by M. K. Wren
“That’s Owen Culpepper, our estimable district attorney?”
Feingold sent Conan an oblique smile. “That’s Owen. He said he knew the family, and they wanted the formalities taken care of as soon as possible. Something about a fiancé who might make trouble.” He stopped, giving Conan a stricken look, then, “I hope—I mean, that’s not you, is it?”
Conan smiled to reassure him. “No. Did Owen suggest that a full autopsy wouldn’t be necessary?”
“No. That kind of decision isn’t his to make.”
And clearly it was Feingold’s; there was a hint of defensiveness in his tone. The waitress brought the salads, and Conan welcomed the diversion. Feingold doused his salad with dressing and began enthusiastically masticating it. Around a mouthful of lettuce, he said, “Okay, Conan, you think I should’ve done a full autopsy, right?”
Conan hedged. “It’s just that there are some unusual circumstances surrounding Corey’s death, and I don’t like to see the option of a full autopsy closed off, and it will be this afternoon. The body is going to be cremated.”
Feingold frowned at that. “Maybe you’d better tell me about these ‘unusual circumstances.’”
Conan outlined those circumstances, while Feingold demolished his salad. Conan found his appetite waning, and when the waitress cleared the table, his salad was virtually intact. He concluded his account with Kate Benbow’s diary—its implications and its disappearance.
“Greg, there were six people at Gabe’s house when Corey presented that diary, and all of them had compelling reasons to protect the Baysea sale.”
Feingold leaned back, arms folded. “Okay, you’ve got a weird situation. You told the police all this?”
Conan laughed bitterly. “What can I tell them? I have no proof that any of the six were there—except Gabe, of course. But why were there no skid marks? Why would a perfectly healthy young woman drive down that hill and over a cliff without hitting the brakes?”
“Without…?” Feingold’s thick eyebrows went up. “Nobody told me there weren’t any skid marks.”
“Did you talk to Sergeant Roddy? State Police?”
“No, I got a report from the sheriff.” He grimaced sourly, then, “Well, it wasn’t a DUI, that’s for sure. Blood alcohol level was only point-oh-six percent. What you call subclinical intoxication. Not enough to keep a person from reacting to a dangerous situation, if they saw it coming.”
“Did you run any other blood tests?”
“Just for barbiturates. Negative. Hey, that looks marvelous!” That was for the waitress and the entree.
Conan waited with as much patience as he could muster while she performed the small ceremony of serving the wine. At length, when she had departed, Conan said, “I’m not doubting your findings, Greg; I’m not doubting that ‘craniocerebral trauma and/or drowning’ might have been the immediate cause of death. I just want to know why Corey went off that cliff without trying to stop the car.”
Feingold seemed to be concentrating on buttering a roll. “The trouble with a situation like this is you have more than one thing happening to the victim at once, any of them potentially fatal. That blow to the head—and by the way, there’s no doubt how that happened: she hit the windshield. This sole is fantastic! What’s this with the crab? Oh, black olives. There were microscopic glass fragments matching the windshield glass in the surface abrasion over the impact area. Linear fracture of the right frontal bone and supraorbital arch. That was enough to kill her, but there was also some water drainage from the mouth and nose. That could’ve been from antemortem inspiration of water or just postmortem immersion in thirty feet of saltwater. What I’m trying to say is, these things are hardly ever cut and dried. Now, the question you really should be asking me is, was the victim alive when the cranial trauma occurred?” He looked up over the rim of his wine glass and smiled benignly. “Or were you saving that question for the next course?”
“I was saving it,” Conan admitted. “So, what’s the answer?”
“Well, I’m not sure. There wasn’t any indication of bleeding in the abraded area at the fracture site, but submersion in water fouls things up a lot. Even if I was sure there hadn’t been any bleeding, it’s still possible the trauma occurred during an antemortem agonal interval.”
“So, you can’t be sure whether she was alive or dead when she hit the windshield?” Conan reached for the wine bottle and refilled their glasses.
“Thanks. That’s a nice wine. Oregon? No, I can’t be sure beyond a reasonable doubt, but if she wasn’t alive at that moment, she hadn’t been dead very long.” He chewed vigorously for a while, squinting out at the beach. “It seemed so damned simple. I mean, her car took a dive off a cliff, there was a classic impact fracture with glass fragments from the windshield. It seemed so…”
“Cut and dried?”
Feingold looked at him sharply, then shrugged. “Yes. But I didn’t just look at that fracture and take off my gloves. There were no other wounds on the body; not even a small laceration or contusion. Oh—except a bruised area about fifteen centimeters in diameter over the sternum between the fifth and sixth ribs.”
Conan’s eyes narrowed. “Antemortem?”
“Probably. Maybe. Reddish blue color. But that’s a long way from a fatal injury, so if she wasn’t alive when she hit the windshield, how did she die?”
“I assume that’s a rhetorical question?”
Feingold was again frowning introspectively as he forked up a mouthful of fish. “Asphyxiation? I mean, like a pillow or soft gag blocking the nose and mouth? But there was no cyanosis. That made me a little skeptical of drowning per se as a cause of death. Besides, anybody who’s being asphyxiated forcibly is going to fight like hell. That leaves marks, and there weren’t any, except the contusion on the sternum, and that wasn’t consistent with a struggle. And I don’t know when it occurred, except probably within twenty-four hours of exitus.”
Conan considered the word “exitus”; how coolly objective Latin was. “And that leaves drugs or poisons.”
“Well, you can forget about your, so to speak, run-of-the-mill drugs or poisons. Barbiturates are out, and there was no odor of bitter almonds, oil of wintergreen, or garlic; no cherry-red coloring; no corrosion of the lips or mouth. Conan, there was absolutely no indication of drugs or poisons.” He stabbed at the remains of his sole absently. “Are you sure about those…circumstances?”
Conan had given up any pretense of eating. He raised his wineglass; that, at least, he could still enjoy. “Yes. I’m also sure that Corey drank a total of about one full black russian. Kahlua has a strong flavor; it could easily mask a foreign flavor, especially for someone who seldom drank and wouldn’t be so likely to recognize it.”
Feingold attacked his entree again, got another mouthful down, then dropped his fork. “Well, you’ve got me worried. If I don’t do an autopsy now, I’ll always wonder. The body’s still at the local mortuary?”
For a moment, Conan was too overwhelmed to speak. Feingold’s acquiescence had come far more easily than he had anticipated.
“Uh—yes. Ronson’s is handling the funeral service.”
Feingold rose. “Is there a pay phone around here?”
Conan came to his feet, too. “There’s one in the foyer, or I’m sure Tilda will let you use—”
“Pay phone’s fine. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Oh—don’t let the waitress take away what’s left of my lunch.”
Conan sank back into his chair and reached for his wineglass. It was especially piquant now. And Earl Kleber didn’t think it could be done, forcing a full autopsy. Conan lighted a cigarette, then silently toasted the rushing waves with his wine.
But by the time he crushed out the butt of the cigarette, Feingold still hadn’t returned, and the wine began to have a sour taste. Conan lighted another cigarette and tried to resign himself to defeat, calling it a temporary setback; just the turn of the cards. That didn’t help.
At length, Feingold return
ed and slumped wearily into his chair, shaking his head. “Too late.”
Conan stared at him, anger surfacing. “What do you mean, too late? A1 Ronson told Chief Kleber the cremation wouldn’t take place until this afternoon.”
“I talked to Ronson himself. They don’t have the facilities for cremation here, so they take the bodies to a crematorium in Salem. Ronson took the Benbow remains in this morning. I called Salem, but…it was too late.”
“Damn!” Conan closed his eyes, and it was a moment before he got his hands unfurled from their angry fists. “Why did Ronson have to be in such a hell of a hurry?”
“He said the guy who usually takes the bodies into Salem for him called in sick this morning. Ronson has a funeral at one today, so he went into Salem early to get back in time for that.”
“Someone has had incredible luck in this!”
Feingold gazed out the window, but he didn’t seem to take any pleasure in the view now. “You know, Dan Reuben told me once that sooner or later a case comes along where you foul up for one reason or another. He said, you’re bound to make a mistake some day, and when you do, you’ll have to live with it the rest of your life.”
Conan emptied the wine bottle into their glasses. “Greg, you don’t know whether you made a mistake or not, and you had no way of knowing about the events preceding Corey’s death. At least you’ve eliminated a lot of possibilities. It’s as important to know what isn’t true as it is to know what is true.” He smiled wryly and added, “I think that’s something else Dan Reuben once said.”
Chapter 13
Finding the wide driveway at France’s and Moses’ home empty, Conan cavalierly swept into it and parked near the steps to the front deck. The lady of the house was standing at a table on the deck, filling ceramic pots with soil from a plastic dishpan. She was attired for that task in a panama straw hat, safari slacks, and a smock boldly patterned in black and brown. Her work gloves, appliquéd with yellow flowers, were so fresh and crisp, he wondered if she didn’t put on a new pair every time she worked in her garden. She rubbed them together to remove the loose soil, watching Conan silently as he approached.
The Benbows had a panoramic view of the ocean and Sitka Bay. The sky had a milky sheen, a halo of refracted light ringing the sun; the sea shone like molten metal, and the wind blew chill out of the northwest.
Conan said, “Looks like a change in the weather coming.”
France’s arched brows went up; she didn’t so much as glance toward the ocean. “What do you want, Mr. Flagg?”
He smiled coolly. “I thought you might like to tell me your side of what happened Friday night at Gabe’s.”
Her Nefertiti eyes narrowed, then she pulled off her gloves and tossed them on the table. “I suppose you’ll hound us until you finally get it through your head that what happened had nothing to do with Corella’s death.”
“Yes, I suppose I will.”
She went to one of the deck chairs near the table, and although she didn’t invite him to do so, he took the chair next to hers. Her apparent willingness to talk to him about Friday night didn’t surprise him; no doubt by now the conspirators had compared notes and prepared a story for him.
Conan lighted a cigarette but didn’t offer France one, nor did he seem to notice, when she took out one of her own, that she was waiting for a light.
“All right, France, what did happen at Gabe’s?”
Her narrow nostrils flared. She found a lighter in the pocket of her smock and got her cigarette ignited. “Corey came to the house, of course, as you—”
“What time was it when she arrived?”
“Eight-thirty.”
“Exactly?”
“I didn’t mean exactly. About eight-thirty. All of us talked for a while, just small talk, and finally—”
“Didn’t you fix her a black russian at Gabe’s request?”
France took a quick puff on her cigarette. “Yes, I did. Anyway, she finally read that—that diary and threatened—no, it wasn’t just a threat, it was blackmail, pure and simple!”
“Which rather annoyed you, I understand.”
“Of course, it did! And, yes, I admit I…well, I lost my temper. I, uh, threw Corey’s drink in her face. But she was so insufferably smug about that diary. She didn’t care about us; she didn’t care about anything but her…” France took another nervous puff, visibly getting herself under control. “Then Corey went to the ladies’ room, and—”
“Where was everyone seated at this point?”
“Well, Gabe was in his chair at the end of the coffee table, and I was sitting next to him. I mean, on the couch to his right. Moses was next to me, and Nina was on the other side of Moses. Jonas was sitting nearest Gabe on the other couch, then Corey, with Leo at the other end.”
Conan nodded. “What happened after Corey retreated to the ladies’ room?”
Another nervous puff. “Well, Moses and I went to the kitchen to talk for a few minutes.”
“How many minutes?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, I don’t know! Maybe—five minutes. Then Nina came into the kitchen and…suggested that I make another drink for Corey, but I was so—my hands were shaking. I started to fix the drink, then I…Moses and I went back to the living room.”
“Was Corey in the living room when you returned?”
“Uh, no, I don’t think—no, she wasn’t. Nina had come out of the kitchen by the time Corey rejoined us.”
“With Corey’s drink? Where did she put it?”
“On the coffee table in front of the couch where Corey had been sitting.”
“Didn’t she also bring a drink for you?”
France replied frigidly, “I suppose she did.”
“And Jonas and Leo were still on the couch on either side of Corey’s place when you returned from the kitchen.”
“Yes.”
“Go on.”
Her voice was edged with strain as she continued, “Well, when Corey came back, we tried to reach some sort of compromise. I should say, she laid down her terms to us.”
“Did Corey drink any of that second black russian?”
“I…don’t know. Anyway, Corey said she wasn’t feeling well and decided to go home. She said we’d work out the details of her so-called compromise later.”
Conan took time for a leisurely pull on his cigarette, looking out at the misted horizon. “Of course, you knew Corey had epilepsy.” He turned in time to see France’s mouth open slackly, an enigmatic expression with elements of both surprise and relief fixing briefly on her face.
“No, I…I didn’t know that.”
Conan was simply trying to find out more about Corey’s unexpected illness when he pulled the epilepsy ploy out of the air. Apparently he had struck a nerve.
He asked caustically, “You didn’t know? And you Benbows are such a close-knit family.”
Her rouged cheeks turned a deeper red. “We are a close-knit family, but Corella set herself apart. She betrayed all of us.” Conan studied France. A strong word, “betrayed.” Then he put on a speculative frown. “If Corey had an epileptic seizure that night, it would clear up a lot of questions about the accident. Can you describe the symptoms?”
France took the bait. “Well, she seemed to have sort of a…fit, you know. Whatever you call it.”
Conan nodded. “Convulsions?”
“I guess so. She began shaking and jerking, and she just pitched forward. Jonas caught her, and we got her down on the floor. Then Nina said she had CPR training, and…” France hesitated, masking the lapse with another puff on her cigarette. “But Corey recovered then, of course. The whole thing only lasted a minute or so, then she—well, she seemed a little shaken, but otherwise quite recovered. At least, we thought—I mean, she said she was.”
There were probably elements of truth in all that, Conan decided, but again the problem was sorting fact from fiction. CPR. If Nina had attempted CPR, that would explain the bruise on the sternum that had puzzled Feingold
.
He asked, “Were there any warning symptoms of the seizure?”
France’s short puffs had quickly burned her cigarette to the filter. She went to the table to crush out the butt in an ashtray. Her hands were trembling slightly.
“Warning symptoms? Well, she seemed to be having trouble breathing. She—she said her mouth and throat felt…numb.” That, at least, had the unequivocal ring of truth in it. It was too specific to come out of France’s vague knowledge of epilepsy. Then Conan frowned as Moses’ maroon Cadillac swung into view.
“Oh—here comes Moses,” France said, her relief obvious, her cool aplomb restored. “Mr. Flagg, I hope you’re finally satisfied. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go in and fix lunch for Moses.”
Conan had some difficulty visualizing France as the cozy homemaker preparing hubby’s lunch, but perhaps that failure of concept was his error. He went to the table and put out his cigarette. “One more question, France. Jonas said Gabe promised him three hundred thousand dollars out of the Baysea sale—in lieu of any future claim on Gabe’s estate. Is that true?”
She replied archly, “That certainly has nothing to do with Corella, and it’s none of your business.”
“So little about this case seems to be my business. Was Jonas’s forfeiture of his future inheritance Moses’ idea?”
“What do you mean by that?”
Conan didn’t have a chance to explain. A car door slammed, and Moses, dignified in a three-piece suit, approached at a brisk pace, his chill gaze fixed on Conan.
“Mr. Flagg, you must have the hide of a rhinoceros, or you wouldn’t have come back here!”
Conan smiled at that. “Oh, I can be as thick-skinned as I have to be. France was telling me—”
She cut in, “I was answering his questions about Friday night. I know how you feel, Moses, but he won’t leave us alone until he’s satisfied.”
Moses made a nice show of annoyed resignation. “You’re probably right, dear. But, Mr. Flagg, I don’t like you sneaking in here behind my back and bothering my wife, and I won’t put up with it! Good-bye, Mr. Flagg!”
