Dead Matter

by M. K. Wren

  “I hope so, too, Angie. I hope what I ’m looking for is still there. ”

  As Conan walked to his car, he checked his watch: one-fifteen. If he hurried, he could drive down to Manny Chavez ’s house and get back by the time Marcus Fitch arrived at the police station.

  Conan slid behind the wheel of the XK-E. Maybe he could write a note, tie the disks to a rock, and throw them into Manny ’s house. The front door would probably be open.

  It would also be guarded by Skookum, a massive black dog whose throaty baying always sent atavistic tingles down Conan ’s spine. It wasn ’t that he didn ’t like dogs. He had grown up around ranch dogs, and some of them had been close friends. But Skookum wasn ’t an ordinary dog. He was a husky-wolf mix. A mistake, Manny agreed, and not of his making. Nor had Skookum ’s former owners ultimately found such toying with wild genes a good idea, since Skookum decided their three-year-old daughter didn ’t understand her place in the pack hierarchy and enforced the lesson with a nip to her head that nearly blinded her. Skookum had been destined for the gas chamber when Manny rescued him.

  Conan patted the disks in his pocket and started the motor. Skookum was really a marshmallow, Manny insisted, as long as you understood the rules.

  Chapter 17

  Conan sat on the XK-E ’s fender and watched Marcus Fitch, debonair in an off-white silk suit with a blue-gray shirt and tie, emerge from the police station to face a bevy of reporters armed with Nikons, video cameras, and tape recorders. He answered their questions with quotable flair, giving them everything they thought they wanted, yet revealing nothing they didn ’t already know.

  It was a few minutes after four, and Conan had been waiting outside the station nearly half an hour. The trip to Manny Chavez ’s isolated log house had taken longer than he expected, but today he was lucky. He actually exchanged words with Manny, who was taking a break, sharing his lunch of a peanut butter sandwich with Skookum on his front porch. Skookum was downright mellow —due perhaps to the pacifying effect of the peanut butter, which had stuck to the roof of his mouth and kept that fanged orifice occupied —while Manny was almost talkative. He studied the disks Conan gave him, nodded through his explanation of the importance of recovering the data on them, then asked, “You want a printout? ”

  “Yes, of course I do. I mean, if it ’s possible. ”

  Manny finished his sandwich, wiped his hands on his Greenpeace T-shirt, then rose and headed for his front door. “This ’ll take a while. ”

  “How long? ”

  Manny shrugged as he disappeared into the shadows of his house, and Conan thought he heard him say, “I’ll bring it to you. ”

  Conan hadn ’t pursued the matter. Skookum ’s mouth was at last free, and he displayed his formidable canines and emitted a low growl, at which point Conan had decided the time had come for a cautious retreat to his car.

  Now he straightened as the reporters finally dispersed, and Marcus Fitch sauntered over to him, looking down on him with hooded eyes. “Conan, you definitely owe me for this one. ”

  “For all the free publicity? I’d think you owe me,Marc. You ’ve seen your client? ”

  “Yes, the Incredible Hulk. And incredibly short on information. Conan, I want to know what the hell ’s going on here. Buy me a drink at the Surf House, and you can tell me all about it. ” And he strode toward his silver Rolls-Royce.

  Conan drove to the Surf House in Fitch ’s wake, joining the southbound traffic on Highway 101, where the Rolls commanded a certain degree of deference. When Conan passed the bookshop, he noted that the KEEN-TV van had departed, only to be replaced by two more from rival Portland stations. Three blocks south of the bookshop, he followed Fitch through a right turn onto a gravel road that wound through a residential area to Front Street. A left turn there, and Conan caught glimpses of the sea between houses, and, farther south, between motels and condominiums. The Surf House was one of the oldest of the motels, and over the years it had added a restaurant, bar, swimming pool, tennis courts, shops, and more rooms in three-story blocks facing the beach, until at length it called itself a resort.

  When Conan followed Fitch into the main parking lot, the office was besieged by a crowd armed with cameras, and now Conan knew where the KEEN-TV van had gone. Fitch found a parking space within a few feet of the covered walkway that led past the swimming pool to the restaurant entrance, while Conan had to tour the lot three times to find a spot, and that spot was at the far north end. As he began the trek back to the restaurant, he angled over to the walk fronting the newest units —of suites, as the discreet signs on the doors designated them. Savanna no doubt occupied one of them. He couldn ’t imagine the Surf House putting her in any of the older, more plebeian units. But apparently the reporters hadn ’t discovered her exact location. The only person he saw near the suites was a dark-haired woman in a loose white dress who was walking toward him through the parking lot. She was at least seven months pregnant, her gait flatfooted and swaying.

  Conan shifted his attention to the resort office, saw another television van turn in from the street, this one from a Seattle station, and he wondered why the tragedies of the rich and famous were so fascinating to those who were neither. Perhaps it was a need to find out if their household gods bled when cut.

  “Hello, Conan. ”

  He stopped, startled, saw the pregnant woman a few paces away.

  “Savanna. ”

  She laughed, ran to him, and took his arm. “Oh, Conan, I did fool you, didn ’t I? ”

  He could only laugh with her and agree. “Damn right, you did. ”

  And now he realized that the black hair was only a wig that on close examination would fool no one, nor would the padding under her dress. This disguise depended on distance. And skilled acting. The posture and gait had been entirely convincing. He touched the shiny fake hair. “Where did you find this? ”

  “Oh, I always keep it with me. Never know when it ’s going to come in handy. ” She glanced toward the office where yet another van —this one from Vancouver, B.C. —had arrived. “Come on, let ’s get inside. ”

  She took a key out of her big straw purse as she led the way to Suite 115. Once inside the sitting room, she tossed the purse on a glass-topped table, swept off the black wig, shaking out her flaming hair, then pulled up her dress, unabashedly displaying her dancer ’s legs, untied the white sash that held the pillow, and flung the pillow on the couch. “Oh, you can ’t imagine how hot that thing gets. But it works. ”

  “Very well, in fact. How are you, Savanna? ”

  She shrugged, her ebullient mood fading as she tied the sash around her waist and smoothed her dress, then crossed to the sliding glass door on the west wall, opened it to let the sound and the wind of the sea into the room. “I’m okay, Conan. I went to the local funeral home today. Nice couple running it. I made arrangements to have Ravin ’s body cremated, but I didn ’t know what to tell them about…” She turned to face Conan. “Ravin said he didn ’t have any family left here in Holliday Beach, but if any of his people are buried here…well, I think he should be buried with them. ”

  Conan didn ’t know how to meet the plea in her eyes except to say, “I’ll try to find out about his family. ”

  “Thank you, Conan. ”

  He nodded, then: “I was on my way to meet someone in the bar. ”

  “Oh, do you have to leave now? ”

  “Yes, unfortunately. ” He paused, trying to read the shift in her mood, the veiled excitement in her eyes. “Savanna, you look like a kid who ’s just seen Santa Claus. ”

  “Maybe I have, ” she replied with an enigmatic smile. “Lainey called me —Lainey Dixon, my agent —and she said Booth Kettering wants to talk to me about Blitz. ”Then, as if she were revealing a secret she could no longer contain, she added, “He ’s coming up to see me! Tonight! ”

  “Coming here? ”

  “Yes! Thank God you ’ve got an airfield in this burg. He and Lainey are flying up in his plane, and
she says he ’s ready to talk contract. Conan, this is —it ’s a new beginning for me! I’m coming back to life. ”

  She was radiant, and Conan felt the warmth of her happiness as a tangible sensation. “Well, Kettering knows a perfect match when he sees one. Mona Fatale is yours, Savanna, and always will be. ”

  She said in her best cockney. “’ Ow, dearie, yew ’ll turn me ’ead w ’ that kinda tolk! ”

  He pressed the palm of her hand to his lips, then turned and crossed to the door. “Good luck tonight, Savanna. ”

  “Thanks, Conan. You know, I think you ’re my good luck. ”

  *

  The Ebb Tide Lounge occupied the northeast corner of the restaurant. Its architect seemed to think drinkers were less likely to demand an ocean view than diners, and had given them a view of the swimming pool. Max Heinz, who could pass for an ex-boxer, although he ’d never been one, was bartending, managing the summer crowd with the ease of long experience. When Conan came in, Max glanced up from pouring liquor with deceptive abandon and called out, “Conan! I thought you were hibernating for the summer. ”

  “Well, I was wakened early this year. The usual for me, Max. ”

  Conan hadn ’t ordered a drink here for months, but Max would remember his usual. He had a bartender ’s memory. Conan found Marc Fitch at a table in the corner to the left of the entrance with his usual, Chivas rocks. He wasn ’t alone. Marian Rosenthal looked up from her whiskey sour when Conan joined them.

  “Hi, Conan. ” Then she leaned toward him. “That Max is amazing. When Marc walked in, Max told me, ‘That ’s Cady MacGill ’s lawyer. ’”

  Conan raised an eyebrow, but didn ’t speculate about how Max Heinz had learned that. Bartenders seemed to osmose information out of the air. “How are you, Marian? ”

  “Weary, but it ’s after business hours in New York, so there ’s nothing more I can do today. ”

  Fitch flashed his spectacular smile. “Except delight the benighted natives. Conan, Marian thinks I should write my autobiography. ”

  She laughed at that. “I said he was telegenic, and I wished he ’d written a book because he ’d be so easy to promote. ” Max arrived at the table with Conan ’s Old Forester rocks. “Marc tells me this round is on you. ”

  Conan nodded. “Marian, can I include you in that? ”

  “No, thanks. I’m just waiting for Justine and Byron. We ’re going to have an early dinner. ”

  Max returned to the bar, and Conan asked, “What ’s made you so weary, Marian? ”

  “Trying to do my job from three thousand miles away. ” She sighed. “You know, there are times I wonder how I justify what I do. ”

  “What do you mean? ”

  “Well, it seems…ironic that when a man dies in a very unpleasant fashion, he ’s suddenly worth his weight in gold. Harkness is going back to press with Stud. They ’re ordering an initial run of a million copies. And the average hardbound is lucky to sell ten thousand. Anyway, I have to organize a new promotion campaign. ”

  Conan said casually, “That certainly puts a crimp in your vacation. ”

  She stared at him, then managed a laugh. “What made you think I ’m on vacation? By the way, I gather nobody ’s found the manuscripts. ”

  “No, not yet. ”

  “Poor Estes. ” Then she explained, “Estes Baruch. He ’s Harkness ’s CEO since we got conglomerated. ”

  “Conglomerated? Even Harkness, the Great American Publisher? ”

  “American? We ’re part of a German conglomerate now. But the management is still American. Estes has been in the business forty years, but he ’s going to have a coronary over this. He ’d sell his soul for Odyssey right now. ”

  Conan glanced at Fitch, who was sipping his Scotch with his eyes half-closed, apparently tuned out of the conversation, but listening, Conan knew, to every word.

  Conan said to Marian, “Byron Lasky seems in a mood to sell his soul for Odyssey, too. I saw him at the police station this morning. ” Her only response was a raised eyebrow, and Conan added, “Didn ’t you say he had no contract with Gould and no legal claim on Odyssey? ”

  “Well…yes, but Byron believes in his authors. I’ve seen him work for years to get a first novel published when he knew it wouldn ’t make enough money to cover the cost of his messenger service. ”

  Conan let that non sequitur pass. “Is Lasky seriously ill? ”

  “I think so, ” she replied with a grimace and a sigh. “He won ’t talk about it, and neither will Justine, but a year ago Byron had a thick head of hair any man his age would envy. And now look at him. ”

  “Chemotherapy or radiation, possibly? ”

  “That occurred to me. But I don ’t think it ’s any of my business. ”

  “Nor mine? ” Conan nodded, but he could still wonder privately how a possibly terminal illness might affect a person ’s attitudes. What ’s a life sentence or even the death penalty to a man who may be dying?

  It was at that moment that Marian raised her right hand to push her glasses up, and Conan felt as if that hand had just connected with his solar plexus. Still, he managed to keep his face under control and even smile as he said, “That ’s a beautiful ring, Marian. ”

  And it was beautiful: a wide band of turquoise inlaid with gold in a pattern of thick curves. It was the ring he had seen on Ravin Gould ’s hand Saturday night, the ring that had elicited a gasp of surprise from Marian when she saw it then. The ring that had not been on Gould ’s hand when Conan saw his body Sunday morning.

  Her first response to his comment was an abortive attempt to put her hand and the ring out of sight, but apparently she thought better of that and spread her fingers as she looked down at the ring. “Thank you. It ’s a favorite of mine. Jacob gave it to me. ”

  Now that he had a closer look, Conan realized that the odd shapes inlaid in gold were letters. Hebrew letters. “The design spells out a Hebrew word, doesn ’t it? ”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. Ahava. ” Then she glanced toward the bar, and her patent attempt to change the subject wasn ’t surprising. “Conan, there ’s something I wanted to tell you. Probably doesn ’t mean a thing, but see that elderly man at the far end of the bar? The one in the brown suit? ”

  Conan decided to leave the change of subject unchallenged. He turned, saw Doc Spenser, a nearly empty rocks glass clutched in one hand, sitting at the bar where it made a right angle to butt against the north wall. His plastic-rimmed glasses were crooked, and he sported a bandage on his right thumb, which wasn ’t unusual; in Doc ’s normal state of inebriation, he was a constant risk to himself around anything sharp.

  Conan nodded. “What about him, Marian? ”

  “Well, Saturday afternoon after the brouhaha at the bookshop, I was here talking to Max. Of course, Max had heard all about it, and at the time…well, it just seemed funny. That man heard us talking and introduced himself. Doc Severinson? No, he plays trumpet. ”

  “Dr. Maurice Spenser, but he likes to be called Doc. He was the first physician in this area, and I think he said something about knowing Jimmy Gould. ”

  “He told me that, ” Marian said, “and he seemed fascinated with Ravin ’s new book. He kept asking me if I ’d read it. And I kept telling him I hadn ’t, and I was sure nobody else had, either. ”

  Conan sipped at his bourbon. “What else was he fascinated with? ”

  “Nothing, really. He left after a few minutes. It just seemed…odd, but it probably doesn ’t mean a thing. ”

  “Probably not. ” Conan rose. “But I need to talk to him, anyway. ” He crossed the room and sat down on the empty stool next to Doc, who looked around at him, eyes unfocused and puffy. “Doc, how are you? ”

  He offered a mellowed smile. “Fine, Conan. Damn sure will be nice when Labor Day comes, won ’t it? All these strangers. ”

  “Only a few more days, Doc. I understand you knew Ravin Gould ’s family. ” Then when the doctor frowned and raised his glass to empty it, Conan added
, “You knew him as Jimmy. ”

  Doc ’s glass hit the bar with a thump, which was as likely indicative of the fogginess of his vision as his state of mind. “Sure, I knew his family. Weren ’t many people around here I didn ’t know back then. I was the town doctor. Don ’t much remember Jimmy. He was just a kid when he and his mother moved away. That was after Tom left her. ”

  “Tom? Jimmy ’s father? ”

  “Yeah. Damn. My glass is empty. ”

  With some qualms, Conan took the hint and signaled Max to bring Doc another drink. Not that it would make any difference whether or not Conan provided the Scotch. If Doc wanted more, he would have it, and his capacity was legend.

  Doc squinted into space and said, “Tom ’s folks lived in Westport. The old man was a logger, too. Tom settled here after he married Loretta. Maiden name was Ravin. That ’s where Jimmy got that name. She came from Portland, met Tom during the war. ”

  Max brought his drink with a cheerful “Here you go, Doc, ” then added under his breath to Conan, “That ’s six since two. ” He returned to the other end of the bar to fill more orders.

  If Doc heard that tally of his drinks, he gave no sign, only raising his glass and taking a swallow before he peered at Conan suspiciously, asked, “Why ’re you interested in the Goulds? ”

  “Jimmy ’s wife is making the funeral arrangements. She thought if any of his family are buried here, he should be buried with them. ”

  “Oh. Well, Tom ’s folks are buried in Westport, and Loretta died in Portland. But Jimmy had a little sister. Marilyn. Red hair and blue eyes, just like her mother. She was only five when Loretta brought her to me burning up with fever. Polio. Everybody ’s forgotten about polio, and it wasn ’t that long ago when kids were dying right and left. Little children, crippled and dying. ” Doc seemed on the verge of tears.

  Conan asked, “Marilyn was among the casualties? ”

  “Yes, rest her soul. She ’s buried in Crestview Cemetery, and maybe it ’d be right, having Jimmy buried there, too. He really loved his little sister. But everybody did, she was so pretty and bright. Just like her mother. Poor Loretta. Don ’t think she was more ’n eighteen when she married Tom. Might not ’ve, if she ’d been old enough to know better. ”