A Multitude of Sins Read Free Page A

blocks west to its terminus in a paved beach access. The house lodged into the wooded hill south of the access was always a joy to his eye; an angular structure with great spans of glass set in slabs of satin-shingled walls.
    But Conan walked past his own front door, ignoring it. The cars parked in and around the access included the usual assortment of stationwagons, VWs, and campers. A silver Stingray was the only sports car, and only one car was occupied, a red Ford.
    It had the anonymous look of a rental. The driver had a similarly anonymous look; average build, indeterminate age, coloring a mean drab tan. His air of indifferent patience alerted Conan for the same reason it made him invisible to the unpracticed eye.
    The sand made squeaking sounds under his rubber-soled shoes. He stayed close to the bank, absently frowning at the number of people on the beach; a preview of summer. But there was no one lurking suspiciously near the foot of the path. He looked at his watch: 4:15. Jane Doe would be waiting on the patio. Supposedly.
    But when he reached the patio, it was empty. That didn’t especially surprise him, but finding the patio door closed did. If Mrs. Early had taken it upon herself to…
    But the door was unlocked. His faith in his housekeeper was restored. Not, however, his faith in Jane Doe.
    Music. His first angry assumption was that someone had the temerity to touch the stereo console without his permission. But when he heard the Emperor Concerto shift with a nice improvised chord transition into El Amor Brujo, he realized he was dealing with a more heinous crime. Someone had presumed not only to touch but to play the Bösendorfer.
    His anger lasted until he reached the step down into the living room, and there died an unresolved death. He had no right to anger. This young woman belonged to that piano, possessed it as he never would; he only owned it.
    He was stunned, like a skeptic in the presence of a miracle. She played with the passion generally ascribed to youth, yet with the restrained precision of a Rubinstein. It was chilling to hear her; an atavistic response to extra-human powers, witch or wizard, magician or saint.
    When at length she became aware of him and the music ceased, he felt in some sense cheated, and at first he didn’t realize how badly he’d startled her. Then he relaxed into a smile.
    “If you’ve come to steal the piano, take it with my blessings.”
    Her eyes widened in embarrassed surprise, and he thought to himself they were exactly the same shade of sapphire blue as Meg’s.
    “Mr. Flagg, I—this is really unforgivable of me.”
    “Don’t apologize. This piano hasn’t enjoyed musicianship of that caliber since it’s been in my possession.”
    She rose, smiling uncertainly as she started to close the cover, then seemed to remember it had been open; still a little off balance, but recovering remarkably fast. He leaned on the piano with one elbow, automatically making surface observations, noting that the gold-mounted ring was jade and possibly Imperial; the casual, off-white slacks and tunic with the matching sweater had probably set someone back several hundred dollars.
    “I’m not sure I’d be so gracious if this were my piano.” She touched the keyboard reverently, smiling to herself. Her nails were unfashionably short but perfectly manicured, and Conan doubted her long, sable-colored hair ever went a week without professional care.
    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