‘Then you’re telling me you had an open marriage?’
‘Not quite. His end was open, my end was secret. He didn’t know what I was doing, but I did and that was enough to satisfy my getting even.’
Lyon didn’t care to dwell on the morality of this relationship, but it would be worth noting in his summation to Rocco. On an end table to his right was a group photograph in a gold frame. It caught his eye and he picked it up. It was a photograph of two dozen men sitting on low bleachers. They were young men wearing shiny helmet liners and starched army fatigues. All the field jackets had a First Cavalry patch on the shoulder.
‘Is this a picture of Eddy’s army unit?’ Lyon asked.
‘First mobile air assholes,’ she answered. ‘It gave them a good excuse to have a monthly reunion at the Murphysville VFW club and all get falling-down drunk. It gave Eddy a sales pitch to every Viet Nam vet in town.’ She began to imitate her husband’s sing-song sales pitch. ‘As a fellow grunt from Nam, would I cheat you? No sirree bob. A pittance every week and I’ll put you in traffic.’ She finished with a short bitter laugh. ‘Almost as bad as my handy man’s special, a house pitch for a falling-down shack.’
‘Do you know where his gun is?’
‘I made him keep it at the lot. It’s probably somewhere in that hole he calls an office.’
‘It’s not.’
She shrugged. ‘Who knows? Maybe he threw it in on a truck deal.’
If it were here the forensic team will find it, Lyon thought as he looked back at the photograph of serious young soldiers. A third of the men in the picture were dead six months after it was taken. The picture might or might not be significant, since the army’s method of individual replacements meant that thousands of men were rotated through the First Cavalry Division.
The case was probably over. Eddy had an affair with Boots Anderson. They argued and he shot her. He probably disposed of the weapon by chucking it in the river. Girl’s father kills Eddy and it’s all over. Maybe.
Five
‘It’s too early,’ the mild voice behind him said.
The shot glass clattered into the bar sink where its contents seeped through the drain. Although he had served in two wars—including three Viet Nam tours—was a holder of a bronze star, a purple heart, and a combat infantryman badge, Sarge Renfroe was frightened by Rocco Herbert.
‘What’s your night action these days?’ Rocco asked.
‘Yuppie singles,’ the former master-sergeant replied. It had been Sarge’s initial intention to open a sports bar catering to serious drinkers. That had worked for a time until the local fiberboard factory closed. The dip in the working man’s crowd had been replaced when the bar was discovered by the gay group. After three months the gays had disappeared as mysteriously as they had arrived.
Topless was next. Once again business boomed until complaints forced Rocco to declare an edict. ‘Booze or boobs’ had been the police chief’s choice. Sarge would not be allowed to retain his liquor license if drinks were served by naked women. To Sarge this was no choice. Boobs went.
Lyon entered the dimly lit bar. Before his eyes adjusted to the darkness he asked, ‘Is Rocco here?’
‘How could you miss him?’ Sarge pouted as he poured the children’s writer some coffee.
‘Skee’s alibi checks out,’ Rocco said as Lyon slid on to the adjoining stool. ‘I called the college and an administrator checked the attendance sheets. He was in class when Boots was killed.’
‘Then he’s off the hook?’
‘He was never on very firmly, but now he’s completely out of the line of investigation. Thanks for the report on Mildred Rashish. I don’t often get interviews with lines such as, “the demeanor of the widow verged on nonchalance as she obliquely hinted at certain intimate assignations.” That’s got a nice ring to it. Jamie Martin would have written “the broad didn’t give a damn. She was playing around.”’
‘There’s something to be said for short declarative sentences,’ Lyon said. ‘What’s your thinking at this point?’
‘That Eddy would have made a deal with Boots. He lived for negotiations and bartering. He would have taken perverse enjoyment in making a deal with Boots and her threats, if she made any. As a trained infantryman he would not have shot her in the belly. He would have gone for a head or upper-chest wound.’
‘Based on my report, what about his wife, Mildred?’
‘A possible,’ Rocco said. ‘Suppose she has a serious lover and wants to get rid of Eddy? What better way than to wait until Eddy and Boots play house in their wooded glen. When Eddy leaves, Mildred or her lover kill the girl. Lister finds out, as they knew he would, and takes revenge.’
‘I think you’re reaching. How would she know Lister would blow Eddy away?’
‘Maybe that was icing on the cake since it allows her to collect two hundred and fifty grand on a term policy we turned up.’
‘Oh, boy. That’s a tasty school of fish for the Shark of Murphysville.’
‘Isn’t it? Now, the next question is, who is Mildred playing musical beds with?’
‘That might be interesting to know,’ Lyon admitted.
The phone calls started.
The first and most disturbing message was from Arnold Torant, the house majority leader. Arnold always spoke in a breathless manner that gave the most mundane announcement a slightly conspiratorial tilt. Today’s call to Nutmeg Hill was hardly ordinary.
‘You’ve got to watch your flanks, Bea,’ Arnold said. ‘There’s bad guys coming around the corner to box you in.’
‘Where are they coming from, Arnold?’ she was forced to ask, although she suspected and feared the answer.
‘I don’t know exactly. The pressure’s coming not only from right field as you’d expect, but seems to be coming from the whole damn infield. There’s no question that somebody highly placed is orchestrating an elaborate plan. If I didn’t know you two were really tight, I’d think it was a squeeze from the governor.’
‘Exactly what do they want?’
‘Your head. They start by demanding a party caucus to oust you as senate majority leader. After that they want to attack your committee assignments, particularly your chair of the social services committee.’
The most important nut of all, Bea thought. ‘Do you think I have any real concerns, Arnold, or is this all a lot of noise?’
‘Beatrice, I don’t know how to say this politely other than that you are hip-deep in the barnyard sludge. I still don’t know who’s masterminding this ploy, but whatever group it is has enough power to bring it off. They just might get you.’
‘I really appreciate your warning, Arnold.’
There was a significant hesitation in the politician’s voice before he answered. ‘If there’s anything I can do …’ The connection was broken and it was apparent to Bea that friendly Arnold was wondering if it wasn’t time to ignore their past relationship and cut his losses.
Bea walked slowly through the house. She did not underestimate the power of the governor. Margaret was a very savvy political lady who had learned a lot of tricks over the years. She also had a lot of favors to call in. Her position at the top of the state’s masthead gave her terrific leverage through patronage and veto power. What was surprising was the depth of her anger. It seemed apparent that a good part of this vehemence was displacement over unresolved grief at her husband’s death and the sordid way he had died.
Bea’s defense was difficult since Margaret wanted it to be her on Bill Tallman’s last ride. If Bea and Bill had been lovers, then at least the man died with a little style. The truth that a red-headed whore named Ashley was the congressman’s last partner diminished him.
She was in a deep impasse with very steep walls. She had always known that any political career can end abruptly. She could come to terms with a negative vote by her constituents, but a finish orchestrated by this type of political skulduggery was devastating.
Lyon felt like a participant in a critical
interview for an important job. His interrogation for a tenure tracked teaching position at Middleburg College had been mild compared to this lady’s intensity.
He had arrived only a few minutes earlier after parking his car next to a mailbox neatly labeled R. DIRK. The boy had opened the front door and pointed to a straight chair with a needlepoint seat in the small but immaculate living room.
They triangulated the space. Lyon at one side of the sofa, Rebba Dirk in a similar chair on the other, with the ten-year-old boy centered on the couch as the focal point. Edward Dirk was a boy of slight build with blond-white hair and deep blue eyes that seemed capable of looking for long periods without blinking.
His mother, Rebba, wore an austere business suit, her hair pulled back in a severe bun, and only a trace of lipstick with no other make-up. Her knees were pressed tightly together while the rigidity of her posture broadcast mild tension.
‘Mr. Dirk was a firm man of strong character,’ she announced to Lyon. ‘I have attempted to raise Edward in the same upright manner.’
‘You seem to have done an excellent job,’ Lyon said with a smile at the young boy. His look was met by an impassive stare that transmitted a hint of arrogance. He was a little surprised that the boy had automatically occupied the center of the couch, which forced Lyon and his mother to take the less comfortable side chairs.
‘Mr. Dirk was run over by a fire truck two years ago,’ the widow announced. ‘Obviously it was an unexpected departure. There was an out-of-court settlement, but you know how things are. They take advantage of the little people. They tried to claim that Mr. Dirk was inebriated at the time of the accident. I took the stand and swore under oath that my husband had never been known to drink hard liquor.’
Lyon nodded, although he knew—as many people in town did—that slightly over two years ago Dirk Senior had taken to drink with a zest. He was a high-school math teacher who was usually halfway to squiffdom by first period in the morning. Dirk’s day was punctuated by periodic sips from a Thermos of orange juice, which perpetually sat on the edge of his desk. He claimed that the juice was necessary for a throat condition, although no mention was made of its vodka base. The school administration and Board of Education attempted to fire the teacher, but the teachers’ union prevailed.
The collision between Mr. Dirk and the fire engine occurred shortly after school was dismissed for the day. Dirk Senior was proceeding on his walk home with his empty jug of orange juice. The volunteer fire department claimed that their truck had its siren blasting at the time the teacher had stepped directly into their path. Some felt it was an almost deliberate action. Lyon ignored fact and legend. If myth were needed for the sake of the young, so be it.
Rebba smiled at her son and gave his leg a pat. The boy ignored her and continued to stare impassively at Lyon. ‘I believe that at this stage of his life Edward needs a male role model. The Big Buddy program seems to offer him that possibility.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Lyon said. ‘I’ve tried to put together a program that will be physically active and mentally stimulating.’
‘Edward is very intellectual,’ Rebba said hastily. ‘He is a bright boy who tests in the very top percentile of his age group. Because of that he is very bored in school since the work is far beneath his abilities.’
‘I am not a dork,’ were the boy’s first words. He began a wispy asthmatic wheezing that increased until his shoulders shook. Rebba looked alarmed. She hurried from the room and quickly returned carrying a small white inhaler. Edward snatched it to suck greedily on the mouthpiece until his wheezing subsided. He dropped the device on the floor for his mother to retrieve.
‘What did you have in mind for your first activity?’ Rebba asked with an intensity that bordered on that of a she-fox protecting her lair.
‘The eagles have begun to return to the river,’ Lyon answered. ‘Yesterday I saw one fly by my window. I thought it might be fun to go into the state forest for an eagle watch. Afterwards we can stop by my place for sherbet.’
‘That sounds delightful,’ Rebba Dirk said.
‘I think it sounds like I’m going to get bird do-do dropped on my head,’ the boy said.
‘Oh, Edward, stop that,’ Rebba said with lyrical good nature.
Lyon wondered if you should continue as a Big Buddy to a kid you were beginning to actively dislike. He chided himself for the thought. That was why he was here, to make a difference to the boy.
‘I’ll go with you on the first outing until Edward gets used to you,’ Rebba continued.
Lyon did not think the Buddy program contemplated family affairs, but the first time wouldn’t be disastrous. ‘Shall we go? I have binoculars in my car.’
They had driven halfway to the state forest when Lyon realized with a start that this location was a recent murder scene. He knew the police and lab people were finished, but he would make it a point to stay far from the crime-scene tape. There was no sense in introducing this rather odd boy to such bizarre circumstances.
Lyon and Edward sat in the front while Rebba assumed a formal pose in the exact center of the rear seat. ‘A few years ago my wife and I took a trip on the Amazon River to bird watch,’ Lyon said. ‘Do you know where that is?’
‘I thought school was over for the day,’ the boy answered without looking at Lyon.
‘Oh, boy,’ Lyon muttered under his breath.
‘Now stop that,’ Rebba said with a gentle tap on the boy’s shoulder. ‘I want you to be super polite to Mr. Wentworth.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I asked you to,’ his mother replied without missing a beat.
‘I don’t want to watch any stupid birds. Those woods scare me.’
‘Scare you?’ Lyon glanced at the young boy by his side. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Dorks hide there and pop out at you.’
‘Oh? Exactly what are dorks?’ Lyon asked. He had a subliminal feeling concerning this boy, the recent murder, and the woods. He was about to pursue the thought when the mother’s strong reply shattered the flimsy premise.
‘He means child molesters, Mr. Wentworth. I have always warned Edward about men who entice young boys into the woods to do nasty things to them.’
‘They like to feel you up,’ the boy added.
‘Edward!’ Rebba reacted.
‘Nix on the woods and screw the birds,’ the boy said.
‘Of course, dear,’ Rebba said. ‘We won’t make you go into the scary woods if you don’t want to, will we, Mr. Wentworth?’
Actually, Lyon had had every intention of continuing on to the state forest, but her determined remarks from the rear seat discouraged the possibility. ‘We can go on to my place and have our sherbet,’ he said.
‘Oh, goody, goody,’ the boy said. ‘Wow! Real ice cream sherbet.’
Lyon turned the Saturn into Nutmeg Hill’s drive that wound its way up to the promontory. He idly wondered if a fall from a moving car would kill the kid.
‘What a lovely place you have, Mr. Wentworth,’ Rebba said. ‘I’d heard a lot about it, and a few years ago I took the Garden Club tour when Beatrice had the house open to the public.’
‘I think that one day it’s going to fall off the cliff into the river,’ added the architectural critic in the front seat.
A few minutes later they stood on the patio by the parapet and looked out over the river valley. Lyon wondered if a fall from the cliff might do the trick. An eagle flew in the distance. They didn’t have to go to the state forest after all.
‘You have a good life here. You must be a contented man, Lyon.’
‘Yes, I am,’ Lyon replied and wondered why she had suddenly switched to a first-name basis. He turned to point out the eagle to Edward. The boy had disappeared. ‘Where is he?’
‘Oh, he’s just playing a game with us. Didn’t you ever play hide-and-seek when you were young?’
Lyon’s smile was tempered by the thought of a dozen insidious possible mischiefs the boy might be perpetrating.
‘I’ll take a look,’ he said and bolted from the patio.
He found Edward Dirk sitting at the computer console in his study. The boy had managed to switch the machine on and boot it up. He was banging on the mouse to flit from icon to icon.
‘Sherbet time,’ Lyon said.
‘Werbet time,’ the boy answered with a double wham on the mouse.
Lyon contemplated rewiring the computer mouse for an electrocution. The kid was small enough so that it probably wouldn’t take a great many volts.
They sat in the breakfast nook with bowls of peach sherbet. Edward consumed his with great appetite while his mother smiled across the table at Lyon. ‘The three of us together like this are just like a family,’ she said.
Lyon coughed.
‘Yuk,’ Edward responded.
‘Edward is really a very good boy,’ Rebba said hastily. ‘He knows that I work very hard at the Nutmeg Insurance Company and he tries to do his part by delivering papers.’
‘I’d make out better in an orphan asylum,’ the boy said as he handed Lyon his empty bowl for a refill.
‘See you later, alligator,’ Lyon called after them as he delivered Rebba and Edward back to their small ranch home. He knew it was silly, but often kids liked that sort of stuff. He expected a return of ‘after a while, crocodile.’ Instead, the kid flipped him a finger.
Rebba Dirk fumbled in her purse for the door key. Lyon was not sure if she saw the finger or chose to ignore it. Either way, the gesture created the final decision concerning his mentorship of Edward Dirk. There was no way he could continue to be a Big Buddy for this child. He made the phone call as soon as he arrived back at Nutmeg Hill.
‘Big Buddy,’ Ed Larsen, the organization officer, said when he answered their Middleburg telephone.
‘This is Lyon Wentworth and I quit.’
‘You have the Dirk kid, don’t you?’
‘How did you guess?’
‘Sweet, isn’t he?’
Death in the Secret Garden Page 6
