by M. K. Wren
“These are for Doc Spenser,” she said, frowning into the mums.
Conan said, “Oh,” hoping his embarrassment wasn’t obvious. It hadn’t occurred to him to ask about Doc while he was in the hospital.
“Mable Cranwoody is a candy striper, and she said the poor man doesn’t know what’s going on around him, but I thought…well, people sometimes feel things they don’t actually react to. I mean, even when they’re sick or unconscious. I remember my sister Liz when she—”
“Yes, a miraculous recovery. Is the shop battened down?”
“Mm? Well, it’s after six, Mr. Flagg.” Then her square face lighted with a secretive smile. “Incidentally, we set a record today. I mean, a record for the bookshop. As of closing time today, we sold five hundred copies of a book that perhaps you’d rather not hear the title of.”
“You mean, of course, The Diamond Stud.”
She watched him, and when he didn’t go into apoplexy, apparently decided it was safe to continue. “Subtracting freight and the cost of the autographing, we cleared a total of—” she paused for effect “—four thousand one hundred and fifty dollars. And forty-seven cents.”
“Amazing,” Conan said, managing a suitably amazed expression.
She beamed proudly. “Well, yes, it is. And Cady came in today to make arrangements to pay for the damage he did. I had a list for him, and he promised to pay fifty dollars a month.”
“Miss Dobie, you have snatched profit from the jaws of disaster.” Then he frowned. “But if you ever do anything like that behind my back again…” She looked so miserably contrite among the mums that he relented. “Well, just don’t tell me about it.”
“Oh, Mr. Flagg, I’ve learned my lesson. Besides, I don’t suppose we’ll have another best-selling author in Holliday Beach very soon.”
“Especially not one who enhances the value of his books so dramatically by getting himself murdered. Anyway, I think you’re due a vacation. And a bonus. About…four thousand one hundred and fifty dollars. And forty-seven cents.” Her mouth fell open, then she recovered to sputter, “But, Mr. Flagg!”
“To do with as you see fit,” he added, smiling benignly, “as long as not one cent of profit from a Ravin Gould book is returned to the Holliday Beach Book Shop.”
She made a huffing sound, and before she could manage any intelligible words, he set off across the parking lot toward the XK-E, calling over his shoulder, “The Galapagos, Miss Dobie. You always wanted to see the Galapagos.”
Epilogue
On the first Wednesday in November, a sou’wester hit the Oregon coast with forty-mile-an-hour winds gusting to sixty, and, as of four-thirty in the afternoon, over three inches of pounding rain.
Conan Flagg found it most satisfactory.
He might ordinarily have watched the storm from his house, where he could see the wind-whipped ocean assaulting the shore, but there was no one else to mind the bookshop since Miss Dobie had—finally—departed on her vacation three weeks ago.
And so Conan sat on a stool by the cash register, which had registered only two sales since ten this morning, with the weekly Holliday Beach Guardian spread out on one end of the counter and Meg spread out on the other. The bookshop was empty, and the stereo in his office was at full volume, the Bach Toccata and Fugue in D Minor providing a suitable accompaniment to the rain slashing at the windows.
Meg was using the telephone for a headrest, and when it rang, she was startled into an easily translatable Siamese yowl of annoyance. She shifted an inch or so away from the offending instrument and gave Conan a strabismic glare as he reached for the receiver.
He wasn’t startled by the ringing of the phone. He had been expecting the call, although Miss Dobie had steadfastly maintained that he wouldn’t hear one word from her until she returned.
Still, yesterday had been election day.
“Holliday Beach Book—”
“Mr. Flagg, I’m calling from Guayaquil,” Miss Dobie shouted, unnecessarily, since the line was quite clear. “We just sailed into port a little while ago.”
“I hope the Galapagos lived up to your expectations.”
“Oh, it was a fabulous trip. I shot twenty-nine rolls of film. But I just couldn’t stand the suspense anymore. What about the election?”
Conan said blithely. “Well, the weather was perfect, and there was a good turnout. According to the Guardian, a fifty-one percent—”
“Mr. Flagg, please, I’m just interested in the results!”
“I have the newspaper right here. “ He turned to the front page. “Let’s see, Frank Spanicek held on to his city council seat, but Harry Lufton lost to Jean Casper Davis. She must be Denny Casper’s daughter. Judge Lay managed to hold on, too, but it was a squeaker.”
“Mr. Flagg!” There was a definite edge in her tone.
And since Conan was feeling perverse, he replied, “You probably want to hear about the state races. Senator Hatwood won again, but he had to get out and dirty himself in the trenches this time, and Donny Jones lost quite thoroughly to—”
“Mr. Flagg, the sheriff’s race! Who won the sheriff’s race?”
Conan smiled at Meg, who was watching him intently, the tip of her tail twitching. “Well, Miss Dobie, there’s good news and bad news, as they say.”
A groan, then: “What’s the bad news?”
“Earl Kleber lost by a little more than a hundred votes.” Conan let Miss Dobie sputter awhile, then interrupted her with “The good news is, Giff Wills also lost. By about a thousand votes.”
In the ensuing silence, Conan looked down at the headline under the Guardian’s masthead: SURPRISE WINNER IN SHERIFF’S RACE.
Miss Dobie shouted, “What happened, Mr. Flagg?”
“An unprecedented write-in campaign, spearheaded by Lydia Quigley, who is, of course, a force to be reckoned with, since she’s active in every civic and/or women’s organization in Taft County. And she had an excellent candidate to throw her considerable weight behind.”
“Oh, you don’t mean…” Miss Dobie all but giggled. “You don’t mean the write-in candidate was…”
Since she couldn’t seem to get the name out, Conan provided it: “Deputy Neely Jones.”
Conan hoped Miss Dobie was making this call in the privacy of a hotel room, since if she was in a public place, her whoops of joy would make passersby assume she was either hysterical or drunk.
At length she calmed down and caught her breath. “But what about Chief Kleber? Is he terribly disappointed?”
“I talked to him last night, and he seemed relieved. Earl and Neely will be the finest law enforcement team Taft County ever had.”
“Amen. Oh, I must send Neely a telegram of congratulations.”
“But you’ll be home in a day or so.” When that met with a long silence, he asked, “Won’t you?”
“Well…I thought maybe while I was in the neighborhood, so to speak, I might have a look at Machu Picchu. And there’s an air tour of the Andes I heard about from a lovely gentleman I met on the ship.”
Conan smiled and whispered to Meg, “The plot thickens.” Meg flicked a velvet ear at him.
“I mean, since business is always slow this time of year, and Lord knows when I’ll ever be in South America again…”
“Miss Dobie, go. With my blessings.”
“I was hoping you’d feel that way. Oh—sorry, I have to sign off now. Miguel, uh, Mr. Rivera is waiting for me. Thanks for the good news.”
Conan hung up, frowning. “Meg, I may have made a serious error in sending Miss Dobie that close to the equator.”
Then he looked down at the Guardian. No. Miss Dobie would be back. She wouldn’t be able to resist returning to see Taft County’s good-ol’-boy network shaken to its foundations. He wondered idly what Giff Wills would do for a living now.
Open a real estate office, no doubt.
Meg stretched methodically and thoroughly, baring her teeth in a benign grimace of a yawn, then stalked across the newspaper t
o rub against Conan’s arm with a hoarse, running commentary.
He took the hint. An early twilight had already activated the streetlights outside, and Meg’s internal clock, which was linked directly to her stomach, was sounding an alarm. “All right, Duchess. Time to close the shop. Come on, I’ll serve your royal highness’s dinner.”
Wake Up, Darlin’ Corey
Chapter 1
Conan Flagg was dreaming of kites, and that should have made for pleasant dreams, but it didn’t. The sound of the Pacific surf pounding only yards from his bed and the wind-harried rain hissing against the wall of windows colored his dreams with foreboding verging on fear.
Dragon kites, sinuous as water snakes, stretching endlessly on black winds; and the kites were black, too, but quite clear in the irrational vision of dreams. Conan didn’t feel threatened by them; he didn’t seem to be present. They sang dryly like raven’s wings in flight, waiting for the phone to ring.
Conan came thrashing out of the depths of sleep and a tangle of blankets and lunged for the phone on the bedside table. When he remembered to open his eyes, the clock on the control console offered his present temporal coordinates in glowing code: 2:02 AM 11 27 SAT. Which was more than he wanted to know at the moment.
He managed a nearly intelligible “hello.”
“Conan, this is Di.” Then, as if his befogged tone indicated a need for the reminder, “Diane Monteil. I’m sorry, did I wake you up?”
That wasn’t as foolish a question as it might seem. Conan was as likely to be awake at this hour as not, and Diane knew that. She was not, however, in the habit of calling him at this hour. Conan reached for the light switch, squinting at the sudden glare. “Di, what’s wrong?”
“Well, nothing, probably. It’s just…” An odd hesitation, then, “I wondered if Corey was there. I mean, I thought maybe she stopped by and decided to stay over.”
Conan maneuvered a pillow between his back and the headboard, smiling wistfully. “Corey stay overnight with me? Oh, Di, that’s a beautiful thought, but highly unlikely.”
A brief laugh. “Well, actually I wasn’t thinking—I mean, since Lyn is there…”
“Oh.” Conan had for the moment forgotten that Lyndon Hatch occupied his guest room tonight. “No, Corey’s not here.” He searched for a cigarette, found a survivor in the pack crushed under a book. “Is she supposed to be?”
“No, I was just hoping…Conan, I’m not checking up on her. It’s just that when you have a child to worry about, you never go anywhere without leaving a detailed itinerary. She should be home by now.”
Conan absently applied a lighter to the bent cigarette. “Home from where?”
“She went down to Gabe Benbow’s to talk to him again.”
“Alone?” But of course she would go alone. Why not? “Did she take Kate’s diary with her?”
“Yes.”
“Good God, why would she—no, never mind.” He took a long drag on his cigarette. “All right, when did she go?”
“She left home about eight. I put Kit and Melissa to bed, then I was going to wait up for her. I wanted to know what the old bastard had to say. But I fell asleep and just woke up a few minutes ago, and…”
And she was worried sick. Nor could Conan think of any reason she shouldn’t be at this hour. Corey Benbow and Diane Monteil were close friends, business partners, and, most pertinent, both were single parents who took their responsibilities very seriously. It was not at all typical of Corey to be out of touch with Diane—and her son, Kit—for so long.
“Di, have you called Gabe?”
A sigh, then, “No. I didn’t have the nerve to wake him up at this time of night. I thought I’d wake you up first.”
“I’ll call him. Anyway, I doubt there’s anything to worry about. Corey probably just…” Just what? What was the rational explanation for Corey’s absence that didn’t include disaster in some guise? “I’ll call you back as soon as possible, Di.”
He rose and went to the chair by the windows where he’d left his robe. As he pulled it on, he looked out past the rain-streaked glass with eyes as black as the vista, the epicanthic fold evident with his lids nearly closed, gaze focused inward. The one light in the room limned the stark planes of his face and gleamed on straight, black hair. Below this second-story window, breakers flickered dimly in the glow of a street lamp at the beach access north of the house. The waves were foam whipped and fast, but for all its bluster, this was only a typical Oregon coast winter rain.
He turned abruptly, went back to the bed, and delved into the drawer under the table for a slim telephone directory and a fresh pack of cigarettes. The directory included listings not only for Holliday Beach, but for four other rural exchanges. Gabriel Benbow was listed under the Sitka Bay exchange. Conan punched the number, trying to control the resentment inspired by the very name of the man whom Corey always pointedly referred to as her grandfather-in-law. She retained the Benbow name only out of respect for her husband’s memory.
“For Lord’s sake—who is this?”
“Conan Flagg, Gabe. I’m trying to find Corey.”
“Don’t you know what time it is?”
“I’m well aware of the time. Is Corey there?”
“No, she’s not here. Everybody left hours ago. Why don’t you call that—what’s her name? Monteil. Wake her up in the middle of the night!”
“Corey was there, wasn’t she?”
“Sure, but she left a long time ago. Now, you just—”
“When did she leave?” Conan crushed out his unfinished cigarette with angry jabs.
“A little after nine. I remember because I wanted to watch ‘Dallas,’ and I missed the first part of it.”
Undoubtedly J. R. Ewing was Gabe’s favorite television character. “She hasn’t come home, Gabe. Diane Monteil just called me. Did Corey say anything—”
“I’m her grandfather, not her keeper. The good Lord knows, she wouldn’t tell me where she chooses to spend the night. Now, leave me alone!”
With that, Gabe abruptly terminated the call, leaving Conan with a dead line. He cradled the receiver and lighted another cigarette. The trouble with talking to Gabe, he mused, was that he always let himself get distracted by annoyance. Gabe couldn’t have watched “Dallas” tonight. At nine o’clock this evening, Conan had himself been watching television. Lyn Hatch had a dinner engagement in Westport with a man considering a sizable donation of land to The Earth Conservancy, and Conan, finding himself alone, had enjoyed a special on Luciano Pavarotti. He distinctly remembered the voice-over preambling the show: “‘Dallas’ will not be seen tonight so that we may bring you the following special presentation….”
Was the lapse simply attributable to age? Gabe was eighty years old. Still, he seemed clear enough otherwise; all too clear, sometimes.
“Conan, what’s going on?”
Lyndon Hatch stood in the doorway, looking like a blond, bearded “David” in knit briefs. Perhaps it was only the way he was standing, one hand raised to hold the robe draped over his shoulder, that made Conan think of Michelangelo. Lyn’s tough, subtly muscled body was that of a runner and swimmer, of a man who spent most of his life outdoors. Rodin. If Rodin had ever done a Viking warrior, he would have reveled in Lyn’s narrow head and prominent bone structure, the deep eye sockets that made him seem older than his thirty-four years. No matter that his eyes were brown, not blue, they had always in them a glint of the berserker.
Conan picked up the receiver and punched a number, explaining, “Di called, Lyn. Corey went down to Gabe’s this evening, and she hasn’t gotten home yet.”
Lyn was across the room in three strides, but Conan held up a hand for silence; the call was answered on the first ring. “Holliday Beach Police Department, Sergeant Hight.”
“Dave, this is Conan Flagg. I’m looking for Corey Benbow. She’s hours overdue getting home.”
The sergeant paused, then, “You, uh, know where she went?”
“Down to Sitka Ba
y to see Gabe Benbow. She left home about eight. I just talked to Di Monteil.”
“Oh boy.” Another long pause, then, “Conan, we got a call from Jim Roddy with the State Patrol a few minutes ago. A guy who lives up Dunlin Beach Road noticed the guardrail out at the south end of the bay where the road cuts so close to the bluff above Reem’s Rocks.”
Conan said tightly, “Yes, I know the place.” He didn’t look up at Lyn, but he could sense the cold fear that sheathed him in immobility. Conan felt it too.
Hight went on, “The guy stopped and took a flashlight out to look. He saw a car down in the water at the bottom of the bluff. It’s about a fifty-foot drop along there. Anyway, the guy went home and called the patrol, and they got a winch truck and some divers over there. They don’t have the car up yet, but a little while ago, the divers gave ’em a license number.”
Conan had to prompt Hight: “And?”
“The car’s registered to Corella Benbow and Diane Monteil, and since it was a Holliday Beach address, Roddy called Chief Kleber. Figured the chief would know them. You say you just talked to Di? Well, at least she’s okay.”
“Yes. Did he—where’s Earl now?”
“Well, the chief was home when Roddy called. Said he’d get dressed and go on down to the bay. Damn, I hope nothing’s happened to Corey.”
Conan felt an aching weight forming under his ribs. He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Dave, can you radio Earl? Tell him I’ll talk to Di and bring her down to the bay. I’ll see him there.”
When Conan hung up, the silence around him seemed to close in like a chill fog. Lyn Hatch spoke huskily without succeeding in dissipating it.
“What happened?”
Conan told him, and Lyn seemed at first either uncomprehending or impervious to the words, except for the slow fisting of his muscular hands and the pallor that made his eyes seem dark pools in their shadowed hollows.
Finally he said in a hoarse whisper, “That bastard!”
Conan stared at him. “Who? Gabe?”
“If he hadn’t shafted her so—”
