The Pied Piper of Death

by Forrest, Richard;

  ‘Sure,’ the customer replied, even though he didn’t have a bank account or credit with any lending institution.

  ‘Want a test spin?’ Eddy counted on the customer’s ignorance of percentages to hide the true cost of the vehicle. The pay-weekly amount for two years nearly doubled the cost of the truck.

  Lister Anderson drove his pickup over the curb and across the lot until he slammed into the side of the office trailer. He jumped from the cab after grabbing a .12 gauge from the gun rack mounted across the rear window. He peered around the lot until he saw Eddy with his customer. As he walked toward them, Lister broke the .12 gauge open to see that shells were seated in both chambers. He snapped it shut and thumbed back the triggers.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ Eddy said as he saw the man with the wispy red hair stalking across the lot. ‘You just look this baby over some more,’ he said to his customer. He smiled and began to walk toward Anderson. ‘Hey, how you doing, Lister?’

  ‘You laid with my daughter.’

  ‘Now wait a minute, Lister. Everything can be explained.’

  ‘Sinner!’ Lister Anderson said as he raised the shotgun and fired both barrels directly into Eddy’s abdomen.

  The two shots, fired nearly simultaneously, hit Eddy Rashish directly in the midsection and lifted him bodily off his feet and flung him back against a ’92 Chevy utility wagon.

  THREE

  The Millrace Inn was built on the bluff of the third of the Seven Sister hills. It was located almost directly across the river from Nutmeg Hill. Its high perch overlooking the valley demanded broad expanses of window. The recent return to the area of a few eagles provided further amusement for the inn’s customers. These large birds, in their predatory circling over the river, often rode the air currents that swept past the inn. From time to time they would turn to watch the guests with the same curiosity they usually reserved for small scurrying prey.

  Bea Wentworth stood in the entryway of the inn’s Forge Room and waited to be seated. She glanced at her appointment book. It occurred to her that she must be aging. Recently she had formed the habit of making lists of her ‘things to do.’ There were three entries on her calendar for today’s luncheon date with Helena Rabnor of the State Life Committee. Her intern had made one entry, Bea another, and God only knows the author of the third. Inefficient redundancy, she thought.

  This was an important meeting. The outspoken Helena was a heavy-set feisty woman who had manned the feminist barricades for two decades. She could be a close friend or a dedicated enemy. Since they agreed on most issues, Bea considered herself a part of the friendly contingent.

  Bea was not a large woman although her compact figure was too full for her to be called petite. Her close-cropped hair often created a gamine-like appearance. This innocence was quickly dispelled by darting intelligent eyes and an intense manner that revealed itself when she was deeply concerned.

  The inn’s owner, Mike Maresca, presented himself with a slight bow. ‘Senator Wentworth, we have your reservation. A window table?’

  ‘Please, Mike.’ She followed him to a table set for two with a fine view of the river. ‘I’m expecting Helena Rabnor, do you know her?’

  The owner sighed. ‘But, yes. She had the inn picketed in eighty-nine because all the waiters were male.’

  Bea gave him her best political smile. ‘Well, try and not poison her today, please.’

  Maresca pulled out her chair. ‘I have selected a special wine for you. A 1992 Au Bon Climat, a Californian Chardonnay.’

  ‘Not hemlock?’

  Maresca held both palms up in supplication. ‘A promise.’

  ‘I place myself in your trusted hands,’ Bea said with another smile at the departing owner. She looked out over the river. It was a magnificent technicolor day.

  A vague sense of malaise suddenly seeped over her and she wondered at its origin until its genesis jolted her. This day, like so many others at this time of year, reminded her of one years ago when their daughter had died. It had been Sandra’s birthday. They had given her a two-wheeler bike and she had squealed in delight.

  ‘I don’t need training wheels. I can do it! I’ve been practicing at Mandy’s. Watch me!’

  She began her wobbly ride on the sidewalk in front of their home on the Murphysville Green. Suddenly she had run over the curb into the street and lost her balance. Before Lyon could reach her she was struck by a car and killed.

  Bea turned from the window in pain as Helena Rabnor appeared at the table.

  ‘How’s my favorite state senator?’ Helena said as she snatched a chair from the table and plunked into it.

  ‘A moment ago old ghosts were a-haunting, but they’re leaving.’ Bea forced a smile. The remembered horror of witnessing her daughter’s death now changed into concern over her ticking biological clock. She often felt that her internal timepiece was rapidly approaching its last tock. If she and Lyon were to have another child, they would have to begin in the relatively near future. She wasn’t sure if she had the strength to go through with it.

  Bea forced her best political smile toward the woman sitting across the table as menus appeared and wine was poured.

  ‘We have problems at the capital, Wentworth,’ Helena said in her usual forceful manner. ‘I need a bill.’

  Why does that not surprise me? Bea thought. Was it because Helena always needed legislation? ‘What do you have in mind?’ Bea responded casually as she scanned the menu for the fish of the day.

  ‘I want legal teeth!’ Helena demanded. ‘The clinic protestors must be stopped, or at least controlled. They are frightening some of our young women clients.’

  What goes around comes around, Bea thought. Yesterday’s avid protesters want protection from today’s avid protesters. ‘Can you be more specific as to what you had in mind?’ she asked and inwardly sighed as Helena produced a thick sheaf of documents.

  Bea was still making notes over coffee when the inn owner diffidently approached them. He whispered in her ear. ‘Senator, we seem to have a problem of the utmost delicacy. Could I speak with you privately in my office?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll be there in a few moments.’ Bea smiled at the owner and her tablemate. ‘Give me a few days on this,’ she said to Helena. ‘I’ll see what support I can gather in the senate.’

  Helena pushed away from the table with the same vigor she exhibited in most activities. ‘Very good. You always give our needs your best shot, Beatrice. That’s why we support you.’ They shook hands firmly.

  As Helena left for the parking lot, Bea knocked on the office door by the inn entrance. Maresca’s muffled ‘Come in’ sounded depressed. She found the inn owner slumped dejectedly in a deeply upholstered desk chair.

  ‘What is it, Mike? The Restaurant League want a bill banning all fast food introduced in the legislature?’

  ‘Don’t I wish!’ He turned to her, his face wrinkled with worry lines. ‘I believe you are good friends with the governor?’

  ‘Margaret and I have been friends for years. We go back to the days when we were both freshman representatives.’

  ‘Her husband, the congressman, is here.’

  ‘Bill Tallman? Oh, I didn’t see … OK, Mike. What’s the deal?’

  ‘As you know, the inn has a dozen rooms upstairs for our small bed and breakfast clientele. The congressman is presently occupying one and all is not well.’

  ‘Did you call 911?’

  Maresca cleared his throat. ‘It is a matter of a little delicacy, since the congressman had a companion with him and is now dead.’

  ‘Which one is dead?’

  ‘The congressman has left us.’

  ‘Oh, ho.’ Bea slumped into a chair. ‘He is unclothed?’

  ‘But, yes. For amore that is the way.’

  ‘How complicated do we get? Is the companion a man or woman?’

  ‘A girl.’

  ‘Over eighteen?’

  Maresca looked thoughtful. ‘I would say … Yes. Young, but a definite ov
er eighteen. Let us put it this way, I would not card her in my bar. But I must say that she seems to be a young lady of dubious background.’

  ‘This is going to kill Margaret.’

  ‘The publicity will not be good for the inn. I have not built my reputation as an establishment known for matinee performances by older men with dubious younger women.’

  Bea sighed. ‘Let’s see what we can do.’

  Ashley Towers claimed to be an emergency pharmacist to her family and friends. In reality, she was the most requested woman working for the Middleburg Escort Service. While her formal education had ended after an incomplete first year at Middleburg Community College, she claimed to be operating as an emergency pharmacist under a temporary certification.

  She explained to everyone that she was on constant call for a chain of twenty-four-hour drug stores. It was her assignment to temporarily replace sick and absent pharmacists. In reality, her extensive call-outs were due to an erotic education gained during extra-curricular activities experienced that single year in college. She had been considered an outstanding date for a quick and satisfying evening.

  After two failed marriages to real losers, Ashley had answered a newspaper ad for attractive hostesses. It was her assumption that by working for the Middleburg Escort Service she would be taken to dinner by out-of-town salesmen. She might or might not have a romantic interlude. She quickly learned that there was very little eating done in the escort business, but a great many romantic interludes in a variety of motel rooms.

  Congressman Bill Tallman had been a regular. He always went first class. They drank good champagne and usually stayed in the Clara Barton suite of the Millrace Inn. She enjoyed their sessions and his tips were generous. His only requirement, besides her complete enthusiasm, was discretion.

  She didn’t think it was very discreet of him to die on her. And it didn’t take the brain of a real emergency pharmacist to diagnose that the man on the bed was quite definitely dead.

  The inn had a large man from the grounds crew blocking the outside of the door so she couldn’t leave. They wouldn’t let her telephone Baby Dumpling for advice. She shivered and waited for the owner to return.

  Mike Maresca and Bea entered the Clara Barton suite and firmly closed the door. ‘What happened?’ Bea snapped at the red-haired girl sitting uncomfortably on a Victorian chair.

  ‘We were doing it when he just clutched his chest. Then he said, “Oh, God,” and died.’

  Bea looked at the corpse. Her first thought was that an interim election would be held. She might have hated herself for her uncharitable spirit if the dead man hadn’t been such a bastard. She nodded grimly at Maresca before turning her attention toward the girl. ‘Do I know you?’ she asked the red-haired girl.

  ‘I know who you are, Mrs. Wentworth. I grew up and live in Murphysville.’

  ‘I want you back across the river,’ Bea said. ‘Do not talk to anyone about this. Do you understand? If you speak with a soul, I guarantee you will be in deep trouble.’

  ‘I understand. I won’t say a word. I just want to get out of here.’

  ‘Then leave. Quickly!’ Bea said.

  ‘I haven’t been paid.’

  ‘Paid!’ Bea snorted. ‘He didn’t finish.’

  For a moment Ashley seemed poised to object, but then thought better of it. ‘OK, I’m going,’ she answered as she gathered her purse and hurried from the room.

  ‘We dress him and move the body to the sofa in the sitting room,’ Bea said. ‘Then you call 911 and tell them that he might be having a coronary. We will say that Bill felt ill while driving his car and pulled in here to rest. You gave him a room and when you checked back you found him like this.’

  Maresca nodded. ‘Do you think we can pull this off?’

  ‘I hope so, Mike. I’m doing this for Margaret, not for this roué. She’s a great governor and doesn’t deserve this.’

  Lyon was very uneasy. This was not an unusual condition when he rode with Rocco in the police cruiser. His friend seemed to prefer Formula One speeds combined with a nonchalant attitude toward the mechanics of driving. He casually draped one elbow out the side window, while two fingers of his other hand lightly caressed the steering wheel. The speedometer began to inch up as they passed the town green with its historic homes. Rocco pressed for more speed when they turned down Route 40, which contained the shopping mall and the ubiquitous strip of fast food emporiums that were endemic to every American town. Once clear of congestion the speedometer inched toward eighty as they sped toward Eddy’s Motors with dome light flashing and siren wailing.

  The radio sputtered. Rocco flipped the mouthpiece off its stanchion and donned small headphones to hear properly. ‘Car One. Herbert,’ he announced laconically. He listened for a moment and then, ‘Patch him through … Yes, Lars,’ he said to the medical examiner. ‘What do you have for me?… Thanks. Over and out.’

  ‘What was that about?’ Lyon yelled over the sound of the siren’s screech as he pressed both feet against the floor in a vain attempt to restrain forward momentum.

  ‘Our joyful ME says the deceased did have recent sex,’ Rocco shouted. ‘She was shot in the periumbilical area with an entrance wound of 1.5 by 1.5 centimeters. There was massive hemorrhaging, with large blood clots found in the abdominal cavity. There were extensive perforations of the small intestine. The bullet was lodged near the lower abdominal aorta. The projectile was a single round from a small-caliber weapon. The bullet has been preserved for a ballistics test when we have something to compare it to. She was also two months pregnant.’

  ‘We had best get to Eddy’s fast,’ Lyon said.

  Although Rocco had been born and raised in Murphysville and Lyon in nearby Middleburg, they had not met until they served together in a war zone. Lyon was an infantry battalion’s intelligence officer, while Rocco was a ranger and leader of the recon platoon that acted as the unit’s eyes and ears. They had established a working relationship then that still continued. Rocco, as the man of action, took to the field to obtain the raw data for Lyon’s evaluation. Rocco’s intelligent harvesting of information combined with Lyon’s unique perceptions created a team whose total exceeded the sum of its parts.

  Their army cooperation had naturally evolved into civilian crime investigation. A full working relationship and friendship had blossomed after Lyon and Bea moved to the house on the green with their young daughter. An irrevocable bond had been forged after the hit-and-run accident. Rocco had spent dozens of sleepless nights until his state-wide check of body shops had revealed the guilty driver.

  Lyon and Bea had walked away from the house on the green on the day of the accident and had never returned. The bond with Rocco and the memory of their daughter had kept them in Murphysville. It was shortly thereafter that they had immersed themselves in the restoration of Nutmeg Hill.

  At Eddy’s Motors the double shotgun blast had discouraged the owner’s latest hot prospect. The sight of the sprawled car salesman propped against the Chevy utility made the prospective customer’s gas-eating, oil-chugging truck, with its wooden stake bed, look almost attractive. He passed the speeding police car as he churned away from the lot.

  Lister Anderson’s wrath was not satisfied by Eddy’s mortal wound. He proceeded to destroy as many pickups and used cars as his remaining time allowed. His method was certain and efficient. He swung the .12 gauge by its barrel to smash the front windshield of each vehicle, and then proceeded to blow out the tires with the weapon. Lister had managed to dispatch most of the inventory when Rocco’s cruiser screeched to a stop by the trailer office. The large police chief catapulted from the car and held up both hands palms forward in a gesture of command.

  ‘Drop the weapon, Lister,’ Rocco ordered.

  ‘Mostly out of shells, Chief.’ Anderson let the shotgun fall to the ground. ‘About got them all, anyway.’

  ‘That you did, Lister,’ Rocco said as he handcuffed his prisoner’s hands behind his back. ‘That you surely did.�
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  Lyon ran over to the sprawled body of Eddy Rashish. The salesman had somehow managed to temporarily survive the double blast and struggled to sit up. It was obvious from the massive trauma that his time was limited.

  Lyon propped the dying man’s head on his lap. ‘The ambulance will be here soon, Eddy.’

  Eyes blinked open. ‘Don’t let him get away. Don’t let him go.’

  ‘Rocco’s got him cuffed in the back of the cruiser,’ Lyon answered.

  ‘I mean my live fish. If you have to, tell him sixty a week for two and a half years. Just close the deal.’

  Eddy Rashish died uttering incomprehensible things about deal percentages and forging odometer readings.

  Bea Wentworth cut the skin off two large chicken breasts and seasoned them in preparation for grilling. Lyon worked at the chopping block reducing vegetables into salad-size portions.

  ‘I thought about it today,’ Bea said. She knew it was not necessary to identify the event further. Lyon would know her meaning even if they hadn’t talked about it in months.

  Lyon stopped with his cleaver poised in mid-air. ‘So did I. It came back to me while I was riding in Rocco’s cruiser.’

  ‘I was at the Millrace Inn about to have lunch with Helena Rabnor when it hit me. We had other excitement at the inn, which I’ll tell you about next.’

  ‘We’ve been married too long. That accounts for this mental similarity.’

  ‘Do you believe it’s that?’

  ‘Not completely,’ Lyon said. ‘I think it’s the same time of year combined with today’s weather and light …’ He mistakenly brought the cleaver down on a large tomato with a blow that splattered it across the room. ‘Any thoughts on it?’ he asked as he wiped juice and pulp from the cabinets.

  ‘I have concern over my biological clock.’

  ‘It’s been ten years,’ Lyon said. He returned to the chopping block to scrape carrots. ‘I applied to Big Buddy today.’

  She turned toward him in amazement. For her husband to volunteer to be a mentor to a young child was an astonishing step of recovery, considering the massive pain they both felt. ‘Can you handle it?’