The Death at Yew Corner (16 page)

“Find out anything?”

“Enough to delight Kim and destroy that rotten union.”

“I recognize a few of the guards we've seen.”

“From where?”

“They are men I met in Smelts's office one night.”

A voice from behind them at the doorway startled them. “Cocktails are served in the living room.”

“Is that an invitation or an order?” Bea asked.

Lyon put the files aside neatly. “Serena said we'd find it interesting. Shall we go?”

“Of course, sir.” They linked arms and walked down the hall toward the living room. They could hear the low murmur of voices and the clink of ice in glasses. They paused at the archway leading into the room. “You said interesting, I'd say incongruous.”

“Agreed.”

The butler stood before them with a tray holding a sherry for Lyon and a martini for Bea. They automatically took the drinks.

Barbara Rustman was in a corner talking to Gustav Tanner. The hospital administrator spoke softly into her ear and she shook her head violently.

Jason Smelts was in a conspiratorial conversation with Ramsey McLean on the sofa. He punctuated his remarks by slamming a fist into a palm. Ramsey saw them and left the protesting labor leader with relief. He shook Lyon's hand and held Bea's a moment too long until she withdrew it from his grasp.

“I wasn't sure you'd be here.”

“I think we are here by edict,” Lyon said.

He laughed. “Serena doesn't believe in social niceties.”

“She seems to meet problems head-on.”

“My wife is one for militarylike protection of her vulnerable areas.”

“Do you know why everyone is here?”

“I've guessed. You, the Wentworths, are here as her insurance. I don't know if she's told you or not, but Serena is convinced that everyone here has a motive to kill her.”

“Do they?”

“Mr. Smelts just told me he has. He knows he's going to be tossed to the wolves. In fact, he feels he already has been placed in jeopardy.”

“Tanner?”

“I handled that for Serena myself. Tanner will make his move at the annual meeting and be cut to ribbons.”

“Do you exclude yourself?” Bea asked.

“Of course not. Please, excuse me, I have to check with the cook on dinner arrangements.”

“Cynical, isn't he?” Lyon said when Ramsey left.

“I'm finding him less and less attractive.”

Jason Smelts approached them warily. “What in hell are you doing here, Wentworth?”

“I'm a guest. How are you feeling?”

“Lousy. Seeing you here doesn't help my disposition.”

Lyon saw Bea's shoulders straighten. It was a sign he knew well. His wife was preparing for battle. “You seemed only too glad to see Lyon when you were suffocating in your office.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Your gratitude is boundless,” Bea said.

Smelts's face reddened. “Who the hell is this broad?” He gulped the remainder of his drink.

“My wife.”

Smelts faced Bea and rattled his ice cubes near her face. “I know who you are. Christ! You're that pinko, bleeding-heart politician who's either sucking up to the welfare cheats or the bull dykes.”

“Don't confuse feminism with sexual predilection, Mr. Smelts.”

“Same thing.”

“I think not.”

The clinking ice cubes wavered toward Lyon as if shaken by some aboriginal shaman. “If you kept her knocked up, she'd stay home and out of trouble.”

Lyon felt a sudden surge of anger. “We're both rather disturbed about your union's interesting arrangement with the Shopton Corporation.”

“You don't know from nothing.”

“We spent a cozy afternoon with your files,” Bea said.

Smelts grabbed the sleeve of the passing butler and rattled his ice cubes under the surprised man's nose. “Get me another one.” He turned back to the Wentworths. “She's setting me up, isn't she?”

“Have you always been a corrupt labor leader?” Bea asked. “Or is this only the latest of a series of cons?”

Lyon knew that Bea was off and running. He'd seen her take up the cudgels before; he had seen her joust with other enemies. Smelts represented the type of corruption of trust she hated the most. He knew his wife would plunge forward without regard to the very real physical danger Jason Smelts represented.

“I don't care for the question,” Smelts replied slowly to Lyon.

“You can speak directly to me, Mr. Smelts. I am a grown-up lady.”

“What's Serena been telling you?”

“More than enough to interest the Labor Department and possibly a grand jury. A complete audit of the pension fund should make interesting reading.” Bea's anger at the man overcame her natural reluctance to be Serena's tool in his destruction.

“The bylaws say I can invest those funds any way I see fit.”

“I think the law calls it Larceny at Trust.”

“I don't have to answer that.”

“Not to me, you don't.”

Three men moved simultaneously: Smelts lunged toward Bea as Lyon placed himself between them, while Ramsey McLean put a restraining hand on the labor leader's shoulder.

Smelts tried to wrench away from McLean's grip as he glared at Bea over Lyon's shoulder. “I could …”

“As your attorney,” McLean interjected, “I advise you not to say one more word.”

Smelts hesitated and then turned brusquely away and walked over to the butler for his drink.

“He can be dangerous,” Mclean said. “I wouldn't pursue it any further with him tonight.”

Smelts obtained his drink and stalked back toward them. He pushed McLean's protesting palm aside. He addressed himself to Bea. “You know, you ask dumb questions. You think that when a guy's young he goes around saying, ‘Gee, I'm going to grow up to be a corrupt labor leader.' It don't happen that way. You start out as a worker. You get maybe to be shop steward. One day you find somebody palming you a five for looking the other way. If you got any brains you grow outa the nickel-and-dime stuff and hold back until they meet your price. You got that, lady! You hear me? And I'll swear I never said it.”

“That's enough, Smelts,” McLean said.

“You tell Serena that I'm not taking the fall.” Jason Smelts walked away from them to the far side of the room.

“On edge, isn't he?”

“He has a right to be. You heard what happened in his office?”

“I was there.”

“I would say that would be enough to unnerve any man. His thinking hasn't been right since.”

Barbara Rustman plucked at Bea's sleeve and the two women walked over to sit on a settee. “How are you, Barbara?”

“Do you know why I was asked here, Mrs. Wentworth?”

“How were you invited?”

“This large man came to the house and insisted that I come.”

“I think Mrs. Truman wants to talk to you about Marty.”

“I'm not sure he'd like that. Unless he's dead. Do you think he's dead?”

“I don't really know.”

Lyon watched the clusters of people interspersed throughout the large room. There was a conspiratorial air to their intimate conversations. He wondered what reactions Serena hoped to get later in the evening. In a corner, Ramsey McLean finished dialing the phone and beckoned to him.

“Any messages for McLean?… Thank you.” He hung up and turned to Lyon. “Out of curiosity, Wentworth, in that material my wife gave you this afternoon, was there anything pertaining to me?”

“No, there wasn't.”

The phone near McLean's elbow rang three times before Ramsey picked up the receiver. His words were clipped and annoyed. “Yes … it's nearly eight and we're ready to eat I understand.” He slammed the phone down. “Serena overslept. She'll be late for dinner. She wants us to go ahead and start. Frankly, I think she enjoys being late in order to make the grand entrance.”

“I'm surprised she didn't arrange for Marty Rustman to make an appearance.”

“Even her power doesn't reach to that great union hall in the sky.”

“Then he's dead?”

“I don't know.”

“If he is alive, what interest would he have in Serena?”

“Are you that naïve?”

“Then she ordered his kidnapping?”

“You said it, Wentworth. I didn't.”

“Isn't that an expensive way to dispose of a recalcitrant labor leader?”

“We lawyers love hypothetical situations, so let me indulge myself. Let us assume that Rustman had proof about the relationship between Smelts and the corporation.”

“That would require his disposal.”

“Hypothetically it might.”

“You are aware that my wife has enough information to go to the Labor Department?”

“Yes.”

“Then what happens to Smelts?”

“The decision has been made to disband the union. Its functions have become more trouble than they are worth.”

“And when charges are brought?”

“To quote one of my favorite Machiavellian people, ‘We'll watch him slowly twist in the wind.'”

“Smelts feels he's already twisted.”

“That's a risk Serena was willing to take. Serena is always protected.” He made an expansive gesture around the room. “As this house proves.”

“It's almost pathological.”

“Of course. Serena is crazy.”

“Dinner is served” was the call from the unobtrusive butler in the hallway.

Bea held on to Lyon's arm as everyone else straggled from the room toward the dining room at the end of the hall. “Will you tell me what kind of game is going on here?”

“I'm not sure, but it is interesting. You have to admit that.”

They were the first to arrive at the dining room. It was a long room with heavy, dark wooden paneling that gave it an oppressive aura. Table settings bracketed by heavy silver bowls were interspersed along the table. Small hand-lettered cards identified the places. Lyon and Bea were seated together. Barbara Rustman entered next, nodded in a shy way, and then stood by a chair at the opposite side of the table.

Jason Smelts and Gustav Tanner entered separately and were followed shortly by Ramsey McLean.

“Please sit down, everyone. Serena will be along in a moment.”

It was a quiet meal served by the silent butler. It appeared to Lyon that they had been purposely seated some distance from each other in order to destroy any possible sense of intimacy. Ramsey was at one end of the table, while the place at the far end was conspicuously vacant.

It was during the entrée that Horace entered and whispered something in Ramsey's ear. Ramsey stood up and neatly folded his napkin. “If you will excuse me a minute? Something seems to have delayed my wife. Mr. Wentworth, will you please accompany me?”

Bea shot Lyon a quick glance as he followed Ramsey into the hall and toward the main stairwell.

“What seems to be the difficulty?” Lyon asked as they followed Horace to the second floor.

“I'm not sure. Horace has been on guard outside Serena's room. Something has happened that makes him concerned.”

They were led down the hallway and stopped before a door where a straight-backed chair was placed against a nearby wall. Lyon conjectured that this was where the bodyguard sat while Serena was in her room.

A small trickle of water flowed through the slight crack between the door and the floorboards. Ramsey glanced at Horace. “Well?”

“A few minutes ago I heard her run water in the bathtub. Then … look.” He pointed toward the trickle of water seeping over the hall carpeting.

“Serena!” Ramsey pounded on the door. “Serena! Are you all right!” He pressed his ear against the door. “I can hear water running.”

“I think you had better go in,” Lyon said.

“Do you have a key, Horace?”

“No, sir. She locks it from the inside.”

“Serena!” Ramsey pounded on the heavy wooden door again. “Answer me!”

“Break it in,” Lyon said to Horace.

The large bodyguard nodded, looked at Ramsey for permission, and then threw his shoulder against the door. He bounced painfully back into the center of the hall. “Solid as hell.”

“Get a crowbar or something from wherever the tools are kept.”

“Yes, sir.” Horace moved quickly down the hall toward the stairwell.

Lyon knelt and felt the seeping water with his finger. “Where's the bath?”

“It's located right against the hall wall.”

“This water is warm.”

“What in hell's going on?”

Horace ran back down the hall followed by another man carrying a shotgun at port arms. The bodyguard held a hammer and chisel and stooped before the locked door and jammed the chisel between the frame and the panel. Hammer blow after hammer blow struck against the chisel as he separated a hinge from the door. When he was satisfied, he threw his bulk against the panel. The frame splintered as the door flew backward to slam against the wall.

A thin film of water covered much of the entranceway flooring and was seeping out the door into the hall.

Ramsey went into the bathroom and immediately stepped back into the hall. “Oh, my God!”

Lyon went into the steam-filled room. The sunken tub's rushing hot water faucet filled the room with clouds of moisture-laden warm air.

The nude woman in the tub with the plastic bag tied over her head stared through the steam with unseeing eyes.

11

Lyon had seen it too often before. The caretakers of death were uniformed and efficient. They overflowed the room: police, ambulance attendants, the assistant medical examiner in a rumpled sport coat with leather patches on the elbows, and a tired Rocco Herbert.

Lyon stood in the hallway leaning against the wall. He had spoken briefly to Bea, and she had remained downstairs with the others. Ramsey McLean was giving a statement to Jamie Martin further down the hall, while in the murder room Rocco gave directions to a police photographer.