Flynn's In (13 page)

Lauderdale’s raspberry wig was half off. The left cheek of his face rested on the middle octave. His purple tongue stuck out
between teeth which had bitten into it, starting a stream of blood. His eyes bulged as if staring incredulously at the number of upscale notes.

And the door onto the veranda was open.

“Lauderdale’s been strangled,” said Flynn.

“Dead?”

“Yes,” said Flynn certainly. “Dead.”

“I heard the noises.” Taylor in his taut young flesh was an ironic contrast to the flabby male in his fifties dressed in an evening gown relaxed in death only a few meters away. Flynn figured the music room was right over the gymnasium. “I guess I heard the noises. I thought he was kidding. I mean, I heard the silly noises he was making. He was dying?”

“Without much of an audience,” said Flynn.

Buckingham, who had arrived in the doorway of the music room immediately after Flynn and D’Esopo, had shouted, very loudly, “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”

That summoned Arlington, Clifford, Ashley, then Cocky and Oland. Wahler and Roberts were the last to arrive.

Looking up from his examination of Lauderdale, Flynn asked, “Where’s Taylor?”

“Probably in the gym,” Clifford said.

And Flynn said to Cocky: “Keep everyone out of here. Try to keep their bloody hands off the evidence this time.”

Flynn had run down the basement stairs to the gymnasium.

Now the cold night air from the open bulkhead door was making Taylor shiver.

“How long were you in prison?” Flynn asked.

“How do you know I was?”

“The was society now works,” Flynn said. “Society now takes its undesirable citizens off the streets and puts them into prisons with fully equipped gymnasiums and all the time in the world to build themselves up into extremely strong undesirable citizens. Few others have the time to set themselves up muscularly as well as does our criminal class.”

“It’s the only way to stay alive in prison. It’s the only way of working off the pressure. Getting yourself tired enough to sleep. Of protecting yourself.”

“I know,” said Flynn. “How long?”

“Three years. A little more than three years.”

“And which crime was your specialty?”

“Marrying people.”

“That’s a crime?” asked Flynn. “I’ve known people to be congratulated for it.”

“In my case, they called it bigamy.”

“And what’s bigamy these days?”

“Getting caught with nine wives.”

“Nine! Good heavens, man, you are the marrying kind.”

“Judge—The judge who sentenced me said it was a bad habit I should break.”

“A bad habit with too much future in it, I’d say. Your mother never told you about divorce?”

“It would always happen too quickly. There would always be so much urging on the part of the in-laws-to-be. I never had the heart to tell them all, well, I’d been married before. Was still married. I’d just get sucked up by another family. Bang, I’d end up at the church rail again.”

“Come now, Taylor. You married nine times without fraudulent purposes?”

“I never got anything out of it but the wedding presents. And how many Kitchen Aides do you need? I didn’t need any.”

“Taylor…”

“I like weddings. I’m crazy about them. Crazy, I guess. I like being the groom. I have everybody’s attention. Everybody loves me. I love the in-laws being so glad to see me, always, to have me in the family. I love wedding receptions. I love wedding nights. Doesn’t everybody?”

Flynn studied Taylor. Yes, with Taylor’s basically good build, clear olive skin, bright dancing eyes, dark curly hair, Flynn could see Taylor being grabbed into any family with a daughter.

He looked like someone who belonged on top of a wedding cake.

Taylor blushed and shivered at the same time. “The prison psychiatrist said I’m badly oversexed. But she was…”

“I know. A female. I’m sure she was very helpful to you.”

“She diagnosed my problem correctly.”

“I’m sure she did.”

“That’s why I work here, Mister Flynn. To keep myself away from women. I’ve been out almost nine months and I haven’t married once. Haven’t even been close to it.”

“You’ve done well, lad. All us fathers of daughters are grateful.”

“One is too many,” Taylor said miserably. “A million aren’t enough.”

“At least you know you have a problem,” commiserated Flynn.

“Badly oversexed,” blushed Taylor. “So I work out every night. Just like in prison. It helps get rid of it.”

“And did you and your nine wives spawn many children?”

“Oh, yes,” Taylor said happily. “Lots and lots. Nice ones, too. All my in-laws really love them. They were all glad to have them. You know, to take care of them. Obviously, I couldn’t.”

“I can see you were busy.”

“Toward the end there, I was very busy,” admitted Taylor.

“You mean, you never abandoned any of these wives?”

Taylor shook his head. “I wouldn’t marry a girl and then abandon her. Especially if she was pregnant. Toward the end there, I lost weight. I lost ten, fifteen pounds.”

“We each react differently to strain.”

“Without exception, all my in-laws were nice. I mean, about taking all the kids. Taking all my wives back. I married into some real nice families. Of course they all did sort of gang up on me, at the end there. You know, they got me dragged into court. But they were all just jealous, you see.”

“Jealous over you.”

“Yes,” said Taylor. “Once word began getting around. You see, a minister recognized me as having been in that same church a few weeks before. As groom. First one father-in-law got angry, then they all got angry.”

“I can see they might be touchy on the topic.”

“I figure if none of the families could have me,” Taylor said shrewdly, “none of the families wanted any of the other families to have me. So they had me put in the clink.”

“I’ve often heard,” sighed Flynn, “that talent can be a burden.”

“It took the three years I was in stir for everybody to divorce me and annul me.”

“And who was the judge who sentenced you to celibacy?”

Taylor looked at the ceiling.

“Lauderdale,” said Flynn.

“That old hen.”

“And was it Lauderdale who got you this sexless job?”

“I didn’t want to go into a monastery, Mister Flynn. I don’t like cheese all that much. Besides, the prison psychiatrist said I’ll calm down with age. I will likely calm down with age, won’t I, Mister Flynn?”

“Not,” advised Flynn, “if you keep yourself in shape.”

“S
prightly lad, that Taylor,” Flynn said to Cocky as he re-entered the music room. “Who said we all lead lives of quiet desperation? And where have you been the while?”

“I had dinner out.”

“Wise man. I didn’t have dinner in.”

“I took a bottle of Scotch from the bar table and walked down to Hewitt’s cabin by the lake. We had fried fish and venison steak together. I brought you back a bag of apples.”

“I smelled the fish boiling, too.” Flynn, hands on hips, surveyed the murder room. “Didn’t think of taking evasive action.”

“He’s not a well man, Frank.”

“I’ve heard.”

“You can see a strange protuberance through his shirt. His skin is more yellowish than weathered, you know what I mean? I think he should be in the hospital.”

“And young Taylor is in the basement trying to burn off enough energy for nine people, all of them husbands.” Flynn nodded to the bewigged, evening-gowned male corpse collapsed on the piano keys. “And there’s a member of the bench who’s played his last bar. Have you discovered anything interesting?”

“Strangled by an ordinary piece of used clothesline, knotted at both ends. The murder took some preparation, therefore, but not much. I’d say whoever strangled him was very strong. The clothesline is deeply embedded in his neck. It’s possible the neck is broken.”

“The murderer didn’t hesitate. I mean, he did it quickly, then. No need for him to take a second breath.” Flynn got down on his hands and knees on the floor just inside the veranda door.

“Nothing of interest on the veranda visible in this light.”

Flynn’s head was as nearly at eye-level with the floor as possible. “Where shoes and boots might not leave a mark on a bare floor, sweaty bare feet do.”

“Oland?”

Standing, Flynn gauged the distance from the door’s threshold to the faded oriental carpet. “But sure, anyone could make that leap. It’s hardly more than a step.”

“Or the murderer, thinking he might be caught in the room with Lauderdale, could simply have opened the door, to make us think someone had come in and gone out that way. Or just gone out.”

“Rutledge was here when we arrived,” said Flynn. “And we were just next door.”

“You didn’t hear anything, Frank?”

“I did. I heard the old boy croaking. At first I thought it was part of his after-dinner act. It wasn’t until I heard the distinctly male voice that I realized it was no act.”

Cocky said, “I put the apples in your room. And moved my Pawn to Queen Four.”

“Pawn to Queen Four, eh? Now, that’s interesting.” Flynn turned the lock in the door to the veranda. “Does that door to the corridor lock?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Flynn. “Let’s get them all in the great hall anyway. I have a few choice words to utter. Don’t I just!”

“C
offee, Flynn? Or would you prefer a drink?” Rutledge stood by the bar table ready to be helpful.

“A cup of hot water, please.” Flynn pulled a tea bag out of his jacket pocket. “And a spoon.”

For the number of people in the great hall, the room was uncommonly quiet. The crackling fire seemed a strange postlude to Lauderdale’s singing.

D’Esopo sat farthest from the fire, in a deep leather chair against the outside wall. What looked like a stiff drink was balanced on his chair arm. Lighting a cigarette, his hand trembled.

Clifford sat on a divan, knees separated, head down, fingers playing with a paper napkin in his lap. He looked like an athlete worried about exams. Buckingham sat a cushion away from him on the divan, looking away, stroking his chin.

Arlington sat alone at the poker table, hands folded before him: a chief accountant awaiting the final tally. Oland sat, skinny bare legs crossed, in his usual chair, gazing into the fire.

Hands behind his back, his back to the room, Wahler stood in the dark far end of the room, studying the mounted head of a moose.

Dunn Roberts stood at the other side of the fireplace, near the arched service door, hands in his jacket pockets. Ashley, at the short side of the bar table, was making himself a drink.

“Thank you.” Flynn dropped his tea bag into the cup of hot water Rutledge handed him and drowned it with a spoon. “Would someone please summon Taylor?”

“Coffee?” Rutledge asked Concannon. “Drink?”

“Coffee. Black.”

Dunn Roberts pushed an ivory button in the wall.

“Seeing Taylor conspired with you, last time, to destroy evidence…” Flynn added.

When Rutledge handed Cocky the cup and saucer, Cocky took only the cup. Rutledge put the saucer back on the table.

Flynn wrung his tea bag out on the spoon and put the spoon with the tea bag in it into Cocky’s saucer on the bar table.

Taylor came into the room through the little door behind Dunn Roberts. He was dressed in black trousers, his white serving jacket, white shirt and black tie. Flynn noticed that Taylor’s eyes sought out Clifford’s, but that Clifford did not look up.

Rutledge had made himself a weak drink.

Flynn took a chair some distance from the fire but facing it, at an angle.

Arlington said, “I suppose you want to know where we all were.”

“I have no questions,” said Flynn. “I’ve never been too keen at parlor games. Some people are better at them than others. Two men are dead. Murdered. You gentlemen are guilty of concealing a capital crime, destroying evidence, whatever. Most likely at least one of you is guilty of murder. This is not a civil situation. It’s criminal.”

Standing by the bar table, drink in hand, Rutledge simply gazed at Flynn.

Flynn placed his empty tea cup on the table beside him. “I have orders to give.”

“We’ll do whatever you say, Flynn,” Rutledge said.

“Yes, you will. In this country, I hardly need to remind you, no one is above the law. I know there are others of you here, and among your membership, who represent law in its various aspects, but you summoned me here because I am not one of you. Detached.” Sitting in the soft leather chair at midnight, warmth coming to him from the fire, Flynn remembered he had had very little sleep the night before. “Disinterested is the word. And as a disinterested representative of the law, I must not only tell you that what you did last night was wrong, it was criminal, imprudent for your own sake, and that tonight I must enforce upon you what is right.”

Cocky was blinking in slow motion.

“Tell us what to do,” Rutledge said.

Flynn hitched himself up in his chair. “We’re calling the local police, your Chief Jensen, as a matter of courtesy. We are
also immediately going over his head and calling in the Homicide Squad of the State Police.” Even to his own ears, Flynn was sounding detached, disinterested. “We are reporting the murder of Judge Robert Lauderdale. Until authorities arrive, everyone is staying in this room.” Cocky was so relaxed, so near sleep, his empty coffee cup was tilting in his lap. “When Jensen gets here, I shall show him the murder room, making sure he disturbs nothing.” Flynn’s voice was becoming more and more distant to him, like a donkey engine he had started somewhere, and from which he had walked away. “When Jensen gets here…” The light in the room seemed to be lowering. The crackle from the fireplace was becoming louder. “When the State Police arrive…”

From the dark room, big white faces emerged.

Rutledge’s was smiling.

With difficulty, Flynn turned his head to look at Cocky. Asleep. Cocky was asleep in his chair.

“Wahler…” Flynn said.

At the other end of the room, Wahler turned. Hands still behind his back, he, too was watching Flynn.