by M. K. Wren
Conan frowned as he took a swallow of watered-down whiskey. “Anything else at the scene? ”
“Not a hell of a lot. All the fingerprints check out with people who had good reason to be in the house. No tracks outside or tire prints, since it ’s been so dry. No sign of breaking and entering. Of course, Earl said Byron Lasky wasn ’t sure whether he locked the door after his visit Saturday night. And if he didn ’t—hell, anybody could ’ve walked in there. A perfect stranger, for all we know. ”
“A perfect stranger with a motive to murder Ravin Gould? ”
“From what I hear about Gould, there might be hundreds of people who wanted him dead, and anybody could drive in and out of Holliday Beach without leaving a trace. Even if they flew in, they ’d land at Baysea ’s airfield, which isn ’t exactly Portland International. Most of the time there ’s nobody there, except when the helicopter shuttle picks up or delivers passengers. ”
Conan took a drag on his cigarette, thinking of Kara Arno and her two children, wondering how they were playing out the hand that fate had so indifferently dealt them. “Well, you ’ve lost one possible witness at the Baysea airfield. ”
“You mean the pilot? Earl told me about him. Arno helped us find a homicide suspect in the Coast Range a couple years back. Damn, you know, that…well, I get nervous with coincidences. And yes, I know they happen all the time. ”
“What do you mean by coincidences? ”
“That pilot crashing Saturday night —the night of Gould ’s murder. ”
Conan ’s cigarette scattered a shower of sparks when he dropped it on the floor. He leaned down to pick it up and crushed it out in the ashtray. “Saturday night? Earl told me Arno crashed on Sunday. ”
“Actually it was Sunday. Sometime after three in the morning. ”
Conan felt a shiver of excitement, yet it faded in moments. Before he got mystic about this juxtaposition of events, of deaths, he had to find some connection between them stronger than their timing.
“Steve, do you have a report on the Gould condo? ”
“Yes. I sent Jeff Kaw up to take care of the search. He got an official statement from the Herndons, too. I looked it over. They hadn ’t changed their story. ”
“What about the condo? ”
“No sign of the gun or the manuscripts. Jeff said it looked about as lived in as a hotel room. Except he found some charred scraps of paper in the fireplace. Real strange, you not noticing them. ”
Conan smiled at the sarcasm in that. “Glad to hear somebody got to them before the cleaning crew came in. ”
“Yeah, well, the lab ’s working on —damn! Look at that sucker go! ”
“What sucker? ”
“The ball! Canseco just hit a home run —with two men on! ”
“All right, Steve, I can take a hint. Call me if anything interesting turns up. ”
“Mm? Oh, sure, Conan. ” And Steve hung up without further ado.
Conan leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes, then again read through his notes, irritably noting all the question marks. He read them again, hoping inspiration would hit so he could strike out some of those marks. Instead, he found himself adding more question marks.
At length he reached for the phone again.
After six rings, Earl Kleber answered irritably, “This had damn well better be a real emergency. ”
Conan looked at his watch: eleven-fifteen. And Earl Kleber believed in rising at the crack of dawn. “Well, not exactly, Earl. ”
“Flagg? ” Kleber groaned. “What the hell do you want? ”
“Can you get me more information on Dan Arno ’s crash? ”
Another groan, then: “Probably, but for God ’s sake, why? ”
Conan thought, so I can get to sleep tonight. He said, “I’m not sure, Earl. Maybe it ’s just that coincidences make me nervous. ”
“Right. Tomorrow, Flagg. Maybe. ” And he hung up.
Chapter 19
At eight-forty Tuesday morning, Conan found the parking lot at the Surf House swarming with vehicles displaying newspaper, magazine, radio, and television logos. He parked on the street, noting the crowd outside Savanna ’s suite. The hounds had run her to earth.
Five of the hounds were waiting to use the phone booth near the restaurant. Conan went to the office and found the two pay phones there occupied by more reporters reeling off stories. But he had the advantage of knowing the clerk, Helen Day, who was among the bookshop ’s most loyal customers. She let him use the phone behind the counter. The voice that answered his call wasn ’t Savanna ’s, but when he identified himself, Savanna was on the line in a matter of seconds. “Conan! Oh, Conan, where are you? ”
“In the Surf House office, and I ’m at your service. Besides, Giff said you wouldn ’t go to the beach house without an escort. ”
A sigh, then, “I just can ’t face that place alone. ”
“Who ’s your telephone receptionist? ”
“Oh, that ’s Lainey. Booth had to fly back last night, but, oh, Conan, this thing is bigger than I ever dreamed. I mean, what he wants to do with Blitz —special effects and Dolby sound and Belikova for the choreography. It ’s going to be incredible! ”
Conan saw one of the reporters eyeing him curiously. “You deserve nothing less. Now, how do you want to manage your departure? ”
“I’ll just walk out, that ’s all. I’m sick of hiding, and Lainey says I should get it over with. Let them see me, anyway, and take some pictures. So just drive over and honk twice. ”
Conan retrieved his car and, as instructed, honked as he neared Savanna ’s suite, and she emerged, soberly attired in a simple cotton dress of black with black-rimmed sunglasses, to meet her clamoring public, which included fans and the curious as well as the media. The woman at her side sported a fluorescent sundress and a tangled pouf of dark hair that nearly hid her face. Lainey Dixon, no doubt. Conan pushed through the crowd and a din of shouted questions and whining shutters until he reached Savanna, then he began elbowing a path back to the car. She clung to his arm as she parried the verbal barrages fired at her. “Please…that ’s all I can tell you now…I just don ’t know.…”
Lainey Dixon remained at the door, shouted, “I’ll answer any questions I can, ” but got few takers. Savanna ’s entourage stayed with her, moving as one wriggling, noisy mass. Conan helped her into the XK-E, hurried to the driver ’s side, slammed the door on more questions, then revved the motor to a warning roar as he drove forward, and the multimouthed creature divided, coalesced again behind the car. Once out of the parking lot, he turned north on Front Street, checking his rearview mirror, and he wasn ’t surprised to see that some of the reporters had resorted to their vehicles.
“Savanna, we ’re being followed. Do you want me to lose them? ”
She laughed, a sound inimical to her sober attitude to this point. She looked out the back window, said gleefully, “I’ll bet you can ’t.”
It was a game to her, but Conan was willing to play. He accelerated for breathing room, then turned off Front Street, careened along a zigzag course through familiar back streets, reached the highway, and spurted across it in the path of an oncoming log truck, and all the while Savanna laughed with the abandon of a child on a roller coaster. But one van managed to stick with them. Conan made a squealing left turn, sped north on a residential street, then after five blocks, swung hard right, while Savanna gasped and fell against him. Two more blocks, then another right turn, and when he came out of it and gunned the Jaguar south, she was still laughing.
Foothills Boulevard Road, named in hope by the founders of the village, was only a graveled byway with few houses along it. He managed to hit forty briefly on this stretch, then braked for a left turn and slowed to a reasonable ten miles an hour on the narrow lane that wound to the top of a hill and Crestview Cemetery.
He doubted Savanna had seen the sign that would have warned her of their destination. When she realized where she was, she lost any inclination to laugh
ter. He stopped and got out of the car to listen for the van, but heard nothing. He opened Savanna ’s door, and she took off her sunglasses as she emerged, gazing up at the ancient Sitka spruces at whose roots the gravestones huddled. The silence here had nothing to do with the slabs of marble and granite. The trees owned this silence.
“Oh, Conan, this is beautiful,” she whispered.
“You asked if any of your husband ’s family were buried in Holliday Beach. Only one. His sister, Marilyn. She died of polio. ”
“Oh, yes, now I remember. Ravin told me about her. He said when she died, it was the first grief he ’d ever felt…and the worst. ”
Conan saw tears in her eyes as she bent to pick a Queen Anne ’s lace blossom, studied its delicate fretwork, then again looked around her. “This is where he ’ll be buried, ” she said. “That ’s why you brought me here, isn ’t it? You knew this is where Ravin should be buried. ”
Conan didn ’t deny that, yet if he ’d had any motive in bringing her here —other than eluding the van —it was to shake her out of her stage persona and perhaps to remind her of something she seemed to constantly forget: that her husband had been murdered.
But he wondered what he would find beneath her stage persona. She was still wearing it, and it fitted her so exquisitely, he had to ask himself if it should —or could —be put aside.
“Conan? What is it? Oh…” She reached for his hand. “Is somebody you loved buried here? ”
That was true, in fact, but he only smiled and opened the car door for her. “We ’d better get down to Dunlin Beach. The sheriff is waiting. ”
*
Toward the end of Dunlin Beach Road, a white Highway Patrol car blocked the road, the patrolman standing guard in front of this erstwhile barrier. He didn ’t stop them. Gazing raptly at Savanna, he waved them around. There was barely enough space at the side of the road for Conan to clear the patrol car, and he winced at the scrape of pine branches along the XK-E ’s side.
When they reached the house, Giff Wills was waiting by his car. He hurried to the XK-E to offer Savanna a hand out. “Thanks for coming, Ms. Barany, ” he said in an atypically hushed, awestruck tone.
“I guess I had to face it sooner or later, ” she said, regarding the house with patent dread. When Wills started up the flagstone path, she took Conan ’s arm, her grip tightening as they approached the front door. There she paused, then resolutely marched inside.
“All I need to know, ” Wills said, “is whether anything ’s missing. ”
She wrinkled her nose as she stepped down into the living room. “My God, the buffet ’s still here. Couldn ’t somebody clean up that food? ”
But she didn ’t seem to expect an answer. She was staring at the couch, at the torn and bloody pillows. She said nothing, instead began a survey of the house. Conan accompanied her, with Wills like a shadow a few paces behind. She began with the kitchen, glanced indifferently at the detritus of Saturday night ’s party. She was equally indifferent —although it seemed more studied —when she led the way into the master bedroom, with its pseudotropical decor and king-size water bed and the hot tub on the adjoining patio. In the walk-in closet, she touched a man ’s leather coat, then turned, went into the bath. Towels and clothing had been left where they fell.
She retreated from the bedroom, crossed the living room without looking at the couch, and went into the office, where she gazed for some time at the typewriter.
Conan asked, “Savanna, do you mind if I use this typewriter? ”
She looked at him curiously. “No, I don ’t mind. ”
Wills, Conan was sure, did mind, but couldn ’t seem to think of a reason to stop him. Conan took a blank sheet of paper from the box at the back of the desk, typed out two alphabets, one lowercase, the other in capitals, then folded the paper and put it in his shirt pocket.
By then, Savanna had moved on to the bedroom that opened off the office, and when he joined her there, with Wills serving sentry at the door, Conan saw that the room had been converted into an exercise room, furnished with a stationary bicycle, a rowing machine, and a racklike arrangement that no doubt converted to a number of excruciating uses. “Ravin wouldn ’t let me put in a barre, ” she said. “He kept saying we were just renting.…”
At length she returned to the living room. Again she didn ’t look at the couch. “Nothing ’s missing, Sheriff. You know, I ’ve got to get this cleaned up before I go. Is it all right if I have Mrs. Early in tomorrow? ”
“That ’ll be okay, Ms. Barany. We ’re done with the house. ”
“And are you finished with me? I want to schedule the funeral for Thursday morning, and I promised my agent I ’d be in L.A. by Thursday night. Sheriff, it ’s vitally important. ”
Wills seemed to go limp under the full wattage of her appealing gaze. “Well, ma ’am, I don ’t see any reason why you can ’t leave. We should have this thing wrapped up by tomorrow. ”
Conan managed not to groan aloud, but he couldn ’t quite stomach Wills ’s warm-pudding grin while Savanna offered her gratitude. He cut in, “By the way, Savanna, have you heard from your husband ’s lawyer? ”
“No. I don ’t know why I would. He wasn ’t my lawyer. ”
“But he might know if Gould made a will. ”
The sheriff frowned balefully at that, and Savanna said indifferently, “Well, I haven ’t heard from him. ” She looked around the room and shivered. “Conan, I ’d like to get out of here. ”
He nodded. “Sheriff? ”
“Mm? That ’s fine. Uh, Ms. Barany, I was wondering…” He took his notebook out of his breast pocket, and while Savanna smiled sympathetically, he asked, “Could I have your autograph? ”
Conan watched her write: “Best wishes to Giff Wills, the nicest sheriff I ’ve ever known. ” And probably the only sheriff she ’d ever known, Conan thought, as she signed her name with a dramatic flourish.
At the Surf House, the reporters had either left in frustration or taken a coffee break. There were a number of marked cars and vans in the parking lot, but no one was waiting at Savanna ’s door. Conan stopped the XK-E there and turned to face her. She hadn ’t spoken since they left the Dunlin Beach house.
“Savanna? ”
She sighed. “It ’s just that house. Conan, come see me this evening. I mean, just to have dinner and talk. ”
“Won ’t you and Lainey have plenty to talk about? ”
“She ’s leaving in a couple of hours. ”
“All right, Savanna. I’ll call you later. ”
“Don ’t forget. ” She leaned toward him, and he closed his eyes, finding in the scent of her perfume, the softness of her lips, a poignant echo. Then she pulled away, got out of the car, and hurried to her suite.
Conan took a deep breath and began patrolling the parking lot for an empty slot. It was nearly eleven. As good a time as any for an early lunch. Or late breakfast. He ’d only had time for a cup of coffee this morning after Wills phoned him for escort duty.
He found a parking place, made his way to the restaurant, walked down the hall past the bar, then descended five slate steps into the dining room, where the hundred-foot arc of windows offered a stunning panorama, and nothing stood between the viewer and the horizon but miles of sea. The dining room was crowded, even for August, the noise level daunting, but Tilda Capek Tally, slender and Dresden-delicate, was an oasis of graceful calm. She was serving as hostess today.
“Conan, it ’s good to see you. Brian said he ’d heard you were back and hard at work. At least, that ’s the gossip. ” Then with a soft laugh, “But the gossip is not always to be believed. ”
“In this case, you can believe it, Tilda. ”
“Then I wish you good luck. Are you having lunch? Good, I have a window table. ” She led him to a small table in the northwest corner where he would have a view not only of the beach, but north to the distant Lands End Point. He seated himself to face that view, while Tilda handed him a menu before departing.
He made a leisurely study of the menu and had decided on the razor clams for which the restaurant was justly famous when a movement caught his eye.
This vista included an oblique view of the west facade of the building that housed the new suites, and a figure had appeared on one of the first-floor balconies: a woman in yellow slacks and blouse, her hair hidden under a straw hat, her eyes hidden by black-rimmed sunglasses. A big straw purse was slung over her shoulder. She looked down at the beach, which was at least ten feet below her; the railings on the first-floor balconies were built on top of a concrete seawall. There was, of course, an easy access to the beach: the ramp south of the restaurant. But this woman apparently didn ’t want an easy access. She swung her legs over the railing and dropped into the sand, landing without losing her footing, then set off northward at a casual stroll.
Savanna. Had she taken this precipitous route to the beach simply to avoid being seen by the reporters?
Savanna ’s ambling course took her close to the water ’s edge, where she seemed to find various flotsam and jetsam to examine. The beach was well populated, some of the beachgoers having chosen a spot to make a temporary home furnished with folding chairs, picnic baskets, and coolers, while others vicariously took to the sky with kites glowing like stained glass in the sun, and still others jogged or ran with stoic determination. The less determined were content to simply walk in solitude or in groups, and dogs of every size and kind lounged, played, jogged, ran, or walked along with their human alphas.
“Have you decided what you ’d like, Mr. Flagg? ”
Conan looked up at the waitress, then shook his head. “Not yet. ”
She tapped her pencil against her order pad. “Okay. I’ll be back. ”
Savanna had stopped, stood facing the sea. He studied the people around her, fixing finally on another woman —she was also carrying a large purse —walking toward Savanna from the south. The woman had neglected to cover her hair. Her cornsilk blonde hair.
Dana Semenov.
Savanna watched Dana as she approached, and neither seemed pleased at this encounter, although it couldn ’t by any stretch of the imagination be accidental. They both stood stiffly, arms folded, yet no more than two feet separated them. They talked briefly, then Dana took a manila envelope from her purse, gave it to Savanna, and it disappeared into Savanna ’s purse. At that point, Dana began walking briskly back toward the resort and, no doubt, the ramp south of the restaurant. Savanna walked north, maintaining her casual pace.
