by M. K. Wren
And while Silver City might be called a ghost town, it could not be called deserted. Conan counted four people ahead at what seemed to be the center of town, as well as three parked cars and a pickup. He shifted into first gear as the road sloped down to Jordan Creek, which made a short dogleg under the road before resuming its north-south course. There was no bridge, only a dirt fill over a huge culvert, then a rising slope, and finally the road leveled in front of a long, rambling wooden building whose most notable feature was the porch fronting its two stories along its entire length. On the upper level of the porch the floor sagged dramatically, and Conan had to admire the daring of the two people working there.
The building was, he saw when he reached it, the Idaho Hotel, and not only in process of repair and restoration, but open for business. At least, a sign advertised soft drinks, beer, candy, cigarettes, display rooms, and food. The daring ones on the upper level of the porch were wielding hammers enthusiastically on the railing, and Conan doubted either of them was yet twenty years old. The same could be said of one of the two men supervising from the street, but the other was old enough to be a father to any or all of them. His dark hair was shoulder length, and he sported a full beard, a high-crowned Stetson, and tall leather boots. He watched curiously as the car approached, and when Conan stopped, he smiled and said, “Howdy.”
Conan refrained from raising an eyebrow at that. “Hello. I wonder if you could tell me how to find Cordelia Starbuck’s house.”
“Delia’s? Sure. You must be Mr. Flagg.”
Conan did raise an eyebrow at that. “Well, yes, I am.”
“Jake Kulik,” the man responded. Then, indicating the young man standing beside him, “This here’s my son, John.” John’s smile was very much like his father’s and his hair was the same dark brown, but cut a few inches shorter. “And up there,” Kulik continued, waving toward the porch, where the hammering had ceased, “That’s Laurie Franklin and Bill Cobb, friends of John’s.”
Both Laurie and Bill, blithely bare-legged and bare-armed in the searing sun, offered easy smiles with the amenities, and Laurie had a few questions about the XK-E. (“Wow! They don’t even make those anymore.”) And finally Kulik got down to the business of directions.
“Well, you just keep right on down Jordan Street here, past those two poplars, then turn left at the first street. It’ll take you over the crick, then it runs into Morning Star Street. Take another left there, then when you get to the schoolhouse—it’s that big, gray building…” He was gesturing toward the hotel now, as if Conan could see through it, “turn right and go up the hill. The Starbuck house’ll be right in front of you. Biggest, fanciest house in Silver; the one with all the gingerbread and the big arch over the upstairs balcony. You can’t miss it.”
Conan thanked him and drove off in the indicated direction, noting in passing the white Cadillac parked near the end of the porch. It seemed out of place here. And in a way it was: it had California license plates.
He had no trouble following Kulik’s directions. For one thing, the Starbuck house—now that he had it identified—was visible from almost any point in the town, occupying as it did a commanding vantage on the slopes east of Jordan Creek. It was two stories high and of imposing proportions, ornamented with scalloped shingles and whimsies of gingerbread in an oddly blunt, geometric style. One wing of the roof jutted forward to cover the balcony above the front porch—the balcony that Kulik had noted, with its wide, fretted arch—and the porch itself extended on the right into a veranda that went around the side of the house. The roof was the silvery, corrugated metal that seemed the material of choice here—at least, for the buildings that had roofs—but unlike most of the others, this house was painted: an ivory yellow trimmed in ochre, with decorative details picked out in sky blue. Three crab apple trees, resplendent in white blossoms, stood before the house, but separated from it by a barren dirt expanse.
When Conan turned in just beyond the trees, he saw a man and woman talking together at the foot of the porch steps, and another woman leaning against a post at the top of the steps. The latter didn’t move, nor did the man, but when Conan parked in the scented shade of the crab apples, the other woman started toward him.
“Mr. Flagg?”
He got out of the car, stretching out the stiffness in his legs, and he was a little surprised that his mental image of Cordelia Becket Starbuck agreed so well with the lady herself.
She was eighty years old—she’d told him that in their telephone conversation; “born with this century”—yet she stood tall and straight and walked with assurance, and her hair, combed into a loose bun at the back of her head, was only salted with gray. She wore a simple dress with a conservative print, blue on beige, with low-heeled shoes and hose. The price of years was in her face, but it could not detract from her handsome features—high cheekbones, a wide brow that in another age would be called noble, and clear, gray eyes that in any age would be called beautiful.
Conan took the hand she offered. “Mrs. Starbuck?”
“Delia. Welcome to Silver. I didn’t expect you so early. You didn’t drive all the way today?”
Like so many people who hadn’t grown up with the car, she had rather a vague concept of distances. “No, I stayed last night with some friends at the Black Stallion Ranch.”
“The McFalls?” She nodded. “I knew Carlotta years ago before she married Aaron. What a pity she died so young. Well, you must have a suitcase somewhere in that little car.”
He smiled at that and got his suitcase out of the trunk along with the combination-locked briefcase. Delia eyed that curiously. “Looks like you carry your own safe.”
“Just the tools of my trade,” he replied lightly. That included fingerprinting equipment, evidence envelopes, microscope slides, lock picks, a 12x magnifying glass, binoculars, camera, infrared scope, tape recorder, and a Mauser 9 mm automatic. Habit, he thought ruefully; bringing this briefcase had only been a matter of habit. It was very unlikely that any of this equipment would be of any use to him on this case—not when forty years had elapsed to obliterate the kind of evidence these tools were designed to uncover or preserve.
When she offered to carry the briefcase, he surrendered it and grabbed the backpack he had lately found useful as a suitcase, then walked with her toward the house. Since his arrival he had been the object of a penetrating scrutiny by the man who still stood at the foot of the porch steps. Conan judged him to be in his sixties, a lean, leathery man with a Lincolnesque face and prominent browridges over dark eyes. He was studying Conan from beneath those lowering brows with an intentness that gave him a peculiarly lugubrious aspect.
Delia said, “Mr. Flagg, I’d like you to meet an old and dear friend, Dexter Adler. He just drove up from Boise.” That explained his attire, a well-tailored brown silk suit, which obviously hadn’t come off a ready-to-wear rack. Delia added, “Dex was a friend of Tom’s, too.”
Dexter Adler was not, apparently, prepared to be a friend of Conan Flagg’s. He didn’t offer a hand or put aside his frown. “Mr. Flagg, I might as well say it right out—I think this investigation business is…” He glanced defensively at Delia. “Well, it’s just damnfoolishness! I’m sorry, Delia, but as much as I liked Tom—and you know I did—all the investigating in the world won’t change a thing. Leave it alone, Delia—please!”
Her chin came up, but her smile was tolerant, even sympathetic. “Dex, my mind is made up. You know that.”
“But what in God’s green earth does it matter after all these years?”
She responded with steadfast dignity, “It matters.” A pause, then, “You’d better have supper with us, Dex. You must be tired out, and there’s probably nothing but canned beans in your pantry.”
“Uh…thanks, but I brought some groceries with me.” The look he gave Conan was almost accusing, as if Conan were purposely barring him from Delia’s table. “Better get ’em put away and the house opened up. I’ll talk to you later, Delia. Good-bye, Clare.
” That was for the woman at the top of the steps, who smiled wanly and waved a small hand.
Delia watched him stalk away around the north corner of the house, then she started up the steps, shaking her head. “Mr. Flagg, that is one of the most considerate men I’ve ever known. He’s just not himself today. Well, we’d better get you settled. But first—” She slipped her arm around the other woman’s waist. “—I want you to meet my sister.”
At close range, the familial resemblance was obvious, but of the two sisters, this had been the beauty, and, Conan thought, she must have been stunning. Her features were fine and perfectly proportioned, her eyes, gray like Delia’s, were large and long-lashed and had about them a disarming ingenuousness. Her hair was entirely white, although Conan guessed her to be younger than Delia. He didn’t have to guess that she had been very conscious of her beauty; she still was. The rouge and bright lipstick, the showy jewelry, the wispy curls framing her face, and the ribbon binding her long hair at the nape of her neck were all poignant evidence of that.
Conan offered his hand, which she took tentatively as Delia completed the introduction. “Clare, this is Conan Flagg. Mr. Flagg, my sister, Clare Langtry.”
“Lang—” Conan swallowed the word, but cast a questioning look at Delia, who frowned briefly, then nodded.
“I guess I didn’t tell you. Yes, Clare was Leland Langtry’s wife.”
Conan felt distinctly awkward. He said to Clare, “I’m sorry about your husband, Mrs. Langtry.”
The long lashes swept down, then up again as she presented a smile. “Nobody calls me ‘Mrs. Langtry’ anymore. It’s just ‘Clare.’ And don’t worry about Lee. He always comes—”
“Clare,” Delia cut in, “would you mind fixing some iced tea while I take Mr. Flagg upstairs?” She crossed to the front door, pausing when she saw Conan ready to open it. “Have you had lunch, Mr. Flagg?”
“It’s just ‘Conan’ for me—please. And lunch would be most welcome.” He held the door for the sisters, then followed them into a sitting room that was small but still light and airy with its four windows. To his right a pair of wicker chairs flanked an electric floor lamp with an ornate brass base, but on a small table near the door he saw a kerosene stand lamp, which made him wonder about the source of electricity here, and that in turn made him aware of a low droning from outside the house. A generator, undoubtedly; he’d seen no power lines coming into Silver City.
Delia led the way into a wainscoted hall where the dim light reminded Conan to take off his sunglasses. On his left, louvered doors were folded back to give him a glimpse of a living room, which, he speculated, the sisters probably called the parlor, and directly across the hall another set of louvered doors were open on a dining room with a wide bay window. Clare disappeared behind the door at the end of the hall, while Delia started up the staircase on the left-hand wall. Conan’s hand went automatically to the sphere atop the newel post, and he wondered how many generations of hands doing exactly the same thing had brought the wood to its present satin polish.
“How old is the house, Delia?”
“Well, different parts are different ages, but Asa Starbuck started it about 1870. That was Tom’s grandfather. He was the first Starbuck in Silver. Did well for himself, but that wasn’t so hard in those days.”
The stairs made a right-angle turn onto a small landing where there was a closed door that Conan guessed gave access to the back rooms of the house. Then another turn, a few more steps, and another hall. Delia passed the doors on either side and proceeded to the one at the end of the hall.
“I’m afraid it’s awfully small,” she said as she put his briefcase down inside the door. “This used to be a sun porch. Tom’s mother always liked to call it a solarium.”
Conan deposited his backpack at the foot of a narrow bed covered with a crocheted spread to which someone had devoted untold hours with the expectation that it would be used by generations to come. The mahogany headboard, waxed to a fine glow, was edged in a carved egg-and-dart motif, and on either side of it kerosene bracket lamps with bases and shades of opaque rose-hued glass were mounted. Conan smiled as he looked around at the pale yellow wainscoting and the faded wallpaper above, with its narrow, flowered stripes. On the wall opposite the hall door were two windows separated by another door. He opened it, and there was the balcony with the gingerbread-bordered arch framing a vista of the town against a backdrop of mountains and incredibly blue sky.
“Delia, this is exactly the room I’d have chosen for myself.”
She smiled, pleased. “That balcony is the best thing old Asa ever did for this house. That’s why we decided to use this for a guest room. We’ve got six bedrooms, all told, but we can’t keep all of them up, and we don’t need them, just the two of us. There’s even one for servants downstairs.” She shook her head ruefully. “It’s been a long time since there were servants here, but that bedroom comes in handy as a pantry. The Roseberrys close the grocery in the winter, so we have to stock up for at least five months.”
“You and Clare spend the winters here?”
No doubt his incredulity showed, and she laughed. “Of course. This is our home. Where else would we spend the winters?”
“Does anyone else winter over in Silver City?”
“Oh, sometimes Jake Kulik does. He owns the Idaho Hotel. By the way, we don’t have electricity up here on the second floor yet. If it weren’t for that generator Dex got us a few years ago, we wouldn’t have it downstairs. Nor water piped into the house. We’ve got a good well, but we couldn’t get water inside without the pump.” Then she added wryly, “It’s almost like the old days before the power company came in and tore down the lines, and the water system finally broke down. We’ve even got an inside bathroom now. It’s downstairs by the kitchen. Well, I’ll give you a chance to unpack.” She frowned at her watch. “I’ve got some dough rising I’ll have to check. And I’d better see how Clare’s coming along.”
Conan had the feeling the last was less of an excuse than a real concern. From downstairs came the sound of a screaming tea kettle, then the crash of breaking glass.
Chapter 2
Conan was served lunch in the dining room with Clare fluttering around him, her overwhelming attentiveness making him uncomfortable. Delia stayed in the kitchen, pleading necessity. “The dough’s ready, and I’ve got to get it in the oven.” Conan couldn’t object if it meant more bread like that enclosing his roast beef sandwich.
Clare kept eyeing him curiously but covertly, which didn’t make him feel any more comfortable, but he understood her interest. At least he thought he did until she asked cautiously, “Didn’t Delia say you were Henry Flagg’s son?”
He shrugged. “She probably did, since I am.”
“Oh.” A pause while she looked at his face. “I met Henry Flagg once. That was a long time ago; he was still a young man. You…don’t look at all like him.”
Conan laughed, and now he did understand. Apparently Clare found it difficult to correlate Henry Flagg’s fair, typically Irish features and red hair with his son’s dark, typically—and undeniably—Indian features and black hair.
He explained, “My mother was Nez Percé. In fact, she gave me my middle name: Joseph.”
Clare looked momentarily blank, then brightened. “Oh—after Chief Joseph? Well.”
She let the matter of his ancestry drop, and he wasn’t sure whether that was due to the uneasiness with non-Caucasian races that people of her generation and background so often seemed to feel, or simply to lack of interest, and except for that, their conversation was limited to such deep subjects as a comparison of the climates of the Owyhees and the Oregon coast. At one point, he asked her bluntly, “You know why I’m here, don’t you?”
She refilled his iced tea glass, frowning slightly, then with an engaging smile asked, “Are you ready for dessert? Delia makes the most elegant pound cake.…”
He didn’t pursue the subject of his purpose, and after lunch when he was us
hered into the parlor—and Clare did, indeed, call it that—he learned with some relief that her assistance was required in the kitchen. He settled into a capacious armchair to light a cigarette—the ashtray on the table by his chair assured him smoking was tolerated—and to study the room.
Asa Starbuck had spared no pains here. From the coffered ceiling hung a brass chandelier bearing six lamps with amber Tiffany shades. On the parquet floor was an exquisite Kirman, and the fireplace on the interior wall was decorated with tile cast in bird and animal forms. Centered on the north wall opposite the fireplace was a double window curtained with lace, and on its wide sill an array of potted plants flourished even in the north light. Conan wondered which of the sisters had the green thumb. There had been potted plants in every room he’d seen.
A couch faced the fireplace and at each end a wing chair angled in to form a conversational grouping. Conan occupied one of these chairs, but now he rose and wandered over to the upright piano on the west wall. The dark wood was like silk to his touch, richly carved with entwined leaves and flowers, and he considered how this instrument had reached Silver City. Probably by ship from the east around the Horn to Portland, by barge up the Columbia, by rail to Boise or Murphy, then the tortuous haul through the Owyhees in a wagon pulled by fourteen horses at the command of a jerk-line skinner. What price music? And he mentally took his hat off to the people who were willing to pay that price.
He crossed to the big rolltop desk to the right of the double windows, ran his lingers down the ridged curve of the cover with more than a little envy, then turned to study the bookshelves that filled the east wall to a height of five feet. The books ranged from rare editions on geology and mining to recent best sellers, primarily nonfiction. The top of the shelves was given over to memorabilia—family photographs, albums, a pipe stand, three military medals from World War I. His eye was caught by a piece of rock, which seemed incongruous here. It fit solidly in his hand; flecks of mica glittered amid patches of pale feldspar, but it was composed predominantly of a nearly translucent, reddish mineral that seemed on the verge of crystalization.
