Death at King Arthur's Court (8 page)

‘The only thing you've added is bastards in Boston,' Rina said.

‘You are both bloodsucking leeches who don't deserve or know how to properly benefit from money,' Morgan said.

‘Deserve is not the point, Morgan,' Clay said with resignation.

Morgan shifted his venom toward Rina. ‘While you salivate over this money, did it ever occur to your uneducated mind that the trust is tainted? It's money that originated with the slave trade. Yankee skippers who didn't make the China Run. They converted to the triangle trade with vessels that considered the loss of one third the human cargo as a normal cost of doing business. After that practice was outlawed, they turned to the mills. These were the gallant establishments that tallied small fortunes through the exploitation of very young women and children. The mills moved south to exploit others, and our forefathers found an even better source of profit in the weapons of death. Connecticut, the arsenal of the world, the manufacturers of every lethal weapon known to man, from atomic submarines to most of the handguns sold in this country. But that was all yesterday, you say. Today the money is invested in squeaky-clean stocks and bonds. Our assets have been properly laundered, as old money should be.'

‘You seem to have enjoyed its pleasures without guilt,' Clay said. ‘Frankly, Morgan, we are not interested in your financial philosophy. I want an immediate accounting of our money.'

‘And your sister's share will either be wasted on that muscle-bound jerk she's sleeping with or bird-watching old ladies in tennis shoes.' Morgan turned to Lyon. ‘Her newest is a real Neanderthal, Lyon. I think she discovered him when she tripped over a rock on Muscle Beach and found him underneath.'

Lyon felt that this family argument was violating the sanctuary he had tried to create in his small office. The room had turned from a quiet place for thought and creativity to a pocked battlefield of age-old bitterness.

‘Cut the crap, Morgan!' Rina said. ‘I want my money.'

‘If there's any left,' Clay added in a low voice.

‘I won't even deign to answer that,' Morgan said as he strode from the room.

‘It's time for action, Rina,' Clay said.

‘I agree,' she replied.

The subdued group filed back to the patio. Lyon was concerned over the dysfunctional family scene he had just witnessed. Morgan's imperious attitude was creating a deep anger in the twins that might be impossible to rectify.

The phone rang as he passed the kitchen doorway. He reached toward the wall unit and flipped it off its stanchion. ‘Wentworth here,' Lyon said.

‘Tell Mr Morgan that Armageddon has begun,' the flat nasal voice said.

Six

Lyon paced the living room. With complete absorption in the act, he strode in a perfect box pattern as if he were taking measured steps to produce room dimensions. ‘All right,' he finally said. ‘It would seem that our primary suspects are two disgruntled English teachers, and a set of mismatched twins agitated over their trust fund.'

‘The threatening phone call talked of Armageddon,' Rocco said. ‘It wasn't a call from some kids asking us to let Prince Albert out of the box.'

‘Is there more?' Bea asked.

‘Yes,' Lyon answered.

‘What's Armageddon?' Rina asked.

‘Why, my dear sister,' Morgan's voice boomed over the patio. ‘Your experience with that rock group certainly left some lacunae in your education. Perhaps Mr Wentworth has a large dictionary in the house that he can teach you to use.'

‘The final battle between the forces of good and evil,' Lyon said.

‘Designed to take out Morgan?' Rina asked.

‘It would seem so,' Lyon answered.

‘Fanaticism can't be all that bad,' Clay mumbled.

‘You know, I heard that,' Morgan said. ‘The only principle your accountant's brain ever comprehended was a lowering of the capital gains tax.'

‘I don't screw people over,' Clay retorted.

‘I don't need this!' Morgan said. ‘Good night.' He strode off the patio toward his RV.

‘Wait a minute!' Clay yelled after him. ‘We haven't settled anything.'

Morgan ignored the comment as he violently punched numbers into the door's lock combination.

‘Stop him,' Rina said in a husky voice.

Skee jumped off the patio steps and sprinted down the drive. He reached the RV at the moment the door swung open and Morgan stepped inside. The bodybuilder caught the edge of the door before it slammed shut. He jerked the other man into the doorway. ‘Rina wants you, Daddio.'

Morgan shoved Skee's hand off his shoulder and reached back inside the van to produce a long broadsword. He raised the weapon over his head with both hands. ‘You move. You even breathe,' he said, ‘and I will separate that notochord you call a brain from your long neck.'

‘I wouldn't make book that he won't,' Clay said to Rina. ‘You had better call Muscles off.'

‘Leave him alone,' Rina commanded.

Skee Chickering backed away from the glinting sword. When he was out of its thrusting reach he turned and walked nonchalantly back to the patio. Morgan continued standing in front of the RV door with the sword until Skee sat at a patio table. He slowly lowered the weapon and stepped back inside the van and slammed the door.

‘Does he always wave that thing around?' Skee asked no one in particular.

‘He has two,' Garth said. ‘He used to keep them both in his office, where they hung on the wall. They're props for a course he teaches in Arthurian legends.'

‘Old English legends, like in Spenser's
Faerie Queen
,' Ernest said pointedly to Garth.

‘Who says that's Arthurian?' Garth retorted.

The clank of heavy metal shutters caused them to turn toward the van. The final metal plate closed off the last window, and only a rim of gold light could be seen around the window borders.

After they finished eating, Lyon arranged a rare steak on a hot platter, surrounded by thick fries, salad and garlic bread. He carried the portion waiter-style at shoulder height down the drive to Morgan's RV. He knocked on the heavy metal door three times before a muffled growl issued from the interior.

‘Who the hell is it?'

‘Wentworth, Morgan. I brought you a steak with fixings.'

‘Give it to Rina's animal. His appetite for red meat is undoubtedly immense. No prepared meals, Wentworth. I am surrounded by my enemies and contamination of my food would not be beyond their addled senses. When I am hungry I shall prepare my own meal from unopened containers untouched by human hands.'

‘Suit yourself,' Lyon said. The man's paranoia was reaching a critical stage. He returned to the patio and handed the warm steak to Skee. Morgan was right. Without acknowledging the appearance of the additional food, the bodybuilder immediately dedicated himself to its consumption.

Ernest assumed a heroic pose by the parapet. ‘I would very much like to have Morgan on safari with me. Accidents can be readily arranged in the bush.'

‘In the service we called it fragging,' Garth said. ‘Why don't we separate his head from the rest of him with that broadsword he's so enamored with?'

‘Certainly not!' Ernest snapped. ‘That hunk of iron is awkward and devoid of grace. If there's any Morgan-sticking to be done, I would only consider a matador's sword.'

‘The estoque,' Lyon said as he stacked plates.

‘Yes, of course,' Ernest admitted. ‘Educated cojones,' he said admiringly of Lyon as he searched for his car keys. Still cloaked by their mutual anger at Morgan, both teachers returned to their cars. They only managed a brief argument over who would back down the drive first.

‘We're going to have to hire a lawyer to bring an action against Morgan,' Rina said.

Clay nodded. ‘I hate to wash dirty family laundry in public, but I don't know what else we can do to force him to make the trust distribution.'

‘I broke the fingers of the last guy who threw down on me with a weapon,' Skee Chickering said.

‘What a magnificent aerie this property would make,' Rina said with passion. She stood on the parapet for the second time and made a broad sweeping gesture over the night. ‘Eagles would command the river valley from here to the Sound. Nests would proliferate and the young would be raised and taught the ways of the bird.'

‘Are we to share Nutmeg Hill with your flock?' Lyon asked.

‘You don't seem to understand that these aren't ordinary birds, Lyon,' Clay said. ‘We do not speak of them as feathered creatures like Tweety in a cage or little robin redbreast hopping around after worms. They are always referred to as THE EAGLES. It is generally considered good form if you use some powerful adjectives such as magnificent, soaring winged creatures.'

‘We can drop the sarcasm, dear brother,' Rina said as she climbed down from the wall and handed her empty juice glass to Skee for a refill. ‘As soon as I get my trust money, I will make an offer on this place,' she said to Lyon.

Lyon shook his head. ‘Sorry, Rina. We have no plans to sell.'

‘Everyone has a price,' Skee said.

After they left, it took Lyon over an hour to straighten the patio and kitchen. He loaded the dishwasher, flicked it on and made a final patio check before throwing the switch to douse the exterior lights. As the patio floods clicked off, he thought he glimpsed movement in the periphery of his vision. He quickly turned off the living-room lights and stepped back into the shadows to let his eyes accommodate to the dark.

He knew that night vision was initially more effective if you viewed an object obliquely rather than look at it directly. He tilted his head to see out of the corner of his eyes. He thought he saw movement in the shadows beyond the house. A low bush brushed by the wind could be deceiving. It would be impossible to discern shadows properly until his eyes gained their night vision. The outside world appeared as a slab of darkness until scudding clouds moved on and a half moon crept out. He felt his way through the darkened house to the closet by the front door. On the upper shelf was a powerful five-battery lantern that cast a wide beam.

There were now faint sounds nearer the house. He heard two quick steps in the gravel as someone crossed from one side of the drive to the other.

Under ordinary circumstances he would have called out and turned on the floods mounted on the corners of the house and over the patio. Morgan's presence in the RV parked in the drive radically changed those circumstances. The phone threats couldn't be discounted. Morgan might be safe in his armored vehicle, but since terrorists didn't seem to differentiate between the innocent and guilty, they could all be in harm's way.

There were more steps in the drive near Morgan's vehicle, followed by an odd clicking sound. The passing minutes had allowed Lyon time to obtain part of his night vision. He slipped through the French doors, carrying the lantern.

He pressed against the house wall to take advantage of their deep shadows and slowly worked his way down the steps and around the corner of the building.

The nearer he got to the RV, the clearer the persistent clicking sounds. He paused in the remaining shadows at the far corner of the house and was able to identify the clicks. Someone was punching numbers into the door's combination panel. When one series didn't work, they tried again with a different grouping.

He knelt before he clicked on the flashlight. ‘Don't move! I have a weapon!'

She gave a startled gasp and then turned to throw up her arms as if to shield herself from the shot. She squinted into the light that shone directly in her face. ‘Is that you, Bear Baby? It's about time.'

‘Who are you?'

‘A friend of Morgan's,' she said.

Lyon wondered if the shrinking contingent of Morgan's friends might not be an endangered species more vulnerable than spotted owls and snow leopards. ‘Do you usually creep around people's lawns in the middle of the night attempting to break into motor homes?'

‘The bastard changed the combination on me.' She turned to pound on the door with her fist. ‘Morgan! I know you can hear me. Open up, Morgan! It's me, Bambi.'

Lyon cringed. He knew that people were actually named Bambi, and wondered if Thumper and Flower were far behind. ‘How did you get out here?'

‘Why? Do I get to play twenty questions with you?'

‘Yes, you do, because this is my property and you are trespassing.'

‘So, I got confused over directions and cut the turn into this place too tight. My pickup slid into the culvert down by the road.' She resumed thumping on the heavy metal door with both fists. ‘Morgan! Damn it! Open the frigging door.'

She was a voluptuous woman wearing sneakers and tight designer jeans that stretched tautly across her rump. A white shirt, open one button too far, covered large and impossibly pointed breasts. Her full figure was topped with a huge mass of flaming auburn hair that Lyon suspected was not its original color, since he had never seen that particular shade of red before. The harsh light of the powerful lamp revealed somewhat coarse features with lines around the eyes that signified more years than her figure seemed to suggest.

She turned her anger toward Lyon. ‘That son-of-a-bitch has no intention of opening the door. So, what are you going to do about it, Wimp Face?'

Lyon laughed. ‘Wimp Face is not going to do anything about it.'

She pointed to the large lantern which dangled from his hand. ‘Were you really going to shoot me with that flashlight?'

‘Actually, I have never heard of any terrorists named Bambi. Do you have a full name or don't creatures of the wood need one?'

Part of her tension dissipated and she nearly smiled at him. ‘It's Bambi Dolores. That's my stage name, since I am a dancer.'

‘Oh, I see,' he said, to hide more confusion over this late-night visitor. She seemed too large for ballet, a bit too coarse for a theatrical chorus, and somehow he couldn't place her in an interpretive modern dance company.