The Conan Flagg Mysteries: Bundle #3

by M. K. Wren

  “You can trust me, Conan.” There was just enough chagrin in that.

  “Why did you wait so long before you decided to divorce Gould?”

  Her ivory skin colored exquisitely, her eyes went wide, as if he had slapped her. Then the long, dark lashes swept down. “That’s none of your business. It’s nobody’s business but mine now.”

  “Savanna, nothing is sacred or private in a murder investigation.”

  “What went on between Ravin and me is private! I won’t answer any more questions, and I won’t…” Her anger dissipated as abruptly as it had come into existence, her breath came out in a sigh. “I just want to get back to my life. Oh, Conan, this is Never-Never Land.”

  He found himself holding her, felt her tremble with silent weeping. It was far more effective than wailing sobs would have been. When she pulled away from him, her eyes were red, her checks wet with tears.

  “Conan, I meant it when I asked you to come with me.”

  “I know you did, Savanna.”

  “But you won’t come.”

  “No.”

  She studied him intently, then said with teasing nonchalance, “Well, you had your chance. Maybe I don’t need you. But it’s been lovely having you around. Maybe I just don’t want to give that up.”

  He smiled. “Maybe.”

  “I think I’ll go to the beach and get out of Mrs. Early’s way.” Then as Conan accompanied her to the other end of the deck, she said, “Damn this fog. Tell Mrs. Early if I’m not back in an hour to send out the Coast Guard.”

  He watched her stride across the lawn to the stairs that would take her down to the beach. It was an image he’d remember, Savanna Barany in white, tossing her candescent hair as she moved into the fog. No doubt she expected him to remember it.

  He went to the sliding door, ignoring a glimpse of Mrs. Early hurrying away from the kitchen windows. Inside the house, he found her at the sink rinsing plates and stacking them in the dishwasher.

  “Mrs. Early, I’d like to ask you a favor.”

  “What’s that, Mr. Flagg? “ She turned off the water, wiped her hands on the towel sewn into the waistband of her apron.

  “That scarf you bought at the Humane Society Thrift Shop, I’d like to buy it from you.”

  “Buy it?” Then she shrugged. “Tell you what, it cost me a dollar, but you can pay the thrift shop. I don’t want nothing for it myself.”

  Conan had paid £50 for its twin at Harrods, and he doubted it had cost any less in dollars at Bloomingdale’s. He restrained a laugh and said, “Thanks, Mrs. Early. It’s not often you find something from Neiman-Marcus in a small-town thrift shop.”

  “Well, it wasn’t from Neiman-Marcus, if that’s what you’re after. Bloomingdale’s, it was. New York City.”

  “Yes, of course.” And, satisfied that Mrs. Early could identify the scarf if necessary, he took his leave. “I’ll get it from the closet as I go, and I’ll stop by the thrift shop today. “

  “Okay, Mr. Flagg. Say, what d’you want that scarf for, anyway?”

  But he was on his way to the front closet and could pretend he didn’t hear that question.

  Chapter 27

  Conan considered himself fortunate to find a parking place only a block south of the Humane Society Thrift Shop. He walked the remaining distance along a sidewalk that was, despite the fog, crowded with tourists shivering in clothing meant for sunshine. The thrift shop, a dour little building amid garish tourist traps, occupied a corner on the east side of Highway 101 two blocks north of Holliday Bay. As Conan crossed a side street to the shop, he saw a big wooden bin against its south wall. The sign on the bin read “Donation Drop Box.”

  There were no displays in the windows, only a view of a dim interior. A bell heralded his entrance into a claustrophobic space cluttered with clothing, linens, crockery, glassware, toys, games, books, records, appliances, plastic icons. He made his way to the back of the shop, where Mrs. Iona Higgins beamed at him from behind the counter.

  “Mr. Flagg! Well, what can I do for you?”

  He took the folded scarf out of his pocket and put it on the counter with a five-dollar bill. “Mrs. Early bought this scarf here. She said she’d sell it to me on condition that the money went to the Humane Society.”

  Mrs. Higgins laughed and whisked the bill into a tackle box that served as a cash register. “Then I guess it’s yours. That scarf came from Bloomingdale’s in New York, you know. I saw it yesterday. There’s usually a lot of things left in the drop box Monday when we’re closed, so I always come in on Tuesdays to help sort them out.”

  “Then the scarf was left in the drop box sometime Monday?”

  “Or Sunday after hours.”

  “Was there anything else from Bloomingdale’s?”

  She eyed him curiously. “Well, there were some other things from New York in the box, but not from Bloomie’s. I get their catalogue at Christmas. Sort of fun, seeing how the other half lives. Anyway, there was a nice purse and a raincoat, both from Bonwit Teller.”

  He didn’t try to restrain a smile of satisfaction as he returned the scarf to his pocket and asked, “May I see them?”

  “Not the purse. Sold that to Mrs. Benton.”

  “Oh. Was it by any chance beige leather with a big gold buckle?”

  “Sure was. How’d you know?”

  “Lucky guess. Did you sell the raincoat?”

  “Oh, no, it’s still here.” She came out from behind the counter and maneuvered her impressive girth neatly along the crowded aisles to a rack of women’s clothing. Conan dodged a macramé plant holder, then waited while she searched the rack, the hangers squeaking as she pushed them aside. At length, she found a tan raincoat, checked the label, and handed it to him. “There you are. Bonwit Teller, New York.”

  There was no doubt in Conan’s mind where he had first seen this coat. He felt inside the pockets, but they were empty. “Mrs. Higgins, do you often find clothes with New York labels in your drop box?”

  “Never have before. We get some really nice things now and then, but they’re more likely to be from stores in Portland.”

  “I’d like to buy this.”

  Mrs. Higgins raised an eyebrow. “Okay, that’ll be six dollars.”

  She draped the coat over her arm and sidled back to the counter. Conan followed her, took a twenty from his billfold, and put it on the counter. “Six dollars for a coat that probably cost two hundred?”

  “Didn’t cost us anything,” she said, taking the twenty. “People don’t expect to pay a lot for what they find here, and six dollars will buy maybe ten pounds of dog or cat food. Let’s see if I have change.…”

  “Consider the change a donation. Now, what I’d like you to do is put the coat aside and keep it for me.”

  Her eyebrow shot up again. “Is this coat evidence or something?”

  “I’m not sure. But just in case it is, I know it’s in good hands.”

  As he left the shop, he wondered if the coat would ever become evidence in a legal sense. Certainly it was evidence in his mind.

  *

  It was after nine-thirty, yet the fog persisted, especially around Sitka Bay. Conan followed the taillights of the car ahead of him past the bay to the Baysea Resort junction. The stand of pines was transformed into a misty, mythical forest, and it seemed a long time before he emerged from it. He parked in front of Dana Semenov’s room, and when he knocked on her door, heard an impatient, “Come in!” He did. The door was unlocked.

  The drapes were drawn back, and on the floor by the bed, her suitcase and briefcase stood ready. Dana was sitting at the table by the west windows, one hand cupped over the mouthpiece of the phone.

  She said irritably, “I thought you were room service.” Then into the phone: “Yes, I’m holding. I’ve been holding for ten minutes. What? No, I will not settle for a flight through Phoenix. For God’s sake, don’t you have any direct routes to New York out of that burg?”

  No doubt that burg was Portland, a
city of a million people, counting its suburbs. Conan sat down in the chair across the table from Dana, his gaze fixing briefly on the manila envelope by the telephone.

  Dana concluded her call with a curt, “No, I will not go on standby.” She slammed the receiver down, then her long, manicured nails tapped against the plastic as she studied Conan.

  He said casually, “I can recommend a travel agent in Portland. She’ll get you a flight to New York if it’s humanly possible. But I thought you were headed for Los Angeles.”

  “I was headed for L.A. but as you might’ve noticed, I’ve been stuck here for the last three days. I had to send my assistant. What’s your travel agent’s name?” She picked up a pen and pulled a notepad closer.

  “Lisa Hartford, Trans-World Travel Agency.” He provided the phone number, and as Dana’s pen moved in quick, bold strokes, Conan added, “I think you should reconsider before you call her. Gould’s murder hasn’t been solved.”

  Dana lifted the receiver. “They arrested somebody. That doctor.”

  “Gould was already dead when Doc besottedly tried to kill him.”

  She stared at Conan, not so much shocked as suspicious. Then she shrugged, began punching numbers. “I’m as curious as anybody to find out who killed poor Ravin, but I can’t sit here in the boonies waiting for an answer. Yes, may I speak to Lisa Hartford? And if the police don’t like my leaving, they can damn well arrest me. That’s the only way they’ll keep me here. Ms. Hartford? You were recommended to me by Conan Flagg. He lives in—what? I see.” She glanced at Conan, and he rose and went to the west window, putting his back to her to give her a semblance of privacy. He listened to her conversation, noting her businesslike tone more than the words; a tone that made it clear that she would brook no nonsense.

  When she hung up, he returned to his chair, while she checked her watch. “Your friend says she’ll call me back in fifteen minutes. Damn, I’ve got to catch the helicopter shuttle at twelve.”

  “Baysea found a replacement for Dan Arno?”

  “Who?”

  “The helicopter pilot who brought you here Saturday night. The pilot who was killed returning from another run to Portland early Sunday morning.”

  “He was killed? That’s too bad.”

  “Yes, it is,” Conan said flatly. “He left behind a wife who loved him and two children, Dan Junior, fifteen years old, and Noele, ten years old.”

  Dana leaned back and crossed her legs, regarding Conan with narrowed eyes. “That’s too bad, too. Mr. Flagg, what do you want?”

  “Some answers.”

  “To what questions?”

  “Well, I’m interested in the publishing business. Your title is editor-in-chief, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  “Sounds like a position of great responsibility. Is it difficult for a woman to reach that level in the publishing business?”

  “Are you trying to bait me, Mr. Flagg?”

  “No, just revealing my ignorance.”

  One eyebrow arched up. “Yes, it’s difficult for a woman to reach that level in any business. I started at the bottom and fought my way up, and none of it came easy.” There was an undercurrent of passion, even bitterness, in that.

  “What’s the criterion of success for an editor? Acquire or perish?”

  She pushed her hair back from her cheek. “Yes, but I have a history of acquiring very well. I’ve acquired bestsellers—blockbusters—for every publisher I’ve worked for.”

  “What bestsellers have you acquired for Nystrom?”

  “That is certainly none of your business.”

  “In other words, you can’t name any bestsellers you’ve acquired for Nystrom. But maybe your superiors are willing to wait patiently until you come up with a blockbuster.”

  “You’re out of line, Mr. Flagg,” she said, leaning forward, leading with her chin. “And you can just leave—now.”

  Conan ignored that. “But if Nystrom isn’t patient, what happens then? What happens if you can’t deliver Odyssey?”

  “You bastard!”

  Her frustrated anger was answer enough, even though she had herself under control a moment later and managed a cool laugh. “Oh, Mr. Flagg, you are baiting me. Well, I would’ve loved to deliver Odyssey to Nystrom, but Ravin Gould wasn’t the only writer in the sea, and the world won’t come to an end if Odyssey is never published.”

  “In fact, the world might be a better place. But not your world.” He smiled at her. “However, that’s not a problem for you now. You’re going back to New York in triumph with the contract for Odyssey, signed by Ravin Gould’s widow and heir, in that manila envelope.”

  One hand moved abortively toward the envelope, then she laughed. “You’re right, I do have a contract in here signed by Ravin’s widow and heir—for her autobiography.” Dana paused, enjoying herself, it seemed, then handed him the envelope. “See for yourself.”

  He called her bluff, realizing with a sinking sensation when he glanced through the contract that it was not a bluff. Nystrom, Inc., had indeed agreed to publish an autobiography, not yet titled, by Savanna Barany, said autobiography to be ghostwritten by an author chosen by Nystrom. The bottom line was that Nystrom was offering Savanna an advance against future royalties of $300,000.

  Conan put the contract in the envelope, dropped it on the table. “Touché. Will you also let me see for myself what’s in that briefcase?”

  She surged to her feet. “That briefcase is locked,” she said as she reached for the phone and punched a single number. “If you so much as touch it, I’ll—” Her next words were spoken into the phone: “Just a moment, please.” She covered the receiver, then, “I’ve got the office on the line, and I’ll scream for help, I’ll accuse you of rape or anything I have to, if you don’t get out of here right now and leave me alone.”

  He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I had no intention of touching the briefcase.” He didn’t need to now.

  She gave him an unblinking scrutiny, then said into the phone, “I’m sorry, I meant to call room service.” When she hung up, she said distinctly, “Goodbye, Mr. Flagg.”

  He rose but made no move to leave, instead reaching into his pocket for the scarf. “You forgot you were in a small town when you disposed of this. Not much happens around here that someone doesn’t find out about.” He unfurled the scarf, let it fall on the table.

  What he was seeking was there in her eyes: a flash of recognition.

  But it was gone in a split second, and she gave him an arch laugh. “Now what? Have you taken to selling ladies’ accessories? If so, this is very pretty, but it doesn’t go with anything I have.”

  “It went very nicely with the tan raincoat you wore Saturday night. The one from Bonwit Teller. And the purse with the gold buckle. It was from Bonwit’s, too. I suppose you were afraid someone might identify you by your clothes.”

  She stood frozen while he picked up the scarf. He went to the door, paused to look back at her. She hadn’t moved.

  “Goodbye, Ms. Semenov.”

  Chapter 28

  “Good morning, Miss Dobie.”

  The bookshop was open when Conan arrived at ten-thirty, and Beatrice Dobie was at the cash register, while Meg lounged on the end of the counter grandly tolerating a cooing matron.

  Miss Dobie said, “Good morning, Mr. Flagg,” as she slipped two books into a sack and handed them to the matron’s husband. Two copies of The Diamond Stud, Conan noted as he unlocked the office door.

  The one-way glass had been restored, but he didn’t close the door. He tossed the scarf on the desk, and when he sat down, Meg leapt into his lap and permitted him to massage her back. More mail had accumulated, but he ignored it for the memo written in Miss Dobie’s fine, slanted hand: Marc Fitch called. DA and Judge Lay agreed. Cady released this morning.

  “Mr. Fitch said something enigmatic about sunshine in the tunnel,” Miss Dobie announced from the doorway. “And an even more enigmatic inti
mation about Sheriff Wills having a new bee in his Stetson.”

  Conan frowned. “Marc didn’t explain that, I suppose.”

  “No.” She looked out into the shop to be sure no customers were bearing down on the cash register, then, “There was another call. Well, actually, it wasn’t just one call. She’s been calling every five minutes since I opened, but she refused to leave a message. I just don’t understand why young people never learn proper telephone etiquette. After all, they spend most of their adolescence on the phone. Of course, most young people these days never learn any kind of—”

  “Miss Dobie!” Under other circumstances, Conan might have been willing to wait for her to reach her circumlocutory point, but not today. “Did this person have a name? A phone number? Anything?”

  “No phone number. She said she didn’t know how long she’d be at the same phone, and she made it plain that she really didn’t want to give me her name, and if you ask me, the one she finally did give is an alias. She was obviously young, and it’s not a young woman’s name. Maybe her grandmother, but—”

  “Miss Dobie, for God’s sake!”

  “Cornelia.”

  Cornelia. That could only be Deputy Neely Jones. “Did she say whether she’d call back?”

  “No…” Miss Dobie apparently saw customers in the offing, and began retreating toward the cash register. “She didn’t say, but I expect she will. Let me help you with those, ma’am.”

  Conan rubbed Meg under the chin. “Well, Duchess, I guess there’s nothing to do but wait.” And try to figure out what kind of bee Wills might have in his Stetson. Conan had made no progress at that when the phone rang. He lunged for it, and Meg, alarmed at the upheaval, leapt for safety, digging her claws in for a better takeoff.

  “Ow! Holliday Beach Book Sh—”

  “Conan? Thank God. Look, I need your help.”

  It was Neely Jones, and the anxiety in her voice made the back of his neck tingle. “Of course, Neely. What’s wrong?”