she wasn't so engrossed that she was missing a single word. To Caron, I said, “Last night at dinner, I learned of the existence of an uncle of yours. He was your father's oldest brother and his name was Miller.”

“Be still my heart. Speaking of which, we don't have to stay for Miss Justicia's funeral just because she died while we were here, do we? I heard Uncle Stanford say he didn't think it would be until Monday. I promised Inez I'd be back tomorrow afternoon. She's supposed to find out if Rhonda and that other dumpy cheerleader are really having a pool party, or if they were just saying that so we'd feel left out.”

My masterful ploy was doing no better than Caron's essayed claim to martyrdom. “We'll have to stay for the funeral. It might be useful for your social studies report. I went out to the local cemetery, and—”

“Mother, didn't you hear what I said? Rhonda told Inez that Louis Wilderberry and some of the other guys were coming to swim, but she didn't know”—Caron switched to a simper—“if her mother would let her have anybody else.”