Death at King Arthur's Court

by Forrest, Richard;

  ‘Negative on both counts.’

  ‘Also, who delivered the note the Brotherhood of Beelzebub sent to you? The one where they assumed responsibility for Morgan’s killing.’

  ‘The dispatcher thinks it was a kid who slid the envelope through the reception window. She was on a unit dispatch at the time, but she vaguely recalls thinking that it was the paper boy handing in his bill. Based on that, we assume it was a boy under high-school age. Because of his size, we suspect he’s in the middle school. I got the word out to Joe Shattick, the principal over there, and he’s talking to the teachers. So, we’ll see what they turn up.’

  ‘Have you been in contact with university security as to who might have ransacked Morgan’s office?’

  ‘Affirmative and there’s nothing hard there either. Half the university had a key to that room and a four-year-old could have broken into it with an expired credit card. Since some incriminating files on Ernest and Garth are both missing, we can make an assumption that narrows it down a bit.’

  ‘I thought Morgan’s dossier was on Garth?’

  ‘It depends on who you talk to.’ Rocco flipped a small pad out of his breast pocket and flipped through half a dozen pages. ‘The faculty seems to break into two distinct camps on this question. One group says Ernest tried to make it with every adult female within a five-mile radius and was now lowering his age requirements. When I start talking pedophilia, a second group points out to me that the word does not denote gender, only children. Some of this contingent leans toward Garth lusting after younger boys now that he’s aging, but no one seems to have any firm knowledge either way. It’s very difficult interviewing a bunch of academics, Lyon. Those who say they are the politically correct group vote for Ernest as villain. Near as I can figure, female sexual harassment is the crime this year. Like I said, it’s very tiring work.’

  ‘What about Clay’s situation?’

  ‘Norbie is still in touch with the state’s attorney over that. I don’t know if they’re going for a murder warrant or not, but for the moment he’s definitely their numero uno suspect, along with unknown terrorists, followed by a certain children’s book writer.’

  It would be a long shot of nearly four hundred yards, but the shooter had made difficult hits like that before. The one that took out Miss Big Boobs, the exotic dancer, was only slightly less than that distance, and that target was far smaller. The top of a woman’s head at 400 meters is one hell of a small target area.

  Bea Wentworth was clearly outlined against the stone facade of the house’s parapet as she worked in her garden. She wore shorts, a loose peasant blouse scooped deep at the neck, and that same floppy hat that cast part of her face in shadows. Occasionally she stooped or kneeled to work things into the soil. When she stood, she unconsciously brushed clods of dirt from her knees.

  The best time to make the shot would be when she was in a kneeling position. At that time she would be without any forward momentum and nearly motionless. She would be in a direct line in front of the rifle and clearly outlined in the sight. The trees were motionless, and the clouds hung in the sky as if suspended there by the gods. There would be no necessity to adjust for wind on this perfectly still day. The light was still good and would remain so for at least half an hour.

  The mall hit would have been entertainingly different, but that opportunity was past. It was often best to rely on the old standards, for in the long run they were the most reliable.

  The marksman assumed a prone position between a small boulder and a large pine. The rifle rested on a low stump, with the sling intertwined along the arm for further support.

  Take time. Take careful aim. One carefully placed shot in a vital area. Easy. Breathe in and out with slow regularity and then carefully squeeze it off.

  Bea Wentworth walked along the rear of the house thinking about Garth’s Japanese garden with its intricate planning and tiny but perfectly formed bonsai trees. All of his shrubs, walks and ponds were sculptured into an artificial nature.

  They made her plantings seem careless and haphazard. It was like comparing oriental art to a Grandma Moses primitive.

  Still, she loved her mountain laurel, which bloomed early, with lovely flowers that hung from its top branches like miniature clouds. The primrose was also out. Tiers of rosettes of large lime-green leaves and small flowers surrounding the stem had a natural uninhibited beauty that she adored.

  The other flowers would bloom in progression. She hoped that this year she finally had gotten it phased so that the blooming would continue through the spring, into the summer and deep into fall and Indian summer.

  There was something about her visit to Garth’s home that bothered her. She accepted his decor and garden, and although they were not to her own taste, she found them immensely interesting and attractive. Something had been said or done that did not quite fit. The exact nature of what she was reaching for eluded her.

  She was startled by the roar of the patrol car’s engine as it rocked down the drive and swerved on to the secondary highway that passed below their home. She shook her head as Lyon came out on the patio and looked down at her.

  ‘Someone ought to give that man a ticket,’ she said. ‘He’s become a menace on the highways.’

  ‘He’s in a hurry to get to an important appointment at Sarge’s place,’ Lyon said as he descended the patio steps and walked over to the garden.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about my luncheon with Garth and Leslie. Something there bothers me. I think it’s Leslie’s reaction when I asked about the night of the murder.’

  ‘He responded too quickly.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Bea said. ‘Without thought, reflection or consideration. It was a protective reaction.’

  Lyon laughed. ‘That’s about the feeling I had when Ernest and I discovered the mess in Morgan’s office. He didn’t seem nearly as surprised as I would have expected. Which is rather unusual, since the material in the file was supposed to be dirty linen that would hang Garth.’

  ‘If Ernest suspected that Morgan had a file on him, as Garth believes, he might have gone after it. He would have to steal both files in order to not be implicated in the theft.’

  ‘And Ernest has no alibi for the night of Morgan’s murder,’ Lyon said.

  ‘Which puts us back on square one,’ Bea said.

  The sniper realized that now there was an opportunity to get both of them. A full clip had been inserted into the rifle’s magazine and a live round levered into the chamber. After the first shot, if the remaining Wentworth didn’t immediately hit the dirt, there would be a chance for a second round to take him out. It would work. Two for the price of one—delicious. The only question remaining was, which one to take first?

  It was a question that required careful consideration. There was also the possibility of letting him survive a few seconds to feel the anguish of seeing her die before his eyes. A lovely choice that required a moment’s deliberation.

  ‘I ran into Martha Herbert today. I think my Morgan rumor started with her, and that bothers me.’

  ‘I always thought you liked the strong silent type, which pretty much precluded Morgan.’

  ‘Maybe I never told you my secret lusts,’ she said as she looked down the river toward the distant Sound. She felt his arm go over her shoulder as he slowly turned her to face him.

  ‘It’s warm out here even at sunset,’ Lyon said. ‘Is that why you’re wearing that blouse?’

  ‘I like working in my garden unencumbered,’ she said as she pulled the blouse far off her shoulders. She flicked the brim of the floppy hat to tip it off her head.

  ‘At least we won’t have to dress for dinner,’ Lyon said as he kissed her.

  What in the hell were they doing?

  That little sexy action meant that she was going to go first. The round would be placed directly in the middle of her forehead while she stood flaunting her body. Her limbs would splay out as her head exploded over him. He would watch in horror while the second rou
nd caught her in the guts or the middle of the back. The second round wouldn’t be really necessary, but the shock to him was worth the effort.

  What in the hell were they doing down there?

  ‘Don’t do that!’ the sniper said aloud for no one to hear. ‘Are you two nuts?’

  There was no possible field of fire while they were locked together on the ground between the flower beds.

  How had they known? What inner sense had whispered to them that death was imminent?

  Oh, my God. They were barely visible behind the mound as more clothing cluttered the primrose. Damn them! In minutes the light would be gone and the shot would be impossible.

  The fools were making love while it was time to die.

  Ten

  ‘The mountain laurel is ringing,’ Lyon whispered into the ear nestled against his shoulder.

  ‘Uh huh. Don’t answer,’ Bea mumbled.

  ‘It’s a very persistent laurel,’ he replied as the ringing continued.

  She didn’t answer but spooned herself closer to him for warmth.

  He wrapped his arms around her to let his body heat warm her. She stopped shivering and slipped back into sleep. Her comfort had been accomplished through a heat transfer and now it was his turn to be chilled. The cold shocked him fully awake. It was dark. They’d fallen asleep between the flower beds and now the phone was ringing in the mountain laurel. He separated from her and crawled into the garden. A pebble dug into his knee and he muttered an involuntary gasp of pain.

  He found it. His fingers curled around the cordless phone she always brought into the garden while she worked. He rolled over to watch the stars and clicked the talk button. ‘I hope this is an extremely significant message,’ he said in the most sonorous voice he could muster. ‘If you are conducting a poll or selling anything, prepare for an immediate disconnect.’

  ‘This is Leslie. I’m Garth’s friend,’ an alarmed voice said. ‘I must speak with Mrs Wentworth immediately.’

  ‘I’m here,’ Bea said at Lyon’s ear as she took the phone. ‘Yes, Leslie?’ She replied in a coherent voice that belied her sleepy responses of a few moments ago.

  ‘Can you help us, Mrs Wentworth? Garth has just stormed out of the house carrying the .45 pistol that he brought back from the army.’

  ‘Where’s he going?’

  ‘The last thing he said to me was, “I’m going to blow that Hemingway poseur to hell.” I took that to mean that he intends to shoot Ernest Harnell—several times.’

  ‘Tell me exactly what happened, Leslie.’

  ‘Less than half an hour ago the dean of students telephoned. Garth said that it began as a perfectly ordinary conversation, but it soon became obvious that the dean was fishing for information. As the conversation continued, the dean’s remarks shifted toward behavioral standards for the new department head. Then the comments began to get more pointed and personal. Garth finally asked where it was all leading and was told that an anonymous source had accused him of pedophilia.’

  Bea covered the phone’s mouthpiece and mouthed, ‘Oh, my God.’ When she resumed the conversation, she forced her voice into an optimistic lilt. ‘The accusation may not be as serious as you think, Leslie. The school is not going to take any action based on undocumented accusations. The days of witch hunts are over.’ She covered the mouthpiece again. ‘Maybe,’ she mumbled to Lyon.

  ‘Those of us in the gay community know that the gay bashers are still active.’

  ‘If the dean didn’t identify the accuser, why does Garth want to kill Ernest?’

  ‘Who else could it be? I watched him load the gun and saw the look on his face. There’s not the slightest doubt that he’s serious about this,’ Leslie said. ‘I thought you seemed sympathetic, and since you and your husband know them both and are connected to the university, perhaps something discreet could be done.’

  ‘We’ll do what we can,’ Bea said. She ended the conversation and impatiently punched in a phone number. The police dispatcher told her that Rocco was out on a prolonged domestic-violence call, but that Jamie Martin was available. Bea rang off. ‘Rocco’s off on a call. We don’t want Jamie on this, do we?’ she asked Lyon.

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘Then what? If we call the state police, Norbie will probably unleash a SWAT team.’

  ‘We get dressed and do it,’ Lyon said as they hurried into the house.

  Ernest Harnell lived in an eighteenth-century merchant’s house that squatted directly at the sidewalk on the edge of the Murphysville town green. Similar to a dozen other homes in the neighborhood, on the corner of the second story was a historical plaque designating the original owner and date of construction. The gleaming white facade with black trim was broken by long leaded windows and a wide front door dominated by a large brass knocker. Lyon raised the lion-head hammer and let it fall three times in rapid succession.

  The door was opened by a short woman with a no-nonsense scowl designed to discourage casual callers. She squinted at them a moment until recognition dredged up a wispy smile. ‘Why, hello, Beatrice. So nice to see you. Do come in.’ She swooped open the door and beckoned them inside.

  ‘Your home is beautiful as always,’ Bea said to Ernest’s sister as she glanced into the immaculate front parlor filled with museum-quality early American antiques. ‘Are you going to open the house for the Garden Club tour this year?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I always do, no matter how much Ernest objects. I don’t pay a bit of attention to his carrying on. When it’s house-tour time, I make him go down to Key West to play Hemingway for a week.’

  ‘Can we see him right away?’ Lyon said. ‘It’s rather important.’

  The diminutive woman sighed. ‘Everything is always urgent when it comes to Ernest. He’s in the extension cleaning his guns again.’ They followed her down the wide main hall that bisected the original structure. It turned into a narrow corridor when it entered the new wing at the rear of the building. The door to a large sitting room was open. Heavy leather furnishings were surrounded by gun cabinets and mounted animal heads. The decor was of a Teddy Roosevelt rather than early New England era.

  Ernest sat Indian fashion on a wide leather ottoman in front of the largest cabinet. He was carefully polishing the intricately carved stock of a large-caliber rifle with a soft cloth. He looked up as they entered, worked the bolt and thumbed off the safety. He aimed the rifle at Lyon.

  ‘Elephant gun,’ he said as he squeezed the trigger. The firing pin clicked against an empty chamber. ‘This baby will bring down the biggest they grow.’

  ‘Don’t you ever point a rifle at me again,’ Lyon said in a voice tinged with anger. The last time Bea recalled that tone was the night he lectured the zoning commission after their approval of the neighboring condominium.

  ‘Hell and damnation, Mr W, it’s not loaded.’

  ‘All weapons are always loaded,’ Lyon snapped.

  ‘We’d like you to check into a hotel in Hartford for several days,’ Bea said.

  Ernest smirked. ‘That’s a terrific idea, Bea.’

  ‘Don’t be snide,’ Bea said. ‘Garth is on his way over here to kill you. I believe you know the reason why.’

  Ernest laughed. ‘I am truly frightened. I’m sitting here with an elephant gun on my lap. There’s probably a thousand rounds of ammunition within arm’s reach, and I’m supposed to cower because Garthy Poo is on his way over to slap me with a wet noodle?’

  ‘Actually, the weapon of the day is a .45 caliber automatic,’ Lyon said.

  ‘I know, the only handgun he owns. It hasn’t been fired in twenty years and the ammunition is probably rusted in the barrel.’ He slapped the stock of the rifle on his lap. ‘Not like my baby here. This sucker is loaded for bear and primed for elephants.’

  ‘You can’t hunt those anymore, Ernest,’ Lyon said. ‘There’s an embargo on ivory. In Kenya they shoot people they find poaching.’

  Ernest went to the room’s largest gun cabinet next to a bookcase fille
d with a collection of Hemingway first editions. He opened a long drawer at its base that was filled with cartons of ammunition. He grabbed a handful of shells and crammed several into the rifle’s magazine. ‘I have African friends who can get around those technicalities.’

  ‘You mount another trophy in here and I am going to be ill,’ Bea said.

  ‘Man is a predatory beast destined to hunt wild creatures,’ Ernest said. ‘God, I miss the green hills of Africa.’

  ‘You’re going to miss the rest of your life if you don’t leave until Garth calms down,’ Lyon said.

  ‘Garth has no intention of calming down,’ a voice said from the doorway. Garth slowly entered the room with a large automatic extended in front of him. He activated the slide to chamber a round with a clack that sounded louder than it actually was. He pointed the handgun directly at Ernest’s forehead. ‘It’s death in the afternoon, Bwana.’

  Ernest faced his adversary with the rifle at his waist and his finger on the trigger. ‘I’m loaded for big game, Tinkerbell.’

  ‘You sniveling son-of-a-bitch!’ Garth snapped. ‘Why in the hell did you tell the dean that I was involved with children!’

  ‘I happen to know that you were arrested in Mississippi on a sex offense,’ Ernest said.

  ‘How the hell did you know that? Morgan was the only person in this state who had that information.’

  ‘I have my sources.’

  ‘All right, so I was. They charged me with lewd behavior, but it should have been stupidity. I was in a bar in Biloxi, Mississippi, which was mistake one. I made a date with a crew-cut guy, which was stupid mistake two. He turned out to be a deputy. At least he was thirty-eight years old, for Christ’s sake! What I did wasn’t nearly as criminal as your deal with what’s her name? Darlene, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That girl had a woman’s full equipment,’ Ernest said proudly.

  ‘Except that it was sixteen-year-old equipment. Morgan had one hell of a time getting you out of that one.’