Death Under the Lilacs, page 18
“Makes sense. A good clue, but nothing we could use for a warrant. So, based on that guess, you made a call to set Bates up. What in the hell did you say to him that got him out here tonight?”
“I reverted to the outraged teacher,” Lyon said. “I started out coldly, pedantically, and told him what an idiot he was. I informed him that we had a voice identification from the tape we made of the kidnapping call. He told me that was impossible with the laryngophone. No one else except the authorities knew about the method of voice disguise, and that’s when I knew I had him.”
“He could have run.”
“I went on to tell him that Bea was prepared to identify him. We were both going to see the state’s attorney first thing in the morning, and if he came around Nutmeg Hill tonight, I’d blow his head off with my .45.”
“So he knew you were in the house, alert, armed with a handgun.”
“I thought that would preclude him from rushing the house and force him to take a shot from the woods.”
“By the way, I found our starlight scope and shotgun in the woods, and I would imagine that mangled vest on the floor is mine. You sure in hell didn’t walk out of the station house carrying all that junk. Want to tell me how you did it?”
“Nearly the same way as Bates did when he killed Reuven. Bates signed in, talked to us, and when he left your office he threw the alarm switch and propped open the rear door with something like a match cover. He was then able to sign out and let himself in the rear door. He killed Reuven and signed out in that name.”
“Too pat,” Rocco said. “You saw me turn off the alarm system; I don’t see how a stranger would know how it worked.”
“The plans and specifications for the whole building, including the wiring schematics, are on file at the town hall. They are open to anyone’s inspection.”
“Oh Christ, we spend thousands on a security system and then advertise it. The records are with the minutes of the town finance committee, right?”
“That’s where I found them.”
“Wait a minute,” Bea said. “Bates Stockton was in a small town jail the night I was taken.”
“That’s right,” Rocco agreed. “You saw the file on that, Lyon. I made a call and we have a follow-up letter from the chief in Raleigh.”
“I heard you read a letter that said a Bates Stockton was picked up, identified by such things as a social security card and personal mail, and held overnight. It was my guess that he wasn’t officially booked.”
“The letter didn’t mention it, and small towns don’t usually book on a drunk charge; might prove too embarrassing if they brought in a local resident. So, no booking, no fingerprinting and FBI identity verification.”
“Someone else used Bates’ name.”
“A hired stand-in.”
“Right. Bates let him out in Raleigh and picked him up the next morning. It’s my guess that somewhere between here and Raleigh, New York, we’re going to find the body of a nameless derelict.”
“I’ll check that one out.”
“With a good alibi like that, why did he bother to kill Reuven?” Bea asked.
“He knew that his alibi would not stand close examination, and when he realized that we were only working with three groups of suspects, he had to relieve the pressure on himself. Reuven’s death and the padlock key we found should have removed him from the list completely.”
Bea yawned. “Now, if we only had the stamps back, we might sell them and buy back our house.”
Lyon looked pensive. “Could you do something for me, Rocco? I don’t think Bates had time to sell the stamps yet. I think he still has them.”
“That’s not much to go on. The man is dead, and those stamps could be anywhere. I doubt that we’ll ever find them.”
“People, even men as bright at Bates, act in patterns. Whatever happened to him, Bates always returned to his grandmother’s house in Fernwick. She still keeps his room and all of his childhood things. Try there. Look in that room, particularly in his very earliest stamp albums.”
“Would somebody do something for me?” Bea asked.
“What?”
“Please get me a robe. I’m cold as hell.”
Lyon sat on the edge of the patio parapet with a mug of coffee in his hand. Bea was directly below him in the garden, doing her best to resurrect the crushed flowers. He didn’t have the heart to remind her that it really didn’t matter. In two weeks they would have to leave Nutmeg Hill, and the condition of her flowers would matter little to earth-moving machinery.
It was a fresh day with a slight breeze off the river and a clarity of sky that seemed to enhance all colors. He glanced up the ridge line toward the stand of pines that had nearly been fatal to them the night before. The trees swayed gently, and any ghosts that might inhabit the glen were dormant.
This was their home. Once they both had had every expectation of spending the remainder of their lives here. He glanced down at Bea. Her vitality and her old elan had returned … that was what mattered. They could find another place to live.
Rocco’s police cruiser rocked up the drive and skidded to a halt by the front door. It was followed by Burt Winthrop’s battered pickup truck. Rocco slammed from the cruiser and waved as he started around the house to the patio. Men jumped down from the back of the pickup and began to unload equipment from its bed. A heavy set man in khaki work clothes and high boots pitched a transit over his shoulder and began to walk to the far edge of the property.
The surveyors were here, the point squad of the demolition that would follow.
“Good news,” Rocco said when he reached the edge of the patio.
“I could use some,” Lyon said as the surveyor unfolded the tripod legs of his transit and began to adjust the instrument.
“We found the stamps. Damned if they weren’t stuck away in a kid’s stamp album. Can you beat that? A half million in stamps intermingled with others that were probably ordered from the back of a comic book.”
“Were they all there?”
“Every damned one. And we got a bonus. Your prints and Bates’ were both lifted from several of them. Great physical evidence. I also talked with the grandmother. As we suspected, she’s been supporting Bates all these years, but it had come to an end. She gave him two thousand last month, but that was to be the last of it. She said he flew into a rage when she told him and screamed that it would all have been different if he had his degree, and you were to blame. So much for my theory of ancient revenge.”
“I was his rationalization.”
“Real to him.”
“I was the symbol.” Lyon looked out over the hills. “Well, now you can close the case.”
“You know it.” Rocco leaned over the wall and waved to Bea. “Hi.”
She waved back and continued with her work.
“While they were lifting the prints I called our philatelist friend in New York,” Rocco continued. “He’s willing to buy back the stamps at the same price.”
Lyon looked surprised. “Not wholesale?”
“Nope. It seems that for some perverse reason that only stamp collectors fathom, the damn things have actually increased in value.”
“When could we get the money?”
“Right away, I guess. If he’ll let me hold the stamps in escrow for a short while, I don’t see why he couldn’t pay you tomorrow.”
There was hope. Lyon looked toward the far corner of the lawn where Burt Winthrop, standing with one of his sons, was examining the old survey map showing the perimeters of Nutmeg Hill. “Burt!” Lyon called. “Burt Winthrop, can I talk to you a minute?”
“Want to see you, too,” Winthrop called back as he walked toward the house. “I was wondering if you and the little lady can get out of here earlier? I could sure use another week or two to get my models up before fall.” He walked onto the patio and turned to face the house with arms akimbo. “These old places are a bitch to take down. Walls are too damn thick, with lots of supporting timber. If I can get the permits, I might blow it.”
“What?” Bea poked her head over the parapet. “Blow what?”
“The house. A few pounds of the old TNT placed in the right places and—boom!—we got toothpicks.”
Lyon and Bea cringed. “That’s what I want to talk to you about, Burt. I want to buy the place back.”
“Buy it back!” There was astonishment on the builder’s face. “Are you pulling my leg?”
“No. I’ll give you your money back with interest for the time I’ve had it.”
“Interest? I’m talking millions here, Wentworth. This little old place is going to crawl with condos.”
Bea started to climb over the wall. “Now wait just a minute!”
Lyon helped her over the wall and blocked her from a frontal assault on the builder. The potential fracas was diffused when a small, dusty VW scuttled up the drive. The car stopped behind the pickup, and a state trooper immediately got out from behind the wheel, hurried around the small car, and opened the passenger door with a flourish. A slight woman, barely five feet tall, left the car and waved at them.
“It’s the governor,” Bea said as she hurried across the patio.
“Beatrice, the state police commissioner called and told me what happened out here last night. How dreadful,” the governor said. Both women threw their arms around each other.
Lyon watched the VW as the trooper pushed the front seat forward and Kim Ward unlimbered from the compact vehicle. She hurried toward Lyon as Bea and the governor huddled together in intimate conversation in a corner of the patio.
“You did it, old wise one,” Kim said as she embraced Lyon. “Kooky, but you did it, and that’s all that counts. If it helps any, I finally traced the van he used. It belonged to his grandmother. Like most other things in his life, she bought it for him.”
“Can I go back to the surveyors now?” Burt Winthrop asked.
“We’re not through with you,” Rocco insisted as he shoved the builder back into a wicker chair. “You know, Burt, you’re going to be watched real careful on this job. I mean, the building inspectors of this town are going to crawl all over you.”
“You don’t scare me, Herbert. I’ve had that problem before. A year from now I’ll be off this job and counting my money.”
“With a pocketful of profit.”
“You know it. It’s a dream situation. This is the best site in the state as soon as I get that monstrosity of a house off here.”
The governor turned toward them. “What house?”
Bea put a restraining arm on the governor’s shoulder. “It’s nothing, Ruth. Just a little personal difficulty.”
Winthrop looked up at the widow’s walk. “Maybe we’ll just let the dozers push it off the cliff. The whole smear—boom!—right off the edge.”
“Nutmeg Hill!” the governor said in an incredulous voice.
Kim spoke in an aside. “The Wentworths had to sell the house to raise the money for the ransom.”
“And this bastard won’t sell it back to them,” Rocco said.
“That’s a disgrace.” The governor glared at Winthrop.
“The house goes, lady,” retorted Webster.
“It’s governor, not lady,” Rocco said.
“If I had wanted a governess, I’da’ voted for one,” Winthrop said.
The governor cocked her head and smiled in an enigmatic manner that Bea had noticed before in similar confrontations. “My dear sir, certainly you see your civic duty in this instance? Beatrice has been through unimaginable suffering through no fault of her own, and we should all try and make restitution.…”
“Bull!” Winthrop snorted. “My civic duty is to build a mess of condos for rich old people with plenty of jack.”
“I think the emissions sticker on your pickup is out of date,” Rocco said as he pulled a summons book from his back pocket.
“You don’t bother me a bit, Herbert.”
“Too little tread on the rear tires also,” Rocco continued as he wrote.
“Everyone off my land!”
“Impeding an investigation,” Rocco added.
“I’m calling my lawyers.”
“What I don’t understand is why you’d want to live in Nutmeg Hill,” Kim said. “You just don’t seem the type.”
“I told you, the house goes.” Burt Winthrop looked up at the house with a glance of disgust. “Damn place is an antique. I got a twenty-five-year-old new wife who likes nothing but modern. A few days from now, you guys can play pick-up sticks with what’s left.”
“Of course you’ll have to live here,” the governor said.
“The house can’t possibly be torn down,” Kim said.
“I bought this place and the deed is on file with the town clerk.”
“That may well be,” the governor said. “But this house and the rest of the property cannot be changed in any manner until the suit is settled.”
“What suit?”
“Indians,” Kim said breathlessly.
The governor smiled at Kim. “That is why Ms. Ward and I are together this morning. We are touring the areas that the tribe is claiming.”
“I’m with the Indians,” Kim said. “Part one myself.”
“Something about burial grounds on the property,” the governor said.
“Oh yes,” Kim added. “Burial mounds all over the place. You must warn your people not to disturb them, Mr. Winthrop.”
“As a matter of fact, there are a bunch of Indian mounds on the property,” Lyon said. “I had nearly forgotten about them.”
“All right, you people,” Winthrop raged. “I know a put-up job when I see it. You’re all out to get me and I’m not going to sit still for it.”
“The court injunction will be served this afternoon,” Kim said. “Unless you want to deed this property voluntarily to the Indians?”
“It will probably be tied up in litigation for years,” Rocco said.
“I got lawyers that can bust anything,” Winthrop said. “Old Traxis has got a piece of this action, and he isn’t going to stand for it either.”
“Then there’s the question of the Historical Commission,” the governor said. “Kim Ward is on that committee also.”
Kim smiled at Winthrop. “As a state historical preserve, the house cannot be altered without permission of the committee.”
Burt Winthrop looked from one determined face to another and slowly sank into a wicker chair. “If it’s not Indians and history, it will be something else. Always something else.”
“’Fraid so,” Kim said.
“I know when it’s time to lick wounds.” Winthrop shook his head.
The governor, Kim, and Bea walked back to the waiting VW. “I hope you get your house back, Beatrice. I mean, where else would we hold our fund-raisers in the Murphysville area?”
Bea smiled. “Thanks, Ruth.”
“How far back should I back-date the historical preserve?” Kim whispered.
“Make it two years,” the governor replied. “We wouldn’t want this to look like Watergate.”
When Bea and Kim walked back to the patio, Rocco was sitting on the wall, smiling. Lyon and Burt were arguing over the interest to be paid on the money to repurchase the house.
“Same as commercial credit, Wentworth. In today’s market, let’s say 18 percent.”
“That’s robbery,” Lyon sputtered.
“We’ll pay prime rate,” Bea said firmly.
The phone rang inside the house, and Rocco went through the French door to answer it. He returned a moment later. “The airport’s on the phone, Lyon. They want to know how long you’re going to keep the airplane.”
“What airplane?”
“The guy just said a little one.”
Lyon bolted for the house. “Oh my God! I’ve misplaced an airplane.”
“Listen, Lady …” Burt Winthrop looked at Bea a long moment and then sagged. “Okay, I know when I’m beat. Prime rate plus four.”
Turn the page to continue reading from the Lyon and Bea Wentworth Mysteries
1
It would be so easy to destroy them.
A simple mental command could cause a twitch of his right hand on the switch and their existence would end.
Lyon Wentworth was completely disgusted with his Wobblies. He crossed his hands over the word processor and rested his chin on his forearms as he stared out the window at the frolicking pair. His two creations pranced on the stone parapet that separated Nutmeg Hill’s patio from the steep drop to the Connecticut River far below.
The Wobblies were performing some sort of ritualistic movement on the narrow ledge. Their tails thumped the stone in time to a silent internal rhythm, and their forked tongues flicked rapidly in and out. They could stray, but it seemed proscribed that they stay within his field of vision. They had been difficult all morning, and now they rejoiced in new-found freedom.
Until they decided to return to the pages of his latest children’s book, his literary production for the day would be minimal. It was going to be a long day. He would be forced to remain in his chair, alert before his machine, and hope they would return to remove the ravages of his writer’s block.
A new sound from outside was a welcome diversion. He turned to hear the crunch of wheels on gravel in the long drive that led up to the house. He went to open the front door and lean against its frame as two somber vehicles slowed to a careful halt a few feet away. In the lead was a black, four-door sedan whose tinted windows made identification of its occupants impossible. The next in line was a hearse whose driver stared impassively ahead without acknowledging Lyon’s presence.
Lyon straightened his lanky frame and walked to the sedan. He was a tall man of asthenic build and sharp features. A shock of blond-browning hair fell in a forelock over his forehead, and it was characteristic for him to sweep it back with his palm as he smiled. He was dressed, as he usually was, in khaki work pants, a loose sport shirt, and topsiders without socks.
The two men who emerged from the black sedan were an unmatched pair dressed in black suits with white shirts and dark ties. At Lyon’s right was a squat, heavyset man who clenched a buff-colored file folder. His companion was tall and rangy.
