Death at King Arthur's Court

by Forrest, Richard;

  ‘The bigger ones are bad enough, but this thing is ridiculous. And if you’re so damn good, what about the time you landed on the golf course and those men tried to kill you with their putters?’

  ‘They were five-irons actually. Those guys had a lot of money riding on that particular hole.’

  ‘Or the day you dropped in on a nudist camp?’

  ‘I’ve always liked volley ball.’

  ‘And how many times have you dunked in the Connecticut River? That thing is dangerous. Can you be tempted not to go?’

  ‘Nope. Care to come with me? I can hold you in my arms.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go up in that thing for all the whatever they have in China these days. As for you, everyone has a price.’ Bea closed the distance between them and slipped her arms around his neck. She gently moved the rucksack-like frame containing the propane burner with her feet. ‘You were great in the laurel,’ she said. ‘How would you like to be bedded in the begonias?’

  Lyon kissed her and moved the propane burner further away with his foot. Air began to cool inside the balloon, which caused it to bob toward the ground.

  ‘Go for it, man!’ a voice behind them yelled.

  Lyon and Bea snapped apart to stare toward the construction site. The tower crane had been moved to the near edge of their property and the operator in the high cab leaned out the window to wave at them. ‘You two are better than an adult video store.’

  ‘Oh, my God! He watched us in the mountain laurel,’ Bea said as she ran toward the house in embarrassment.

  ‘Come on back here, it’s show time,’ the crane operator yelled after her. He looked back at the sinking balloon to see a furious Lyon Wentworth stalking across the lawn toward the construction site. He slammed and locked the cab windows and swivelled the crane arm to lift another steel girder.

  Lyon saw that the voyeuristic crane operator had buttoned up his cab and would be impossible to reach. He walked back to the cloudhopper and let his anger at the workman merge with his general dislike of the whole condominium project.

  He centered the propane burner under the balloon’s envelope and gave it a ten-second burn to reheat the interior air and restore balance to the balloon. He slipped into the parachute-type harness and adjusted the rucksack containing the propane burner. After the mooring line was released, he pulled the short lanyard to give the burner another five seconds of fire. The last burn changed the balloon’s equilibrium and he was snatched aloft as the balloon bobbed quickly above the trees.

  A light wind from the northeast carried him away from the construction site and Nutmeg Hill and along the westerly bank of the river. The balloon rose slowly after its initial surge for altitude. He nursed it slightly higher until it stabilized at eight hundred feet above the river.

  Lyon hung suspended from the harness as the wind carried the balloon slowly forward. The sense of freedom that balloon flight always gave him began to form as the noiseless journey continued. He rocked gently in the harness and occasionally shattered the silence with the barking whoosh of an additional propane burn to keep the flight level.

  He recalled a free-fall parachute jump he had made years ago. Before the canopy opened there was a fleeting moment when he had experienced this exhilaration. Balloon flight was an extension of such feelings. He often imagined that he saw the slowly moving panorama of the land below in the same manner as a large bird whose sweeping glides banked at the whim of warm air currents.

  These flights were an excellent time for reflection. They were so far removed from ordinary surroundings that the mind seemed to view problems in a different manner. Lyon often felt that the subconscious mind could worry a seemingly unsolvable problem like a silent terrier dog. If a solution or part of a solution were reached, it would often be fed back to the conscious mind. It was necessary to create the breeding ground and receptivity for this type of oblique thought.

  The balloon was nearly out of its hour-long supply of propane before the answer came. It was then that he knew who had sent the fax from the town library and delivered the letter to the police station. The solution to those two questions would lead them to the zealots.

  Lyon Wentworth impatiently pulled the ripping panel to release hot air from the balloon envelope. The spilled air caused the craft to begin a rapid descent. He was unable to change direction in any manner, and his only control was the ability to adjust the rate of descent by heating air with the propane burner. If he continued on his present landing course, he was going to land on the Murphysville town green, which seemed preferable to snagging the steeple of the Congregational Church.

  Twelve

  He had vented the balloon too early. The wind had suddenly shifted during his descent toward the town green. This reverse changed his horizontal drift and swept him toward the buildings lining the green’s north border. He had planned a stepped approach with a gradual loss of altitude until he hovered over the lawn near the gazebo. At that point he intended to touch down gently for a stand-up landing. This was not to be.

  The wind carried him at tree-top level toward the classical New England Congregational Church situated at the edge of the green.

  When the sagging envelope cleared the pointed steeple, he had renewed hopes of a safe but jarring landing in the empty parking lot behind the church. The suspension harness snagged on the steeple point. The abrupt halt spilled the remaining hot air from the bag and slammed him against the side of the building, where he hung against the belfry.

  He was never sure whether the shock of his body hitting against the belfry or an irate custodian were the cause. The church clarion began blaring a version of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ from a gigantic speaker that was aimed directly at him.

  Halfway down the block the door to Ernest Harnell’s house burst open. The alarmed English professor rushed outside carrying a 30.06 rifle with a mounted telescopic sight at port arms. He stopped abruptly in the center of the street and stared up at the steeple in astonishment.

  Ernest slung the rifle over his shoulder. He walked closer to the building as the clarion mercifully stopped.

  ‘Are you invading the town, Wentworth? Or do you just like the view from up there?’

  ‘Call the fire department!’ Lyon yelled loudly, still half deafened by ‘Christian Soldiers’.

  ‘I was working at my desk when I looked out my window to see what looked like a paratrooper invasion. Reminded me of World War Two when Papa and his band of French resistance fighters liberated Paris.’ He unslung the rifle and wrapped the sling around his forearm as he raised the scope to his eye and drew a bead on the helpless man hanging from the steeple. ‘God, what an easy shot.’

  ‘Don’t point that thing at me! Damn it, Ernest! I mean it!’ Lyon heard two sets of approaching sirens and then the deep whistle blast from the volunteer firehouse.

  ‘I might play God and decide if you live or die …’ Ernest squeezed the trigger and the bolt snapped on an empty chamber.

  A patrol car swerved to a stop and Rocco catapulted from the driver’s seat and rushed toward Ernest. ‘Give me that goddamn weapon.’

  ‘Hell, no! This is an expensive piece.’ The teacher’s voice rose three registers in high-pitched protest.

  Rocco snatched the rifle. ‘I’m having the state lab run a test on this.’ He placed the weapon in the trunk of the patrol car and walked back to the steeple with a bullhorn. ‘You know what this means, Wentworth.’ Rocco Herbert’s voice echoed over the green. ‘The volunteer fire department is going to have to crank out the hook and ladder, and they are going to be pissed.’

  It was another five minutes before the extension ladder began to slowly rise from its truck bed and swing toward the steeple.

  ‘Crimminy nicket, Wentworth,’ Volunteer Fire Chief Terry Randall said. He was perched near the top of the ladder as it hovered over the church. He hooked his safety harness to the rail. ‘We voted last year that we wouldn’t do kittens anymore. This year I’m putting a ban on balloonists.’ He wa
s perched near the top of the ladder as it hovered over the church. ‘You know, I got a guy waiting in my barber chair. When he finishes leafing through my Playboy he’s going to get restless. That’s when he’s going to start thinkin’ on the new unisex shop on Essex Street with the young women stylists.’

  ‘Sorry about that, Chief.’

  ‘If I didn’t think so damn much of Senator Wentworth, you’d stay up here until they replaced you with the Star of Bethlehem at Christmastime.’

  When Lyon was able to shift his weight to the ladder and release the harness, the balloon envelope fell free and drifted down to the parking lot. With Rocco’s help he rolled up the deflated balloon and stuffed it into the back of the patrol car. By the time the balloon was secure, the fire engine had pulled away and Ernest had disappeared into his house.

  ‘We’ll celebrate another of your safe landings at Sarge’s, where I can write up your summons,’ Rocco said.

  Lyon shook his head. ‘I’d like to talk with Mrs Baxter.’

  Rocco looked puzzled. ‘The children’s librarian?’

  ‘Do you know where she lives?’

  ‘Sure. Not far from here over on Webb Street.’

  ‘Did you ever develop any information from the middle-school principal about the kid who delivered the letter to police headquarters?’ Lyon asked.

  ‘Nothing. Either we had a bad lead or he’s a stubborn kid who won’t admit anything.’

  ‘Let’s see what Mrs Baxter has to say.’

  ‘I told you she has an cast-iron alibi. At the time the fax was sent from the library, she was with the visiting nun. Remember?’

  ‘I recall.’

  Phyllis Baxter was neat. The narrow lawn of the small ranch house was well trimmed and edged. The compact car squatting under the carport gleamed, and the tiny living room was immaculate. Mrs Baxter was coordinated with her surroundings, which meant that her essence could be summarized as scrubbed and shining. Lyon recalled that half a dozen years ago her husband, a maintenance worker for the light company, had been accidentally electrocuted. That was not a neat way to expire.

  She had been widowed with a young child before her thirtieth birthday, but had met the situation with determination and resolution.

  She looked down at the small Timex watch on her wrist. ‘I only have a minute, Chief Herbert. I open the children’s room at three.’

  ‘We’re trying to track down who sent a fax from the library,’ Rocco said.

  ‘Yes, I know. One of your men talked with me earlier today. I told him I was at the church annex this morning and haven’t been in the library since yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘The first job I ever had was shelving books at the Middleburg Library,’ Lyon said. ‘I did it after school three afternoons a week.’

  Unable to follow the trail of Lyon’s thought, Rocco frowned.

  Phyllis Baxter returned an even smile. ‘Miss Southgate allows me to indulge in a little nepotism. I’ve hired my son to shelve in the children’s section. But since Murphysville is such a small town, he’s only required to work two afternoons a week.’

  ‘It must be a great comfort to have your son helping,’ Lyon said. ‘You must be very proud of him.’

  ‘I am. Since Big Ralph died, little Ralph has tried so hard to take his place. We make do with social security, a small pension from the light company, and the little I make at the library. It’s a tight budget, but we manage. In addition to his two afternoons a week at the library, Ralphie delivers the Hartford Courant in the morning and the Middleburg Press in the afternoon. He is always looking out for ways to make money and help out.’

  Rocco began to look interested. ‘Does his paper route include the police station?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. But he often substitutes for the delivery girl who has that route.’

  ‘And he has a key to the children’s room?’ Lyon asked.

  ‘Of course, but he’s completely trust—What are you suggesting?’

  ‘I think we had better talk to your son,’ Rocco said.

  The New England formality that was this woman’s protective mantle against the world stiffened at the faintest suggestion of any wrongdoing by her son. Her body imperceptibly tensed as her knees pressed firmly together. ‘He has chores to do,’ was her cool reply.

  Rocco sounded tired. ‘I think today’s first chore is to speak with me.’

  ‘I think not, Chief Herbert. My son is not involved in any criminal activity, and I do not want him hounded and frightened.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was criminal, Mrs Baxter. Now, are you going to let me talk with him or do I have to have him picked up by a patrol car?’

  Little Ralph Baxter was nearly as neat as Phyllis Baxter. He sat rigidly on the couch in the small living room next to his mother. He was a smallish, tow-headed, twelve-year-old, and appeared mildly anxious as he sensed the tenseness transmitted by his mother.

  Phyllis Baxter put her hand over her son’s. ‘You must tell Chief Herbert exactly what you’ve been doing, Ralphie.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything wrong, Mom.’

  ‘Did you go to the library this morning and send a message on the fax machine?’ Rocco asked.

  ‘I was in school this morning,’ was the too quick response.

  ‘During your morning paper route you had to ride your bike past the library. You went inside using your own key and sent a message.’

  ‘No, sir,’ was the prompt and polite response.

  Phyllis Baxter abruptly stood and stepped in front of her son as if to shield him from further attack. It was the simple and reflexive act of an animal mother protecting her young. ‘All right, that’s it. You can’t badger my son any further. He told you he didn’t do anything.’

  ‘Tell them about the fingerprints on the fax machine, Rocco,’ Lyon said. It was a necessary lie at this juncture.

  Ralphie Baxter blanched as Rocco solemnly spoke. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to take him down to the station and book him in order to get his prints. He shouldn’t be in the juvenile detention center for more than a week or two … unless the social workers step in, and you know how they are.’

  The woman’s fingers curled into tight fists that pressed fearfully against her face. ‘No,’ was her nearly inaudible response.

  Lyon looked at the stricken young boy and nodded. The look and gesture were command enough.

  ‘I should have said something when they were asking around school,’ Ralphie said. ‘I was afraid they’d want me to give the money back. I knew something was bad wrong cuz he was paying me so much for hardly doing anything. I figured something was probably wrong with what I was doing, even though he said it was a practical joke.’

  ‘What were you doing, Ralphie?’ Rocco asked gently.

  ‘Once I delivered an envelope to police headquarters, and early this morning I sneaked into the library and sent a fax. He paid me twenty dollars each time. He said it was a joke he was pulling on some people. But I knew something was wrong.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Rocco said. ‘Exactly how did you meet this man?’

  On the last stop of his afternoon paper route, Ralphie Baxter delivered four copies of the Middleburg Press to the Acorn Motel. His daily routine, after he dropped the papers off at the motel office, was to buy a Pepsi from the machine in the center stairwell. Several days ago he had dropped coins in the machine, waited for the can to thunk to a stop at the end of the chute, and then popped its top. He was startled by a voice from the stairs behind him and nearly dropped the cold can.

  ‘Hey, kid,’ the voice from the man halfway down the stairs said. ‘You want to earn a couple of bucks?’

  He could only see the bottom half of the man on the stairs. ‘I got a paper route.’

  ‘I’m talking easy money, kid.’

  Ralphie glanced at his bike leaning against the wall not five feet away, and beyond that he could see the motel office only a few feet away. His mother had repeatedly warned him about men who offered money or gifts for smal
l favors. He knew he was supposed to run away and call the police, or at least pedal quickly home or to the library on his ten-speed.

  A twenty-dollar bill fluttered down the stairs and gently landed on the concrete floor near Ralphie’s feet. ‘That’s for doing practically nothing, kid. I want you to deliver a letter for me. Simple enough? It’s a joke I’m pulling.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Promise.’ A hand appeared and flicked an envelope at Ralphie’s feet. When he picked it up he saw that it was addressed to the Murphysville Police Department.

  ‘What do I have to do?’

  ‘Take it to the cops and leave it at the front desk. Don’t talk to anyone. When you come back tomorrow we may have another little well-paying errand for you. This is all top-secret joke stuff, you know? So keep it quiet or the money stops.’

  ‘I don’t have to do anything else?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  It seemed harmless enough. Ralphie stuffed the envelope in his back pocket. After all, the letter was going to the police station, so what could be wrong with that?

  The request to send the fax had been handled the same way.

  It was after the first delivery that Ralphie’s Junior Achievement mind began to churn. His timid suggestion to his benefactor concerning increased distribution of his ‘joke’ was accepted readily with a reward payment of an additional twenty. The first fax message had been easy, and the man at the motel promised that there might be others, each one bearing an additional twenty.

  Rocco Herbert slouched in the passenger side of the Dodge pickup and cleaned the lens of his binoculars with his shirt tail. ‘I am probably the only peace officer in the entire country whose unmarked vehicle is a twelve-year-old borrowed pickup with a rusted body carrying a hot-air balloon.’

  ‘Don’t you think you should call Norbie and let him bring a state police SWAT team out here?’ Lyon said. ‘This guy is very dangerous.’

  ‘Let’s see what we’re up against first,’ Rocco replied as he raised the glasses and swept the second tier of the Acorn Motel.