A Multitude of Sins (11 page)

The curtains were closed. That struck him as unusual, but they were thin enough to let some light in. Then he stopped dead, feeling a sudden, stomach-turning wrench.

He was looking at a scene of devastation.

Like the debris of an explosion, paint tubes, brushes, palette knives, broken bottles littered the floor among bleak, sullied drifts of dismembered sketch pads and torn drawings. On the easel was a large painting with a few color areas blocked in, but it had been viciously ripped, the canvas hanging from the stretcher bars in stiff, curling strips. Every canvas in the room, even those that hadn’t yet been touched with paint, was slashed repeatedly.

He gazed numbly around, his pulse hard and fast.

A self-inflicted wound. There was no other explanation for it. Otherwise, Jennifer Hanson, who was afraid of intruders, who carefully locked the doors at night and kept a gun by her bed, would have sounded some sort of alarm.

Finally, he went to the easel and knelt to examine the broken remains of a bottle of linseed oil. It told him one thing: this havoc hadn’t been wreaked in the last few hours; the oil was too viscid. And last night, Jenny had a rendezvous with someone driving a Lotus Elan, and her eyes had been red and swollen.

He remembered his purpose at length, and began sorting through the debris, pausing at ten-minute intervals to look for Jenny. At the third check, he turned and saw Munson at the door, looking around the room with a puzzled frown.

When Conan walked over to him, he whispered, “I want to show you something.”

Conan followed Munson into the south wing and turned at the first door. A glance at the paint-daubed clothing on the bed told him this was Jenny’s room. Munson went to the table by the bed and pointed into the drawer where a small .22 revolver lay.

Conan took the gun out and opened it. It was loaded, but he doubted it had been fired—or cleaned—for some time. He put it back and leaned close to Munson.

“Anything else?”

“No. I went over the other bedroom, too.”

“Okay, take the kitchen.”

They left the room together but parted in the living room. Munson waited for him to check the road again, then crossed to the north wing. Conan finished his search of the studio, but found nothing unusual—except the evidence of some terrifying self-destructive power unleashed here.

At length, he turned his attention to the living room. He was busy feeling behind the cushions of the couch, when Munson came around the corner from the kitchen, and something in his expression said, “Pay dirt.”

It was on a low shelf in the pantry.

Conan knelt, noting the sprinkling of white grains on the floor as Munson removed the lid from a cannister marked SUGAR. It was half full; the top of a plastic sack sealed with a wire tie protruded from it.

“Did you take it out, Harry?”

“Just far enough to see what’s in it. That’s the way I found it. The sugar on the floor was what made me check.”

He nodded. “You’d better go keep an eye on the road.” When he was gone, Conan gingerly pulled the sack out of the cannister. It held a syringe and a dozen rubber-capped 10 cc. multi-dose vials. They were labeled MORPHINE.

He stared at them for a long time, then closed his eyes, wondering at the palling weariness that overwhelmed him.

At least, he had one answer out of all this—what had happened to Jennifer Hanson; to the painter she’d once been.

Munson was bending over the telephone. He straightened when Conan emerged from the kitchen, then at his beckoning gesture, followed him outside into the patio.

“You hit the jackpot, Harry.”

“You don’t seem too happy about it.”

He laughed bitterly. No, he thought, he felt sick.

“Did you see the studio?”

“Is that some new kind of painting? What happened in there?”

“Attempted suicide. Or maybe it was successful.” Then seeing Munson’s puzzled look, “Did you find anything else?”

“No, but I’ll lay you odds there’s more to find. Morphine. Somebody’s past the joypopping stage.”

“You have a tap on the phone?”

“Yes, and I’ll set up a tape recorder in my car. It’s around the turn on the crest road; close enough for good pickup. Any idea which of the young ladies is hooked?”

“Yes. Jenny.”

“I suppose you’ve considered the possibility
both
of them might be users?”

Conan said tightly, “The symptoms of morphine addiction are fairly obvious.”

“But the symptoms of a few other drugs I could name
aren’t
so obvious.” He had more to say on the subject, but restrained himself. “Will you be with Miss Canfield again tonight?”

“Yes. I’ll probably send Carl out here before nine.”

“Okay. I’d better get going before somebody shows up.”

“All right. Thanks, Harry.”

Munson crossed the road into the woods, but Conan was hardly aware of his departure. He stood motionless, listening to the music still emanating from the house.

CHAPTER 10

Isadora stared straight ahead as Conan turned off the Shanaway road onto Highway 101. He had the radio mike in his right hand.

“Harry, did you check your pickup on that bug?”

“Yes, all systems go. Your friend in the red Ford just left the duplex, by the way.”

“Right on schedule. Jenny wasn’t home from the beach when we left. If she isn’t back soon, let me know.”

“Don’t worry about her. She’s coming up the road now.”

He frowned and looked at his watch. Nearly six. He wondered if Jenny had purposely delayed her return so long.

“All right, Harry. I’ll talk to you later.”

As he put the mike away, he was aware of Isadora’s blue eyes fixed on him now, somber and full of questions. “Conan, what about the search?”

“The type of monitor they’re using can pick up conversations in the room, so keep that in mind. And it’s wired in; that takes time. It was probably installed before you and Jenny moved down.”

“Or while Jenny was alone in the house.”

He glanced at her, then shrugged.

“Possibly. Have you been in her studio today?”

“No, she was still asleep when I left this morning. I never go into her studio unless she’s there. Why?”

“Because it looked like the wake of a hurricane; paint, brushes, paper, everything thrown all over the floor, and every canvas was cut to ribbons.”

He turned and saw her look of uncomprehending shock. “But who would…” A pause, then, “Not
Jenny
?”

“To your knowledge has she ever done anything like this before?”

“No. Oh, God, Conan, why would she do that?”

“I don’t know. I want to talk to her, but it can’t be at the cottage. Did you tell her about the Knight?”

“No, not yet.”

“Perhaps you should. It might give me an opening gambit. Or a crack in the armor.”

“All right.” She sank into thoughtful silence as the blocks flicked past, finally shaking her head slowly. “Poor Jen. I don’t understand her, Conan. I wish I did.”

“Are you sure you can’t tell me anything about the illness that brought her home from Chicago?”

“No. She was almost fully recovered by the time I saw her, and no one ever talked about it much.”

“You were away when she first came home?”

“Yes, at boarding school.” When he slowed as they passed the bookshop and signaled a right turn, she asked, “Where are we going? Your house?”

“Yes. I thought you might enjoy a change in cuisine.” He sent her a quick smile. “How are you at cooking?”

“Me?” She laughed. “I’m great with a can opener.”

“Who does the cooking at the cottage? Jenny?”

“Oh, no. Mostly, we just fend for ourselves.”

He pulled up by the house and turned off the motor. “Well, one reason for stopping here is that I have some phone calls to make. I also have a couple of beautiful T-bones in the refrigerator.”

“Wonderful, but
you’re
elected meat chef. Steaks make me nervous except for eating them. But I can put together a passable salad and a rather tasty garlic bread.”

“Sounds fair enough, but wish me luck on the steaks.” She eyed him dubiously. “Luck? I thought you’d be a gourmet cook like most confirmed bachelors.”

“The cooking talents of bachelors is another of those comfortable myths. If Mrs. Early didn’t occasionally take pity on me, I’d be left to a fate worse than TV dinners.”

She laughed at that, but after a moment, the sober question was back in her eyes.

“Conan, there was something more, wasn’t there? I mean, you found something else at the cottage.”

He hesitated. “I’d rather not discuss it yet.”

“Why not?”

“Just…trust me.”

“I do, but do you trust
me
?”

“You’re my client, after all.”

“Which doesn’t answer my question.”

“True. But if trust depended on every question being answered. should I trust
you
?”

She turned away abruptly, she had no answer to that. Conan reached out and touched her cheek.

“Come on, let’s go inside. I’m getting hungry.”

She nodded mutely, holding his hand against her cheek, then smiled at him.

“Okay. Lead me to your kitchen.”

* * *

Conan closed the library door and went to the desk. There was music in the background, but not Isadora’s. He’d shown her how to operate the tape system and left her to choose an accompaniment for her culinary efforts.

He smiled to himself. Ravel: the
Pavane pour une infante défunte.
And he was thinking of Isadora Canfield in a makeshift dish-towel apron, looking as out of place in the kitchen as a Bird of Paradise in a chicken coop.

Then he opened the compartment and took out the phone. The first call went to his answering service. There was only one message. He hurriedly dialed the number.

“Marion Hotel, may I help you?”

“Room two-seventeen, please.”

He lit a cigarette, listening to the buzz of the extension until finally Sean Kelly came on the line.

“Sean, this is Conan Flagg. I just got your message.”

“Oh, good timing. I was about to leave for supper.”

“Sorry to delay that. How are you progressing?”

“Very well. That Steve Travers is a jewel. I tracked down your specific questions and picked up a lot of background info. I was lucky on that; made an inside contact.” She paused briefly. “Conan, I don’t trust extensions, and I’d like to see the situation down there first hand. It’s only an hour’s drive to Holliday Beach from here, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Less than an hour if you push it.”

“Well, this is what I called about, really. If it’s okay with you, I’ll drive down and report to you personally tomorrow morning. I’ll have to be back by two, though. I have an iron in the fire that may lead to a ringside seat.”

He laughed. “You’ll have to come down just to explain that. Besides, after all Charlie Duncan said about you, I’m anxious to meet you.”

“Well, just don’t believe everything Charlie says.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll meet you at the bookshop at ten; that’ll give you plenty of time. Oh, here’s something else for your list. See if you can get copies of both Isadora and Jim Canfield’s transcripts from Willamette University.”

“That might take a while. Okay, anything else?”

“Yes. Have you come across a Ben Meade among Dore’s friends and associates?”

“Not personally, but he’s been mentioned. Apparently, he has quite a thing for her.”

“Apparently. See what you can dig up on him. Have you a list of the cars belonging to the family, etcetera?”

“Yes, right in my notebook…here it is.”

“Have you a Lotus Elan on the list?”

Her short laugh didn’t make sense at first.

“This is your lucky day, fellow Irishman. I have not one, but
two
Lotus Elans.”

“Two Elans? Sean, that’s ridiculous. There can’t be more than half a dozen in the entire state.”

“Truth is stranger than fiction, so they say.”

“And far less reasonable. Who do they belong to?”

“Jim Canfield and C. Robert Carleton.”

“What is this, some sort of one-upmanship?”

“I guess so, but from what I’ve heard, Carleton is one down on Jim in the sporty playboy role.”

“All right.” He tore off a sheet of scratch paper. “Give me the colors and license numbers.”

“Jim’s is dark blue; license CFM230. Carleton’s is black, AAM938.”

“Dark blue and black; hard to distinguish at night.”

“Is someone trying to distinguish them?”

“I’ll tell you about that later. Do you know if anyone would have access to them other than Jim and Carleton?”

“I don’t know about Carleton, but I guess Jim’s pretty free with his, which is odd for a sports car buff. Maybe he likes to impress the brothers with his largess.”

“His fraternity brothers? He lets them drive his car?”

“I think so, but this is gossip from a waitress who works in a bar near the Lambda Delt house. She seemed to be very friendly with quite a few of the brothers.”

He frowned, absently doodling the Greek letters lambda and delta.

“I wonder if Jim’s ever shared his car with Ben Meade. By the way, who’s the Canfield family doctor?”

“I have it right here. Johnson. Emil Johnson.”

He studied the phone numbers from the directory at the cottage. That wouldn’t be “Dr. K.” But he didn’t pursue the question; it might have no bearing on the case, and it could wait until Sean arrived for her personal report.