by M. K. Wren
Corey stood pale and trembling, her hair blowing, unnoticed, around her face. “You gave me your word, Gabe.”
He cut off a stem heavy with dead blossoms. “‘The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.’ I changed my mind, Corey. And promises are cheap. Good lesson for you there. Promises are cheap.”
Conan rested a hand on Corey’s shoulder, not so much to restrain her as to occupy that hand with something gentler than smashing it into Gabe Benbow’s face.
Gabe rose, looking toward the bay. “Besides, this Baysea is going to be a real nice place. There’ll be a lodge and restaurants and shops; a golf course and marina. Even an airport. Look what it’ll do for the county. The jobs—like for the construction. And afterward. They’re talking about a full-time staff of three-hundred people. The taxes—”
Corey cut in, “You don’t care any more about the economy of this county than you do about its ecology. You used ECon, didn’t you? You used it to jack up Baysea’s price!”
Gabe only laughed at that. “Well, now, I guess I did. It worked, too.”
Corey took a step toward him, her hands in fists. “Why? Isn’t three million enough? And don’t tell me you were thinking about your heirs! You don’t think about anybody but Gabriel Benbow! But what good is that extra million to you? The IRS will get most of it, and you’re an old man, Gabe. There’s no way you’ll live long enough to spend the money you already have! So, what do you want with more?”
She apparently struck a nerve with that reference to his mortality. The maddening smile vanished.
“Get out! Both of you—just get off my property! And you, girl! If you ever figured on being one of my heirs—the ones you say I wasn’t thinking about—well, you can just—” He stopped, distracted, glaring toward the road. “Who the hell is that? Harrington? What’s he doing here?”
An old, once-grand Pontiac rattled into the parking area. Conan recognized it—as Gabe had—as Harry Harrington’s. That Gabe and Harrington were engaged in a continuing feud was common knowledge, but apparently Harrington had a purpose here other than annoying Gabe. He had a passenger with him.
The Pontiac came to a coughing halt at the foot of the walk, and the passenger got out, opened the rear door to extricate a travel-weary suitcase, then cordially thanked Harrington for the ride. “Would’ve been a long walk, Harry.”
Harrington departed, while his passenger, suitcase in hand, looked up at his attentive and puzzled audience. He was in his late fifties or early sixties, gray-haired, with tanned skin that bespoke a sunnier climate and showed his blue eyes to advantage. He had been a handsome man in his youth and still was, although there was a certain puffiness around his eyes and an unnatural flush to his nose and cheeks. He wore a three-piece suit of good quality, but a few years out of style and badly in need of pressing. If he’d put on a tie with the suit, it wasn’t in evidence now.
The rattle of Harrington’s Pontiac faded into the distant murmur of surf as the man squared his shoulders and started up the walk. A few paces from Conan and Corey, he stopped to put down his suitcase and looked at Gabe, then Moses, and finally asked, “Don’t you recognize me? It’s been twenty-seven years, I know, but—”
Moses breathed, “My God! Jonas.”
“Jonas?” Gabe pronounced the name uncertainly, then approached to get a closer look. “It can’t be—Jonas?”
Jonas Benbow shrugged and gave a short laugh. “The prodigal returns.”
A purplish flush colored Gabe’s face; he cried hoarsely, “‘So a fool returneth to his folly!’ I told you I never wanted to set eyes on you again! You killed your mother—you know that? And you nearly killed me!”
Jonas pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Well, y’know, Ma had cancer when I left Taft County, and it wasn’t till five years later that she died. And you—well, maybe I made it a bit sticky for you in that next election, but as for killing you—no, Pa, I don’t think so.” There was an ironic light in his eyes with that, but it vanished as he sighed and added, “Look, I didn’t expect you to bring out the fatted calf for me. It’s just that…well, a man comes to a point in his life where he wants to make his peace with his family, with the people he once held dear.”
Conan raised an eyebrow, aware that he was in the presence of a consummate actor. The spectrum of emotions spanned in those few words was remarkable. There was even a convincing portent of impending doom. Conan looked up at Moses and saw that he was not entirely convinced; his unblinking gaze never strayed from his brother, but, typically, he said nothing. France, convinced or not, was worried, glancing uneasily from Jonas to Gabe and back again. Gabe stood silent, weighing his prodigal son’s words and apparently finding them wanting.
It was Corey who finally broke the silence. She offered Jonas a hand and a tentative smile. “I’m Corey—Corella Benbow. Mark was my husband.”
“Corey?” Jonas took her hand eagerly, eyes full of solicitude and even a hint of tears. “Oh, Corey, I just heard about…well, the lady next to me on the bus, she was from Holliday Beach. She told me about Mark and Kate.”
Corey stared at him. “You mean you didn’t know they—about the accident?”
“No. I heard about my mother a couple of years after it happened, but Kate and Mark—well, I guess I was out of the country then or something. It…well, it hit me hard. I loved Kate, I really did, and Mark was my boy and—but that was a long time ago. I know it was a lot harder for you. Oh, Lord, I’m sorry, Corey.”
Gabe cut in impatiently, “You got a lot to be sorry about, Jonas. So, what do you want here? You figure I’m good for a handout now after all these years?”
Jonas replied staunchly, “I don’t need any handouts, Pa. I got a good job. Had it for six years. I know I can’t change anything that happened nearly thirty years ago, but—”
“You got a job? What kind? Doing what?”
“Bookkeeper for Southwestern Investment Company in Phoenix, Arizona. I’m…on vacation. Sort of a si—I mean, a leave of absence.”
Gabe’s sour expression hadn’t sweetened. “How long do you plan on staying around here?”
“Well, I guess that depends. I’ve had a lot of…extra expenses lately.” Then before Gabe could comment on that, Jonas insisted, “But I’m not looking for a handout. I’ve got a return ticket and enough money to eat along the way. All I’m saying is…well, I was hoping somebody could spare me a back room somewhere….” He looked past Gabe to the house. “But I don’t want to shove in where I’m not wanted.”
Gabe did not take the hint. He stood in his righteous silence, and Jonas shifted his inquiring gaze to France. Her chin came up, the incised parentheses bracketing her mouth deepened, but she was no more responsive than was Gabe. Neither was Moses, and something in the wordless exchange between the brothers betrayed years of unforgotten animosity.
Jonas smiled ironically. “Funny, isn’t it, Moses, how some things don’t change.”
Moses’ eyes flickered behind his thick lenses. “If you remember the parable of the prodigal son, you know it wasn’t the older brother who brought out the fatted calf.”
Jonas nodded and looked at his father, still obdurately silent, then with an audible sigh, he picked up his suitcase as if it were filled with bricks. “Well, I better get back to town and find out when the next southbound bus leaves.”
Corey could contain herself no longer. “You Benbows! You know what Kate used to call you? A bunch of stiff-necked hypocrites! And she was right. Jonas, you can stay with me—if you don’t mind putting up with a couple of kids.”
“Well, if one of them’s my grandson, I wouldn’t—”
“Oh, for Lord’s sake!” Gabe finally broke his silence, and after a baleful glance at Corey, conceded, “All right, Jonas. Like you said, it’s been almost thirty years, so…okay, you can stay here. For a few days, anyway.”
Jonas sighed and said soberly, “Thanks, Pa. It means a lot to me. I…well, I really appreciate it.”
&
nbsp; “You ought to. Come on, I’ll show you to the spare room.” Corey caught Jonas’s arm. “You’re still welcome to come visit us.”
“Thanks, Corey. I want to meet that Christopher.”
“He looks so much like Mark, you’ll…” She averted her eyes briefly, then, “I’ll be home tonight. I live up on Hollis Heights in—well, you know the house. It was Kate’s—I mean, yours and Kate’s.…”
“I know the house. Corella, you’re a lovely young woman, and I’m just grateful I got to meet you before…well, anyway, I’ll sure take you up on the invitation.”
“Kit and I will be looking forward to it. But, Gabe—” He was at the front door; he looked around at her as she added, “Gabe, we still have some things to talk about.”
He said acerbically, “Nothing more that I know about.”
“Don’t count on it.” And with that enigmatic admonition, she turned to Conan. “Let’s get out of here.”
They were in the car, and Conan was maneuvering a tight turn around the parking area, when Corey straightened from her boneless slump. “Oh, Conan, I didn’t even introduce you to Jonas. That was just plain rude. I’m sorry.”
Conan shrugged that off. He’d been too intrigued to notice any breach of etiquette. He glanced in the rearview mirror: the deck was empty; the Benbows had all gone inside. One big, happy family gathered for Thanksgiving Day.
He said absently, “That lady on the bus must’ve been quite informative. Jonas knew about Kit—Christopher, yet—before you mentioned him, and when you said something about a couple of kids, that didn’t confuse him at all.”
“Maybe the lady was a big talker. Maybe she told him about Di and Melissa and our odd household. You know, he’s not at all what I expected. He just seems like a nice old man. Tired. Soul tired, not body tired. And maybe…sick.”
Conan frowned as he negotiated the downhill curve toward the bay cliffs. “He’s good. Damned good.”
Corey’s head came around abruptly. “What do you mean?”
“Just that Jonas is an accomplished con artist, Corey. Probably learned it from his father. I never had a chance to see Gabe on the campaign trail, but Miss Dobie tells me he was a cross between FDR and a born-again preacher. As a matter of fact, Gabe’s father was an itinerant evangelist.”
She laughed. “Yes, I know. So, you think Jonas is a con artist? Who’s the cynic now?”
“Did I ever claim to be anything less than a cynic?”
“You’re a skeptic, Conan, not a cynic.” Then, with a sigh, “Jonas almost made me forget about the spit. I guess I’d better call Lyn Hatch. I wonder if he’s in Portland now or out in the mountains somewhere.”
“Someone in the Portland office should be notified.”
“Yes, but I think Lyn should have the bad news first. Lord, I hate to have to tell him. He’ll be so disappointed.”
“Lyn’s been with ECon too long not to be used to disappointments. Would you like me to call him?”
She considered that, then shook her head. “No. But I would appreciate it if—I mean, if Lyn decides to come down to Holliday Beach—which he probably will—could you put him up in your guest room?”
Conan didn’t take his eyes off the road; to do so at the moment would invite disaster. But that request surprised him. On Lyn’s previous visits to Holliday Beach, Corey and Diane had always made room for him at their house.
“Yes, of course, Corey. I’ve told him before that my guest room is at his disposal.”
They were well past Reem’s Rocks when Corey said, “I’m not mad at Lyn or anything like that. It’s just the opposite, really. You know, sometimes you need…distance. I just—well, I guess I’m a little afraid.”
Conan glanced at her and found her looking directly at him, her sea-hued eyes clouded.
“Afraid of what, Corey?”
“Are you going to make me say it? Then I can’t pretend it away.”
“That’s up to you.”
She looked out the side window, frowning faintly. “Okay, I’m afraid of what I’m beginning to feel for Lyn. Sometimes I have a hard time keeping myself centered. I mean, I get off on this guilt trip because of Mark. I keep wondering how he’d feel about Lyn and me.”
And Conan wryly wondered how she expected him to feel about it. For a moment, he felt cut to the quick, relegated before his time to the role of father confessor. He didn’t reply until they reached the junction with Highway 101, where he could stop and give her his full attention. And again he found those disturbingly direct eyes turned on him.
Then he smiled, realizing there was something to be said for the father-confessor role. “Corey, did Mark love you?”
She laughed softly. “Yes, of course he did, and I know he’d want me to be happy, and he wouldn’t expect me to lead a nun’s life forever.” She sobered, pausing before she added, “I also know that whatever he would have thought is totally irrelevant. He’s…dead. I’m on my own now.”
“An admirably rational way to look at it. I assume it doesn’t help a damn in dealing with your feelings for Lyn.”
“Well, no. Not really.”
“Give it some time, Corey. I know that’s stale wisdom, but occasionally it’s sound advice.” And, he thought to himself, in the best father-confessor tradition. “Anyway, Lyn is a very tenacious man. He’ll wait.”
Corey studied him, then nodded. “And you—you’re really special, Conan. I’m grateful for that.”
He felt a flash of heat in his cheeks and occupied himself with finding an opening in the holiday traffic so he could make a left turn onto the highway.
“Do you want me to drop you off at Rainbow Wings, Corey?”
“No, I’d better get back to the beach. We’ve got two or three thousand dollars’ worth of kites in the air today. Conan—” She hesitated, looking past him to the glittering waters of Sitka Bay. “Tomorrow when—I mean, if Lyn comes down, there’s something I have to talk to the two of you about.”
“Something to do with the spit?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“Well, it’s…complicated.”
“All right, I’ll wait until you’re ready.”
“Thanks, Conan.”
*
Conan left Corey at the beach access by his house and the XK-E in the garage next to the Vanagon, and before he returned to the bookshop, he made a call on the private line in his library. The call went to the Duncan Investigation Service in San Francisco. His name got him through to Charlie Duncan immediately.
The call lasted twenty minutes, most of which were spent in conversation that had nothing to do with the reason for the call. Conan and Charlie Duncan had met in Berlin, where they were both on assignment for G-2, and Conan’s feelings for Charlie were a great deal stronger than they might be for just another old Army buddy. Charlie had once saved his life in a back alley in Berlin.
The purpose of the call was disposed of in less than five minutes. Conan wanted a close background check on one Jonas Benbow, and he wanted results by Monday morning.
Then, as an afterthought, he asked for the same close—and fast—check on Nina Gillies. And he requested a particular operative. Sean Kelly had more than once proven to Conan that she had far more than good looks going for her. She was gutsy and inventive and endowed with infallible instincts. Nina Gillies was exactly Sean’s kind of job.
Charlie had asked if Conan was on a case, and when that answer was negative, irritably asked why Conan was spending good money—and it would be a respectable sum—investigating those two people, when he didn’t have a client to foot the bill.
“I’m just curious about them, Charlie. Very curious.”
Duncan had sighed prodigiously. “Sure. Well, it’s your money. You’ll have a report early Monday morning.”
Chapter 4
Conan awoke to a room full of gray light with his field of vision dominated by gray clouds and gray sea, painfully aware that however well designed it was for short-
term occupancy, the Barcelona chair was not intended for sleeping.
Corey Benbow is dead.
The memory called forth an audible sound, an aching gasp as if he’d been struck. He was too preoccupied with memories to wonder what had wakened him, until he heard a cheerful, off-key humming from the kitchen.
Mrs. Early. This was one of her cleaning days, and her arrival meant it was nine o’clock. The humming moved into the passageway behind him, then into the living room. He marshaled his strength and came to his feet.
Mrs. Early unleashed a shattering shriek.
“What in—who—oh, for pity’s sake! Mr. Flagg?”
She stood aproned and staunch, her wide, china-blue eyes fragmented by trifocals, white hair like a nebula trying to escape her head. That, however, was the way it always looked, and had nothing to do with her state of alarm.
“Mr. Flagg, you scared the living daylights out of me!”
He rubbed his stubbled face with both hands. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Early, I didn’t—”
“Was you asleep in that chair?” She propped her fists on her hips, shaking her head. “You should know better—”
“I do know better,” he muttered as he made his way to the spiral staircase.
“Oh, dear. It’s Corey Benbow, ain’t it?”
Conan didn’t ask what she meant by “it.” He continued up the stairs. “Mrs. Early, I’m going up to take a shower. Would you mind fixing a pot of coffee? The Kona, please, and make it strong.”
It took her some time to tell him that she would fix the coffee, but he didn’t stay for the accompanying motherly discourse. He went to his room, stripped off his clothes as he passed through the dressing room, and walked directly into the shower. As he adjusted the cascade of icy water to a more reasonable temperature, he wondered how Mrs. Early had known about Corey’s death. The grapevine. Mrs. Early was on the main trunk, and little transpired in Holliday Beach that she didn’t know about within hours.