by M. K. Wren
“Well, more like a strategy meeting. And you missed one. Somebody else was there.” He smiled enigmatically.
Conan had to ask. “Who else, Jonas?”
“Leo Moskin.”
Conan took a moment for a bracing swallow of whiskey. “Why was Leo there?”
“Oh, they were talking about the Planning Commission meeting. I guess there’s one commissioner they were worried about. But it was kind of a victory celebration, too. Anyway, you can understand why nobody wanted it spread around that Leo was there. Might look like he was a bit biased when the Planning Commission decision on Baysea came down.”
“A bit. You were present all during this strategy meeting cum victory celebration?”
“Sure. Of course, this little party hadn’t been going on more than half an hour before Corey showed up.”
“When did she arrive?”
“Let’s see, it must’ve been about eight-thirty. Oh, thank you, darlin’.” That was for the waitress as she served his drink. He took time to taste it, waiting until she was well out of earshot before he went on. “Nobody seemed too happy to see Corey, and she didn’t seem happy to see so many people there. It was funny, really, everybody walking on egg shells, being so damned polite. France fixed Corey a drink, just to be polite, and Corey drank it—part of it—just to be polite. Black russians. France acts like the damned drink was invented last fall when they were in Mexico—for her benefit. She fixed black russians for everybody that night. Except Pa. He doesn’t drink—so he says. Anyway, Corey finally said she had to talk to Pa alone—something about the spit—but he was feeling ornery, as usual; kept saying he didn’t have any secrets from the rest of us. They argued a while, till Corey got disgusted and said, okay, they could all damn well hear it.”
“The diary? She read the November twenty-first entry?”
“Yes.” A sigh, then, “She read it, all right.”
“Did she let anyone handle the diary?”
Jonas shook his head and downed more scotch. “No. Well, she let me look at it so I could verify the handwriting; make sure it was really Kate’s.” He glanced at his watch again. “As soon as I gave it back to her, she put it in her purse.”
“How did the others react to the reading?”
Jonas snorted and rolled his eyes upward. “The shit hit the fan then, everybody hollering and calling names. And France—damned if she didn’t pick up Corey’s drink and throw it in her face!”
Conan frowned. “She what?”
“Just like in the old movies—slosh, right in the face. Well, Corey went to the ladies room to clean up, and—”
“Did she take her purse with her?”
“Sure she did. She never let go of that thing once while she was there. Anyway, Corey went to the john, and Moses took France out to the kitchen for a little talking-to. God, she was mad. Not hysterical or anything like that; just mad as hell. That woman—I don’t know how Moses has stood it all these years. But, you know, I think he loves her. Meanwhile, Nina got Leo and Pa calmed down. And me. Just for your information, I didn’t know about that forged deed before. Must’ve read the wrong diaries back when Kate and I were together. Nina’s idea was for us to go along with Corey; agree to anything, then later—well, maybe we could get hold of the diary.”
It took some concentration for Conan to keep his voice steady. He asked, “Didn’t anyone consider the possibility that Corey had made copies of the pertinent passage?”
Jonas shrugged. “Sure. Leo did the considering. Damn, the fatter that man gets, the more he worries. Ol’ Leo used to be—well, he’d take chances just for the hell of it, just to see what he could get away with.”
“What was the upshot of his consideration?”
“Not much. Nina had asked Corey if she made any copies, and Corey said she hadn’t. Gabe told Leo—hell, I can still remember the words: ‘Corey’s such a damn fool, she wouldn’t make any copies.’ I figure he was right, too.” He looked sharply at Conan, as if he hoped for verification.
Conan gave him nothing. He took a last puff on his cigarette and stubbed it out. “Perhaps Corey was a fool by Gabe’s standards, but she did show the diary to other people, not all of whom are as naïve as she was. Go on with your story.”
Jonas hesitated, no doubt thinking about the implied existence of copies, then took up his narrative again. “Let’s see—oh, Nina went to the kitchen to tell Moses and France the plan. Then she told France she could at least fix another one of her damn drinks for Corey.”
“You could hear what she said?”
“Not every word, but the kitchen doesn’t have a real door; just those swinging, saloon-type things. Well, after a while, France and Moses came back to the living room, then Nina brought Corey’s drink out a few minutes later and put it on the coffee table. And another drink for France. Nina said she figured France needed it, but that wasn’t exactly a friendly gesture. Those two women don’t seem to care much for each other. Too much alike, I think. Well, Corey came out of the bathroom, and everybody was real polite again.”
“Where was everyone sitting at this point?”
“Sitting?” That took some study. “You know the way the furniture’s laid out? There’s the two couches facing each other and at right angles to the fireplace, then there’s that burl coffee table between the couches—”
“And I assume Gabe’s recliner is still at the west end of the table: the head of the table, so to speak.”
“Where else? So, Pa was in his recliner, and I was on the couch to his left, closest to him, and Leo was at the far end. Corey sat down between us. On the other couch, France was next to Pa, then Moses, and Nina at the far end.”
“Was that the seating arrangement from the time Corey arrived, or did it change at any point?”
Jonas seemed to find these questions odd, but he replied with the tolerance of the indebted, “Nothing changed. That’s how we were sitting before she came, and she took the only open spot. After France gave her that Kahlua shower, everybody just naturally seemed to go back to their old places. Of course, Leo and Pa and me stayed put the whole time.”
“After Corey rejoined the festivities, what happened?”
“Nina said she’d talk to Wines and see if he wouldn’t be satisfied with leaving the spit and bay shore for a preserve or whatever, if he could go ahead and develop the rest of the land to the south. Pa said he’d take the ECon offer for the spit, if Corey promised not to go to court with the diary. Conan, it was all BS, you know, just to buy time.”
“But Corey believed it.” That wasn’t a question.
“Sure, she believed it, and she left believing it.”
“She left then?” He raised an eyebrow, then at Jonas’s nod, “Was she alone?”
Jonas laughed. “Of course she was alone. She hadn’t made herself too popular, you know.”
“Yes. I know. What time was it when she left?”
“Oh, maybe nine-thirty.” As if the mention of time served as a reminder, he glanced at his watch, and Conan’s curiosity was aroused; this wasn’t the first time he’d seen Jonas check the time, as if he were worried about an imminent appointment.
Conan unobtrusively looked at his own watch—1:17—as he asked, “Did Corey finish her second drink?”
“Mm? Well, I don’t think she finished it. Didn’t seem to be much of a drinker.”
“She wasn’t. Does France load her black russians?”
Jonas shrugged. “No, probably a standard mix. Pony of Kahlua to two of vodka.”
“So, Corey consumed about three, possibly four, ounces of alcohol over a period of an hour. That might be enough to make her a little fuzzy, but not drunk.”
“Oh, you’re thinking about the DUI the police are trying to lay on her. She did seem—well, not too steady.”
Conan studied Jonas’s lined, tanned, oddly flaccid face. There was nothing he had said so far that Conan rejected out of hand; in fact, all of it had the solid feel of truth, and undoubtedly part of it was true. A good con a
rtist always builds his edifice of fabrication on a foundation of truth.
“So, Corey left the house then, to die within a mile. What happened to the remaining celebrants?”
“There wasn’t much celebrating. They muddled around, trying to figure out what to do about the diary. Didn’t come up with much. They all left within half an hour.”
“When was the conspiracy of silence evolved?”
“What do you mean?”
“The story about Gabe being alone when Corey arrived.”
“Oh, well, not until after Pa found out about the accident. He figured with Corey dead, he didn’t have to worry about the diary anymore, but he damned sure wasn’t going to tell the police that Leo Moskin had been there. I think he went too far, saying nobody was there. But maybe he was right. This way, the police didn’t question Moses or France or Nina. Or me. You get too many people involved, that just raises the odds on somebody slipping up.”
Conan lifted his glass in a mocking toast. “So it does. And Gabe called the other conspirators after he told his story to the police Saturday morning?”
“Right. So, you see, this…conspiracy didn’t have anything to do with murder. I swear to God it didn’t.”
Conan gave him a direct look, which he met staunchly. “All right, Jonas. What do Gabe et al. intend to do about the diary now?”
“What do you mean? The police didn’t find it, did they? It’s probably sunk in the mud at the bottom of the bay.”
“I doubt that.”
“Well, where else would it be?”
Jonas asked that with such earnestness, Conan had to laugh. “That’s a good question.” He started to rise, then, “By the way, that donation to the Jonas Benbow Surgical Fund has a few strings attached. If you try to leave the area without telling me, or if I find out you’ve lied to me, or if you tell any of the other conspirators about our conversation today, I’ll stop payment before you can get to a bank.”
Jonas nodded, unconcerned. “Conan, don’t worry. You can trust me.”
“That’s why I came to you first.” As Conan left the table, he saw that Jonas was again looking at his watch.
Conan left the Blue Heron, and even went so far as to drive two miles up 101 to the Sitka River road. There he made a U-turn and returned to the Inn, drove around the north end, and parked by the kitchen entrance.
There was a pay telephone in the restaurant’s foyer. Conan had noted its location on his way out, and noted as well that it was near the corner of the short hallway into the dining room. A person could stand on the dining room side of the corner and easily hear what was being said into that phone without being seen by the caller. Conan planned to do exactly that. He entered the restaurant through the kitchen, where the cooks and dishwashers were too busy to notice him; the dining room staff was equally preoccupied, and Conan reached his chosen post without having to offer a word of explanation.
“…sorry I’m late, Mr. Belasco. I, uh, got sort of hung up.”
Conan leaned against the wall, trying to look like he was waiting for someone, and trying not to smile too broadly. He recognized the voice: Jonas Benbow.
“…don’t worry. Everything’s going even better than I expected. In fact, I’ll have part of it for sure by the tenth. Right. What? Well, I, uh, can’t be sure when, but you don’t need to worry, Mr. Belasco. Okay.”
Conan frowned over that enigmatic conversation, then straightened when he heard the receiver click into its cradle. The next sound was a coin chinking into the slot, then within half a minute, Jonas’s voice again: “France? I’ve got to talk to Moses—”
The connection was abruptly broken. Conan had stepped around the corner and pressed the cradle down. He smiled into Jonas’s slack-jawed face and observed, “Jonas, you have just forfeited thirty thousand dollars.”
Jonas’s shoulders slumped with a long exhalation of breath, but after a moment he laughed and shrugged.
“Well, like they say, easy come—”
“—easy go, yes. What was that other call about?”
Jonas responded with a cold stare and the words Conan seemed to be hearing all too often lately: “That’s none of your business.” Then he added in a more conciliatory tone, “I mean, it’s got nothing to do with anything here.”
“Something in Phoenix, then?”
“It was my bookie,” Jonas said with a sly smile. But the smile didn’t last. “You want your check back?”
“Oh, you might as well keep it for a while. Who knows, you might even manage to redeem it. Come on.”
“Redeem—what do you mean?” He caught up with Conan just outside the door and stayed with him around the north end of the restaurant, but when Conan turned the next corner, Jonas came to a halt. “Now, wait a minute—what’s going on?”
Conan looked around and saw Jonas standing white-faced, his hands in fists. He was, quite simply, afraid.
Conan asked, “For God’s sake, did you think I was going to redeem that check out of your flesh and blood? Damn, you must’ve met some interesting people on your many travels.” He motioned toward the Jaguar. “My car. You and I are going for a drive down to Westport, and the only reason I’m taking you along is so I can keep an eye on you. No more phone calls, no conversations with anyone but me.”
Jonas willingly got into the car when Conan unlocked the door for him. “Is this how I redeem that check?”
Conan got in and started the motor. “Well, it might at least be a beginning.”
“All right! Damn, this car’s a little beauty. They’re collector’s items now, you know.”
“So are parts for it. But it’s the hyacinth in my life.”
“Yeah. How come we’re going to Westport?”
“Oh, it’s a nice day. Seems like as good a time as any to pay a friendly call on Leo Moskin.”
Chapter 9
The twenty-five-mile drive down the coast to Westport was particularly pleasant on this warm, crystal-clear day, and Jonas proved an entertaining companion, regaling Conan with stories of his world travels. He had indeed met a number of “interesting” people, many of whom lived by codes not written in the laws of any land.
In Westport, Conan stopped at a gas station to ask the way to Leo Moskin’s house. The attendant directed him to a gravel road striking west from the highway. After winding through Westport’s outskirts, then a stretch of uninhabited pine woods, it ended at length at Moskin’s house on a promontory overlooking the beach. Conan wondered if Leo hadn’t also resorted to mail-order architecture. Like its owner, the house was large and imposing—a two-story, bastardized French Provincial. Apparently, Leo was having a party, judging from the number of cars parked along the circular drive.
Conan stopped the XK-E well away from the house, then said to Jonas, “Give me your shoes.”
Jonas stared at him. “My what?”
“Your shoes. It’s not that I don’t trust you, Jonas, but if you do decide to hike out of here, stocking feet on this gravel should slow you down enough for me to catch up with you before you reach a phone.”
At first Jonas seemed ready to argue, a flash of cold resentment in his eyes. Then he shrugged, even laughing as he removed his shoes. “Do I get them back shined?”
“Worry first about getting them back at all.” Conan got out and locked the shoes in the trunk of his car. Jonas offered a smile and a wave as he departed.
On his way to the house, Conan saw the special license plates of a state senator on a Mercedes sedan. A political gathering, apparently. This was verified when the door was opened for him by an aggressively attractive woman in her late thirties, offering a white smile and the handshake that seemed reflexive in political circles. “Hi, I’m Lindsey Cross, the senator’s campaign coordinator. Come in!”
Conan let her take his arm to guide him down a hallway toward a large living room in which a decorator had attempted to maintain the French Provincial motif. There was not, Conan noted, a single original painting on the walls. At least fift
y people crowded the room, most forced to stand, drinks and canapés in hand, all with the unmistakable sleekness of wealth about them, and all talking, of necessity, loudly.
Lindsey Cross was still smiling. She shouted, “I’ll tell the senator you’re here, Mr.…?”
Conan recognized the senator in a knot of supporters in the center of the room, but he was looking for the party’s host. Leo Moskin, even in this crowd, was not hard to find.
“Sorry, Ms. Cross, but I didn’t come to see the senator. I’d appreciate it, however, if you’d tell Mr. Moskin that Conan Flagg is here, and I’ll either talk to him in private or here—in public.”
Moskin opted for the former choice, and within five minutes, Conan was sitting across a desk from him in a room Moskin referred to as the library. There were a few bookshelves, some of which contained books in carefully matched sets, and there was an original painting here: a shiny seascape with breakers frozen forever in Kodachrome hues.
Moskin occupied a huge, leather-covered chair, dark eyes cold under heavy lids, his oddly childlike hands interlaced atop his belt. He asked tonelessly, “Can I offer you a drink?” He seemed relieved when Conan declined, and he wasted no more time on amenities. “What do you want, Mr. Flagg? I have guests, you know.”
Conan crossed his legs and settled back in his chair. “Mr. Moskin, you have some influence with Owen Culpepper, don’t you?”
“I’ve…known Owen for a number of years, and I think I can say that he and I are…friends.”
“Then perhaps you can tell me under what influence Owen was acting when he ordered the ME to make only a superficial examination of Corey Benbow’s body, and when he released the body to Gabe Benbow within hours after the examination.”
Moskin’s jowled face remained expressionless, except for a further lowering of his eyelids. “I assure you, Mr. Flagg, Owen’s decisions in the line of his official duties are in no way influenced by our friendship.”
“And can you also assure me that you were not at Gabe Benbow’s house Friday night to hear Corey’s reading from Kate Benbow’s diary?”
One of Moskin’s index fingers twitched nervously, but his control was otherwise complete. “I haven’t even seen Gabe Benbow for months, except in passing at the courthouse or that kind of thing. I most certainly was not at his house Friday or any other night, and, quite frankly, that business about a diary is gibberish.”