by M. K. Wren
Frowning, Conan asked, “How did your husband make sure she wouldn’t have it?”
“Well, he burned the manuscripts, didn’t he? I mean, you said—”
“No, he didn’t burn them. Apparently someone stole them.”
For a moment, she was silenced, then she asked, “But why?”
“I understand Odyssey would be worth a great deal to a publisher, even in its unfinished state.”
“But nobody can publish it without a contract with Ravin.”
“Or his heir?”
Savanna hesitated, finally admitted, “I guess so.”
“Are you Ravin Gould’s heir?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know if Ravin made a will. Probably not. He thought he’d live forever. And I guess…I thought he would, too.” She stared out the window for a moment, then turned her distracted gaze on Conan.
“What did you—oh, you wanted to know what happened after I left the party? Well, I went down to the beach to cool off. I suppose I was gone half an hour. When I came back, everybody had left. Ravin was drunk and ready to fight, and I gave him his fight. For a while, at least.”
Marian was still standing near them, arms folded, and her glance at Conan was cool, almost calculating, as she said, “Savanna, there’s something you should know about Conan. He’s a private investigator, and he’s working for that logger.” Conan restrained his annoyance, wondering why Marian had chosen to apprise Savanna of that fact now. As a warning? But Savanna only smiled at him. She seemed ingenuously pleased.
“So that’s why you’re asking all the questions. Am I a suspect? Yes, I suppose I’d have to be.” She laughed, an ironic laugh that ended in a sigh.
Conan said, “I am working for Cady MacGill, but what I’m after is the truth. Do you mind answering my questions?”
“I’m not sure.” She studied him intently, then smiled. “No, I don’t mind. Besides, I suppose the police will be asking the same questions.”
“Possibly. Was this fight with your husband violent?”
“You mean did he hit me? No. He has, though. I did Blitz in Honolulu a couple of months ago, and opening night I went on with a black eye.” She pulled her legs up, wrapped her arms around her knees as if she were cold. “Last night we just yelled at each other. I started packing. I told him I was leaving him, and he said he’d see me rot in hell before he paid me anything in a divorce settlement. I told him I didn’t want anything from him, but he was sure I was going to rack him up for a big settlement. Well, his second wife did. Anyway, when I walked out the front door, he swore he’d burn Odyssey before he let me have a cent out of it. I didn’t care if he burned it, but I thought I should let Byron know what was going on, so I stopped by the Surf House.”
Conan nodded. “About what time was that?”
“I don’t know. Oh—I remember Justine asked if I didn’t realize how late it was, and she told me exactly how late it was. Eleven o’clock. I only stayed long enough to tell them I was leaving Ravin, and he was threatening to burn Odyssey. I don’t know what Byron did about it.” She looked up at Marian. “Did he do anything?”
Conan didn’t give Marian a chance to answer that. He asked, “Did you drive straight from the Surf House here?”
“Of course.”
“You didn’t stop anywhere along the way?”
“No.”
“What time did you arrive?”
“One-twenty. I wouldn’t have known that time, either, except when I got here—well, I had to talk to somebody. I was on the edge of…something. I don’t know what. Anyway, I went straight to Maggie.”
“That’s Maggie Herndon?”
“Yes. Ravin and I didn’t spend a lot of time here, but the Herndons were always, well, like the folks back in Georgia. Neighborly. To them, we were just neighbors. I liked that. Ravin didn’t.” She straightened her legs, crossed them, the suspended foot, with its dancer’s arch, moving nervously, in synch with silence now; the thud of the music had stopped. “This last month while Ravin was working on his book, I came into Portland at least once a week. I’m sorry, Conan, but there’s not much going on in your little town. Definitely no place to do any serious shopping. Anyway, Saturdays Maggie and I’d go downtown to shop and have lunch and talk. I don’t have many women friends, you know.”
“And last night—early this morning—you talked with Maggie?”
“Yes. Both of them. When Rich came to the door in his pajamas, I realized it wasn’t a fit time to go visiting, and I looked at my watch and saw it was twenty after one. But they didn’t seem to mind. Took me in and let me cry on their shoulders. I think it was about two when I left them.” Then she frowned. “Will the police question Maggie and Rich? I mean, I don’t know why they should be bothered with this thing.”
Conan said noncommittally, “They’ll probably have to make a statement.” At least he hoped Giff Wills would demand a statement of the Herndons, knowing full well that it was unlikely.
Savanna swallowed as if her mouth had gone dry. “I’ll have to go back to Holliday Beach…make arrangements. Oh, God, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I’ve never been through anything like this before.” Her eyes glinted with tears, but she shook her head, denying them. “I won’t go back to that house. I swore I’d never go back.”
“Well, I doubt you can go back to the house today,” Conan said. “Not until the police are finished with it.”
“Oh. What about Byron and Justine? Marian, are they still in Holliday Beach?”
“Yes. We’re staying for the…well, until you decide on the funeral arrangements.”
Savanna grimaced, then asked, “Is Dana still in Holliday Beach?”
Conan answered, “Yes, the sheriff asked her to stay in town.”
“Then I can stay at the Surf House. Dana’s at Baysea.” Savanna rose, draping the towel around her shoulders. “Conan, has any of this leaked to the press yet?”
“Sheriff Wills seems to be trying to keep a lid on it, but I doubt any lid will hold long, considering that the principles in this case are what you might call household names.”
“You mean somebody still remembers my name?” she asked with a hint of bitterness.
Conan rose. “Would you like me to drive you back to the beach?”
She looked up at him, her eyes luminous. “Yes, I’d like that. I’ll just take a shower and get a few things packed. Excuse me.”
Before she reached the hall, Conan asked, “Do you know when the Herndons will be back?”
“No. Probably not before dark, though.” She paused, then, “You’re a very kind man, Conan. I’m…grateful. You, too, Marian. Thanks for coming.” She disappeared down the hall, and Conan heard a door close.
Marian made a waving motion, a mocking effort to get Conan’s attention, and he realized he had been staring at the empty hall. She said, “Well, I’ve done my duty, so I’ll head back to Holliday Beach.”
He nodded. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
“You really are a gentleman, aren’t you? Maybe that was my second good deed. Bringing you along, I mean. Savanna much prefers male company. And you don’t need to walk me anywhere.”
He settled for walking her to the front door, and when he opened it for her, she looked up over the top of her glasses at him. “Have you added Savanna to your list of suspects?”
“That depends on what the Herndons say about what time it was when she knocked on their door. I mean, Byron Lasky saw Gould alive at about eleven-thirty. If Savanna arrived at the Herndon’s at one-twenty, that only leaves an hour and fifty minutes for the drive from Holliday Beach. It just took us two and a half hours, not counting the stop at Emmy’s Kitchen. I don’t think anyone could drive that road in an hour and fifty minutes, not even in a Ferrari, and that allows no time to commit the murder, and certainly none to break into the bookshop for Cady’s chain saw.”
Marian winced at that. “Well, good luck, Conan. With Savanna in the middle of this, you’re going to nee
d it.”
With that, she headed for the elevator, and Conan closed the door, wondering how he was going to find out what the Herndons had to say. He had reduced his options to zero when he offered to drive Savanna to Holliday Beach. Now he couldn’t simply wait until the Herndons returned and hope they’d answer his questions.
But perhaps he had a hole card.
He found a wall phone in the kitchen, a small space decorated in black and white and designed for devotees of microwave cuisine. He listened for the distant murmur of running water, then got out his phone credit card and punched a Salem number.
Getting through to Steve Havers took a while. His official title was Chief of Detectives for the Salem Division of the Oregon State Police, but Conan knew him from childhood. They had grown up on adjoining ranches near Pendleton, ridden fence together in bone-chilling winters and searing summers, baled hay, rounded up strays, and branded calves together.
He answered tersely: “Travers.”
“Flagg,” Conan countered. “I haven’t much time now—”
“But you need a favor. Something to do with the Gould case?”
“The police grapevine works fast.”
“Well, I had a call from Greg Feingold, and I figured I’d better check with Earl. That’s off the record. All the way off.”
“Then you know the situation with Giff Wills and Earl.”
“Yeah. That damnfool Wills. I was hoping Earl would knock that Stetson off his head this election. Anyway, what’s the favor?”
Conan explained the favor, but Steve hesitated at so blatantly meddling in another law officer’s case, even one he regarded as a damnfool. Conan said, “All I ask is that you call the Herndons. I want what they say on record with someone official, and I doubt Giff Wills will bother to talk to them.”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can find out,” Steve said with a gusty sigh. “But I want to know what’s going on with this case. We’ll stay out of it if we can, but if Giff messes up, he’ll be doing it on network TV, and that leaves all of us spitting dust.”
“I know, Steve. I’ll call you tonight.” Conan hung up and went into the living room. The sound of running water had stopped, and there was something he wanted to check before Savanna reappeared: an anomaly that had bothered him from the moment he first entered the room.
He crossed to the fireplace, knelt in front of it, and frowned at the arrangement of fake logs hiding the gas jets. In August, Savanna hadn’t needed this ersatz fire for heat. Yet something had been burned here, and probably last night. The condo was impeccably clean otherwise, which could no doubt be attributed to a cleaning service, people hired, as Marian had put it, to come in, do the necessary work, then get out from underfoot, and in this case, it was most likely done discreetly in the owners’ absence. This fireplace had undoubtedly been as clean as the rest of the condo at two in the morning when Savanna arrived.
The ashes lay atop the logs. Paper ashes. But some of them had fallen behind the logs. There was just enough room for him to get his head and shoulders into the fireplace to see a few white, uncharred fragments. He was well aware that what he was doing might be construed as tampering with evidence, and he salved his conscience by removing only one of the fragments, leaving at least three smaller ones.
It was a strip about three inches by eight and a half inches, the width of a sheet of typing paper. The top three inches of a sheet of typing paper, in fact. In the upper left corner was typed the words “ODYSSEY/Gould.” In the upper right corner was a number: 241. Then after a space of about an inch, three partial lines of type ending in an irregular, charred edge:
rustle of satin sheets, like snakes writhing toward couplin
Jimmy like he’d taken a load of buckshot in the gut
Anna and Mayley, moaning and panti
Conan felt a little like he, too, had taken a load of buckshot. He went into the kitchen with the fragment, and after opening a few drawers, found a plastic bag. He placed the paper in the bag, then washed the soot off his hands and put the bag in his billfold.
He returned to the living room, stared into the fireplace. Part of Odyssey had been burned here, but there weren’t enough ashes to account for more than a few pages. If Savanna had stolen all the drafts and the notebooks, why had she burned only a few pages? And why would she steal or destroy any of them? And if she did steal or destroy them, did that mean she had also murdered her husband?
He realized he didn’t want to believe that, and his reluctance disturbed him. There was no reason for it. At least, no excuse for it.
Conan heard the door open in the hall, and Savanna came out into the living room and put a small, white leather suitcase down by the couch. She was wearing the peacock blue dress he’d first seen her in, her eyes masked with dark glasses. The small, rectangular purse hanging from her shoulder by a narrow strap was also of white leather. A memory that had been lurking in the recesses of his mind since he saw the bullet wound in Gould’s chest abruptly coalesced into an image. It was the size and shape of this purse that brought the memory into focus. The color was wrong. Orange. It should be orange. Yesterday, while Cady was wreaking havoc with his chain saw, Conan had caught a glimpse of an orange purse on the floor, and among its scattered contents was something he identified at the moment as a small, semiautomatic pistol.
But it had been a brief glimpse under thoroughly distracting conditions. Besides, he couldn’t even be sure the orange purse was Savanna’s.
She said, “Well, I guess I’m ready to go.”
He picked up her suitcase and followed her out of the condo, and when they reached the Ferrari, she handed him the keys, apparently unconcerned about whether he had any experience driving a car of this kind. He slid into the driver’s seat and took a moment to find his way around the controls before he started the engine, noting that the gas gauge registered three-quarters fall.
“This thing must get good mileage,” he said.
She laughed. “It gets lousy mileage. Ravin didn’t buy it for its mileage. He always said he grew up dirt-poor, and now that he was rich, he intended to have the best and most beautiful of everything.”
Conan wondered if she thought that in Ravin Gould’s mind, the best and most beautiful included her.
He left the Eyrie behind with no regrets and had just turned onto the main thoroughfare in front of the shopping mall when he saw the flash of colored lights blinking atop an approaching car. The vehicles ahead of him dutifully pulled over. Conan followed suit and watched a Taft County sheriff’s patrol car pass, followed by a KEEN-TV van with its red, white, and blue stripes.
He recognized Sheriff Gifford Wills at the wheel of the patrol car, but the sheriff didn’t even glance in the direction of the yellow Ferrari. Deputy Neely Jones was again riding shotgun, and Conan was sure she saw the Ferrari. For a moment, she seemed to look straight at Conan. But apparently she didn’t say anything. At least, nothing stopped the forward progress of the small, self-important caravan.
Conan didn’t entirely succeed at restraining his smile.
Chapter 11
Savanna Barany did not remain silent on the drive to Holliday Beach, but neither did she talk about Ravin Gould or his death. Conan listened, occasionally making noncommittal comments, part of his mind focused on managing an unfamiliar car in the Sunday afternoon traffic, another part conscious of the hot summer wind, the gold of harvested wheat and hay fields, the elusive scent of Savanna’s perfume.
She lounged in the bucket seat, the wind whipping her hair to abandoned disorder, and it didn’t seem to matter to her. Yet he knew she was as aware of the sensuousness of her windblown hair as he was. And with the same self-awareness, she had embellished herself with earrings of cascading gold rods that he almost expected to ring like wind chimes, with pale lipstick that enhanced the soft curves of her lips, with eye shadow and mascara that intensified her magnificent eyes, although she only let him see them when he glanced at her in profile. Her sunglasses were an opaque mask w
hen she turned full face.
What she talked about, with a faint Southern accent slipping through, was growing up in Atlanta, where she was born Sarah Lee Barany. That name, of course, had to go. It sounded too much like a frozen pastry, and she changed it when she was fourteen. She talked about her father, Dr. Talbot Barany, an orthopedic surgeon—a true Southern gentleman, she called him—about her mother, Melanie Lee, and her brother, Tal, who was now a gynecologist in Memphis.
And Conan listened between the words and recognized a childhood spent in the gracious surroundings that only money could buy, where, thanks to ubiquitous servants—only one of whose names she seemed to remember—the big, antebellum house was always immaculately clean, meals always appeared punctually, served on china and crystal, and fashionable clothes always hung ready in her closet. It was a childhood in which a beautiful, talented little girl was the focus of her father’s doting devotion, her older brother’s affectionate solicitude, and her mother’s surrogate ambition.
Melanie Lee Barany did all the things made possible by wealth and social position to nurture her daughter’s potential: lessons in dancing, acting, singing, modeling, and when Savanna was only sixteen, the lead in a local production of Annie Get Your Gun. At eighteen, Savanna went to New York, where she had the best training available, and by the time she was twenty-one, she had appeared in minor roles in five Broadway shows, although none survived more than a week. Then, at twenty-two, she was cast as understudy for the role of Mona Fatale in Blitz. A storybook story, it seemed: the star felled by stomach flu opening night, the understudy going on, and—voilà!—a new star, a virtual supernova, was born. Blitz was still a fixture on Broadway, but Savanna left the cast after a year and a half to pursue her destiny in Hollywood.
Conan knew her destiny there included the role of the ruthless heroine in the film version of Ravin Gould’s The Locusts. That was undoubtedly where she met Gould, who wrote the screenplay. But she wasn’t willing now to talk about her life beyond Blitz, and by the time they passed the crest of the Coast Range, she had lapsed into silence.