by M. K. Wren
Fitch started on the second half of his sandwich. “Sounds like a story with a happy ending.”
“Oh, that’s only the beginning. Laura thought he’d deserted her, and by this time she was a basket case. She and Jimmy moved in with her parents in Portland, and it was all downhill from there. She died at forty-five of asphyxiation when she choked on a piece of food. This was in a motel room rented by a man who signed in as John Smith.”
Fitch raised an eyebrow. “That’s how one writes a bestseller?”
“That’s how Ravin Gould wrote a so-called autobiographical novel.”
“Was that the key event in his life—his mother’s death?”
Faintly Conan heard the magnificent chorus of the “Ode to Joy,” but resisted the urge to turn up the volume. “No. That happened years after he left Forsuch Beach. The key event was his father’s death.”
“I thought the father disappeared.”
“Permanently, it seems. The trouble is, I don’t know how much poetic license Gould took, or how much Odyssey and reality have in common.” Conan pushed his chair back and rose. “Marc, I’m going to the bookshop. Maybe I can find out a little about the reality.”
“Before you rush off so precipitously…” Fitch reached into his sack and removed a flat, rectangular package wrapped in brown paper. “From the lovely Shelly Gage.” Then as Conan took the package, Fitch added, “Judging by the size and source, that can only be a videotape. A tape of what?”
“Of the unexpurgated version of the Oregon Chain Saw Massacre.” Conan hesitated, hefting the tape, then put it on the desk. “But it can wait. Marc, are you going back to Portland tonight?”
“No, I’m staying in your fair village. “
“You’re welcome to my guest room.”
“A gracious offer, my friend, but I prefer lodgings with room service. I’ve made a reservation at the Surf House. Have you any objection to my perusing that literary masterpiece?”
Conan laughed as he went to the glass door to close and lock it. “You’re welcome to it. By the way, try using the front door next time.”
“I did try.” Fitch began transferring the fanfolded pile from the floor to the box. “Apparently your eardrums were too numbed with Beethoven to register the doorbell. Now what?”
That was in response to the ring of the phone. Conan reached for the receiver. “Yes, what is it?” he asked impatiently.
“Earl Kleber is what it is,” came the response. “I’ve got an interesting piece of news for you.”
“I’m interested, then.”
“It seems Giff Wills dropped by to see Byron and Justine Lasky a couple of hours ago.”
“To tell them about Gould’s will? Well, at least that means he’s recognized the possibility that Cady isn’t the only viable suspect.”
“Sort of. Giff’s come up with a new theory. He figures Cady and the Laskys were working together. Some sort of conspiracy. Anyway, when he showed the Laskys the fax of the will, they both swore up and down they didn’t even know Gould had made a will. Then after Giff left, they checked out of the Surf House and just plain disappeared.”
“Disappeared? When?”
“About half an hour ago. Giff told Helen Day at the office to let him know if they did anything unusual, and they did, so she did. It was Justine who did the checking out. Helen said she didn’t see Byron in the car. Anyway, Giff called me because he put out an APB on them.”
“Did he check Baysea’s helicopter shuttle?”
“Yes. They didn’t leave town on the shuttle. In fact, they didn’t turn in their rental car at Baysea. Giff figures they headed for Canada.”
Conan ran a hand through his hair. “Earl, what about Marian Rosenthal? Did she make a run for the border, too?”
“Well, I sent Billy over to the Surf House, and she’s not there. Neither is her car. But she didn’t check out, so maybe she’s just gone shopping. I called Baysea, and she didn’t take the shuttle, either.”
“Let me know if anyone finds any of them. And thanks, Earl.”
When Conan hung up, Fitch was leaning toward him, long arms braced on the desk. “If anyone finds whom?”
Conan gave him the gist of Kleber’s news, and Fitch straightened, his teeth gleaming white against his umber skin. “I think there’s light at the end of MacGill’s tunnel after all.”
Conan nodded, and he was almost envious. Marc Fitch’s obligations were met with the shadow of a doubt. His own obligations wouldn’t be met until he knew who murdered Gould. Not once, but twice.
But Ravin Gould had been a storyteller, and he’d had one last tale to tell.
Chapter 23
It was Holliday Beach’s version of low-cost housing. The apartment building had once been a motel, a stark row of ten units, all under one roof. In daylight, the wood siding was pale yellow, but at night in Conan’s headlights, it seemed gray. Nine o’clock, and most of the windows were dark, but light glowed behind the curtains of number five. When Conan knocked on the door, he heard a thump and a shuffling, then the porch light went on, and Dr. Maurice Spenser opened the door, squinting at him through his plastic-rimmed glasses.
Conan said, “Hello, Doc. May I come in?”
“Conan? Well, sure, come on in.”
He motioned Conan into a small living room where the yellow light from a brass table lamp shone on walls papered in a faded floral print. Against the left wall slumped a couch upholstered in worn, gray velour; the matching armchair was backed to the far wall near the wood stove. There were two doors on the right wall opening into a tiny kitchen and a bedroom. Conan knew Doc had lived here for ten years, yet the apartment still had the look of a motel unit, perhaps because there was so little evidence that anyone had occupied it for any length of time: on a corner shelf, a few books; by the bedroom door, a glassed photograph of the old covered bridge over the Sitka River; and on the side table by the armchair, directly under the lamp, a silver-framed snapshot of a young woman with pale hair styled in a page boy typical of the Forties.
There was also an overflowing ashtray on the side table along with two bottles of Scotch. The one labeled Bruichladdich was nearly empty; the other, with the Monarch label, hadn’t been opened.
“Well, this is an unexpected pleasure,” Doc said. “Can I offer you a drink?” He went to the table, coming between it and Conan, and removed both bottles, took them with him to the kitchen.
“Yes, thanks.” And while Doc opened cupboards and rattled glasses in the kitchen, Conan checked the wood stove. It was overflowing with gossamer ashes.
Doc returned with two glasses, both four fingers up with undiluted Scotch, sans ice. He handed Conan one of the glasses. “Have a seat.”
Conan chose the couch, leaving the armchair to Doc, who put his glass on the side table and sank into the chair. He wore his gray suit and vest, white shirt, and tie. His collar was unbuttoned, the tie loose. He was, Conan realized, thoroughly drunk, yet there was no slurring in his speech, no uncertainty in his movements.
Conan asked, “What happened to your thumb?”
Doc frowned at the frayed bandage on his right thumb. “Oh, I cut it with a paring knife. Guess I ought to put on a new bandage. Like they say, Doctor, heal thyself.”
Conan gave that a polite smile, then looked up at the photograph of the covered bridge. “I suppose you crossed that bridge many a time.”
Doc smiled, drank sparingly of his Scotch. “I first crossed that bridge in a ’44 model Studebaker. And I watched them tear it down when they widened the highway in 1948.”
“You’ve seen a lot of history here.”
“Seen most of Holliday Beach’s history. Weren’t more than three hundred people when I came. That was right after the War. I was a medical corpsman in France and Italy. Anyway, I was the town’s first doctor, and the only one for a long time. I figure I delivered half the population of the town, and I knew them all, watched them grow up. Outlived some. It meant something back then to be the town doctor.”
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Conan tasted his Scotch; it was the Monarch. He indicated the photograph on the table. “Is that Beth?”
“Yes,” Doc said huskily. “Beth Neary. She taught at the grade school here. I’d spent two years trying to put broken boys back together, and Beth…she was like sunshine after a storm.”
“She was still a young woman when she died, wasn’t she?”
Doc looked at Conan sharply, then took time to light a cigarette. His hands were shaking slightly. “She was thirty-two. Died in childbirth. So did the baby. My…son.” There was the weight of grief in the silence that followed, of tears spilled and always ready to be spilled again. Conan saw the wedding ring on the bony, parchment-skinned hand that held the Scotch. Doc raised the glass, took another swallow, visibly gathering himself.
“Conan, you seem to know a lot of Holliday Beach history.”
“Yes, well, I just spent some time at the bookshop reading The History of Taft County. You’re featured prominently in it.”
Doc puffed out a veil of smoke. “Well, like I said, I’ve been around a long time.”
“You’ve been retired for quite a while, haven’t you?”
“About thirteen years. By then, we had half a dozen doctors here, and now we’ve got the hospital. I figured the town didn’t need me so much anymore.”
Conan nodded, well aware that the real reason Doc retired from medicine was in his hand now.
“Doc, I understand you and Mrs. Carmody have become very close.”
“Who told you that? Mrs. Carmody and I are good friends, that’s all. Known her for years. Knew her husband, too.”
“Well, in a small town, people always gossip. I suppose it’s because they’ve seen you driving Mrs. Carmody’s old Cadillac.”
Doc went stiff with alarm. “Hope the police never get wind of that. I, uh, lost my driver’s license a few years back. My eyes, you know. Can’t see well enough at night.”
Conan didn’t challenge that rationalization. “But Mrs. Carmody loans you her car sometimes, doesn’t she?”
“Well, just for emergencies or special occasions.”
“Special occasions like Saturday night? By the way, I should wish you a belated happy birthday.”
Doc’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “My birthday’s not till October.”
“Why would Mrs. Carmody think your birthday was Saturday?”
“Well, I…I guess she just got confused.”
“Not Mrs. Carmody. You told her it was your birthday, didn’t you? Probably told her some friends were giving a party in your honor. She’d be happy to loan you her car for an occasion like that.”
“If she said that, she’s full of beans! I was right here at home Saturday night. All night.”
“Doc, I saw Mrs. Carmody’s car on Dunlin Beach Road about nine-thirty Saturday night. I was just leaving Ravin Gould’s house.”
Doc resorted to his whiskey before he could attempt a nonchalant “You must’ve seen somebody else in a Cadillac.”
“Yes, there must be any number of blue 1959 Cadillacs around. You knew Tom and Loretta Gould, of course.”
“No, I mean, I…I don’t remember them.”
“You did yesterday. Doc, there’s a photograph in the History taken in 1950 at a Christmas party. You were dancing with Loretta Gould, and Beth with Tom, and you’d all stopped to mug for the camera. Another man was making a show of cutting in on you and Loretta. The caption identified him as Deputy Sheriff Raymond Wherry, nicknamed Ox.”
Doc’s skin assumed a waxy cast, but he managed a smile as he admitted, “Could be. We used to have lots of community dances here.”
“Tell me about Tom Gould.”
“Why? What’s he got to do with anything?”
“Well, his son was murdered Saturday night.”
“Earl’s got Cady MacGill in jail. Always was hotheaded, but I can understand it, what he did. I mean, when you find out a man’s been sleeping with your wife…”
“I don’t think Cady murdered Gould.”
“No?” Doc raised his cigarette to his lips, took a puff. “Why not?”
“The police found a fragment of material caught in the chain on Cady’s saw. The same material surgical gloves are made of.” Conan leaned back into the sagging cushions. “If Cady used surgical gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints, why didn’t he wipe the saw clean first? His prints are all over it. Anyway, I doubt it would occur to him to use surgical gloves. But it might occur to a doctor.”
Doc surged forward in his chair, scattering cigarette ashes on his vest. He brushed them off hastily, crushed out the cigarette. “What do you really want? What’s any of this got to do with me?”
“Everything, Doc. Are you willing to let Cady be convicted for a murder he didn’t commit?”
“How do I know whether he committed it or not?”
Conan said distinctly, “Doctor, lawyer, po-lice chief. When Ravin Gould spoke those words, I thought he was looking at me, and that didn’t make sense. But you were standing next to me at that moment. He saw you in the crowd and recognized you, and those words were meant for you and only you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Doc retorted staunchly.
“You’re the doctor. The police chief—well, Gould took some liberty with the truth to paraphrase the old rhyme. The police chief was actually a deputy sheriff. Ox Wherry. I don’t know who the lawyer was. The History provided several possibilities, but not enough information for me to be sure of any one of them.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Doc repeated stubbornly.
“Of course you do.” Conan took another bitter sip of whiskey. “You should clean out that stove more often. It’s a fire hazard.”
“Damn it, I don’t figure that’s any concern of yours.”
“It depends on what you burned in that stove. I think the crime lab can easily establish that those are paper ashes. Nearly three thousand sheets of paper, in fact. It must’ve taken a long time to burn all those manuscripts and the notebooks.” Doc seemed to retreat, turtlelike, into himself, and Conan added, “And then there’s that bottle of Bruichladdich you whisked into the kitchen when I arrived.”
“What bottle…oh, yes. Well, I guess I should’ve offered you some, but most people don’t like single-malt Scotch.”
“Where did you get it, Doc?”
He attempted a shrug. “Down at the liquor store. Where else?”
“Not at an Oregon liquor store. I called George at our liquor store. He says the Oregon Liquor Control Commission doesn’t list Bruichladdich, and if they don’t list a brand, you can’t buy it in this state. But Bruichladdich was Gould’s poison of choice, and he could afford to bring in his own, and he did. There were a number of fifths of Bruichladdich at the Dunlin Beach house Saturday night.”
Doc’s mouth thinned into a defiant line, and Conan played his ace. “Did you know Angie MacGill was typing Gould’s manuscripts?”
The defiant line slackened. “I…don’t believe that.”
“She typed the entire third draft of Odyssey. On a computer, which means every word was preserved on disks. Doc, I just finished reading a printout of that third draft, and everybody was there, just as Gould promised: doctor, lawyer, po-lice chief.”
Doc closed his eyes, and it seemed that life was draining out of his body, leaving him inert, empty. But finally he roused himself enough to say, “He didn’t care who he hurt, no more ’n his father did. And his father hurt him, too. You’d think he’d just let the dead past bury itself.”
“Ravin Gould was not a generous man. I’ve read his version of Tom Gould’s murder. Do you want to tell me yours?”
Doc laboriously got to his feet and made his way to the kitchen. Conan waited, and when Doc returned, he had two empty glasses and the fifth of Bruichladdich. He put the glasses on the coffee table in front of the couch, carefully poured the remaining Scotch into them, left one for Conan, and with the other, slumped into his chair. There was a
bout him a pendent calm; perhaps it was resignation. He said, “Might as well finish this off. I took two bottles, but this’s all that’s left.”
Conan tasted the Scotch, heavy with the earthy scent of peat, while he watched Doc savor a sparing sip, then, “Okay, Conan. I’ll tell you my version of Tom’s murder. Funny, I never thought of it that way. It was more like an accident. And he brought it on himself, the bastard. He deserved it.” Doc’s eyes squeezed shut, then he sighed. “Jimmy got it mostly right, what happened that Saturday night out at Cam’s cabin.”
“Cam?” Conan reviewed the list of possibilities garnered from The History of Taft County. “Camden Yates? He was the lawyer?”
“Yes. The four of us, Tom, me, Cam Yates, and Ox Wherry, used to meet Saturday nights for poker at this cabin Cam owned north of town. I didn’t go every Saturday. Couldn’t afford it, really, and like I said, I was the only doctor in town. So they’d have other guys in sometimes, but the four of us, we were the regulars.”
“Did Beth know about your nights out with the boys?”
“Yes. She said I deserved a night out now and then. But she didn’t know—not to begin with—what went on at that cabin sometimes. Damn it, I was a young man, and it didn’t seem…wrong. Not in those days. There was always a lot of liquor, and the stakes were always high. Higher than I should’ve been playing for. And sometimes…well, Cam had plenty of money. Been a county commissioner besides his law practice. Sometimes he’d bring…girls to the poker parties.” He paused, finally shrugged. “What the hell, they were whores.”
“But on the Saturday in question, there were no girls present?”
“No. Just Cam and Ox and me. And Tom Gould. Good ol’ Tom, the war hero. He liked people to think he’d been a hero. I got to where I never believed a word he said. But you know…” Doc shook his head, frowning. “When he and Loretta first came to Holliday Beach, Tom seemed like such a fine young man. But he was laid up for six months with a broken leg, and him with a wife and two kids to support. Then he lost one of the kids. Marilyn. I don’t really know what happened to Tom, but he just gradually went bad. The drinking was the worst of it, and he had a hell of a temper. And the gambling. He was good at cards. As it turned out, he was good at cheating, too. Cam Yates had his suspicions early on, but the rest of us didn’t believe him. Not till that Saturday night. As for Cam, gambling was…well, you could call it an addiction. He lost a lot of money to Tom. In Reno, too, I guess. Cam had money, but at the rate he was losing it, he was courting bankruptcy.”