The Conan Flagg Mysteries: Bundle #3 Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  The Conan Flagg Mysteries: Bundle #3

  Dead Matter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Wake Up, Darlin’ Corey

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  King of the Mountain

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  The Conan Flagg Mysteries: Bundle #3

  By M. K. Wren

  Copyright 2015 by Martha K. Renfroe

  Cover Copyright 2015 by Untreed Reads Publishing

  Cover Design by Ginny Glass

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  Previously published in print:

  Dead Matter, 1993

  Wake Up, Darlin’ Corey, 1984

  King of the Mountain, 1994

  The words from “Darlin’ Corey,” collected, adapted and arranged by John A. Lomax TRO © Copyright 1941 and renewed 1969 Ludlow Music, Inc., New York, N.Y., are used by permission.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Also by M. K. Wren and Untreed Reads Publishing

  A Multitude of Sins

  Curiosity Didn’t Kill the Cat

  Nothing’s Certain but Death

  Oh, Bury Me Not

  Seasons of Death

  Dead Matter

  Wake Up, Darlin’ Corey

  King of the Mountain,

  The Conan Flagg Mysteries: Bundle #1

  The Conan Flagg Mysteries: Bundle #2

  The Conan Flagg Mysteries: Bundle #3

  www.untreedreads.com

  The Conan Flagg Mysteries: Bundle #3

  Dead Matter

  Wake Up, Darlin’ Corey

  King of the Mountain

  M. K. Wren

  Dead Matter

  Chapter 1

  Miss Beatrice Dobie pushed open the dormer window and inhaled deeply, convinced she could smell the spindrift in the morning air. That was unlikely, since her house—which she liked to call her cottage, as neatly kept in middle age as she was—stood on the flank of Hollis Heights three hundred feet above the surf.

  She looked south where, along a shallow curve of summer-pale beach, the houses of Holliday Beach formed a random rampart, casting triangular shadows across the sand, the apexes of shadow roofs pointing west toward the blue-green Pacific Ocean.

  It was going to be hot today. A relative term on the Oregon coast, of course. Here hot was anything over seventy degrees. And already, at eight in the morning, the beach was dotted with people. Saturday. August. Miss Dobie sighed. By January she’d be complaining about the dearth of customers at the bookshop, but now she took solace in the thought that Labor Day—and the end of the tourist season—was only ten days away.

  Miss Dobie abruptly turned from the window, pulled off her quilted robe, and tossed it on the water bed as she crossed to the closet. She didn’t have time now to think about Labor Day. Not on this day.

  She was ready except for her dress and shoes, and she knew exactly what she would wear: the silk shirtwaist that was the same color as her auburn hair with its purposeful curl and not a hint of gray. She wasn’t willing to attempt anything to alter the sagging jowls that made her face ever squarer, but in this day and age, she could certainly do something about gray hair.

  She frowned at the dress, so conservative, so staid, and wondered if Savanna Barany would come to the autographing, wondered what Savanna would wear. Something décolleté, no doubt; something bright and slightly exotic. Miss Dobie sighed again. There had been a time when she had worn décolleté, bright, slightly exotic clothes.

  Of course, Savanna might not come. There were rumors that she and her husband weren’t on the best of terms. But with people like Savanna Barany and Ravin Gould, there were always rumors.

  “Ravvvin,” Miss Dobie whispered. “Like the first two syllables of ravenous.” She’d heard him say that on more than one television talk show. Family name. Something like that.

  She sloped the dress over her head, careful not to disturb her hair. But what if Savanna did attend the autographing? Miss Dobie had alerted the Portland television stations. After all, that was the purpose of this shindig: publicity. The Holliday Beach Book Shop, which had been moldering for half a century in dowdy obscurity, was hosting Ravin Gould, one of America’s top ten best-selling authors. And just possibly, Savanna Barany, at one time billed as the sexiest woman in the world.

  Of course, there was a secondary purpose: money. Miss Dobie’s mouth tightened into a horizontal line as she thought of the three hundred copies of The Diamond Stud waiting at the bookshop. Three hundred copies of a book that retailed at $22.00 a copy. That wholesaled at $13.20. Plus freight. For the Holliday Beach Book Shop, that was a major investment,

  She stepped into a pair of white pumps, her best ones, checked her reflection in the mirror on the closet door to be su
re her slip wasn’t showing, then crossed to the dresser to pick up her good white purse.

  And a copy of The Diamond Stud.

  The jacket was of satiny black paper with a female figure outlined in hot-pressed gold. Where the navel might be, was a stylized diamond. The title was crowded at the bottom of the jacket in red letters. At the top, the author’s name glittered in solid gold: James Ravin Gould.

  She studied the photograph on the back. Definitely a handsome man, with a hint of—well, sexiness about him. She wondered if other people were as surprised as she had been to discover how short this handsome, sexy man was. He couldn’t be more than five six. And it was curious how much this photograph reminded her of Mr. Flagg. Conan Joseph Flagg and Ravin Gould were about the same age, and Miss Dobie was old enough to consider anything under forty-five young. Both men had black hair and dark skin, and a certain lean intensity in their faces. But Mr. Flagg was a head taller, and his eyes were black and slightly tilted—that was the Nez Percé coming to the fore—while Ravin Gould’s eyes were a pale, rather unpleasant gray-green.

  And what was behind those eyes…

  That was hard to decipher. She’d only talked to the man once, although he’d been in Holliday Beach over a month. But in a way, she did know him. She had read The Diamond Stud and found it rife with gratuitous sex and violence. That didn’t surprise her. Gould had made his reputation on sensationalism. But there was an undercurrent of something she couldn’t quite pin down, something that made it a relief that she didn’t know him better and wasn’t likely to. Something that made any comparison between Ravin Gould and Conan Flagg a travesty.

  Her breath caught, and she closed her eyes.

  Thank God Mr. Flagg was in Cornwall and wasn’t due back until the day after Labor Day.

  He was her employer, after all, and she was well aware that he considered Ravin Gould books literary garbage. He might recognize the right of any individual to read anything he or she chose, but he also maintained his right not to provide shelf space for a Ravin Gould book.

  Miss Dobie put down a momentary queasiness. Mr. Flagg had left the bookshop in her hands—as he did nearly every summer, when hordes of tourists mushroomed Holliday Beach’s population from two thousand to twenty thousand—and even if he considered the shop a hobby of sorts or an obligation to the maintenance of civilization, she staunchly considered it a business, and always hoped to make it a profitable business. She couldn’t overlook an opportunity like this. Ravin Gould was, after all, one of Holliday Beach’s few claims to fame: Gould had been born and spent the first twelve years of his life here.

  She squared her shoulders and checked her watch. Eight-thirty. She wouldn’t open the bookshop until ten, but first she had to pick up the sign Gwen Loftstern had made, the coffee urn at the Grange, the cookies at the bakery; she had to decorate the refreshment table and call Tina Burbank to make sure she didn’t oversleep; she had to feed Meg and hope the cat would stay out from under people’s feet today.

  Beatrice Dobie forgot to lock her front door as she marched out to the red Porsche in her driveway. It was going to be a fantastic day. But still…

  She said another silent prayer of thanks.

  Mr. Flagg wouldn’t be home for ten days.

  Chapter 2

  At least he had a window seat out of Denver. Conan Flagg looked down from thirty thousand feet on titanic folds of rock etched in snow golden in the dawn. His eyes ached with sleeplessness, and his decision to come home ten days early had long ago begun to seem irrational. At the moment, he wasn’t even sure what day it was.

  Yesterday—or the day before yesterday?—after weeks of leisurely exploration of England’s west coast from Solway Firth to Land’s End, he had walked along a beach in Cornwall and felt a restlessness he didn’t understand until he stood looking out at the blue-gray roil of the Atlantic Ocean and found himself desolate with homesickness for his own ocean. It was all one sea, he knew, whatever the names given its various parts by the human beings who lived on its shores. Still, he longed for the ocean named Pacific on a clear day, and he longed particularly for the few square miles of the Pacific he could see from his house, the few square miles he called his own.

  At that point, his impatience had made sense, but in the grinding hours since he left Heathrow, he began to doubt his sanity. His impatience not only cost him lost sleep—he’d never learned to sleep upright or in the presence of strangers—it condemned him to a night flight from New York and a three-hour layover in the noisy caverns of Denver’s airport.

  But the sun had time to catch up with him there, and when at last he resumed his homeward journey, northwest across the Rockies and the enigmatic reaches of the Basin and Range country beyond, when at last his plane crossed the cloud-veiled Cascade Mountains and he saw Mount Hood, magnificent in summer snow, looming beyond the wing tip as the plane descended toward the green tapestry of the Willamette Valley, he began to believe it was all worthwhile.

  But Portland International Airport was still three hours from the coast, counting the time it took to get out of the airport and maneuver the clogged freeways of Oregon’s largest city. Finally he left the last suburb behind and drove west, too tired to leash the black Jaguar XK-E to the speed limit. With the top down so the hot, humid wind beat at his skin, he faced the bastion of the Coast Range, gentled by forests of fir and spruce and hemlock, and he waited for the moment when at the crest of those hills he would feel the temperature drop, the air turn sweet under the influence of the Pacific Ocean, still thirty miles away, but reaching out to him in cool welcome.

  And now he was sure it was all worthwhile.

  At length, he reached the junction with Highway 101, the Coast Highway, drove south a few more miles, and just past the sign that read HOLLIDAY BEACH POP. 2001, he caught a glimpse of the razor-line horizon of the sea beyond the new shopping mall.

  The mall had the architectural originality of a potato shed, but the same could be said of most of the buildings in Holliday Beach. Here there was none of the charm of antiquity in which he had steeped himself for the last six weeks. This village was a product of the Depression, and its architectural traditions were necessity, availability of materials, and recalcitrant individualism, out of which any charm Holliday Beach possessed arose perversely and against all odds.

  Conan puttered behind a caravan of campers down Highway 101, Holliday Beach’s main street, anticipating what he would see when he reached what he considered its true center. On the west side of the highway, paralleling it and separated from it by a concrete curbing, he would see a block-long parking lane wide enough for cars to park on both sides, while two cars might barely pass in the middle. Facing the lane, he would see a row of shops, most of them sided in grayed cedar shingles, splashes of color provided by geranium-filled planter boxes.

  And dominating the block from its position between the mom-and-pop grocery and the Chowder House Restaurant, he would see the Holliday Beach Book Shop, a long, shambling, two-story building, topped by three mismatched dormers; a building that had acquired, by virtue of age and the weathering of countless sou’westers, its own stolid charm. There were occasions when Conan regarded the bookshop as his albatross, yet it never occurred to him to rid himself of it. It was also—he admitted on other occasions—his raison d’être.

  Still, the bookshop wasn’t his objective now. At the moment, his only objective was home and the beach. But since he had to pass the bookshop to reach his house, he decided he might as well stop to let Miss Dobie know he had returned.

  Yet the closer he came to the bookshop, the slower the traffic moved. Inching along in the fuming wake of a Winnebago, he had ample time to notice that the old Day store had a new occupant, SHE SELLS SEA SHELLS, the sign over the door proclaimed. No doubt shells raped from tropical beaches. A few more feet, and he sighed at the first hint of the approaching political season: placards planted among the weeds in front of the empty Higgins building. One of them briefly held his attention: EARL
KLEBER FOR COUNTY SHERIFF. Kleber was chief of the Holliday Beach Police Department, and Conan was surprised that he would take on the incumbent, Gifford Wills, who was well entrenched in Taft County’s political good-ol’-boys network. Conan hadn’t thought of Kleber as a tilter at windmills.

  The Winnebago spewed more smoke in Conan’s lace as it lurched forward another two yards, and he began swearing methodically. Yes, it was the height of the tourist season, but this was absurd. Finally he saw the Hollis Street sign just ahead and signaled for a right turn. When he reached Hollis, he had only to dogleg into the parking lane….

  And he found himself snared in a one-block gridlock.

  In five frustrating minutes, he made it only as far as the grocery store, and there he was forced to stop altogether, unable to move in any direction. The sidewalk was mobbed with pedestrians—tourists, most of them, although he recognized a few natives—all converging on the bookshop. Double-parked outside the main entrance near the south end of the shop was a van marked with red, white, and blue stripes and the words KEEN-TV CHANNEL 3—THE EYES OF PORTLAND. One man was unloading equipment, while a second stood on the sidewalk talking with a stringently petite woman in a white dress whose dark hair seemed immune to the wind.

  Shelly Gage. Few people in western Oregon wouldn’t recognize her; they saw her daily on the evening newscasts and on her morning show. But Conan had met her more than once in person, and her persistence in demanding an interview with him had not endeared her to him.

  But why was she here now?

  He looked around at the cars and campers entrapping the XK-E and saw that none of them was likely to move in the near future. He pulled the emergency brake and left the car to join the crowd surging around the bookshop’s north entrance.

  “Mr. Flagg! You made it after all.”

  He smiled and sidled past portly Mrs. Iona Higgins, wondering what it was he had made.

  “Conan! How was England?” That from a tall black woman. Kara Arno taught physical education at Holliday Beach High School and served as living proof of the efficacy of fitness.

  “England was fine, Kara,” he said absently. “How’s Dan?”

  She laughed. “Up in the air. As usual.”