A Child's Garden of Death

by Forrest, Richard;

  In the instant before the forks penetrated the glass of the control booth, Graves raised his arms protectively and screamed. As the lift ground to a halt against the supporting structure of the booth, Lyon threw the lever, lowering the forks.

  The crushed man in the booth’s interior screamed and continued screaming as Lyon laid his head over the steering wheel and closed his eyes. The screaming changed in pitch until words were audible.

  “Myself,” Graves yelled. “I’ll run the whole thing myself. I don’t need anyone … don’t need anyone …”

  Lyon crawled from the fork lift and fell to the floor, where his hands ground painfully into glass shards from the booth’s shattered windows. He pulled himself over the edge of the booth toward the incoherent man. The forks of the lift had lowered across Graves’ legs and hips, crushing bone and cartilage.

  Black waves poured across Lyon’s eyes as he crawled toward the stricken man. Graves turned toward him, his eyes wide and glazed with shock.

  “The little girl,” Lyon said. “The little girl, what about her?” He bent his head close to the moving lips.

  Distant voices were yelling, and then large gentle hands were on his back.

  “WE OUGHT TO RESERVE THIS ROOM ON A PERMANENT BASIS,” Bea yelled and wilted into a nearby chair. Her concern had turned to exhaustion, and Kimberly stood by her side and ran a reassuring hand over Bea’s forehead, while Lyon wondered if perhaps the wrong person wasn’t in the hospital bed.

  “For a man who lives a quiet life, you sure get around,” Kim said. “I’d hate to be with you when you come out of seclusion.”

  “How about the Moose and the Murderer?” Lyon tried to grin, but it hurt too much.

  “No, more like the Iguana and the Idiot,” Bea said bleakly and managed a half-smile.

  Lyon wrinkled his nose and tried to scratch it with his rebandaged hands, but could only manage a few passing sweeps. He wondered guiltily if the hospital would charge him for two days—one for his earlier stay and unauthorized departure, and now for his recent re-entry. Since they had had to bandage him twice, he supposed it would be for the two days.

  “Is it over?” Bea asked weakly.

  “Almost,” Lyon replied. “We’ll know soon, although I’d rather he didn’t die.”

  The door slammed against the wall as Rocco limped in laughing and carrying two magnums of champagne.

  “What in hell’s so funny? How’s Graves?” Lyon asked.

  “They’re still trying to put him back together. Pat’s with him and will let us know as soon as they can tell if he’ll make it.”

  “And that’s funny?” Bea asked.

  “No, no,” Rocco said as he popped a cork and began to pour. “I just got word that Helen Houston’s been busted for impairing the morals of a dozen sailors.”

  “THAT’S SEXIST,” Bea said indignantly.

  “Not in Helen’s case. Seems that the train of sailors weren’t all drawn by the beauty of an older woman. She was paying them.”

  “Can they do anything to her?” Kim asked.

  “I don’t know,” Rocco chortled. “They’ll probably declare her off limits to the Atlantic Fleet.”

  Kim held a paper cup of champagne and stared abstractly into the bubbles rising to the top. “I don’t understand all this,” she said. “Then Houston did kill the Meyerson family?”

  “No,” Lyon replied.

  “Then it was Bull Martin after all?” Kim asked.

  “Wrong again,” Lyon said.

  “Do I get eighteen more guesses or are you going to tell me?”

  Bea began to look interested, “ALL RIGHT, YOU GUYS,” she said. “You’ve dropped one shoe and told us part of it, now let’s hear the whole thing.”

  Pat Pasquale came into the room and with bird-dog precision made for the champagne. Rocco poured him a cup which he immediately drank. “He’s busted up, but going to make it,” he said. “You did one hell of a job on him, Lyon, but Graves has come through shock and the rest will be uphill.”

  Lyon lay back on the pillow with a sigh. “Thank God for that.”

  “Christ, Pat, you should have seen it,” Rocco said. “The Black Knight here, mounted on his fork lift, was jousting with half the machinery in that Goddamn place.” He turned to Lyon. “You know, old buddy, you could have waited. We were practically right behind you.”

  “The bastard made me mad as hell,” Lyon said.

  “Well, anyway,” Pat continued, “for the last hour Graves has been babbling like a brook. Half of it’s incoherent, part of it’s a lot of ranting and raving about starting an automated plant in Brazil, and part of it’s begging the Great God of machinery to forgive him for screwing up and knocking off a lot of people.”

  “Do you have enough for an indictment?” Rocco asked.

  “We’ve already charged him with the attempted murder of Wentworth. He’s babbled on about Houston and the Meyersons. An indictment?” He shrugged.

  Bea rose in an open state of indignation. “What in hell do you mean indictment question mark?” Her face was flushed with anger. “He did it, didn’t he?”

  “Of course he did,” Rocco said.

  “That’s right,” Pat continued. “You know he did it, I know he did it, half the personnel in this hospital knows he did—but he’s talking under medication, without benefit of counsel. I doubt that I can use a word he’s told us against him.”

  “That’s crazy,” Kim snorted.

  “I thought you were the queen of the Civil Rights movement, kid?” Rocco said.

  “What do you mean?” Kim asked.

  “It works both ways,” Rocco replied.

  “You must have enough for murder one on the Houston killing,” Lyon said. “We outlined everything for you.”

  “Sure,” Pat said and poured more champagne. “Almost enough, if you guys can figure how in hell he got out of that damn room.”

  “Will somebody tell me what’s going on here?” Bea said.

  Lyon lay back in the bed and closed his eyes momentarily, the terror and fear of the factory beginning to dissipate.

  “The key, Wentworth,” the little detective said. “Give me a plausible answer on that one and I’ve got enough for murder one, even without his confession.”

  “We overly complicated the whole thing,” Lyon said. “It couldn’t have been simpler.”

  “Would you mind, Lyon? Since I’ve spent half my recent life chasing after you and standing over hospital beds, will you please tell me what’s going on?” Bea said.

  “Let’s start with the Meyersons,” Lyon said.

  “That’s just fine,” his wife replied.

  “Back in 1943 Meyerson and Bull Martin were the only foremen Houston had,” Lyon said. “At a crucial point in the life of the business a batch of engines ready for shipment are discovered to be defective. Now, who knows about this and what happens to them? Coop, the government inspector, knows, and of course notifies Houston. Coop told me that Graves was working with him during the testing process. Graves knows, as do the two foremen, Martin and Meyerson. Bull’s no problem and is bought off cheaply. Coop succumbs to the good life and that takes care of him. Graves sees a hell of a lot to his advantage in the situation and rides along on the promises of future gains made by Houston. Meyerson’s the problem—so much so that Bull Martin physically has it out with him on the factory floor.”

  “Then Bull did kill the family?” Bea said.

  “No. But Bull thought he had, or at least thought he’d killed Meyerson. Bull was smashed out of his mind, drunk as a lord when he went over to the trailer that night. He did beat Meyerson senseless and then collapsed himself. Graves is right behind him and sees a golden opportunity to become senior man in the factory in one swoop; Graves kills Meyerson and his wife with the stove ring and disposes of the bodies. The next morning when Bull wakes up he tells Bull that he did it—and then he, Graves, pretends he’s covering for Bull.”

  “Which explains why Bull almost immediately
joined the Army,” Rocco said.

  “Exactly,” Lyon continued. “As far as he was concerned, he thought he was a murderer, and it didn’t take too much prodding from Graves to get him to leave.”

  “Helped along by a few dollars pay-off money from Houston,” Bea said.

  “You’ve got it, honey,” Lyon said. “Houston accepts the story, probably because he wanted to, that Bull’s threat drove Meyerson out of town.”

  “The little girl,” Bea said. “What about the little girl?”

  “That was an accidental necessity. She was hiding in the trailer under the bed, clutching her Sonja Henie doll, and Graves didn’t discover her until he got the trailer out to the lake.”

  “Then he had to kill her,” Rocco said.

  “Had to?” Lyon mused. “I suppose he thought he had to—and did, which explains why she still had the doll in her hands in the grave.”

  “How horrible,” Bea said.

  “When we come on the case,” Rocco said, “Graves tips off Bull that we’re closing in on him. Bull, thinking he was the killer, comes after the two of us.”

  “And I conveniently removed him,” Lyon said.

  “But why, Lyon? Killing three people to get a promotion to foreman doesn’t make much sense,” Bea said.

  “More than foreman. Look at Graves’ situation. Meyerson and Bull are out of the way, he’s in bed with Houston as a most loyal employee, and, in addition, the guy has a real thing about the factory. As far as I can calculate quickly, over the years he benefited monetarily to the extent of some three million dollars.”

  “Three million?” Pat said incredulously.

  “Sure. He drew an average salary of $80,000 per year, plus stock options which were very lucrative while they were growing … and eventually he did become president of the company. Compare that to what would have happened if Meyerson had blown the whole story of the defective parts.”

  “That’s fine and dandy,” Pat said. “Murphysville has neatly solved its thirty-year-old crime, but that still leaves me with a three-day-old murder.”

  “Wait a minute,” Lyon said. “Let me finish.”

  “Please do,” the little detective said sarcastically.

  “After we traced the bodies and I returned from Florida with the affidavit, Houston began to put the whole thing together. He was a bastard in many ways, unscrupulous, tough, closed his eyes to a lot; but it was obvious to him that only Graves could have killed the Meyerson family. After all, he knew one thing we didn’t.”

  “What’s that?” Bea asked.

  “He knew that he hadn’t done it. At that point he decided to cover his flank and get Graves the hell out of the company.”

  “I’m with you so far,” Pat said. “He calls Graves in and informs him that he’s getting his walking papers.”

  “Right,” Lyon said. “And that night Graves prepares the recording. He knew the foremen’s meeting was scheduled the next morning, and he knew that Houston kept a gun in his desk.”

  “Exactly as we duplicated it,” Rocco said. “Graves goes in the room, shoots Houston with the silencer, puts the gun down after pressing prints on it, and turns on the recorder, with the suicide shot timed perfectly.”

  “Helen Houston’s going into the office that morning was icing on the cake for Graves,” Lyon said.

  “Goddamn it, the key!” Pat said. “We’re right back to where we were the other night at your house.”

  “No,” Lyon said quietly. “Graves used Houston’s key.”

  “I found it on the body myself,” Pat said.

  “Of course you did,” Lyon said. “Graves shoots him, turns the recorder on and takes the key. He locks the door with the automatic switch, but then lets himself out through the board room with the key, locking the door behind him.”

  “Wait a minute, just one minute.” Pat was on his feet pacing the floor excitedly. “The men at the meeting hear the shot and break the door in … once inside it’s a milling mass of people … Graves puts the key back in Houston’s pocket.”

  “And turns the recorder microphone to record,” Rocco said.

  “What could be simpler,” Lyon said.

  She stood at the foot of the steps at Nutmeg Hill, her eyes wide, small back straight. Lyon went down the few steps toward her as almond eyes followed closely. He took the little Korean girl in his arms and carried her into the house where the Wobblies were.

  The ghosts of Lyon Wentworth, one with hair of gold, the other dark, finished their tea party by the weather vane on top of the barn and began to disappear forever.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Lyon and Bea Wentworth Mysteries

  1

  Gerbils and gophers … Yes, The Gopher on the Green might work.

  A political rally had replaced long-ago musters of militia on the town green as Lyon Wentworth sat on a warm car fender and wondered if The Gopher on the Green would be a workable title for his next children’s book. He let his mind wander and paid scant attention to the speaker’s platform near the Civil War monument.

  He frowned as a red balloon began a rapid ascent toward the clear July sky.

  He pushed himself off the fender and took three steps to reach its trailing string before realizing it was too late. It was at treetop level when its three-year-old owner discovered her loss. A small cry of anguish merged into the drone from the platform.

  He knelt on one knee beside the small girl, and together they watched the helium-filled balloon disappear over the church steeple.

  “It’s gone where happy balloons go,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “To Emerald City to stay with the Wizard of Oz, of course.”

  “Oh.” She looked at him with wide brown eyes until a tentative smile emerged. She looked up for the last time at the departed balloon, waved, and ran across the grass toward her mother.

  Lyon turned to look beyond the rows of people sitting on blankets and folding chairs before the temporary platform to see that his wife was now speaking from the podium.

  Bea Wentworth, her figure trim and well proportioned, spoke with an energy that seemed to possess her slight body. Occasionally, as if to emphasize a point, her hand would ruffle the edge of her closely cropped hair.

  “… a fine lawyer, a dedicated family man, the next nominee of our party and the next governor of our state, Randolph Llewyn!”

  As she concluded, her voice rose and reverberated from the several amplifiers placed around the Murphysville Town Green. Bea turned quickly from the podium as the angular man seated at her side rose and shook hands.

  Randolph Llewyn raised both arms over his head in acknowledgment of the rising applause—and fell dead as a rifle cracked twice.

  A gasp issued from the crowd. At the corner of the green Lyon instinctively crouched by a car fender. On the speaker’s platform the frozen tableau began to react in short, jerky motions. Bea knelt next to the fallen candidate, while the others flung themselves behind the scant protection of folding chairs. Rocco Herbert, the town’s chief of police, was on one knee in front of the platform, his left hand steadying the right as he aimed a Magnum revolver.

  The large police officer spaced carefully aimed shots at two-second intervals. The thunder of the powerful handgun was picked up by the stage microphone and echoed across the confused green.

  Lyon visually followed the chief’s 60-degree angle of aim and saw wood splintering around the edges of a small belfry window two-thirds of the way up the church steeple.

  Two more and the gun would be empty.

  Lyon sprinted toward the nearby squad car and fumbled over the visor for the ignition keys he knew the chief kept there. He had the car moving as Rocco Herbert loped across the grass toward him. Reaching across the seat, Lyon opened the far car door and Rocco flung himself inside. The car accelerated as the chief spilled spent shells over his lap and frantically began to reload the weapon.

  “Back of the goddamned church!” Rocco yelled.

&nb
sp; Lyon careened the car across the lawn of Amsten House (built 1732) next to the Congregational Church, jumped the curb of the church drive and skidded into the parking lot. Thirty yards away a trail bike, its marker plate obscured by mud, was weaving back and forth between the ancient gravestones of the colonial cemetery at the rear of the church.

  “The lane!” Rocco yelled.

  “What lane?”

  “To the right, damn it!”

  Lyon swerved the wheel, throwing the car into a skidding turn inches from the cemetery’s wrought-iron fence, and turned toward the right, where a small lane ran along the sides of the graves. The motorcyclist had to weave around the headstones, which allowed the car to close the gap. The two vehicles were almost parallel when the trail bike took a tangent toward an open iron gate and sped through onto the rear meadow.

  A barbed-wire fence blocked the end of the lane, and Lyon took his foot off the accelerator and frantically braked the rocking car. Rocco’s size 14-D shoe knocked Lyon’s foot off the brake and then slammed down on the gas. The car jumped ahead and smashed through the fence. A twanging piece of wire snapped through the open window and tore a small gash along Lyon’s arm as Rocco leaned out the other window and tried to aim the revolver as the car jounced over the pasture.

  As they raced along the incline of the meadow, a few cud-chewing cows looked at the two speeding vehicles with complete uninterest. Small scrub pines snapped against the car as it labored along the path of the trail bike. The angle of the hill increased; glacial boulders strewn over the path before them narrowed possible clearance for the car.

  Rocco fired a wild shot from the swaying vehicle and then yelled at Lyon, “The boulders ahead, we’ll never—”

  The car attempted passage between two large rock formations; metal tore, and strange grinding noises came from the undercarriage as Lyon tried to brake to a halt. The car stopped with a jolt that threw both men against the dashboard.

  “—make it,” Rocco said tiredly as he held a handkerchief against his bleeding nose. Both men were quiet as the whine of the trail bike retreated into the distance.