Rocco slouched into the breakfast nook and accepted coffee with a grateful smile. “I saw your light on from the road.”
“We’re always up at five A.M. It builds character.”
“Want to hear what we found?”
Lyon poured coffee, took a sip, and then leaned back on the bench with his hands laced behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. It needed painting, but he would try to ignore that. “All you have.”
“As a special favor the ME went ahead and did the autopsy last night. It’s definitely death by asphyxiation.”
“Time?”
“He couldn’t be conclusive. She died anywhere between five and eight. She ate an extremely light lunch, perhaps nothing at all, so there was little in the stomach that would allow him to pinpoint the time. You already know that her immersion in hot water made body temperature a poor indicator of when she expired. We’ve officially set the time of death at between eight-o-five and eight-ten due to the other corroborative evidence.”
“By that I imagine you mean the running water, the light turning on, and the phone call?”
“You can’t get more conclusive than three separate indicators. We’re also sure that during that time span, you, Bea, Tanner, Smelts, Barbara Rustman, and McLean were either finishing drinks in the living room or in the dining room.”
“Which rules out everyone but the guards.”
“Not necessarily.”
Lyon leaned forward. “Oh?”
“We’ve discovered three important pieces of evidence. The guard dog that ran off was found poisoned in the woods near the wall. We also found fiber threads on the top of the wall near where the dog was killed. There are fresh footprints on either side of the wall. The guards claim they hadn’t been near that particular area in several days. I think Rustman climbed the wall, killed the dog, and was able to gain entrance into the house.”
“And how did he get into the murder room?”
“We haven’t figured that one out yet. Any more of that coffee, Bea?”
“You searched the room again?”
“We even drove steel spikes into the walls. That house is built like a brick sh … fortress. The walls are two feet thick and there’s no means of access to that bedroom except through the French doors at the balcony or the hall door.”
“The bedroom door to the hall was locked from the inside and the French doors were latched from the inside. How do you reconstruct it from what you have?”
“We feel there are two possibilities: Rustman got inside the house, somehow entered the room, surprised Serena in the tub, and killed her; or it’s one or more of the guards. They all have records for assault and would sell their sisters to a massage parlor for a buck and a half.”
“If it was the guards, why would they poison the dog and leave fibers on the wall?” Bea asked.
“To point suspicion at Rustman.”
“Motive.”
“Paid off. Everyone invited to that dinner party had a strong motive to kill Serena. Any one of them could have bribed one or more of the guards.”
“Well, thanks,” Bea said.
“Present company excluded. Either that, or Rustman survived his kidnapping and has been working his way up the corporation to Serena.”
“Killing people by asphyxiation along the way.”
“And there’s no word on where he is?”
“We still have the APB out for him, and we’ve searched every known haunt and staked them out … not a sign.”
“And maybe there’s another alternative.”
“Like what?”
“I’m not sure. Except we can’t tell anything until we know how the killer got in and out of that room. Is anyone out at the estate?”
“McLean’s at a hotel in Hartford, and I have the house sealed off and guarded.”
“I think I’d like to go out there.”
“I’ll radio and tell them you’re coming. I’m going home to bed.”
12
“Why are we doing this?”
Lyon’s arm rested in the open window as he drove toward the Truman house with nonchalant ease and at a moderate speed. “What do you mean?”
“Well, we’re all pretty much agreed that Dr. Bunting was killed by Maginacolda.”
“Most likely.”
“Then we should be out of it. Good Lord, Rocco’s got almost all his men on the case and now the state police are involved. Which means there’s no reason for us to look at any crime scenes.”
“We’re involved because Rocco wants us to be.”
“You know, Wentworth, you don’t fool me a bit. There’s a part of you that enjoys this, that relishes this break in your routine. Why don’t you take a vacation between books like other writers?”
Lyon looked over the hills that gently sloped down toward the valley where the Truman house rested. The upper stories of the house were now visible over the wall. He wanted to articulate his thoughts to his wife, but knew they must come out without pomposity, a quality she detested.
“I don’t suppose Serena Truman was my prime candidate for a favorite person.”
“Nor the others.”
“Certainly not Maginacolda and Falconer.”
“And you think those killings are related?”
“I think the telephone call I heard Smelts make to Serena places the ultimate responsibility for Rustman’s kidnapping with her.”
“Which leads back to the fact that Rustman is alive and active.”
“Maybe.”
“Oh, I hate it when you’re cryptic.”
“I don’t have the answers yet.”
“Then drive on, MacDuff.”
“In answer to your other question, I guess there is a part of me that’s fascinated with murder. It’s the ultimate crime and I’m obsessed by it.”
“Where do we start?”
“At the wall where they found the fabric fibers.”
Rocco had told Lyon that the fibers were found on the northerly wall, approximately 150 yards from the road. Lyon parked the Datsun up from the gate and began to pace off the yardage. He stopped at the appropriate distance and stepped back from the wall. “How tall was Rustman?”
“Five seven.”
“He’d have a hell of a time getting over the wall. If he had jumped and caught the edge, his hands would have been cut on the glass embedded on top and there would have been traces of blood.”
“Nope.”
“Idea?”
“Uh huh.” Bea walked briskly back to the car, got behind the wheel, and started the vehicle. She drove parallel to the wall and stopped near where Lyon stood. She left the car, climbed onto the hood and then onto the roof. Her head and shoulders were now above the wall. She looked down at Lyon. “I’m as tall as Rustman. Are there tire marks down there?”
He bent to examine the soft ground. “Yes. Not far from the plaster cast molds that Rocco made of the footprints.”
“Want me to go over the wall and leave some fiber from my derrière on the glass?”
“I’ll take your word you could do it. In the meantime, you’re denting the car roof.”
Bea climbed down. “It’s possible then?”
“Sure. But what about getting out again?”
“He didn’t come out this way. There’re plenty of places to hide on the grounds. Weren’t the guards called to the house when the police arrived?”
“I believe they were. He could have hidden and then just walked out.”
“It’s possible.”
They got back into the car, backed down the wall to the road, and drove to the gate. A uniformed cop was inside the gate, leaning against his car reading a paperback western. As their car approached, he looked up in annoyance until he recognized Lyon. “The chief said you’d be coming, Mr. Wentworth.” He opened the gate and they drove through.
“Now what?” Bea asked.
“We’re not going to make any forward momentum on this case until we discover how Serena was killed. At that p
oint we might be able to fill in the missing pieces.”
They parked by the front door and Lyon took a penciled diagram from his pocket. He examined it for a few moments.
“Lead on,” Bea said.
“I think we should start at the spot where the dead dog was found.”
They walked around the side of the house toward Serena’s window before turning at a right angle toward the wall. The body of the dead animal had been found twenty yards from the wall on a direct line with the murder-room window. The spot was near where the clothing fibers had been found, but it was obscured from the house by trees. Lyon stooped to examine the ground.
“See anything?”
“I’m not sure.” He got down on his hands and knees and ran his fingers across the grass. He stood up holding something.
“What is it?”
“A small piece of rubber.” He showed her a two-inch square of thin rubber sheeting. “Odd.”
“Do you think it means anything?”
“Help me find more pieces.”
“Oh, Lord. You know I have a phobia against weeds. Look at the dandelions.” They both got down on their hands and knees and bent over with their faces inches above the grass.
In ten minutes they were able to find a dozen minute pieces of rubber spread out in a pattern with a circumference of twenty feet. Lyon mentally noted where they had been found and looked up into the tree limbs that stretched overhead.
“I think I see it,” he said finally.
“See what?”
“Let me make sure.” He walked to a nearby oak and leaped to grasp a low limb. He swung his feet over the branch and pulled himself up. He held on to the trunk and reached for a higher limb.
“Your last involvement with a tree was a disaster.”
“I won’t fall.”
“The tree you cut down didn’t fall in the right direction either.”
Lyon found what he was looking for thirty feet above the ground. Wound around a medium-sized limb was a thin wire. Attached to the end of the wire was a small rubber snout. He reached for the wire, lost his footing, and swung out over open space with one hand clutching the limb.
“Lyon!”
“I’m all right.” He regained his footing on a lower branch. He’d seen enough of the wire to guess at its use. “Coming down.” He began a careful descent to the ground and an apprehensive Bea. “I need a dog.”
“What kind of dog?”
“Any grown male will do.”
“Wentworth! Are you really asking me to go get you a dog?”
“It wouldn’t have to be exclusively mine. We have been talking about getting one.”
“Are you serious?”
“Couldn’t be more.”
She trooped off toward the car. “A dog. Why not? Why do I get involved in these things?” She climbed into the Datsun and drove away.
Lyon walked back toward the house until he was directly below the murder-room window. The house wall was sheer to the second floor and the small ornamental balcony at Serena’s window. He stepped back until he had a full view of the complete side of the house. Above the balcony the wall continued upward to the slate roof without interruption. The nearest window in the third story of the house was a narrow affair near the roof. It was ten feet to the side of Serena’s balcony.
He sat back against a tree, a stalk of grass in his mouth. He remembered a time decades ago in a foreign and forlorn landscape. He felt the harsh wind that blew off the Korean hills and shivered as he recalled its chill of death.
He had sat and watched then, perched for hours in forward positions observing what could be seen of the enemy’s positions. He had placed himself in their minds as he attempted to fathom the unfathomable puzzle of war.
These murders were a war of a different sort. Men and women, good and bad, had died.
Lyon Wentworth looked toward the dead woman’s room and plotted murder.
He didn’t hear her approach until her arrival was announced by a deep woof. Bea clutched a heavy chain leash that was attached to a very large dog.
Another woof.
“I said a dog. Not a horse.”
“Isn’t he beautiful?” Bea ran a hand along the fawn-colored flanks of the Dane.
“Where did you get him?”
“At the animal shelter. He outgrew his owner’s three-room apartment.” The dog strained at the leash. His nose pointed toward the far wall at the edge of the grounds. “His father was a champion. His name is Count Nikolaus Von Zinzendorf. I thought we’d call him Nicky.”
The dog tore the leash from Bea’s hand and ran. He loped away from them in large bounds and headed toward the wall. “I hope the gate is closed,” Lyon said as the dog disappeared into a small grove of trees.
“It is.”
“I have a pretty good idea where he’s going. Let’s see.”
They set off after the dog and found him at the grassy spot where the dead attack dog had been discovered on the previous day. The Dane was sniffing the ground and turning frantically in a small circle.
“It’s the same scent that attracted the dog yesterday.”
“I had always heard that a trained attack dog would never leave his handler or eat food offered by anyone else.”
“That’s a trained dog. I’ll lay you ten to one that Smelts obtained that dog for Serena—cheap. He probably billed her for a trained attack dog and obtained one from God knows where.”
“Untrained?”
“From the pound. You can take the dog back now,” Lyon said as he started back to the house. “I want to take a look around inside.”
“Wentworth! Wait a minute!” Bea grabbed the dog’s loose leash and pulled the choke collar tight. She struggled after Lyon while pulling the recalcitrant dog. “Do you mean to say you wanted a dog for one measly test like that?”
“I wanted to verify my assumption.” He turned to her in shock. “You mean you thought we’d keep him?”
“You said you needed a dog, so I got a dog complete with papers.”
Lyon looked at the large animal sitting by Bea’s side. His haunches were splayed to the side in that odd sitting position of a Great Dane. “Looks like a nice pooch,” he said before turning to go back to the house.
“Oh, my God!” Bea slapped her forehead. “What I wouldn’t give to be back in the state senate where at least the insanity is formalized.” She jerked the leash. “Come on, Nicky. Follow that man.”
A carpenter was at work repairing the murder-room door as Lyon entered. The room was a disaster area. Rocco’s men and state police had moved and overturned furniture. A thin layer of plaster dust filmed all the uncovered surfaces. They had driven spikes into the thick walls in an attempt to locate a possible alternate entrance. He went into the bathroom, knelt by the tub, and turned the faucet on and off several times before leaving it on to allow a flow of hot water to fill the tub and spew steam into the air.
“I left Nicky tied downstairs,” Bea said.
He let the stopper down and watched the flow of water slowly fill the tub: “Can I borrow your watch?”
“I didn’t wear it this morning. You know, I gave you a watch for Christmas three years ago.”
“I need a clock with a second hand on it.” He left the bathroom and searched the room. The only clock available in the murder room was a clock-radio built into the bed’s headboard. He stepped back into the hall and entered the room next door. It was a masculine bedroom with deep chairs and heavy carpeting. There was a small electric clock on the night table which he unplugged and took back into the bathroom. He replugged it into the electrical outlet on the wall next to the medicine chest.
“Checking the time it takes the tub to fill and overflow?” Bea asked.
“Yes. There’s good pressure in the pipe system. It won’t take long.”
They both watched the filling tub as the water level rose gradually. Small rivulets of steaming water brimmed the top of the tub and began to seep across the floor. They b
acktracked from the room as the small streams fought their way toward the bedroom door.
“There must be a nearly imperceptible slant to the floor,” Bea said.
“The house probably settled years ago.”
The instant the crest of water reached the bedroom door, Lyon turned off the tub. He glanced at the small clock on the sink. “What time does that clock in the headboard read?”
“Eleven fifteen.”
“This one’s an hour behind.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure.”
“How long did the water take?”
“Eight minutes.”
“That’s within the time span.”
“I know.”
Lyon walked over to the French doors leading out to the small balcony and began to inspect the windowpanes closely. Bea righted an easy chair in the corner and sat down to observe her husband over folded hands. He was completely absorbed in his thorough examination. She often wondered how her eccentric husband, who often forgot to wear socks, was able to bring every particle of his conscious mind to bear on the problem of murder. There were strange currents within this man that after all these years she barely understood. He pulled a small bench from the dressing table to stand on and see the door’s upper panes.
“Find anything?”
“I think so.” He turned with a wry smile. “Let’s look at the rest of the house.”
He took her hand as they walked through the large house. Occasionally Lyon would leave her side and examine a door, a wall, or an odd piece of furniture.
“We’re not going to buy the place, you know,” she said.
“I would hope not. I find it oppressive.”
They stood in the living room where they had had cocktails at the time of the murder. Lyon walked to the telephone and lifted the receiver. He dialed random single numbers.
“Serena called Ramsey. He spoke to her for a few moments and then hung up. We talked for a few minutes in here and then went down the hall to the dining room.” Lyon walked into the hall with Bea following as he made his way slowly to the dining room. “Were we alone?”
“I think you and I were the first ones to arrive in the dining room.”
“It took a few minutes for the others to straggle in.”
The Death at Yew Corner Page 14
