Death Under the Lilacs (15 page)

He slowly levered the screen door open, hoping it would not creak, and then slipped into the dim center hall of the old house. A step to the Hepplewhite table and his fingers closed over the small red-bound address book. He flipped quickly through the pages and saw the end of a life reflected there. Entry after entry had been neatly lined out with blue ink as the old lady's friends and relations had died.

Near the rear of the book was a single entry, Bates, and a phone number: 388-3882.

He shut the book, replaced it, and slipped from the house. The old woman's dialing of the number had taken only seconds; he could assume that meant she had not dialed an area code and that Bates was at a Connecticut address.

Bea Wentworth, with binoculars pressed to her eyes, stood on the cusp of the hill overlooking the valley. Her head turned as she let her field of vision sweep across the complete area below. The trees on the hillside upon which she stood marched in uneven lines down the slope toward the valley floor, but stopped abruptly as the land flattened. The ground below had been ravaged by dozer and back hoe until only red furrows of soil broken occasionally by yawning house excavations pockmarked the land.

She lowered the glasses. “It takes talent to take a nice spot like this and screw it up.”

Kim, by her side, nodded agreement. “It's cheaper to take everything down, build the houses, and then plant a few twigs and charge the owners for landscaping.”

Bea looked down at her feet and saw the long shadow of the man standing behind her. Jamie's shadow was elongated by the mid-afternoon sun, but the outline of the shotgun on his hip was clearly visible. “Do you have to breathe down my neck, Jamie?”

“The chief said for me to stick near, Mrs. Wentworth.”

Kim smiled. “What does he do when you go … when you have to …?”

“He stands right outside the door,” Bea answered. She glanced over to the side, where Rocco and Lyon were in a deep conversation of some sort. Below them, a battered pickup truck swerved off the highway and raised a trail of dust as it sped across the unfinished access road to the development. Bea raised the binoculars and followed the truck as it stopped in front of a weather-beaten trailer sitting on concrete blocks. She saw a dumpy man leap from the truck and storm into the trailer. “Winthrop's arrived,” she said over her shoulder.

Lyon nodded. “Did you find out anything, Kim?”

“Sure. Winthrop and sons are in big trouble with this development. He misjudged the local market, his construction loan is at the highest rate of interest, and the debt load must be killing him. He's had the models up for sale at seventy-two five, and there're only five bonds for deeds recorded.”

“There could be other contracts not recorded,” Lyon said.

“Sure. Double the number if you want, but he's still in trouble.”

“Then why would he want Nutmeg Hill for condos?” Bea asked.

“To save his ass,” Kim replied. “Your land is a prime location, and he'll sell out with his first model and then use the construction money on that job to relieve some of the debt load on this dog.”

“That's a violation of the law,” Rocco said.

“So tell me, big chief, who's going to find out, the way he'll phony his invoices? Paying off one job with the loan proceeds of another is done all the time by builders.”

“Is it possible that if he doesn't build on Nutmeg Hill he'll go under?” Lyon asked.

“Who can tell for sure?” Kim replied. “Winthrop and Sons are a privately held corporation and their books aren't open, but no matter how you look at it, this job is killing them.”

“I think we had best go down there and talk to Burt,” Rocco said.

The line of three cars—a police cruiser, the Wentworths' Datsun, and Kim's convertible—wound their way down from the ridge to Boulder Drive and along the cove until they arrived at a large billboard placed by the entrance to the access road.

“Winthrop Acres, pleasure living in Pleasure Valley,” Lyon read aloud.

“I know this place,” Bea said. “He could have built in a different fashion and still retained the beauty of the land.”

“At a higher cost per unit,” Lyon answered as he turned and bumped across the dirt road toward the trailer.

Bea jumped from the car when they reached the trailer and strode toward the entrance.

The door opened, and Burt Winthrop stepped down to the ground with a broad smile on his face as he walked toward Bea. “Hello there, pretty lady. Salesmen are all out for coffee, but I'll be glad to show you around.” He glanced at the police cruiser parked behind the Datsun and then at Jamie Martin hurrying toward Bea. “What's going on?”

Bea stuck out her hand, and her best political smile creased her face. “I'm Bea Wentworth. I just wanted to meet the man who stole my house.”

Winthrop's manner instantly changed as the sales smile metamorphosed into calculating appraisal that almost as quickly changed into the benign humor of the country boy. “You got me wrong, lady. I was helping your husband out of a tight situation. Believe you me, it was moving mountains to come up with so much cash on a day's notice.”

“More like thirty days' notice, from what we've learned.”

“What are you talking about, sister?”

Lyon came up behind his wife and put a restraining hand on her arm. “You seem to have had an inordinate interest in our property for some time,” he said.

“I'm always interested in a lot of property. That happens to be my business. All right, you've had your say. Now leave!”

Rocco approached them. “We would have more words with you, Burt.”

“Listen, Herbert, you and your rifle-carrying friend there get off my land. This property is in Middleburg, not Murphysville. You got no jurisdiction here.”

Rocco sighed. “That could be arranged.”

“Sure it could. I know how these things work. The lady here has political clout. Her husband made a bad deal and now they want out. The aging preppie should have known better.”

Bea glanced sideways at Lyon's lanky figure. His sandy hair was rumpled, and a forelock stuck out over his forehead as usual. He wore boat shoes, no socks, khaki work pants, and a polo shirt. My God, she thought, he's been shopping by himself again.

There were shouts from around the corner of a partially completed unit a hundred yards beyond the trailer. A man of Lyon's age scurried around the foundation dressed in a business suit with the jacket open and flapping in the wind as he ran. He saw the police officers and instantly changed his trajectory.

Two younger men rounded the building in full pursuit after their prey. They wore work clothes and heavy boots.

“What in the hell is going on?” Rocco said.

Winthrop smiled. “My boys are talking to the local union representative.”

“Call them freaks off me, you old bastard!” the man in the suit said as he reached the trailer and collapsed on its step.

“Now, Harold,” the builder said. “You know you aren't supposed to be out here on the job talking to my men.”

“I have a right.”

The younger men arrived at the trailer and skidded to a stop when they saw Rocco and Jamie Martin.

“These are my boys,” Winthrop said. “Rob and Roy.”

“We were just running him off,” Rob said. “We weren't going to hurt him. No need to call the cops.”

“They're just leaving.”

Lyon whispered into Bea's ear. “What do you think? Could it be one of the younger ones?”

Bea looked at the two men. They were identical twins. “I think I am more confused than ever,” she said.

11

Naked, Lyon walked across the bedroom to stand in the cool breeze by the window. He involuntarily shivered and then leaned forward to rest his arms on the sill. It wasn't over. The lines of hurt and unrest caused by Bea's abduction were still rippling outward.

“Lyon,” she said in a quiet voice, “come back to bed.”

“I couldn't sleep.”

“I'll really try this time.”

A faint sliver of night glow made her face a white blur on the pillow. “Are you sure he didn't touch you?”

“He didn't try and make love to me. No, that's the wrong way to say it. He didn't try to screw me. Maybe it doesn't make any difference if he did or didn't. He took part of my life and I was very frightened.”

“I know you were.” He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her toward him. “God! I should have gotten there sooner.”

Her hands bracketed his face. “You know, Went, of all the people in the world, you're probably the only one who could have found me with what you had to work with.”

Lyon had a vivid picture of Captain Norbert and their short but bitter argument over the poetry of Whitman versus Edgar Guest. He chuckled. “You know, you may be right.”

“Give me time and I'll feel better. You know that I love you.”

“I know.” He gently pushed her back on the pillow and pulled a light blanket over her slight form. “I have a meeting with some phone books in your workroom,” he said. “Go to sleep.”

Within minutes he had discovered that the telephone exchange 388 was for the town of Eastbrook on the shoreline. The remaining digits would take longer to locate, but luckily the town was small and the task would not be impossible.

Lyon began to run his fingers down all the listings for Eastbrook.

Midway through the short directory he found the number, which was listed to a B. Notkcots. It took him several seconds to realize that Notkcots was an exact reversal of Stockton. Bates was alive in Eastbrook, and they would visit him in the morning.

He tapped his fingers on the cluttered table. He needed other information also. He wondered if it was too late to call Kim.

He walked upstairs to the kitchen and poured coffee beans into the grinder. He started the small machine and soon the aromatic smell of freshly ground coffee filled the room. It was very late, but what the hell, he thought as he flipped the kitchen phone from its cradle. What are friends for?

He dialed Kim's number and hoped she wouldn't be too grumpy.

The house in Eastbrook was a chipped, dingy, white two-story frame dwelling that abutted the railroad tracks. Lyon turned into the washed-out gravel drive and switched off the ignition, then sat with Bea looking at the bleak house a few yards away.

Although the day had begun to warm under a bright morning sun, the house's windows were tightly shut with drawn shades. The shade on the right upper window was ripped and hung from its roller by one edge, canting downward at a sharp angle. The wood on the narrow front porch was rotted and had collapsed in places, leaving jagged holes. The grass was overgrown, and a broken washing machine sat stoically by the front door.

“I thought you said he came from an old New England family?” Bea asked.

“He does. His grandmother has one of those so-called cottages in Fernwick.”

“She's not very generous with her progeny then. This place looks like a New England version of Tobacco Road.”

Lyon got out of the car. “Well, better now than later.” He walked gingerly across the overgrown lawn and rotting porch, pushed the doorbell and found it inoperable, and finally banged loudly on the door frame.

“Martin and Rocco are going to be mad as hell that we came out without our bodyguard,” Bea said.

“I think we're safe in broad daylight.” He banged louder. “I didn't think that being followed by a police officer carrying a shotgun would be an inducement for a productive interview.” He knocked again.

“No one is home, Lyon.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the empty yard. “No car. He could have left after his grandmother's call.”

“I think it's a pretty farfetched relationship. What happened between you and a grad student was fifteen years ago. If he harbored any resentment he would have done something before now.”

“Maybe.”

“Come on, let's go.”

“If he's left permanently, there would be evidence to that effect. Clothing would be missing, and valuable items gone. I'm going inside.”

“You can't do that. It's called breaking and entering, trespassing, and I don't know what else.”

“Let's see.” He reached for the door handle. It was unlocked, and the door creaked inward.

The house was bisected by an extremely narrow hall that ran its length and ended at a rear door. Four doors led off the hall. Lyon stepped inside. “Hello! Anyone home?”

“They've obviously left,” Bea said, after waiting a few seconds for a response.

“Maybe.” Lyon started down the hall. The first door to the right led into the living room. A shag rug covered the floor. The room was devoid of furniture except for a low teak table in the center of the room directly underneath a Depression glass hanging lamp. Throw pillows were strewn around the carpet.

On the left, a double arch led into the dining room, which contained a card table and four folding chairs. He stopped before a closed door and gently pushed it open to reveal a small room filled with books piled on boards stretched across cement blocks. A small unfinished desk was placed by the window.

The kitchen ran the length of the back of the house. Its fixtures were old: a footed sink, a gas stove with the oven above the burners, and a heavy wooden table in the center of the room.

“Anyone home?”

At first he mistook the sound to be a small kitten's mewing. It came from under the table. He squatted and pushed aside one of the wooden chairs.

She wore a rumpled terry-cloth robe and lay in a curled position beneath the table. Her elbows were pulled tightly against her body and her hands covered her face.

“Are you all right?” He reached for her, and she jerked away from his grasp.

“Go away,” she said in a barely audible voice.

“Let me help you.”

“Please go away.”