The Conan Flagg Mysteries: Bundle #3

by M. K. Wren

  Perhaps the similarity was in that quality of handmadeness. The fireplace was faced with dark gray basalt, each block shaped and laid by hand. The bed, the small tables on either side, the desk to the left of the window, the chest of drawers on the right, the wardrobe to the right of the door, the armchair in front of the fireplace, were all crafted by hand.

  But there was nothing in his childhood experiences to equate with the tensions that threatened this family. He remembered his last visit here and the easy camaraderie that had existed between the members of the family. He remembered Carla King, with her soft voice, her brown hair muted with silver, the lively intelligence in her gray eyes.

  Our center is gone….

  Conan went to the window, an old-fashioned sash window, turned the lock, and pulled the sash up. The air was warm, a taste of summer in it, yet with a dry tang that declared the true season. He looked out at young hemlocks with their tops gently bowed, shrubby salal at their feet, shiny leaves dull now, patched with brown and scarlet. The mossy ground was only three feet below the window; the lodge had been built into a hill so that the bedrooms at the back of the second story were at ground level. To the west, the hill sloped down, making a more precipitous drop from the windows in the next bedroom.

  Conan leaned against the window frame, realizing that he was putting off going downstairs. Defusing familial tensions was not his forte. On the other hand, he believed fervently that anyone possessed of as much talent as Lise King should not have to suffer the anxieties to which lesser mortals were subject. He did not believe that art was necessarily a product of suffering, but rather that suffering was usually unavoidable, and some people managed to produce art in spite of it.

  Holding on to that thought, he shut the window and left the room.

  When he reached the atrium, he heard voices from the living room and saw Lise, Kim, and Loanh laying out the cold buffet on the dining table at the far end of the room by the French windows. The front door was open, and he went out onto the deck, where A. C. stood gazing at the mountain. He turned at the sound of Conan’s footsteps.

  “Conan! Damn, it’s good to see you again. Been a long time.” Then he added with a sigh, “Lot of water under the bridge.”

  Conan nodded. “Especially for you. I’ll miss Carla.”

  “Yeah. We all do.” He squinted toward the cloud-shadowed mountain. “Sorry you had to see that little set-to. I mean, with Lucas.”

  Conan said carefully, “It seems to have resolved itself.”

  “Maybe.” He focused on the road and the vehicle emerging from the alders, a dust-beige Vanagon, advancing with a typical VW sputter. “That’s Will!” Then he added by way of explanation, “Will Stewart. Friend of Mark’s from their varsity football days at OSU.”

  “Yes, I’ve met Will. He’s your doctor now, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah. He’s hitched up with a real nice clinic in the West Hills. He was Carla’s doctor, too. Really hurt him when nobody could help her.” For all the craggy stoniness of A. C.’s features, they were remarkably expressive, and Conan watched the old grief renew its hold then dissipate in an avuncular smile as the Vanagon came to a stop.

  The man who emerged in worn cords and sweatshirt was a year or so shy of forty and an inch or so shy of six feet, with a muscular body that suggested he could still play a passable game of football. He had typical Scots coloring: fair, freckled skin and pink cheeks that made him always look as if he’d just come in from the cold; unruly red hair and equally unruly eyebrows over eyes somewhere between gray and green.

  He extended a broad hand as he mounted the steps to the deck. “A. C., you look great. Am I late? Had an emergency at the storefront.”

  “No schedule here, Will. Mark and Tiff haven’t even arrived yet.”

  Will’s hand went out to Conan. “Hey, it’s great to see you again, Conan. How’s everything at the coast?”

  Conan restrained a gasp of pain as his hand was crushed in a vise-like but mercifully brief grip. “Fine, Will. You’re still running the storefront clinic on Burnside?”

  “Three days a week.” Then casting a sidelong glance at A. C., he added, “Us knee-jerk liberals have to keep ourselves occupied.”

  A. C. laughed. “Yeah, you keep ’em healthy, so I can pay out my taxes on welfare to keep ’em in cheap wine.”

  If Will had any retort for that, he apparently forgot it. Lise had just come out on the deck. His cheeks glowed pinker, his smile turned into a longing grin, and Conan sighed. This, at least, hadn’t changed.

  “Will!” Lise crossed to him, gave him a sisterly embrace. “Oh, Will, it’s so good to see you. Mark didn’t tell me you were coming.”

  It was obvious that Will Stewart wished the embrace had been less sisterly. “Well, I wasn’t sure I could come, and I may have to leave early. Got a patient due to go into labor this weekend. Hello, Heather. How’re you doing, pretty girl?” He leaned down to pet the sheltie, whose tail-wagging greeting made it evident that they’d met before.

  Lise said, “I came out to announce that lunch is on the dining room table. Serve yourselves anytime.”

  Will asked, “One of Doris’s simple little buffets? Terrific. But I better unload my stuff first and get the van out of the way.”

  “I’ll help you,” Lise volunteered.

  He opened the side door of the VW. “Well, I’ve just got the one bag…. Oh, there’s this thing.” He handed her an attaché case equipped with a combination lock, adding, “Just my emergency case and some of the medications I can’t leave at the storefront.”

  As they started into the lodge, she said, “I’ll put you in one of the little bedrooms at the front. Oh, by the way, Lucas is here….”

  When Lise and Will were gone, A. C. said, “I keep hoping those two will finally get together. Will’s a good man. Make a fine husband for Lise, but she can’t seem to come down to earth enough to see it.”

  Conan wouldn’t have ventured a comment on that under any circumstances, and he was relieved that he didn’t have to. The distraction was provided by Lucas and Demara, approaching arm in arm along the deck. They had changed clothing, Lucas into Levi’s and a chamois shirt, Demara into white stirrup pants and an outsized white sweater with a tantalizing V-neck.

  Lucas was undoubtedly aware of the cool look A. C. sent Demara, but he only slipped his arm around her waist and smiled. “This deck is a great idea, Dad. Should’ve done it years ago. Who built it?”

  “Al contracted it a couple of years ago. Did a damn good job, too.”

  “Nobody can fault Al’s building, Dad.”

  A. C. raised an eyebrow, then frowned as he looked toward the road. “Well, finally. Here comes Mark.”

  Lucas asked, “Are they bringing the girls?”

  “No. Didn’t want to take ’em out of school. They’re at Saint Anne’s, you know. At least…Diana and Nancy are.” Then he turned his squint on the gray Lincoln Continental careening up the road.

  Before it jerked to a stop in front of the Vanagon, Will and the rest of the family had gathered on the deck. A. C. stood next to Kim with his hand resting on her shoulder. Lise and Loanh were talking together about Loanh’s daughter, Carla Thuan, and Oregon State University’s art department. Al hung back by the door, muscular arms crossed, head cocked to one side. The shaded aviator’s glasses gave him the expressionless anonymity of a Secret Service agent.

  Tiff was driving, and the reason for that was evident as soon as Mark opened the passenger door: His right foot was encased in a navy blue walking shoe with Velcro straps latticing a Fiberglas cast. Conan leaned toward Lise to ask, “What happened to Mark’s foot?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? He broke his ankle a week or so ago. Said he fell off his deck. Something like that.”

  Conan nodded, then restrained a smile as he watched Tiffany Rose Dalhousie King, small and erratically vivacious, her green eye shadow matching the unlikely green of her eyes, emerge from the car talking, a condition that seemed permanent. It cam
e out as a stream of sound as haphazard as her ensemble of heliotrope harem pants and a pink shirt big enough for three of her, on top of which she wore a sort of vest brocaded in yellow and orange flowers and adorned with foot-long fringes. Her forehead was bound with a purple scarf, and above it her red-gold hair erupted in a permed frizz.

  “…totally forgot they’re working on the Markham Bridge, you know, and we had to make a huge detour. Oh, Loanh, allergies? I have an aloe eye poultice that’ll just do wonders. Hi, Lise, did we drag you away from your work? Oh, isn’t it a gorgeous day. I mean just smell that air! Will, why don’t you help Mark with those silly crutches? Hi, Dad, Kim…Lucas?”

  That shut off the verbal stream. She stood openmouthed, while Mark, securely mounted on his crutches, grinned and swung toward Lucas, who met him half way. “Lucas, you son of a gun, you made it!”

  They embraced, and Lucas asked, “Mark, what’d you do to your foot? Didn’t fall off your golf cart, did you?”

  Mark seemed uncomfortable with that, mumbling, “Hell, it was the hot tub that got me. Lucas, it’s so good to have you back.”

  Al King remained by the door and said with unfeigned disgust, “Mark, you damned fool.”

  Mark gave him a glance in which anger overlaid pain, but he ignored the remark. There were other greetings, and Tiff resumed chattering. Conan found himself again amazed at the contrast between wife and husband. Mark was so ordinary in appearance. A little shorter than his father and brothers, his hair somewhere between Al’s sandy blond and Lucas’s brown; a little beefier than either of them, with a softness beginning to expand his waist. There was a softness about his face, too, which Conan privately characterized as a typical Republican subcutaneous layer.

  Conan also noted that although Mark had smiles and greetings for Will, Lise, Loanh, and even, guardedly, for Kim, he barely glanced at his father. A. C. had to force an acknowledgment of his presence with, “Well, Mark, how’s the ankle?”

  “Not bad.” Then he focused his attention on Demara while Lucas introduced her. Mark was polite enough, but Conan could see a moment’s distaste in his eyes, an impervious wall going up.

  Tiff went through a gamut from shock to suspicion on being formally introduced to Demara, who didn’t conceal a wry smile as she said, “Terrific outfit, Tiff. I love the flower-child look.”

  Lise was obviously trying to change the subject when she asked, “Tiff, how are Diana and Nancy?”

  “Oh, they’re just doing beautifully, Lise. I mean, Nancy’s showing a real talent for art, you know—must’ve gotten that from you, of course—and Di’s on the gymnastics team? Oh, she’s so graceful and supple. I mean, I just wish one could hold on to that—must’ve been the yoga. You know, I started the girls with yoga when they were just tiny, and—”

  Mark cut in quietly, but almost defiantly, “And Karen’s fine, too, in case anyone’s interested. She’ll be home for Christmas.”

  There was a sudden silence, and all eyes focused on A. C. He stood motionless, staring at Mark. Conan knew a raw nerve had been hit, but it made no sense. All he remembered of Karen was that she was Mark and Tiff’s oldest daughter. She must be thirteen or fourteen by now.

  Kim put on a smile and said, “I’m sure Tiff and Mark would like to freshen up and get unpacked, then we can all have some lunch.” She took A. C.’s arm, and although it obviously required quite a little pressure to move him, finally he departed with her into the lodge.

  She’s good, Conan thought. She might even be the only real hope of maintaining the armistice.

  Chapter 6

  The afternoon passed far more pleasantly than Conan had expected. Perhaps his presence—and Will Stewart’s—had the effect desired of friendly outsiders, and the Kings were on their good behavior. Or perhaps it was simply that during the afternoon the individual members of the family were free to avoid each other.

  At four o’clock, Conan decided he could safely leave the job of friendly outsider to Will for a while and indulged himself in a solitary walk down the road the quarter mile to the highway, then to the King’s Creek Bridge, and back along the boulder-strewn stream, where he tarried as long as his conscience would allow, absorbing the peaceful sounds of birds and squirrels and rushing water. When finally he returned to the lodge, he found Lucas, Demara, Lise, and Will engaged in a Frisbee toss on the lawn, with Heather pursuing the yellow disk at every throw and commandeering it when a player failed to catch it, which added a new element to the game. Heather was not a retriever. It was not in her genes to willingly return the prize, once captured, and she had to be caught before the game could proceed—not an easy task, since as a herd dog, broken-field running was in her genes.

  There was no wind and only a scattering of cumulus clouds that offered little respite from the sun. In the high, thin air, every breath felt hot, an impression intensified by the white smoke curling up from the stone chimney of the grill. When Conan reached the deck, A. C. was presiding over the grill, adding briquettes from a twenty-pound sack, and sporting a denim apron with red letters proclaiming him CHEF DU JOUR. Conan wondered why a man who considered cooking and anything associated with it “woman’s work”—and thus to be avoided at all costs by any red-blooded, American male—was content to assume the role of cook as long as it was done outdoors.

  Al, still looking like a Secret Service agent with his shaded aviator’s glasses and trim mustache, perched on the railing near A. C., perhaps ready to lend assistance in this exclusively male endeavor, although he seemed primarily focused on the can of beer in his hand. Loanh was absent from the scene, but soon after Conan’s arrival she came out through one of the open French doors with a tray of condiments for the table. Kim followed with silverware and napkins.

  A. C. called to Loanh, “What do you hear from Charles?”

  “He made the dean’s honor roll last quarter,” she replied proudly. “He must be a chip off his grandfather’s shoulder.”

  “Oh, no,” A. C. replied with a laugh. “That boy’s smarter than his old granddad. I never did make it to college.”

  Kim smiled at Conan and asked, “Would you like something to drink? We have various soft drinks, coffee, tea, three brands of beer, white and red wine, or anything you’d like from the bar.”

  “The tea sounds wonderful, Kim, but I can get it.”

  “The pitcher and ice bucket are in on the dining table.”

  Conan went inside to avail himself of the tea, which was too pale for his taste, but at least it was wet. With the glass in hand, he leaned against the frame of one of the French doors and surveyed the deck. Mark was at the northwest corner of the building leaning on one crutch while he unfurled the blue awning that provided the only shade. Tiff occupied one of the folding chairs by the southernmost door, and she looked like a multicolored mushroom under the enormous brim of her straw hat. At her side was a square bag decorated with bright patches, beads, and fringes; in her lap was a tangle of colored threads, which she seemed to be trying to sort out with an oversized, plastic needle. On the TV table beside her was a tall glass whose contents were even paler than this tea, and Conan remembered that Tiff always began her private happy hour at any hour that suited her.

  “Conan, are you sure you would not like a beer?”

  He turned, a little startled, as Loanh came out of the living room carrying a tray laden with sweating cans.

  “No, thank you, Loanh.”

  She nodded and went past him to intercept Mark as he finished securing the awning rope. Mark shook his head when she offered him a beer, but his polite smile faded as she leaned close to whisper to him. His gaze flicked toward the grill, he nodded, then Loanh hurriedly moved away to offer libations to A. C. and her husband. A. C. took a can with a smile and hearty thanks, but Al took his with no hint of either. Loanh hurried back through the French doors and on into the kitchen.

  Something was very wrong, Conan thought, between Al and Loanh. Six years ago they hadn’t exactly been lovebirds, but there had been
an air of comfortable affection between them. Now there seemed to be nothing but constrained animosity.

  As Conan was considering this, Mark swung past him and went into the living room. Conan didn’t move, but it took only a quick glance inside to see that Mark’s purpose was a conference with Loanh in the corner by the kitchen door. The exchange was short, and when Mark returned to the deck, his soft face was noticeably pale. He slumped into a chair next to his wife, who launched into a monologue on the deleterious effects of UVB radiation, while Mark nodded absently.

  Conan crossed to the grill to offer his assistance, but A. C. turned him down with a laugh. “I’ve got everything under control here. You coming along on the climb up King’s Mountain tomorrow?”

  “Well, I brought my hiking boots.”

  “Good! Damn, it’ll be just like old times. You and the boys.” He sent Mark an irritable frown. “Except for Mark. Even when he was a kid, he was always sick or had something broke. Wonder if Will plans on coming. That really would be like old times. You and Will are the only people we’ve ever asked on the hike. Well, except for your dad. Al, maybe you better check the gear. It’s in the storeroom upstairs.”

  Al took a long swig of beer, muttered, “I know where it is, Dad, for Christ’s sake,” then strode into the lodge.

  A. C. watched him, eyes narrowed. “Don’t know what kind of burr Al’s got under his saddle today.”

  Conan left A. C. to tend his coals and sat down in a chair near Mark and Tiff. A few minutes later, the Frisbee tossers came to the deck, panting and searching for refreshment. Heather trotted from one person to another, as if checking to make sure she had everyone accounted for. In the process, she crossed in front of Kim as she came out of the living room with a tray of candlesticks with glass chimneys.