Death at King Arthur's Court by Richard; Forrest

knelt before he clicked on the flashlight. ‘Don’t move! I have a weapon!’
    She gave a startled gasp and then turned to throw up her arms as if to shield herself from the shot. She squinted into the light that shone directly in her face. ‘Is that you, Bear Baby? It’s about time.’
    â€˜Who are you?’
    â€˜A friend of Morgan’s,’ she said.
    Lyon wondered if the shrinking contingent of Morgan’s friends might not be an endangered species more vulnerable than spotted owls and snow leopards. ‘Do you usually creep around people’s lawns in the middle of the night attempting to break into motor homes?’
    â€˜The bastard changed the combination on me.’ She turned to pound on the door with her fist. ‘Morgan! I know you can hear me. Open up, Morgan! It’s me, Bambi.’
    Lyon cringed. He knew that people were actually named Bambi, and wondered if Thumper and Flower were far behind. ‘How did you get out here?’
    â€˜Why? Do I get to play twenty questions with you?’
    â€˜Yes, you do, because this is my property and you are trespassing.’
    â€˜So, I got confused over directions and cut the turn into this place too tight. My pickup slid into the culvert down by the road.’ She resumed thumping on the heavy metal door with both fists. ‘Morgan! Damn it! Open the frigging door.’
    She was a voluptuous woman wearing sneakers and tight designer jeans that stretched tautly across her rump. A white shirt, open one button too far, covered large and impossibly pointed breasts. Her full figure was topped with a huge mass of flaming auburn hair that Lyon suspected was not its original color, since he had never seen that particular shade of red before. The harsh light of the powerful lamp revealed somewhat coarse features with lines around the eyes that signified more years than her figure seemed to suggest.
    She turned her anger toward Lyon. ‘That son-of-a-bitch has no intention of opening the door. So, what are you going to do about it, Wimp Face?’
    Lyon laughed. ‘Wimp Face is not going to do anything about it.’
    She pointed to the large lantern which dangled from his hand. ‘Were you really going to shoot me with that flashlight?’
    â€˜Actually, I have never heard of any terrorists named Bambi. Do you have a full name or don’t creatures of the wood need one?’
    Part of her tension dissipated and she nearly smiled at him. ‘It’s Bambi Dolores. That’s my stage name, since I am a dancer.’
    â€˜Oh, I see,’ he said, to hide more confusion over this late-night visitor. She seemed too large for ballet, a bit too coarse for a theatrical chorus, and somehow he couldn’t place her in an interpretive modern dance company.
    â€˜That guy really isn’t coming out tonight, is he?’
    â€˜I would think not,’ Lyon answered.
    She sighed. ‘So that the night is not a complete waste, how about a drink before you help me get my truck out?’
    His curiosity was piqued over Morgan’s choice of women. This tough redhead standing fearlessly before him did not seem the sort of person the suave Morgan would pursue. ‘There’s got to be a bottle of something left on the bar cart. Come on up to the house.’
    She walked by his side and stared up at the widow’s walk that dominated the top of Nutmeg Hill. ‘This is some mansion, mister. If this is your place and you aren’t just the guy who does the grounds, you must be loaded.’
    Lyon laughed at the ingenuousness which seeped around the edge of her tough veneer. ‘I’m hardly loaded. It’s a big old house, but hardly a mansion. It only has twelve rooms. It looks larger because of the way it’s situated on the bluff.’ He flipped on the living-room light and went back into the kitchen. He heard her exploring the living room while he shoveled cubes from the refrigerator