Death at King Arthur's Court (14 page)

Wait patiently. They would soon finish their coffees and step into the atrium to meet their fate.

‘I can't help you,' Martha said after a pause. ‘There's nothing I can say. If I knew of anything between you and someone else, or heard a rumor, I would certainly tell you.'

Bea wasn't altogether sure that she believed Martha. She had known this woman for years, although they had never been close friends. There was something about the stiffness of her response, and her pronounced shift of attention, that signified an uncomfortable attitude. ‘I'm sorry you don't feel free enough to share the information with me,' Bea said.

‘I said I really don't know anything, Beatrice.' This time the response was rapid and immediate. ‘I know you don't respect me very much, because I stayed home and took care of my child all these years while you went into the world and did politics and important things. I'm old-fashioned and that's the way I'm made. And I am sorry you feel I'm a nothing. I am even sorrier that my husband thinks you're some sort of goddess.' Without a further word, Martha gathered her pocketbook and stiffly left the restaurant.

Bea was stunned as she looked after the departing woman. Didn't Martha remember that the child Bea would have looked after was killed in a bicycle accident ten long years ago?

She paid the check and walked to the door to discover that the day was sliding downhill at a faster velocity than she had imagined. Ralston Proman, professional legionnaire and Korean War Veteran, slouched on a bench in the walkway. He sat next to a newspaper reader wearing a voluminous khaki raincoat. Even Ralston's aging soldier eyes would spot her the moment she left the shop. Her capture would invariably lead to elbow grabbing and the commencement of the memorial harangue.

She knew from past experience in constituent escapes that there was an employee's exit to the parking lot through the back room of the coffee shop. She hoped the staff wouldn't mind her slipping out that way again.

Lyon sat before his computer monitor and stared at the blank screen that was inhabited only by an impatiently blinking cursor. That damn flickering little light made him miss his ancient Underwood Number Five typewriter. That Underwood was a real writing machine. When you pounded keys into a pockety rhythm and slapped the return after the bell pinged, you knew you were really at work, and so did anyone else within a fifty-yard radius. The silent computer stared back with its brooding blink of light that served as a reproach for words not written.

Morgan and Bambi, the incongruous dead lovers, seemed to stand on either side of the machine as quiet sentinels that forbad any creative work. His Wobbly creations would sleep until the dead were properly laid to rest.

Lyon couldn't see Nutmeg Hill's long drive from the study window, but he heard a car spewing gravel as it braked to a stop near the front door. Only one person drove up the winding drive at that rate of speed. He knew that Rocco Herbert would shortly appear in the study doorway.

It took several minutes before his grumpy friend arrived. Rocco slumped into the large leather chair. ‘I'm out here on another complaint. The project manager from the condo next door called again. More graffiti has been discovered, old top.'

‘Like what words of wisdom this time?'

‘How about, “Beyond here there be monsters”, spray painted in letters four feet tall along one wall.'

‘I like the ring to that.'

‘They know it's you. I know it's you, and we're both going to get our ass in a sling if you don't stop it.'

‘A couple of questions about the Morgan case. Were there any prints on the shell casing we found? Secondly, were they able to lift any prints from the shooter's firing position in the unfinished unit across the lake from Clay's place?'

‘Negative on both counts.'

‘Also, who delivered the note the Brotherhood of Beelzebub sent to you? The one where they assumed responsibility for Morgan's killing.'

‘The dispatcher thinks it was a kid who slid the envelope through the reception window. She was on a unit dispatch at the time, but she vaguely recalls thinking that it was the paper boy handing in his bill. Based on that, we assume it was a boy under high-school age. Because of his size, we suspect he's in the middle school. I got the word out to Joe Shattick, the principal over there, and he's talking to the teachers. So, we'll see what they turn up.'

‘Have you been in contact with university security as to who might have ransacked Morgan's office?'

‘Affirmative and there's nothing hard there either. Half the university had a key to that room and a four-year-old could have broken into it with an expired credit card. Since some incriminating files on Ernest and Garth are both missing, we can make an assumption that narrows it down a bit.'

‘I thought Morgan's dossier was on Garth?'

‘It depends on who you talk to.' Rocco flipped a small pad out of his breast pocket and flipped through half a dozen pages. ‘The faculty seems to break into two distinct camps on this question. One group says Ernest tried to make it with every adult female within a five-mile radius and was now lowering his age requirements. When I start talking pedophilia, a second group points out to me that the word does not denote gender, only children. Some of this contingent leans toward Garth lusting after younger boys now that he's aging, but no one seems to have any firm knowledge either way. It's very difficult interviewing a bunch of academics, Lyon. Those who say they are the politically correct group vote for Ernest as villain. Near as I can figure, female sexual harassment is
the
crime this year. Like I said, it's very tiring work.'

‘What about Clay's situation?'

‘Norbie is still in touch with the state's attorney over that. I don't know if they're going for a murder warrant or not, but for the moment he's definitely their numero uno suspect, along with unknown terrorists, followed by a certain children's book writer.'

It would be a long shot of nearly four hundred yards, but the shooter had made difficult hits like that before. The one that took out Miss Big Boobs, the exotic dancer, was only slightly less than that distance, and that target was far smaller. The top of a woman's head at 400 meters is one hell of a small target area.

Bea Wentworth was clearly outlined against the stone facade of the house's parapet as she worked in her garden. She wore shorts, a loose peasant blouse scooped deep at the neck, and that same floppy hat that cast part of her face in shadows. Occasionally she stooped or kneeled to work things into the soil. When she stood, she unconsciously brushed clods of dirt from her knees.

The best time to make the shot would be when she was in a kneeling position. At that time she would be without any forward momentum and nearly motionless. She would be in a direct line in front of the rifle and clearly outlined in the sight. The trees were motionless, and the clouds hung in the sky as if suspended there by the gods. There would be no necessity to adjust for wind on this perfectly still day. The light was still good and would remain so for at least half an hour.

The mall hit would have been entertainingly different, but that opportunity was past. It was often best to rely on the old standards, for in the long run they were the most reliable.

The marksman assumed a prone position between a small boulder and a large pine. The rifle rested on a low stump, with the sling intertwined along the arm for further support.

Take time. Take careful aim. One carefully placed shot in a vital area. Easy. Breathe in and out with slow regularity and then carefully squeeze it off.

Bea Wentworth walked along the rear of the house thinking about Garth's Japanese garden with its intricate planning and tiny but perfectly formed bonsai trees. All of his shrubs, walks and ponds were sculptured into an artificial nature.

They made her plantings seem careless and haphazard. It was like comparing oriental art to a Grandma Moses primitive.

Still, she loved her mountain laurel, which bloomed early, with lovely flowers that hung from its top branches like miniature clouds. The primrose was also out. Tiers of rosettes of large lime-green leaves and small flowers surrounding the stem had a natural uninhibited beauty that she adored.

The other flowers would bloom in progression. She hoped that this year she finally had gotten it phased so that the blooming would continue through the spring, into the summer and deep into fall and Indian summer.

There was something about her visit to Garth's home that bothered her. She accepted his decor and garden, and although they were not to her own taste, she found them immensely interesting and attractive. Something had been said or done that did not quite fit. The exact nature of what she was reaching for eluded her.

She was startled by the roar of the patrol car's engine as it rocked down the drive and swerved on to the secondary highway that passed below their home. She shook her head as Lyon came out on the patio and looked down at her.

‘Someone ought to give that man a ticket,' she said. ‘He's become a menace on the highways.'

‘He's in a hurry to get to an important appointment at Sarge's place,' Lyon said as he descended the patio steps and walked over to the garden.

‘I've been thinking about my luncheon with Garth and Leslie. Something there bothers me. I think it's Leslie's reaction when I asked about the night of the murder.'

‘He responded too quickly.'

‘Exactly,' Bea said. ‘Without thought, reflection or consideration. It was a protective reaction.'

Lyon laughed. ‘That's about the feeling I had when Ernest and I discovered the mess in Morgan's office. He didn't seem nearly as surprised as I would have expected. Which is rather unusual, since the material in the file was supposed to be dirty linen that would hang Garth.'

‘If Ernest suspected that Morgan had a file on him, as Garth believes, he might have gone after it. He would have to steal both files in order to not be implicated in the theft.'

‘And Ernest has no alibi for the night of Morgan's murder,' Lyon said.

‘Which puts us back on square one,' Bea said.

The sniper realized that now there was an opportunity to get both of them. A full clip had been inserted into the rifle's magazine and a live round levered into the chamber. After the first shot, if the remaining Wentworth didn't immediately hit the dirt, there would be a chance for a second round to take him out. It would work. Two for the price of one—delicious. The only question remaining was, which one to take first?

It was a question that required careful consideration. There was also the possibility of letting him survive a few seconds to feel the anguish of seeing her die before his eyes. A lovely choice that required a moment's deliberation.

‘I ran into Martha Herbert today. I think my Morgan rumor started with her, and that bothers me.'

‘I always thought you liked the strong silent type, which pretty much precluded Morgan.'

‘Maybe I never told you my secret lusts,' she said as she looked down the river toward the distant Sound. She felt his arm go over her shoulder as he slowly turned her to face him.

‘It's warm out here even at sunset,' Lyon said. ‘Is that why you're wearing that blouse?'

‘I like working in my garden unencumbered,' she said as she pulled the blouse far off her shoulders. She flicked the brim of the floppy hat to tip it off her head.

‘At least we won't have to dress for dinner,' Lyon said as he kissed her.

What in the hell were they doing?

That little sexy action meant that she was going to go first. The round would be placed directly in the middle of her forehead while she stood flaunting her body. Her limbs would splay out as her head exploded over him. He would watch in horror while the second round caught her in the guts or the middle of the back. The second round wouldn't be really necessary, but the shock to him was worth the effort.

What in the hell were they doing down there?

‘Don't do that!' the sniper said aloud for no one to hear. ‘Are you two nuts?'

There was no possible field of fire while they were locked together on the ground between the flower beds.

How had they known? What inner sense had whispered to them that death was imminent?

Oh, my God. They were barely visible behind the mound as more clothing cluttered the primrose. Damn them! In minutes the light would be gone and the shot would be impossible.

The fools were making love while it was time to die.

Ten

‘The mountain laurel is ringing,' Lyon whispered into the ear nestled against his shoulder.

‘Uh huh. Don't answer,' Bea mumbled.

‘It's a very persistent laurel,' he replied as the ringing continued.

She didn't answer but spooned herself closer to him for warmth.

He wrapped his arms around her to let his body heat warm her. She stopped shivering and slipped back into sleep. Her comfort had been accomplished through a heat transfer and now it was his turn to be chilled. The cold shocked him fully awake. It was dark. They'd fallen asleep between the flower beds and now the phone was ringing in the mountain laurel. He separated from her and crawled into the garden. A pebble dug into his knee and he muttered an involuntary gasp of pain.

He found it. His fingers curled around the cordless phone she always brought into the garden while she worked. He rolled over to watch the stars and clicked the talk button. ‘I hope this is an extremely significant message,' he said in the most sonorous voice he could muster. ‘If you are conducting a poll or selling anything, prepare for an immediate disconnect.'

‘This is Leslie. I'm Garth's friend,' an alarmed voice said. ‘I must speak with Mrs Wentworth immediately.'

‘I'm here,' Bea said at Lyon's ear as she took the phone. ‘Yes, Leslie?' She replied in a coherent voice that belied her sleepy responses of a few moments ago.