The Death at Yew Corner Read online

  “Barbara Rustman stopped at the powder room while Ramsey stepped into the kitchen. He probably had some last-minute instructions for the cook.”

  “That’s how I recall it. Still, we were all together a few minutes later.”

  “It couldn’t have been even five. That’s not time enough for someone to rush upstairs, enter Serena’s room, and kill her in that manner before returning to the dining room.”

  “And that assumes the cooperation of Horace at the hall door and some way of getting through a locked door.”

  “Which means that whoever killed her had to go through the French doors on the balcony.”

  “Which were latched from the inside and guarded by a man on the outside below the window.”

  “Entering the murder room from the outside would assume the cooperation of the exterior guard. The murderer would have had to leave the rest of us in the living room, obtain a ladder or some such thing, and … No, it doesn’t work.”

  “Very simple, Lyon. We were present at a murder that couldn’t have happened.”

  “It would seem so. You know, I’d like to see the attic and the cellar.”

  “The cellar in this place must have rats. You can check that one out for yourself.”

  “There’s probably an entrance from the kitchen.” Lyon left Bea in the dining room and then disappeared into the recesses of the house.

  “Anybody here!” A loud call from the hall.

  Bea went to meet Rocco Herbert at the door. “Your playmate is exploring,” she said.

  “He can stop. The case is closed.”

  “Closed? How come?”

  “We found Marty Rustman.”

  “He confessed.”

  “Hardly. He’s quite dead.”

  13

  Wolf Pit road arches its way up from Route 90 and then wanders along a ridge line on the outskirts of Murphysville. It is a heavily wooded area that overlooks much of the river valley. Lyon had often wondered why home developers hadn’t desecrated it. Perhaps the cost of cutting into the rock for lot sites made it prohibitive. Economics had to be why the area had not been raped. Aesthetic reasons never impeded avarice.

  “When was the body found?”

  “Early this morning,” Rocco replied as he took a switchback turn too fast, causing the car to sway. “The body was burned beyond recognition, but I had a hunch and the ME’s office ran the dental work against Rustman’s.”

  “ID conclusive?”

  “Hold up in any court in the land.”

  “The car?”

  “Stolen yesterday from a supermarket parking lot. Actually, it was a pickup truck.”

  “Was?”

  “You’ll see.” Rocco parked the police cruiser on the shoulder of the road and both men climbed out. They stood looking over the slim guardrail now shattered along a thirty-foot stretch. The charred remains of a pickup truck were canted obscenely far down the embankment.

  “I’d like to take a look.”

  “Not much to see. Rustman had bad luck stealing that one.”

  “How’s that?”

  “It was loaded with oil drums. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  They worked their way awkwardly down the embankment until they came to the burned truck. It was hardly recognizable as a motor vehicle. It was burned so extensively that paint had peeled off and any flammable item within the cab had been destroyed. All the windows had shattered.

  “He stole the truck,” Rocco said, “and was probably driving up here to hide for the night. He took the curve too fast and lost control. When he crashed through the guardrail, he might possibly have survived if the thing hadn’t burst into flames. Isolated as it is up here, we didn’t discover it until early this morning. It was difficult to identify the body as human.”

  Lyon winced. “What did the doctor say?”

  Rocco shrugged. “What’s to say. I saw it, Lyon. Believe me, you wouldn’t care to.”

  “Are they going to run tests on the body?”

  “I don’t think so. Cause of death seemed obvious.”

  Lyon nodded and began to work his way up the hill to the road. At the top, he turned to extend his hand to Rocco and pull the panting chief up the last remaining feet. “You’re closing the case?”

  “Yep. This one saved the state some money.”

  “Let’s have a drink.”

  “Sarge’s Place?”

  “Right.”

  Bea sat in her car in the Rustmans’ driveway. She was beginning to think that she was physically incapable of opening the door and going down the walk to ring the bell. How do you tell someone her husband is dead? How do you inform children that they have no father?

  Rocco had asked her to do it and it had to be done.

  She left the car, walked briskly up the path, and without hesitation pushed the bell. Barbara Rustman opened the door. Her features seemed to dissolve when her eyes met Bea’s. Her hands fluttered and ran along her cheeks. “He’s dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew it.”

  “Are the children here?”

  Barbara looked at her without comprehension. “The children?”

  “Are they at home?”

  “No, they aren’t here. They’re at the playground.”

  “Can I call someone for you?”

  “Come in. Would you like coffee or something?”

  “No, thank you.”

  They went into the small living room and sat at opposite ends of the couch. “How did it happen?”

  “He was driving a pickup truck that ran off the road in Murphysville.”

  “Oh.” The word was an expression of finality. “I didn’t even know they made pickup trucks with those gadgets, but I suppose they do.”

  “I’m sorry to tell you the truck was stolen.” Bea paused a moment. “What sort of gadget?”

  “The kind the Veterans Administration put on Marty’s cars.”

  “The VA? I don’t understand.”

  “Marty was wounded in Vietnam. He didn’t have much feeling in his right leg. All our cars had a hand throttle off the steering wheel. The government always paid for it.”

  “Could he drive a car or truck without the throttle?”

  “I don’t think so. He’s dead now. That explains why he never called the children. I should have known.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No. Thank you. I’ll call our parents in a minute or two. You know, Marty was always afraid something would happen to him. He talked to me lots of times about what might happen and how it might look like an accident. That’s why he told me where the money was.”

  “What money?”

  “The money at the union hall. He said if he didn’t come back, that after a day or two I was to go to the union hall and take the money from its hiding place. I did like he told me, but that man had me watched and found out. He knew I did it.”

  “Tanner. Gustav Tanner of the nursing home?”

  “Yes. When the money was missing he called me. He said he knew I had it, that his man had seen me sneak into the hall. He said he would go to the police unless I … unless I …”

  “Went to the motel with him.”

  “I went.”

  Barbara Rustman turned her head toward the cushions as cries racked her body. For the second time Bea went to the other woman and held her.

  She was halfway to Murphysville before she realized the significance of the visit. She pulled the car off the shoulder and went to an open phone booth. She knew where Lyon would be and dialed the number of Sarge’s Place.

  Captain Norbert of the state police was an unhappy man. Although he was pleased that his brother-in-law, Rocco, was also in police work, he was suspicious of the chief’s friends. Not only did Lyon Wentworth write books but he also read them. Not only was Bea prominent in politics but she was also a Democrat. All of this made the husband-wife combination suspect. He wouldn’t be surprised if they were closet Commies. Their kind usually were.


  The chief and his friend were in their usual booth in the far corner of Sarge’s Place. The scene made Norbert angrier, for he felt that if the major caught him in here, he’d be transferred to dormant records. He grimaced and pulled a straight chair over to the booth.

  “Glad you could make it, Norbie,” Rocco said.

  “It better be important. I’ve got one hell of a lot of work to do to close this Rustman matter. We’re having a news conference at five. You ought to be there, Chief.”

  “I’m surprised you told me about it.”

  Lyon twirled his pony of sherry. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “The major believes in being fair,” Norbert said. “The case is solved, which makes Herbert and us look good.”

  “You’re going to look foolish when you have to reopen it.”

  Lyon took the opportunity during the foreboding silence to signal Sarge for another drink. Captain Norbert’s physical condition worried him. The man’s complexion changed while they watched. His naturally florid face turned a deep hue of red as the color spread upward from the base of his neck. Rocco took the news more prosaically and merely shook his head.

  “You had better explain yourself, Wentworth.”

  “He’s been right before,” Rocco said softly.

  “He’s always meddling in areas that civilians should stay out of.”

  “Rustman didn’t do it,” Lyon said and took the refilled pony from Sarge and smiled thanks.

  “Like hell!” Norbert half rose from his chair. “The guy was a nut. Rustman’s been running over the whole damn county knocking people off. He worked his way up until he got the woman and then ran the truck off the road.”

  “It fits the facts,” Rocco added. “Everyone else in the house has been accounted for. Rustman could have come over the wall, killed the dog, and sneaked into the house. He somehow got into Serena’s room and killed her. The only problem is that I’ll be damned if I know how he got in and out of the room.”

  “Bea called me a few minutes ago,” Lyon said. “She’s been out to see Barbara Rustman. You can verify this with the Veterans Administration, but Marty Rustman was wounded in Vietnam and only had partial use of his right leg.”

  “He was limber enough to climb over that wall.”

  “Doubtful but possible. That pickup you found with his body, did it have hand controls?”

  “No.”

  “Disabled veteran plates?”

  “It had some sort of crazy vanity plates that spelled out ‘Mary-Lou’ or something like that. I can find out exactly.”

  “It won’t be necessary. I’m convinced that Rustman’s been dead since the day he disappeared.”

  “No one else could have killed Serena Truman.”

  “Someone did and I know how.”

  “This is the biggest bunch of crap I’ve heard all day.” Norbert pushed away from the table. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “The major will be displeased if Lyon is right and you are wrong, Norbie.”

  The state police captain looked uncertain. “All right. I’ll listen.” He glanced at his watch. “For five minutes.”

  “It will take longer than that,” Lyon said. “I’ll show you how it was done.”

  “Show what?”

  “How the murderer got into Serena’s room and how the murder was committed.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow night. Say seven. I’ll need access to the mansion and two patrolmen to help.”

  “For God’s sake, what am I going to tell the major?”

  “That’s your problem, Norbie,” Rocco smiled.

  Sol Rabner hated shopping centers and discount stores with a passion that bordered on the irrational. He leaned against a counter in his downtown Murphysville store and watched his unmoving inventory with eyes of infinite sadness. A sixteen-year-old girl was the only potential customer in the shop, and Sol wasn’t sure if she was prepared to buy or steal. He made a mental note to take a careful count of any items the girl took into the fitting room. He watched her from the corner of his eye and mentally calculated how much he should discount bathing suits.

  A small bell hanging above the front door tinkled. Sol turned to see Lyon Wentworth enter. He smiled. The Wentworths were old customers. They didn’t buy a great deal, and were frugal in their purchases, but they were consistent.

  “Morning, Lyon.”

  “How’s business, Sol?”

  “The new shopping mall on Route Eighty really hurts. Nothing but low prices and shoddy merchandise. People don’t appreciate quality anymore. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m interested in that.” Lyon pointed to a posed mannequin wearing a mauve evening dress.

  Sol shook his head. “I really don’t think that color would look good on Beatrice.”

  “Not the dress. The mannequin.”

  “The mannequin?”

  “I want to borrow it for a few days. Better yet, I had better buy it. I think it might be destroyed.”

  “Wait a minute, Lyon. I’m not in the business of …”

  “And I’ll need something that comes in a large plastic bag.”

  “I have some nice cashmere sweaters that Beatrice might like.”

  “Fine. You pick out the size and color.”

  Sol Rabner shook his head. He began to strip the dress from the mannequin. The Wentworths were valued customers, but they were certainly strange.

  Bea looked up from her gardening and pushed the floppy hat back on her forehead. Lyon’s car came slowly down the driveway. A strange woman who didn’t seem to be wearing any clothes was sitting next to him. She wondered what stray cat he had brought home this time. She walked over to the car as it stopped and leaned in the window.

  “Your friend’s got a rather vacant expression. Is she on something?”

  “I bought you a sweater.”

  “At this time of year?”

  “The price was right.”

  “Can I ask what you’re doing?”

  “I’m going to need your help. Did you get the other things?”

  “They’re in the study.”

  “Good.”

  Lyon slid from the car and hefted the mannequin over his shoulder. Bea followed him into the house and upstairs to the bedroom. He let the mannequin slip from his shoulder onto the bed and took the sweater from the plastic bag. “Tie my hands with a belt.”

  Bea shook her head. “You know I love you, Lyon, and we’ve had our good times together, but I’m not so sure that I’m into whatever it is you have in mind.”

  “It’s only a rehearsal.”

  Bea arched an eyebrow.

  The police had arrived at the mansion early. A state police cruiser and two Murphysville cars were parked in the drive when Lyon and Bea drove through the gate. Two trooper corporals in tailored uniforms stood nearby at attention. They looked with disapproval at two town police who lounged against the side of their car with loosened ties and dangling cigarettes. The divergent poses seemed to represent the chasm between the two police authorities.

  Lyon parked near the entrance to the house and began to unload his equipment from the Datsun. Rocco came out the front door and smiled in wry bemusement as Captain Norbert shouldered past him and glared at the two Murphysville police who immediately straightened their posture and ground out their cigarettes.

  “Morning, Senator,” Norbert said with a salute to Bea before he turned to Lyon. “Now hurry it up, Wentworth. My men are on overtime.”

  “If you will allow me to arrange my props, then we can begin the reenactment.”

  “For Christ’s sake, can I stop you?”

  “No way,” Rocco said.

  The large dog strained against his choke collar as Bea led him from the car. She handed the leash to Jamie Martin. “I think he’s your prop.”

  The officer took the leash with apprehension. “What am I going to do with him?”

  “Lyon will tell you in his own good time.”

  “This is
all costing the state money,” Norbert snapped.

  “I have something to do near the north wall,” Lyon said. He heaved the mannequin out of the car and handed it to Rocco. “Will you take this up to the murder room and arrange her in bed?”

  Rocco slung the mannequin over his shoulder. “Why not?” He started down the hall toward the main staircase.

  Bea watched Rocco go up the stairs with the mannequin’s naked legs protruding over his shoulder. “I can’t make up my mind if he looks like Rhett Butler taking Scarlett upstairs or a Viking returning from a pillage of the English coast.”

  “Looks like a damn foolish cop to me,” Norbert said.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Lyon took an attaché case from the Datsun and began walking to the far wall.

  “Couldn’t he just diagram this for us, Senator?”

  Bea watched her husband disappear behind the trees. “He has a theory, but whether it works out or not will depend on timing and your reaction.”

  Lyon stopped at the spot near the wall where the guard dog had been poisoned. He sat cross-legged on the grass and gently lay the case flat on the ground before him. He unsnapped the clasps and opened the lid. Earlier that day he had dug out his wristwatch from the back of the bureau drawer and set the time by the radio. He glanced at the watch before he began his preparations.

  When he and Bea had roamed the mansion in their attempt to understand how the murder was committed nearly all the details had puzzled him. Now, his experience with hot-air ballooning would be useful.

  He went to work.

  They clustered in the murder room looking down in macabre fascination at the mannequin in Serena’s bed.

  “Are the French doors latched, Rocco?”

  Rocco checked the latch. “Yes.”

  “The bedside lamp is out. The water is not running in the tub.”

  “We all know that, Wentworth,” Norbert said.

  “We can duplicate everything except locking the door from the inside.”

  “We’ll pretend.”

  “Fine.” Lyon moved into the hallway. “I would like a police officer stationed in the hall immediately outside the bedroom door. I don’t want anyone admitted into the murder room once the door is closed, and I want him to report anything he hears or sees to Rocco by walkie-talkie.”