A Multitude of Sins (7 page)

She mustered a nervous smile. “This is worse than a press conference, Conan, why the research? I can tell you anything you want to know.”

“Can you? Then tell me why your bald friend is straining his ears right now.”

“But I don’t see what connection—”

“With your past, or your friends and family? Dore, motives come out of personal history and interactions, not out of the blue.”

“Yes, I…suppose you’re right.”

He studied her, wondering what restricted area she was afraid that research would expose.

“You know, hiring a private detective is like going to a doctor or lawyer. I can’t help you if you won’t be honest with me.”

“Conan, I…” There was a taut silence between them, but finally she turned away, and he sighed, putting on a smile as the night man looked in their direction again.

“Isadora, don’t look so serious. You’ve just met a man who’s obviously attracted to you, and you should seem something less than miserable.”

She looked up, her smile no longer forced.

“If I seem miserable, it isn’t the company.”

“That’s reassuring. Now, there’s something I want to ask you about. The accident, the one your father and Catharine were involved in. I just found out about that, and my information is rather sketchy.”

She seemed puzzled. “You didn’t know about it? That’s refreshing; I’m so used to having everything in my life public property. You didn’t know Catharine is blind?” At his negative headshake, she paused. “You must think me awfully bitchy saying what I did about a poor, blind woman.”

“I don’t know her, so I can’t judge your bitchiness. Tell me about the accident.”

A thoughtful frown etched a line between her brows.

“Well, it was two years after they were married; that would be five years ago now. They’d been in Portland for some political affair, and they were late coming back.”

“Your father was driving?”

“Yes. It was January, and there was ice on the highway. Dad said he just started skidding. I’m sure he wasn’t going too fast; he was always a very careful driver, but the car flipped over a guard rail and down into a ravine. When he came to, Catharine was still unconscious. He wrapped her in everything he could find to keep her warm, including his own coat, then he climbed up to the highway and waved down a car. And he did all that in spite of a broken arm.” She hesitated, then added wistfully, “Poor Dad.”

“Why poor Dad?”

“Oh, it’s just that he paid such a high price for that accident, and it wasn’t even his fault.”

“What kind of price?”

She regarded him with a sad, ironic smile.

“Little pitchers have big ears, Conan, and when it came to Dad and Catharine, I was willing enough to sink to a little eavesdropping. About a week before the accident, I heard them arguing in—in that room.”

“What room?” Her sudden uneasiness was close to fear.

“The…library.”

He let that pass, remembering that Steve Travers had said she discovered her father’s body in the library.

“What were they arguing about?”

“A divorce.” Her eyes narrowed, fear giving way to bitterness. “Dad wanted a divorce.”

“But Catharine wasn’t agreeable?”

“Of course not! Give up the money, the precious Canfield name, the role of Senator’s lady?”

“Keep your voice down, Dore.”

She took a deep breath and finally laughed.

“I guess I won’t win any Oscars tonight.”

“You’re doing fine. Was your father prepared to fight her on the divorce?”

“Yes, but that was before the accident. That’s what I mean by the price he paid. After that, he just couldn’t go through with it. He felt responsible for her blindness. And she
used
it, Conan; she played on his pity and guilt. That’s how she held him.” Then she shook her head slowly. “But it doesn’t matter. Not now.”

It didn’t matter because death had resolved the problem. Conan took a swallow of his drink, thinking that the investigation business fostered certain unpleasant mental attitudes. He was automatically suspicious of problems resolved by death—especially an unexpected and sudden death.

“Do you know why your father wanted a divorce?”

“Just incompatibility, I guess. He married her on the rebound from Mother’s death, really. He was so lonely, and the faithful secretary was there. Waiting.” Then she added: “I
don’t
think she gave him any other grounds.”

“Are you playing the devil’s advocate?”

“Maybe.” She gave a short laugh. “Or just honesty’s advocate. Conan, you said something about unfriendly moves in my direction. Do you think those men—”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to add that to your worries. If these two had any unfriendly intentions, they’ve taken their time about it, considering what an open target you are. Don’t look so alarmed. I’m trying to reassure you.”

“It’s beginning to sound like the Mafia.”

“I can almost guarantee it isn’t that. Of course, I can’t be sure of the intentions of the person—or persons—who hired these men. That’s why I want someone to keep an eye on you as well as them.”

She sighed despondently. “Oh, you know, I can’t even work up much fear for my life, really. It’s so
senseless
.”

“I doubt that. Dore, there’s something else I must ask you about, and I know it will be painful.”

“What…
what is it?”

“You found your father’s body, didn’t you? Do you remember anything about that?”

Her first response was a quick intake of breath, and even in the dim light, he could see the ashen color of her face. He resisted the urge to reach out for her hand, regretting the question now.

“No, I…don’t remember…anything.”

“All right, we’ll talk about it later.”

“Conan, for God’s sake, why do you keep coming back to Dad’s death? What can that possibly have to do with—”

“Please, keep your voice down. Your audience is quite attentive.”

She stiffened, visibly bringing herself under rein, after a few seconds giving him a warm smile in which the constraint would be evident only at close range.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No, I’m the one who should apologize, and we’ll defer that for now.” He leaned back and inhaled on his cigarette. “Did Jenny have any questions about this afternoon?”

“No. She never asks many questions, strangely enough.”

“Why strangely?”

“Oh, I guess I’m just being bitchy again, but I’m sure she reports to Catharine regularly.”

“About you?”

“Yes.”

“Why would she do that?”

“What do you mean?”

“You called her Catharine’s ‘faithful watchdog.’ Why would Jenny play that role?”

“You don’t believe she is playing it?”

“I simply want an assessment of her motives from someone who knows her. I’m not doubting you.”

She averted her eyes uncomfortably.

“Well, I don’t know why. I don’t know why she didn’t go back to art school after her illness. She was working on her Master’s at the Chicago Art Institute, but she just tossed it. Dad had the attic converted into a studio for her, but she doesn’t do much painting. She spends most of her time playing nurse to Catharine.”

“This illness of Jenny’s, when was that?”

“Soon after the accident; about a month, I don’t know much about it. I was in a private boarding school, so I wasn’t home except on weekends or holidays.”

“She didn’t go back to Chicago?”

“No, and she only had a quarter to go on her Master’s.”

Conan frowned as he crushed out his cigarette.

“She just quit, then, to play nurse to Catharine?”

“Apparently. I don’t know of any other reason, but then I don’t know Jenny very well. I was always at school, or she was at college. But I used to have a great respect for her paintings. They were…haunting; like the Knight. Catharine’s using her, too, just like she did Dad, but maybe this is the way Jenny wants it. She’s made a hermit of herself, really; no friends or outside interests. In fact, she seldom leaves the house.”

“What about Jim? Is he under Catharine’s influence?”

She laughed. “Jim isn’t subject to coercion by guilt or pity, and more power to him. He has his weaknesses, though, and she usually gets her way when it comes to a showdown, but at least he stands up to her occasionally. Maybe that’s why I get along better with him than Jenny.”

“Perhaps.” He looked at his watch. “Well, question and answer time is over.”

She glanced at her own watch and straightened.

“Yes, it is. I’d better get back to work.”

“I’ll be leaving soon, but I won’t be far away. I’ll check the restaurant and motel parking for that blue Ford.”

“I’m not really sure it was the night man I saw in that car, Conan.”

“I know. Anyway, I’ll wait in my car until he leaves; it might be informative. Now, we have a date for dinner tomorrow.”

She tilted her head to one side. “We do?”

“Yes, ma’am. This is going to be a whirlwind courtship, and I have more questions.”

“Oh. I’m beginning to see what you meant by a
plausible
affair.”

“Sorry, but there isn’t much romance in life these days. We’ll have dinner here, then I’ll stay for the evening. And be sure to mention me to Jenny—as a suitor. You might say something nice about me, but don’t go overboard.”

“I’ll see what I can dream up,” she said, laughing.

“We’ll have an early dinner so you can get to the piano on time. I’ll pick you up at six at the cottage. Will Jenny be there? I want to meet her.”

“I’m sure she will be. Well, I’d better get to the piano
now
.”
She paused. “Conan…thank you.”

He rose with her. “Take care, Dore. Tomorrow at six.”

CHAPTER 7

The call came at 7:35—A.M.

Conan struggled across a morass of sheets and blankets, knocking a book off the bedside table as he stretched for the phone.

“Hello.” But the only response was a dial tone, and the buzzing sounded again.

“Damn.”

The special line. He fumbled for the control panel at the back of the table, hit the wrong switch and had his attention called to a pounding headache by a burst of Beethoven from the stereo system. He silenced that as the buzzing shrilled again, and finally found the right switch.

“Hello.”

“Conan? This is Carl.”

“Yes, Carl.” The voice jarred him into mental focus: Carl Berg of the Duncan Investigation Service. He threw back the covers, unaware of the morning chill on his skin, and sat up on the edge of the bed. “Good Lord, I didn’t think you’d be arriving
this
early.”

“You said to get the first flight available. Sorry to wake you up so early.”

Conan managed a laugh at that irony-laden apology.

“I asked for it. I gather you’re in Portland?”

“Yes, at the airport with Sean Kelly and Harry Munson, all more or less alert and ready for your instructions.”

“Well, you and Munson will have to wait until you get to Holliday Beach to be instructed. I’ll meet you at the bookshop. Rent yourselves separate cars; something other than the usual economy models, but nothing too exotic.”

Berg laughed. “No Ferraris?”

“I expect you to tend to business. I’ll fill you in on that when you get here. Is Miss Kelly handy?”

“Sean’s about as handy as they come. Just a second, I’ll call her. Harry and I are on our way.”

“Thanks, Carl.”

He fumbled for his cigarettes and managed to get one lit before a new voice came on the line; one of those husky, child-siren voices; thoroughly intriguing.

“This is Sean Kelly.”

“I’m sorry we have to meet by phone, Miss Kelly. Did Charlie tell you anything about this case?”

“He gave me your client’s name and said she hired you because she’s under surveillance, and you were concerned because of a large inheritance due her as a result of her father’s recent death. And if you don’t mind, I really prefer ‘Sean.’ ‘Miss Kelly’ sounds so damned secretarial.”

He smiled to himself. “Then Sean it is—if you’ll reciprocate with “Conan.” Okay, your base of operations will be Salem. You’re in charge of research; anything on Isadora’s friends or associates, and particularly her family. I’m after general background now, but I have a few specific questions. You have a notebook?”

“With pen poised.”

“I thought so. First, anything you can find out about John Canfield’s death; second, the terms of his will; third, check out the family lawyer, C. Robert Carleton. Then I want to know where Isadora was during the period after her father’s death, January fifteenth, until February twenty-fifth when she and her stepsister moved to the beach.”

“Okay. Conan, about Canfield’s death—do you have any reason to think it wasn’t a simple heart attack?”

Conan frowned. He hadn’t answered that question to his own satisfaction yet.

“No, I don’t have any
reason
to think that.”

“But you want me to dig into it.”

“Yes, and you’ll have some help.” He gave her Steve Travers’s name and number. “Call him when you get to Salem; he’s expecting you. And ask him to check a license number for me: Oregon LAT529, light blue Ford sedan, new model. I gave him another one yesterday, and he should have a name by now. I want the identity of the drivers; the cars are probably rentals, so you may have to follow that up.”