The McHenry Inheritance (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 1)

by Michael Wallace

  “You go claim the table, George,” Bowen said. “You’re real good at that.” The words were spoken softly, but Bowen’s voice gave them an undertone of sarcasm that caused George to glare.

  “Come on, Danny,” he said.

  “You go along, George,” said young McHenry. “I’ll be along in a couple of minutes.”

  George looked at his three companions then went to the table, sat down by himself, and began inspecting an ash tray ostentatiously. Meanwhile, Bowen had noticed Gordon and leaned over to say something under his breath to the fourth man. He was in his early fifties, stood six feet tall, and was a fit 175 pounds. His slick, dark hair, graying a little at the sideburns, was combed straight back, accentuating his prominent forehead. With that forehead, a sharply defined nose, and a strong chin, his face looked chiseled, rather than sculpted. He looked at the world through keen eyes set in a squint that seemed like a perpetual glare. Gordon had no trouble recognizing him from TV images and newspaper photographs as Rex Radio.

  “You boys have a seat,” said Radio. “I have to do a little socializing.”

  He strode to the bar and stood next to Gordon, on the opposite side from the schoolteacher. “Excuse me for interrupting,” he said, “but if I’m not mistaken, you’re the young man who was up fishing by our camp on the West Buchanan this morning.” Gordon nodded. “And you,” turning to the teacher, “must be his lovely wife.”

  She began to giggle. Radio had a deep, resonant, honeyed voice, and his ability to use it as a finely tuned instrument had been well honed over the years. He had put her — and even Gordon, to some extent — at their ease immediately.

  “Could I buy you a drink?” he asked. “I’d consider it a pleasure.”

  Gordon didn’t really want to tarry at the bar, but there was no graceful way out of the situation. Radio called for Old Crow on the rocks. “Mark Twain used to drink it,” he said as an aside. “Anything that’s good enough for Mark Twain is good enough for me.”

  When the bartender brought the drinks, Radio reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a large roll of money that caused even Gordon, who was accustomed to carrying more cash than most, to do a double-take. He flattened out the roll on the bar, then carefully took a twenty from the top of it and held it up, as if for inspection.

  “Funny thing, money,” Radio said. “Nothing but paper run off a printing press in large volume. It isn’t worth squat in itself, but people willingly accept it in exchange for concrete merchandise. And do you know why?” He paused. “Because it has the full faith and credit of the U.S. Government behind it. Wonder how long that’ll last.”

  The teacher was openly staring at him, and Gordon was trying not to as he continued. “They print United States currency in twelve different cities, and every bill has a serial number on it that begins with a letter of the alphabet to tell you which city it was printed in. A is Philadelphia; B is New York, C is Boston, D is Richmond; E is Atlanta; F is Chicago; G is Minneapolis; H is St. Louis; I is Denver; J is Kansas City; K is Dallas; and L is San Francisco.” He looked from the bartender to Gordon to the teacher, all of whom were listening spellbound to his monologue. “I like to keep my money in alphabetical order and spend San Francisco first.” He handed the bill to the bartender. “Keep the change.”

  That amounted to a 100 percent tip, but when the bartender thanked him effusively, Radio cut him off.

  “Don’t have to thank me, son. Just spend it while it’s still good.” He turned to Gordon. “So how was the fishing this morning?”

  “I caught one,” Gordon said.

  “Rainbow?”

  “Brook trout.”

  “No fooling. I hope Hart Lee didn’t upset you. He does that to people sometimes without really meaning to.”

  “Oh no,” lied Gordon. “No problem.”

  “Good, good. Glad to hear it. Well, let’s have a toast to the sport of fishing before the animal rights people take it away from us.” He raised his bourbon and took a small sip from it. Then he set the glass on the bar and took a 6-ounce laboratory bottle from the pocket of the light jacket he was wearing and topped the drink off with water.

  “Old habit of mine,” he explained. “I like to drink the first swallow neat, then have the rest with water. Pure rain water. Even up here, there’s no telling what kind of fluoride and crap they put in their water. But I’m changing the subject. Mind if I ask you a question?”

  “You’re buying. Ask away.”

  “I like your attitude. See, I was hoping you could settle a little wager Hart Lee and I have. He thinks you’re with the FBI, but I disagree. You don’t look puckered-up enough to be with the FBI.”

  Gordon laughed. “I guess I’ll take that as a compliment. Anyway, you win. I’m just a poor stockbroker up here on a fishing trip. My name’s Quill Gordon.”

  “Quill Gordon. Like the trout fly?” Gordon nodded. “That’s why you looked familiar. You used to play basketball for Cal.”

  “A long time ago.”

  “I’m a great sports fan. What’s your favorite sport, Mr. Gordon?”

  “I’m still partial to basketball, I guess.”

  “I prefer football, myself. It’s more like life than any other sport. You beat your brains out and get bloodied driving the ball upfield, then somebody fumbles and it’s all for nothing. Yep. Just like life. By the way, I’m Rex Radio.”

  “I know,” said Gordon, reluctantly shaking hands with him. “I recognized you.”

  “My reputation has preceded me. Let me introduce you to my friends. Boys!” The three men got up from the table and came to the bar. “Gentlemen, we’re in the presence of a celebrity here, myself excluded. I’d like you to meet Quill Gordon, the best white man to play basketball for the University of California in the last 20 years.”

  Gordon’s mouth tensed at the remark. The teacher shifted uneasily on her bar stool.

  “I guess,” replied Gordon coolly, “that that’s a nice way of saying I wasn’t very good.”

  “Not at all,” said Dan McHenry, extending his hand. “I saw several games your senior year. I’m Dan McHenry and this is my friend George Horton.”

  “Delighted,” said George.

  “And we met this morning, though we weren’t properly introduced. I’m Hart Lee Bowen.”

  “By the way, Hart Lee, you lose,” Radio said. “Mr. Gordon here isn’t with the FBI or the CIA or anybody else. He’s a stockbroker in San Francisco.”

  “I guess you’re right, Rex. He doesn’t look puckered-up enough to be an FBI agent.” The other three men laughed.

  “I hope we can be on good terms now,” Radio said. “As long as our target practice doesn’t bother you.”

  “We take a lot of target practice,” George said eagerly. His comrades gave him stern looks and he fell silent.

  “Do you always practice trying to hit pictures of the Clintons?” Gordon asked.

  “Not at all,” said Radio. “Some days we do Martin Luther King or Cesar Chavez.

  Seeing Gordon’s reaction, he let loose with a loud laugh. “Don’t be so politically correct, son. Nobody buys a gun these days to shoot at tin cans. The government and the bleeding heart judges don’t protect us from criminals, so we have to do it ourselves. You shoot at life-size targets because you don’t want the first human figure you aim at to be the one coming through your bedroom window at three in the morning.”

  “My father is a judge,” Gordon said coolly.

  “And one of the good ones, I’m sure,” Radio said. “But too many of them think a weekend in jail is enough punishment for robbing a bank.”

  Before Gordon could answer, there was a beeping noise, and Radio pulled a cellular phone from his jacket.

  “Excuse me. I’ve been waiting for this call. Radio here. (Pause.) He did? Good. (Pause). Fifty-fifty, huh? And what did you tell him? (Pause, then laughter) Good for you. When you got your hands around his throat, it’s no time to relax. You’re a warrior, Manny. I like that. (Pause) I think
so. All right, then, see you Monday and have a good weekend.”

  He put the phone back in his jacket pocket and patted it. “Just a little legal matter I had to take care of. I don’t know how we ever got along without these things.”

  It occurred to Gordon that the call must have been from Manfred Bosso about the McHenry trial, and he wondered why the call had gone to Radio, rather than McHenry himself.

  “Did they make an offer?” Dan McHenry asked.

  “More like a speculative question,” Radio said, looking at Gordon. “I’ll tell you about it later.” He turned to Horton. “George, can you get to the store before it closes and fill up the ice chests?”

  “I did it last night.”

  “That’s right, and you did such a good job I’m asking you to do it again tonight.”

  “Why do I always have to be the gofer? You just think of me as your errand boy.”

  Radio put his hand on Horton’s shoulder. “George, you’re a valuable member of our team and you know that. But I expect you to do the little I ask of you and to do it without complaining.” He paused and Looked Horton straight in the eye. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped an octave and acquired an ominous rumble. “Get the ice, George.”

  “Well, all right.” He left the saloon with his head down. Gordon decided this would be a good time for him to leave as well, so he stood up.

  “Thanks for the drink,” he said. “It’s not every day a celebrity stands a round for a stranger.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said Radio. “I’m sure we’ll meet again. Oh, and let me give you a fishing tip. Some of our boys were out this afternoon and found lots of fish in Aspen Creek and Indian Creek, but where we are, the fishing’s no good at all. I’d leave it alone if I were you.” He smiled. “Just a little friendly advice.”

  Saturday September 11

  Not far south of Harperville a paved road leaves the state highway and goes west into the mountains. Two miles up that road is a 40-house subdivision, half summer homes and half permanent residents. Just past the subdivision, the pavement ends and a well maintained dirt road goes over a crest and into a small valley. When the road finishes its descent into the valley, a cattle guard and a barbed-wire fence seal off Twin Creek Ranch, otherwise known as the bulk of the McHenry estate.

  At the head of the valley, two small creeks tumbling down from alpine lakes join to form Aspen Creek, which undulates through a meadow a mile long and three quarters of a mile wide. At the foot of the meadow, the creek enters a forest of pines, aspens and cottonwoods and begins its descent to the East Buchanan River, several miles downstream. The ranch takes its name from the two creeks that become one, and cattle range throughout the meadow and occasionally beyond.

  The ranch buildings sit at the foot of the valley and at the edge of the forest, with the creek running behind them. The main house, which faces southwest, is a quarter of a century old, about two thousand square feet, and made of sturdy blond pine wood, with a blue corrugated metal roof of the style popular in the mountains. A covered front porch, ten feet wide, runs along the length of the front, and a massive granite chimney pokes up from the left side of the house. Fifty yards away on one side is a large barn. On this evening, the space between it and the house was filled with the parked cars and trucks of those who had come for the barbecue. On the other side of the main ranch house, backing on to the creek, a half-dozen small cabins serve as residences for the cowhands or as guest cottages, such as the one Gordon occupied.

  At a forty-five degree angle from the house and cabins, and across about 75 yards of open space, is another part of the forest. Here, beneath the shade of dozens of tall pines, is the spot the locals call McHenry Grove. About 15 weather-beaten tables, each capable of seating eight to ten people, are scattered in groupings of one, two, or three, roughly surrounding the barbecue pit, a circle of concrete five feet in diameter, with a retractable grill. Frank McHenry had built the pit and put in the tables 20 years ago to provide the setting for a fund-raising barbecue to build a youth center in Harperville, and that proved to be such a popular event that it continued to be held the last Saturday in June even after the center was built seven years ago. Other local groups were allowed to use the space to raise money for a good cause, or just to have a good time. As often as not Frank McHenry personally oversaw the activities, and could be found at the pit from sunup to well after sunset.

  The McHenrys themselves typically held two large parties each summer. One was on the Fourth of July and the other was the Roundup Barbecue, the second Saturday of September to celebrate the successful fattening of the cattle at their summer pastures. A few hundred close friends, as well as ranch employees, were invited to each. Invariably the party would start early in the afternoon, and well after midnight there would still be a group of men playing poker by the dying coals of the fireplace. Most of the time, in years gone by, Frank McHenry or Mike Baca would be sitting in front of the biggest pile of chips.

  The rains earlier in the week had left the ground just moistened enough not to be dusty. Friday had been a warm day, and Saturday afternoon at three o’clock it was 90 degrees but, owing to the dryness of the air, not too oppressive. The heat accentuated the smell of the dust and pine needles, which mingled with the odor of barbecue smoke. A half dozen children were taking refuge from the heat in a deep hole in the creek, and nearly 150 people were in the shade of the grove, downing beer and soft drinks. In spite of the unparalleled setting and the festive atmosphere, it seemed to Gordon that there was a certain edginess to the event, which he put down to local knowledge of the trial over the will. As he thought back on that day later, it flowed across his mind as a series of seemingly unconnected vignettes, the meaning and connection of which would not become clear until much later.

  • • •

  An hour before the barbecue began, Gordon’s friend Sam Akers arrived from San Francisco. Sam could not have been more Gordon’s opposite. Where Gordon was tall and athletic with rugged good looks, Sam was of medium height, owlish behind a set of round eyeglasses, and had spent a lifetime being one of the last players chosen for a team. Gordon was intense and analytical and had amassed a fortune through his shrewd investments. Sam was relaxed and cheerful and had worked twelve years for the same company, gradually reaching a reasonably well-paying middle management position. Gordon was a solitary man who had reached his mid thirties without encountering a serious challenge to his bachelorhood. Sam had married shortly out of college and had two children who were almost teenagers. As often happens with such temperamental opposites, they had become close friends and over the years developed an intimacy of understanding with each other.

  As Sam unpacked in the cabin, Gordon told him about the barbecue and received a mild protest in return.

  “Really,” said Sam. “I’ve been looking forward to fishing all week and there are several hours of daylight left. Do we have to?”

  “It’ll be fun,” Gordon said. “You don’t get to do this sort of thing in the city. Besides,” he said, dropping his voice almost imperceptibly, “I promised Ellen McHenry this morning that I’d be there.”

  “So you gave your word to a lady. She must be something special if she’s worth giving up an afternoon of fishing.”

  “When did I say that?” snapped Gordon.

  “You didn’t, but it was pretty obvious. You have to remember that I’ve been listening to you talk about women for fifteen years now. I recognize new territory when I hear it.”

  “I admit I’m interested, but that’s all. Nothing could happen in a place like this anyway. A waitress serves you two meals in a cafe and she can write your biography. This is a nice place to visit, but for regular living I prefer the anonymity of a city.”

  “I’ll be interested to meet her,” said Sam. “But tell me about the fishing.”

  “There hasn’t been much to speak of. It rained pretty hard in the middle of the week, and the East Buchanan is still running murky, though I think it’ll be
all right by Monday. The smaller streams are running pretty clear. I went up to Mosquito Creek this morning and caught half a dozen fish in the six to ten inch range.”

  “Have you tried here?”

  “No, I haven’t, but Ellen said we’re welcome to fish anywhere on the ranch. You want to give it a try tomorrow morning?”

  “Twist my arm.”

  “And since it’s uncharted water for both of us and we’re on equal footing, how about a wager: Most fish caught by noon. Loser buys dinner at the Sportsman.”

  “Do you always have to compete?” asked Sam. “Why can’t you just enjoy going fishing?”

  “Come on. If it’s a tie, it’s still on me.

  “Oh, all right. But you know you’ll win. You always do.”

  “Breakfast’s on me tomorrow.”

  “You’re that sure of yourself?”

  “Let’s just say I’m feeling lucky. I have a feeling that tomorrow is going to be a great day to be alive.”

  • • •

  That afternoon, Gordon discovered a new side of Ellen. It turned out that she had the knack of getting a man to relax and talk about himself, and her questions came across as expressions of genuine interest, rather than an attempt to make small talk.

  “So how did you become a stockbroker?” she asked.

  It occurred to Gordon that she had an unfair advantage in this regard, since he couldn’t very well ask her how she came to be running a cattle ranch. They were standing in the picnic area amid other groups of people. He was sipping a beer, and she was drinking Dr. Pepper. She was wearing jeans, cowboy boots and a pink pocket T-shirt, and Gordon couldn’t help feeling that her casual attire and command of the situation made her seem assured and attractive.

  “Well,” he said, “I’d like to say I planned for it all my life, but I’m afraid it’s a little messier than that. The fact of the matter is that when I graduated from Cal twelve years ago, I had a degree in American history and the certain knowledge that I couldn’t make a living playing basketball. The brokerage was just something I fell into.”