by M. K. Wren
By the time he finished showering and shaving, he felt passably alert and capable of focusing his eyes and mind. He dressed hurriedly—well-worn English tweed trousers and a vintage cableknit sweater—then sat down on the edge of the bed to face the telephone. He found a fresh pack of cigarettes in the drawer and lighted one, closing his eyes on a long drag.
Corey had been murdered.
That conclusion was a result of his contemplation of patterns in the chill hours before today’s dawn. It was a solid conviction now, but he was well aware that he had very little to back it up. Only three pieces of evidence, and that was defining the word loosely. First, Gabe Benbow had lied about watching “Dallas” last night. Second, there were no skid marks on the road above Reem’s Rocks.
Third, the diary. Kate Benbow’s diary for the year 1948. Diane had told him that Corey had it with her when she went to talk to Gabe.
Oh, Corey, you naïve, gentle fool.
On Friday afternoon—yesterday? Yes. What a temporal chasm Corey’s death had created between yesterday and today. Yesterday, on the other side of that chasm, the kites had been flying above the beach and Corey had been there to watch over them, but as soon as Lyn Hatch’s red Honda appeared at Conan’s house, Corey left the kites and joined Conan and Lyn on the deck off the living room. She held a small, leather-bound volume in her hands.
“About a month ago,” she began, “a woman from the County Historical Society called me. She said she’d been a friend of Kate’s and knew she kept diaries since she was fifteen years old. Mrs. Cummins is writing a history of Taft County, and she thought Kate’s diaries might help her.” Corey looked down at the book, her brow flawed with a frown.
Lyn Hatch tilted back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, his frown echoing hers, although there seemed to be in his probing gaze a preoccupation not with what she was saying, but with Corey herself.
She went on, “Well, I knew Kate’s diaries were up in the attic at the house; I’d seen the box. But I’d never read them. They seemed…so personal, somehow. But I told Mrs. Cummins I’d look through them and see if I could find anything that might be useful to her—that wasn’t too personal. What I found—well, it kind of blew me away.”
Conan asked, “Something about the spit?”
“Yes.” She opened the diary to the place marked with a slip of paper. “This diary is for 1948. Kate was engaged to Jonas—off and on—and she was working as a ‘fee girl’ in the county clerk’s office in Westport. I guess her job was mostly recording deeds. This was during Gabe’s first term as county commissioner, and Jonas was a bookkeeper in the assessor’s office. Leo Moskin was managing a bank in Westport, and he was a notary public.”
Lyn leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Moskin notarized the deed for the spit. We checked that.”
Corey nodded. “Anyway, let me read this to you. The date on this entry is November 21, 1948:
“‘Marj Kilty announced her engagement today to that nincompoop, Charlie Hampstead. Oh, well. Wonder what I’ll do about my sometimes dear Jonas. Marry him, probably, sooner or later, for better or worse. He can be so sweet. But Gabe—now, I wonder about him. He brought in an interesting deed today. Bertran Reem was the seller, and the property was the Shearwater Spit plus a few acres at the neck of it. Bert just died a couple of days ago. I always felt sorry for him, all by himself in that shack on the bay. Nearly the last of his people, though they say he was only part Indian. He sure took to the white man’s liquor, though. The odd thing about the deed is that it was dated August tenth this year and notarized the same day—by Leo Moskin. That man thinks he’s God’s gift to women, but someday—I hope!—he’s going to run into a woman who’ll tell him in a way he can understand that he’s no gift to anybody, even with a satin bow tied around his neck!’”
Corey paused there, smiling. “It’s hard to imagine Leo as a ladies’ man, but he was really very handsome when he was young—and a hundred pounds or so lighter. Kate had some snapshots of the Benbows and various friends. Leo was in a lot of them.”
Conan lighted a cigarette, sheltering the lighter from the wind with his hands. “Kate’s wish came true about Leo meeting a woman who would clarify his worth—if the gossip about his ex-wife is true.”
Lyn cut in impatiently, “Go on, Corey. What else did she say about the deed?”
Corey resumed reading. “‘What made me wonder about the deed was the date it was notarized, because I know Leo was on vacation then. He made such a fuss about going to Miami Beach, and I thought then, in the middle of summer? Yes, I just checked the entry for August fifth. Jonas took me to the party Gabe gave for Leo the day before he left on his vacation. Leo couldn’t have notarized the deed on August tenth. He falsified the date. So, just out of curiosity, I checked Bert Reem’s signature against Gabe’s, and I’d swear Gabe forged Bert’s name on the deed—the old bastard. I mean Gabe, not poor Bert. But I don’t think Bert has any heirs, and this is one crooked deal that’s going to backfire on Gabe. He’ll never be able to sell that land. Nobody in their right mind would buy it—not to build on. I saw the whole spit covered with water nine years ago in that big storm. Houses built on sand—that would sure be it. I wonder if Jonas knows about this. Probably not, and it doesn’t matter. The only money anybody’s going to make on this deal is the taxes the county will collect—from Gabe. Too bad!’” Corey closed the book. “That’s all. There isn’t another mention of it from that time on. I guess Kate really didn’t think it would make any difference.”
Conan sat motionless, stunned by that revelation, at length taking a puff on his cigarette and letting the smoke out slowly to be snatched away by the wind. “Kate was not, unfortunately, gifted with twenty-twenty foresight.”
Corey laughed at that, but Lyn didn’t seem to hear it. The berserker light was in his eyes, straitly reined, as he surged to his feet, went to the deck railing, and after a moment struck it a blow that should have broken his hand.
“Damn him! That sh—” He clamped his jaw tight, apparently at a loss for words; at least, for any he felt free to pronounce in Corey’s presence. “Gabe’s going to collect four million dollars for a piece of land he doesn’t even own! A piece of land he got by forgery!”
Conan observed, “Allegedly, Lyn. Kate may have been wrong about the forgery. But we can probably prove that Leo misused his powers as a notary, which might make life rather difficult for him. There’s a group in Westport circulating a recall petition to get Leo off the Planning Commission.”
Lyn turned abruptly. “I don’t give a damn about Leo! If we can prove that Gabe has no right to sell that property in the first place—”
Corey said, “I thought about that, Lyn, when I first saw the diary. But at that point, Gabe had—supposedly—agreed to sell to ECon, and I knew it would be a legal can of worms. He can’t claim adverse possession, since he didn’t do a thing on that land until he built his house eight years ago, but can we prove beyond a doubt that Bertran Reem’s signature was forged, and even if we could prove fraud, then who owns the spit?”
Lyn responded impatiently, “It would revert to the state, since Reem had no heirs.”
“Yes, but first there’d have to be a search for heirs, and even if none turned up—well, this is a relatively enlightened state when it comes to environmental issues, but I’m not sure I’d want to trust the fate of Sitka Bay to the bunch of politicians running things in Salem right now.”
Lyn considered that, his frown of anger gradually changing into one of speculation. “Okay, it’s a can of worms for ECon, but it’s an even bigger can for Gabe.”
Corey nodded. “Right. He doesn’t want to go to court, even if he thought he had a chance of winning. It could be years before the whole mess is cleared up. He can’t afford those years—unless he really does believe he’s immortal.”
Lyn had relaxed enough to laugh at that. “Besides, Isaac Wines won’t wait that long. He’s got to get his money out earning more money.”
“Yes!” Corey replied, grim determination underlying her apparent enthusiasm. “ECon doesn’t want to start a long court battle any more than Gabe does, but we can and will, rather than let Wines buy the spit—and Gabe knows that.”
Conan put in, “So, you’re considering a little polite blackmail in a good cause?”
She wasn’t comfortable with that, but she didn’t argue it. “I thought we could offer him a chance to change his mind again, to tell Wines how cheap promises are.”
Lyn folded his sun-browned arms. “You mean let the last ECon offer stand, and if he doesn’t accept it instead of Baysea’s, we’ll go to court with that diary.”
She nodded. “Yes. Will ECon agree to that?”
“Well, I’ll have to talk to the state director, but I don’t think there’ll be any problem.” He straightened and squared his shoulders. “So, the next step is to talk to Gabe—to do a little blackmailing.”
“Yes, I guess it is,” she said, with no enthusiasm now, turning into the wind as she brushed her hair away from her forehead. “But I want to talk to him first. Alone.”
Conan felt a silent alarm at that and voiced vehement objections. Some argument followed, and in the end it hadn’t been definitely resolved. They would talk about it later. But not that evening; Lyn was slated for dinner with a potential land donor in Westport. And the wind had suddenly dropped—and most of the kites with it. Corey had made a hurried exit to aid in the rescue.
Last night as I lay on my pillow,
Last night as I lay on my bed,
Last night as I lay on my pillow,
I dreamed darlin’ Corey was dead.
And now the dream was reality.
His cheeks were wet, and the inner aching was in no way diminished. Conan put out his cigarette and reached for the phone. He had to check the first page of the phone book for the number; it was a Westport exchange.
“Oregon State Police, may I help you?”
“This is Conan Flagg. May I speak to Sergeant Roddy?”
“Just a moment, I’ll see if—yes, he’s in his office.”
A click, then Roddy came on the line with another offer of help. Conan identified himself again, then, “Do you have any more information on Corey Benbow’s accident, Sergeant?”
“Well, the deputy medical examiner should arrive in Holliday Beach any time now—”
“On a Saturday? I didn’t know MEs worked six-day weeks.”
Roddy laughed. “We all get our share of those. Anyway, we’ve already gone over the car. Far as we can tell, Ms. Benbow was alone, and there wasn’t a damn thing wrong with the car. I thought there was a chance the brakes were defective, since there weren’t any skid marks. I guess…well, the ME will run the usual blood tests.”
“And what if those tests show she wasn’t drunk?” That slipped out, and Conan winced in annoyance; he didn’t want to antagonize Roddy. “I’m sorry, Sergeant. I know a DUI is the obvious explanation, and it has to be checked out. Did you talk to Gabe Benbow?”
“Yes. He said Ms. Benbow showed up at his house about eight-thirty and left about nine. I asked him why she came to see him, and he said they’d had an argument Thanksgiving Day. Something about a land sale. She belonged to some local antidevelopment group.”
Conan felt a rush of anger that tightened his grip on the receiver. “I suppose those were Gabe’s words.”
“Mm. More or less.”
“He was talking about a nationwide organization with a hundred and thirty thousand members and permanent capitalization of around forty million.”
Roddy gave a low whistle. “Well, I guess Gabe—Mr. Benbow has his own peculiar way of looking at things. Anyway, his story is that he and Ms. Benbow talked for a while, then she left. He also said…well, she didn’t have anything to drink at his house.”
Conan didn’t comment on that. “Where was Jonas?”
“Jonas? Oh—Benbow’s son. Well, he was at the Blue Heron Inn lifting a few. According to Mr. Benbow, his son has always had a weakness for booze.”
“Did you check with the bartender at the Blue Heron?”
“No. Is there any reason we should have?”
“Maybe. Did Gabe say he was alone when Corey arrived?”
“Yes. He said it a couple of times, matter of fact.”
Conan considered that, then, “When I called Gabe earlier—about two, I think—I asked him if Corey was there, and he said, ‘Everybody left hours ago.’ If he was alone, who was ‘everybody’?”
“Mr. Flagg, I don’t know, and unless some evidence of foul play turns up, that is not any business of mine or of the State Police.”
Roddy’s patience was obviously wearing thin. Conan mentally added Gabe’s slip of the tongue to his scant list of evidence for murder as he offered a placating, “You’re right, Sergeant. I assume the body is at Ronson’s Mortuary?”
“Yes. It’ll be released after the ME checks it. The DA is trying to find a next of kin. I mean, a blood relative. Mr. Benbow thought she came from somewhere in Montana, but he wasn’t sure where.”
“Havre,” Conan said dully. “Havre, Montana.”
There’s nothing between Havre and the north pole but a railroad track. All you could see was prairie and sky. But I was sea-marked. Some people are, you know….
Conan added, “Corey told me her father was a brakeman on the Union Pacific, and one night he boarded a train for his shift and just kept on going. Her mother left for parts unknown a few years later. Corey was raised by a great-aunt and uncle. Irene and Chester—damn, what was the last name? Bronson, I think. But I don’t know if they’re still alive.”
“I’ll pass that on to Culpepper. Thanks.”
“Sergeant, I know Corey would have wanted her body released to Diane Monteil.”
“Oh. Well, of course, that’s up to the DA.”
Conan refrained from comment on that or on Owen Culpepper. “What about the personal effects?”
“We sent them to the Holliday Beach Police Department. Chief Kleber said he’d take care of them, since he knows Ms. Monteil and the boy—the victim’s child.”
“Did you find that diary?”
“No, nothing fitting the description you gave me last night. Her purse was there. Billfold in it with about twenty dollars. She was wearing a fairly good watch, and she had a diamond ring on a chain around her neck.”
But the diary was missing, and that ominous absence was something else to add to the list of evidence.
“Sergeant, I’d like to see the ME’s report.”
Roddy took a long time responding to that. “Well, Mr. Flagg, you know I’m not supposed to give out that kind of information without some sort of official request.”
“I understand that.” Conan reined his urge to argue further, waiting for Roddy’s reply.
“Look, I…well, Chief Kleber will have the information as soon as I do. Maybe sooner.”
Conan smiled. “I’ll talk to him.” And hope Earl was in a cooperative mood today. “Thanks, Sergeant.”
Conan pressed the cradle button, but didn’t hang up. He hesitated, then took a deep breath and punched out a number from memory. Lyn Hatch answered the call, and in the two syllables of his hello, Conan could hear his ragged weariness.
“This is Conan, Lyn. I won’t ask how you are; I can guess. What about Di? And the kids?”
“Well, nobody got much sleep last night. I think maybe Melissa’s finally asleep now. Kit…well, Di’s with him. She’s incredible, Conan. The patience. I don’t know how she holds everything together like she does.”
“I suppose it’s a good thing she has the kids to worry about now.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Then, with an audible intake of breath, “Have you talked to the police?”
“Yes, I just called Sergeant Roddy. Corey’s body is being held at Ronson’s Mortuary here in town until the medical examiner arrives. That should be soon. After the autopsy, I assume the DA will release—”
“Au
topsy? Why are they doing an autopsy?”
Conan recognized the defensive tone; he’d heard it from survivors before, and he had always wondered why people found the dissection of the body of a loved one so repugnant. The body was no longer the person loved.
“In a case of unexpected death, it’s usual, Lyn.”
“Oh. Yes. I guess I’m not thinking too straight.”
“Who is?”
Lyn tried to laugh at that, none too successfully, then, “Conan, you’ve got a private investigator’s license—I know that, and I…how much do you charge?”
This turn in the conversation took Conan by surprise. He shook a cigarette out of the pack and lighted it, bracing the receiver against his shoulder.
“Why, Lyn? What do you want with a PI?”
“I don’t believe that crap about Corey’s death being an accident! I think she was murdered.”
Perhaps this turn wasn’t so surprising after all. Conan thought grimly, that makes two of us, but he only asked, “Why do you think she was murdered?”
“Because it’s just too goddamned convenient, her dying right now. And she did have the diary with her. Di saw her put it in her purse before she left the house. Look, Conan, whatever it costs—I can sell my cycle and stereo and—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Lyn! If there’s a case here, I’m already on it. Who do you think murdered her?”
Lyn said with chill distinctness, “You know who I know murdered her! Gabe Benbow. He had it all: motive, opportunity, and—”
“And means?” Conan kept his voice level; Lyn was the last person he wanted to argue with today. “We don’t even know what the means were, Lyn, and Gabe certainly wasn’t the only one who wouldn’t want that diary made public.”
“But he had—” Lyn stopped, his tone rife with suspicion when he asked, “You say you’re already on the case? Who hired you?”
“No one, Lyn. My client is Corey. And I won’t take another client, especially not you. What you want is someone to prove your foregone conclusion. But I promise you this: I’ll keep you informed on my progress as if you were my client. In exchange, I’ll ask you to stay out of it.”