A Multitude of Sins (6 page)

“I’ll take your advice on that. Now, I need all three of them as soon as possible.”

“I know. Like tomorrow, right? You want them in Holliday Beach?”

He hesitated, absently embroidering a question mark with baroque curls.

“Have them take the earliest flight available to Portland tomorrow morning. Give Carl the special line number and tell him to call me when they arrive.”

“Okay. Anything special they should bring?”

“No, just the usual gear. And beach clothes.
Oregon
beach clothes; I don’t want them looking California.”

“That means raincoats, umbrellas, and hip boots.”

“But they won’t need wet suits now; we’re going into the dry season. I’m sorry you’re stuck in court.”

“Yeah, so am I. Nobody’s offered
me
a case with vital statistics like that.”

Conan didn’t hang up when Charlie did, but immediately began dialing again; another office number in spite of the late hour. The call went to Salem: to Steve Travers, Chief of Detectives, Salem Division, Oregon State Police.

It was answered on the first ring. “Travers.”

“Hello, Steve. Are you busy?”

“Conan?” There was a short laugh, and Conan had a clear image of Travers with his lank body folded into his chair, his feet undoubtedly propped on his desk.

“No, of course I’m not busy. I always stay here at the office when there’s a hockey game on TV I want to see.”

“Let me rephrase that. Are you too busy to give me a couple of minutes?”

“Oh, I guess I can squeeze in a couple. I might even make it three, since you’re a taxpayer.”

“Damn right I am; in spades. Are you alone?”

“Sure. Why?”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions, and I don’t especially want anyone to know they’re being asked.”

Travers paused. “I gather you have a client. Okay. Somebody get knocked off down there?”

“Not that I know of. What can you tell me, off the top of your head, about John Canfield and family?”

“Canfield? How come you’re interested in him?”

“I have a client.”

“And I suppose that client’s name is confidential?”

“Yes, but off the record, it’s Isadora Canfield.”

“What’s her problem?”

“So far, only that she’s under surveillance and has been since she moved to the beach about a month ago.”

Travers said cautiously, “Well, I suppose you know she took her father’s death pretty hard.”

“I know she cut her wrists, if that’s what you mean. We discussed that as an explanation for the tailing, but she doesn’t think anyone in the family cares enough to pay the price. Besides, her stepsister is here to watch over her.”

“Mm. Well, she’s probably right about nobody caring that much. Too bad; she’s a nice kid. And I can understand why she fell apart since she was the one who found the body.” Conan was still struggling with the term “kid” in reference to Isadora Canfield when that last statement struck home.

“She what?”

“Didn’t you know about that? She came home from the university the night he died and found him in the library.”

“No, I didn’t know. She said she ‘lost’ a week after his death.”

“Well, that happens, especially with an unexpected death. You…you’re sure she
is
being tailed?”

His response was purposely oblique. “By the way, Steve, I have a license number I’d like you to check.”

“You’re sure. Okay, let’s have it.”

“Oregon AMK510. Probably a rental, but it’ll give me a starting point. Incidentally, Charlie’s sending up some operatives. I’ll assign one to some research in Salem, and I’d appreciate it if you’d give her a hand.”

“Her?”

“Ms. Sean Kelly, and from Charlie’s account, she’ll brighten your day.”

“Send her around. My days could use some brightening.”

“Thanks. Now, back to the Canfields. Anything that comes to mind.”

“Well, let’s see. The Canfields are old pioneer stock, very well heeled; been in polities for generations. John Canfield was the second senator in the family.”

“Has he any brothers or sisters?”

“He had a brother, but he died early; no children. Anyway, Canfield went the Harvard route, then married Anna Morrison, another scion of a wealthy, pioneer-type family.” Who studied ballet, Conan added privately; a fact her daughter considered more pertinent than lineage or wealth.

“A merger or a marriage?”

“Well, I’d say a marriage, but they only had the one child, then Anna died about eight years ago. Overdose of barbiturates.”

Conan paused as he was about to check off a question on the list.

“Suicide?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Officially, it was accidental, and I’m inclined to go along. She had a big drinking problem, and booze and barbiturates don’t mix too well.”

“Would you let me see the report, Steve?”

“Sure. Aren’t you digging up a lot of old ground?”

“I have to dig somewhere. I’d like to see the reports on Canfield’s death, too.”

“Conan, it was a heart attack, pure and simple.”

“Of course. Anything else on Anna’s death?”

“No, but a year later Canfield married his private secretary, Catharine Hanson. She has two kids, you know.”

“Yes, and the Senator adopted her son.”

“Right. That’s about all I can think of off the top of my head. Except the accident, of course.”

“What accident?”

“Where were you when that hit the papers? It was about five years ago. Car accident on I-5 south of Portland.”

“How bad was it and who was involved?”

“Just Canfield and his wife. He came out of it with a broken arm, but Catharine had some head injuries. Lost her sight; totally blind.”

Conan felt a crawling chill, remembering Isadora’s relish at the thought of one day throwing her stepmother out of the family house. Her
blind
stepmother. Then his mouth tightened in disgust. He was thinking in platitudes.

“Steve, was Canfield at fault in the accident?”

“I don’t think so, but I can check with DMV. Conan, I’ve got a call coming in on the department line.”

“All right, Steve. Thanks for the three minutes.”

“Sure. Keep me posted.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll be hearing from me.”

CHAPTER 6

Conan sat at one of the window tables in the Surf House dining room watching a flock of sandpipers spinning in and out along the edges of the spotlighted waves. His table had been cleared, the check signed, and his coffee was cold, but he waited patiently until at precisely eight, he heard a rattle of applause, then a shimmering chromatic scale leading into “Ebb Tide.” He looked toward the bar, but the colored glass divider revealed only a few faint lights.

He listened for a full minute before he left his table, walked casually up the steps to the foyer, then turned left into the Tides Room. There he paused, both to make sure Isadora saw him, and to adjust his eyes to the dim light.

The room was sparsely populated; Monday was a slow night. The bar ran half the length of the north wall with a narrow opening at the west end. There was a table near the opening, and to his relief, it was unoccupied.

The piano, a baby grand, was at the east end of the room. Conan made his way to the table, his attention obviously on Isadora. She wore velvet and diamonds tonight, and a sunny
smile that put her audience in pleasurable thrall. He wondered how, at twenty-one, she’d attained that indefinable presence which marks a totally professional performer. The performance itself, even in “cocktail piano,” was mesmerizing; that she was also beautiful seemed only an adjunct of it.

“She’s really something, isn’t she?”

Max Heinz was leaning on the bar, watching him with a sly grin. Conan raised an eyebrow as he seated himself. “Yes, I’d say she is, Max. Very talented.”

“Sure. How you been, Conan? Haven’t seen you around.”

“Oh, I’ve been hibernating for the monsoon season.” He offered a cigarette, but Max declined with a reluctant sigh. “No, thanks. I’m trying to quit.”

Conan smiled as he lit a cigarette for himself. Max Heinz, a big, barrel-chested man fully capable of acting as bouncer as well as bartender, had been quitting for years.

“Well, what’ll you have, Conan?”

“The usual,” he replied with a wry smile.

Max rose to the challenge. “Uh…Forester on the rocks, right? Hell, it’s been so long, I almost forgot.”

“Max, you never forget.”

“That’s what I got everybody thinking,” he said, pouring the bourbon with a flourish. “Truth is, I keep notes.” Conan laughed as Max brought his drink and sat down in the chair across the table from him.

“Sure you do. How’s business?”

“It’s always slow in the winter, but it’s picking up.”

Conan purposefully let his gaze wander to Isadora.

“That should help.”

Max smiled. “Hasn’t hurt. Hasn’t hurt a bit.”

“Okay, Max, since you aren’t offering, I’ll ask. Who is she?”

“Wondered when you’d get around to that. But you’ll never believe it. That little doll is Isadora Canfield.
John
Canfield’s daughter.”

Conan looked appropriately amazed.

“What the hell is she doing—”

“Yeah, what’s a nice girl like her doing in a place like this? I’m not sure. She’s been living at the family cottage at Shanaway since her dad died. Says she wanted something to do. I just hope she stays through the summer.” He turned, rising as a waitress approached. “Excuse me. Order, Mary?”

As Max went about his business, a round of applause marked the end of “Ebb Tide.” Conan waited, taking a slow drag on his cigarette as Isadora turned to the piano again. The Chopin
Fantasy Impromptu.

That meant the night man was already here; no one had entered since his arrival. He pinpointed the loners in the room and finally picked as the most likely candidate a balding man sitting at the bar contemplating a gin fizz. He was short and stocky, but he carried no extra fat.

“Now, that’s what I like about Dore.”

Conan turned as Max resumed his chair. “What’s that?”

“She knows how to play the old-timers, too. ‘I’m Always Chasing Rainbows’—man, does that ever bring back memories.”

Conan nodded absently. “Max, maybe you’d do me a favor.”

“Uh-huh. Like maybe introducing you? Listen, I could retire on the drinks Dore’s turned down.” Then he relented with a canny grin. “But considering it’s you, and you’re just a Pendleton country boy at heart, I’ll do you your favor when she takes a break. After that you’re on your own.”

“For once I’m grateful for my rural upbringing.”

Isadora played her role well when Max made the introductions, initially hesitant, but apparently reassured by Max’s attitude. When she was seated, Max brought her coffee, refreshed Conan’s drink, then retired behind the bar. The bald man watched the encounter attentively. Isadora’s back was to him now, but he still had a three-quarter view of her face.

“Miss Canfield,” Conan said, “you’re extraordinarily beautiful tonight. And a damned good cocktail pianist.”

“Thank you,” she replied, her eyes glinting with laughter. “Do I detect a little Irish coming through there?”

“Only the pure truth.” He kept his voice low, grateful for the arrival of an inebriated and noisy party of six. “Now, where’s your night man?”

Her laughter died. “At the bar, the short, bald man.”

Conan allowed himself a fleeting smile of satisfaction. “I’ll keep an eye on him and let you know when he’s looking this way. How much time do we have?”

“About five minutes.”

“All right. I have a friend who runs an investigation service in San Francisco. He’s sending up three operatives; they’ll be here tomorrow. Two will be working here, tailing the tails and keeping an eye on you.”

“What do you mean, keeping an eye on me?”

“I mean, seeing that no one makes any unfriendly moves in your direction. So, if you notice someone
else
following you, don’t worry. They’re on our side.”

“That’s a nice feeling for a change.”

“I’ll try to introduce you to them privately, or at least point them out, but that might be difficult at first.”

“You said your friend was sending
three
operatives.”

“Yes. The third will be doing some research in Salem.”

She tensed at that, her tone shaded with apprehension.

“In Salem? What kind of research?”

“General background information on you or anyone connected with you; family, friends, etcetera.”

“But, Conan, why—”

“Smile, Dore,” he said, following his own advice. “We’re being watched.”