Read Online A Multitude of Sins by M. K. Wren - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: M. K. Wren
Tags: Mystery
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evening, and so will you. Mr. Munson will take over at eight in the morning. I’ll be with her and keep track of the tails part of the time, if the hours get too long.”
Munson laughed. “Mr. Flagg, I wouldn’t know what to do with an eight-hour day.”
“Contending with one probably won’t be among your problems here. What kind of car are you driving?”
“Pontiac Firebird, sort of tan color, RDG410.”
“Carl?”
“White T-Bird, JST937.”
Conan made a note of the numbers. “I’m taking Dore to dinner at the Surf House this evening; I’ll pick her up at six. Mr. Munson, you keep an eye on the cottage afterwards until I send Carl out.”
Berg turned to Munson. “I’d better go out with you before it gets dark to get the lay of the land. I’ll check into the Surf House, then when you find a bed, call me.”
“Okay.” Munson rose, glancing at his watch. “Well, I guess the day shift starts now. Will you be here at the shop this afternoon, Mr. Flagg?”
“I’ll be at home, by the special line and the radio.”
“I’ll let you know where I’m staying and check out the communications system.”
“Good, and thanks for coming up.”
As the bells on the shop door marked Munson’s exit, Conan accompanied Berg to the office door.
“Carl, stay in my line of sight this evening. When the night man shows, I’ll give you a signal and we can meet outside.”
“Okay.” Then with a crooked smile, “I hope this one doesn’t get as hectic as my last go-round up here.”
“It may be dull as hell, Carl.” He didn’t add that he doubted that very seriously.
Miss Dobie, watching Berg’s departure from behind the counter, unleashed a pregnant sigh.
“Well…it looks to me,” she intoned, “as if the battle has been joined. ”
CHAPTER 8
On the northern boundary of Holliday Beach, Highway 101 turned a few degrees inland, making a Y with a spur road which angled seaward to connect the world with Shanaway.
Shanaway had little interest in being connected with the world. Most of the houses scattered on the green slopes and clustered along the beach were vacation homes. Their owners cherished Shanaway as a personal refuge and preferred to regard it as a place rather than a community. But the world refused to be excluded. At the highway junction a new shopping center glittered in the slanting sun, its regulation issue supermarket inspecting the troops of cars aligned on the field of asphalt. The open meadows to the north were subverted to a more attractive encroachment. A golf course spread its links under the evening sky, swaths of incredibly green lawn studded with red and yellow golfers.
The XK-E purred sedately along the road. This black, cat-sleek, mechanized sculpture Conan recognized as an extravagance, yet it was a sensual pleasure he had no intention of foregoing. The road curved into Shanaway, following the beach behind a battlement of close-ranked houses. He shifted into first gear when he turned up a rain-gutted dirt road toward a forested ridge, then swung left onto the even narrower lane that ran along its crest. The Canfield cottage—one of the oldest in Shanaway, steep-pitched roof silvered with weathered shingles—occupied the corner lot. It had grown from the central square living-room area into a U-shape with the addition of two side wings. The open end of the U faced east, toward the crest road.
When he got out of the car, he studied the wooded slope across the road; Munson was there, but invisible even to Conan’s close scrutiny in the tangled growth.
It was Isadora who responded to his knock, smiling as she opened the door for him. She looked older than her years, wearing a long-sleeved gown of black silk, her hair drawn back into a shining chignon at the crown of her head. Against the severe black, her skin seemed translucent.
“As usual, you’re lovely, Dore.” Then he smiled at the color that warmed her cheeks; it was so unexpected.
“Thank you, but isn’t that
Munson laughed. “Mr. Flagg, I wouldn’t know what to do with an eight-hour day.”
“Contending with one probably won’t be among your problems here. What kind of car are you driving?”
“Pontiac Firebird, sort of tan color, RDG410.”
“Carl?”
“White T-Bird, JST937.”
Conan made a note of the numbers. “I’m taking Dore to dinner at the Surf House this evening; I’ll pick her up at six. Mr. Munson, you keep an eye on the cottage afterwards until I send Carl out.”
Berg turned to Munson. “I’d better go out with you before it gets dark to get the lay of the land. I’ll check into the Surf House, then when you find a bed, call me.”
“Okay.” Munson rose, glancing at his watch. “Well, I guess the day shift starts now. Will you be here at the shop this afternoon, Mr. Flagg?”
“I’ll be at home, by the special line and the radio.”
“I’ll let you know where I’m staying and check out the communications system.”
“Good, and thanks for coming up.”
As the bells on the shop door marked Munson’s exit, Conan accompanied Berg to the office door.
“Carl, stay in my line of sight this evening. When the night man shows, I’ll give you a signal and we can meet outside.”
“Okay.” Then with a crooked smile, “I hope this one doesn’t get as hectic as my last go-round up here.”
“It may be dull as hell, Carl.” He didn’t add that he doubted that very seriously.
Miss Dobie, watching Berg’s departure from behind the counter, unleashed a pregnant sigh.
“Well…it looks to me,” she intoned, “as if the battle has been joined. ”
CHAPTER 8
On the northern boundary of Holliday Beach, Highway 101 turned a few degrees inland, making a Y with a spur road which angled seaward to connect the world with Shanaway.
Shanaway had little interest in being connected with the world. Most of the houses scattered on the green slopes and clustered along the beach were vacation homes. Their owners cherished Shanaway as a personal refuge and preferred to regard it as a place rather than a community. But the world refused to be excluded. At the highway junction a new shopping center glittered in the slanting sun, its regulation issue supermarket inspecting the troops of cars aligned on the field of asphalt. The open meadows to the north were subverted to a more attractive encroachment. A golf course spread its links under the evening sky, swaths of incredibly green lawn studded with red and yellow golfers.
The XK-E purred sedately along the road. This black, cat-sleek, mechanized sculpture Conan recognized as an extravagance, yet it was a sensual pleasure he had no intention of foregoing. The road curved into Shanaway, following the beach behind a battlement of close-ranked houses. He shifted into first gear when he turned up a rain-gutted dirt road toward a forested ridge, then swung left onto the even narrower lane that ran along its crest. The Canfield cottage—one of the oldest in Shanaway, steep-pitched roof silvered with weathered shingles—occupied the corner lot. It had grown from the central square living-room area into a U-shape with the addition of two side wings. The open end of the U faced east, toward the crest road.
When he got out of the car, he studied the wooded slope across the road; Munson was there, but invisible even to Conan’s close scrutiny in the tangled growth.
It was Isadora who responded to his knock, smiling as she opened the door for him. She looked older than her years, wearing a long-sleeved gown of black silk, her hair drawn back into a shining chignon at the crown of her head. Against the severe black, her skin seemed translucent.
“As usual, you’re lovely, Dore.” Then he smiled at the color that warmed her cheeks; it was so unexpected.
“Thank you, but isn’t that
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