by M. K. Wren
Kleber’s black brows came together in a straight line as he eyed Conan, then he sighed. “Sure, you can take them. Over in that plastic bag there, on top of the file cabinet.”
Conan only looked in the general direction of the bag and nodded. “Thanks.”
Kleber wiped his beard-blued chin with a napkin. “So, I suppose now you want to know what Feingold had to say.”
“Yes, I’d be interested. Has he finished the autopsy?”
Kleber masticated another mouthful of sandwich. “He didn’t do an autopsy.”
“What?” Conan came upright in his chair. “Why not?”
“Well, there didn’t seem to be any question about the cause of death, and since it was just a simple accident case, he didn’t see any reason to do a full autopsy. And I couldn’t think of a good reason, either.”
Conan was still staring at Kleber, torn between bewilderment and anger, but he kept his voice level. “I thought an autopsy was customary in a suspicious death.”
“What’s suspicious about it? When Feingold writes up his report, the cause of death will be listed as ‘craniocerebral trauma and/or drowning.’ That’s the sort of thing that happens to somebody when they drive off a fifty-foot cliff and go headfirst into the windshield. She had a skull fracture—hit just above the right eye—and Feingold took out some glass fragments. He said he’d have to do a microscopic comparison with the windshield glass, but he was sure it would check out. The windshield was cracked, you know.”
Conan closed his eyes briefly. “Yes. I remember.”
“Feingold said that was probably enough to kill her instantly, and even if it didn’t, it was enough to knock her out so she would’ve drowned in a matter of minutes. Damn, I don’t know why they can’t make a decent hamburger anymore!” He thrust the offending remains into the paper sack, crushed it irritably, and threw it into the wastebasket.
“I assume Feingold didn’t find anything else unusual in his examination?”
“No. And he did a good job. I’ve seen a few MEs at work, and I know. He did a damn good job.”
“What about blood alcohol? Did he check that?”
“Of course he did! Well, he took blood samples. Has to be done in the Salem lab. He won’t get any results on that till Monday.” Kleber delved into a desk drawer and brought out a cigar; when he got it lighted, he didn’t seem to find it any more pleasurable than the hamburger. “Anyway, Feingold called the DA with his preliminary findings. Culpepper is releasing the body today.”
Conan asked warily, “Releasing it to whom?”
“Well, he said he was on the phone all morning trying to find somebody in Havre, Montana, who knew the whereabouts of any of Corey’s blood relations, but I guess they’ve all either left Havre with no forwarding address or died off.”
“So, what did Owen in his infinite wisdom decide?”
Kleber frowned at his cigar. “Since he couldn’t find a blood relation, he settled for a relation by law.”
“Gabe Benbow?” Then at Kleber’s nod, Conan came to his feet and went to the window. There was something inevitable about that decision, but it still rankled. “Why Gabe? Diane Monteil is the only one Corey would’ve wanted to—”
“Look, I didn’t tell him to pick Gabe. It’s the DA’s decision, and I can’t do a damn thing about it.”
“I know, Chief. And I haven’t the slightest doubt that Owen was influenced in his decision directly or indirectly by Gabe Benbow.” He turned away from the window abruptly. “There must be a way to force Owen—or the ME—to order an autopsy!”
“You tell me what it is, then. You got any reason why Corey’s death shouldn’t be listed as accidental?”
“Yes. Kate Benbow’s diary.” He returned to his chair while he briefly explained the diary and its potentials. Kleber listened intently through veils of cigar smoke, but his skeptical expression didn’t change.
When Conan finished his explanation, Kleber delicately tipped the ash from his cigar into an ashtray. “Flagg, you know that doesn’t change a damn thing. Di Monteil can swear Corey had the diary when she left the house, but that doesn’t prove Corey showed it to anybody. Besides, if you follow this out, you end up with Gabe Benbow killing her. Is that where you’re headed?”
Conan thought of Lyn Hatch, who didn’t find that assumption at all unreasonable. “Why not Gabe?”
“Damn it, I don’t like Gabe any more than you do, but I can’t see him forcing an able-bodied young woman to get into that car and drive it off a cliff.”
“Maybe she didn’t drive off the cliff. Maybe she was a helpless passenger, and maybe she wasn’t able-bodied at the time.”
“Well, there wasn’t another mark on her except the head wound, and that happened after she went off the cliff. Unless Gabe bashed her head into the windshield first. Now, that would be a little tricky, especially inside a Beetle.”
“There are means of immobilizing a person that don’t leave marks on the body.”
Kleber paused thoughtfully. “Like drugs? Okay, but how would Gabe get hold of anything like that? I mean, on the spur of the moment. And if you figure that diary was the motive, it had to be spur of the moment. He didn’t know about it before, did he?”
Conan shook his head. “No. What about barbiturates? Maybe Gabe takes sleeping pills.”
“If anybody gave Corey any barbiturates, that’ll show up in the blood tests. Feingold said he asked for a test on that along with the blood alcohol.”
“Well, that’s something.”
“Not much if you’re after a good reason to force Culpepper to order an autopsy. There isn’t any proof of foul play to begin with, and if you start accusing Gabe—”
“I’m not accusing him specifically. All I’m saying is that Corey’s death is incredibly convenient when you consider what was at stake. Gabe isn’t the only one who had a very personal interest in the success of Baysea.”
Kleber began shaking his head well before Conan concluded that. “Flagg, you’re talking about motive like you already had the corpus delicti. The proof of the crime—remember? Give me some proof that a crime was committed, and by God, I’ll take on Culpepper and anybody else—even if it’s not in my jurisdiction. But I’ve got to have some evidence!”
Conan’s shoulders sagged wearily. “I can’t offer you any evidence.” And the bitterest aspect of that admission was that an autopsy might provide the proof.
Kleber nodded wearily, then tilted back in his chair, his gaze focused somewhere beyond the window. “I’ve got a daughter, you know.”
“Caroline? Yes, she’s a regular at the bookshop.”
“She’s sixteen, and that’s a hard age to be these days. When Rainbow Wings first opened…well, Caroline loved it. Any time she could get free, she was down there or on the beach with a kite. She used to say flying kites was a ‘mystic experience.’ Corey and Di spent a lot of time with Caroline, and she thought those two women were great, working like crazy to make their own way, and good mothers, too. The best kind of—what do they call it? Role model. You know what I mean. Well, this morning, I had to tell Caroline that Corey Benbow is dead. That…was hard.”
Conan remained silent, aware that Earl Kleber had revealed something in himself that was intensely private. And at the moment, Conan didn’t trust his own voice.
At length, Kleber leaned forward to knock the ash off his cigar. “I just hope it was an accident. I don’t like thinking about what it means if it wasn’t.”
Conan nodded as he rose. “I hope it was too, Chief.”
“But you don’t believe it.”
“Do you?”
Kleber shrugged. “I don’t know, but there doesn’t seem to be much I can do about it, either way. Of course, you can nose around—long as you don’t break any laws.”
That was a first for Kleber—actually encouraging Conan in an investigation.
“Oh, I’ll nose around. You can count on that.” He went to the file cabinet for the plastic bag that held Corey
’s possessions. “I’ll take these to Di, Chief, and give her the bad news about the DA’s decision.”
“There’s more bad news—maybe.”
Conan turned. “What else?”
“Culpepper told me Gabe is thinking about trying to get custody of Kit.”
For a moment, Conan could only stare at Kleber. It was an effort not to shout when he asked, “Why? What makes him think he’s capable of raising—” Conan got himself in rein, then, “That will be up to a judge to decide, but I know Corey made a provision in her will for Di to have custody of Kit. Di made the same provision for Melissa.”
Kleber sighed with obvious relief. “I hope you’re right. Listen, if you…well, let me know if you come up with anything.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be the first to know if I discover anything remotely resembling a corpus delicti.”
As Conan passed the dispatcher’s desk, he heard the phone ring, but it hardly registered. He was nearly out the front door when the dispatcher called to him, “Mr. Flagg, somebody wants to talk to you.”
Conan frowned as he went to the counter and took the receiver. “Thanks, Dave. Hello, this is Flagg.”
“Lyn Hatch, Conan. I couldn’t get you at—”
“For God’s sake, Lyn, I can’t tie up this phone. Look, I’ll be at Di’s house in a few minutes.”
Lyn didn’t seem to hear that. “We just got a phone call a little while ago from Di’s ex-husband, Norman. He’s still her lawyer, you know. He called to tell her he heard something from Owen Culpepper. He’s the DA—”
“Yes, I know, Lyn, and I know—”
“Gabe Benbow is going to sue for custody of Kit! That son of a bitch wants to take Kit away from Di!”
Conan’s jaw went tight. “Where is Kit? Can he hear you?”
“God, no! What do you think I am? The kids are outside. Anyway, there’s more. Di called Gabe to find out if it was true, and—damn that bastard!—he told her the DA had released the body. To him! To Gabe! He said he wanted Corey buried in the family plot next to Mark, and he’s already scheduled the funeral. He’s got no right—”
“Yes, he has, Lyn. Legally, anyway. When is the funeral going to be?”
“When! I don’t—Tuesday. He told Di next Tuesday.”
Conan leaned against the counter, eyes closed. “Damn. He doesn’t give anyone much of a chance, does he?”
“A chance for what?”
“To convince someone to order an autopsy. Lyn, I’ll—”
“To order an autopsy? I thought it was supposed to be done today!”
“I thought so too, but the ME and the DA and the State Police were all apparently satisfied with a superficial examination. The official line is accidental death.”
“Accidental? What does that mean? That the police are finished with it? They aren’t going to do anything to—”
“That’s the situation at the moment. Lyn, I’ll be there in ten minutes, and we’ll discuss—”
“What’s to discuss? I suppose the DA in this county is one of Gabe’s pals!”
“Just wait till I get there. I’ll explain the whole situation.” There was an ominous silence in answer to that, and Conan said sharply, “Lyn, did you hear me? Lyn!” Another silence, then a distinct click.
Conan thrust the receiver at the dispatcher with a barely intelligible, “Thanks,” then ran out the door.
Chapter 6
It was another misplaced summer day, and the holiday traffic enhanced the seasonal ambiguity. Conan impatiently tolerated the snail’s pace as he drove south on Highway 101, but at the first opportunity he turned right and wound the narrow lanes of Hollis Heights, throwing gravel at every turn. At length he reached an old, two-story, silver-shingled house that commanded the highest point of the headland. Diane’s yellow Rabbit was in the driveway, but, Conan noted, with feelings divided between anger and dread, Lyn Hatch’s red motorcycle was conspicuous by its absence.
Diane waited for Conan at the front door. Her eyes seemed bruised, but the transcendent calm that had always graced her features was still intact. She said quietly, “Come in, Conan.”
Melissa appeared at her side, reaching for her hand. Conan touched the child’s golden hair. “Lissa, it’s not fair for you to have to go through this. I’m sorry.”
Melissa looked up at him with eyes as tear-bruised as her mother’s. She said soberly, “We’re gonna go stay with Grandpa and Grandma for a while.”
Conan nodded, then, aware of the weight of the plastic bag in his hand, said, “Di, Earl asked me to give you these.”
“Corey’s things?” She put the bag on a chair in the entry hall, then hurriedly turned away from it and went into the living room, a sunny room full of comfortable old furniture and bright fabrics, scented with a profusion of plants. “Lissa, I need to talk to Conan. Why don’t you go upstairs and start packing your things? Kit?”
The boy stood in a bay window methodically fitting wooden building blocks into the flat box open on the window seat. He didn’t seem to hear Diane. Conan sat down near him on the window seat, trying to think of something to say. There was no hint of animation in those eyes that were so much like Corey’s; the same sea hue.
“Kit, are you all right?” And what a meaningless question that was.
Kit carefully placed the last of the blocks in the box. “Lyn went away.”
Conan glanced at Diane as she responded, “But he’s coming back, Kit.”
The boy asked, “When?”
She folded her arms against her body, mouth tight. “Lyn has always come back. Remember?”
Kit put the lid on the box. “Mom said she was coming back.”
Conan winced as he reached out and covered Kit’s small hand with his. “Kit, your mother can’t come back. She would if she could. Lyn can come back, and he will.” If he doesn’t for this child’s sake, Conan silently promised himself, I’ll bring him back, one way or another.
If Kit was convinced, he gave no sign. Diane said to Melissa, “Maybe you can help Kit get his clothes packed.”
Melissa nodded. “Kit? Come on, we gotta get our stuff ready to go.”
He followed her listlessly, hugging the box to his chest. Diane watched them go, sighed, then waved Conan into the kitchen, where she poured two cups of coffee and put them on the table. She sank into a chair and leaned forward on her elbows, long fingers combing through her hair.
She said dully, “Kit’s retreating, and I don’t know how to reach him.”
Conan sat down at the table and picked up his cup. “I wish I could help. What about Lyn? Is he coming back?”
She frowned, her composure shaken. “Damn him. Why did he have to leave now?”
“That’s what I was going to ask you. Didn’t he tell you where he’s headed or when he’ll be back?”
“No. All he told me is that he had to go. He had to ‘take care of something.’”
“Gabe Benbow?”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. The rational, enlightened scientist…” She shook her head sadly. “And underneath it, he’s still heavy into the Western macho tradition. You and Lyn have a lot in common, really. He was brought up on a ranch in Eastern Oregon, too. Lyn’s parents live near Brothers, and one of the first things his father taught him was how to use a rifle and how to hunt. He told me once he killed his last deer when he was fifteen, and something just seemed to turn over inside him. He hasn’t touched a gun since. But there’s still this thing about…oh, Conan, he’s in so much pain, and he won’t let himself do anything unmanly to ease it. Like crying. He’s turning all the hurt into hate.” She closed her eyes, then reached into the pocket of her Levi’s for a handkerchief.
At the moment, Conan was hard put to feel any sympathy for Lyn. “Did he give you any hint of what he intends to do?”
“No. He doesn’t own a gun now—that’s some consolation—but he took his bedroll and backpack. He always carries basic camping equipment on his cycle. He could probably live off the land ar
ound here for months.”
Conan tasted the steaming coffee gingerly. “Maybe a few days in the woods is what he needs now.”
“Maybe it is. Did Lyn tell you Norman called about Gabe wanting custody of Kit?” Then, at Conan’s nod, “Norman knows about the provision in Corey’s will for Kit. He said he’s sure that will carry more weight than any claim Gabe can make, but he suggested for Kit’s sake—and mine—that we should go stay with my parents for a few days. They have a farm near Dundee. We’ll be back Tuesday. For the funeral.”
Conan asked, “Is that necessary?”
“Yes. I won’t let Gabe turn it into a pious show. And I think for Kit and Lissa…you need some sort of ceremony, you know; something to separate the before from the after, so you can deal with the after. I did get my way—I mean, Corey’s way—on one thing: her body will be cremated. That’s what she wanted. She also wanted the ashes scattered at sea, but Gabe wouldn’t go that far.”
Conan stopped himself before bluntly repeating the word “cremated.” His first inclination was to argue that cremation would end any hope of an autopsy, but there was no purpose to be served in discussing that with Diane.
He said, “I’m surprised Gabe agreed to cremation.”
“I was too, but he didn’t argue at all about it.” She paused, frowning into her cup. “Conan, was Corey’s death an accident?”
Conan hesitated over his answer only because he wasn’t sure how Diane would react. At length, he replied, “No, I don’t think it was an accident.”
“Do you think Gabe killed her?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to try to find out.”
“Yes, Lyn told me that. Can I help?”
“Well, one thing I have to be sure of is whether Corey told anyone about Kate’s diary other than you, me, and Lyn.”
“No, I’m sure she didn’t. I was a little worried that she might tell Jonas, but I asked her afterward. She thought I was crazy to even suggest it.”
“Jonas? When did she talk to him?”
“Oh, that was…” She frowned, pressing her fingers to her temples. “It was Thanksgiving Day. I mean, that evening. He came to the house and stayed about an hour. The kids and I joined in at first, then I thought of an excuse to leave Corey and Jonas alone for a while.”
