The Death in the Willows (15 page)

Lyon watched Bea in a corner talking with Maximus Popov and the blond girl he lived with. It was a seemingly benign scene, which made him wonder why he worried. Hilly was under arrest charged with the crimes of impersonation and assault. The combined forces of Connecticut and the city of New York were working to create the case necessary to charge him with the murders. It would be time-consumming and difficult, but they would probably succeed. So why was he worried about one of his wife's supporters who coincidentally happened to be present at the balloon accident? Why did he still doubt Hilly's guilt?

He dialed Rocco on the kitchen phone.

“Sounds like you've got a bash going on there.”

“Should have come.”

“On my salary I couldn't contribute a quarter to Bea's campaign, but tell her luck. And besides, you don't know the work involved in applying for all these grants. Papers up the kazoo.”

“I appreciate your difficulties in obtaining your helicopter, but could you check something for me?”

“From past experience, that means you probably want to send me on a jaunt to Alaska.”

“Not this time. After the bus caught fire, the state police must have taken the names of all witnesses. All those from nearby cars, the service station, and the restaurant.”

“Sure. I have a list here that Norbie sent over.”

“Anyone we know on it?”

“Let me dig it out.”

Lyon glanced back into the living room while he waited. Bea had moved from Popov and his girl friend, and the bearded balloonist looked his way and waved a hand in greeting.

“I've got it,” Rocco said. “We know a lot of them, mostly rest area employees who live in Murphysville. A good many of the others are out-of-state people.”

“Anyone else?”

“Let me look. You know, Lyon, if Hilly were there, he probably used a false name. Any killer would.”

“Not if he were from this area and might be recognized.”

“Your buddy Max Popov is on the list.”

“He is?”

“Hell, so are sixty other people. Does it mean anything?”

“I don't know. Thanks, Rocco.” He slowly hung up and walked back to his bar mixings, trying to remember the drink requests he'd been working on before the call.

“I once did a great piece for
Esquire
on the making of the true martini through the use of Zen.” Raven leaned against the door holding his cocktail glass upside down.

“I assume that means I don't have the proper transcendental qualities to my barkeeping?”

The writer gave a sad shake of his head as he moved behind the bar and searched through the tray of martini olives. “First, one must find the proper olive. A fruit—or is it a vegetable—that holds the true essence of all olives.” He selected a small one and held it up between thumb and finger. “You see before you an example of absolute perfection in olives.” He plunked it into a glass and held the gin bottle high over the shaker and let a thin stream of the clear liquor pour into the cocktail pitcher. “Now, let the shadow of the vermouth fall across the shaker. Notice that the actual presence of the alien wine is not required, merely the essence of the vermouth.”

“I think your Zen manual is trying to say that I make them too weak.”

“Strength is not the requirement. Perfection is the goal.”

“Should the essence of vermouth falling across the pitcher be chilled?”

“You mock me, sir.” Raven tasted the newly mixed martini and sighed. “Now, there is perfection of nothing less than pure grandeur.”

“Can you make a stinger?”

“But of course.” He quickly began to mix the drinks. “Anything else?”

“Let's go for a pink lady and a scotch and water with twist. Don't know how you remember them all.” Raven mixed the drinks efficiently.

“Well, as Chief Herbert would say, you've got the bad guy in the slammer, what's next?”

“You mean Hilly?”

“He always did look suspicious to me. Those little eyes sunk in a criminal face.”

“They haven't formally charged him with murder, but that's the direction in which they're moving. Makes a rather neat ending to your article, doesn't it?”

“I couldn't ask for more. The Wentworths in their white hats triumph again. I must get some shots of you and Bea at home. Some casual but homey pics. You working on a book in the study, Bea in her garden, that sort of thing.”

“Then you'll be returning to the city?”

“No, I thought I'd do the actual writing here in Murphysville. A sort of flavor-of-the-scene type of thing.” He finished the round of drinks, drank his own, and made another.

“I've never sold anything except children's books. I suppose that with articles like you write, you only sell the North American serial rights?”

“I suppose.” He busied himself with the bartending as Kim entered the kitchen and sampled Raven's martini.

She coughed. “Lord! A few of these and you'll be doing handstands on the widow's walk.”

“He says they're Zen martinis.”

“I'll bet. Back home we called that straight booze.”

Raven took the glass back from Kim and tasted it with a slow smile. “It's a developed taste.”

“How's it going out there?”

“One more round of drinks and we'll put the touch on them.”

“By the way, Raven, where are you staying? The Dell Motel?”

“I moved from there. Now I'm just down the road a piece. What can I make you, hon?” he asked Kim.

“Down the road?” It was then that Lyon noticed that Kim's hand lying gently on Raven's with that casual touch of intimacy that men and women have only when they sleep together. “Oh.”

“My place,” Kim said and looked directly at Lyon as if to challenge him.

“Why not?” Lyon smiled at her. “Where's the sherry?”

Maximus Popov was at the far end of the patio near the parapet overlooking the river. He had a small entourage surrounding him as he pointed skyward and explained certain fine points of hot air ballooning. His blond girl friend stood to the side looking slightly bewildered. Lyon beckoned to Popov who immediately moved away from the group to join him. He grasped Lyon's hand.

“You're looking great. You've evidently pretty well recovered from the accident.”

“Ribs are still taped, but otherwise I'm whole. Mind if I ask you something?”

“Go ahead, except that if it's about those leaking propane tanks, I still haven't been able to find out how it happened.”

“About the bus …”

“The one that burned and killed all those people. I was there, you know.”

“In the service station or restaurant?”

“The men's room. Which tells you why I pulled in there in the first place. When the bus went, right after the explosion, we all ran outside, but it was obvious that we couldn't help anyone.”

“You know, Max, whenever we're together we seem to only talk about ballooning. You teach economics, don't you?”

“Yes. I'm supposed to be some sort of expert on foreign exchange and arbitrage.” He looked out at the setting sun casting sheets of red along the river. “I could make a hell of a lot more money in the city in private industry, but who wants to leave this?” He gestured expansively over the valley.

“Do you travel a lot?”

“I do a good deal of consulting work for large corporations with foreign interests.” He turned away from the setting sun. “Are you interrogating me?”

Lyon laughed, but found that his voice lacked any ingenuous quality. “Come on, Max, you're a fellow aeronaut.”

“Who was at the balloon meet when you almost died and who also was at the scene of the bus fire. By God, Lyon! I think you're making me some sort of suspect.”

“They have this man Hilly under arrest.”

“But you think he didn't do it?”

“I didn't say that.”

“You know, old man, it's not very good manners to invite a friend to a fund raiser for your wife and then accuse him of murder.”

“I didn't accuse you of anything.”

Popov turned and walked away. “You didn't have to.”

Lyon walked through the devastation of the party's aftermath and shook his head. Nutmeg Hill was a shambles that now resembled a Barbary Coast bar after three whaling ships had disgorged their crews for their first leave in two years. He didn't recall any fistfights or dancing on tables, which might have explained overturned chairs, broken glass, and dozens of partly consumed drinks. He began to empty overflowing ashtrays into a lawn bag.

Raven Marsh was slumped over the kitchen table sound asleep, while Kim chortled happily in the study as she listed the night's receipts and totaled them on a pocket calculator. When he reached the patio with his bag, he found Bea at the parapet looking out over the night.

“Seemed pretty successful,” he said as he emptied a particularly distasteful ash collection into his container.

“God, I hate asking for money.”

“It's part of the system. Do you know any other way?”

“I haven't been able to come up with one yet. You know, Lyon, I fib a bit. They ask me my stand on a particular issue, and if I know their predilection is contrary to mine, I fudge a bit or become evasive. I don't out and out lie about how I feel, but I come damn close to it sometimes.”

“You must be one of the few politicians who don't lie.”

“I hedge.”

“Do you know any other way?”

She turned with a tired smile. “I haven't come up with the answer to that one either. What did you say to Popov? He left rather abruptly in a huff.”

“He seemed to resent my asking him about his coincidental appearance at the bus accident.”

“Oh, Lyon, it's over! They have Hilly in jail. Do you have to insult our friends?”

“I didn't intend to be insulting. Did you know that Kim and Raven are having an affair?”

“Where have you been the past few days? It couldn't be more obvious.”

“Has she talked to you about it?”

“No, and I haven't asked. It's too new. She's still unsure and uncertain over whether it's a transient thing or one more lasting.”

“I wonder about him, too. That business about
Playboy
magazine …”

“Why don't you call Rocco and have him give Raven the hose treatment or whatever they use these days? Kim would love that. However, I'll save you a little time. There isn't any contract with
Playboy
. Kim passed that on to me. Raven concocted that in order to gain access and get our cooperation. He's evidently been having trouble with editors because of his drinking and has been blackballed from a few magazines. He thinks that selling the article about us will get him back in good standing.”

Lyon looked through the kitchen window to where Raven was slumped over the table. “I don't see much movement toward reform.”

“That's Kim's problem, not yours.”

“You let him go!”

“Not me. The state police.” Rocco Herbert picked up a file from his desk and admired a photograph. “You know, I think I'll get a duck.”

“A what?”

“This kind of duck.” He handed Lyon a photograph of an army amphibious craft. “Government's offering them cheap to law enforcement agencies. If I write my grant application properly, I might swing it.”

“Spare me. Right now, I want to hear how Hilly got out.”

“It's one of your liberal, bleeding heart, pinko deals called bail.”

“How much and who paid it?”

“Ten thousand put up by a bail bondsman for the usual percentage.”

“That seems lenient for all the charges against him.”

“He was licensed to carry a gun, he didn't actually kidnap you, so what they had on him is still bailable.”

“How about material witness?”

“He didn't witness anything that Norbie can prove.”

“He's still involved in murder.”

“You know that, I know that, the state prosecutor knows that, and Mr. Hilly knows it. But the guy still claims he was legitimately hired.”

Lyon sat dejectedly. “Somehow it doesn't seem right.”

“I can go down to Sarge's place and recruit a seedy lynch mob.”

Lyon looked sharply at his friend. “Since when did you join the forces for constitutional rights? I seem to recall a few incidents when you really bent things.”

“Call it facing the inevitable. All right, this one is a murder case, yesterday it was a bicycle. Not that I equate the two, but the problem is the same. Jamie Water's new ten speed was ripped off from in front of the Congregational Church. I found it stashed in Herbie Smith's mother's garage. Herbie claims he bought it from a guy for ten bucks. We all know Herbie stole it, but I can't get a warrant.”

“Receiving stolen property.”

“Sure, and I throw Herbie's seventy-year-old mother in the can.” Rocco studied the architect's rendering of the new station that hung on the wall. “Through quirks in federal and state grants I've got enough equipment to fight a minor war, but there's something wrong and I don't know the answers.”

“Okay, if we can't solve the problem of law and order in this country, I'd like to get on with finding two missing bus passengers. What's the latest?”

“Norbie's been in touch with New York. There's no trace at all of the man who gave you the gun. He's disappeared into the proverbial thin.”

“What about the one who called himself Collins?”

“Last seen leaving the hotel that morning.”

“He was coming to New England. I think that he'd continue, perhaps by another means of transportation.”

“They covered the airlines, trains, and bus depots.”

“Rental cars?”

“They're pros, Lyon. The news photo glossy has been shown to rental car people throughout the city. Hell, he could have hitchhiked, had a friend drive him, or for that matter, still be in the city.”