A Will To Murder

by Hilary Thomson

  “Maybe Woofie bit her,” said Eric sardonically, eyeing Muffin.

  “We already know that you’re an animal hater,” said Bradley impatiently. “I think the vet was right. It had to be a wolf. There’s no motive for anyone to kill Woofie.”

  “What about some ancient grudge against Sophia?” Katherine had told them, evasively, why Sophia had cut herself off from the family. “Or maybe just spite? People can behave irrationally when they’re fighting over a will.”

  “You’re sure making me feel comfortable.”

  “Maybe you’re lucky you only got a hundred bucks--and that we’re leaving tomorrow.” Silently, Eric reflected that the cash was undoubtedly intended to keep Smith from contesting the will. Hamilton could argue that the bequest meant James had not neglected Bradley, and that the hundred was also the limit of his client’s good intentions, thus not to be disputed. The same would go for Rose’s two hundred as well.

  “Something else about the ostrich still puzzles me. Why leave him to the Wileys in the first place? Did James have some special reason to be annoyed with them?”

  “Hey, some people would like to have a pet.”

  “An ostrich ain’t no goldfish.”

  “Okay already! I can’t guess why Grandad gave him away, either. I wish I knew more about his death.”

  “I’ve a few details to add,” said Eric, not mentioning they came from Wendy. He told Bradley about the remote and timer. Smith listened closely, but didn’t comment. When Eric finished, it was a little after four o’clock, and since his friend still wasn’t ready, Eric went down to the tea by himself.

  Arthur sat stiffly on the L-shaped sofa next to Briarly, watching Mrs. Marshpool wheeling in a silver tea cart and a spirit burner. Most of the rest of the family had gone to Hamilton’s with Lance and Colette to discuss Woofie's death.

  The boy was dubious about this tea business. Aunt Katherine must be trying to lady things up after all the bad behavior at the will reading, but he would bear it for her sake. Aunt Katherine seemed downcast, though trying to pretend she wasn't. The children exchanged looks as Katherine expounded on the ritual of tea, dropping leaves into the pot as the spirit burner heated the water. Both children sensed an effort to teach them manners and weren't sure they liked it.

  Arthur had been worried about the tea itself, but was relieved to find it was real tea they would be drinking, not one of his mother's. Still, he couldn't drink real tea either, but Aunt Katherine was serving cambric tea, diluted with plenty of milk and sugar. Fortunately there was a chocolate cake on the lower level of the cart, thick with storm-high waves of frosting, along with a plate of tiny sandwiches. On a lower tier was an ice bucket with three bottles, two brown, and one of white porcelain with a bow tied around its neck. The brown bottles, Katherine explained, were chilled spruce beer, which she had brewed herself. The third was dandelion wine.

  “This is the milk jug,” Katherine was saying, “and here is the slops bowl, where you put the old tea leaves when you want another batch. Would you children like a taste of either the spruce beer or dandelion wine? Your mother, Arthur, gave me the wine.”

  Once again Arthur wondered what it was with grownups. “No, thank you,” said the children in unison.

  Eric arrived and took a seat. “Bradley will be down in a moment, Ms. Boyle. He's still trying to get dressed.”

  “I shouldn’t think it would take him long,” said Katherine pointedly. “Would you care for a cup, Mr. Maxwell? Or maybe some spruce beer or dandelion wine?”

  “Just tea for now, Ms. Boyle. Maybe the others later. Who else is coming?”

  “Only Bradley, I'm afraid. I invited Richie, but he wasn’t interested.” The starchy way she spoke suggested that Richie had not returned a polite reply to her invitation. Suddenly she beamed hard at the children. Briarly and Arthur were eyeing the unoffered cake longingly.

  “I’m still curious about how the ostrich was killed,” Eric said thoughtfully. “It seems strange.”

  The old lady’s teacup settled into its saucer with a solid clink, as if she had given up. She sighed and looked out the windows. “The vet said it was a wolf.”

  “I think a sheep killed Woofie,” said Arthur.

  “Don't think so,” Eric replied. “Sheep are pretty meek.”

  The boy rolled his eyes at Briarly to signal how stupid Eric was, but she only giggled. Irritated, Arthur ate a tiny cashew butter sandwich.

  “Ms. Boyle, I hope you won't mind me asking, but was it possible your chauffeur could have installed that CD player in your brother's car?”

  Katherine winced. “That is a rather bald question, but no, he couldn't have. Willowby was on vacation for two weeks right before that drive he took with James, and he’d only come back that morning. There was not enough time for it. According to the police, it must have taken many hours. If you're sitting in the car, there's carpeting right behind your calves. Someone had hollowed out an area underneath the seat--it’s all wood--and hand-stitched the carpeting back into place after installing the player.”

  Arthur listened with fascination, cake temporarily forgotten. He almost blurted out that he’d seen the CD case, then remembered his father’s threat. The boy stayed silent.

  “Could it have been Heydrick?”

  “No! Absolutely not.”

  Eric was surprised. Her tone was that of a woman who would not consider Heydrick’s guilt, despite all evidence--or maybe someone who knew the truth.

  “Heydrick’s gone most of the time,” the old lady added. She began to twist the cap off the dandelion wine. “The grounds here at Rollingwood are only part of his duties. He spends most of his time at the farm, seeing to the sheep and the orchard. He has set days for mowing the lawn and tending the flowerbeds here at the house, but the farm actually takes up most of his week. He’s rarely at the carriage house unless he’s sleeping.”

  “So that means,” said Eric, perturbed, “with Willowby gone for two weeks, and Heydrick often away, someone else could have slipped inside the carriage house unnoticed? And spent many hours there?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Katherine said, pouring herself a glass of wine, “if that person knew Heydrick’s work schedule.”

  “Who would have known when Willowby was leaving for his vacation?”

  “Everyone. James always insisted that the staff tell him months in advance if they wanted time off, and Mrs. Marshpool would mark the dates on her calendar. Everyone knew Heydrick’s schedule as well.”

  “Was the carriage house locked when Willowby was gone? Is it usually locked?”

  “Just at night, and we only lock the front gates at night, too. We’re so far out in the country that people rarely visit. A stranger would be noticed. None of us remember any odd vehicles or persons on the grounds before James died. The car bays were also closed--but not locked--when Willowby was gone, which means you couldn’t have seen inside them from the house, since they don’t have windows. Willowby usually leaves the bays open for better light while he’s working on the cars, if the weather allows.”

  “Who has keys to the carriage house and the rest of the property?”

  “Everyone does who needs one. All the family and all the staff. I think we all have keys to the carriage house as well, except Sheila. Mr. Maxwell,” she added, her tone growing formal, “I’ve known Heydrick for many years. It upsets me very much that anyone would suspect him of installing that CD player. He deserves better. All the staff does, really. In my own will I’ve made far more generous provisions for them--and my relatives--than my brother did. Although I admit I’m rethinking what I intended for Mrs. Marshpool,” she added grimly.

  Arthur slid a finger into the frosting of the cake but was noticed by Katherine. Instead of scolding him, though, she cut slices of it instead.

  Eric was wondering whether Heydrick could have killed James as a favor to Katherine and whether Katherine suspected it, or had maybe even ordered it. With her brother dead, his bullying would have ended, and
she would be left one very wealthy woman. Yes, he decided. Katherine had good reasons for wanting James dead--if she knew she would be the main beneficiary of her brother’s will.

  “If it’s not too personal,” Eric said hesitantly, “might I ask what you thought about your brother?”

  “No comment,” she replied flatly. “That is too personal.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You realize, Mr. Maxwell, that I would never consider discussing this subject with anyone, but I am determined to clear Heydrick of suspicion.”

  Eric sensed he had reached the limits of her politeness and fell silent. Still, it seemed impossible that a stranger could have slipped onto the grounds with several pounds of bulky electronics and spent many hours working on the Mercedes-Knight unnoticed. The killer must have been one of the family, or one of the servants.

  Upstairs, Bradley had almost finished. He had decided his silver Mexican cross would work with his white silk shirt. A gauzy, almost transparent tea hat was on his head, looted from Jac's closet. He was searching for something to decorate the hat with when he remembered the garden. A fast trip outside brought him to the Margaret Merrill roses, and Bradley inspected them thoughtfully. There was one especially fine blossom with a piece of red yarn tied to its stem. A snip brought this prize to his hand. The yarn didn’t clash too badly with his hat, he decided, so he stuck the flower, yarn and all, into his hat band. Pleased with himself, he went back inside.

  When Bradley smiled his way into the parlor, Katherine was drinking some dandelion wine. “Hello, everybody! I'm late!” Smith crowed.

  The old lady saw the blossom in his hatband. Her face drained of color, and she put a hand to her chest. “Would you please take my place, Mr. Maxwell?” Katherine gasped. “I'm feeling unwell, all of a sudden.” She headed for her bedroom crouched over, her napkin fluttering to the floor. The others watched her sudden exit with surprise.

  “Well, that's too bad,” said Bradley, plopping down into Katherine's vacated chair. “Something in the tea or the cake must have made her ill. Is it safe for us to eat?”

  “The three of us have already had some,” said Eric, nodding towards the children on the sofa. “I have the feeling she became ill for some other reason.” Eric slouched deeply into his wing chair and inspected Bradley's outfit. “Where'd you get that flower with the red yarn?”

  “From the garden. Isn't it beautiful?”

  “You know,” his friend chided, “some people don't like other people cutting their flowers without permission.”

  “Foo. They've got ten thousand roses out there. They can spare a few. Now pour me some tea. Hey, look at these cups!”

  “It was the dandelion wine that made her sick,” said Arthur morbidly. “I know. Mom made it.”

  “Dandelion wine?” said Bradley, holding the porcelain bottle up by the neck. “Is that what this is? No wonder she became ill. I've tried it before, and it tastes like you've eaten a green salad with a really sugary, vinegary dressing, digested it for a while, then vomited it all back up. You know, the aftertaste?” Smith wiggled a hand. “That's what it tastes like.”

  “Then your wine must have turned,” Eric commented idly, eyes vague with thought. “I doubt it was the wine that made her ill. Alcohol kills bacteria.”

  “You don't know Mom's wine,” Arthur warned.

  A silent gloom settled over the tea. Bradley left after he downed a cup. Briarly, who had been watching Katherine’s door, suddenly ran up the back stairs. Arthur cut himself another slice of cake while Eric mused. It occurred to Arthur that he had an opportunity here. “Want to see my penny?” the boy asked.

  “I think I know what it looks like.”

  Arthur's face scrunched with disappointment. “No one wants to see anything I show them.” The boy hesitated. Eric wasn’t a relative, so maybe it was all right to tell him. “I tried to show my Dad a Jazzy F*KU CD case, but then it vanished. Now it's locked inside Heydrick's shed. I think Heydrick put that CD player in Grandad’s car.”

  Eric looked up. “What CD?”

  “Jazzy F*KU. I found it the first time in the attic, but when I took Dad up to see it, it was gone and he yelled at me. Now it's in the shed.” Arthur ate some more frosting.

  “Are you sure the shed is locked?” the reporter asked. The boy rose, cake plate in hand, and led him over to the summer room to show him the combination lock through the window.

  “Do you remember exactly where you saw it in the attic?” Eric asked, staring thoughtfully out at the shed. At this invitation, Arthur put down his plate and galloped up the back stairs, the reporter following. The boy led the way to the stacked boxes and pointed out where the case had lain. Eric knelt and sighted his eye along the top of the box.

  “The dust on the lid’s been disturbed. Something was resting here.”

  This hadn't occurred to Arthur, but he could see the spot himself when he examined the box carefully.

  “Well, if that CD case is locked in the shed, there's not much we can do about it.” Despite the dust, Eric was skeptical. Children did like to make up stories, and Katherine’s account of the CD player may have inspired Arthur to tell a tall tale.

  When Eric came back down, he found a nervous-looking Briarly at the bottom of the stairs. Arthur had gone to his parents' room to play with Frederick.

  “I can't get Aunt Katherine to answer her door,” said the girl urgently. “And Barksdale’s upset.”

  “Is she asleep?”

  “I don't know. She asked me if I would help her make some bouquets this afternoon.”

  “She may be too ill to want company just now. Some people are like that when they're sick.”

  Briarly only gnawed a fist in reply, staring at him. Eric studied her silently a moment. “Does Mrs. Marshpool know if she’s feeling any better?” he asked.

  “I can't ask her. She hates me.”

  Eric's face screwed up. “Well, I suppose I could try your aunt.” He stepped around her to knock softly on the closed bedroom door. The girl watched, still gnawing her fist.

  “Ms. Boyle?” Eric called, not too loudly. He expected to hear a startled ‘Yes?’ and the sound of someone turning over, but there was none. However, he could hear the dog whining plaintively inside the bedroom. Surely Katherine wasn’t sleeping through that, the reporter thought.

  “Ms. Boyle, are you feeling any better?”

  There was no reply. He turned the knob and opened the door a few inches. A weak afternoon light was trickling in around the closed curtains. Katherine was lying in bed covered up, turned away from the door. Barksdale, who was sitting beside the bed, whined more loudly when he saw the intruders.

  Eric looked hard at the figure on the bed. Then he glanced at Briarly. Briarly was watching him, paralyzed. He shut the bedroom door gently and said to the girl, “Find Bradley, will you?”

  After she left, Eric hesitated, then entered the bedroom. “Ms. Boyle,” he called.

  She did not respond.

  “What’s up?” asked Smith from behind him. Hurriedly, Eric blocked the doorway with his body to keep Briarly from seeing inside. “Here, go see if your Uncle Armagnac has gotten back from the lawyer’s,” he told the girl. Then he shut the door.

  “What’s the matter? Has she gotten sicker?” The dog was nosing at the sheets, still whining.

  “Much worse than that, I think. Can you find a pulse?” his friend asked urgently.

  “Do you count lubs or dubs?” said Bradley, trying to find a wrist in the sheets.

  “Whatever,” Eric replied sharply. He was holding out his palm to feel for Katherine’s breath.

  “There isn’t any pulse,” Smith exclaimed.

  Eric straightened. “I think she’s dead,” he said finally.

  “Well, crud! My relatives can’t keep dying like this before I get to know them! It’s not fair.”

  The children were shooed out of the house in the uproar. Mrs. Marshpool had seen to that. “Jesus,” Richie protested from a bush. “Th
at Marshpool could scare Satan.”

  “She was really mean,” Arthur agreed from the next bush over, where he was crouching with Briarly. No one had explained what was happening, so the children were trying to spy in Katherine’s bedroom windows. Unfortunately the curtains were still closed. Frustrated, Richie moved to the door under the arch, and looked through the stained glass window there, trying to see down the hallway. Arthur and Briarly knelt behind him, but Richie and an urn blocked their view.

  For several long moments Richie watched, then he began to quietly open the door.

  “What are you doing!?” Briarly hissed.

  “Shut up! They’re all out of the bedroom now, and Uncle Armagnac’s off the hall phone. They’ve taken the dog away. No one’s in the hallway, and they’ve closed her door. I’m finding out what happened.”

  Arthur and Briarly crept down the hallway after him. Upset voices were coming from the living room, and Arthur heard his mother weeping.

  Carefully, Richie opened Katherine’s bedroom door and eeled inside. The other two followed, and Richie shut the door, silently for once.

  Katherine was lying in bed, but on her back now, with the bedspread pulled down a little. Her white hair was mused, and her eyes and mouth were closed and still.

  “Aunt Katherine?” Arthur’s small voice called out in bewilderment.

  “Hey,” said Richie, “she’s dead. Well,” he continued with a show of insouciance. “What do you think she looks like underneath her clothes?”

  “Don’t you dare!” snarled Briarly.

  “Who are you talking to, cockroach? I can look under her fucking dress if I want to.” He started to lift the bed spread.

  To Arthur’s amazement, Briarly hit her brother so hard he bounced off the side of the bed to the floor.