A Multitude of Sins (5 page)

“That would test any adolescent’s emotional equilibrium. How old is he now?”

“Twenty-two. My big brother by six months. He’s a senior at Willamette, and making lousy grades; he’d always rather party than study.” She sighed, smiling ruefully. “I just hope he’ll finally get his fling over and settle down.”

“Have you discussed the surveillance with him?”

“No. You don’t take your troubles to Jim if you’re looking for answers, but he always has a good shoulder ready for crying on. I don’t know what I’d have done without him after Dad died.”

“A ready shoulder negates a multitude of sins. What else can you tell me about the will?”

He knew her answer concerned Catharine Canfield before she said a word; the cold bitterness was in her eyes.

“One more thing. The house in Salem—the old family house—will be mine, which means in four years, I’ll have the option of throwing Catharine out.”

He let that pass without comment.

“Who’s executor of the estate?”

“Oh, it’s divided somehow between the Ladd-Bush Bank and Bob Carleton.” Then she added caustically, “That’s C. Robert Carleton, the family attorney.”

“You mean Judge Carleton?”

“No, I wish it were. The judge handled Dad’s affairs for years, but he died five years ago. This is his son.”

Conan didn’t pursue her feelings for C. Robert Carleton. They were obvious.

“Did your father have a history of heart disease?”

“No. Not even a hint of trouble. No warning at all. He was only fifty-five; he loved hiking and still played tennis and skied—” She stopped suddenly, a trembling hand coming up to hide her eyes. “Conan, please—why all the questions about Dad?”

He waited, giving her a little time; she was dry-eyed when her hand fell away from her face.

“Dore, before we go on, you must understand two things. First, I can’t work in a vacuum; I must have information, and that means asking questions. Secondly, you’ve hired me to find some answers for you, but if I’m successful, you may regret it; the answers could be extremely painful.”

She nodded. “Conan, I have no choice. I
must
know.”

“All right. As for the questions about your father, remember the tailing began only after his death. The demise of a man of wealth and power usually changes the course of other people’s lives; it’s inevitably a catalytic event.”

“But I don’t see what it could possibly have to do with—with those men.”

“Neither do I, now, and the surveillance may have been triggered by something that happened
after
his death. It was a month before you moved to Shanaway.”

It was a question, and she seemed to recognize it as such, but she turned away, hands clasped tensely.

“I can’t think of anything that happened since his death that could explain it.”

That was probably true. Still, there was something about that month she
could
tell him. But that was a restricted area, and he’d have to find out why eventually.

“I’ll spare you more questions now; we’ve kept your friend waiting long enough. But we have some plans to discuss. Like they say, we can’t go on meeting like this.”

One eyebrow came up. “How can we go on meeting, then?”

“I have a plan which will require some Thespian skill, but since you grew up in politics, that should be easy.” He gave her a slow smile. “Isadora, tonight will mark the beginning of a beautiful, or at least, plausible romance.”

“Ah. Just what I’ve been waiting for.”

“No doubt. Anyway, it’ll give us an excuse to see a great deal of each other in the future. I’ll have dinner at the Surf House—you
are
playing tonight?” Then at her nod, “I want to be sure your night man is there when we ‘meet.’ We’ll need a signal. The Chopin
Fantasy Impromptu,
you know it?”

“Of course.”

“When he arrives, play the
Fantasy,
as written, but only the—well, the ‘I’m Always Chasing Rainbows’ theme.”

She laughed delightedly. “A musical code—marvelous.”

“Almost inevitable in this case. When I get your signal, I’ll set up our introduction with Max. This won’t be love at first sight, but make it clear you’re at least interested.”

“I think I can manage that. You’re considered Holliday Beach’s most eligible bachelor, you know.”

“Mrs. Early has been trying to remedy that for years. Now, I want you to memorize a telephone number: 779-7070.”

She reached for her purse. “I’d better make a note—”

“I said memorize.” He repeated the number, and she hesitated, then closed her eyes, concentrating.

“779-7070. Right?”

“Right. That’s only for emergencies. It’s a special line. A while back I had some trouble with bugs in my phone, so a friend of mine, who happens to be an electronic genius, put in the special line. But, Dore, if you call me, be careful. Your phone at the cottage is probably bugged.”

She nodded wearily. “I was afraid it might be.”

“I’ll check it as soon as possible.” He looked at his watch and rose. “You’d better get back to the beach now. Your friend might go looking for you if you’re gone too long.” He felt her tension at that, but assumed it was only the reference to her watcher.

But as he walked with her out onto the patio, he began to realize her strained silence had another source. She glanced almost furtively into the low brush near the path, so distracted his voice startled her.

“What’s wrong, Dore?”

“Oh, nothing, really. It’s just that—well, your back entrance is a little primeval.” When he made no response except a level gaze that demanded further explanation, she sighed. “I have sort of a—a thing about…snakes.”

He felt strangely relieved; perhaps because her willingness
to explain meant this wasn’t a restricted area. But he didn’t dismiss it lightly. Her tone might be casual, but her eyes were telling a different story. Phobia.

“Does company help? I’ll walk you down to the beach.” Her quick laugh brimmed with relief.

“Yes, it helps. Thank you. Oh, I forgot to ask—I mean, about your…fee, or whatever.”

“I’ll expect carte blanche on my expenses. I warned you I’d be calling in reinforcements.”

“But, what about—”

“As for
my
fee, it’s beyond price.”

She studied him skeptically. “And what is it?”

“Something money can’t buy me. A private concert, with you at the Bösendorfer.”

A smile curved her lips, giving her eyes a warm light. “That hardly seems fair; it would be so much my pleasure. But it’s yours, whenever you want it.”

“I’ll have to earn it first. Come on, I’ll blaze the trail down to the beach.”

CHAPTER 5

It promised to be one of those clear, spectrum-shaded sunsets, but the sun was still a good twenty degrees above the horizon, reflected in a molten glare from the ocean. Conan stood at the library windows, watching the waves smoothing the dimpled pattern of footprints in the sand.

Isadora Canfield had already made her exit from this scene, but not unattended. Her silver Stingray left the beach access just thirty seconds ahead of the red Ford. Conan was only surprised at the negligence.

He went to the desk, reached for a scratch pad, and tore off a single sheet. This was nearly reflexive; he’d found too many “lost” messages indented in second sheets. Then for the next half hour, he scarcely moved except to light a succession of cigarettes while he mentally reconstructed his conversation with Isadora in sequence and detail. By the time he finished his mnemonic exercise, the light in the windows had a reddish cast, and he’d covered the paper with cryptic notes and big-looped question marks.

Finally, he swiveled around to face the bookshelves and pressed a concealed lever. A section of shelves opened, revealing a compartment containing a radio transmitter, four two-way radios, an assortment of minuscule monitors, a Mauser 9 mm. automatic, and a telephone; the special line.

He put the phone on the desk, then opened his address book to the
D
s, surrendering to a reminiscent smile as he focused on one entry:
Charles Duncan, the Duncan Investigations Service, San Francisco.

That name always called up a crowd of memories whose sharp edges were blunted by time, polarized on the twin axes of G-2 and Berlin. He’d called on Duncan for professional assistance many times since Berlin, but when he thought of him, he always thought first of that grimly divided city.

He glanced at his watch; it was after office hours, but that had an advantage; he was spared contending with a receptionist. Duncan himself answered, his terse formality dissolving when Conan identified himself.

“Hey, Conan—I’ll be damned!”

“Probably. How’s life in the city?”

“Beautiful. Just great. Shirt-sleeve weather and sunshine. Uh….you
do
remember what sunshine is?”

“The sun shines in Oregon regularly twice a year.”

“Glad to hear that. Wouldn’t want you to lose your tan. Say, I tried to get hold of you a couple of months ago. Had a nice little case on; the Campina murder.”

“Yes, well, I gathered from the headlines you did all right on that one even without my help.”

“We try. What the hell were you doing in Teheran?”

“Some research on the Medes for a collector in Miami. He picked up a cuneiform-Aramaic tablet in an estate—”

“One of your ‘consultation’ deals? Don’t bother. Cuneiform’s Greek to me. You got something on your mind, or you just running up a phone bill for kicks?”

“I have something on my mind, Charlie. A client.”

“Uh-huh. So, how many men do you need this time?”

“Three. Two for surveillance, and another for some background research.”

“What’s the problem?”

“A lady asked me to find out why she’s being tailed.”

“Sounds a little tame for you, Chief. Ask her husband.”

“She isn’t married. I haven’t much information yet, but I do know this much: her father died recently, and she’s an heiress to the tune of three or four million. It may have no bearing on the tailing, but large, round sums like that seem to bring out the worst in people.”

“Yeah. What about her father—how’d he die?”

Conan laughed. “Charlie, you were always a suspicious soul. Heart attack. Apparently.”

“Sure. Who was he?”

“One of our U.S. Senators.”

“You mean
Canfield
?”

“I see his fame reached beyond our borders.”

“Well, he
did
shoot off his mouth on a lot of hot issues, you know. So, your client’s his daughter?”

“Yes. Isadora Canfield.”

“Isadora? Sounds like a spindle-shanked spinster.”

“Well, technically, she
is
a spinster.” He smiled to himself. “About five-eight, long brown hair, blue eyes, approximately 36-24-36, twenty-one years old.”

“Yeah. Now I understand your interest in the case.”

“She plays piano beautifully, Charlie.”

“I’m sure she’s rolling in talent.”

“As a matter of fact, she is. But talent and vital statistics aside, the tailing raises my hackles a little with that much money involved.”

“Well, you got a point there. I wish to hell I could come up and give you a hand—vital statistics aside—but I’m tied down with a subpoena.”

“Can’t you make a deposition?”

“No, I tried that. I may be stuck here for weeks.”

“Damn. Who else is available? What about Carl Berg?”

“Carl? He’s available. Just came back from his vacation. Another session with you should get him back in shape again. Hang on a minute; I’ll see who else is loose.”

While Conan waited, his gaze wandered to the painting in the corner: the Knight. He found himself trying to imagine the creator of that brooding image playing the “faithful watchdog” for anyone. What had happened to Jennifer Hanson? But that was one of the question marks on his list.

He picked up the pen as Duncan returned to the phone. “Conan, I have a new man available. Done some good work for me. Harry Munson.”

He made a note of the name. “All right. Who else?”

“Well, as a favor for an old buddy, I’m sending one of my top operatives. Came to me from the LAPD and CIA.”

Conan noted the overtone of irony with some suspicion.

“Tell me more.”

“Let’s see. About five-six, red hair, blue eyes, approximately 36-24-36.
Ms.
Sean Kelly.”

He laughed. “Interesting qualifications.”

“I figure since you’re both Irish you’ll have a lot in common—
if
you can get her to swallow the Irish once she’s had a good look at you.”

“Blood always tells, Charlie.”

“Seriously, though, she’s damned good at digging up information. You’d better use her for your research.”