The Conan Flagg Mysteries: Bundle #3

by M. K. Wren

  Conan was only a pace behind her, and Gould said loudly, “Hell, don’t let a little fireworks scare you off. Hey!”

  At the door, Byron Lasky turned, said wearily, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow about those contracts, Ravin. Good night.”

  “To hell with the fucking contracts! And to hell with you! I don’t need you, Byron. You know that, don’t you? And if you don’t, you’d fucking well better figure it out! There’s agents under every damn rock in New York, and any one of them’d kill to have me for a client!”

  Lasky stood pale, jaw clenched as if to contain any response to that, but his wife, who had to this point seemed possessed of unshakable calm, took a step toward Gould, her voice strained beyond recognition as she shouted, “You drunken bastard! Is this why you invited her here?” And she pointed at Dana Semenov. “So she could gloat while you—”

  “Justine!” Byron said sharply, putting his arm around her. “Please, it doesn’t matter. Come on. I’ll deal with this later.”

  Her eyes met his, then she nodded, her composure restored as she turned away, and Lasky opened the doors for her.

  Gould scurried out from behind the bar. “Justine, you bitch! Damn it, I made you, you and your fucking agency! I made you!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Ravin, let them go.” That cool command came from Dana Semenov, who stood with her arms folded, studying Gould with a faint smile.

  He glared at her, then abruptly relaxed and went behind the bar to fumble among the bottles. “They’re gone, Dana. Gone!”

  Marian hurriedly followed the Laskys out the door without a word, while Shelly grabbed Conan’s arm and muttered, “Let’s go!”

  When Conan closed the double doors behind them, he heard Shelly’s gusty sigh. It was fully dark now, and the wind was tingling with dew. The Laskys were getting into the gray Buick, and by the time Conan and Shelly reached her car, the Buick had already made the turnaround and headed north. Marian’s white Buick was only a few seconds behind. Conan saw another car parked in front of the Ferrari: a maroon Skylark, probably another of Baysea’s rentals.

  “He’s a real bastard, isn’t he? Too bad.” Shelly shuffled through her purse, adding, “You sure managed to stay out of the way.”

  “I told you not to expect any protection from me,” Conan reminded her. “Besides, I wasn’t sure you wanted protection.”

  She found her car keys and slid in behind the wheel. “Maybe I didn’t at first. He really is a very attractive man, in spite of everything.”

  Conan said dryly, “His charms elude me, Shelly.”

  “Well, they would. You’re a man. I mean, I can see through women just because I know all the moves, and I don’t understand why men fall all over themselves for somebody like Savanna Barany. I guess you can see through men just because you’re a man.” Conan considered that philosophical morsel without comment while she added, “Anyway, Conan, thanks for coming with me.”

  “Good night, Shelly.” He closed her door, then frowned at the crunch of gravel, looked north into approaching headlights, wondering who was driving up Dunlin Beach Road this time of night. Not that it was so late. It wasn’t yet nine-thirty. He went to his car, glanced at the house, and saw Dana Semenov pulling on her tan raincoat as she left the porch.

  A catalyst, and he wondered what she was catalyzing here.

  He got into the XK-E as the approaching car passed. The glare of headlights precluded his seeing into the car or seeing it at all until it moved into the edges of Shelly’s headlights. A blue, fin-tailed 1959 Cadillac. It looked like Mrs. Carmody’s vintage car. But it couldn’t be. Mrs. Carmody’s Cadillac actually was the kind of car that was only driven to church on Sundays by a little old lady.

  The Cadillac circled the turnaround, treating Conan to another blinding glare, then accelerated past him with a hail of gravel.

  Chapter 5

  The ring of the phone took the place of bagpipes in a dream in which Savanna Barany, wearing a Royal Stewart kilt, was executing a sword dance, toes pointed, red hair flying, but instead of crossed swords, she was tripping fantastically lightly amid crossed chain saws.

  Conan sat up abruptly, trying to identify his own bedroom, the walls warm blue-gray, the Carl Hall bird-spirit looking back at him from across the room, and on his right the scrim curtains moving in the wind wafting through the open door onto the deck.

  He let his breath out, then when the phone repeated its shrill summons, lunged for the side table. The clock on the control console read 8:10 A.M. The last time he remembered looking at it—just after he finished the book he’d started at the airport in Denver—the clock had read 3:20 A.M. He muttered a hello into the receiver.

  “Mr. Flagg?” Beatrice Dobie’s usually laconic voice was edged with alarm. “Mr. Flagg, you know I wouldn’t call you at this time of the morning, especially when you must be worn-out from your trip, and especially after, well, after yesterday, and I really—”

  “Miss Dobie, what’s wrong?” He reached for the pack of cigarettes on the side table, shook one out, and put it between his lips.

  “Well, I came to the shop early today. Didn’t quite finish cleaning up yesterday, and…Mr. Flagg, the shop was burglarized last night.”

  “What?” The cigarette fell, bounced off the table to the floor.

  “Yes! Somebody broke one of the panes on the north door so they could reach the inside lock. Did the same thing on your office door. And that one-way glass is so expensive.”

  “Is anything missing?”

  “I haven’t checked thoroughly yet, but the safe hadn’t been opened, and we do have some rather valuable books in there. Oh—I didn’t get a chance to tell you, but I found a first edition History of Malheur County while you were gone. At a garage sale, yet. And of course, there was a lot of cash from yesterday. I’d sold enough copies of Stud before the, uh, disturbance to cover the cost of the books. And the publicity—well, the bookshop can’t afford television time like that.”

  Conan shook out another cigarette and got it lighted. “You don’t think some potential customers might be put off at the possibility of running into the Oregon Chain Saw Massacre?”

  “Oh, no, that just lends the shop a titillating air of danger.”

  “No doubt. Well, I’m titillated, Miss Dobie. Is anything missing?”

  “Oh. Well, nothing important. Only Cady MacGill’s chain saw.”

  Conan frowned at that. “Have you called Earl?”

  “The first thing I did was call Chief Kleber. He said he’d be here by eight-thirty. Anyway, I’m sorry to bother you, and I don’t suppose you really need to come to the shop, but I thought if I didn’t tell you…”

  Conan wondered if she expected him to ignore a break-in at the bookshop and just go back to sleep. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  He hung up, took a long drag on his cigarette while he listened to the soft rush of the surf. Cady’s chain saw? The obvious conclusion was that Cady had decided to retrieve it. But it wasn’t like him to resort to burglary. If Patrick and Mary MacGill had taught their rambunctious brood of three girls and three boys anything—and Conan was well aware that there was a great deal lacking in their education—it was the imperative to be respectable, law-abiding citizens.

  Then Conan sighed, remembering the roaring chaos Cady had created yesterday with that damned chain saw.

  He put out his cigarette, crossed to the bathroom, and stepped into the shower. Engulfed in flowing water and sea-colored light reflected from the tiles, he wondered if Angela MacGill had in fact been sleeping with Ravin Gould, and it seemed likely. Angie was a slightly spoiled young woman whose choices in reading matter at the bookshop revealed a fantasy life centered on Romance. With a capital R. She was intelligent enough to run her own bookkeeping and typing service, but her intelligence had never been challenged. Not when she was endowed with spun gold hair and a Miss America face and figure.

  Conan turned off the water and reached for a towel. Silly fool, to be daz
zled by Ravin Gould. But Shelly was probably right: Gould was very attractive to women. At least, to some women. Angie MacGill was exactly the kind of woman who would find him exceedingly attractive.

  She was also Holliday Beach Police Chief Earl Kleber’s oldest daughter. His fair-haired girl.

  *

  Conan drove the XK-E to the bookshop, although he usually walked the two and a half blocks. When he turned in to the parking lane, nearly every parking space was occupied, but that was only typical of August and nothing like yesterday’s gridlock. At least twenty people gathered on the sidewalk in front of the bookshop, some at the north door, the rest at the main entrance toward the south end of the building, where they brazenly peered through the windows. Perhaps they were attracted by the two Holliday Beach Police Department cars. Conan found a parking space, and when he reached the shop, had to elbow his way to the south door where the CLOSED sign hung behind the glass panel, and when he took out his keys to unlock the door, had to explain repeatedly that the shop didn’t open until ten, that he didn’t know if there were any copies of The Diamond Stud left, and that the presence of the police had nothing to do with Ravin Gould or “that crazy logger,” although he wasn’t so sure of that.

  Once inside the shop with the door locked behind him, he looked around the shadowy interior, finding as he always did a resonant satisfaction in the solid walls of books. Miss Dobie had done an admirable job of restoration. At a glance, only the broken bookshelves in the alcove area gave evidence of yesterday’s absurd drama. As evidence of last night’s drama, two policemen were dusting for fingerprints on the north door at the far end of the shop. Conan recognized Officer Joe Tasso and Sergeant Billy Todd. Tasso, dark and whip-lean, was new to Holliday Beach, but Billy Todd, tall and broad, red hair cropped short, was a native son and a habitué of the bookshop since childhood.

  Conan looked down to find Meg weaving around his legs, delivering hoarse Siamese pronouncements. Apparently she had decided to forgive him his absence. He picked her up and massaged her back, and only then did he face Beatrice Dobie. She was standing in front of the counter across from the entrance. She said, a little grimly, “Good morning, Mr. Flagg.”

  “Good morning, Miss Dobie.” He frowned at the door behind the counter, the door into his office. The PRIVATE sign was still there, but the door was beyond guaranteeing anyone’s privacy now; the panel of one-way glass was gone except for a shark’s tooth remnant in one corner. Someone was moving around inside the office.

  “I assume that’s Earl,” Conan said.

  Miss Dobie nodded and loosed a gusty sigh. “Mr. Flagg, if I’d had any idea what would happen—the autographing, I mean. It just seemed like such a golden opportunity. But all that glitters certainly isn’t gold.”

  He countered with: “Well, live and learn. By the way, how did you talk Gould into it? He doesn’t seem the type to be so generous with his presence for the sake of a historical landmark in a quaint little village.”

  “Well, that was Angie’s idea. She’s typing his manuscripts, and—”

  “And that’s all she’s doing for Ravin Gould!” That belligerent assertion came from Chief Earl Kleber as he crunched through the broken glass to take a stand outside the office door. He wasn’t a big man, but he was broad-shouldered and trim in middle age, wearing his blue uniform well, his black hair showing only a few threads of white. And this morning, the set of his heavy jaw and the obdurate glint in his dark eyes made him particularly intimidating.

  Conan put Meg down on the counter. “Good morning, Earl.”

  “You want to see it?” Kleber gestured toward the office. “Just don’t touch anything. Billy and Joe haven’t dusted in here yet. Miss Dobie says the safe’s okay.” Then to Miss Dobie, “Did you check the desk?”

  “I was waiting for Mr. Flagg to do that.”

  Kleber followed Conan into the office, adding, “You won’t find anything missing, Flagg.”

  So it was Flagg, not Conan. That was always an accurate barometer of Kleber’s mood.

  Other than the mirrored shards of glass littering the Kirman, Conan could see nothing out of place, except that the stacks of mail on the desk had been disarranged. He noted the ghostly traces of oil on the letters where the chain saw had lain, then went behind his desk and, using a pencil to hook the pulls, opened all the drawers.

  At length, he straightened. “Nothing missing.”

  Kleber snorted. “I told you there wouldn’t be. Damn that idiot! As if Angie hasn’t had enough grief from Cady MacGill all these years.”

  Conan raised an eyebrow. As far as he knew, Angie had been perfectly happy with her husband all these years. But then appearances—especially in a marriage—were often deceiving.

  Conan asked, “You’re assuming Cady is the burglar?”

  “Who the hell else would want that damned saw? Who the hell else would be stupid enough to commit a felony to get it? Giff Wills’ll have a field day with this. Hell, there’s no way I’ll win that election now. I’ll be damned lucky to keep my job here.”

  Conan stared at him in confusion until he remembered the signs he’d seen advertising Earl Kleber as a candidate for county sheriff.

  “Chief, what made you decide to run against Wills?”

  Kleber shrugged. “Maybe I just got tired of ol’ Giff messing up nearly every case he got his hands on. Like that Labadee case. I gave him the evidence on a silver platter. Three of the missing coins in Bob Labadee’s possession. And what’d Giff do? He lost the damn things!”

  Conan decided it was the better part of valor not to comment on that, and finally Kleber added glumly, “I’ve got an APB out on Cady. Of course, I had one out on him yesterday, but we didn’t turn him up.”

  “Is Gould pressing charges?”

  “Not that I know of. You’re the one should be pressing charges, considering the damage Cady did here, not to mention inciting a riot.”

  “Yes, well, I thought I could work out something in the way of restitution once he cooled down. Chief, he’s never gotten into this kind of trouble before, has he?”

  Kleber frowned balefully, then admitted, “Just a fight now and then at the Last Resort. But lately he’s been doing a lot of heavy drinking. Damn! Angela could’ve married anybody she wanted. She could’ve gone to college, found herself a nice professional man. She could’ve been a teacher, like her…mother. But instead she has to pick that lunk, all muscle, including between his ears. Only good thing that’s come of it is Michael.”

  Nor did it seem valor would be served by any comment on Angie’s choice of a marriage partner, nor her failure to follow in the footsteps of her mother, who had died when Angie was a child.

  Conan asked, “Where is Angie now?”

  “My house. She and Michael stayed with me last night since—”

  The ring of the phone on the desk interrupted him. Conan picked up the receiver. “Holliday Beach Book Shop.”

  “Conan? This is Dave Hight.”

  Sergeant David Hight was the Holliday Beach Police Department’s daytime dispatcher. “Yes, Dave, what can I—”

  “If the chief’s there, tell him I just got a call from the Gould house. Ravin Gould’s been murdered! Had his throat cut with a chain saw!”

  Conan felt suddenly cold to the bone. He stared at the oil-stained letters, seemed to hear an echo of the whining roar of Cady’s chain saw. Finally he remembered to hand the phone to Kleber. “It’s Dave.”

  “Dave, what’ve you got?” Kleber listened, eyes reduced to slits, then snapped, “Call the M.E. in Westport. I’m going down to make sure there really is a body, and if there is, I’ll seal off the scene. And by God, I want Cady MacGill!” He slammed the receiver down and nearly collided with Conan as he crunched through the broken glass out into the shop. “Joe! Billy!” he bellowed. “Come on, we’ve got a report of a murder. The Gould house, Dunlin Beach Road.”

  Miss Dobie emitted a strangled gasp. “The Gould house!”

  Kleber nodded. “
We’ve got to check it out. Don’t open the shop or let anyone else in until Joe and Billy can finish dusting.”

  Miss Dobie was so aghast, she was almost at a loss for words. But she found them. “Chief, this is Sunday! A weekend! In August! We can’t close the shop today!”

  Conan said, “The shop will survive, Miss Dobie.”

  Her mouth went into a horizontal line that made her face even squarer, but her only comment was a prodigious sigh.

  As Billy Todd lumbered the length of the shop, with Joe Tasso a pace behind, Kleber headed for the front door. Conan unlocked it for him and followed him outside, where Kleber glowered at the crowd staring unabashedly at them, then turned his glower on Conan. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Mindful of the avid listeners, Conan answered, “I’m going where you are, Chief. Look, I was there last night.”

  “You were what? Oh, hell. All right, Flagg, just stay out of my way.” And he stalked toward his car.

  Conan ignored the questions asked of him by strangers as he strode to the XK-E. He was thinking about the grisly physical problem of cutting someone’s throat with a chain saw. The problem was in cutting only the throat. A chain saw seemed more likely to remove the head altogether—along with limbs or any other parts of the body that happened to get in the way. It was not a weapon of finesse.

  Had Cady MacGill wielded that saw? Conan still found it difficult to believe Cady was capable of burglary, much less a murder so hideous.

  And where had Savanna Barany been while her husband was getting his throat cut with a chain saw?

  Chapter 6

  Conan ate the dust of the two Holliday Beach police cars down Dunlin Beach Road, and when they reached the Gould house, he parked behind them. The dust blew south, revealing two more parked cars: the rental Buicks he’d seen here last night. The Ferrari, he noted, was missing. Byron Lasky sat on the front fender of the gray Buick, with his wife and Marian Rosenthal standing on either side of him, all watching Kleber as he approached.