by M. K. Wren
“I’ve got to talk to Chief Kleber—and soon.”
“Is he still at the hospital?”
“I don’t know where he is. I haven’t called the station. I can’t talk to him on police lines. That’s why I’m calling you. I was hoping you could get hold of him and arrange a meeting.”
“I’ll find him. You can meet here at the bookshop. Okay?” He heard her sigh, then, “I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Neely, what—” But she had hung up. He muttered, “Damn,” as he went to the door to close it, ignoring Miss Dobie’s questioning glance. Then he returned to the phone and punched the number for the police station. To his relief, Kleber was there.
“Earl, this is Conan. I have something important to talk to you about. Here at the bookshop.”
“At the bookshop?” Kleber asked doubtfully. “What is it?”
“I can’t discuss it on the phone.”
A moment of silence, then, “Well, I’ve got something to talk to you about, too, Conan. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Conan arranged two straight chairs on the other side of the desk, then stood at the door and watched Miss Dobie sell more copies of The Diamond Stud until finally Earl Kleber appeared at the shop entrance. Conan opened the office door for him and closed it behind him, ignoring another of Miss Dobie’s silent queries. “Have a seat, Earl.”
The chief did, slapping a file folder down on the desk. “What’s so all-fired important you couldn’t come to the station to tell me about it?”
Conan sat down behind the desk. “Neely Jones wants to talk to you, and she insisted on privacy. I don’t know what it’s about, but from the way she sounded on the phone, I think you’d better listen.”
“Where is she?”
“On her way. From Westport, I suppose. She should be here in about twenty minutes. Earl, what about Doc?”
Kleber rubbed his eyes with one hand. “He’s critical. Nicky says she wouldn’t bet on his living to stand trial, especially since he doesn’t want to live to stand trial or anything else.” Conan didn’t attempt a response to that, and Kleber absently fingered the paisley scarf. “What’s this, lost and found?”
“In a way.” He explained the scarf’s recent history, adding that when it was found in the Humane Society’s drop box, it had been accompanied by a tan raincoat and gold-buckled purse with Bonwit Teller labels.
“Okay, the odds are those clothes do belong to Dana Semenov,” Kleber conceded. “So what?”
“So you have to wonder why Dana disposed of perfectly good clothes. Because she got tired of them suddenly? Or she has a passion for animals? Or because she was afraid someone might be able to identify them—and her?”
Kleber shrugged off those questions. “Well, if she wants to leave, nobody can stop her. Besides, it doesn’t matter now.”
Conan waited for him to explain that, but Kleber changed the subject with “The Laskys are still missing, but Marian Rosenthal showed up. I sent Billy to the Surf House this morning, and her car was in the lot, and there was a Do Not Disturb sign on her door.”
“So she didn’t make a run for the border after all. Earl, I had a cryptic, secondhand message from Marc Fitch. He was at the courthouse this morning. He got Cady released, by the way.”
“I know. Angie told me all about it, and she thinks you’re the greatest thing that’s happened since Sam Spade.”
Conan gave that a brief laugh. “Anyway, Marc said Giff has some sort of bee in his Stetson. And no, I can’t explain that.”
“Maybe I can,” Kleber said grimly as he opened the file folder. “Steve Travers faxed me the latest reports on the Gould and Arno cases this morning. Transcripts of witness statements mostly.”
“Anything from the cab drivers?”
“Yes.” Kleber sorted through the papers in the folder until he found what he was looking for. “First, the cabbie who picked up Mrs. James Booth at Valley West Airport right after Dan Arno left her there. The cabbie logged her in at 12:55 A.M., and at 1:03, he dropped her at an apartment at 11522 Alderbrook Drive.”
Conan reached into a desk drawer for a map of the Portland area, squinted at the fine print in search of the listing for Alderbrook Drive, and Kleber said casually, “If you’re wondering how far the apartment is from the Gould condo, I already checked it. A little over a block. And nobody named Booth lives there.”
Conan returned the map to the drawer. “What’s your point? That Mrs. Booth is Savanna Barany?”
“Well…yes. The receptionist at the airport described Mrs. Booth as a middle-aged woman with gray hair, but we’re dealing with an actress here. That would be a piece of cake for her.”
Conan was remembering a pregnant woman walking across the Surf House parking lot, a woman he hadn’t recognized until she was only a few feet away. “Yes, it would be easy for her. A little talcum and hair spray is all she’d need for the gray hair.”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“That Savanna was Mrs. James Booth? No. What about the cab that brought Sarah Talbot to the airport?”
Again Kleber shuffled papers. “Here it is. The driver said he picked up Mrs. Talbot at the mall in Valley West—and it’s only about two blocks from the condo. She probably called the cab from a phone booth in the mall. The cabbie said she was waiting near a booth.”
“Could he provide a description?”
“Sort of tall, black hair, thirty to thirty-five, wearing a tan raincoat and a scarf. He picked her up at 2:35 A.M. and left her at the airport ten minutes later. After she supposedly got cold feet in Arno’s chopper, another cab picked her up and took her downtown to Union Station. Steve’s people asked around at the station. Nobody on the late shift remembers her, and they probably would. No passenger trains were due for two hours, so the place was nearly empty.”
“Union Station is only a short walk from the Greyhound Bus depot.”
“Right. And a bus leaves for the coast at four in the morning. That’s the one that arrives in Holliday Beach at six-thirty.”
“In other words, you think Savanna was not only Mrs. James Booth but also Mrs. Sarah Talbot? What about the squeaky-clean Herndons, who swore they saw the Ferrari parked at the Eyrie at six-thirty?”
“Well, maybe they’re just overwhelmed at having somebody famous like Savanna Barany call them friends.”
“But why would Savanna kill Dan Arno?”
“That’s obvious,” Kleber replied irritably. “To protect her alibi. She was afraid that once Dan got to thinking about it—like when he heard about Gould’s murder—he’d realize who Mrs. James Booth really was.”
Conan shook his head. “No, Earl, that’s one thing she wouldn’t worry about. She is above all an actress, and quite aware of her genius. It would never occur to Savanna Barany to doubt any role she played.”
Kleber shrugged, his square jaw working. “Conan, some new evidence has turned up. That carafe, the one Arno drank the Nembutal-laced coffee out of…”
“What about it?”
“Remember, there were three fingerprints on the bottom?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“And you were the one who suggested they should be checked against the elimination prints from the suspects in Gould’s murder.”
“Am I going to regret that suggestion?”
“I don’t know. Anyway, the crime lab got a match.”
Conan had to force himself to ask, “Whose prints are they?”
“Savanna Barany’s.”
Conan looked out the window, vaguely aware that there was a blue cast to the fog now, the sky coming through. Yet he felt as if something cold and opaque were enveloping him. How did Savanna’s fingerprints get on that carafe?
He took a long breath, realizing that the question he should be asking wasn’t how Savanna’s fingerprints got on the carafe, but when.
And why?
Rather, why were Savanna’s prints left on the carafe? “Oh, damn…”
Kleber asked, �
��Conan, what’s wrong?”
He focused on Kleber, but he wasn’t ready yet to answer that question. “What else is in that folder?”
“Well, another interesting item is that Saturday afternoon Savanna used the automatic teller at the Taft Bank to take a thousand dollars cash out of their joint account.”
“And you think she paid Arno with that money?”
“Yes. And I think that Saturday night when Gould passed out from a near OD of scotch, Savanna drove to the Surf House and told Lasky that story about Gould burning his manuscripts. She knew that’d get him down to the beach house fast. But she didn’t leave town then. She drove back to Dunlin Beach, hid her car—probably in one of the driveways along the road—and waited till she saw Lasky head for the house, then drive away. Then she went to the house, and that’s when she shot Gould. Afterward, she put on her Mrs. Booth disguise and drove to the Baysea airfield. Forty minutes later, Dan Arno left her at Valley West Airport. She took a cab to that apartment on Alderbrook and walked the block to her condo. I figure it only took her a few minutes to call Valley West Airport as Mrs. Sarah Talbot and get rid of her disguise, then at one-twenty, she knocked on the Herndons’ door.”
Conan tapped his fingers on the arms of his chair. “The call from Sarah Talbot to the airport—are you sure it came from the Eyrie?”
“I couldn’t find anything about that call in these reports, but it’ll be easy to check.” When Conan only nodded, Kleber went on. “I figure Savanna talked the Herndons into lying about seeing the Ferrari the next morning, then she went to her condo, made some coffee, and put it in that carafe with the Nembutal. I don’t know where she got it, but it’s not that hard to come by, and her fingerprints are on the carafe.”
“Was there any coffee in the condo for her to make this deadly brew with? She’s allergic to coffee, Earl. When Marian and I went to the condo Sunday, she apologized because she couldn’t offer us any.”
Kleber grimaced impatiently. “I don’t know about coffee in the condo, but it’s not exactly hard to come by, either.”
“But did she have time to come by it?”
“Well, there’s plenty of grocery stores open all night.” Kleber rose and began pacing, even though the room was so small, it allowed him no more than two paces in any direction. “Anyway, I figure Savanna put on another disguise—this one for Sarah Talbot—and walked to the mall, called a cab, and it took her to the airport. She did her cold feet act and left the carafe with Dan. And a cup of coffee must’ve sounded good to him right then. She knew it would. Then she called another cab to take her downtown to Union Station and walked to the bus station. The bus got her to Holliday Beach about six-thirty. This morning, I called the driver on that run. He lives in Eureka. He says he dropped off a female passenger at the Baysea junction, and his description tallies with Mrs. Talbot. She must’ve walked to the Ferrari at the airfield and drove back to Valley West. Probably got there about nine.”
Conan didn’t respond to that. He was looking out the one-way glass. A blue pickup had pulled in on the other side of the parking lane. Neely Jones got out, crossed to the bookshop with a determined air that brought a car, which might have bluffed any other pedestrian into waiting, to a screeching halt. Conan opened the office door.
She was starchily uniformed, as usual, but she wasn’t wearing a gun belt or badge. She marched into the shop, nodded to Miss Dobie, whose eyebrows were at full attention, then marched into the office, and when Conan closed the door, her breath came out as if she’d been holding it, and she announced, “I’ve been fired!”
Conan stared at her, but after the initial shock, he didn’t find it surprising that Neely and Giff Wills had come to a parting of the ways. Kleber waved at one of the straight chairs. “Neely, you better sit down and tell us about it.”
“I’ve worked my butt off to satisfy Giff,” she insisted as she seated herself, “and damn it, I’ve been a good deputy.”
“Yes, I know you have.” Kleber sat down in the other chair, angling it to face her. “And I’d be happy to have you on my force any time.”
She gave him one of her rare, glowing smiles. “Well, maybe if you win this election, I’ll get my old job back.”
“Not much chance of that. My winning, I mean. All right, Neely, what happened?”
“I told Giff I didn’t like the way he did business. And that’s what I have to talk to you about, Chief.” She took a closer look at the folder on the desk. “Good. You’ve seen the latest reports. Is the one about the fingerprints in here?”
Kleber nodded. “Savanna Barany’s? Yes.”
“Well, that’s what set Giff off. He was in his office waving these reports around when I came to work at seven this morning. He was talking to a couple of the guys, but the door was open, and I could hear every word from my desk. He said maybe he’d lost MacGill as a suspect, but this case was still going to win him the election. He said it’d get him all the TV coverage he could ever want, and the voters of Taft County wouldn’t forget that he was the one who arrested Savanna Barany for the murder of her husband and Dan Arno.”
Conan felt a queasy sensation in his stomach as he sank into his chair, and Kleber said, “I guess Giff came to the same conclusion I did. Which doesn’t make me feel good about it.” And he sketched for Neely the scenario he had just presented to Conan.
She nodded through it, and when he finished, she said, “That’s it, and the DA rushed the case to the grand jury this morning. He had two clinchers. One, Savanna could leave the state at any moment, and probably would. Two, the fingerprints on the carafe.”
Conan demanded, “He got an arrest warrant on that? Neely, what about the Herndons’ testimony? What about the Laskys, who’ve made themselves so conspicuous by their absence? What about Bobby Gallagher? He works graveyard at the gas station in MacMinnville where a yellow Ferrari with California plates stopped for gas at one o’clock Sunday morning. And what about the phone call at 1:05 from Sarah Talbot to Valley West Airport? Where did it come from?”
“That’s what I mean! That’s what I asked Giff! Well, I didn’t know about the guy at the gas station. You know what Giff told me? None of that shit—his word—means a thing. She could’ve bought off the Herndons, or just charmed the hell out of them. And if the phone call didn’t come from her condo, well, the phone company has been known to make mistakes. He’d probably get around that gas station attendant, too. Did the guy get a license number?” When Conan shook his head, she went on: “Giff says all a jury will see is the rich-bitch superstar thinking she can get away with murder. And those fingerprints. That’s what will convict her. Now, I don’t know whether she’s guilty or not, but railroading her just to win an election isn’t my idea of good police work.” Neely caught her breath, then added, “Chief, I know this might be called whistle-blowing, and I know exactly how popular that makes me, but damn it, I thought you had a right to know what Giff is up to.”
Kleber apparently found the crease of his blue pants in need of straightening, then he met Neely’s intent gaze. “Well, I guess it is whistle-blowing, but in this case I’m grateful. Trouble is, I don’t see what I can do about it.”
Conan had listened to Neely with a sense of apprehension that became more oppressive with every word. He said bitterly, “We have to do something about it, or someone is going to get away with murder. And possibly with another murder. Neely, do you know when Giff intends to serve the arrest warrant, or has he already?”
“Probably not. He wants to make sure the arrest gets plenty of press. When I left him, he was on the phone lining up TV coverage. In feet, he was talking to Shelly Gage, the woman who was here when—”
“Yes, I know Shelly.” Conan grabbed the phone and dialed directory assistance, then the KEEN-TV studios in Portland, and finally reached the producer of the evening newscast, who at least knew where Shelly was.
“On her way down to Holliday Beach,” he said. “Something broke on the Gould murder case.”
“That’s what I’m calling about, and I’m in Holliday Beach now,” Conan replied. “Have you any idea when she plans to arrive here?”
“She left at ten. Should be there about twelve-thirty. If you have any information about the story, I could call her on the van radio.”
“I’ll see her when she gets here. Thanks.” Conan hung up and checked his watch as he rose: 11:35. “I’m going down to Dunlin Beach.”
Kleber and Neely came to their feet voicing simultaneous objections, but Kleber was louder. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Flagg? Giving her fair warning?”
“No, I’m going to try to talk her into turning herself in to you.”
“To me? Wait!” Kleber reached the door before Conan and stood poised to stop him by force if necessary. Then he relaxed, even smiled as he stepped aside. “Okay, Conan. Just be careful. The murder weapon is still missing. Maybe it’s out to sea somewhere. But maybe it’s not.”
Conan nodded, and Kleber’s atypical acquiescence didn’t register at the moment. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Miss Dobie sent him one of her questioning looks, but he missed it. He was out the door and running for the XK-E when she emitted a portentous sigh and rang up another sale for another copy of The Diamond Stud.
Chapter 29
By the time Conan turned onto Dunlin Beach Road, the fog had dissipated, and the sky was clear except for remnants of clouds hounded southward by the wind. When he reached the end of the road, he parked, got out of the car, and studied the secretive facade of the house. The front doors were open, but the house seemed no more welcoming for that. When he walked up the flagstone path, he could hear music: the sprightly “Underground Masque” chorus from Blitz, with its odd minor-key overtones.
In the foyer, he paused. The door onto the deck was also open, the air stringent and clean. The pillows on the couch had been arranged to cover the torn and bloody cushions where Ravin Gould had lain mutilated in death. Still in white, her magnificent hair loose, Savanna perched on a stool at the bar, a telephone receiver braced against her shoulder while she filled a tulip glass from a bottle of Dom Perignon. It was a one-sided conversation: He heard only a guarded “Of course I will.” Then she abruptly put the bottle down. She had seen him.
