Death in the Secret Garden (19 page)

‘Thanks a million,' Skee mumbled through a mouthful of egg.

Jamie shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Gee, Skee, you've got a rep in this town for being a master swordsman. Why did you put the arm on Lori? You never had to resort to that stuff before.'

‘I never got turned down by a girl I'd already boffed.'

‘She didn't want to do it where Boots died, right?'

‘I guess. A lot of broads would have got turned on just thinking about it, but not Lori. I should have known. She's one of those broads that think they're going to save the world.'

‘My girl's like that,' Jamie said. ‘I'm getting married in October to Jeannie Dockery.'

‘Great hooters.'

‘She won't do it, Skee.'

‘So, you'll get it in October.'

‘I know that, but in the meanwhile she's driving me nuts. She does everything but go all the way. I can't stand it.'

‘Talk to her about it. She'll put out if she has to.'

‘I did. We have talked, but she still won't.'

‘Have you, like we used to say in junior high school, gotten to third base?'

‘Third base, hell! I'm practically sliding into home plate, but then a wall crashes down and she stops.'

Skee finished his meal and rubbed his hands along the seams of his chino pants. He slid the tray out through the aperture in the bars. ‘That's a problem I don't run into. If I get a girl to go that far she's at the point where she begs for it. Of course, you have to know what to do. You have to be professional about it.'

‘Professional?'

‘Hell, yes. None of this second or third base kiddy stuff. This is the real thing, this is going for the gold.'

‘Is there something special you do?'

‘For God's sake, Jamie. You have to know about the spot.'

‘What spot?'

‘That really turns them on. You get to there and you're not only home free, you're planted in their dugout.'

‘I still don't understand.'

Skee approached the cell door and stood with his hands hanging by his sides. He seemed to be considering something. He raised one hand and balled it into a fist. ‘Now, look carefully at my hand and pretend—well, just pretend. I'm going to show you exactly what to do to really score. She'll beg you for it.'

‘Beg?'

‘Cry for it. Now look carefully.'

Jamie bent over to look into Skee's right hand while the left snaked through the bars and clutched his neck.

Fourteen

Rocco poured coffee from his battered Mr. Coffee machine. He handed Lyon a mug. They sipped the strong brew.

‘Bea's going to see Rebba and Edward Dirk later today,' Lyon said. ‘She's good at that kind of interview.'

‘You're still convinced the kid saw something?'

‘Absolutely.'

‘My prime suspect is sitting in our holding cell. In a couple of minutes we're taking him to Middleburg for arraignment.'

‘Murder one?' Lyon asked.

‘Not yet. There's still a few unanswered questions. We have him firm on the attempted rape and assault charges, so that will hold him awhile. I'd like you to drive over with us and give the state's attorney a deposition on what you saw when Lori charged out of the woods,' he said as he led Lyon down the hall.

Rocco clenched the bars in front of the holding cell. ‘I do not believe what I am seeing. Please tell me this is a practical joke.'

The twisting man on the cell's metal bunk mumbled through his gag. He rocked back and forth within the limited mobility allowed by his bound hands and feet. Rocco unlocked the door and ripped the tape from Jamie's mouth.

‘Ow! That hurt, Chief.'

‘I wish it had been a guillotine,' Rocco said as he cut the bindings with a penknife. ‘How long ago did this happen?'

‘Maybe like an hour.'

‘I'll tell them to start a search,' Lyon said as he rushed for the corridor.

‘A couple of guys ought to be writing shift reports in the ready room,' Rocco yelled after him before turning back to Jamie. ‘All right, duck butter, tell how this came down.'

Jamie was gone when Lyon returned ten minutes later. Rocco sat on the bunk glowering at the blank wall. He looked up with half a hope. ‘Any luck?'

‘No. Sergeant Niles organized an immediate search of the neighborhood. Martin's moped was stolen and there's no trace of Skee.'

‘Glad about the moped. At least Jamie will suffer more than just a suspension.'

‘I hate to suggest it, Rocco, but you have to get rid of that officer. I don't think he is constitutionally equipped for police work. He's the one that brought Mead's vestments, he lost his service revolver, and now he's allowed Skee to escape. You owe it to yourself and the town to stop this aggravation.'

Rocco shook his head. ‘Can't. Nepotism rules. Jamie is a Martin. My mother was a Martin. Jamie's dad was my uncle, who was chief here when I joined the force after the service. I learned most of what I know from Thadeus Martin.'

‘Wasn't he killed on duty?'

‘Shot to death over a stolen tire. A young punk stole a tire from the front of Mac's Sunoco in full view of Mac. Uncle Tad went out to the kid's house to bring him in. He was going up the walk with his service revolver still in its holster when a shotgun blast nearly blew him in two. He died in my arms after I promised him that I would put Jamie on the force and look after him. Jamie's got normal intelligence, but he doesn't think things through. I once thought of putting him in charge of the school crossing guards, but I didn't want to jeopardize the children.'

Rebba Dirk sat in a straight chair on one side of the sofa. Bea occupied its twin on the other side. The two women triangulated the ten-year-old boy who sat between them at the center of the sofa.

‘I believe you have some money for us,' Rebba said.

Bea handed her the check. ‘You said eighty-two dollars for the pellet gun Lyon threw in the river.'

The other woman verified the amount and placed the check on the coffee table in front of her son. ‘You can purchase a new gun tomorrow, Edward.'

‘Under the circumstances, are you sure that's a good idea?' Bea asked.

‘I believe I know how to raise my son, Mrs. Wentworth. I wish you would inform your husband that I have made a formal complaint to the Big Buddy organization. I will not have your husband in the proximity of my son. I suspect that they will rule him ineligible for any further assignments.'

Bea clenched her teeth to stifle a nasty reply. ‘Be that as it will, Mrs. Dirk. I have come to ask your son about what he might have seen in the state forest.' She retrieved a large envelope that leaned against her chair leg. She opened it and pulled out several large photographs: a clown in a dunce cap, an eighteenth-century English grenadier, and the Pope in full vestments. They weren't exactly what she wanted to convey, but under hurried circumstances they were the best she could assemble. ‘Edward, I am going to show you pictures of three men in pointy hats. I want you to look carefully at them and tell me if the man you saw in the forest wore one like it.' She handed the pictures to the boy.

Edward studied the photographs intently for a moment before he pointed to one in horror. ‘That's him! That's the same man who came to the forest. He killed the woman and laughed when she tried to crawl away. Mama!' He ran to his mother, who threw her arms protectively around him. ‘Mama, I'm scared. The bad man is going to get me.'

Rebba glared at Bea over her son's shoulder. ‘Now you see what your husband and his friend have done. Do you see the terror they created?' She held the boy tightly while she crooned to him. ‘There, there, little boy, Mommy will protect you. The mean people will not get you.'

Bea waited until the sun was over the yardarm and Lyon had completed his day's writing before she mixed their first drink. In his case, since he drank only Dry Sack sherry, little mixing was required. She didn't speak until Lyon was settled in his favorite chair and had taken the first sip of sherry.

She raised her manhattan in toast. ‘To Edward Dirk, boy-wonder witness, who has positively identified Pope John Paul II as the killer of Boots Anderson.'

Lyon took another sip. ‘Really? Not often you get a Pope as a serial killer, particularly one with health problems.'

‘Wearing full papal regalia, too,' Bea added. ‘Where do you go from here?'

‘Are you sure he didn't name the Dalai Lama as an accessory?'

‘I'm sure he would have done if I'd stuck around, but the witness's mother made me leave.'

‘That leads us to Skee, master of sex and jail break, as the prime suspect.'

‘How about none of the above?' Bea added.

‘A possibility,' Lyon said. ‘I think early tomorrow morning would be a good time for a hot-air balloon think.'

Bea groaned when the small alarm clock on the bedside table went off at six
A.M.
She pulled a pillow over her head with one hand while the other groped for the timepiece. The rings stopped when she mashed down the proper button.

‘Too late,' Lyon said. ‘I heard it.'

‘Go back to sleep,' she mumbled. ‘There's a forty-mile-an-hour wind that would destroy your balloon.'

‘I've already checked with the coastguard weather service and the day is forecast as mild with winds from the east at six miles an hour.' He dressed quickly, looking forward to the balloon trip.

A half-hour later they drove the ancient pickup loaded with balloon equipment from the barn. In the nearby field they lowered the tailgate and began to unload.

Working as a well-trained team, they unrolled the envelope along the ground. They aligned its bottom aperture with the passenger basket, which now lay on its side. When the balloon was properly spread, Lyon hooked a power fan to the truck battery and directed its cool air flow into the balloon opening. As air filled the envelope the balloon began to bulge but not to rise. He walked inside the envelope to make a preflight check of all seams and emergency lines.

When he was satisfied with the state of the interior he lit the pilot light of the propane burner mounted on the top bar of the passenger basket. When he pulled the ignition lanyard the burner whooshed and began to heat the air inside the envelope. The balloon seemed to come alive as it slowly started to rise.

Bea tethered the mooring line to a metal stake encased in a concrete base. The huge black balloon, with
WOBBLY II
stenciled on its side, majestically filled the yard at Nutmeg Hill.

‘Stay away from the Congregational church steeple,' Bea said.

‘Got to. The volunteer fire department refuses to get me down anymore.'

Lyon climbed into the wicker basket. He checked the three instruments: a variometer, which indicated up and down movement; a pyrometer, which gave a reading of the envelope's internal temperature; and an altimeter, which registered changes in air pressure to provide altitude in feet.

‘Ready in the gondola?' Bea yelled up at him.

‘Gondolas are aluminum; this is a wicker basket,' Lyon mumbled. They had discussed this proper nomenclature dozens of times. He had the vague feeling that she mixed the terms deliberately to tweak him. He gave another long propane burn and felt the balloon strain on the tether line. ‘Let her go!' he yelled.

Bea slipped the rope from the mooring post as Lyon wound it into the basket. The balloon bobbed into the air.

The craft's upward momentum slowed at 1200 feet. He had a panoramic view of the river valley with its high bluffs bracketing the meandering Connecticut River. Nutmeg Hill, on its high perch above the river, was directly below him. The balloon began slowly to drift west over the state forest.

As always, Lyon was amazed at the sense of freedom these flights created. Balloons and gliders were the nearest man could come to the free flight of birds.

It wasn't a new sport. In 1783 the Montgolfier brothers had provided a hot-air balloon for a Paris exhibit. Major Pilatre de Rozier and the Marquis d'Arlandes had ascended majestically in full view of 400,000 Frenchmen and one American: Benjamin Franklin. Ironically, it was only a few months later that the major became ballooning's first fatality when he attempted to cross the English Channel.

Lyon reached for the propane burner lanyard and gave it a short jerk. The loud whoosh was startling after a period of such quiet. Silence returned when the burn was complete.

This was his time to think. These trips, so removed from day-to-day cares, provided a mental focus that he often used to solve problems.

The balloon's gentle drift followed the course of the Connecticut River and the adjoining sliver of state forest that ran for several miles along the river bank.

Lyon reviewed the murder suspects. The deceased canon Mead MacIntire seemed the prime candidate. He was connected with all the dead women. Incoherent as they may have been, he had made several confessions. He admitted a physical relationship with the escort girl. The church secretary had been stealing from his church for years, and he had a counseling relationship with Boots Anderson. He was a repressed man whose sexual desires might have exploded into violence.

Skee Rumford's jail escape seemed to shout guilt. He had been Boots' lover, knew Ashley, and had a vague connection with the church secretary. His assault on Lori Wappinger certainly indicated violent tendencies. Skee also had a relationship with Mildred, who had good cause to wish for her husband's removal.

Spook loomed over the crimes like a malevolent presence. He was addled, and although usually harmless, the veteran's ghosts or delusions of threat might have returned him to violence.

Edward Dirk had seen something in the forest. Something lurked under his lies about a man in a pointy hat. What had the boy seen? How could they get a truthful statement from him?

For a moment, what Lyon saw didn't register. He was leaning over the edge of the basket gazing casually down at the forest when something sped toward him. He recognized an arrow as it swerved toward the balloon and buried itself in the envelope.