by M. K. Wren
“Rather a dangerous way, going over the seawall. There might’ve been a log or a broken bottle buried in the sand where you landed.”
“You saw me?”
“Yes, I was in the restaurant. I also saw your meeting with Dana.”
She sobered, and her voice went husky. “You were spying on me.”
“Actually, I had nothing more nefarious in mind than lunch. What’s in that envelope she gave you?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, as if that’s any business of yours.”
“When two of the suspects in a murder meet clandestinely, I have to wonder about it.”
“So wonder all you like!” And she strode past him.
He fell in step with her. “By the way, there’s a collection of reporters at your door.”
She stopped. Then her chin came up, and she set out again.
And he kept pace with her. “Savanna, you know I’m investigating your husband’s murder, and I can’t just look the other way—”
“But I damn well didn’t know you still thought I was a suspect! Conan, I trusted you. I thought you trusted me. I thought you…” And again she stopped, turned away from him.
He said quietly, “It’s hard to trust you when you set up a secret meeting with someone you’ve led me to believe you despise.”
Savanna faced him, but the dark lenses made her expression unreadable. “I do despise Dana. But in any kind of business, you’ve got to deal with people whether you like them or not. What she gave me was a contract to show Lainey. Dana called me yesterday and said Nystrom wants to publish my autobiography. They want a kiss-and-tell book, but I don’t care. She says they’ll hire a ghostwriter and have it on the shelves in a month, and she guarantees it’ll be a best-seller. And Nystrom is offering a four-million-dollar advance.”
Conan raised an eyebrow. “Is this to be a hardbound book?”
“Yes, of course.”
“A hardbound on the shelves in a month. Well, congratulations, and I’m sure you won’t mind letting me see the contract.”
“What?” She seemed appalled at the suggestion. “No! Damn it, it’s none of your business. Now, just leave me alone. I’ve had enough of this stupid investigation, and I’ve had enough of you!” And she again set off for the Surf House, pausing only once to aim a Parthian shot: “Don’t bother trying to call me. You won’t get through!”
Conan didn’t attempt a reply, but simply watched her walk away from him. Finally he followed, but he was on his way to his car, and his thoughts were focused on Dana Semenov, who had now become a player in this game, one to be taken seriously.
If in fact the manila envelope had contained a contract, there would be a copy somewhere. Possibly in Dana’s room at Baysea.
Conan seldom indulged in illegal searches, not only because they were illegal, but because he was too jealous of his own privacy to invade anyone else’s without some qualms.
But there were occasions when he had no choice.
Chapter 20
Past Sitka Bay, Highway 101 cut through a dense stand of wind-bent jack pines for a mile before a billboard-sized sign announced the entrance to Baysea Resort, and Conan turned right onto a paved road that struck out toward the sea. He was driving his faithful blue Vanagon. When he had stopped by his house for the van, a vehicle Dana Semenov was unlikely to recognize, he had also clothed himself in a manner that was unlikely to attract attention when he picked the lock on Dana’s room in broad daylight: a tan coverall with Henry embroidered in red on the pocket, a billed cap, and dark glasses. On the passenger seat was an old wooden toolbox with screwdrivers, hammers, and wrenches plainly visible. What wasn’t visible was the only tools he would actually need: a set of lock picks in a leather case. Of course, all this subterfuge might be in vain if Dana had decided to spend the day in her room.
Baysea had leveled a small forest to accommodate their resort, but they had left enough trees standing to provide a shadowed lane along this approach. Where the trees ended, Conan looked down on Baysea Resort, laid out before him in all its boxy glory. The motel units were arranged in two-story clusters tiered up the slope, landscaped with pines pruned like Westminster Dog Show poodles.
He knew Dana’s room number and its location, thanks to the helpful Tiffany, so he turned right into the parking area east of the first block of units, noting that the maroon Skylark was not, to his relief, in front of 1003, then he drove down to the parking area for the tier below and found an empty slot for the Vanagon. He looked up at the west facade of the first tier, noting that each room was provided with a minuscule balcony. With his toolbox in hand, he walked around to the door of 1003, knocked—just in case—then after a few minutes of painstaking manipulation, opened the lock.
The room was large, its accoutrements styled in hotel/motel provincial. There were two big windows, one facing inland toward the trees, the other facing the sea, but the drapes were closed on both views. He opened the east drapes about two feet, crossed to the west drapes and opened them a similar span, opened the sliding door to the balcony, left his toolbox there, then went to work.
His initial survey was disappointing. There were no papers visible on any flat surface, nor did he see a briefcase, and he couldn’t believe that Dana Semenov traveled without a briefcase.
He opened her suitcase, which rested on the shelf at the end of a long, screwed-to-the-wall arrangement of desk and chest of drawers, and found that Dana had a penchant for lacy lingerie, which surprised him. Most of the jewelry in the velvet case was gold, and all of tasteful quality, which didn’t surprise him. There was a jar of Yuban instant decaffeinated coffee. He opened it, sniffed at its contents. Apparently it contained exactly what was advertised on the label. It was half-full, and Dana probably carried it only for emergency use. On the table near the west window were the remains of a room-service meal, including a thermos carafe. Conan closed the suitcase and crossed to the table to unscrew the top of the carafe and determine that it contained a cup or so of still warm coffee. He wondered how many of these carafes Baysea lost to theft. It was handsomely designed, made of satin-finished steel with a red enamel cap. Dana’s lunch had been a spare meal: a salad dressed with lemon juice, Rykrisp, coffee, and water. Perhaps this was how she maintained her fashionably emaciated figure.
Conan’s eyes narrowed. There were two water glasses on the tray. He leaned close to examine the glasses. Both had lipstick on the rims, and both were pale pink, but one was a warmer hue.
He crossed to the east window to make sure the Skylark wasn’t heaving into view, then went back to the desk/chest and opened the drawers. Except for the usual phone book, stationery, and Gideon Bible, the drawers were empty. Then he checked under the bed and lifted the mattress, and as he was restoring the bedclothes, he thought absently that Baysea was stingy with its pillows. There were only three where he would expect four. He opened the drawers of the bedside tables, then turned to the closet and knelt at the open door to run his fingers across the soles of Dana’s shoes in the futile hope of finding glass fragments visible to his naked eye or tangible to his naked fingertip.
There were only two pairs of shoes: sandals with thin, interlaced straps, and high-heeled, beige pumps. Dana was traveling light. A black satin robe and a lacy nightgown hung in the closet along with a pair of white slacks, a green silk blouse, a white linen jacket, the beige dress she’d worn Saturday night, and a raincoat. But this coat was pale blue, and he remembered that the coat she wore when she made her entrance at Gould’s house was tan. It didn’t seem likely that she would be wearing it now, not with the temperature rising to a sizzling—for the coast, at least—eighty degrees, and why would she bring two coats on this trip when she had packed so few clothes otherwise?
And something else was missing: the paisley scarf Conan remembered so clearly from Saturday night because it was the twin of the one he’d bought in London for Aunt Dolly.
He almost missed the navy canvas flight bag in the darkness at the back of the closet.
It was empty, except for an outside pocket. He unzipped it and found a folded map. A map of Portland and environs. He spread it out on the end of the bed. There were no marks on it.
Why would Dana want a map of Portland?
Conan heard the soft rumble of a car motor and went to the window, breathing a sigh of relief as a white Lincoln with an elderly couple in the front seat passed.
He folded the map, slipped it into the side pocket of the flight bag, and returned the bag to the closet. Next, he went into the bathroom, pushed back the shower curtain, then checked the wastebasket, and went so far as to take the lid off the back of the toilet and look inside. There were no drawers, no other hiding places. Conan studied the bottles and jars by the sink, noting that Dana’s choices in perfume were White Linen and Obsession. In a leather cosmetic bag he found a plastic pill bottle. He read the label, and one eyebrow shot up. Nembutal.
Nembutal seemed to be popular in the Big Apple. But then, he was well aware that Nembutal was popular anywhere in this country. Dana apparently had some trouble sleeping. There were only ten capsules left out of a prescription for fifty, and it had been filled a week ago. But maybe she hadn’t brought along the full prescription.
Again he heard the rumble of a motor, and crossed to the east windows, and when he looked out, abruptly pulled his head back. The Skylark was approaching, and it was already close enough so that he could be sure it was Dana at the wheel.
He didn’t try to restore the drape to its original position, but sprinted across the room to the west window, picked up the toolbox and slid the door shut, paused only long enough to see if anyone was in the parking lot below, and when he saw no one, vaulted the balcony railing. Then, controlling the urge to run for the Vanagon, he slowed to a casual walk as he made his way down the grassy slope to the asphalt. When he reached the van, he put the toolbox behind the driver’s seat, swung in, and drove to the north end of the parking lot and around to the top tier’s parking area.
Dana was unlocking her door. She was wearing no coat, nor was she wearing the paisley scarf. Her ensemble consisted of khaki-colored slacks and a sleeveless white blouse.
Slung over one shoulder was a pale blue leather purse, at her feet was a slim, dark briefcase.
Conan drove sedately past her as she unlocked her door, picked up the briefcase, and let herself in. She glanced once in his direction before the door closed.
He irritably tossed his cap on the seat beside him, then sighed, reminding himself that he shouldn’t expect much of any search.
But, he added to himself, he could damn well hope.
Chapter 21
Conan stopped at his house to leave the Vanagon, his coveralls, and toolbox, and since he had lost his enthusiasm for razor clams at the Surf House, but recognized his tendency to irritability when hungry, he prepared himself a peanut butter sandwich. And thought of Skookum. And of Manny Chavez. But there was no way to find out what progress Manny had made on the erased disks short of driving to the log house and risking an encounter with Skookum with his mouth free.
Conan chose instead to go to the Holliday Beach Police Station.
It was one-thirty when he reached the station and found Sergeant Hight mediating a dispute between a hirsute man in floral-print shorts, and a couple approaching middle age ungracefully, accompanied by a teenage boy who held a boom box against his ear while the thumps and shrieks of the music drowned everyone’s arguments, and finally Hight roared, “Turn that thing off or I’ll cite you for disturbing the peace!”
The music stopped, but not the high-decibel disagreement. Conan saw Giff Wills in Kleber’s office and invited himself in, closing the door to damp the bedlam. Kleber was at his desk, with Wills, his Stetson tipped back on his head, fists on his hips, standing to one side, both facing the man in the chair in front of the desk. All three turned, and Wills seemed inclined to order Conan out, but perhaps remembered that this wasn’t his office to do the ordering out of, and Kleber seemed almost glad to see him: “Conan, I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”
“Well, I’ve been…busy, Earl. Hello, Sheriff.”
Wills emitted a noncommittal grunt, while the visitor, a rangy man with dust-colored hair and sage-colored eyes, rose, squinted at Conan, and asked, “Where the hell’ve you been, Conan? Sleepin’ in again?”
“Sure, Steve. Figured you guys could maintain law and order without me for a while.”
Steve Travers laughed and put out his hand to shake Conan’s, as always revealing more in his handclasp than he ever did in words. “Well, you might as well pull up a chair. Got what you might call some developments you’ll be interested in.”
“Developments to explain your sudden appearance in Holliday Beach?” Conan asked, as he brought a chair to the desk and sat down next to Steve.
“That, too.”
Wills deposited one ham on Kleber’s desk, folded his arms belligerently, but remained silent, unwilling, it seemed, to question the judgment of an Oregon State Police Chief of Detectives in discussing police business with the likes of Conan Flagg.
Kleber was equally willing, however. He said soberly, “Conan, you wanted more information about Dan Arno’s crash. Well, now it’s a murder investigation, and the National Air Transportation Safety Board turned it over to the OSP.”
For a moment Conan could only stare at Kleber, too stunned to speak, and it was then that he became aware of the object in the plastic sack on Kleber’s desk: a thermos carafe made of satin-finished steel with a red screw top. Finally he asked, “Have you told Kara?”
“Yes. Steve and I just got back from her house a little while ago.”
Conan indicated the carafe, asked Steve, “Does this explain why Arno crashed on Spirit Mountain?”
“Part of it. Arno was drugged.”
“With what?”
“Nembutal. It was dissolved in decaffeinated coffee in that carafe. It was found in the cockpit.”
“Nembutal?” Conan caught himself before he said anything more in Giff Wills’s presence.
Steve nodded. “There was enough in the carafe to kill him if he drank the whole thing, but he didn’t have to. He probably only drank about a cupful, and that was enough to put him to sleep.”
And enough to cause an experienced pilot who had survived four years in Vietnam to slam into a mountain in Oregon.
Conan asked, “Any fingerprints on the carafe?”
“Arno’s, of course,” Steve said, “and some smudges and three good prints on the bottom. No ID yet, but we’re checking them out.”
“What did Kara tell you?”
“Well, let’s see.” Steve stretched forward to pick up a notebook from the desk, and flipped a few pages. “She said Arno got a call at ten-thirty Saturday night. He wrote the name down: Mrs. James Booth. Said she lived in Portland, but she was staying the weekend at their beach house, alone, and she’d had a call from St. Vincent’s Hospital in Portland. Her husband was brought in with a heart attack. What she wanted was for Arno to fly her to Valley West Airport. It’s not far from St. Vincent’s. She offered him three hundred and fifty dollars.”
Kleber put in, “Kara says that Jetranger took three passengers, and on a normal run Dan charged a hundred bucks apiece.”
“Right,” Steve went on, “so Arno told Mrs. Booth okay, and she said she’d meet him at the Baysea airfield at midnight.”
“Why the delay?” Conan wondered aloud. “At ten-thirty her husband was in the midst of a heart attack, but she didn’t want to leave until midnight?”
Steve shrugged. “If she explained that to Arno, he didn’t explain it to his wife. I don’t figure there was an explanation. We checked with St. Vincent’s. Nobody named James Booth was admitted with a heart attack Saturday night. Anyway, Arno left his house at eleven-thirty.”
“Did he take this carafe with him?”
“No. Mrs. Arno said she’s never seen it before. But they’re not that hard to come by. Made in Seattle, and we called the manufacturer. They
gave us a long list of motels and hotels in Oregon that use them, including four in Holliday Beach: the Surf House, Riley’s Bed and Breakfast, Baysea Resort, and the Beachside Motel. On top of that, you can buy one just like it at any K Mart or Fred Meyer.”
“Damn. Was this sort of off-hours run unusual for Arno?”
“Not according to Mrs. Arno,” Steve replied, turning a page in his notebook, “and she wasn’t worried about this one. She went to bed, then about three woke up and saw he wasn’t back, so she called Valley West Airport. They told her Arno’d had to wait for another fare, but the fare backed out, and he took off just before three. It’s a forty-minute flight from Portland, and when he didn’t show up by four, Mrs. Arno called Valley West again, and they notified the NATSB.”
Conan turned to Kleber. “Earl, didn’t you say Arno had nearly eight hundred dollars on him when his body was found?”
Kleber nodded, and Steve explained, “We figure part of it was from this Mrs. Booth and most of the rest from the second fare—the woman who backed out.”
“Does she have a name?”
“The name she gave was Mrs. Sarah Talbot, but we haven’t had time to track her down.” Steve turned more pages. “So back to Mrs. Booth. As far as we know, nobody was at the Baysea airfield when she arrived except Arno. He phoned Valley West at midnight to give them his ETA and flight plan, and arrived there on schedule at twelve-forty. Mrs. Booth called a cab from the office. I talked to the lady on the night shift in the office. Name is Connie Stein.”
Conan asked, “Did she get a good look at Mrs. Booth?”
“Yes, but she didn’t pay much attention to her. Middle-aged, gray hair in a bun, light-colored raincoat and walking shoes. Maybe she had a suitcase, maybe not. She went outside to wait for the cab. It arrived in about ten minutes. No, we haven’t checked the cab companies yet.”
“When did the second woman—Sarah Talbot—enter the picture?”
Steve again referred to his notebook. “Connie Stein says she got a phone call at 1:05 A.M. from the Talbot woman. Said she had to get to Holliday Beach that night, and Connie told her Arno was about to take off. Mrs. Talbot said she’d pay him three hundred bucks to wait and fly her to Holliday Beach. So Connie called the hangar, and Arno said he’d wait. Mrs. Talbot arrived about 2:45 A.M. Came by cab. Connie said maybe she had a small cloth bag, but she wasn’t sure. She said Mrs. Talbot was between thirty and forty, wearing high heels, a tan raincoat, and a beige purse with a big buckle on it. Black hair, what she could see of it. She had on a scarf.”