A Will To Murder

by Hilary Thomson

  “Of course we’re all here. You ought to know,” said Armagnac, “you’ve been stalling all week.”

  “Then we shall start,” said the lawyer, ignoring this. He raised the will and read, “I, James Elmont Boyle, of the estate of Rollingwood, near Chichiteaux, Vermont, do make, publish and declare this to be my Last Will and Testament, hereby revoking all Wills and Codicils previously made by me.”

  The listeners stiffened. Hamilton began to read the articles. “To Bradley Smith, I leave one hundred dollars.” The lawyer handed a check across Bert’s shoulder.

  Bradley looked pleased. He wasn’t going to complain about the amount, since it could have been nothing.

  “My God,” muttered Jac, “he doesn’t know it’s one of Dad’s insults.”

  “To my daughter, Rosemary Lorelei Cummings, I leave two hundred dollars.”

  Bert gave a grunt of contempt. Jac shook her head. Rose’s face was stoney.

  “To my son,” continued Hamilton, “Armagnac Astrakhan Boyle, I leave the right to live in the house of Rollingwood until his death. As my son has never chosen to work, he will need a roof over his head.”

  “Never worked!” Armagnac shrieked, rising from his chair. “How does that stinking old goat expect me to live unless he gives me an allowance?! Isn’t there a provision for that?”

  “He probably expected you to get a job,” said Bert to the ceiling. Armagnac glowered at Bert’s back, and Rose gazed sorrowfully at her brother.

  “I’m afraid there’s no mention of an allowance in here, Mr. Boyle,” Hamilton told him.

  Armagnac’s face was pinched. “Then who inherits the house and the rest of the estate?!” His glasses twitched in the direction of Jacquelyn’s back. Jac’s glossy red lips were attempting to squash a smile.

  “We will get to that in a moment, Mr. Boyle,” said Hamilton. “There are a few other bequests here. Next, to Lance Wolfgang Wiley, and to his sister, Colette Yvonne Wiley, I leave an allowance of ten thousand dollars a year to each.”

  “Wow!” said Bradley. “You can buy a lot of boats for your bathwater with that.”

  Lance sneered slightly. “Cheap,” he mumbled from his slouch.

  “--but only during--”

  Lance straightened suddenly.

  “--the life of my pet, ‘Woofie,’ who shall be placed in the joint custody of Lance Wolfgang Wiley, and his sister, Colette Yvonne Wiley.”

  Lance slumped forward, his mouth gaping idiotically. “What,” he asked, “is Woofie?” Colette removed the cigarette from her mouth.

  Armagnac let out a hyena-like laugh as Hamilton leant helpfully towards Lance. “Woofie is the late Mr. Boyle’s pet ostrich, sir. He resides on the family farm.”

  Armagnac let out another macabre shriek.

  “--I also leave Lance Wolfgang Wiley the front end of the 1966 Opel Kadet that is sitting upon the grounds of Rollingwood.”

  Lance slumped back in his chair, his face as perturbed as his lethargic features would allow. “The fucking bastard,” he said vehemently.

  “What the hell was wrong with the old guy?” asked Colette.

  “Will you shut up?” Jac snarled at her. “You ought to be grateful Dad’s giving you anything at all, considering you’re nothing but a stranger. You don’t deserve it.”

  “Honey,” said Phil warningly.

  Colette ignored her. Red-faced, Jac turned away and bunched her lips tightly at her husband.

  “To my grandson, Arthur Adrian Cummings,” Hamilton continued, “I leave a one penny coin.”

  Walker reached inside a felt bag, but Arthur didn’t move. A penny?! the boy thought with disgust.

  “To my daughter, Jacquelyn Regina Salisbury--”

  Jac’s chin rose.

  “I leave the contents of a bag which I have indicated to my lawyer, Douglas Hamilton.” Hamilton opened the other bag and peered inside it for nearly half a minute, expressionless. Then he slowly removed and placed on the desk a little pink bottle of bubble blowing solution. The lawyer pushed his glasses up and cleared his throat. “The label on the bottle says, ‘In your dreams’.”

  Jac screamed, then fell out of her chair and began to grind her face into the Neo-William Morris carpet. Katherine hovered over her niece, but Jac would not listen to her aunt’s words. She only continued to scream and grate her face.

  “I’ve seen that before,” said Rose, her tone as sulky as a child's. Armagnac too, was beaming with nasty satisfaction at his sister. Jac was moaning now, still writhing. In a pained way, Lance dug a finger into the ear that had been next to Jac.

  “Wow,” said Bradley.

  “Wow,” Arthur echoed, standing on his chair for a better look.

  The door of the library opened. “Excuse me,” said Eric breathlessly, “is someone hurt? I heard a scream.” Behind him was Mrs. Marshpool, and even Willowby was there, craning his head.

  “She received this neat bottle of bubble-blowing solution and she doesn’t like it,” Bradley said to Eric. Clearly, Smith did not understand Jac.

  Colette gave a single, loud titter, then went back to nursing her cigarette and ignoring everybody. That little laugh, however, had a dramatic effect. Jac’s noises stopped immediately. She rose to her feet, yanked her purse open, and pulled out a kleenex. The carpet had removed most of her make-up, leaving her face red and raw. Jac was sniffling now.

  “Honey,” Phil said.

  “Shut up,” Jac snarled.

  Salisbury fell silent. Jac took two strides forward, grabbed the pink bottle off the desk, and whipped it into the metal trash can with a tremendous bong.

  “I’m leaving this house,” Jac said, pressing the kleenex to her nose again, “right now. Willowby, help me with my bags.”

  Katherine hurried after her, and everyone collided in the doorway.

  “Wait,” Armagnac shouted to Hamilton, “who gets the house and the estate? You still haven’t told us that.”

  Jac stopped shoving and turned around to gaze at the lawyers. Hamilton bent his head to read the last article. “The rest of my worldly assets, I leave to my sister, Katherine Grace Boyle.”

  The ugly tension in the room weakened immediately.

  “Are you still going?” Katherine asked her niece, dismayed.

  “You can’t go,” Willowby added.

  Jac only gave her face another wipe and put her kleenex back inside her purse. She did not, however, announce her intentions. She walked out of the library and went upstairs.

  “Is she going to leave?” Katherine asked Phil. Phil only shrugged and trod after his wife, Katherine following him. At the foot of the stairs Willowby stood questioningly, unsure whether he should fetch Jac’s luggage or not. Eric and Bradley eased their way past and went up to Eric’s bedroom.

  Back inside the library, Mrs. Marshpool wore a look of breathless expectation. “What happened to Mrs. Salisbury?” the housekeeper asked in a clinical tone. “She seems distraught.”

  “She didn’t get anything,” Armagnac gloated. “Nothing. And she was his favorite. You should have seen her.” Boyle laughed unpleasantly.

  “She always used to throw fits like that when she was trying to get something out of Dad,” Rose said, “and it always worked, too.” Rose’s tone was still churlish.

  “But not anymore!” Armagnac added triumphantly. “Father’s dead. She can’t bullshit him ever again.”

  “But who inherited the estate?” the housekeeper asked. Her eyes were eager.

  Armagnac’s face shriveled suddenly. “None of us! He left it all to Aunt Katherine. God damn Father! At least he could have remembered us better. It’s not like he ever gave a damn for us in his lifetime.” He sobbed suddenly and ran out of the room. A stunned Mrs. Marshpool followed him.

  Bert’s face was somber. “I can’t believe he cut out all his kids,” Cummings murmured.

  Arthur was still goggling. “Will she be all right?” he asked his mother.

  “Yes,” said Rose wearily. “She always recov
ers. She was putting on an act. I know my sister.”

  Arthur found this hard to believe, but he put the thought of Jac aside for the moment. Lance’s bequest had given him an idea. He went up to Wiley and said, “Trade you my penny for the front end of the Opel.”

  Lance’s eyes rolled glassily. “If I throw in ‘Woofie’ is it a deal?”

  “No way!” shouted Bert.

  Thwarted, Arthur scowled at Walker, who was beckoning for Arthur to approach and receive his coin. Rose urged her son forward by the shoulders. “Do I have to?” grumbled the boy.

  “Yes, honey. It’s the polite thing to do.”

  “God, even Frederick was a better deal than this.” Grumpily, Arthur held out his palm for the penny, refusing to face the lawyer. Walker took the boy aside and spoke quietly to him before handing the coin over.

  Meanwhile, Bert heard Colette saying to her brother, “Sell it. It’ll cost too much to take care of. If we sell it, we’ll make some money.”

  “Hey, we can profit from the damn bird. Lend it to a zoo. It’d be alive, and our legal property, but in someone else’s care. A zoo would take care of it on their own dime. We’d still get the money from it.”

  Bert was amazed that Lance showed any capacity to think at all. Colette made no reply, as if pondering. Both of the Wileys rose and left the library.

  “Well, that two hundred bucks will cover our trip expenses here,” Cummings said to his wife.

  Arthur joined them. “Want to see my penny?” the boy asked.

  Bert flinched. “No, and thank you for reminding me that the old man could have done much worse. Are we ready to go home?” he said to Rose. “There’s no reason to stay any longer.”

  “Go? I can’t leave Army or Jac. They’re both in tears.”

  “So?”

  “Honey!” Rose left him standing by himself.

  “I would think that was a benefit, huh, kid?” Bert said to Arthur. “Hey kid, where’d you go?”

  Arthur was busy fishing the bubble-blowing solution out of the trash can.

  “Don’t you dare blow bubbles anywhere near this house, or your aunt will kill you.”

  “I won’t,” Arthur assured him.

  In Eric’s bedroom, Bradley was giving an outline of the will reading. Even Smith, normally immune to embarrassment, was hesitant to discuss what had happened.

  “I’m sorry you only got the hundred.”

  Bradley shrugged. “It’s better than nothing.”

  “We should plan to leave, now that the will reading is over. How long do you think you’d want to stay?”

  “I don’t know. I want to visit more with the family, yet after that scene in the library, I think we ought to go. Maybe tomorrow morning.”

  Someone knocked on the door and Eric opened it.

  “Mr. Maxwell?” said Rose. “There’s a phone call for you from someone named Wendy. The phone’s in the side hallway at the bottom of the back staircase.”

  “Has Jac gone?” asked Bradley.

  “She’s decided to stay. And she’s acting more like herself, thank God. Anyway, she’s only having to face what I’ve had to accept for years.” Rose’s tone was cold, and Eric was disturbed to see this. Rose must not care very much for her sister.

  “Thanks,” Maxwell said, and made his way downstairs to the telephone. He found it hanging in an alcove of blonde wood above an answering machine, a notepad, and a pencil. Wendy greeted him, and he fell silent. She was still too new a date for him to feel at ease with her.

  “How are you two doing? What’s the family like?”

  He cupped his hand around the mouthpiece, because anyone standing in the living room could probably hear him. “Well, they’re sort of bizarre. In the library there’s this shellacked blowfish with all its spines sticking out and I’m beginning to think it should be on the family crest. The will reading was pandemonium. I wasn’t there, so all I can tell you is what Bradley saw. The old man cut out all three of his kids and left practically everything to his sister, Katherine. Seems he was mad at his kids. And the kids were really upset, except Rose, the older daughter, who was disinherited years ago. The son, Armagnac, was crying and the younger daughter, Jac, was screaming.” He broke off at a nearby noise, but it was only the soft whine of Barksdale coming from Katherine’s bedroom.

  “Did Bradley get anything?”

  Eric grimaced. “A hundred dollars. Fortunately, he’s not too disappointed.”

  “That’s a shame. I was hoping he’d win the lottery.”

  “I’m beginning to think the old man asked him here just to upset the family. The lawyer could have mailed him the check, but I think James wanted to shock everyone with the news that Hiram Boyle, James’ father, had a child out of wedlock.” Eric bowed over the receiver, wishing the corner wasn’t so close. “I’m sorry for Bradley. His relatives aren’t very pleasant, it seems.”

  “Oh well. Is anyone acting weird?”

  “They all are, although Armagnac more than some.”

  “Does anyone appear to have a particular reason to dislike James?”

  “Ditto. James seemed to have enraged everybody. People keep giving each other furtive looks whenever old Boyle is mentioned, like they suspect each other of putting that CD player in the car.”

  “Is Katherine upset by her brother’s death?”

  Eric hesitated. “Remember, I scarcely know her. But--no.”

  “Did anything happen recently to make James angry with his children?”

  “That’s a tough question to ask people. Besides, Bradley wants to leave tomorrow.”

  Wendy gripped the cell phone tightly in her fist. She frowned at her paper-covered desk, then calmed down a little at the sight of the movie posters on her apartment walls. These were a legacy of working at a ticket booth in her teens. A disk of colored lights was slowly revolving behind a moiré glass screen, throwing various tints across her face. Her apartment was far more extroverted than Eric’s.

  “Now that you remind me of it--”

  Wendy’s face brightened.

  “I happened to look inside a desk drawer in James’ bedroom.”

  “Tsk tsk.”

  “Yeah. And I saw a draft of a letter James wrote to his lawyer arranging a meeting about his will. The date he suggested was July 11th.”

  “And he died August 8th,” said Wendy thoughtfully. “The draft was just sitting in his drawer? Anyone could have read it?”

  “I don’t know if the letter was there continuously, but it’s possible.” He told her about Armagnac listening at the kitchen door and Heydrick’s criminal record. “Heydrick lives in the carriage house, too.”

  “Not good,” said Wendy. “A guy with a manslaughter charge living right above the car and another spying on people? Try to find out more about Armagnac and James, will you? I guess you won’t be there very long, though. I’ll look into that manslaughter conviction. Was there anything else you noticed while snooping in James’ room?”

  “I wasn’t snooping,” Eric replied, miffed. “That’s the room they assigned me.”

  “Aha. Gimme details.” Wendy smiled when he told her about the tricorn, the swords, and the costume. “James Boyle was a Revolutionary War re-enactor,” she told him. “My boss, Linzy Fowler, is in the same re-enactor’s group. He told me about James’ death the day after it happened. That’s why I paid attention when Bradley said he was related to James.”

  “One other thing,” said Eric. “I found an old bathrobe of his--slashed, like someone had taken a knife to it. Do you still think the motive was money?”

  “I can’t be sure. If someone hated him, my instincts tell me that person would have killed James years ago. I’m certain it’s money. Any time a rich old man dies a strange death it’s usually because someone else wants his cash.”

  “I’m not sure I agree. Slashing a bathrobe is malicious, and so was planting that CD player. Oh wait, have you even heard about the player? You won’t believe this.”

  “Act
ually, I have. My boss told me some details. The player was a battery-operated boombox, wired to a timer that could be started by a remote. But it was wired so that the timer could be bypassed and the player started directly with the remote. No one seems to know which method was used. No remote’s been found, and there’s no fingerprints on anything.”

  “The range on the remote ought to give you a clue,” Maxwell suggested. “I’d suppose it wouldn’t be farther than an indoor car starter. You’d have to be in sight of the car. Someone watching from the lawn, or a window.”

  “Or,” Wendy reminded him, “someone standing on the sidewalk in Chichiteaux. There might have been an accomplice. I suspect the timer was a backup device, in case the person with the remote was delayed. No one would have noticed a guy standing there with a small remote in his hand, even if he was pointing it--if everyone else was gawking at the car. That means someone at Rollingwood knew when James was leaving for Chichiteaux and must have called the accomplice on the phone to warn him James was coming. Does anyone there listen to rap music?”

  Eric rolled his eyes. “Lance does.” He mentioned Lance’s behavior at dinner the other night.

  “Hmm. He sounds pretty stupid, but not guilty. Does anyone know what James altered in his will and why? Who was in the house, or had gone to town the day he died? Who had access to the grounds, who had keys to the gates and the carriage house, and are they even kept locked, and were any strange people or cars seen at any point? My main suspect after Heydrick is the chauffeur, Willowby.”

  “But Sheila told me Willowby was practically the only one who liked James, and I couldn’t think of any motive for him. None of the servants were getting anything from James’ will, and Sheila said old Boyle let them know this. Besides, Willowby was gone on vacation for two weeks right before James died.”

  “What?! Then anyone might have installed that CD player. Two weeks is a lot of time. There goes my wonderful theory.”

  “You realize, of course, who the main beneficiary of James’ death is--Katherine. I don’t want to accuse anyone without evidence, and she appears to be a nice old lady. Sort of irritable with Bradley, but then anyone would be. I’ll try to discover more, but I might not come up with much. This family is pretty wacko.”