by M. K. Wren
“But why? I mean, wouldn’t that be a lot more risky?”
“Insurance, perhaps, to keep the seller quiet. These are carbons. Someone has the originals, and along with the bank account, they make damning evidence.”
“Blackmail, then?”
Conan paused. “Maybe.”
“Those initials mean anything to you?”
“One of them—the seller. But he isn’t in this alone. There are two horses, two saddles, et cetera.” And he was remembering the five-thousand-dollar checks to cash from Linc’s Boise account. If that money went to the unidentified partner in this enterprise, it was a strangely uneven partnership.
But whatever the nature of the partnership, the enterprise, or rather the threat of its exposure, constituted a clear-cut motive for murder. And Thursday night, George had ridden through the mud of Dry Creek; mud winter-white, white as snow in the blue light of a full moon.
“You know, it’s funny…” Johnnie was squinting out into the sunlight, frowning. “We didn’t see a single Drinkwater brand on those cows.”
Conan looked up at him sharply, then laughed. He had also considered that fact “funny.”
“True, Johnnie, and a very astute observation.” He put the receipts back in the strongbox and carefully replaced the lock. “But observations are only points of departure. My aphorism for the day, and not bad for six in the morning.”
Johnnie conceded that with a short laugh. “So, what are you going to do with this damning evidence?”
“Rip it off. And you’re going to hold on to it so you can swear it never left your sight, and I had no opportunity to tamper with it.”
“Now, wait just—Damn!”
“Watch your head, Johnnie. And don’t touch the box; just the handle. Now, we’d better cover our tracks and take off. If we stick around much longer, we’ll get caught in the last roundup.”
*
At eight o’clock, Conan turned into the drive at Walter Maxwell’s office-home. Johnnie was still holding the box with the air of one left holding the bag. He’d relinquished it only when he locked it in n the trunk of the car while they breakfasted at a highway cafe where Conan called Maxwell.
The doctor was expecting them, and even expecting their entrance through the back door. Conan introduced Johnnie only by name, then Maxwell led them through the kitchen and down a hallway to his office and waved them to chairs while he sat down at an old mahogany desk nearly black with years of polishing.
“Well, what can I do for you, Mr. Flagg?”
“Provide a safe hiding place, I hope.”
Maxwell eyed the box Johnnie clasped so nervously.
“That’s what you want to hide? What’s in it?”
Conan frowned and started to reach for his cigarettes, but there wasn’t an ashtray in sight. No doubt Maxwell could order his patients to stop smoking, diet, or abstain from alcohol with the clear conscience of a good example.
“Doctor, I’d rather not tell you what’s in the box, but you were at the ranch when I arrived; you know about my investigation. The contents of the box may be regarded as evidence, but I’m not ready to turn it over to Joe Tate yet. Facts in themselves can be highly misleading.”
Maxwell laughed. “In my business, they’re misleading nearly all the time. Why bring it to me?”
“I don’t know who else to trust it to. All I’m asking is that you keep it in a safe place for a few days.”
“And keep my mouth shut about it? Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
He pondered a moment, then reached into his pocket for a keyring and went to a cabinet behind his desk.
“All right. For a few days. I’ll keep it in here; this is where I store any dangerous drugs I have on hand.”
“Thanks. Johnnie, will you put it in the cabinet?”
He complied, breathing a sigh of relief when it was locked out of sight, and he and Maxwell returned to their chairs. Conan wrote Johnnie’s name and phone number in his notebook, tore out the sheet, and handed it to Maxwell.
“If I can’t reclaim the box within a week, give it to Joe Tate and tell him to call Johnnie. He can explain it.”
“I hope by then somebody can explain it to me.” Then he laughed. “No, not now; I have a feeling the less I know about it, the better. On the phone you said you had some questions for me—or was that just an excuse?”
“No, it wasn’t. Laura brought Aaron in to see you yesterday. Can you tell me about it?”
“You mean Aaron’s comments on the medical profession, or my conclusions on his state of health?”
Conan smiled faintly at that “I can guess his comments. I want your conclusions.”
“Well, I don’t suppose I’d be betraying any medical confidences Laura couldn’t, or wouldn’t.” He hesitated. “You did talk to her about it?”
“I asked her if you had anything to say about Aaron’s health, but she was…rather vague.” An understatement, and Maxwell would understand it. Laura had come home from the funeral in a state close to shock. But dry-eyed. The memory of it made him want to weep. A privilege, she told him later in an unguarded moment; tears were for people possessed of unsullied consciences, an enigmatic statement she refused to amplify.
When the family returned in the fading glow of sunset, Conan was waiting on the porch and heard Aaron’s blanket condemnation of the journalistic “buzzards” at the funeral, which led into a diatribe on his embarrassment at his sons’ bearing the trophies of a drunken brawl, and on the very eve of their brother’s funeral. Conan caught some of the emotional flak, enduring in silence being charged with having no interest in George or his death beyond a fat fee.
The family then went their separate ways, Linc to his room with the door closed, Ted for a ride in the cold light of the waning moon, while Aaron chose to seek solace in work. With Potts tagging along uninvited, he went to the barn to pitch hay. Conan was a little surprised at that, and at the fact that Aaron showed no symptoms of the nervous stomach upset that had sent him to bed so early the preceding nights.
Conan accompanied Laura to her house and offered to stay with her awhile. Not offered; insisted. But she was equally insistent; she wanted to be alone, and he left her finally, recognizing the solace in solitude, and hoping it didn’t include another fifth of bourbon.
He returned to the porch, and a short time later Gil Potts, no doubt discouraged by Aaron’s short temper, left the barn and joined Conan on the porch step for a cigarette. Their conversation began on an antagonistic note, although Potts smiled and kept his tone light.
“Hear you was doin’ some explorin’ ’round the ranch this afternoon. Like inside my trailer.”
Mano had wasted no time, Conan thought, but he only shmgged, matching Potts’s light tone.
“In your trailer? How could I? The door was locked.”
“How d’you know that?”
“I tried it.” Mano hadn’t come out of the barn in time to refute the lie beyond a doubt. Potts laughed, apparently satisfied.
“Well, next time I’ll leave it open.” Then he turned sober and hesitant. “Conan, I don’t s’pose nobody else’ll get around to sayin’ it, so mebbe it’s up to me. About last night, I mean.”
“Saying what?”
“Oh…thanks, I guess. You gotta understand about the boys—I mean, it comes hard for them, sayin’ thanks or apologizin’. The way they was raised, I s’pose, and they’re both a little…well, tight-wound, y’know.”
“I know.”
“Anyhow, I’ll say thanks for the boys. If you hadn’t stepped in right when you did…” He shook his head in perplexed disbelief. “No tellin’ what might’ve happened.”
In the face of his earnest concern, Conan hesitated before asking the question, but a nagging suspicion still skulked at the back of his mind. That knife, the switchblade, had come into Linc’s hand so suddenly, almost magically, and right after he had fallen into Potts’s arms.
“Gil, do you know where Linc got
that switchblade?”
There wasn’t a false note in his attitude or tone.
“No. Never seen him with it till last night. Prob’ly picked it up in a poker game. Conan, he’s a good kid; jest gets a little too much booze sometimes, and last night—well, he was kinda wrought up.” Another understatement, which recalled him to the present and Dr. Maxwell, who was looking at him inquiringly. Conan had heard the question but had to concentrate to recall it Laura. How did Laura take the funeral?
“Without a tear. I don’t know, Doctor. She didn’t want to talk.”
An anxious frown deepened the lines in his forehead.
“I’m worried about her; she holds everything in too much. So does Aaron. At least, he holds in the things really bothering him.” A preoccupied pause while his fingers drummed on the desk, then, “As for his health, it’s better than I anticipated. In fact, his blood pressure and pulse rate were low for him. When George died, I expected Aaron to go down with a heart attack, but he’s a tough old man. You have to be to survive in this country.”
“Which makes Aaron one of the evolutionary fit?”
He laughed. “I guess so. I’ve always thought of it as a centrifuge. This country sorts people out; the men from the boys, the strong from the weak. Of course, that depends on how you define strength and manhood, but I don’t suppose you want to get into that now.”
“I think we’d simply find ourselves in agreement. Did you know Aaron isn’t taking the Digoxin you prescribed?”
Maxwell stared at him, perplexed.
“He what? But that’s—Mr. Flagg, I’m afraid you’re in error there.”
“I doubt it. I found an old prescription in his medicine chest. It was a year old and the bottle was still nearly full, and he as much as admitted it night before last.”
“I’m not doubting your word, it’s just…odd. You see, I’ve written refill prescriptions for the Digoxin regularly since he first started taking it.”
It was Conan’s turn for a perplexed stare.
“I can’t imagine Aaron going to the trouble of getting new prescriptions for something he didn’t intend to take.”
“He didn’t go to the trouble. On a maintenance prescription like that, Myron Waite—he’s our local pharmacist—just calls me and I okay a refill, then give him a written prescription for his records when it’s convenient. And I know Aaron doesn’t go to the trouble of picking up his own pills. One of the boys or any of the hands who might be in town running errands takes care of that.”
“And Waite gives them to anyone who asks for them?”
“Anyone who has the prescription number.”
“So anyone could’ve picked up the prescriptions?”
“Well, there’s another possibility.” He paused, then with a shrug went on, “I wouldn’t put it past Myron to raise his profit margin a little by charging Aaron for prescriptions he didn’t fill. I doubt he lists them individually on his bills, but he’d need the refill prescriptions from me for his own records; for Uncle Sam, that is.”
Conan considered that explanation, not entirely satisfied, then frowned at his watch and rose.
“Doctor, you said you have an eight-thirty appointment, and it’s almost time. As for the missing digitalis, I’ll try to track it down. Meanwhile, thanks for your help.”
Maxwell rose and offered his hand.
“Mr. Flagg, I’m glad I could help. And…good luck.”
Conan drove to the airport in brooding silence, which Johnnie accepted with his usual equanimity. When he parked outside the hangar where the ’copter waited, he reached into the back seat for his camera.
“Johnnie, I have an errand for you. I want you to take this film to Ed Teeter in Portland.”
“That makes kind of expensive developing, doesn’t it?”
“But dependably discreet.” He frowned; the film spool seemed to defy his fumbling fingers. “Tell Ed to hold the prints until I call him. I just hope to hell I won’t need them.”
CHAPTER 19
Conan didn’t wait at the Clarion’s counter, but went directly to Jesse’s office and found her conferring with Abe over tomorrow’s front page.
“Conan! Come on in. Abe, that looks good, but talk to Billy about that picture ’fore you set the funeral story.” Then as Abe morosely departed, “Cup of coffee, Conan?”
“Uh…no, thanks. I’ve come to take you to lunch.”
“Lunch? It ain’t ’leven yet.” Then with a quick laugh she plucked a jacket from a wobbly coat rack and shrugged it on as she headed for the door. “But it ain’t ever’ day a handsome young city dude asks me out. Come on. Abe, I’ll be back in a little while. You like eggrolls?”
Conan was scrambling to keep up, but managed as a matter of principle to reach the front door in time to open it for her.
“Eggrolls? Well, yes, I like them, but—”
“But you figger any enrolls made in Harney County’s gonna be built out of jerky? Well, you’ll see. Might’s well walk. It’s only a couple of blocks.”
The cafe was a flat-roofed, unimaginative building with big windows advertising high school football schedules and 4-H pot-lucks, but the sign was intriguing: HIGHLANDER CAFE spelled in neon over a green Chinese dragon.
They were early for the noon rush; only a handful of customers were there to exchange familiar greetings with Jesse. Still, he was about to hint at the advisability of privacy, but that proved unnecessary. She chose a booth in the corner by the window; the low back provided a clear view of the adjacent booths, and she let him take the side that put his back to the wall, a peculiarly Western nicety.
The Highlander’s name undoubtedly derived from the high school tribal symbol, a cartooned and kilted Scot, which in turn derived from Burns’s namesake. The interior was as uninspired as the exterior, its walls a visceral rose-pink coexisting in a state of armed truce with the blue-green plastic leather booths. But Conan forgave the decor when he took a close look at what adorned the walls, and he began to understand the derivation of the green dragon.
There were three glassed panels; three of the most exquisite examples of Chinese silk embroidery he’d seen outside a museum. One hung above their booth, and he craned around to stare at it. Two storks in the branches of a pine, bursts of needles, delicate feather patterns, all stitched in subtle gradations of gray, the only stroke of color the birds’ scarlet crests.
Jesse watched him, smiling. “Kind of purty, ain’t it?”
“My God, Jesse, it’s beautiful. You don’t suppose this one would be—” A waitress emerged from the kitchen, affording him a brief glance through the door, and he gave up all hope of making any of these silks his own. The chef wore Levis, but his face would fade effortlessly into a crowd in Peking. A descendant of one of the millions of Chinese imported to build a frontier nation’s railroads, Conan speculated, who wasn’t likely to part with these treasures of his heritage.
“You game for the eggrolls?” Jesse asked.
“I’m game if they live up to the art.”
The waitress and Jesse exchanged pleasantries, Jesse pointedly ignoring the curious glances cast at Conan. When the order was recorded and coffee served in heavy-gauge restaurant cups incongruously decorated with chrysanthemums and dragons, Conan lit cigarettes for them. Jesse nodded thanks through a cloud of smoke.
“So, what’ve you been up to this momin’?”
“Jesse, you probably know exactly what I’ve been up to.”
“Well, I know you met a feller out to the airport early this momin’ and took off with him in a hellycopter.”
“Some business came up at the Ten-Mile. I had to make a fast trip to Pendleton to sign some papers.” That seemed to go down easily enough, and he went on lightly, “But you missed something. I came to the Clarion directly from a private interview with Sylvia Waite.” She’d missed something else, too, but he didn’t intend to tell her about his visit to Dr. Maxwell.
“Sylvia? How’d you manage a private talk?”
&
nbsp; “She’s working at the pharmacy today, so I just waited until Myron took a beer break. This is marvelous coffee.”
“Mm. Little bit weak. What’d Sylvia have to say, and how’d you get her to say anything?”
“Well, she was quite cooperative when I mentioned Linc and the Sunset Motel.”
“You checkin’on Linc’s alibi?”
“That and some strayed digitalis. Maxwell prescribed Digoxin for Aaron after his heart attack, but he stopped taking it about a year ago. The problem is, Doc has renewed that prescription regularly since then.”
“That’s queer.” She frowned after an explanation, then, “You don’t s’pose Myron’s jest takin’ a little rake-off?”
“Doc suggested that, but Sylvia swears she’s seen her husband make up the prescription several times. Of course, she had no idea who picked them up; her memory seems a bit selective. Maybe she’s afraid to say anything that might get Myron in trouble. I gather he has quite a temper.”
“Myron’s a little man, Conan, body ’n soul. Seems to think hollerin’ and beatin’ up on his wife makes him bigger.”
“Well, Sylvia has her problems, but so does Linc. She can’t give him an alibi past eight-thirty. It seems Thursday was the night she chose to suffer qualms of guilt. She went to the Sunset, but only stayed long enough to tell Linc their grand passion was over. I guess he didn’t offer much of an argument; she left within half an hour.”
“At eight-thirty? So, you figger Linc had time enough to go out to the rezzavoy and bash his brother’s head in?”
He shrugged, overlooking her skeptical tone.
“Linc had time, but George didn’t have his head bashed in at the reservoir. His horse went to Dry Creek Pasture, and I’m assuming he went with it.”
Her skepticism turned to mystification.
“What’s this about Dry Crick Pasture, and where is it?”
“South of the reservoir, near the county road that runs between the Black Stallion and Kimmons’s ranch.”
“The road where Bert sighted that cattle truck?”
“Yes. I know George was worried about rustling, and I found a note in his office; a reminder to talk to Gil about Dry Creek Pasture. I don’t know if he did talk to him, and I won’t ask Gil. I’m not ready to show my hand yet.”
