The Pied Piper of Death Page 4

  “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.”

  THREE

  “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 su
ggested.

  “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?”

  “Are you really going to consider that man’s proposition seriously? Why don’t you simply sell yourself on the nearest street corner?”

  “We take his money and then we throw him to the wolves, Beatrice. That’s the way this game is played.”

  “This man manufactures land mines that are blowing up children throughout the world,” Bea said.

  “As the Kennedys once said,” Candlin argued, “you get elected, then worry about your philosophical positions.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Bea said.

  “I wonder how you’ve survived in politics as long as you have,” the congressman replied.

  The argument would continue. Since he could not participate, Lyon thought it expedient to leave the room.

  The party was still in progress in the huge living room. Peyton had staked out a social station in the corner opposite the string ensemble. A group of laughing men surrounded him. Their tanned looks and obvious affluence identified them as the ‘golf-playing’ contingent. They broke into a unanimous whoop of laughter at Peyton’s latest remark.

  At the extreme edge of the long patio that ran by the parapet over the river, Lyon found Paula Piper standing in the shadows. Her slight form, in contrast to the massive stone walls and overhangs, made her appear very vulnerable. He recalled watching her volunteer activities during Bea’s last campaign. The young woman’s vibrancy and zest were infectious. Her open personality was in many ways the exact opposite of her father’s assured pragmatism. He hoped that these appealing qualities in her were never lost or destroyed.

  When he stood next to her at the low wall she glanced up in mild apprehension until she saw who it was. A tentative smile signaled her recognition. Lyon leaned on the wall to stare out into the night.

  “Did you know we have a ghost at Bridgeway?” Paula said. “If you look hard enough on the nights of a full moon you can see her rise up from the river and walk along the parapet.”

  “Anyone I know?” Lyon asked.

  “Mary Piper. That was Old Caleb’s first wife. Caleb is the Civil War colonel immortalized in our stained-glass window.”

  “What did Mary do to deserve such a fate?”

  “That’s the disturbing part. We don’t know. The story is that they were having dinner out here on the patio when Mary abruptly left the table and walked over to the parapet. She climbed on the wall, spread her arms wide apart, and before anyone could stop her, leaped into the river. Her body was never found. They say that six months later she rose from her watery grave to haunt us forever.”

  “Have you seen this apparition?” Lyon asked.

  She gave him a real smile this time. “Of course not, but I like the story. When I was fifteen I spent a great deal of time making up reasons as to why she jumped. Most of my reasons were variations of family problems that teenagers face.”

  “That sounds a little morose,” Lyon said, aware that this was a mental state that often consumed adolescents.

  “I’m going to die,” she said quietly without rancor.

  “We all are, Paula … eventually.” He sighed inwardly at her new mood. During his days teaching English at Middleburg University, he had been only too aware of sensitive adolescents who seemed to write hundreds of poems announcing their affinity with death.

  Paula tried to manufacture a laugh, but the effort produced only a choked sob. “Evidently not eventually,” she said. “I’ve just been informed that my murder is practically around the corner. Like, this month.”

  He considered the possibility that the protesters outside the mansion had truly frightened her. “Those people who were demonstrating tonight are against killing,” he said. “I don’t think they will harm you.”

  “I don’t mean them. I know most of the younger ones from school, and I would have been with them if Daddy’s hired goons wouldn’t laugh at me. I’m talking about something else.”

  Lyon wondered what in the world Swan was up to. If he were using this murder game as a ploy with a very sensitive, death-obsessed young woman, he was into cheap hits. But if sex was his ultimate aim, why did he ask Lyon to come tonight? “I don’t understand.”

  “Markham Swan says it’s my turn,” she said. Her eyes were wide in astonishment and fear. Lyon realized that her feelings transcended poetic sensitivity or adolescent depression. This was pure fear. This was a display of a deep human emotion—a dread of imminent death.

  “Someone is going to kill me,” she insisted with conviction.

  “Who is someone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Wait a minute, Paula,” Lyon said. “How old are you?”

  “I just turned eighteen,” the young woman replied.

  “Do you have many jilted lovers thirsting for revenge?”

  She blushed. “I’ve only had one lover and he hasn’t been jilted yet.�
�

  “Someone is after your money?” Lyon suggested.

  “I do have a trust fund from my grandparents and Mom, but I’m an only child.”

  “Terrorists are out to get you?”

  “Terrorist countries are often Daddy’s best customers.”

  “Then there is no reason why anyone would want to kill or even harm you, is there?” Lyon said.

  “No.”

  He made a final attempt to turn her. “There is something called a panic attack, which has fearful symptoms. Perhaps you should see a doctor.”

  “Please don’t be condescending, Mr. Wentworth. I mean what I say. Look at this.” She handed Lyon a white piece of copy paper folded into four parts. “Please read it.”

  Lyon carefully unfolded the paper to find several lines centered on the page. He tilted the paper toward the light and read: “Paula: The Piper Pie proves it. You are going to die this month. Come to the gate cottage at nine tonight and I will show you how I know.” The note was signed Markham Swan. Lyon carefully refolded the paper and handed it back to her.

  Her eyes were very wide as she looked into his face. “You see what I mean?”

  “How well do you know Markham?” Lyon asked.

  “We were introduced when he first arrived to start the book. I see him around the estate and we’ve exchanged a few words. He puts in a great deal of time at the house and often works in the library, but I’ve been away at college for most of the time. He’s also living in the gate cottage with his wife. I once found him alone with my stepmother in the library. They were standing very near each other and looked like they had just quickly stepped apart. They looked sheepish.”

  “What is the Piper Pie?”

  “I haven’t the slightest,” the young girl answered.

  Lyon laughed. “A new cook perhaps? A lousy baker?”

  She looked. “You’re not taking this seriously?”

  “You’ll have to make it clearer for me,” Lyon said.

  “Rabbit delivered this note earlier in the day and I believe it.”