Death at King Arthur's Court (10 page)

Bea looked pensive. ‘That's always possible, except that explanation seems to have a lot of loose ends. I should see to the kitchen,' she said.

‘I did it last night before the dancer arrived,' he replied.

Bea sighed. ‘OK, I have to ask. What happened to my living-room drape?'

‘I think that Norbert's men took it as evidence,' Lyon said.

‘I hesitate to ask. But why?'

‘The blood.'

‘On the drape?'

‘There was a question of shock. That is, when Rocco thought I was mortally injured, since I was covered with blood.'

‘Holding the sword?'

‘Yes. He wrapped me in the drape.'

Bea sighed again. ‘OK, I asked and you answered. You know, Lyon, sometimes I have the feeling you should never be left alone.'

‘I appreciate your trying to take the fall for me on the murder charge,' Lyon said. ‘Did you really think that I was capable of killing Morgan? With a huge sword yet?'

She flashed him a smile. ‘I walked smack-dab into the middle of a situation without all the facts. The few I did know were pretty darn gloomy. I somehow thought that as a woman I would get less jail time. Last year on one of my senate committees, I toured male and female max security. Believe me, you want female.'

‘I suppose there's some sort of weird logic in that,' Lyon said, ‘although either of us in the slammer wouldn't do much for the golden years of our marriage.'

Sarge's Bar and Grill was an anachronism that had accommodated to gentrification. The owner, a former army master sergeant, once had a retirement dream of owning a working man's sports bar with a boilermaker clientele who enjoyed betting on an occasional ball game. Initially, its location in an older residential area not far from a ball-bearing factory had guaranteed the right mix of customers. When the factory vacated its building to move to South Carolina and was replaced by a gigantic art gallery, gentrification struck like a thunderclap. The customers were soon divided into two distinct groups. During the day retired workers nursed beers and discussed ball games without wagers. At six the bar's atmosphere radically changed. The night manager arrived with a German chef and a bartender who actually knew how to mix drinks. Cans of Bud mated with cheap house whiskey abdicated to German food served with imported wines and beers placed on checkered tablecloths lit by quaint bottles holding flickering candles.

On most days, Sarge made a valiant and usually successful attempt to drink himself unconscious before the last boiler-maker was chug-a-lugged and the first bottle of Zinfandel was uncorked.

Rocco Herbert was the rare customer who straddled both groups. He qualified as a daylight drinker, and after dusk he often turned into an exuberant sauerbraten customer. Their former military service together required Sarge to maintain a constant supply of properly chilled vodka and ground sirloin for the police chief's gourmet burgers. Lyon was accommodated by a Dry Sack sherry supply, but like other ordinary day customers, any hunger pangs had to be satisfied with pickled eggs or pig's feet.

In his daylight mode, Rocco occupied a booth in the far corner near the window that overlooked a four-way stop sign down the block. Walkie-talkie communication with Jamie Martin's hidden cruiser usually made this observation post a productive spot for generating traffic tickets.

Lyon watched from the bar as a flagrant violator in a green Corvette sped through the stop sign without slowing and then proceeded to swing around a stationary school bus.

Although Rocco was looking directly at the offending vehicle, his hand never toggled the transmission switch of the small radio on the table at his front.

Sarge handed Lyon a sherry and shook his head. ‘Captain's not himself these days.'

‘How long's he been here?'

‘Came in yesterday and back again this morning.'

Lyon carried his drink back to the booth's morose occupant. He and Rocco had been friends for many years. Rocco was born and raised in Murphysville and was already chief of police when Lyon and Bea moved to town. The two men had met earlier, during their military service. Rocco, a mustang officer commissioned from the ranks, was a Ranger and commander of the division's reconnaissance platoon. Lyon, a Yale graduate, was a junior intelligence officer on the staff of Division G-2. He was often thrown in contact with Rocco when the Rangers acted as the division's eyes and ears.

Although both men had been born and raised in the river valley area of Connecticut, it wasn't until the Easter-night ambush that they became friends. Lyon had accompanied the platoon as an observer during a helicopter insertion to locate an enemy battalion. They had come under heavy fire before the helicopters had lifted off. Machine guns with clear fields of fire were emplaced on both sides of the clearing and placed them in a murderous crossfire. The automatic weapons began to methodically rake their positions with devastating results. Lyon knew that it was only a question of minutes until they were damaged sufficiently to be overrun by frontal assault. Rocco, without proper covering fire, had single-handedly flanked one automatic weapon and destroyed it with grenades. He had urged his men into the protecting cover of a nearby bushy draw, where he carried the wounded Lyon. They were removed at dawn, with more than half of Rocco's men killed or wounded.

‘Are we home?' Lyon asked as he sipped his sherry. Rocco continued to stare intently at the distant stop sign. ‘Catch many today?'

‘A few. This case is a real bastard, isn't it?'

‘I find it odd that Bambi never came back by my house yesterday or today.'

‘The logical answer is that she heard about the murder on TV and went home. It's doubtful she'd come to visit a corpse.'

‘A possibility, but she might have stayed around. I think we should find out.'

‘It's a big state and she could be anywhere,' Rocco said.

‘It's a small state and she could be someplace nearby,' Lyon countered.

‘Check out the motels,' Rocco said.

‘That's a police function, Chief. You have the staff and contacts to do it faster than I can.'

‘Topless with Morgan, it boggles the mind,' Rocco said as he shook his head and slipped from the booth to go to the bar, where he reached under the counter and pulled out a touch-tone phone. He sat on a stool near the beer spigots and punched in numbers.

‘Helen, it's the chief. I want you and whoever's holding down communications to do a motel check for me. Lyon Wentworth is with me and will give you the description of the female Caucasian we're looking for. Call me back at Sarge's when you've made the survey.' He handed the phone to Lyon.

‘Hi, Helen … I'm just fine, and Bea's well. How's Henry? I missed you when I was by the station recently. Right, the description. Her name is Bambi Dolores but that's an alias and she might register under a different name. She's a tall woman with a very full figure. Her age is mid-thirties and she has a distinctive pile of red hair.'

Sarge Renfroe looked up from a sink of soaking glasses. ‘I saw her.' He dried his hands on a suspicious-looking bar rag. ‘I had to fill in for the evening barman and saw her come in,' he said in his whiskey baritone. ‘Ol' Red sidled right up to Clay Dickensen. They seemed to know each other.'

‘Oh?' Rocco said. His interest was piqued immediately. ‘Tell us more, Sarge.'

‘Not much to tell, Captain. Clay was in here drinking a diet coke. You know he don't touch hard stuff. And Red waltzes in here with long legs into next week and hair shaped like a pyramid. She's got front works big enough to pierce a Bradley fighting vehicle. The night manager is having a fit, since he thinks she's imported business wanting to score. But in ten seconds she and Clay are huddled in the corner talking. She knocks down a couple doubles before they leave together.'

‘Did they drive off in her truck or Clay's car?' Lyon asked.

‘Don't know which one,' Sarge answered, ‘but two people left here in one vehicle.'

‘What was in the lot when you opened the next morning?' Lyon asked.

The retired master sergeant with the pocked face and bulbous nose thought a moment as he dried his hands again. ‘Nuthin'. I remember the lot being empty as Jody's locker.'

‘Which means they went off together and someone came back later to pick up a vehicle,' Rocco said.

‘Which one?' Lyon wondered.

To get to Clay Dickensen's condominium from Sarge's they had to pass Murphysville Green and go out toward Route 155. Two blocks beyond the center of town they passed a low office building that housed the Clay Dickensen Group, specializing in accounting services and computer technology for small businesses.

Lyon wondered why Clay still retained him as a personal client. The young CPA's firm seemed successful enough that its proprietor did not have to handle individual accounts as unimportant as the Wentworths'. He'd add that question to the lengthening list of items to ask Clay.

The accountant's town house condo was located in a cluster development designed and priced for upscale professionals more concerned over their personal health than propagating the species. Heritage Acres offered every possible recreational facility this section of the country could provide. Grouped around a man-made lake with a small island in the center that housed the kayak house, the project boasted a full-service clubhouse with indoor pool. A complete gym and jogging track were built next to a nine-hole golf course. The open land between building clusters was crisscrossed with landscaped walks, cross-country ski trails, outdoor jogging trails, and interspersed with various types of courts where games with various small rubber balls were played. The area was immaculately maintained through immense monthly charges.

He wondered if there was a pattern between this construction and the condo-monstrosity going up next to Nutmeg Hill. The days when homes were built around schools and playgrounds seemed past. Perhaps the affluent portion of the human race would eventually perish due to the lack of living quarters that permitted children.

Lyon added another mental note to his ever-expanding list of Clay queries. Why was the young CPA so obsessed with the distribution of the trust money when his present income was obviously more than adequate?

‘We have a fat list of things to ask Clay about,' Lyon said.

‘Uh huh,' the chief replied as he drove through the security gate leading into the project. The irate guard was obviously perplexed when the police cruiser swept past. ‘Which of these miniature mansions is his?' Rocco asked.

‘Follow this road to the end and turn down the cul-de-sac to the right and he's the last unit nearest the lake.'

‘How can a CPA who does your taxes afford to live out here with all these yuppies?' Rocco asked as his internal police alarm clicked in.

‘Like I said,' Lyon answered. ‘We have a book of questions for Clay.'

They wondered if any answers were to be provided after Rocco's persistent ringing went unanswered. Clay's metallic voice finally blurted from a small unit on the wall. ‘I'm too upset over my brother's death to talk with anyone today.'

Lyon nudged Rocco and pointed to Bambi's pickup parked in the drive. ‘Hers,' he mouthed.

‘You want I should get a warrant, Mr Dickensen?' Rocco said without a hint of warmth.

The front door jerked open as far as its chain allowed. Clay peered anxiously through the narrow opening. ‘Do I need a lawyer?'

‘Not if you answer a few questions.' Rocco automatically put the tip of a size-fourteen brogan into the door's aperture.

Clay looked down at the invading foot. ‘I assume this is about Morgan?'

‘Yep.'

‘I'm really tied up right now,' Clay said. ‘If you need a statement of some sort, I can meet you down at your office in an hour. OK?' He tried to shut the door without waiting for an answer.

‘This will only take a few minutes,' Rocco said as he pushed the door with enough pressure to snap the chain from its mounting and slam it back against the wall. ‘Oh, sorry. Don't know my own strength.'

‘Hey!' Clay protested. ‘You can't do that! You can't come in here unless I invite you.'

‘Lyon has an income-tax question, and that's our reason for entry,' Rocco said.

Lyon followed Rocco inside as Clay continued protesting their entrance.

A woman's clothing trail led through the living room and out the sliding glass doors to a rear deck. The path was well marked, beginning with a blouse strewn haphazardly on the floor near the couch. A very large red bra was draped across an armchair, followed by a puddle of jeans that Lyon recognized. The path culminated with red bikini panties drooped across the metal door sill.

Clay's protest stopped abruptly as he watched them follow the clothing trail through the room and out the open doors. A nude Bambi Dolores reclined on a chaise lounge in the sun. Her head was turned to the side, with a folded towel covering her eyes.

‘Our creature of the woods?' Rocco asked.

‘Bambi Dolores,' Lyon answered. ‘Morgan's late-night visitor.'

‘Miss Dolores had a trying time,' Clay said. ‘She's exhausted and really needs her rest.' He softly closed the sliding glass doors. He looked at their skeptical faces. ‘She is forced to sunbathe without clothing because of her stage career. She cannot have panty and bra lines on her body that will show while she dances.'

‘You just happened to run into her at Sarge's place? Over a drink, she just happened to ask if you knew a good spot for nude sunbathing?' Rocco asked as he reunited the red panties and bra.

‘So, OK, I knew her from last year and we've met a few times since. One night when I was in Boston on business, Morgan called my hotel and asked me over to the Combat Zone for what he said would be a couple of laughs.' He gestured with his shoulder toward the naked woman on the deck. ‘Bambi was on the runway of the White Pussy Cat doing her thing. Morgan tried to convince me that her act was a humorous and awkward example of our decadent culture, completely devoid of aesthetics. He called it a genuine piece of prurient Americana conceived and dedicated to the birthplace of puritanism, Massachusetts. I saw through his scholarly observations the instant he stuffed the first twenty in her G-string.'