Death Under the Lilacs (28 page)

Authors: Richard; Forrest

BOOK: Death Under the Lilacs

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“Hey, you guys!” Pan Turman ran up the walk toward them.

“Oh, Christ,” Sam said. “It's time to play Dalton says.”

“Dalton says we're all to go to the ballroom,” Pan said breathlessly as she tried to regain her wind. “He has something to show us.”

“Does Dalton say who's to supervise this fucking job while we play his damn games?” Sam said.

Pan hooked the foreman's arm in hers as she led him up the path toward the large building. “Oh, Sam, you're such a grizzly bear.”

The southerly wall of the ballroom was mostly glass, with sliding panels that opened out onto a wide veranda that overlooked Long Island Sound. The ceiling was a maze of molded figure reliefs, many parts of which had broken off and fallen to the cluttered floor. The walls were water stained, and plaster, leaves, and old newspapers littered the floor.

The restoration was well under way. Scaffolding reached high up the walls and contained several painters who were carefully chipping and sanding the orante molding. Lyon noticed that several of the younger workers had Walkman radios either hooked to their belts or sitting nearby. Luckily they used earphones so that the sound of heavy-metal rock was mercifully absent.

“This is my favorite room in the whole resort,” Pan said. “Later I'll show you the decorator's drawings of what it will look like when it's finished.”

Sam Idelweise began to impatiently riffle through a sheaf of blueprints. “Where's laughing boy?” he muttered.

“I'll go get him,” Pan said and hurried out.

“Oh, my God!” It was a strangulated gasp from one of the men working near the ceiling. The young painter scrambled down the ladder. He wore a Grateful Dead T-shirt, paint-splattered, cutoff jeans, and carried a blaster with an earplug. He reached the bottom of the ladder and faced them with a look of horror on his face. “It's coming! Jesus, they're finally on their way.”

Sam scowled at the young worker. “No breaks for the second coming, Harold. You wait for lunch like everyone else.”

Harold ripped the earplug from his head and threw it at Idelweise. His mouth opened and closed several times before words were articulated. “I don't care what you say. It doesn't matter anymore. Don't you understand? The missiles are on their way!”

“What in the hell are you talking about?” Idelweise shot back.

“It's all on the radio. Listen!” Harold turned up the set's volume.

All work stopped as a sonorous announcer's voice filled the ballroom. “The Pentagon has verified that countless missiles have been launched from areas throughout the Soviet Union. Early-warning satellites indicated that this occurred sixteen minutes ago.” The announcer's hysteria was becoming obvious and beginning to affect everyone in the ballroom.

“Civil Defense officials recommend that everyone stay away from windows and â¦ It doesn't matter what you do, it's all over. This is the end.”

The broadcast abruptly terminated.

Sam Idelweise strode purposely across the room. “No way! No way, JosÃ©, do I believe this shit.” His booted foot lashed out and smashed into the radio.

The appliance's owner looked dispassionately down at the ruined set and shook his head. “It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.”

Sam shook the young painter by the shoulders. “Snap out of it, kid. That bastard Dalton is up to another of his â¦”

Everyone in the room froze in a silent tableau as the blinding light outside the window cascaded through the room in one gigantic flash.

“Mother of God,” Sam said. “That was New York City.”

“We have New York City a hundred twenty miles away to the south and Boston the same distance to the north,” Lyon said. “And we're only twenty miles from New London, where the Electric Boat Company, the sub base, and the Coast Guard Academy are located.”

“I don't think I need a geography lesson, Wentworth,” Bea said huskily.

“We're history,” Sam said.

“I love you, Lyon,” Bea said as she wound her arms around him.

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About the Author

Richard Forrest (1932â2005) was an American mystery author. Born in New Jersey, he served in the US Army, wrote plays, and sold insurance before he began writing mystery fiction. His debut,
Who Killed Mr. Garland's Mistress
(1974), was an Edgar Award finalist. He remains best known for his ten novels starring Lyon and Bea Wentworth, a husband-and-wife sleuthing team introduced in
A Child's Garden of Death
(1975).

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Andy Ross

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3788-4

This 2016 edition published by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

180 Maiden Lane

New York, NY 10038

www.openroadmedia.com

www.mysteriouspress.com