Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat (3 page)

“Please—go ahead, Conan.”

As he pulled the drapes, she looked out at the surf, her eyes taking on the same clouded, vague light as the sky. Then she sank into one of the chairs, putting her purse beside her on the floor, and began removing her white gloves.

He studied her, not in the least deceived by her outward composure. That was only a product of ingrained self-discipline. She was too quiet; too composed.

“If I can’t tempt you with coffee,” he said, “perhaps I can offer a little brandy.”

“At this early hour?” She laughed at that, but it was only a frail echo of her usual laughter. “You’re leading me astray, but at the moment I’m willing to be led. Yes, I’d enjoy that.”

He went to the bar at the south end of the room, and the brandy was as much for his own nerves as Nel’s. He returned with two glasses of Courvoisier and put them on the table between the chairs, then seated himself, all the while watching her. And wondering. But there was nothing in her expression or attitude to explain this unexpected visit. Under the circumstances, he doubted it was simply a social call.

She took the glass and raised it to her lips.

“Thank you, Conan.”

“Of course. I’m glad I thought of it. The morning routine of coffee is getting tiresome.” He tasted his brandy, still watching her closely. “How are you, Nel?”

“Oh…I’m really quite all right. I’m tired, I guess.”

He offered her a cigarette, leaning forward to light it for her, then lit one for himself.

“Is someone staying with you?”

“Yes. Pearl Christian. She was with me last night, so she…just stayed. Thank goodness for Pearl; I don’t think I could stand anyone else around. She knew Harold, and she can understand how I feel now. Perhaps you do, too, but not many would.”

“And how do you feel now?”

She sipped at her brandy, a faint, pensive smile shadowing her mouth.

“Well, to be honest, I’m not really sure yet. You know, I married Harold rather late in life, in both our lives, because I was tired of the struggle after…Mark died.” She paused. “Harold had many characteristics I didn’t appreciate, and I suppose in some ways I feel a certain sense of…of relief now.” She looked up at him, then, apparently satisfied with his brief smile of understanding, turned away, her eyes seeming to slip out of focus. “But even if our marriage wasn’t truly a union of love, at least we had a great deal of respect for each other; I think it could be called a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Conan laughed a little bitterly. “That’s more than can be said of most marriages. Will you be staying in Holliday Beach?”

“I don’t know. I won’t make any major decisions now. Jane and Mark—my children—are coming down this morning to help with the necessary arrangements. The funeral will be tomorrow. Then I may go into Portland and stay with Jane and her husband for a while. I don’t know. I might prefer to be alone.”

She paused, and Conan waited, reading the making of a troubled decision in her controlled features; a decision that had nothing to do with Portland or Holliday Beach.

For a while, she seemed unaware of him, taking another swallow of brandy, tasting it as if she were searching for a flavor that wasn’t there. Finally, she put the glass on the table with a decisive gesture and turned to face him, something contained and tense in her posture.

“I had a specific purpose in coming here this morning. There’s a sign outside the bookshop that says ‘Conan Flagg—
Consultant
.’”

He laughed, a little surprised at the turn of the conversation, and a little uncomfortable with it.

“Nel, you know good and well I added that ‘consultant’ because I was tired of people asking me to look up information for them—gratis. It’s purely accidental that it became a bona fide business. You should know better than to take that sign too seriously.”

“But I am taking it seriously.”

He paused, stopped by the cool intensity of her voice.

“All right, Nel.”

“And I…I want to consult you. I want to hire you.”

“Hire me? Whatever for?”

“I—” She faltered, but only briefly. “I know all this will sound like the maunderings of a grief-stricken old woman. I’ve been told as much, in more or less polite terms, several times in the last few hours. But I’m quite in control of myself, and I’m not sure I could honestly be called grief-stricken. I didn’t love my husband, Conan, but we…we understood each other.” She paused and crushed out her half-smoked cigarette, her mouth unnaturally tight. Then she leaned back and carefully folded her hands together.

“Whatever I felt for my husband, he was, in his own way, a good man. Even if he weren’t, I don’t think it right or just that his murderer should go unpunished.”

* * *

Conan absorbed this in silence, allowing himself little outward indication of surprise. But he felt a chill weight gathering under his ribs.

Murder.

Hysteria might have been responsible for that word last night. But not now. He frowned and tapped his cigarette against the ashtray.

“Nel, I don’t understand.”

She replied in the same calm, contained tone.

“I think my husband was murdered, but I have no proof. You’ve made a business, of sorts, of finding the answers to other people’s questions, and I have a question. I want to know what happened last night. I want to know who killed my husband and why. I’m quite able to pay for your services.”

He waved the last statement aside irritably.

“Your ability to pay for my services is the least of my concerns.”

For a short time he was silent, considering Harold Jeffries’ death, the man himself. And Nel.

Murder.

The day was out of joint, and there seemed to be nothing he could do to set it right.

“Nel, I’ve known you for a long time—”

“And you think perhaps the shock has been too much? I’ve flipped my wig?” She laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“No. What I was going to say, is that I’ve never known you to be unreasonable or illogical. I
don’t
think you’ve…flipped your wig. But if you have good reason to think your husband was murdered—and I’m assuming you do—why come to me? If you’re right, this is something for the police.”

One hand went to her forehead to push a strand of hair back, and her eyes closed briefly.

“Don’t you think that was my first thought?
Yes
, I talked to the police. Of course, I didn’t expect much from the local police. Chief Rose was too busy trying to sober up last night to pay much attention to me.”

Conan gave a short, caustic laugh. “As usual.”

“I also talked to the State Police and the County Sheriff’s office. All I could get from anyone was that I should talk to the
local
police. It wasn’t a state or county matter unless the local office requested assistance. So I was right back where I started—with Harvey Rose.”

“That isn’t much of a starting place.”

“No. But I did reach one…well, slightly sympathetic ear with the State Police. A man named Travers. He said he was a friend of yours.”

Conan nodded. “Steve Travers. Yes, I’ve known him since we were kids. We grew up together near Pendleton.”

“Well, he couldn’t help me any more than the others, although he was courteous enough to check with the patrolmen who were on the scene last night. That didn’t seem to change his opinion, but he did tell me it might be ‘worth my time,’ as he put it, to talk to you.”

He looked at her sharply. “Why me? Did he say?”

“No. It seemed a little strange, but he asked if I knew you, and I said you were a friend. I suppose he thought you’d be able to calm down the hysterical old woman. I doubt he had anything else in mind.” She looked at him intently. “And, Conan, I’m well aware that there’s probably nothing else you
can
do for me. I know it’s unreasonable for me to come to you with something like this, but if I’m not hysterical, I am desperate. There’s no one else I can turn to. I thought perhaps you’d at least listen to me without automatically dismissing everything I say as some sort of delusion.”

He found it difficult to meet her eyes.

“Nel, I’m complimented by your faith, but—”

“I’ve gone over the whole thing in my mind a thousand times. I just can’t believe Harold died as a result of an ‘accidental drowning.’ It just isn’t possible. And I can’t simply shrug my shoulders and forget about it. I must know. I must find out what happened last night.”

He raised his glass, then put it down again. The brandy had a flat taste. Then he rose and moved restlessly to the window to stare out at the surf.

He knew what he should do. He should simply say, sorry, but I can’t help. It would come to that sooner or later; it might be easier for Nel if he said it now.

If Jeffries had been murdered, it seemed unlikely that it had been premeditated. It seemed utterly improbable that anyone would have a motive to kill him. He hadn’t been particularly well liked, but neither was he hated. He inspired indifference more than anything else. Why would anyone want to kill him?

But that was the question Nel was asking—not
did
someone kill him, but why. And who. There was no doubt in her mind that he had been murdered.

He turned, finding her calm gaze fixed on him, and in the wan light, her face seemed something drawn in charcoal; all soft grays.

“Nel, Steve Travers may have sent you to me to calm down the hysterical old woman, as you so inaptly put it. But he also knows I hold a private investigator’s license, and from time to time I take on problems of this sort. At least, when I have a personal interest in them.”

Her eyes widened. “Conan, you—”

“I know. Steve’s one of the few people who know about it. I prefer to keep it quiet.” He smiled fleetingly. “In this, as in everything else, I’m an amateur. A professional dilettante. And I intend to maintain that status.”

“Should I be encouraged that you’ve told me this?”

He frowned and looked out the window.

“No, not really. I know my limitations. But I’d like to know more about it.” He looked around at her. “I’d like to know why you think your husband was murdered.”

She seemed to sag, her breath coming out in a long sigh. Then she nodded, lifting her chin slightly.

“To be quite honest, I have nothing you could call concrete evidence, and I haven’t the slightest idea what happened last night. I…wasn’t home when Harold left the house.” She paused, shaking her head. “I so seldom went out without him, but Pearl and I had been invited to the Barnhards’ for bridge. And on the one night I was gone—” She stopped, then went on firmly. “It doesn’t matter. Anyway, I don’t know what happened last night, and the only evidence I have is my knowledge of my husband. But as far as I’m concerned, it’s as concrete as a fingerprint.”

He nodded. “All right, Nel, go on. I’m listening.”

“Well, that’s more than the police would do.”

“They’re used to working with more concrete evidence—such as fingerprints.”

“I know, and I can see their reasoning. Harold was seen walking down Front Street in the general direction of the beach access—”

“Who saw him?”

“Alma Crane, our neighbor across the street.” Her tone was briefly cold. “Who else? The all-seeing eye of Hollis Heights.”

Conan knew Alma Crane and understood Nel’s coldness. He made no comment, waiting silently for her to continue.

“Anyway, a few hours later, he was found washed up on the beach. So the police, quite naturally, I suppose, assumed he went for a walk on the beach and got caught in a high wave.”

“But you have another explanation?”

“No. All I know is
that
explanation is wrong. It sounds reasonable enough, and would be—for anyone but Harold. I knew my husband, Conan. I know it’s inconceivable that he would
voluntarily
go out on that beach last night—or any night. And if he didn’t go voluntarily, he was taken there forcibly, and he died there. That doesn’t add up to ‘accidental drowning.’”

He walked back to his chair and sat down, frowning as he stubbed out his cigarette and lit another.

“What makes you so sure he wouldn’t go to the beach voluntarily?”

She hesitated as if she were trying to find the right words.

“You see, Harold had many…eccentricities, and one of them was his strange—well, I suppose you’d call it a
fear
of the sea. It
was
strange. He spent most of his life on or near the ocean, and in a way, he loved it; at least he loved his life on the sea. But at the same time, he was deathly afraid of it. I think it started when he lost that ship. That was in the Korean War. He never talked about it much, but I understand there weren’t many survivors. At any rate, his attitude toward the ocean was…ambivalent, at the least. Fear, is the only word I know for it, and it was getting worse with time.”

She sighed and leaned back in her chair, gazing out the window.

“I never did really understand it. I was only grateful he was willing to live here on the coast. That was a concession to me; he knew how I loved it. But when we decided to move down here, there was one thing he was adamant about: he would
not
live on the beachfront. We had a chance to buy the Adams house—you know, that nice place down on the front next to Mrs. Leen’s?”

He nodded. “Yes, I know the one.”

“It was a real bargain then, but Harold wouldn’t have anything to do with it. He paid twice as much for the house we have now, and it isn’t nearly as nice. And he was always…extremely careful with his money. Penurious, to be quite frank.” She leaned forward, emphasizing her words. “But the important thing to him was that our house is up on Hollis Heights, a good three hundred feet above the beach level. He didn’t seem to mind so much being within sight of the ocean, but he literally couldn’t stand being—well, within
reach
of it.”

She sighed and leaned back, closing her eyes.

“And Harold did
not
take walks on the beach, day or night. In all the time we lived here, nearly ten years now, he only set foot on the beach three or four times, and that was at my insistence, and always on mild summer days. He used to get quite upset when I went down to the beach, and he never wanted me to go alone.”