Death in the Secret Garden

by Forrest, Richard;

  ‘Too bad,’ Edward Dirk said as he smiled at Bea one last time. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  ‘God help me,’ Bea whispered as she fired.

  Epilogue

  At the bar cart in the living room of Nutmeg Hill, Lyon poured a pony of Dry Sack sherry and a tall vodka. He handed Rocco a drink as they sat at opposite ends of the couch.

  Rocco raised his glass in toast. ‘To everyone’s recovery.’

  ‘Skol,’ Lyon said. They drank. ‘You’re a lucky man, Rocco. Not many cops would think to wear body armor to arrest a ten-year-old.’

  ‘The vest never came off that afternoon. I promised Martha I would wear it during anything confrontational. I put it on to bring Skee in and never had a chance to remove it. A protective vest can protect you from a small-caliber weapon, but two shots in the chest is still like getting whacked with a baseball bat.’

  Rocco looked out the French doors that led from the living room on to the patio. He saw Bea in the garden below. She held a hoe motionless and seemed to be looking across the river toward the Seven Sister hills.

  ‘Perhaps there are worse things than bullet wounds,’ Rocco said. ‘How long has she been like that?’

  ‘Since it happened,’ Lyon answered. ‘She gets up early every morning and puts on her gardening clothes. She doesn’t eat breakfast, but drinks maybe half a cup of black coffee. Then she announces she’s going to work in her garden. She goes outside, gets the proper tools from the shed, and then just stands.’

  ‘You’ve talked about the shooting? You’ve told her it was inevitable? You’ve explained how inaccurate a handgun is in the hands of anyone but the most accomplished marksman? You’ve explained that her attempted shot at the boy’s arm was too difficult, that it wasn’t her fault that the shot was fatal?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve gone over all of that a dozen times. She listens, but she doesn’t hear.’

  ‘Does she cry a lot?’ Rocco asked.

  ‘I wish to God she did. She hasn’t cried or shown any emotion whatsoever. She didn’t even react to the governor’s call.’

  ‘I figured the fearless leader would call with condolences,’ Rocco said.

  ‘She gave that and more. Bea and the governor had a very nasty feud going over Bill Tallman’s death at the inn. The governor was convinced Bea was involved with the congressman. There seemed to be no way to get through to Margaret until the woman who had lunch with Bea that day told the governor the truth of the matter in no uncertain terms. Helena Rabnor may often be a difficult and militant woman, but she doesn’t lie and the governor knew that. It changed things.’

  ‘Something positive like that should have made Bea feel better,’ Rocco said.

  ‘I would have thought so, but when she hung up and told me what had been said, she spoke in a flat, unemotional voice as if nothing had happened, or if it had, it didn’t matter.’

  ‘Do you mind if I talk to her?’ Rocco asked.

  ‘Give it a try,’ Lyon said to his friend. ‘I’m really worried about her.’

  ‘You’re thinking shrinks and Prozac?’

  Lyon nodded. ‘We’ve tried that. I’m afraid she’s going to need more than that. We’re getting to the point where we have to seriously consider hospitalization. She can’t continue like this emotionally, and I’m also concerned over her physical health. She isn’t eating enough.’

  Rocco finished his drink. ‘I’ll give it a go.’ He walked down the patio steps to the garden. Bea had her back to him. She clutched the hoe in both hands and stared across the river toward the distant hills. He wondered what she was looking at, but when she shuddered he knew what she saw.

  ‘Beatrice,’ he said softly. ‘You had no choice. There was no decision to be made. You did what had to be done under the circumstances.’

  ‘He was a child. A little boy,’ she replied without turning. ‘I should have fired at the ceiling to scare him. But I was the frightened one who tried to do an impossible thing. I never should have tried to wound him with such a powerful gun.’

  ‘He would have killed Lyon, and you next. He was a monster. He was God’s genetic mistake.’

  ‘I don’t believe that. He could have been helped. He had so much of his life to live. I snatched away that life.’

  ‘Monsters do happen, Bea. A child can be born physically deformed through some genetic mix-up. The electrical chemistry in Edward’s head was screwed up from the day he was born.’

  ‘That’s wasn’t for me to decide.’ She turned toward him. Her eyes were cloudy but without tears. She spoke in a flat monotone without feeling or emotion. ‘Do you know why we haven’t executed anyone in this state since Joseph Taborsky in 1960? Partly because of me. I’ve fought executions since I was a child. I lobby against them. I protest against them. I hold vigils against them. If those avenues don’t work, I pester the governor for clemency. Sometimes, if the crime and its perpetrator are heinous enough, I am nearly alone. At other times I am surrounded by legions. I am against capital punishment, Rocco. And yet that day I carried out an execution after unilaterally declaring myself judge, jury, and executioner.’

  ‘You had no choice. He was going to kill your husband.’

  ‘Why didn’t you do it? Why didn’t you come into that little house with your gun drawn? By that time you suspected Edward might be the one, and yet you walked in there like you were a school crossing guard about to escort him across the street. We hired you to be our executioner if it were necessary, Rocco. You are our protector who must kill when it is inevitable.’

  ‘I misread the situation. I’m sorry.’

  She turned away to haphazardly chop the ground with her hoe. Rocco stood near her for a few moments before he turned and slowly walked up the steps to the patio.

  Lyon stood in the French doors and handed his friend a fresh drink. ‘I heard. You’ll need this.’

  Rocco slouched into a chair. ‘I was served with a writ by Skee Rumford’s attorney earlier today. Skee claims that I violated his civil right by forcing him to make a statement. He claims I threatened to put his testicles in a wood vise. Luckily I had a tape-recording of the interview.’

  ‘Then you didn’t actually say you were going to put them in a vise?’

  ‘Skee thought I did. In addition to all that, my wife says I drink too much,’ Rocco said as he finished the vodka.

  ‘There’s an element of truth in that,’ Lyon said. ‘You know, Rocco, I’m concerned that Bea may harm herself.’

  ‘I’ve never seen her so … Uh oh.’ Rocco pulled his service revolver from its holster as he strode out to the patio. ‘You needn’t worry about Bea hurting herself. I think harm’s way just drove up your driveway.’

  Lyon stood by Rocco as they watched Rebba Dirk leave her car and walk toward the unsuspecting Bea. ‘I thought she was in the psycho ward at Middleburg Hospital.’

  ‘She was,’ Rocco said. ‘But they couldn’t keep her for ever. If that woman makes one quirky move I’m blowing her away. I’m certain that crazy runs in that family.’

  When the women were a few feet apart, Bea’s sixth sense made her turn. She raised the hoe across her chest.

  Rocco tensed and flipped the safety off his handgun. ‘What do you want, Rebba?’ he called.

  ‘To talk with Bea,’ she answered without turning.

  ‘Careful,’ Rocco commanded.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Bea called, although she did not loosen her grip on the hoe.

  ‘I do not think I could live knowing he was still alive and locked up for the rest of his life,’ Rebba said. ‘I know he would have been put away. There was no other solution for Edward. I think I’ve known for two years that something was wrong with him. It began when he was eight and his father and I discovered the remains of his pet gerbil that had been … Never mind. I don’t want to go over all that. I ignored the symptoms and built the highest wall of denial that you can imagine. No, I did more than that. I pushed evidence away. I refused to recognize what I was seeing.
And worse, I abetted it. I guess I was just about the champion abetter in town.’

  Bea took two steps backward without changing her protective stance. ‘What does that have to do with me? Why are you saying this?’

  There was a pause as both women, each bound by mutual grief, instinctively moved toward each other. ‘I am telling you that I understand what you had to do,’ Rebba said. ‘I tell you that I forgive you. I forgive you, Bea Wentworth.’

  Bea stared at the other woman for long moments until the hoe slipped from her fingers. She took a tentative step forward and then another until they were in each other’s arms. Their keening cries of anguish echoed from the hills.

  A startled eagle circled overhead while in Bea a new life fluttered awake.

  The police chief holstered his revolver. Both men turned away from the patio without speaking. Rocco knew that he would never tell the recovering women below that after his last shots at him, the small boy had menaced them with an empty gun.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Lyon and Bea Wentworth Mysteries

  One

  The sword swept through the air and bit into a tree trunk inches from Lyon Wentworth’s head.

  A five-inch wood chip spun away as it was carved from the pine. The sword twisted free and was slowly raised for another thrust. The blade shifted for a vertical blow with enough force to nearly cut him in half.

  He threw himself to the side and stumbled backward over a moss-covered boulder. The sword’s downward arc followed his fall. Metal and rock clashed with a clang that echoed through the misty woods.

  He lurched to his feet to stumble forward. His breath came in rasping gulps. He ran in a weaving pattern toward the edge of the high promontory a hundred feet above the Connecticut River. He was confused. His vision was faulty, and his legs were leaden and unresponsive. His pursuer moved slowly but persistently forward. It was impossible not to glance back. The approaching figure was an unfamiliar dark hulk in the shadowy woods, but the raised broadsword glinted a refracted moonlight off its blade in diamond-shaped shards of reflection. The medieval weapon made small loops in a nearly ritualistic preparation for the killing thrust. Its next devastating blow would destroy any living thing in its path.

  Lyon tripped across an ankle-high root near his right foot. He plunged face forward into the ground. His forehead struck a rock and dozens of black dots swarmed across his vision. His body was drained. His vision clouded as he raised his arms in a futile attempt to ward off the impending sword thrust.

  His adversary closed the distance between them. They were now close enough that their feet were nearly touching.

  An inappropriate thought surfaced. Historically, men led to the killing block tipped their executioner with gold to assure that the first blow was true and fatal.

  The sword glinted in the moonlight as it slowly descended. He tensed in anticipation of the blow. The point sliced through the remains of his shirt.

  The light was still too diffuse for him to make out the features of the dark figure looming above him. The only clear object was the broadsword, which sparkled in the dim light that seeped through the leaf cover.

  ‘Why?’ The word burst forth in an unfamiliar hoarse voice. He could hear the deep breathing of the figure above him, but there was no reply. He tensed again, waiting for the blow.

  The apparition disappeared into the darkness as quickly as it had appeared. Lyon grasped a tree limb as he struggled to his feet. He swayed as he tried to focus his eyes. He was dizzy, and disoriented.

  He took two steps and pitched forward into the darkness.

  Police Chief Rocco Herbert slowed the police cruiser as he turned into the long drive that led to Nutmeg Hill. He unconsciously eased the handgun holstered at his hip an inch or two up and down to confirm that it was seated properly.

  Bea Wentworth’s early-morning long-distance phone call to his home had been worrisome. There was more than a hint of concern in her voice, an unusual condition for the usually unflappable state senator.

  ‘They told me the phones were out of order, Rocco,’ she had said. ‘What bothers me is that I have a second line going into the house for my political calls, and for two phone lines to go out simultaneously doesn’t make sense. If it weren’t for the fact that Morgan is parked in our drive, I’d think the main line to the street was down. You know, Morgan’s been getting those weird threats recently?’

  ‘I’ve heard about them. He refused the guard the Middleburg Police offered to put at his house. You want me to check it out, Bea?’ he had asked.

  ‘I’d feel better. Would you mind terribly driving out to Nutmeg Hill on your way to work this morning to make sure everything is all right?’

  His first thought had been to dispatch a patrol unit, but a glance at the bedside clock told him that he had time to make the trip himself. He could have coffee with his friend Lyon, and still get to the police station in time for his scheduled meeting with the town’s first selectman. ‘Sure. I’ll be glad to. I’ll leave as soon as I’m dressed. You want I should call you in Washington?’ He picked up the tiny pen attached to the note pad on the night table next to the bed.

  ‘You can’t,’ she had replied. ‘I’m on the road right now, on my way back to Connecticut. I’d just feel better knowing you were checking things out.’

  He pulled the cruiser to a stop immediately behind the RV parked near the home’s front door. He eased from the car with his right hand resting lightly on the butt of his handgun.

  The house was quiet. Bea had evidently driven her small sedan to Washington, and the only other vehicle besides the modified Winnebago in the drive was Lyon’s ancient pickup truck, parked by the barn.

  He walked slowly around the RV. Lyon Wentworth had told him how Warren Morgan, a professor at nearby Middleburg University, had changed the configurations of the vehicle until it hardly resembled the standard model. The front doors had been strengthened with interior braces and welded shut. All of the windows had been replaced with the special safety glass utilized on armored cars. Steel plates that could be lowered had been mounted over the living compartment windows. A steel shield had been welded under the chassis for added protection. The final result: a vehicle with all the protection of an army tank and the interior comforts of a hedonist’s house trailer.

  The only means of access into the vehicle was a single rear door which he pounded on with his fist. Near the door was a lock combination panel. ‘Hey, Morgan! You in there? Anyone in there? Open up! Police!’

  No answer.

  He repeated the process several times before he shook his head and walked slowly toward the house.

  Nutmeg Hill was located on a saucer-shaped promontory that rose a hundred feet above a sharp bend in the Connecticut River. The house was at the apex of this rise and was reached by a winding drive that twisted up from a secondary highway. High stands of pine marched along formal lanes on either side of the lawn. The structural lines of the house were dominated by a widow’s walk that ran the length of the gambrel roof. Leaded glass windows reflected the early sun as it brimmed the hills to the east.

  The Wentworths had purchased the property a number of years before. It had originally been constructed in the early nineteenth century by a successful sea captain. After the Civil War, the original family’s fortunes faltered. The house began a slow process of decay until a last surviving spinster moved south and boarded the windows and doors. Vandals and weather hastened further deterioration. Lyon and Bea had discovered the building accidentally while on a walking trip. They had fallen in love with its secluded location and panoramic perch. They finally arranged a purchase through the estate of the deceased spinster. It had taken them years of painstaking labor to refurbish the house.

  Rocco noticed that the front door was slightly ajar. As he slow approached it, a wind eddied up from the river and blew the door fully open.

  ‘Hey, Lyon!’ Rocco yelled. ‘You in there?’

  No answer.

  He dr
ew the revolver and braced his right wrist with his left hand as he stepped carefully through the doorway.

  Police Chief Rocco Herbert was a large man with a craggy face. He was too big to be a professional football linebacker, although a guard or tackle’s position might have been suitable. His six foot six frame carried closer to 300 than 200 pounds. His massive bulk did not slow his reflexes and he could move with a surprising alacrity if the situation warranted.

  He went methodically through each of the twelve rooms. They were all unoccupied. The master bedroom was undisturbed, the king-size bed still neatly made. In the adjoining bathroom, he ran his fingers lightly over the surface of the stall shower wall and sink bowl. They were both dry and obviously had not been used since the day before.

  His search was complete except for the widow’s walk on the roof. He stood by the narrow door that led to the steps up the walk. In all his years of visits to Nutmeg Hill, he had never been on the widow’s walk. He shrugged. What the hell, there’s always a first time, he thought as he proceeded up the stairs with the service revolver tightly clutched in his hand.

  The roof was deserted except for a solitary crow that immediately took flight at his approach. He stood by one of the chimneys and looked out over the side lawns, then toward the tree lines on either side of the house, and finally down toward the river. He saw a small motorboat proceeding downstream and a coastal tanker making its way upstream toward the tank farms near Hartford. In the opposite direction he could see a church spire on the Murphysville town green. The single-story police services building two blocks from the green was obscured by intervening trees, but he knew its exact location by instinct, just as he knew all the dimensions of his domain.

  Movement by the edge of the pines to the north attracted his attention.

  Lyon Wentworth, hunched and bloody, stumbled toward the house. In one hand he clutched the hilt of a long sword that he dragged across the grass.

  ‘Lyon!’ Rocco bellowed.