‘Now that I remember,’ Lyon said. ‘Three years ago you fired Jake Manly for going into a convenience store during an armed robbery without calling for back-up.’
‘Lyon is not a sworn police officer,’ Bea said. ‘He is not even an auxiliary constable. He is a civilian.’
‘I seem to substitute as the town’s bomb-disposal squad,’ Lyon said.
Captain Norbert of the state police, flanked by his two-corporal entourage, erupted into the room. His glare encompassed everyone but settled on Lyon with particular distaste. ‘I understand you detonated a bomb within the Murphysville city limits?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ Lyon answered.
‘That’s against several laws, Wentworth, or do you effete intellectuals bother about such things?’
‘The hand-grenade perpetrator is in cell two,’ Rocco snapped. ‘He claims he didn’t kill anyone and only took the credit to highlight the so-called plight of the anarchists.’
‘I believe him,’ Lyon added.
‘Of course he didn’t do it. That’s what they all say. If he didn’t kill the bodybuilder, do you expect me to believe that our lady gymnast put a two-hundred-pound weight on the guy’s neck?’
‘She had enough strength to take the same weight off his neck when she decided to move the body. There are other suspects who are also capable,’ Lyon said.
‘You are a civilian and you are not a law officer, thank God.’
‘I’m afraid the proof will be when the next victim dies,’ Lyon said.
Lyon and Bea stood outside the Murphysville police station as Jamie Martin’s patrol car slid to a halt behind Bea’s parked compact. The young patrolman came toward them and gave Bea a short salute. ‘Good evening, Senator. They fixed your car while you were inside.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my car.’
Jamie shrugged. ‘A guy in coveralls and a baseball cap pulled up in a van and popped the hood on your car. He only worked under there a couple of minutes before he slammed it shut and drove off. So maybe it was a mistake.’
‘Probably,’ Bea said as she retrieved car keys from her pocketbook. She slid behind the wheel.
For a brief moment Lyon felt a chill. He had an inchoate sense of dimming of sunlight and the fluttering of an unknown fear. He drove the thought from his mind. The car was parked directly in front of the town police station in full view of the dispatcher’s console. It would be impossible for anything to be wrong.
‘It’s beginning to rain,’ he said as she reached for the ignition.
‘Good for the plants,’ Bea replied.
‘It’s going to fall on my balloon in the back of the pickup and it’s hard for me to manage with this hand. Would you drive?’
‘We certainly wouldn’t want our balloon to get wet,’ she said as she left her car and went to the pickup in the parking lot.
Dark rain clouds obscured the sky and rain began to fall as they pulled away from the police services building in Lyon’s twelve-year-old pickup truck. Bea had to lean slightly forward on the seat to peer through the windshield. The creaking wipers swept an uneven swatch in their losing battle against the heavy rain.
‘How’s your hand?’ she asked without turning her attention away from the misting road.
‘Not bad.’ He worked his fingers back and forth with a slight wince. ‘It’ll be all right tomorrow.’
‘I haven’t been to the supermarket. This damn case has me running all over the state getting information. We’ll find something in the freezer to throw into the microwave unless you want to eat out.’ Bea leaned further forward as the rain continued its incessant beat against the roof and windows of the truck.
‘Freezer luck’s OK.’
They continued the drive up the promontory toward Nutmeg Hill.
It was over an hour since the bomb had been placed in her car. There had not been an explosion. The detonation should have reverberated across the town and bounced between the hills that bordered the river. The sound should have echoed down the valley and the firehouse horn would have wailed its alarm in response. There would have been police, fire and ambulance sirens, and perhaps a plume of smoke curling over this small town located at the crook of the Connecticut River.
Why hadn’t the bomb gone off? It had been carefully placed. It had been wired to the starter motor and should have exploded with the first turn of the ignition key.
Why had it not exploded?
Fourteen
Patrolman Jamie Martin was uncomfortable as he stood on the front stoop of Nutmeg Hill. His right hand held an acetate evidence bag containing a fluffy rabbit slipper with long floppy ears. He glanced from side to side as if expecting a last-minute reprieve, but the only welcome was a dawn light that streaked the Connecticut River and enticed tendrils of mist from the water’s surface. After a final nervous shift he punched the bell.
‘It’s too damn early for this sort of thing,’ he muttered aloud.
‘That’s for sure,’ the disembodied voice of Lyon Wentworth said over the exterior intercom system. ‘What do you want, Jamie?’
‘The chief assigned the case to me, sir.’
The door clicked open to reveal Lyon standing in the entryway with bare feet below a bright yellow bathrobe.
‘I see you’ve retrieved my wife’s slipper. Come in and have some coffee.’ Without waiting for an answer he padded his way through the house to the kitchen. He was astonished that Rocco would assign a sensitive matter such as the Morgan killing to a young patrolman like Martin.
Jamie obediently followed while nervously clearing his throat. ‘Actually, this is official police business, Mr Wentworth.’
‘Got something new on the Morgan case?’ Lyon asked as they entered the kitchen. He poured two large mugs from the Mr Coffee machine on the counter. ‘Cream and sugar?’
‘Yes, sir, thank you. No, it isn’t about the murders.’ He carefully placed the bagged slipper on the counter before accepting a mug. He sipped the hot liquid a moment before he continued in a rapid rush of words. ‘If this slipper is identified as hers, I’m here to bust Senator Wentworth.’
‘I didn’t realize bad taste was illegal,’ Lyon said over the rim of his coffee mug.
‘What bad taste?’ Bea said as she shuffled into the kitchen. Her hair was tousled and she wore a bulky terry-cloth robe and one animal slipper that was the mate to the one in the evidence bag. ‘Hey, thanks for bringing in my other bunny. I must have dropped her on the terrace last night.’ She flipped the acetate bag from the counter and tore it open before the horrified officer was able to secure the evidence. She stuffed her other foot into the rescued rabbit and poured coffee.
‘I’m sorry those rabbits are yours, ma’am. I am obliged to point out that they are evidence in a crime.’ The police officer fumbled in his shirt pocket for a small memo pad. ‘Chief Herbert’s instructions are,’ he read slowly and precisely from the pad, ‘“Stake out the Camelot construction project.” That’s that thing next door.’
‘We are familiar with the monstrosity,’ Lyon said.
‘Anyway, the chief said I was to bust the vandalizing perp bastards. Those were his exact words, sir. Who are defacing the property with their spray-paint graffiti. Last night I secreted myself on the premises as ordered. At approximately three hundred hours a person of unknown identity was observed with a circular object in her hand. She was painting the words “Through these portals pass …” in large letters on a wall.’
‘How do you know it was a woman?’ Lyon snapped.
Jamie Martin looked up from his monotone reading. ‘In bunny slippers?’
‘I resent the sexism inherent in that remark,’ Bea said.
Jamie sighed and continued. ‘I instituted apprehension movements after warning the suspect that I was a police officer. Unfortunately, during the ensuing pursuit I fell into a concrete form. The spray-paint perpetrator disappeared into the bordering woods. After changing into a fresh uniform I returned to the location. At that p
oint in time I discovered an article of footwear next to the abandoned spray-paint can. Said footwear, in the shape of a rabbit, was tagged as evidence and an interrogation was made at a nearby dwelling.’ He looked up. ‘That’s as far as I’ve gotten so far.’
‘I’ve heard of Cinderella, but this is ridiculous,’ Lyon said with a sigh.
‘I meant to wear my running sneaks,’ Bea said, ‘but I was sleepy.’ Lyon stared at her in amazement. ‘Well, don’t look at me that way. Sometimes the democratic process breaks down and we are forced to take to the barricades in protest.’
‘In this instance, that seems to mean taking to the construction site in our rabbit feet.’
‘The charges are: vandalism, defacing private property, mischievous mischief, trespassing, and the chief says he will think of more charges later.’
‘I think Rocco is pissed because of your criticism,’ Lyon said to Bea.
‘Can I come down to the station to turn myself in a little later this morning, Jamie?’ Bea asked. ‘I’d like to get showered and dressed first. Actually, being arrested works into my schedule this morning, since my car is parked in front of the police services building.’
‘It was towed on the chief’s orders,’ Jamie said with a flush.
‘Boy, Rocco really is pissed,’ Lyon said as he poured everyone a second cup of coffee.
‘You can obtain your vehicle by paying the fifty-dollar fine, along with storage and tow charges, at Proman’s Salvage Yard,’ Jamie Martin concluded.
Bea slammed her mug down with a thunk. ‘That’s it! Rocco’s gone too far this time. He knows that Ralston Proman is a professional Korean War Veteran who’s been bugging me on that memorial stuff for years. I’ll be his captive audience for an hour when I go to reclaim my car.’
‘I’d get it for you if I could. We’ll see you later at the station, Jamie,’ Lyon said as he ushered the officer to the door. When he returned to the kitchen, Bea was whipping eggs for omelettes. Lyon began to slice slivers of onions, ham and green pepper. ‘I know you’ve been busy digging for information on the murders,’ he said. ‘Do you have anything yet?’
Bea added his cuttings to her omelette construction. ‘On this one, I’ve had to call favors that don’t even exist. God only knows what future price I’m going to have to pay for some of this information.’
‘What did you turn up?’
She served plates while he buttered toast. ‘Like Clay Dickensen is in deep financial difficulty and needed the cash money from that trust fund in the worst way.’
‘I thought his accounting business was quite successful?’
‘It is, but he’s extremely overextended in his other interests. Did you know that condominium project where he lives was developed by CD Construction, which is completely owned by Clay? Evidently the job was underestimated and has soaked up money like a blotter. Slow sales have exacerbated the situation and the interest charges are eating him up. He’s sixty days in arrears on his construction-loan payments to the bank. He’s in so deep with some subcontractors that they are nearly ready to file mechanics’ liens against the property. If liens are filed, construction loan advances will stop, and then the whole house of cards topples. At that point his position becomes untenable and it turns into foreclosure time. That action will affect his accounting firm, as most business accounts don’t want to do business with a bankrupt CPA.’
‘He’s rescued if there’s money in the trust fund?’
‘Which there is. Despite what the twins thought, Morgan hadn’t touched the trust’s principle. It turned out that he had made a great deal of money on commodity futures. His broker’s trade records verify this.’
‘I haven’t forgotten the fact that on the night of the Morgan murder Clay worked at my desk most of the evening. The combination to the RV door was jotted on paper taped to the desk pull-out. He might have seen it and guessed what it was. That gives Clay opportunity. Your information reveals that he certainly had a stronger motive than we thought.’
‘Rina’s not far behind her twin in the motive market,’ Bea continued as she sat at the breakfast-nook table and attacked her omelette. ‘Did you know that after she dropped out of college she followed the Grateful Dead rock group around the country? She was what they call a Dead Head?’
‘Yes, I’d heard that from Clay.’
‘And did you know that Morgan finally located her at one of the concerts, stoned out of her mind?’
‘That’s no big deal these days.’
‘It was to Morgan,’ Bea said. ‘He played elaborate head games with her until she agreed to a commitment to the Institute of Living in Hartford.’
‘A psychiatric hospitalization for smoking pot? That’s rather extreme,’ Lyon said.
‘Morgan always operated on his own perceptions, never by ordinary values and social rules. Rina was kept there for nearly a year. She never forgave her older half-brother for that little sojourn.’
‘After we found Skee’s body, I left the room to make a phone call. When I returned, she had moved the barbell off his neck.’
‘That lady is physically very strong.’ Bea said.
‘Were you able to find anything more about her murdered lover, Skee what’s-his-name?’
Bea looked at crumpled notes she took from her robe pocket. ‘There’s not a great deal to find out about Skee Chickering. He was a physical-fitness drifter. He spent a lot of time working-out on muscle beaches in California. He entered a couple of body contests but never placed. He had a haphazard work history as a beach boy, a construction carpenter working off the books, and other casual pickup jobs.’
‘Twins with motives and opportunity,’ Lyon said. ‘It would not be unusual for brother and sister to act in concert.’
‘You think that Rina and Clay did it together?’ Bea replied.
‘Anything else?’ Lyon asked.
‘The documentation that Morgan had on Ernest and Garth is still missing. Whoever stole it from Morgan’s office has either hidden or destroyed the papers. Speaking of destroying things, let’s not forget that Garth is a killer trained through the courtesy of the US Army.’
‘I know. He was an infantry leader and had Ranger training. By definition that makes him expert in a lot of mayhem,’ Lyon said. ‘Except that, so far, no one has been blown up with C-4 or strangled to death with piano wire. Our present catalog of murder includes a sword, a long-range rifle shot, and a bizarre strangulation. That’s a macabre pattern, but not military in nature.’
‘It’s no kind of pattern,’ Bea said. ‘You should consider Ernest now that you’ve mentioned a long-range rifle shot.’
Lyon scraped the remains of their meal into the garbage disposal and put the plates in the dishwasher. He leaned against the kitchen counter. ‘When I landed the cloudhopper on the church, Ernest rushed out carrying his rifle. Rocco confiscated it for tests, but before that could be done it disappeared from the patrol car.’
‘I don’t know a thing about rifles,’ Bea said, ‘but those in Ernest’s gun cases looked expensive.’
‘I think there’s a lot of money sunk in that collection.’
‘If he stole the gun back from Rocco, would he destroy it, or would he clean it and put it back in the gun rack?’
‘Let’s find out,’ Lyon said. He snicked the kitchen wall phone from its bracket and punched in a series of numbers. ‘Good morning, Miss Harnell, is your brother there …? A sudden vacation. You don’t know where.’ He looked toward Bea with a raised eyebrow. ‘He’s either in Spain, France or Africa, but Ketchum, Idaho is in the running. Would it be possible for me to stop by the house today and look at some of Ernest’s rifles …? They’re all gone. All of them stolen? Thank you.’ Lyon hung up. ‘You caught the gist of that.’
‘It’s a convenient time to go on a secret vacation and have weapons stolen,’ she said.
They moved in the practiced unison of a long-married couple as they cleared the table and straightened the kitchen.
‘It’s
time to go after your car and be arrested. I do think they’ll release you on your own recognizance.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ she said. ‘I’ve arranged through the Attorney General’s office for us to go through Morgan’s RV, which is at the state police garage.’
‘Captain Norbert must have loved that.’
‘You can guess how ecstatic he was, but the forensics people are done with it. We’re allowed to prowl through if accompanied by a trooper escort. I promised we wouldn’t remove or handle anything. Why don’t we do that now and go for the car at noon? With a bit of luck my Korean War buddy might be at lunch. He’s a big Legion supporter so noon is probably time to report to their bar.’
Lyon nodded. ‘Good. I’d like another look at Morgan’s armored vehicle. We still don’t know how the killer got in.’
Like a glowering southern governor from decades past who stood in a schoolhouse door, Captain Norbert blocked the entrance to the state police garage. He stood arms akimbo and feet apart as he frowned at the Wentworths.
‘I am against this,’ he said. ‘I admit you under protest on a direct order from my superior. Let the record so reflect.’
‘Got it down, Captain,’ the corporal with the steno pad said.
Norbert stepped aside at the last moment to let the Wentworths enter the building. He doggedly followed them. ‘You are civilians in a restricted area. Any incorrect action on your part might break the chain of evidence.’
‘We don’t intend to run off with the RV,’ Lyon said.
‘We already know that Satan worshipper did it. So, why don’t you two quit this sick rubbernecking?’
‘I wonder when the next state police appropriation bill comes before my committee?’ Bea whispered in a sotto voice loud enough to guarantee that both police officers heard.
The recreational vehicle stood alone in the dimly lit garage. A layer of dust had filtered through the front doors to cover it. Recessed overhead lights in wire baskets cast a dull glow directly over the vehicle, but left the side areas in shadows. The rear door was unlatched and open a few inches.
Death at King Arthur's Court Page 16
