by M. K. Wren
Conan made a second call, this one to Steve Travers, who was no more pleased than Fitch to be summoned from sleep at this hour, not until Conan told him the reason for the rude awakening. Steve’s response had been: “Well, that clears the air a little.”
A little, Conan conceded, but the air was far from crystalline.
When he hung up, he unwrapped the videotape and found a note: Conan, you owe me!—Shelly.
For a moment he held the black box, feeling a paralyzing reluctance to find out what was inside it. But finally he took it to the VCR, slid it into the slot, found the remote control, and pressed play.
The show began with exterior shots of the bookshop and the gridlock outside, cut to the interior and the alcove stage, with a long study of Savanna. In the brilliant light, she was electric, preternaturally alive. Then the camera shifted to Gould and his flashing, cynical smile. Conan fast-forwarded to the point where Angie made her appearance. The sound pickup was vague against the background noise from the crowd, but Gould’s “Goddamn it, stop that camera!” came through. But the cameraman didn’t stop, and it was then that Cady’s chain saw became audible. It sounded as tinny as a toy, and Conan was reminded of the crackling whir of a rattlesnake. No audio reproduction he had ever heard caught the overtones of menace in that sound, either.
Again Conan fast-forwarded through the riot, Cady’s confrontations with Gould and with Conan, and Cady’s subsequent exit. Conan returned to normal speed as the camera shifted back to Gould. When Gould grabbed Savanna’s arm, Conan moved the tape backward, then forward, then stopped it.
Savanna was kneeling, sweeping the spilled contents into an orange purse, her extended hand frozen over a small, silvery object.
The image was blurred, but there was no way he could doubt what he saw.
A small handgun.
And he remembered Savanna when she came to him asking for proof of something vital to her. I’m not sure I know what love is, but I think you do. That’s why I can trust you.
He was rigid with anger. She could trust him? Of course she could. She made sure of that.
Then the anger faded, and he felt an enervating weariness. Savanna had undoubtedly believed every word she said. At least, at the moment she spoke. That was her extraordinary talent, whether speaking or singing. She believed every word, felt it to her soul, at the moment. Whoever she might be, at the moment. And she could make an audience of strangers believe every word, feel it to their souls.
Conan punched rewind, waited for the VCR to click off, then took the tape back to the desk, and it occurred to him that he might be overcompensating for his failed objectivity. Yes, Savanna had a motive for murder in Gould’s philandering and his sabotage of her career. Yet she had another option open to her: divorce. Of course, he couldn’t explain why she hadn’t exercised that option sooner. As for the means—the gun—he had no proof that the gun in her purse Saturday morning was the one that fired the fatal shot, or that she had fired it.
He couldn’t even be sure she had opportunity, not when the squeaky-clean Herndons swore that the Ferrari was parked in front of the Eyrie at six-thirty in the morning.
If Savanna had parked it there, she did not have opportunity.
He took his car keys out of his pocket as he left the library and walked down the hall to the utility room and through it to the garage.
It was a beautiful night for a drive.
Chapter 25
A glow of light to the east presaged the town of MacMinnville. Between sporadic chains of headlights from oncoming traffic, Conan looked out on either side of the highway and saw distant lights of farmhouses set against the gray velvet of fields and soft blacks of oak-forested hills. It was 2:00 A.M. when he reached the city limits of MacMinnville, a small, prosperous town that in daylight would be bustling with traffic, but now its dark streets echoed with emptiness.
He passed two filling stations on the outskirts of town, both closed. The third was open, an island of light. Conan drove up to the rank of pumps nearest the station, watching a young man clad in a red and white MacMinnville High School jacket jog out to the XK-E. Conan got out of the car, leaned on the door. “Can you tell me if there are any other gas stations around MacMinnville open this time of night?”
The young man had the wholesome, freckled look of a Norman Rockwell illustration. “Well, if you don’t have an Arco card, we’ll take Visa.”
“No, that’s not the problem.” Conan got out his wallet, flashed his private investigator’s license. “I need some information about someone who bought gas at a station in Mac early Sunday morning.”
The youth examined the license, then grinned. “You came to the right place. This is the only station open after midnight around here.”
“I’m Conan Flagg, by the way. And yes, I also need some gas.”
“Bobby Gallagher. What does this car take? Leaded?”
“Unleaded. I had a converter installed.”
“Yeah? Man, she is really awesome.” Bobby pulled the nozzle out of its slot and began filling the Jaguar. “Wish my dad could see her. He collects antique cars.”
Conan had never thought of the XK-E as an antique, but he let that pass. “Bobby, were you on duty Sunday morning?”
“From midnight to eight. I’ve been working graveyard all summer. It’ll pay my tuition at Linfield this fall. So who’re you looking for?”
Conan had a newspaper clipping of Savanna Barany. He took it out of his shirt pocket, but didn’t unfold it yet. “I’m looking for the driver of a yellow Ferrari.”
Bobby nodded. “Sure, I remember that car. California plates.”
“You got the license number?”
“Nope. Just happened to notice the plates. It was a cash sale.”
“What can you tell me about the driver?”
He shrugged wide shoulders. “Well, not much, really. It was a woman. Probably good-looking, but it was hard to tell.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was wearing sunglasses. It was really weird, you know. In the middle of the night, this woman is wearing sunglasses. And she had a scarf on her head tied under her chin.”
“What did the scarf look like?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Dark, I think, with some sort of pattern. Anyway, the woman had black hair, what I could see of it.”
Conan waited until Bobby topped off the tank, withdrew the nozzle, and clanked it back into the pump. “What was she wearing?”
“A raincoat. Light color, maybe tan. And she had a purse on the passenger seat. It was tan, too, with a buckle on it.” Conan showed him the clipping. “That’s Savanna Barany,” Bobby said. “Hey, you must be working on that murder down on the coast.”
Conan nodded. “Was this the woman in the Ferrari?”
“Savanna Barany? No way. Well…I don’t think so.” He squinted at the clipping. “Maybe so, and she was incognito, or whatever. But, you know, with the sunglasses and all, it’s hard to say.”
“Do you know what time it was when the woman stopped here?”
“Yeah. One o’clock. I’ve got a TV in the station, and I like to watch the Thrilltime movie on channel eleven. It always starts at one, and I remember the titles had just come on when this woman drove in.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about her?”
“Well, no. Except she asked for her change in quarters.”
“Quarters? “ Conan felt an adrenaline rush that translated into a sensation of cold on his skin. “Did she say why?”
“Nope. Didn’t say any more than she just had to, you know.”
Conan extracted a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet. “Thanks, Bobby. This is for the gas. Anything left over is for your tuition fund.”
*
By three o’clock, Conan was on the beach below the house, walking in the wet sand at the edge of the waves, barefoot and savoring the chill of the water when it surged around his ankles. Moonlight transformed the dry sand into dimpled pewter, gleamed on c
urling breakers, made distances equivocal so that the lights of boats on the horizon seemed close, like static fireflies ready to be caught and held in his palm.
The sound of the breakers, the rush of water toward him, the murmur of its retreat, was hypnotic, yet it never produced in him anything like somnolence. It always seemed to wake some center of perception beyond the reasoning mind. It was like music, perhaps because it was one of the sources of music.
And there was a song that repeated itself endlessly in his memory: I never asked for forever…I only wanted today…I never asked for your soul…I only wanted your heart…for today, for today….
Chapter 26
At dawn, the wind shifted fitfully to the southwest, but it brought no promise of rain, only fog that gave the air a moist chill and hushed the rush of breaking waves. From the deck off his bedroom, isolated in a pocket of perception limited to a few hundred feet, Conan watched the coming of the day, evident only in the gray light that pervaded the fog.
Wednesday. Five days since Ravin Gould was murdered. In his mind the days seemed to count themselves off like the tolling of a clock.
Finally he left the cocooned world of his deck and went inside to shower and dress. At a few minutes past seven, when he went down to the kitchen, the gray light was brighter, but the fog made the windows look frosted. He put the coffee on to drip while he prepared himself a hearty breakfast: bacon, eggs, and toast. It was a pale shadow of the ranch breakfasts he remembered from childhood, which often included freshly baked pies, but this breakfast served as a kind of ritual preparation that was on some irrational level satisfying.
He turned on the radio while he ate and heard a garbled account of Doc Spenser’s arrest. Giff Wills had managed to take full credit, and nothing was said about what charges had been brought against Doc or the fact that Gould was dead when Doc tried to kill him or that Cady had been exonerated. When the telephone rang, Conan willingly turned off the radio as he went to the wall phone by the kitchen door. “Hello?”
“Oh, Conan, I’m so glad you’re there.”
Savanna. He felt an equivocal urge to laugh. Her voice was warm, even intimate, the memory of their last parting apparently forgotten.
“Yes, Savanna, I’m here.”
“I thought the fog might’ve taken you away on little kitten feet. Anyway, I’ve decided to check out of here and go to the beach house. Mrs. Early said she could clean it this morning. Maybe after that I can stand…” A sigh, then, “The reporters are camped on my doorstep, and I don’t want them to know where I’m going. I’ve made arrangements for somebody to bring my car and luggage down later, but meanwhile…well, I need your escort and evasion service.”
“I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”
“You’re a doll, Conan. You really are.” And with that she hung up.
He grimaced as he cradled the receiver, poured himself a mug of coffee, then went back to the telephone and punched a familiar number.
It was a harried Dave Hight who answered. “Holliday Beach Police—Billy, take care of that door! Uh, yes, who’s calling?”
“Conan Flagg. I wanted to talk to Earl.”
“Well, he’s sort of busy right now, Conan.”
“What’s going on, Dave?”
“It’s Doc Spenser. He had a heart attack. We called Nicky Heideger, and she ordered the ambulance. Just got here a few minutes ago.”
“I didn’t know Doc had a heart condition.”
“Me, neither, but Nicky’s his doctor. She says Doc knew about it, but he wouldn’t let up on the booze. Says he’s been trying to kill himself ever since Beth died.”
Conan remembered a silver-framed photograph of a young woman with pale hair, a photograph that was the only thing Doc took with him when he left the place where he had existed for ten years.
“Dave, I just wanted to ask Earl if anyone’s found the Laskys or Marian Rosenthal yet.”
“I doubt it. The chief didn’t say anything about it this morning.”
“Thanks. Tell Earl I’ll talk to him later.”
*
When Conan reached the Surf House, the reporters were indeed camped on Savanna’s doorstep, and again he had to escort her through the clamoring crowd to the car, and again he had to run a tortuous evasion course to escape the journalists who took to their vehicles, and again Savanna, in a summery dress of snow white that made her seem a figure out of Watteau, laughed with delight all the while.
But the fog gave him an unfair advantage today, and he lost even the most serious pursuers after no more than five sudden changes in direction. When he turned south on 101, he took cover between two billboards of RVs, and Savanna said gleefully, “Conan, you’re amazing!”
“Just part of the service, ma’am.”
Her smile turned wistful. “You know, I’m going to miss you.”
“Oh, you’ll find someone else to chauffeur you through evasion courses. But that sounds like the beginning of a goodbye.”
“I guess it is. I’ve scheduled the funeral for tomorrow morning at ten. I haven’t told anybody about it. I don’t want those media people making a circus of it. But I couldn’t get hold of Marian yesterday afternoon, and the office told me the Laskys had checked out. I mean, I did intend to ask them to come to the funeral. And you, too.”
Conan didn’t comment on the Laskys’ and Marian’s absence. “I’ll come if you want me to, but otherwise I don’t think I belong there.”
“I’d like you to come.”
He glanced at her, then nodded. “All right, Savanna.”
“And after the funeral…I’m leaving, Conan. I have no reason to stay here, and lots of reasons to go.”
“Well, you have the sheriff’s blessing,” he said, trying not to sound too bitter about it. “Even if your husband’s murder is still unsolved.”
“But they arrested that old man, the doctor. I heard it on the radio this morning.”
“Yes, they arrested him, but not for murder. Gould was already dead when Doc used the chain saw on him.”
“What?” It came out in a husky whisper. “But they said—I mean, I…I thought the same man who shot him…”She lapsed into silence.
Conan left her to her silence. He understood it. She had believed nothing was left but the curtain calls.
The fog curdled thicker around Sitka Bay. He followed the taillights on the car ahead with a sense of motionlessness so real that he nearly missed the junction with Dunlin Beach Road, and catching the turn to the south fork of the road required some concentration. They had almost reached the house when Savanna broke her silence. Her chin came up defiantly as she declared, “I’m still leaving tomorrow. Lainey’s scheduled a meeting with Booth, and I’ve got to be there. This is my future, Conan.”
He only nodded as he parked in front of the house. Mrs. Early was waiting on the porch. In the fog, the house seemed an inexplicable fortress that didn’t belong to the kind of stolid reality she represented.
He walked with Savanna to the porch, and she greeted Mrs. Early, slipping into a Southern accent with the pleasantries. But Conan was hard put not to stare at his housekeeper.
What held his attention was the scarf that confined her buoyant hair. It was silk with a paisley design in browns and ochres.
When Savanna unlocked the door, and the three of them entered the foyer, he made sure he was at hand to help Mrs. Early out of her coat, to take the scarf when she removed it, and say casually, “What a beautiful scarf, Mrs. Early.” The label read Bloomingdale’s, New York.
She beamed, fluffing her hair. “Well, I volunteer Tuesdays down to the Humane Society Thrift Shop. Saw this when I come in yesterday and bought it right off.”
Savanna had gone on into the living room. “Mrs. Early, maybe your thrift store could use Ravin’s clothes. I don’t want to have to pack them up. This food…” She wrinkled her nose at the stench of molding salmon and caviar. “Just throw it in the Disposall.”
Conan tuned out the remainder of
Savanna’s instructions. He hung Mrs. Early’s coat in the closet on the left wall of the foyer and took a moment to examine the scarf, but there was no other label, no initials. When he closed the closet, he saw Savanna open the sliding door onto the deck. She glanced at him, then went out, leaving the door open, and while Mrs. Early began carting the stinking remains of the buffet to the kitchen, he followed Savanna.
She stood at the south end of the deck, her hair a beacon of color in the fog. On the beach below, waves materialized out of grayness with hollow sighs, but Savanna was facing the windows, staring into the room Gould had called his office. “Dead matter,” she said absently.
“What?”
“This house, everything about it, it’s like everything’s been…used up. Dead matter.” Then realizing Conan was in no way enlightened, she added: “After a book comes out, and the publisher doesn’t need the manuscript anymore, they send it back to the author. They call it dead matter. Ravin always thought that was…funny. He used to say that’s what he wanted carved on his tombstone.”
She turned to face Conan, and he wondered what she would order carved on James Ravin Gould’s tombstone. A smile shadowed the curves of her lips as she said softly, “Conan, come with me.”
“Where? To Never-Never Land?”
She laughed. “Well, to La La Land, maybe.” She took a step closer to him, pushed one hand through her luxuriant hair, and Conan recognized the calculation in that gesture. And recognized its efficacy.
“Why, Savanna? Why would you need me in La La Land?”
Another step closer, and her hands rested on his chest, she whispered, “I need you because you’re honest. Because I can trust you.”
He relaxed into her kiss, savored the coiled power of her body against his, and when she drew away, he touched her parted lips with his fingertips. “If you can trust me, I should be able to trust you.”