A Multitude of Sins (9 page)

“Thank you. That’s what it should be.” Strange, he didn’t ever remember seeing her in the shop. There was something purposefully anonymous about her. Under average height; lank brown hair tied back with a scrap of ribbon; a round, quiet face that was at first glance unattractive, although she had good features. But something in her attitude discouraged second glances; something in her gray-green eyes, wary, walled-in
and…

He almost frowned. There was something else about her eyes. Perhaps it was only that she’d been looking out into the white glare of the sun on ocean.

A silence was growing; he glanced around the room.

“You have a beautiful studio, and an inspiring view.”

She turned to the windows, nodding as if to herself.

“Yes. Not that I’m interested in seascapes
per se,
but the sea…I guess you could never get tired of it. I mean, I couldn’t.”

She studied him skeptically for a moment, and he read something else in her eyes: a thinly veiled suspicion bordering on hostility. Then she smiled politely.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’m sure you and Dore want to be on your way, since she has to work tonight.”

“Yes,” Isadora agreed. “We’d better be going, Conan.”

He nodded. “Miss Hanson, it was a pleasure meeting you. Next time you’re in the shop, be sure to say hello.”

Her only response to that was the set smile.

“Good-bye, Mr. Flagg. I’ll see you later, Dore.” Then she added, “Have a good time.”

* * *

“A window table, Mr. Flagg? Hello, Miss Canfield.”

Conan smiled absently at the waitress.

“Yes, Hazel. We may be in for a beautiful sunset.”

“Looks that way,” she said as she led them to the west side of the dining room. “Here you are, a front-row seat. Cocktail before dinner?”

He looked inquiringly at Isadora.

“You aren’t at work
yet,
Dore.”

She smiled, then lifted her shoulders in a shrug.

“All right, I’ll have an old-fashioned.”

“Good. I was beginning to think you had no vices. Bourbon for me, Hazel, on the rocks.”

As the waitress moved away, he looked around the dining room. Neither the day man nor the night man was in evidence, but Carl Berg was.

“Conan?”

He turned. “Yes, Dore?”

“What’s going on behind those damned shades? You’ve hardly said a word since we left the house.”

He laughed and removed his dark glasses.

“I’m sorry. I was just thinking.”

“About Jenny?”

His smile faded. “Yes.”

“She’s very shy. I mean, she never makes much of a first impression. Or much of an impression at all, really.”

That wasn’t what I was thinking about.”

Isadora nodded, a sigh escaping her.

“The paintings.”

“I was just wondering what happened.”

“They’re pretty bad, I guess. I don’t know.”

“Has this change come about since her illness?”

“I think so. I didn’t see the work she did in Chicago, but I know she was showing in galleries there. She doesn’t even try to show anywhere now.” She paused, watching him. “Conan, there’s something else bothering you about Jenny, isn’t there?”

He looked out at the breakers, backlit by the lowering sun, the waves casting moving blue shadows on the sand.

Then he smiled at her. “I’m just sorry about the paintings. By the way, take a good look at the man at the table by the steps; blond hair, wearing a blue sweater.”

“Oh, yes. Who is he?”

“Carl Berg. He’s your new night man.”

“One of the men you hired?”

“Yes. If you ever need help in a hurry and I’m not handy—” He stopped as the waitress brought their drinks, waiting until she was well out of earshot before he continued. “Your new day man is Harry Munson. He’s been on duty since about noon.”

She blinked at that. “I didn’t see anyone.”

“You weren’t supposed to.” He paused to light a cigarette and sample his bourbon. “I’ll introduce you to him as soon as possible. He’s driving a tan Firebird and looks like an ex-boxer. Harry located your day man’s headquarters, incidentally. He’s living in that duplex about a block north and a little below you.”

“Yes, I know the house.”

“He can’t see your front door, but he has an excellent view of all those windows on the west side,
plus
the road.”

“Have you located the night man?”

“He’s staying here at the Surf House, but he probably uses the duplex as an observation post, too. He registered as Albert Hicks, supposedly working for Boeing in Seattle.”

“Not very imaginative of him.”

“I doubt he’s an imaginative man. Carl is here at the Surf House, too; room ninety-two. Remember that.”

“I’m going to get all these numbers confused.”

“Here’s another. Munson is staying at the Seaside Motel, room eleven.”

“Okay,” she sighed. “Eleven and ninety-two.”

“That’s only for emergencies; but don’t forget them.”

“I won’t.” She hesitated, focusing intently on her old-fashioned. “Is…is your third operative at work?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Oh, I was just wondering.”

Conan took a long drag on his cigarette, wondering again why
she
was just wondering.

“Dore, what is it you’re afraid of?”

“I’m
not
afraid,” she said tightly.

“Has it anything to do with your father’s death?”

She was suddenly angry, and it unnerved him at first.

“
You’re
the one who’s so fascinated with his death. I don’t even
remember
it. How can I be afraid of something I can’t remember? I told you I lost a week. It began when…when I—that room…
”
Now the anger was gone; only fear was left. He reached out for her hand.

“We’ll talk about it later.”

She seemed to relax, even managing a brief smile.

“I’m sorry, Conan. I guess I’m a little wound up.”

At that, he began to relax, too, and he was entirely unprepared for the sudden change that occurred in her.

He felt it first in the trembling of her hand.

She was staring out at the breakers, their sinuous, tumbling crests washed in color caught from the setting sun. Her eyes widened, then she blinked and stared again.

“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Oh, God,
no
…”

He looked out at the ocean and saw nothing but moving lines of foam. Yet she was seeing
something.

“Dore, what is it? What’s wrong?” His voice was low, and he didn’t move except to tighten his hold on her hand.

But she was totally oblivious to him. Her hand compressed under his, and he was chilled by the conviction that he could tighten his hold until he broke the bones under that unresisting flesh, and she wouldn’t even feel the pain.

“Dore, look at me!” His voice was still low, but sharp and insistent. “Come around—this way. Now!”

Finally, she turned and there was terror in her eyes.

She blinked again, then flinched dazedly. At that, he released her hand and glanced quickly around, relieved to see only one face turned toward them—Carl Berg’s.

“Are you all right, Dore?”

“Yes, I…it must’ve been the light or…” She laughed, a thin brittle sound. “I’m really not used to drinking, especially not on an empty stomach.”

Conan leaned back, studying her with narrowed eyes. A flimsy rationale for something totally irrational.

“Isadora, don’t spout nonsense at me. Something happened, and it wasn’t just a couple of swallows of whisky. This isn’t the time or place to discuss it, but for God’s sake, don’t shut the door in my face.”

She nodded bleakly. “Conan, I can’t explain.”

“Don’t try. Not now.” He paused to watch Hazel escort a man to a window table; a blandly ordinary man in dark glasses. Out of the red Ford, he didn’t attract even a glance from Isadora, but Conan assured himself that the man had Berg’s full attention.

“No question and answer period tonight.” He smiled and took her hand. “We’re going to enjoy a civilized meal, and I’m going to enjoy the pleasure of your company. At least, until you have to go to work, then I’ll enjoy the pleasure of your music.”

Her laughter was colored with relief.

“Oh, Conan, now I really do believe you’re half-Irish.”

* * *

It was 2:30 in the morning when Conan turned off Highway 101 to the Shanaway road, and there was little traffic. He had no doubt the pair of headlights behind them belonged to Albert Hicks’s blue Ford. The car had followed them all the way from the Surf House, a mile south of Holliday Beach.

He glanced at Isadora, curled in the seat beside him. There had been a lively and demanding crowd in the Tides Room tonight. As he geared down to turn onto the road up to the crest, she stirred and raised her head.

“You must be exhausted, Dore.”

“At least, I’ll sleep—that’s strange. There’s a light in Jenny’s studio.”

He looked up at the cottage, in the process letting the car fall into a teeth-jarring chuck hole.

“Is that unusual?” he asked, concentrating on the road.

“She’s usually in bed by the time I get home.”

He turned at the crest road and parked in front of the house. When he helped Isadora out, she gave a rueful laugh and leaned wearily against the car.

“You know, I used to think that ‘play Melancholy Baby’ business was a
joke
.”

“It’s a great old song.”

“Oh, Conan—please.”

The porch light was on, but at this distance barely delineated the pale oval of her face. Briefly, he wished for more light, remembering that irrational terror.

“How are you, Dore?” he asked finally.

“I’m just tired. Don’t worry about me.”

“I won’t. I’m convinced you have the will and determination of an Army mule.”

“Is that good?”

“Yes.” It was only a matter of leaning down a few inches; he crossed that space without thinking, feeling her arms moving around him as he kissed her.

But somewhere in the long passage of seconds, the thought came to him that not only had his objectivity gone to hell, Isadora Canfield was a client. She was also very young, and at this point in her life, very vulnerable.

She laughed softly. “Was that in the script, Conan?”

“No.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Come on,” he said, slipping his arm around her waist, “before I lose sight of my professional ethics entirely.”

At the front door he stopped her before she unlocked it. “Back to mundane matters. I still have a job to do.”

“What does
that
mean?”

“Only that right now, I’m going to escort you inside in case Jenny’s still awake.”

She sobered, frowning. “But, why?”

“Nothing sinister. I want her to hear me confirm our plans for a picnic lunch on the beach tomorrow.”

“Oh?”

“Didn’t I tell you? Yes, we have a date. Meet me at the shop tomorrow at eleven.”

“All right. Shall I bring fried chicken, or should it be a loaf of bread and a jug of wine?”

He laughed. “I’ll take care of the gastronomic accessories. Or rather, Mrs. Early will.”

The living room was dark as they went in, but a shaft of light appeared suddenly from Jenny’s studio.

“Dore? Is that you?”

“Yes, Jen. Conan’s with me.”

The light disappeared as the door closed, but a moment later, a table lamp near the windows went on, and he saw Jenny standing there, her back to the light.

“Oh. Hello, Mr. Flagg.”

“You’re working late tonight, Miss Hanson.”

She made no move to approach them, and the light was dim, yet he could see that her eyes were swollen and red. He wondered what made Jennifer Hanson weep in solitude.

“I—I like to work at night, sometimes,” she said. “It’s quiet then.”

“I’ve always been convinced the Muses are creatures of the night.” Then he smiled at Isadora, putting no restraint on the affection behind it. “I’ll see you tomorrow about eleven, and be prepared for lunch seasoned with sand.”

Her smile was a little uneasy in Jenny’s presence. “There’s no better seasoning. Sounds like fun.”

“The best seasoning is good company.” Then he nodded to Jenny. “Good night, Miss Hanson.”

She still hadn’t moved. “Good night.”

When he reached the main Shanaway road, Conan stopped long enough to open the compartment between the seats and take out the radio mike. The response to his call was immediate. Carl Berg was on the hill above the cottage, a lookout he’d manned since nine o’clock.

“Conan, I had some action here early in the evening.”

“I’d like a first-hand report, then.” He turned onto the main road, keeping his speed down, frowning up at that rearview mirror; the only lights visible were street lights. “What happened to my escort?”

“He retired to the duplex. No lights in the house, but he’s probably at the window with his infrared scope.”

“See if he decides to tail me, then meet me—” He paused to shift up to third as he hit the open stretch by the golf course. “There’s a drive-in a few blocks south of the shopping center. Dilly’s. Meet me in back.”

“Right. No sign of pursuit yet.”

“I think Hicks has a one-track mind, but give him a few minutes.”

Dilly’s Drive-in was bleakly dark. Conan drove around behind it, startling a scavenging alley cat. He parked and got out to pace the asphalt, listening to the cold, rustling night sounds animating the darkness. It seemed a long time before Carl Berg’s Thunderbird came thrumming around the rear wall of the restaurant. Berg turned off his motor and lights, restoring the silence and darkness.