If she didn’t know Claude well enough to respect his stage directions and has apparently never seen the inside of the building, what is she doing here?
Mrs. A distracts me by taking my hand in both of hers and giving it a squeeze. “So glad you’re here,” she whispers, offering her powder-soft cheek for a kiss.
At first glance, she and my grandmother are an unlikely duo. Grandma Lainey favors bold prints and telling people exactly what she thinks, while Mrs. A is fond of monochrome separates she occasionally jazzes up with needlepoint and takes a gentler view of humanity. Claude used to call them the iron fist and the velvet glove, respectively, which I think they both liked.
Today Mrs. A is decked out in head-to-toe raspberry, a shade that pops against Mr. Namura’s emerald-green jumpsuit and the floor-length orange gown worn by Malia, the musician of the group. Felix’s grandpa has on a shirt the approximate color of a rising sun. They are doing Claude proud.
Even the man standing at the front of the room has livened up his seersucker suit with a vivid scarlet bow tie. He looks younger than the Castle Claude crew, but still old enough to have mostly gray hair and a neat matching beard.
“Who’s that?” I ask Grandma Lainey as she slips into the chair between me and Mrs. A.
“Mervyn. Our lawyer.” She smiles encouragingly at him and he blushes, shuffling the index cards he’s clutching with both hands.
“Good afternoon.” He waits for the scattered chorus of “Good afternoon, Mervyn” to die down. “It appears we’re allhere.” Glancing up from his notes, he double-checks the audience, blinking rapidly behind the round gold frames of his glasses. “Dearly beloved— Sorry. I should clarify that these are Claude’s words. He left a script.”
That sparks a few laughs. “Of course he did,” Grandma Lainey says, shaking her head.
“That’s our Claude.” Mrs. A smiles, unaware of the dark look the woman in black is shooting at her.
“Welcome to my grand finale,” Mervyn reads. “The Mystery of Claude’s Last Will and Testament.” There’s a pause, like he’s waiting for something to happen, before he digs out his phone. We all politely look away as he frowns at the screen, swiping one direction and then the other. Finally, a faint noise emanates from the speakers. Mervyn frantically presses the volume button until we can make out the sound of thunder.
“Even Claude can’t direct the weather,” Felix’s grandfather says.
“Unless he’s picked up some new tricks,” Grandma Lainey quips.
There is an audible huff from the woman in black.
“If you received an invitation to today’s festivities,” Mervyn continues, sliding a quick look at the table full of presents, “it means I’ve left you a bequest, as a token of my affection. And now, without further ado.” He stops cold.
“Was that a cue?” Malia asks.
“It says ‘dramatic pause,’” Mervyn explains, pointing at his notecard.
My grandmother twirls a hand at him. “In that case, carry on.”
Mervyn’s lips move like he’s counting in his head. We passdramatic and are closing in on excruciating before he speaks again. “Only kidding! You know I love a good ado.”
A polite round of applause follows, driven at least partly by relief.
“If I could have chosen how to go out,” the lawyer continues with more confidence, “I would have opted for a theatrical ending. Shipwreck. Tightrope accident. Gored by a bull in Pamplona.”
“For heaven’s sake,” the woman in black hisses. I can tell Mervyn’s feelings are hurt.
“Alas,” he continues, putting some real emotion into it. “We all know who the culprit was in my untimely end. Dun dun dun.”
Mr. Namura raises his hand. “Needs to be bigger.”
“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.” Settingdown 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.
