Death in Lilac Time Read online

  Death in Lilac Time

  A Pat and Jean Abbott Mystery

  Frances Crane

  To

  HARRY E. MAULE

  1

  When the telephone call from Dr. Seth Godwin cut into our Kentucky holiday, I can’t say I wasn’t fit to be tied. We were flush at the moment and we’d been in New York where I’d blown myself to a Hattie Carnegie outfit and a Sally Victor hat, the occasion for same being a quick trip to Lexington and a stopover for the Kentucky Derby. We would also have a couple of days to spare in and around the Bluegrass country, which is pure heaven in spring, before flying home to San Francisco.

  There was a woman who interested us on the plane from New York. When we changed she also changed to the smaller plane for Lexington. She was beautiful and she was worried, but how could we ever have guessed that a couple of hours after we landed in Lexington, Patrick’s old friend Seth Godwin would ask his help because this lovely creature was accused of doing murder?

  We’d hired a car in Lexington and had driven around some and had just registered at the Beaumont Inn near Harrodsburg when the call came.

  Patrick took it. We were having cocktails and I could see my new hat in a mirror and was feeling happy and contented when he came back.

  “Drink up, Jeanie.”

  “Why? We just got here and …”

  “It’s something urgent or Seth wouldn’t ask it. It concerns a woman named Jane Mallory. He wants us there now.”

  “I’m hungry. This place is said to have marvelous food.”

  “We’ll eat dinner at Seth’s.”

  “By the time we get there he’ll probably be off on a baby case. You know about country doctors …”

  “Seth wouldn’t ask this favor if there weren’t good reason. Are you staying here or coming with me?”

  That settled it.

  “I’m coming,” I said, meekly.

  Flying above gray clouds all the way from New York, Jane Mallory almost continuously reviewed her life with Richard Mallory. It isn’t only the dying who relives his past, if he does, but also those intimately associated with him. Dick hadn’t really loved her, she thought, for a long time before she left him. But now she was hurrying to his deathbed and her thoughts were trapped by the happy memories of their first three years. For Dick she could now feel only remembered love and an immediate crushing pity. Thirty-eight was too young to die. Perhaps something could save him. Perhaps his fierce vitality would snatch him back from death.

  People would be cruel. People would say that Dick brought death on himself. They would say that he had had everything in the world that anybody wanted. Money. Good looks. A swift dynamic brain. A wonderful home. A fine heritage. A devoted wife, or at least she had been one until a year ago.

  Jane would try it again if he wanted her back and if it meant he could live. She would forget his cruelty and her bitterness. She would do anything, anything if Dick could live.

  The clouds lifted as the plane neared Louisville. For a time the wide shimmering willow-banked Ohio was below them and then the east end of the city with its elegant homes and fine parks. They landed and Jane Mallory was checked and hastily transferred to a smaller plane.

  Jane noticed one couple vaguely and then only because they were seated opposite herself. Also they were the only passengers besides herself to transfer from the New York plane. The man was tall, quiet, sunburned, and handsome in the western fashion. The woman was animated, very slender, chic in her expensive gray suit and tiny spring hat. She had black hair cut in the current short style and extraordinary amber-colored eyes.

  Jane looked at the pair again and decided that they had been married for some time. They looked happy. Happy!

  Jane remembered again that she and Dick Mallory had been enviably happy for three years. Then jealousy and suspicion had crept in. Jane’s exquisite complexion and rather simple sweetness unfortunately gave an impression of what men imagined sexy. They usually looked at her twice and more than one pursued her with highly dishonorable intentions. Dick Mallory began to eye his wife’s attraction with cynical suspicion. He questioned Jane’s honor. He had her watched. He flew into rages over the smallest thing and abused her, and then he would suffer abysmal regrets. His conscience would make him become crawling and contrite. Such contrition would be more difficult for Jane to bear, almost, than the cruelty which brought it on.

  It was the whisky, but she didn’t know that at first. Dick Mallory drank moderately in public and immensely in secret. His friends went. He was forced to resign from his job, one of trust and importance. Their income was intercepted by his mother who had always held the reins of the family property in her own shrewd hands. At last there was nothing left which made sense except to leave New York and live in his mother’s home in the Bluegrass.

  The clouds had been whirled away by a young spring wind. Below the plane the Bluegrass country began to unfurl like a bright green patchwork interlaced with black roads and white fences. It was lilac time. They were flying low and the drifts of white and purple brought back in detail to Jane’s mind the Mallory farm. Tall, time-old lilacs marched in stately columns which formed arcades and bowers in and around the acreage called the “yard.” The farm itself was appropriately called Lilac Hill.

  Jane became aware of the couple’s excitement about the landscape.

  “This country is absolute heaven!” the amber-eyed woman said to her husband.

  “You can say that again, Jeanie.”

  “What fun to be here again! I hope it’s a holiday and nothing else. Remember last time when that trainer was murdered?”*

  “Lightning never strikes twice in the same place. Didn’t you know?”

  Fun? Jane thought, the burden on her mind taking over again.

  They were flying low. Jane Mallory could single out details of the country around the Mallory place. Long strips of white cheesecloth against the green turf sheltered young tobacco plants. Some of the Mallory income came from the cigarette factories in Lexington. A collection of old stone buildings on the Kentucky River was the Lilac Hill distillery. That was another of the Mallory interests. Bourbon was the biggest source of their wealth. Bourbon had killed Dick’s father and it was killing Dick. Oh, there was Lilac Hill itself, a proud house half-circled by a creek. It looked dwarfed from the air. There to the south was the Clarke place, larger and more imposing than Lilac Hill. What about Denise Clarke? It was because of Denise that Jane had finally left Dick Mallory.

  To the left, near the town, was the old Wayne place which Sarah Wayne Mallory coveted. Somebody—a cousin—in South America had refused to sell. Sarah Mallory had been continuously angry because she couldn’t buy the place. What right had people with no money to speak of to own a treasure like Wayne House? It was falling apart from neglect. But it was a treasure to Sarah Mallory, born a Wayne and when young as poor as any of her improvident kin. Sarah Wayne Mallory had made good. She was rich. It was her own doing. Sarah’s shrewd manipulation of the Mallory properties had saved and enriched an estate which would have fallen apart if left to the Mallorys themselves. Her husband had died of drink. His elder brother, known to all as Uncle Victor, was back on Sarah Mallory’s charity after a lifetime of gambling and women. Dear, kind Uncle Victor, Jane thought gently, and was not aware that the little plane had landed until the amber-eyed woman spoke to her.

  “Are you all right?”

  Jane started. She glanced up at the good-looking couple, who were regarding her with solemn concern. The other passengers had left the plane. The hostess was waiting outside the door for them to descend.

  Jane Mallory stood up.

  “Oh, yes. Thank you.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  They nodded pleasantly and went on. Jane thanked the hostess for a pleasant flight, and walked alone down the steps and across the familiar landing field. How often she had landed here with Dick! In the early days of marriage they would be aglow with excitement and anticipation for a week or two of the gaiety which went with the racing season. Dick’s mother, Sarah Mallory, had disliked Jane from the first, but Jane was far too happy in the beginning to be much concerned. In the end Sarah had won, though—if what had been happening lately, and if death, at hand, could be called a victory.

  But what about Denise Clarke? What had happened to Sarah Mallory’s plans for Dick and Denise?

  Anyhow, don’t let him die, Jane Mallory kept thinking. It came back over and over like the spokes in a wheel. Don’t let him die.

  She walked through the gate into the terminal building and was following the couple she had noticed in the plane toward the baggage counter when a voice asked, “Aren’t you Jane Mallory?”

  It was Dick’s voice! Jane’s heart gave a jump. And when she looked up, breathless, she looked into eyes as brilliant as Dick’s, but these were green flecked with brown, not dark brown, like Dick’s. Dick Mallory’s eyes had a fierce cruel sparkle, when he chose, which he could make use of at will. These green eyes were kind. This man was taller than Dick Mallory. He was blond, with thick fair hair, good shoulders, a deep tan, and casual clothes which were certainly not expensive, as Dick’s had always been.

  He offered his hand first.

  “I’m Bart Wayne. Dick’s cousin, several times removed.”

  “Oh? You’re the one from South America?”

  “Yes. I knew you from your portrait in Dick’s room. And, first of all, I want to tell you that Dick’s much better. He took an amazing turn for the bette
r about noon.”

  “Oh.” Jane was startled. She hardly knew, suddenly, if she liked this news or didn’t. “Oh, I’m so glad!”

  “Yes. We’re all happy about it. Have you any luggage or anything?”

  Their eyes were locked, linked together in a gaze which held Jane breathless. Just what was this? She was afraid of such swift attractions. She waited, not breathing—that pounding in her chest something beyond and outside the startling good news about her husband.

  “Yes, An overnight bag,” she managed, at last.

  “I’ll get it.”

  He was back with it in a moment. By that time Jane had got her bearings. He took her arm as they walked together toward the parking area.

  “In that case I won’t be wanted at Lilac Hill,” she said.

  “But Dick will be broken-hearted if you don’t come, Jane. He’s thought of nothing else since he knew you were on your way. In fact, we think—Dr. Godwin and I—that that is why he is so much better. You mustn’t disappoint him.”

  Jane felt uncertain.

  “How is Mrs. Mallory?” She had never been able to call her mother-in-law anything but Mrs. Mallory.

  “She’s pretty well, considering. Denise is with her a lot, which helps, I think. You know Denise Clarke, don’t you, Jane?”

  “Yes,” Jane said. Her thoughts were rueful, but she kept them to herself. “All right, Bart, I’ll go to Lilac Hill. But I won’t stay in the house. I’ll see Dick and then go to a hotel, if you’ll drive me there.”

  “Of course.”

  * The Daffodil Blonde.

  2

  The fear of Dick’s imminent death having lifted, Jane Mallory enjoyed the drive to Lilac Hill. Barton Wayne was an excellent driver. Jane felt amused that Barton Wayne was the character in South America who wouldn’t sell the old Wayne House to Sarah Mallory. She had imagined some old curmudgeon. He had been home four weeks, he said, and had another month’s vacation before he had to go back to his job. He was a petroleum engineer. He had taken his job in tropical Venezuela because the money was good and he certainly needed plenty to put Wayne House back in shape. He’d do nothing about the land, he said, at this time. That must wait until the future.

  “I love that place,” he said. He laughed at his own enthusiasm. He had a quick and merry laugh which was very endearing. “I’m due for another three-year stretch in that God-forsaken jungle and then I’ll come home to stay. A good part of the Wayne farm has already been sold to Cousin Sarah, but there’s a couple of hundred acres left and I think I can make a living with horses and tobacco.” He laughed aloud again and said, “Slim pickin’s, maybe, but what the hell? I’m happy in this country.”

  “Does Mrs. Mallory still want to buy Wayne House?”

  “She’d grab it in a minute. It’s an obsession. She already owns more of this world’s goods than most people could handle, though. She’s a wonder, Jane.”

  Jane didn’t like to discuss the family with one of themselves, but she said, “It’s all somehow to no purpose, with Dick … ill, and Amelia … the way she is. Mrs. Mallory is getting on, Bart.”

  “Cousin Sarah will live to be a hundred, Jane. And she has never given up the hope that …”

  Bart left the statement unfinished. Jane added, “That Dick will marry Denise Clarke?”

  “You knew?”

  “Yes. Of course. But Dick could marry her at once if he would agree to divorcing me. That’s something I have to talk over with him again while I’m here. Poor Amelia! How is she, Bart?”

  “Same as ever. Dim.”

  “She’s not so dim as her mother pretends. She’s scared. How’s Uncle Victor?”

  “Happy as a lark with his spiders. I’ve promised to send him some tropical specimens when I get back.” Barton laughed again. “What a hobby! Did Uncle Victor ever tell you how he started to collect the things? He wanted to live in that old cabin at the back of the yard built long ago for servants. It was vacant. Cousin Sarah wouldn’t permit it because she thought people would talk. So Uncle Victor collected black widows and kept them in jars in his room. Every now and then he would let one go free around the house and that brought Cousin Sarah around. The cabin is quite a place. I’m keen on Uncle Victor. I’d never seen him till I came home this time.”

  Jane chuckled. Amiable Uncle Victor bore his utter dependence on Sarah Mallory with perfect aplomb. He never had a penny unless some kindly disposed member of the family slipped him something now and then, but he never complained. He was a tiny, elegant man and almost a legend before he had to come to Lilac Hill because he was old and broke.

  “He says he’s going to write a book about spiders,” Bart said. “He says he’ll do for the spider family what Fabre did for the ant. All power to him. He’s a great old guy, Jane.”

  “Are you related to him, Bart?”

  “No. Sarah was my father’s cousin, you know. I would be calling Uncle Victor Cousin Victor if he had been around, but nobody saw hide nor hair of him for years and years. Now everybody, even the housekeeper, calls him Uncle Victor. He sold out his part of the estate to Cousin Sarah during Prohibition. At that time there seemed to be no future in bourbon. Uncle Victor spent his life in hot spots all over the globe. He made several fortunes gambling and married a couple of rich women during his career, but he wound up broke. Now he lives in a cabin built a long time ago to house the Negroes who were the Mallory house-servants. But you must know all this? You were here a year, weren’t you?”

  Jane nodded. Bart took a turning to the left and they soon passed Wayne House. Like most of the country places in this area it stood on a lightly wooded knoll a little higher than the fields around it. It was a colonial house with roof-high massive pillars. It gleamed with a coat of fresh white paint.

  “Painted it myself,” Bart said.

  “That does wonders,” Jane said. “I remember it as an old gray thing with a cracked porch.”

  “Just you wait, Jane.”

  They traveled at a comfortable speed along a black winding road. On each side were stone walls and locust trees. Locusts come into leaf late and were only beginning to show cognizance of spring. Wild flowers grew in the grassy banks below the walls. Before they came to the lane which led to the Mallory house Jane caught the scent of lilacs.

  The Mallory house also stood on a wooded knoll. It was a Victorian house with fussy porches and bay windows. Tall white chimneys at each side of the main wing gave it a special distinction. A limestone creek wound halfway around the house. It had eroded a steep bank which was planted lavishly with tulips and narcissus. Natural wild flowers mingled with the bright-hued planted flowers and the effect was one of great loveliness.

  Lilacs made a hedge along the north end of the yard and marched behind the house so that Uncle Victor’s cabin was not visible from the front. The top branches of two rows of massive white lilac bushes formed an arcade from the side entrance of the house to the lane.

  The Mallory family always parked to use the side entrance; visitors parked in front.

  “Let’s go in by the front door, Bart, shall we? And please leave my bag in the car.”

  “You really mean to use the hotel?”

  “I do.”

  Bart circled the front drive. Jane got out before he could come around the car to hold the door for her. She walked ahead of him until he called to her to wait. “Let me go in first, Jane.” He went in advance and without ringing opened the front door.

  Sarah Wayne Mallory was sitting in the wide front hall. She wore black. Denise Clarke, in a fluffy blue cocktail dress, sat across the hall table from Sarah Mallory.

  Neither woman spoke, but Denise gave Jane a wide-eyed glance, half-rose, and then looked at Sarah Mallory and sat down again.

  “You go up with her, Bart,” Sarah said bluntly.

  “Yes, Cousin Sarah.”

  Bart touched Jane’s elbow and stepped back so that she would go ahead of him. Upstairs he said, in a low tone, “Don’t let her bother you, Jane. Cousin Sarah’s pretty upset.”

  The snub had been deliberately planned. They didn’t need to sit in the front hall.

  “She sent me the telegram,” Jane said. “It was Mrs. Mallory who asked me to come, Bart.”