Chapter Three. The Body in The Dining Room #2
“Dun dun DUUUUNNN!” Malia warbles, at a pitch and volume that probably shattered half the glassware in the pantry.
The lady in black slowly removes her hands from her ears, glaring at Malia. Pretty sure we’re all on her shit list at this point, with the possible exception of Sports Car Guy.
There’s a rumble in the distance, and then we all hear it: rain pounding the building. The next crack of thunder is even louder.
“There we go,” Grandma Lainey says. “Claude loved monsoon season.” She presses a fist to her chest before nodding at Mervyn. “Carry on.”
Mervyn smiles gratefully at her before looking at his notes.
“Even the greatest detective eventually faces a nemesis he can’t outwit.
Cancer was my Moriarty, but at least it gave me time to prepare my final act.
What is death but the ultimate mystery? Drumroll.
Sorry, I wasn’t supposed to read that part.
” Setting down his notes, Mervyn thumps the table with both hands.
The rest of us join in, stamping our feet.
The woman in black looks like she wants to give us all detention.
“What kind of will is this?” she demands.
The Claude kind, I think.
“I was about to read out the bequests,” Mervyn informs her. That quiets her down.
“Firstly, to my family here at our Castle, a tasteful reminder of moi.” Mervyn tugs on the edge of the sheet until it slides off the easel, revealing a massive portrait of Claude in a smoking jacket and pocket square, with his Himalayan cat cradled in his arms.
There’s something odd about the eye area, but I don’t realize what it is until Mervyn grabs a small object from the table, pressing it with his thumb. We all gasp when the eyeballs slide from side to side, haunted-house style.
“The title of the painting is I’ll Be Watching You,” Mervyn informs us. “That way he can still be part of the game.”
“Well done, Claude.” Grandma Lainey leads a brief round of applause.
“So thoughtful,” Mrs. A murmurs.
“Is this a joke?” the woman in black demands.
“No, that’s the real name,” Mervyn assures her, after checking his notes. “This next item is too big for a gift bag.” He nods at someone in the doorway, and two women in white gloves wheel a massive harp into the room, stopping beside Malia.
“Is that what I think it is?” It sounds like a rhetorical question, but she also has a hand over her eyes, so maybe not.
Malia is unpredictable like that. I was a teensy bit afraid of her when I was young, because of her towering height, witchy white hair, and tendency to erupt in sudden atonal shrieks.
Later I learned those were her vocal warm-ups, and she was actually a classically trained singer, so we’re cool now.
“I’ve always wanted a floor harp.” After approaching the instrument like it’s a skittish pony, Malia runs a reverent hand across the strings. “Thank you, Claudie,” she bellows, throwing her head back.
Mervyn clears his throat. “There’s a letter too. And he left you one of his kimonos. For each of you, actually.”
“Is that sanitary?” the guy with the red car asks the peeved-looking lady in black. He’s a bigger tool than I thought if he doesn’t want one of Claude’s fabulous dressing gowns. Even Felix is shaking his head at such a blatant lack of taste.
The next gift is a set of extremely fancy knives for Mr. Namura, the resident chef, who clutches them to his chest like a starlet holding her first curtain-call bouquet.
Mrs. A coos over a new latex make-up and prosthetics kit, which she assures all of us will take her stage wounds to the next level.
For Mr. Gutierrez, Claude has arranged for the publication of a monograph about his art.
Each time Mervyn calls another name, the lady in black makes a noise of impatience, or possibly disgust, like we’re trespassing on her lawn.
Heated whispering breaks out between her and the creep when Mervyn hands my grandmother a spangled baton, representing Claude’s faith in her leadership as his designated heir to the chairmanship of the condo board.
“For Virginia,” Mervyn reads, and I jolt upright. “It’s been my honor to watch her blossom into a young woman with the panache to carry off a killer accessory.”
Skeezy frat bro does an eyebrow dance, like he’s a little too excited about my flowering womanhood.
“Looks Victorian,” Grandma Lainey says, peering into the velvet box that was inside the package Mervyn pressed into my limp hands.
I take her word for it, nodding without looking away from the amazing ring Claude left me. It’s yellow gold, the sides filled with intricate scrollwork. The face is a circle of black enamel with a raised yellow stone in the center.
“That better be costume,” the lady in black says, like that would make it less awesome—or any of her business. I also get a tan trench coat that will be, according to my grandmother, a wardrobe staple. Though possibly not while I’m in high school.
“To Felix,” Mervyn continues, “a reminder that the pen can be mightier than the sword in carving out your own story.”
It’s a fancy pen, all opalescent on the outside, but it’s safe to say nowhere near as awesome as my ring. Also they called my name first, so there. Felix gets a jacket too, though his is dark and velvet. He strokes the fabric with his palm before holding it up by the shoulders.
“Is that the one Claude’s wearing in the painting?” I ask, glancing between the canvas and Felix.
“I believe so,” Mrs. A agrees, smiling at my observational skills.
Felix looks less excited to learn he’s holding a dead man’s coat. “Maybe he had several.”
His grandfather pats him on the shoulder.
After that, Sofia, Carmen, and Elena receive a stipend to cover rides for the residents of Castle Claude for at least the next year, along with a premium satellite radio subscription.
“And where exactly is that money coming from?” the woman in black demands, like someone has been digging through her purse.
“From Claude,” my grandmother claps back.
“And finally,” Mervyn says, raising his voice to be heard above the buzz of hostility in the air, “to my sister Berniece.”
The lady in black thrusts her shoulders back, chin raised in a silent finally.
It’s so performative I wonder if maybe she’s a paid actor, hired by Claude to spice up the proceedings.
But no, my grandmother and her friends all look resigned, like they knew this was coming.
Which means the judgy sourpuss really is Claude’s sister.
“Bernie,” Mervyn reads, “I know we’ve had our differences, but we’re still family. Remember that I always kept a place for you in my heart—and in my home.”
The lady in black digs through her gift bag. After tossing aside a few wads of colored tissue paper, her arm abruptly stills. A smile spreads across her face as she holds up a key.
Maybe she thinks Claude had a safety deposit box full of jewels, when anyone who really knew him could tell you that this place was his treasure—the building and the people who live here.
“I think we’re finished.” Bernie starts to stand, but Sports Car Guy tugs on her sleeve, pointing at himself. Claude’s sister fixes Mervyn with a steely look. “What about Bradley?”
Mervyn blinks owlishly at her. “Who?”
“My nephew. Bradley.”
“Ah.” Mervyn scratches his eyebrow. “I don’t, um—that is to say, he can stay for the party?”
“Don’t worry,” the woman in black tells Bradley. “We’ll sort this out later.”
“We’re not quite finished,” Mervyn calls after her as she hustles toward the exit, purse tucked under her arm.
She flicks a hand at him without breaking stride. “I’ve listened to enough of this nonsense.”
“Claude had a few parting words. I think you’ll want to hear them.”
There’s a weight to the last bit that sounds like more than a casual suggestion, especially coming from a lawyer. With obvious reluctance, Claude’s sister turns around, rolling her eyes at the interruption.
“Most of all, my dear ones”—Mervyn clears his throat, blushing again, and I swear he just checked out my grandmother—“I leave you each other, this community of like minds, my chosen family. I can picture your faces. The moment is bittersweet, tinged with nostalgia and grief. Trust me, I know. And I’m flattered.
Feel free to shed a tear later. For now, I ask you to shake off the doldrums and admire my last hurrah, prepared specially for all of you. ”
Ripples of excitement spread through the room, my grandmother and her neighbors trading eager looks.
“That’s right, friends,” Mervyn continues, raising one finger in the air. “It’s time for … murder!”
He fumbles for his phone. After an awkward pause, maniacal laughter fills the room.
“Just for fun,” Mrs. A reassures Bernie, who is giving all of us horrified looks.
“A little razzle-dazzle, but make it deadly,” Grandma Lainey adds. Mr. Namura supplies the jazz hands.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the woman in black says, like she’s too pure for this world. “And I don’t want to know,” she tacks on, as half a dozen people open their mouths to explain. “We won’t be having any of that. I forbid it.”
“Come again?” Grandma Lainey taps her palm with the baton, not unthreateningly.
Claude’s sister holds up her key like she’s going to challenge my grandmother to a duel. “This is my building now, and I’ll be putting a stop to anything low-class.”
“About that…” Mervyn swallows nervously, patting his throat.
“Spit it out,” Bernie snaps.
“I suggest you read your brother’s letter. That explains more of his, ah, vision.”
“Enough.” She holds up a hand, nostrils flaring. “This entire afternoon has been a travesty. It’s classic Claude. You’d think he’d get over himself in death, but no. Still an attention hog.”
“It is his party,” Mr. Gutierrez reminds her, in a deceptively mild tone.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Life isn’t a party!
What was he thinking, frittering his time away in this ridiculous place?
He never grew up—and all of you enabled him!
” She swings her glare around the room like she’s power-washing us with her scorn.
“But that doesn’t matter anymore. Have your fun today.
Tomorrow, we’ll get down to business. Let’s go, Bradley. ”
“He didn’t leave you the building,” Mervyn says.
That stops her in her tracks. “What?”
“It’s only his apartment. That’s what Claude intended you to have. And its contents, subject to a few exclusions,” Mervyn adds, wincing like he’s bracing for her head to start spinning around.
“The penthouse has a charming view,” Mrs. A tells her, ready as always to see the upside of a situation. “And Claude did such a lovely job decorating.”
“But I’m his closest relative,” Bernie protests.
Grandma Lainey purses her lips, pretending to think this over. “Depends on your definition of ‘close.’”
The other woman ignores her, appealing to Mervyn instead. “This building is worth a fortune. Not in its current state”—she pauses to shudder—“but he can’t let a bunch of strangers live here for nothing.”
“That is the point of a will,” Mervyn reminds her. “To dispose of one’s worldly possessions according to the wishes of the deceased.”
“Unacceptable!” Bernie takes a step toward him, but Bradley puts a hand on her elbow, steering her toward the door.
“Let’s go talk to my dad,” he says.
“Claude may have been a pushover, but I know my rights,” Bernie yells over her shoulder as they disappear from view.
The exit loses some oomph when her nephew returns to grab the massive insulated tumbler from under her chair.
Maybe she expected to sob herself dry and thought she’d need the hydration.
The rattle and slosh as Bradley jogs back to Claude’s sister—giving me one last wink in passing—tells me it’s still full.
Not surprising, considering she didn’t exactly seem overcome by grief.
Malia strikes the harp with an open hand. As the horror-movie sound reverberates around the dining room, I feel a chill of foreboding. I’ve witnessed dozens of murders at this place, but this is the first time I’ve felt genuinely unsettled at Castle Claude.