The Conan Flagg Mysteries: Bundle #3

by M. K. Wren

  Conan had passed the portentous hiatus of 1948 and reached the end of 1952, when he realized that the reason Kate’s small, neat handwriting had become so difficult to read was that it was nearly dark both outside and in. He rose stiffly, then made his way through a blessedly empty house to the kitchen, where the roast was warming in the oven. He spent some time preparing his meal and selecting a Sokol Blosser Vineyards Cabernet Sauvignon. Then he took the sandwich and bottle back to the library and began 1953.

  Corey had assured him that there were no further references in the diaries to Shearwater Spit, and before the evening was out, Conan had verified that. The diaries were simply a remote possibility that had to be explored, but the process became particularly painful after 1975, when Mark Benbow married Corella Danner. Corey became as vital a part of Kate’s life as Mark and, after 1976, Christopher. The last entry was dated September 11, 1977, and its final paragraph read: “Corey and Mark are having a birthday dinner for me tomorrow. They’re so dear and thoughtful. Mark’s so lucky to have Corey, and I’m so lucky to have them both!”

  Mark and Corey had been living in Westport at that time, and for Kate’s birthday dinner, Mark had driven to Holliday Beach to pick up his mother, then that night driven her back home. Neither of them survived that short trip.

  “Damn.” Conan began piling the diaries back into the carton, but paused to study the envelopes that had contained Jonas’s anonymous contributions. Or so Kate had believed, and Conan found that assumption reasonable. Jonas had shown at least some concern for her when he departed so precipitously. He had not only changed the deed to their house, making her sole owner, but left a thousand dollars in cash. Probably embezzled from the county, Kate surmised, but since she couldn’t prove it, she decided, after much soul-searching, to apply it to tuition at the Oregon College of Education. All that had been carefully detailed in the diaries.

  The envelopes had come at irregular intervals. Jonas apparently did well in Cairo in 1968. There were four envelopes that year, one—according to Kate’s notation on the back—containing five thousand dollars. The last envelope came from Phoenix, Arizona, and the post date was August 10, 1977—a little over a month before Kate and Mark were killed. Conan considered it for a moment, frowning, then delved into his pants pocket for the paper on which Diane had written her parents’ phone number.

  Only after he heard the first ring did he remember to look at his watch, realizing that eleven was a late hour for farmers. Perhaps that explained why it was Diane who answered.

  Conan identified himself, then, “I hope your parents aren’t light sleepers.”

  He heard a brief laugh. “No, and they’re upstairs where they can’t hear the phone. So are Lissa and Kit.”

  “How are they?”

  “Better. Especially Kit. The change of scene is good for them, and Mom and Dad are expert at spoiling grandchildren. Conan, have you heard from Lyn?”

  “No, and I assume you haven’t.”

  “Not a word.”

  “Well, I’ve alerted some of his ECon friends in Portland. He’ll turn up somewhere sooner or later. Di, I was looking at these envelopes from Kate’s anonymous benefactor. Do you know if any arrived after Kate’s death?”

  “I don’t think so. At least, I don’t remember Corey saying anything about it. Kate made her executor of her will—I mean, an alternate; Mark was first. Anyway, Corey saw all the mail that came to Kate after…after the accident. And I was helping her, so if there’d been—wait a minute.”

  Conan paused with his cigarette a few inches from his mouth. “What, Di?”

  “There was an anonymous envelope, but it was addressed to Corey, not to Kate.”

  “It was from Jonas?”

  “Well, Corey thought it must be. Kate had told her about the others. It had around three hundred fifty dollars in it.”

  “Do you remember how the envelope was addressed? I mean, was it to Corey in care of Kate, or directly to Corey?”

  “I’m sure it was addressed to Corey in Westport.”

  “How would he know her address? I suppose it was in the Westport newspaper when Kate and Mark died.”

  “Yes, but Jonas told Corey he just found out about Kate and Mark—”

  “—from that talkative lady on the bus, yes. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? And it makes me wonder if Jonas didn’t know more about Baysea than he’s admitting. And it makes me wonder about his fortuitous arrival on Thanksgiving Day.”

  Diane said wearily, “Well, Conan, you pegged him for a con artist.”

  “True, but it’s discouraging to realize your best hope for the truth is probably a habitual liar. Well, try to get some sleep, Di.”

  “You too, Conan.”

  Chapter 8

  At noon on Sunday, Conan relaxed in a canvas chair on the front deck of Gabe Benbow’s house. The north wind was astringently cool, carrying the scent of cold ocean currents; the sky was an intense blue, brushed with cirrus clouds; and the sea, under that blue influence, had the pellucid light of a milky aquamarine. Over Sitka Bay, gulls scouted the shallows, flashing white with every turn.

  Conan had been waiting for half an hour, and the only living presences around him were indigenous to the place. Gabriel Benbow was where he always was at this time on Sunday: in the first pew of the Emmanuel Methodist Church.

  Conan wondered what Gabe prayed for in that pew.

  At length, he heard a muted rumble and turned to watch the stately approach of Gabe’s Continental. Jonas was driving, and Gabe was in the back seat, as if he were being chauffeured. Jonas didn’t turn into the garage south of the house; he was being prodded by Gabe, who had seen Conan’s XK-E near the foot of the flagstone walk. Before the Continental came to a full stop, Gabe was out and storming up the walk, looking like a choleric pallbearer in his black, vested suit.

  “Damn you, Flagg! How’d you get past that gate?”

  Conan rose and thrust his hands in his jacket pockets. “What gate?”

  “The gate on my property line!” Gabe’s bony jaw jutted ominously. “The gate that was closed and padlocked!”

  “Oh, yes. Hello, Jonas. We haven’t been properly introduced, but I’m sure you know who I am by now.”

  Jonas had sauntered up the walk, tanned features crinkled in a bemused smile as he eyed Conan, but Gabe didn’t give him a chance to speak.

  “Flagg, this is trespass, and if you don’t get out of here now, I’m going to call the sheriff!”

  “Gabe, I’m no threat to you—not if you told Sergeant Roddy the truth about Friday night.” Gabe’s jutting chin pulled in, and his eyes seemed to retreat into slitted folds. Conan added, “You always claimed to care about Corey. So did I. Why do you refuse to talk to me about her death?”

  Jonas restlessly rattled the keys in his pocket. “This sounds like a private conversation. Pa, the car’s making a funny sound. Fuel intake, probably. I better have Rafe Driskoll look at it.” And he set off down the walk with studied nonchalance.

  “Jonas!” Gabe turned on him. “I know what you’re up to! Nothing wrong with that car. You just want to go to the Blue Heron and swill booze! Can’t you even stay sober on Sunday? ‘Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy.’”

  Conan cut in, “What about bearing false witness, Gabe? Isn’t that as heinous a sin on the sabbath? What about Kate Benbow’s posthumous testimony? What happened to it?”

  Gabe glared at Conan, but it was a moment before he got his bluster back in gear, and Jonas took advantage of the distraction to make his exit.

  Gabe spluttered, “I don’t know what happened to Kate’s diary. I never saw the damn thing, and I—”

  “Then how did you know I was talking about a diary?”

  “You—you said—”

  “No, I didn’t use that word.” Conan smiled coolly. “Who else was here—other than you and Jonas—when Corey confronted you with that diary Friday night?”

  “I told you, nobody else was—Jonas!” He spun around, hand
s in fists, at the sound of the Continental’s motor, but Jonas was by now well out of range of his righteous wrath.

  Conan observed, “You’d think he’d show more filial respect, since he has three hundred thousand dollars at stake here.”

  Gabe turned slowly, pale eyes burning. “Who told you about that? My God, it’s my business what goes on between me and my son! Get out of here, Flagg!”

  Conan decided that this dialogue had ceased to be fruitful. At least he was sure now that Gabe had seen Kate’s diary, and that he had agreed to pay Jonas $300,000.

  Conan started down the walk. “I’ll be back, Gabe—unless you decide to come to me with the truth.”

  “Get out! Get off my property!”

  Conan was getting, but when he reached his car, he put his retreat on temporary hold. Another car was approaching: a silver-blue Cutlass. Nina Gillies.

  Since the XK-E was parked next to the walk, Nina couldn’t reach the house without passing him, but she made no attempt to avoid him. She wore a silk shirtwaist dress of pale blue, as if she had chosen it to match her car. Even the suede attaché case seemed part of the ensemble. Her smile was almost warm.

  “Well, Conan, what brings you all the way out here?”

  He returned her smile. “Oh, it’s not so far. I just came down to talk to Gabe.” He glanced back at the house; Gabe had gone inside, but one of the drapes was pushed aside a few inches.

  Nina gave her lilting laugh. “You’re not still trying to change his mind about the Baysea sale?”

  “That seems to be rather a dangerous undertaking.”

  Her smile faltered. “What does that mean?”

  He studied her, then looked seaward. “Poor Gabe, he just can’t control his temper. Besides, he’s—what?—eighty years old. Not as sharp as he once was, you know; lets things slip out now and then.” Conan turned to face her. “Otherwise, I’m sure he’d never have mentioned your name.”

  Nina’s chin came up with a skeptical lift of her eyebrows. “My name? I hope he had something good to say.”

  “Why wouldn’t he? You and Isaac Wines are going to make him even richer. And I don’t suppose the commission is going to hurt your bank account. What are you getting—a standard six percent? That’s two hundred forty thousand dollars.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m getting ten percent on this deal. What’s your game? What do you really want, Conan?”

  “I want the truth.”

  “The police are satisfied. Why aren’t you?”

  Conan was hard put not to smile. The police. Now he could be sure that what worried Nina about Gabe’s bandying her name about had something to do with Corey’s death.

  “Nina, what’s your version of what happened Friday night?”

  Again the fluting laugh. “Friday night I was at home watching television.”

  “‘Dallas’?”

  “What? I don’t remember, and I damned sure don’t have to tell you, even if I did.” She turned and started to walk away, then stopped, her perfect features marred with unflattering lines of tension. “You’ve got a long nose, Conan. Just keep it out of other people’s business!”

  Conan watched her stride up the walk, the wind blowing her skirt around truly elegant legs. He sighed and got into his car, noting as he turned on the ignition that Gabe had the door open for Nina when she reached the house.

  *

  The Blue Heron Inn had a plastic/polyester anonymity that made its studied rusticity all the more distasteful to Conan, but the view of the bay from the west windows compensated for the decor. The dining room was noisily packed with Sunday diners, and the bar had few empty tables. Jonas Benbow had found one, however; a window table, in fact, where he slumped over a beer. He didn’t seem surprised when Conan sat down across the table from him.

  “Well, Mr. Flagg, did Pa finally drive you out?”

  “Our conversation was short and not sweet. And you needn’t be so formal. The name is Conan.” He saw a waitress approaching and asked Jonas, “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Why, thanks, Conan.” Then when Conan had ordered his Old Forester, Jonas said, “Double scotch rocks, Jeananne. Chivas Regal.” He smiled at Conan and pushed his beer aside, then turned to look out the window. “Real pretty spot, here. Look, you can see the old man’s house. Damn, he sure blew a bundle on that thing.”

  “Gabe can afford it.”

  Jonas gave a snort of a laugh. “Damn right. But I still remember the first house we lived in when I was a kid. A drafty old shack on a stump farm up the Sitka River. When it rained, I swear there was more water inside than out.”

  Conan laughed politely as he leaned back to light a cigarette. “I suppose things have changed a lot around here since you left.”

  “Yes, things have changed. Some things, anyway.”

  “It must’ve been quite a shock finding out that Kate and Mark were dead.”

  “A shock? Well, that’s one way to put it.” He loosed a sigh, his malleable features assuming a cast of regret. “Kate was the main reason I finally decided I had to come home and…make my peace. She was quite a woman.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Jonas eyed Conan intently, but he was distracted by the waitress bringing their drinks. After she departed, he reverently raised his glass and sipped the whiskey. “Oh, damn, that’s nectar of the gods. Did you know Kate?”

  “No. I spent the afternoon and evening yesterday reading her diaries. Of course, one of them is missing. 1948.”

  Jonas’s gaze flicked down to his glass. “Is it, now? Must’ve made interesting reading, anyway.”

  Conan took a long drag on his cigarette. “Not as interesting as I’d hoped. But you must’ve read some of them.”

  “Well, I admit I did take a peek at a couple of them when Kate and I were first married. She didn’t mind.”

  “Then you knew about Gabe’s doubtful claim to Shearwater Spit before Corey presented the diary Friday night.”

  Jonas only laughed. “Conan, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t see Corey Friday night. I was here at the Blue Heron. You can ask the bartender.”

  “I did, Jonas.”

  He barely missed a beat at that. “Well, he can’t keep track of everybody who comes in and out of here.”

  “You’d be surprised what a good bartender can keep track of. Besides, Gabe already let it slip about you and Nina being at the house.”

  Conan got no revealing reaction from that probe. Jonas only smiled as he raised his glass, putting down half its contents in one swallow.

  “I hear you’re a private eye on the side, Conan. I mean eye as in ‘I,’ and that stands for investigator. So, what are you investigating?”

  Conan paused, then chose to ignore the question. “Corey Benbow was quite a woman, too, and she liked you, Jonas. She wanted to be your friend, and she wanted you to be a real grandfather to Kit.”

  Jonas squinted out at the bay. “Well, I’m glad to hear…damn. You know, she made me feel like—well, like she and Kit could be real family.” Then he roused himself and faced Conan. “Is that what you’re investigating? Corey’s death?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought the police had settled it. I mean, they—”

  “The police—and the DA—are satisfied. I’m not. Too many lies were told about Friday night, and too many people had too much to gain by silencing her. Including you. That three hundred thousand Gabe promised you is contingent on the Baysea sale.”

  Jonas considered that, then emptied his glass. “You sound like you’re talking about murder.”

  “Maybe I am.”

  For a moment Jonas was silent, then he leaned forward. “You know, Conan, you’re wrong about that. But, like you said, I’ve got a lot to gain here. Maybe more than money, if the doctors—well, never mind. What I’m saying is, it doesn’t look to me like it’s in my best interests—financially, that is—to talk to you about this. I mean, seeing as how my old man feels about you, and how that three hu
ndred thou is coming from him.”

  That, Conan thought with a wry smile, was as nice a touch as he’d heard. He extricated a blank check from his billfold. “Have you heard of the Ten-Mile Ranch, Jonas?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I have. Your father owned it, didn’t he?”

  “And I’m now majority stockholder. Do you have a pen?” Jonas already had a ballpoint in hand. Conan began writing, adding, “I heard about your illness, Jonas. Hell of a thing, cancer, but they’re coming up with new treatments every day. Expensive, of course.”

  “Conan, you wouldn’t believe how expensive. But my doctor says if I can have this new operation…”

  “Sure, Jonas.” Conan slid the check across the table to him. “It’s for thirty thousand dollars. That’s only a tenth of your potential legacy from Gabe, but it should buy a damned fancy surgery.” Jonas’s mouth went slack as he stared at the check; then he grinned broadly and glanced at his watch. “Conan, if there is a heaven, this’ll send you straight there.”

  “No doubt. By the way, you’ll notice I dated it December tenth.” If that date was good enough for Leo Moskin, it should certainly be good enough for Jonas.

  Apparently Jonas had not noticed the date. He frowned at the check, then shrugged. “Well, I didn’t plan on leaving Taft County soon, anyway.”

  “Glad to hear that. Your glass is empty.” Conan caught Jeananne’s eye and signaled for another drink for Jonas, then reached for his cigarette and took a contemplative puff. “You were saying I’m wrong about Corey being murdered.”

  “Afraid so. Well, not afraid. Glad to say so.” He secreted the check in his billfold and stuffed it in his back pocket. “But you’re right, there’s been a few white lies told here and there. That wasn’t to cover anything like murder. It’s just that Pa wasn’t alone like he said when Corey came Friday night.”

  “I know that much. You were there and Nina Gillies. And…France and Moses.” Those names were stabs in the twilight, if not total dark. He brazened it out with, “What was it, a victory celebration?”