Death at King Arthur's Court

by Forrest, Richard;

  ‘Hey, that looks like real honest-to-God sipping scotch and not colored water. Hit me again with the good stuff.’

  Lyon was beginning to glimpse a possible niche in the dance world that she might inhabit. ‘Your accent,’ he said, ‘sounds like South Boston.’

  She drained half her drink. ‘You don’t win the brass ring for that one. I’ve got the map of Ireland plastered across my face, and my voice sounds like a Kennedy who never went to school.’

  ‘And you dance in the Combat Zone?’

  She appraised him over the rim of her glass before answering. ‘Topless at the White Pussy Cat. Morgan’s told you about me, huh?’ A ribald laugh peeled forth. ‘Morg always says I have the upper works of a first-class battleship and the morals of a submarine.’ She peered into her drink. ‘I’ve never been quite sure if that’s a compliment or not.’

  ‘Obviously he didn’t expect you tonight,’ Lyon said.

  ‘Oh, he knew I’d arrive eventually. If not tonight, tomorrow or the next day. Recently I’ve become to Morg, like what do they say? Like a bad penny.’ She held out her glass for a refill. ‘In the beginning he paid plenty to have me spend a half hour in the sack with him. Not that I’m in the business, Morg was just helping out with the rent. Since the baby came I can’t get a word or a buck out of him.’

  ‘Baby?’

  ‘Barney. You know, named after …’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I love you. You love me,’ she sang in an off-key voice that cracked when she reached for the higher registers.

  Lyon had accidentally viewed TV’s ersatz dinosaur twice. On the first occasion he thought the character was a temporary dash of treacly bad taste that would momentarily disappear. He was astonished to rediscover the monster two months later. He was convinced that the beast gave all monsters a bad name and should be immediately eliminated. He supposed it was in the natural order of things that mothers named Bambi had kids named Barney. ‘I’m surprised that Morgan’s involved in the baby business.’

  ‘You’ve got his number, Wimpo. He told me a hunret times he hates human life forms under three feet tall who can’t read at a college level. Of course, he claims he’s not the father, but I know better.’

  ‘They now have genetic tests that can establish parentage definitively,’ Lyon said.

  ‘You even talk like him.’

  ‘Once that’s established,’ Lyon continued, ‘you can go through the courts for child support.’

  ‘I want more than a few bucks a week, Wimp Man. The only reason I put one in the oven with Morg was so that the kid could grow up and not be window-lace Irish. Look at me. My Da was a cop and I’m dancing bare boobs at the Pussy Cat so horny guys can slip dollar bills under my G-string. No way is Barney growing up in South Boston. He ain’t goin’ the way of the other smart Irish micks who drop out of school and snatch cars to order for a hunret a pop.’

  ‘I would think not,’ Lyon said, aware that he was now going to get the unabbreviated version of the affair.

  She settled expansively back on the couch and took a slow slurp of her drink before she continued. ‘In the beginning Morg couldn’t get enough of me. It started a couple of years ago when he was in Boston for some academic bash and staying at the Parker House. He got bored one night and dumped the crowd he was with and wandered over to the Pussy Cat. I was doing my mermaid number when he grabbed a stool right in front of me and ordered scotch. Nobody but nobody orders scotch at the Pussy Cat. I knew he was fresh fish, and the scotch bit really slayed me, so I stayed on the ramp right in front of him doing my thing. I mean, I flashed it right at him. Tween turns he bought me a couple of house cocktails, you know, ginger ale calling itself champagne. He kept laughing at me, like everthin’ I said was funny. After a couple drinks of that kerosene, he began to stop laughing and looked at me funny. He offered me a couple of big ones to come back to his room. I’m not in the business and don’t usually turn tricks, but that week I needed cash for the rent, and so I went. Old Morg seemed to like the merchandise and kept coming back for more. It really turned him on to spend an hour at the bar watching me dance before we went back to his place for a quickie. He began driving up most weekends and musta’ spent a fortune at the club, and another one paying my expenses. That’s when I decided to get knocked up by the bastard. I figured with a college professor da and the money that Morg said his family had, the kid would be golden.

  ‘When I started showing, I got bounced. I mean, not only didn’t I have a job at the Cat anymore, but Morg kissed me off. All of a sudden he doesn’t even know my name. The bigger I got, the worse his memory. He don’t know my address, and I think he even forgot where Boston was. Well, it’s payback time. Barney wants his divvies and I mean to see that he gets them or we’ll see who does the final kissing-off.’

  She yawned and plunked her empty glass on the cocktail table before stretching. The movement thrust her miraculously shaped bosom forward.

  ‘I’m coming back tomorrow night to camp on his doorstep or running board or whatever,’ she continued. ‘He’s got to come out of that junk heap eventually. Can you give me a hand with my truck? It’s a little four by four and I think even you can help me out of the ditch.’

  Lyon left the yard floods on to light their way down the drive to its entrance at the highway. Her red pickup was canted into a drainage ditch. He got behind the wheel and rocked it back and forth until the traction spun the wheels off the soft shoulder. They switched places and she drove off with a wave.

  A deep weight of fatigue slipped over him as he started back to the house.

  Tendrils of ground fog seeped over the promontory, through the stand of pine, and flowed into low ground dips. Two spotlights backlit the widow’s walk, casting bizarre shadows across the lawn at his front. The skewered images of the walk’s rail made strut shadows appear on the ground as distorted battlements.

  Lyon stopped stock still and rubbed his eyes for focus. His body was nearly at the point of exhaustion. His perceptions began to shift toward an aura of unreality. The fifty yards to the house represented an infinite distance that stretched endlessly toward a narrowing horizon. Tree shadows swayed in a macabre dance that appeared vaguely threatening. He felt trapped in a universe he did not comprehend.

  Their once familiar house appeared alien. Its new identity exuded a foreboding aura.

  He felt light-headed and separated from his body, as if he were floating above the trees in a weightless condition. He somehow sensed that he had to reach the safety of the house for survival.

  He was never sure where it came from. It might have been ejected from the house, or propelled out of Morgan’s RV, or catapulted shrieking from the dark stand of trees that bordered the lawn. He only knew that the cowled figure rushing toward him carried a raised broadsword in both hands.

  Lyon immediately turned and staggered toward the tree line. The apparition behind him, its face cloaked by its hood, lumbered after him with the sword blade making narrow circles in the air.

  He reached the tree line and stumbled. The sword swept through the air and bit into a tree trunk inches from his head.

  Seven

  Chief Rocco Herbert looked extremely unhappy. Bea Wentworth stared off into space with a glazed, fearful look. ‘Does anyone buy this?’ Rocco asked. ‘You can’t identify this … thing who initiated the assault?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You seem to be rather successfully framed. You possess the combination into the van, and presumably you were the only one conscious at Nutmeg Hill during the time of the murder. You also had possession of the murder weapon.’

  ‘I told you. I was unconscious for the remainder of the night. After I fell, I passed out so quickly that I’m convinced I was drugged.’

  ‘Possibly something was put in your sherry?’

  ‘That’s the first thing I considered. The wine would be the most logical place to dissolve something, since I was the only one drinking Dry Sack.’ He gestured toward the bar cart
. ‘The bottle is missing. There is no way to run a drug screen.’

  ‘When you invited the topless dancer into the house, you left her alone in the living room for several minutes while you went into the kitchen. When you returned you noticed the seal broken on the fresh bottle.’

  ‘She had an opportunity to spike the bottle. It was a crowded evening, so a bunch of other people had plenty of chances to contaminate the liquor.’

  ‘Bambi was the only one who knew you were going to take a drink from that particular bottle at that exact time,’ Bea said. ‘Since she controlled the conversation, she might have monitored the time it took for the drug’s effect.’

  ‘I had never met the woman before,’ Lyon said. ‘How would she know I drank Dry Sack?’

  ‘She was the decoy, obviously,’ Bea said. ‘You said she drove off in her truck, but shortly after, you were attacked. Partners.’

  Rocco nodded in agreement. ‘Let’s go back to the assault. Surely you can come up with some sort of description of your assailant?’

  ‘No,’ Lyon said. ‘I can’t even tell you if it was a man or woman. She or he was wearing a long robed garment with a wide cowl that completely hid the face.’

  ‘Did the clothing appear to belong to a cult of any kind?’

  Lyon shrugged. ‘Just as easily that as a monk’s habit. I’ve told you all I can.’

  Patrolman Jamie Martin appeared in the doorway. ‘There’s a call for you on the radio, Chief.’

  After Rocco left, Lyon and Bea sat motionless and silent at opposite ends of the room.

  ‘I think you’re in big trouble,’ Bea finally said.

  ‘I think possibly you’re right,’ Lyon replied.

  They continued their silent vigil without further comment until Rocco returned. A wide grin seemed to have replaced the chief’s past skepticism. ‘Talk about luck of the damned,’ he said. ‘They just read me a letter that was hand carried to the station a few minutes ago. If it holds up, everything falls into place.’

  ‘What in the world are you talking about?’ Lyon asked.

  ‘Let me read you the damn thing verbatim,’ Rocco said as he pulled out his notebook. ‘The original is evidently written in a smeary red ink which I suppose is meant to be blood, although I’d put my money on poster paint. The lab can pin that down for us. It reads, “Satan has been gloriously revenged and the first infidel has died in the Armageddon. Thus it is to all those who deny the true magnificence of Satan.”’

  ‘That sounds like those Beelzebub guys are taking credit for Morgan’s death.’

  ‘It sounds that way to me, unless Armageddon is a new fast-food joint,’ Rocco said.

  ‘The consensus from Norbie and the state’s attorney is that the hooded figure who attacked Lyon was a member of the sect who threatened Morgan. That attack was due to mistaken identity, and was aborted once they realized he was not their target. Then person or persons unknown somehow obtained the door combination. They entered the vehicle and dispatched Morgan with one of his own swords. The state’s attorney is not pursuing a warrant against you, Wentworth. The state police are now directing all their energies toward locating the man or men who performed the killing.’

  ‘Man?’ Bea asked with a pronounced question in her voice.

  ‘Fanatics of this type would never allow a woman to perform a ritualistic murder like this,’ Lyon said.

  ‘Considering the background of the sect, the zeal with which the killing was performed and the strength required,’ Rocco said, ‘I think we can assume it was a man.’

  ‘Your pat little exoneration is welcome but it bothers me,’ Bea said. ‘Suppose whoever drugged and chased after Lyon with the sword was framing him for Morgan’s killing. It doesn’t make sense that the Beelzebubs would go to that trouble and then turn around and take public credit for the murder.’

  ‘The state has turned its attention elsewhere for the time being,’ Rocco said. ‘I think you’re damn lucky to be off the hook.’

  ‘How do we know it’s not a nut letter? That sort of thing happens all the time,’ Lyon said.

  ‘We had all best hope that there’s some sort of follow-up to make this a permanent suspicion, or Norbie’s blinkers will turn back in Lyon’s direction. I got to go.’

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ Lyon said to Bea after Rocco left. ‘I have a Wobbly book to finish.’

  ‘My political fences need mending before the nominating convention,’ Bea said. ‘But somebody killed Morgan right outside our front door.’

  ‘And you’re not buying the Armageddon bit?’

  Bea looked pensive. ‘That’s always possible, except that explanation seems to have a lot of loose ends. I should see to the kitchen,’ she said.

  ‘I did it last night before the dancer arrived,’ he replied.

  Bea sighed. ‘OK, I have to ask. What happened to my living-room drape?’

  ‘I think that Norbert’s men took it as evidence,’ Lyon said.

  ‘I hesitate to ask. But why?’

  ‘The blood.’

  ‘On the drape?’

  ‘There was a question of shock. That is, when Rocco thought I was mortally injured, since I was covered with blood.’

  ‘Holding the sword?’

  ‘Yes. He wrapped me in the drape.’

  Bea sighed again. ‘OK, I asked and you answered. You know, Lyon, sometimes I have the feeling you should never be left alone.’

  ‘I appreciate your trying to take the fall for me on the murder charge,’ Lyon said. ‘Did you really think that I was capable of killing Morgan? With a huge sword yet?’

  She flashed him a smile. ‘I walked smack-dab into the middle of a situation without all the facts. The few I did know were pretty darn gloomy. I somehow thought that as a woman I would get less jail time. Last year on one of my senate committees, I toured male and female max security. Believe me, you want female.’

  ‘I suppose there’s some sort of weird logic in that,’ Lyon said, ‘although either of us in the slammer wouldn’t do much for the golden years of our marriage.’

  Sarge’s Bar and Grill was an anachronism that had accommodated to gentrification. The owner, a former army master sergeant, once had a retirement dream of owning a working man’s sports bar with a boilermaker clientele who enjoyed betting on an occasional ball game. Initially, its location in an older residential area not far from a ball-bearing factory had guaranteed the right mix of customers. When the factory vacated its building to move to South Carolina and was replaced by a gigantic art gallery, gentrification struck like a thunderclap. The customers were soon divided into two distinct groups. During the day retired workers nursed beers and discussed ball games without wagers. At six the bar’s atmosphere radically changed. The night manager arrived with a German chef and a bartender who actually knew how to mix drinks. Cans of Bud mated with cheap house whiskey abdicated to German food served with imported wines and beers placed on checkered tablecloths lit by quaint bottles holding flickering candles.

  On most days, Sarge made a valiant and usually successful attempt to drink himself unconscious before the last boiler-maker was chug-a-lugged and the first bottle of Zinfandel was uncorked.

  Rocco Herbert was the rare customer who straddled both groups. He qualified as a daylight drinker, and after dusk he often turned into an exuberant sauerbraten customer. Their former military service together required Sarge to maintain a constant supply of properly chilled vodka and ground sirloin for the police chief’s gourmet burgers. Lyon was accommodated by a Dry Sack sherry supply, but like other ordinary day customers, any hunger pangs had to be satisfied with pickled eggs or pig’s feet.

  In his daylight mode, Rocco occupied a booth in the far corner near the window that overlooked a four-way stop sign down the block. Walkie-talkie communication with Jamie Martin’s hidden cruiser usually made this observation post a productive spot for generating traffic tickets.

  Lyon watched from the bar as a flagrant violator in a green Corvette sped through
the stop sign without slowing and then proceeded to swing around a stationary school bus.

  Although Rocco was looking directly at the offending vehicle, his hand never toggled the transmission switch of the small radio on the table at his front.

  Sarge handed Lyon a sherry and shook his head. ‘Captain’s not himself these days.’

  ‘How long’s he been here?’

  ‘Came in yesterday and back again this morning.’

  Lyon carried his drink back to the booth’s morose occupant. He and Rocco had been friends for many years. Rocco was born and raised in Murphysville and was already chief of police when Lyon and Bea moved to town. The two men had met earlier, during their military service. Rocco, a mustang officer commissioned from the ranks, was a Ranger and commander of the division’s reconnaissance platoon. Lyon, a Yale graduate, was a junior intelligence officer on the staff of Division G-2. He was often thrown in contact with Rocco when the Rangers acted as the division’s eyes and ears.

  Although both men had been born and raised in the river valley area of Connecticut, it wasn’t until the Easter-night ambush that they became friends. Lyon had accompanied the platoon as an observer during a helicopter insertion to locate an enemy battalion. They had come under heavy fire before the helicopters had lifted off. Machine guns with clear fields of fire were emplaced on both sides of the clearing and placed them in a murderous crossfire. The automatic weapons began to methodically rake their positions with devastating results. Lyon knew that it was only a question of minutes until they were damaged sufficiently to be overrun by frontal assault. Rocco, without proper covering fire, had single-handedly flanked one automatic weapon and destroyed it with grenades. He had urged his men into the protecting cover of a nearby bushy draw, where he carried the wounded Lyon. They were removed at dawn, with more than half of Rocco’s men killed or wounded.

  ‘Are we home?’ Lyon asked as he sipped his sherry. Rocco continued to stare intently at the distant stop sign. ‘Catch many today?’