The Conan Flagg Mysteries: Bundle #3

by M. K. Wren

  Conan didn’t break the silence, not until they reached Holliday Beach’s city limits. “My car’s at the police station, Savanna, and I can have the dispatcher call Westport to see if the sheriff wants to talk to you today.” Conan was well aware that the sheriff was probably at this moment fuming along the Portland highway on his way back from a fruitless search for Savanna Barany at the Eyrie, but Conan intended to go through the motions so Wills would have nothing to complain about.

  Savanna asked, “Who do I talk to about…you know, about the body? I mean, I’ve got to make arrangements for the funeral.”

  “It’ll be up to the medical examiner to release the body. That’s one problem you don’t have to worry about today.” She turned her opaque black stare on him. “Conan, how long will I have to stay here?”

  “I don’t know. That’ll be up to Sheriff Wills.”

  “But I’m supposed to meet Booth Kettering in L.A. on Tuesday. I called my agent this morning, and she says Booth has an option on the film rights for Blitz, and he’s lining up the cast now.”

  Conan responded flatly. “Unfortunately, Savanna, murder has a way of disrupting everyone’s best-laid plans.”

  She turned away, teeth pressed into her lower lip, and he was on the verge of an apology for that tactless reminder, but she nodded and said, “I’ve never been involved in a murder, Conan. I don’t know my lines for this scene.”

  He signaled for a left turn, and when he reached the Holliday Beach police station, turned in to the parking area, which was empty now except for his XK-E. Before he pulled the key out of the ignition, he automatically checked the gas gauge. “Savanna, you’ll have to buy gas before you go very far. You’re almost on empty now.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” she said indifferently.

  “Just don’t forget. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Inside the station, he found Sergeant Dave Hight at the counter reading a copy of The Police Gazette. Conan glanced up at the wall clock. Five-thirty, and the station was quiet. The Sunday evening lull, Kleber called it, when the weekend tourists were already on their way home, and the locals were either settling in for an early night with Monday morning facing them, or hadn’t yet had enough to drink to cause trouble. Kleber’s door was closed, but he was still at his desk, and he wasn’t alone. He was talking with Kara Arno, the physical education teacher at the high school. Kara imparted to her drab surroundings a flavor of the exotic, with her hair in beaded cornrows, her long legs encased in ochre slacks, her belted blouse printed with a bold pattern of vermilion and umber. And Kara was particularly exotic in Holliday Beach, where she was one of only a handful of blacks.

  Hight put his magazine aside. “Hi, Conan. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, you can call Giff Wills and tell him Savanna Barany is here, and if he wants to talk to her now, I’ll drive her down to Westport.”

  “She’s here? Savanna Barany?” Hight seemed to come to attention, his bald head going pink. “You brought her from Portland? Damn, that must’ve been quite a ride.”

  Conan shrugged. “The traffic was terrible.”

  “With Savanna Barany in the same car, you were worried about the traffic?”

  “Dave, did you expect the tires to melt?”

  He sighed. “Something like that.”

  “They seem to be intact. Now, maybe you’d better make that call.”

  “Call? Oh. Sure.” He turned and picked up the phone on the communication console behind him and began dialing.

  Conan asked, “How’s Cady?”

  “Well, he spent most of the day nursing the worst hangover I’ve ever seen. He’s okay now.”

  “Did the sheriff get around to questioning him?”

  “Yeah, a few hours ago. Don’t worry, Herb Latimer sat in on it. The chief saw to that.” Then into the phone, “Hey, Lonnie, this is Dave Hight. Tell the sheriff Savanna Barany is here in Holliday Beach, and if he wants, she’ll come down and—”

  Conan waited through the silence while Lonnie undoubtedly explained that Wills was not at the courthouse and why. He looked into Kleber’s office again, saw that the chief was also on the phone, while Kara Arno restlessly paced the room.

  “Sorry, Conan, but Giff’s out of town,” Hight said, covering the mouthpiece with one hand. “Lonnie didn’t say where.”

  “Maybe he’s still out chasing escaped felons.”

  “No, those guys are back in custody. They stole a car and headed south, but they stopped for a cup of coffee at Beulah’s in Yachats. Seems a couple of State Patrol guys had the same idea at the same time. You want to leave a message with Lonnie?”

  “Yes. Tell him Ms. Barany came prepared to give Sheriff Wills a statement. If and when the sheriff decides he should deign to talk to the widow of the murder victim, she’ll be at the Surf House.”

  Hight relayed that message word for word, apparently enjoying himself. At least he was smiling when he hung up. But his smile vanished when Conan asked, “Why is Kara Arno here?”

  “Well, Dan’s gone missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “Yeah. Somewhere between Portland and Baysea. Dan flew choppers for four years in Nam and came through without a scratch, and Lord knows how many times he’s made that shuttle run. But he didn’t come home from this last one.”

  Conan felt an emptiness under his ribs. He didn’t know Dan Arno well, but he admired his ambition because it was tempered with a sense of humor. Perhaps that was how Arno survived four years in Vietnam and kept himself mentally whole in the years after. And perhaps his stability could also be attributed to the woman waiting in Kleber’s office for someone to tell her if her husband had survived one of thousands of helicopter flights from Portland to Baysea Resort’s airfield.

  Conan said. “I hope…well, maybe there’s still a chance that he’ll walk out of the mountains.”

  “Yeah. Maybe so,” Hight agreed with no conviction. “Oh—I almost forgot. The chief says he’s done with the bookshop. You can open it up tomorrow.”

  “Miss Dobie will be overjoyed. The bookshop is always closed on Mondays anyway. Dave, I need to talk to Cady.”

  “Well, the trouble is, Giff left orders that nobody was to talk to him except his lawyer till Giff gives the word. The chief said to go along with that. Said he didn’t want to give Giff any grounds for grousing.”

  Conan started for the front door. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Dave.”

  When Conan closed the door behind him, he saw Savanna leaning against the Ferrari, pushing back her wind-caught hair with one hand. He said, “Ferrari should hire you to show off their cars.”

  “Well, if they made me a decent offer,” she retorted, her stance becoming a purposeful pose, “I’d do it in a minute. So, what’s our next stop? The sheriff’s office?”

  “No. The sheriff was called out of town. You’ll be hearing from him, but probably not till tomorrow. I guess the next stop for you is the Surf House. By the way, I know the owners of the restaurant there, and they treat me very nicely. Would you like to have dinner with me?”

  She took off her sunglasses to study him. “Well, I have a problem when I eat in public places, Conan. People still recognize me, and that can be a hassle. And I’m not really looking forward to a room-service dinner. You know, I can cook, and you must have a kitchen.”

  “Yes, I have a kitchen,” he admitted with a wry smile. And he understood what she was asking. She wasn’t yet ready to be alone, and apparently the Laskys’ or Marian’s company didn’t appeal to her. He reached into his pants pocket for his key ring, took off the key to his front door, and gave her directions for finding the house, then added, “Don’t start cooking till I get there.”

  “Thanks, Conan.” She leaned forward to leave a kiss on his cheek, but before he could respond in any way, she opened the car door and slid behind the wheel.

  “Savanna, I hope you make it to L.A. for that appointment with Booth Kettering. No one else can do Mona Fatale justice.”


  She laughed as she started the motor. “Be careful, Conan. I could learn to love a man who says things like that.”

  Chapter 12

  “It has to do with the way the atmosphere breaks up the sunlight into its component colors, like a rainbow. That puts a blue or green rim at the top of the sun, and the atmosphere magnifies it….” Conan sighed and gave up his attempt to explain the green flash they had just watched. Savanna was listening to him, but not to what he was saying.

  She sat across from him at the circular redwood table on the deck fronting his house. The table was cluttered with the remains of their meal. He had averted any culinary attempts on her part by bringing dinner from the Surf House: Dungeness crab Louis, sourdough garlic bread, and a Knudsen Erath Chardonnay. The salads were served in bowls as big as half a basketball, yet Savanna had demolished hers to the last shred of lettuce with unabashed gusto. But throughout the meal, she didn’t once speak, even obliquely, about her husband or his murder. Now she sat holding a glass of wine, and the sunset fired her hair, deepened the violet in her blue eyes.

  Conan took time to light a cigarette. “You know, Savanna, I have a job of work to do. I can’t ignore it, and neither can you.”

  “Oh, I can try.” She studied him with her eyes hooded. “So you really are a PI? How did you ever get into something like that?”

  “I did a stint with G-2. Army intelligence. And yes, I know that’s a contradiction in terms, but I had an unusual CO. I just didn’t feel I should waste all that training.”

  “Is this what you do for a living?”

  “Fortunately I don’t have to depend on it for a living.”

  “Then why do you do it?”

  Conan shrugged. “Because it’s there. Something like that.”

  “And that logger is your client? What’s his name?”

  “Cady MacGill.”

  “But he…he killed Ravin.” A pause while she searched Conan’s face. “Didn’t he?”

  Conan took a puff on his cigarette, watched the wind catch the smoke. “Cady didn’t kill him, Savanna.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Cady has many shortcomings, including a capacity for violence, but only the kind of violence acceptable to his code of ethics, which is limited to killing animals in the name of sport, or a brawl now and then at the Last Resort. Gould’s murder was far too complicated for him.”

  Savanna rose and went to the railing, stood staring at the calm, summer sea. Conan watched her and waited.

  Finally she turned. “Conan, I believe you. I mean, about Cady MacGill. But if he didn’t kill Ravin, for God’s sake, who did?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think I did?”

  “I said I don’t know who killed him.”

  “But I’m a suspect.” She nodded absently. “I can understand that, considering how I felt about him, and I suppose I’ll be his heir—unless he did make a will and left everything to the Old Machos’ Home.”

  “Do you know if he had a lawyer?”

  “Yes. Marvin Wanner. His office is in San Francisco.”

  “He might know if Gould left a will. One thing I must ask you, Savanna. You own a gun, don’t you? A small automatic?”

  “Me?” She regarded him with a doubtful half-smile. “I hate guns. Even prop guns. I had to use one in The Locusts. Gave me the shivers.”

  Conan didn’t pursue that subject. “What about the missing manuscripts. Do you have any idea why anyone would steal them?”

  “No, but if I’m Ravin’s heir, that should ease your mind about me. I mean, if I killed him, why would I steal the manuscripts? If I’m his heir, I can sign the contracts. And collect the royalties. Of course, I don’t know whether it was at a point where it could be published.”

  “You haven’t read it?”

  She laughed. “Nobody read his manuscripts.”

  “And you never took a quick look when he wasn’t around?”

  She gave Conan an oblique smile. “Well, I did once when I first knew him. He was working on Stud. But he caught me and went into a rage over it. As for Odyssey…well, I just didn’t give a damn by then.”

  “You don’t have any idea what Odyssey is about?”

  “Only that he called it an autobiographical novel. The story of James Ravin Gould, you know, as if the world was just waiting to hear all the boring details of his life.”

  “It’s always amazing what the world is waiting to hear, Savanna. Didn’t he keep a copy of his latest draft somewhere for safekeeping?”

  “I don’t know. Why all the questions about the manuscripts?”

  He rose, joined her at the railing, and looked out at the gold-laced sea. “Because they were stolen from the scene of a murder. The question is, was that an act of spite or revenge, or was there something in the manuscripts that someone didn’t want the world to hear about?”

  “Well, I don’t know what it was. And I don’t care. I don’t care if the manuscripts are ever found. I don’t even care if anybody ever figures out who killed him. I just don’t care!” There was a chilling anger in that, but a moment later her eyes filled with the first tears Conan had seen her shed. “I loved him. Once upon a time, I loved him more than I ever loved anybody. But I got over that long ago. And now I want to get on with my life. Do you know I haven’t had a movie offer in two years? And when I did Blitz in Hawaii, that was a local production, and half the cast were amateurs. I just did it because I was going crazy sitting around waiting on Ravin like some cozy little housewife. He liked for me to be handy whenever he called, and he made sure I stayed handy. It wasn’t till six months after I married him that I realized what he was doing, and it didn’t stop then.”

  Conan frowned. “What do you mean? What was he doing?”

  “He was making sure I never worked again. I don’t know how many phone messages I didn’t get because he got to them first. He even told people I’d retired, and I lost one agent because of him. And he kept telling me he couldn’t stand to be separated from me, that he loved me.” Her eyes closed, tears escaping to streak her cheeks. “And you know, I…I kept believing him….”

  Conan restrained the impulse to take her in his arms, to comfort her like a hurt child. He wasn’t sure he trusted himself. What he felt now in the face of her aching bitterness was as irrational as his response to a moving passage of music; it reached into the ancient brain beneath the veneer of rationality.

  He asked, “How long were you married to Gould?”

  She took a deep breath, hurriedly wiped her cheeks. “Nearly three years. It would’ve been three years in October.”

  “Gould never had any children?”

  “Well, not by any of his four wives. God knows, I wanted a baby. At first, anyway.”

  “His four wives?” Marian Rosenthal had mentioned three wives. Still, she hadn’t been sure of the number.

  “I was number four,” Savanna said bitterly. “That should’ve told me something. The first was Julie something. Sanzio? That was back in what Ravin called his flower-child period. Then after the money started rolling in, Julie got lost in the shuffle, and he married Erin Chelsey.”

  “The model.”

  “Yes. That was her only talent, from what I hear, looking good in clothes. Well, maybe she looked good out of them, too. Six feet tall with red hair down to her buns.” Savanna ran her fingers through her own hair, her laugh caustic. “I think Ravin had a thing for tall women with red hair. I don’t know about his first wife, but I’m five ten, and Allison was about the same height, and she had red hair, too. Auburn, really.”

  Conan frowned, taking a puff on his cigarette. “Allison?”

  “Didn’t Marian tell you?” Savanna’s eyes narrowed, a knowing smile shadowing her lips. “Allison Rosenthal. Marian’s daughter.”

  Conan realized he was holding his breath. He flicked the ash from his cigarette into the salal below the deck. “No, Marian didn’t tell me.”

  “Well, I can unde
rstand why she wouldn’t want to talk about it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Allison died. That was about five years ago.”

  “How did she die?”

  “A car accident.” Savanna looked up at him with a direct, almost challenging gaze. “Ravin was driving. They’d been to Marian and Jacob’s place on Long Island for dinner. It happened on the drive back to the apartment in Manhattan. Ravin lost control. Hit a garbage truck.”

  “Was he drunk?”

  “Marian always claimed he was, but the blood tests they did at the hospital got lost somehow. He wasn’t even cited.”

  “He was injured?”

  She nodded. “Concussion, broken ribs, broken arm.” She turned to look out at the sea, going gray now as the light faded. “Poor Marian, she took it so hard. I mean, Allison was the only one of her children who wanted to go into publishing. She was an editorial assistant or something when she met Ravin, and I guess she was a really sweet person. I was surprised when Marian came here with the Laskys. They’re good friends, I know, but Marian has hardly spoken to Ravin since Allison died, except when she had to, and then it was all business.”

  For a while Conan remained silent, absorbing that, then he looked at his watch, went back to the table to put out his cigarette. “It’s after eight, Savanna. Did you call the Surf House?”

  She admitted with a show of reluctance, “No, I didn’t.”

  “I’ll call them, but you may have trouble getting a room this late.”

  She followed him to the sliding glass door into the living room, and when he turned on the lights, she strolled idly to the concert grand, the centerpiece of the room, shining ebony black against the plum reds and deep blues of a Lilahan carpet. “Do you play?” she asked.

  “Not really. I sometimes enjoy hearing the sound of this piano.” He hoped she wouldn’t ask to play the Bösendorfer, although he had no doubt that as a child, she had studied piano. But there was only one person whom he afforded that privilege willingly, and she was on a concert tour in Japan.

  Savanna looked at him with her head tilted to one side. “Conan, I don’t want to spend the night in a motel. Not this night. I don’t want to be alone, I don’t want to be with strangers, and I don’t want to be with Byron or Justine or Marian. All we ever had in common was Ravin.”