A Multitude of Sins (3 page)

She looked up at him. “Do you know its history?”

“Oh, I was given a rather colorful account when I bought it—from a Hungarian gypsy in Paris who claimed to be a descendant of the last Czar Nicholas.” He also noted—again automatically, perhaps—that she had the kind of tall, lithesome figure that evoked envious glances from women and long stares from men; a fine-boned oval face with fair, perfect skin, and with the reserved smile, her mouth had a particularly sculptural quality. Bernini. No, the hands were Bernini, but the mouth was Houdon.

He sighed. His objectivity was going to hell.

“But it’s a long and probably apocryphal story. May I offer you a cup of coffee—or something else, perhaps?”

“Why, yes, thank you. Coffee would be fine.”

“Sugar and cream?”

“Please, if it isn’t too much bother.”

He retired to the kitchen and after a brief search in the cupboards, took out a tray and a pair of porcelain cups and saucers. Somehow, mugs didn’t seem appropriate. While he prepared the tray, he took advantage of the pass-through and her momentary interest in the Netsuke case to study his enigmatic guest, a nagging memory refusing to come into focus. He’d seen her before. Not at the bookshop, although he was sure she’d been a frequent customer lately. Sometime before that.

He was still frowning in pursuit of the memory while he poured the coffee, but when he carried the tray into the living room, he offered a reassuring smile. He put the tray on the table between the Eames Barcelona chairs facing the windows, and when they were seated, made a diversion for himself in lighting a cigarette while she stirred sugar and cream into her coffee. He looked around finally to find her studying him over the rim of her cup, to all appearances perfectly at ease; she seemed privately amused at something.

“You know what they say in the village, Mr. Flagg?”

“In this village, a great deal is said.”

“They say your mother was Chief Joseph’s daughter.”

For a moment, he was stopped by the sheer incongruity of that; then he laughed aloud.

“Is
that
what they say? Well, there’s a flaw in the chronology of several generations. Chief Joseph met his Waterloo long before my mother was born. But she was Nez Percé; she gave me my middle name in honor of the old chief.”

“What was she like?”

“Thoroughly ‘civilized.’ But I don’t remember her too well; she died in one of Pendleton’s bad winters, of pneumonia, when I was thirteen.” When she looked vaguely startled at that, Conan asked, “Didn’t they tell you about that in the village?”

“No, I mean, it just occurred to me that I was thirteen when
my
mother died.”

“That isn’t a pleasant thing to have in common.” He paused, watching her. “You know, it’s disconcerting thinking of you as ‘Jane Doe.’ It doesn’t fit you somehow.”

She put her cup down, centering it precisely in the saucer, and with that seemed to shift mental gears, an underlying tension exposed in her restrained composure.

“Does Isadora Canfield fit better?”

“Yes. You have identification, of course?”

That apparently surprised her, but she reached into her purse, which she’d put on the floor by her chair, took out a billfold, and handed it to him without hesitation.

“My driver’s license and some other cards are in there.” As she reached across the table, her sleeve pulled back, and he caught a glimpse of a thin, reddish scar across the inside of her wrist.

The driver’s license told him, among other things, that she was twenty-one years old. There were membership cards for the Young Republicans Club, Sierra Club, Portland Symphony Association, and a student ID from Willamette University in Salem. The address on all the cards was Mission Drive in Salem, the Oregon state capital.

At this point, the “Canfield” began to register.

He turned over the last plastic folder and found a faded snapshot. Three people, obviously mother, father, and daughter, seated on a porch ornamented with elaborate Victorian gingerbread. The child was Isadora Canfield at about ten years old. The woman was smiling down at her, while the man, broad-shouldered and vigorous, but already graying at the temples, was looking directly into the camera.

“The late Senator John Canfield,” Conan said quietly. “You’re his daughter.”

She nodded once. “Yes.”

Finally, the nagging memory came into focus.

“Now I remember where I’ve seen you.”

“The Canfield name always rings bells.”

He ignored her sarcasm. “You did a concert with the Portland Symphony two years ago. The Tchaikovsky
Concerto #1,
wasn’t it?”

“Why, yes. Don’t tell me you were there?”

“Actually, I was coerced into going since I expected nothing better than a parlor pianist of the Senator’s daughter. You see, sometimes a name rings the wrong bells. But I was forced to eat crow, and gratefully.”

Her eyes were a warmer blue when she smiled.

“And I’m grateful you’d remember.”

Conan looked down at the snapshot again.

“This was your mother.”

“Yes.”

“She was a beautiful woman, and you favor her.”

“Thank you. Yes, she was beautiful. She was a dancer. I mean, she studied ballet until John Canfield swept her off her
en pointe.
That’s why I was named Isadora. Mother was a great admirer of Isadora Duncan.”

“It’s a beautiful name.”

“A little unwieldy. Most people just call me ‘Dore.’ Dad started that; he said ‘Dora’ sounded so old-maidish.” There was a wistful sadness in her eyes; something that made her seem achingly vulnerable.

“I’m sorry about your father.”

“So am I. It was so unexpected. But perhaps it was better for him; no long illness.”

“A heart attack, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“That was only a few months ago, as I remember.”

“January. January fifteenth.”

She spoke the words with dull, weighted portent; a date she would carry in her memory until she died. And Conan’s memory of John Canfield—the public image, at least—was revived. A vibrant, intelligent man, passionate in his convictions, articulate, and graced with a fine sense of humor.

He returned the billfold to her. “I’m sure this isn’t a subject you wish to pursue. Perhaps you should tell me about this ‘problem’ of yours.” He watched her as she picked up her cup before replying. She was much too pale.

“Well, it’s very simple, really.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

She smiled bitterly. “I mean, the basic…situation. You see, someone is following me. Closely and constantly. I’m never free; I can’t set foot out of the cottage without an escort. That’s why I was so insistent on a
private
meeting with you.”

He blew out a stream of smoke, allowing himself no change of expression.

“Do you know this ‘someone’?”

“There are two of them. No, I don’t know them, and I’ve been very careful to ignore them. I don’t want to alarm them into changing the status quo. Mr. Flagg, I have political connections and a good memory.” A slight, uneasy pause at that. “In some areas. Anyway,
I
found out you’re a private investigator without too much difficulty.
They
could, too, and if they knew I was seeing you, they might guess why, and—well, I was afraid it would make it that much harder to get at the truth. And that’s why I’m here. I want to know who they are, and most of all,
why
they’re watching me.”

He hesitated, then said drily, “Well, your curiosity is reasonable enough.”

“Reasonable?” She put her cup down, suddenly defensive, then seemed to catch herself, even calling up a brief smile. “Reasonable, but not a very interesting problem?”

“No. Surveillance is usually quite interesting; it’s so often a symptom of something more serious.”

“Whatever it’s a symptom of, I must know. It just doesn’t make sense; it’s so pointless. I
must
find out what it’s all about, or I’ll go—” She stopped abruptly.

After a short silence, he asked, “I assume you’ve considered going to the police about it?”

She shook her head. “No. I mean, I’ve considered it, but I couldn’t cope with the publicity if the reporters got hold of it. That’s one disadvantage of being the Senator’s daughter. You’re always good copy.”

“All right, but before we go on, I’ll be honest with you—I must be sure you actually are being followed.”

She looked at him sharply, again on the defensive.

“You think I’m imagining things?”

“That’s a possibility, but I wasn’t suggesting it. I’ve had some experience with tailing myself, and I’m good at recognizing it, but I’ve also fallen into a series of coincidental meetings and come to the conclusion I was being tailed when a little checking proved me wrong.”

“There’ve been too many ‘meetings’ to be coincidental.
Or
imaginary. That…did occur to me.”

His eyes narrowed. He had the feeling she’d considered that possibility seriously, and he wondered why.

“All right, then. Tell me more about it.”

Her breath came out in a long sigh of relief.

“Well, as far as I know, there are only two men. One I call the day man, the other the night man.”

“They seem to maintain regular shifts?”

“Yes. The day man must be staying out at Shanaway somewhere. I’m living there now; we have a cottage up on the ridge. Anyway, every time I drive into town that red Ford shows up before I reach the highway. From then on, he follows me everywhere I go.”

He tensed at the words “red Ford,” but didn’t comment on that, asking, “Does he leave his car to follow you?”

“Yes, I’m sure of that, but I’ve never had a really close look at him. He seems to prefer staying in his car as long as he can keep me in sight.”

Careless, Conan thought; but he’d seen the man in the red Ford, and that in itself was indicative. A good operative wouldn’t be seen without an intentional search. Certainly his mark shouldn’t be so aware of him.

“Can you describe the car?”

“Oh, yes. Dark red Ford; a new model, two-door sedan. Oregon license plate AMK510.”

That cool and competent observation definitely took her “problem” out of the realm of the imaginary.

“What can you tell me about the
night
man?”

“Well, I know
him
by sight, but I’m not sure of his car, although I thought I saw him getting into a light blue Ford one night.”

“How is it you know him by sight?”

“I see him where I work.” Then she explained with a crooked half smile: “I’m playing evenings at the Surf House bar, much to Catharine’s consternation.”

“Catharine?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. She’s Dad’s—I mean, my stepmother.”

“And she disapproves of your job?”

“Oh, my, yes! A
Canfield
performing in a bar? It’s a blot on the family escutcheon.” There was a nearly ferocious undercurrent in her sarcasm that surprised him.

“I gather you aren’t too fond of your stepmother.”

“Not very subtle, am I? No, I’m not fond of her, and the feeling is mutual, although we both kept it under wraps for Dad’s sake. But that’s only family in-fighting.” And obviously, she thought it of no interest to him. “The job at the Surf House is just cocktail piano, but I…I needed something to do.”

He nodded. “Tell me more about your night man.”

“He was the first one I noticed. He’d come to the bar every evening about eight when I began playing and nurse a few drinks along until closing time. He didn’t talk to anyone, or dance, or even drink enough to show it. I couldn’t believe my music glued him to that bar stool for six hours every night. Max—that’s the bartender, Max Heinz—didn’t know anything about him, and if anyone comes into the bar more than twice, Max can usually give you their life history. Anyway, I ran a few tests. Once, on my night off I drove to Westport for dinner, and another time I took in a movie at the local theater, and the night man showed up both times. I even went down to the Surf House on my night off once, and he wasn’t there, but he arrived within ten minutes.

“When did you first notice him—and the day man?”

“I started working at the Surf House on March first, and I noticed the night man three or four days later, then after another couple of days, I spotted the day man. I ran my tests during that first week, but when I was sure I wasn’t—I mean, I was sure they
were
following me, I stopped that. I didn’t want them to know I’d caught on to their little game.”

He smiled at that. “
Amazing
.”

“What?”

“Most people would panic in a situation like that.”

“I don’t—well, I don’t
usually
panic easily.”

There was something hidden in her eyes. He remembered the glimpse he’d had of the scar on her wrist.