The Conan Flagg Mysteries: Bundle #3

by M. K. Wren

  “About Gould?”

  “No. That was before I even knew about that bastard. We got into a fight because I figure Mike needs a little brother or sister. It’s not natural, letting a kid grow up by himself. Angel and me’d been through that before, but this time she flew mad. I never seen her so mad. Said she nearly died when Mike was born. Well, maybe she had a hard time, but she was nowhere near dying. Then she started in about how Ravin wouldn’t ask her to go through that again or give up her career. Career! Hell, it’s just typing and figuring accounts, and I told her so. And that’s when she told me about her and that little shit, just throwing it in my face, and damn it, a man can’t take that! You gotta do something!”

  Conan nodded through an exhalation of smoke. “Well, you definitely did something.”

  “Yeah.” Cady sighed. “I swear to God, I only meant to scare him.”

  “So, after your stunning television debut, what did you do?”

  His massive shoulders shifted in a shrug. “I went home first, but I couldn’t—I didn’t want to stay there. I mean, I didn’t want to be there when Angie came home. I mean, I just…well, I just couldn’t talk to her, not right then. So I told Mike to go over to the Jamisons’, and I—well, I went down to the Last Resort. But Abie said the police had been there looking for me. Sam and Travis was there and—”

  “Who?”

  “Sam Lowder and Travis Wheeler. Sam’s a faller, too, and Travis is a Cat skinner. Known ’em for years. Anyway, Sam says why don’t we pick up a case of beer and go over to his house. So we did.”

  Conan waited. “Then what?” he asked finally.

  “Then nothin’. We just sat around and talked, the three of us.”

  “And drank beer.”

  Cady tipped his chair back, ignoring its groan. “Yeah. Then about four in the afternoon, Billy Todd came by asking about me, but Sam told him he hadn’t seen me. And later—I don’t exactly know when it was, but it was after dark—Sam and Travis took me home. Don’t remember much about that, ’cept Angel and Mike were gone. Nobody home.”

  “Where was your car?”

  “Don’t have a car. Chevy pickup. I left it down at the Last Resort when we went to Sam’s. I guess one of the guys drove it to my house when they took me home. It was in the driveway in the morning.”

  “And what did you do when you got home?”

  He loosed a bark of a laugh. “Passed out. The guys put me to bed. Don’t remember a thing after my head hit the pillow.”

  Conan inhaled on his cigarette, and he didn’t envy Marc Fitch this client. “So, you can’t account for your time after your friends left you, and you had transportation handy.”

  “I was passed out, damn it!”

  “But you can’t prove that. Unless Sam or Travis stayed with you the rest of the night.” And while Cady shook his head, Conan said, “I’m almost afraid to ask, but do you own a small handgun?”

  “You mean one of those little popguns? Hell, no. Sheriff Wills asked me that. How come?”

  “Because Ravin Gould was shot in the heart—before he nearly lost his head to your chain saw.”

  Cady’s mouth went slack. “Hey, now, that…that’s weird.”

  “Yes, weird seems to be the consensus. Did you happen to read any of Gould’s manuscripts while Angie was working on them?”

  “Course not. I never go into her office. She doesn’t like me or Mike bothering her in there.”

  Conan nodded. “Cady, is there anything else I should know?”

  He pulled in a deep breath, letting it out in a weary sigh. “No. I guess I’m in real trouble, aren’t I?”

  “Yes, I guess you are.”

  “But I didn’t kill that bastard, I swear it!”

  “I believe you.” Conan crushed out his cigarette and rose. “Marc Fitch will be here about three, and you’d damn well better tell him everything he wants to know and do exactly what he says.”

  Cady bristled at that, but finally said almost meekly, “Okay.”

  “And by the way, I still expect you to pay for the damage you did at the bookshop.”

  “I’ll make good on it,” he insisted. “Somehow.”

  Conan went to the door and knocked, and when Charlie opened it, Angie and Michael were waiting outside. Conan said, “Angie, you can go in now,” then walked away from her and the questions she was so obviously champing at the bit to ask. He heard the boisterous sounds of Cady’s greetings before Charlie again closed and locked the door.

  Kleber was at the front desk conferring with Dave Hight, while Billy Todd was at the entrance, using his bulk and boyishly honest manner to convince a covey of reporters that they were not welcome. Conan reached the counter in time to hear the chief say to Hight, “We’ll pass the hat here. Dan helped us out with his chopper so many times. Damn. After four years in Nam, and now this. Makes you wonder.…” But Kleber apparently wasn’t willing to verbalize his wondering.

  Conan asked, “Dan Arno? Is that who you’re talking about?”

  Kleber turned, jaw muscles bunched. “Dan got himself killed. Routine trip back from Portland early Sunday morning, and he crashed on Spirit Mountain over near Grande Ronde. I just got back from telling Kara. The kids were home. Dan Junior’s just starting high school this fall, and Noele…she’s only ten years old.”

  Conan was willing to wonder about what Kleber wouldn’t enunciate: about the role of blind luck in human affairs. But he didn’t voice his musings, knowing Kleber to be a churchgoing man who firmly believed there was a purpose in events and lives.

  “If you’re passing the hat, I’ll add something,” Conan said as he pulled his billfold out of his back pocket. Then he frowned, finding a total of twenty-one dollars in it. “After I go to the bank,” he amended.

  Kleber nodded. “I figure Kara can use anything you can spare. Odd, though, Dan had already started passing the hat, so to speak.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Dom Kouros from the NATSB called me about Dan. He said they found nearly eight hundred dollars cash on him. Must’ve been getting some extra runs in. Kara said they’d been saving up for a vacation in Hawaii.” He glanced back toward the interrogation room, asked, “You get anything useful out of Cady?”

  “Not really. By the way, Marc Fitch will be arriving this afternoon.”

  “Yeah, Angela told me. Well, Fitch is going to have a hell of a time pulling this one out of the fire.”

  Conan only nodded as he headed for the door.

  Chapter 15

  The Taft Bank had been among the first businesses to move into the new shopping mall at the north end of town, and Conan left his accounts with them in spite of his resentment for the mall with its blandly anonymous design. It seemed to say, smugly, that the quaint little village of Holliday Beach was acquiring Progress. The next thing, Conan thought bleakly, would be a McDonald’s.

  He drove into the parking lot, which in summer was much like playing bumper cars, and as he neared the bank, he saw a car backing out of a slot in front of it: a yellow Ferrari.

  It was Savanna, but she turned and drove away from him, apparently without noticing him.

  He swung into the empty slot, and when he entered the beferned interior of the bank, a young woman stood ready at her window with a smile. “Hi, Conan. How was your trip to England?”

  “Delightful, Ellie.” He took a check out of his billfold, began filling in the spaces. “Wasn’t that Savanna Barany I saw leaving the bank?”

  “Sure was. She and Mr. Gould opened an account here, you know. She came in to close it and clear out their safety deposit box.”

  Conan stared at Ellie. “Did she take anything out of the box?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I’m not supposed to watch what people do when they get into their boxes. Of course, I usually don’t handle that anyway, but Marie’s out to lunch.”

  “You haven’t heard about Ravin Gould?”

  Ellie hesitated, then: “Well, I heard he’d been murde
red.”

  Conan finished writing out his check. No doubt Ellie would find out soon enough that the IRS frowned on survivors opening safety deposit boxes before its agents had a chance to inventory the contents. “If you’ll just cash this for me, Ellie. And may I have an envelope?”

  Conan drove back to the police station, wondering why it should bother him that Savanna had cleared out the checking account and safety deposit box. To her it would be a perfectly reasonable thing to do, since she didn’t plan to stay in Holliday Beach any longer than necessary. She’d had no experience with the legal aftermath of death, nor, he was sure, any direct dealings with the IRS. Such details would be handled for her by agents, accountants, or lawyers.

  *

  When Conan returned to the Holliday Beach Police Station, Sergeant Hight was at the counter consuming a chocolate-iced doughnut with a mug of coffee. The door into Kleber’s office was open, and the chief was laboriously pecking out a report on a typewriter.

  Conan handed Hight an envelope. “This is for Kara. Has Angie left yet?”

  Hight nodded as he licked chocolate off his fingers. “Said she had to take Michael down to the grade school. They’re running a summer soccer clinic for the kids. I guess Mike’s one of their stars. Damn!”

  That expletive was in response to the tan patrol car that had pulled into the parking area outside.

  “Chief!” Hight hollered. “It’s Giff Wills.”

  And it was indeed Sheriff Gifford Wills who emerged from the driver’s side, adjusted his Stetson, and headed for the entrance, while Deputy Neely Jones followed at her usual ironically respectful distance.

  Kleber rose to look out his own window, then, swearing volubly, went to his office door and closed it, after which he returned to his desk to pound at the hapless typewriter, while Dave Hight hid the remains of the doughnut in a drawer under the counter and napkined his mouth and hands. Wills strode into the station, every step marked with the leathery squeak of his gun belt. Deputy Neely Jones was right behind him, ramrod-straight, soberly businesslike. She didn’t squeak.

  Wills nodded at Hight. “Mornin’, Dave.” He looked into Kleber’s office, but the chief was assiduously beating the typewriter to death.

  Hight asked, “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

  “I want to talk to MacGill, have him check his statement.”

  Conan leaned on the end of the counter and said, “Not without his lawyer present, Sheriff.”

  Wills stared at Conan, as if seeing him for the first time. “This is none of your business, Flagg.”

  The sheriff usually put on a show of friendliness for Conan in their occasional encounters. But not today. Conan said, “Yes, it is my business, because Cady MacGill is my client.”

  “Your client?” Wills’s face turned a blotchy pink. “I should’ve seen that coming. Okay, you can sit in while I talk to him. Damn it, I just want him to go over his statement before he signs it.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m not a lawyer. By the way, Cady’s hired a new lawyer. He’ll be here this afternoon. Marcus Fitch.”

  At that, Conan caught a twitch of a smile escaping Neely Jones’s careful control. She met Conan’s eyes, then looked away. The sheriff’s response was less controlled. It was a bellowed “Marcus Fitch! What the hell’re you trying to do, Flagg? Make a circus out of this thing?”

  “Anyone accused of a crime is entitled to the best legal counsel available. Have you talked to Ms. Barany yet?”

  The sheriff’s blood pressure was obviously rising dangerously. “I would’ve talked to her if I could’ve found her!”

  “Lonnie didn’t give you my message? She was ready to make a statement yesterday, but you weren’t available. Anyway, she’s staying at the Surf House. Oh—you might want to question her neighbors at the condo in Valley West, Rich and Maggie Herndon. They may be able to establish an alibi for her.”

  Wills snorted. “Waste of time checking her alibi. We got the man we want, right here in Earl Kleber’s jail. His own son-in-law!”

  Conan heard Dave Hight’s hissing intake of breath, but kept his gaze fixed on Wills. “There’s still the little problem of the actual murder weapon. Cady doesn’t own a handgun.”

  “So he says.”

  “Sheriff, I can imagine Cady with an arsenal of rifles and shotguns, but not a small-caliber handgun.”

  “I can imagine Cady MacGill with damn near anything!”

  “But you haven’t found the gun.”

  “No, but I sure as hell will!” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded document, waved it under Conan’s nose. “This here’s a search warrant, Flagg, for Cady MacGill’s house and vehicles.”

  Another hiss from Hight, but Conan only nodded, finding nothing surprising in Wills’s alacrity at obtaining a search warrant. Conan asked, “Does the warrant include the missing manuscripts? They could be worth millions.”

  “You been talking to that literary agent. Yes, the warrant includes the manuscripts.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that, Sheriff. Do you have warrants for the other suspects?”

  Neely Jones’s eyes flashed as she looked at her boss, and Conan surmised the answer to that question was a bone of contention between them. But Wills wasn’t aware of her disapproval. He braced both hands on the counter and leaned close to Conan. “What other suspects? Who else left his chain saw next to the body?”

  “But the question is, who shot Gould? There are a number of people who might have pulled the trigger. Savanna Barany, for instance, if her alibi doesn’t hold up. Byron and Justine Lasky, Marian Rosenthal, Dana Semenov.”

  “Who the hell’re all those people?” Wills demanded irritably.

  “People who were at Ravin Gould’s little party Saturday night. People who might have wanted him dead.” Conan wasn’t sure that was true of Dana Semenov, but he saw no reason to exclude her.

  “How the hell do you know if any of these—”

  “I’ve been on this case twenty-four hours, Sheriff. I’ve been asking questions. And here’s a question you should ask of our esteemed district attorney: Ask Owen Culpepper how he’ll feel if the defense brings up all these potential suspects in court, and you haven’t raised a finger to eliminate them. All Marc Fitch has to do is prove reasonable doubt, and five other suspects will make casting reasonable doubt a piece of cake.”

  Wills leaned closer, his face no more than a foot from Conan’s. “Flagg, you just don’t understand how juries think. One look at the autopsy pictures of Gould’s body, one look at MacGill’s chain saw lying next to the body, one look at the videotape those TV people took at your bookshop Saturday, and Fitch won’t be able to raise enough reasonable doubt to save MacGill’s ass if there was twenty suspects.”

  Conan could think of no response to that, so he changed the subject: “Have you found out if Gould left a will?”

  The sheriff drew back, blinked. “Well…no, not yet, but we’re working on it.”

  “You’ve talked to his lawyer?”

  “I, uh, Neely, didn’t you call that lawyer like I told you?”

  No doubt it would have been more politic for Neely Jones to back up her boss’s lie, but either she was too honest or simply too annoyed to do so. “No, sir,” she said crisply. “I wasn’t given the lawyer’s name.”

  Wills sent her a searing squint, but before he could speak, Conan put in: “I’m sure Ms. Barany can provide the name, Sheriff.” Conan might have provided it himself, but he saw no reason to make things easier for Wills.

  After a suspicious glare, Wills seemed to become aware of the search warrant he still held crumpled in one beefy hand, and his mouth slid into an unpleasant grin. “Well, Flagg, since I can’t talk to Cady till his fancy lawyer gets here, guess I might as well serve this search warrant.” Abruptly he about-faced and headed for the door. “Come on, Neely. We’ll radio Sonny on the way down to MacGill’s house.”

  Neely followed Wills out the door, but before it closed, she glanced ba
ck at Conan with an unmistakably questioning look. He nodded, realizing that her silent question was: are you coming?

  He went to the door, smiling faintly. Had he found an ally of sorts in Giff Wills’s ranks?

  Chapter 16

  The MacGill house faced an unpaved street east of Highway 101. It was a modest structure about twenty years old, sided in pale green with a brown composition roof. The yard was fenced, but obviously its owners weren’t gardeners; the lawn was yellowing with August, and the nasturtiums had escaped the beds flanking the front door. There was no garage, but two vehicles were parked in a driveway at the side of the house: a red Chevy pickup and an aged, once blue Honda.

  When Conan arrived, Sheriff Wills had already planted his patrol in front of the MacGills’ gate. He and Neely were at the gate, waiting, but not for Conan. At least Wills had nothing but a scowl for him when he parked across the street. As Conan got out of his car, another Sheriff’s Department patrol drove up and parked behind him.

  Conan recognized the deputy behind the wheel: Sonny Hoffsted, a cadaverously lean man who had been with the Sheriff’s Department since before Wills was first elected three terms ago. As Conan started across the street, Hoffsted emerged from his car, yawning expansively, and joined him. “How you doin’, Conan?”

  “Not bad enough to complain, Sonny. Long night?”

  “Yeah. Had to transport a prisoner to Gilliam County.”

  When they reached the gate, Hoffsted touched the brim of his Stetson. “Morning, Sheriff. Deputy Jones.”

  Wills nodded, ignoring Conan. “Sonny, what we’re looking for is some manuscripts for a book named…” He had to check the search warrant. “Named Odyssey. The other thing we’re looking for is a small handgun, probably twenty-two caliber.”

  Sonny Hoffsted was not a man to waste words. He only nodded, and Wills opened the gate and led the way to the quiet house. The front door was open, but the aluminum-framed screen was closed. He knocked, and within seconds, Angie appeared behind the screen. She examined the official deputation waiting on the stoop, one eyebrow going up when she saw Conan standing behind them.