The McHenry Inheritance (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 1)

by Michael Wallace

  “Fell into?”

  “Maybe drawn into is more like it. In the Bay Area there are a fair number of businesses run by Cal grads. Some of them are willing to hire and train athletes who played for the old school. The president of the San Francisco office of Howell Burns & Bledsoe played basketball for Cal in the late 40s and still came to most of the games. Spring quarter of my senior year, once the basketball season was over, he called me in for an interview.”

  “That must have been nice.”

  “I don’t think I fully appreciated it at the time. Anyway, he offered me a job when I graduated, and since I had to do something, I took it. I knew I could put in the hours and give it an effort, so it was a pleasant surprise to find out once I started that I actually enjoyed it and had some inclination for it.”

  Ellen McHenry shook her head. “The stock market is something I’ve never been able to understand, except for one thing. It’s kind of like the cattle business, because the value of your assets fluctuates wildly from day to day due to of factors out of your control.”

  “That’s true to a certain degree, but you have to remember the larger picture. If you do it intelligently and systematically, investing in the stock market amounts to betting on the economic growth of this country. And I don’t know anybody who ever got rich by betting against America.

  “I never thought of it that way. Tell me, do you have some sort of formula you follow?”

  “For what?”

  “I mean for deciding which stocks to pick and when to buy and when to sell.”

  “You want to know what I tell my clients? There are four basic rules to coming out ahead in the stock market. The first is to invest for the long term. You’ll always lose money at some point, but time is your friend. Second, you protect yourself by diversifying. A good mix of stocks means the winners more than cover the losers. And third, stick with well-known, high quality stocks: blue chips, New York Stock Exchange.”

  “You said there were four rules.”

  “Rule number four,” Gordon said with a hint of a smile, “is that you never, ever give your money to anybody over the phone.”

  “I’m curious now. Do you buy stocks for yourself, or after doing it all day for other people, do you want nothing to do with it?”

  “I dabble a bit myself,” he said softly. This was, in fact, an understatement. Gordon had joined the brokerage in the summer of 1981, and a year later decided that he was ready to try putting some of his own money into the market. In early August of 1982 he invested $10,000 in several stocks he thought were underpriced. The bull market of the eighties began a week later, and he continued to build his investments on a steady basis. His stock portfolio at the time he left for the fishing trip was worth five million dollars.

  “Does anyone — I mean, just someone buying stocks for himself — ever get rich playing the market?” she asked.

  “It can happen,” he replied.

  • • •

  At the barbecue pit, Gordon, Sam and Baca were talking with Kitty Stevens. She had just finished turning a half-dozen large tri-tip steaks on the barbecue, after which she set the long barbecue fork carefully on the rim of the pit and lit a cigarette.

  “Just enough time to sneak a smoke before these have to be turned again,” she said. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  Sam, who was trying, with little success, to find a spot not directly downwind of the barbecue smoke, said it was no problem. “Do you always do the cooking at these?” he asked.

  “I have the last few years,” she replied. “At least, I helped Frank. It just doesn’t seem the same this year.”

  “Did you make plenty of chili?” asked Baca.

  “Eight Dutch ovens. Think it’ll last?”

  “It never has.” He turned to Gordon. “Kitty’s chili is one of Summit County’s treasures. I’ve always thought she could make a fortune distributing it nationally.”

  She smiled. “Thanks, but it wouldn’t travel. My chili takes too much watching over to be mass-produced.”

  “I’m looking forward to trying it,” Gordon said.

  There was a long pause while she took a couple of drags on her cigarette. Baca watched her, with a gentle eye, then spoke softly.

  “Going deer hunting this year, Kitty?”

  She took another puff on the cigarette, then dropped it on the dirt and ground it out with her boot. “I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t know. What do you think, Mike?”

  “I think you should. Get back on the horse that threw you and all that.”

  She turned to Gordon. “I’m sorry if we’re being rude, it’s just that I’m pretty close to this family. Frank and I used to go deer hunting together every fall. We’d start out from Costello Meadows, which is about eight thousand feet up. The family leases Forest Service land for pasture there and they have a little cabin where they or their hands spend the night sometimes. We’d leave that cabin before dawn and see who got the first deer, but it had to be a buck with at least four points.”

  “Kitty usually won,” said Baca.

  “Are you a good shot?” asked Gordon.

  “Pretty good,” she said. “But I think the difference was, I don’t know how to say this, but I sort of think like a deer.”

  “How do you think like a deer?”

  “I don’t know, but I just had a sense that there might be something in the next ravine or whatever. Frank called it intuition.”

  “You don’t like that word?”

  “I guess it’s as good as any. Do you boys hunt?”

  Gordon shook his head. and Sam spoke up. “I don’t like guns,” he said. “I guess it’s a city thing. And I think deer are kind of too pretty to shoot.”

  Kitty laughed. “Around here, deer kind of lose their novelty. If they weren’t hunted, there’d be too many of them and they’d run out of food. And speaking of food, there are a lot of people around here who’d be hard pressed to get through the winter without the venison in their freezer.”

  “I never thought of that,” said Sam.

  “You have to live it to know it. That’s why so many people here hate politicians. They’re almost all from the city and they don’t get it.”

  There was another pause. “Tell me,” said Gordon, “Do you think there’s much chance of a fisherman being mistaken for a deer and shot by a hunter?”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” said Kitty. “Most hunters look out for that sort of thing.” She picked up the fork and began to turn the meat again. Baca leaned over and whispered in Gordon’s ear.

  “Only if you’re on the West Buchanan,” he said.

  • • •

  The food, served from a makeshift buffet table at the edge of the grove, was simple and outstanding: slices of steak, Kitty’s chili with beans, potato salad, tossed green salad, and biscuits. Gordon sat at the end of one table across from Ellen and Kitty, with Sam at his side. From time to time Gordon wondered about the relationship between these two women who had shared the love and affection of the same man, one as daughter, one as lover. He doubted if that was something they talked about much, or at all, yet there seemed to be an unspoken empathy between the two.

  Ellen had steered the subject of the conversation to fishing, and was explaining about the creeks that ran through the ranch.

  “Once you get upstream from the big meadow,” she said, “the two feeder creeks are pretty small. You can have fun fishing for brook trout, but ten inches is a big fish and five or six is more like it most of the time.”

  “Has anybody ever caught a big fish up there?” Gordon asked.

  “You know,” she said, “now that you mention it, when I was a little girl, maybe seven or eight years old, I saw Dan catch a 16-inch trout about a half mile up one of them.”

  “So it can happen?”

  “Must be. I remember that was early in the summer after a winter with a lot of snow. All the creeks were running higher than usual that year. I think Dan’s fish just decided to head upstream and
see what was there. He ended up being dinner, which shows you the danger of curiosity.”

  “That would have been more than 20 years ago,” said Kitty. “There aren’t as many fish as there used to be. Or water, it seems.”

  “But it’s better once Aspen Creek starts?” Sam asked.

  “Oh, sure.” said Ellen. “The creek’s bigger and the meadow gives the fish lots of grasshoppers and insects. I think there are a couple of Brown Trout two feet long in this meadow. They hang out under the banks or in the deep holes and only come out to feed at dusk. Most of what they eat is other fish, too. You may not see them, but they’re there.”

  “How about below the meadow?” Gordon asked.

  “It’s more pocket water and not as buggy as the meadow,” she said, “but there are some good fish in there.” She looked him in the eye. “Have you tried the waters on the ranch yet?”

  “No, I haven’t, but maybe we should do that tomorrow. What do you say, Sam?”

  “I’m easy.”

  “Let’s go for it. Besides, it’ll give you a new creek to fall into.”

  “Oh stop it.”

  “What’s this?” asked Ellen.

  “My friend is the world’s unluckiest wader,” Gordon said. “If there’s a log in the creek he’ll trip over it. If there’s a slippery stone on the bottom, he’ll step on it and fall in ass over teakettle. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “You’re exaggerating,” Sam said without conviction. “Besides, you don’t know what it’s like fishing with Gordon. I’ve known this man for fifteen years, and I can tell you that between luck and preparation, he almost never takes a false step. Fishing with somebody like that will drive you nuts. Living with him would, too. That’s probably why he isn’t married.”

  The ensuing silence brought Sam up short. Gordon was slowly rotating his bottle of beer on the wooden table. Kitty was scrutinizing a piece of meat on her fork with considerable intensity. Ellen was looking at Sam with her steady, penetrating gaze and a hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth.

  “Yes,” she said, after a few seconds. “Well, most of the fishing on this creek would be done from shore anyway, so you’ll probably stay dry. With the mornings getting cooler, the fish will probably stay down until 8:30 or 9. I’ll be heading into town around 9:30 — in fact almost everybody’ll be gone tomorrow morning. But if no one’s here, just fish wherever you like.”

  “Suits us,” Gordon said. “We can sleep until a civil hour, have breakfast at Kitty’s and start fishing when the fish get hungry.”

  “Oh! I just remembered something. My brother’s going to be here tomorrow morning.”

  “Ellen! How could you?” This from Kitty in an exasperated voice.

  “There’s not much I can do to stop him. He came up to me before court on Thursday and said he’d like to go fishing at the ranch Sunday morning.”

  “You could have said no.”

  “Dad’s last will granted Dan the use and enjoyment of the property. I’d be going against his wishes.”

  “Considering what your brother’s been doing to you, he had a lot of nerve to ask,” said Kitty.

  “Are you sure he’s going fishing?” Gordon asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  Her directness disarmed him, and he realized he had been drawn into the conversation more deeply than he had a right to be. He stumbled to find a way out.

  “I’m not sure what I mean. Just with the lawsuit and all …”

  “Ah! You’re thinking he might be after something. I hadn’t thought of that, but it really doesn’t bother me. I have nothing to hide, no matter what his expensive attorney tries to insinuate.”

  “Forget I said it.”

  “That’s all right. And remember, there’s more than enough water to fish. You don’t have to be where Dan is.”

  • • •

  “There are those who say there’s still gold in some of those old mines, but I don’t think so,” said Mike Baca. It was dusk and the change of seasons was in the air. With the crowd at the barbecue beginning to thin out, he and Gordon were sitting alone at the end of a picnic table drinking black coffee from styrofoam cups.

  “Where are the mines?” Gordon asked. “I’ve been up here quite a few times, and I don’t remember seeing any.”

  “They’re generally not on the beaten track, and they sort of honeycomb some of the canyons here. For instance, if you take the left fork of Aspen Creek and go upstream about a mile from this meadow, you’ll find one on the left side of the canyon, but even then you have to know what you’re looking for to see the entrance.”

  “Does anybody ever get lost in one?”

  “Twice in the last 15 years. Those are the rescues I really hate. Some of these mines weren’t propped up too well a hundred years ago, and they haven’t gotten better with age.”

  “So where are the other mines?”

  “As I said, all over the place. You know Costello Meadows?”

  “I was up there once a few years ago, looking for a place to fish.”

  “The meadow is one of the McHenry family’s summer pastures. And about a mile and a half down the road from it is a flat area, about four acres altogether. Would you believe that in 1888, there was a city of two thousand people there. That was the height of the gold boom here. And in 1890, when they took the census, it was gone. Just like that.”

  “Funny, you don’t see any sign of it.”

  “It was mostly tents. The man who owned the general store was halfway through putting up a permanent building when people stopped finding gold. That was in early July, and by the time winter rolled around he was about the only one left.”

  “What a story.”

  “I could tell you more, but they’ll have to wait.” Baca drained his coffee cup and stood up. “The poker game’s getting going inside. With Frank McHenry gone, I’m afraid it won’t last as long as it used to, but I’ll still be expected to play a few hands. Can you excuse me for at least an hour.”

  “That’s fine. I can keep myself busy for an hour.”

  A flicker of a smile crossed Baca’s face. “I’m sure you can,” he said.

  • • •

  It was dark. The crickets provided constant background noise, and from time to time a gust of wind rattled through the pines and aspens, sending leaves and needles to the ground. A half moon hung overhead, lighting up the sky, but not entirely obscuring the stars that can be seen with such clarity through the thin mountain air. It was a night to quicken the pulse, but Ellen McHenry was staving off melancholy as she addressed the topic she had, up to this point in the evening, been able to avoid.

  “It’s scary,” she said. “And so wrong. So fundamentally wrong. You were there on Thursday. You heard it. I listened to that lawyer asking all those questions, and even though the facts were more or less right, it came out sounding wrong. I was trying to help my father, and they made it look like I was pushing him into something he didn’t want to do, didn’t they?”

  “I don’t know,” said Gordon. “It’s hard to say. I only heard a bit of testimony, and I don’t know what came before it and how it fits in.”

  “You’re trying to be kind, but you know it looked bad. I’m afraid I don’t have much hope.”

  Gordon didn’t answer. They were on the covered porch of the main house, sitting on chairs that had been turned at a 45-degree angle partially facing each other. He became aware of his closeness to her and pushed himself all the way back in his chair.

  “I never imagined something like this happening to me,” she continued after a moment. You think the courts are there to deliver justice, but they seem to provide a place where whoever has the best lawyer can get what he wants. You said your father’s a judge — how does he feel about it?”

  “My father very much believes in what he does, but he understands that the legal system is imperfect. He’s said many times that the best attorneys are the ones who keep their clients from going in front of him.”r />
  “I wish my brother had a lawyer like that.” She shook her head. “I don’t think Dan appreciates what he’s put our family through. It was hard enough when we found out he was gay. I don’t understand that, but I accept that it’s what he is and not some choice he made. But getting involved with that posse crowd and Rex Radio was what really did it. Do you know anything about them?”

  “A little,” said Gordon, and he briefly recounted his story of the encounter the morning before and the conversation in the bar the previous evening. “Radio is a strange one,” he concluded. “He’s created his own legend, which a lot of us do, but he’s started to believe in it himself, and that can be dangerous. On top of which he has the personality of a rattlesnake dipped in honey.”

  “Those men are evil,” she said. “I’m more or less lapsed from the church, but I do believe in the existence of evil, and I think the first place to look for it is in the hearts and minds of people who know for a fact that they’re right and everybody else is wrong. My father would agree with that, too. He was a conservative Republican, but he accepted the authority that comes from the democratic process, even when he disagreed with it. He had no use for the people Dan’s fallen in with.”

  “What do you think they’re up to?”

  “There’s not a doubt in my mind. They want this ranch for their posse games and God knows what else. It took us a while to realize that. Dad had talked about changing his will before, but he was healthy and he thought Dan would come to his senses, so he never did anything about it.”

  “Then all those conversations in the hospital really weren’t the first time the matter came up?”

  “Of course not. Dad was in shock then. If he’d been any less tough, he wouldn’t even have gotten to the hospital alive. But he knew what he had to do, and what he really wanted to do. And for giving him encouragement and doing the things he was too weak to do for himself, I’ve been dragged through the mud.