by M. K. Wren
Conan nodded. “Well, that’s a good line to maintain for public consumption, but I know you were there—along with France and Moses, Nina Gillies, and, of course, Jonas, the returned prodigal.”
“Mr. Flagg, there is no way you could know something that isn’t true.”
“Or something you think I can’t prove?” Conan met Moskin’s unwavering gaze with grudging admiration. The man had nerve and amazing control. But those were prerequisites in politics, and Leo had survived in that arena for half a century. Conan shifted ground slightly. “I understand there’s a petition for your recall circulating in the county.”
That at least brought one eyebrow up. “Yes, I’ve heard that, too. I suppose you were one of the first to sign it.”
Conan laughed. “No, there were quite a few people rushing in ahead of me to sign. At any rate, it occurred to me that the people circulating the petition might be interested in learning that you had once misused your power as a notary public to help Gabe Benbow forge a deed.”
Moskin’s hands unlaced and came down on the arms of his chair. “What the hell’s your game, Flagg? Blackmail? Is that it? If so, you’re going about it in a very amateurish way.”
“Then you’ve dealt with professionals in blackmail? No, my game isn’t blackmail. It’s worse than that. I was a friend of Corey Benbow’s. I cared very much for her, and I intend to see justice done. You can’t buy me out of that.”
Moskin pushed himself to his feet and said curtly, “Very commendable, Mr. Flagg, but you’re either misinformed or deluded. Either way, I have nothing more to say to you. Now, there’s a deputy here today—for the senator’s security, of course. Will it be necessary for me to call him?”
Conan recognized the obdurate facade of a stone wall. He rose and preceded Moskin into the hall. “No, that won’t be necessary.”
“Good. I’ll see you to the door.”
“That won’t be necessary either.”
Moskin forged ahead down the hall. “I understand you’re a private investigator, Mr. Flagg. Seeing you to the door—and out—is only a matter of courtesy.” When he reached the front door and opened it, he favored Conan with a smile. “Have a good day, Mr. Flagg.”
Conan was caught without a suitably clever rejoinder, and when the door closed quietly, but firmly, he gave it a rueful laugh. He had never been thrown out of a place so adroitly.
As he walked back to his car, he wondered why Moskin was worried about having a private investigator loose in his house. Undoubtedly, there were records and correspondence there that Moskin wouldn’t want made public, but the only thing of interest to Conan now was Kate’s diary.
After a little consideration, however, Conan rejected that possibility. And with some relief. He didn’t relish the thought of trying to circumvent Moskin’s security system—evidence of which was visible at every door and window—and he knew that if he were caught, Moskin would see that he was prosecuted to the limit of the law. Perhaps that was the real point of that needle. At any rate, the risk wasn’t worth taking. If Moskin had ever had the diary, it would have been destroyed by now.
Jonas was peacefully asleep when Conan reached the Jaguar. Conan retrieved his shoes from the trunk, and when he got into the car, handed them to his awakening passenger. “Here. Your feet will get cold.”
“Mm? Oh. Thanks. Any luck with Leo?”
Conan said coolly, “Piece of cake, Jonas. You just have to know what buttons to push with people like Leo.”
Jonas’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll be damned. Well, can we go back to the Blue Heron? I left Pa’s car there, you know.”
“We’ll check it as we pass. Next, we’re going to see if France and Moses are home.”
It was nearly three o’clock when they reached France and Moses’ home in Sanderling Point, an exclusive subdivision occupying the headland north of Sitka Bay. France had hired a real architect, and a good one; the house was a satisfying union of planes of glass played against slabs of cedar shingles. The landscaping was impressive, and France had no qualms about putting out potted flowers from the local florist when winter left her no other option, which explained the bright borders of pompon mums.
Conan wasn’t interested in architecture or floral displays now, but in the maroon Cadillac waiting in the driveway, while Moses escorted France toward it. They were dressed too well for a casual afternoon drive, and Conan wondered if they were on their way to Moskin’s party. He deliberately parked the Jaguar across the driveway, while Jonas tried to squeeze down out of sight, complaining, “For God’s sake, you can’t park here! They’ll see me!” Conan got out of the car, commenting absently, “I’ll tell them you’re being kidnapped and held for ransom.”
As Conan approached the Cadillac, France observed shrilly, “Mr. Flagg, you’re blocking our driveway!”
Conan leaned against a fender, arms folded. France was managing to look down on him—literally—with the help of her five-inch heels. The shoes gave her even more of an advantage over Moses, but no doubt he was used to it and not at all intimidated.
Certainly, he didn’t seem intimidated by Conan. Behind the thick lenses of his glasses, his eyes fixed coldly on Conan as he pronounced, “Move your car, Mr. Flagg. Now.”
Conan nodded. “I will. But first, I have to talk with you for a few minutes.”
France threw up her hands. “Oh, this is too much! We’re late already, and he wants to talk. Moses—”
“Be quiet, France. What is it you want to talk about, Mr. Flagg?”
“Corey Benbow.”
“Oh. Yes, you were a friend of hers, weren’t you? Well, it’s a tragedy, her death, and we’ll all miss her very much, of course.”
France took her cue with an approximation of sympathetic regret. “We were all just devastated. She was so young and so—”
Conan cut in angrily, “Don’t say another word, France!” Then he straightened, jaw muscles tight, and went on, “I assume you’ve heard from Gabe and Leo by now, and you know I’m not satisfied with the official ruling on Corey’s death. I won’t be satisfied until I get the truth about what happened Friday night at Gabe’s house.”
France said haughtily, “I have no idea what happened at Gabe’s house. Moses and I were both at home that evening.”
“Watching ‘Dallas’?”
“‘Dallas’ wasn’t on last Friday,” she replied with a complacent smile. “We watched the Pavarotti special.”
At least she’d done some homework on her alibi. “Yes, I watched it too. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Vesti la guibba sung better.”
“Oh yes, that’s one of my favorites. Just beautiful!”
“Then you must’ve been listening to a recording. Pavarotti didn’t sing that particular aria on that program.”
“Then I must be thinking of another aria.”
“Or lying.”
“My God, you’re insufferable! Doesn’t it occur to you that you might be wrong, that you have no right to—”
“I’m quite aware of my fallibility, but in this case I know I’m not wrong.”
She uttered a parody of a laugh. “Look at this, Moses. A man who can’t be wrong. Now, that’s something for the Guinness Book of Records.”
Moses seemed satisfied to let France have her head now; he said nothing, his level gaze never leaving Conan’s face.
Conan ignored her sally. “France, perhaps you’re just confused. Remember Friday night? The night you and Moses and Nina and Leo and Jonas met at Gabe’s house for your victory celebration; the night Corey arrived and spoiled the fun by reading that passage from Kate’s diary; the night you threw a black russian in Corey’s face.”
She paled, with that substantiating the truth of at least part of Jonas’s story. That thrust had hit home. Even Moses blinked at it. But he remained silent, and France was one of those people who rise to adversity. No high-strung histrionics now; she was suddenly calm and even dignified. “Mr. Flagg, that’s a terrible thing to say. You want the truth? A
sk the police. Just don’t harass our family with your sick fantasies!”
Moses’ gaze had at length shifted—to the XK-E. “Is there somebody in your car?”
Conan thought daggers at Jonas as he turned to look at the car. “I don’t see anyone.” And he didn’t—now.
“I thought I saw a head sticking up.” Moses’ eyes shifted back to Conan. “Maybe we should go have a look.”
Conan only shrugged. “Go ahead.”
Moses seemed to consider that, then reached for the Cadillac’s door. “We’re late for an engagement. Mr. Flagg, you’d better move your car. I wouldn’t want to put any dents in such a valuable machine.”
Again Conan recognized an adroit heave-ho, and again he had no clever Parthian shot. Not that Moses or France would have heard it inside the car with the motor revving impatiently.
When Conan reached his valuable machine, Jonas was imitating a contortionist, with the lower half of his body squeezed into the footwell, while the upper half miserably occupied the part of the seat designed for the lower half. Conan managed to keep a straight face as he drove away. The Benbows, he saw, headed in the opposite direction, taking the more direct route to Highway 101.
“All right, Jonas, you can straighten up now.”
“Are you kidding? I’m paralyzed for life! I’m an old man; I’m not up to—oh, damn, I can’t even feel my feet.” But after more shifting, groaning, and cursing, he achieved a normal riding position. “Well, did brother Moses and his lovely helpmeet have anything useful to say?”
The transmission snarled as Conan shifted down around a curve. “Jonas, I didn’t bring you along as my Watson.”
“Well, you can’t blame me for trying.”
Conan glanced at him. That had undoubtedly been Jonas’s watchword since childhood: always testing the limits to see what he could get away with.
They were approaching the highway, and Jonas sighed with relief. “The Blue Heron—finally?”
Conan signaled for a left turn. “No. Nina Gillies.”
Chapter 10
To assuage Jonas’s concern about being seen in his company, Conan devised a disguise for him. Thus, as they drove north through Holliday Beach, Jonas sported a pair of Conan’s sunglasses and an old watchcap pulled low over his ears. At Pacific Futures Realty—a glass and fake-shake building designed to last at least five years—Conan parked at one side where Jonas could feel relatively safe from observation.
Pacific Futures, like most businesses in Holliday Beach, was open on Sunday, but only one of its three agents was present, a fresh-cheeked young man who was a stranger to Conan, and who informed him that the agency’s broker was also absent. Conan identified himself as John Upshaw of Los Angeles, a man with an avid interest in investment properties, by which subterfuge he eventually learned that Nina had gone home to her apartment.
When Conan returned to the car and informed Jonas of their destination, Jonas asked wearily, “Where is her apartment?”
“At the south end of town near Holliday Bay. Relax, we’re taking the back way this time.”
Across the highway from Pacific Futures, August Street angled southeast until it met Foothills Boulevard Road, which had been platted half a century ago when Messrs. Hollis and Day founded Holliday Beach. They had attached no “Road” to its name; they had envisioned it as a major north-south thoroughfare and a true boulevard. In the fullness of time, however, it had remained simply a narrow, graveled road, and eventually some county official added what seemed a redundancy, but more aptly described it.
There was little traffic and only a few dwellings along the way. Finally, as the road sloped down toward Holliday Bay, Conan saw a two-story block of apartments on the northwest corner of the first cross street they had met for some time. A weather-faded sign identified it as “Douglas.” He turned right and parked well past the corner, so Jonas could avoid playing contortionist again. As Conan walked back to the apartment building, he saw Nina’s car in the carport.
When she answered his knock, she made no pretense of surprise at seeing him and invited him in, if not cordially, at least with no open hostility. She was just out of the shower, apparently, clothed in a vermilion velour robe, with her hair in a towel turban. She sat down on a long, low couch, tucking her bare feet under her.
Conan took a chair near her. The room was full of hot, bright colors, and there was original art here: soft sculptures and bold graphics. It was an elegant room, yet it set his teeth on edge. Perhaps because nothing was natural, except the plants; it was all metal, plastic, and Naugahyde. There was not a piece of furniture made of real wood.
Nina took a cigarette out of the box on the end table; she held it between long, red-nailed fingers until Conan brought out his lighter, then she turned her head to blow out smoke. “I suppose you’re here to talk about Corey.”
“You’ve heard from Gabe et al.,” Conan commented with a wry smile while he lighted a cigarette for himself.
She laughed. “You’ve got them coming unglued, Conan. I suppose Jonas was your source of information.”
“Well, don’t be too hard on Jonas. He thought he was doing the right thing. I mean, he realized I wasn’t going to back off until I had the truth, so he gave me enough to satisfy me—so he hoped.”
She stretched her legs out on the couch, showing quite a length of sleek calf and thigh. “Are you satisfied?”
With a shrug, Conan said, “The problem is, Jonas doesn’t strike me as the most dependable source of information. I might be satisfied if someone else would verify his story. All I’ve gotten so far is denials and advice.”
She tilted her head, smiling. “Advice?”
“To mind my own business.”
“Oh. Well, I’d be willing to verify Jonas’s story—if I knew what he told you.”
Conan took a long drag on his cigarette. “Why don’t you tell me what happened Friday night, then I can judge Jonas’s honesty for myself.”
Nina thought about that, something cold and angry in ambush behind her lingering smile. Then she rose and went to a low cabinet that revealed its true function as a bar when she opened it. “Would you like a drink, Conan?”
“Yes, thank you. But not a black russian.” Her back was to him, but he saw the tensing of her shoulders.
“I don’t serve anything that fancy here. It’s either scotch or gin or—what’s this? Oh—brandy.”
“That will do nicely.”
Nina apparently decided brandy would do for her, too. She returned with two snifters, handed one to Conan, then sat down on the couch and crossed her legs. “I’m willing to verify Jonas’s story, even if you won’t tell me what he said. You’re making waves, Conan, and until the Planning Commission has passed on Baysea, and all the money exchanged hands, I don’t want the boat rocked.” She sipped her brandy, eyes lowered, then flashing up again, coolly green. “Just remember one thing: I’m willing to satisfy you to keep you quiet, but if you expect me—or anybody else involved in this—to repeat the story for the police, forget it. We’ll stand on what we—I mean, what Gabe told them—and it will be your word against six people.”
Conan nodded. “Which of the six has the diary now?”
That stopped her, but only for a fraction of a second. “Well, I assume it was among Corey’s effects.”
He withheld comment on that. “All right, since you’re in such a cooperative mood, tell me your version of what happened Friday night.”
“My version?” She sent out a puff of smoke. “I’ll tell you what did happen. Where do you want me to start? When Corey came?” At Conan’s nod she began, “Well, I think that was about eight-thirty. I don’t know who was the most surprised—her to find all of us there, or us to see her. Anyway, Gabe invited her in and told France to fix one of her famous black russians. There was a lot of small talk, and finally Corey got around to that diary supposedly written by Kate Benbow, yea, these many years ago.”
“Didn’t Jonas identify the handwriting as Kate’s
?”
“Conan, he hadn’t seen her handwriting for twenty-seven years, and he doesn’t qualify as an expert.”
“And if a true expert never gets a chance to examine the diary, the question of its authenticity will remain moot. By the way, where was everyone sitting?”
Nina frowned, then with a shrug, “Well, Gabe was in that recliner of his at the end of the coffee table, and on the couch to his right, first France, then Moses, and I was at the other end. Jonas was on the other couch nearest Gabe, Corey was in the middle, and Leo at the far end.”
“Did anyone handle the diary?”
“No. Well, Jonas did when Corey asked him to identify the handwriting. I still wonder if he wasn’t shilling for her. But otherwise, the diary was never out of her hands. As soon as she read the one entry, she put it in that saddlebag of a purse, and she never let go of that.”
Conan nodded. “After the reading, what happened?”
“Oh, a lot of shouting and name-calling. That’s when France got hysterical and threw Corey’s drink in her face. Corey retired to the bathroom to repair the damage, and Moses took France into the kitchen to calm her down. I was trying to get Gabe and Jonas and Leo calmed down meanwhile.”
“Did any of them leave their seats?”
She thought about that while she flicked the ash from her cigarette into an anodized ashtray. “Well, maybe right after France threw the drink. Things got a little confused. But everybody was back in the same place when Corey came out of the bathroom. Yes, including me. What’s your thing about seating arrangements?”
Conan ignored that. “What about Moses and France?”
“Moses came out of the kitchen first, then France a few minutes later with a drink in each hand—one for Corey, and one for her. We started talking about some sort of compromise that Corey—I mean, ECon—would accept.”
