The Pied Piper of Death (11 page)

“I don't blame them,” Lyon agreed.

“We keep coming back and back and that's all she wrote,” the little man said as his head slumped forward on the table.

Lyon stood. “I think he's out for the night. Can I help you get him into bed?” He stooped as his head hit the ceiling of the low room.

Frieda's hand gently brushed the top of her husband's head. “No, comfort tonight he does not get. Let him sleep out here and awake with a crick in his little neck.”

“All right then. It's been nice to meet you, Frieda.”

“He's had too much to drink tonight, but he is a good man. A man possessed by things I don't understand, even if we are the same size. I suppose we each react differently to our burdens.”

Lyon had his hand on the low doorknob but turned with the feeling that this upset wife had something to tell him. “What do you mean?”

“He's moody at the best of times. As I said, a good man, but a soul with a little darkness. Recently he's been even more upset. Strange things are going on at the big house. Things are happening that are bothering him, and I don't know what they are. I worry that he might go back to gas stations.”

“It's hard to imagine a man like Rabbit robbing gas stations.”

“Your friend the policeman told you about it?”

“Yes, a little.”

“There was only one robbery and it was quite silly. You know, that's how we met?”

“No, I didn't know that.”

“Rabbit's life of crime began and ended at the Amoco Station out on Route Forty-nine. He used one of the old guns from the big house library. It was a Civil War pistol. I was the cashier on duty but was sitting on a high stool so he didn't know I was his size. He pressed the gun against the window and to me it looked like a big cannon. I thought it was so funny to see this little guy with a huge pistol that I began to laugh and the gun went off accidentally. I fell off the stool and he thought he had killed me. He rushed in and held me and then we began to laugh together and that's how the police found us. Something was wrong with him the day he tried to rob me and something is wrong now. I don't know what it is.”

Lyon nodded. “I may have an answer. I'd like to talk to him tomorrow when he feels better. I have a question about something called the Piper Pie. Markham Swan wrote a note to Paula just before he was killed saying that the Pie was important as a clue.”

The Welch Rabbit looked up. “What do you mean about the Piper Pie?” He began a deep giggle that died as Frieda reached for the brandy.

“You know about the Pie?”

Rabbit laughed again. “Of course I know about the Pie. My relatives are buried all over it.”

S
IX

“It might have been Igor's liquor talking,” Bea said half to Lyon and partly into her pillow.

“I don't think so, but we'll find out tomorrow afternoon when Rabbit and I go for a walk to the Pie, wherever and whatever that is. And his name is not Igor. He is Randolph Welch, sometimes known as Rabbit. Or Mister R.” Lyon lay in bed next to his wife and stared at the ceiling. The familiar house sounds of Nutmeg Hill sighed and creaked around them. “The Welch family are old family retainers who have lived near the Pipers for generations.”

“You mean small family retainers,” she mumbled sleepily.

“You are not being politically correct, darling.”

“I am not entirely convinced that I like this Rabbit person whatever his size,” Bea said. “His life seems to consist of gas station holdups and drinking a great deal of liquor with his boss lady, who he knows has a problem in that area.”

“Actually, I think he's a very sensitive man born with an unfortunate physical infirmity.”

“I assume you refer to an excessive love of the grape as his problem?”

“Come on now, you aren't listening. He's a man of small stature. That condition confronts him every day of his life.”

Bea propped up on her elbows. Her eyes widened, signaling battle joined. “Listen Wentworth, in my Senate Subcommittee on the Disabled and Infirm, I work with people with real problems: like the blind, the lame confined to wheelchairs, and others with physical problems that you can only have nightmares about. I defy you to compare them to a man who is perfectly capable of living a nearly normal life like this Rabbit. From what you tell me, he is married to a woman his size and lives in a house built to their proportions. He is gainfully employed and seems to have access to a great wine cellar.”

“I had coffee with his wife, Frieda, after Rabbit passed out. She's very worried about him.”

“In what way?”

“She can't place the reason. I wonder if he might be involved in other things that are happening at Bridgeway.”

Bea closed her eyes as she sank back on the pillows. “We'll think about it in the morning over coffee.”

She was dog tired, but feared that tonight's emotional overload would keep her awake. She was concerned not only about the murder at Bridgeway—although she hardly knew Markham Swan—but also about the possibility of Peyton Piper's senate race.

Compromises such as these demanded by Piper tore her apart. She had faith in her own ability as a state senator, but to keep her seat she had to survive politically. Piper's demand was a typical hydra-headed example. One face was composed of land mines that were an anathema to her. Another face forced her to consider the reality that his factory employed hundreds of her constituents. The party needed a fresh new candidate, but Peyton?

These were vexing contradictions and she often wondered if their solutions were worth the emotional rendering. She forced herself to think of the long, slow river that ran below their house. She imagined it flowing over her, enveloping her as it swept her out to the great sea.

Lyon laced his arms behind his head and listened to their house. Nutmeg Hill was located on a saucer-shaped promontory that rose a hundred feet above a sharp bend in the Connecticut River. The house was reached by a drive that twisted up from a secondary highway and ran between high stands of pine that marched in formal lanes on either side of the lawn. The structural lines of the house were dominated by a widow's walk that ran the length of the gambrel roof. Leaded glass windows reflected flashing darts of sunlight.

They had purchased the property a number of years before. The house had been originally constructed in the early nineteenth century by a successful sea captain. After the Civil War the original family's fortune faltered. The house began a slow process of decay that was exacerbated when a last surviving spinster moved south and boarded the windows and doors. Vandals and weather hastened further deterioration. Lyon and Bea had accidentally discovered the building—nearly hidden by underbrush and tangled growth, but with its foundation and walls still intact—while on a walking trip. They had fallen in love with its secluded location and panoramic perch. After finally arranging to purchase the house through the estate of the last deceased spinster, they had spent several years of painstaking labor refurbishing it.

It was only five miles from the Piper mansion located across the river, but Lyon considered it a hemisphere away.

Rocco and Lyon met at noon for their usual Thursday lunch at Sarge's Bar and Grill in Murphysville.

Sarge's place was an anachronism. The owner, a former army master sergeant, had a retirement dream of owning a workingman's sports bar. He expected a boilermaker clientele who enjoyed betting on an occasional ball game. Initially, its location in an older residential area of two-family homes, not far from a ball-bearing factory, had guaranteed the right mix of customers. When the factory vacated its building and was replaced by an art gallery, gentrification struck like a thunder clap. The customers were soon divided into two distinct groups. During the day retired workers nursed beers and discussed ball games without wagers. At six the bar's atmosphere radically changed. The night manager arrived with a German chef and a bartender who actually knew how to mix drinks. Cans of Bud mated with cheap bar whiskey abdicated to German food joined with imported wines or tankards of dark German beer. These items were served on checkered tablecloths lit by wicker-covered bottles holding flickering candles.

On most days Sarge made a valiant and usually successful attempt to drink himself unconscious before the last boiler-maker was chug-a-lugged and the first bottle of Zinfandel was uncorked.

Rocco Herbert was the rare customer who straddled both groups. He qualified as a daytime drinker, and after dusk he often turned into an exuberant sauerbraten customer. Their former military service together required Sarge to maintain a constant supply of properly chilled vodka and ground sirloin for the chief's gourmet hamburgers. Lyon was reluctantly accommodated with a dusty bottle of Dry Sack sherry but was forced to satisfy any hunger pangs he might have with displays of pickled pig's feet and eggs.

Rocco usually occupied a booth in the far corner, near the window that overlooked a four-way stop sign down the block. Walkie-talkie communication with patrolman Jamie Martin and his hidden cruiser usually made this observation post a productive spot for generating traffic tickets.

Lyon watched from the door as a flagrant violator in a green Corvette sped through the stop sign without slowing. The sin was compounded as the sports car proceeded to swing past a stopped school bus.

Rocco's hand never toggled the talk button on the small radio on the table in front of him.

Lyon carried a pony of sherry back to the booth. Rocco had been born and raised in Murphysville and was already chief of the small police force when Lyon and Bea began to renovate Nutmeg Hill. The two men had met earlier during their military service. Rocco, a mustang officer commissioned from the ranks, was a Ranger in charge of the division's reconnaissance platoon. Lyon, fresh from college, was an officer on the staff of Division G-2. He was often thrown in contact with Rocco when the Ranger officer acted as the division's eyes and ears. The friendship had continued on through the years. Their divergent personalities seemed to complement each other in an odd manner, making for a strong pairing.

Lyon slipped into the booth opposite Rocco. “Catch many today?”

“A few. This case is a real bastard, isn't it?”

“True. You don't find many guys shot dead with minié balls these days,” Lyon answered.

“As I told you he would, Norby has requested a murder warrant from the state's attorney for Loyce Swan. Since she's in his temporary custody at the barracks, if he gets the warrant, which he will, he controls the case and I'm out of it.”

“See no other suspects, hear no other suspects,” Lyon said.

Rocco shrugged. “That's about it. He's got a wronged wife who was home alone with the victim. A possible murder weapon was under her bed with her prints on it. Loyce had motive and opportunity.”

“Then the lab has established the antique carbine as the murder weapon?”

“The minié balls' lead was so soft that they flattened out on impact, which obliterated any distinguishing marks. So the rifle cannot specifically be identified as the murder weapon.”

“Bridgeway House is practically a museum for Civil War stuff. There must be a dozen carbines out there. Anyone could have had access to a similar piece.”

“Norby pointed out that the weapon you found in the bedroom had been fired recently. Loyce says that on a lark her husband test-fired it.”

“Damn, Rocco,” Lyon said. “There's reasonable doubt.”

“Norbert's turned up a recent life insurance policy with the wife as a beneficiary. He'd execute her tomorrow if the law allowed it.”

“I personally don't believe Loyce killed her husband,” Lyon said. “I spoke with her alone minutes after it happened and I believe her.”

“You're operating on an emotional level. I don't necessarily agree that she's innocent, Lyon, but I do want the case kept open. I don't like blinders on police work.”

“Explain that one.”

“Markham Swan was a known ladies' man. He was murdered in his own home. His wife admits handling the possible murder weapon and is the logical suspect. What about others? Norby is closing the door to any other suspects. As far as he is concerned, no further investigation is necessary unless it's for additional evidence to hang Loyce even higher.”

“Then no one is interested in Peyton Piper, who we know was unhappy with Markham? We also know Peyton was alone outside the cottage at the time of the murder. That's in addition to the fact that he admits he was ready to fire the guy in the morning. Then there's Peyton's wife, who had an affair with the deceased. Which raises the question of how angry was the jilted woman, or how upset was her husband over the affair? We also seem to have a bunch of people running around the estate about the time of the killing, including one congressman, a bunch of security guards, and the young man caught in bed with Paula. What's his name?”

“Chuck Fraxer.”

“Right,” Lyon said. “He was skulking around the estate at the time of the murder. He might also be upset with Swan if he thought that an older man made a pass at his girl. And this is only the short list, there might be others.”

“Exactly,” Rocco agreed. “We haven't even started to look.”

“Markham claimed he had information concerning a possible threat against Paula's life.”

Rocco arched an eyebrow. “A tie-in, maybe?”

“Are you asking me, Rocco? You're the police officer. I write children's books.”

“And you've got a mind that fits a weird case like this.”

Lyon laughed. “I'm not sure if that's a compliment or not.”

“Now you see what I mean about Norby's warrant. He's focused his investigation in one direction and knocked out all other suspects. I want to put the boots to the little bantam rooster, Lyon. Once and for all, he's got to be taught. That's where you come in.”