by M. K. Wren
Bliss in the role of berserker was a little difficult to imagine, but Conan didn’t doubt Beryl’s account.
“What happened to Howie?”
“He spent a year in the state prison, and then…” She blinked behind her jeweled glasses as if confronted with solid evidence that water flows uphill. “When he got out he had the gall to come crawling back to Brian asking for a job. And Brian gave him one. Of course, in the meantime he’d hired Claude as head chef, so he put Howie on as morning cook. I’ll admit he’s done rather well, although he hasn’t stopped drinking, but the thing that really disgusts me is the way he feels about Brian.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, wouldn’t you think he’d be grateful? No one else would even hire him as a dishwasher, but Brian gave him the best job he could. Of course, with Brian he’s all sugar, but I hear things around the restaurant that don’t get to Brian, and I can assure you, Howie Bliss hates him. And do you know why? His reason, if you could call it that? Because Brian didn’t give him back his job as head chef.”
“Does Brian know how he feels?”
“Oh, I’ve tried to tell him, but he just shrugs it off. Howie’s really harmless, he says, and what would he ever do without his job?” She concluded with a martyred sigh.
“How does Howie feel about Jastrow?”
“Strangely enough, they get along quite well. Claude is a bit overbearing for a person of his station, but that doesn’t seem to bother Howie. I think he really likes being bullied, and sometimes I wonder if he doesn’t know, deep down, that he can’t hold a candle to Claude as a chef. We’re very lucky to have him, you know. He trained at the Four Seasons in New York and worked at the Royal Garden Hotel in London, the Nine Muses in Hollywood, and Tarantino’s in San Francisco. Not as head chef, of course.”
“How long was he in England?”
“Long enough to acquire that pseudo-English accent, it seems,” she replied with a smug smile.
Conan laughed at being found out. “And a fondness for Shakespeare?”
“Oh, dear—that. Perhaps, although he’d really like to be an actor. I think that’s why he went to Hollywood, but as far as I know, his career has been limited to amateur groups or summer stock. He and Miss Capek were…friends long before they came here, you know.”
Of course she knew he didn’t know that. He offered nothing in response but a raised eyebrow, and she added, “I understand she was working as a waitress at Tarantino’s when Claude was there.”
“Did they come up here together?”
“No, Claude was hired first, then about a year later we lost our regular hostess and dining room manager, and Claude sang Miss Capek’s praises so convincingly, Brian offered her the job.”
“Did she and Claude continue their…friendship here in Holliday Beach?”
Her shoulders lifted in a nervous shrug, and the red of her rouged cheeks deepened.
“Apparently the, uh, situation has changed. At least, as far as Miss Capek is concerned.”
Conan couldn’t quite resist putting in casually, “Yes, she and Brian seem to have something going for them. It looks serious.”
The flush expanded to include the whole of her face. “Well. Yes, I suppose…well, I hope for Brian’s sake it isn’t serious. Miss Capek is a lovely young woman, of course, but I doubt she’s inclined to lasting relationships.”
“Is Brian?” He turned that with a laugh. “I never thought him capable of loving anything but the Surf House. What do you know about Tilda’s history? Is she an immigrant?”
“Yes, I believe so, from Czechoslovakia; she immigrated with her family as a child. They settled in Chicago and apparently didn’t do too well; the father was an unskilled worker with seven or eight children to feed. Miss Capek married quite young, rather an unfortunate affair, rife with domestic assault and battery. They had a little girl, but I understand Miss Capek left the child with her parents when she divorced and moved to California—like so many of the unfortunates of the world—in search of a new life.” She patted her hair as if to assure herself it was in order. “Of course, I really don’t know Miss Capek too well.”
No, Conan thought, but you know a lot about her.
He shifted to another position in the chair, in search of comfort, and to another subject.
“You heard what Nye said when he came into the bar last night. Did it make any sense to you?”
She frowned thoughtfully. “Well, he wasn’t really very clear, of course, but you know, I…I had the feeling he thought he could help Brian in some way.” She sighed. “I wonder if we’ll ever know. And I wonder what will happen to the IRS’s case against Brian now.”
“Should an auditor’s demise affect it?”
“But you’d think—” Her red lips twitched into a bitter smile. “No, I don’t suppose that would make any difference to them.”
“You probably had more personal contact with Nye than anyone else at the restaurant. What was your impression of him?”
The cold tension around her eyes and mouth was eloquent, but after a moment that gave way to another sigh.
“It’s difficult to separate the man from his job. He was very…conscientious, which should be a virtue, but he was so coldly conscientious. I mean, I don’t think it ever occurred to him that there were real people behind all those numbers. Oh, I don’t know. I’m afraid I’m not the person to ask if you want to know what he was really like.”
“I can understand your bias. I asked because I was wondering if he was the kind of man to hold a grudge; enough of a grudge to accuse, as his last living act, an innocent man of his murder.”
Her mouth sagged open. “Whatever do you mean?”
“He left a dying testament in the freezer: two letters written in his own blood; the letters B T.”
She went white, her face masklike with the heavily drawn brows and lips stark against the pallor of her skin.
“BT…but that’s…”
“Brian’s initials.”
“But I thought Nye was dead when he…I mean, someone—Howie, wasn’t it?—said Nye had been struck on the head.”
“Yes, but the blow didn’t kill him. I must find an explanation for those initials because they’re damning. Absolutely so in Kleber’s eyes.”
She stared at him as if he’d lapsed into Swahili.
“What do you mean, damning? No one thinks—Kleber isn’t saying—not Brian. Oh, Mr. Flagg, that’s nonsense. Surely, even Earl Kleber wouldn’t accuse Brian of—of…”
“Unless someone can explain away those initials, it’s difficult not to accuse Brian when you consider how he felt about Nye—feelings he made publicly clear only hours before his death—and when you consider that the body was found in the same building where Brian spent the night. Alone.”
“Mister Flagg! If you don’t know Brian Tally better than to accuse him of this—this cold-blooded murder—”
“But I do know him, and that’s why I’m not accusing him; because the murder was so cold-blooded. A bad choice of words in this case, incidentally.”
She missed any humor in that, but seemed mollified by his declaration of faith. She stared down at the floor for a moment, then asked peevishly, “Oh, why didn’t he go home last night?”
Conan carefully put his cup on the tray as he rose.
“I’m sure Brian has been asking himself the same question all day.”
Chapter 8
Steve Travers had exchanged his shirt and tie for an old cable-knit sweater and was whistling along to the strains of the Minute Waltz—no mean feat—when he left the guest room. He crossed the balcony to the stairway, then paused to look down into the living room at his host.
Conan was using the top of the Bösendorfer concert grand for a desk and had covered half of it with typewritten sheets while he hunched over a note pad, pen in hand and totally absorbed. The fingers of his left hand, emerging from the cast, moved in rhythm to the music pouring from speakers quartering the room.
> A very exclusive recording, he had informed Steve, made in this room and on the magnificent piano he adapted for a desk now. The pianist was Isadora Canfield. Steve’s mouth pulled up on one side in an indulgent smile as he descended the spiral staircase.
Conan hadn’t closed the drapes on the west windows, he noted, although it was already dark outside and the panoramic view of beach and surf was lost. Steve sometimes wondered why he had installed drapes on those windows, and considering the size of them, it had been an expensive undertaking.
But Conan liked wide open spaces and tolerated walls only for the sake of privacy. Maybe that was the Nez Percé. Conan Joseph Flagg’s middle name honored a chief.
He didn’t look up nor did the scratching of his pen stop when Steve reached the bottom of the stairs; he only asked vaguely, “Find everything you need, Steve?”
“Sure. The Flagg Hilton’s the best in town.” The pen still didn’t stop. Conan added, “And having Raquel Welch up there’s really a nice touch. Damn nice.”
“Well, let me know if there’s anything else.”
Steve sighed and went to the bar on the south wall.
“What are you doing, Conan?”
Eventually, he muttered, “A schedule.”
A few minutes later, after Steve had mixed two drinks, Forester on the rocks, and took them over to the piano, Conan offered, “Can I fix you a drink, Steve?”
“I’ll have a double zombie. But why don’t you try this first?”
Conan looked around at him and the offered glass.
“Oh—thanks. I’ll be finished here in a couple of minutes. Just make yourself comfortable.”
Steve recognized the sheets spread on the piano: copies of the statements made by Kleber’s witnesses. He took both glasses and crossed to the Barcelona chairs facing the window wall, put the glasses on the table between them, and settled down to enjoy a view of early blackness. Still, the sky was clear and faint whispers of light hinted that there were breakers out there.
“By the way, Conan, I ran the names of all those people through the NCIC computers.”
From behind him came a mumbled, “Mm?”
“Two of them have records. Hancock for one. Started out as a runaway and worked up through vagrancy, D and D, drug possession, to petty theft. He’s done a total of three years in assorted prisons.”
Silence. Steve turned to look over his shoulder.
“Don’t let me distract you, but when are we going to eat? I missed lunch today.”
“Right. Let’s see, where’s Jastrow—oh, here. The drugs your boys found in the cooler belong to Hancock.”
“Thanks. Is that ESP or divine inspiration?”
“Probably.” Then after more shuffling of papers, “What else does Howie Bliss have on his record?”
“What else? I guess you heard about Howie and the windshields. Well, that’s about it. Was Mrs. Early here today?”
“Mm?”
“Your housekeeper. Remember her? I thought maybe she left one of her Care packages in your refrigerator.”
“Uh-huh.”
Steve sighed, then rose and stalked out to search for sustenance in the kitchen.
The Saint-Saéns Allegro Appassionato was pounding to its climax when Conan finally tossed down the pen, surveyed two pages of notes critically, then stacked the statements.
“Steve?” He frowned at the vacant chair, then when Steve came around the corner from the kitchen with a fistful of cookies, his jaw working, “Oh—are you hungry?”
He didn’t answer until he returned to his chair and swallowed the mouthful.
“Whatever gave you that idea? I guess this wasn’t Mrs. Early’s cleaning day.”
“No. We’ll go down to the Shanaway Inn in a little while. It’s only second best, but the best is closed today.”
“Right now I’m truly sorry about that, but I’ll settle for the Dairy Queen.”
Conan took the vacant chair and the waiting glass. “Thanks for the drink.”
“It’s on the house. Okay, what’s this schedule you were working on?”
Conan crossed his legs and propped the notes on his knee while he lit a cigarette.
“I was trying to put together a chronological sequence based on those statements—and hoping to come across a glaring discrepancy in someone’s testimony.”
“Did you?”
“No. Of course, things get a little vague in spots.”
“Yes, I noticed that.”
“Well, the entire cast was bombed to varying degrees. Except Max.”
“What about you? Cold sober?”
“No, only unconscious.”
Steve laughed more heartily than Conan thought that deserved.
“Oh, Conan—damn, I wish I’d been there.”
“Sure, it was the best floor show the Tides Room ever had. Are you interested in what I’ve sieved out here?”
He managed to rein his amusement. “Yes. I haven’t had time to cross-check the things myself.”
“Okay, we begin immediately following the floor show, which was at midnight, give or take a minute. In the ensuing confusion, Beryl Randall said Nye was still trying to get Brian’s attention while he was busy determining how much damage he’d done to me, and Brian said he’d talk to Nye ‘later.’ Max remembers that, too, but Brian doesn’t. Then Beryl took Nye out to the hall to keep the peace, and that’s when Conny Van Roon stuck his nose in.”
Steve frowned while he masticated the last cookie.
“What do you know about Van Roon?”
“Not much, but I learned more about him this afternoon.” Conan started on his drink while he recounted that part of his conversation with Beryl, concluding with a question: “If Brian was audited on the basis of an informer’s tip, will the IRS admit it? And will they name the informer?”
Steve seemed to find his whiskey excessively sour.
“I don’t know if they’ll admit it, but I do know that not even the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court can squeeze an informer’s identity out of an IRS agent. Not unless the agent gets permission to let it out from the commissioner. That’s the big man in Washington. By the way, I talked to Luther Dix on the phone this afternoon.”
“What did he say?”
“Well, he’s grief-stricken. Nye was the best auditor he ever had. Also, he wants the records and files Nye was working on returned to the Portland IRS office. Now.”
“Did you tell him the Surf House records are missing?”
“Sure, and he nearly had a seizure. He nearly had another one when I told him I couldn’t release anything from Nye’s motel room until the investigation is finished.” Steve smiled complacently at the memory.
“What about the phone call Nye made to him last night?”
“IRS business, and in so many words, none of mine, even if I am an officer of the law.”
Conan put his glass down harder than he intended, flinching at the clink of crystal against marble.
“I suppose if that IRS business concerned Brian, Dix considered that none of your business, too.”
“Right. Same for the file on Van Roon. But he wants me to keep him informed about the investigation. I have a feeling my information is going to be inconclusive for a long time to come. So, what happened next?”
Conan consulted his notes. “Where were we? Oh—Van Roon followed Nye and Beryl out into the hall and asked Nye why he was so anxious to talk to Brian. Van Roon said he was only interested because Brian’s such a good friend; Beryl said he was impertinent. And drunk.”
“Well, if he did inform on Tally, maybe he had good reason to be interested. Conan, what did Nye actually say to Tally? Nobody seemed very sure about that.”
“I’m not sure, either, except that he said he’d found something that ‘changed the picture.’”
“Not a lot of help, is it?”
“No, and Van Roon didn’t get any more out of him. Nye told him it was none of his business—in so many words—and he told Beryl he wouldn
’t discuss anything with her until he talked to Brian. Still zero. Anyway, Van Roon went back to the bar, probably looking for something to soothe his hurt feelings. Beryl said Nye told her he was sorry about all the trouble and headed for the front door, while she headed for the ladies’ room. The time was approximately five minutes after twelve.”
“And the rest of the cast was still in the bar?”
“Except for Johnny Hancock, who was in the kitchen, or outside at the dumpster, or at some point in between. By twelve-fifteen I was on my feet and on my way to the hospital with Brian, Tilda, Max and Dore offering support.”
“What about Van Roon? Didn’t he leave before that?”
“Oh, yes. I think—here it is.” Conan turned the paper to read a cramped marginal insert. “Right. He gave up on getting any service at the bar and left the party. That was only a couple of minutes after Nye snubbed him, but he said he didn’t see anyone in the hall or the parking lot.”
“Nye must’ve been a fast walker or Van Roon would’ve seen him.”
“Conny’s vision was limited. Besides, there’s a pathway through the resort that skirts the parking lot. Nye probably walked to his motel that way.”
“Why would he walk in the middle of a storm? That’s what I don’t understand.”
Conan shrugged. “It’s only two blocks. It would take about as long to drive and park a car as to walk. But I’m sure he walked to the Surf House. When he came into the bar, he was soaked.”
“Okay, so Nye left about five after twelve, Van Roon—what? Maybe two minutes later? And Beryl was in the ladies’ room.”
“Yes. She came out when Brian et al got out into the hall with me at twelve-fifteen. He told her to tend bar or close up, whichever came first. There were still those five customers in the bar, but otherwise only Bliss and Jastrow were left. Jastrow says he went to the kitchen to check on Johnny at that point, but neither Howie nor Beryl could back him up. She pleads general emotional upheaval with a hint at heart trouble, or maybe it was vapors. Howie doesn’t plead; he just didn’t keep track.”