“Mr. E. mentioned a tontine. I can’t figure out how that fits into a perfectly legal land purchase.”
“Four weeks later the Darling Corporation conveyed the same property to four individuals as joint tenants.”
Lyon looked at the deed. “Conveyed to Giles, Esposito, Blossom and Damon Snow. The tontine.”
“How’s that?”
“I’ll explain later. Right now, I’d like to look at that property.”
Using the property description from the deed and the large topographical map in the clerk’s office, they were able to pinpoint the location of the acreage as being near the Interstate highway, several miles from the village center.
They parked on the grassy shoulder, with the car’s wheels canted into a drainage ditch. Lyon held the rusty strands of barbed wire apart as Bea slipped between them and began to walk through the meadow. He bent to pick up a clump of dirt and let it run through his fingers. “Good land.”
“From what you’ve told me of Sal Esposito, I can’t imagine him turning farmer.”
A high wooded hill rose at the far extreme of the property. The highway bordered the property to the south, and they could hear the distant murmur of traffic. Something bright glinted in the sun from the direction of the highway, and they walked toward the reflecting object.
As they neared the transit oh its tripod, they could see the surveyor with his head at the eyepiece, signaling to the distant rod man with an upraised arm. He looked up as they approached. “Help you folks?”
“Why are you surveying here?”
The engineer folded the tripod and hefted it over his shoulder. “New highway exit ramp.”
Lyon looked at Bea. “I think maybe our tontine members weren’t going to grow barley after all.”
Bea sighed. “I know. The state highway commissioner wants the first congressional district nomination next year and will talk with me confidentially.”
“Exactly.”
Kim and Bea simultaneously shuddered as the chalk squeaked. “Motive,” Lyon wrote.
“WE CAN DO WITHOUT THE CHALK TALK!” Bea said and took the chalk from his fingers. “Just tell us.”
“Thank God,” Rocco said into his vodka. “Can we hurry up? I’ve got to get home before dark.”
“O.K.,” Lyon said. “Let me run through it. Tom Giles was one of the most prominent real-estate lawyers in the area. He also represented many other clients, including Damon Snow and his factory, Dr. Blossom, and the Dauntless Racing Company.”
“Why Dr. Blossom?” Kim asked.
“Happenstance. When the doctor and his disciples came to Connecticut and bought the Claxton mansion, they retained Tom to handle the purchase and also to help them qualify as a religious corporation under the statutes.”
“How do you know that?” Rocco asked.
Lyon gestured toward Bea. “The charter at the secretary of state’s office shows that Blossom’s papers were filed by Giles, and the land records in Murphysville indicate that the deed to the Blossom people was returned to Giles as attorney of record.”
“I’m with you,” Rocco said. “That establishes the initial relationship between Giles and Dr. Blossom. How does Damon Snow fit in?”
“Tom represented Damon for years.”
“And Esposito?”
“We can only conjecture about that. As I see it, Tom Giles knew that the racing company was looking for a large tract of land in a town that would be receptive to the track. He also knew of such a parcel, but couldn’t swing the purchase cash by himself. He persuaded Damon to put in a share, and then Dr. Blossom, because he knew that the religious group was heavily into real estate. I think he approached Esposito when he couldn’t raise the rest of the cash and began to get desperate.”
“Right, so they all climbed into bed together.”
“Giles formed the Darling Corporation, purchased the land, and optioned it to the racing company immediately after they had conveyed the land to themselves as joint tenants.”
“Do you know the option price?”
“Friends at the State Gaming Commission were helpful,” Bea said. “The option will be exercised next month at five million dollars.”
“My God!”
Kim looked puzzled. “I still don’t see which or what is a tontine.”
“The land is now held in the name of the four individuals as joint tenants.”
Rocco pulled on his drink and rattled ice. “My wife and I own our house in survivorship. Is that the same?”
“Not exactly,” Lyon said. “As joint tenants, on the death of one, the property automatically passes to the remaining owners without passing through the estate of the deceased.”
“Ah. The last man in gets the whole pie.”
“For a cash investment of a hundred thousand dollars, the survivor of the tontine will make five million.”
“Then it’s Damon or Dr. Blossom.”
“All of us here are witnesses to Damon Snow’s whereabouts the night Esposito was killed.”
“Wait a minute,” Kim said excitedly. “The Giles plane held only two people, right? So if either Snow or Blossom is a pilot, we’ve got him, right?”
“Wrong,” Bea retorted. “I checked with the FAA. Neither of them is or ever has been a licensed pilot.”
“They could have paid someone.”
“They could have.”
The phone rang, and as Lyon automatically reached for it, Rocco put his fingers to his lips. “If it’s Helen, I left five minutes ago.”
“Yes,” Lyon said into the receiver, and then he passed it to Rocco.
Rocco looked stricken. “I told you: five minutes ago,” he whispered, with his hand over the mouthpiece. “Yes, Chief Herbert here.… When, Norbie?… Are you sure?… Thanks. Be down in the morning.” He hung up and stood. “That’s it.”
“Not another …”
“No. The State Police have just arrested Karen Giles and Gary Middleton for the murder of Tom Giles.”
“There’s not enough evidence for a conviction,” Lyon said.
“There is now. They obtained a search warrant and went into Middleton’s A-frame. The murder weapon was found hidden in the springs of the couch. Ballistics positively identifies it as the weapon that killed Giles.”
10
The Cedarcrest Toy Company was housed in a low modernistic building that nestled in the woods on the outskirts of town. Rocco turned the cruiser through the covered bridge spanning the narrow Morgan River. Beyond the river, a broad, flat field stretched toward the woods and the secluded parking lot of the factory. As they walked toward the executive offices, Lyon stopped before a rustic sign:
CEDARCREST TOYS
A delight to millions
Guided Tours: Tuesdays and Thursdays 10:00 A.M.
“I should do that someday,” he said, half aloud.
Rocco grabbed his arm. “Come on.”
In the waiting room, Rocco approached the reception desk while Lyon stood admiringly before a glass case of handcrafted lead soldiers arranged in a duplication of the Battle of Bunker Hill.
“Damon will be with us in five minutes,” Rocco said.
“I think I have something.”
“Damn! I knew you would. It’s Dr. Blossom, right?”
“The Tarantula and the Toys.”
“Christ!”
Damon Snow’s office was a slanted, windowless oval. In the center of the room a draftsman’s table was mounted on a swivel platform. The perimeter of the room was illuminated with pinpoint spotlights in various colors that shone on a dozen dolls, all alike, placed in various positions.
The table swiveled to face the door as Damon looked up and slid off the stool. “Lyon, Rocco, good to see you.” He shook hands warmly. “I’m sober, Chief, I really am. Haven’t had a drink since that ignominious night of the party.”
“It can happen to anyone,” Rocco said.
Lyon stooped to examine one of the dolls. Each doll, blond hair hanging to her waist, stoo
d before a mirror frame. “Of course. It’s Alice and the Looking Glass.”
“That’s right. They’re the first run of a new line we’re thinking of putting out. I like to bring them in to live with me for a week or so. That way I can make necessary changes—turn the mouth perhaps, a larger smile, whatever. Last week I had a dozen six-foot Wobblies living with me. Crowded as hell.”
Rocco and Lyon sat in Swedish side chairs as Damon leaned against the drawing board. “You didn’t tell us you were involved with Tom Giles,” Rocco said abruptly.
“You didn’t ask.”
“That’s a hell of an answer.”
“That was a hell of a question. There’s never been any secret about it. Tom was my attorney for ten years. He handled all our corporate legal work, purchase of this property, our trademarks, the whole works.”
“And the Darling Corporation.”
Damon slid onto the stool and propped his elbows on the drawing board. “That was a side business deal. Tom talked me into taking a piece of the action. Said we’d all make a bundle.”
“How much?”
“You know, fellows, we’re friends and all that, but don’t you think my financial affairs are my own private business?”
“Not in the case of murder.”
“You think Tom’s death was tied to the Darling Corporation?”
“It’s possible.”
“I saw in this morning’s paper that the police have charged Karen Giles and her boyfriend.”
“That doesn’t explain Esposito’s death—another partner of yours.”
“Hey, come on! You two aren’t serious.”
“Whose idea was it to transfer the property from the corporation to individuals as joint tenants?” Lyon asked.
“I’m not quite sure; it seemed to be a mutual understanding at the time. Tom told us he was in marital difficulties, and we could all envision a divorce dispute over money, and legal action that might attach his shares and not allow us to sell the parcel. Tom felt that taking the property jointly might help somewhat. Wait a minute. If the police have charged Karen Giles, how do they explain Esposito? The way the property is held, Karen doesn’t get a dime out of it. She doesn’t stand to benefit by either death, unless you call getting rid of her husband a benefit.”
“No. Only you and Dr. Blossom benefit as far as the property is concerned.”
“What about Esposito?” Damon pressed.
“The State Police mark it up as an organization hit.”
“And you don’t?”
“No,” Lyon said quietly. “You were aware of the tontine effect of the new deed?”
“Tontine?”
“That the survivors automatically receive the deceased’s portion.”
“Well, yes. But it was set up to keep it away from Karen, and Tom said there would be certain tax advantages.”
Lyon tented his fingers and leaned back in his chair to think over what he knew of Damon Snow. Ten years earlier he had arrived unannounced at Nutmeg Hill to plead for the rights to manufacture Wobbly dolls. During the course of the afternoon, they had struck a bargain and had notified Tom Giles to draw up the proper papers. Later he had driven Damon through Murphysville. Damon had shown an interest in the region and asked for a tour of the surrounding area.
“I’ve never really grown up,” Damon had told him that afternoon. “Believe it or not, my father was a pickle canner, and if anything is likely to turn a person off when he considers his future life, canning pickles will do it. I kicked around a lot, dropped out of several distinguished colleges, and finally by chance landed a temporary job in the design room of a large toy company. I stayed for two years, and when Dad died and the pickle empire passed to me, I sold it off and started my own toy company.”
An innocuous background, Lyon thought. A pleasant, productive life, and as far as he knew, except for the one drunken escapade, Damon was a decent person. But then, five million dollars could stretch a lot of honor.
The smile had long faded from Damon’s face as he looked belligerently at Rocco. “You know, Herbert, it just occurred to me that I don’t like your attitude.”
“I never thought of myself as being in a popularity contest.”
“The first selectman will hear of this. You can’t barge into a responsible businessman’s office and start accusing him of murder. I find your attitude particularly obnoxious since you know damn well where I was when both men were killed. I was with you—the two of you.”
“We’re making routine inquiries, Mr. Snow,” Rocco said with an undertone of veiled authority.
“You are? A small-town cop and a children’s writer who used to be my friend.… Leave it to the professionals.”
“Don’t get temperamental, Damon,” Lyon said.
“Crap! I’m waiting for the next question—whether I hired some hood to knock those guys off.”
“We’re not suggesting any such thing.”
“Why don’t you talk to that Oriental creep, Dr. Blossom?”
“We intend to.”
“You were in the service, weren’t you?” Lyon asked.
“Same time as you two guys. What did they call it?—World War Two Point Five.”
“Air Force?”
“Army. My branch was artillery. If you ever find anyone knocked off with a 155 howitzer, I might be your man. Now, do you mind?”
“Thank you for your cooperation,” Rocco said automatically.
“Alice in Wonderland,” Lyon said. “Through the Looking Glass.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Damon asked irritably.
“Nothing was as it seemed,” Lyon responded.
Rocco stopped the police cruiser inside the small covered bridge over the Morgan River. He hunched over the wheel.
“Forget something?”
“I was just thinking what a great place this would be for a speed trap. I’ll put the radar unit up the road in the tall grass and …”
“Come on, Rocco.”
“O.K.” He turned the ignition key, and the car jumped out of the bridge, squealed as it turned into the right-hand lane and accelerated toward Plank Road. “Damon can be scratched as a suspect. We’re his alibi.”
“Accomplices?”
“Unlikely. Do you realize how difficult it really is to hire someone to kill somebody? If you’re like Damon, it’s almost impossible. If you’re a man with Esposito’s background, the going rate is about three thousand. The ordinary middle-class person just has no way of making contact with a hit man.”
“Which leaves Toranga Blossom.”
“The Reverend Doctor,” Rocco replied and turned onto the access road toward the Claxton mansion.
The Claxton mansion was a tall white house in the Venetian style. A high wall breached only by large wrought-iron gates surrounded the property. Rocco braked the cruiser in front of the gate, with the fender brushing the metal, and honked impatiently.
“This had been the Claxton homestead for three generations,” Lyon said. “I was surprised when they sold it.”
“The last of the line bought a condominium in Florida. And unless he’s got a crew of disciples willing to work for free, who could afford to run and maintain an elephant like this?”
A triumvirate of white-robed young men with shaved heads moved slowly down the drive toward the gates. There was open hostility in their faces as they looked toward the police car. Rocco stuck his head out the window. “Official business.”
They exchanged glances, then one stepped forward. “This is sacred ground, and unless you have a warrant …”
“Listen, sonny. I can get a warrant. But if I do, I will be ticked off, and that bodes no good for sacred ground. Now, open the damn gate, or do I have to run this vehicle through it?”
As the gate reluctantly swung open, Rocco waited until the aperture was wide enough for the car, and then gunned down the winding drive with a screech of tires.
“You’re proving something,” Lyon said as they approached the p
ortico.
“Probably. You know, I wish I could get my lawn to look like this.”
“Get some disciples.”
The car stopped under the arch, and they were met by two more robed figures who seemed to have been cloned from the original three. “Dr. Blossom here?”
“It is time for his morning meditation,” a low voice answered.
“I’d like him to meditate with me a few minutes,” Rocco said.
One of the disciples hurriedly shuffled off. Lyon and Rocco, standing on the white steps in front of the ornate front door, were closely observed by the remaining disciples. “How are the townspeople taking the establishment of this religious community?” Lyon asked.
“Badly. I’m getting it from both ends: petitions from residents and calls from irate parents who want me to raid the place and get their kids back.”
“Wait until the kidnapping for deprogramming starts.”
“That’s one hassle I’ll gladly leave to Norbie.”
“Did you know that before the Mormons made the trek from Illinois to Utah, Nauvoo was the largest city west of Philadelphia?”
“I’ll remember that,” Rocco said as he glanced up at the returning disciple.
“This way, please.”
They were led through the mansion to a glass-paneled door through which the Reverend Dr. Blossom could be seen bending over a white desk. The disciple knocked discreetly, and Blossom motioned them in. Lyon slipped out of his sneakers, padded to the desk and bowed. “Dr. Toranga Blossom, I am Lyon Wentworth.”
The Oriental looked up. He was resplendent in white trousers, white shoes and a soft white turtleneck. He stepped around the desk with an extended hand. “Call me Tony.”
Lyon, nonplused, straightened and automatically extended his hand. “We’re sorry to impose on your meditation.”
Blossom waved a deprecating hand. “Just a P and L on a fast-food franchise I’m thinking of getting into.” He motioned toward a corner of the room where a deep white sofa and easy chairs were arranged in a semicircle. “Doesn’t the hot pavement hurt your feet?”
Lyon looked at his bare feet, and then across the room to where his sneakers were neatly aligned by the door. “I think I will put them on.” He slipped his feet into the sneakers and paused before a picture frame containing a mounted scarf and a white ribbon with a red spot in the center.
Death Through the Looking Glass Page 10
