by M. K. Wren
France glanced at Moses and at his nod, irritably pulled off the mantilla and tossed it over the back of the couch nearest her, then picked up the leather shoulder-strap purse on the seat. She took the purse to Conan without a word, then retreated to her husband’s side. Like Nina, she wore slacks, and there seemed no potential hiding place in them, nor in her tailored blouse.
Conan opened the purse, frowning as he shifted its contents. “Jonas, you’d better go open the back door.”
Jonas stared at him, nonplussed. “What?”
“The back door. And be sensible; no heroics.”
Jonas shared the look of alarm that flashed from one conspirator to another, then with a sigh, he picked up a candle from the coffee table and headed for the kitchen.
Conan dropped France’s purse on the floor beside Nina’s. There was no weapon in it, except a canister of tear gas on a key chain. “Sit down, France. Yes, exactly where you sat Friday night.”
She complied, turning nervously at the sound of voices and footsteps from the kitchen. Jonas emerged first, hands in the air, and behind him, with the barrel of the Remington against Jonas’s spine, Lyn Hatch made an effective entrance that stunned the conspirators into open-mouthed silence.
Conan said casually, “I’m sure you all remember Lyndon Hatch. Yes, apparently you do. Lyn, you’d better search Jonas. I’ve already found two guns in this friendly group.”
Lyn conducted a businesslike body search, while Jonas stood rigid. Finally Lyn shook his head. “Nothing, Conan.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Jonas, sit down.” He didn’t have to tell him to go to his seat of Friday night. “Moses, you’re next.”
Moses’ hands went into small fists. “This is an outrage, and I’ll have nothing more to do with it! Come on, France, we’re leaving!” And with that he started toward the door.
In one smooth movement, Lyn raised the rifle and fired, the reverberations of the explosion numbing. A vase on a shelf beyond Moses shattered into shrapnel shards, and France screamed, red-nailed hands pressed to her cheeks. The double slide and snap of the rifle’s bolt punctuated the silence as Moses, half crouched, stared first at the small hole in the wall where the vase had been, then at Lyn. “You could’ve killed me!”
Conan laughed as he crossed to Moses and searched him. “Yes, Moses, he could have, so keep that in mind. Well, it’s a relief to find you didn’t come forearmed. Certainly you’re now forewarned. Go sit down.”
Moses did, next to his white-faced wife, while Conan turned to Moskin. Without a word, Moskin raised his left hand in a placating gesture, then reached into his tweed jacket, removed a slim .32 automatic from an underarm holster, and offered it, butt first, to Conan.
Conan took it, meeting his cool, hooded gaze; there was no hint of fear in it. “Leo, I’m glad to see the spirit of cooperation isn’t entirely dead here. Sit down.”
Moskin moved toward the nearest couch with a contemptuous, “Yes, I know—where I was sitting Friday night.”
Conan pulled out the .32’s clip and emptied the shells, then tossed the gun on the floor by the purses. He also emptied Nina’s .22, then after a glance at Lyn to make sure he had the conspirators covered—he did, looking like a battle-weary soldier in his drenched parka—Conan emptied Gabe’s revolver, dropped it with the others, then took off his own parka and crossed to the hearth. There he made a point of bringing out the Mauser and snapping a shell into the chamber.
“Lyn, would you mind taking care of the, uh, groceries?”
“Sure.” He picked up the sack by the front door and carried it with him to the kitchen. He remained there for several minutes, during which time Conan studied the intent, questioning faces, masklike in the wavering candlelight. Rain battered at the windows, and the incessant throb of the ocean was something felt as much as heard.
Nina found a pack of cigarettes on the table in front of her and lighted one. Her hands were shaking. Moses, on her left, leaned back with one arm on the back of the couch, his hand resting on France’s shoulder, the candles multiplying themselves on the lenses of his glasses. Perhaps France found some reassurance in her husband’s hand on her shoulder; if so, she seemed to need it. Her thin face was pale, every muscle taut.
Gabe still maintained his affronted silence, glaring at Conan fixedly. Yet it struck Conan that Gabe had never seemed so old, despite the dim light that softened the years of lines.
Jonas had aged too in the last few minutes, and at this moment, Conan could believe he was ill; there was a decidedly gray cast to his skin, and his constantly shifting eyes were bloodshot.
Only Leo Moskin seemed quite unimpressed with what was going on around him, offering a facade of monumental boredom as he casually lighted a cigar, puffing out an acrid fog of smoke. But he was the first to hear Lyn return from the kitchen. He watched suspiciously as Lyn—unarmed for the moment so that his hands were free to carry a small tray—came around to Conan’s left and put the tray on the table.
On the tray was an empty rocks glass, a shot glass, a fifth of Kahlua, another of vodka, and the Black Leaf 40 bottle.
“My God…” The words were barely audible, and they came from France. But Moses’ hand tightened on her shoulder, and she said nothing more. Nor did anyone else. Lyn retrieved his rifle from the kitchen and took up a position behind and to Gabe’s left, where he could keep all of them in sight.
Conan returned the Mauser to his jacket pocket with the observation, “Lyn is an excellent shot, by the way; he doesn’t miss at close range unless he intends to. And there’s something else you should know about Lyn: He was deeply in love with Corey Benbow.”
Gabe rasped, “So, what’s he going to do? Shoot us all? Is that what this—this damnable game of yours is about?”
Conan laughed harshly. “Gabe, you were the one who came to the front door with a thirty-eight in hand. And get one thing very clear in your mind—all of you! This is not by any stretch of the imagination a game!”
A strained wail from France as she pressed her hands to her temples: “Oh, dear God, what do you want?”
“Justice,” Conan replied. “That’s all, France.” Then he picked up the Kahlua bottle and opened it. Silence held sway while he measured a shot into the glass, then added two shots of vodka. “Tell me, Gabe, since you’re such a religious man—or make such a point of being a church-going man—what does your God have to say about justice?”
Gabe spoke in solemn tones: “‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’”
“Ah. And vengeance belongs to no one but the Lord? The God of Moses, Gabe. Exodus. ‘Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe…Thou shalt give life for life.’”
Moskin, his facade of nonchalance finally cracking, took his cigar out of his mouth to demand, “What in the hell is going on here?”
France shrilled, “He thinks we—we murdered Corey! That’s why he—”
Gabe snorted in disgust. “Shut up, France. Flagg, you’re crazy! Nobody murdered Corey. I told you that.”
Conan folded his arms, eyes slitted. “A young woman in perfect health suddenly goes into convulsions and dies—only a short time after delivering what all of you recognized as a potentially fatal blow to the Baysea development and after consuming part of a cocktail prepared in this kitchen—and you still insist no one murdered her? You’re not that naïve, Gabe. We will begin with Corey’s murder taken as an established fact.”
Gabe shifted forward in his chair. “Begin what? You and your hotshot friend over here going to kill all of us? I said it before, Flagg: you’re crazy! You figure you’d ever get away with something like that?”
“Are you so sure it matters to me—since I’m crazy?” He smiled coldly, meeting Gabe’s baleful glare. “Apparently one can’t get away with group murders. Right? But single murders are another matter.”
Gabe spluttered, “So, what’re you—you’re saying you’re just going to mur
der one of us? With five witnesses, you—”
“There were five witnesses to Corey’s murder, and her killer got away with it! Which of you will run to the police with your story, knowing that if you do, the whole story will come out? Five witnesses made themselves accessories to one murder to protect the Baysea sale—what makes you think they won’t become accessories again? Sit down, Gabe!”
Lyn emphasized that order by shifting the rifle into firing position, and Gabe, who had risen in anger, sank suddenly back into his chair.
Jonas, after glancing apprehensively over his shoulder at Lyn, ventured, “What…the stuff on the tray—what’s that for?”
Conan replied levelly, “I’ll get to that later, Jonas.” He paused, and the creak of timbers in the house punctuated the hiatus. Then he reached into his breast pocket and took out Kate Benbow’s diary.
Nina lunged for it. “Goddamn you! I knew it was you!” But when Lyn again raised his rifle, she subsided.
Moses blurted, “Nina, you said you destroyed it!”
“No recriminations, friends,” Conan interposed. “It’s too late for that. Jonas, you can examine this; make sure it’s the original, and that it’s your wife’s handwriting.”
Jonas rose, his hand trembling as he reached for the diary. He remained standing while he leafed through it, stopping toward the end of the book, undoubtedly at the entry for November twenty-first. Then he nodded and returned the book to Conan. “That’s it.” And with that affirmation, he hurriedly sat down.
Conan put the diary on the coffee table by the tray. “The price of justice can be high. I’m well aware of that. You have all joined in a conspiracy to subvert justice—legal justice—in the murder of Corey Benbow. A very successful conspiracy. But legal justice isn’t the only kind of justice.”
France hunched forward, crying, “Will you for God’s sake tell us what—what you’re asking of us?”
“One of you murdered Corey Benbow. Eye for eye. I want that person to pay for Corey’s life.”
Moskin croaked, “You—you mean…you’ve got to be joking!” Conan turned on him. “This is no more a joke than it is a game. Someone I loved is dead, and if the law is helpless, I am not!”
“I didn’t kill her!” Moskin insisted.
“And I didn’t either!” Nina chimed in, and, over a chorus of disclaimers, she added, “You’ve got no right to hold us here, to threaten us and—”
Conan only laughed at that. “I have a right. Lyn is holding it in his hands. So, be quiet and listen—all of you. Now, there was a time when nothing was more important to me than keeping Sitka Bay and Shearwater Spit out of the hands of developers. But Corey’s death has altered my priorities. So, there’s Kate’s diary; there’s the time bomb that could blow all your avaricious hopes to atoms. On the other side of the scales is a murderer; the one person among you who poisoned Corey Benbow. And at the fulcrum—Lyn and I, who have come here for justice. Simple, isn’t it?”
Covert glances of speculation passed from one conspirator to another. Only Jonas frowned as if he were confused, then looked directly at Conan with dawning comprehension that made his mouth sag open.
“Who?” Jonas asked the question, and it seemed to catch in his throat. “Who are you…accusing of murder?”
Conan raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t accused anyone, have I, Jonas? But if you’ll all think about it, I’m sure you’ll reach a consensus.”
Moses demanded, “What do you mean? Draw straws or something for your scapegoat?”
“Scapegoat? No, Moses. I want the person who is actually guilty. So, perhaps the first order of business is to decide who that person is, and we might as well begin with the classic motive/means/opportunity triad. Motive?” He laughed bitterly at that. “All of you had motive: money, power, self-preservation, et cetera. Corey was a threat to each of you. So, we’ll go on to the next leg of the triad.” Darkness was accumulating in the room with the almost perceptible fading of the outside light. He looked around the candle-studded table, thinking how like a macabre séance it seemed.
“Means. Well, after talking to Dr. Feingold, I knew every possibility was eliminated except poisoning, and the descriptions of Corey’s symptoms bore that out. And since none of you could have anticipated Corey’s arrival or the revelation in Kate’s diary, that meant the poison was a substance readily available in this house. Last night I found just such a substance—and Gabe can confirm that.”
Gabe’s chin jutted belligerently. “All you found was a bottle of insecticide that’s been sitting on that shelf for months.”
“Exactly.” Conan picked up the Black Leaf 40 bottle and read aloud, “‘The original nicotine sulphate solution.’ And here it’s spelled out with the usual skull-and-crossbones symbols: ‘Poison.’ But, of course, any gardener could tell you about Black Leaf Forty.” He paused, watching France turn even paler, then, “Yes, Gabe, it had been sitting on that shelf for months. What shelf?”
“The shelf—the one in the utility room…”
“The one just to the right of the kitchen door—which was open Friday night.” Conan put the bottle back on the tray. “And the symptoms of acute nicotine poisoning include shortness of breath, a sensation of numbness in the mouth and throat, convulsions, and unconsciousness. Which brings us to the third leg of the triad: opportunity.” Another blast of wind lashed at the house, and the candle flames wavered. Somewhere, a rain gutter, torn from its moorings, began banging insensately.
“By opportunity,” Conan continued, “I mean the opportunity to lace Corey’s second black russian with Black Leaf Forty.”
France stuttered out, “You can’t—you can’t blame me for that! We had—all of you, you know we had b-black russians before! We had them all the time, and you—”
“France, be quiet!” That curt admonition from Moses.
Conan said agreeably, “Yes, France, I realize you can’t be blamed for the choice of drinks served that night. That was simply a piece of luck, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“But you were responsible for the fact that a second drink for Corey—one prepared after she presented the diary—was necessary. You disposed of her first drink by the expedient of throwing it in her face.”
“No! I didn’t—I mean, that wasn’t on purpose—”
“Then why didn’t you empty your own glass on her?”
Cheeks glowing hectically, France snapped, “Because my glass was already…empty.”
Moses cut in, “Damn it, Flagg, if you’re accusing France—by God, I’ve never seen such a cruel and mindless farce in my life!”
“I have accused no one,” Conan replied mildly.
Moses surged to his feet, but any rebuttal he planned was quashed when he found the Remington again aimed at him.
“Moses…please!” France tugged at his arm, and finally, glaring at Lyn, then at Conan, he sank back to the couch. Conan caught Jonas’s longing look at the vodka bottle and knew he was heartily wishing for a stiff drink.
Conan thrust his hands in his pockets. “I’ve heard several accounts of what happened here Friday night, not all of them in agreement. The question is, who mixed Corey’s last drink—or who had access to it and the poison in the utility room. Leo—” Moskin started, as if an electric shock accompanied his name. “Leo, when were you in the kitchen?”
“I wasn’t in the kitchen—not at any time Friday night!”
“Jonas, can you verify that?”
“Yes. He didn’t even get off this couch.”
“Gabe? Did you see Leo go into the kitchen?”
“No! And I didn’t go in there either.”
“Jonas, can you and Leo vouch for Gabe?”
They both nodded, and Conan said, “Well, at least Leo and Gabe can be eliminated from our considerations.” He smiled faintly as Moskin breathed an audible sigh of relief. Gabe seemed vaguely surprised that he had been under suspicion at all. Conan turned to Jonas. “But you did leave the co
uch after France showered Corey with her first drink.”
Jonas had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Well, yes, I…I got up for a while. But I didn’t set foot in the kitchen!”
“Moses, you were in the kitchen, weren’t you? Can you vouch for Jonas?”
For a long time, Moses only stared at his brother, his eyes unreadable behind the lights reflected in his glasses. Jonas seemed on the verge of pleading, when Moses said flatly, “I can vouch for him.”
With anger edging her voice, Nina said, “Sure, you can vouch for him! He’s your brother!”
“Which has no bearing,” Moses retorted, “on this situation, and it’s something I’d prefer not to be reminded of.”
“I don’t believe that!” Nina’s face was only inches from Moses’. “You goddamned Benbows! Blood is thicker than water—right? I know what you’re doing, and you can’t—”
“Oh, shut up, Nina!” Moskin snapped. “I saw Jonas. He got up and just stood around for a while, then he went over toward the kitchen door. I could see him from here, and he didn’t go inside the kitchen. Hell, I don’t like him either, but that’s the truth.”
Before Nina could get out a rejoinder, Conan cut in, “Wait your turn, Nina. We still have Moses and France to consider. Notice how the names always go together as a unit? They’re a good team. According to the accounts I heard, after France disposed of Corey’s first drink in a fit of temper, Moses took her into the kitchen. True?”
France blurted, “Yes, but you make it sound like—”
“So defensive?” Conan asked in mocking surprise. “But if the story you told me Monday is true, you and Moses weren’t alone in the kitchen.”
France’s eyes gleamed with triumph that turned cold and vicious as she focused on Nina. “No, we weren’t the only ones in the kitchen! Nina was there—when was it, Moses? She came in just a few minutes after we did, didn’t she?”
