The Death at Yew Corner

by Forrest, Richard;

  “Ramsey had removed a fuse in the cellar and also turned off the water. When Serena was dead, he turned on the light switch and the water faucet. Later he replaced the fuse and turned the water back on.”

  “Wait a minute,” Bea said. “When you and I were in the murder room, you got a clock from the room next door. It was an hour behind.”

  “Ramsey was astute enough to set the clock in the murder room ahead for the length of time he knew the electricity would be off. Evidently he didn’t realize that the room next door was on the same circuit. That’s what alerted me to the possibility of how it was done.”

  “Then who was his accomplice?” Kim asked.

  “There wasn’t one.”

  “Ah ha,” the black woman chortled. “There had to be. Your reenactment has a hole big enough to drive a truck through.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The phone call. You tell us Serena was dead long before eight, but someone called Ramsey McLean in the living room at eight. I can understand how he could pretend it was his wife on the line, but someone had to make that call.”

  “We all heard the phone ring,” Bea added.

  Lyon leaned across his desk and picked up the phone. “I assumed Ramsey was calling his answering service just before Serena supposedly called. He dialed, said something, and hung up.” Lyon dialed a series of numbers on his phone and hung up. “After he did that, Ramsey turned to me and asked a question. I replied.” The phone on Lyon’s desk rang. He let it ring three times before picking it up. “Yes,” he said into the receiver. “I understand … at eight … and so forth and so forth.” He hung up.

  “Who was it?” Bea asked.

  “No one. I did the same thing that Ramsey did that day in the living room.”

  “A telephone repairman’s callback,” Rocco said.

  “Exactly. When repairmen fix your phone, they have a certain number of digits that cause the phone to ring back on its own number after a five-second delay. In this phone district it’s simple enough … your own phone number plus a repeat of the last digit.”

  “Ramsey didn’t call his answering service. He was calling his own number.”

  “Right.”

  “And when the phone rang, he answered it and we all assumed it was Serena,” Bea said.

  “She was already dead,” Rocco said.

  “Yes. Then when we went in to dinner, Ramsey slipped back into the cellar to replace the fuse and turn on the water.”

  “Which gave the son of a bitch five witnesses to prove where he was during the time we thought the murder occurred.”

  “He was sure he was safe until today when he saw Lyon putting all the pieces together,” Bea said.

  “Which wraps it up,” Rocco said. “If we could only get the guy.”

  “You will,” Lyon said.

  She knew it was a dream because she wore her pink peignoir to the outdoor cafe. Others around her were formally dressed and Fabian Bunting sat across the small oval table sipping vermouth and smiling. Bea felt as if they had been talking for hours. It was a time long ago and yet near. She felt relieved that Fabian was much younger and still alive. A tall, cool drink was served by a faceless waiter and Bea leaned forward to ask her old teacher a dozen questions.

  Faby Bunting stood and Bea knew she was going to leave. There was a wistful smile on Fabian’s face. A smile not of sadness, but of fulfillment—it was over and Bea Wentworth’s ghosts were leaving.

  A cool wind swept down the Champs Élysées and she shivered and awakened.

  Something was wrong. Lyon was sitting upright in bed next to her. She felt the tense muscles in his thigh as his leg pressed against her. She lay without sound or movement as her eyes adjusted to the dim light.

  There was a dark bulk by Lyon’s side of the bed. A man was leaning over her husband and pressing something against his forehead.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Ramsey” was Lyon’s curt reply.

  “Out of bed, both of you.”

  “He has a gun.”

  They slipped simultaneously from their respective sides and groped for clothing. Ramsey retreated to the far side of the room. His hand brushed along the wall until it encountered the overhead light switch and flipped it on. The room was suddenly bright.

  If the man hadn’t held an automatic pistol on them, Bea might have laughed. She and Lyon were on opposite sides of the room slipping into trousers. They each had one foot in one leg and looked up in embarrassment when the light flicked on.

  “Hurry,” Ramsey said.

  Lyon zipped his pants and slipped into canvas boat shoes. “What are you going to do with us?”

  “Have you drive me out of here.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we’ll see. I can’t think of a better couple to get me past Herbert’s roadblocks.”

  Bea saw the Great Dane standing in the doorway behind Ramsey. The large dog’s lips were pulled back to reveal long fangs as he gave a low growl. His head turned slowly one way and then the other. He would attack the intruder. His huge body would hurtle through the air and throw the man to the floor where Lyon could wrest the pistol from Ramsey’s grasp.

  Ramsey half turned and looked at the dog in the doorway. He reached his free hand back toward the animal. “Here, boy.”

  The dog lumbered over to the outstretched hand and licked the fingers. So much for that, Bea thought.

  “Where are the car keys?” The pistol turned from one to the other.

  “Hanging on the corkboard in the kitchen. We have a Datsun wagon and a pickup.”

  “The Datsun will do. Come on, downstairs.” Ramsey stepped aside and motioned with the gun for them to walk ahead.

  Lyon took her hand as they walked through the doorway together. They went down the stairs that way, walking as slowly as possible, afraid to reach the kitchen, find the keys, and go out to the car in the drive.

  “Where have you been?” Lyon asked.

  “In the pines not a hundred yards from your house.”

  “You hid your car in there?”

  “Cut the chatter, Wentworth, and get me the keys.”

  “You’ve been watching the house all evening?”

  “I saw Herbert and your black friend leave.”

  Lyon knew he would kill them. He also knew that in the event they were stopped by a roadblock, Rocco would let them through. He would stall for time, but let them pass in the hope that somewhere further on a rescue could be made.

  There would be no rescue. The man with the gun was desperate, cunning, and determined. He had killed so many times recently that two more would be insignificant.

  “Hurry up! Damn it! The keys.”

  “I have them.” Lyon slipped the car keys off the peg on the corkboard, and turned to face Ramsey, who was standing in the kitchen doorway.

  Bea saw the movement behind their captor the instant Lyon did and stepped quickly to the side.

  Mandy Summers and Rocco Herbert stood silently behind Ramsey. Rocco slid the Magnum from its holster and raised the heavy handgun with his left hand supporting the right until the barrel was inches from the rear of Ramsey’s head.

  Mandy’s eyes were frightened. Lyon realized that the insomniac woman had been working in the spare bedroom all evening. She had undoubtedly seen the dark figure of McLean cross the side yard and heard him force his way into the house. She had phoned Rocco.

  “You’re going to kill us, aren’t you?” Bea said.

  “Not if you cooperate. Open the door, Beatrice.”

  Bea turned the latch on the side door. Her eyes never left the three people standing in the hall. Ramsey’s gun was pointed directly at Lyon.

  “Move and you’re a dead man,” Rocco’s voice uttered a low and menacing command.

  Ramsey’s shoulder twitched, but his gun never wavered from Lyon. “Herbert?”

  “Drop it, McLean,” Rocco’s voice was nearly a whisper.

  “Your friend dies,” Ramsey said.
Lyon saw a small nerve in the man’s chin twitching spasmodically.

  “So do you.” Rocco’s voice dropped another register so that the words were barely audible to Bea and Lyon at the far side of the kitchen. Ramsey’s eyes glistened in a combination of fright and blood lust.

  Rocco was going to kill Ramsey. Lyon looked from the police chief’s face to the strained countenance of the man aiming at him. Ramsey’s face might be taut with tension, but the hand holding the automatic was steady.

  Lyon suspected that he knew more about weapons than the murderer did. Rocco would fire, and the huge muzzle velocity of the Magnum would knock Ramsey from his feet and kill him instantly. He might be able to fire at Lyon, but the odds were excellent that the impact of the killing bullet would deflect his shot. Handguns at any range are notoriously inaccurate, but Rocco was too close to miss.

  Ramsey McLean would die, and perhaps there was a fitting justification to that. A life taken in some ancient code of retribution.

  It could not happen. It must not happen.

  “Rocco … Don’t!” Lyon stepped toward Ramsey, directly into the muzzle blast of the automatic, as both guns fired simultaneously.

  15

  The wheels of the stretcher creaked as it moved across the living-room carpet. It was pushed by men in white. Lyon turned his head to watch it approach. Death did not come in black. It arrived in white, worn by bored men who had seen it all.

  He became aware of his body and tentatively stretched. His head hurt, but he was alive. His hand moved slowly toward his head to feel the damp cloth covering his forehead. His eyes focused up at Bea and Rocco as they hovered over the divan where he lay.

  “I think I’m alive.”

  “You shouldn’t be. You damn fool!” Rocco turned and walked into the kitchen.

  “His bullet grazed your head,” Bea said. “You better go to the emergency room and have it looked at.”

  “I’ll be all right.” He struggled to sit up and felt dizzy, but Bea’s hands under his shoulders supported him. He swung his feet off the side of the couch and leaned back against the cushions until a wave of nausea passed.

  Mandy Summers stood in the corner of the room looking at the body sprawled in the kitchen doorway. The ambulance attendants were arranging a body bag.

  They watched the attendants who, with professional efficiency, rolled the body into the bag and lifted it onto the stretcher in one even motion. Lyon had a vivid picture of Ramsey, only minutes before, standing in the doorway. Now McLean was dead and he was alive. “What happened?”

  “For some reason you stepped toward Ramsey and he fired. Rocco had to shoot. He didn’t have any choice.”

  “I didn’t mean for it to happen that way.”

  They were silent as the stretcher creaked across the room toward the door.

  “The book is done, Mr. Wentworth,” Mandy Summers said.

  “What book?”

  “The one I’ve been retyping. It’s about these monsters called the Wobblies that …”

  “I know what it’s about, Mandy.”

  “I guess my job here is finished.”

  “I’m afraid I really don’t have anything else for you to do.”

  “We want to thank you for what you did tonight, Mandy. You saved our lives.”

  “I thought it was that man when I saw him sneaking across the yard. You’ve both been very nice to me.”

  “You know, Mandy, I could arrange for you to have an interview with the state personnel department. They need people with your skills.”

  “Thank you, but I tried that, Mrs. Wentworth. They won’t hire anyone who’s a convincted felon.”

  “I believe I could arrange a waiver for you.”

  “Could you?” For the first time since they had known her, Mandy Summers’ face showed vestiges of animation.

  “I think I can guarantee it.”

  A deep series of barks from outside the house interspersed with male cursing precluded all further conversation. Lyon started for the door, but stopped at the edge of the couch as a wave of dizziness broke over him. “That dog’s got to go.”

  Kim Ward entered the house holding on to the Dane’s collar. “Your hound almost ate two attendants and one ambulance.” She let go of the collar. “Are you two all right?”

  “Lyon’s going to have a headache, but yes, we’re all right.”

  “Was Rocco the one who …?”

  “Rocco killed him,” Lyon said softly.

  “How is he?”

  “Seems all right.”

  For the first time they became aware of the scraping sound from the kitchen. Lyon walked toward the kitchen door and grabbed the edge of the stove to steady himself. “My God, Rocco! Don’t do that.”

  His oldest friend didn’t answer. Rocco Herbert was down on his hands and knees by the kitchen wall where Ramsey McLean had once stood. He had a bucket of soapy water by his side and was vehemently scrubbing the bloodstained floor with a stiff brush. He didn’t look up.

  Bea whispered in Lyon’s ear. “What’s he doing?”

  “Rocco, stop that.”

  “I killed him” was the chief’s reply.

  “You had to. You saved our lives.”

  “Yes, I had to.” The reply was nearly inaudible.

  Bea looked at Lyon with a significance that didn’t need expression. She crossed the room and bent down near the sink to rummage through a cabinet. She found another brush, knelt next to Rocco, and began to scrub.

  Lyon braced his back against the wall as he watched his wife and friend desperately try to remove the bloodstains.

  He wanted to cry but knew it wouldn’t help. He knelt next to them to help scrub.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Lyon and Bea Wentworth Mysteries

  1

  He decided not to rape her.

  It might be interesting to force himself upon her and watch her humiliation and degradation, but that wasn’t part of the plan. He couldn’t help but be attracted to her. She exuded a sexuality in the simplest of her movements that he found disconcerting. Erotic images kept recurring, but he forced the thoughts back into the tight mental compartments where they belonged.

  The days of following her every movement had forced her into his dreams, and that hadn’t been in the plan either. There would be time. If he changed his mind later, there would always be the opportunity to do with her what he wanted.

  But this had to be done tonight.

  The plans were complete. Necessary peripheral events had been set in motion, and the whole complex was building up an internal velocity that would fly out of control unless he proceeded with its final execution.

  Yes, it had to be tonight.

  The location was not of his choosing, but dictated by her personal habits. He had followed her carefully for three weeks, charting her moves and timing her actions with a stopwatch clenched in a damp fist until he had reached a point where he could accurately predict nearly every movement of her day.

  As with most people, her actions fell into a predictable pattern.

  It couldn’t be done at her home. Although the house was located on an isolated tract of land wooded on three sides, with the fourth overlooking the Connecticut River, there were inherent risks. He had observed the house through binoculars, but had never actually been inside, and he knew from experience that people who lived in rural areas often had various weapons close at hand. Then there was her husband, who seemed to be constantly at her side while she was home.

  Her weekdays were spent at the State Capitol, where she was never alone. Her activities at the Capitol were at a frenzied pace: senate sessions, committee meetings, or a party caucus that surrounded her with fellow legislators, lobbyists, or constituents.

  He had briefly considered making the attempt on an isolated stretch of road. It would be possible to force her car off the highway onto the shoulder and continue from there. He had discarded that possibility after calculating the probability of passing motorists wh
o might come to her aid or later identify his van.

  It was logical that it be done at the shopping center where she stopped every Thursday evening from seven until nine.

  The Murphysville, Connecticut, shopping mall was located on the outskirts of town. It was anchored on one end by a Stop and Shop supermarket and on the far side by a branch of Caldor’s discount house. The interior of the leg of the center was occupied by a pharmacy, liquor store, and bookstore.

  Bea Wentworth followed the same pattern each Thursday evening. She parked her car at seven, then spent ten minutes browsing in the bookstore and half an hour in the discount store. She finished by doing a week’s grocery shopping at the supermarket. She pushed her grocery cart to the small station wagon and loaded her items through the tailgate, after which she drove briskly back to Nutmeg Hill, arriving around nine o’clock.

  On the first night he followed her, he had gone into the bookstore knowing that he could safely browse without appearing conspicuous.

  He had fled the store when he had come upon the large display of Wentworth children’s books. A man-size cutout of a Wobbly monster had stared at him with red accusing eyes. A dozen of Lyon Wentworth’s childrens’ books with gaily colored dust jackets were clutched in the creature’s paws.

  He had left the store hurriedly and huddled in the shadows of a nearby phone booth.

  Tonight she had parked two dozen feet from the nearest light pole. Her car was partially in the shadows and he had been lucky enough to find a space two removed where he could park the van.

  He would do it while she fumbled with her keys to unlock the tailgate.

  He watched Bea enter the supermarket and then returned to his van. He had promised himself a cigarette, and stripped the cellophane off a new package and slowly extracted one. He tapped it methodically against the steering wheel, ceremoniously lit it, and leaned back against the headrest to savor the mellow glow of anticipation.

  Lyon Wentworth sighed. The Wobblies were gone.

  They had retreated to some dark, secret place where they now rested with limpid eyes and slowly thumping tails. They were quiet, nearly comatose, and he barely felt their vitality. They had been missing for several days now and he needed them. They would not speak or let their presence be known in any manner, and that made it impossible for him to translate their adventures onto the typewriter that sat so disapprovingly before him.