Death at King Arthur's Court

by Forrest, Richard;

  ‘I am!’ Bea yelled back. She was aware of their danger now that they were close enough for her to see the electrical wire supporting the colorful round markers. She yanked the burner lanyard again and again. The only response was a small sputter. ‘There’s no more propane,’ she said.

  ‘Pull the ripping panel! We may drop below it.’

  It didn’t take an expert balloonist to see that their present trajectory would not carry them under the power line. The ripping panel did not spill hot air quickly enough for the high balloon bag to clear the wire. ‘We’re going to hit it,’ she said matter-of-factly.

  Lyon looked down. If he made the long fall into the river from this point, his chances of survival were minimal. Since Bea had to pull up on the parachute harness in order to release enough tension to allow the quick release to operate, she would not be able to drop free fast enough. She had no survival odds. ‘I’m staying,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘Jump!’

  ‘I like the view,’ he said as he tightened his grip on her feet in anticipation of what he knew was going to happen next.

  Bea attempted to kick him free. When his grip prevented that, she tried to scissor her legs in order to break his hold. ‘Please, go. Lyon, please.’

  ‘Nope.’ He turned as far as he could to look over his shoulder at the approaching wires. Her estimate was correct. Although their descent had begun, the balloon envelope would hit the wire before they had dropped far enough. Once contact was made, they would be electrocuted. ‘I love you!’

  ‘Me too!’ she yelled back as her harness struck the wires.

  The balloon envelope draped forward and began to deflate.

  Lyon involuntarily grimaced in anticipation of the paralyzing shock that would momentarily course through their bodies.

  ‘Doesn’t electricity travel at the speed of light or something?’ Bea asked.

  ‘Something like that,’ Lyon answered. He noticed that they had struck the wires near the southerly side of the river bank beyond the last of the beach-ball markers. From their point of impact the wire sloped toward the lower pylons on the far shore. As the balloon deflated, the bag began to slide slowly down the wire.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Bea asked in a voice partially afraid to articulate the question for fear of invoking a worse calamity.

  ‘For some reason the power’s off,’ Lyon said. ‘We’re sliding along the wire’s slope. If we keep going, we can make the drop.’

  The balloon envelope continued to creep down the wire. Lyon added the swing of his body to help speed its momentum. Although his hands were clamped tightly together around Bea’s feet, their leaden feeling indicated that he would soon lose his grip. He only had seconds before the last of his strength ebbed and he fell.

  They were still high above the river, perhaps too high. ‘When I let go, pull up on the harness and snap the quick release.’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding! We’ll drown.’

  He didn’t have time to reply. The last of the strength left his arms and he lost his grip. He dropped away from her. He attempted to keep his body straight during the fall in order to hit the water in an upright position.

  He struck the river in a standing position and rapidly sank below the surface. The long descent seemed interminable and his awkward arm motions were useless. His strength was gone and his arms felt like lead weights. His descent stopped as he gently touched a soft bottom. Lyon scissored his feet frantically through silt before he began to slowly rise. Could he hold his breath long enough to reach the surface? He tried an awkward swimming motion, but the slow jerky movements didn’t help his ascent. The fall and fatigue had disoriented him. He had no comprehension of how long he had sunk or how deep under the water he was. He only knew that he wanted to breathe so desperately that in seconds he would involuntarily gasp for air.

  A corner of his remaining conscious thought knew that if they were near the shore at the time of the drop, the river might not be too deep at this point.

  He unexpectedly broke the surface. His head tilted up to gasp huge gulps of air before he flopped backwards and nearly sank again. He continued gasping for air, but found that he could remain on the surface by treading water.

  Bea was upside down high above his head as she struggled with the harness of the deflated balloon. She had pulled her body up and was frantically punching the quick release. It finally worked! She dropped away from the remnants of the balloon and plummeted toward the river. She fell in a horizontal position with both arms and feet flailing.

  As she hit the river, a wide plume of water sprayed up on either side as she sank below the surface.

  He tried to swim toward the spot where she had disappeared under the water, but the tremors in his arms made his movements a pathetic dog paddle.

  A boat pulled alongside. It was a long flat-bottom rowboat with a fisherman operator whose wide gnarled hands reached for him. He was halfway over the gunnels before he managed to flip into the bottom of the boat. ‘My wife …’ he choked.

  ‘Ye-ap,’ the oarsman said. ‘Saw her fall.’ He sat at the oars and dipped them deep into the water and pulled back in an easy fluid motion that spurted the boat ahead.

  In another two minutes Bea was in the boat by Lyon’s side gasping for breath.

  ‘You two shouldn’t play around those electric wires,’ the fisherman said. ‘If the power plant hadn’t been closed down for refitting, youda’ been fried.’ He considered that thought a moment before he said, ‘Striped bass is running.’

  Some things are truly important, Lyon thought. And today striped bass was certainly one of them.

  Lyon stood behind the computer monitor in his study and looked down at Nutmeg Hill’s patio. The scene reinforced his conviction that there was a certain balanced symmetry in life.

  The patio was festooned with Japanese lanterns which cast a warm amber glow across the deepening twilight. Rocco stood behind the large barbecue wearing an incongruously tall chef’s hat and long butcher’s apron. He spread glowing coals into a neat cooking pattern with a long-handled fork. His free hand clenched a tall drink in a translucent glass with a sprig of mint sprouting over the lip. He sipped on the drink as he continued his obsessive coal arrangements.

  Martha Herbert stood by her husband’s side holding a large tray of New York cut steaks. She smiled tentatively at the others on the patio.

  Clay Dickensen stood alone at the far end of the parapet with one foot up on the stone wall. He was bent forward as if poised for a flight that would soon join the night and the river. His troubled look appeared to be a stare into the past in the hopes of learning a different outcome. This was his time to grieve, Lyon thought. It was a necessary time for him to come to terms with the pain the dissolution of his family had created. He was still young enough to find the strength that would allow him to survive. Time would be his succor and he would eventually heal.

  Car headlights briefly swept across the patio and then blinked out as a new arrival parked in the driveway. Ernest Harnell, wearing a cream white suit and an outback hat worn at a rakish angle, limped up the patio steps. He paused dramatically and leaned on his blackthorn tree shillelagh.

  The writer look-alike had arrived with at least several conversational gambits. Lyon considered the options to explain Ernest’s injury: the bulls might have been exceedingly mean at Pamplona this year, or possibly there was a small plane crash near Victoria Falls. Fighting in some distant civil war was always a possibility. He disregarded the latter. He knew the look of a man recently gored by a frenzied bull. It was probable that the answer would be elicited by Garth Wilkins as he forced his adversary through a sarcastic minefield.

  Garth sat casually on the parapet, engrossed in conversation with Leslie. His attention shifted when he sensed the group’s attention drawn toward Ernest. He made a studied slow turn to watch his fellow teacher limp across the patio. The sight of his rival’s appearance forced Garth to change his posture and body language as if he w
ere an ancient warrior girding for battle. Lyon had always considered Garth’s attack-Ernest metamorphosis as something between a fighting ship of the line trimming for the attack, and a perched buzzard observing a parade of carrion while it selected tonight’s meal.

  Bea moved from group to group with an assorted tray of canapés and three types of greetings. The first smile was reserved for old friends like Rocco and Martha or Garth and Ernest. The second was her refined political ‘gleam’ which was flashed at her stalwart political supporters as represented by the rather loud group occupying the center of the patio. The third breed of smile was a small glimmer of resignation and understanding that from time to time she gave Lyon.

  The world had been shaken, moved, and then returned to its ordinary orbit. As a result, it seemed as if nothing had changed.

  Lyon knew that it was time to go to the patio and moderate a truce between the two college professors. If it wasn’t done shortly, Ernest might be goaded into the use of his shillelagh for something other than walking. The dean of Middleburg University had once again requested Lyon’s intervention. The college administration felt that the crisis in the English department had reached a critical juncture that needed immediate solution. The major problem was the impasse between the two men now girding for conflict on the patio.

  Rocco flicked two completed steaks on a platter his wife held as Lyon came out on the patio. He glanced over at his friend and tilted his glass in salute as Martha served the meat to a group at the picnic table in the side yard.

  ‘Norbie called as I arrived home,’ Rocco said. ‘He told me that this afternoon the state police divers finally got Rina’s body out of the cab. The crane tilted over as it fell from the cliff. That, combined with the twisted metal, meant that she was buried deep in river-bottom silt. They had a hell of a time working underwater in all that, and had to dismantle the thing piece by piece until they reached her.’

  ‘Could they tell why she never jumped out?’

  Rocco nodded as he flipped more steaks on the coals. ‘You bet. Simple enough thing. The bottom leg of her jeans had slipped over a gear lever on the floorboards. If she’d had another few seconds or didn’t panic she would have either ripped loose or pulled it off.’

  ‘What’s the word on our hand-grenade-throwing friend Winston?’ Lyon asked.

  ‘The murder charges against him have been dropped, but he’ll face charges on weapons possession and the rest of it. I think that’s the end of the pathetic little band of college dropouts who call themselves the Brotherhood of Beelzebub.’

  ‘Norbert and the state’s attorney are completely satisfied it was Rina?’ Lyon asked.

  ‘Absolutely. They found incriminating clothing with blood specks hidden in the crawl space at the Exercise Place. The forensics lab thinks that the shot that killed Bambi may have been meant for Clay.’

  ‘I’m not surprised at that,’ Lyon said as he remembered his balloon flight over Clay’s condo and his thought that the shooter may have made a mistake in identity. ‘Rina wanted the whole pie for herself after she killed Morgan.’

  ‘Right. Her lover, Skee, did have experience as an operating assistant on a crane, and he was capable of driving the thing. Rina was the one who went into the RV and dispatched Morgan. A real nice lady.’

  ‘Bambi was killed in place of Clay, and Skee because he might talk?’

  ‘That’s the way everyone sees it.’

  ‘Why was she after Bea?’

  ‘Mixed feelings. She was afraid of what you two might find out, she wanted Nutmeg Hill, either with or without you, and I think the lady just went completely out to lunch.’

  Lyon nodded and slipped away from the barbecue group and sat at the glass-topped table in the corner. He caught Garth’s eye and gestured for him to join him. He gave a similar signal to Ernest. Both men warily pulled out wrought-iron chairs and sat at opposite ends of the table. Lyon’s position between them immediately cast him as an unofficial moderator.

  Garth smiled wickedly. ‘OK, Papa, you’ve kept it to yourself long enough. How many guesses do I get about your limp? Gored by a bull? An old war wound …?’

  ‘I tripped in a hotel shower in Atlantic City,’ Ernest said.

  ‘By the way, Ernest,’ Lyon said. ‘Did you ever get your stolen gun collection back?’

  Ernest blushed. ‘My sister had them,’ the professor replied. ‘She said I get them back after the Garden Club tour. She’s got flower arrangements in my gun racks.’

  ‘Naturally you’re going to prosecute her,’ Garth said.

  ‘Enough, gentlemen,’ Lyon said in a firm voice low enough to be distinctly heard by both men, but confidential enough to not travel beyond the table. ‘The dean has asked me to talk with both of you.’

  ‘Last time you tried to mediate for the department, people started to die,’ Ernest said.

  Lyon ignored the remark. ‘The university has been placed in an untenable position concerning any decisions they make concerning your department,’ Lyon said. ‘You are both tenured teachers with extensive publications and excellent credentials in your fields.’

  ‘And some of us have carried homophobia to new heights,’ Garth said.

  ‘I understand the army revoked your jump wings since you don’t need a parachute to flit,’ Ernest replied.

  Lyon shook his head. ‘That’s it. This nonsense stops now. Do you both understand that?’

  ‘I will not serve under this man as department head,’ Garth said.

  ‘For once we agree,’ Ernest said.

  ‘Your alternatives are as follows,’ Lyon said. ‘Either one of you takes the department chair while the other assumes the endowed position, or both of those slots will be filled by outside people. It comes down to the fact that you either both stay and cooperate with each other or you both leave. You have five seconds to make your choice.’ Lyon would have looked at a wristwatch to verify the sweep of the second hand if he had worn a watch. He mentally counted to five twice. ‘Well?’

  ‘How do I know he’ll lay off me?’ Garth asked. ‘And how can they get rid of us with our tenure?’

  ‘Because I have the documentation that Morgan collected,’ Lyon said. ‘If either of you persists, I will release Morgan’s file. The resulting embarrassment will require resignations.’

  Ernest looked at him in amazement. ‘You’ve got that stuff?’

  ‘Of course. Who did you think stole it?’

  Both men looked at him with acceptance. Lyon realized, to his chagrin, that they considered him perfectly capable of breaking into Morgan’s office and stealing whatever documents he wished. Although the men seated on either side appeared to be looking directly at him, they were actually observing each other. Their thoughts were undoubtedly similar. Each weighed the problems of changing positions. They had to consider the difficulty in obtaining tenure at an acceptable university. They had to also consider general teaching conditions, department politics, and all the complexities involved in changing the direction of their lives.

  Ernest had deep roots in Murphysville. The home he occupied with his sister had been in the family for four generations. Its sale would be an emotional loss. Garth’s home was new, but his attachment was also significant due to its unusual nature and the care they had taken in its creation. Its sale would also be a large loss if he were forced to relocate.

  ‘Who gets which job if we stay?’ Ernest asked.

  The first step had been taken. That remark indicated a possible bridge. ‘I’ve given it a great deal of thought,’ Lyon replied as he laid a silver dollar on the table.

  Garth laughed. ‘But of course. We flip.’ He thought a moment. ‘What the hell. Do it.’

  Lyon flipped the coin high in the air and caught it. He slapped it on his wrist with his fingers covering the face. ‘Ernest calls.’

  Garth nodded. ‘Why not.’

  ‘No need,’ Ernest said. ‘I think I should take the Ashley and Garth the department chair. He’s best suited for handling adm
inistrative details and dealing with people. I get impatient with that kind of stuff.’

  Garth nodded and held out his hand to the other teacher. ‘Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  They shook hands.

  Lyon left the table with the two teachers involved in cooperative conversation for the first time in years. Leslie put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘You don’t have the Morgan papers,’ Leslie whispered to him. ‘I took them.’

  ‘Does Garth know that?’

  ‘No. I didn’t want him to think I was a common thief, even if I did steal them for his protection. I don’t want them. Let me mail them to you in what they call the plain brown envelope. You know, I think it might work between those two.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Lyon said.

  ‘There you are, Leslie,’ Bea said as she took his arm. She gave Lyon an eyebrow signal toward Clay, who was standing alone at the parapet. ‘Let me turn on the lawn floods and show you my garden. I’m considering putting in some new annuals and need your expert advice.’ She led him away as Lyon moved toward the grief-stricken man in the shadows.

  ‘Freshen your drink?’ Lyon asked.

  ‘No, thank you. I really shouldn’t have come tonight. I’m sorry I’m such a morose guest.’

  ‘No one expects you to be dancing jigs, Clay. You’ve had some shattering events in your life.’

  ‘Did you always know it was Rina?’

  ‘I first became suspicious when we discovered Skee’s body. The gym door was locked from the outside, but rather than say Skee was probably out on an errand, she insisted on unlocking the door. It was as if she knew he was inside and wanted the body quickly discovered and removed. The final clue was revealed from the balloon when I saw the tracks across the side yard near the drive. It seemed apparent that the crane had been used to lift the RV’s air-conditioner unit to gain entry into Morgan’s Trojan horse. A climbing crane is a difficult machine to operate, but Skee Chickering had worked construction occasionally and very possibly had been exposed to crane operation.’

  Clay nodded. ‘I’d known for years that Rina hated Morgan with a passion. It wasn’t just the money. She never forgave him for her forced commitment to the mental hospital. Even with that, it never occurred to me that she would turn to murder. I suppose the situation became critical when her emotions were matched with a strong need to get her hands on the trust fund principle. I abetted that situation since I was as desperate for the money as she was. It was evidently more than she could handle without violence.’