A Multitude of Sins (28 page)

“You can read it, but the real kicker concerns the will. He says he was at the Canfield house for a financial skull session with the Senator a week before he died, and he talked about changing his will. He didn’t go into detail, but Catharine was definitely out entirely. Unfortunately, Hendricks is the discreet type; Canfield didn’t volunteer an explanation, so he didn’t ask. Anyway, there were some notes, dated and in Canfield’s handwriting. Hendricks saw him put them in his desk drawer with the will. But after he died, only the will was found in that drawer.”

“And all three principals were at the house at one time or another the night of his death.”

“Right. Anyway, Hendricks had something else to add. Canfield told him he had his doubts about the way Carleton was using his power of attorney in connection with some trust funds, so he was holding off on the will changes until he found himself a new lawyer.”

Conan frowned, then after a moment rose and wandered to the window.

“He really set himself up, didn’t he? Take your pick of motives. And suspects. Any one of three, or any combination of two, or all three in conspiracy.” Then he turned.

“Carl told me Jim and Carleton took quite a few things from the cottage yesterday.”

“I have the list here, if that’s what you’re after.” He leafed through the folder and pulled out a sheet. Conan took it on his way back to the chair.

Most of the items were personal belongings, clothing and jewelry, both Jenny’s and Isadora’s. Only one entry caught his attention.

“‘One painting, oil on canvas.’ Was that the painting on the easel in the studio?”

“Yes. The rest were just blank canvases, and I don’t think that one was finished.”

“No, I saw it.”

“I talked to Sergeant Drew; he was at the cottage when Carleton and Jim were there. He said they got a little hot because there weren’t any other paintings, as if we’d confiscated them. They looked through some of the sketchbooks, but that one painting is all they took from the studio.”

“Whose idea was it, Jim’s or Carleton’s?”

“I asked Drew, and he kept an eye on them the whole time, but he couldn’t hear everything they said. He really didn’t know whose idea it was.”

“Carl wasn’t in a position to see the front drive at the Canfield house yesterday. Did any of your men see these things unloaded?”

“Well, as it happened, Dick Sims was there asking some questions. He’s with the Salem PD, but he’s helping on this. In fact, he gave Jim and Carleton a hand with the stuff. He said they put everything up in Jenny’s studio, and he mentioned the painting. He belongs to the Norman Rockwell school of art appreciation, and he had some comments on it.”

Conan was silent, focusing on a memory; Jennifer Hanson’s last painting, an unremarkable and unfinished effort in no way typical of her best work. Did someone want to remember her by that? But what other reason…

His pulse rate went up. A paradox that the first inkling of an answer elicited sensations so much like fear.

“Steve, may I use your phone?” He didn’t wait for Travers’s shrug of permission, but rose and reached across the desk for the phone, in his haste misdialing so that he had to start anew. The voice that answered was clipped and formal, but still familiar.

“The Canfield residence.”

“Sean, this is Conan. Can you talk?”

A brief pause, then, “Yes, for a couple of minutes.”

“I’ll make it fast. Were you around yesterday when Jim and Carleton brought the things from the cottage?”

“Well, not exactly. I mean, I was here, but I was stuck back in the kitchen with Alma.”

“Then you didn’t see any of it?”

“Not then, but I got a chance to check it this morning.”

“Good. Did you see a painting, a large oil about four feet long, unfinished, in reds and yellows?”

“No, there weren’t any paintings, any color.”

“Could it be anywhere else in the house?”

“Not that I know of. It sounds like it’d be a little hard to hide, and nothing’s sacred to a housekeeper.”

“Check around, but don’t be too surprised if you don’t find it. Who was at the house last night?”

“Well, Catharine, of course; she’s hardly left her room. Carleton was here yesterday evening and didn’t leave until after us servants were dismissed. Jim wasn’t here for supper, but he spent the night. I had his bed to make up as proof of that.”

“So, all three of them had access to that painting last night. All right, Sean. Thanks.”

“Sure. Did Steve tell you about the search?”

“Yes, I’m at his office.”

“Oh, well, give him my love.”

He laughed. “I’ll make that regards. He might take you seriously. You’d better get off the phone now.”

“Okay. I’ll call this evening with a status report.”

“I’ll be at the hotel. Take care, Sean.”

When he hung up, he stood frowning into space, so preoccupied he didn’t even hear Travers at first.

“Sorry. What’d you say, Steve?”

He sighed. “I gather Sean didn’t find the painting.”

“No, and Carleton and Jim were both at the house last night, as well as Catharine.”

“How come you’re so hung up with that painting?”

“I’m just wondering why someone else was so hung up that it’s disappeared. Let me have a piece of paper and a pencil.” He leaned over the desk as Travers obligingly provided them, and sketched out the general proportions of the canvas. “It was shaped about like this, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Maybe a little longer.”

“Okay.” He made an adjustment in the lines. “Now, there were two triangles, side by side, outlined in red. Like this, right?” He hesitated, eyes narrowed. “Red and yellow; danger and caution. Interesting.”

“Sure, but what do two triangles mean?”

“I don’t know, Steve. There weren’t any other shapes, were there? The background was kind of nebulous.”

“I don’t think so. I gave the thing a long look. I guess I was hoping she left some sort of message, as if she had time for that. Hey, maybe it’s an M.”

“For Mother?” He tossed the pencil down, regarding his crude artistic endeavor with a jaundiced eye.

“Why not? Or maybe those things stand for mountains.”

“Stand for? What school of art appreciation do
you
belong to?”

“Grandma Moses. Wait a minute.” He peered intently at the drawing. “You’ve got it wrong. There wasn’t a bottom line on this triangle; the one on the left.”

Conan reached for the pencil, almost laughing as he scrubbed out the erroneous line with the eraser.

“Damn, you’re right. It was like this; more like an inverted V and a triangle.” Then he stopped and stared at the paper, and again Travers had to repeat himself.

“That rings a bell for you?”

“What?
I…
yes. Maybe.”

“What do you mean, maybe?”

“Just that.”

“So, you think
maybe
Jenny did leave a message? Look, that guy in the sports car was only in the cottage ten minutes total, and besides, she was shot in her bedroom. There was no way she could’ve painted out any messages.”

“I know. The painting was probably done earlier in the evening, and it was only a diversion; something to keep her mind off the chills and cramps. But I can guess what was foremost in her thoughts. It’s a kind of doodle, really. I’m sure it never occurred to her she was pointing a finger at her killer. She didn’t think she was in any danger.”

“Then how come you’re so excited about it?”

“Because someone
did
see a pointing finger in it. That’s why it disappeared.”

“Where does the finger point, Conan?”

He paused, studying the drawing, while Travers waited tensely.

“Steve, let me muddle this over awhile.” Another pause. “Where does Milly’s and Worth’s testimony point? Rather consistently in one direction, wouldn’t you say?”

He shrugged. “Well, I was sort of impressed with the consistency, and Carleton doesn’t have an alibi.”

“No, but don’t forget Sean saw a Lotus Elan leave the Canfield house at 8:40 Saturday night.”

“Don’t confuse the issue with facts, and Sean didn’t get a very good look at that car. Besides, Catharine says she was alone all evening. Have you considered the fact that
she
doesn’t have an alibi either? She dismissed the servants at 7:40, and if she drove like hell, it’s possible she could’ve made it to Shanaway by 8:35.”

“Yes, I’ve considered that.” He looked down at the sketch again, then put it in his breast pocket. “Take your pick. Steve, the only viable strategy for dealing with a conspiracy is divide and conquer.”

He groaned. “Conan, don’t—”

“I’m not getting philosophical on you. That’s a very pragmatic observation, and here’s another. You won’t pin down this killer with proper police procedures. It’s the old shell game, and this hand is faster than the procedural eye.”

“So, what do we do?”

“Change the game, perhaps, and run a bluff.”

Travers’s face screwed up in a dubious frown.

“I think I’m going to regret this, but tell me more.”

“First,
we
name the game and deal the cards. Then we sweeten the pot and make sure our mark has a good hand.”

“He already has a good hand.”

“But we hold the high cards.”

“Really. I hadn’t noticed that.”

“If knowledge is power, then Jenny gave us the ace.” He glanced at his watch and crossed to the door. “Steve, I’ll have to play the hand, but I’ll need your help.”

“Sure, if you’ve got the hand to play, and if your mark doesn’t have an ace up his sleeve.”

“That I can’t guarantee. Thanks.”

“Wait a minute. What the hell’s your hurry?”

“I have some muddling to do. I’ll call you later.”

Travers loosed a resigned sigh as the door closed.

“Sure, Conan. Later.”

CHAPTER 22

It was like looking through a freshly washed lens, this April morning; the sky a burning blue, every blossom on the plums and cherries a distinct entity. Conan followed Travers’s sedan past the police barricade at the gate of the Canfield mansion, wondering at the compulsion, even in a practicing skeptic, to read affinities in human experiences and casual meteorological phenomena.

Yesterday, Tuesday, it had rained; a misty, windless, gray rain. Jennifer Hanson had been buried in that rain, and it had seemed fitting. More fitting than this celebrant blaze of sunlight.

Travers parked his car and got out to wait for him, squinting up at the phantasmagoric turret with the dubious eye of a man born to simple clapboard homesteads.

“Doesn’t look like anybody’s home.”

Conan glanced up at the house. “Well, we know Sean’s home. Come on, we may as well get this over with.” Travers nodded, his forehead lined with a foreboding frown as they climbed the steps.

“Conan, you know, sometimes I wonder how you talk me into these things. I’m not even sure this is ethical, much less legal.”

“Cold feet, Steve?”

“You’re damned right.”

“Mine aren’t so warm, either. I just hope you can keep Carleton out of the way long enough.”

“We’ve got enough to keep him occupied until tomorrow, anyway.” He glowered at the front door. “How do you get into this place?”

“You ring the bell,” Conan said, reaching for it. After a short wait, the door opened, seemingly of its own volition, but Sean Kelly was the motive power behind it.

“Good morning. Oh, it’s Mr. Flagg.”

He recognized her formal address as a warning and responded with equal formality, “Yes, Miss Reilly, and this is Steve Travers of the State Police. We’d like to talk to Mrs. Canfield.”

“Well, I’ll see if—”

“It’s all right, Miss Reilly.” The voice came out of the shadows behind her. “Ask them in.”

Sean stepped aside to let them pass, and in the dim light, Conan saw Catharine Canfield coming down the stairs, one hand sliding along the banister, the other holding the white cane that felt out each step as she descended.

At Jenny’s funeral she’d worn a black veil. Now, her dress was still black, but there was no veil to hide the ravages of grief; only the dark glasses, rimmed in black. And it came as a surprise that her hair hadn’t changed; that it wasn’t entirely white.

At the foot of the stairs she stopped, putting on a polite, emotionless smile as if she were waiting for an opening move. Conan made it.

“Mrs. Canfield, I’m sorry to intrude on you now. The gentleman with me is Steve Travers of the—”

“Oh, yes. You were the one who called me when…Saturday night.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m afraid that wasn’t the best kind of introduction.”

“You were very considerate and most thoughtful. Mr. Flagg, how is Isadora? I’m so upset that Dr. Kerr won’t at least let Jim see her, we’re all so worried about her.”

“I’m sure Dr. Kerr has her best interests in mind. Mrs. Canfield, Steve would like to talk to you privately. He asked me to come along since I’ve been involved in the case and might even be regarded as a friend of the family.”

Her smile barely faltered. “Of course. We’ll go into the library.” The cane preceded her to the double doors and into the room, and she asked casually, “Is it too dark?”

Conan closed the doors, finding it difficult not to stare at her; she played her role so well, even now.

“No,” he answered. “The drapes have been pulled.” The tall windows on the right wall flooded the room with light, warming the varnished wood, glinting on gold-embossed book covers, glowing in the ruby patterns of the Kerman. Yet the desk in the center of the room seemed to absorb light; it had the monolithic stance of a monument.