Free Death Under the Lilacs by Richard; Forrest

Traxis snapped a towel around his shoulders and walked briskly from the room, with Lyon following. The man who answered the front door stayed behind to straighten up the small gym. “I have a factory in England. If you want a travel guide, the local library is well equipped to answer your questions.”
    They walked down the hall to a sunroom where a silver pot of coffee waited on a glass-topped table.
    â€œI’m interested in how many stamps you might have purchased in London,” Lyon said.
    â€œCoffee?” Lyon shook his head. Traxis poured some into a bone china cup and added cream. “A good part of my collection has come from London. What in the hell is this, Wentworth? What devious little scheme is in the back of your teeny liberal mind?”
    â€œDo you own an inverted American airmail?”
    â€œI do not. And I’d give my right arm for one. I specialize in early airmails, you know. This conversation seems built on non sequiturs. What in the world would an inverted airmail have to do with your wife’s …” He stopped with his cup poised in midair. “She’s being held for ransom and they’re asking for stamps.”
    â€œFour 24-cent inverted airmails, a Hawaiian 2-cent of 1851, a Confederate Mount Lebanon—you are familiar with those stamps?”
    â€œHell, any serious collector in the world is. They are some of the most valuable in existence.”
    â€œAnd they are to be delivered in London,” Lyon continued.
    There was a pause from the man at the glass-topped table. “I don’t like it one goddamn bit, Wentworth. I know what you’re thinking.”
    â€œYour name is the only one I recognize that appears on the subscription list of the American Philatelic Journal and certain plane manifests.”
    A small muscle throbbed in Traxis’ left cheek as he stared at Lyon. “I can guess the scenario,” he finally said. “I, due to my all-consuming hatred of Bea Wentworth combined with a desire to accumulate certain valuable stamps … You are full of it. You are as full of it as your wife.”
    Lyon felt a flush of anger so strong that his legs and knees felt weak, and he had a desire to hold on to something for support. He fought for control. “When are you going back to England?”
    â€œNone of your damn business.”
    â€œTomorrow? The day after?”
    â€œAs a matter of fact, I wouldn’t be in Wessex today if it wasn’t required for the annual board meeting. I am returning to England in the very near future.” He placed his coffee cup firmly in its saucer and stood. “When was your wife taken?”
    Lyon told him.
    â€œIf it will get you off my back, it so happens that on that particular evening I was at a town meeting. As usual, I made my views known. I estimate that I was seen and heard by over a hundred people.”
    â€œThat’s easily verifiable.”
    â€œYes, isn’t it?” He called out, “Reuven!” Almost immediately the younger man appeared in the doorway. “Please show my friend here to the door. Our business is concluded.”
    Reuven looked at Lyon, who rose and followed him down the hallway.
    Lyon stopped with his hand on the front door. “By the way, Reuven, where were you last Thursday?”
    â€œRight here. I polished silver that night.”
    â€œAll alone?”
    â€œAll alone.”
    Lyon sat in the car and wished Rocco were with him. He was certain that the large police chief, because of his experience, would have conducted a more productive interview. This one had accomplished nothing. Traxis collected stamps and periodically went to England. Both enterprises were perfectly legitimate. He had probably collected stamps since he was a boy, and he apparently had an airtight alibi for the night Bea was taken.
    On the other hand, Traxis did dislike Bea with a nearly unreasonable passion, seeing her as representative of a whole