by M. K. Wren
They worked well together, Conan thought; a good team. He shrugged and said, “I’m leaving, Moses. It was a relief to find out about Corey’s epileptic seizure.”
One thing about Moses’ extraordinary self-control—when it faltered, it was particularly noticeable. Conan was treated to a virtual repeat performance of France’s odd response of mixed surprise and relief.
But it was gone in the blink of an eye. Moses said coldly, “I’m glad you’re relieved. And that you’re leaving.”
Conan started for his car, then turned. “Whose idea was it—Jonas’s three hundred thousand dollars in lieu of inheritance? Yours, Moses? Good thinking. After all, Gabe has already lived well past his biblically ordained three-score and ten.”
Moses flushed hotly. “Get out, Flagg!”
Conan did, with no reluctance at all.
*
When Conan reached the Holliday Beach Book Shop, he had his choice of parking places, since all the other businesses were also closed on Monday, the resort sabbath. The bells on the front door echoed in the musty silence, and after he locked the door behind him, he paused to savor the unique odor of books—to him the headiest of perfumes.
Ostensibly, he had stopped at the shop today to be sure Miss Dobie had fed Meg. She had, of course. Conan went into his office, put a tape on the stereo, and turned the volume up, so that the elegant configurations of the Mendelssohn Symphony in C Minor accompanied him as he walked among the shelves. He found Meg upstairs in an old leather armchair facing one of the dormer windows. She greeted him perfunctorily, complaining when he picked her up and usurped her napping place. But she seemed satisfied with his lap as long as he provided a gentle back rub. Her rumbling purr softly underlined the Mendelssohn. Conan sighed, envying her capacity for instant repose.
“Duchess, I lost a major battle today. I wonder about the war.”
He had learned a great deal since he had talked to Earl Kleber Saturday, yet there was still no corpus delicti, and now there would be no autopsy that might have provided that vital proof of the crime. Still, he had gleaned a few possibly dependable facts by checking Jonas’s and Nina’s stories against each other; they had had no opportunity for prior consultation. And France’s story—well, discrepancies were always revealing, and there was the success of the epilepsy ploy. At least, he could now regard it as a strong possibility that Corey had displayed symptoms similar to an epileptic seizure.
Meg stirred and murmured a husky reminder for him to resume her massage. He did, but he was thinking about the odd response that both France and Moses had displayed to his suggestion that Corey had suffered from epilepsy. There had definitely been an element of relief in it. Relief because epilepsy would provide an explanation for a phenomenon they knew had quite a different cause?
He laughed silently. How he would relish being present when Moses and Frances learned that Corey had not had epilepsy. At any rate, he thought, still counting—or at least trying to find—his blessings, he could be sure of most of the information he had about—if not from—the six conspirators, especially the information from Charlie Duncan. But that only further elucidated motive for each of them.
Perhaps he should give more consideration to the other legs of the tripod: means and opportunity. Greg Feingold had thrown some light, in a backward fashion, on means. If Corey was not alive when her head met the windshield. Conan chose to assume she wasn’t because of the missing skid marks. When she approached the curve at Reem’s Rocks, she was either dead or heavily sedated. If the latter, barbiturates and alcohol were eliminated. If the former…
Feingold had ruled out some of the more obvious poisons, but that still left a wide range to choose from.
But for the killer to choose from? No, opportunity had to be considered here. None of the six people at Gabe’s house that fateful night had expected Corey or the revelation of the diary. The murder had to be a spur of the moment thing and the means readily available.
“Meg, why am I thinking in terms of killer singular?”
She opened her sapphire eyes, gave him a vague glance, then lapsed into a deep, purrless sleep.
There were six people involved in this murder, yet he found it difficult to imagine these particular people reaching a consensus on anything as serious as murder in the short time available for discussion. That would be while Corey was in the bathroom after the dousing administered by France. Five to ten minutes, probably. And that motley group not only came to an agreement on committing a murder, but found the means at hand, and formulated a plan?
That he could not swallow. Of course, the time limit assumed that they wanted to keep their deliberations secret from their victim. But if they didn’t, if Corey had any inkling of their plans, she would try to escape, and that would mean a struggle. Corey was physically strong and not easily cowed; she would fight fiercely, and that would inevitably leave marks of some sort. The bruise on the sternum? No, that could be explained by Nina’s attempt at CPR.
If there wasn’t time for a group decision, then it was an individual decision. One of the six had found the means at hand and had seized on the opportunity.
Yet afterward, when the killer had presented the others with a fait accompli, would they all willingly make themselves accessories to murder? Aside from the morality of it, would they risk the legal consequences of first-degree murder simply to protect the Baysea sale?
Yes. Conan recognized the answer with profound rage that found no immediate expression except for the painful tension of his jaw muscles.
And was the risk so great? What were the legal consequences that should strike fear into their hearts? So far, there were none. The law was, in this case, if not an ass, certainly impotent. Any one of those particular people would take that minimal risk without a moral qualm.
“Duchess, it looks like we have a visitor.” Conan watched the Holliday Beach police car pull up to the curb behind the XK-E. Earl Kleber got out of the car and strode to the front door of the shop. While his knocks echoed through the building, Conan restored Meg to her original napping spot, then hurried downstairs to open the door.
“Come on in, Chief. You’ll attract customers standing around out here.”
Kleber gave a short laugh and stepped into the shop, looking around idly while Conan locked the door behind him.
“I saw your car out there, Conan.”
“I just stopped in to check on Meg.”
“Mm. That cat like music?”
“Well, she prefers Beethoven. Come into the office. I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”
Kleber followed him into the office and laid claim to one of the chairs in front of the desk. “Don’t make any coffee for me. Can’t stay that long.”
Conan turned off the stereo and went to his chair. “I gather you were looking for me, Chief.”
“Well, yes, I was. But this is unofficial. I had a call from Owen Culpepper a little while ago. He says Leo Moskin is talking about getting an injunction against you and maybe even pressing charges for harassment and invasion of privacy—his and the Benbows’.”
Conan had his lighter and a pack of cigarettes out, but he tossed them angrily on the desk. “Harassment, for God’s sake? And invasion of privacy? I haven’t gotten past any of the Benbows’ front doors, and when I did get past Leo’s, I was very quickly ushered out.”
Kleber nodded sourly. “Well, I figured you’d like to know what Leo was up to. Did you find out anything while you were doing all that harassing and invading?”
Conan retrieved his lighter and cigarettes and got one lighted. “Sure. I found out that six people were at Gabe’s house Friday night when Corey arrived: Gabe, Jonas, France, Moses, Nina Gillies, and Leo Moskin. Corey read Kate’s intriguing diary entry, and one of them poisoned and/or drugged her. The medium for the offending—and unidentified—substance was a black russian. And I know that each of the six people had very strong motives to kill Corey, and that all of them are at least accessories to murder.”
K
leber’s cleft of a mouth in a cliff of a jaw was tight. “And? Drop the other shoe, damn it.”
Conan let his head rest against the back of his chair while he blew out a slow stream of smoke. “And? Well, the problem is, I can’t prove any of it. Not one damned thing. Except motive. I’m knee-deep in motive.”
Kleber sighed. “So, Leo Moskin was at Gabe’s house. No wonder he’s so worried about his privacy. I’ll be damned.”
“He won’t, unfortunately, unless you believe in an afterlife that includes a good, hot hell.” He paused, then with a shrug, “Well, I’ve ‘harassed’ three of the six into telling me their version of what happened. With some cross-checking, I’ve winnowed a few grains of truth from the chaff. Of course, they were so talkative with me only because they hoped I’d swallow their stories and leave them alone. But if you, or any other representative of the law, were to question them, all you’d get is a series of earnest denials.”
“Which three talked?”
“Jonas, Nina, and France. I tried for Leo and Gabe. Moses…that would be a waste of time. I’d only get a rerun of France’s story.”
Kleber shifted restlessly, lacing his fingers across his black leather gunbelt. “You didn’t get anything out of them we could use to dig up some real evidence?”
“No. By the way, did you know Corey’s body was cremated this morning?”
“This morning?”
“Yes. Before I convinced Feingold that he should do a full autopsy. God, I’m surrounded by brick walls.”
“You are? I’m cemented in!”
Conan looked at him, and that frustrated admission of defeat carried a chill weight beyond the mere words.
“Earl, there must be something we can do.”
“What? There isn’t even any proof a crime was committed. Even if you got a confession, you’d still have to get corroborating evidence for a conviction. That’s the way the law works in this country.”
A silence fell as Conan considered that pronoun. Kleber said “you,” not “we,” unconsciously. He wasn’t shirking his responsibilities in this case; he was only recognizing his helplessness as an agent of the law.
Kleber said bitterly, “Hell, Conan, people get away with murder every day.”
“Not Corey Benbow’s murder.”
The chief’s eyes narrowed. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. See what I can ‘harass’ out of Leo and Gabe, I suppose. At least, Gabe. I think it’s futile to try to breach Leo’s internal and external security systems.” Conan frowned thoughtfully. “I need a change in the emotional climate; something that will make Gabe more amenable to confession. Maybe I’d finally get a workable lead.”
Kleber rose. “Well, there’s going to be a change in the climate outside. Coast Guard called me to say there’s one granddaddy of a storm headed our way. Already getting tidal waves and flooding in Hawaii.”
Conan accompanied him to the front door and unlocked it. “When is this storm due to hit the coast?”
“They said probably Wednesday.”
“On a spring tide. Tuesday’s the full moon.” Conan smiled obliquely and looked up into a sky patterned with chatoyant mackerel clouds. “Should be interesting.”
“Interesting? Sure. By the way, you heard from Hatch lately?”
“No. Have you heard any more about him?”
“Not yet.” Kleber started for his car, then turned. “Conan, don’t…well, I’d sure as hell hate to see you on the wrong side of the bars in my jail.”
Conan nodded. “So would I, Chief.”
Chapter 14
Only a few remnant islands of old-growth timber survived in the dense secondary forests of the Coast Range. One of those groves surrounded Crestview Cemetery on a gentle slope above Holliday Beach. The cemetery, with its winter-gray grasses, at first seemed simply an open meadow studded with unnaturally shaped marble and granite boulders. The ancient Sitka spruce, massive trunks commanding each its span of space and claiming the earth beneath with unseen, grasping sinews, tolerated the false meadow as they tolerated all things, even time. There seemed some basic affinity between them and the monuments of stone.
Conan heard without listening the drone of Reverend Abel’s litany. “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” And what had that small, bronzed urn to do with Corey Benbow?
Go and dig me a hole in the meadow,
A hole in the cold, cold ground,
Go and dig me a hole in the meadow,
Just to lay darlin’ Corey down.
On this winter afternoon, the sky garbed itself in gray, clouds moving swiftly with the west wind, just out of reach of the top branches of the trees. A marble obelisk was inscribed simply “Benbow.” Three smaller marble blocks stood in its lee: Grace Edmonds Benbow; Katharine Donovan Benbow; Mark Benbow. There was no marker yet for Corella Danner Benbow; only a small hole in this artificial meadow.
Reverend Abel, prayer book open, its pages fluttering in the wind, stood at one end of that raw gouge in the earth. On his right, Gabe Benbow, with his seamed and craggy face, was the essence of solemnity—hands clasped, staring at the urn within the earthen cavity as if he found it an affront. Perhaps he did; Gabe didn’t approve of cremation. Or so he had always maintained.
Standing next to Gabe, Moses and France also gazed down into the grave, Moses in a dark brown suit, France fashionably funereal in a black, veiled hat and black fur coat; the coat was sealskin. Jonas also stared into the grave, but with such bleary fixity, Conan doubted his sobriety.
Nina Gillies was not among the mourners, but, surprisingly, Leonard Moskin was, dressed in somber hues that did not diminish his massive presence. He had earlier made it clear that he was here simply as a friend of the family. His gaze was more mobile than the others’, and several times during the ceremony, Conan found those hooded eyes fixed on him. There was no hint of sympathy in them.
Across the rift the grave seemed to create, Conan stood beside Diane Monteil. She was dressed in white: a muslin dress with a heavy knit shawl against the chill of the wind that tossed her pewter-gold hair. She seemed the only light in this bleak scene. At her side, protected from the wind, she held the white kite with the bluebird in the rainbow circle. Kit held the spool. He wore a gray suit and tie, and perhaps he was expected to be a little man today; grief was an adult experience. His sea-colored eyes quested constantly, seeking answers he would not find here. His free hand was clasped in Melissa’s. She was dressed in white, like her mother, and she seemed to be searching for answers too, and near tears because she found none.
Encircling the divided “families,” more mourners looked on: three Earth Conservancy officers from Portland and at least thirty townspeople. Among them, Conan saw Chief Earl Kleber and his daughter Caroline. Many of the mourners were young people, like Jory Rankin, who had undoubtedly cut classes to be here.
But there was one ominous absence, one mourner who above all should be present. Lyndon Hatch. Conan had convinced himself that Lyn would—must—finally come out of the woods, figuratively and literally, for Corey’s funeral. He hadn’t.
“…we consecrate the immortal soul of our sister unto thy everlasting mercy, O Lord. Amen.”
The reverend’s resonant drone at last ceased. Gabe leaned down, picked up a handful of dirt, and cast it upon the urn with the words, “‘When the dead is at rest, let his remembrance rest….”
And that, Conan thought, was an odd but perhaps indicative choice of a quote. Let his remembrance rest….
Diane said quietly, “All right, Kit…now.”
She held the bluebird kite up by its bridle, the wind tugging at it. It was Jory Rankin whose soft, tenor voice began the song “Amazing Grace,” and a small chorus of mourners added their voices to his. And Conan, who in the best of times found that song hard to listen to, because it struck resonances within his mind of old griefs, listened and found it beautiful, even in this ragged, unpolished rendition. The wind claimed the bluebird kite; it
seemed to leap toward the clouds, and Kit, with the spool spinning in his hands, watched its retreat longingly.
The end of the string was not fixed to the spool, and Kit knew it. The rainbow and bluebird were only a patch of color against the gray clouds when the string spun out to the end. With a wordless cry, Kit caught the loose string and clung to it. Diane knelt beside him, one arm enfolding him. “Kit, let it go. You have to let it go.”
At length he did. The kite pulled away, tumbling erratically, and the wind swept it out of sight beyond the trees.
With a collective sigh, the mourners began moving away down the grassy aisles between the markers toward the parking area north of the cemetery. The Benbows and Moskin, Conan noted, had left well before the ceremony of freeing the kite was concluded.
Conan walked with Diane and the children toward his Vanagon; they had ridden to the cemetery with him. No one spoke for some time, until finally Diane began, “Norman has arranged a private hearing today with the judge on the custody case. He thinks we can—”
She stopped, silenced by a reverberating crack—a sound instantly recognizable, despite its incongruity here.
A rifle shot.
Screams and shouts were punctuated by another shot, then a third.
Like almost everyone else in the cemetery, Conan was on the ground, and if Kit and Melissa sustained any injury from the fusillade, it could only be the result of protective crushing by two adults.
There were no more shots, and after a tense wait, Conan got to his feet. “Are you all right?”
The children nodded, wide-eyed. Diane whispered her assent as Conan helped her up, then grabbing Kit’s hand, he snapped, “Come on, Di—let’s get out of here!”
Chief Kleber had taken command, his shouted orders averting total chaos. Conan led Diane and the children at a run around the center of confusion, grateful that he had parked the Vanagon near the exit. He noted in passing that Caroline Kleber was in her father’s police car, calmly using the radio to call for assistance.
