A Multitude of Sins (19 page)

Catharine laughed. “Now, Jim, be a gentleman and don’t give Miss Reilly the wrong impression.”

He sighed and retired to one of the plush chairs.

“I wouldn’t think of it, Mother.”

“His bark is worse than his bite,” Catharine assured Sean. “But be careful. He has a penchant for redheads.”

Conan’s eyes shot to Catharine, watching her as Sean cautiously placed a fragile cup in her hands.

“You take yours black, don’t you, ma’am?”

“Yes. Mrs. Blackstone schooled you well in a short time. Oh—no pastries for me.”

As Sean filled another cup, Jim quipped, “Dore’s sugar and cream and everything nice.”

Isadora laughed. “Jim, that doesn’t even rhyme. Oh, thank you, Miss Reilly. Conan takes his black.” She glanced at him, her smile fading at his preoccupied expression. When everyone was served, Sean turned to Catharine.

“Will there be anything else, ma’am?”

“Yes, tell Mr. Carleton we’d like him to join us.”

As Sean left the room Jim watched her with a private half smile, then rose to avail himself of the cookies.

“Hey, Sis, we have a bash on at the Lambda Delt house tonight. You and Conan are invited.”

“Thanks, but I’ll have to get back to the beach soon. After all, I’m a working girl now.”

“And Heaven protects you—right, Conan?”

He turned at the click of the library doors, responding absently, “I wouldn’t presume to doubt such a basic tenet of faith.”

At first glance, he judged C. Robert Carleton to be in his fifties, but a closer look made him revise that estimate downward to the forties. His attire was almost formal; a dark suit with a vest and conservative tie. The collar of his starched white shirt looked a size too small and made his florid face seem bloated.

Jim hailed him nonchalantly. “Well, it’s C. Bob, himself. How are you, counselor?”

Carleton eased himself into a velour chair.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Jim.”

“Yes, that’s what Mother said. Coffee, Bob?”

“No, thank you. Hello, Isadora.” A pause as he smiled stiffly at Conan. “Well, I didn’t realize we had a guest.”

Her mouth tightened, then relaxed with a cool smile, and she leaned closer to Conan.

“Oh, Bob,” she said sweetly. “I forgot you haven’t met. Conan, this is C. Robert Carleton. Bob, Conan Flagg.”

They rose to acknowledge the introduction with handshakes, and as Carleton resumed his chair, he said unctuously, “Flagg. Are you related to Henry Flagg of the Ten-Mile?”

“He was my father.” Conan wondered what Carleton would do if he answered that rhetorical question with a denial.

“Well. A place like that must keep you busy.”

“Not at all. I leave the intricacies of business to people better qualified to deal with them.”

Jim laughed. “The only way to fly.”

Carleton sent him a venomous glance, then cleared his throat and smiled ingratiatingly at Isadora.

“You’re looking well, Isadora.”

“I
am
well. At least, I haven’t done any more carving on my wrists lately.”

“Isadora!” This shocked outburst from Catharine.

“Don’t worry about exposing the family scandal. Conan already knows about it.”

“It isn’t a question of scandal, dear. It was perfectly understandable…under the circumstances.”

“Was it?” she demanded, suddenly angry. “Spare me your
understanding,
Catharine. I can’t—”

“Dore, darling…
”
Conan pressed her shoulder gently. “Don’t rake yourself over the coals of the past.”

She stared tensely at Catharine, then finally, picking up his cue, relaxed and smiled at him.

“You’re right, Conan. Let the past bury itself.”

Carleton’s sigh of relief was audible. He cleared his throat again and looked at his watch.

“Catharine, I have an appointment in half an hour.”

“I’m afraid we’ve interrupted you.” Conan put down his cup and rose. “Dore, perhaps we should be going.”

She stood up, willing enough to take this cue, but Carleton protested hastily, “Oh, no. I meant I’d just have time to talk to Isadora about some—uh, estate business.”

She studied him coolly. “What business, Bob?”

“Well, I’m sure Mr. Flagg would find it quite boring.”

“In other words, you don’t want to discuss it in front of a witness?”

“Well, after all, it
is
family business.”

“Family! Don’t use that word with me.”

“At least, it’s
private
business,” Conan put in quietly, and again she subsided. Carleton heaved himself to his feet, glancing covertly at him.

“I’ll only take a few minutes, Isadora. Why don’t we just go into the library and—”

“No!”

This objection wasn’t for Carleton; she was rigid with fear. “No,” she repeated, “I won’t go in
that…
that room.”

It was Catharine who finally broke the long, taut silence that followed.

“Now, Bob, you should certainly understand her feelings about the library.”

Isadora started to retort to that, but the pressure of Conan’s hand on her arm silenced her. He gave Catharine a brief smile, then turned to Carleton.

“I’m sure you can discuss the matter here as well as in the library. Would that be more agreeable, Dore?”

She nodded bleakly. “Yes.”

“Then perhaps if Jim isn’t needed in this discussion, he could show me around the house.”

Catharine smiled with obvious relief.

“Yes, of course. Jim, would you mind?”

“Mind? I’m too
hung
over today for C. Bob’s legal jazz anyway. Come on, Conan, I’ll give you the fifty-cent tour.” As he passed Isadora, he gently tapped her chin with his fist. “Hey, Sis, don’t let that legal beagle get to
you.”

She laughed. “Don’t worry.”

* * *

Conan surveyed the library with no apparent interest; a warm room walled with bookshelves, dominated by the large desk facing the doors. There was a briefcase on it, but Carleton had left no loose papers exposed to casual view.

“This was the Senator’s lair,” Jim said. “You know, I think if he’d had a choice, this is where he’d have
wanted
to die.”

Conan sent him a quick, speculative glance.

“There are worse places to die. Look, Jim, I’m really not that interested in the tour. It was just the only excuse I could think of at the moment.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Come on, then. I need something for this hellacious headache.”

Conan followed him into the foyer, then through the door beyond the staircase into a wide, ivory-painted hall. They passed the dining room, then turned right into a large room whose walls were covered with blue watered silk.

“The
salon
,”
Jim announced as he crossed to the bar on the opposite wall. “Tranquilizer? Stick around here long enough and you’ll need it.”

Conan shrugged. “All right. Bourbon and water.”

“Good. I’m not against drinking alone, but I never trust a man with no vices.”

Conan laughed, his gaze wandering idly. The paintings were all originals, but there was nothing more contemporary than a Winslow Homer watercolor. The salon was obviously a room for entertainment. A few straight-backed chairs and Empire sofas lined the walls, but the only other furniture was a Steinway concert grand. He walked over to it.

“That’s the inspiration for Dore’s career,” Jim said, playing bartender with a cavalier flourish. “That piano came around the Horn in eighteen-ought-something. Or maybe it came across on the Oregon Trail in a covered wagon. I get confused with all these historical monuments.”

“I gather you’re not too impressed with history.”

He laughed at that. “Sure, I am. For instance, there’s about half a million bucks worth of
historical
paintings on these walls. That chandelier—” He gestured upward with a bourbon bottle. “Baccarat. It probably came around the Horn, too; it’s insured for ten thousand.”

Conan didn’t comment, waiting as Jim brought his drink. “Here you are; something for the nerves. Come on out on the veranda.”

The French doors opened onto a long porch overlooking the gardens. The air was sweet with narcissus and new-mown grass; a grove of patriarchal oaks cast a cooling shade.

“It’s beautiful, Jim.”

He took a deep breath. “It is, really. You can hardly hear the traffic back here.” He gestured toward a pair of wrought-iron chairs. “Here, make yourself comfortable.”

Conan seated himself and tasted his drink; it was loaded. For some time they talked about nothing more serious than the season, but eventually the subject shifted to Isadora, and Jim finally worked around to a casual probe.

“Well, now that you’ve met the happy group here, maybe you can understand Dore’s problems a little better.”

He hesitated purposely. “I doubt there’s anything here she can’t cope with.”

“Oh, she can cope.” He paused, watching Conan closely. “But when her dad died, that took more coping than she was up to, I guess.”

“She seems to be recovering very well.”

“Sure. She was brought up in the old stiff-upper-lip school. You can’t always tell how bad she’s been hurt.”

Conan concentrated on his drink, smiling a little at Jim’s oblique approach.

“I think you’re underestimating her.”

“Maybe. But you weren’t around when the old man died. It hit her damned hard, and she isn’t over it yet.”

“And you’re worried about her relationship with me?”

Jim laughed self-consciously. “Okay, I’ll lay my cards out. I don’t want to see her hurt. Any other time, I’d keep my nose out of her business, but right now I don’t think she can take any extra strain.”

“Well, Jim, if makes you feel any better, my intentions are entirely honorable.”

Jim studied him intently a moment, then smiled.

“You know, I believe you mean that.”

“Good, because I do mean it.”

“You sound sort of serious.”

“I am.” He hesitated, then, “I hope you’ll keep this to yourself, but it might reassure you to know that Isadora and I have discussed marriage.”

There was a long silence, but Jim’s only overt response was a slight narrowing of his eyes. Finally, he shrugged.

“Well, you aren’t marrying her for her money if you’re one of the Ten-Mile Flaggs, but isn’t this a little fast?”

Conan laughed. “You sound like the father of the bride, but I appreciate that. You’re very important to Dore; her only real family as far as she’s concerned.”

He shifted uncomfortably and tipped up his glass.

“She’s in bad shape if I’m all she’s got. The black sheep of the family. The
adopted
black sheep.” There was an edge of pain in those words, but a moment later he put on his careless smile again. “Well, I’ve had my brother of the bride say, so I’ll just shut up and wish you both luck from here out.” He peered at his empty glass. “Refill?”

“No, thanks. I’ve just started on this one.”

“Well, I’m having another. The day’s young yet.”

Conan waited until he heard the clink of ice from the salon, then took out a pen and scrawled a terse message on the inside of a match book. When Jim returned, it was safely secreted in his pants pocket.

“Dore tells me you’re majoring in Business Management.”

“Sure. There must be
something
around that needs managing. Of course, the Senator wanted me to study Law. That’s with a capital L. At least, it always was with
him.”

Conan nodded sympathetically. “Living up to the ambitions of a man like John Canfield would be difficult.”

“Oh, the old man meant well, and I wasn’t exactly what he had in mind for a son and heir, but I’m smart enough to know I’d never make it at Harvard. Hell, I’m lucky I don’t have to worry about the draft, or I’d be in boot camp.”

“Well, that isn’t as disastrous as it used to be. Uncle Sam’s rather generous these days.”

“With my luck, I’d end up in some damn hole getting shot at.” He eyed Conan over the rim of his glass. “Did you ever try any of Uncle’s generosity?”

“Yes, when I was younger and more idealistic.”

“What branch were you in?”

“G-2. Army Intelligence.”

“Intelligence? You mean the spy stuff?” He laughed appreciatively. “Man, a James Bond in our midst.”

“Unfortunately, it wasn’t that colorful.”

“Don’t disillusion me. Where were you stationed?”

“Berlin.”

“Spy heaven, huh? Say, I read a book a while back about Smersh.
The Executioners,
I think.”

“Yes, I’ve read it.”

“Did you ever run into Smersh agents?”

He smiled distantly. “I don’t know. They didn’t wear name tags. At any rate, I got to see Berlin from both sides of the Wall.” Then he glanced at his watch. “Any idea how long that legal discussion will last?”

Jim tipped up his glass. “God knows—and C. Bob.”

“Dore doesn’t seem to care much for him.”

“No. Never did.”

“What do you think of him?”

His eyes slid toward Conan. “Is this for publication, or do you want a straight answer?”

“Straight.”

“Hell,
I wouldn’t trust him to mail a post card for
me.”
Then he smiled slyly. “But he knows his business and all the angles, and don’t worry about Dore; she can handle
him.”