The Conan Flagg Mysteries: Bundle #3

by M. K. Wren

  And he was amply satisfied now with the summer sea. Here he could put the alarums and excursions at the bookshop into perspective and finally even laugh at them.

  When he reached that point, he turned and began slogging through the soft, pale summer sand toward his house. Home. He was home now, and it was indeed worthwhile.

  *

  By four-thirty he had unpacked his suitcases and the gifts he had purchased on his trip, caught up on six issues of the weekly Holliday Beach Guardian, refreshed himself with a long soak in the Jacuzzi, and now he stood on the living room deck with the wind whipping at the black cotton caftan he treasured because of its comfortable practicality, as had the desert merchant from whom he had bought it years ago in Cairo. The sun glared in searing white reflections off the sea, and on the horizon, a train of fog moved constantly south under its impetus.

  He took a puff on his cigarette, let the wind catch the smoke, surprised to find that a melody was playing in his mind’s ear: the theme song from Blitz, “I Never Asked for Forever.” And—inevitably, perhaps—an image shimmered in his mind’s eye: the image of Savanna Barany. He found himself wondering what she was like beyond the beauty and extraordinary talent. Was there more to Savanna Barany? Was she intelligent and curious? Was she capable of empathy and laughter?

  He didn’t know, and it was unlikely he ever would. Yet he had to admit he wanted to know. A face and body of such silky perfection and intense vitality seemed to ignite questions like static electricity.

  Finally he finished his cigarette and, with a rueful laugh, put such vagaries out of his mind. He checked his watch, then left the deck and went to the kitchen to search the contents of the freezer, where he found a boxed entrée, Chicken à la Something. He microwaved it, poured a glass of Elk Cove Vineyards Pinot Noir Blanc, and carried his repast down the hallway behind the wooden screen that divided it from the living room and on to the library, a room with three walls occupied by books and paintings, the fourth occupied by glass and sea. He settled in the Eames chaise, found the remote for the television, and turned it on. The evening news had just begun on Channel 3: KEEN-TV.

  Conan wondered if Shelly Gage’s employers had been intimidated into silence by Gould’s threat of a lawsuit. Shelly wasn’t in her usual seat beside the male anchor. Conan ate his passably palatable chicken and sipped his wine through political scandals, wars, toxic spills, droughts, and drug busts—and he always winced at hearing that word, however effective as slang, in the formal context of a news report. Finally, when he had almost decided that KEEN-TV had indeed been intimidated, there was Shelly on the alcove stage at the bookshop, and there was Ravin Gould, tanned and worldly, and there was Savanna Barany, bright hair fired by the lights.

  And a few seconds later, there was Cady MacGill and his roaring chain saw. Most of Cady’s dialogue with Gould, red-faced behind his table barrier, had been bleeped out, and all but the last ten seconds of Cady’s confrontation with one Coven Fledd, owner of the Holliday Beach Book Shop (a landmark in the quaint little village), had been edited out. “The perpetrator of the alleged assault,” the substitute female anchor added, “has been identified as Cady MacGill, a local logger. A spokesperson for the Holliday Beach Police Department said they’ve put out an APB for him.” A cut to Sergeant Billy Todd saying, “He’ll turn up, don’t worry.” Then a shot outside the bookshop of Gould hurrying Savanna into a glaring yellow Ferrari, and the female anchor concluded, “Mr. Gould had no comment on the incident.” Conan smiled as he turned off the television. At least, no comment that could be aired under FCC obscenity rules. He rose to take the remains of his meal to the kitchen, but the ring of the phone diverted him to the desk on the south wall. He snatched up the receiver. “Yes?”

  “Conan? This is Shelly Gage.”

  “How did you get this number, Shelly? It’s supposedly unlisted.”

  “Reporters have their sources. Did you see the newscast?”

  “I saw it.”

  She laughed. “And loved it, I can tell. Anyway, the reason I’m calling is to invite you to take me out tonight.”

  Conan bit back a less than delighted response, and Shelly explained, “I have an invitation from Ravin Gould to what he called a little informal gathering at his beach house. Well, it’s not really his. He’s renting. Just calls it his.”

  “Why would Gould invite you to a gathering, formal or otherwise?”

  “It was when I followed him out to his car. Maybe his agent whispered in his ear about how many KEEN stories the network picks up. He’s fence-mending, Conan. Ravin understands PR very well.”

  “No doubt. But what I don’t understand is why you’re stretching Gould’s invitation to include me.”

  “Conan, you’re perfect. I can’t wait to see Ravin’s face when I walk in with the owner of that dump—who just happens to be the owner of the biggest ranch in the state and a millionaire and a licensed PI.”

  “You’re showing off, Shelly, and you haven’t got your facts straight. I’m only majority stockholder at the Ten-Mile, and I am not a millionaire, and it is not the biggest ranch in the state.”

  “Just second biggest? Well, you are a PI. It’s on record. And you’re the man who saved Ravin from the mad logger. By the way, that woman who came in right before MacGill—is she his wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was in that envelope?”

  “Probably the plans for the superconductor,”

  “Sure. Was she sleeping with Ravin?”

  “Somehow I just don’t consider that any of my business.”

  “Or mine? Okay. Look, all I ask is a couple of hours of your time. No interview, no questions. I promise.”

  “Damn it, Shelly—”

  “Just think about the look on Ravin’s face.…”

  Conan sighed, but he wasn’t thinking about Gould’s expression. He was thinking about Savanna Barany. At least, this was one way to get to meet her, to perhaps assuage his curiosity to some small degree.

  “And, Conan, at least this is one way to get to meet—”

  “All right, Shelly. I’ll pick you up…when?”

  “Eight-thirty. But I have my car. I’ll meet you at Ravin’s house. It’s the last house on Dunlin Beach Road. You know, south of Sitka Bay.”

  “I know. You got on first-name terms with Gould damned fast.”

  “That’s just the California coming out. He claims to be a native Oregonian, but he lives mostly in San Francisco. And Honolulu. And New York. He has a condominium in Portland, though, just to keep up his claim to Oregon. Anyway, he first-names everybody.”

  “Especially young and attractive women?”

  “Hey, why do you think I want you along as my escort?”

  At that, Conan laughed. “Don’t count on me for protection.”

  “I never count on anyone for that. Okay, I’ll see you at eight-thirty. And thanks, Conan. You’re a sweetheart.”

  Before Conan could respond, she hung up. As he cradled the receiver, his eye was caught by the painting in the corner farthest from the light. The Knight. A life-size figure in equivocal armor that was both obdurate bronze, and bone and muscle. The head was helmet and skull at once, and in one hand, it offered the rose of love and the butterfly of hope, while the other hand held the waiting shackles.

  Conan had often used that painting as a sort of litmus test. If people found it morbid, they never had an opportunity to see it again.

  Disturbing, he could accept. And at the moment, that juxtaposition of rose and butterfly and shackles seemed to fix itself in his mind like a melody that wouldn’t leave him in peace.

  Chapter 4

  The sun had set, and at the horizon a wash of red—the pinkish red of smoke from slash fires in the Coast Range—was mirrored on the surface of Sitka Bay, a marine estuary all but cut off from the sea by Shearwater Spit. Conan smiled as he drove south on Highway 101 past that splendid expanse of life-rich water. That it had not become a fouled pond for human recreation was du
e in part to his efforts. But his smile faded as he considered the cost of that victory.

  And the victory had been only partial. Sitka Bay had been spared the housing development that threatened it, but Baysea Properties had pursued its plans for a destination resort, and now Baysea Resort occupied a square mile of land between 101 and the beach, offering luxurious rooms, two restaurants, tennis courts, golf course, swimming pool, an airfield, a helicopter shuttle to Portland, and car rental service. But at least this destination was a mile beyond Sitka Bay and didn’t impinge on its shores, and Conan didn’t have to look at it now.

  At the south end of the bay, he turned right onto Dunlin Beach Road, threaded along the top of basalt cliffs, then turned left where the road divided and a sign pointed to Dunlin Beach. It was a barely graveled road that paralleled the beach behind a buffer of beachfront lots. He geared down to accommodate the ruts, occasionally passing driveways hinting at the existence of houses hidden in thickets of jack pine and rhododendron that after half a mile gave way to salal and beach grass as the road neared its dead end.

  The house west of the turnaround terminating Dunlin Beach Road presented a sienna-stained cedar facade unbroken except for the inset porch where a pair of lights glowed. The grounds were landscaped in bark chips and stray pines, and three cars were parked at the edge of the gravel in front of the house: Gould’s yellow Ferrari, a silver-gray Buick, and a blue Nova. The latter was occupied, as Conan discovered when he parked behind it. Shelly Gage got out and waited for him, made a show of checking her watch. “You’re a minute late.” Then she added soberly, “Thanks for coming, Conan.”

  He offered his arm. “Shall we go see the look on Ravin’s face?”

  But at the crackle of tires on gravel, he turned, squinting into a glare of headlights. The car passed them and came to a stop in front of the Ferrari. When the dust settled, Conan noted that it was a new, white Buick with Oregon plates. It was so much a clone of the gray Buick, he decided both were rentals. The woman who got out of the car and hurried toward the house seemed startled when she met Shelly and Conan as they started up the flagstone walk.

  “Oh,” she said—more a gasp than a word—as she studied them over the top of swoop-framed glasses. Conan guessed she was at least fifty, and perhaps that many pounds overweight, the excess distributed to her bosom and hips and not disguised by an unfettered floral-print dress. Her short, curly hair wasn’t quite as auburn as Miss Dobie’s, but probably owed as much to her beautician. She smiled and said in a Lauren Bacall voice laced with a New York accent, “You’re Shelly Gage. I saw you this evening on TV. And you…” She shifted her inquiring gaze to Conan. “Weren’t you at this morning’s debacle, too?”

  Conan laughed at that. “Yes, I was. Were you?”

  She shook her head as they continued up the walk to the porch. “No, but Ravin gave us a play-by-play this afternoon. That autographing will probably end up in one of his books eventually. But don’t worry, you’ll never recognize it.” When she reached the porch she turned and added, “I’m Marian Rosenthal. Publicity director at Harkness, Cronin and Company. Ravin’s publisher.”

  “Conan Flagg.” He took her offered hand for a firm, brief handshake. “I own the bookshop that was the site of the debacle.”

  Marian Rosenthal’s eyes widened, and Shelly put in, “Conan was the one who took the chain saw away from that logger.”

  “Shelly, Cady gave me the saw,” Conan said irritably.

  Marian responded with a laugh. “Either way, even Ravin admitted that took guts.” She pressed the doorbell to the right of the double doors. Conan heard a distant chime, but nothing more. Marian pressed the doorbell again. Waited. And rang again.

  After the third chime, both doors abruptly swung back, and Ravin Gould, in white pants and a white shirt, open to the waist, long sleeves cut with dashing fullness, a red silk handkerchief thrust nonchalantly into the pocket, greeted them with a flashing smile and open arms. That he found it necessary to look up at all three of them apparently didn’t bother him. He had the panache of a prince in voluntary exile.

  And Shelly was doomed to disappointment. If Gould was surprised at seeing Conan, he didn’t show it. And Shelly, now that she was actually confronted with the look on Gould’s face, seemed mesmerized as he focused on her and said, “Welcome to Casa Dement!”

  Then he included Conan and Marian in his ebullient “Come in!” and waved them into a small foyer two steps above a living room decorated in beige and muted pinks with accents of maroon and cobalt blue. There was a fireplace on the left wall veneered in pale sandstone, and facing it, a couch with a settee at right angles at the west end, both upholstered in beige corduroy and piled with pink, maroon, and cobalt pillows. A blond oak coffee table supported a bouquet of white orchids and ginger. The room was empty, but on the lighted deck beyond the west windows, Conan saw two of the other guests. And the hostess.

  “What’ll you have, Shelly?” Gould asked, taking her arm as he led the way to the bar on the north wall. “I’ve got the makings for almost anything, but unfortunately not the bartender.”

  “Just Perrier and a twist. I have to drive back to Portland tonight.”

  “That’s a hell of a note. “ Gould went behind the bar and filled a glass with ice. “I was hoping to get to know you better, Shelly.” He poured the Perrier, but his eyes were on Shelly, and Conan saw a flush in her cheeks that wasn’t rouge. Marian leaned on the bar, watching Gould with an ambiguous half-smile.

  Shelly said lightly, “I was hoping to get to know you better. In an interview, maybe?”

  “All things are possible, Shelly. We’ll talk about it later. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Then she glanced at Conan. “Ravin, you haven’t been properly introduced. This is Conan Flagg, the man who—”

  “Saved me from a fate worse than death—getting my balls cut off? I owe you, Conan. You know, that MacGill bastard reminded me of my old man. He was a logger, too. But not that damned big a logger. Hell, I never saw MacGill before in my life, and he comes after me with that monster balls saw.” Gould cut a slice of lime, squeezed it, and dropped it into the Perrier, his eyes seeking Shelly’s confidentially. “But I run into a lot of weirdos. The price of fame, I guess.”

  Shelly nodded in sympathy, but her reporter’s instincts hadn’t entirely deserted her. “Or the price of sleeping with a certain very big logger’s wife?”

  Gould only laughed. “Angie just types my revised drafts. Marian, what can I do for you?” Then in an aside to Shelly, “As if I didn’t know. Marian’s a publicist. That’s what they call them these days.”

  Marian played to his straight line with “What did they call us in the old days, Ravin? And I’ll have a gin and tonic.”

  While he opened a bottle of Tanqueray, he said, “Well, it had something to do with snake oil.” Marian managed a smile, and Gould explained to Shelly, “The only reason Marian ventured into the wilds of Orygawn is to convince me that writers don’t need to write. Our purpose in life is to exhaust ourselves flying from city to city, scarfing down microwaved literary luncheons, fending off mobs of autograph seekers, and enduring talk show hosts who take pride in never reading a book by an author they interview. Oh—” He folded his hands in mocking prayer. “With the exception, I’m sure, of your lovely self.”

  Shelly addressed her response to Conan. “You know, Conan, I think this man is almost as full of Irish blarney as you are.”

  “Irish?” Gould stared at Conan until he decided that was a joke and called for a laugh. He was still laughing when he gave Marian her drink.

  Conan’s attention was caught by that otherwise unnoteworthy action only because of Marian’s sudden intake of breath. She was staring at the hand with which Gould offered the glass. His left hand. It seemed to be the ring on his fourth finger that fixed her attention and sent a rush of color into her face. The ring was a wide band of turquoise inlaid with gold in an odd pattern of thick curves.

  Gould reached under
the counter for another glass, and, apparently oblivious to Marian’s reaction, asked, “Conan, what’ll you have?”

  “Bourbon rocks, thanks.”

  “Coming up,” Gould said as he tossed ice into a faceted rocks glass, then half filled it from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He slid the glass across the bar to Conan, then put another glass on the bar and opened a fifth labeled Bruichladdich Islay Single Malt Scotch Whiskey. Perhaps noticing Conan’s raised eyebrow, he said, “This’ll put hair where it belongs. First time I got my hands on a bottle of Bruichladdich was twenty years ago in Tijuana. Didn’t exactly pay for it—not in those days—but I decided then if I ever got rich, this would be my poison of choice. Can’t even buy the stuff in Oregon. Have to import my own.” He filled his glass, then gestured toward the deck. “Might as well see the last of the sunset.”

  There was little left of the sunset, and the artificial light washing the deck made the sky seem darker. Beyond the deck, across a lawn perhaps thirty feet wide, Conan saw the railing and top step of a stairway descending to the beach, where the surf murmured lazily. A man and a woman sat at a round, rattan table near the door. The man was the one with the saturnine face who had been at the bookshop this morning. At first, Conan judged him to be in his fifties, but his thin hair and the fragile texture of his skin made that estimate questionable.

  Defying etiquette, Gould began the introductions with this man: Byron Lasky, head of the Lasky Literary Agency in New York, Gould’s agent since his second book, Hot Snow. Lasky rose, a little stiffly, offered his hand to Shelly and Conan in turn, his smile warming as he took Marian’s hand. “Marian, we thought you were lost.”