Death by the Light of the Moon (17 page)

“Is everybody dead so we can go home?” she asked.

“Not yet. You didn't steal a police car, did you?”

“Not yet.”

“Just checking,” I said as I went to the window and pulled back the curtain to look out at the bayou.

“Have you found out who was driving the taxi last night?”

Sighing, I let the curtain fall back. “No, and it's too bad I never had a glimpse of his face. All I saw was the bright yellow of the taxi, and I rashly assumed…”

“What?” she said impatiently.

“I rashly assumed that I knew who was driving,” I said. My knees began to tremble so violently that I barely made it to my bed. “That's the problem. I saw what I was supposed to see, and it never occurred to me to question it. Nor, obviously, did the others. It's a good thing we weren't a flock of lambs frolicking outside a slaughterhouse. We'd all be accompanied by mint jelly.”

“Then who was driving it?”

The plastic bag containing my bedroom slippers had been kicked into a corner, nearly hidden by a plaid shirt. I picked up the bag. My frayed bedroom slippers only appeared to be frayed. In reality, they were coated with tiny white objects. “Who was driving what?” I said distractedly.

She frowned at me. “The taxi. That's what we were talking about, remember?”

“That's not what I was talking about.”

Her frown deepened. “You're beginning to make me nervous, Mother. Did you get a bump on the head last night?”

“I wish I had.” I went into the bathroom, applied lipstick, and ran a comb through my hair (one always hopes to look one's best in a classic drawing-room denouement). I picked up the bag with the slippers and beckoned to Caron. “Come along, dear. This is likely to be educational, if not entertaining. Furthermore, you can say a proper hello to your new cousin. His reception thus far has been chilly.”

I ignored her spate of questions and went to the hallway. Ellie came out of her bedroom and shrugged at me. “I don't know where Keith is,” she said. “Under a rock, I suppose.”

I didn't bother to tell her that she was lying. Phoebe joined us at the top of the stairs, saying, “I knocked very loudly on Pauline's door, but she won't answer me. Uncle Stanford will have to break down the door.”

“She's not in her bedroom,” I said, then went downstairs. I halted only long enough to watch Caron gliding down on the elevator seat, and continued into the parlor.

“Caron's on her way,” I announced. “Keith and Pauline are not upstairs.”

“Did one of them steal the police car?” Maxie asked, clearly worried about the quality of the lineage.

“No, neither one of them stole the police car.” To the officers, I said, “But your car has been stolen. You need to put out an APB immediately. The driver's armed. He's already killed twice, so he'll have no qualms about killing again.”

Dewberry gasped. “What's his name?”

“I don't know, but trust me—he's dangerous. He hasn't had time to go too far, so you might want to make the call as soon as possible. The telephone's in the room across the foyer.” Once the officers were gone, I went to the cart. “Rodney, shall I fix something for you?”

“Soda water, thank you.”

“I don't understand,” Stanford said petulantly. “You know who he is, but you don't know his name? Sounds like poppycock to me. I think we ought to stick to familiar faces. It's hard to imagine Cousin Pauline hunkered over the steering wheel, but Keith's missing, too, and it's not hard to imagine him doing anything criminal. Besides, he has a history of car theft.”

“Keith did not steal the police car,” I said as I dropped ice cubes in a glass.

“You're sure?”

“I'm very sure,” I said, nodding.

“Where is Cousin Pauline?” Maxie asked. She looked up as Phoebe, Ellie, and Caron came into the parlor. “Phoebe, what is going on—and where is Pauline?”

Phoebe hung her head. “Her door's locked, but Cousin Claire says she's not inside.”

Maxie marched across the room and leaned over the cart. “Then where is she?”

“I don't know her precise whereabouts, but she's not in her bedroom.” I gave Rodney his drink and sat down.

He raised his eyebrows as he noticed the plastic bag, but merely said, “Two down, one to go. Do you know where Bethel D'Armand is?”

“No,” I said, “but I know why he's missing. And he is definitely missing.”

“I think you're missing some brain cells,” Caron said as she sat down near the door. The mumbling that ensued seemed to imply that her opinion was popular in the parlor.

Dewberry and Puccoon came back in the room. “We'll get the sumbitch before he gets out of the parish,” said Puccoon. “It might be easier if we knew who he was, but Miz Malloy doesn't seem to want to tell us.”

“I'll tell you,” I said, “but before I do, let me ask you something. Did you happen to find the remains of a duck beside the bayou where Miss Justicia's body was found?”

“It was an accident,” Maxie said. “We have been over this—”

“It was not an accident.” I looked at the police officers. “Well, did you?”

“No, ma'am,” Dewberry muttered.

I held up the plastic bag. “Then how would you explain the white feathers on my slippers?”

I might as well have asked them how they would explain the subtleties of the Napoleonic Code. Both of them gazed blankly at me, and Dewberry finally said, “Why would we want to?”

“Maybe you're the only one of us to have her ducks in a row,” Ellie said. “The only problem is that you've been stepping on the little dears.” Her throaty chuckle sounded brittle, however, and she was picking nervously at her nail polish.

“I was thinking the same about you,” I said evenly.

She no longer attempted to sound amused. “I don't know what you're getting at, Claire, but let's get one thing straight right now—I didn't hurt Miss Justicia. She was my grandmother, for God's sake.”

“I know you didn't, Ellie. But you became an accomplice when you tried to make the murder look like an accident.” I flapped the bag with the slippers. “Tiny white feathers.”

“What are you saying?” Stanford exploded. “Are you saying that she was in cahoots with a duck that murdered Miss Justicia? I have tried to be tolerant with you, Claire, but—”

“Good grief, Stanford,” I said. “ducks don't kill people. People kill people.”

“It must be Keith,” Phoebe said abruptly. “He's the only one with whom she would be…cahooting.”

“I realized he was untrustworthy when I saw that hair,” Maxie said, nodding smugly. “I tried to warn you, Stanford.”

“I didn't cahoot with anybody,” Ellie protested.

Caron hopped into the melee. “I Cannot Believe I was going to ask your advice about my complexion.”

Dewberry pulled out his gun, then realized he had no culprit within range, and, with a disappointed look, lowered it. “Where's this Keith fellow?”

“Phoebe is mistaken,” I said. “Keith did not murder Miss Justicia.”

Stanford scratched his head. “Then it was the duck, after all?”

“Forget the duck, okay?” I said, then waited until he gave me a sulky nod. “In a sense, Miss Justicia brought it upon herself by demanding that her would-be heirs be present for her birthday dinner. Caron and I knew nothing of this, but the rest of you realized she would delete names without hesitation. Therefore, it was vital to be here. For some, the trip was inconvenient. For one, it was almost impossible.”

“But all of us came,” Maxie said.

“Eventually,” I conceded. “The problem was Keith's detainment in prison. Ellie was led to believe she and her brother would receive the bulk of the estate—but only if they were in this house for the birthday dinner. The warden was unlikely to sympathize, so she convinced her boyfriend to pose as Keith. The last time she saw Keith, he no doubt was lanky and had long stringy hair and shabby clothes. No one else had seen him for such a long time that she hoped they might get away with it if he avoided everyone and hid behind the sunglasses and headphones.”

“Are you sayin we put up with that lout—and he wasn't even Keith?” Stanford said, oblivious to the saliva on his lips, which gave him a rabid look. “I should have tanned his hide when he first walked in the door!”

I ignored him and said to Ellie, “This can all be verified by fingerprints, you know. Keith's are on file with the FBI. Does your boyfriend have a record?”

“Yes, but nothing like the one he'll have when this is over,” she said. “You're right about Buzz. I promised him a cut of the money to pretend to be Keith. This problem with Big Eddie's quite a bit more serious than I implied earlier, and Miss Justicia flatly refused to loan me money.”

“But why did you suspect this?” Phoebe asked sharply, as if accusing an undergraduate of imprudent logic.

I was on firm ground, for the moment. “Stanford has blue eyes, and he mentioned that the twins' mother had eyes the color of the morning sky or some such twaddle. Blue eyes are a recessive trait; it's impossible for two blue-eyed parents to produce a dark-eyed child.”

Ellie lowered hers. “I told Buzz to keep the sunglasses on day and night. We tried tinted contacts, but they caused so much irritation that his eyes were more red than anything else.”

I waited until everyone had overtly or covertly determined that her eyes, as well as Stanford's, were blue. “Ellie's scheme worked well through the remainder of the day. After we'd gone upstairs to bed, he crept out of his little closet and into Miss Justicia's room.”

“To look for the will,” Ellie said. “He was trying to help me.”

“The will, or perhaps some cash and jewelry,” I said with a shrug. “My guess is that Miss Justicia woke up and confronted him, no doubt in an unpleasant manner. He bashed her on the head with the brandy decanter, then dropped it in the bushes next to the house, where it was likely to remain undiscovered until he had a chance to dispose of it. The next day, however, it was gone.”

This provoked gasps and shrieks from all corners of the room, none of them particularly innovative or eloquent. When things quieted down, Ellie looked at me and said, “He came up to our room and swore that she'd clutched her bosom, turned white, and fallen dead from a heart attack. He swore it to me, Claire. He convinced me that we had to make it look like an accident so the police wouldn't investigate too closely and find out he was an impostor. He'd been convicted of burglary a few years ago, and he was afraid they'd get the wrong idea about his presence in her room. It was stupid of me to buy it, but I did. If I'd known he killed her…”

“You wouldn't have helped him? In any case, you did. The pseudo-driver's arrival at the door was a fluke, but I'm sure you and Buzz had come up with a plan to rouse the household at the pertinent minute. Once Pauline reported that Miss Justicia was asleep, you—”

“I thought you said she was already dead,” Stanford said. Despite my careful pacing, he seemed confused. “I heard Pauline say—”

I wasn't in the mood for replays. “She thought she saw Miss Justicia. What she really saw were pillows under the comforter and white fuzziness, since Keith had already taken the body to the bank of the bayou. What she didn't see was Ellie hiding in the room.”

“I myself saw Miss Justicia in the wheelchair,” Stanford said, undaunted, “and I myself heard her cackle.”

“That's what we assumed, because we'd seen it before and had no reason to be suspicious. Ellie was operating the wheelchair, with a piece of white boa wrapped around her head. She arrived at the bayou, placed Miss Justicia in the wheelchair, and pushed it in the water. She then hurried back to the house, where she had a surprise.”

“She did?” one of the officers said.

I did not turn around. “She most certainly did. I may need some assistance here, Ellie, but I'll give it a shot. Pauline knew that so-called Keith was an impostor, so you decided to ply her with whiskey until you could convince her not to talk. You took the teapot and trotted down to the parlor—and discovered the real Keith.”

Once again, the room swelled with gasps and mumbles. Ellie was gnawing on her perfect nails, but she forced a smile and said, “I filled the teapot for Pauline and took it to her. Then Buzz and I went back to the parlor to find out what the hell Keith was doing there. It turned out that he and Pauline had been corresponding while he was in prison, and she told him about the birthday gathering. He escaped and made his way here. He admitted he'd killed a taxi driver and left the body in a ditch. He was driving the taxi so he could find out who was coming, and maybe overhear useful conversations.” She shrugged. “He said that the tips were good.”

“Why didn't Pauline say anything?” asked Maxie, the familial title withheld pending further developments.

“You know,” Caron said, “when we drove up in the taxi and she first saw us, she had a really funny look on her face. Maybe she was looking at the driver.”

Ellie nodded. “They'd always had some little signal for their midnight raids on the kitchen. Keith appeared on the porch at the appointed hour, but everybody came blundering into the foyer before they could talk.”

“I was hardly blundering,” I said, seeing no necessity to describe my initial reaction to the ghostly figure in the peignoir. “Well, perhaps I should have wondered how he knew precisely where the parlor was, and why he and Pauline had the same nickname for Miss Justicia.”

“That might meet the definition of blundering,” Phoebe said thoughtfully. “It's synonymous with making an error, or, colloquially, botching things up.”

“Thank you for sharing that with us,” I said. “Then, Ellie, you heard people returning to the house?”

“I decided I'd better make an appearance. Buzz told me later that Keith was threatening to expose the charade, but he also told me he'd convinced Keith to split to a motel and wait. That's the last I saw him until today.”