Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat

by M. K. Wren

  He recognized him. The victim.

  Captain Harold Jeffries, U.S.N., Ret.

  A man who had survived thirty years of active duty—most of it at sea—before his retirement.

  Conan’s next thought had been for Nel. The shock of seeing her husband…

  But Elinor Jeffries needed no comforting then. She was pleading, but not for comfort.

  His memory was focused almost entirely on her face and on her voice. Then, as now, the words were clear, etched indelibly. Her hands locked on Chief Rose’s arm, her features taut, intense, Rose making a befuddled effort to calm her.

  She wouldn’t be calmed. And if her voice was strained with shock, it still carried a solid conviction as chilling as the beating wind and rain.

  “…it’s not possible! It can’t be an accident. He was murdered! Please listen to me—he was murdered!”

  *

  Conan turned away from the window and went back to the bedside table to dispose of his cigarette. The gray morning light, devoid of warmth, made even this room seem bleak and empty.

  Murder.

  Most foul, as the Bard would have it. It was primarily that word that had deprived him of his sleep last night, not Harold Jeffries’ death in itself.

  He couldn’t regard the death as a personal loss; Jeffries had never been a close friend. Conan hadn’t even particularly liked the Captain; he’d always cared a great deal more for Nel than her taciturn husband.

  But he couldn’t dismiss the memory of that word on Nel’s lips.

  He lit another cigarette and wandered through the gray shadows back to the window, his eyes drawn inexorably to the beach access.

  Shock. Hysteria. Elinor Jeffries had just seen her husband’s drowned body when she spoke the “murder.”

  Yet he knew Nel well enough to call her a friend, and he found hysteria an inconclusive explanation. The Jeffries’ marriage wasn’t exactly one of deep passion, and Nel wasn’t prone to uncontrolled emotional outbursts.

  And why would she react in that particular way? Why throw out a word like “murder”?

  Conan, son, you’re muddlin’ yourself…

  So Henry Flagg would have dismissed these fruitless speculations.

  …you’re just like your mother, the Lord rest her soul. Always rattlin’ up spooks.

  But Henry Flagg had been a man with his feet planted firmly on the ground, and hidden somewhere in the recesses of his land-rooted psyche was the conviction that only birds were meant to fly.

  And Conan Flagg had been handed, in a period of less than twenty-four hours, two conundrums; two enigmas. It was enough to make him muddle himself.

  He took a long drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke veil around his head, his dark eyes narrowing as he gazed down through the less tangible veils of mist beyond the window.

  Nel’s reaction might be explained as emotional strain. But the man in the blue Chevrolet—that enigma couldn’t be explained away so easily.

  Major James Mills, Army Intelligence, Retired.

  At least, he was retired from G-2.

  Conan smiled in retrospect, remembering the jarring shock of recognizing that bland, nondescript, eternally middle-aged face yesterday evening. It had been ten years since he’d last seen James Mills, and half a world away. Berlin.

  He found his own reactions vaguely amusing. In spite of the shock, he’d walked past Mills without a word or a hint of recognition. Reflex. He’d taken his cue automatically from the Major; from that disinterested gaze focused across the street.

  It hadn’t occurred to him until later that what he interpreted as a no-recognition signal might simply have been an attempt on Mills’s part to avoid being recognized.

  He turned his gaze outward to the headland that loomed to the south; a shadow now, blued with a dense growth of hemlock and jack pine. Jefferson Heights, the natives had patriotically, if unimaginatively, named it. He watched the waves breaking in slow, monumental explosions along the black cliffs at the point of the headland, but he found it impossible to enjoy this vista now, or even to focus his thoughts on it.

  Finally, he turned away from the window and walked back to the bedside table, wondering if he’d ever have any answers to the questions Major James Mills called up by his very presence, or to the questions Nel Jeffries called up with the word “murder.” It was highly unlikely, and he had other, more mundane problems to occupy his mind.

  The rain was beginning again, rattling against the glass and thrumming on the roof. He heard that sound with a little dread. The roof at the bookshop would probably be leaking by now. He should get to the shop early to help Miss Dobie with the buckets and mopping.

  And this was Saturday. His housekeeper, Mrs. Early, was due at ten, and he intended to be gone before she arrived. He wasn’t equal to a rehash of Captain Jeffries’ death as interpreted by the local grapevine.

  He switched on the reading light and picked up a book from the table. It was an old, extremely rare, and exquisitely beautiful book entitled L’Histoire de la Peinture Italienne. His fingers moved gently, with almost covetous pleasure, across the embossed leather cover. Then he put the book on the bed and took an open notebook from the table, frowning as he read his own scrawling handwriting.

  Last night, he’d headed the page: “L’Hist. de la P. It.—Columbia U. Lib. Re: Consultation project: Fabrizi. (Unsigned triptych; nativity).” Under this, in parentheses, was written: “For H. R. Bishop, Montgomery, Alabama.”

  The rest of the page was blank except for one short entry: “pp. 373-74. Ref. to painter ‘Fabrizio’—school of Giotto. Alterpiece (?) Pitti, Florence. Possible alternative spelling of…” The entry ended abruptly there.

  He’d ceased writing when he heard the mourning wail of the sirens.

  Conan dropped the notebook on the table and stood for a moment with his hands on his hips. Concentrating on mundane problems would be difficult today.

  Then he turned, stripping off his robe as he walked to the bathroom, making a mental note to call Nel Jeffries later in the day.

  Through the automatic process of showering, shaving, and dressing, he was still preoccupied, his thoughts turning in a repetitive fugue whose major themes were Harold Jeffries and Major James Mills. It wasn’t until he stopped to pick up the Histoire before leaving the bedroom that he took note of the particular combination of slacks and heavy turtleneck sweater he’d chosen.

  He’d dressed himself entirely in black.

  And perhaps it was the only appropriate color for the day.

  The chime of the doorbell stopped him before he reached the bedroom door. He went to the high, narrow windows on the north wall and saw the town’s one-cab taxi fleet retreating up Front Street.

  He was only annoyed as the chime sounded again. He turned and crossed the room with long strides, then traversed the balcony and descended the spiral staircase into the living room, his pace quickening as he hurried down the screened passage under the balcony to the front door.

  His annoyance was mounting as the chime rang again. He didn’t even take time to check the view-hole before he opened the door, and he was entirely unprepared for what he saw.

  His unexpected visitor was Elinor Jeffries.

  CHAPTER 3

  Conan had always maintained that Elinor Jeffries was the most beautiful woman in Holliday Beach.

  Hers wasn’t the self-conscious beauty of youth, although he doubted she’d ever been less than beautiful. If he’d been asked, he couldn’t have guessed her age; with Nel, age seemed irrelevant. And almost inevitably in her presence, such old-fashioned adjectives as “gracious” and “well-bred” came to mind.

  She was tall and slender, with fine-boned features, and steel-gray hair worn in a style almost reminiscent of Gibson. She had a smile to light a whole room, and gray eyes that always had a hint of laughter in them. But this morning, there was no life in her eyes, although she was as impeccably groomed, her bearing as graceful as ever.

  “Nel, come in. Please.�
� He recovered himself finally, and stepped back from the door.

  She smiled faintly, turning as he closed the door behind her.

  “I’m sorry to burst in on you without warning, Conan. I’d have called, but—”

  “I know; my phone’s unlisted. And I need no warnings from you, Nel. You know that. May I take your coat?”

  “No, thank you. I won’t be staying long.”

  He hesitated, still a little off balance, then led her down the entry hall. At the kitchen door, he stopped.

  “Go on into the living room. I’ll put some coffee on.”

  “Oh, you needn’t go to the trouble for me.” She stepped down into the living room and paused by the piano, her eyes moving around the room distractedly.

  After a moment, he nodded and followed her, stopping to switch on the lights. But the high ceiling and the dark, paneled walls seemed to absorb the light, and the room, which usually seemed so spacious and warm, was bleak and dark. He went to the windows that made up the west wall and started to pull the drapes, then hesitated and glanced at Nel. It occurred to him that she might not enjoy this particular view this morning.

  But she smiled at him and walked over to the two Barcelona chairs by the windows.

  “Please—go ahead, Conan.”

  As he pulled the drapes, she looked out at the surf, her eyes taking on the same clouded, vague light as the sky. Then she sank into one of the chairs, putting her purse beside her on the floor, and began removing her white gloves.

  He studied her, not in the least deceived by her outward composure. That was only a product of ingrained self-discipline. She was too quiet; too composed.

  “If I can’t tempt you with coffee,” he said, “perhaps I can offer a little brandy.”

  “At this early hour?” She laughed at that, but it was only a frail echo of her usual laughter. “You’re leading me astray, but at the moment I’m willing to be led. Yes, I’d enjoy that.”

  He went to the bar at the south end of the room, and the brandy was as much for his own nerves as Nel’s. He returned with two glasses of Courvoisier and put them on the table between the chairs, then seated himself, all the while watching her. And wondering. But there was nothing in her expression or attitude to explain this unexpected visit. Under the circumstances, he doubted it was simply a social call.

  She took the glass and raised it to her lips.

  “Thank you, Conan.”

  “Of course. I’m glad I thought of it. The morning routine of coffee is getting tiresome.” He tasted his brandy, still watching her closely. “How are you, Nel?”

  “Oh…I’m really quite all right. I’m tired, I guess.”

  He offered her a cigarette, leaning forward to light it for her, then lit one for himself.

  “Is someone staying with you?”

  “Yes. Pearl Christian. She was with me last night, so she…just stayed. Thank goodness for Pearl; I don’t think I could stand anyone else around. She knew Harold, and she can understand how I feel now. Perhaps you do, too, but not many would.”

  “And how do you feel now?”

  She sipped at her brandy, a faint, pensive smile shadowing her mouth.

  “Well, to be honest, I’m not really sure yet. You know, I married Harold rather late in life, in both our lives, because I was tired of the struggle after…Mark died.” She paused. “Harold had many characteristics I didn’t appreciate, and I suppose in some ways I feel a certain sense of…of relief now.” She looked up at him, then, apparently satisfied with his brief smile of understanding, turned away, her eyes seeming to slip out of focus. “But even if our marriage wasn’t truly a union of love, at least we had a great deal of respect for each other; I think it could be called a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

  Conan laughed a little bitterly. “That’s more than can be said of most marriages. Will you be staying in Holliday Beach?”

  “I don’t know. I won’t make any major decisions now. Jane and Mark—my children—are coming down this morning to help with the necessary arrangements. The funeral will be tomorrow. Then I may go into Portland and stay with Jane and her husband for a while. I don’t know. I might prefer to be alone.”

  She paused, and Conan waited, reading the making of a troubled decision in her controlled features; a decision that had nothing to do with Portland or Holliday Beach.

  For a while, she seemed unaware of him, taking another swallow of brandy, tasting it as if she were searching for a flavor that wasn’t there. Finally, she put the glass on the table with a decisive gesture and turned to face him, something contained and tense in her posture.

  “I had a specific purpose in coming here this morning. There’s a sign outside the bookshop that says ‘Conan Flagg—Consultant.’”

  He laughed, a little surprised at the turn of the conversation, and a little uncomfortable with it.

  “Nel, you know good and well I added that ‘consultant’ because I was tired of people asking me to look up information for them—gratis. It’s purely accidental that it became a bona fide business. You should know better than to take that sign too seriously.”

  “But I am taking it seriously.”

  He paused, stopped by the cool intensity of her voice.

  “All right, Nel.”

  “And I…I want to consult you. I want to hire you.”

  “Hire me? Whatever for?”

  “I—” She faltered, but only briefly. “I know all this will sound like the maunderings of a grief-stricken old woman. I’ve been told as much, in more or less polite terms, several times in the last few hours. But I’m quite in control of myself, and I’m not sure I could honestly be called grief-stricken. I didn’t love my husband, Conan, but we…we understood each other.” She paused and crushed out her half-smoked cigarette, her mouth unnaturally tight. Then she leaned back and carefully folded her hands together.

  “Whatever I felt for my husband, he was, in his own way, a good man. Even if he weren’t, I don’t think it right or just that his murderer should go unpunished.”

  * * *

  Conan absorbed this in silence, allowing himself little outward indication of surprise. But he felt a chill weight gathering under his ribs.

  Murder.

  Hysteria might have been responsible for that word last night. But not now. He frowned and tapped his cigarette against the ashtray.

  “Nel, I don’t understand.”

  She replied in the same calm, contained tone.

  “I think my husband was murdered, but I have no proof. You’ve made a business, of sorts, of finding the answers to other people’s questions, and I have a question. I want to know what happened last night. I want to know who killed my husband and why. I’m quite able to pay for your services.”

  He waved the last statement aside irritably.

  “Your ability to pay for my services is the least of my concerns.”

  For a short time he was silent, considering Harold Jeffries’ death, the man himself. And Nel.

  Murder.

  The day was out of joint, and there seemed to be nothing he could do to set it right.

  “Nel, I’ve known you for a long time—”

  “And you think perhaps the shock has been too much? I’ve flipped my wig?” She laughed, but there was no humor in it.

  “No. What I was going to say, is that I’ve never known you to be unreasonable or illogical. I don’t think you’ve…flipped your wig. But if you have good reason to think your husband was murdered—and I’m assuming you do—why come to me? If you’re right, this is something for the police.”

  One hand went to her forehead to push a strand of hair back, and her eyes closed briefly.

  “Don’t you think that was my first thought? Yes, I talked to the police. Of course, I didn’t expect much from the local police. Chief Rose was too busy trying to sober up last night to pay much attention to me.”

  Conan gave a short, caustic laugh. “As usual.”

  “I also talked to the State P
olice and the County Sheriff’s office. All I could get from anyone was that I should talk to the local police. It wasn’t a state or county matter unless the local office requested assistance. So I was right back where I started—with Harvey Rose.”

  “That isn’t much of a starting place.”

  “No. But I did reach one…well, slightly sympathetic ear with the State Police. A man named Travers. He said he was a friend of yours.”

  Conan nodded. “Steve Travers. Yes, I’ve known him since we were kids. We grew up together near Pendleton.”

  “Well, he couldn’t help me any more than the others, although he was courteous enough to check with the patrolmen who were on the scene last night. That didn’t seem to change his opinion, but he did tell me it might be ‘worth my time,’ as he put it, to talk to you.”

  He looked at her sharply. “Why me? Did he say?”

  “No. It seemed a little strange, but he asked if I knew you, and I said you were a friend. I suppose he thought you’d be able to calm down the hysterical old woman. I doubt he had anything else in mind.” She looked at him intently. “And, Conan, I’m well aware that there’s probably nothing else you can do for me. I know it’s unreasonable for me to come to you with something like this, but if I’m not hysterical, I am desperate. There’s no one else I can turn to. I thought perhaps you’d at least listen to me without automatically dismissing everything I say as some sort of delusion.”

  He found it difficult to meet her eyes.

  “Nel, I’m complimented by your faith, but—”

  “I’ve gone over the whole thing in my mind a thousand times. I just can’t believe Harold died as a result of an ‘accidental drowning.’ It just isn’t possible. And I can’t simply shrug my shoulders and forget about it. I must know. I must find out what happened last night.”

  He raised his glass, then put it down again. The brandy had a flat taste. Then he rose and moved restlessly to the window to stare out at the surf.

  He knew what he should do. He should simply say, sorry, but I can’t help. It would come to that sooner or later; it might be easier for Nel if he said it now.