The Conan Flagg Mysteries: Bundle #3

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The Conan Flagg Mysteries: Bundle #3 Page 67

by M. K. Wren


  She didn’t, apparently, but on the other hand she made no move to leave. Finally he said, “Al King wasn’t a graceful loser, was he?”

  “No, I don’t suppose he was.” She turned to face Conan. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your affair with Al. His reluctance to admit it was ended—if it was. His threat to tell A. C. about it.”

  She laughed and sat down in the straight chair. “Well, you’ve been busy. Or probably Tiff has. Yes, I had an affair, as you put it, with Al, but as far as I was concerned, it was finished four years ago. I don’t know why Al couldn’t seem to let go. I never really loved him, and I didn’t pretend to. He was just…an indulgence, I suppose. He could be charming, you know. He liked to think he knew what women want, and to some degree he did. He just didn’t understand what human beings want. Al was a user, but I didn’t choose to be used. In fact, I probably used him, and he didn’t know how to deal with that.”

  “It must have been a new experience for him,” Conan commented, wondering at that passionless assessment of the situation.

  Kim studied him, a faint smile curving her lips. Her blonde hair seemed frosted, a phenomenon of the cold. “Yes, it was a new experience. It made him possessive. When Jerry retired, I decided to make a clean break from Al, so I told him I didn’t want to see him again and quit King and Ryder. Well, it was just King Construction by then.”

  “And went to work at Ace Timber.”

  “There was a vacancy in the accounting department, and I applied for it. I didn’t know A. C., and I certainly didn’t foresee marrying him. It was just a good job, and good jobs are hard to come by these days.”

  “But Al was singularly persistent. Only a week ago he threatened to tell A. C. about your affair and even to tell him it had never ended.”

  Her fair skin reddened, and she started to speak, then thought better of it and instead crossed to the window and pushed the curtain aside to look out. Conan rose, watching her and again waiting.

  At length she turned and said, “That had to come from Loanh. I always wondered if she didn’t eavesdrop on Al’s phone calls. He was so arrogant, he didn’t think she’d dare. Yes, he tried to blackmail me. I don’t know what kind of relationship he thought we’d have if I had been coerced into going back to him, but he wasn’t thinking straight. He hadn’t been thinking straight for a year or so. He was a man on a collision course with…with something. Maybe himself.”

  “You weren’t concerned that he might carry out his threat? I can’t imagine that A. C. would’ve been pleased with the news. He might even have divorced you.”

  Kim eyed Conan coolly. “And you think that gives me a motive to kill him? That any divorce settlement wouldn’t begin to equal the inheritance I’d get as his wife if he died?”

  Conan didn’t reply, and she nodded. “You didn’t know A. C. that well. Nor do you know me. When Al threatened me, I realized the only way to pull his teeth was to tell A. C. myself.”

  “What was his reaction?”

  She returned to her chair, smiling pensively. “He was hurt at first, but I think he was more hurt to find out a son of his could be such a fool. He said who I loved—or made love to—before we married was none of his business. No, I have no proof of that. It was a private conversation. Just A. C. and me. And he’s…beyond verifying it.”

  Conan sat down, resting his aching hands on the arms of the chair. She was convincing, he had to admit, and strangely it was that contained lack of passion that made her so convincing. He changed the subject, asked, “Didn’t Al owe A. C. a lot of money?”

  “Yes. He borrowed nearly a million dollars when he bought out Jerry’s half of the partnership four years ago. He kept up the interest payments for a couple of years, but since then he hasn’t paid a cent. A. C. didn’t believe his sons should expect special treatment when it came to business dealings. He said they had to make their own way.”

  “But Al was having a hard time of it?”

  “So he said. All A. C. was asking was for Al to bring the interest payments up to date. He wasn’t asking for anything on the principle.”

  “What collateral did Al put up?”

  “The only thing he had to put up: King Construction Company, lock, stock, and contracts.”

  “Would A. C. have foreclosed on his son?”

  Kim brushed bark fragments off the sleeve of her cardigan. “Probably. But he wouldn’t have let Al and Loanh and their kids starve.”

  “How would he rationalize that sort of charity?”

  “Oh, I’m sure it wouldn’t have taken the form of charity. A. C. probably would’ve offered Al a job at Ace Timber.”

  Conan tried to imagine how Al would have reacted to such an offer. He reached into the pocket of the Pendleton shirt that was the top layer of his Charlie Brown winter ensemble—the shirt off A. C.’s back, in fact—for his cigarettes. He offered one to Kim, but she said, “Thanks, I have my own,” and pulled a pack of Marlboros out of the cardigan pocket. He lit her cigarette, then his own.

  “Kim, have Mark or Lucas ever borrowed money from A. C.?”

  “If so, the loans were made and paid off before I married A. C. I doubt it, really. I don’t think Mark ever made the kind of investments that required a lot of capital, and if Prince Charming borrowed any money, it was probably from Carla. And it was probably never repaid.”

  Conan noted the bitterness in her tone. “Lucas was always a con man at heart, wasn’t he?”

  “Of course, but no one in this family ever saw that. Not even A. C., although he didn’t really trust Lucas, even before he made such an ass of himself at the wedding reception. Did Lise tell you about that?”

  “Yes, and she said you dissuaded A. C. from disinheriting Lucas.”

  “Well, that was for A. C., not Lucas. Family came first with A. C., and I knew he’d eventually regret it if he cut Lucas off entirely.” Her blue eyes turned glacial as she added, “I said A. C. hadn’t loaned Lucas any money, but I didn’t say Lucas hadn’t asked. Damn him, he didn’t even speak to his father for two years, and when he did finally break the silence, it was to ask for money.”

  Conan took a slow drag on his cigarette. “When was that?”

  “Only a couple of months ago. Late August. It seems the fair-haired boy got himself in deep doo-doo with the IRS. In fact, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars deep.”

  “Was that the ‘little problem’ he talked about Friday afternoon? The one he said he’d taken care of?”

  “Yes. A. C. told me about it Friday night. He wanted so much to believe Lucas, to believe he really meant that apology.”

  “I think A. C. did believe it before he died.”

  “Thank God for that.” Her eyes were downcast as she drew on her cigarette.

  “How did A. C. feel about Mark? I know about Karen’s accusation.”

  Kim’s lips curled toward a sneer. “That little bitch. And Mark’s such a fool. But A. C. understood. He told me Mark had to side with his own daughter. A man had to be loyal to his own flesh and blood. What’s wrong?”

  She had no doubt caught the shift of Conan’s attention to the open door. Jerry Tuttle was slouched against the jamb, mouth slack, pale eyes slyly intent.

  Tuttle said, “I was just wondering if you folks’ve got any more wood. The wood box in my room is empty.”

  “Yes, we have more wood,” Kim said as she rose and tossed her cigarette into the fire. “And all the boxes need filling. You can help with that.”

  “Be glad to…ma’am.” Kim marched out of the room, and Tuttle stepped aside to let her pass, then sent Conan a wily grin. “Shit, Conan, that is one sweet-assed little fox.”

  Conan made no reply, although several came to mind, none of them friendly. Tuttle stood a moment longer, and the grin turned chillingly sardonic as he raised his right hand, index finger pointed at Conan, thumb cocked. He squinted one eye as if he were looking down the sights of a gun and made a hissing, “Pow!” The hand that had become a gun reco
iled realistically, and Tuttle turned with a rasping snigger and followed Kim, his boots thudding on the stairs.

  There, Conan thought, was a man destined for an early demise, a typical victim of what had been termed righteous slaughter. He would swagger through life, goading the people around him into states ranging from annoyance to anger, until eventually someone would cross the fine line into uncontrollable rage.

  Conan hadn’t been goaded beyond disgust, but there were elements of fear and, perversely, satisfaction in it. Fear because that contemptuous, self-indulgent gesture had been nothing less than a threat. Satisfaction because with that threat, Tuttle had revealed himself. He might as well have put it into words: I’m going to kill you.

  And he might as well have admitted that he was involved in the murders Conan had witnessed and admitted that he recognized Conan as a liability that must be disposed of.

  So. Conan inhaled on his cigarette and watched the curls of smoke. What was Tuttle’s role in the murders? Rather, his job. He was undoubtedly simply a hired hand in this conspiracy. Wheelman, almost certainly. The headlights Conan had seen from the clear-cut before the explosion probably belonged to Tuttle’s Bronco. He said he had parked at the King’s Creek bridge. He obviously wasn’t there for the hunting, and Conan assumed he was there because he was waiting for something or, more likely, someone.

  Why else would he stay at the bridge so long that he got trapped by the storm? Not because he had slept until nine-thirty, unaware that the storm had turned into a full-fledged blizzard. The pounding wind would have kept anyone enduring it in a flat-flanked vehicle awake.

  Nine-thirty. Conan’s eyes went to black slits as he made an absent attempt at a smoke ring. That time meant something to Tuttle. He had mentioned it twice. Was that the time agreed on for the rendezvous at the bridge?

  Who had Tuttle been waiting for?

  Al or Lucas. Tuttle wouldn’t have been waiting for anyone who was at the lodge Saturday night. Only Al or Lucas needed a means to escape the scene of the crime.

  But neither had reached Tuttle’s Bronco. If either had, Tuttle wouldn’t have come to the lodge this morning. Al and Lucas knew about the studio, and if one of them had reached the Bronco and been trapped there, he and Tuttle would have gone to the studio this morning. It wasn’t that much farther than the lodge. But Tuttle obviously didn’t know about the studio, and in his desperation, he had come to the lodge, and he had come alone. If his employer had reached the Bronco, he definitely wouldn’t have stayed there to freeze to death when Tuttle departed.

  Was Tuttle more than a driver? Was he also the explosives expert that any of the suspects would need? Conan could at least be sure that Tuttle made his living working outdoors. Possibly in construction.

  He took a last puff on his cigarette and flipped it into the fire. He still didn’t know who the lodge accomplice was. Nothing he had learned today eliminated anyone. Either Al or Lucas might have conspired with any of them. Al wasn’t likely to have conspired with Demara, since he apparently hadn’t met her before this weekend, but he might have conspired with Loanh, with Mark and/or Tiff, or even with Kim, his obsession, his Black Widow. Perhaps she wasn’t as indifferent to his appeals as she claimed.

  Lucas might conspire with Demara, his secret wife and heir; or with Loanh—and for her, Al might be the intended victim—or, again, Mark and/or Tiff might be the lodge conspirators. Mark had admitted it was Lucas who suggested the subterfuge of the false cast.

  Conan rose and went to the window. The wind had slackened. Snow still fell, but not in the blinding surges of only a few hours ago.

  So much for National Weather Service predictions. Maybe.

  But if he was right about Al or Lucas being forced to take refuge in the studio last night, and if this was more than a temporary lull, a window of opportunity was approaching. As soon as the lull became a definite trend, the highway department would send out snowplows, and when that happened, the person in the studio would have a chance to reach the highway and escape in Tuttle’s Bronco. Tuttle had said there was still a quarter of a tank of gas left when he departed for the lodge. That was more than enough to reach a filling station.

  Let it be Al, Conan thought. For Lise’s sake, let it be Al who conceived this vicious, bloody-minded scheme.

  Chapter 21

  As Conan neared the foot of the stairs, the door into the garage opened, and Kim emerged with an armful of wood, followed by Demara, Will, and Tuttle with similar loads. Kim directed Tuttle to accompany her, while Demara and Will headed upstairs. Conan followed Kim and Tuttle into the living room, where they deposited their loads with rumbling thuds in the wood box by the fireplace, then started back to the woodshed for more.

  Lise sat at the card table with her drawing pad and a kerosene lamp. She had-moved Heather’s bed next to the table. Loanh sat on the couch, concentrating on Michener, or at least staring at the open pages, while Tiff worked at her multicolored creation with an intentness that suggested she was finding concentration difficult. The glass beside her was still, or again, half full. Mark had also begun the happy hour early; he sat at the end of the dining table, one hand curled around a glass, staring morosely at the silent radio before him.

  Conan knelt to greet Heather, who responded to his petting with a feeble thrashing of her tail. “Well, pretty lady, you’re looking better.”

  Lise looked down fondly at the sheltie. “She is better. Will said if a cold nose really is any indication, then she’s recovering beautifully.”

  There was a hint of fondness in that, too—for Will—and Conan smiled as he rose and glanced at the drawings torn off the pad. “May I?”

  “Sure.” She pushed the stack toward him, her voice low as she added, “Whatever else these are or will be, they’re at least therapeutic. You can’t think about anything else when you’re drawing.”

  Conan looked up as Kim and Tuttle made another trip to the wood box. He waited until they had dropped their loads and again set out for the woodshed before he began leafing through the drawings.

  The entire cast was represented, executed in a brooding, agitated style. The last drawing was only a beginning, a few lines and shadows, but already there was no doubt who its subject was: Jerry Tuttle.

  Conan slipped Tuttle’s likeness under the pile. The drawing on the pad was also in the early stages. Demara Wilder. Along the margins of the sheet were studies of Demara’s long, strong hands.

  “These are beautiful, Lise.” But she didn’t seem to hear him. Her pencil was again in motion.

  He crossed to the French windows and pushed the drape aside, looked past a fringe of icicles into a world steeped in dusk and leached of color except for the scarlet of a vine maple on the far edge of the lawn, and he knew the fact that he could see that color at all was a miracle. In the short time since he had looked out his bedroom window, the snow had lessened, and the flakes were big and slow.

  He turned, saw Kim, Will, and Demara going upstairs with more wood, while Tuttle brought another load to the living room. Conan went over to Mark. “Have you tried for a weather report lately?”

  Mark shrugged. “What’s the use?”

  “Try it,” Conan said irritably. “The snow has almost stopped. I’d like to know if this is just another lull or the beginning of the end.”

  Mark looked at him, his soft features doughy in the wan light. Then he blinked, surged to his feet. “It’s stopped snowing?”

  “It’s almost stopped—Mark!”

  But Mark was already limping to the window. He nearly tore the drape as he flung it back, then he shouted, “Tiff! Hey, everybody, it’s stopped snowing! I mean, it’s almost stopped! It’s .almost stopped!”

  His shouts attracted everyone, even the wood detail from upstairs. He opened the drapes as far as they would go, and the family gazed hungrily, hopefully, into the white dusk. But the cries and laughter of relief, died quickly, and something like dread seemed to overcome them. Perhaps it was the realization that escape
from this white hole was possible, even imminent, but then they would have to deal with real-world problems, such as grief. And murder.

  Conan switched on the radio, rotating the dial through spurts of static and snatches of music. He could find nothing resembling a weather forecast. Finally he left the tuner set on the strongest station and lowered the volume. When he looked up, he found that the radio was now the focus of everyone’s attention.

  Kim checked her watch. “It’s only four-fifteen. We should get a weather report at five. Come on, let’s finish filling the wood boxes.”

  The wood detail joined her as she again headed for the woodshed. Mark sighed and went to the fireplace to build up the fire, while Tiff returned to her crocheting, muttering a running commentary that no one seemed to hear. Lise returned to her drawing, Loanh to her book. Each of them seemed suddenly more isolated, more withdrawn.

  No doubt they were all thinking about tomorrow and the possible end of the siege by storm. Conan was thinking about tonight, about the person who might be hidden in the studio waiting to make his escape.

  And he was thinking that if the siege was in fact ending, tonight would be the last chance for the lodge accomplice and/or Tuttle to silence the sole witness to the murders of A. C. King and his sons.

  Conan returned to the French doors. The light had dimmed to a muted gray, and the color in the vine maple faded. The air next to the glass was frigid, but he didn’t have the heart to close the drapes and shut out the light, however dim. Instead, he went to the fireplace to escape the chill, stood staring at the whispering flames until the wood detail returned. Demara sank down on the couch, rubbing her chilled hands, while Kim checked the wood box and announced, “We’ve used over half our wood supply, and there’s only about fifteen gallons of gas left for the generator. I hope to God the storm is letting up.”

  Will sat down on the hearth ledge near Conan. “Well, I guess we could siphon some gas out of the cars, Kim.”

  “Sure we could—if we had any siphoning equipment. We don’t even have any garden hoses. The landscaping here is limited to what Art can do with a lawn mower.”

 

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