Death Under the Lilacs (23 page)

Bea looked down at the bruise with a bemused smile. “He was a good shot, wasn't he?” She sank heavily down into the leather chair in Lyon's study and gripped the snifter with both hands. “Let's not spend any more evenings like this for a while, okay?”

“We won't have to,” Lyon replied as he poured a pony of sherry and straddled a chair in front of her. “He's dead.”

“Rocco did it?”

“Yes. Both he and Bates saw through my rather transparent ploy. Rocco parked at the foot of the drive and pulled the cruiser in the woods. He was walking up to the house when Bates fired at you.”

“Thank God.”

“Yes.” Lyon walked through the study into the living room. He could see the ridge line out the window. Men with powerful flashlights were moving in the woods like ghoulish fireflies as they gathered the debris of death. Photos would be taken, shell casings would be picked up with tweezers and placed in evidence bags, and then Bates' body would be removed in a rubber bag and it would be over. Lyon had almost failed. The risks had proved unacceptable, and only the fortuitous arrival of Rocco had saved them from annihilation. He returned to his wife.

They sat quietly to wait for Rocco, Lyon's thoughts on that instant when he nearly pulled the trigger. He had given the burden of death to his friend to carry.

It was twenty minutes before they heard the slam of the kitchen door and Rocco's footfalls through the house.

The police chief looked tired and haggard as he came into the study and mixed a strong vodka and orange juice at the bar cart. He took a hefty swig of his drink and glowered across the room at Lyon. “You know, old buddy, you cut it awfully close. If I had taken another two minutes to make up my mind about coming out here, you'd be the one in the body bag.”

“I'm glad you made it,” Lyon said.

“And you!” Rocco pointed a finger at Bea. “How dumb can a smart lady like you get? Letting yourself be used as bait like that was nothing but stupid.”

“Lyon had it worked out.”

“So tell me.”

“My plan called for me to get him before he got into firing position,” Lyon said. “The body armor was backup.”

“And where was the backup to the backup?”

Lyon nodded. “I didn't foresee that he would be that good in the woods. I made the major error of underestimating him.”

“Did you know it was Bates, or did you just throw it out and see who you'd net?”

“I knew it was Bates. I called him earlier.”

Rocco took another sip of his drink. “I had my money on Traxis. I was surprised as hell to see who it was I had shot.”

“It had to be Bates,” Lyon said. He nodded toward the wall where the unerased chalkboard still stood. It seemed an eon ago that they had all sat in this room compiling clues and motives for him to list on the board. “Outside of ourselves and Norbie's people, Bates Stockton was the only other person who was aware of who the other suspects were. He was in this room and had ample time to see the columns on the board and Reuven's name in the Traxis column.”

“Makes sense. A good clue, but nothing we could use for a warrant. So, based on that guess, you made a call to set Bates up. What in the hell did you say to him that got him out here tonight?”

“I reverted to the outraged teacher,” Lyon said. “I started out coldly, pedantically, and told him what an idiot he was. I informed him that we had a voice identification from the tape we made of the kidnapping call. He told me that was impossible with the laryngophone. No one else except the authorities knew about the method of voice disguise, and that's when I knew I had him.”

“He could have run.”

“I went on to tell him that Bea was prepared to identify him. We were both going to see the state's attorney first thing in the morning, and if he came around Nutmeg Hill tonight, I'd blow his head off with my .45.”

“So he knew you were in the house, alert, armed with a handgun.”

“I thought that would preclude him from rushing the house and force him to take a shot from the woods.”

“By the way, I found our starlight scope and shotgun in the woods, and I would imagine that mangled vest on the floor is mine. You sure in hell didn't walk out of the station house carrying all that junk. Want to tell me how you did it?”

“Nearly the same way as Bates did when he killed Reuven. Bates signed in, talked to us, and when he left your office he threw the alarm switch and propped open the rear door with something like a match cover. He was then able to sign out and let himself in the rear door. He killed Reuven and signed out in that name.”

“Too pat,” Rocco said. “You saw me turn off the alarm system; I don't see how a stranger would know how it worked.”

“The plans and specifications for the whole building, including the wiring schematics, are on file at the town hall. They are open to anyone's inspection.”

“Oh Christ, we spend thousands on a security system and then advertise it. The records are with the minutes of the town finance committee, right?”

“That's where I found them.”

“Wait a minute,” Bea said. “Bates Stockton was in a small town jail the night I was taken.”

“That's right,” Rocco agreed. “You saw the file on that, Lyon. I made a call and we have a follow-up letter from the chief in Raleigh.”

“I heard you read a letter that said a Bates Stockton was picked up, identified by such things as a social security card and personal mail, and held overnight. It was my guess that he wasn't officially booked.”

“The letter didn't mention it, and small towns don't usually book on a drunk charge; might prove too embarrassing if they brought in a local resident. So, no booking, no fingerprinting and FBI identity verification.”

“Someone else used Bates' name.”

“A hired stand-in.”

“Right. Bates let him out in Raleigh and picked him up the next morning. It's my guess that somewhere between here and Raleigh, New York, we're going to find the body of a nameless derelict.”

“I'll check that one out.”

“With a good alibi like that, why did he bother to kill Reuven?” Bea asked.

“He knew that his alibi would not stand close examination, and when he realized that we were only working with three groups of suspects, he had to relieve the pressure on himself. Reuven's death and the padlock key we found should have removed him from the list completely.”

Bea yawned. “Now, if we only had the stamps back, we might sell them and buy back our house.”

Lyon looked pensive. “Could you do something for me, Rocco? I don't think Bates had time to sell the stamps yet. I think he still has them.”

“That's not much to go on. The man is dead, and those stamps could be anywhere. I doubt that we'll ever find them.”

“People, even men as bright at Bates, act in patterns. Whatever happened to him, Bates always returned to his grandmother's house in Fernwick. She still keeps his room and all of his childhood things. Try there. Look in that room, particularly in his very earliest stamp albums.”

“Would somebody do something for me?” Bea asked.

“What?”

“Please get me a robe. I'm cold as hell.”

Lyon sat on the edge of the patio parapet with a mug of coffee in his hand. Bea was directly below him in the garden, doing her best to resurrect the crushed flowers. He didn't have the heart to remind her that it really didn't matter. In two weeks they would have to leave Nutmeg Hill, and the condition of her flowers would matter little to earth-moving machinery.

It was a fresh day with a slight breeze off the river and a clarity of sky that seemed to enhance all colors. He glanced up the ridge line toward the stand of pines that had nearly been fatal to them the night before. The trees swayed gently, and any ghosts that might inhabit the glen were dormant.

This was their home. Once they both had had every expectation of spending the remainder of their lives here. He glanced down at Bea. Her vitality and her old elan had returned … that was what mattered. They could find another place to live.

Rocco's police cruiser rocked up the drive and skidded to a halt by the front door. It was followed by Burt Winthrop's battered pickup truck. Rocco slammed from the cruiser and waved as he started around the house to the patio. Men jumped down from the back of the pickup and began to unload equipment from its bed. A heavy set man in khaki work clothes and high boots pitched a transit over his shoulder and began to walk to the far edge of the property.

The surveyors were here, the point squad of the demolition that would follow.

“Good news,” Rocco said when he reached the edge of the patio.

“I could use some,” Lyon said as the surveyor unfolded the tripod legs of his transit and began to adjust the instrument.

“We found the stamps. Damned if they weren't stuck away in a kid's stamp album. Can you beat that? A half million in stamps intermingled with others that were probably ordered from the back of a comic book.”

“Were they all there?”

“Every damned one. And we got a bonus. Your prints and Bates' were both lifted from several of them. Great physical evidence. I also talked with the grandmother. As we suspected, she's been supporting Bates all these years, but it had come to an end. She gave him two thousand last month, but that was to be the last of it. She said he flew into a rage when she told him and screamed that it would all have been different if he had his degree, and you were to blame. So much for my theory of ancient revenge.”

“I was his rationalization.”

“Real to him.”

“I was the symbol.” Lyon looked out over the hills. “Well, now you can close the case.”

“You know it.” Rocco leaned over the wall and waved to Bea. “Hi.”

She waved back and continued with her work.

“While they were lifting the prints I called our philatelist friend in New York,” Rocco continued. “He's willing to buy back the stamps at the same price.”

Lyon looked surprised. “Not wholesale?”

“Nope. It seems that for some perverse reason that only stamp collectors fathom, the damn things have actually increased in value.”

“When could we get the money?”

“Right away, I guess. If he'll let me hold the stamps in escrow for a short while, I don't see why he couldn't pay you tomorrow.”

There was hope. Lyon looked toward the far corner of the lawn where Burt Winthrop, standing with one of his sons, was examining the old survey map showing the perimeters of Nutmeg Hill. “Burt!” Lyon called. “Burt Winthrop, can I talk to you a minute?”

“Want to see you, too,” Winthrop called back as he walked toward the house. “I was wondering if you and the little lady can get out of here earlier? I could sure use another week or two to get my models up before fall.” He walked onto the patio and turned to face the house with arms akimbo. “These old places are a bitch to take down. Walls are too damn thick, with lots of supporting timber. If I can get the permits, I might blow it.”

“What?” Bea poked her head over the parapet. “Blow what?”

“The house. A few pounds of the old TNT placed in the right places and—boom!—we got toothpicks.”

Lyon and Bea cringed. “That's what I want to talk to you about, Burt. I want to buy the place back.”

“Buy it back!” There was astonishment on the builder's face. “Are you pulling my leg?”

“No. I'll give you your money back with interest for the time I've had it.”

“Interest? I'm talking millions here, Wentworth. This little old place is going to crawl with condos.”

Bea started to climb over the wall. “Now wait just a minute!”

Lyon helped her over the wall and blocked her from a frontal assault on the builder. The potential fracas was diffused when a small, dusty VW scuttled up the drive. The car stopped behind the pickup, and a state trooper immediately got out from behind the wheel, hurried around the small car, and opened the passenger door with a flourish. A slight woman, barely five feet tall, left the car and waved at them.

“It's the governor,” Bea said as she hurried across the patio.

“Beatrice, the state police commissioner called and told me what happened out here last night. How dreadful,” the governor said. Both women threw their arms around each other.

Lyon watched the VW as the trooper pushed the front seat forward and Kim Ward unlimbered from the compact vehicle. She hurried toward Lyon as Bea and the governor huddled together in intimate conversation in a corner of the patio.

“You did it, old wise one,” Kim said as she embraced Lyon. “Kooky, but you did it, and that's all that counts. If it helps any, I finally traced the van he used. It belonged to his grandmother. Like most other things in his life, she bought it for him.”

“Can I go back to the surveyors now?” Burt Winthrop asked.

“We're not through with you,” Rocco insisted as he shoved the builder back into a wicker chair. “You know, Burt, you're going to be watched real careful on this job. I mean, the building inspectors of this town are going to crawl all over you.”

“You don't scare me, Herbert. I've had that problem before. A year from now I'll be off this job and counting my money.”

“With a pocketful of profit.”

“You know it. It's a dream situation. This is the best site in the state as soon as I get that monstrosity of a house off here.”

The governor turned toward them. “What house?”

Bea put a restraining arm on the governor's shoulder. “It's nothing, Ruth. Just a little personal difficulty.”

Winthrop looked up at the widow's walk. “Maybe we'll just let the dozers push it off the cliff. The whole smear—boom!—right off the edge.”

“Nutmeg Hill!” the governor said in an incredulous voice.

Kim spoke in an aside. “The Wentworths had to sell the house to raise the money for the ransom.”