Death at King Arthur's Court (18 page)

‘To make Bambi's death logical,' Lyon said. ‘Remember the so-called letter from the Beelzebubs? Death to the bimbo or whatever. Ten to one there will be another letter acknowledging Skee's death.'

‘As a further cover-up.'

Lyon nodded. ‘All this conjecture doesn't exclude Ernest or Garth, both of whom had more than enough reason to kill Morgan.'

‘Morgan had confidential information on both of them,' Rocco said. ‘Did you ever consider the possibility that they protest their hostility too much? Is it possible their mutual antagonism may not be as real as it appears? They could have joined forces to do Morgan in and are using the other two murders as decoys.'

‘We did seem to disarm them rather easily. A case could be made that Garth's attempt to shoot Ernest was staged. To make matters more complicated, no one in the whole damn group seems to have a good alibi, and everyone has a motive,' Lyon said.

Rocco began to laugh. ‘God, the combinations are endless. How about the killer twins, Rina and Clay, operating without their lovers?'

The black humor was infectious and Lyon laughed. ‘Or Bambi and Skee doing the dirty work for payment by the twins? Oh, Lord help us. There are suspects everywhere and what in the hell are we laughing at?'

Rocco kept chuckling until it was time to order another drink.

‘Do you have a death wish? Or are you just out to lunch?' Bea asked. ‘That thing is not a full-fledged balloon. It is the top half of a hot-air balloon. I would like to point out that it does not have a basket to ride in.'

‘Gondola,' Lyon replied.

‘Whatever. At least in a regular balloon I have the faint illusion that there's something substantial underneath. In that thing there is nothing at all beneath you.'

Lyon stopped adjusting the flame on the propane burner of the cloudhopper balloon and looked across the yard at his alarmed wife. She seemed more frightened of his impending balloon flight than when she had relieved Garth of his .45 caliber pistol.

He looked up at the thirty-foot-wide 21,000-cubic-foot balloon. It was bobbing a few feet above his head, straining against its tether, which was fastened to a stake in the ground. ‘It's perfectly safe, you know. I've been hot-air ballooning for years and this one is just a slightly different version.'

‘The bigger ones are bad enough, but this thing is ridiculous. And if you're so damn good, what about the time you landed on the golf course and those men tried to kill you with their putters?'

‘They were five-irons actually. Those guys had a lot of money riding on that particular hole.'

‘Or the day you dropped in on a nudist camp?'

‘I've always liked volley ball.'

‘And how many times have you dunked in the Connecticut River? That thing is dangerous. Can you be tempted not to go?'

‘Nope. Care to come with me? I can hold you in my arms.'

‘I wouldn't go up in that thing for all the whatever they have in China these days. As for you, everyone has a price.' Bea closed the distance between them and slipped her arms around his neck. She gently moved the rucksack-like frame containing the propane burner with her feet. ‘You were great in the laurel,' she said. ‘How would you like to be bedded in the begonias?'

Lyon kissed her and moved the propane burner further away with his foot. Air began to cool inside the balloon, which caused it to bob toward the ground.

‘Go for it, man!' a voice behind them yelled.

Lyon and Bea snapped apart to stare toward the construction site. The tower crane had been moved to the near edge of their property and the operator in the high cab leaned out the window to wave at them. ‘You two are better than an adult video store.'

‘Oh, my God! He watched us in the mountain laurel,' Bea said as she ran toward the house in embarrassment.

‘Come on back here, it's show time,' the crane operator yelled after her. He looked back at the sinking balloon to see a furious Lyon Wentworth stalking across the lawn toward the construction site. He slammed and locked the cab windows and swivelled the crane arm to lift another steel girder.

Lyon saw that the voyeuristic crane operator had buttoned up his cab and would be impossible to reach. He walked back to the cloudhopper and let his anger at the workman merge with his general dislike of the whole condominium project.

He centered the propane burner under the balloon's envelope and gave it a ten-second burn to reheat the interior air and restore balance to the balloon. He slipped into the parachute-type harness and adjusted the rucksack containing the propane burner. After the mooring line was released, he pulled the short lanyard to give the burner another five seconds of fire. The last burn changed the balloon's equilibrium and he was snatched aloft as the balloon bobbed quickly above the trees.

A light wind from the northeast carried him away from the construction site and Nutmeg Hill and along the westerly bank of the river. The balloon rose slowly after its initial surge for altitude. He nursed it slightly higher until it stabilized at eight hundred feet above the river.

Lyon hung suspended from the harness as the wind carried the balloon slowly forward. The sense of freedom that balloon flight always gave him began to form as the noiseless journey continued. He rocked gently in the harness and occasionally shattered the silence with the barking whoosh of an additional propane burn to keep the flight level.

He recalled a free-fall parachute jump he had made years ago. Before the canopy opened there was a fleeting moment when he had experienced this exhilaration. Balloon flight was an extension of such feelings. He often imagined that he saw the slowly moving panorama of the land below in the same manner as a large bird whose sweeping glides banked at the whim of warm air currents.

These flights were an excellent time for reflection. They were so far removed from ordinary surroundings that the mind seemed to view problems in a different manner. Lyon often felt that the subconscious mind could worry a seemingly unsolvable problem like a silent terrier dog. If a solution or part of a solution were reached, it would often be fed back to the conscious mind. It was necessary to create the breeding ground and receptivity for this type of oblique thought.

The balloon was nearly out of its hour-long supply of propane before the answer came. It was then that he knew who had sent the fax from the town library and delivered the letter to the police station. The solution to those two questions would lead them to the zealots.

Lyon Wentworth impatiently pulled the ripping panel to release hot air from the balloon envelope. The spilled air caused the craft to begin a rapid descent. He was unable to change direction in any manner, and his only control was the ability to adjust the rate of descent by heating air with the propane burner. If he continued on his present landing course, he was going to land on the Murphysville town green, which seemed preferable to snagging the steeple of the Congregational Church.

Twelve

He had vented the balloon too early. The wind had suddenly shifted during his descent toward the town green. This reverse changed his horizontal drift and swept him toward the buildings lining the green's north border. He had planned a stepped approach with a gradual loss of altitude until he hovered over the lawn near the gazebo. At that point he intended to touch down gently for a stand-up landing. This was not to be.

The wind carried him at tree-top level toward the classical New England Congregational Church situated at the edge of the green.

When the sagging envelope cleared the pointed steeple, he had renewed hopes of a safe but jarring landing in the empty parking lot behind the church. The suspension harness snagged on the steeple point. The abrupt halt spilled the remaining hot air from the bag and slammed him against the side of the building, where he hung against the belfry.

He was never sure whether the shock of his body hitting against the belfry or an irate custodian were the cause. The church clarion began blaring a version of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers' from a gigantic speaker that was aimed directly at him.

Halfway down the block the door to Ernest Harnell's house burst open. The alarmed English professor rushed outside carrying a 30.06 rifle with a mounted telescopic sight at port arms. He stopped abruptly in the center of the street and stared up at the steeple in astonishment.

Ernest slung the rifle over his shoulder. He walked closer to the building as the clarion mercifully stopped.

‘Are you invading the town, Wentworth? Or do you just like the view from up there?'

‘Call the fire department!
' Lyon yelled loudly, still half deafened by ‘Christian Soldiers'.

‘I was working at my desk when I looked out my window to see what looked like a paratrooper invasion. Reminded me of World War Two when Papa and his band of French resistance fighters liberated Paris.' He unslung the rifle and wrapped the sling around his forearm as he raised the scope to his eye and drew a bead on the helpless man hanging from the steeple. ‘God, what an easy shot.'

‘Don't point that thing at me! Damn it, Ernest! I mean it!' Lyon heard two sets of approaching sirens and then the deep whistle blast from the volunteer firehouse.

‘I might play God and decide if you live or die …' Ernest squeezed the trigger and the bolt snapped on an empty chamber.

A patrol car swerved to a stop and Rocco catapulted from the driver's seat and rushed toward Ernest. ‘Give me that goddamn weapon.'

‘Hell, no! This is an expensive piece.' The teacher's voice rose three registers in high-pitched protest.

Rocco snatched the rifle. ‘I'm having the state lab run a test on this.' He placed the weapon in the trunk of the patrol car and walked back to the steeple with a bullhorn. ‘You know what this means, Wentworth.' Rocco Herbert's voice echoed over the green. ‘The volunteer fire department is going to have to crank out the hook and ladder, and they are going to be pissed.'

It was another five minutes before the extension ladder began to slowly rise from its truck bed and swing toward the steeple.

‘Crimminy nicket, Wentworth,' Volunteer Fire Chief Terry Randall said. He was perched near the top of the ladder as it hovered over the church. He hooked his safety harness to the rail. ‘We voted last year that we wouldn't do kittens anymore. This year I'm putting a ban on balloonists.' He was perched near the top of the ladder as it hovered over the church. ‘You know, I got a guy waiting in my barber chair. When he finishes leafing through my
Playboy
he's going to get restless. That's when he's going to start thinkin' on the new unisex shop on Essex Street with the young women stylists.'

‘Sorry about that, Chief.'

‘If I didn't think so damn much of Senator Wentworth, you'd stay up here until they replaced you with the Star of Bethlehem at Christmastime.'

When Lyon was able to shift his weight to the ladder and release the harness, the balloon envelope fell free and drifted down to the parking lot. With Rocco's help he rolled up the deflated balloon and stuffed it into the back of the patrol car. By the time the balloon was secure, the fire engine had pulled away and Ernest had disappeared into his house.

‘We'll celebrate another of your safe landings at Sarge's, where I can write up your summons,' Rocco said.

Lyon shook his head. ‘I'd like to talk with Mrs Baxter.'

Rocco looked puzzled. ‘The children's librarian?'

‘Do you know where she lives?'

‘Sure. Not far from here over on Webb Street.'

‘Did you ever develop any information from the middle-school principal about the kid who delivered the letter to police headquarters?' Lyon asked.

‘Nothing. Either we had a bad lead or he's a stubborn kid who won't admit anything.'

‘Let's see what Mrs Baxter has to say.'

‘I told you she has an cast-iron alibi. At the time the fax was sent from the library, she was with the visiting nun. Remember?'

‘I recall.'

Phyllis Baxter was neat. The narrow lawn of the small ranch house was well trimmed and edged. The compact car squatting under the carport gleamed, and the tiny living room was immaculate. Mrs Baxter was coordinated with her surroundings, which meant that her essence could be summarized as scrubbed and shining. Lyon recalled that half a dozen years ago her husband, a maintenance worker for the light company, had been accidentally electrocuted. That was not a neat way to expire.

She had been widowed with a young child before her thirtieth birthday, but had met the situation with determination and resolution.

She looked down at the small Timex watch on her wrist. ‘I only have a minute, Chief Herbert. I open the children's room at three.'

‘We're trying to track down who sent a fax from the library,' Rocco said.

‘Yes, I know. One of your men talked with me earlier today. I told him I was at the church annex this morning and haven't been in the library since yesterday afternoon.'

‘The first job I ever had was shelving books at the Middleburg Library,' Lyon said. ‘I did it after school three afternoons a week.'

Unable to follow the trail of Lyon's thought, Rocco frowned.

Phyllis Baxter returned an even smile. ‘Miss Southgate allows me to indulge in a little nepotism. I've hired my son to shelve in the children's section. But since Murphysville is such a small town, he's only required to work two afternoons a week.'

‘It must be a great comfort to have your son helping,' Lyon said. ‘You must be very proud of him.'

‘I am. Since Big Ralph died, little Ralph has tried so hard to take his place. We make do with social security, a small pension from the light company, and the little I make at the library. It's a tight budget, but we manage. In addition to his two afternoons a week at the library, Ralphie delivers the
Hartford Courant
in the morning and the
Middleburg Press
in the afternoon. He is always looking out for ways to make money and help out.'