A Will To Murder Read online

  “No way, kid,” said Bert, having done so.

  Sighing, Arthur strayed down a nicknack aisle. He bore some resemblance to a newly-hatched chicken, having the same fine, fluffy hair; the same wandering, insensate curiosity; the same slightly dazed expression. He squinted sometimes and would need glasses in a year or two.

  “I have to get something to console Aunt Katherine,” cried Rose, flitting into Arthur’s aisle to look at the porcelain cherubs and shepherd girls.

  “Your presence would be better than any this junk,” replied her husband.

  “But she loves these sweet little figurines,” Rose protested.

  “She’s already got fifty thousand of them. Then again, maybe getting a cheap tin with pansies on it would make it all right with her about your father.”

  “Honey!”

  “Sorry,” muttered Bert. “Would you hurry up? You still have to get the stationary.”

  Arthur, meanwhile, had found a stuffed rabbit. He fingered it, expecting to feel stiff plastic bristles, but the fake fur was very soft. The insides of its tall ears were checked pink-and-white, and the rabbit had two prominent foreteeth and tortoiseshell glasses. Its arms and legs stuck out imploringly.

  The boy looked around. No one was in sight except for his father losing patience by the cash register and his mother comparing boxes of bow-tied paper. So he gave the rabbit a hug. Nothing serious, he just wanted to see what it felt like. Then he put the rabbit back on the glass shelf.

  A second later Rose was at the cash register. “We have to buy him that rabbit!” she hissed to her husband.

  “What rabbit?” said Cummings, alarmed by this new peril.

  “The one he was hugging! I’ll be back.”

  “Hey!” protested Bert.

  “Do you like that rabbit?” Rose asked her son. Arthur blinked at her a moment. His parents were always asking him these bizarre questions. How would he know whether he liked this rabbit or not? He hadn’t had time to make its acquaintance. It might not turn out to be someone he even liked.

  “It’s okay.”

  “I’ll buy it for you if you like it,” said Rose, ignoring Bert’s piteous groans.

  This was a problem for the boy. The unwritten law of childhood said it was better to have something than not have it, but a stuffed rabbit? He was too old for stuffed animals. Also, if any other boy saw him with the rabbit, Arthur would, of course, be eviscerated.

  “Okay,” said Arthur, greed winning.

  The rabbit was quickly placed next to the cash register. “Isn’t it cute?” Rose said to her husband. “It reminds me of someone, though I can’t remember who.”

  Bert studied the animal with nausea, but he knew that arguing with her at this point was useless.

  Arthur stood with his nose against the candy counter again, just in case. He could see peppermint straws, and molasses seafoam candy, which he could eat to the point of mouth sores. The boy whined plaintively, but his parents didn’t notice.

  “Christ! Are you done?” asked Bert. “I don’t even know why we’re bothering to go. He cut you out of the will, so you won’t be inheriting anything.”

  “We are going,” said Rose stiffly, clasping her box of stationary to her chest, “to attend my father’s funeral. The will is nothing.”

  “Okay, I’m just an innocent by-attender then, watching the rest of my in-laws get rich. Are you ready?”

  “Oh! I forgot these!” said Rose, scooping up the entire display box of antacids.

  “Christ! Rosey! Leave your stomach acid alone! Let it do its job! You’re going to starve.”

  “You don’t need stomach acid to digest food!” she twittered back fiercely. “Your intestines just hose it all up.”

  Suddenly his mother was handing Arthur the rabbit, and the boy was horrified. The lady behind the counter hadn’t bagged it! He was going to have to walk out of the store carrying a stuffed rabbit! In agony, he followed his parents out, praying no other kids could see him. Fortunately this wing of the mall was empty on this Thursday morning, and the parking lot was close. Relieved, the boy considered swinging the rabbit by the ears and bouncing it off a pillar to see what sort of noise it would make, but felt just enough vague benevolence towards his new acquisition to refrain.

  Out in the parking lot, Rose took the driver’s seat of the family Camry. It was a tossup as to which parent was the worse driver. Bert was a bellower and a flailer, Rose a startler and a jerker. But it had been decided that Rose’s skittering style was the least likely to get them killed, so she usually drove.

  As the car started down the highway, his mother asked, “What are you going to name your rabbit?”

  “Frederick. She’s a girl rabbit,” Arthur replied.

  “Jesus fucking CHRIST,” wailed Bert.

  “I know a girl called Freddie,” Arthur protested, “she’s in my class at school. I sort of like Freddie,” he added plaintively, resting his chin between the rabbit’s ears.

  “What was that?” asked his father.

  “I SAID, I SORT OF LIKE THE NAME FREDERICK.”

  “Jesus fucking CHRIST! Keep your voice down! Oh, now he’s crying. What are you crying for, kid, huh? Huh?”

  “You’re picking on Frederick,” sniveled Arthur.

  “I am not! How could I pick on a stuffed animal? It doesn’t have any feelings!”

  “Dear, you know what he means,” said Rose. “He means that you’re picking on him.”

  “I know I’m picking on him! I’m fucking trying to pick on him, dammit! And stop crying back there, kid, or I’ll take that rabbit away.”

  “What do you want Frederick for?” Arthur sobbed. “You can go get your own rabbit.”

  Bert leaned over the back seat. “Hey! I’m a grown-up, remember? Do I look like I’d want a stuffed rabbit? Huh? Do I? Do I?”

  “I don’t know!” the boy wailed. “You might.”

  Bert stared at his son a moment, then put his face in his hands.

  After everyone in the car had sulked sufficiently, Rose said, “If the girl you know is called Freddie, then her full name must be Fredericka.”

  “Fredericka?” said Arthur, astounded. The boy stared hard at his rabbit. “I still think her name is Frederick,” he said suspiciously.

  The car drove on for some time, and Arthur grew bored. There was nothing to see except trees, fences, brush, and mailboxes at the ends of driveways. He was glad when they reached the small town of Rockland, only a few miles from Chichiteaux. As they drove down a street of Victorian residences, the boy said, “Those are pretty houses.”

  Bert coughed horribly, but Arthur wasn’t distracted for more than a moment. “What sort of houses are they?” asked the boy.

  “Queen Anne, dear,” said Rose.

  “Charles Addams,” said Bert, grinning.

  Ignoring her husband, Rose added, “Do you see all the bright colors, honey? It’s the fashion to paint those old houses in several contrasting colors. They’re called Painted Ladies.”

  “Think your old man has done that?” Cummings asked maliciously.

  “Aunt Katy said he’d had the house repainted, but she didn’t tell me what color.” Rose’s face was apprehensive.

  As the car reached an intersection, they noticed an Arby’s on a far corner, and Bert said, “Hey, see that green Lincoln with the New York plates, parked next to that cop car? I think it’s your sister’s. You think they stopped here for lunch?”

  “Let’s go see.”

  “Now wait a moment,” said Bert, “we don’t need to meet them this soon.”

  “But honey--”

  Four people were walking out of the Arby’s. A man, a woman, and a boy who was shoving a girl in the back. Arthur’s forehead wrinkled.

  “That’s them,” said Bert in a dreadful, gothic tone.

  Arthur stared. He had never seen the Salisburys before. The lady was his mother’s sister, Jacquelyn, and the man, Uncle Phillip Salisbury. The nasty-looking boy had to be cousin Richie,
and the girl, who was a year younger than her brother, cousin Briarly.

  Rose drove into the parking lot and got out of the car. Cummings groaned and did likewise. Arthur decided to stay inside the car, like the way you did on safari. He opened his window to listen.

  Jacquelyn had short black hair and glossy red lips. She wore a scarlet dress, patterned black hose, and was gripping a black purse as shiny as her lipstick. Arthur thought she was very pretty.

  Uncle Phil, who was smoking, wore silver frame glasses with tinted lenses. He was a lean, dark man in a suit and tie, with grainy skin and a five o’clock shadow. His uncle was a corporate lawyer, Arthur recalled, and Rose had said the Salisburys were rich.

  Briarly Salisbury was blonde, unlike her parents, and red soda blotched her shirt and dyed her mouth. Arthur remembered that she was supposed to be a year older than himself. She wore a furious expression because her brother wouldn’t quit pushing her. Why hadn’t his Aunt and Uncle stopped their son? Arthur wondered. But he knew that grownups tended not to see things.

  Richie was chubby and short-haired, without either of his parents’ good looks, and his grin made Arthur queasy. The boy was holding a knobby piece of pink granite, studying the empty police car next to the Lincoln. Arthur’s eyes widened. His cousin scraped the rock down the side of the patrol car, leaving a long scratch. The traffic was just loud enough to muffle the noise.

  Arthur was stunned. None of the grownups had noticed anything. They were still talking to each other, oblivious. Just then Bert said to Phil, “Okay, we’ll switch. You and Richie come with me and Arthur.”

  Arthur had been idly bouncing Frederick on his knee, but when he heard this, he stopped and stared at his stuffed animal. Then he looked through the window at Richie. He was doomed. He was going to suffer unspeakably because of a rabbit. Panicking, he tried to find a place to hide Frederick. The glove compartment was completely full. He considered shoving the rabbit underneath the car seats, but from the condition of things down there he knew Frederick would never be the same again. And somehow, Arthur couldn’t bring himself to destroy Frederick so soon after winning her.

  Now the three males were close, and Richie lunged forward, his ugly face framed by the car window. The back door began to open, and Arthur nearly went crazy with fear. So when his cousin climbed inside, horrible grin on his face, Arthur hit him with all his might with Frederick. Swings and punches detonated all over, Arthur swearing as hard as he could. He only knew two bad words so he had to make do, yelling them over and over. Richie balled up protectively.

  “What the--!” Bert shouted, “Knock it off!”

  “You two behave yourselves,” Phil added lamely, fumbling for a cigarette.

  The boys stopped. Richie sat up and scowled at Arthur. Arthur panted back, wild-eyed.

  “Okay, you want to hold a stuffed rabbit, you can hold a stuffed rabbit,” sneered Richie. “Hey, do you know what ‘Arthur’ sounds like?”

  “Don’t say it,” the other threatened, menacing him with Frederick. The two boys studied each other silently. Then, with the primate’s instinct for making a peaceful gesture, Richie said, “Want to see me stick this piece of plastic thread up my nose and pull it out my mouth?”

  Arthur wasn’t interested, but he paid attention. It was better than getting beaten up. He stayed wary, however, for he knew Richie’s type. If his cousin smelled fear, he would attack.

  “Hey,” said Richie as the car drove off, “why don’t you have a TV in here?”

  “Because it’s a car,” retorted Arthur.

  “We have one in our car,” his cousin taunted. “It’s a flat screen and it plays videos, too. You can play computer games on it as well.” Richie gloated, then pulled out a long whip of chewing gum and bit the end off. He didn’t offer any of it to Arthur.

  “Dare you to shove that up your nose and pull it out your mouth,” said Arthur, positive that his cousin could never manage it.

  To his dismay, Richie did.

  A yell from Bert and a violent wobble in the car’s steering got everyone’s attention and made Phil drop ashes all over his lap. Rollingwood was in the distance.

  “It’s black!” Bert shouted. “The whole house is fucking black!”

  “James Boyle had it painted black this year,” Salisbury replied. “I don’t know why.”

  “Jesus, that evil old man!” said Bert in wonder.

  “Place also has a bat problem, Jac says. This your first time here?”

  “Not quite. I saw the living room when I was dating Rose, but didn’t get any further. The old man wouldn’t let me in the house after Rose and I married. An appliance repairman wasn’t good enough for him. He didn’t come to the wedding either, though Katherine and Armagnac showed up.”

  Arthur didn’t properly heed this information about bats, because Richie was creeping towards him, bedewed plastic thread held out menacingly, and Arthur had to kick him back. Bert’s hand shot over the seat and smacked them both, quelling them momentarily.

  “So what have you been doing lately?” asked Rose, wincing.

  “I’ve been trying to persuade the museum board to start purchasing more late 19th- and early 20th-century French ceramics for the permanent collection, but haven’t gotten anywhere. They think pottery is too feminine, and only oil paintings can be considered real art.” Jac clamped her lips together for a moment, but did not disturb the resinous luster of her lipstick. “Then I get this news about Father. I envy Aunt Katy. With Father gone she can do whatever she likes.”

  Rose bit down on an antacid so hard it went off like a gunshot.

  “Will you stop cracking those things!? You’re driving me crazy.” Jac pursed her mouth musingly as she steered the Lincoln. “Do you have any idea who could have put that CD in Dad’s car? Was anyone angry with him?”

  “You know everyone was! Father couldn’t go five minutes without infuriating somebody. What amazes me is that someone went to all that trouble to install a boombox in his car. Whoever did it must feel awful. I’m sure they didn’t expect him to--to die.”

  Briarly was watching the two women from the backseat. Only her eyes could be seen peering over the top.

  “I bet it was Heydrick,” said Jac. Heydrick was the family gardener. “He’s been crazy for years, and Father did hire him out of that halfway house, remember.”

  Her sister only gnawed a strand of lank hair and said, “We shouldn’t discuss this in front of Briarly.” Rose teared up.

  “Oh for God’s sake, you’re not really upset that Dad’s gone, are you? Don’t be such a hypocrite.”

  “Yes, I am upset! He was my father, and yours too, if you don’t remember.”

  “He terrorized Aunt Katherine and Armagnac, and joined Grandad in disowning Aunt Sophia. He used to threaten to disinherit us every other week and finally did that to you when you married Bert. He was a pig.”

  “How can you say that?” Rose wailed. “You were his favorite.”

  “I was not! He had no favorites because he wasn’t capable of normal human affection! Rosey! Stop crying. Look, we’re almost home. My God,” Jac shrieked, “what did he do to the house?”

  “It’s black,” Rose marveled.

  “He would! He always wanted to embarrass the family as much as possible! I’m driving around to the carriage house. I refuse to pull up in front.”

  Arthur stepped out of the Camry onto the circular driveway and stared at the black house. His three companions were also goggling. Elegant flowerbeds surrounded the mansion, and roses were just beginning to open. Enormous pink peonies reigned over the beds at the moment. The house looked like a black eye rimmed with pink eyeshadow. Beyond was a carefully trimmed lawn that stretched for acres, dotted with huge conifers.

  “House looks manic-depressive,” Cummings said. A few white marble steps led up to large mahogany doors, and someone had tied black crepe bows around the brass doorknobs. Thoughtfully, Richie hefted a rock, studying the stained glass fanlight above the door.


  “At least he liked flowers,” Bert commented.

  “Those are Katherine’s,” said Salisbury, tossing away his cigarette. “I think the old man would have preferred planting land mines and barbed wire.”

  At that moment they heard footsteps on the maroon gravel. The circular driveway branched off to the right and went back to the carriage house, ending at a small parking area. On the left side of Rollingwood was a disused arch covered with vines, showing that the driveway had once lead in that direction before being repositioned. The women were approaching from the parking area.

  “Now, who is this handsome young man?” said Jac. “You must be my nephew, Arthur. Why didn’t you come out to greet me at the restaurant?” she teased. Arthur blushed, and wondered how this nice lady could have such a putrid son.

  Just then an old man appeared around the side of the house. He was wearing a sagging hat with a frayed brim, and his skin was so leathery it did not have wrinkles, but cracks and crevices instead. His black eyes stared unwelcomingly at the newcomers, almost demented in their intensity. When the old man looked at Arthur, the boy remembered he was holding Frederick and tried to hide the rabbit behind his back. The watcher bared his teeth in amusement. They were tinted green. The boy gulped.

  “There’s Heydrick,” Jac said in disgust to Rose. “My God, he’s a notch below pushing a shopping cart. Why didn’t Father get rid of him?”

  Then Heydrick moved. The gardener knocked the stone out of Richie’s hand with a punch to the boy’s arm and thumped Richie’s ear. The boy screamed.

  Everyone turned. Heydrick was bending over, feeling for something on the ground.

  “What are you doing?” Phil snapped.

  “He hit me!” Richie bawled.

  “Good,” murmured Bert.

  “Hey, you--,” said Phil, stabbing a finger at the gardener.

  Heydrick straightened. He was holding Phil’s discarded cigarette, plucked out of the roses. The old man looked from the cigarette to Salisbury, and his lip rose lopsidedly, baring a green fang.