The Death at Yew Corner (11 page)

“He's already gotten Mike and Curt.”

“You're an idiot, Smelts.”

“I want to get out of town for a while. Maybe go to Florida for a couple of months.”

“You leave here and you'll regret it. I promise you that.”

“You don't know what he's done.”

“Good-bye, Jason.” The connection was broken.

Lyon waited until Smelts hung up before replacing his receiver. He looked over the edge of the booth to see Smelts in the far corner of the lounge. The union leader had his head in his hands.

7

“He kept hurting me, Mrs. Wentworth. I mean, he really beat on me. It got so bad that sometimes I couldn't leave the house because my face was all black and blue.” Mandy Summers' eyes glistened as she leaned over the breakfast-nook table.

“Yes, I know, dear. You mentioned it yesterday morning.”

“And then he'd threaten to kill me. He had those hunting guns all over the house and he'd point them at me and say he was going to shoot me. It got so that I couldn't stand it. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't do anything.”

Bea could only nod, as she'd run out of responses. At the first telling of the story she had felt deep compassion, on the second empathy. At the third recounting she had tried to look for social significance, but subsequent repetitions had drained her of response and dulled her sensitivity. She wondered at Mandy Summers' continued need for daily catharsis.

“And then I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't stand to have him hurt me again. He'd been drinking and the knife was on the kitchen counter, so I …”

It was raining again with an intermittent drizzle that turned green things greener. A heavy mist rose from the river below. There was a change in Mandy's voice that forced Bea's thoughts back to the kitchen.

“Mr. Wentworth said I should ask if there's something I don't understand in the manuscript.”

“Try nine-one-one.”

“Huh?”

“He's at the police station.”

“Oh.”

Gustav Tanner was one of those people who react to a threatening situation with anger. His body communicated hostility by a pronounced forward thrust of the chin and a rigidity of his shoulders.

Rocco reacted to the aggression with pronounced mildness communicated with a Buddha-like expression. Lyon stood at the window looking at the rain while Tanner sat directly in front of the desk.

“I resent your implications! I came here voluntarily in a spirit of cooperation and now you pounce on me with these questions.”

“We are concerned about the death of three people,” Rocco replied in his quietest manner. “I am sure you and your superiors are also.”

“Of course” was the snapped reply.

“I'd like to know your relationship to the deceased.”

“She was a patient in the home I manage.”

“Rustman?”

“Adversary.”

“Explain.”

“We had a perfectly satisfactory relationship with another union in the homes until Rustman stirred things up. He agitated the employees until they became dissatisfied and called for an election.”

“Which he won.”

“Yes. Which was important to me not only in Murphysville, but in the other homes I manage.”

“Which meant that once Rustman won here he would go after the other homes?”

“Obviously. It should have been apparent that Rustman was labor and I am management. We were natural enemies, but that doesn't mean that I'd do anything physical to him.”

“I didn't say you did.”

“That's what you've been implying.”

“He's missing.”

“So?”

“What about Maginacolda?”

“What about him?”

“He was labor also.”

“We had a good working relationship.”

“Curt Falconer?”

“I never met the gentleman. I understand he was connected to Mike's union, but I didn't know him personally.”

“Barbara Rustman?”

A deep flush spread up Tanner's neck. He sat shock-still for a few moments and then got up from his chair. “Have you been spying on me? Have you been watching my movements? If you have, I think it's a violation of my civil rights.”

“Call your attorney.”

“I will!” He snatched up the phone from Rocco's desk and held it contemplatively in his hand a moment before slowly replacing the receiver in the cradle. “It isn't convenient for me to call my lawyer at this time.”

“Then answer the question,” Rocco said offhandedly.

“It's none of your damn business!”

“I think it is.”

“Wait a minute! Are you trying to build some sort of case against me because of Rustman's disappearance and Barbara?”

“It's an interesting thought, Mr. Tanner.”

“You got it wrong! You've got the whole thing turned upside down. I'm the last person in the world that wants to make waves at this time. I'm involved in a very delicate business maneuver and the last thing I want is any trouble in the home, much less murder.”

“Why don't you explain that?”

“It's an extremely confidential matter.”

“I am used to keeping confidences, and I am sure you have the word of Mr. Wentworth.”

“Of course,” Lyon replied.

Tanner sat back in his chair and seemed to calm down. “All right. Not a word beyond this room.”

“Unless it is important to the case.”

“It isn't, but it is a personal matter that will prove to you that I have nothing to gain from what's been happening.”

“Go on.”

“I manage a group of convalescent homes for the Shopton Corporation. This company is a miniconglomerate in this state. It owns not only the homes, but a series of other businesses.”

“Yes.”

“I am a C.P.A., a trained administrator, a good one, if I do say so myself. I am completely qualified to manage the corporation. Now, at the present time, a large block of the stock is held by one individual. The remaining shares are widely dispersed throughout the state. I have worked for a year to obtain proxies on those dispersed shares. I expect, in the very near future, to make a move. In fact, I expect to do so at the next annual meeting, which is in one month's time.”

“How does that fit?”

“I certainly do not want people dying of unnatural causes in establishments that I manage. I fully expect to be elected president of the corporation.”

“This large block of stock that you are fighting to gain control over, who is it held by?” Lyon asked.

“That's not germane to this discussion.”

“It might be. We could check with the secretary of the state's office and determine the probable owner.”

“It's held by a woman. A shark.”

“A Mrs. Truman.”

“How in hell did you know?”

“An educated guess.”

Gustav Tanner started for the door. “I assume we have completed our business?”

“Of course,” Rocco said blandly.

“Good morning.” Tanner left slamming the door.

“Pleasant fellow,” Rocco said.

“I think he'd transfer his aged mother to the charity ward.”

The phone rang and Rocco picked it up.

Lyon looked out the window as pregnant clouds disgorged further torrents in a sudden burst. Rain fell rapidly and bounced off the parking-lot macadam.

Rocco slammed down the phone. “Damn!”

“What's the matter?”

“The dispatcher just took a call from Henderson's. Possible burglary.”

“The funeral home?”

“Goddamn kids took a coffin. I'll see you later.”

Rocco stalked from the office. Lyon turned back to look out the window and saw Rocco run through the rain to his cruiser, slam inside, and screech away from the police station.

A funeral home seemed an unlikely place for a burglary. It was unlikely there would be any loose cash around or many items of value that would be hockable. A missing coffin probably meant kids as Rocco suggested. Perhaps something to do with a fraternity hazing.

College was in recess. The summer session hadn't begun yet. Lyon bolted for the door. He ran down the short hall to the rear door and toward his parked pickup.

The initial onslaught of heavy rain had subsided into a heavy drizzle that seemed to have every intention of continuing for hours. Bea Wentworth walked bareheaded in the rain and thought that no matter how beneficial the rain was for her garden, it wasn't helping her depression. She had just finished chastising herself for her insensitivity toward the troubled woman now typing in Lyon's study. Mandy Summers' past problem so overshadowed her own temporary malaise that she felt pangs of guilt for not being able to offer the woman more of herself.

She stood on the patio and viewed the charred Japanese honeysuckle with satisfaction. At least one thing had worked. She watched the slowly moving river below the parapet for a moment, then walked aimlessly toward the stand of pine trees beyond the house.

She turned in curiosity as an unfamiliar car moved up the driveway. A cream-colored Mercedes stopped near the front door. A man's hand reached out and popped an umbrella open before he slid from the car and rang the doorbell.

“Hello,” she called and went around the side of the house.

“Hi. Is Senator Wentworth home?”

“Ex-senator Wentworth is standing out in the rain talking to someone.” She noticed he was good-looking and wore what Lyon called an ice-cream suit, which was practically color-coordinated with the automobile. Lyon had a suit like that stuffed somewhere deep in the recess of his closet.

He handed her a business card. “I'm Ramsey McLean. I represented Fabian Bunting on a certain matter.”

“I see,” Bea replied as she looked down at the card with what she expected was a dumb expression. She was astonished at her reaction to the man's physical presence and wished she had worn a kerchief or hat over her head. She knew her hair was a stringy mess and her shoes were muddied. He smiled at her and stepped closer so that the umbrella protected them both.

“It's raining.”

“Yes, it is,” she said. Her knees were weak. She hadn't had that particular physiological reaction since the summer she was sixteen and had a magnificent crush on the pool lifeguard. The man standing next to her appeared to be her own age. He was as tall as Lyon, although his shoulders were broader. His body tapered to a trim waist. His features were a rugged tan, and a forelock of dark brown hair fell in a casual but carefully coiffured manner.

“I have some business to discuss. It would probably be easier to talk inside.”

“Of course. Forgive me.” She fumbled with the immobile front doorknob before realizing that it was locked from the inside and her keys hung on the corkboard in the kitchen. “It's locked.”

“So I see.”

“I came out the kitchen door.”

“I would imagine that it's still unlocked then.” He smiled and their eyes met.

He accepted her offer of coffee, and she used the time in the kitchen to frantically restore her hair to some semblance of order. When she returned to the living room, she found him at the end of the sofa with an attaché case open on his knees. He took out several legal-sized pages backed with a heavy blue sheet.

“You wanted to discuss something, Mr. McLean?” she asked as she handed him the coffee.

“I'm the attorney for the Murphysville Convalescent Home. A short time ago I was asked to see a patient who requested a lawyer. To explain it simply, Dr. Fabian Bunting requested that I draw up her will.”

“She never had one before?”

“Evidently not. She doesn't seem to have any near relatives.”

“How does this concern me?”

“You are the beneficiary.”

“I'm astounded. Dr. Bunting was a teacher of mine years ago. We corresponded occasionally, but I hadn't really spent any time with her until recently when she was hospitalized here.”

“Nevertheless, it was her express wish that you inherit what she had.”

“I'm sure it can't be much. I think it would be appropriate that I sign it over to the college I attended and where she taught.”

“That's your decision, of course. According to my inventory and a rough guess at final expenses, taxes, and fees, there should be a net worth remaining of approximately ninety-two thousand dollars.”

“How much?”

“A bit less than one hundred thousand dollars.”

“It's hard to believe that she had that much. I had always thought that her only income was a pension from the college and social security.”

“And a few shares of IBM purchased in the forties.”

Bea laughed. “You know, she never did cease to amaze me, and she's done it again.”

He handed her a copy of the will. “I'll need you to sign a few things in a day or two. It's hard for me to believe you didn't know anything about the bequest.”

“She never said a word.”

“Unusual. Most people make a thing of it.”

“Dr. Bunting was unusual.”

“So I've heard.” He closed the attaché case and clicked down the tabs. They both stood. Their eyes met again. “I'll call you when the papers are ready.”

“At your convenience.”

“Unless, of course, we could have lunch tomorrow. The Great Sound Inn is a nice spot.”

“That would be pleasant.”

“I'll make reservations for tomorrow at one. We can meet there.”

“Of course.”

“I can find my way out.”

The front door clicked open and shut and he was gone. Bea stood in the center of the living room with the will still dangling from her hand. “What have I done?” she asked aloud. During her political career she had often lunched with men other than her husband. She had often gone on trips, either political or during the course of her duties, and she had never questioned her own actions or propriety. This was different. She knew herself well enough to know that she had accepted the invitation for reasons other than business. She had accepted the luncheon date because of an instant physical attraction. She knew it, and she had the feeling that Ramsey McLean knew it as well.