A Child's Garden of Death (10 page)

“It's circumstantial, but almost positive,” Rocco said, trying to control his rising excitement.

“Plus other things,” Lyon continued. “No more social security payments; immigration records, police and FBI records are all negative after 1943. In 1943 the Meyerson family disappeared.”

“Someone called the school and said they'd moved to California.”

“And also told other people.”

“Whoever did that wasn't a madman.”

“No. A very calculated move to hide their disappearance. And it worked. It worked for thirty years.”

“Whoever pulled it off must have known the family, known where the child went to school, where the man worked, what temple, that they didn't have relatives to ask questions.”

“And now,” Lyon said. “I think it's about time for you to call in the newspapers and give them what we have.”

“And the State Police?”

“Let them come in too. Tell them even though the bodies were found in Murphysville, they might have been killed in Hartford or places in between.”

“And we drop out.”

“No,” Lyon said. “We don't drop out at all. We continue.”

“
YOU
'
VE GOT TO STOP IT
!” Bea stood in the center of the small study, her eyes bright with conviction. “
YOU
'
RE NOT LISTENING, LYON
.”

Lyon stood before two card tables placed along the bookcase wall and stared at their object-filled surfaces. The tables were strewn with photographs of the grave, his own aerial photos, copies of Rebecca's school records, copies of temple records, and a picture of the leading temple elders during the early forties. There was a picture of a a temple picnic which showed the serious Meyerson standing to the far right of the somber group. A stove ring rested in the center of the table, its measurements as close as Lyon could recall to those of the small stove in the submerged trailer.

“It's not healthy,” Bea continued. “You've become obsessed with this thing.” She strode to the desk and lifted the partially completed manuscript of his book. “How long since you've written a word on Cat? Not a line since this business started.”

“Did you say something, hon?” Lyon asked.

Bea dropped the manuscript and put her arms around his neck. “I'm wondering if you're becoming more flakey than you used to be.”

He kissed her. “The same degree of flakiness—promise.” He kissed her again. “Hey, we have to watch Rocco on the six o'clock news. He's making the announcement about the identification.”

“Then that's the end?” his wife asked.

Lyon turned toward the card table with its multiple objects, the shape and form of the long-dead man beginning to become clear. A proud but tough man, devoted to his wife and daughter, devout in his religion. A man who'd fought to save his wife and himself from the horror of Hitler's Germany, who'd forged ahead with a new life, and probably a meticulous and ethical craftsman. The small family unit, together now forever in death, became clear to Lyon. His research carefully placed each piece together, and a personality took form through his investigation of the dead man's life. A savings account, carefully added to each week, old night college records showing a man's slow but careful achievements in English and engineering … the concern for his daughter's welfare, and a man who held his rabbi in reverence while proportioning a part of his life to the temple.

“I know this man,” Lyon said aloud.

“
WHO KILLED HIM
?” Bea asked.

“That's what doesn't make sense. I know this man. I know what he was and what he wasn't. There wouldn't be large amounts of money in the trailer. I can't imagine him involved in an extra-marital affair. His murder doesn't make sense.”

“Yes, it does. It certainly does. In a senseless and insane way. You're refusing to draw the inescapable conclusion.”

“Which is?”

“A senseless thing without purpose done by a madman who's probably long dead or senile in some institution. Isn't that the logical answer?”

“It could be, if it weren't for the great care and planning to hide their bodies and identities.” Lyon remembered the first senseless mass murder he had read about as a child. He had followed the case of the poison murders in the newspapers. They had all taken place in orange drink–hot dog shops; the murderer would drop poison into the soft drink of whoever happened to be standing next to him. He'd leave and stand a short distance away to view the stricken Sailings of his victim. For weeks afterwards Lyon wouldn't sit at a drug store counter. Senseless and haphazard, and the records were filled with countless examples of victims whose only sin had been in being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“You and Rocco have done a remarkable thing,” Bea continued. “The bodies will be interred properly, with proper headstones. No one can expect more.”

“It's almost time for the local news on television,” Lyon said, taking her arm and leading her through the house to where the television sat sullenly blank.

As Bea adjusted the set, Lyon stared through the large window at the river below the hill. A brisk wind rippled its surface, and he could see a small girl in a white dress walking across the wavelets carrying a Sonja Henie doll. The sun was dimming behind the hills, and her face was diffused in the half-light.

“If there isn't action by the Governor, I will take this to the floor of the Senate!”

“You don't have to proselytize me, Bea,” he said, and then saw his wife simultaneously leaning back on the sofa and also on the television screen being interviewed by a young announcer in the hall of the Capitol. “I didn't know you were going to be on. We could have come in earlier.”

Bea smiled at him from the sofa as her image disappeared from the screen, to be replaced by an uncomfortable Rocco Herbert. In stilted tones Rocco outlined the facts, the finding of the bodies, the investigation and the final identity of the victims. He indicated Lyon's participation as that of a concerned citizen, without name. Rocco concluded the short interview with a request that anyone knowing the family should contact him or the State Police at once.

Lyon turned off the set as a pretty blond weathergirl stared somewhat blankly at a meteorological map. Fifteen minutes later they were halfway through the first cocktail when the phone rang. They looked at each other from their respective ends of the couch.

“It's probably Rocco calling to find out if he did well,” Lyon said.

“No. The welfare mothers calling to say my statement was too wishy-washy.”

They smiled at each other over the rims of their glasses, but the spell was impossible to maintain with the incessant ringing of the phone. “You know,” Lyon said, “I understand that the phone company can put a switch on the box so that you can't hear it ring.”

“If you take it off the hook it makes all sorts of weird noises,” Bea said.

Lyon reluctantly lifted the receiver. “Yes?”

“Mr. Wentworth?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Houston would like to speak with you. One moment, please.”

Lyon held the lifeless phone in his hand and looked at Bea. “Who the hell is Houston?”

“Houston? Asa Houston,” Bea said. “Houston Company and half the state of Connecticut.”

Lyon shrugged as a sonorous voice greeted him. “Lyon Wentworth,” the voice said and continued without pause, “I've just spoken with Chief Herbert and he tells me that you were primarily responsible for identifying those people recently found in the grave.”

“We worked together,” Lyon said.

“I also understand that the man worked for my company,” Houston said. “And if you know anything about my reputation, you know that I have extreme concern over the welfare of my employees … living or dead. I would like to talk to you, say cocktails and dinner tomorrow at six. My home, if that's convenient?”

“Yes, that would be fine.” Lyon felt that the invitation was offered more as an edict.

“Excellent. We'll look forward to seeing you.” The phone was silent and Lyon slowly hung up.

“He wants me for dinner tomorrow,” Lyon said. “Forgot to ask him where he lives.”

“I know where it is,” Bea said. “You can hardly miss it.”

Prospect Street in the capital city is a wide tree-lined avenue divided in the center by a shrub- and grass-covered mall. In bygone years the large homes and circular drives with wrought iron fences had been the abode of insurance company presidents and factory owners. In recent years many of the wealthy had made the exodus to exurbia, selling to church and school groups. Only the very wealthy, able to afford the retinue of required servants, remained in the large homes. Houston's home was directly across from the Governor's mansion. Several years ago when there was talk of running Asa Houston for Governor, political columnists had jibed that for him a move to the Governor's mansion would be a comedown.

Lyon turned in the driveway, barely missing a large cement fence post, and as the rear wheels of the small car slithered on the gravel, he braked to a halt behind a large limousine.

“Asa Houston,” Bea intoned in a monotone as if reading from the daily register at the legislature, “Owner of Houston Company and Houston Transportation, and a major stockholder in the
Hartford News,
Channel 5, and other interests. A Horatio Alger story. Born of poor but honest parents, by dint of hard work and a ruthless manner he rose to the top of the business community.”

“I take it he's not a campaign contributor of yours?” Lyon said.

“Very funny,” Bea said as they left the car. “As I recall the invitation, he asked you for dinner. When he sees me he's going to have apoplexy.”

They could hear the door chime in the house interior, and before the resonance was complete the door was opened by a well-tailored butler. “Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth,” Lyon said, and they were ushered toward the living room.

The large double doors of the living room were open, and as they poised in the frame, Lyon could see several couples standing in the center of the room near the fireplace, holding cocktail glasses and engaged in animated conversation. He immediately recognized a retired general, the president of one of the city's largest insurance companies, the Lieutenant-Governor, and the director of the ballet school, who was currently in heated debate with a stately woman twice his size.

She seemed to appear instantly before them. She smiled, but behind the welcome Lyon sensed the subtle sexuality of a Garbo or Bergman, a look combined with a certain slant of cheekbone and eye configuration that hinted of a hidden understanding. She appeared to be in her late thirties, and yet he knew that in reality she was fifty. Her figure was mature, yet exquisite in its dimensions, the conservative black cocktail dress with its single strand of pearls accenting in good taste the very essence of the woman before them. One of the few women you find who are cool, beautiful, and ageless, while exuding sexuality and intelligence. He felt Bea's arm slightly tense on his as the woman held out her hand.

“You're the Wentworths. I'm so glad you could come. I'm Helen Houston. May I call you Bea, Mrs. Wentworth?”

“Of course,” Bea said and Lyon could detect a slight hint of surprise in her voice.

“I can't tell you how much I've admired your work in the Senate. I'm really quite a fan of yours.” She dropped her voice in a tone of mock conspiracy. “Sometimes I watch your press conferences in the kitchen. There are certain elements here that disagree with many of your stands.”

Bea laughed, and Lyon felt her arm unflex as she shook the other woman's hand.

“Come on, you two,” Helen said. “My husband can't wait to meet you.” They joined the group in the center of the room, and drinks of their request were delivered while introductions were made. Even among this assemblage, Asa Houston dominated the room. As tall as Lyon, but with broader shoulders, he had a shock of pure white hair and features that had aged with deep character lines. As so many extremely successful men do, he radiated assurance.

“Wentworth,” Houston said with extended hand. “Glad you could make it. You look very familiar. We've met?”

“No, I don't think so,” Lyon replied.

“You have a short memory, darling,” Helen Houston said, taking her husband's arm. “A few weeks ago he was on the front cover of
Connecticut Magazine
… in his balloon and holding a bottle of champagne.”

“Every Sunday,” Bea said tiredly.

“Why the champagne?” Helen asked.

“An old ballooning custom,” Lyon replied. “Since we never know quite where we're going to come down, it's to be opened and given to irate farmers … or golfers.”

“Since I manufacture airplane engines, let's hope it doesn't catch on,” Asa Houston said with a laugh as they went in to dinner.

It was over dessert and coffee that Asa Houston turned to Lyon and asked him about the identification of the bodies. The rest of the diners were engrossed in their respective conversations. Bea at the far end of the table was in an animated dialogue with the Lieutenant-Governor, and the general was patiently explaining to the vibrant Mrs. Houston the make-up of an infantry division.

“How did you get involved in that business?” Houston asked. “I'd say it's a rather unusual avocation for a children's writer.”

“Chief Herbert and I are old friends. I suppose you could say that I went out initially as an observer, and then it became a problem in logic.”

“Fascinating. Tell me, step by step, exactly how you went about it.”

Under Asa Houston's probing, Lyon recounted the investigation. When he had finished, he found that he and Houston were alone in the library, Lyon holding a snifter of very good brandy, Houston coffee.

“As I was saying,” Houston said, “it seems to me that you had a good deal of luck. If your initial supposition had been incorrect, or if you hadn't had such a far-fetched theory, it would have been an impossible job.”