Death on the Family Tree (29 page)

“Very little, any more, except what my family brings me. They are carrying on things these days. I sit here and enjoy the wildflowers and the butterflies, putter a bit in my orchard, hit a few golf balls—”

A loud clap of thunder interrupted him and he chuckled. “Although, before I am struck by lightning, I’ll confess I no longer am able to play. There is little I am able to do anymore. My life is very restricted, and almost over.” One hand stroked the arm of his chair.

She felt a twinge of pity. His mind seemed as vibrant as ever. What a shame that his body had let him down.

“But you were going to tell me some news?” he asked.

“Dutch Landrum was murdered Monday morning,” she said as gently as she knew how.

He grew very still. “Oh, my! You are certain it was murder?”

She nodded. “Somebody impersonating a laundryman went to his apartment and strangled him with his own tie. But the evening before, Dutch had told me he was going to try and get in touch with Leland. I want to know if he did, and if Leland has any information that might help the police solve Dutch’s murder.”

His white brows rose an inch. “Surely you don’t suspect Leland of murdering Dutch? It would be rather difficult, don’t you think, from a nursing home in Nashville? And aren’t you a little concerned that if Dutch got killed after asking questions, you yourself might be in danger?”

She gave him a rueful nod. “I’m being very careful—especially since I’ve had a couple of break-ins that may be connected to the necklace. Zachary Andrews—” She paused, wondering how much he already knew and how much risk she ran of upsetting him too much by what she was about to say. “Zach broke into my house Friday evening and took the diary. At least, I presume he did, although the police didn’t find it, because he also took a jade collection they recovered from his car.”

“How infuriating!” he exclaimed. “Amy said something about hoodlums destroying your home.”

“That was Monday morning, after Zach was dead. It may have been a random home invasion.”

“Did they get the necklace?” His voice was anxious.

“No, I had taken it to my safe-deposit box.”

“Very wise. Now, back to Leland. When you see him—”

“I don’t plan to see him. All I want is to give the police information about how to reach him. I really appreciate your getting that for me. And I’d better be going. Rowena is expecting me.” She started to stand, but he waved her back to her seat.

“Not so fast. In exchange for the number, I want to know about the necklace. Have you had any success in learning where it came from and whether it is genuine? And are you ready to sell?”

“Yes, yes, and no. It did come from Hallstatt and was given by Georg Ramsauer to one of his daughters as a wedding present. It has been passed down in their family ever since, so I think its authenticity would not be hard to establish. But I have spoken with Ludwig’s sister. She told me Carter lived with them one winter, and she thought he had stolen it from them. She was delighted to know it had turned up. I have promised to send it to her. You will need to contact her to see if it’s for sale, but I failed to bring her address with me. I’ll send it to you.”

His hand reached out and stroked hers with a whisper of dry skin. His felt as delicate as fine china. “My dear, when you have lived as long as I have, you will learn not to be so trusting of people. I knew Carter well. He was no thief.

Katharine opened her mouth to explain that Ludwig had given Carter the necklace, but he gave her no chance.

“Before you do anything rash, let me give you the name of somebody who can take a look at the necklace and authenticate it, then we can discuss the ramifications of this story of hers.”

He opened the drawer again, to take out a pad of paper and a pen. He wrote a name, and handed it to her. He had written “Dr. Donald Donns.” All three capitals were long and compressed, exactly like the “
D
” in the greeting in Dutch’s yearbook from L
²
.

She stared, puzzled. Then she began to tremble. Was her heart beating loudly enough for him to hear? She wasn’t sure her legs would hold her, but she stood and said in a party voice not unlike Amy’s a few days before. “Thank you so much, but I’ve already arranged to return the necklace to Ludwig’s family. I really appreciate your getting me Leland Bradford’s address. Now I need to be going. Rowena is expecting me.”

She had been taking small baby steps away from him. As she turned, he called her back, his voice like silk. “Stay, Mrs. Murray.” When she looked around, he was piercing her with those frosty eyes. “You have seen my handwriting before?”

Again he compelled frankness. She nodded.

He reached into the drawer and took out a small book bound in caramel leather. “And you recognize this, I presume?” He didn’t give her time to reply. “I should have realized that Ludwig would put everything down in those daily scribbles of his. It is unfortunate you made a copy—and shared it with that history professor. Which one was it, again?”

His voice was so persuasive, she almost answered before she knew it. At the last second, she bit her tongue.

“It doesn’t matter. Amy has prattled about you and that history professor for days. She will remember his name. Please be seated while we consider what to do about this situation.”

Katharine was glad to sit. Her knees had turned to sponge and her mind whirled as she tried to put these last senseless pieces into the puzzle.

Napoleon Ivorie leaned toward her in his chair. “Tell me again how you arrived at the conclusion that it was Leland Bradford who was involved in the Austrian activities. Did Dutch tell you that?”

The silver eyes were mesmerizing. Katharine could no more refuse to answer than she could will her own heart to stop. “No, but Dutch talked about ‘Lee’ as part of the group. I looked for a Lee in Dutch’s yearbook after he died, and Leland seemed to be the only one who—” Her voice betrayed her. It would not go on.

“The same yearbook where you read greetings to Dutch from L
¹
and L
²
?”

She was surprised she could nod. Every cell in her body felt paralyzed.

“Pity. Boys can be so very foolish when they are young. Make up pet names, write things, keep things—” His eyes did not leave hers, but in her peripheral vision she saw him reach into the drawer again and bring out something that glinted as he slid it down beside him in his chair. “Old men can be foolish, too. I have found it necessary to do some things for myself these past few days, and it became a habit. I should have let Styles write down that address for me. Now you have concluded that perhaps Leland Bradford was not the only Lee in our class.”

She nodded.

He gave a slight shrug. “When you are something-the-third, the family has to stretch for a name to call you. My grandfather was called Napoleon, my father, Leon. My mother balked at Nap, so I became Lee. After my father died, during the war, when I took over the business, I became Napoleon. Nobody nowadays remembers me as Lee except a few old high school and college chums. Almost none of them are left.”

So many things ought to have alerted her. Dutch had spoken of “Lee” in a familiar voice, as if it were a name she would recognize. Her mother would have, perhaps, and Walter, Sara Claire, and Lucy. Would she have as well, if she had paid closer attention to the conversations of grownups around her?

She’d been right about Zach, too—but she had thought he was working for Brandon, seeking the necklace for his grandfather. She had focused on the necklace when it was the diary that was more important. It had the power to damn.

The old man turned and stared out the window while tapping one slender finger against his lips. “I was a wild, unruly youth, willing to try almost any forbidden fruit. I came to my senses during the war and returned to the convictions of my parents and grandparents, and I have lived a life worthy of them for nearly seventy years. However, if word of my youthful—ah—indiscretions were to get out, they would give the press levers it could use to smear not only me but also the fine work of our foundation. And Brandon—” He paused. “Brandon has always admired me and modeled himself after me. I would hate for him to learn that his grandfather had been guilty of—you know of what I speak.”

Katharine gave him a reluctant nod.

“So the question is,” he said in a gentle, conversational tone, “what to do with you. Even if you were to promise to keep all his to yourself, I dare not trust your word. And I certainly cannot trust that of a history professor whom I have not met. You have put me in an awkward position. I hope you can see that.”

“No more awkward than mine,” she retorted, surprised at her own daring.

He smiled. “Spirited to the end.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. She started to rise again, but from beside him in the chair he brought a small silver pistol. “Please stay where you are.”

Katharine had heard that little guns seldom killed people, simply injured them, but she didn’t feel like testing that theory. She resumed her seat. Dear God, how was she going to get out of there? How had she walked into this without seeing it coming?

She dragged her attention back to Mr. Ivorie, who was looking at her like he was waiting for her to come up with a solution to their dilemma.

“I have no interest in washing your dirty linen in public,” she informed him coldly. “What you did seventy years ago is between you and your Maker.”

“Since you aren’t likely to spread the word, I can confess to you that I don’t believe in a maker. The only almighty I believe in is the almighty dollar. That faith has served me well.”

“I had guessed as much.” She was surprised how calm she sounded when her whole being was screaming, “God! Where are you? Help!”

His eyebrows rose in surprise. “How did I give myself away? The Ivories have always been strong supporters of the church.”

“While serving its greatest enemy, the Prince of hatred and lies.”

“Surely you don’t refer to the Devil? I don’t believe in fairy tales.”

“Some fairy tales are ancient truths in fancy trappings. And truths in which we don’t believe can be our downfall.”

He gave her another frosty smile. “I congratulate you! You spar like your father. I always did enjoy a conversation with him. I regret that we must bring this one to an end. However, it is not only what happened seventy years ago that concerns me. You have stirred up a lot of trouble these past few days, my dear, and you know too much. I cannot let you go. You are an intelligent woman. I am certain you can understand why.”

“Dutch?” The word rose from her lips unbidden, but he was not listening. He had inclined his head to the two men who came through a small door that had swung out from the shelves in the far wall. Katharine had not seen him summon them and he had certainly given them no instructions, but as they advanced on her, she saw that one carried a length of nylon rope and the other a gun that looked far more business-like than Mr. Ivorie’s silver toy.

Mr. Ivorie spoke to them in a pleasant tone. “You know what to do. But remember, no pain. I respected her father.” He laid the little silver pistol beside him on the table and turned to the window. She had the same feeling she had had at the club. Their interview was over and his attention had moved on to other things.

“Come,” barked the man with the rope. He reached for her. Katharine pressed back into the chair. “Come,” he said again. He jerked her up, pulled both hands behind her, and tied them. She cried out as the rope cut into her skin.

“No pain,” Mr. Ivorie said again, almost absently. “I told you, no pain.”

The man loosened the knots slightly, then took her elbow and marched her toward the little door.

Her options were few, but she had one. She opened her mouth and screamed.

The man who held her covered her mouth with a broad, salty hand and clutched so hard his fingers dug into her cheek. She opened her jaws and bit his palm, hard. That gained her just enough time to shriek, “Amy, help!” before he grabbed her in a hammerlock that cut off her air.

Thunder crashed beyond the windows. Lightning lit up the room.

“She’s a feisty one,” he told Mr. Ivorie as Katharine struggled to breathe.

“No pain,” Mr. Ivorie repeated—but automatically, as if his mind was far away.

“Papa?” Amy burst in from the hall. “Are you all right?”

Katharine twisted in her captor’s arms, for she could not get enough air to scream again. Her movement attracted Amy’s attention. “What’s going on? Papa!” When he didn’t reply, she ran toward the bodyguards. “Let her go, Clark! At once! Let her go.” She pounded his arm with her fists.

He let his arm fall from Katharine’s neck and she gulped in huge swallows of air. The man with the gun stepped back and held it behind him, out of Amy’s sight but where Katharine could see it. Mr. Ivorie spoke sternly. “This does not concern you, Amy.”

“They’re going to kill me,” Katharine gasped. “Please, they will kill me.”

“Why should they kill you?” Amy’s voice contained the curiosity of a child’s.

As she moved toward Katharine, her grandfather repeated, “This does not concern you.” Amy wavered and took a step back.

“He killed Zach.” Katharine said urgently. “I can prove it.”

“Zach?” Amy turned whiter than the plaster medallion and her eyes darted from Katharine to the two bodyguards to her grandfather. “Papa, did they kill Zach?”

“On your grandfather’s orders,” Katharine added.

“That’s enough out of you,” the bodyguard growled to Katharine. “Come on, time to go.” He started to march her toward the small door in the shelves. She struggled, but his grip was tight.

“No!” Amy dashed to the table and picked up the little gun. She waved it toward the bodyguards. “Let her go! She’s my friend! Tell them, Papa. She’s my friend.”

Katharine had not improved her position. She now stood between Amy and her targets and Amy trembled from head to toe.

The man holding Katharine spoke in the gentle tone of a friend. “Put the gun down, Amy. You can’t hit anybody from there. And this is your granddaddy’s business.”

Amy aimed the gun at her grandfather. “Papa? You didn’t tell them to kill Zach, did you? Did you?”

“Put down the gun.” His voice was stern and did not tremble.

Hers grew wild. “I will kill you if you did, and kill myself! If you killed Zach, I don’t want to live.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “You didn’t, did you, Papa? Tell me you didn’t!” She waved the gun in his face.

The man with the gun started toward her in a purposeful stride. Amy could not see his gun, but Katharine could, and his finger was tense on the trigger. Katharine gave a little moan of protest.

Amy whirled and saw him advancing. “Don’t come any closer, Brick!” she shrieked, “and make Clark let Mrs. Murray go!” He kept walking. Amy squeezed the trigger.

Brick fell to the floor grabbing his knee. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the room. Clark released Katharine and lunged toward Amy. She fired again. He clutched his shoulder, but bent to snatch up Brick’s dropped gun.

“No!” Mr. Ivorie roared “Clark, no!”

“What on earth is going on in here?” Rowena Slade stood in the double doors. “Amy! What are you doing? Put that gun down at once.”

“No!” Amy waved it between her grandfather and her mother. “Papa killed Zach, Mrs. Murray says. Did you know, Mama? Did you find out about us and tell Papa to kill him? Tell me!” She stamped her foot. “If you did, I’m going to shoot all of us!” Tears streamed down her cheeks and she waved the gun wildly. Her grandfather reached for it, but she aimed it straight for his forehead. “Don’t you touch me, Papa. I warn you. And don’t hurt Mrs. Murray. She’s my friend. Mama, don’t let them hurt her!”

“Put down the gun. Nobody is going to hurt anybody.” Rowena spoke with authority. Amy lowered the gun and stepped beyond her grandfather’s reach. Rowena frowned at the bodyguards. “You all are dripping blood all over the carpet.” She went to the desk and pressed a button. “Mrs. Goodwill, please come see to Brick and Clark. They have had an accident.”

Nobody spoke until an elderly woman in a gray uniform and white apron bustled in. “Oh, dear, oh, dear. Come with me, boys, and we’ll fix you up. Oh, dear.” She bustled through the small door in the bookshelves, shooing the burly bodyguard named Clark before her like a chick. Brick paused long enough to retrieve his gun, then limped after them.

Katharine started for the main door but Rowena held up her hand. “Please don’t go until you tell me what all this is about.” She motioned Katharine toward a chair across the room, but Katharine could not walk. Her knees buckled and she would have fallen if Rowena had not caught her and helped her into the seat.

“Now,” Rowena said, frowning at her father. “Whatever is going on, let us talk about it like civilized people.”

“The time to talk like civilized people is past, my dear.” He turned and looked out the window, as if the others were actors on a television show that no longer held his interest. He paid no attention even to Amy, who still clutched the little silver gun. It wobbled dangerously in her hands, and her face frightened Katharine.

Rowena said sharply, “Amy, put down that gun. You are making me nervous.” She spoke as if her daughter was five, not twenty-two, and held nothing more dangerous than a water pistol. Amy made a sulky mouth and went to sit on the other side of the library, but kept the gun in her lap.

“Now, what is this all about?” Rowena paced between the three of them and waited for answers.

Katharine felt wearier than she had ever felt in her life, but when nobody else answered, she spoke. “The necklace and the diary. Terrorism and seduction. Secrets long buried, now come to light. Murder, and deceit.”

Rowena zeroed in on the thing that interested her most. “Is the necklace authenticated? Is it for sale?”

“It’s authenticated but it’s not for sale. It belongs to a family in Austria. They want it back.”

Rowena was, first and foremost, her father’s daughter. “Can they prove their claim?” When Katharine nodded, she asked, “So what do you want?”

Katharine sat there enjoying the simple act of breathing. Was there anything more precious? What else could she possibly want?

To leave that house alive topped the list. No matter what the social register might say, these were not nice people. But she wanted something more.

“Justice,” she said slowly, “for at least two people who have been murdered. Perhaps four. And an end to hypocrisy.”

“Hypocrisy?” Rowena raised her perfect brows.

“I was robbed Friday night,” Katharine said in answer. “Zachary Andrews did it.”

“No!” Amy cried. “He wouldn’t!”

“I’m afraid so,” Katharine told her. “They found our jade in his car, and he took the diary, as well. I thought it was the necklace he was after, but it was the diary.”

“The diary was worth more than the necklace?” Rowena clearly didn’t believe it.

“Ask him.” Katharine nodded toward Mr. Ivorie. “Ask why he sent Zach to steal the diary. It’s there, on his table. Ask why he killed Zach, or had him killed, afterwards. Ask why he sent a truckload of goons to my house to destroy it in the process of looking for the necklace and copies Amy knew I had made of the diary. Ask why he killed his old friend, Dutch Landrum,” she had to pause to steady her voice, “if not to prevent Dutch talking to me about all this.”

“Daddy?” Rowena asked, clearly thinking Katharine had lost her mind.

Amy watched with wide, terrified eyes.

“She has no proof whatsoever,” he said abruptly. “Comes in here making accusations without one shred of proof.”

“Do you read German?” Katharine asked Rowena. When Rowena nodded, she said, “Pick up that diary and open it at random. Read the entry for August 15—dated 15/8.”

Mr. Ivorie put out his hand but Rowena snatched the diary first and opened it.

“Tomorrow we blow up the bridge,” she read, then paused and bent her head. She turned the page, scanned it, and looked back at Katharine. “It sounds like a gang of terrorists.”

Katharine nodded. “Do you see the name L
²
on the page?” When Rowena nodded, she said, “I can prove that your father was L
²
and that the diary was written by a man named Ludwig Ramsauer. Now read the next day’s entry—the one about the party.” Rowena scanned the page and her eyes widened. “Daddy?”

He said nothing, but what she read in his eyes enraged her. “You did these things? Blew up bridges?”

He waved her away like a troublesome fly. “We were fighting Hitler.”

“One man’s terrorist is another man’s patriot,” Katharine murmured.

Rowena waved the diary in his face. “You slept with men?”

“And lured his cousin Carter to Vienna to be seduced by Ludwig,” Katharine added in a flat, weary voice.

“Daddy?” Rowena’s voice was harsh and raw.

He turned away. “It’s a long time ago. I was young and foolish.”

Her eyes flashed like lightning. “I was once young, too. But did I get to be foolish? Could I even marry the man I loved and live with him? Oh, no. Married today, divorced tomorrow, with good old Daddy in control. Daddy the Righteous, god on my Olympus, arranging my life so I could grow up to be just like him. And poor Joe,” her voice trembled with passion, “paid off and sent packing like poor white trash. While you—you—”

“It was for your own good,” he said. “You would never have been happy. He’d have bored you in a year.”

“But that would have been my decision, wouldn’t it? You got to make your mistakes. The rest of us never got a chance. You make me sick!” She flung the diary away from her and stalked to the far end of the room.

“Did you really kill Zach?” Amy crept over to her grandfather and peered down at him. “I loved him, you know. I was going to marry him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” her mother snapped, diverted from her rage. “You are far too young to be thinking of marriage—especially to somebody like Zach.” She continued to pace.

Amy stared down at her grandfather. Then deliberately she lifted the gun, pressed it to his forehead, and squeezed the trigger.

“No!” Katharine leaped from her seat. But nothing happened. The gun made only a small click.

Mr. Ivorie put out his hand. “It had only two bullets in it. Now give it to me, Amy, and run along. And send in your brother.”

“I hate you.” Her voice was calm. She laid down the gun, turned, and walked from the room.

“You wanted me?” Brandon asked at the door a few minutes later.

“Come in and sit down,” his grandfather said. “Mrs. Murray has something to say to us all. Tell your story, Katharine. That’s what you came to do, isn’t it?”

As Katharine recalled, she had come to get a number for Leland Bradford. That seemed at least a week ago.

“I’ll tell the story.” Rowena’s color was high and her eyes glittered. “This man—this man who has set himself up all these years as a pillar of righteous ness, a hero for the rest of us to emulate, the be-all and end-all of morality—this man, the epitome of values in this family and many others, was, in his youth, a terrorist, a homosexual, and a panderer.”

Brandon made a strangled protest. Rowena picked up the book and gestured with it. “This diary gives chapter and verse of his depravity. He hired Zach to steal it last Friday while we were at the dinner meeting—which is why Zach never came with your speech. He apparently met Zach afterwards or had Brick meet him to get the diary, then someone shot Zach so he tumbled down that embankment where he was found. Katharine claims that he also sent goons to vandalize her home and try to get copies of the diary, and—what else, Katharine?”

“Someone went to Dutch Landrum’s Monday morning in a white van pretending to be from his laundry, and they choked him with a tie he kept on the door.”

“Which might explain,” Rowena said to Brandon in a voice like crystal, “why the gardener’s van wasn’t available to carry your picket signs and materials down to the protest march and why Daddy was ‘indisposed’ all morning.” She threw her father a look of contempt.

“Did you also kill Carter?” Katharine asked Napoleon. “I would like to know. Did you let Alfred Simms go to the electric chair for a murder you committed?”

“Carter was supposed to have the necklace and the diary,” Mr. Ivorie explained, as if they were discussing the weather. “That’s what Ludwig said. He gave them to Carter.”

“When did you speak with Ludwig? Was it when you went to Austria to stage that climbing accident? The fall of the man who never went on the mountains alone, but who could ruin you if he chose? Did you then send Carter that clipping about his death?” She nodded toward the diary.

His only acknowledgment was a slight movement of one hand. Katharine pressed on. “Did Carter then call to ask if you knew anything about that? Maybe suggest a drink together to grieve an old friend?”

“The necklace and diary were not in his house.” Napoleon spoke to himself, gazing out across his lovely lawn toward the lake. “Ludwig said he gave them to Carter, but they were not there.” His voice sounded distant, as if coming from far down the tunnel of time.

“Maybe because Carter had given them to Lucy,” Katharine suggested, “or stored them in the attic of their family home. Maybe Lucy found them when she cleared out her house, and took them with her to Autumn Village because they were all she had of Carter.” She stopped.

He said nothing.

“Mrs. Murray!” Brandon leaned forward in his chair with his hands clasped in front of him. “These are some real serious accusations you are making. I want to remind you that there are severe penalties in this state for slander. My grandfather has led an exemplary life. Many people will attest to that. If any of what you have said or implied is ever spoken beyond this room, I want you to know that I personally will prosecute you to the fullest extent of the law. And you, Mama, give me that book. It’s filthy, and deserves to be burned. I don’t ever want to hear those lies you were telling again. You hear me? Not one word.”