Bones of Contention

by Jeanne Matthews

  “Yes, he did. Thadeus James Dobbs and Katharine DeBeau Dobbs will each receive fifty thousand dollars to be held in trust for their college educations.”

  “That was dear of him,” said Neesha.

  “Dear? Why, it ain’t enough to cover their freshman year. Miserly son-of-a-bitch drinks my liquor and sponges off me for twenty years and that’s the best he could do?”

  Geertz looked flummoxed. “If carefully invested now…”

  “Did he leave me anything else?”

  “Er, well. Actually…Were you expecting a devisal to yourself, personally?”

  “Sure I was. Does that hangdog look mean I didn’t get one?”

  Geertz loosened his tie and worried his mustache. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Is that one of the changes he made last month?”

  “I’m not really at liberty to say, Cleon. Lawyer-client privilege. You understand.”

  “I understand, all right. All I did for him and the bozo left me squat.”

  “Be gracious, Cleon,” implored Neesha. “It was kind of him to leave money for the children.”

  Cleon refused to be appeased. “It’s the principle of the thing, Neesha. He knew anything he left me would go to you when I passed or, hell, he coulda left it in your name. It’s a snub is what it is. I hope he wasn’t as miserly with the rest of y’all.”

  “Moving on then,” said Geertz. “To Mr. Wendell Paul Dobbs, I hereby devise and bequeath all assets of Fisher Industries, Incorporated, and full ownership of bank accounts and properties in Switzerland, the United States, Mexico, Costa Rica, and Australia as follows: In Zurich, Switzerland…”

  “Switzerland?” Wendell seemed surprised.

  “The corporation has diversified holdings throughout the world,” said Geertz. “When the various currencies are tallied and converted to dollars, it will be worth over five million. Likely a great deal over.”

  “There has to be some mistake,” said Wendell, seemingly bowled over. “I mean, the fish plant’s worth five or six hundred thousand, tops. And his house in Sydney, I know it’s worth a lot, but…”

  “Approximately two million in Australian dollars,” supplied Geertz.

  Cleon whistled. “No fear your boy will come up short, Maggie. He’s hit the jackpot with your old beau.” He reached over and gave Wendell a congratulatory knuckle bump on the arm. “Did the doc leave Miss Margaret a remembrance, Steve?”

  “There is a bequest to Mrs. Margaret Dobbs,” said Gertz. “To my special friend Margaret Dobbs, in appreciation of our many years of shared epicurean pleasures, five hundred thousand dollars and the Louis the Fourteenth epergne she’s always longed for.”

  Cleon ooh-eed. “Half a mil. You came out golden in the end, Maggie.”

  Margaret’s eyes widened, but her composure was all sangfroid.

  Geertz’s phone rang. “Yes, yes. Put him through.” He pushed a button. “Are you there, Lucien?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.” Lucien’s disembodied voice had a hollow ring. “I don’t know why you want me in on the meeting.”

  “Then you’re in for a happy surprise,” said Geertz. He reddened and rephrased. “I mean you may find some solace in the late doctor’s regard for you.” He flipped through several pages and cleared his throat.

  Dinah tensed for the happy surprise.

  “Here we are. To Lucien Osceola Dobbs, I hereby bequeath the following works of art. The Hemaphrodite by Jackson Pollock; Berlin at Night by Marsden Hartley; The Wrestlers by George Bellows; and two watercolors by Winslow Homer, Moonlight at the Cape and The Sea Sprite.”

  There was a protracted silence. Dinah felt as if she’d been swept out to sea by one of Homer’s storms. Her thoughts capsized and splintered into a flotsam of wild surmise. If Lucien knew about this, if he had any idea, then he had five stupendous reasons to kill Fisher.

  Finally, Margaret spoke up. “Dez had a collection of antique table appointments and serving utensils, but the only paintings in his house were inexpensive reproductions.”

  “I can only read to you what’s stated in the will,” said Geertz. “The paintings are stored in a fire-resistant, temperature and humidity-controlled facility in Sydney. According to the bills of sale and certificates of authenticity, they must be quite valuable. I’d guess this makes you a multi-millionaire, too, Lucien.”

  “Well, I’ll be a Chinaman,” said Cleon. “You can found your own museum, boy.”

  The speakerphone was silent.

  “Are you still with us, Lucien?” asked Geertz.

  “Maybe he fainted,” said Cleon.

  A slow, sibilant “shhhit” issued from the speakerphone.

  “Well,” said Geertz, with a benedictory smile, “other than a small charitable gift to Exit International, that about covers it. Unless there’s something else you’d like to know?”

  “Just one thing.” Cleon chuckled and prodded Margaret in the ribs. “What in hell’s rich emporium is an epergne, Maggie?”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The Mekhong Thai Café & Take-Away on the corner of Katherine Terrace and the Victoria Highway was jam-packed and the commotion in the kitchen augured slow service. Dinah didn’t care. For once, she didn’t mind waiting. How happy she’d be to sit in limbo forever and never learn another fact or communicate with another living soul.

  The meeting with Geertz had overloaded her circuits. And from the speed with which everyone had scattered when it was over, the effect had been unanimous. She’d told Cleon she needed to pick up something at the drug store and shoved off down the street, ignoring his shouted injunction to meet him back at the law firm in an hour. Her thoughts in a tailspin, she’d walked around the town until twilight. As the streetlights began to wink on, she drifted into the Mekhong where she sat with her chin in her hands, forgotten in the dinnertime rush.

  “One galloping horses, one Mussaman curry, one dom yam gung,” cried the man behind the counter.

  “Ma ho!” yelled a voice from the kitchen. “Gaeng Mussaman!”

  A man at the table behind her sounded petulant. “Order the bloody fried bananas, Sonya. You’re fat as a match.”

  A party of raucous young men with “Socceroos” printed on their shirts argued good-naturedly. “Even blind Freddie could’ve told you they wouldn’t get away with kicking the Strikers out of the League. The bloody Pride, now, that’s a different kettle of fish.”

  Dinah had lost her taste for fish, possibly forever, but she roused herself and pored over the menu. The spicy smells coming from the kitchen stimulated her appetite. The Siamese fried chicken looked good, maybe with a side of mangoes and sticky rice. And there was a pork dish called rum, which unfortunately did not list the spirit as one of its ingredients. She was, however, gratified to see that the menu listed a number of beer and wine selections. If a waiter ever got around to taking her order, she would order enough wine to anesthetize a hippopotamus.

  She didn’t want to think about the hairball of fresh complications coughed up in Fisher’s will. She didn’t want to think about a fish plant with a Swiss bank account or the ominous excess of fine art or the growing suspicion that Cleon had engineered things from the start. She didn’t want to think about any of this, but she couldn’t stop herself. Why did Fisher hoard his art in a warehouse instead of hanging it in his home? Why had he not said anything to her about Cleon’s Homers if he owned some of his own? And why had he willed his bonanza to Lucien, who didn’t even like him?

  She had a brainstorm. Maybe Fisher had a secret art fetish and required paintings as remuneration for his services in lieu of cash. What if Cleon brought his Homers, her Homers, to Australia as a payment to Fisher for helping him die? Cleon and Fisher had been arguing about something in Sydney. Maybe Cleon had decided to give the paintings to her and reneged and Fisher threatened to sue Cleon’s estate. Could that be another motive for murder? A motive for Cleon?

  “I didn’t mean to sling off at you, Son
ya, but make up your mind. What about a nice mango mousse or the pineapple jelly supreme?”

  “Another round over here,” shouted one of the Socceroos. “We’re drier than a Pommie’s bath towel.”

  Dinah wondered what the Socceroos would do if she marched over to their table, pulled up a chair, and started talking about murder. She needed a sounding board, somebody to bandy ideas with. Somebody like Nick. A hairball of lies and secrets would be right up his alley. That she missed him infuriated her. That it wasn’t just because of the talk mortified her.

  A hand stroked the back of her neck. “Found you.”

  Her heart stuttered. It was Seth.

  “Who’d you have to screw to land a table in this joint?”

  It was Seth, channeling Nick. He sat down and gave her that odd, transcendental smile. This was not helpful. He was not a safe person to happen by in her present mood, not if he were going to sound like Nick.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Cleon sent me to find you. He’s holding court at a bar down the street and you’re truant.”

  “I’m eating here. I’ve decided to stay in town tonight at a motel.”

  “If you stay in town, your Uncle Cleon will blow a gasket.”

  “Let him. What’s the worst he can do to me?”

  “Snap your bones? Drink your blood? I don’t know my new papa well enough to hazard a guess.” He looked over her menu. “Shall we order a bottle of wine and run a few ideas up the flagpole?”

  “Regarding my punishment?”

  “Regarding who murdered the doctor and why. How’s your investigation progressing?”

  “I’m not investigating.”

  “Sure you are. Don’t you want to grill me?”

  “Okay. Are you some kind of environmental extremist?”

  “Whoa! You’re loaded for bear.”

  “An animal lover shouldn’t use hunting metaphors. And if you won’t answer, it’s obvious you don’t want to be grilled.”

  “My kind are not the ones who’re fouling the environment and using up the planet’s resources, Dinah. I’m a nice, back-to-the-Garden guy.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Seth. I’m sick of being patronized and used and punked. What’s your game, exactly?”

  “Jesus. You’re into some bad yang.” He ran his eyes over the menu and looked up at her with an invitation she just knew was going to lead to trouble. “What do you say we drink some wine and kick back?”

  It was no surprise he caught the eye of a waitress right away. Every woman in the restaurant, fat-as-a-match Sonya included, had turned their heads like heliotropes to ogle him. He must be inured to female attention, or if he noticed, he didn’t let it show. He ordered a bottle of white wine and when the waitress had gone, returned his magnetic gaze to Dinah. “Let’s start over. I don’t sabotage housing developments or torch SUV sales lots. How’s that?”

  “A journalist who happened to be an apologist for dragnet fishing was found murdered on Melville Island last week. What do you know about that?”

  “Nothing, although if I did, I’d probably lie about it.”

  “I’d expect nothing less of you. It’s the Zeitgeist. Everybody’s doing it.”

  “What was it? Finding out there was no Santa Claus, no tooth fairy, no weapons of mass destruction? What made you such a cynic?”

  “All of the above.” His mouth had the most tantalizing curve, making it impossible not to smile back, and his eyes had little gold flecks around the iris, like pyrite. She drank half a glass of ice water.

  He said, “Don’t you have an intuition about who’s telling the truth?”

  “I thought I did. I thought I was practically clairvoyant. Apparently, my extrasensory powers only work on civilians, i.e. people outside the family.”

  “Why do you think of anyone other than Lucien as your family?”

  Now he was channeling Jacko.

  “They just are. It’s a Southern thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

  He shrugged. “I understand ancestor worship, but I can’t see why you’d hold an old ham like Cleon in such high regard.”

  “Well, I do, so don’t take any potshots. I don’t know anybody who’s squeezed as much out of life as he has and even if he’s a jerk sometimes, he has his reasons.” She didn’t want to go into those reasons with this green-eyed operator, or face up to the fact that some of Cleon’s reasons might verge on the diabolical. “Anyhow, I owe him. He helped my mom and me out of a bad situation once.”

  The wine came. She sipped and watched as Seth read the menu. There was definitely something clandestine about him, but he didn’t fit Dinah’s idea of a poisoner. Besides, the kitchen was a mob scene all day on the day of the murder. It would’ve been impossible for a stranger to waltz in, ascertain that the doctor would be dining on fugu, find it, spike it, and waltz out without somebody seeing him.

  “Know what you want to eat?” he asked.

  “Number thirty-one and number fifty-two, extra spicy.”

  He waved and a pretty Thai waitress appeared instantly. Before Dinah could open her mouth, he ordered in fluent Thai. The waitress could scarcely conceal her enchantment. Dinah could scarcely conceal her surprise. Not that speaking a language proved anything.

  The waitress toddled off with a blissed-out smile on her face.

  Dinah said, “You don’t act like a man who’s just found his biological father.”

  “How does such a man act?”

  “I don’t know. You’ve made it plain you don’t like him or respect him, but you should at least be curious. Why aren’t you pestering everyone for stories about Cleon?”

  “I’m learning things indirectly. You should try it. When you’re angling for information, lull your subject into a relaxed state of mind. Use your feminine side, the yin. Be oblique and slowly feel your way inside his head.”

  “Does your curriculum vitae include a stint with the CIA?”

  “I read about interrogation technique in a spy novel.”

  In her mind’s eye, she flashed to the intimidating face in the passport photo. Who was this guy really? “Who are you really?” she asked.

  “Maybe I’m who I say I am.”

  “I doubt that. I see no family resemblance between you and Cleon.”

  “His investigator Kelliston took my DNA to the best lab in Singapore for testing.”

  Dinah thought about Cleon’s audacity, his belief in himself, and the righteousness of his stands. “Maybe there is a resemblance, just not a physical one.”

  Seth pinged his chopsticks against his wine glass. “Lucien sure is a chip off the old block. Is he bent out of shape because he wants a bigger piece of daddy’s pie?”

  She bridled. “Unlike yourself, Lucien’s not mercenary.”

  “Everybody likes money, Dinah. It’s a matter of degree. I’ll bet that even you could think of some pleasurable things to do with a liberal transfusion of money. The sale of those paintings, say.”

  A vision of a light-filled apartment in Paris winged through her mind.

  He said, “I heard Lucien and Eduardo talking about your good fortune. They didn’t sound too pleased.”

  The wine soured in her mouth. When had Lucien turned into such a rotter?

  Seth knitted his brow. “Lucien seems like one of those still-waters-run deep types. He hides a lot under the surface, the way your Mr. Homer hides little crosses under the waves.”

  “You’re seeing him at a bad time. He’s normally very extroverted and friendly.”

  “I once read a book about a guy who staged an attempt on his own life so he wouldn’t be suspected for the murder he planned to commit.”

  “Your point being?”

  “Don’t you think it’s odd that Lucien would be bitten by a poisonous snake one day and the next thing you know, his doctor’s been poisoned?”

  It hadn’t occurred to her. Embarrassed, she said, “It’s a coincidence.”<
br />
  “Obviously, you can’t be objective.”

  “Maybe I can’t, but I know Lucien wouldn’t murder anyone.”

  “I hear he spent two years in the Marine Corps.”

  “That makes him a patriot, not a poisoner.”

  “I’m not accusing him, Dinah.”

  “Good.”

  “But his body language tells me he’s hiding something heavy.”

  “His body language tells me his leg is sore. And who asked for your psychological analysis?”

  “I thought you were beginning to warm up to me.”

  “It was only a partial thaw and you’ve reversed it.”

  “I think you’re afraid Lucien’s in trouble, but you won’t face up.”

  “You’re wrong. You don’t know the first thing about Lucien or me or anybody else in this family.”

  “There’s a burning reason for me to learn, wouldn’t you agree? I’m under suspicion like everybody else.” He refilled their glasses and held his up the light as if truth were a tangible particle that might float to the surface. “What if it’s the other way around? Suppose the murderer first tried to kill Lucien?”

  She was dumbfounded. “But nobody’s said…nobody’s even considered…”

  “Snakes can be handled by somebody who knows what he’s doing.”

  “But why would anyone want to kill Lucien?”

  “I don’t know that anyone does.” He reached across the table and covered her hand with his, shooting sparks up her arm. “What do you say we put our heads together and bat around a few ideas?”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Their dinner arrived and Seth ordered another bottle of wine. He loaded his plate with rice and helped himself to the shrimp and the steamed crab cakes. His karmic sensibilities didn’t diminish his appetite for crustaceans.

  “Okay,” he said. “Here’s my two cents. I helped Wendell carry the doctor’s body upstairs to his room and while everybody was arguing about what to do next, I had a look around.”