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.”
“These are the men tailing Miss Canfield?”
“Yes. If you need to talk to me and I’m not at
“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.”
“These are the men tailing Miss Canfield?”
“Yes. If you need to talk to me and I’m not at
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