Death Through the Looking Glass (5 page)

“With him in it.”

“That's impossible.”

Lyon pushed back his chair. “Someone flew the plane. Cause of death?”

“He was shot.”

“Where?”

“Behind the ear, with a small-caliber handgun.”

“Time of death?”

“That's difficult to determine, and the medical examiner wouldn't hazard a guess. It seems that the temperature of the water causes various body changes that are difficult to plot, and that, combined with the fact that no one knows when he last ate or what he ate, makes it impossible for any exact determination of the time of death.”

“Which means that he could have been killed at the cottage, in the plane, or almost anywhere else?”

“There's no way to tell.”

“Interesting case,” Lyon said. “Have fun.” He turned to leave but felt Rocco's fingers grip the rear of his shirt.

“You're in this up to your neck.”

“No way. Bea would kill me. Come to think of it, she might kill me, anyway.”

“Jurisdiction of the case rests with the State Police.”

“Let me guess. Your brother-in-law, Captain Norbert.”

“He would like to have words with you. He's also a little unhappy about our trip to the Giles cottage last night.”

“Which means that they consider me a …”

“Suspect? Not a hard one. But Will Barnes and Norbie are curious as to how you could see a plane go down with a dead man in it, and then seventeen hours later get a phone call from the same dead man.”

“Corpses don't fly airplanes.”

“That's been considered. The divers also brought up a woman's handbag.” Rocco handed another large photograph to Lyon. It showed a woman's purse on a black felt background, with the contents of the bag neatly aligned across the bottom of the picture.

Lyon reached for the magnifying glass on the desk and peered through it at the contents of the purse. There was the usual assortment that might be found in any woman's bag: lipstick, mascara, wallet, soggy cigarettes, a silver lighter, some coins and bills, and identification. He read the name on the driver's license: “Carol Dodgson. Have they picked her up?”

“They're still looking for her. The address is a phony.”

“She could have floated from the cockpit when the plane went down and been carried away by a current.”

“They're still searching.”

“Murder weapon?”

“Not in the plane.”

“Theories?”

“That Miss Dodgson, as the identification calls her, was involved with Tom Giles. They had a quarrel, she shot him, and she somehow escaped from the plane when it went down.”

Lyon looked thoughtful. “That's possible. My visibility was lousy, and I couldn't tell who was in the plane. Did they find it where I said?”

“Five hundred yards to the east. You took a compass reading that was wrong.”

“I don't think so.”

“You had to. Current couldn't have carried the plane that far.”

“What about Tom's wife?”

“I called her last night, as I said I would. She told me he'd been staying at the lake cottage for the past several days.”

“That doesn't explain the cut phone wires.”

“That doesn't explain anything.”

4

Because of an overlapping quirk in Murphysville's zoning maps, Sarge's Bar and Grill was located in a residential area, off a secondary highway. Master Sergeant Renfroe, U.S.A. (Ret.), had been Rocco's “First” during the Korean War and had opted to retire under the protection of his former commanding officer. As Lyon and Rocco entered the dimly lit bar, they found Sarge snoring loudly on a stool behind the bar, with his head buried in his arms, which were folded across the damp wood.

“No more freebies, Willie,” Rocco said to the bar's lone customer, who was helping himself to a dusty bottle of Chivas Regal.

“I was gonna settle up, Chief. I really was.”

“Uh huh,” Rocco said as he propelled the customer out the door, stuck the Closed sign in the window, and locked the door. “Sarge is drinking the profits again. Lyon, why don't you make us a roast beef on rye?”

While Lyon went into the small kitchen beside the bar, Rocco pulled the sleeping proprietor erect and let the limp body fall across his shoulders. Easily hefting the unconscious Sarge, he went through a side door and upstairs to the living quarters. By the time he had returned, Lyon had sliced meat, made two sandwiches, and drawn a draft beer for Rocco and a Dry Sack for himself.

“Let me see those pictures again,” Lyon said through a mouthful of roast beef.

Rocco handed him the large manila envelope containing the photographs of the dead man and the contents of the purse. “You're on to something?”

Lyon spread the pictures on the table and sipped his sherry. “There's something wrong with these pictures, but I can't get a handle on it.”

Three State Police cruisers squealed to a stop in front of the bar, and within moments there was a heavy pounding that rattled the windows. “Christ,” Rocco said as he started for the door, “the Lone Ranger is here with his posse.”

As the door was unlocked, two trooper corporals stepped inside and peered suspiciously around the interior. They were followed by Captain Norbert, who gave a perfunctory wave to Rocco and strode the length of the bar. “You act like it's a raid, Norbie,” Rocco said.

“Hell of a place for a meeting. You just close the place down? Shoulda closed it down a long time ago.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Rocco replied.

“Where's the suspect?”

“Lyon's in the booth over there, but he isn't a suspect.”

“Jesus! Not him again.”

“Good to see you again, Captain,” Lyon said as he finished a dill pickle.

“All right, Wentworth, what's this crap about a phone call from the deceased?”

“He called me. I'm positive of it.”

“As positive as you were about the location of the downed plane? Which just happened to be half a mile in error.”

Lyon didn't answer. “The sun was in his eyes,” Rocco replied for him.

“And booze in his stomach.”

“Wait a minute, Norby. I don't want you browbeating him.”

“In the first place, Wentworth, why would the deceased have called you?”

“He told me he felt his life was in danger.”

“Why you?”

“I suppose because we went to school together and because he's handled a few legal matters for me and also knew that I'd been involved in the Llewyn murder case.”

Captain Norbert cocked a finger at a trooper corporal, who immediately whipped a small pad and pencil from his pocket and stood poised. “What do you know about the deceased?”

Lyon thought a moment. “Old family, Yale law school, and a partner with Saxon, Giles and Hoppelwite in Hartford.”

“Don't know them. Must not handle criminal cases.”

“Hardly. Corporate law, large real-estate transactions, things of that nature.”

“What about his wife?”

“Karen Giles? She's from Washington, a few years younger than Tom, and a very attractive woman. I've met her only a few times, at social functions.”

“The phone call could have been a phony.”

“I don't think it was, but there's always that possibility. But why?”

“Do you know Carol Dodgson?” the captain snapped.

“The woman in the plane?”

“Yes.”

“I had never heard of her until this morning.”

“She obviously killed him,” Rocco said, “and either she herself was killed and her body washed away, or she somehow managed to get out of the plane. She killed Giles at the lake house, where we found the blood, and then took the body to the plane.”

“What does Giles's wife say about the Dodgson girl?” Lyon asked.

“Never heard of her either. And we can't find her at the ID address. Let's go over the story again, Wentworth. From the beginning.”

Lyon recounted the previous day's activities—the balloon ride, the unsuccessful search for the plane, and the night phone call from Giles … if it really had been Giles. When he had finished, Norbert tapped his fingers nervously on the edge of the booth.

“You know what I think, Wentworth? I think you're a nut.”

Rocco's face hardened. “God damn it! Knock it off, and I don't intend to tell you again!”

“You stay out of this case too, Chief. This matter is under State Police jurisdiction.”

“If he was killed at the lake house, it's my case.”

As the voices of the two police officers rose in argument, Lyon quietly stood, tucked the envelope of photographs under his arm, and made for the side door.

“There's no proof of where he was killed. And until there is, this is state business.”

“Cram the state!” were the last words Lyon heard Rocco say as he slipped out the door and began to walk briskly toward his car.

“OH, MY GOD! HE'S LOOKING AT EVIDENTIAL PHOTOGRAPHS WITH A MAGNIFYING GLASS AGAIN!”

Lyon looked at Bea sheepishly and dropped the magnifying glass. The photographs from Rocco's envelope were spread across a card table he had set up in his study. “You ought to have seen me with aerial photographs of gun emplacements.”

“No, Lyon. A thousand times, no.” She gathered up the pictures and flipped them into a wastebasket. “You are not working on any murder case. You are not helping your friend out; you are not going to examine snapshots of dead people.”

“Tom Giles was a friend and classmate of mine.”

“Bull diddle! You've told me a thousand times that Tom was a snob and practically wore a WASP armband.”

“Nobody's perfect.”

She took an envelope from her pocketbook and slapped it on the table. “One-way ticket to Asheville, North Carolina, on tomorrow's flight. Tourist class.”

“Robin and I haven't finished going over the new book for possible illustrations.”

“Plane leaves at seven. That gives you all day tomorrow.”

“You'll tell her?”

“Oh, no. You tell her. Explain that we're coming down with the plague, or that you've contracted a social disease. Anything.”

“That I'm working on a murder investigation.”

“Wentworth, that sounds like coercion and extortion.”

“Rocco needs help, and, like it or not, I'm apparently some sort of witness. Although I'm not exactly sure what kind.”

“What about the new book?”

“I'll work on it tomorrow with Robin, and then spend a day or so with Rocco.”

“Only a day or so? Promise?”

“Promise.”

She shook her head as she walked slowly to the wastebasket and retrieved the photographs. She spread them back across the table. “And you'll tell Robin?”

“Yes. There's something about this picture of the woman's bag that bothers me.”

Bea took the photograph and looked at it intently. “Carol Dodgson—is she the one who killed Giles?”

“We don't know. It just seems odd that she'd commit a crime that was obviously well planned, and then leave her bag in the plane, with her driver's license and Social Security card in it.”

“Can't the police find her?”

“No one at that address has ever heard of her.”

“She could have panicked when the plane went under water.”

“Possibly. There's something else, but I can't put my finger on it.”

“There's no mirror.”

“What?”

“Look. Here's a woman who supposedly uses lipstick, eye shadow and mascara. Fine, but there's no compact or pocket mirror. Highly unlikely.”

“So what does that prove? A missing item. That's what's been bothering me. Too many missing pieces.”

“The phone call could have been a recording; the mirror could have been broken that day and not replaced.”

“Too much.”

Bea looked at the picture again. “I have an idea. Something I can do tomorrow. You're going to work on the book, right?”

“Yes.”

“I think I can trace Miss Dodgson.”

Halfway to Hartford the next morning, Bea Wentworth decided she was crazy. She had left them together at the breakfast table. As she had leaned over to kiss Lyon good-bye and slap the plane ticket into his palm, the young girl, oblivious to her presence, had stared at Bea's husband over the rim of her coffee cup.

She was crazy. No sane woman would go to work and leave her husband alone in a secluded house with a lovely and infatuated young girl.

She could take the next highway exit, drive back to Nutmeg Hill, leave the car at the end of the drive, and sneak through the woods to … No, that was demeaning, and besides, she trusted Lyon implicitly.… At least she thought she did.

She pulled the car into the reserved parking place in front of the baroque state capitol and walked briskly to her first-floor office. She smiled and waved at the two secretaries in her anteroom and entered her office.

When she thought of her years in the legislature, fighting against government spending in all areas except social services, she felt a pang of guilt over the opulence of the room. On assuming the position, she had denied herself the customary privilege of redecorating the office. She had stuck with her stand until informed that the unused monies would be utilized for the lieutenant governor's pet project, two slate pool tables in the basement, a sanctuary for male legislators.

The large office had deep powder-blue rugs, damask draperies, and a scowling Kimberly perched on the settee.

“I'm quitting,” the black woman said without preamble.

“You said that last week, and I haven't had my coffee yet.”

“Doesn't it strike you as paradoxical that, as a revolutionary, I'm spending eight hours a day registering corporations for the state?”

Bea looked at her unhappy friend, whom she had appointed deputy secretary as her first official act. “There's a juicy voting irregularity in Waterburg.”