A Multitude of Sins (20 page)

“I
don’t doubt that.” He turned at the sound of footsteps, his comment about speaking of angels dying on his lips when he saw Isadora, an angry flush coloring her cheeks.

He rose. “Are you ready to go, Dore?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

Jim walked over to her. “Hey, Sis, how’d it go?”

“It didn’t.” Then she smiled and reached out for his hand. “Anyway, it was wonderful to see
you
again.”

“Well, I’ll take you over C. Bob anytime. Conan, bring her back again; brightens up the old homestead.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “I’ll say goodbye here. No use
looking
for trouble. Bob can
find
me if he wants
me.”

“Good luck, and take care, Jim.”

“You, too. You’re my favorite step-sibling, you know.” Carleton had departed when Conan and Isadora reached the foyer, but Catharine was waiting, with Sean in attendance.

“Mr. Flagg, I’m sorry you and Isadora can’t stay for dinner.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Canfield. Perhaps some other time.” He turned as Sean brought his jacket, but when she handed it to him, it slipped and fell to the floor.

“Oh—sorry,” he said, leaning down to retrieve it.

“I’ll get it, sir,” she put in quickly, and they almost collided. When they straightened, a match book had unobtrusively passed from his hand to hers.

CHAPTER 16

Isadora tolerated his preoccupied silence only until he turned onto Mission Drive.

“Conan, what’s wrong?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing.” Then as the traffic stopped at a red light, he began searching through his jacket pockets. He wasn’t surprised to find a slip of paper in one of them.

“Dore, tell me when the light changes.”

Folded inside the paper was a gauze-wrapped ampule. He studied it curiously, then read the note. It was short and very sweet:
Jackpot! Couldn’t identify this one. S.

“The light’s changed,” Isadora said.

He pocketed the note and ampule, and moved slowly along with the traffic. A glance in the rearview mirror showed him a tan Chevy a few cars behind.

“The note was from Sean. She’s going to call me later.”

“What about?”

“I’m not sure, but I’ll have to forego dinner with you tonight unless she calls early. By the way, I’ve been casting a little bread on the waters.”

“What kind of bread?”

“I told Jim you and I are contemplating marriage.” He sent her a wry smile. “I thought you’d like to know.”

She laughed. “Well, yes, and in this case, I think I’m entitled to ask why.”

“There’s a condition to your inheritance other than your reaching age twenty-five which you neglected to tell me about. You’re also eligible on marrying.”

“Oh, yes, I’d forgotten about that.” Then seeing his skeptical expression, she added, “Conan, I really did. Anyway, that doesn’t explain the bread you’ve been casting.”

“Doesn’t it? Your marriage would change things rather drastically with the estate. It could very well throw a first-class monkey wrench into someone’s works.”

Her hair was blowing around her face; she reached into her purse for a scarf, frowning slightly as she tied it on. “Whose works, Conan?”

“I don’t know. I’m just trying to exert some pressure; I’m not sure yet what may break. What was Carleton so anxious to talk to you about?”

Her mouth tightened irritably. “Oh, he was throwing a lot of legal jargon at me, but what it really boils down to, if I understood him, is that he and Catharine want to get rid of Marvin Hendricks and the bank.”

Conan nodded. “What did you tell him?”

“First, to go to hell. Second, that I’m perfectly satisfied with Hendricks, and I intend to talk to him and make my sentiments quite clear—on paper, if necessary.”

“You’ve been casting some bread yourself.” He changed lanes for the coast turn-off as they crossed the Willamette River bridge. “What about your call to Jenny?”

“Well, I left before she woke up today, and since I always make up my bed in the morning, she wasn’t even sure I’d been home last night. She called the Surf House and the bookshop and couldn’t find me, so she got worried.”

“Is that all?”

“No. She asked if anything had come up about the estate. When I told her Bob was there, she said, ‘Be careful, Dore.’ Just like that. Then she apologized for calling Catharine and
hung up.”

Conan was silent, concentrating on the traffic.

“Good advice,” he said finally. “I wonder if it’s the voice of experience.”

* * *

When he turned into the parking area in front of the small, flat-roofed building, Conan was alone. The sign in the window read, DR. NICOLE HEIDEGER, PHYSICIAN AND SURGEON.

After he turned off the motor, he watched in the rearview mirror as the tan Chevrolet drove past. It had tailed them all the way from Salem. He considered contacting Harry Munson, but decided against it; he didn’t want the man in the Chevy to see him using the radio. Time enough to call Harry when he got home.

Still, he was concerned about Jennifer Hanson. She was gone when he took Isadora home. On the beach. Again.

He checked his watch as he entered the empty waiting room. It was only four, but the gray, overcast sky made it seem later. Apparently, he was in luck; Nicky had no patients waiting. He crossed to the inner door and knocked.

“Yes?” Dr. Nicole Heideger looked up from behind a desk overwhelmed with papers and medical publications. “Conan—I’ll be damned. Come on in.”

The tiny office was crowded with bookshelves and filing cabinets. He went to the chair by the desk, feeling his usual claustrophobia in this apparently orderless lair, but it disappeared, as it always did, when Nicky smiled; a warm, easy smile born of Montana mountains. She had about her a typically Western air of capability, with her dark hair cut short, strong features showing an unconcerned lack of cosmetic adornment.

“Nicky, how are you?”

“That’s
my
line. You look healthy enough. What’s your problem?”

“I
am
healthy. I’m here for an expert opinion.”

One eyebrow lifted. “You’re on a case, then.”

“An excellent diagnosis, Doctor.”

“Okay, what’ve you got yourself into this time?”

“Well, it’s a little complicated, and—”

“In other words, none of my business?” She shrugged. “All right. So, what kind of expert opinion do you want?”

He handed her the gauze-wrapped ampule.

“What is it, Nicky?”

She studied it a moment. “Offhand, I’d say amyl nitrate. Is this valuable, or can I break it?”

“Whatever you like. I just want to know what it is.”

“Okay.” She pushed her chair back and went to the door behind her desk. “I’ll take it into the lab.”

When she returned a few minutes later, empty handed, she wrinkled her nose.

“Amyl nitrate. It’s used for certain types of heart disease; a vasodilator. You have a client with heart trouble?”

“No, not my client.”

“Somebody must have a problem to keep that around.”

“Somebody
had
a problem, but he was never treated for heart disease, and back in my G-2 days I ran across another use for amyl nitrate.” He frowned uneasily, then came to his feet. “Well, Nicky, as usual you’ve been very helpful.”

“Is that all the expert opinion you need?”

“That’s it, and thanks.”

“That was easy. Okay, just take care of yourself.”

He smiled back at her from the door. “I always do.”

“Sure. That’s why you’re walking around as a living monument to some of my finest handiwork.”

When he reached his car, the radio erupted with a dash of static and an inquiring repetition of his name. He surveyed the street as he reached for the mike. He couldn’t see the Chevy, but that didn’t mean its driver couldn’t see him.

“This is Munson. Can you hear me, Conan?” The reception was bad, blurred with interference from the approaching storm.

“Yes, Harry, but the signal’s weak. Where are you?”

He raised his voice. “About a block from your house.”

“From my house?”

“I’m tailing Jennifer Hanson.”

“How did she—okay, take it from the top.”

“Well, right after you brought Isadora home, Jenny came back from the beach, then ten minutes later, she drove down to the supermarket. I followed her inside; she was after groceries, all right. Didn’t talk to anybody, not even the cashier. She looked…well, kind of sick. Anyway, she took her groceries out to her car, then she went to that phone booth. She just stood there, like she was trying to make up her mind, then finally put her money in. The call lasted maybe three minutes.”

Conan frowned, wondering why she used a pay phone instead of the one at the cottage.

“Did she use a phone book?”

“No, pulled the number out of her head. After the call, she headed for your house, but she couldn’t seem to make up her mind about that, either. She got halfway home, then turned around and took off south. Anyway, she’s sitting on your door step now.”

Conan’s jaw tightened. He’d wanted to talk to her; he should be pleased at this unexpected opportunity.

“Harry, what about Garner?”

“I guess he isn’t interested in Jenny; he stayed home.”

“All right, you’d better get back to Shanaway. I’ll go see what’s on Jenny’s mind.”

CHAPTER 17

Conan braked to a skidding stop behind the yellow VW. Jennifer Hanson was huddled on the porch step with her jacket collar turned up as if she were cold. Yet in spite of the threatening sky it was warm and windless; the taut stillness that presages a storm. The ocean had the dull sheen of molten lead given a yellow cast against the distant blue-gray curtains of squall lines. He thought of Harry Munson’s outdoor blind and wondered if he’d brought plenty of raingear. The storm would break within the hour.

Jenny didn’t move as he approached, only watching him with her round, quiet face nearly devoid of expression.

He asked, “Have you been waiting long, Jenny?”

“No.” A hesitation, then, “I came to see the Knight.”

“I’ve been wanting to show it to you.” He unlocked the door and stood aside. “Come in.”

She rose, but for a moment only stared into the house, then at length entered warily.

“It’s in the library,” he said. “This way.”

She followed him silently down the hall to the library door, and when he stood aside for her, she again hesitated before going in. He watched her as her eyes moved around the room, finally stopping at the corner to her left.

For a long time she stared at the painting, and he almost expected her to weep. But she didn’t, and he found something else in her face to make him wonder.

Her eyes. The dilation of the pupils was almost normal. And she was pale, a sheen of perspiration on her forehead. He was beginning to understand this pilgrimage.

“I like the setting,” she said finally. “The niche.”

“It isn’t a painting to be exposed nakedly on a wall. It needs to be discovered.”

Her glance was laced with skepticism.

“Tell me, Mr. Flagg, what does it—I mean, how do you interpret it?”

He didn’t look at the painting, but she seemed to find it difficult to keep her eyes away from it.

“Fear,” he said. “The mind protects itself against pain, but if it armors itself too well, it ceases to be human; it becomes trapped in its own armor.”

She shivered and turned away, but couldn’t seem to decide where to go or what to do. When he went to her and took her arm, she tensed in silent alarm.

“Jenny, come sit down.”

She made no response, but offered no resistance as he guided her to the chair and side table by the windows. He pulled up another chair for himself and lit a cigarette, taking his time about it, studying her.

She seemed unaware of the growing silence or anything else except the Knight. He couldn’t doubt it was her only conscious motive for coming here. It was evidence of past accomplishment and perhaps future potential. He wondered if it might also serve as a measure of the man who owned it.

“Is there anything about it you’d change, Jenny?”

Her eyes didn’t leave the painting. “No. Nothing.”

“That’s the truest measure of a successful painting.”

She looked at him now and even smiled tentatively.

“Yes, it is. The good ones have a life of their own. It must be like having children. You know they’re yours, your own flesh and blood, but they grow up into separate, distinct beings. It’s a kind of—of immortality.” Then she averted her eyes, as if she were afraid she’d said too much.

“Which puts artists in a class with magicians and saints; admired, but also envied, and in a sense, feared.” Then he smiled, his tone light now. “I always find myself waxing ponderously philosophical when I talk about art.”

“Well, it’s…a philosophical subject, but not many people seem to want to think about it that much.”

“There’s very little that separates us from our animal cousins, Jenny. Cruelty is one thing, but so is art. I like to keep my personal balance weighed on the side of art. But I’m falling into philosophy again. Are you cold? I can turn up the thermostat.”

The question was prompted by a passing shiver. She shook her head, her mouth compressed and lined with white, and he felt a chill himself, as if it were contagious.

“No, I’m not cold,” she murmured. “I’m fine.”

A lie, and a poignantly unconvincing one. She was more than cold; she was ill and perhaps in pain. He cast about in his mind for words, because he understood now the heroic decision that brought her into the presence of the Knight; a decision born of the despair that drove her to slash the canvases in her studio. Yet it was a decision made in armored solitude. She had created that symbol of fear, recognizing a human constant within herself. So he searched for the words to reach past the armor without frightening her into total retreat.