by M. K. Wren
She said nothing more, but her alternatives were obvious: she couldn’t stay at the Dunlin Beach house tonight, and she didn’t know anyone else in Holliday Beach.
Except Conan Flagg.
“I have a guest room upstairs,” he said. “You’re welcome to it.”
“I’d be very grateful, Conan.”
There were no innuendos in that. He crossed to the spiral staircase beyond the piano. “Come on, I’ll show you the room.”
She followed him up the stairs, and when he reached the balcony, he went into the room on the south end and flicked on the light. She paused inside the door. “It’s very nice.”
Conan had gone to some trouble to make this room nice, although it was seldom occupied. It had the west-facing windows that were de rigueur for every room in his house. The colors were cool earth tones inspired by the reproduction over the bed: O’Keeffe’s Black Iris. It was the only reproduction in the house. The original was locked in a museum, beyond his reach and means, and he had to satisfy himself with this facsimile.
He said, “I’ll get your suitcase. Where are your car keys?”
“Downstairs on the bar. Thanks, Conan.”
He only shrugged as he left the room. When he reached her car, he considered moving it into the garage. The Ferrari was highly visible identification. Then he got her small suitcase out of the passenger seat footwell, annoyed at himself. Whose business was it where she spent the night? And why should he feel uncomfortable about having this attractive and perhaps vulnerable woman in his house?
He knew all too well that if he thought about it, he’d find many answers to that last question.
She was by the stereo console in the north end of the living room studying the titles in his tape library when he returned. He took her suitcase up to the guest room, and as he descended the staircase, said, “Savanna, I have to make some phone calls.”
She turned, smiled faintly at him. “You don’t have to entertain me, Conan. Is it all right if I put some music on?” Then, perhaps interpreting his hesitation—correctly—as reluctance to let anyone else operate his stereo system, she added, “I’ll be very careful.”
He laughed. “Have at it. Would you like some coffee?”
“No. I don’t drink coffee. I get an allergic reaction, even with decaffeinated. Go on, now. Take care of your calls. I’m okay.”
He finally nodded. “I’ll be in the library.”
When he closed the library door and settled in the chair behind the desk, he lighted a cigarette and stared at the phone, trying to refocus his thoughts, and realized he hadn’t checked his answering machine since he came home. He turned it on at the same moment the room speakers burst forth with the emphatic opening chords of The Sleeping Beauty, and he smiled. He wouldn’t have ventured a guess at what music Savanna might choose, but the Tchaikovsky didn’t surprise him.
There were few messages; only a handful of people knew this unlisted number. Two calls from his aunt Dolly Flagg, one expressing forbearing amazement that he hadn’t told her he was going to England, another inviting him to a family reunion at the Ten-Mile Ranch over the Labor Day weekend. “I’ve asked Marge Hirsch’s niece. Such a lovely girl, and a bookworm, just like you.” That message he would ignore. Then three calls from his cousin Avery Flagg, who had—willingly enough—assumed the burden of managing the Ten-Mile when Conan chose to depart the dry solitude of Eastern Oregon. Avery’s messages detailed his problems with importing sheep from New Zealand, which Conan would also ignore. He had long ago made clear his feelings about running sheep on the Ten-Mile. That arid land wouldn’t stand up to it.
Another message was only a few hours old: Shelly Gage asking him to call her. She’d heard a rumor that Ravin Gould had died or been killed. That was another message he had no intention of answering.
Finally he pulled the phone toward him, punched a number, and turned his chair to watch the last glow of color fading at the horizon. Miss Beatrice Dobie answered on the second ring.
“Miss Dobie, I thought you’d like to know that Earl has finished his investigation of the break-in.”
He heard a sarcastic “Ha! His investigation left a lot to be desired, if you ask me. But what about Ravin Gould? Was he really murdered?”
“Yes, but that’s classified information for the time being.”
“Oh, of course. You’re working on the case? I heard Earl has Cady MacGill in custody. Is he your client?”
“Angie hired me to do what I can on Cady’s behalf. And that’s all I can say now. I just wanted to tell you about the shop.”
“I suppose Earl says we can open tomorrow. He closes us up on a Prime-Time Sunday, then says it’s all right to open on Monday.”
“Life is inherently unfair, Miss Dobie.”
“Yes. Well, Hi Hitchcock is coming tomorrow to repair the doors and that bookshelf, so I might as well keep the shop open. I’ll be there anyway. I suppose you’ll be…otherwise occupied?”
“I suppose I will, but I’ll stop in if I can. Good night, Miss Dobie.”
“Good night, Mr. Flagg. And good luck.”
He hung up, listened for a moment to the sparkling harp entroit to the adagio pas d’action, then turned on the desk lamp, opened his address book to the Fs, and punched a number. After seven rings, he heard an impatient “Fitch, here. Who the hell is this?”
Conan laughed at that curt greeting. Marcus Fitch was a man who relished his anomalous existence, a man whose bearing commanded respect, a man with a penchant for expensive cars and impeccably tailored suits, a black man who had fought his way out of the unbarred prison of poverty and prejudice into which he had been born. And Marcus Fitch was the best criminal lawyer Conan knew.
“Conan Flagg is who the hell, Marc.”
“Ah, my favorite semi-native American. Conan, I know you folks down at the coast live a quiet life far from the madding crowd and madding clocks and calendars, but let me tell you something: This is what is known in the real world as the weekend. Not much left of it, I admit, but I’m here in the sanctuary of my home enjoying the last moments of my weekend with an intelligent and lovely lady who will soon share my life—two weeks of it, anyway—in Majorca, and we are not amused at having our sharing interrupted.”
Conan offered no apology beyond “I sympathize, Marc, but business before pleasure. I have a client for you.”
“No! Absolutely not! I’m leaving in two days for a well-deserved vacation, and I will not be conned into taking on one of your clients. Besides, they’re usually charity cases.”
“And you are usually the recipient of the charity. You’ve heard of a writer named Ravin Gould? Married to Savanna Barany?”
A brief silence, then: “Who hasn’t heard of them? Incidentally, I enjoyed your live-action show on TV last night.”
Conan took a puff on his cigarette, blew smoke out impatiently. “Yes, I’m sure you did. And that’s a good introduction to your client.”
“Ravin Gould? Or dare I dream it—La Barany?”
“Not Gould. He was murdered last night, Marc. Your client is the man who’s now in custody as suspect number one: Cady MacGill.”
“The guy who was going to cut Gould’s bleeps off?” Fitch laughed heartily. “So, did he?”
“No. But somebody nearly cut Gould’s head off with Cady’s chain saw. After shooting him in the heart.”
“Damn, Conan, that’s weird.”
“Is it weird enough to induce you to delay your vacation?”
A long sigh. “It’s weird enough. Where’s my client being held?”
“Right here in quiet, unclocked, uncalendared Holliday Beach. By the way, Cady is Earl Kleber’s son-in-law.”
“Now, that is really weird. Look, I have to be in court tomorrow morning, but I’ll be down in the afternoon. About three. Okay?”
“Okay, Marc.” Fitch hung up without further ado, and Conan paused for a drag on his cigarette before he punched another number.
Steve Travers answered as
if he’d been waiting by the phone. “Conan, you’re late. I figured you’d be calling before six.”
“And ruin my dinner? Did you talk to the Herndons?”
“Well, I talked to Mr. Herndon—just call me Rich, he says—and I had Jeff Kaw do a quick background check. Nice, squeaky-clean, yuppie couple. Both in their thirties and second marriages. No children. He’s a stockbroker, she’s an executive at the Port of Portland. They’re so credible, it gives you goose bumps.”
Conan leaned back in his chair. “Well, when you recover from your chills of ecstasy, will you tell me what just-call-me-Rich said?”
“He corroborated Savanna’s time of arrival at the condo. One-twenty. And about six-thirty this morning when they left for their trek on Mount Hood, they saw the Ferrari parked outside.”
Conan closed his eyes, surprised at the intensity of his relief. “Thanks, Steve.”
“Looks like Savanna’s off the hook. At least, she is if that literary agent—what’s his name?”
“Byron Lasky. He said he saw Gould alive at about eleven-thirty.”
“Right. And even in a Ferrari, she couldn’t drive from Holliday Beach to Valley West in an hour and fifty minutes.”
“Minus the time necessary to kill Gould. Besides, it’s likely Savanna made a stop on the way, although she said she didn’t. I drove her back to Holliday Beach in the Ferrari, and the gas gauge read three-quarters fall when we left the condo. I know she didn’t drive from here to Valley West on a quarter of a tank of gas. She probably had to stop near MacMinnville. I watched the gauge today, and it was another quarter down about there.”
Steve said dryly, “Glad to see you’re not totally dazzled by Gould’s sexy widow. You’re still managing a little detective work.”
Conan laughed. “Yes, I am dazzled, Steve. I’m only human.”
“Glad to hear that, too.”
“What else did Rich have to say?”
“Just that Savanna was nearly hysterical when she arrived. They took her in and talked to her—or let her talk—till she calmed down. They said she left their condo about two. They didn’t check on her in the morning. Not at six-thirty.”
“Neighborly of them. By the way, Shelly Gage left a message on my answering machine. She’s been hearing rumors about Gould’s death.”
Steve’s sigh was audible. “She’s not the only one. We’ve been getting a lot of flak from the press, but good ol’ Giff has scheduled a press conference at the Taft County Courthouse at eight tomorrow morning. He won’t have the autopsy or any of the lab reports by then. I don’t know how he expects to answer any questions.”
“Giff’s a politician. He can answer questions for hours without answering a single question.”
“Yeah. Well, keep me up-to-date.”
“I will, Steve. Thanks.” Conan cradled the receiver and sat motionless in the pool of light cast by the desk lamp. He could no longer see the surf, nor even hear the breakers turning, not over the music that filled the room, filled the house, just as Savanna Barany’s presence filled it. He thought of the Dunlin Beach house, of the condo in Portland, places she had lived but left no imprint upon. There was something fey and ephemeral about her, yet any space she occupied, she dominated.
He tapped the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray, focusing his attention on the music. The overture from Romeo and Juliet.
At length, he turned on the answering machine again, rewinding until he came to Shelly’s message. Then he punched the phone number she had left, waited for her brisk “Hello?”
“Shelly, this is Conan Flagg.”
“Thank God you called, Conan. What’s going on down there?”
“No comment, Shelly, but there’ll be a press conference—”
She cut in irritably. “Yes, I know about that, but—”
“And you know I can’t jeopardize my good relations with the police by telling you anything now.”
“How good are your relations with Gifford Wills, anyway? That old blowhard! Do you know what he did to me this afternoon?”
Conan could guess, but he played straight man. “What did he do?”
“He called me at the studios, said he’s on his way to notify Savanna Barany of the death of her husband, and he figured it might be a newsworthy event. Something like that. So I pull a crew off another story, and we follow Giff out to the Gould condo in Valley West, and guess what? Nobody’s home. He could’ve at least called ahead.”
“Giff isn’t in the habit of such courtesies.”
“I noticed, but before I was through with him, he got the message that he’d damn well better not send me on any more wild-goose chases. Okay, so why are you calling me?”
“Oh, I was just wondering about the videotape of yesterday’s donnybrook at the bookshop.”
A pause, then: “You want to see the tape?”
“If possible. The unedited version.”
“It’ll cost you, Conan.”
“Yes, I thought it would. What?”
“An exclusive interview.”
Conan grimaced. “Maybe I’ll ask Sheriff Wills to subpoena the tape. I have a feeling he wouldn’t mind hassling you a bit.”
“Oh, damn you. Okay, then maybe you’ll just think kindly of me when this is over, and maybe you’ll let me have first crack at it?”
“That I can promise. The kindly thoughts, at least. And yes, I’ll give you first crack at whatever I’m in a position to offer. Deal?”
Shelly laughed. “Do I have a choice? Okay, I’ll see what’s available and send you a copy.”
“Can I play it on a VCR? And can you get it to me tomorrow?”
“That’s what I like about you, Conan. You’re so much into high tech. Yes, you can play it on a VCR, and yes, I can get it to you tomorrow if I can find somebody to bring it down.”
“Do you know Marcus Fitch?”
“Dandy Marc Fitch? Sure.”
“Send the tape to him. He’s coming to Holliday Beach tomorrow.”
“Who’s he representing?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“Right. Just remember, Conan—you owe me.”
“I’ll remember. Good night, Shelly.”
When he hung up, he frowned at the phone, well aware that there was nothing more he could do now. He put out his cigarette, rubbed his eyes, wondering if he would sleep tonight. At length, he came to his feet, took a last look into the corner where the Knight offered the rose of love and the butterfly of hope, then turned out the light and made his way to the door.
The living room was empty and dark, yet he had the sense of something waiting in the shadows. A ghost of a fragrance, a ghost of…what? He looked up at the balcony. There was no light within the open door of the guest room. The only light was the dim glow coming from his bedroom at the north end of the balcony.
He went up the stairs, approached his door hesitantly, and finally entered. The light on the bedside table was on, and Savanna stood at the open door onto the deck, the scrim curtains blowing around her, her bare feet sinking into the winter-sea-hued carpet as she turned to face him. Her white nightgown clung lightly to her body, the bodice cut in a deep curve within which the sweet contours of her breasts weren’t so much confined as confirmed.
He recognized the music: the opening moderato from Swan Lake.
Conan, whose feelings at the moment were anything but moderated, thought: this is ridiculous. But he couldn’t manage a laugh.
She moved toward him as silently as the wind, surrounded him—or so it seemed—with her perfume. Her eyes, hooded and dark, were fixed on his. She stood before him, not quite touching him, yet he thought he could feel the warmth of her skin.
Dazzled, he thought, yes, I am dazzled. And I am indeed only human.
But he held his hands at his sides, even when she reached out and lightly ran her fingers over the planes of his face, as if she were blind, seeing by touch.
And finally he spoke her name. “Savanna…”
She
withdrew her hand, and there was in her smile an equivocal poignancy. Her voice was husky, almost a whisper. “Ravin once called me a frigid slut masquerading as Aphrodite.”
He felt the words like a slap in the face, as she must have when she first heard them. But he didn’t speak. She had more to say.
“For a long time, Conan, I wondered if he wasn’t right. Yet I was faithful to him. He never believed that, and I don’t expect you to believe it, either, but it doesn’t matter. Now I’m free. Not because he’s dead. Maybe I just don’t understand that yet. I’m free because I set myself free. I walked out on him. I left him. And I’m free.”
“I doubt that, Savanna. Not yet.”
She laughed softly. “Oh, you’re wrong. But you’re a man of honor, aren’t you? Conan, I can’t offer love. I’m not even sure I know what love is anymore. But I think you know, and that’s why I can trust you.”
Perhaps that trust set him free. He cupped her face in his hands, saw his skin bronze against her ivory cheeks, and he leaned toward her, closed his eyes at the gentle shock of her mouth against his. And the music he wanted to hear at this moment was a song freighted with sadness and ambiguous surprise.
I never asked for forever…only for today….
Chapter 13
The phone rang—for the second morning in a row—at eight-ten.
But on this morning, Conan was already awake. He was sitting up in bed smoking a cigarette while he watched Savanna Barany sleep. He caught the phone in midring. “Yes?”
“Conan? This is Angie. Dad said he cleared it with Giff for me to see Cady. And you, too. I mean, I knew you’d want to talk to him.”
Savanna stirred, the sheet twisting around her legs as she turned, propped herself on her elbows. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, and she smiled sleepily, like a child waking up on a birthday.
Conan said into the phone, “Of course I want to talk to him. When can I see him?” He gently brushed Savanna’s hair back, and she kissed him at the curve of his jaw, then rested her head on his shoulder, her arm across his body, ivory on bronze.