The Pied Piper of Death (5 page)

Roger Candlin had not remained in office for ten terms because of personal charisma, but seemingly in spite of it. His political control of his district and a good portion of the state was immense. His incisive mind contained a wealth of personal information concerning constituents, state office holders, campaign contributors, and other individuals who might have influence in a state election, enabling him to resurrect names, family backgrounds, and person history nearly instantaneously. Over the years he had created a vast web of debits and credits. His staff provided myriad services for voters who needed help with any federal or state agency. He was ruthless, remarkably efficient, and unerringly able to identify foibles in others. The primary secret of his incumbency was simply that his wealth of knowledge put him in possession of intimate facts that discouraged active political opposition. Few felt secure enough in their backgrounds to chance an election challenge against Roger Candlin.

“I came to Bridgeway tonight for a nine o'clock appointment with Markham Swan, Peyton. Do you know where he is?” Lyon asked.

“I let him stay in the gate cottage,” the factory owner replied.

“Then I'll leave you three and arrive at my appointment a little early,” Lyon said.

Peyton laughed. “If Swan said nine I wouldn't arrive a second early. You might find yourself acting as coitus interruptus for Swan and his latest.”

Lyon nodded, knowing that there was hard truth in Peyton's sarcasm. The room attracted him with its smell of old leather book bindings and collections of family and Civil War relics. He ran his hand admiringly along a matched set of bound correspondence. “Your family's past seems well documented,” Lyon commented.

Peyton laughed. “Preservation of the name and glorious past. It's an old New England habit, Lyon. We try to keep it all together.” He gestured expansively toward Roger Candlin. “And here's a living example. Did you know that my forefathers worked with the congressman's back in the days when the Candlins were private bankers?”

“Until the day his granddaddy told my granddaddy to sell Piper Corporation stock short,” Candlin said without apparent emotion.

Peyton chuckled. “The old colonel did have one hell of a strange sense of humor.”

“The earnings report was far better than the colonel had indicated,” the congressman continued in a flat voice. “It cost my family every cent we had to cover that short sale.”

Peyton's hand curled over the congressman's shoulder. “That was another generation, Roger. Much water has flowed past Bridgeway since then. The colonel's financial games are long forgotten.”

“But of course,” Candlin replied in the same emotionless voice.

The butler entered with a tray of champagne glasses. “Rabbit's family has been with us for generations also,” Peyton said as he patted the head of his scowling servant.

“Usually as court jesters,” Rabbit said. “Only these days we get to do away with the bells on the hat and the pointy shoes.” He offered champagne to everyone.

Lyon waved his away, but Peyton insisted that he take a glass.

Peyton raised his glass. “A toast to the removal of the Piper Corporation. May we drink to all that it has contributed to the Nutmeg state over the past century and a half.”

Candlin did not raise his glass. “Did I hear the word removal, Peyton? Or is that your poor idea of humor?”

“No, Roger. I am not being facetious. I am considering making the formal announcement of our relocation at a press conference tomorrow. It'll be a lesson to those idiot protesters who disrupted my guests. The left-wing contingent seems to have forgotten that Piper Corporation provides an economic base for the Connecticut Valley. We pay the highest industrial hourly wage in the northeast.”

Bea was upset. “Peyton, your factory has been in Connecticut practically since we killed off the Indians. You just can't close down and leave without months of warning and severance pay arrangements.”

“Our labor costs are outrageously high and not competitive with other states, much less other countries. It's a simple matter of economics, Beatrice. I was below the Mason-Dixon line recently and found that they sharpen their pencils when they beckon industry in the southland. I have an obligation to our stockholders to take the most profitable course of action.”

Roger Candlin made an indescribable sound, which Lyon interpreted as a sort of hurrumph. “You and your family own a majority interest in the voting stock of the Piper Corporation, Peyton. Don't hand me any of your stockholder crap.”

“You will devastate the economy of the Murphysville-Middleburg area,” Bea said. She tried to avoid the astonished look Lyon turned in her direction. An hour ago she was standing on the hood of a car accepting the baton of protest from a concerned group of people. Now, she was arguing for the retention of that same factory that made items that had no functional use except killing. It was a quandary of a distinctively political nature.

“Please don't weep crocodile tears for the community, Bea,” Peyton said. “Moments ago you were glaring at me as a typical munitions monster. Those people ranting outside wouldn't care if I close all our doors permanently. In other words, you can't have it both ways. We don't make frying pans. We make weapons. And I intend to take us to an area that appreciates us.”

“Why don't you tell us what you really want, Peyton,” Roger Candlin said.

“Peace on earth and good will toward men,” Peyton laughed. “Don't patronize me, Roger.”

“I ask again. What do you want?”

“More champagne?” he asked.

Heads shook.

“What do I want?” Peyton Piper mused. “Well, I'd like that goddamn protesting stopped, and then I'd like some appreciation for our contribution to the economic well-being of the area.”

“That's certainly possible,” Roger Candlin said slowly. “My staff could arrange some well-placed news articles and TV interviews, that sort of thing. It doesn't take much real effort to paint any sort of kettle or horse a different color.”

“Why do I have the feeling that you have a real zinger waiting for us, Peyton?” Bea said.

Peyton Piper smiled graciously. “Next, I want the party nomination for the United States Senate. And that's something you two in partnership with the Piper money can give me.”

T
HREE

“Good God, Peyton!” Bea said. “You aren't even a member of the party.”

“I'm registered as an Independent.”

Bea glanced at Candlin in surprise. “I believe you're actually considering this proposal.”

The congressman avoided her eyes. “The fact that he's registered as an Independent is not a problem. That's a minor detail that we can get taken care of tomorrow. When he makes a formal announcement we'll pass out some sort of ‘see how distinguished I am for not registering before' statement. I've made a quick calculation of the convention votes. If we're not close enough to go over, we'll have the solid twenty percent necessary to force a primary. Are you ready for that sleigh ride, Peyton?”

“But of course.”

“How much money did you have in mind?” Candlin asked. The remark was thrown out casually, but everyone knew that was the crucial question of the night.

Piper smiled. “A great deal. I feel the need for a change of scenery and Washington suits me fine. As a matter of fact, I've given it enough thought to consider that Mrs. Piper, who hates to travel, will remain here at Bridgeway. I will ask Paula to take a sabbatical from college and act as my hostess.”

Why does that not surprise me, Lyon thought.

“This is ridiculous,” Bea snorted. “We don't even come close philosophically. I think you should be talking to the other people.”

“Since when did philosophy matter?” Peyton smiled. “What's important is winning elections. The way it reads now, you guys are forced to back a very vulnerable incumbent.”

“I've seen candidates bounce back from scandal before,” Bea said. “The voters might forget that sex business by the general election, or there's another scenario where the candidate plays the contrition game and throws himself on the mercy of the electorate. He does have options, Peyton.”

“You can't win without the feminine vote. And since faithful wife caught faithless senator boffing his aide, he's going down the tubes. I have private polls that show his present approval rating as somewhere alongside Saddam Hussein.”

Lyon turned away from the group. His wife was under attack, but it would be inappropriate if he attempted to take up cudgels on her behalf. Her political positions were of her own choosing, although what Peyton proposed presented several unique problems. An hour ago Bea had been in agreement with the protesters who were rallying against the munitions manufacturer. Now she was being asked to endorse him.

He walked down the aisles of the long room with its high bookshelves and display cases filled with weapons, medals, and other memorabilia. The room had a strong sense of history.

Under the heroic stained-glass window was a desk strewn with books, note cards, and a computer terminal. Lyon imagined the area to be a research station created by Markham Swan for his book on the Piper family.

Three months ago Peyton had called Lyon about that project. “I want a book written about the family and Piper Corporation, Lyon. I don't mean a PR whitewash. I want the truth.”

“Uh-huh,” Lyon had said. Why was it that people who insisted on the truth often wanted their own version of the truth?

“I want a significant work that shows what my company has contributed to this state and nation. Now, since it is a family-run organization, the background will also include a lot of Piper lore. You know the kind of material I'm talking about. It should probably begin with the Civil War. Or perhaps a decade before that when the company began to mushroom and construction began on Bridgeway and its Underground Railroad station. It's damn interesting historical stuff, if I do say so. I was thinking along the lines of calling it, ‘The Piper Contribution.'”

“Are you asking me to work on this book for you, Peyton?”

“Hell, yes, Lyon. You're the writer I know best, and I believe that classmates should stick together when we can.”

“Peyton, I write children's books. My main series characters are the Wobbly monsters. My biggest seller was
Nancy Goes to Mount Vernon
.”

“If these Wobbly things of yours are labor agitators we had better forget the deal.”

“The Wobblies are a pair of kind monsters with red tongues and tails who look scary but do good things.”

“I know some union shop stewards that fit that description—except for the good things part.” Peyton guffawed at his own humor. “Hell, if you can write that crap you can write anything.”

“Markham Swan was in school with us,” Lyon had finally suggested.

“Markham has a personal problem that resulted in some bad publicity.”

“He was a Thumper,” Lyon countered.

Peyton considered the last comment seriously. He examined it mentally a moment before speaking his interest. “Possibly I should talk with him. It's not as if his name would actually appear on the book.”

“Let me put you two in touch,” Lyon had finally said. He had recommended Markham Swan for the assignment with the knowledge that Swan's political beliefs and background were closer to Piper's needs. Lyon and Swan had taught together briefly at Middleburg University some years ago. They had also been thrown together again when Swan, who had turned to historical writing, was doing a young adult treatment of the Battle of Gettysburg and their mutual publisher had reintroduced them. Lyon had recently learned that the writer had also written a company-sponsored history of a cigarette company. Considering the tobacco project, there wouldn't be any ethical reason for Swan to avoid tackling a benign treatment of a munitions manufacturer.

He had called Markham that afternoon. “This assignment has no socially redeeming features,” Lyon told him. “The Pipers manufacture explosive devices that kill people.”

“Great!” Swan had replied. “I need the dough, and if he's desperate enough he might pony up big bucks.”

“You've obviously recovered from your assignment with the cigarette company?”

“Hell, yes. I'm not dumb enough to ingest that junk into my lungs.”

Swan did not seem to be present at the party in the other room. That could mean that the historian was hard at work on his assignment, or that writers, like other hired hands, weren't necessarily welcome when the squire entertained his equals.

“I will not be a party to this,” Bea Wentworth said with such conviction that her voice carried down the long room to where Lyon stood under the stained-glass window. He hurried to Bea's side as she faced the two belligerent men. “I will not allow the nomination of a U.S. senator to be auctioned off like a rock star's underwear,” Bea said.

“Lady, you are really naive,” Piper returned.

“We haven't gone into the question of party discipline. If you should get the nomination and win …,” Roger Candlin began.

“I'm a team player,” Piper responded. “I know the meaning of cooperation.”

The congressman almost smiled. “I'm glad you do, because few seem to these days.”

“You can count on me for my money and loyalty. I hold a few tiny philosophical differences concerning the government on the backs of big business, but that's nothing you can't live with.”

“Oh, God!” Bea groaned.

Roger Candlin gave a subtle body signal to the industrialist. Lyon realized that the gesture was not seen by his wife.

“I have to check on my guests,” Piper said in response to the suggestion. “I'll be back shortly.” He shut the door quietly as he left.

Roger Candlin shook his head in exasperation at Bea. “I knew there was something quirky about you, Wentworth,” he said coolly. “Do you always respond so violently to political suggestions?”