A Multitude of Sins (18 page)

“Not to Catharine?”

“She can’t be bothered with lining out temporary help. Alma’s supposed to show me the ropes. I’ll be living in Maud’s apartment in the servants’ quarters.”

“All right. Oh—I have a mission for you when you get settled. Check Dore’s medicine cabinet for an old prescription of Seconal.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“Not at the moment. What are your plans, Sean?”

“Mainly just to keep my eyes and ears open, and plant a few bugs in strategic places. Just general snooping.”

“Be careful. Please.”

“Conan, taking unnecessary risks is a sign of slipshod technique. Incidentally, I checked the police records on Canfield’s death again and got those alibis for you.”

“Alibis? You sound like you’re becoming a believer.”

“I should doubt my boss’s word? Anyway, Catharine was tucked in bed. Jim was at the Lambda Delt house; three brothers vouched for him. Bob Carleton was at home in bed. Alone, I assume. And Ben Meade was with your client.”

Conan smiled; he hadn’t asked her to check Ben’s alibi.

“Yes, but my client doesn’t know what happened after Ben supposedly left her.”

“Neither does anybody else. By the way, I’ll be answering the phone; that’s one of Maud’s duties. And I’ll be using an alias. Sean Reilly.”

“Not O’Reilly? Will you be a blonde?”

She laughed. “No, that wig gets tiresome full-time, and Maud will be off in Calamity Falls, or whatever.”

“Klamath Falls. Sean, you may be seeing me tomorrow.”

“You mean at the Canfield house?”

“Yes, I want to meet this so-called family. I haven’t talked to Dore yet, but I’m planning an unplanned jaunt to Salem. I want to be sure we aren’t expected.”

“Are you going to tell Miss Canfield about me?”

“Yes, but don’t worry, she won’t blow your cover for you.”

“Okay, I’ll be looking for you.”

CHAPTER 15

Beyond the ivy-drenched stone walls, the roofs of the Canfield mansion loomed in awesome pitches of black slate studded with gables and chimneys, every ridge spiked with wrought iron. Against the dark slopes soared a magnificent, gleaming white turret, an outburst of Victorian whimsey as elaborate and airily ephemeral as a wedding cake.

Conan had the top down on the XK-E, so mesmerized only Isadora’s warning gasp averted a collision with the gatepost as he turned off Mission Drive. They laughed together while the shaded drive led them to the porch and gracious train of steps he remembered from the snapshot in Isadora’s billfold.

Then abruptly his focus of attention shifted as he stopped the car—directly behind a black Lotus Elan.

“Bob Carleton,” Isadora said coldly.

Conan nodded, taking a glance at his watch: 12:25.

“Yes, we’re in luck.”

“Since when is running into Bob a piece of luck?”

“Since now. I want to meet him, too.”

As they climbed the steps to the front door, Isadora was tensely silent. She hadn’t welcomed this trip, and the brave front she’d put on for him was slipping a little now.

“By the way,” he said quietly,
“we’ve
been tailed since we left Holliday Beach. No, don’t use your key.” He pressed the door bell. “I want to be sure Sean knows we’re here.”

She only nodded, waiting silently until Sean, uniformed in black with a ruffled white cap perched winsomely atop her red hair, ushered them into the foyer. A grandfather clock ticked sedately, and the air smelled of wax and wood; a brown and ivory space with dark wainscoating and polished parquet floors. The double doors on each side were closed.

“May I take your wraps?” Sean asked. Isadora, who was wearing a light cardigan, shook her head absently, but Conan surrendered his jacket, recognizing a cue.

“Catharine and Carleton have been locked up in the library since I arrived,” Sean told him, keeping her voice low. “I haven’t seen either one of them yet.”

“What about Mrs. Blackstone?”

“She went out for groceries about half an hour ago.”

He frowned at the closed doors. “You’d better tell Catharine we’re here. We’ll wait in the parlor. Dore?”

“I’m coming.” She looked back when Sean knocked at the library doors, but turned away quickly before they opened.

The parlor was a sunlit room full of Victorian bric-a-brac and plush upholstery. A couch and a few armchairs were grouped along the borders of a fine Aubusson. He heard voices from the library, but chose to ignore them, watching Isadora as she went to the windows overlooking the drive, tension evident in her every movement. When he put his hand on her shoulder, she mustered a smile, but it disappeared at the sound of the library door closing.

He turned, hearing a faint tapping that ceased as Catharine Canfield stopped in the doorway. Sean waited behind her, but it was Catharine who commanded his full attention.

And no doubt she was accustomed to command; her proud, regal posture defied her small stature. She was impeccably groomed, her light brown hair graying, but perfectly coiffed, and the frames of the dark glasses masking her eyes matched exactly the pale blue of her dress.

She turned her head to her right.

“Miss…Reilly, is it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Tell Mrs. Blackstone to bring coffee.”

“Mrs. Blackstone went out for groceries, ma’am, but I can prepare a tray. She showed me where to find everything.”

“Very well, then. Thank you.”

As Sean hurried away, Catharine came into the room smiling, the white cane moving ahead of her in tapping arcs. “Isadora?”

Conan was waiting for that; the inflections given a name were so often revealing. He was assured that Isadora’s antagonism was reciprocated, but she would never be Catharine’s equal in subtlety or control; her tone was too obviously tight and edgy.

“Yes, Catharine. I’m by the windows.”

“What a delightful surprise.” Her cane touched one of the chairs facing the center of the room, and she rested a hand on the back of it. “Jim will be so happy to see you.”

Isadora seemed both to come alert and to relax.

“Is Jim coming today?”

Catharine touched her watch. “He
should
be here now, but you know how he is. You have a guest with you?”

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry. Catharine, this is Conan Flagg. Conan,
my
stepmother, Catharine Canfield.”

“Mrs. Canfield, I’m delighted to meet you.”

Her head turned, homing in on the sound of this voice. “It’s always a pleasure to meet Isadora’s friends. Please, make yourselves comfortable.” She tapped her way around the chair and seated herself, smiling attentively as Conan sat down beside Isadora on the couch.

“Well, Isadora, you must give me a description of Mr. Flagg—if he’ll forgive my curiosity.”

Isadora gave him a sidelong look. “Oh, I guess tall, dark, and handsome would do it. And a true native son.”

“A…native son?”

“Conan’s half Nez Percé, and not much of the Irish came through. At least, not on the
outside.
”

Catharine’s smile wavered. “Oh. How interesting.”

Her constrained tone was ironically, if not bitterly familiar to him, nor did Isadora miss the hint of condescension.

“Oh, Catharine, you
must
remember the Flaggs.”

“Well, I’m afraid—”

“Conan’s father was
Henry
Flagg. You know, the Ten-Mile Ranch near Pendleton?”

One eyebrow arched up over the rim of her glasses.

“Oh, yes, of course. Henry Flagg was always one of John’s staunchest supporters. It was such a tragedy he died so young.” She paused for a respectful moment, then, “Oh, Isadora, you really should phone Jen. She called an hour ago wondering if you were here. She was quite concerned.”

Her jaw set firmly. “Why should she be concerned?”

“Well, dear, she had no idea where you were.”

Conan averted the threatened confrontation.

“Go ahead, Dore. We should’ve let her know we’d be gone so long.”

She glanced at him, then rose. “All right. Excuse me, I’ll use the hall phone.”

When she was gone, he said, “I’m afraid this is my fault, Mrs. Canfield. We were just out for a short drive and decided on the spur of the moment to come to Salem for lunch.” Then he added, “Of course, the truth is, I’ve always been fascinated with this house, and I couldn’t resist the opportunity to see it from the inside.”

She laughed politely. “Well, perhaps Isadora will give you a tour. Are you vacationing at the coast now?”

“No, I live in Holliday Beach.” The small talk came easily; he steered the conversation to the bookshop, always a good subject for diversion, all the while listening to the distant murmur of Isadora’s voice. And listening in a different sense to Catharine’s. But her gracious restraint was as effective in hiding her feelings as the dark glasses.

Isadora returned in less than three minutes.

“Jen is duly reassured,” she informed Catharine.

“Really, dear, she’s only thinking of you.”

“Of course. What’s wrong with Bob?”

“He’ll join us later. He had some papers to finish.”

“More dazzling legal sleight of hand?”

She only smiled. “There have been a number of problems to work out with the estate.”

Before Isadora could respond, Conan put in, “I’m afraid we’ve come at a bad time for you, Mrs. Canfield.”

“Oh, not at all. We’re delighted to have you, and anyway, Bob wanted to talk to you, Isadora, so actually your arrival is very opportune.”

“I’m not sure I want to talk to
him
.”

Catharine’s pause was eloquent. “I doubt Mr. Flagg is interested in estate legalities, but there are some matters pending you should discuss with Bob.” Then she tilted her head to one side, listening. “Is that a car door?”

“It must be Jim!” Isadora hurried to the window, then a moment later turned, laughing, and ran out into the foyer.

Catharine smiled tolerantly. “Isadora’s so fond of Jim. You must forgive her precipitous exit.”

There was a burst of happy greetings and laughter outside, then Isadora came back, arm and arm with her stepbrother. “The prodigal returns,” she announced.

“With his ugly stepsister,” Jim retorted, and Conan laughed almost in spite of himself, and undoubtedly Jim Canfield was as accustomed to that as his mother was to command. A handsome young man with deep-set blue eyes, whose dark brown hair had obviously been cut by a “stylist” and not a mere barber, who dressed well and—again obviously—expensively. But there was in his laughter an appealing air of ingenuousness only veneered with cynicism. When Conan rose, Isadora went to him and took his arm. “Conan, this is my ugly stepbrother, Jim Canfield. Jim, meet Conan Flagg, a…friend of mine.”

Jim accepted his handshake with open curiosity. “Welcome to Castle Canfield, Conan.” Then he leaned down to kiss Catharine’s cheek. “Mother, you look marvelous.”

She laughed knowingly. “You’re late, Jim, and don’t try flattering me out of it.”

“Now, would I stoop to flattery?”

“Of course you would.”

“Well, I have more than flattery.” He took a slim box from his breast pocket and put it in her hand. “For your collection, and that orange pantsuit I bought you.”

“Oh, that pantsuit! From your description, I’m almost afraid to wear it.” Her hands were busy opening the box as she spoke. “It might be too much for Salem.”

“Salem could use a lift, and you look great in it.”

“I trust your judgment implicitly. At least, in fashion.” She had the box open and took out a pair of sunglasses with bright orange frames striped in white. “Ah, now the outfit will be complete. Are they orange?” Her fingers moved over the frames, assimilating their shape.

“Exactly the color of the suit, but there’s a fine white stripe. You’ll have to wear your white patent shoes.”

She laughed delightedly. “Well, that will call for an
occasion.
Thank you, dear.” Then she paused, turning toward Conan—or rather, where she’d last heard his voice, but he’d moved to sit on the arm of the couch beside Isadora.

“Mr. Flagg, perhaps I should explain.”

“Explain?” he asked, more to let her hear his voice than as a question, and her head turned in his direction.

“This business with the sunglasses must seem a tasteless joke, but actually it’s been my salvation. For a woman, part of the shock of being blind is the terrible blow to her vanity. Jim started me on this hobby, collecting sunglasses, and it’s become a personal trademark; a salve for my vanity that makes my blindness easier to accept.”

Conan smiled at Jim. “That shows rare understanding and imagination.”

He laughed. “Not really. I just didn’t want to be caught with a frumpy-looking mother.”

“Oh, Jim!” She smiled fondly then handed him the box. “Would you put this on the table by the hall door, please?” Jim was at the table when Sean appeared carrying a heavily laden silver tray. His initial surprise soon gave way to open admiration as his gaze strayed downward.

“Miss Reilly?” Catharine asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Where would you like the tray?”

“On the coffee table. Jim, is it cleared?”

He moved quickly to the table in front of the couch and pushed some magazines aside, then helped her with the tray. “I’m not complaining, but what happened to Maudie?”

Catharine answered, “Maud’s sister is ill again. Miss Reilly, this is my son Jim.”

She nodded deferentially. “Pleased, sir.”

“Sir, yet. What goes with Reilly?”

Sean’s chin came up, “‘Miss’…
sir
.”