The Wizard of Death (24 page)
Read The Wizard of Death Online
Authors: Richard; Forrest
It was obvious that the first bedroom had been the one occupied. A man's valise stood in the corner, there were shaving implements in the bathroom medicine chest, and a woman's pants suit was wadded in a corner by the closet. A copy of yesterday's newspaper lay neatly folded on the dresser.
“We had better secure the house and go back to bed,” Rocco said from the doorway.
“There isn't anything you can do?”
“Not now. But I'll give Karen Giles a call first thing in the morning.”
“Do it now.”
“The phone's out.”
“When you get home.”
“O.K.,” he said tiredly. “And if there's anything to report, I'll call you.”
Lyon sat on a high kitchen stool and stared into the water bubbling in a saucepan on the stove. He didn't really want instant coffee, and he knew he was merely finding an excuse to stay awake in case Rocco called. His friend's handshake and his mumbled “I don't know” as he walked from the car to his door haunted the last vestiges of the night. As he slid from the stool and reached into the cabinet containing the jar of coffee, the door opened.
“I thought I heard someone in here,” Robin said.
“Cup of lousy instant?”
“Please.”
He was startled by her appearance as he turned to hand her a cup of coffee. “You sleep in that thing too?”
“The bikini?” She laughed. “I was so tired when we got home that I just fell across the bed. Then, a while ago I thought I heard a car and was wide awake.”
“I had to go out for a while.”
“I guess I really should take it off.” She carefully set her coffee cup on the counter and stood before him as she reached behind her back to undo the bra straps.
“If she takes off a stitch, I'm going to kill her,” the soft voice said.
Lyon turned to face Bea. She was wearing her lumpy terrycloth robe and furry rabbit slippers, and her closely cropped hair straggled over her forehead. “Hi, Bea. I hope we didn't wake you?”
“YOU WHAT?”
“I think I'm sleepy again,” Robin said and ran for the stairs.
“Tom Giles called and said he was in trouble. Rocco and I went out to his lake house. Well, actually I went first and ⦔
“You aren't for real.” She turned and left.
For a moment he looked after his retreating wife, his lips pursed into a low “Oh, boy.” Then he bounded up the stairs after her.
She lay huddled on the bed with her face turned toward the wall. “I think I can explain,” he said.
Bea turned, plucked the small hearing aid from her ear, and threw it at him. “DON'T BOTHER!”
It was 10:00
A.M.
before he was sufficiently awake to go to the study and sit before the typewriter. He looked down at the partially completed manuscript and wondered how the sagacious Danny Dolphin would solve Lyon's marital problem. Robin had come out onto the terrace below the window, spread a blanket, and was sensuously applying suntan oil to her legs. That didn't solve anything, either.
His observations and random thoughts were broken by the phone's ring. She had begun to talk before he had the receiver to his ear. “⦠THE NEXT FLIGHT TO ASHEVILLE! I'll pick up the ticket this afternoon.”
“Bea, I want to tell you about what didn't happen.”
She gave a long sigh. “I know, Lyon. I trust you.⦠But I'm not so sure about little Robin, girl illustrator.”
“She's very talented.”
“That's what I'm afraid of.”
“Why don't you come home early and we'll go for a long walk?”
“I can't. There's a voter irregularity in Waterburg.”
“There are always voter irregularities in Waterburg.”
“I'll see you at six.”
The phone rang again before his fingers left the receiver. “You were right,” Rocco Herbert said in a workaday tone of authority.
Lyon was beginning to wonder why on this morning people were starting conversations in mid-thought. “Right about what?”
“They found the plane this morning. You had better get down to the office right away.”
The photograph of the body on the morgue stretcher was of a very dead Tom Giles.
Lyon looked at the picture of his dead friend for a long moment and then slowly handed it back to Rocco. He cleared his throat and turned away. “You said they found his plane.”
“With him in it.”
“That's impossible.”
Lyon pushed back his chair. “Someone flew the plane. Cause of death?”
“He was shot.”
“Where?”
“Behind the ear, with a small-caliber handgun.”
“Time of death?”
“That's difficult to determine, and the medical examiner wouldn't hazard a guess. It seems that the temperature of the water causes various body changes that are difficult to plot, and that, combined with the fact that no one knows when he last ate or what he ate, makes it impossible for any exact determination of the time of death.”
“Which means that he could have been killed at the cottage, in the plane, or almost anywhere else?”
“There's no way to tell.”
“Interesting case,” Lyon said. “Have fun.” He turned to leave but felt Rocco's fingers grip the rear of his shirt.
“You're in this up to your neck.”
“No way. Bea would kill me. Come to think of it, she might kill me, anyway.”
“Jurisdiction of the case rests with the State Police.”
“Let me guess. Your brother-in-law, Captain Norbert.”
“He would like to have words with you. He's also a little unhappy about our trip to the Giles cottage last night.”
“Which means that they consider me a ⦔
“Suspect? Not a hard one. But Will Barnes and Norbie are curious as to how you could see a plane go down with a dead man in it, and then seventeen hours later get a phone call from the same dead man.”
“Corpses don't fly airplanes.”
“That's been considered. The divers also brought up a woman's handbag.” Rocco handed another large photograph to Lyon. It showed a woman's purse on a black felt background, with the contents of the bag neatly aligned across the bottom of the picture.
Lyon reached for the magnifying glass on the desk and peered through it at the contents of the purse. There was the usual assortment that might be found in any woman's bag: lipstick, mascara, wallet, soggy cigarettes, a silver lighter, some coins and bills, and identification. He read the name on the driver's license: “Carol Dodgson. Have they picked her up?”
“They're still looking for her. The address is a phony.”
“She could have floated from the cockpit when the plane went down and been carried away by a current.”
“They're still searching.”
“Murder weapon?”
“Not in the plane.”
“Theories?”
“That Miss Dodgson, as the identification calls her, was involved with Tom Giles. They had a quarrel, she shot him, and she somehow escaped from the plane when it went down.”
Lyon looked thoughtful. “That's possible. My visibility was lousy, and I couldn't tell who was in the plane. Did they find it where I said?”
“Five hundred yards to the east. You took a compass reading that was wrong.”
“I don't think so.”
“You had to. Current couldn't have carried the plane that far.”
“What about Tom's wife?”
“I called her last night, as I said I would. She told me he'd been staying at the lake cottage for the past several days.”
“That doesn't explain the cut phone wires.”
“That doesn't explain anything.”
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About the Author
Richard Forrest (1932â2005) was an American mystery author. Born in New Jersey, he served in the US Army, wrote plays, and sold insurance before he began writing mystery fiction. His debut,
Who Killed Mr. Garland's Mistress
(1974), was an Edgar Award finalist. He remains best known for his ten novels starring Lyon and Bea Wentworth, a husband-and-wife sleuthing team introduced in
A Child's Garden of Death
(1975).
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1977 by Richard Forrest
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3784-6
This 2016 edition published by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
180 Maiden Lane
New York, NY 10038
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