A Multitude of Sins (4 page)

“And your next step was to find a handy private eye?”

“Yes. Mr. Flagg, do you believe me?”

Both the question and the intense plea reflected in her eyes caught him off guard, and he realized that again he’d made a choice without being fully aware of it; the decision made when he first saw her—or rather, first
heard
her. Anyone possessed of talent of that magnitude should be spared the natural shocks to which lesser flesh is heir.

“Believe you? Is there any reason I should doubt you?”

Her cheeks went red, and the question seemed to have deeper meaning for her than he intended. He didn’t wait for a response, but rose and went to the cabinet by the fireplace and took out a Polaroid camera.

“Miss Canfield, come into the kitchen a moment.”

She hesitated, nonplussed, then followed him into the kitchen. He crossed to the high windows on the north wall and looked out into the beach access. The red Ford was still there, its driver still waiting.

Conan motioned her to the window.

“I think you’ll find the view interesting.”

CHAPTER 4

Isadora Canfield’s blue eyes were glacier cold.

“That’s the man.” Then she looked up at Conan. “You
knew
he was here. But, how—”

He smiled and focused the camera on the man.

“Are you asking me to reveal trade secrets?” He concentrated on the camera until the finished photograph was ready, eyed it critically, then put it on the window sill. “Now, give me a smile.”

He got a quizzical frown instead when he turned the camera on her.

“Why do you want a picture of me?”

“This won’t be a one-man job.” He paused until the photograph was developed. “Doesn’t do you justice. I’ll have to call in reinforcements. I need a picture because I may not have a chance to make formal introductions.”

“Then, you—you
will
help me?”

He laughed. “Have I a choice? At least, I’ll try.”

“Oh…thank you…”

She was on the verge of tears, and he said tersely, “Thanks aren’t in order yet. Come on, we’ve work to do.”

“Work?” She frowned in bewilderment as he guided her back to the living room. “What do you mean?”

“Isadora, I have just begun to question.” He waved her to her chair and seated himself, eyes narrowed intently. “You want answers to two questions
re
your watchers: who and why. The
who
we’ll ignore for now; they’re probably hired professionals, and their identity is only important if it leads me to their employer. The question that concerns me now is
why.
Have you any theories on that?”

She shook her head. “No. That’s what’s so unnerving about it. There’s no reason for it.”

“There’s a reason; every effect has a cause. It might be something very personal; something out of your past.”

That called up a faint smile. “Some skeleton in my closet rising up to haunt me? The trouble is, there’s never been time in my life for anything but the piano; I’ve never been involved in anything remotely illegal or even immoral, and I’m too egocentric for the kind of personal involvements that might lead me astray. Believe me, there’s nothing in my past interesting enough to attract this kind of attention.”

He believed her, but
something
about her had attracted someone’s attention.

“How long have you been living at Shanaway?”

“We came down February twenty-fifth.”

“We?”

“Jenny and I. My stepsister; Catharine’s daughter.” Her eyes narrowed. “The faithful watchdog.”

“The what?”

But she only laughed. “Don’t mind me. That’s just more family in-fighting.”

He hesitated, then: “So, you discovered the tails within…what? About two weeks after moving to Shanaway? You’re sure you weren’t under surveillance before that?”

“As sure as I can be. Before Dad died, I was at Willamette University. It’s a small school, and these two, or anyone like them, would stick out like sore thumbs.”

“You’ve graduated from Willamette?”

“No, I have a year to go, but after Dad died my…doctor suggested I sit this quarter out.”

“So, as far as you know, the tailing began when you came to Shanaway?” Then at her nod: “What about the time right after your father’s death? It was over a month before you moved down here.”

“No,” she answered, too quickly. “I’m sure I wasn’t being followed then.”

“You were at home in Salem?”

“I…yes, I was in Salem.”

He considered her constrained tone. There were restricted areas in every life, and however vital they might be to an investigation, they were still jealously guarded.

“There’s one obvious explanation we should discuss.”

“What’s that?”

He reached out and caught her left hand. At first, she resisted, but only until he pushed her sleeve back.

“This,” he said. “There’s a matching scar on the other wrist, and the wounds are fairly recent. Probably acquired around January fifteenth.”

Her eyes closed, her hand trembling in his.

“Dore, are you ashamed of those scars?”

“No,” she said dully. “Not…ash
am
ed.”

“Then what?”

She pulled her hand free, shaking her head.

“It’s just that I don’t remember…doing it. I’ve
lost
a week. The week after Dad died.”

Amnesia. Not such an unusual response to grief, yet he found it in some indefinable sense more disturbing than the scars.

“My point is, if you made one attempt on your life, someone might be concerned that you’d try again, and that might explain why you’re being watched.”

Her head fell back and she laughed.

“Oh, I thought about that. Conan, you said yourself those men are hired professionals, and they’re costing someone a lot of money. So, who cares that much if I cut my wrists again? Catharine? Not on your life. And who outside the—the
family
would be remotely interested?”

He made no reply, silenced by that potent antipathy.

Then she sighed. “Sounds like the old Cinderella bit, doesn’t it, mean stepmother and all.”

“Or a distaff Hamlet,
sans
ghost. Or murder.”

She shivered, then covered it with an uneasy shrug. “Anyway, you can forget that theory. For one thing, Jenny’s here to make sure I don’t take a razor to my wrists again; she’s cheaper than hired detectives.”

“Jenny? Your stepsister? Tell me about her.”

She hesitated, the bitterness more equivocal.

“Jennifer Hanson. It was decided I couldn’t stay here alone, so Jenny was elected to keep me company.”

“Hanson? Her married name?”

“No, Catharine’s name before she married Dad. But the name should be familiar to you. She paints.”

“Oh, of course.” He laughed with the pleasant shock of finding the familiar in an unfamiliar context. “The Knight.”

“I saw the painting in the library. It was a surprise, to say the least.”

“It’s always a surprise; that’s why I like it. But I haven’t heard anything about Jennifer Hanson for years. Where’s she exhibiting now?”

“Well, she isn’t showing many paintings lately. She was quite ill for a while, and after that…”

He waited for her to go on, but she seemed at a loss for an explanation and uncomfortable with the subject.

“I’m sorry if her painting suffered because of her illness. Has Jenny said anything to suggest
she’s
being followed?”

“No.”

“Would she tell you?”

“I think so. She worries about burglars and that sort of thing. Too much city life, I guess. She’s very careful about locking the doors at night, and even keeps a gun by her bed, although I doubt she knows how to use it.”

Conan rose and went to the window. The beach was still crowded, and that was to Isadora’s advantage; crowds served to conceal both presence and absence.

“Did your father confide in you about his private political affairs? Is it possible you know something incriminating or damaging to someone?”

“No. He used to pass on some of the political gossip, but nothing that wasn’t more or less common knowledge. He was very careful about that.”

“You’re sure the tailing began only after you came to Shanaway?”

“Yes, I told you that.” The strain was showing, more in her voice than her face.

“I know, but the time when the surveillance began is crucial. It was triggered by
something,
Dore; some event of importance to someone, and it was probably important to you, too, since you’re the object of it.” So far, he knew of only one event in her life that might fill that bill.

He turned to the window again. “Your father was quite wealthy, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he was. That’s one reason he was such an honest politician. He could afford to be.”

“That doesn’t always guarantee honesty in politics. What were the terms of his will?”

This called up a questioning frown, then a shrug.

“Well, I don’t know exactly.”

“You weren’t at the reading?”

“No.” A flat, wary response.

“That occurred during the week you lost?”

“Yes.”

“But weren’t you informed of the terms later? I’m not interested in details; just the general outlines.”

“I couldn’t give you the details anyway. The estate is out of my hands. I’m not eligible for my inheritance until I’m twenty-five. Dad didn’t believe maturity comes automatically at twenty-one.”

Conan returned to his chair, smiling faintly.

“So, he thought an extra four years would insure the onset of maturity? What
can
you tell me about the will?”

She pushed her hair back over her shoulder nervously.

“Why do you want to know about that?”

“I want to know about many things, most of which will have no bearing on your problem, but I have no way of sorting it out yet. What was the total estate, by the way?”

“Oh…six or seven million dollars.”

“I admire your cavalier attitude.” He couldn’t repress a laugh, but she didn’t respond to it.

“I suppose you’re wondering what my share of it is?”

“Among other things, yes.”

“It isn’t an exact amount; the left-overs, so to speak. Somewhere between three and four million.” She turned to the window, eyes clouding. “Words. That’s all it is.”

Words that could be dangerous. “To you, perhaps, but three or four million might mean more to someone else.”

She frowned at that, but after a moment looked out to the horizon again.

“I’m not being honest. The money
is
important to me since I’m in such an expensive business. I began studying piano when I was four, and played my first concert at fourteen, but I’ve still just begun, and there isn’t much chance I’ll ever actually make a living at it.” She laughed with a twist of irony. “No one goes into this business for the money, but the trouble is, once you’re in it, you can’t get out. Not—not alive. Not with your mind and soul intact. It’s a trap, but that’s the price, and I can never really explain the compensations; a kind of…power. Insights and highs no drug could ever touch. That’s why I’ve never been interested in
drugs. I don’t need them. I don’t need anything except my hands, my mind, and a piano.”

Conan found himself staring at her hands. Beautiful by any standard; long-boned, slender, nicely articulated. The brute strength that would be a product of the years of hard training wasn’t evident, but there was a power residing in them, even in repose, even away from the keyboard.

Her soft laugh recalled his attention.

“I’m sorry, I’ve gotten us off the track. Where were we?”

He took a deep breath. “Money. Your father’s will. Were there any other major beneficiaries besides yourself?”

Her laughter had vanished. “No. Just the family.”

“You mean Catharine, Jenny, and you?”

“And Jim.”

“Jim?”

“Oh, you haven’t met the full cast of this so-called family yet. James Canfield. Catharine’s son.”

“Canfield? Your half-brother?”

“No, but Jim was only fifteen when Catharine and Dad were married. You can be sure she got him fully adopted.”

“But not Jenny?”

“She was already of age then. I think some sort of guardianship was set up.”

“How do you feel about Jim?”

She sent him an amused sidelong look.

“You’ll be happy to know there’s someone in the family I like. I kid him and say he’s just like a brother to me, and he really is.” She frowned slightly. “He has a reputation for being—well, quite a swinger, but you have to understand, his father deserted Catharine before Jim was born. It was hard going when he was a kid, then suddenly, at fifteen, he was wealthy
and
the Senator’s son. I guess he didn’t adjust too well.”