The Death at Yew Corner (13 page)

“I'll have another ice water,” Rocco said as he handed Lyon his tall glass.

In the study Lyon stood over the bar cart mixing a martini for Bea, a Manhattan for Martha Herbert, and two double shots of vodka for Rocco's ice water. He poured a pony of sherry for himself.

Bea stood behind her husband as he hummed off-key and deftly mixed drinks. In all the years of their marriage she had never been unfaithful. In fact, she had never considered the possibility. Until today. She had to tell him about Ramsey McLean if only for her own protection. “An attorney named Ramsey McLean came to see me today.”

“Oh?”

“He represents the nursing home and was called in to see Faby Bunting. She made a will that left me everything she had.”

“I'm sure she felt that you would appreciate her mementos. I think she had some interesting first editions.”

“There's money also.”

“Donate it to your college library.”

“A hundred thousand dollars.”

Lyon spilled his sherry. “Are you sure?”

“Ramsey said he'd checked it out in the estate inventory. There's a bunch of old IBM stock that split a dozen times or something.”

“I would have thought that all she had was her pension.”

“So did I. You still want me to donate it to the college?”

Lyon gave a low laugh. “Did I ever tell you that there's a bit of the hypocrite in me?”

“A teeny bit.”

“I think it would be fitting that you give some of the money to the college library as a memorial to Dr. Bunting, but …”

“Not all of it?”

“How about we two hypocrites keep half of it?”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“By the way, that lawyer from the nursing home, did he mention the Shopton Corporation?”

“There wasn't any way it could come up. By the way, Ramsey is extremely attractive and I'm having lunch with him.”

“You probably have to sign something.”

“I could have done that in his office.”

He handed her a martini and sipped his sherry pensively. “You could find out a couple of things for us at lunch. I'm interested not only in Shopton's interest in the nursing homes, but their other holdings. Any information you could dig up about a woman called Truman would be valuable. Do you suppose you could use your ingratiating ways to find out those things?”

“Yes, Lyon,” she said tiredly. “I'll get your information for you, but I don't think you've been listening.”

“How's that?”

“I'm having lunch with a very attractive man.”

“You've done that dozens of time. Last year at the Democratic National Convention you said you were attracted to Senator Kennedy.”

“As a candidate.”

“You've always been independent. How is this different?”

Bea sighed. “I guess it isn't.” A part of her wanted him to be angry and jealous. He trusted her, and maybe that was the problem.

The chain saw whined. Lyon held the vibrating machine in both hands as he looked up at the tree he was cutting. He wondered about its age. Had it been a sapling when Indians roamed the Connecticut River shoreline? Its base was stalwart. A lovely thing. But thirty feet above the ground it branched into a double trunk. That imperfection marked it as one of the first to be cut down. He pushed the whirring saw deep into the trunk and felt it bite into the wood.

“It's going to fall on the house,” the voice behind him said.

“Nope. I've notched it like the book said.”

“Have you ever cut down a tree before?” Rocco asked.

“When I was a kid.”

“Well, I'm telling you, that thing is going to fall toward the house.”

“I read the directions carefully. You can learn to do anything from books.”

“Why in hell are you cutting it down? It's a perfectly good tree.”

Lyon switched off the chain saw and set it carefully on the ground as he turned to face Rocco. “Are you a cop or a forest ranger?”

Rocco sat on an ancient stump and wiped his brow with a large red handkerchief. “Don't cut that tree down, Lyon.”

“I intend to become energy self-sufficient. I've gotten all the appropriate literature from the extension service and discovered that with selective cutting an acre of land will yield a cord of wood a year and never run out. It's self-replenishing. You start by taking out the dead wood, then the sick and old trees like this double-branched one. And we've got over ten acres of timber here.”

“I still say you need a block and tackle to pull it away from the house.”

“We'll see.” He picked up the saw and pulled the cord to kick it to life. “Here goes.” The saw cut into the tree as Lyon leaned against it. “What about Smelts?” he yelled over the whine of the saw.

“Pat's trying to build a case on conspiracy, but the prosecutor's not buying it. All we have are hysterical comments he made when we pulled him from the coffin.”

“And his laywer marched in and pulled him from your grasp.”

“That's about it.”

“What about the telephone conversation I overheard between him and the Truman woman?”

“Hearsay evidence. We're still working on it, but right now we don't have Rustman's body or a kidnapping complaint. If Rustman is alive, I don't believe he's in a mood to complain about anyone.”

“Here she comes!”

“Only kill them.”

“Timber,” Rocco said under his breath as the tall tree fell toward Nutmeg Hill. Its top crashed against the living-room bay window and shattered every pane.

Lyon looked disconsolately toward the house and its broken windows. He dropped the saw. “It could have been worse. Luckily Bea always wanted leaded windows in there.”

If she were to have imagined a perfect place for an assignation, the Great Sound Inn would probably have been it. It was an unpretentious, rambling old mansion perched on a cliff that protruded into Long Island Sound. Built near the turn of the century for a minor robber baron, it fell into disrepair in the thirties and had been purchased for taxes during World War II. Upstairs there were two dozen airy, light, high-ceilinged rooms overlooking the water, a cozy cocktail lounge tucked away in a corner off the lobby, and a broad expanse of dining room overlooking the sea.

Evidently Ramsey had given her description to the room clerk, for as Bea walked through the lobby toward the dining room, a discreet voice called, “Mrs. Wentworth?”

She turned. “Yes?”

“Mr. McLean is waiting for you in the lounge.”

She was ushered into the cocktail lounge. He stood up when she entered and grasped both her hands. “Glad you could come. I bet you're a martini-type lady.”

“I am if you wear socks.”

“I usually do.”

A waiter appeared, disappeared, and reappeared with a stinging-cold vodka martini.

They bantered and laughed and ordered a second drink. The martini tasted better than it should have. She asked the question that shouldn't be asked, not because of its inherent nature, but because it indicated a certain interest on her part. “Are you married?”

“Aren't most people?”

“That's a typical answer.”

“That's a typical question.”

The martini turned bitter and his warmth cooled. She was disappointed and that shouldn't have been, which told her certain things about her present state of mind that she didn't really care to know. “Of course you're married.”

“To an unusual lady named Serena. We have a most interesting marriage in that it's a ménage à trois.”

Bea nearly choked on a martini olive. “A what?”

“That's a relationship that is …”

“I know what it is. That was a rhetorical what.”

“Our ménage à trois consists of me, Serena, and the Dow Jones average.”

“She understands the stock market but not you.”

“Serena understands all the markets. It's a Truman trait.”

“Truman?”

“She wouldn't part with her maiden name. Daddy's last wish or some such. You know, we're practically neighbors. We recently purchased the Yew estate in Murphysville.”

“I heard that it had been sold.”

“A damn dreary fortress, but Serena likes her privacy.”

“I had always thought it might be haunted.”

“It is now. We've got the ghost of old man Truman on our shoulders. I think Serena wanted a high-class place for Daddy to haunt.”

“And has he?” She had decided that adding a light tone to the conversation would be the safest approach. The chemical attraction between them still existed and operated on a different level than their banter. She wasn't entirely sure she wanted to dispel it.

“Of course. He was a stubborn old bastard. During his lifetime he created a minor financial empire, which he left to his one and only, along with a massive dose of paranoia.”

“I can understand how the old place with its walls and isolation could get to anyone.” She wondered if talking about one's escort's wife was the best way to stay on neutral ground.

“She's literally turned the damn place into a fortress. We now have guard dogs, metal detectors, and guys on guard that look like the defensive linemen for the Rams. It's not exactly what one would call a cozy domicile.”

“Truman,” she said again. She had almost missed the connection due to her confused feelings. It was the name that Lyon had asked about.

“As I said, her maiden name once removed. There's a rumor that Daddy changed it somewhere along the line.”

“You represent a group of nursing homes for the Shopton Corporation?”

“Yes, among other things.”

“Then your wife has an interest in the homes?”

“Controlling interest. Which is probably why she married a lawyer. If she weren't my wife and client, I would call her ruthless. But custom dictates that I refer to her as shrewd.”

“You don't sound very happy.”

“Perhaps that's why I'm here with you.” Their eyes met again. Once again Bea had the same physical reaction she had the first time they met.

“Perhaps we're in the same position,” Ramsey continued.

“I've always thought I had a good marriage.”

Ramsey took a notebook from the inside pocket of his sport jacket and flipped several pages. “Beatrice Wentworth,” he read. “Honors graduate in history. Taught at Murphysville High School until elected to the state house of representatives. Terms in the house and state senate. Chairperson for the Committee on Income Maintenance.” He looked up. “That's welfare, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

He gave a fey smile. “More?”

“Do you always research your luncheon guests so thoroughly?”

“Only occasionally. I have even more on your husband.” He turned several pages in the notebook and laughed. “Did he really write a book called
The Cat in the Capitol
?”

Bea smiled. “Don't forget
Nancy Goes to Mount Vernon
.”

“You have to be kidding?”

“They're for children, naturally.”

“I don't see them on the best-seller lists.”

“None of them has had spectacular sales, but over the years they stay in print and are consistent sellers. Lyon seems to have a marvelous knack for knowing what children can believe.”

“And murder?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Murder … You and your husband. My little black book tells me you've been involved in at least half a dozen complex cases.”

Bea sipped her cocktail. “It sometimes seems that we attract those cases in some strange way.” She looked over the rim of her glass at her companion. “I really can't believe you ran a security check because of our date. In fact, I can't see how you had the time since yesterday to find all that out.”

“True. It took several days. At Serena's request, I might add. She's shown a marked interest in your husband's propensity to get involved in murder.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? My wife is the sort of person who never approaches a problem in a simple and direct manner. She is the master of circumvention and operates like a Borgia. Let me get your signature on a couple of documents and we'll have that out of the way.”

“Fine.”

He stood. Their eyes met again. “They're in the car. I'll be right back.” He excused himself and slipped from the lounge.

Another drink appeared on the table. The alcohol made the small tremor in her leg disappear. She tested the new drink. It was good, probably the smoothest martini she'd ever had. Obviously he had carefully orchestrated their rendezvous, and she was enjoying it.

She left the table and went to the bar where the bartender was cutting lemon peels into small strips. “Bartender.”

He looked at her and a click of recognition registered on his face. “Yes, ma'am?”

“What's in my drink?”

“A martini is made of vodka or gin and a slight touch of dry vermouth.”

“Mine isn't vodka or gin.”

“Aren't you Senator Wentworth?”

“I am. That is, I'm Bea Wentworth, ex-senator,” she smiled automatically.

“I'm from Lincoln in your district. Mae Duckworth's my mother.”

“I've known Mae for years. She's a fine woman. Works in the Lincoln Elementary School cafeteria as I remember.”

“That's Mom.” He looked down at his peels and spoke in a whisper. “That's pure grain in your drink, Senator. One more and you'll walk on the ceiling.”

“McLean's private little cocktail?”

“For special guests when I get the signal.”

“Always female?”

“Never been otherwise.”

Bea felt chilled and cheated. Ramsey's careful set piece meeting had turned sour. He had pressed all the correct buttons and then one too many. She considered his plying her with potent drinks a cheap trick.