A Multitude of Sins (8 page)

“These are the men tailing Miss Canfield?”

“Yes. If you need to talk to me and I’m not at home or at the bookshop, I have an answering service, or you can leave a message with Miss Dobie at the shop.”

“Who’s Miss Dobie?”

“Beatrice Dobie. She really runs the bookshop. I’m just a figurehead. But don’t tell
her
that.”

Sean laughed appreciatively. “Your secret’s safe. Anything else I should dig into?”

“Not now. That should keep you busy. And good luck.”

“Conan, with two Irishmen on this job, we
have
to be lucky.”

That’s optimism, he thought pessimistically as he hung up, but at this hour of the day optimism inevitably eluded him. He started for the bathroom, swearing as he stubbed his toe on the book he’d knocked from the table. He eyed the culprit—
A
History of Marion County, Oregon
—and chose to ignore it. But when he returned after a cold shower and two aspirin, he picked it up and checked it for damage.

The
History
was partially responsible for his headache and the fact that he’d been awake until 3:00 A.M.
It contained a wealth of information on the Canfield family, beginning with their arrival in the Willamette Valley in 1851, but it had proved a waste of time and lost sleep. Any hint of skeletons in the family closet had been censored out.

But there were skeletons in some closet, if he could only find the right door.

Beatrice Dobie was just turning the OPEN
sign when Conan arrived at the shop. Meg was impeding her efforts, making affectionate loops around her legs.

“Good morning, Mr. Flagg.”

“Good morning, Miss Dobie.” He paused to lift Meg to his shoulder. “Hey, Duchess, you’re in a good mood today.”

She made a gravelly Siamese comment as he took a proprietory survey, smiling with possessive satisfaction at this fusty, nooked and crannied anachronism, redolent with the dusty but pleasant smell peculiar to old books.

While Miss Dobie busied herself with counting change into the cash register, Conan retired to his office, leaving the door open. When he deposited Meg unceremoniously in a chair, she purloined a scrap of paper from the desk for a solo hockey game designed to do as much damage as possible to the Kerman. He ignored her, knowing remonstrance only made the game more interesting.

The coffeepot was in the final throes of its Plutonic cycle. He filled two mugs, put one down at the front of the desk, and settled himself in the leather-covered chair behind it. The morning’s mail was arranged in two neat stacks as it always was: personal and business. He’d just begun sorting the personal stack when Miss Dobie came in, loosing one of her habitual sighs as she sat down.

“You know…this is the first day it’s really
smelled
like spring. The daffodils have been blooming for a month, but I haven’t any faith in them.”

“Miss Dobie, if you haven’t any faith in daffodils, what’s left?”

“Flowering quince,” she pronounced. “I saw the first blooms today. Thanks for pouring my coffee.”

“Mm? Oh. You’re welcome.” He frowned at a return address, the Ten-Mile Ranch Corporation in Pendleton. Engraved discreetly under it was
Avery Flagg, Chairman of the Board.
He noted the red-inked URGENT!
and swept the letter into the top drawer along with the rest of the personal stack. The business stack he pushed across to Miss Dobie. “You can check these. The others will keep.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Well, let’s hope so.”

He took his billfold from his hip pocket and removed a Polaroid photograph, then tested the steaming coffee.

“Miss Dobie, I’m expecting some gentlemen shortly. One of them you’ll remember. Carl Berg.”

Both eyebrows came up this time.

“Oh. Then you’re on a…case.”

“Yes, so I’ll be in and out for a while, and I have some instructions for you.” She was so earnestly attentive, he had to repress a smile as he handed her the picture of Isadora. “You may have seen this young woman in the shop lately.”

“Oh, yes, that’s Isadora Canfield.”

He looked at her blankly. “How did you know?”

“Well, I
do
occasionally read the society section.”

“Oh. Well, Miss Canfield is my client. That’s strictly confidential, but if she asks for me, she has priority.”

“I understand.” She returned the photograph, her cool tone betrayed by the glint of excitement in her eyes.

“I have an operative working in Salem,” he went on. “If Sean Kelly calls, get hold of me as soon as possible.”

“Sean Kelly. All right, anything else?”

“No, except if you notice a sudden interest on my part in Miss Canfield, don’t be alarmed. It’s only a ploy.”

“Well, now I certainly wouldn’t be
alarmed
at any interest you showed in Miss Canfield—or surprised.” She gave him a sly smile, and he felt an inexplicable, and highly annoying, warmth in his cheeks. He turned with some relief as the bells on the front door jangled.

“Here’s Carl. You’ll excuse us, Miss Dobie?”

“Of course.” She tucked Meg under one arm, picked up her coffee cup, and exited, sending Carl Berg a conspiratorial smile as he passed her on his way into the office.

Conan closed the door behind him, noting his clothing—faded denims, a light windbreaker, and a worn sweatshirt. “Welcome back, Carl.”

Berg went to the chair Miss Dobie had vacated, his tanned face creased with a smile. Only the tan and his sun-bleached blond hair suggested he came from a sunnier climate.

“Just like old times,” he commented drily.

“Don’t get too nostalgic. Where’s your partner?”

“Right behind me.”

Conan glanced out through the one-way glass. “Coffee?”

“I could use some. I was up a little early.”

“You can catch up on your sleep this afternoon.” Conan handed him a filled mug. “I’m putting you on the night shift. Your headquarters will be the Surf House Resort.”

“Pretty plush. I think I’m going to like this job.”

“That’s to make up for your last—” He looked around and saw a big, dark-haired man coming into the shop, his blunt features marked with a slightly flattened nose. Conan opened the door, meeting his cool, assessing gray eyes. “Come in, Mr. Munson.”

Berg pulled up another chair by his. “This is my partner, Conan. Harry Munson—Conan Flagg.”

Munson extended his hand. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Flagg. Charlie’s told us a lot about you.”

Conan laughed at that, poured coffee for Munson, then returned to his chair.

“I hope you took anything Charlie said with a grain of salt. He filled you in on what I told him about this case?”

“Yes,” Berg answered, “which wasn’t a hell of a lot.”

“So far, there isn’t a hell of a lot to tell.” He handed Munson a photograph. “That’s our client, Isadora Canfield.”

Munson studied the photograph, his only comment a raised eyebrow, then passed it on to Berg. He was more vocal. “Well, there’s plenty to see, if not to tell.”

“And that’s a lousy picture,” Conan said. “Here’s another.” He showed them the photograph of the day man, then for the next fifteen minutes, recounted the scant facts of the case and answered their questions. Both men made occasional notes of names, dates, or license numbers, until at length he ran out of facts, and they ran out of questions.

“Your assignment for now is simply to watch the tails and Isadora. Mr. Munson, find yourself a comfortable motel, then check out the cottage and locate a good vantage point. There’s a heavy growth of jackpine on the crest, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to stay out of sight. I’ll be carrying a two-way radio, and I have a receiver in my car and at home. You have radios with you?”

Berg nodded. “Probably the same model you’ve got.”

“Probably. Charlie recommended it. When you check into the Surf House, Carl, find out who’s registered for unit seventeen. That’s our night man. I did some tailing myself last night.”

“Okay. What are our shifts going to be?”

“Long. Isadora goes to work at eight every evening, and so will you. Mr. Munson will take over at eight in the morning. I’ll
be with her and keep track of the tails part of the time, if the hours get too long.”

Munson laughed. “Mr. Flagg, I wouldn’t know what to do with an eight-hour day.”

“Contending with one probably won’t be among your problems here. What kind of car are you driving?”

“Pontiac Firebird, sort of tan color, RDG410.”

“Carl?”

“White T-Bird, JST937.”

Conan made a note of the numbers. “I’m taking Dore to dinner at the Surf House this evening; I’ll pick her up at six. Mr. Munson, you keep an eye on the cottage afterwards until I send Carl out.”

Berg turned to Munson. “I’d better go out with you before it gets dark to get the lay of the land. I’ll check into the Surf House, then when you find a bed, call me.”

“Okay.” Munson rose, glancing at his watch. “Well, I guess the day shift starts now. Will you be here at the shop this afternoon, Mr. Flagg?”

“I’ll be at home, by the special line and the radio.”

“I’ll let you know where I’m staying and check out the communications system.”

“Good, and thanks for coming up.”

As the bells on the shop door marked Munson’s exit, Conan accompanied Berg to the office door.

“Carl, stay in my line of sight this evening. When the night man shows, I’ll give you a signal and we can meet outside.”

“Okay.” Then with a crooked smile, “I hope this one doesn’t get as hectic as my last go-round up here.”

“It may be dull as hell, Carl.” He didn’t add that he doubted that very seriously.

Miss Dobie, watching Berg’s departure from behind the counter, unleashed a pregnant sigh.

“Well…it looks to me,” she intoned, “as if the battle has been joined.
”

CHAPTER 8

On the northern boundary of Holliday Beach, Highway 101 turned a few degrees inland, making a Y with a spur road which angled seaward to connect the world with Shanaway.

Shanaway had little interest in being connected with the world. Most of the houses scattered on the green slopes and clustered along the beach were vacation homes. Their owners cherished Shanaway as a personal refuge and preferred to regard it as a place rather than a community. But the world refused to be excluded. At the highway junction a new shopping center glittered in the slanting sun, its regulation issue supermarket inspecting the troops of cars aligned on the field of asphalt. The open meadows to the north were subverted to a more attractive encroachment. A golf course spread its links under the evening sky, swaths of incredibly green lawn studded with red and yellow golfers.

The XK-E purred sedately along the road. This black, cat-sleek, mechanized sculpture Conan recognized as an extravagance, yet it was a sensual pleasure he had no intention of foregoing. The road curved into Shanaway, following the beach behind a battlement of close-ranked houses. He shifted into first gear when he turned up a rain-gutted dirt road toward a forested ridge, then swung left onto the even narrower lane that ran along its crest. The Canfield cottage—one of the oldest in Shanaway, steep-pitched roof silvered with weathered shingles—occupied the corner lot. It had grown from the central square living-room area into a U-shape with the addition of two side wings. The open end of the U faced east, toward the crest road.

When he got out of the car, he studied the wooded slope across the road; Munson was there, but invisible even to Conan’s close scrutiny in the tangled growth.

It was Isadora who responded to his knock, smiling as she opened the door for him. She looked older than her years, wearing a long-sleeved gown of black silk, her hair drawn back into a shining chignon at the crown of her head. Against the severe black, her skin seemed translucent.

“As usual, you’re lovely, Dore.” Then he smiled at the color that warmed her cheeks; it was so unexpected.

“Thank you, but isn’t that in the eye of the beholder?”

“True, and you’re quite an eyeful.” He looked around the sunlit living room curiously. “Is Jenny here?”

Her smile turned subtly cooler. “She’s in her studio. Come, I’ll introduce you.” She went to a door on the north wall and knocked. “Jen? Conan’s here.” Then at the responding invitation, she glanced at him and opened the door.

He surveyed the room, noting the varied accouterments of Jennifer Hanson’s craft: paint-crusted palette, bouquet-like clusters of stained brushes, stretched canvases stacked against the walls. The air was thick with the resinous scents of linseed oil and turpentine.

Yet something ran false. The haphazard clutter, perhaps; it wasn’t the
working
clutter he’d encountered in other artists’ studios. There was the feeling of an attic here; a repository of disuse. But it was the paintings in progress that were most bewildering, and remembering the powerful and finely executed Knight, he felt almost ill.

Stylistically, Jenny’s work had evolved toward the abstract, which neither surprised nor disturbed him. What he found so incomprehensible was the total lack of cohesion or content, the slack carelessness and palling indifference.

But his shock was masked with a polite smile as Jenny left her chair by the west windows, and Isadora made the introduction with etiquette-book correctness.

Jenny responded self-consciously, “I’m…glad to meet you, Mr. Flagg. I know your bookshop. It’s like…like an old friend.”