by M. K. Wren
“Did Corey tell you what they talked about?”
“Yes. After he left and we got the kids in bed, she talked about it for a long time. She liked Jonas, you know, but she said you’d warned her about him.” Diane gave Conan an oblique smile. “You said he’s a con artist.”
“I still say it. Corey didn’t agree?”
“Well, she did, but I think she needed the warning. Anyway, Jonas told her he has cancer. A particular kind—osteoma, I think. Yes, that was it. He’s been taking chemotherapy for it. He said he doesn’t have any insurance, and he’s nearly broke.”
“And I suppose he needs an operation.”
Diane gave Conan a sharp look, then laughed. “Yes. But cancer often does require surgery, and even con artists can get cancer.”
Conan took a swallow of coffee. “Or osteoma—which is not a malignant condition. But it sounds right. Was Corey convinced?”
“Not really, although I think she wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“What was he asking of her?”
Diane considered that, then, “Well, nothing, actually. He told her that Gabe—ever a forgiving Christian—promised to give him a cash payment of three hundred thousand dollars in lieu of any future claim on Gabe’s estate. But it depends on the Baysea sale. The day Wines’s check arrives, Gabe said he’ll write a check to Jonas for three hundred thousand. God, isn’t that typical? There’s no reason for it, except it’s a power trip for Gabe. He could probably write a check for twice that amount any time and not even miss it.”
Conan’s eyes were down to black slits. “Yes, it is typical, which makes it entirely believable. It certainly gives Jonas a vested interest in the Baysea sale.”
She picked up her cup, but only stared into it. “I wondered about that—I mean, considering what Kate’s diary would mean to the sale. But Corey said it didn’t even cross her mind to tell Jonas about the diary, because she knew he’d go straight to Gabe with it, and she hadn’t talked to you and Lyn about it then. But she said Gabe told Jonas she’d been spearheading ECon’s campaign, and she’d caused a lot of trouble and delays. She thought that was funny. Gabe never seemed much troubled by anything she or ECon did, and the only delay we caused was forcing Baysea to obey the law.”
“Which in Gabe’s lexicon is defined as ‘trouble.’ So, she thought Jonas was only worried about her causing more of the same kind of trouble?”
Diane seemed to focus on her coffee and took a swallow. “Yes. She said she was sure he didn’t know about the diary—or about Gabe forging the deed. I mean, she thought maybe Jonas had either seen the diary—back before he left home, of course—or Kate might have told him about the deed. But Corey said she was sure he didn’t know anything about it.”
Conan didn’t comment on that, and Diane nodded. “Yes, I know, Conan. Corey wasn’t very good at recognizing lies. Anyway, her impression was that he just wanted her not to make any more trouble. And she was having a hard time working it out. I mean, she was wondering whether it wouldn’t be better just to forget the diary, the spit, the estuary—everything. But finally she said she couldn’t do that, not when she might have the means of saving it in her hands. She said she couldn’t spend…the rest of her life with that on her conscience. And if Jonas really did need surgery, there had to be other options open to him.”
Conan tilted his chair back and crossed his arms. “Friday evening, did she call Gabe to let him know she was coming?”
“No. I think—well, she wasn’t really sure she could face him. When she finally decided she had to, I wanted to go with her, but she said she thought it would be better if she talked to him alone. She wanted to give him a chance to save face. If he knew what he was up against, maybe he’d give in without a fight, if he could make people think it was his idea. Oh, God, Conan, I should’ve called you and told you what she was doing! I should’ve—”
Conan reached across the table for her hand. “Diane, it was her choice to go, and you had no right to question or subvert it. You didn’t know any more than she did the ultimate results of that choice.”
After a moment, her grip on his hand relaxed. “I know that. I keep trying to remember it.” She studied him for what seemed a long time, then, “You know, Corey loved you, Conan. In a very special way, she loved you.”
“Yes, I…finally understood that.” Then he rose, clearing his throat. “You’d better get yourself and the kids ready to go. It’s a good idea, a change of scene.”
She nodded. “I’ll give you my folks’ phone number, in case you need to reach me.”
A memo pad was placed handy to the telephone on the sideboard. She wrote a number on it and handed the page to Conan, then opened a drawer and found a pair of keys on a metal ring. “These are the keys to the house. By the way, the rest of Kate’s diaries are up in Corey’s room.”
“Thanks. I’ll take them with me now. And I’d like to look at the…Corey’s effects.”
“You didn’t need to ask my permission, Conan. Go ahead. I’d better check on the kids, and I’ll get the diaries.”
He nodded, frowning absently at the keys before he put them in his pocket. “Damn, that reminds me—Lyn went off with a set of my house keys.”
She smiled at that. “He’ll get them back to you—sooner or later.”
Conan walked with her to the front hall, then when she went upstairs, he opened the plastic bag and removed its contents. Clothing. Jewelry, including Mark’s diamond on its chain, a wrist- watch, a Black Hills gold ring. A large, leather purse. A keyring with a Greenpeace whale medallion on it. The ribbon that had so inadequately bound her hair when he last saw her alive. He examined every piece of clothing, every pocket and seam; they smelled of seawater, and in some thicker folds hadn’t yet dried. The contents of the purse were still soggy, and only illegible shadows remained in the small address book and check folder. He found nothing unusual or unexpected, and at length put everything back into the bag and left it on the chair, except for the billfold. The headache, which he pretended was only due to lack of sleep, was returning.
He heard Diane’s steps on the stairs and met her halfway to take the carton she was carrying, and at the foot of the stairs put it down to look inside. It was filled with diaries of various sizes and designs, some with clasps, most marked with a year in gold.
Diane said, “There are thirty-six of them, beginning with 1940.”
Conan pulled out a sheaf of envelopes thrust down at one side of the box. They were postmarked from cities all over the world, from Cairo to Sydney to Guadalajara to Ketchikan to Las Vegas. The addresses were typed, and there were no return addresses. They had been neatly cut open, but all were empty now.
He asked, “What are these?”
“Kate’s secret benefactor.” Diane knelt beside him. “Corey said Kate told her about them. They began arriving after Jonas left her in 1955. They came at odd intervals, and every one contained cash—anywhere from twenty to five thousand dollars. See—Kate marked the amounts on the backs of the envelopes.”
“From Jonas?”
“Kate thought so, but there was never a letter with them or any explanation.”
Conan raised an eyebrow, then lifted the box as he rose. “Well, I’ll get out of your way. Oh—I didn’t find anything of interest in Corey’s things, but her billfold was there. I left it out on the table. There was about two hundred dollars in it. You may need it; you and the kids.”
Diane frowned. “Two hundred—Corey didn’t usually carry that much cash….” She paused, eyeing Conan, then after a moment she nodded. “Thanks, Conan. I mean, for telling me about it.”
“Does Lyn know where you’re going?”
“Yes. Don’t worry, I’ll let you know if I hear from him.”
“Please do. And tell him—never mind. Diane, take care. Call me if it’ll help. Any time.”
“I will. Good luck, Conan.”
Chapter 7
Conan kicked the utility room door shut behind him;
his hands were occupied with the carton of Kate Benbow’s diaries. A heady perfume wafted from the kitchen: rib roast cooking. Upstairs, the vacuum cleaner roared over an off-key rendition of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” He took the carton to the library, retraced his steps down the passageway to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, then detoured into the living room. At the foot of the stairs, he shouted up to Mrs. Early. She emerged from his bedroom, her anxious frown giving way to a smile.
“Mr. Flagg! Didn’t figure to see you again today.”
“You won’t. At least, not much of me. I’ll be in the library, and I am not to be disturbed. If the house catches fire, call the fire department.”
She laughed, then her mouth made an “O” of consternation. “Speakin’ of fire, I better check that roast!”
Conan was already on his way to the library, and by the time Mrs. Early descended the stairs, the three-inch-thick, carved-wood door had closed behind him.
It was a narrow room with a high ceiling sloping up to the obligatory west wall of windows. Across from the hall entrance, a sliding glass door opened onto a pine-shaded patio, but there was no other break in the bookshelves that lined the three walls, except the fireplace to the right of the hall door. To accommodate the art works he found essential in any room where he spent a great deal of time, the pattern of shelves was broken with niches for paintings or small sculptures. He paused, as he always did on entering this room, to look to the corner to his left, where a brooding, life-sized, armored figure looked back out of a skull-helmet. He had known the painter—she had all but died in his arms—and he knew the figure did not represent death per se. Yet today it was hard to see any other meaning in it.
He went to the desk near the glass door, sat down and lighted a cigarette, swiveled to get a Portland directory off the shelf behind him, then pulled the phone toward him. He spent the next half hour calling Earth Conservancy officers whom he knew to be friends of Lyn Hatch’s. None had heard from him, but all promised to inform Conan if they did.
Conan’s next series of calls went to Westport, but District Attorney Owen Culpepper and Deputy Medical Examiner Dr. Gregory Feingold were not within range of any telephone on this Saturday afternoon. Conan was left with no recourse beyond recording his name and number on various answering devices. When he called Gabe Benbow, he was so frustrated with recorded messages and unanswered rings, he was at first surprised when he got an answer. It was Gabe himself.
“This is Conan Flagg, Gabe.”
“So? What d’you want?”
“Just some answers. About Corey.”
“I got nothing to say about Corey. She’s dead, Lord have mercy on her soul, and there’s nothing anybody can do about it.”
Conan thought, would you change that fact if you could? But he said levelly, “Unfortunately, there are still some unanswered questions about her death.”
“There aren’t any unanswered questions according to the law.”
“Oh yes, you certainly made sure of that.”
A suspicious pause, then, “What do you mean by that?”
“Just that I’ve never known Owen Culpepper to act so expeditiously. And on a Saturday, too. Gabe, the law may be satisfied, but I’m not, and sooner or later you will discuss those unanswered questions with me.”
Conan was treated to a fusillade of definitely unchristian commentary, then, “Flagg, you tend to your own damn business, and Corey Benbow ain’t it! I got nothing to say to you about Corey or anything else—not now, not ever!”
With that, the line abruptly went dead. Conan took a deep breath and hung up. Obviously, prying any information out of Gabe required more leverage than Conan could bring to bear now. Jonas. There, if instinct served, was surely the weak link.
Conan leafed through the local directory, then punched out a number.
“Blue Heron Inn, may I help you?”
“Jeananne, this is Conan Flagg. Would you connect me with the bar? Who’s on duty now?”
“Right now, it’s Harry.”
“You must be short-handed.” Harry Jens owned the Blue Heron Inn, and Conan knew his aversion to bartending.
Jeananne sighed wearily. “Short-handed? About three people short, is all. Hang on, I’ll ring the bar.”
After a brief wait, a hoarse voice came on the line with an impatient, “Yeah?”
“Conan Flagg, Harry. Sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for Jonas Benbow. Do you know him?”
“Sure, I know him. He’s spending most of his vacation here, looks like. But he’s not here now.”
“Damn. Who was tending bar Friday night?”
“Friday? You mean last night? I was. Flu! How come people always wait for a holiday to come down with flu?”
“That’s one of the great mysteries of life in a tourist-based economy. Was Jonas there last night?”
“No. He was here in the afternoon, but I didn’t see him last night. You want me to give him a message if he comes in today?”
“Uh—no. In fact, I’d rather you didn’t tell him I was asking about him.”
Jens replied equably, “Sure, Conan. Whatever. See you around.”
Conan hung up, then leaned back, frowning. So now he had another lie from Gabe to add to his list of so-called evidence: Jonas had not been partaking of demon rum at the Blue Heron Friday night. But even if he had been home—and Conan wondered if Jonas would call Gabe’s house home—Jonas couldn’t have been one of the “everybody” who “left hours ago.”
The carton of Kate’s diaries waited on the floor by the desk, but Conan made no move toward it. Instead, he reached for the Portland phone book again. He was thinking of Mrs. Early’s account of Leonard Moskin’s unfortunate marriage. Under “Moskin” he found no likely listing, but under the Cs he hit the jackpot: “Carr Nora 2222 Vista Av Apt 858.”
He waited through four rings, then a husky, feminine voice came on with a curt, “Hello!”
“Is this Mrs. Nora Carr Moskin?”
“No. This is Ms. Nora Carr. The ex Mrs. Moskin.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Ms. Carr. The listing—well, that’s not important. I’m W. Cameron Kluzinovski of the Northwestern Credit Research Systems Institution, Incorporated, and I’d appreciate a few minutes of your time.”
“You’re who? What’s this about?” Nora seemed to have begun the happy hour early; her sibilants tended to slur.
Conan repeated his fake identity, running the words together, then added, “We’re conducting a routine inquiry on Mr. Leonard Moskin, and I understand you—”
“Oh, a credit check on Leo!” At that, she laughed loudly. “What d’you wanta know about ol’ Leo? Just ask, buddy, and it’s yours, that son of a bitch!”
Conan’s surprised hesitation was genuine, but he maintained his crisp tone as he explained, “Well, Ms. Carr, we understand that since the dissolution of your marriage, Mr. Moskin has been making regular alimony payments in accordance with the court ruling in the case of—”
“Sure, sure. He’s been paying, all right! Up till three months ago, anyway. And you can put this down in your records: ol’ Leo is three goddamn months behind as of now! Y’know what that means? Nearly ten thou! How’s he expect me t’pay my rent? Or my car payments, or my—”
“Mr. Moskin hasn’t discussed his, uh, refusal to pay—”
Again, the harsh laugh. “Buddy, ol’ Leo didn’t refuse to pay. He’s just busted right now—so he says.”
“Then he has contacted you about—”
“Sure he did. Called a couple of days ago. It was Thanksgiving Day, yet. Says he’s got some deal on the fire, and he’ll send my money—with interest—by December tenth. He damn well better, or I’ll have him back in court so fast, he won’t know what hit him, and he’ll be lucky to come out with the clothes on his back! Not that Leo without his clothes’d be a treat for anybody. What’d you say your name—”
“You’ve been very helpful, Ms. Carr, and we appreciate it. Good-bye.” And he hung up, smiling faintly
. Definitely Kate Benbow would have been satisfied that Leo Moskin had met in Nora Carr a woman who made his worth all too clear.
Conan leaned back, looking out at the cloud-studded sky; the sun shimmered silkily on the sea, its acute angle verging toward the early evening of winter. He considered Nora’s belligerent revelations, particularly the dates of Leo’s call to her and his promised delivery of the overdue alimony. Thanksgiving Day, when Gabe Benbow had signed the papers for the Baysea sale, and December tenth, time enough for a check—or perhaps his reward would come in the form of cash—to reach Leo from Isaac Wines after the meeting of the Planning Commission.
But again, Conan realized, he was thinking of motive, when he didn’t yet have a corpus delicti, nor any reason to think Moskin might have been one of Gabe’s “everybody.”
But he had to start somewhere.
And he had to start somewhere on Kate’s diaries. He arranged the volumes on his desk by year. He could understand Corey’s reluctance to read them; they were as personal as any written account could be, and probably no business of his. That thought reminded him of Gabe, and he resolutely picked up the first volume. He skimmed through the years 1940 to 1946 hurriedly. The latter was the year that twenty-one-year-old Katharine Donovan first met Jonas Benbow.
Even in youth, Kate demonstrated not only a clear eye, but a sense of humor that let her accept the Benbows’ foibles—including Jonas’s—with amused equanimity. She provided insight into the relationship between the two brothers: Jonas, his father’s spoiled favorite, charming his way out of every predicament, obligation, and punishment, while Moses had to work assiduously for every crumb of approval. After Pearl Harbor, Jonas was drafted into the Army and at the end of the war returned a self-styled hero, although Kate knew he had spent most of the war in Hawaii and seen no real combat. Moses, on the other hand, volunteered the day war was declared, but was rejected by the Army because of his severe myopia. He spent the war years at the University of Oregon, where he acquired a degree in business administration and a wife.