A Multitude of Sins (29 page)

Catharine avoided both the windows and the desk. She went to one of the armchairs facing a small fireplace framed with exquisite Belgian tiles.

“Will you sit down, gentlemen?”

Travers took the chair facing her, waiting until Conan drew up another before he began, displaying a reticence that seemed entirely natural.

“Mrs. Canfield, I wish I didn’t have to bring up the subject of your daughter’s death again, but I’m afraid I must. You see, we’ve made an arrest.”

Her polite smile faded. “An arrest? Not…Isadora?”

“No, ma’am. Miss Canfield has been cleared. There’s no question at all of her innocence now.”

“Well, I’m…gratified, if that’s the case.” But it was obvious she didn’t believe it.

“The way we read the situation now,” Travers went on, “someone tried to take advantage of her—well, her illness; tried to make it look like she killed Jenny in some sort of mental lapse.”

“Take advantage—perhaps you should explain that.”

“Yes, ma’am. Well first, I talked to Dr. Heideger, and as I told you, she’s a fine doctor. She said Isadora showed all the symptoms of a ‘bad trip’ Saturday night. A real classic.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“She’d been drugged. LSD.”

It was frustrating, trying to read the responses behind the glasses, but her pallor betrayed her now.

“
Drugged?
That’s impossible.”

“I’m afraid not,” Travers said levelly. “Someone knew LSD trips are a lot like schizoid attacks. I guess they thought that with Isadora’s history, this would be passed off as just another attack, and it would’ve been except for Dr. Heideger. She didn’t know anything about Isadora’s problems; she just went on the obvious physical symptoms.”

Catharine asked tightly, “What does Dr. Kerr say about that?”

Conan answered the question, watching her head come around toward him.

“He’s in complete agreement. He talked to Dr. Heideger at some length.”

“Fortunately, we have more than medical opinions,” Travers said, and her head turned toward him. “We found the person who gave her the drug.”

She listened, motionless and rapt, as he told her about Milly Weaver. But he didn’t once refer to Carleton by name, forcing her when he concluded to ask, “Who was it? Who told this Weaver woman to give Isadora that drug?”

“The man who was Milly’s defense counsel. C. Robert Carleton.” He paused at her audible gasp of surprise. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Canfield. I know this is a shock for you.”

“Bob?” She shook her head distractedly. “No, he couldn’t—I just can’t believe that. Not
Bob
.”

“I’m afraid there’s no doubt about his involvement in this. Did you know he had Isadora under surveillance since the twenty-fourth of February?”

Her reply was slow in coming.

“Of course, I didn’t know. Why would he do that?”

“He says he was just worried about her making another suicide attempt, which is odd, because Dr. Kerr says he made it clear
he
considered that risk negligible. Yet Carleton was worried enough to pay for full-time surveillance, including bugging the phone at the cottage. But he says you and Jim agreed to it. Is that true?”

Her tone was cool. “I said I didn’t know about it.”

He nodded. “That’s what I thought. Anyway, the interesting thing about the tailing is that it was called off Saturday afternoon. Nobody wanted any witnesses around the cottage. Everett Worth—he runs the agency Carleton hired for the job—said it was Carleton who called him and told him to get off the case.” He hesitated, looking at her almost apologetically. “Another thing, Jenny supposedly called Isadora at the Surf House, you know.”

“Yes, I was told about that.”

“Well, Jenny didn’t make the call. No calls were made from the cottage at that time.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“The phone was bugged.”

“Oh. Yes, the—the surveillance.”

He didn’t correct her misapprehension.

“We don’t have a record of the call Isadora got, of course, and her memory of it is pretty fuzzy, but whoever made it knew she’d be in no condition to recognize an imitation of Jenny’s voice. Only the man who had her drugged would know that.”

She frowned. “What about that Weaver woman? She certainly knew Isadora was drugged.”

“Yes, ma’am, but at the time Isadora took that call, Milly was waiting for Max to set up an order for her.”

“But,
why
?”
She turned away, her hand clenching on the white cane. “I could understand Isadora killing her. Not purposely, or even knowingly, but I saw her after…after John died. But
Bob
—why
would
he
kill Jenny?”

“We can’t say for sure, but I’m afraid it has something to do with her addiction.”

“No.
”
She was suddenly stiff with offended dignity. “I will not believe that drivel about Jenny. Someone put that—that drug in her bedroom. She was my daughter. Don’t you think I’d know if she were an…addict?”

Travers sighed, looking helplessly to Conan to answer the question.

“No, Mrs. Canfield, you wouldn’t know. Even if you knew what symptoms to look for, you’re at more of a disadvantage than most parents; you couldn’t
see
them.”

She took that broadside with no apparent effect.

“Then you think it’s true?”

“I know it’s true. I talked to her Saturday afternoon. She was trying to quit and was already in the first stages of withdrawal.”

The pretense finally failed briefly, and he felt her
looking
at him from behind the dark glasses.

“Jen…told you she was…
”

“Yes. She needed help.”

“But why would she go to you for help?”

He paused, then shrugged. “She really didn’t come to me for help, but she was willing to accept it when I offered it. We had something in common.”

“You mean Isadora?”

“No. A painting. Mrs. Canfield, Jenny told me she had called her pusher, the person who supplied her morphine, and told him she was quitting, and I had the impression she threatened him with something—exposure, probably—if he didn’t leave her alone. I also had the impression she intended to talk to him that night, but she considered herself in no danger. That suggests it was someone she trusted, or at least, knew well.”

“And you think Bob is—was her…pusher?”

Travers answered, “We have no proof of that yet, but we know Jenny had a visitor that night. We found a witness who saw a sports car drive up to the cottage at 8:35 and leave about ten minutes later.”

“A sports car? Do you…know who it was?”

“No. It was a stormy night; the witness didn’t even get a license number, but he was sure it was a sports car.”

She nodded vaguely, and for some time was silent; she seemed numbed, hardly aware that she wasn’t alone. Finally, she asked, “Where is Bob now?”

“At Salem police headquarters,” Travers replied. “He has legal counsel, of course, but he wants to talk to you. In fact, he’s been quite insistent about it.”

Her head came up slowly. “Why to me?”

“He says you can clear him. That’s the main reason I’m here.” He paused, but she didn’t question him, nor comment, nor even move. “When we first asked Carleton where he was Saturday night, he said he was at home from 7:30 until you called about Jenny. That was around ten, wasn’t it?”

Her head moved in a tense affirmative nod, and Travers went on, “Well, now he’s changed his story. He claims he was here talking to you from eight until 8:40. If that’s true, he couldn’t possibly have killed Jenny, and somebody else is trying to frame him for it.” He paused again, waiting for a response, and when she still made none, he asked flatly, “Mrs. Canfield, was he here?”

A silence gathered; a silence she seemed to weave around her. Conan waited, caught in the web of sun-moted stillness until finally she lifted her chin, and in that small movement was the firm resolve of a decision made.

“No.” There wasn’t the slightest shade of doubt in the word. “No, he wasn’t here. Does he really expect me to give him an alibi when he killed my daughter?”

Now, it was she who waited for a response, and when there was none, asked calmly, “Was there anything else you wanted to know, Mr. Travers?”

He cleared his throat. “Uh…no, not now. You
will
make a statement if we need it?”

“Of course.” She rose, and both men politely followed suit and accompanied her to the door. The cane moved ahead of her, silenced by the rug, the studied smile was still intact.

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news again,” Travers said. “I mean, about Mr. Carleton. I know you considered him a friend.”

“I was apparently wrong about Bob,” she said tautly, then added, “One never really knows people. Not even those who seem…closest.” For a moment, she was silent and withdrawn, but when Conan opened the door for her, she roused herself and preceded them into the foyer.

Travers looked at his watch. “Mrs. Canfield, I’ll show myself out. Thanks for your help. Conan?”

“Go ahead, Steve. I’ll be right behind you.”

He waited until Travers had departed. Catharine stood at the foot of the stairs, one hand on the newel post; the polite smile was getting a little ragged around the edges.

“Mrs. Canfield, I know this is a shock for you, about Mr. Carleton, but I think you’ll understand it’s a great relief to me.” Her expression didn’t change; she seemed to need an explanation. “It means Isadora is safe.”

At that, she tensed. “What?”

“Well, I mean free from any suspicion.”

“Oh. Yes, of course, and I’m so relieved for her sake.”

“I called Dr. Kerr as soon as Steve told me about Carleton’s arrest. Since she’s free of any legal restraint now, Dr. Kerr said there’s no reason for her to stay at Morningdell. He thinks she should come home.”

“Home?” The word seemed foreign to her, and the smile collapsed. “You mean, here?”

He hesitated. “Why, yes. Dr. Kerr will continue to treat her, of course, but on an out-patient basis.”

She made an attempt at recovering her smile.

“Well, that’s good news, indeed. I mean, that he thinks she’s well enough to come home. Did he say when?”

“Today. Or rather, this evening. He’s scheduled one more session with her this afternoon.”

“Today?” Another word that seemed foreign.

“Yes. Actually, I think Dore’s the one who’s pushing for the release; she’ll be very happy to leave Morningdell. And she’s looking forward to seeing Jim.”

Catharine still managed to hold on to her smile, but her response was absent and distracted.

“Jim had an exam today. He…he couldn’t miss it, but he’ll be home this evening.”

“Good. I’ll tell Dore. Oh—” He paused, frowning. “There’s something else, and I realize it’s a terrible imposition, but Dr. Kerr suggested that—well, for the first few days, I should stay with Dore here at the house. I wouldn’t ask you to put up a self-invited guest at a time like this, but he thought it was important.”

She needed a little time to absorb that, but she didn’t seem suspicious; only vaguely surprised.

“Yes, I know Isadora feels very strongly…I mean, she has…great faith in you. I can understand…” Then she seemed to remember herself and put on her courteous smile again.

“Mr. Flagg, don’t be concerned about imposing. I’d be delighted to have you, and I’m so pleased about Isadora. When can we expect you? For dinner, perhaps?”

“Yes, I think so. I’ll call if there’s any delay.”

“Thank you. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m…tired.”

She didn’t wait for his murmured assent, nor his goodbyes, but turned and began climbing the stairs slowly, as if every step were an overwhelming effort.

CHAPTER 23

The evening was less than stultifying only because Catharine suggested they retire to the salon after dinner so Isadora could play for them, and because Jim Canfield acted the role of host with deft grace, keeping the vein of conversation light, adroitly filling any dangerous vacuums. He also had the good sense to be quiet once they were comfortably settled around the piano, leaving his chair only between pieces to refill glasses or pour more sherry.

Isadora asked for the sherry, but neglected hers for the piano. Conan neglected his, too, but purposely. He noted that Jim showed some restraint with his scotch, but Catharine showed a surprising lack of restraint with hers.

But there was no restrain in Isadora’s playing. The tense uncertainty, the undertone of anxiety and even hostility that marked her every word and gesture since her homecoming, disappeared when she began playing. She laughed with Jim over his references to her “stodgy” choices, and played Haydn for him; acquiesced gracefully to Catharine’s request for the
Moonlight Sonata;
performed the Debussy
Feux d’artifice
for Conan brilliantly, apologizing afterward that she was out of practice.

Finally, at eleven, she ended the concert with the Liszt
Rhapsodie espagnole.
Her good spirits stayed with her as they adjourned from the salon and walked together down the hall to the foyer.

“Isadora, thank you so much for playing for us,” Catharine said, pausing when she reached the stairs. “I’ve missed your music so much.”

“Thank you.” A hint of constraint entered her tone. “I’ve missed the old Steinway, too.”