Read Online A Multitude of Sins by M. K. Wren - Free Book Online
Authors: M. K. Wren
Tags: Mystery
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home or at the bookshop, I have an answering service, or you can leave a message with Miss Dobie at the shop.”
“Who’s Miss Dobie?”
“Beatrice Dobie. She really runs the bookshop. I’m just a figurehead. But don’t tell her that.”
Sean laughed appreciatively. “Your secret’s safe. Anything else I should dig into?”
“Not now. That should keep you busy. And good luck.”
“Conan, with two Irishmen on this job, we have to be lucky.”
That’s optimism, he thought pessimistically as he hung up, but at this hour of the day optimism inevitably eluded him. He started for the bathroom, swearing as he stubbed his toe on the book he’d knocked from the table. He eyed the culprit— A History of Marion County, Oregon —and chose to ignore it. But when he returned after a cold shower and two aspirin, he picked it up and checked it for damage.
The History was partially responsible for his headache and the fact that he’d been awake until 3:00 A.M. It contained a wealth of information on the Canfield family, beginning with their arrival in the Willamette Valley in 1851, but it had proved a waste of time and lost sleep. Any hint of skeletons in the family closet had been censored out.
But there were skeletons in some closet, if he could only find the right door.
Beatrice Dobie was just turning the OPEN sign when Conan arrived at the shop. Meg was impeding her efforts, making affectionate loops around her legs.
“Good morning, Mr. Flagg.”
“Good morning, Miss Dobie.” He paused to lift Meg to his shoulder. “Hey, Duchess, you’re in a good mood today.”
She made a gravelly Siamese comment as he took a proprietory survey, smiling with possessive satisfaction at this fusty, nooked and crannied anachronism, redolent with the dusty but pleasant smell peculiar to old books.
While Miss Dobie busied herself with counting change into the cash register, Conan retired to his office, leaving the door open. When he deposited Meg unceremoniously in a chair, she purloined a scrap of paper from the desk for a solo hockey game designed to do as much damage as possible to the Kerman. He ignored her, knowing remonstrance only made the game more interesting.
The coffeepot was in the final throes of its Plutonic cycle. He filled two mugs, put one down at the front of the desk, and settled himself in the leather-covered chair behind it. The morning’s mail was arranged in two neat stacks as it always was: personal and business. He’d just begun sorting the personal stack when Miss Dobie came in, loosing one of her habitual sighs as she sat down.
“You know…this is the first day it’s really smelled like spring. The daffodils have been blooming for a month, but I haven’t any faith in them.”
“Miss Dobie, if you haven’t any faith in daffodils, what’s left?”
“Flowering quince,” she pronounced. “I saw the first blooms today. Thanks for pouring my coffee.”
“Mm? Oh. You’re welcome.” He frowned at a return address, the Ten-Mile Ranch Corporation in Pendleton. Engraved discreetly under it was Avery Flagg, Chairman of the Board. He noted the red-inked URGENT! and swept the letter into the top drawer along with the rest of the personal stack. The business stack he pushed across to Miss Dobie. “You can check these. The others will keep.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Well, let’s hope so.”
He took his billfold from his hip pocket and removed a Polaroid photograph, then tested the steaming coffee.
“Miss Dobie, I’m expecting some gentlemen shortly. One of them you’ll remember. Carl Berg.”
Both eyebrows came up this time.
“Oh. Then you’re on a…case.”
“Yes, so I’ll be in and out for a while, and I have some instructions for you.” She was so earnestly attentive, he had to repress a smile as he handed her the picture of Isadora. “You may have seen this young woman in the shop lately.”
“Oh, yes, that’s Isadora Canfield.”
He looked at her blankly. “How did
“Who’s Miss Dobie?”
“Beatrice Dobie. She really runs the bookshop. I’m just a figurehead. But don’t tell her that.”
Sean laughed appreciatively. “Your secret’s safe. Anything else I should dig into?”
“Not now. That should keep you busy. And good luck.”
“Conan, with two Irishmen on this job, we have to be lucky.”
That’s optimism, he thought pessimistically as he hung up, but at this hour of the day optimism inevitably eluded him. He started for the bathroom, swearing as he stubbed his toe on the book he’d knocked from the table. He eyed the culprit— A History of Marion County, Oregon —and chose to ignore it. But when he returned after a cold shower and two aspirin, he picked it up and checked it for damage.
The History was partially responsible for his headache and the fact that he’d been awake until 3:00 A.M. It contained a wealth of information on the Canfield family, beginning with their arrival in the Willamette Valley in 1851, but it had proved a waste of time and lost sleep. Any hint of skeletons in the family closet had been censored out.
But there were skeletons in some closet, if he could only find the right door.
Beatrice Dobie was just turning the OPEN sign when Conan arrived at the shop. Meg was impeding her efforts, making affectionate loops around her legs.
“Good morning, Mr. Flagg.”
“Good morning, Miss Dobie.” He paused to lift Meg to his shoulder. “Hey, Duchess, you’re in a good mood today.”
She made a gravelly Siamese comment as he took a proprietory survey, smiling with possessive satisfaction at this fusty, nooked and crannied anachronism, redolent with the dusty but pleasant smell peculiar to old books.
While Miss Dobie busied herself with counting change into the cash register, Conan retired to his office, leaving the door open. When he deposited Meg unceremoniously in a chair, she purloined a scrap of paper from the desk for a solo hockey game designed to do as much damage as possible to the Kerman. He ignored her, knowing remonstrance only made the game more interesting.
The coffeepot was in the final throes of its Plutonic cycle. He filled two mugs, put one down at the front of the desk, and settled himself in the leather-covered chair behind it. The morning’s mail was arranged in two neat stacks as it always was: personal and business. He’d just begun sorting the personal stack when Miss Dobie came in, loosing one of her habitual sighs as she sat down.
“You know…this is the first day it’s really smelled like spring. The daffodils have been blooming for a month, but I haven’t any faith in them.”
“Miss Dobie, if you haven’t any faith in daffodils, what’s left?”
“Flowering quince,” she pronounced. “I saw the first blooms today. Thanks for pouring my coffee.”
“Mm? Oh. You’re welcome.” He frowned at a return address, the Ten-Mile Ranch Corporation in Pendleton. Engraved discreetly under it was Avery Flagg, Chairman of the Board. He noted the red-inked URGENT! and swept the letter into the top drawer along with the rest of the personal stack. The business stack he pushed across to Miss Dobie. “You can check these. The others will keep.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Well, let’s hope so.”
He took his billfold from his hip pocket and removed a Polaroid photograph, then tested the steaming coffee.
“Miss Dobie, I’m expecting some gentlemen shortly. One of them you’ll remember. Carl Berg.”
Both eyebrows came up this time.
“Oh. Then you’re on a…case.”
“Yes, so I’ll be in and out for a while, and I have some instructions for you.” She was so earnestly attentive, he had to repress a smile as he handed her the picture of Isadora. “You may have seen this young woman in the shop lately.”
“Oh, yes, that’s Isadora Canfield.”
He looked at her blankly. “How did
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