Death on the Mississippi

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Death on the Mississippi

A Lyon and Bea Wentworth Mystery

Richard Forrest

MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

For

Phyllis Westberg

1

It would be so easy to destroy them.

A simple mental command could cause a twitch of his right hand on the switch and their existence would end.

Lyon Wentworth was completely disgusted with his Wobblies. He crossed his hands over the word processor and rested his chin on his forearms as he stared out the window at the frolicking pair. His two creations pranced on the stone parapet that separated Nutmeg Hill's patio from the steep drop to the Connecticut River far below.

The Wobblies were performing some sort of ritualistic movement on the narrow ledge. Their tails thumped the stone in time to a silent internal rhythm, and their forked tongues flicked rapidly in and out. They could stray, but it seemed proscribed that they stay within his field of vision. They had been difficult all morning, and now they rejoiced in new-found freedom.

Until they decided to return to the pages of his latest children's book, his literary production for the day would be minimal. It was going to be a long day. He would be forced to remain in his chair, alert before his machine, and hope they would return to remove the ravages of his writer's block.

A new sound from outside was a welcome diversion. He turned to hear the crunch of wheels on gravel in the long drive that led up to the house. He went to open the front door and lean against its frame as two somber vehicles slowed to a careful halt a few feet away. In the lead was a black, four-door sedan whose tinted windows made identification of its occupants impossible. The next in line was a hearse whose driver stared impassively ahead without acknowledging Lyon's presence.

Lyon straightened his lanky frame and walked to the sedan. He was a tall man of asthenic build and sharp features. A shock of blond-browning hair fell in a forelock over his forehead, and it was characteristic for him to sweep it back with his palm as he smiled. He was dressed, as he usually was, in khaki work pants, a loose sport shirt, and topsiders without socks.

The two men who emerged from the black sedan were an unmatched pair dressed in black suits with white shirts and dark ties. At Lyon's right was a squat, heavyset man who clenched a buff-colored file folder. His companion was tall and rangy.

“I am the Reverend Brumby,” the squat man said as he extended a limp hand at Lyon. “My associate, Deacon Stockton, will assist me with the services.”

“Services?” Lyon glanced nervously at the hearse and its stoic chauffeur. “You obviously have the wrong house.”

Brumby officiously flicked open the folder. “Wentworth, Route Two, Nutmeg Hill, Murphysville, Connecticut.”

“Well, yes, that
is
me.” The day was deteriorating at a rapid rate. He wondered if it was too early to have a drink. The sun had to be over the yardarm in the Azores.

“Mr. Turman's instructions were quite specific. Surely, his lawyer notified you that the services would be held today?”

Lyon shook his head. “I don't know what in the world you are talking about.”

Brumby frowned as he flipped a page in his folder. “You do know the deceased, Dalton Turman?”

“I've known Dalton for years, since we served in the army together.”

“And you are aware that his final request was that the services be held at Nutmeg Hill?”

“I didn't even know he had died.”

“It was an unfortunate accident at one of his construction sites,” Brumby said. “I believe a backhoe ran amok.”

“I'm really not prepared …” Lyon started to say.

“You need not concern yourself with details, Mr. Wentworth. We are prepared to handle everything.” Brumby made a finger signal toward the hearse.

Lyon stepped aside as the three men dressed in black began to efficiently perform their duties. Moving in silent unison, they opened the hearse's rear door, unfolded a gurney, silently slid the coffin from the vehicle onto the rolling stretcher, and pushed it toward the house. They jockeyed the coffin over the doorsill, down the hall into the living room, and immediately began to rearrange furniture.

Within minutes the proper funereal atmosphere had been achieved. Racks of flowers, brought in from the hearse, were arranged on a portable table behind the coffin. The gurney was draped in black, and the room's remaining furniture had been arranged in rows neatly aligned before the catafalque. Lyon had offered coffee, which had been refused, help, which was also refused; and was now relegated to the role of silent observer standing uselessly by the French doors.

Why had Dalton chosen Nutmeg Hill for his last rites? In the last decade the two men had only met occasionally perhaps once a year. The dead man's reasons were immaterial, for it was an obligation that must be fulfilled. Dalton had saved Lyon's life, and he would forever be indebted.

The Reverend Brumby stepped back from the coffin and quietly surveyed the room. He seemed satisfied, and nodded at Deacon Stockton, who returned to the car. “The services will be at two, Mr. Wentworth.”

“Will there be anyone else here?”

“I believe there are a few select invited guests.”

“I see,” Lyon replied. He wondered, considering the seemingly shoddy efficiency of Dalton's executor's, whether anyone else would arrive. Brumby was unscrewing the coffin's lid. “What are you doing?” Lyon asked in alarm.

“Mr. Turman's last instructions specifically ordered an open-coffin service.”

“Open coffin?” Lyon feared a horrific vision of Dalton's mutilated corpse as it might appear after having been crushed by a backhoe. He averted his head as the coffin lid was slowly raised.

Brumby folded his hands reverently. “So lifelike, so natural. Don't you think so, Mr. Wentworth?”

Lyon stood at the foot of the casket and looked down at the corpse. The rows of banked flowers to the rear were beginning to cast a sickening sweetish odor in the room. The pleated fabric lining the casket's interior appeared cheap and hastily installed. Dalton would never have approved. The dead man's face was hardly lifelike. It was chalk white, the features so alabaster they resembled a death mask. Dalton did not look asleep. As with most of the dead, he appeared dead.

Deacon Stockton returned to the house carrying a large wicker basket. “Where do we put the snakes?”

“The what?” Lyon whirled in astonishment to look at the large wicker basket. It began to sway in Stockton's grasp as living things inside shifted position.

“These are the snakes we handle during the service. We do a great snake routine, and if things really go right, people will speak in tongues.”

“And ye shall handle serpents, and they shall not smite thee of true faith,” Brumby intoned.

Stockton removed the cover of the basket. “Want to see?” He lifted a large timber rattlesnake whose tail immediately coiled over his arm. “George here has some great moves. He's a real crowd pleaser.”

“We also brought a copperhead that's not exactly stage shy,” Brumby added.

Stockton reluctantly stuffed the snake back into the basket. “Got a safe place for them, Wentworth? We don't like to leave them near the coffin during the viewing. Sometimes the bereaved accidentally kick over the basket, and then there's hell to pay.”

“I'll find a place,” Lyon said as he carried the basket into the kitchen. As he searched the room for a safe location, he wondered how speaking in tongues and the handling of serpents were going to strike a taciturn New England audience. He found a secure place in a lower dish cabinet large enough for the basket, and returned to the living room. He'd have to warn Rocco about the snakes so that the gargantuan police officer could stand at the rear of the room during that part of the service. Rocco might be nearly fearless in almost all situations, but his friend had one strong aversion, the object of which now rested in the kitchen.

He walked over to the coffin to look down at the dead Dalton Turman. “At least you're consistent to the end,” Lyon said aloud.

The corpse's eyes snapped open as the body rose in the coffin. “Prankenstein strikes again!” Dalton Turman said before breaking into a high falsetto laugh.

The Governor of the State of Connecticut fought to control his rage as he confronted Senator Bea Wentworth.

The Governor was convinced that he was not a complete antifeminist. In fact, as he often told himself, he was married to a woman. A couple of his children were female. His Lieutenant Governor and one of his predecessors had been of the opposite gender, and there was a young lady in Winstead who … but, to be opposed in fiscal matters dear to his political future by his own Senate Majority Leader, a member of his own party and … He clenched his jaw to stifle a sexist epithet.