Death at King Arthur's Court (12 page)

‘Do you think Clay waited until she fell asleep on the chaise lounge and then drove her truck over here? He fired from this window, probably with a telescopic sight?'

Rocco nodded agreement. ‘He would have braced the rifle on the window sill. It's a clear field of fire. If he set his windage correctly, had a good rifle, and was just a moderately decent shot, he would have gotten her.'

‘There are no occupied units on this side of the lake and the workmen aren't here today. There's no one on this side of the lake to hear the shot, and it was too distant, with the wind in the wrong direction, for those on the far side to hear it.'

‘Yep,' Rocco said as they walked back to the cruiser. ‘I think Clay and Miss Bambi did Morgan together. I believe his story about promising her the two hundred and fifty thou. That was for openers to catch her interest. A promise made before the killing. Then he got to worrying about leaving his fate in the hands of a topless dancer and decided to do away with his witness. We'll never know all that happened, but perhaps she was already pressuring him for more money, with a little sexual blackmail to sweeten the pot.'

Rocco drove in his usual nonchalant manner as he turned down the cul-de-sac filled with official vehicles. Clay burst through the front door as they parked behind the laboratory van. He ran toward Bambi's pickup. An irate Captain Norbert came out on the stoop and bellowed after him. ‘Get back in here, you accounting asshole!'

Clay fumbled through his pockets until he found the proper key to turn the pickup's ignition. He ignored the angry state police officer as he drove the truck across the lawn, around the cruisers, and back to the street.

‘Now we know how he started her truck,' Rocco said. He cupped his hands to yell at the irate captain. ‘Hey, Norbie, your prisoner just took off!'

Norbert replied by flipping an obscene finger gesture. ‘If he was under arrest, I'da shot the bastard.' He stalked back inside.

‘I'm quitting this damn job,' Rocco said. ‘I think I can get the nomination to run for town clerk next November and that's the way I'm going. The town clerk has regular hours and the job would put me in contact with a better bunch of people.'

‘I've always felt that law enforcement was difficult because of the scum you are forced to deal with daily,' Lyon said.

‘I don't mean the bad guys,' Rocco said. ‘I can deal with them. I mean finks like Norbie. He's nearly as pissed now as the day I told him I was marrying Martha.'

‘Why was he angry about that?' Lyon asked.

‘Maybe because Martha was six months pregnant at the time. In those days, guys like Norb considered knocking up their little sister somewhere near child abuse.'

‘How old was she?'

‘Twenty-seven. Why do you think I'm not on the state force? He was only a sergeant then, but he was still able to poison my application.' He clicked open the driver's door and unwound to his full height. ‘Let's see why Clay ran off.'

Norbie was reading the interrogation notes in the living room and glanced up at Rocco and Lyon with annoyance. ‘Find anything?'

Rocco laid the acetate bag containing the shell casing on the table. ‘I'll give directions to your guys to where we found it. The place should be checked for latents. The engine on the victim's pickup was still warm.'

‘Your bashful bookkeeper saw you checking it out and immediately told me he borrowed it from her to get the newspaper.'

‘The paper's not delivered out here?' Lyon wondered aloud.

‘Why did you let our prime suspect drive off?' Rocco asked.

Norbert's complexion changed to a darker hue of red. ‘Because I wanted him to grab the first flight to Brazil or Cuba or wherever in hell it is that we don't have an extradition treaty! Why in the hell do you think I let him go? He began to sweat when I laid it all out for him. He admits to owning an M-l Garand rifle, then claims it was stolen last week. You saw the car keys he had. When I start ticking this stuff off, he finally says to me that he had best get a lawyer and off he runs.'

‘You could have stopped him.'

‘How? I don't have a firm case yet.'

Bea Wentworth thought she understood modern, but this place was really far out. The structure didn't resemble an ordinary house. It was a series of protruding concrete shafts that only coincidentally happened to enclose an interior where someone might live if they didn't care about normal wall space. She reversed the car back down the drive to the entrance and rechecked the address on the mailbox. It read as it had the first time: Xanadu—71 River Road. The 71 part matched the address she had for Garth Wilkins. The Xanadu part obviously belonged to that mass of concrete planes projecting out over the hill above her. She shoved the gear into drive and went back up to the building.

She parked under the misnamed porte cochere, which really wasn't part of an entryway as much as it was a rectangular slab that seemed to accidentally extend over the drive. She searched in vain for a doorbell or knocker before realizing that a hanging gong was used for that purpose. When struck it sounded low mellow notes which were answered from the interior by a muted flute. The flute faded away as the door slid open.

Garth stood in the door wearing a vivid red dressing gown with leaping black dragons embroidered down the sides. The robe accentuated his slender frame. He looked at her with mild surprise. ‘Why, good morning, Beatrice. What brings you to Xanadu? Not that you aren't always welcome.'

‘I came to talk about Morgan. You have heard?'

‘Yes, of course. It's a messy business. I only hope it doesn't require the university to expose a lot of dirty linen. I vehemently disagreed with the man on many occasions, but I wouldn't wish that death on anyone. But do come in.'

She followed him into the house aware that in this place of strange angles and linear oddity, and dressed in his bright swirling gown, Garth seemed less awkward and nearly graceful. Rooms spoked out of the entrance and consisted of long narrow spaces with gleaming hardwood floors and stark white walls. Decoration was an occasional oriental print framed in lacquered black bamboo lit by a subtle light. Entryways were either doorless or partially obscured by decorative oriental screens. There wasn't any ordinary furniture—only an occasional pillow or two placed near low tables.

‘Your home is very … interesting,' she said. If this house was representative of his taste, Garth must consider Nutmeg Hill, with its eclectic mix of comfortable contemporary and early American pieces, a Collier brothers collection of junk.

‘Thank you,' Garth responded, either ignoring or not conscious of her qualified approval. ‘We are quite happy here. We were about to have brunch. Leslie has prepared his tomato surprise.'

‘Oh, I really couldn't impose,' Bea said.

‘Not an imposition,' Garth responded. ‘But do not expect a gourmet meal with Leslie's cooking. I usually prepare most of the meals, but from time to time he insists. As the man said, do not wonder how well he does it, but that he does it at all.' He called out. ‘Leslie, we have a guest. Throw on another tomato or whatever you do with those things.'

Leslie, a blond man with a wide smile that seemed to cleave his face into two parts, dried his hands on a large apron as he bustled toward them. His face brightened when he saw Bea. ‘I know you!' he said exuberantly. ‘You're Senator Wentworth.' His hand shot forward to heartily grasp hers. ‘You proposed the Gay Rights bill in the state legislature last session.'

‘Why, yes, I did.'

‘Rather unsuccessfully, I might add,' Garth said.

‘It was a step,' Bea said. ‘We got support from some surprising areas this time.'

‘Do your thing, Les, while I show the senator around our digs,' Garth said as he steered Bea by the elbow through a tour of the house. ‘We designed this place ourselves. Leslie has an architectural degree, although he's never been licensed. He seems to have difficulty in passing part three of the examination, which has to do with stresses, material strength, and other scientific facts which he detests. But if you like modern, he's actually quite good in design.'

They entered a room that seemed to serve as a sleeping area, with a wide futon and oblong windows that overlooked a Japanese garden enclosed by a waist-high wall. ‘I love that garden,' Bea said with wonder.

Garth looked down with immense fondness at the narrow gravel paths, goldfish pond and a dozen different varieties of bonsai. ‘I can't tell you how much the tranquility of that garden has meant to me. Sitting on that bench and absorbing its perfect dimensions saved my sanity after some of those faculty meetings. I'd come home agitated and upset and on the verge of blowing. I would sit on the bench by the bridge near the goldfish. Leslie would pour a perfect Bombay Gin and tonic and bring it to me out by the pond. It made it possible to forget Morgan for a time.'

‘It would seem that your Morgan problem has been removed,' Bea said.

‘That monster's not through with us yet,' Garth said bitterly. ‘He's reaching from his grave to stir a cauldron of trouble in the department. There's still more misery around the corner, and Morgan knew it as he died.'

‘How's that?'

‘We don't have a chairman anymore, now do we? Thomas from Yale hasn't officially joined us yet, and under the circumstances, may not. Precedence at the university seems to make it clear that either Ernest or myself, as senior members of the staff, be considered for department head.' He turned to her with a wistful smile. ‘So you see, he's not through with us yet.'

‘The competition between you and Ernest heats up?' she asked.

‘To say the least. Which means that the dirty laundry will be forced out, and that's unfortunate. Ernest will be destroyed because of the dossier that Morgan built up on him over the last two years.'

‘Dossier?'

‘It's nearly impossible to fire a tenured teacher unless there's a morals charge involved.'

‘I've known Ernest for years,' Bea said. ‘He might be sexist, but as far I know he's never done anything criminal in his life unless you include hitting on a few graduate students.'

Garth sighed. ‘More than chasing grad students. It would seem that Ernest sexually harassed every female teacher or student that he managed to trap in his office for longer than five minutes. His office hours were evidently infamous to all female students and instructors. You can't get away with that sort of activity these days.'

‘I'm amazed that he was so indiscreet.'

‘Morgan was evidently a voyeur, but it wouldn't be hard, the way Ernest flaunts his sexuality as some sort of machismo badge.'

‘Exposing Ernest places you in an odd position, Garth. If you attempt to use that type of ammunition against him, there could be repercussions.'

Garth laughed. ‘My dear, the days when sexual preference could be used against me are past. I am long out of that closet, and if you will look at our home, you will see that it is a very nice open closet we inhabit.'

‘Come chow down, you guys,' Leslie said from the doorway.

They moved to a dining area where a low table had been served. ‘Morals charges these days, at a non-Bible-thumping school in the northeast, do not consist of sexual preferences unless you are a pedophile. In that instance, the sex of your victim is immaterial. You're thrown out.'

Bea slipped out of her shoes and sat on a cushion directly across from the two men. Leslie poured tea from a small earthen teapot and solemnly handed it to her in an exquisite porcelain cup. ‘By the way, Garth,' she asked, ‘the night Morgan was killed …'

Her incomplete question agitated Leslie to the extent that he knocked over the teapot and glared at her. ‘He was here with me all night!' Leslie said quickly. ‘I'll swear to that on all the stacks of holy books you have.'

‘Oh, please,' Bea said as she donned her most political smile. ‘I never intended to suggest … Surely, you don't think I was asking for an alibi while eating at your table?'

Leslie's face flushed. While Bea blushed inwardly at her lie.

Lyon Wentworth often missed teaching at Middleburg University. It was a small liberal arts school that fell into the category often referred to as ‘little Ivy.' It was an old school even by northeastern standards, competitive by admission standards, expensive by financial standards, and liberal by all standards. It had one advantage over its larger and more prestigious brothers and sisters. In the powerhouse universities, the famous members of the faculty rarely taught on an undergraduate level. At Middleburg, those faculty members that enjoyed a small measure of international or national acclaim taught classes on all levels.

Lyon often missed the routine and camaraderie of academic life. This nostalgia was particularly strong on those unproductive days when he sat at his lonely computer on Nutmeg Hill and nothing happened. Eventually the Wobblies would return from wherever they'd been hiding and the feeling would pass. Still, he missed the stimulus of teaching, meeting with students, and the interaction with the faculty.

In recent years, with Morgan's tenure as chair, the department had not been filled with jolly academics. God only knows what seismic waves his death would cause.

A phone call to the department secretary told him that Ernest had a ten o'clock class followed by office hours. Both the seminar and his office were in Blenheim.

Ernest's small book-lined office was cluttered with Hemingway memorabilia. Photographs of the author in various stages of his career and marriages covered the walls. Lyon was grateful that the size of the small office precluded exhibitions of stuffed animal heads and mounted fish. The office was adjacent to the seminar, with a connecting door ajar between them. Lyon sat on a window sill near the open door, where he could watch Ernest pace the small conference room.