The Conan Flagg Mysteries: Bundle #3

by M. K. Wren

“Hey, Mr. Flagg!” Hiram Hitchcock, stooped and knuckly. “I was meanin’ to talk to you ’bout that roof soon as you got back.” Then Mrs. Hopkins, the wife of the Methodist minister, with her dour husband in tow. Then the Daimler sisters, Adalie and Coraline. “Nice to see you home, Mr. Flagg, and just in time.”

  Not, he thought, if he couldn’t reach the door of his own shop.

  But he did, finally. The doorway angled across the northeast corner of the building, with a wooden stoop filling out the truncated corner. He reached it just as Mrs. Hollis, well over ninety years old, stumbled on the stoop. Conan caught her twiglike arm, and she gave him a nod that might have indicated thanks, but probably only indicated recognition. He shouted, “Mrs. Hollis, what’s going on here?”

  “What?” She tilted her supposedly good ear toward him, and when he repeated the question, she replied, “Well, it’s Rev’rend Good! Heard it on the radio. Didn’t know he wrote a book, though.”

  With his hand still at her elbow, Conan pushed his way into the shop. “What’s the name of the book?”

  It was like entering a crowded cave. Or maybe the Black Hole of Calcutta. Conan took off his dark glasses, but it didn’t seem to help.

  “Can’t rightly remember,” Mrs. Hollis shouted over the hubbub of voices. “Somethin’ about The Blinding God.”

  But before he could question that, Mrs. Hollis slipped away to be swallowed up in the crowd. Conan maneuvered into a spot against the shelves on the east wall where he could let his eyes adjust to the twilight, his ears adjust to the high decibel level in a place usually as quiet as a library, and where he could let his jet-lagged, sleep-deprived mind adjust to a scene that was, quite simply, incredible. The Holliday Beach Book Shop had never held a crowd of this magnitude, and he wondered if the aged floor joists would support the weight.

  Reverend Good, one of the most venal of the televangelists? The Blinding God? Conan felt an incipient headache behind his eyes.

  “Never seen anything like it, have you, Conan?”

  Conan was washed in the fragrance of young Scotch as Dr. Maurice Spenser—who liked people to call him Doc—leaned close to ask that question. Slight and stooped, he was wearing his brown suit today, and he seemed entirely sober. He always did. But at sixty-eight, he looked eighty-eight, his skin netted with broken veins, his gray eyes swimming behind the thick lenses of plastic-framed glasses.

  “No, Doc, I definitely have never seen anything like it.”

  And where the hell was Miss Dobie?

  Over the din of voices, he heard the clang of the old cash register and knew that’s where he’d find Beatrice Dobie. But getting to her was another matter. The register was near the south end of the building, and at least a hundred sardine-packed people stood between him and that clang. He thought of Meg, the blue point Siamese whom some regarded as the shop’s true owner, and wondered where she was hiding.

  He began working his way along the wall toward the center of the shop. The crowd seemed most densely packed there, and eventually he reached a point where he could look over and between heads to see what held everyone so spellbound.

  A folding table had been set up in the alcove formed by two jutting bookshelves. The table was stacked with black-jacketed, hardbound books, and above it, suspended from the ceiling, hung a sign painted in red and black on a sheet of mat board:

  HOLLIDAY BEACH’S OWN RAVIN GOULD!

  BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF THE DIAMOND STUD!

  Conan might have laughed at the malapropism arising from Mrs. Hollis’s faulty hearing, but at the moment, Ravin Gould and The Diamond Stud made no more sense than Reverend Good and The Blinding God.

  Ravin Gould? Here? In Conan Flagg’s bookshop?

  Two women turned away from the table, clutching black-jacketed books, and before the next customers moved in, Conan saw him.

  Ravin Gould. Here. In Conan Flagg’s bookshop.

  Conan was on the verge of charging through the crowd, impelled by righteous rage, but it was at that moment that he saw her.

  Savanna Barany.

  Oh, yes, there she was in the fair, subtly voluptuous flesh, perched on a stool behind and to one side of Ravin Gould.

  And now Conan knew where Meg was. He should’ve anticipated that far from seeking a place to hide, Meg would seek the one place where she’d be the center of attention—on Savanna Barany’s lap, stretched out luxuriously along the lady’s thigh.

  But for once, Meg was upstaged. She seemed no more than a whimsical accessory, her white to gray fur contrasting with Savanna’s peasant blouse and frill skirt of deep blue-green. Peacock blue, it was probably called, and no other color could more perfectly complement her coppery hair. It was arranged in a Gibson pile cascading from the crown of her head to sweep her bare shoulders. Curling wisps brushed her cheeks like silken whispers, and when she smiled, her face seemed luminescent.

  Conan had seen that face hundreds of times in magazines, newspapers, on screens both large and small. It occurred to him that he hadn’t seen it so often recently, but he remembered exactly when he first saw it: seven years ago in New York in a musical called Blitz, her vehicle to instant fame. It was a face out of another century, a perfect oval with a small mouth indulgently curved, and lavender-blue eyes so large, they gave that face a childlike aspect, yet were heavy-lidded, capable of seduction. She sat with her long dancer’s legs crossed, one hand stroking Meg, the other braced on the edge of the stool. It was an extraordinarily sensual pose, and Conan recognized in it a self-aware calculation. Or perhaps it was art.

  She turned to speak to the tall, saturnine man standing beside her, and Conan sighed. “What is she doing here?”

  A whiskey-scented laugh reminded Conan that he’d asked the question aloud and that Doc Spenser was still with him. Doc said, “Well, she’s married to Jimmy Gould, after all. Didn’t you know that?”

  “Jimmy?” Conan glanced at Doc, but didn’t have a chance to ask more. KEEN-TV was invading from the south door.

  “We need some space around the table,” Shelly Gage said, smiling sleekly, as the camera and sound men waded in, and space was made without complaint, with only excited murmurs, despite the crush of bodies pressing closer. Conan’s headache was no longer incipient as he flattened himself against the bookshelves and watched Shelly introduce herself to Savanna and Gould. Gould took her hand, lavished on it a kiss, with a smoldering look into her eyes. Savanna’s smile faded.

  Abruptly the camera lights went on, and the glare made a small stage of the alcove. The tall man with the saturnine face stepped back into the corner out of center stage, while the cameraman positioned himself in front of the table, panned from the sign above it down to Savanna Barany—on whom he lingered a long time—then to Ravin Gould, then to Shelly, who stood at the end of the table, her mike and smile ready. “The quaint coastal village of Holliday Beach is bursting with excitement today. The old Holliday Beach Book Shop—a landmark here—is hosting best-selling author Ravin Gould, and with him…” A pause for dramatic effect, then, “…his lovely wife, Savanna Barany!”

  Savanna leaned toward the camera and blew her unseen viewers a kiss, upstaging her husband as effortlessly as she did Meg, and the crowd in the bookshop responded with applause and whistles.

  Ravin Gould’s gray-green eyes were cold as he flashed a smile and reached for Shelly’s mike, then laid his hand on Savanna’s knee in a patently proprietary gesture, ignoring Meg’s hissing show of teeth. “Eat your hearts out, guys!” The erstwhile studio audience laughed, and Shelly retrieved the mike to ask, “Mr. Gould, what brings you to this quaint little village?”

  “Well, Shelly, this is my hometown, you know. I was born and spent twelve years of my life in Holliday Beach.”

  “You’ve come back to rediscover your roots, so to speak?”

  A confiding laugh. “That title’s been taken. But it’s true in a way. I’m finishing my next book here. Odyssey. Yes, I know that title’s been taken, too. It’s what you might call an autobi
ographical novel.”

  Shelly looked earnestly quizzical. “Then it’s really your life story?”

  “Well, not the whole story, I hope. I plan to add a lot to my life story before I die. Let’s just say it’s based on some of my experiences.”

  “Including your childhood here in this quaint little village?”

  “Oh, yes. And it wasn’t always so damned quaint.”

  Conan smiled at that barb as Shelly countered, “Do you mean this book is going to be a sort of exposé?”

  Gould shrugged, teeth white against his tan in a sardonic grin. “It just might be, Shelly, and if you don’t think anything interesting happened in this quaint little village, you’re dead wrong. It’s all in the book. Everybody’s there.” And he singsonged sarcastically, “Doctor, lawyer, po-lice chief.”

  He seemed to be looking directly at Conan with that, and Conan felt a chill. What in hell was Gould talking about?

  “Excuse me…let me through…I’ve got to get through!”

  There was a moment of confusion on the alcove stage as a young woman with golden hair elbowed her way through the crowd, her blue eyes wide with what Conan could only call fear.

  He recognized her; he’d known her since she was a cheerleader at the high school. Angela MacGill. Angela Kleber MacGill, oldest of Police Chief Earl Kleber’s two daughters. She carried a manila envelope, and she was so intent on Gould that she seemed oblivious to the cameras and lights or even the rapt crowd. She reached the table, offered the envelope with shaking hands, leaned over to whisper urgently to Gould, but he cut her off with “Damn it, I’ll talk to you later! Can’t you see—”

  “But it’s Cady! Ravin, you’ve got to get out of here!”

  He surged to his feet. “Shut up, Angie!” Then to Shelly, “Goddamn it, stop that camera!”

  Startled, Shelly signaled the cameraman with a finger across her throat at the same moment a shriek of alarm followed by a sputtering roar sounded from outside the north door. There was an uneasy stirring in the crowd, then Meg catapulted out of Savanna’s lap as pandemonium erupted.

  Screams and shouts catalyzed a stampede away from the door, and the cameraman staggered and fell, a display rack toppled, paperbacks scattering to be kicked aside like autumn leaves on a sidewalk; a crash of crockery punctuated the melee, and Conan held on to Doc to keep him on his feet, while the sputtering roar rose to a nerve-rending crescendo.

  And Cady MacGill strode onto the stage, a latter-day, black Irish Paul Bunyan in a plaid shirt, red suspenders supporting Levi’s cut and frayed at the ankle, his caulked boots shaking the floor. Six foot five and well over two hundred pounds of solid, supple muscle, his enormous hands gripping a thirty-six-inch Husqvarna chain saw that vibrated with braying menace, Cady bellowed, “Gould, I’m gonna cut off your balls so you won’t ever sleep with another man’s wife again!”

  Gould kicked the table over, sending black-jacketed books avalanching, and crouched behind it. Savanna, Shelly, and the tall man huddled in the corner, and Cady swung the chain saw high, demolishing the sign above the table. The torn remnants whipped about like demented birds. From behind his barrier, Gould cursed with the vitriol of a longshoreman, while Cady matched him with a logger’s repertoire at twice the volume, and the chain saw revved to an earsplitting pitch as the spinning blade sliced through the supports of the bookshelf at the north side of the alcove. Splinters, books, and a confetti of shredded pages made a sudden blizzard.

  And Conan crossed a threshold from annoyance to anger. He elbowed his way toward center stage, noting peripherally that the cameraman had recovered his footing and was still taping, that in the debris around the table, an orange purse had fallen open, disgorging its contents, including a small, chrome-plated automatic.

  “Cady! You damned fool, put that saw down!”

  Cady turned, the lethal blade slicing within a few inches of Conan’s belt, and Conan stopped abruptly, his headache escalating with the pounding of his heart. He had known Cady MacGill as long as he’d known Angie—who, he noticed, had disappeared when her husband arrived—but it occurred to him now that perhaps he didn’t know Cady as well as he thought he did. Cady’s beard-shadowed face was warped with rage, black brows drawn over eyes blue-hot.

  Then he pulled the saw back. “Conan?” Briefly his baleful face reverted to the eternal chagrin of adolescence. But his rage rebounded as he shouted, “I got business with this bastard!”

  And Conan shouted back, “Not in my bookshop, you don’t! Turn off that damned saw, Cady!”

  The saw spewed on, poised in Cady’s big, capable hands, and he didn’t move, not so much as the blink of an eye. Nor did Conan.

  But at length, Cady faced Gould, who still peered over the top of his table barrier. Cady’s mouth curled in a sneer of contempt, and with an eloquently negligent motion, he turned off the saw.

  The silence was profound. Ears ringing, Conan held out his hand, open. “Give me the saw, Cady.” And when Cady seemed ready to protest, “You’ve made one hell of a mess here, and you’re going to pay for every book you’ve damaged! Meanwhile, I’ll keep the saw.”

  Cady looked around at the chaos he had created, vaguely amazed, then he grimaced, thrust the saw, blade toward the floor, at Conan. “I’ll pay for it—every damned cent.”

  Conan nearly dropped the saw. It weighed at least ten pounds more than he expected. He got a better grip on the bar and said, “I’ll keep this in my office until you—”

  But Cady wasn’t listening. “Gould, you stay away from my wife! You hear?” And with that, he thudded to the north door and vanished.

  Ravin Gould, red-faced, veins throbbing in his forehead, sprang up from behind the table. And, incredibly, Shelly was there, mike in hand, asking, “Mr. Gould, would you care to comment on—”

  “You bitch!” And with a glance at the cameraman, who was still recording, “You put one second of that tape on the air, and I’ll sue the hell out of you!” Then he vaulted over the table. “Byron! Savanna! Come on, we’re getting out of this dump!” And when Savanna, who was kneeling at the moment, didn’t seem to respond quickly enough to suit him, Gould grabbed her arm. “Come on, you dumb broad!”

  Conan’s hands tightened on the saw, and he saw in Savanna Barany’s eyes a fathomless loathing in the split second before Gould pulled her toward the north door, with the tall man he called Byron a pace behind, and Shelly and her minions in hot pursuit.

  Conan found himself the focus of a multitude of eyes. Squinting through his headache, he announced, “The Holliday Beach Book Shop is closed. As of now!” With the chain saw in hand, he made his way through the debris of splintered wood, shredded books, and, as he passed the refreshment table, a gravel of broken cups, to the cash register, where Miss Dobie, wide-eyed and pale, still manned her post. He only glanced at her, then turned to the door on the west wall behind the counter, went inside, and closed the door gently.

  And in this soundproofed sanctuary, where the walls were hung with a few of his favorite paintings, the floor graced with a scarlet Kirman, he placed the chain saw atop the stacks of mail on his desk. He went to the stereo to put on a tape, then sank into the chair behind the desk. He found a pack of cigarettes in a drawer, lit one, and closed his eyes to absorb the somber cadences of Chopin’s “Raindrop” prelude.

  He was thinking about a beach in Cornwall.

  Then he heard a rustling of papers on his desk and opened his eyes to meet Meg’s sapphire gaze. “How are you, Duchess?” She ignored him, meticulously examining the red-enameled motor housing of the chain saw. She always made a point of ignoring him for a day or so when he returned from a long absence. He didn’t push her.

  It was fifteen minutes later when the office door opened. Miss Dobie paused there and loosed one of her long, expressive sighs.

  “The shop is locked up, Mr. Flagg.”

  Conan walked past her and crossed to the entrance without looking around at the shambles of his once orderly, if slightly musty, al
batross and raison d’être.

  Chapter 3

  A block south of the Holliday Beach Book Shop, Highway 101 met Day Street, which began at that juncture and ended only two blocks to the west at a small, paved beach access. The house south of the access seemed from that perspective a forbidding arrangement of shingled slabs weathered to silver, the garage door stained a matching gray, the front entrance set deep in a niche as if a portcullis might at any moment be lowered. But from the beach, the house presented an array of reflective spans of glass that made sea and sky integral to its design. The west wall of every room was composed, floor to ceiling, of windows, from the kitchen at the north end, with its angled glass bay, and above it, Conan’s bedroom, where the wall of glass included a sliding door opening onto a deck; then a span of windows forty feet long and thirty feet high for the living room; and at the south end, the library, and above it, the guest bedroom. There was no lawn, no plantings that weren’t native. A cluster of jack pines hid the small patio that opened off the south wall of the library, and the house was backed into a steep hill shrouded with pine. Below the living room deck, there was only room for a salal-covered bank and a seawall that turned all but the highest winter waves. When the house was built, some of the natives dubbed it Flagg’s Folly, in part because of its risky proximity to the sea, but Conan contended that one man’s folly is another man’s castle. And this was his castle, every inch of it designed to his specifications, every object in it there by his choice: his castle and his haven.

  Yet when he parked the XK-E in the garage next to the Vanagon, he didn’t go into the house but straight to the beach, stripping off his tie and jacket as he crossed the access. Above him, gulls flew into the wind, casting shadows on the sand. He waved at them as if they were long-lost friends.

  At the moment, he could overlook the tepid summer surf and the myriad footprints made by the strolling, jogging, lounging, wading, kite-flying, shouting, squealing, Frisbee-tossing crowds with whom he had no choice but to share the beach. The summer people. He tried not to begrudge them their pleasures, but as he walked along the scalloped tracks of the waves, it didn’t bother him that the northwest wind blew cold and incessantly, and the water, chilled by the up-welling that surged to the surface along the coast every summer, was frigid. Ten days until Labor Day, and then could winter be far behind? Winter would whip these languid waves into magnificent fury and empty this beach of people by the expedient of drowning it at every high tide.