A Multitude of Sins (14 page)

“Dore might provide a key to the gates for me.”
If
she’d trust him, now that he knew her dark secret.

He looked out the window at the pristine sky, thinking of fear and its many masks, and the gaunt image of the Knight came inevitably to mind. And Jenny, who slashed at her soul’s flesh in those torn canvases; a wordless cry for help. Isadora might be capable of answering that plea if she understood it; it might crack the armor of her own mistrust. Yet Jenny seemed to be purposely avoiding her, staying on the beach yesterday until they left the cottage, her bedroom door closed when Conan brought Isadora home last night, although the light in the window said she wasn’t asleep. Somehow, he must find a way to talk to Jenny privately.

He frowned. That could wait; it was more important to talk to Isadora now. There were answers in her stay at Morningdell to more than her secretive attitude.

“Well, Sean, Charlie said you’re damned good at digging up information. That was an understatement.”

Her laugh was brief and constrained.

“Maybe too good? Conan, I’m sorry about Isadora.”

“Sorry? Why?”

“Well, it sort of makes you wonder when you find out your client’s been diagnosed as a schizo.”

His eyes had a cool sheen even as he laughed.

“Yes, it makes you wonder. Harry’s decided she’s an addict, and the cottage is a den of drugged hedonism.”

“
Is
she an addict?”

“Or is she insane? Makes you wonder. Was this her first mental crisis? Any prior history of mental illness?”

“None I could find.”

He nodded. “Sean, we’re still no closer to explaining the surveillance, and Dore’s stay at Morningdell eliminates the one factor that made me doubt it was connected with John Canfield’s death—that month-long gap before the tailing began. It wasn’t necessary when she was in Morningdell. She wasn’t going anywhere, and it’d be easy to keep track of any visitors she had.”

“You don’t think somebody’s just worried about her trying suicide again?”

“No. Anyone seriously concerned about that would be wiser, and money ahead, to keep her in Morningdell rather than paying for full-time surveillance. Beside, Jenny was sent here to monitor Dore’s emotional state.” He hesitated. “Although, I think she’s the one who needs monitoring.”

Sean’s brows were drawn in a perplexed line. “How do you tie the surveillance to Canfield?”

“Not to him. His death.”

“But, Conan—”

“Yes, I know. It was a heart attack, pure and simple, and I haven’t any evidence to the contrary. Just a lot to wonder about. And a number of intriguing potential motives. A drug addict; a failing marriage to an ambitious woman—a relationship of long standing; an illegitimate son who may be Canfield’s; a lawyer he may have intended to replace; and a will he may have intended to change.”

“Don’t forget a boyfriend who may have an interest in Isadora’s future as an heiress.”

Conan laughed. “Ah. Ben Meade. See what you can find out about his interest in Dore. Or perhaps I’ll have a talk with him myself. Anyway, all this wondering isn’t getting us anywhere. Anything else in that noteboook?”

“Sorry, but I’ve about shot my wad.” Then after a glance at her watch: “About time, too. I’d like a fast tour of the local scene, then I’d better be on my way. I have to get back in time to put on my wig before I meet Maud.”

“Your wig?”

“Red hair is a very conspicuous trait; I’ve found wigs quite useful. Maud knows me as a blonde.”

Conan laughed at that. “You’d make a beautiful blonde, but you’re a fantastic redhead.”

“Well, the Irish is finally coming out.”

“You inspire me, Sean.” He reached for the phone. “I’ll have Carl give you the tour. I want to talk to Dore. When you get back to Salem, see if you can find out where all the members of the family—and Carleton—were on the night of Canfield’s murder.”

“His
what?”

Conan smiled crookedly. “Sorry. Habit, I guess. The night of his
death.
And if Maud goes along with that wild scheme of yours,
just…
be careful.”

She sighed. “Conan, you worry too much.”

“I hope you’re right about that.”

CHAPTER 12

Conan had just reached his front door and unlocked it when the silver Stingray roared to a stop a few yards away, and Isadora got out, looking morning crisp in a blue and white pantsuit. Class, he was thinking; wealth is a prerequisite, but never guarantees it.

“Dore, if you were any more prompt, I’d be late.”

She laughed. “You called, sir, and I came. Posthaste.”

“Incredibly posthaste. Come on in.” He held the door for her. “Have you had breakfast?”

“Breakfast? It’s nearly noon. But don’t offer me lunch yet. I don’t rise
that
early.”

“Not with the hours you keep, I hope. Let’s go out on the deck. It’s a beautiful day.”

She acquiesced with a willing smile and followed him through the living room to the glass door at the north end of the window wall. When she stepped out onto the deck, she paused to take a deep breath.

“It
is
beautiful. What happened to our April showers?”

He sat down on the bench lining the railing and looked out at the opalescent clouds fanning out from the horizon.

“They’re coming; tomorrow or the next day. The barometer’s dropping.” He turned as she sat down beside him, then following the direction of her suddenly cold gaze, looked past her. Part of the beach access was visible.

“My escort has arrived,” she noted.

“At least, he’s dependable. I have a name for him, by the way.”

“What is it? Fred Weird?”

“No, just plain Roger Garner. He and Hicks work for the Worth Detective Agency in Salem.”

“Salem?” She frowned. “I wonder what that means.”

“I don’t know.”

“And you
still
don’t know who hired them?”

“Not yet.”

“But, when—” She stopped, sighing. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound impatient.”

“I know. Dore, you look awfully tired.”

“I…I didn’t sleep too well last night.”

“Haven’t you anything to take to help you sleep?”

“You mean sleeping pills? No. Dr. Johnson gave me some Seconal last year for a case of pre-concert nerves, but I don’t like taking them. I suppose it’s because of Mother. The bottle’s still in my medicine cabinet at home.”

He frowned at that, then called up a smile.

“I should give you the standard lecture on leaving dangerous drugs around, but I don’t think I’ll bother. Did you talk to Jenny this morning?”

“Oh, a few words, but we never really talk. Conan, I looked in her studio this morning while she was still asleep.”

“What did you find?”

“Well, she’d cleaned it up; last night, probably, while I was at work. But I saw some stains on the floor, and all the canvases were gone. I think she burned them. There were a lot of ashes in the fireplace, and carpet tacks. She uses them to tack the canvas to the stretchers.”

He had to smile at that. “You’re quite a detective. Did she say anything to explain what happened?”

“No. She isn’t even admitting anything happened, so I couldn’t admit I knew about it. Oh, I managed to work in a casual reference to the Knight.”

“What was her reaction?”

“Well, she seemed…upset. First she said she’d forgotten it, then she said she
wished
she could forget it. That seems an odd thing to say about one of her best works.”

“I think it’s to be taken with a grain of salt.” He looked out at the gentle surf, letting the subject drop. He hadn’t asked her here to talk about Jenny, but he hesitated now; there was no easy approach to what he had to say.

“Conan, what is it?”

He turned to face her. “I told you I had an operative working in Salem; Sean Kelly. She came down to report to me this morning.”

He watched her turn away, her hands tightening on the railing.

“She came here to report? It must’ve been important.”

“Look, I won’t hedge with you. I know why you were so worried about her investigation. She told me about Morningdell.”

A small muscle at the corner of her mouth tightened; in her eyes, fixed on the horizon, caged resentment flared.

“So. Now, you know. Your client is an escapee from a nut house. I guess that changes things, doesn’t it?”

That cold challenge cut deep, but it was born of fear. He might have been annoyed that she underestimated him, except for an equivocal intimation of another kind of fear: fear that she
belonged
in a nut house.

He smiled at her. “An escapee? I was told you were
released
from Morningdell.”

Her shoulders sagged. “Oh, Conan, I didn’t want you to know.”

“Why not?”

“At first it was only because I was afraid you wouldn’t take me seriously about the surveillance.”

“If it’s a figment of your imagination, you have one hell of an imagination.”

She smiled weakly, still not looking at him.

“There’s more to it. When you’re labeled
insane
it’s worse than having some vile, contagious disease. I had a taste of it in Morningdell. Not that the insane aren’t treated very well there; like prize specimens in a zoo, with great solicitude and even kindness. But not as human beings; not
equally
human beings. Conan, I was afraid it would change the way you felt about me, and I couldn’t tolerate that; it’s become too important to me.”

He was at a loss for words, in the pendant silence, sharply aware of a fragility about her. Lucid as crystal, and as easily shattered.

Finally, he took her hands in his and for some time studied them as he might a finely constructed work of art.

“Look at these hands,” he said quietly. “Bernini in the flesh, and yet they’re probably capable of bending steel rods. More important, they’re capable of bringing music out of a jumble of ivory and wire and doing it exceedingly well. A talent so unique isn’t just a gift, it’s an obligation. I know the scope of that covenant, Dore, and I have no choice but to honor it as you do.”

She listened intently, and this oblique response seemed to satisfy her. She smiled, a smile reflected more in her eyes than the slight curve of her lips, then she leaned toward him, and he let his eyes close as he felt her mouth against his. It came to him with a dull shock that in some sense he was no less vulnerable than she.

When she looked up at him, her laughter was a welcome sound; it came so easily. “Conan, you’re a rare man.”

He touched her hair, like silk under his hand.

“And you’re a rare young woman; extraordinarily rare.” Then he leaned back, reluctantly refocusing his thoughts while he lit a cigarette. “Dore, I have some questions. It seems I always do.”

She sighed, then squared her shoulders.

“Well, that’s your job, isn’t it, asking questions?”

“My job is finding some answers. You talked about being labeled insane. What do
you
think?”

She turned away, uncertainty shadowing her eyes.

“I don’t know. It never occurred to me before to question my sanity; not really. I think anyone suffering the normal slings and arrows of outrageous adolescence sometimes wonders, but I was actually a boringly well-adjusted child.”

“What about after your mother’s death?”

“It was bad, but there was no breakdown, or memory loss, or…unusual reactions.”

“Unusual reactions? You mean like the other night at the Surf House?”

She nodded tensely. “Yes.”

“Dore, it wasn’t just the whiskey. You looked out at the beach and you saw something. What?”

Her eyelids fluttered closed and she shivered.

“Oh, I—I can’t explain it. The colors all seemed to flicker somehow. I kept thinking, why don’t they stay where they
belong.
And the lines of foam, they seemed to be writhing; alive, like…snakes.” She pushed her hair back with a trembling hand. “The same sort of thing happened one day when I was practicing. The piece was a favorite of Dad’s, but I wasn’t really thinking about that. In the middle of it, my wrists seemed
to…
to stretch out and dwindle down to threads, but my hands were still playing.”

“How long did it last?”

“Only a few seconds. They never last long.”

“Any other?”

“Yes. Kelp. Those long strings of kelp that wash up on the beach. One day I stepped on one, and it seemed to wrap itself around my leg and crawl—” She stopped, her hand pressed to her mouth.

“All right, Dore. Were there others?”

“Not since I left Morningdell, and then only in the first week. Dr. Kerr put me on some sort of tranquilizer, and it seemed to help. I still have sessions with him every two weeks. I’m officially an out-patient.”

“Have you discussed the surveillance with him?”

She sent Conan an oblique glance. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, he’s very good, and I respect him; I even like him, but he tends to look at the world through neurosis-colored glasses. He’d consider it just another symptom.”

Conan frowned; she didn’t seem to realize the ramifications of that if she were right.

“Do you remember any of the ‘unusual reactions’ you had during the first week?”

“No. I mean, I couldn’t describe them. There’s nothing
but…
feelings.” And obviously not pleasant ones.