Free Death Under the Lilacs by Richard; Forrest Page A

political spectrum that he not only hated, but considered a threat to his interests. Moreover, Traxis had money, and nearly any service could be obtained for a price.
    Lyon drove the two short blocks to the town hall, where he quickly scanned the minutes of the last town meeting. Traxis had indeed been present, and his remarks at the meeting were noted.
    That left the man with the gray eyes.

6
    Lyon’s hands perspired as he snicked the phone from its wall bracket. “Wentworth,” he said flatly.
    â€œHe got away.”
    â€œRocco?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhere are you?”
    â€œAt an infirmary somewhere in London.”
    â€œAre you all right?”
    â€œA few cuts from flying glass, nothing major. Might even improve my looks.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œAs you know, the letter was addressed to Willingham at the Hotel Dalton on Raven Street. I had all sorts of cooperation from the Yard and they had men staked out in the street, and one of their guys posed as the room clerk. We had a crew, including me, in a room across the street. Willingham, whoever he is, had reserved a room in the hotel by mail. The letter with your stamps was put in that room’s mailbox and we waited.”
    â€œHe never showed?”
    â€œHe arrived, all right. With a bang. The bastard set off a car bomb right in front of the hotel, and in the excitement someone grabbed the letter from the box and got out through the back. He outsmarted us, Lyon.” There was a pause. “I did my best. I’m sorry.”
    â€œI know you did everything you could,” Lyon said.
    â€œGot to sign off. They want to do something else to my face.”
    Lyon held the phone with the humming dial tone in his hand for long moments before he finally replaced it on its mount.
    He awoke on the couch after a fitful sleep. He blinked open his eyes to stare painfully at the bright morning sun streaming through the window. He felt a momentary lift at the color of the day, but then the memories of recent events flicked back into his consciousness and flooded him with depression.
    She was gone, very possibly dead. Their only slender lead had disappeared when the man in London had taken the stamps.
    He could deal with grief; it was this unknown limbo that tore at him. She could be alive, in pain, in need of medical help.… He tried not to think of the horror of all the possibilities.
    Rocco had failed, and although Lyon did not know all the details of that failure, he was certain his friend had tried everything within his powers to capture the kidnapper or his accomplice.
    Lilacs. She had spoken of lilacs on the short tape recording they had received. It was a clue, if only he could think objectively and decipher what she had tried to tell him.
    He had slept in his clothes and felt dingy.
    He took a longer-than-usual shower, lathering himself twice and alternating hot and cold water. He dressed slowly and went back down to the kitchen to make coffee.
    Bea hated lilacs. She hated them so much that last summer she had expunged the last ancient bushes from her garden with the ferocity that she usually employed with her weeding.
    It was imperative that he address himself to the problem. He had let his anxiety over her well-being block coherent thought.
    Lilacs were a clue. It was either the name or location of something that would lead him to her.
    Lyon ran from the breakfast nook and down the stairs into what had once been a recreation room. Years ago Bea had appropriated it as her political office, and it now contained file cabinets, thousands of coded index cards on her constituents, and other political paraphernalia. The room included a complete set of Connecticut phone directories.
    He began to leaf through their pages. There was a Lilac Garden and Shrub Service on the Boston Post Road in Old Saybrook. There were several listings of “Lilac” as a proper name, and a Lilac Dry Cleaners in West Hartford. He