by M. K. Wren
Tilda put in, “Then Johnny told him his life story and said he had never even known his father’s name.”
Brian retorted weakly, “That much is probably true. The threat was a signed confession, Conan, that he’d been using and selling drugs. The idea was I’d give him another chance, but if he didn’t keep his nose clean, I’d hand that confession to Kleber. I thought…well…”
Conan sighed. “I know. Where’s that confession now?”
“Oh, hell, I threw it away.”
“But did Johnny know that?”
“No, he didn’t, but what does this have to do with Nye?”
“Probably nothing.” He shifted his weight against the car, frowning toward the highway. “Brian, did Kleber—or anyone—tell you about the initials?”
Brian only blinked in mild perplexity. He didn’t know about them. Conan was sure he hadn’t seen them in his brief, shocked glance at the body—he wouldn’t have held that back—and apparently they hadn’t been mentioned when he was questioned. Kleber would want to save that until Brian was arrested; it might shock him into a confession. Steve would simply want to wait until all the facts were in. And Owen Culpepper—well, the prosecution on principle reserves its big guns for the trial.
Brian asked, “Conan, what do you mean? What initials?”
Conan told him, and Tilda went pale, her breath catching, but Brian only stared at him and at first tried to laugh it off as if it were a joke in questionable taste.
“My initials? Come on, now. How could…why would Nye…” The last vestiges of his smile faded, leaving his features strained in unnatural lines. “Oh, no…oh, God, no. Why? Conan, it just doesn’t make sense!”
“Not yet, anyway. That doesn’t mean it won’t eventually. So, go on home and get some rest. You look like you need it. Tilda, you’d better see to it.”
She slipped her arm through Brian’s. “That’s exactly what I intend to do.”
Then she frowned, her head turning as she watched a tow truck emerging from the alley behind the station. “Isn’t that Beryl’s car?”
A maroon Mercedes-Benz 450SE was being dragged ignominiously behind the truck, which bore the identifying legend, “Driskoll Garage—24 Hour Tow.” The driver waved as he passed, while Brian swore irritably, but not at Rafe Driskoll.
“I forgot. Beryl told me she had to send her car to Rafe’s after they were through with it here. Something about the starter. She’ll need a ride home.”
Tilda only smiled forbearingly, but her relief was obvious when Conan offered, “I’ll take her home. I want to talk to her anyway.”
*
“This is really awfully nice of you, Mr. Flagg,” Beryl said as he turned the Jaguar onto the highway. “What a terrible time to have my car stolen. Nothing like this has ever happened to me.”
“Well, if it had to happen, you’re lucky the car wasn’t stripped or wrecked.”
“I suppose so. Oh, I do hope Brian will go home and get some sleep. He’s just exhausted. All these months of…and now this.”
Conan glanced at her; she was very near tears.
“Did he tell you he hired me as an investigator?”
“Yes, and I’m so relieved. He can be so stubborn, as if it were unmanly to have to ask for help. Anyway, I hope you know that I’ll do anything I can to help you help him.”
“I was counting on that, and I’d like to ask you some questions.” They were passing the bookshop, and he gave it a proprietary survey. Judging by the few cars in the parking lane, Miss Dobie wasn’t being overwhelmed with business.
“If you’ll turn right on Laurel Road,” Beryl directed, “that’s the easiest way to get to my house. Oh, dear, there it is, poor thing.”
That stopped him until he saw that she was looking toward the other side of the highway and Driskoll’s Garage where her Mercedes was being disengaged from the tow truck.
“It’s a beautiful car,” he offered conversationally.
“Yes. I suppose some people would call it extravagant. I mean, Mercedes-Benz really doesn’t make a cheap car. But they do make a good car, and actually it’s an excellent investment. This is the first trouble I’ve had with it in five years. The starter, you know. Here’s Laurel Road. Actually, the least expensive car you can buy is a Rolls-Royce. My mother always used to tell me that.”
“The least expensive?”
“Well, a Rolls will last a lifetime, so if you average the cost per year, you come out way ahead of American cars when you have to replace them every few years.”
Conan smiled at that as he turned onto Laurel Road. “Road” was an optimistic designation for a rutted dirt lane that wound its way over the shoulder of Jefferson Heights through the oldest residential district in Holliday Beach.
Beryl apparently noticed that he was having difficulty with the necessary shifts of gear.
“Oh, Mr. Flagg, I meant to ask you about your hand.” But she didn’t give him a chance to tell her about it. “Brian’s been under such a terrible strain these last few months. I’ve known him for fifteen years and never once—well, only once before have I seen him really…inebriated. I suppose he told you about his experience with the IRS?”
“Yes, and it doesn’t seem to be much of a secret around town.”
Her mouth puckered, deepening the radiating creases around it, and he found himself wondering exactly how old she was. He’d have guessed late forties, but he’d never actually taken a long or close look at her before.
“Brian is so trusting,” she complained. “I mean, there are some things a person in business just doesn’t tell anyone. Of course, keeping a secret in a small town is always difficult, but he actually told some of the employees.”
“Which employees?”
“Well, Max Heinz, but then Max is thoroughly trustworthy. And Claude Jastrow. It was probably he who told Howie Bliss, and I’m sure Brian told Miss Capek.”
Conan made a note of that cool Miss Capek.
“Did Johnny Hancock know about it?”
“Oh, I’m sure he did. Once Howie found out, there was no stopping it. Howie has something of a drinking problem.” She sighed copiously. “Oh, it’s so unfair!”
Conan frowned as he maneuvered through a tight curve. “Howie’s drinking problem?”
“Oh, no. You’ll have to forgive me if I seem a little…well, I’m just beside myself, really.” One hand fluttered to her bosom.” And I must be careful about getting too wrought up. I was thinking of poor Brian. It makes you wonder what kind of world it is when a man like Brian is so burdened with disasters. There’s Front Street up ahead. Turn right, then it’s about two blocks to my house.”
“How did Brian get so burdened with the IRS?”
“I don’t really know. I’ve been right in the thick of it with him, but I still don’t understand it. My books balance perfectly; they always have.”
She paused while he made the turn onto Front Street as if to make sure he did it correctly, then went on, “The IRS insists we aren’t showing enough profit in ratio to our costs. Well, what can you do? You can prove what you spent with invoices and receipts, but you can’t really prove what you did or didn’t make. And, of course, the IRS doesn’t have to prove anything. They say we must have made so much, and it’s up to us to prove we didn’t. Oh, it’s just been awful, and you know what I think? It’s the third house on the left—the one with the carport in front.”
Conan looked ahead to a small house flanked by vacant lots gone to salal and beach grass. It had probably been built twenty or thirty years ago as a weekender, a tidy little bungalow with silver-shingled walls and roof, the space in front given over to gravel and driftwood rather than lawn or garden.
“No, what do you think, Mrs. Randall?”
“I think the IRS audited Brian on an informer’s tip. After all, they still pay an informer’s fee, and 10 per cent of fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money.”
Conan considered that as he came to a stop in front of the house.
“What makes you think there was an informer?”
“Well, of course, they’re very careful to protect their Judases, but when Mr. Nye first came—that was in August—he said they had reason to believe Brian hadn’t reported all his profits. But later when I asked him point-blank about that reason, he backed off and said it was only a random audit; Brian’s number was pulled out of the computer’s hat.”
“Who would turn informer against Brian?”
One painted brow came up cynically.
“You don’t think he has enemies? Not that he ever hurt anyone; in fact, he bends over backwards to help, but some people will always bite the hand that feeds or helps them, and some people will always envy success, and Brian’s a very successful man. Would you…care to come in, Mr. Flagg?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind. I have more questions I’d like to ask.” One was why she seemed so hesitant with that invitation, but that one he wouldn’t ask.
Beryl waited for him to come around and open the door for her, then accepted his helping hand in getting out.
“A car like this keeps you limber, doesn’t it?” She smiled as she straightened her skirt, ran a hand along the XK-E’s shining black fender as if she were checking for dust. “What a lovely car. You must enjoy it very much.”
“I do. I consider it an art object, but this car can’t be regarded as a practical investment.”
She laughed and began foraging in her purse for her keys as she walked toward the house.
“Well, it wouldn’t be an art object if it were practical, would it?”
“Art doesn’t preclude practicality, I suppose. Mrs. Randall, have you any idea who would be enough of an enemy to Brian to call down the IRS on him?”
“Not really.” She unlocked the front door, which took some time; there were two locks. “But I still think someone informed on him. My, it’s almost too warm in here. Solar heating, you know. When the sun shines, I get a double dose: from the sun and from the reflection on the ocean.”
She led him down a short hallway ending in a filigreed metal screen on the right, while the left-hand wall continued to form the south wall of the living room. The west wall was solid glass and ocean view.
“Would you like some coffee, Mr. Flagg? It’ll only take a minute. Just make yourself comfortable…” Her voice trailed away around a corner into the kitchen, but he was hardly aware of her absence.
He had walked into a modest little cottage and found himself in a miniature mansion. The floor was parquetry oak graced with a beautiful Aubusson carpet, and in the center of the coffered ceiling a crystal chandelier spun rainbows out of the sunlight. The drapes were silk brocade in shades of rose to complement the rug, and the same cloth covered the north wall. The other walls were paneled in dark wood to set off paintings in massive gilt frames, idyllic landscapes sleek with heavy varnish.
On the south wall was a fireplace decorated with Belgian tiles and flanked by bookshelves, but there were only a few books on them, old leather-bound volumes which after a closer look he decided were chosen for decorative purposes rather than content or rarity. Otherwise, the shelves served to display an astonishing array of vases, pitchers, bowls, plates, cups, stemware, and figurines. And the display wasn’t limited to the bookshelves; the entire room was a showcase. Porcelain, hand-painted china, cut glass, blown glass, art glass, ivory, exotic woods, ormulu, bronze, silver, even gold. And if the objects showed too strong a tendency to sentimental ornateness for his taste, they were still unquestionably genuine and all fine examples of their genre and period, which was almost exclusively nineteenth century, although a few pieces were late eighteenth. The furniture was of the same ilk, tending to plush, fat Victorian, and in keeping with the decorative philosophy of the period, not one flat surface in the room was free of bric-a-brac lovingly placed on embroidered runners and polished so that not a single mote of dust would have the temerity to settle on them.
He accepted the truism that a person’s home is a mirror of character, but he was too overwhelmed to fathom exactly what this lavish private museum revealed about Beryl Randall.
The mistress of the house emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray laden with a silver coffee pot, crystal sugar and creamer, and two dainty cups, and Conan wondered where she intended to put it down. But she managed nicely, balancing the tray on one arm while she cleared a space on a table between two chairs.
“Why don’t you take this chair, Mr. Flagg? It’s very comfortable.”
He went to the upholstered wing chair indicated, thinking that Chippendale had designed for a shorter generation if comfort had in fact been his aim.
Beryl filled the cups with a silver flourish, then with a sugar cube poised in silver tongs, asked, “Sugar or cream?” When he declined, she presented his cup to him. “How do you like my little home?”
He would have preferred to offer comment without prompting, but managed it with a smile.
“It’s lovely. I’m sure I could spend hours in this room alone and not see everything; at least, not appreciate it as it deserves.”
She beamed over the gilt rim of her cup.
“How nicely put. Thank you.” Then, holding on to her smile through a long sigh, “It’s my only heritage from a more gracious time. The house belonged to my late husband, but the furnishings are from my family home; all that could be saved after…” She paused, then renewed her smile for him. “But you aren’t here to listen to tales of old tragedies and fortunes lost.”
“No.” Then he added, “I mean, I’m afraid I can’t take the time when I have a fresh tragedy to deal with.” He put down his cup with a cigarette in mind, but in all this clutter he could see nothing resembling an ashtray, so he took the hint.
“Yes, of course,” she agreed to his priorities, then went on as if nothing had intervened, “Actually, I do have in mind—well, a suspect for the informer.”
That came as no surprise. “Who is it?”
“Well, I hesitate to say anything because I really have nothing to support my suspicions, but I was thinking about who stood to gain if Brian were backed into a financial hole, and although spite or jealousy might be motives, I think financial gain is generally a stronger motive.”
Conan smiled and tried his coffee.
“In some crimes, at least.”
She shrugged. “Yes, well, at any rate, if you consider financial gain in this case, then I know of only one person who would benefit from Brian’s ruin.” She paused to give him an opportunity to ask the question, and when he only waited attentively, she answered it anyway.
“Conny Van Roon.”
He obliged her this time. “How does Conny stand to gain from Brian’s ruin?”
“Well, eight months ago, he approached Brian about selling the restaurant. He wanted to act as agent, of course, and his commission on a sale that large would be impressive. And he was so—well, rudely insistent. At first hardly a day went by when he didn’t try to corner Brian and talk sale. Mr. Flagg, he was desperate.”
Conan nodded. “If you believe the local grapevine, there isn’t much left of his business; he drank it away.”
“I can vouch for the fact that he drank a great deal of it away in the Tides Room, and liquor isn’t his only vice, you know. He’s a regular at the Elks Club’s backroom casino and the casinos in Las Vegas and Reno.” Then as if Conan were doubting that, she added, “That’s not gossip; that’s from Conny himself. He talks a great deal when he’s had too much to drink, and he’s so proud of his big trips to Vegas and Reno. He even claims to have a foolproof system, like any inveterate gambler. If you ask me, he’s the fool, and the proof is on his whiskey bottles.”
Conan laughed at that, wondering if it was original.
“So, you think his desperation for the commission on the sale of the restaurant is sharpened by his expensive vices?”
“Well, that’s obvious, and I think it’s very interesting that when Brian asked him if he had a commitment from a buyer, he said h
e had ‘moneyed backers’ ready and willing to pay up to five hundred thousand dollars. He also described these backers as Nevada interests.”
“Apparently he made some friends on his trips south.” And that explained the dirty money Brian wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.
“If that’s what you call them. As far as Brian was concerned that killed any possibility of a sale.” She put her cup down and leaned forward to make her point. “He told Conny absolutely no; never. And within two weeks, Brian got that first letter from the IRS. Now, is that coincidence?”
“On the surface, no.”
She sniffed. “Of course not. Conny was counting on the IRS to put Brian in a position where he’d be forced to sell, and even if he still refused—and he has—then Conny expected to buy the restaurant for a pittance at a tax sale.”
Conan’s eyes were narrowed to black ellipses.
“Did you ever discuss this with Brian?”
“No.” She toyed with the lace doily on the arm of her chair, the sea-cast sunlight flashing on an antique diamond solitaire. “I saw no reason to discuss it when he was so distraught. He…well, sometimes his temper does get out of hand.” Her eyes chanced on Conan’s bruised jaw, dropped to the cast, then to the floor, but a moment later she offered brightly, “Would you care for more coffee?”
“No, thank you, but I hope you’ll bear with me a little longer. I need some general background information on some of the employees, and I doubt anyone else is in a better position to give it to me.”
“Well, I’ve certainly seen enough of them come and go.”
“At the moment I’m only interested in the ones who were in the bar last night. Let’s start with Howie Bliss. He’s been with the restaurant a long time, hasn’t he?”
Her mouth pursed unflatteringly. “Off and on, one might say. He’s living proof of the old saying that all cooks are drunks, and proof that with some people kindness just doesn’t pay.”
“Whose kindness? Brian’s?”
“Of course. Howie used to be head chef, and he was rather good at it in spite of his drinking. When he drinks he’s all sentiment, you know, until he reaches a certain point, and then—well, you just never know what he’ll do. One night about five years ago, he hit that critical point and went out to the parking lot with a dough hook and smashed the windshields on every car there, and if you think that didn’t cost both Brian and the resort a young fortune. And when Brian tried to stop him, Howie turned on him and sent him to the hospital with a concussion.”