The Death at Yew Corner (26 page)

“Where is it now?”

“On its way to your house for delivery. We did get a glance at it. There's a padded envelope addressed to you without a return address.”

The three men began to walk rapidly toward the still idling cruiser. “Where was it postmarked?” Lyon asked.

“New York City—Manhattan.” Rocco slammed behind the wheel and Norbie climbed in the passenger's side while Lyon sat in the rear seat behind the wire mesh.

“The National Guard will call us at your house if they find anything,” Norbert said over his shoulder.

In a series of jerky turns, Rocco turned the cruiser on the narrow logging road until he was headed in the other, direction. He switched on the car's siren when they reached the paved secondary road. The trip back to Nutmeg Hill was a bone-jarring nightmare as Rocco pushed the car to its limits.

When they reached the driveway to his house, Lyon saw the mail jeep parked by his rural mailbox. The diminutive postman was arguing with officer Jamie Martin. “You can't have the mail!” they heard him shout.

The police car rocked to a halt. Lyon fumbled for the nonexistent interior door handles in the rear, while Rocco and Norbert loped toward the mail van. Lyon began to pound on the window to attract Rocco's attention.

Rocco turned sheepishly and returned to release him from the police car.

“I'll take the mail,” Lyon said to the indignant mailman.

“I don't know who these guys think they are, Mr. Wentworth,” the mailman said as he thrust several letters and the small padded envelope into Lyon's hands.

Lyon glanced through the mail. Several letters that were obvious bills, a letter from his publisher in New York, a few pieces of junk mail, and the package.

“Don't open it,” Norbert commanded. “We'll do it properly up at the house.”

A state police specialist carefully placed the padded brown envelope on the center of the kitchen table and proceeded to walk a circle around it. He hovered over the package, squatted and stood on his toes, and observed the article from several angles. He finally shook his head in satisfaction and proceeded to remove, with a pair of tweezers, the staples that shut one end. He took care not to touch the body of the envelope. When the last staple was removed, he lifted the envelope with the tweezers and shook it above a small felt pad he had placed on the table.

A mutual grunt went up from the men surrounding the table as a single cassette slid from the envelope and came to a careful rest on the felt pad.

“Bag the envelope and take it for prints,” Norbert commanded.

“The cassette too?” the technician asked.

“Wait a minute,” Rocco interjected. “I think we had better play the damn thing first.”

Norbert nodded. “Get me the recorder from the equipment near the phones.”

The technician quickly procured the recorder, plugged it in at the kitchen counter, and lifted the cassette with his tweezers. Carefully, as if defusing a bomb, he placed the tape in the recorder, closed the lid, and pressed the “play” button.

The recorded voice boomed from the small player at a volume that startled everyone. The trooper hastily adjusted the sound. Bea's voice was flat and devoid of feeling. It was as if she were delivering statistical facts on a dry piece of legislation to the state senate.

“He picked me up at the shopping-center parking lot, Lyon, but I suppose you know that by now. I have not been hurt, and he tells me that he will let me eat after this tape is complete.” The inflection of Bea's voice changed slightly, and there was a hollow ring to her words. “It would seem prudent for you to do exactly as he says. Please do, Lyon, because I love you and I want to come home to take care of my lilacs.”

There was a blank portion on the tape, and then Bea's voice again. “Is that all right?”

“Just fine.” The voice that answered had the now familiar whine of machinery in the timber of its inflection. “The lady's location will be revealed when I receive the following stamps express-mailed to: Mr. R. Willingham, Hotel Dalton, 72 Raven Street, London NW 7. The stamps are as follows: four 24-cent inverted airmails, United States; one Hawaiian 2-cent of 1851; one Confederate States of America Mount Lebanon Provisional of 1861; and one Cape of Good Hope 4-pence red color error of 1861. When these stamps are received in England, you will be notified of the lady's whereabouts. You have seven days.”

The tape ended.

“Play it again,” Lyon said softly.

The technician nodded, rewound the cassette, and again pressed the “play” button. Bea's nearly emotionless voice began.

Lyon Wentworth sat on the kitchen counter and leaned forward with his hands on his knees as he listened intently. “Again,” he said when the short tape finished for the second time. The tape was replayed.

“What kind of crap is that? Sending stamps to England?” Norbert snapped.

Raymond Dupress, an FBI agent who had been standing unobstrusively in the corner, looked down at the small pad he held in his hands. “Hardly crap,” he said. “I'll make a rough guess that the perp is asking for half a mil.”

“What?”

“That's right. Those inverted American airmails must go for nearly a quarter of a million by themselves.”

“Are you a collector?” Lyon asked the agent.

“I dabble a bit.” The agent laughed. “Nothing on the scale of this guy. That's heavy stuff. Those are some of the most expensive stamps in the world.”

“How will he unload them?” Lyon asked.

“There are auctions all over the world,” the agent replied. “He can enter them in separate lots under a number. He'll probably spread them out to stamp houses in different countries so that no two appear at the same place. It will be next to impossible to get him, even with Interpol in the act.”

“Or he might have arranged for buyers prior to the kidnapping,” Lyon said.

“So much for homing devices,” Rocco said.

“He still has to pick up the letter and expose himself,” Norbert said.

“There's a problem with that tape,” Lyon continued.

“What's that?” Rocco asked.

“One, I don't have five hundred thousand dollars with which to buy those stamps; and two, Bea hates lilacs. She has for years.”

The command post in the living room had been dismantled, and the police officers had left except for Rocco on the couch and a lone guard by the front door.

“How much sleep have you had since this started?” Rocco asked.

“Not very much.”

“I have some yellow jackets at home. Want me to go get them?”

“Some what?”

“Nembutals.”

“No, I have to think. Where am I going to get that kind of money?”

“Then you're going to buy the stamps?”

“Of course. If I can figure out a way to do it. We'll worry about catching him later. Right now I want Bea released. I want her safe. I want her home.”

“I know you do, Lyon. We all do.”

“Five hundred thousand worth of stamps. It may as well be ten million. I looked at our bank accounts a few minutes ago, and you know what? We have eight thousand in the savings accounts, and two in the checking. There's a few shares of stock worth a few thousand more. I'm owed some royalties, and Bea has money in the state retirement fund. I made the list and added it up. We have a net worth of forty-two thousand dollars, and that's one hell of a long way from five hundred thousand or whatever those stamps end up costing me.”

Rocco left the couch and walked over to the French door leading to the patio. “How many acres do you have here?”

Lyon waved his hand impatiently. “I don't know.”

“Sure you do. You had a survey made.”

“I'm not interested in small talk.”

“I'll bet you have over fifty acres surrounding Nutmeg Hill.”

“Fifty-nine, actually.”

“There's your answer.”

“What?” Lyon shook his head. “I guess that's a rhetorical ‘what'. How much does an acre around here go for?”

“Your property overlooks the river.”

“Most of it does.”

“Ten thousand an acre, not including the house. The house alone, with access and a few acres, would go for over a quarter of a million dollars.”

“In other words, the total parcel of land would be worth over five hundred thousand. I could sell off the acreage and keep the house.” Lyon's amazed reaction was ingenuous. He had overlooked the appreciation of their property.

“Yes.”

“Do you know of anyone who might be interested?”

“I know a few developers in the area who are always looking for really desirable land—even with the tight money and high-interest situation.”

“I'd be appreciative if you would put them in touch—soon,” Lyon said.

“Will.”

The phone's ring jarred them, and they both stared at the instrument as if it were an unfriendly intruder. Lyon slowly reached for the receiver. “Yes?” He listened a moment and handed it to Rocco.

“Chief Herbert here.” Rocco listened for a few minutes, occasionally muttering an “uh-huh.” He hung up. “The latest. The Guards finished their sweep through the state forest, and it's negative.”

“We knew that from the cassette.”

“And a negative on a trace on the voice box and no usable prints on the brown envelope.”

“What you're telling me is that we're back to square one.”

Rocco walked to the door. “I got to go.” He turned abruptly. “What did Bea mean about the lilacs?”

“I don't know. She was trying to tell me something, but I can't figure out what.”

“It might come to you if you got some sleep. I'll be back in the morning with any developers I can dig up.”

“Thanks, Rocco.” The front door slammed and seconds later the police cruiser screeched down the drive at Rocco's usual frenzied pace.

Lyon stood by the bedroom window and wanted a drink, but knew he shouldn't. He wished that he smoked and knew that he couldn't. He was more a man of thought than action, and yet he wanted to drive the roads of Connecticut to look into a thousand faces for his wife. He knew he wouldn't find her. She was invisible. She was stuck away, imprisoned and held in a place he could not see.

“Where are you, Bea?” he said aloud.

She answered him. “Damn it all, Wentworth! Quit kidding around and come get me.”

He fell asleep on the couch. It was a restless, troubled sleep. She was somewhere ahead of him and he swung a hedge clipper against the clinging stalks that surrounded him. The smell of ripe flowers was overpowering. He was surrounded by lilacs, and he swung the tool in wide frantic blows to cut his way through the profuse flowers that hid her.

Lyon drank coffee in the breakfast nook and watched Rocco's cruiser careen down the drive. It was followed by a battered and dusty pickup truck of some ancient vintage. Rocco parked, swung from the seat, and leaned in the pickup's window to talk to the driver.

The pickup's occupant stepped out onto the drive and stamped heavily broganed feet on the asphalt as if to restore circulation. He was a short, heavy man with a massive head of dirty blond hair. He wore a ripped poplin jacket and work pants stuffed into muddy boots. As he followed Rocco to the front door, he looked from side to side appraisingly.

Rocco smiled when Lyon opened the door. “Lyon, I'd like you to meet Burt Winthrop. Burt's a developer from Middleburg and might have some interest in your property.”

“Come on in and have some coffee,” Lyon said and led them back to the kitchen. He noticed that Winthrop's trousers were flecked with grease, and he wondered what this man could develop other than an addition to a garage.

“You got a survey map, Wentworth?” the builder asked brusquely.

“Yes. I dug it out this morning.” Lyon spread the map over the breakfast-nook table. The two men looked down at it as Lyon served mugs of coffee.

Burt Winthrop handed Lyon his half-emptied mug. He sat down at the table in front of the survey and whipped out a slender pocket calculator from his pocket. His pudgy fingers flew lightly across the keys as he made rapid calculations from his study of the survey.

“If you're interested, I'd have to close tomorrow. I need the money,” Lyon announced.

Rocco rolled his eyes and pulled Lyon by the sleeve back into the kitchen. He whispered, “Christ, Lyon. Don't make it sound so desperate. This guy will rape you.”

“I am desperate, Rocco.”

“Close tomorrow?” Winthrop asked when they returned to the nook. “I don't know about that. You got to understand, Wentworth, that I'm just an old country boy, a builder who happened to make a few bucks. I leave the closing thing up to my lawyers.”

“That's the way it would have to be,” Lyon said.

“Well, I suppose we might do away with a title search and piggyback on the last conveyance. That is if you'll give me full warranties on your deed?”

“Of course.”

“Okay, let me give it a few more figures.” Again the fingers flew over the calculator. “I could go into my CDs and Treasuries, but I sure hate to touch that money and lose the interest. You got a nice piece of property here, lots of shoreline, but there's plenty of rocks and we'd have to do a lot of blasting. I'd have to squeeze to get enough units in here to make it worth my while.”

“Units?”

“Condos.”

“Condominiums.”

“That's right. I specialize in that. I build mostly for retired folks … folks that made a bundle from the sale of their last house and can afford a nice and expensive condo overlooking the water. You understand that a fast close will affect the price. Raising money on short notice is difficult.”

“I thought it might affect the price,” Lyon said.

“Well, folks,” Winthrop said as he stuffed the calculator back in his pocket. “Let's walk around a bit outside.”