The Death at Yew Corner (20 page)

“It fits the facts,” Rocco added. “Everyone else in the house has been accounted for. Rustman could have come over the wall, killed the dog, and sneaked into the house. He somehow got into Serena's room and killed her. The only problem is that I'll be damned if I know how he got in and out of the room.”

“Bea called me a few minutes ago,” Lyon said. “She's been out to see Barbara Rustman. You can verify this with the Veterans Administration, but Marty Rustman was wounded in Vietnam and only had partial use of his right leg.”

“He was limber enough to climb over that wall.”

“Doubtful but possible. That pickup you found with his body, did it have hand controls?”

“No.”

“Disabled veteran plates?”

“It had some sort of crazy vanity plates that spelled out ‘Mary-Lou' or something like that. I can find out exactly.”

“It won't be necessary. I'm convinced that Rustman's been dead since the day he disappeared.”

“No one else could have killed Serena Truman.”

“Someone did and I know how.”

“This is the biggest bunch of crap I've heard all day.” Norbert pushed away from the table. “I've got work to do.”

“The major will be displeased if Lyon is right and you are wrong, Norbie.”

The state police captain looked uncertain. “All right. I'll listen.” He glanced at his watch. “For five minutes.”

“It will take longer than that,” Lyon said. “I'll show you how it was done.”

“Show what?”

“How the murderer got into Serena's room and how the murder was committed.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow night. Say seven. I'll need access to the mansion and two patrolmen to help.”

“For God's sake, what am I going to tell the major?”

“That's your problem, Norbie,” Rocco smiled.

Sol Rabner hated shopping centers and discount stores with a passion that bordered on the irrational. He leaned against a counter in his downtown Murphysville store and watched his unmoving inventory with eyes of infinite sadness. A sixteen-year-old girl was the only potential customer in the shop, and Sol wasn't sure if she was prepared to buy or steal. He made a mental note to take a careful count of any items the girl took into the fitting room. He watched her from the corner of his eye and mentally calculated how much he should discount bathing suits.

A small bell hanging above the front door tinkled. Sol turned to see Lyon Wentworth enter. He smiled. The Wentworths were old customers. They didn't buy a great deal, and were frugal in their purchases, but they were consistent.

“Morning, Lyon.”

“How's business, Sol?”

“The new shopping mall on Route Eighty really hurts. Nothing but low prices and shoddy merchandise. People don't appreciate quality anymore. What can I do for you?”

“I'm interested in that.” Lyon pointed to a posed mannequin wearing a mauve evening dress.

Sol shook his head. “I really don't think that color would look good on Beatrice.”

“Not the dress. The mannequin.”

“The mannequin?”

“I want to borrow it for a few days. Better yet, I had better buy it. I think it might be destroyed.”

“Wait a minute, Lyon. I'm not in the business of …”

“And I'll need something that comes in a large plastic bag.”

“I have some nice cashmere sweaters that Beatrice might like.”

“Fine. You pick out the size and color.”

Sol Rabner shook his head. He began to strip the dress from the mannequin. The Wentworths were valued customers, but they were certainly strange.

Bea looked up from her gardening and pushed the floppy hat back on her forehead. Lyon's car came slowly down the driveway. A strange woman who didn't seem to be wearing any clothes was sitting next to him. She wondered what stray cat he had brought home this time. She walked over to the car as it stopped and leaned in the window.

“Your friend's got a rather vacant expression. Is she on something?”

“I bought you a sweater.”

“At this time of year?”

“The price was right.”

“Can I ask what you're doing?”

“I'm going to need your help. Did you get the other things?”

“They're in the study.”

“Good.”

Lyon slid from the car and hefted the mannequin over his shoulder. Bea followed him into the house and upstairs to the bedroom. He let the mannequin slip from his shoulder onto the bed and took the sweater from the plastic bag. “Tie my hands with a belt.”

Bea shook her head. “You know I love you, Lyon, and we've had our good times together, but I'm not so sure that I'm into whatever it is you have in mind.”

“It's only a rehearsal.”

Bea arched an eyebrow.

The police had arrived at the mansion early. A state police cruiser and two Murphysville cars were parked in the drive when Lyon and Bea drove through the gate. Two trooper corporals in tailored uniforms stood nearby at attention. They looked with disapproval at two town police who lounged against the side of their car with loosened ties and dangling cigarettes. The divergent poses seemed to represent the chasm between the two police authorities.

Lyon parked near the entrance to the house and began to unload his equipment from the Datsun. Rocco came out the front door and smiled in wry bemusement as Captain Norbert shouldered past him and glared at the two Murphysville police who immediately straightened their posture and ground out their cigarettes.

“Morning, Senator,” Norbert said with a salute to Bea before he turned to Lyon. “Now hurry it up, Wentworth. My men are on overtime.”

“If you will allow me to arrange my props, then we can begin the reenactment.”

“For Christ's sake, can I stop you?”

“No way,” Rocco said.

The large dog strained against his choke collar as Bea led him from the car. She handed the leash to Jamie Martin. “I think he's your prop.”

The officer took the leash with apprehension. “What am I going to do with him?”

“Lyon will tell you in his own good time.”

“This is all costing the state money,” Norbert snapped.

“I have something to do near the north wall,” Lyon said. He heaved the mannequin out of the car and handed it to Rocco. “Will you take this up to the murder room and arrange her in bed?”

Rocco slung the mannequin over his shoulder. “Why not?” He started down the hall toward the main staircase.

Bea watched Rocco go up the stairs with the mannequin's naked legs protruding over his shoulder. “I can't make up my mind if he looks like Rhett Butler taking Scarlett upstairs or a Viking returning from a pillage of the English coast.”

“Looks like a damn foolish cop to me,” Norbert said.

“I'll be back in a few minutes.” Lyon took an attaché case from the Datsun and began walking to the far wall.

“Couldn't he just diagram this for us, Senator?”

Bea watched her husband disappear behind the trees. “He has a theory, but whether it works out or not will depend on timing and your reaction.”

Lyon stopped at the spot near the wall where the guard dog had been poisoned. He sat cross-legged on the grass and gently lay the case flat on the ground before him. He unsnapped the clasps and opened the lid. Earlier that day he had dug out his wristwatch from the back of the bureau drawer and set the time by the radio. He glanced at the watch before he began his preparations.

When he and Bea had roamed the mansion in their attempt to understand how the murder was committed nearly all the details had puzzled him. Now, his experience with hot-air ballooning would be useful.

He went to work.

They clustered in the murder room looking down in macabre fascination at the mannequin in Serena's bed.

“Are the French doors latched, Rocco?”

Rocco checked the latch. “Yes.”

“The bedside lamp is out. The water is not running in the tub.”

“We all know that, Wentworth,” Norbert said.

“We can duplicate everything except locking the door from the inside.”

“We'll pretend.”

“Fine.” Lyon moved into the hallway. “I would like a police officer stationed in the hall immediately outside the bedroom door. I don't want anyone admitted into the murder room once the door is closed, and I want him to report anything he hears or sees to Rocco by walkie-talkie.”

Rocco nodded toward a uniformed officer. “Got that, Hansen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Remember, notify the chief of anything you hear or see.”

Lyon led them to the living room downstairs. Norbert paced the rug impatiently. “I would like Jamie Martin to walk the same guard post as the security man did below Serena's window. He must have the dog with him.”

Rocco gestured to the patrolman who stood uncomfortably holding the dog on the leash. “You know the spot. I assume Lyon wants you to report on the radio anything you see or hear.”

“Right, Chief. What about the dog?”

“Keep him with you,” Lyon said. “But no matter what happens, do not leave your post.”

Jamie led the dog gingerly down the hall and out the door.

“What in hell's going on?” Ramsey Mclean said as he strode into the living room accompanied by a short, bespectacled man holding a clipboard. “I thought you were through with the house, Chief?”

“What are you doing here, McLean?”

“We're taking an inventory for the estate.”

“Wentworth has some scheme as to how the murder took place.”

“I thought you found Rustman dead?”

“We did. There's still the problem of how he did it.”

Ramsey turned to the man with the clipboard. “Why don't you continue without me for a few minutes, Mr. Brumby? I'm quite interested in Mr. Wentworth's theory.”

“I'll start on the silver in the pantry.”

Ramsey was angry as Brumby left. “I want to know exactly what's going on.”

“Lyon is going to duplicate the murder. Isn't that right?” Rocco said.

“Yes.”

“We have a man posted in the hall outside your wife's room and a man with a dog outside. We have tried to approximate the circumstances as nearly as possible.”

“Get on with it, Wentworth.”

Lyon looked at his watch. “On the day of the murder Bea and I were working in the study. Will everyone please go in there. Rocco, if you will monitor any calls from the police on guard and please take notes, we'll begin.”

“Does neatness count?”

“Funny.”

Lyon stood in the center of the living room until Bea led the remaining police officers and Ramsey into the study. Once they were out of sight, he went into the pantry, past the man with the clipboard, and continued into the kitchen to the cellar door. He found a light switch near the stairwell and went down the open wooden stairs. He found the rope where he had discovered it yesterday, stuffed into an ancient coal bucket. It had been dyed brown, the same color as the outer walls of the house, and it was stout enough to support the weight of a man. He looped it over his shoulder and glanced at his watch.

Five minutes remaining.

The fuse box was next. It was a large wooden affair that was probably installed when the house was first constructed in the thirties. He counted three from the right on the second line, unscrewed a fuse, and stuck it into his pocket.

Four minutes left.

The water turn-off valves were neatly labeled with hanging white tags. He turned the appropriate valve and sprinted for the stairs. He took the cellar steps two at a time and raced for the servants' staircase that led from the kitchen to the third floor.

He entered a musty unused servant's room, tied an end of the rope to a heavy radiator, and stood with his back against the wall as he watched the second hand on his watch sweep around the dial. He thought again, as he had the day before, about the plight of men and women sentenced to these cell-like rooms for their working lives, on call most of the hours of the day, living without family six days a week. It was modern serfdom, which prosperity had finally destroyed.

He glanced at his watch again. Barely a minute left if his calculations were correct. Finding the bits of thin rubber on the grass where the dog had died had bothered him at first, and he had almost discarded them as possible clues until he discovered the rubber nipple high in the tree. If he made the assumption that no one had come over the wall and thrown the scented and poisoned meat on the ground to distract and kill the dog, the meat would have to have been hidden nearby in a sealed container until it was dropped at a specified time.

Earlier today he had duplicated the timing device and hung it in the tree. He had placed a thin string of sausage heavily doused with female dog musk inside a small weather balloon. Also inserted in the balloon was a small alcohol lamp. He had filled the balloon with air and ignited the lamp before he hung it high in a tree.

Seconds left. He pressed against the wall as near to the window as he dared and listened.

The pop was nearly inaudible at this distance, and more than likely the patrolling policeman outside would not have heard it.

The flame heated the air inside the balloon to the point where it expanded enough to explode the balloon. Small pieces of rubber had now fallen to the ground along with the scented meat.

He could hear the frantic bark of the Great Dane.

Lyon opened the narrow window, threw out the rope, and hoisted himself onto the sill. As he expected, Jamie Martin below was fighting to hold on to the Dane.

The dog made a final plunge and ripped the leash from the officer's hand and loped across the grass toward the trees at the far side of the grounds.

Lyon lowered himself onto the balcony, slipped chewing gum from his mouth, and placed it against a windowpane. The pane was held only loosely by a splotch of putty and it easily worked loose. He put the glass in his shirt and looped a thin strand of wire through the aperture and down over the latch of the French doors. He pulled on the wire and raised the latch.