by M. K. Wren
Will handed it to him with a quizzical look, and Conan made his exit, but he didn’t head for Will’s room. Instead, he went to the chair in front of the woodstove where Jerry Tuttle’s clothes were hung to dry: a blue plaid shirt, leather hiking boots, fleece-lined leather gloves, and the camouflage-patterned parka and insulated pants.
He didn’t expect to find anything unusual since Kim had already been through them. What he found was a set of keys on a ring attached to a plastic disk decorated with a stylized ram in profile. There were two keys with the Ford motif, and three more of various sizes.
And a nearly empty pack of Marlboros and a red Bic lighter.
But of course, Conan reminded himself, Marlboros were a popular brand.
Other than that, Jerry Tuttle had come here without identification of any sort. Had he left his billfold in his Bronco when he embarked on the desperate trek to the lodge? If so, why?
And why were the outer clothes all stiffly new, without a stain or tear, except for a hole in the right pocket of the parka about two inches long. But that hole was the result of a badly finished seam. It had no doubt been there when Tuttle purchased the parka. Even the hiking boots were new: no wear on the thick soles, not a particle of mud in the tread. None of the brand names were unusual, and all these items would be available in any sporting goods or department store.
Conan turned away and left the bedroom, hearing the sound of water draining from the tub as he passed the bathroom. When he reached the hall, he stopped abruptly.
Demara was just crossing the hall to the stairs. She didn’t glance his way before she descended.
Conan left the medical case in Will’s room, detoured into his own room for his cigarettes, then went downstairs to the living room, where Lise was sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace by Heather’s bed. She was drawing again, her pencil moving incessantly, seemingly of its own volition. She didn’t seem to be listening to the conversation going on between Tiff, seated as usual in the armchair at the west end of the fireplace, and Loanh, who huddled near her at the end of the couch. Mark sat at the other end of the couch, the radio in his lap emitting spurts of static and fragments of music as he turned the dial.
Demara was standing in front of the fire, rubbing her hands. When Conan entered, she turned, glared at him, then demanded, “Who is that man? Did he have anything to say?”
Conan sat down on the hearth ledge near Lise and lit a cigarette, then recounted Tuttle’s story. Everyone listened attentively, and when Conan finished, Mark shrugged. “Well, I guess it sounds reasonable. It could happen.”
Tiff shrilled, “Oh, Mark! I don’t believe any of it. I mean, you just can’t trust people these days.” She sent Conan an accusing stare. “How could you let that man in here? You don’t know anything about him. I mean, for all you know, he could be a serial killer.”
Conan flicked the ashes from his cigarette into the fireplace, thinking that Tuttle might indeed be a killer; he was certainly not what he claimed to be. But he said nothing. Not that Tiff would have heard him if he had.
“You had no right to let that man in, Conan, I mean, you might’ve at least asked what anybody thought, or if we wanted a strange man coming in here, you know, after all that’s happened, but you just—”
Lise cut in wearily, “Tiff, shut up. What would you have done? Let the man freeze to death on our doorstep?”
“Well, better him than us! I mean, you just don’t know about people any more. It’s the good Samaritans that get their throats cut, you know, and—oh, I just don’t understand…. I mean, everything that’s happened, I can’t deal with all this at once, I just can’t….” She began to make snuffling noises as tears spilled from her tightly closed eyes.
Demara threw up her hands in disgust and strode to the far end of the dining table where she sat down and began noisily shuffling cards, while Mark mumbled, “Tiff, honey, now, don’t worry about—” Then he stopped, distracted by the radio.
He hurriedly turned up the volume, making audible a man’s voice reciting a list of highway closures. Not surprisingly every pass in the Cascades was closed. The voice added—just before it was drowned in rising static—that the National Weather Service had advised that the snow was likely to continue for another twenty-four hours.
Mark groaned and impatiently switched off the radio. At that, Tiff renewed her weeping, which she had put on hold to listen to the report. Loanh stared at the silent radio apprehensively, and Demara said succinctly, “Oh, shit.”
Conan leaned down to stroke Heather’s head. She was sleeping, and her eyes fluttered open only briefly. He envied her acceptance of a situation far outside the security of her normal pattern of existence. But then she didn’t understand exactly how abnormal the situation was.
“Conan?”
Lise was looking at him, gripping her pencil with white-knuckled tension. He wondered what she was asking of him. The wind in the chimney boomed, and even with the fire at his back, the room seemed suddenly colder. Twenty-four more hours of snow.
“Lise, the weather people have been wrong before.” Then he tossed his cigarette into the fire as he rose. “Where’s Kim?”
“In the kitchen making lunch. She shooed me out a while ago. We seemed to be getting in each other’s way.”
He nodded and started for the kitchen as the clock chimed twelve o’clock. Noon. It seemed absurdly implausible in the dusk of this cavernous room.
Chapter 17
The door was closed when Conan went into the kitchen, and he pushed it shut behind him. Kim was at the counter on the left wall, taking sandwiches from a formidable stack on a cutting board, bisecting them diagonally with a long, serrated knife, then placing each one on a platter. The stainless steel bowl at the back of the counter was smeared with the remains of tuna salad. She studied Conan with her intense blue eyes, then returned to her work. “Lunch—such as it is—will be ready in a few minutes.”
“No hurry, Kim. I just wanted some coffee.” He went to the pump thermos, which gurgled as it spewed coffee into a mug, then, holding the mug between his palms, he leaned against the counter near Kim. But not too near. She didn’t look up as she asked, “Did you find out anything about our unexpected guest?”
Conan reiterated Tuttle’s story, adding, “Strange, though, he didn’t have any identification with him.”
She shot Conan an oblique glance. “You checked his clothing, too.”
“Well, it seemed like a good idea. Kim, when he first came in, did you recognize him? I mean, did he remind you of someone?”
The knife thunked hard against the cutting board, then she shrugged. “No. Why? Did you think I recognized him?”
“I suppose I was just hoping someone had,” Conan replied lightly.
She continued efficiently cutting and stacking, while Conan sipped at his coffee. Finally he said, “Lise told me you had made A. C. very happy, Kim, and it was obvious Friday night that she was right.”
Kim stopped mid-slice and fixed him with a look that suggested she thought he was mocking her. Then she apparently changed her mind and even smiled. “Lise was the only one of A. C.’s kids who accepted me at all. The rest of them think I married him for his money.” She finished the slice and reached for another sandwich. “And I’ll admit the money was attractive. I mean, would I have married him if he was a dirt-poor logger? Probably not. But then A. C. wouldn’t have been a dirt-poor logger. His money, his power, his ambition—it’s all part of what he is. So is his rather old-fashioned gallantry. He always made me think of words like that: gallantry, courtesy, honor.”
She turned away abruptly, went to the refrigerator for a carton of milk, took it to the table, and placed it next to a bowl of potato chips. When she returned to her task, she added, “He was also stubborn, narrow-minded, and even ruthless. But he never showed me that side of him. Only the gallantry. I haven’t had much luck with men in my life, so I found that irresistible.”
“Kim, you’re an extraordinari
ly attractive woman. I should think you’d have had your choice of men.”
She laughed, eyeing him curiously. “Oh, Mr. Flagg, I do think you have a streak of gallantry in you. If you learned that from your father, Pendleton must have produced an amazing generation of men.”
“Well, I doubt A. C. and my father were entirely representative.”
“No,” she said, her smile fading. “They’re not representative anywhere. Do I sound bitter? Well, I am. I married at eighteen—a football player named McLean Ryder—and my dad disowned me for that. The marriage lasted five years, and the last three were as close to hell as I ever hope to be. Mac acquired about every vice necessary to destroy a marriage, and I was so naïve, I nearly died trying to give him a child because I thought that would change everything, that it would change Mac. And one night, while I was in the hospital—he put me there—he got drunk and ran his pickup off the 1-5 bridge into the Columbia at seventy miles an hour. And that’s the best thing he ever did for me. The best thing any man ever did for me. Until I met A. C.”
Conan was silenced by that and taken off guard when she gave him an ironic smile and said, “Well, I seem to be spilling my guts for you. I suppose your ability to loosen tongues is useful to a private detective.”
What was she telling him? That she knew his questions weren’t motivated solely by concern or even curiosity? He asked, “Mac Ryder? Was he related to Jerry Ryder, Al’s business partner?”
“Jerry was Mac’s uncle.” She opened a drawer, took out a stack of paper napkins, and carried them to the table. “Jerry is probably the only true Christian I ever met. He gave Mac a job at his construction company and tried to help him grow up. Then after Mac killed himself, Jerry took me under his wing and not only gave me a job but sent me to night school to study accounting. But four years ago he was diagnosed with ALS. Lou Gehrig’s disease. That’s when he decided to retire. Now he’s in a hospice. Dying.” She paused as the kitchen door opened.
It was Lise. She said, “Will just brought Tuttle downstairs.”
Kim went to a cupboard for a stack of plates then crossed to the table and put three sandwiches and a pile of potato chips on the top plate. “He can eat at the dining table. I suppose he’ll want beer.”
Lise nodded. “Probably. There’s plenty in the bar fridge.”
Kim took the plate and a couple of napkins and went out the kitchen door, propping it open as she passed. Lise glanced questioningly at Conan, but he only shrugged as he followed Kim.
Will stood frowning, his arms folded across his chest, near Tuttle, who was warming his hands in front of the fireplace. A. C.’s cords and sweaters were too long for him, but he filled them out in the shoulders.
Apparently Tiff, Mark, and Loanh hadn’t moved since Conan had left the room, and Demara was still at the far end of the dining table with a solitaire game laid out, ignored now while she, like the others, stared warily at Tuttle. Conan studied faces, again seeking a hint of recognition, but all he saw was doubtful suspicion. No one spoke to Tuttle except when Kim indicated that his lunch was served.
“Hey, I really appreciate that, uh, ma’am.” There was a querying inflection in that, but Kim didn’t offer an alternative to ma’am, and Tuttle made a beeline for the table and had begun on one of the sandwiches before Kim could offer him a beer. This offer he accepted with only a nod, since his mouth was full.
Kim brought a can of beer from the refrigerator behind the bar for Tuttle, then announced to the others: “There are sandwiches in the kitchen. If you want anything else, you’ll have to fix it yourself. If it’s anything that requires electricity, you’re out of luck. I’m going to turn off the generator now.”
Will said, “I’ll take care of it, Kim,” as he started for the garage.
Demara was the first to respond to the invitation to lunch. Mark was next, but it took him awhile to get himself upright and on his crutches. While Tiff was helping him, she asked, “Kim, what kind of sandwiches did you make?”
“Tuna salad,” Kim replied curtly.
“Oh. Is it dolphin-free?”
“What?”
“The tuna.”
Before Kim could respond, Mark said, “Honey, right now we can’t be choosy. Loanh? You know, you’ve got to eat something.”
Conan had been moving casually toward the atrium, and by the time the family had filed into the kitchen, leaving Tuttle alone to wolf his sandwiches, Conan had nearly reached the stairs, where he met Will coming out of the garage.
Conan murmured, “Anything new from our house guest?”
“No.” Will grimaced irritably. “Just more about how he likes the looks of the babes we got here. Aren’t you having lunch?”
“Later. Just tell the others I’ve gone upstairs to rest.” Will studied him a moment, then nodded. “Sure.” But as Will had probably guessed, Conan had no plans for resting. With the family occupied at lunch, he had to take advantage of this opportunity to continue his invasions of privacy.
He began, for no particular reason, with Loanh’s privacy.
Of the three bedrooms over the garage, the center one was the largest, and in fact second in size only to the master bedroom. Lise had always referred to it as Al’s room. No doubt he had regarded it as his due as eldest son. Conan surveyed the room, hearing the wind rumbling at the window. He hadn’t been listening to the wind for a while, and now it seemed even more vicious, as if it had renewed its energies with the brief lapse he had hoped foretold an end. He shivered, his breath coming out in clouds in the chill air.
Then, consciously releasing the tension tightening his jaw and shoulders, he focused on the task at hand. He began in the bathroom, found nothing unusual, and when he finished there, checked the closet, and by then realized that the closed suitcase on the window seat was Al’s and that Loanh had packed everything belonging to him in it. That must have been what she was doing when he passed her room earlier.
The suitcase was unlocked. He opened it and searched its contents carefully. If Loanh looked into the suitcase later, she wouldn’t know anything in it had been touched. He found the clothing and shaving kit he expected. And Al’s billfold.
It was made of black eelskin with Al’s name stamped in gold: ALFRED CHARLES KING, JR. Conan flipped through the plastic envelopes, noting the American Express Gold Card and the Republican Party membership card. No photographs. In the money folder, he found over three hundred dollars, mostly in fifties. He almost missed the receipt mixed with the bills, folded until it was nearly the same size.
It was from the Jacob Palenz Private Investigation Service in Portland for a retainer of one thousand dollars paid by Al King on October 16.
Conan knew Jake Palenz to be reputable and competent, with a staff of ten operatives. He specialized in corporate investigations, but accepted insurance fraud, divorce, and custody cases.
Conan wondered what induced a man who couldn’t pay the interest on a loan from his father to give a PI a thousand-dollar retainer.
October 16. That was only ten days ago.
Conan checked for a hidden fold, the kind designed to fool thieves, although any thief—or private investigator—was well aware of them. Apparently this stylish design didn’t include anything so prosaic.
He continued his search, his hands aching by the time he turned to Loanh’s purse, a practical and tailored design of supple beige leather, which he found on the mantel of the fireplace on the east wall. He found the usual cosmetics, a linen handkerchief, a key ring, a bottle of Excedrin, a rosary with jade beads, and a small, flat purse that served as a billfold. Loanh carried less than fifty dollars in cash with her. The plastic envelopes displayed four credit cards, memberships to the Portland Art Museum and the Oregon Symphony Society, and snapshots of her children and Al, as well as a King family portrait taken at the lodge in happier times when Carla was still alive.
Conan checked for a hidden fold and found one. It didn’t contain money, but a color photograph. It was also a family portrait:
a woman with graying hair, perhaps in her sixties; two men and two women in their forties or late thirties; five children ranging in age from about ten to twenty. They were all Asian, but the setting was typically American and probably Oregonian. Portland, possibly. They stood in two smiling rows in front of a modest house with a red rhododendron in bloom by the porch, and in the background at the edge of the photograph, Conan saw a white shape that looked suspiciously like Mount Hood.
And he remembered what Loanh had said to Lise: For me, for my people, family is everything. Without family, one might as well be dead.
But was this Loanh’s family? He understood she had left her family behind in Vietnam when she married Al.
Conan checked his watch. He had been at this search for fifteen minutes, and that was pushing it. He restored the photograph to its hidden fold and the small purse to the larger one, then left the room, walked down the hall to the stairway, and stood listening. He heard the nasal complaints of a country western singer done wrong, interrupted by bursts of static. Perhaps Tuttle was entertaining himself with the radio. Conan heard no other voices, and he could only hope that meant the family was still in the kitchen.
He checked his watch and walked back down the hall to Demara’s room. He left the door open.
In its abandoned clutter, the room reminded him of his adolescent second cousin’s lair. Some of the clothing strewn about was Lucas’s. Apparently Demara wasn’t disturbed by such reminders. At least not enough to put them out of sight, as Loanh had.
In the bathroom, the counter was littered with expensive cosmetic products for both women and men. Conan spent little time there, and his examination of the bedroom was equally hurried. And careless. In this clutter, it was unlikely that Demara would notice if anything had been moved, and he couldn’t count on much more time.
Besides, he doubted that the three items he was looking for would be here even if they were in her possession. She carried the perfect hiding place in the shoulder-strap purse she had worn throughout the day.
