Lyon watched from the door as a flagrant violator in a green Corvette sped through the stop sign without slowing. The sin was compounded as the sports car proceeded to swing past a stopped school bus.
Rocco’s hand never toggled the talk button on the small radio on the table in front of him.
Lyon carried a pony of sherry back to the booth. Rocco had been born and raised in Murphysville and was already chief of the small police force when Lyon and Bea began to renovate Nutmeg Hill. The two men had met earlier during their military service. Rocco, a mustang officer commissioned from the ranks, was a Ranger in charge of the division’s reconnaissance platoon. Lyon, fresh from college, was an officer on the staff of Division G-2. He was often thrown in contact with Rocco when the Ranger officer acted as the division’s eyes and ears. The friendship had continued on through the years. Their divergent personalities seemed to complement each other in an odd manner, making for a strong pairing.
Lyon slipped into the booth opposite Rocco. “Catch many today?”
“A few. This case is a real bastard, isn’t it?”
“True. You don’t find many guys shot dead with minié balls these days,” Lyon answered.
“As I told you he would, Norby has requested a murder warrant from the state’s attorney for Loyce Swan. Since she’s in his temporary custody at the barracks, if he gets the warrant, which he will, he controls the case and I’m out of it.”
“See no other suspects, hear no other suspects,” Lyon said.
Rocco shrugged. “That’s about it. He’s got a wronged wife who was home alone with the victim. A possible murder weapon was under her bed with her prints on it. Loyce had motive and opportunity.”
“Then the lab has established the antique carbine as the murder weapon?”
“The minié balls’ lead was so soft that they flattened out on impact, which obliterated any distinguishing marks. So the rifle cannot specifically be identified as the murder weapon.”
“Bridgeway House is practically a museum for Civil War stuff. There must be a dozen carbines out there. Anyone could have had access to a similar piece.”
“Norby pointed out that the weapon you found in the bedroom had been fired recently. Loyce says that on a lark her husband test-fired it.”
“Damn, Rocco,” Lyon said. “There’s reasonable doubt.”
“Norbert’s turned up a recent life insurance policy with the wife as a beneficiary. He’d execute her tomorrow if the law allowed it.”
“I personally don’t believe Loyce killed her husband,” Lyon said. “I spoke with her alone minutes after it happened and I believe her.”
“You’re operating on an emotional level. I don’t necessarily agree that she’s innocent, Lyon, but I do want the case kept open. I don’t like blinders on police work.”
“Explain that one.”
“Markham Swan was a known ladies’ man. He was murdered in his own home. His wife admits handling the possible murder weapon and is the logical suspect. What about others? Norby is closing the door to any other suspects. As far as he is concerned, no further investigation is necessary unless it’s for additional evidence to hang Loyce even higher.”
“Then no one is interested in Peyton Piper, who we know was unhappy with Markham? We also know Peyton was alone outside the cottage at the time of the murder. That’s in addition to the fact that he admits he was ready to fire the guy in the morning. Then there’s Peyton’s wife, who had an affair with the deceased. Which raises the question of how angry was the jilted woman, or how upset was her husband over the affair? We also seem to have a bunch of people running around the estate about the time of the killing, including one congressman, a bunch of security guards, and the young man caught in bed with Paula. What’s his name?”
“Chuck Fraxer.”
“Right,” Lyon said. “He was skulking around the estate at the time of the murder. He might also be upset with Swan if he thought that an older man made a pass at his girl. And this is only the short list, there might be others.”
“Exactly,” Rocco agreed. “We haven’t even started to look.”
“Markham claimed he had information concerning a possible threat against Paula’s life.”
Rocco arched an eyebrow. “A tie-in, maybe?”
“Are you asking me, Rocco? You’re the police officer. I write children’s books.”
“And you’ve got a mind that fits a weird case like this.”
Lyon laughed. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not.”
“Now you see what I mean about Norby’s warrant. He’s focused his investigation in one direction and knocked out all other suspects. I want to put the boots to the little bantam rooster, Lyon. Once and for all, he’s got to be taught. That’s where you come in.”
“Wait a minute, big chief. I am not going to be a part of any games you are playing with your brother-in-law. I have a contract for another Wobbly book, Rocco. I did say that I’d meet with Rabbit to find out what in the hell the Piper Pie is. I’ll turn that information over to you and then I’m done.”
Rocco shrugged. “Loyce will probably be out of prison in twenty or thirty years. Can you finish your book by then?”
“That’s not fair.”
“Ask Loyce what’s fair if you’re so convinced of her innocence. All I need from you is an hour’s work beside finding out about the Pie. I’m talking just sixty minutes, and you’re just about the only person who can do it.”
Each knew that the last time such a request had been made it had turned into a dangerous two weeks. But Rocco held important chits and his look signified that he was calling one in.
Lyon sighed in resignation. “What quickie task did you have in mind?”
“Someone’s got to check out Markham Swan’s papers.”
“You mean his manuscript? The book he was researching for the Piper Corporation?”
“Yep. Norby doesn’t seem to have any interest in the material since he’s convinced that the wife is the perp. If Swan possessed information about family problems, skeletons, and so forth, it would be somewhere in his papers.”
“You’re right, of course. The guy was a writer,” Lyon said. “Everything he learned would be somewhere in his notes.”
“It’s a few minutes’ work,” Rocco said.
Lyon stood on the graves of generations of small people and looked out over the Piper Pie.
The burial mounds of the Welch clan faced a weathered marble obelisk that stood guard over the Piper family plot. The tall monument was located in front of a white granite mausoleum that marked the center of the Piper Pie. The gravesites radiated out from the needle-shaped monument in neat rows. This arrangement made the graveyard look like a pie neatly divided into wedges.
Rabbit waved his hand at the obelisk and mausoleum. “That little arrangement is the original colonel’s,” he said. “They have his bones stuck in a crypt inside.”
“How long did the colonel live?” Lyon asked. “This Piper history lore is confusing me.”
Rabbit laughed. “They were all colonels. The guy planted in the mausoleum was the first one. He earned his rank in the Civil War.”
“Heroism in battle?” Lyon asked.
“Money to the governor. He was appointed colonel after he recruited and paid to equip his regiment,” Rabbit said. “My great-grandfather served with him. Or was it my great-great-grandfather? Anyway, my granddaddy was wounded in battle at Antietam and came back here a cripple.”
The battle of Sharpsburg if you’re from the South, Lyon thought. “In other words, each generation of the Piper family has a patriarch who becomes the colonel?”
“A colonel one way or the other. Sometimes they actually go to war and earn the rank, but that’s dangerous. Far safer to have a governor appoint them colonel of the foot guard or militia or something. It’s Peyton Piper’s turn this generation, but that’s going to be a little difficult since he spent the Vietnam war running the company’s Canadian division. I think P
eyton’s going to have to go to Kentucky and grease the gov down there for his title.”
“Tell me about Katherine Piper, Rabbit.”
The butler turned away from the graves and looked over the hills. “Nothing to tell. Katherine lives with Peyton at Bridgeway. That’s about enough to drive anyone to drink. She’s an unhappy person married to a very unpleasant guy. He makes me want to give up gas stations to mug munitions manufacturers.”
“Then why do you stay on at Bridgeway?”
“I’ve tried to leave two dozen times, but something keeps pulling me back.” He plucked a long blade of grass and placed it in the corner of his mouth. “Hey, maybe it’s fate and damnation. We Welches are tied to this place the same as the Pipers. Our dead are mixed with their dead, our living with theirs. I don’t like Peyton, but would die for his wife or daughter, so things seem to balance out.”
“Why did Swan think Paula was in danger?”
Scudding clouds moved across the promontory, obscuring the ramparts of the distant Bridgeway house. As the sky dimmed, tendrils of mist reached toward the apex of the slender monument towering over the graves.
“Paula’s danger was in being boffed by that scum Swan.”
“Can you think of anyone else on the estate who might have wanted to kill Swan?”
“It would be a long list, with me near the top.”
Lyon believed him. “Are you and Peyton together on that list?”
“Probably. Okay, you’ve seen the Piper Pie,” Rabbit said. “What more can I show you?”
“You can tell me what Markham Swan meant in his note when he said the Pie proved something.”
“He was probably trying to arrange a meeting with Paula,” Rabbit countered.
“I don’t think so. Let’s walk through it,” Lyon said as he started down the gentle slope in a direct line toward the obelisk. He tried to recall the exact wording of the note Markham had sent to Paula. “The Piper Pie proves it. You are going to die this month. Come to the gate cottage at nine tonight and I will show you how I know.”
Rabbit and Lyon walked the carefully laid-out rows. Each headstone was identical in shape and size except for the center monument, which celebrated the life and death of Caleb Piper. Lyon walked over to the front of the monument to read its inscription:
CALEB PIPER
B 1820 D 1890
COLONEL
“My granddaddy knew him well since he worked at the big house. Poppa said that Caleb was an SOB. He used to beat his kids with a bullwhip, and once in a while take a few quick slashes at the hired help. They said he was a real bastard who used to treat his tenant farmers like they were slaves.”
“Didn’t seem to hurt him,” Lyon observed. “I see he lived to the ripe old age of seventy. In those days the average life expectancy was about forty, so he was practically ancient.”
“Probably too mean to die. The Pipers were always like that. Holier-than-thou lords of the manor.”
They walked up and down a few of the rows. Lyon noticed that husbands and wives were buried next to each other. There were often several wives with their infant children next to a single husband. The descendants were grouped according to generations. It was a very logical formation indicating a solidarity that few families could muster. He stopped at a group of graves and examined several of the markers.
Standard Piper was buried near his sister, Rebecca, and another brother named Christian. Their spouses and children were clumped around them in descending order.
There didn’t seem to be a clue in the graves. Was something besides old bones buried here? Or did the mausoleum that contained the body of the original colonel also contain something else?
The rear of the mausoleum extended into the leading edge of the small hill near the Welches’ graves. A stone walk ran along the front of the squat, granite building. Two Civil War cannons stood at each corner of the stone walk, with their muzzles pointed out over the graves toward the distant shore on the far side of the Connecticut River.
Lyon stopped at one of the cannons and placed his hand on the metal barrel. “The family seems to have their own National Cemetery here,” he said.
“They blew up a lot of people to get this far,” Rabbit said.
Lyon noticed that the cannons seemed well maintained. Their metal wheels and cast iron barrels were shiny, as if waiting orders from some ancient battery commander. Their size and barrel circumference identified them as Parrot ten pounders.
He turned away from his examination of the fieldpiece, to see bobbing hair moving down the lane beyond the high, loose stone wall that bracketed the family burial plot. The blond hair shimmered in the bright sunlight and then a hand waved to them.
Rabbit’s face softened as they watched her. “Roller-skates like a child and probably makes love like a harlot,” the small man said wistfully. “I don’t understand big people.”
“Young women are a special breed no matter what their height,” Lyon said.
Paula Piper swept through the cemetery gates on her Rollerblades and sped down the concrete path toward the center of the pie. Her acceleration around the obelisk swiveled her in an arc in front of them as she grabbed a cannon barrel. She tried to skid to a stop but had such forward momentum that her feet splayed out in front of her. She grasped the fieldpiece tightly to keep from falling.
Her laughter sprinkled over the day. Lyon and Rabbit smiled. “Daddy’s got to hire younger bodyguards if they’re going to keep up with me,” she chuckled.
“I’ve found the Piper Pie,” Lyon said with an expansive gesture across the graves.
“Hey, yeah,” Paula said.
“Those skates are going to kill you,” Rabbit said. “And aren’t you too old for that kind of nonsense?”
She kissed him on the forehead. “Oh, Rabbit, don’t be such a troll all the time.”
The Rabbit flashed a look at Lyon that was an even mix of frown and adoration for the young woman. “Hear that, Lyon? Troll. We Welches are still considered the Piper family jesters.”
“If Daddy finds you pumping booze into my stepmum you are going to be an unemployed troll,” Paula said with a laugh.
Rabbit gave a burst of laughter at a memory conjured up by Paula’s comment. “When Paula was a little girl she once poster-painted me into the stained glass window of the colonel’s glorious charge. I was a troll sitting under that bridge.”
“A glowering one,” Paula said.
Lyon tried to force a serious attitude over the conversation. “There’s a clue in here somewhere and we ought to try and find it.”
“A clue—how?” Paula asked as she sat on the edge of the bank in front of the cannon to remove her skates.
“I’m convinced that Markham Swan knew something significant or he wouldn’t have asked me to meet with him. We were not close friends and the meeting would have been out of character unless he had something important to tell me. I believe he knew something about this Pie.”
“Sure,” the young woman said. “It holds the bodies of my dead relatives.” She placed the skates neatly on the side of the hill and walked ahead of Lyon down the cemetery’s center row. At the far end of the row was a small grove of trees. “I used to come here when I was small. I always thought it was scary to have all your relatives buried in one spot like this.”
“What about those who died in wars?” Lyon asked.
“They always had them shipped back,” Paula said. “They’re all here, at least they are mostly all here except for a couple like Mary who went swimming from the parapet.”
Sst.
The sound registered instantly with Lyon. He not only immediately recognized what the barely perceptible sound meant, but it transmitted immediate muscular commands that made him react in a spectacular burst of energy.
He later realized that he had heard the sound several times during a visit to a Civil War reenactment.
A rigid drill procedure was required to fire a muzzle-loaded cannon in the Civil War. After the lo
ading sequence had been completed, a cannon sergeant stepped smartly toward the rear of the barrel and ignited a fuse or short string of powder at the touch hole of the barrel. This powder train led to the main charge inside the barrel behind the shot. A microsecond after the touch hole was ignited, the cannon fired. During one long summer’s day he had heard dozens of these firings.
Lyon threw himself forward in an awkward body block that caught Paula in the small of the back. His forward momentum knocked her to the ground.
The cannon directly behind them belched with a loud roar that echoed across the valley.
SEVEN
Lyon and the young woman were sprawled across the grass as they watched a small balloon of white smoke from the Parrot’s barrel drift lazily over their heads.
Their ears still rang from the cannon fire, which had erupted only a few yards behind them. Lyon staggered to his feet. He was hardly able to believe he was unhurt. He looked down in alarm at the woman sprawled by his feet, but no jagged wounds tore through her flesh. She looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes.
“I don’t want to play anymore,” she said.
“Someone threw one hell of a firecracker at us,” Rabbit said.
“I think not,” Lyon replied. “It was the cannon.”
“No way!” Rabbit shouted. “That hunk of iron is for show. It hasn’t worked for a hundred years.” He helped Lyon pull Paula to her feet. The young woman still seemed dazed and disoriented. “You okay, Punkin?” the small man asked.
“I think so. Was it the cannon?”
Lyon walked over to the Parrot ten pounder on the walk in front of the mausoleum. He smelled the acrid residue of gunpowder ten feet away from the old muzzle loader.
“What did I tell you,” Rabbit said from the path. “That baby hasn’t been fired since Antietam. And that was something like one hundred forty years ago.”
“It was fired at us a few seconds ago,” Lyon said. “Come here and see.”
Rabbit peered into the barrel. “I’ll be damned!” he said. “Someone loaded shot and a charge in this sucker and blew it out at us. Jesus, if you hadn’t knocked her down it would have blown your heads off.”
The Pied Piper of Death Page 9
