The Conan Flagg Mysteries: Bundle #3

by M. K. Wren

  “Probably better than I think I am. What about the others?”

  Will sighed, looked over at the fireplace, then crossed to it and began adding wood as he answered. “Well, Lise has herself under control now. Put everything on hold, I guess. Kim and Demara never lost control, and I’m sure Kim doesn’t intend to till the storm lets up, and we can get through to the real world. Loanh—she seems to have everything bottled up. I’m worried about her.” With the fire sending out fresh streamers of flame, he returned to the bedside. “I’m worried about Mark, too. He’s into denial. Says maybe you just imagined the slide, or maybe A. C. and the guys got out somehow.”

  Conan nodded. “We all need comforting delusions occasionally.”

  “Yeah. Well, what can I do for you? Need a Demerol booster?”

  “No, but you can prop me up a little. I hate lying flat on my back.”

  Will rearranged the pillows against the headboard, and when Conan got himself repositioned, said, “Conan, I’ll set my alarm and check on you at three, but, damn it, yell if you feel any weird symptoms.”

  “All right, Will. By the way, what time is it? My watch got lost in the shuffle somewhere.”

  “It’s about twelve-thirty. Your watch is in the bathroom.” He went into the bathroom, and when he returned, laid Conan’s watch within reach on the table. “Just leave it there. I don’t want anything constricting any of your extremities. You want the lamp out?”

  “No, leave it on. Will, did anyone tell you how handy it is to have a doctor in the house?”

  He laughed as he went to the door. “You’re just lucky Jayleen hadn’t gone into labor when I went down to Government Camp to phone this morning.”

  After Will shut the door, Conan watched the fire. Its rhythmic currents seemed synchronized with the roaring gusts of wind.

  Murder. He had to think about it, understand it.

  Al King. Was Al in fact a viable suspect?

  Certainly as viable as Lucas. Motive: money. Both Lise and A. C. had said that Al’s construction business was faring badly, and beyond that Conan was sure Al’s exchange with A. C. at the bar Friday night indicated that he owed his father a substantial sum of money, and A. C. was demanding payment. At least the interest, he had said.

  Would A. C. foreclose on his own son?

  Probably. As he put it, it was a business transaction. And Lise had said that A. C.’s sons never got a cent from their father after he put them through college, unless it was in the form of a loan—fully documented and collateralized.

  What would Al put up for collateral? If it were a large loan, probably his major assets, which would be King Construction Company’s heavy equipment and possibly its extant building contracts.

  Conan frowned, distracted by faint sounds in the hall.

  Footsteps, perhaps? Voices? Or only the creaking of stressed timbers?

  If Al had murdered A. C. and staged his own death, his modus operandi would be essentially the same as Lucas’s. Al was just as likely to have access to explosives, although Conan had the impression that he was a manager more than a hands-on builder. Still, Al would be as likely to have access to an expert accomplice.

  But Al’s heir was Loanh. Would he trust her as his accomplice? Their relationship had seemed exceptionally shaky. And what was that Loanh had said to Lise about family? Without family, one might as well be dead. Did Loanh think she would have to give up her family—the Kings and her children, presumably, since she had left her own family in Vietnam when she married—to carry out her part in Al’s scheme?

  But if Lucas or Al were still alive, one problem either would have to face was that the authorities would not be satisfied that the Kings, father and sons, were in fact dead without excavating their bodies.

  Conan winced as he considered the magnitude of that task in light of the remoteness of the location and the difficulty of access for the kind of heavy machinery necessary to moving so many tons of rock. He tried not to think of what might remain of those bodies. But none of the victims could be pronounced legally dead—and A. C.’s will could not be probated—until all three bodies were found.

  At least that would be the case if the police had reason to think the rock slide was not an accident, an act of God. But Conan knew it was technically possible to create an explosion that would destroy all evidence of its origins. If the rock slide did seem an act of God, would the authorities demand the unearthing of the bodies? That decision would be up to the State Medical Examiner, Dan Reuben, a man Conan knew to be scrupulously honest but inherently sympathetic. Would Dan be willing to accept appearances for the sake of the grieving family?

  “Damn.” A tapping at the door. He was sitting up, so preoccupied had he been with his thoughts, and his arms and shoulders were chilled. The tapping repeated itself.

  “Come in!”

  Tiff King, in an unlikely assortment of flannel pajamas and wool sweaters under a pink satin robe, entered with a candlestick in one hand, a coffee mug, nested in a paper napkin, in the other. The candlelight haloed her frizzed hair, glowed in the steam rising from the mug, and she seemed such an unlikely apparition, he almost laughed.

  “Oh, you’re ’wake,” she said in a stage whisper. “Thought I saw a light unner the door. Oh, dear, you rilly must stay unner the covers, y’know, specially after what you’ve been through, oh, and I shoulda brought some vidamin E. Take some or rub it on.” She put the mug on the side table and made a fumbling attempt at tucking him in. The scent of Scotch blended unpleasantly with her floral perfume.

  He said, “That’s fine, Tiff. What’s that? The mug?”

  “Mm? Oh!” With a bright smile she picked it up and offered it to him like a seeress about to begin an incantation. “I almos’ forgot. I mean, Will says you oughta have this, y’know, to help you sleep.”

  “What is it?”

  “Hot toddy.” She sniffed at it. “Plenny of lemon juice, y’know, for vidamin C.”

  “And bourbon?”

  “Well, yes, thas what makes you sleep. Here, I’ll hold it for you.” She thrust the mug under his nose, nearly spilling its contents.

  Conan drew back. “Tiff, just leave it on the table.”

  She put the mug down and said amicably, “Don’t let it get cold. Oh, I gotta get back to Mark. Oh, poor love, he’s just so dishraught, y’know, and who can blame him. I mean, he’s an orphan now, and a…a whaddayacallit when your brother dies?” She had begun wandering toward the door as she spoke, but she paused, looked fixedly at Conan. “Omigod, it musta been awful, being there—I mean, with all those rocks crashing down and…oh, what was it like, Conan?”

  He said firmly, “Go to bed, Tiff.”

  “Okay.” She turned and ambled out the door, closing it behind her.

  And Conan let his pent breath out slowly while he stared at the steaming mug only an arm’s length away. What was it like?

  Perhaps the question she meant to ask was: what do you know?

  Before Tiff’s arrival, he had, vaguely, recognized the implications in his position as sole witness to the murders. He knew the rock slide had been preceded by an explosion, that it could not be considered an act of God, and his testimony would guarantee that Dan Reuben wouldn’t sign the death certificate necessary to probating A. C.’s will without a thorough investigation and the disinterment of the bodies.

  Conan had to this point spoken only of the rock slide and refrained from mentioning the explosion because he felt these survivors had enough to handle without being told that the deaths were murders, but now he understood the unconscious or at least unrecognized reason for his reticence: Anyone capable of casually sacrificing one or more incidental victims to achieve the murder of the intended victim would not balk at killing a witness who could turn an act of God into an act of murder.

  But apparently that person wasn’t convinced by Conan’s reticence.

  Will Stewart had not recommended a hot toddy laced with whiskey for a hypothermia patient, not even a mild case.
r />   Chapter 11

  Conan sat on the side of the bed, shivering, his hands and feet aching with the cold, but he couldn’t seem to decide what to do or even catch his breath. He had started to get out of bed to find a weapon, and finally realized there was little available to him in this room. His gun was in his car, but was it worth the risk of going after it? Or was it such a risk? Where the hell did he think he’d be safe?

  He stared at the mug. Tiff. Tiffany Rose Dalhousie King. Daughter of a professor at the Stanford School of Law. Would-be flower child turned middle-aged. Borderline alcoholic.

  And murderer?

  His first inclination was to laugh. On the other hand, Tiff was not as air-brained as she seemed. And if she were a killer, she would probably be a partner in crime with Mark.

  Motive?

  Did the obvious motive of money apply to Mark and/or Tiff? Tiff’s penchant for spending money extravagantly was no secret, but Mark always seemed peculiarly lacking in ambition, content to serve his father’s empire as head of its legal department.

  Yet Lise had hinted that Mark needed to make peace with A. C. A long story, she had said—one Conan knew he must hear.

  He knew he must also find out more about Mark’s broken ankle. According to Lise, Mark broke the ankle on his deck, yet Friday afternoon Mark told Lucas that he’d fallen in his hot tub. Even if the injury was genuine, Mark had an accomplice with two good ankles in Tiff.

  Means?

  That was problematical. Conan doubted either of them had any knowledge of explosives, although dynamite was sometimes used in timber operations, and Mark would have access to information or—like Al or Lucas—could probably find an expert accomplice willing to engineer the rock slide for a price. And if the explosion had been detonated by radio, then either Tiff or Mark might have done it without ever leaving the lodge. There was nothing between the camp site and the lodge to stop a radio signal.

  Conan heard his teeth chattering and grimaced. He couldn’t just sit here in his borrowed flannel pajamas in a room that was getting colder by the second as the fire burned down.

  A poker. He looked over at the fireplace and saw the tool set. But would he be physically capable of defending himself with it? Would his aching hands fail him?

  His shoulders sagged, and again he almost laughed. For God’s sake, call Will. He was probably the only person in this house Conan was sure he could trust. So call him.

  Then Conan’s muscles snapped taut. The door was opening. Someone stood there, a shadow in the shadows. The lamplight didn’t reach far enough to define the figure.

  He was on the verge of shouting for Will, when he recognized his visitor. Rather, he recognized Heather, who nonchalantly trotted into the room.

  Lise asked, “Conan, what are you doing out of bed?”

  And could he trust Lise King any more than the other potential killers within these walls?

  She hurried to the bed, put her arms around his shoulders. “You’re shivering. What’s wrong? Oh, Heather! Get down!”

  Heather had leapt up on the foot of the bed and settled in, and Conan smiled, realizing he had found a weapon. At least, an ally. “Let her stay, Lise. And maybe you’d better tuck me in.”

  Lise helped him back into his warm cocoon and stood watching him. Her eyes were puffy with old tears, but there seemed to be no threat of new tears. She was uncannily calm, as if she were armored in steel that would break her before it could be broken.

  She said, “I came hoping you weren’t asleep. I didn’t want to wait any longer to tell you I’m sorry for what I said to you when you told us about…” She faltered, then: “It was unforgivable.”

  Conan lightly touched his hand to her arm. “No, Lise, it wasn’t. It was only a natural response to pain and shock.”

  She almost took his hand in hers, then remembered, frowning down at his fingers, swollen and marked with the rosy glow Will Stewart had found so satisfying.

  “God, I hope this blizzard is over soon. It’s as if we’d been sucked into some sort of white hole.”

  “It’s an early storm. Maybe it won’t last long. Lise, I’d like to ask a favor of you.”

  “Sure. I owe you at least one.”

  “You owe me nothing, but this is a large favor, and I’ll owe you if you grant it. May I keep Heather with me tonight?”

  That was clearly not what she had expected. She looked down at Heather, and the lamplight caught in her eyes, revealing something close to fear, something that rattled at her steel control.

  “Why, Conan?”

  “I can’t explain. Not yet.”

  She waited a moment longer, then took a deep breath. “If Heather’s willing, I am. She likes you. Like at first sight, and that’s unusual for her.” Lise went to the end of the bed and stroked Heather’s tawny back while she explained the new sleeping arrangements. Then she said, “I’d better leave so you can sleep, Conan. Good night.”

  “Good night, Lise. Thanks.”

  She paused to give Heather a hand signal and a firm “Stay!” when the sheltie started to leave with her, then departed. Heather gazed at the closed door, puzzled, then stretched out at Conan’s left side. He extricated his hand from the covers and ran his palm across her head.

  “Well, Heather, I’m counting on you.”

  He turned to look at the mug. Lise apparently hadn’t even noticed it. He wondered what it contained besides the usual hot water, lemon juice, sugar, and whiskey. Possibly dissolved sleeping pills or tranquilizers, something the killer would have available, something that would leave Conan vulnerable to an attack in the night. A pillow over the face, perhaps. Something inconspicuous that might be blamed on the aftereffects of hypothermia. Heart failure due to fibrillation.

  What the killer didn’t know was that drugging him was hardly necessary now. He was suddenly so overwhelmed by exhaustion that not even the thought of murder—past or potential—could keep him awake.

  Perhaps his mind surrendered at last to his body’s needs because he now had an ally, a guard whose acute hearing had already saved his life once tonight.

  Chapter 12

  It was an aural cannonade and Conan came out of a deep sleep quivering like a struck drumhead. All he was sure of at that moment was that Heather was barking insistently, and someone was standing in the open doorway.

  Again, a shadow in the shadows. A mask, something covering the face? Possibly.

  Then Heather launched herself at the shadow figure, and it retreated. The door slammed. Heather kept barking, scratching manically at the door.

  Conan found himself on his feet, swearing angrily because he knew he could not identify that shadow figure. The light had been too dim, his glimpse too brief, his mind too befuddled with sleep.

  “Heather! It’s all right, sweetheart.” He sagged down onto the bed while Heather came to him. “Yes, you’re a first-rate guard dog.”

  She wagged her tail, but a moment later began barking again, this time at Will Stewart as he lunged into the room.

  “What the hell? Heather?” The sheltie went to him, sniffed suspiciously at his pajama legs. “Conan, what happened?”

  “I guess Heather heard something banging in the wind.” And in fact the eaves trough, or whatever it was, still thudded incessantly.

  Will had no chance to comment on that explanation. The hall was full of voices and flashlight beams. Heather had apparently wakened everyone, and they began crowding into the room: Lise first, to take Heather in hand; then Mark on one crutch with Tiff at his side; then Kim and Demara. They were a motley crew in nightclothes augmented with sweaters, thick socks, and in Demara’s case, a blanket, all shouting questions at once. Only Loanh had not been drawn by Heather’s alarm.

  Will held up a hand for silence. “Heather was just barking at something banging in the wind. Sorry, no Sasquatch at the window.”

  That garnered nervous laughs, and everyone began moving toward the door. Conan said loudly enough for any of them to hear, “Will, thanks for
sending the toddy. It put me right to sleep.” The mug was still on the table, and he only hoped that in the dim light no one could see that it was full.

  “What? Here—get this on.” Will helped Conan into his robe as he asked irritably, “What toddy?”

  “The one Tiff brought me. She said you prescribed it.”

  Will frowned at Tiff. “I didn’t prescribe any damn such thing.”

  She stuttered -a moment, then insisted, “But you must’ve, I mean, Demara gave it to me, you know, and she told me you—”

  “I did not give it to you!” Demara snapped.

  “Oh, yes, you did! Right outside in the hall. You said—”

  “You must’ve been drunk, Tiff.”

  Conan whispered to Will, “Get them out of here. Except Lise.”

  Will nodded and began herding people out of the room. The argument between Tiff and Demara continued into the hall, but he closed the door on it. Lise, kneeling beside Heather, gave Will a startled look when he demanded of Conan, “Damn it, what’s going on here?”

  A good question, Conan thought, noting that his hands were still shaking. “Will, if you’ll get the fire going again, I’ll explain a few things to both of you.” He slipped his feet into the lambskin scuffs and made his way carefully to the armchair to the left of the fireplace.

  Will began reviving the fire, grumbling, “Why can’t you do your explaining from bed like a good patient?”

  “Because I can’t think lying down.”

  Lise brought the straight chair from the desk and sat facing him, her hands pushed into the sleeves of her wool robe. “Conan, Heather wasn’t barking at anything banging in the wind, was she?”

  “No. She was barking at the person who opened my door.”

  Will placed a last wedge of wood on the fire, and while the flames leapt and hissed, he fixed Conan with a piercing eye. “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure that he—or she—didn’t intend for me to live through the night.” Will and Lise stared at him, but before either of them could speak, Conan asked, “Will, do you have some sort of specimen bottle in your medical case? And maybe a plastic bag?”