The Conan Flagg Mysteries: Bundle #3

by M. K. Wren

  “Nothing is private in a murder investigation.”

  “Investigation? You’re not a policeman, Conan. You have no right to invade anyone’s privacy, murder or not.”

  That silenced Conan, especially the part about invading privacy. He watched Mark bite into the sandwich, jaws churning in quick, nervous motions as he chewed. Finally Mark said, “Hell, you’ll probably find out anyway from Lise. The truth is, I didn’t want to spend all that time with the man who tried to rape my daughter.”

  Perhaps Mark expected Conan to be shocked, but he didn’t pretend to be unaware of Karen’s accusation against her grandfather. He asked, “Mark, do you really believe A. C. tried to rape Karen?”

  “Yes!” Color flooded unevenly into his face. “I know Karen’s had a lot of problems, but it hasn’t all been her fault. When a kid has to be raised by a nanny—well, what can you expect? I’m not blaming Tiff. She…she just couldn’t cope with the girls. She tried. She really did. And Diana and Nancy have never given us a bit of trouble, but Karen always was high spirited.” He put his sandwich down, fixed Conan with a look in which there was no prospect of concession or doubt. “But I know my little girl wouldn’t lie to me! Not to me!”

  Conan didn’t venture a comment on that. Instead he asked, “When did you decide on the subterfuge with the broken ankle?”

  Mark picked up the sandwich and took another bite. “It was in September. September thirteenth, actually. I remember because it was my birthday, and Lucas phoned to wish me a happy birthday. Not that he’d ever noticed my birthday before unless somebody reminded him. Just a whim. Poor Lucas. He was full of whims, always running off half-cocked. Hell, it was his idea, the broken ankle. That’s the sort of outrageous thing he was always thinking up. Normally, I wouldn’t have considered it, but I was dreading this reunion and the hike so much…well, it sounded like a good idea at the time.”

  “Why didn’t you just stay home?”

  Mark munched at his sandwich then shrugged. “No guts, I guess. Look, I have to work with Dad every day. As far as he was concerned, that business with Karen was finished and forgotten. It was just easier to go along with him and keep up the sacred family traditions. But I couldn’t face that stupid hike. My God, we’re none of us kids anymore. His boys. He still calls us his boys.” Mark hesitated, and for a moment he looked very much like a frightened boy. “You know, I still can’t really believe it. I mean, that Dad and Al and Lucas are…”

  Conan cautiously wiped his tender hands with a napkin, then rose to get a mug of coffee, and when he returned to the table lit a cigarette and took a long drag. “It was Will who applied the cast?”

  “Yes. I had a hell of a time talking him into it, but we’ve been friends a long time. Since our football days at OSU. He finally said he couldn’t see any harm in it, so he fixed me up with this thing. What he didn’t tell me was it takes special tools to remove a Fiberglas cast, and naturally he doesn’t have the tools with him, so I’m stuck with the damn thing till we get back to Portland.”

  Obviously Mark saw no humor in that, and Conan managed to keep a straight face as he took a puff on his cigarette and said noncommittally, “I hope it isn’t too uncomfortable.”

  “It’s damn uncomfortable. Itches like hell. Anyway, I just wanted you to know why I did it. I mean, I can see how it might look like I was giving myself an excuse not to go on the hike because I knew…well, like I knew what was going to happen.”

  A convincing excuse, and one that Conan had no doubt Mark would not have revealed had his accomplice in the subterfuge been less honest. Perhaps sensing Conan’s doubt, Mark leaned closer. “You’ve got to believe me. Jesus, why would I do something like that?”

  Conan could think of a few reasons, but he didn’t voice them. Instead he tapped the ash off his cigarette and asked, “What’s going on between you and Loanh? Why did you take her aside for that secretive little conference Friday afternoon?”

  Mark drew back, his face turning waxy. “I can’t talk about that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Lawyer-client confidentiality. I’m acting as Loanh’s counsel in a private matter.”

  “A divorce?”

  “I said I can’t talk about it.”

  Whether Conan might have been able to break down the stone wall Mark had erected became abruptly moot as the door swung back and closed again behind Tiff, who stormed into the kitchen looking like a well-insulated Fury. She fixed Conan with a baleful look the effect of which was diminished by the difficulty she seemed to be having in focusing.

  “Okay, Mr. Private Detective, you rilly wanna know who mighta killed ol’ A. C. and Al, maybe you oughta take a good close cook—look at Ms. Kimberly Kaiser. Right! Cute little Kim!”

  Mark rose, put his arm around his wife. “Sweetheart, don’t say anything you might regret.”

  “Regret?” She pushed him away. “Why should I regret tellin’ the truth?”

  “Honey, you’ve had a little too much to drink. Let’s go—”

  Conan put in, “Mark, I want to hear what she has to say.”

  Tiff smirked triumphantly, then leaned on the table, brought her face close to Conan’s. “Did you know, Mr. Detective, that Kim and Al were lovers? Yes, they were. Went on for years. That was when Kim was workin’ for Al, you know, back when it was still King ’n’ Ryder Construshion Company, but when Jerry Ryder retired, well, that was when Kim cut out. Took a job at Ace Timber and dug her fingernails into poor ol’ A. C., and all she was after was his money, you know, and poor Carla hardly in her grave—”

  “Tiff, please!” Mark pulled her away from the table. “That’s just gossip. Now, come on.”

  She jerked out of his grasp and flounced to the door. “I said all I had to say!”

  The door swished shut behind her, and Mark sent Conan a pallid smile, muttered, “Don’t pay any attention to her. She’s just…on edge,” and hurriedly followed his wife.

  Conan remained at the table, finishing his coffee and cigarette and contemplating Tiff’s information—or gossip. Obviously Kim had not made a friend of Tiff, and perhaps that was understandable. Tiff didn’t appreciate having to share A. C.’s estate with a Janie-come-lately.

  An uncharitable thought, no doubt, and he wondered, with equal lack of charity, how drunk she actually was. Something about her display hadn’t rung true. Did she think she’d be held harmless for a vicious bit of gossip if it could be blamed on drunkenness? Or was she simply reinforcing her role as an airheaded, middle-aged lush, certainly not the kind of person to be taken seriously as a suspect in a murderous scheme that required careful planning and singleminded ruthlessness.

  The problem now was to find out if there was any fire behind the smoke of gossip, if Kim had been Al King’s lover.

  It would probably be fruitless to ask Kim, but Conan had found that in such matters the betrayed spouse was usually very much aware of the betrayal, even if he or she remained silent about it.

  He put out his cigarette and went into the living room, where the pinochle game had been abandoned. Will was gathering the cards and returning them to their box. Tiff had also abandoned her crocheting, and it still lay in a rainbow heap on the floor by the armchair where she sat peering into her glass, as if seeking an answer in the amber liquid. Mark sat on the arm of her chair, absently patting her shoulder. Kim occupied the other armchair, a lighted cigarette in one hand, the ash long and on the verge of falling, as she stared at the ceiling. Demara had returned to the far end of the dining table, where a solitaire game was laid out, but she slumped with her elbows on the table, hands supporting her head, the cards forgotten. Loanh was absent.

  Conan knew he was the object of covert glances, but no one spoke to him or otherwise recognized his presence. Lise was again on the floor by Heather’s bed, knees raised to support her drawing pad.

  He sat down near her on the hearth, while the thick, black-leaded pencil moved across the paper as if she had set her hand in motion and was simply wa
tching what it did. Her subject was Tiff. The drawing would not have pleased its subject, who probably wouldn’t have recognized herself in it, yet it captured in strong, questing lines the erratic, brittle essence of Tiff’s face.

  On the floor beside Lise lay several sheets from the pad, and on the topmost sheet was a study of Will Stewart. It was a far gentler drawing, hinting at laughter and naiveté, venturing close but not crossing the line into caricature.

  The pencil stopped, and Lise looked up at Conan, said softly, “Just practicing.”

  “And making perfect. Where’s Loanh?”

  “I guess she went up to her room.”

  Conan rose. “If anyone asks, I’m going upstairs for some medicine.”

  She nodded, and the pencil was set in motion again. Conan watched it for a few seconds, consumed with inconsolable envy, then headed for the stairs.

  No one spoke as he departed.

  Chapter 20

  The upstairs hall had the chill, dark feel of a mine tunnel, as if untold tons of impenetrable substance pressed upon its ceiling. A dim light was cast into it from the open door of Loanh’s room. Every other door—including Tuttle’s—was closed.

  Conan stopped at Loanh’s door. She had built a small fire and sat hunched in a multicolored afghan in one of the two armchairs facing the fireplace on the right-hand wall. He tapped on the door, but it was still a moment before she looked around at him. She said nothing.

  He asked, “May I join you?”

  She gestured toward the chair beside her. “If you wish, Conan.” She watched him as he sat down, then turned to the fire, and she seemed to be talking more to herself than him when she said, “A person’s life is changed past knowing in a matter of hours sometimes. I had forgotten that feeling. It happened to me many times when I was growing up. In my country lives were changed, even destroyed, every day, every hour. Then I could adjust to such changes, but now I have had too many years of peace and safety. I am not sure I can still adjust.”

  She seemed so fragile, so vulnerable, that Conan was inclined to leave her without asking the questions that had brought him to her. But he had long ago learned to doubt appearances and learned that he had no right not to ask the questions that might uncover the truth.

  “Loanh, did you know Al had a reputation as a womanizer?”

  Her gaze remained fixed on the fire. “Al treated me like a princess. When we first met, that’s what he called me, his princess. He was a good husband and father, and I knew always that he loved me, even if he needed other women sometimes.”

  Conan wondered if she considered the belligerent attitude Al had displayed toward her Friday the kind of treatment due a princess.

  “You knew about the other women?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Kim one of them?”

  “She was. For four years. But that ended when she quit the company. I was relieved at that, because I believe Kim was the only other woman Al truly loved. He was…obsessed with her. I think that was because he knew she didn’t love him. Al needed very much to be loved. When he was angry at her, he called her the Black Widow.”

  “Did Al discuss his feelings for Kim with you?”

  Loanh gave that a bitter laugh. “Of course not. I never worried about his women, but still, I needed to know about them. So I listened to his phone calls. He often made such calls from the phone in his den, and I sometimes listened on an extension. I don’t think he knew I listened, and I never talked to him about what I learned. Why should I?”

  Conan didn’t try to answer that. He waited, hoping she would go on, and at length she did, fine lines like the veining in a ginkgo leaf showing around her eyes. “I wish I could have talked to him about Kim. I mean, I wish he could have talked to someone who might have helped him.”

  “Helped him how?”

  “To free himself. When she ended it with him, Al could not accept that. It has been another four years since, and he still phones her, still begs her to come back to him.”

  “Even after she married A. C.?”

  “Especially then.” Loanh took a deep breath and let her head rest against the back of the chair. “So much went wrong for him since Jerry retired. That year Al got the contract to build the Greenwood Mall in Portland, but when it was nearly finished, there was an explosion at the site. Al thought it was sabotage, although the police found no evidence of that. His insurance didn’t cover all the damage, and he lost a lot of money. After that, there were fewer contracts. He said it was the recession. The last two years were so bad, sometimes I was afraid…”

  When she couldn’t seem to finish that, Conan asked gently, “Afraid of what, Loanh?”

  “Perhaps…afraid that he might break under so much pressure.”

  “Al owed A. C. money, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.” She sent Conan a look in which animosity lurked. “How did you find out about that?”

  “I inadvertently overheard a conversation between Al and A. C. Friday night.”

  “Oh. Yes, Al owed A. C. money. When Jerry retired, Al had to buy his half of the partnership. A. C. should have known Al would repay the loan if he only had more time. He had borrowed money before and always repaid it. Al said Kim turned A. C. against him.”

  “Do you think that’s true?”

  Loanh shrugged. “I don’t even know if Al believed it. He still wanted her. Only a week ago, he still wanted her. He called her, and I heard him say that if she didn’t come back to him, he would tell A. C. they had been lovers, even tell him they still were lovers.”

  Conan felt a shiver at the back of his neck. “What did Kim say?”

  “She said she didn’t care what he told A. C., then she hung up.”

  “What would A. C. have done if Al had told him that?”

  “I think he would have been very angry. He might have divorced her. Perhaps that was what Al hoped for.”

  Conan considered the tangle of motives for murder Loanh was revealing so carelessly—or perhaps so artfully?—and wondered if Al had thought Kim would come back to him if A. C. divorced her, and if so, would Al then divorce Loanh to marry the Black Widow, his obsession?

  And could anyone be as tolerant of betrayal as Loanh seemed to be?

  “Loanh, did you ever consider divorcing Al? You certainly had grounds.”

  “Never,” she replied flatly. “What does it matter if a husband has other women? What matters is that he provides for his wife and children and treats them well. Al always did. Besides, there is another reason: I am Catholic. I grew up in that faith, and it is very important to me. No, Conan, I have never even thought about divorce.”

  “Had Al ever thought about it?”

  That seemed to shock her, and she didn’t reply immediately. At length she said, “I doubt it, because a divorce would mean admitting to his father that he had made a mistake to marry me—a foreigner and a Catholic. That was the only time in his life that Al stood against A. C. In every other way he tried to please him, to be like him.”

  “It must’ve been hard for you, coming into this family as a bride.”

  “Yes, it was hard,” she admitted. “A. C. did not make me feel welcome—not until Charles was born—but Carla accepted me from the beginning. She was a second mother to me. I miss her. I still miss her.”

  Conan waited a respectful moment before he asked, “Do you know why Al hired a private investigator on October sixteenth?”

  Her composure vanished. She stared at him, her voice little more than a smothered whisper: “Are you sure? How do you know that?”

  Since Conan had no intention of answering that question, he remained silent, waiting. Her delicate hands curled into fists, yet she wasn’t looking at him but at some point in memory and at something that frightened her. “When did you say? October sixteenth?”

  “Yes.”

  The sound of his voice seemed to rouse her, and she made an effort at composing herself, casually pushing her hair back from her face.

  “I cannot gue
ss why he did such a thing.” Then she added firmly, “And I do not wish to answer more questions. I came here to be alone.”

  Conan accepted that less than subtle hint. “Loanh, I’m sorry to have to burden you with my questions, but I have no choice.” She didn’t respond as he rose and left her to her solitude.

  October 16. What had happened on that date? Why did it alarm her so much?

  Whatever happened, he knew he wouldn’t find out from Loanh.

  He glanced down the hall at Tuttle’s room, saw that the door was still closed, and went to his own room. Perhaps another dose of ibuprofen was a good idea. He had used his hands badly today, feeling under mattresses and into the recesses of private lives.

  He found the pill bottle and glass almost by feel in the near darkness of the bathroom. Even in the bedroom, the light had the quality of late dusk. As he crossed to the window and opened the curtains, he checked his watch: 3:20. The ice on the panes had melted. Snow still rushed past the window, but the wind had again diminished. These signals wakened no hope in him. The storm had slackened this morning before Tuttle arrived, only to revive again.

  At the sound of the bedroom door opening, he turned, his pulse hammering, betraying an underlying state of apprehension he didn’t like to admit.

  His unannounced visitor was Kim.

  Without preamble, she demanded, “Conan, are you sure about that rock slide? If you’re not, this farce about murder is unforgivable, considering the state of everyone’s nerves.”

  He replied curtly, “For God’s sake, Kim, do you think I’d invent something like that?”

  For a moment she was silent, eyes narrowed, then she frowned and strode to the fireplace, where a few embers still glowed. “What are you trying to do, get another case of hypothermia?” She began building up the fire with the few scraps of kindling and wood left in the wood box.

  Conan went to the armchair, turning it so that he could see the open door, waited until she finished her task, then while she stood watching the burgeoning fire, waited to see if she had more to say.