Death in the Secret Garden (9 page)

‘See you later, alligator,' Lyon called after them as he delivered Rebba and Edward back to their small ranch home. He knew it was silly, but often kids liked that sort of stuff. He expected a return of ‘after a while, crocodile.' Instead, the kid flipped him a finger.

Rebba Dirk fumbled in her purse for the door key. Lyon was not sure if she saw the finger or chose to ignore it. Either way, the gesture created the final decision concerning his mentorship of Edward Dirk. There was no way he could continue to be a Big Buddy for this child. He made the phone call as soon as he arrived back at Nutmeg Hill.

‘Big Buddy,' Ed Larsen, the organization officer, said when he answered their Middleburg telephone.

‘This is Lyon Wentworth and I quit.'

‘You have the Dirk kid, don't you?'

‘How did you guess?'

‘Sweet, isn't he?'

‘You could say that. I'm afraid I'm just not up to it. We're on different wavelengths and he'll do better with a different man.'

‘You're his fourth and last Big Buddy. We can't keep anyone with the little bastard. And each time someone quits the case they quit being a Big Buddy. One visit with Edward and guys want all kids tried as adult offenders.'

‘I'm the last?'

‘We can't fool with the little monster forever.'

‘I'll give it another shot,' Lyon said reluctantly. ‘But just one more time to see if it gets better,' he said to the silent phone after Larsen quickly severed their connection.

Barbara Styles had been the secretary of Murphysville's Saint James Episcopal Church for twenty-six years. She hated unbalanced accounting records, liturgical changes, and Romans. But not in that order. The Romans, or RCs as the Roman Catholics were called for short, were the worst of the lot. They were not only incorrect in apostolic succession and papal infallibility, but were poorly represented by Saint Anne's directly across the street from Saint James.

It was a known fact that Saint Anne's was made up of the dregs of Murphysville society. Saint James had the highest proportion of professionals, wealth, and old families on its membership rolls. Saint Anne's had parishioners like that horrible Rocco Herbert, who had recently humiliated her daddy over that driver's license business. So, her daddy was a little forgetful these days, but that was no reason to trick him out of his license and then destroy it. Only a Roman would feel the need to humiliate a member of the bar and former probate judge in that manner.

The Catholics had Father Magrusky, who still spoke with an accent, while Saint James had Canon Mead MacIntire. Oh, how she had preened when that cathedral in Scotland had made Mac a canon. Not that Mac was all that much. He really wasn't much good for anything except looking beatific at the altar. He might be a canon, and he might look beatific as hell while the hymns were sung, but he kept the church too low for Barbara's high desires.

Mac might be a canon, but Barbara pretty well ran things. It was not unusual for the canon to ask her advice on what organization meetings to attend, or anything having to do with church finances or maintenance. The only matters she did not dip her fingers into were theological. She was content to let the canon handle the metaphysical matters while she took care of everything else, which included his marriage, children, and most day-to-day decisions.

Barbara Styles was a no-nonsense sort of person who dressed the way she acted. She wore a comfortable middle-aged body that was well nourished, but still functional for her purposes.

She looked up in annoyance when the door to her first-floor office opened. She did not like to be disturbed while reconciling the bank statement.

‘What do you want?' she asked crossly. She waited impatiently for an answer. ‘Well? You know what happened last time.' When there was no reply she snapped her pencil in two. ‘Are you going to say anything or just stand there all day?' She stood and took a step around the edge of the desk. ‘What's that in your hand?'

The pistol shot in the small office was not loud. The bullet's impact was not sufficient to knock Barbara Styles from her feet. She gripped the edge of the desk with both hands until the outside door closed. She reached for the phone with one hand, knocked it from its cradle, and dialed 911.

‘You won't believe who just shot me,' she said. ‘I can't wait long. I am hurt.'

Barbara Styles dropped the phone with the emergency operator still talking. She lurched through the door and down the four front steps. She stumbled past the church sign before she veered into the road. She collapsed midway across the street, halfway between the two churches.

Six

The Murphysville Volunteer Fire Department was the first unit to arrive at the murder scene. A fireman covered the body in the center of the street with a bright-yellow raincoat containing the large black letters MVFD on its back. A hand clutching an army division patch protruded beyond the covering.

Rocco Herbert, oblivious to his training and orders, pried the horse head patch from dead fingers. ‘Find out where Spook went and bring him in,' he ordered an officer standing nearby.

Father Magrusky pushed past a line of firemen and knelt by the body. He began to offer last rites. He looked up in annoyance when Rocco put his hand on the priest's shoulder. ‘She must have them.'

‘Barbara Styles is under that raincoat, Father,' Rocco said. ‘For God's sake, let Canon MacIntire mumble his things over her or we'll restart the Thirty Years War.'

The priest slowly stood. ‘You have fallen a long way from your church, Rocco Herbert.'

‘It's the nature of my profession,' Rocco replied without a smile.

Sergeant Vince Niles issued a low command over his hand radio. ‘You want we should storm Spook's tree house, Chief?'

‘God, no! If he is armed that would be asking for it. Leave a man at the base of the tree and check out his usual haunts: Sarge's place, under the gazebo on the green, and look beneath all the bridges. Spook is very partial to sleeping under bridges.'

‘He could be anywhere in town, Chief. When that guy roams, he really travels.'

‘Just keep looking, OK?' Rocco ordered as Happy Hansen parked the assistant medical examiner's Pontiac next to the Fire Department's emergency van.

‘Hit and run?' Hansen asked in nearly serious mode as he knelt by the body and lifted the raincoat.

‘You tell me,' Rocco answered.

‘How about small-caliber bullet in the groin area?' the doctor said after a cursory examination. ‘Hold on, ladies and gentlemen,' he exclaimed. ‘This is Barbara Styles. No lover's argument here. Barbara was faithful to her old daddy the judge all her life. Wonder where she was going. She seems to have fallen in the middle of the street halfway between Saint Anne's and Saint James.'

‘She sure in hell wasn't on her way to Saint Anne's,' Rocco answered. ‘She was probably trying to get home. She and her daddy live down the street in the next block.'

Hansen looked with interest toward the large Victorian house surrounded by an iron picket fence. ‘All those Episcopal gals are old money. Take her away as soon as the pictures are done,' he said to the paramedics waiting nearby with a gurney. ‘Who the hell would shoot Barbara Styles, a pillar of our little ingrown community?' Lars asked Rocco without humor.

‘Good question,' Rocco answered as the photographer finished and the paramedics loaded the body into their waiting ambulance. ‘Radio me when they locate Spook,' he said to Sergeant Niles.

‘Where will you be, Chief?' the sergeant asked.

Rocco gestured toward the large home down the block. ‘I'll be at the Styles' house. Canvass both churches and the surrounding homes to see if anyone heard or saw anything.'

Warren Street ran parallel to the town green. Although the homes on this street were newer than those on the green, they had been built by nineteenth-century mill owners and were larger than the older but more modest colonial-era buildings in the center of town.

An iron stag dominated the front lawn of the Styles' house. Its raised head signaled that it was poised for flight. But that stance had not kept it from countless deer-nappings. On at least six occasions, all of which occurred on Halloween, Rocco and his men had rescued the metal animal from numerous places as varied as the town gazebo, the Connecticut River, and the high school gymnasium.

A small sign on the lawn on the opposite side of the walk from the deer announced that the offices of Judge Raymond Styles, attorney at law, were located here. The ‘Judge' prefix was now honorary, although it had been earned twenty-five years ago after his election to probate judge. God help any misguided souls who might actually stop here for legal advice.

The front door opened before Rocco knocked. It was answered by a distinguished-looking elderly man who would have been impeccably dressed if his vest had not been buttoned wrong near the top. He observed the police chief with suspicion. ‘What do you want, young man?'

‘I'm here to talk about your daughter, Judge.' When this request was met by a blank stare, he continued, ‘I'm Chief Herbert of the town police.'

‘I know perfectly well that Thadeus Martin is Murphysville Chief of Police. I do not know what sort of macabre sense of humor you have, young man, but I do not have a daughter. I am not married.'

Rocco stepped by the old man into the Victorian house. He was about to find out how you tell a man, whose short-term memory has been destroyed, that his middle-aged daughter he cannot remember has just been shot to death.

Lyon and Bea sat across from each other in the breakfast nook. They had steaming mugs of Earl Grey tea before them and shared a deep shroud of depression.

Lyon sardonically smiled as he recalled that only two hours earlier, Edward Dirk and his resourceful mother had sat at this table. That singularly offensive child cast a repugnant web over the whole fabric of childhood. He had to shake his head in denial of that ridiculous logic.

‘Does that head shake mean that you whinny next?' Bea asked. She knew he was troubled about something, but for the present her political problems seemed to be occupying all her empathy space.

‘It was my Big Buddy afternoon,' he answered and proceeded to tell her of the day's visit.

‘I didn't know the Big Buddy agenda included dating the single mother.'

‘It doesn't. It just happened to work out that way this afternoon. She won't be along next time.'

‘I'll bet.' Bea took a long sip of tea. ‘She's after you. Take my word that you have already been measured for the marital suit. That's why the kid is acting like such a monster. He feels competition on the horizon and doesn't want his princely place usurped.'

‘Waxing philosophical tonight, aren't we?'

‘The phone calls are driving me batty. Margaret has mounted a brilliant campaign against me.'

‘You've got to tell her the truth.'

‘I can't even get a phone call through to her, much less explain anything. I'm officially on her leper list.'

‘Then resign and we'll get pregnant.'

‘Is that like in stay home and be pregnant and barefoot? You know I can't just quit.'

‘I don't mean it as an escape from your political problems. I thought that if we are going to try again that this might be a good time.'

Bea forced a small laugh. ‘After your session with Edward today I thought you might be in the market to open abortion clinics.'

Lyon looked out the window to see a dark sedan coming up their drive. ‘Someone's coming to visit.'

‘If it's a messenger bearing ill tidings from the governor, spear him,' Bea said.

Canon Mead MacIntire stood at the front door. He wore a dark suit with a clerical collar and a dark shirt. A small gold cross was centered on his chest. Carefully coiffured, prematurely white hair above slightly pink cheeks, combined with a placid manner, created a near beatific appearance.

For a brief moment Lyon considered kneeling to receive a benediction while kissing the Papal ring.

‘It's nice to see you again, Mead,' Lyon said. He extended his hand, which was limply shaken by the Episcopal priest. ‘Since we are not parishioners, and I know you are into bird-watching, I'll bet this has to do with establishing an observation blind for an eagle count at Nutmeg Hill.'

The minister sighed. ‘I wish that were the reason.'

‘Coffee?'

‘Yes, please.'

Bea served coffee in their silver service, which usually rested undisturbed and unused on the dining-room break-front. The canon sat stiffly on the edge of a straight chair with a porcelain cup balanced on his knee. ‘I've come for your help,' he said after an embarrassed pause. ‘I was hoping that perhaps because of your friendship with Chief Herbert, that you might make some confidential enquiries on behalf of Saint James Church.'

Lyon was puzzled. ‘Of course. Anything we can do.'

‘A disturbing matter has arisen within our congregation. It would seem … It would seem as if one of our most trusted members has been … has been borrowing church funds for her unauthorized use.'

Bea looked grim. ‘Barbara Styles has been skimming the collection plate.'

Canon Mead MacIntire's startled look increased his discomfort. ‘How did you know?'

‘I was a member of the congregation until Lyon and I married and became Unitarians,' Bea answered. ‘Barbara Styles has been the pillar of the administrative staff of Saint James since any of us can remember.'

The canon nodded. ‘She never took a vacation or asked for time off. She was always there, which I considered a display of complete loyalty.'

‘How much is missing?' Lyon asked.

‘We can only guess,' the canon answered. ‘But we think she has been borrowing two hundred dollars a week.'

‘For how long?' Bea's pragmatic approach cut to the heart of the problem.