I Scarce Can Die (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 5)

by Michael Wallace

  “But Gary was sort of at loose ends. He joined the Army to learn a skill, and he did, but guess what? There aren’t any Apache helicopters to repair in Dutchtown. He got a job driving a tow truck for Van Dyke’s Garage, but a year later, old man Van Dyke died and there wasn’t enough money in the business for anyone to buy it, so the garage closed and Gary was out of work. Then he got a DUI, but lucky for him, the one in the Army didn’t come up on the computer, so it was handled as a first offense. But it cost them several thousand dollars they didn’t have, and I’m guessing it didn’t exactly cut back on the arguments, either. Gary’s mother owned a second house she let them have for nothing, or next to nothing, so they scraped by, I guess. But money was tight.”

  “Did Gary get another job?” Gordon asked.

  “He worked at Prospector’s Hardware for a year, and from what I hear, they parted by mutual consent. Then he got hired as a custodian at the school, but that only lasted six months.”

  “Let me guess,” Peter said. “Drinking on the job.”

  Joey nodded. “A sheriff’s deputy making a routine check caught him one night. Gary had all the luck, he did. From then on, it was odd jobs from time to time. Harrison’s Building Supply would keep him on a list for contractors who needed a couple of days of semi-skilled labor. I’d get him a day or two on the road crew from time to time when we needed a fill-in or an extra hand. That sort of thing. But he was going downhill.”

  “And Connie?” Gordon asked.

  “The opposite direction. She moved up the pay scale as fast as you could in her job. She’d taken a couple of bookkeeping classes at the community college, and the auditor was getting her some more training so she could take over for one of the bookkeepers who was going to retire at the end of the year.”

  He pulled at his beer again, taking the glass below the halfway mark.

  “Of course, Connie never made it to the end of the year.”

  The three men sat in silence for a moment. The saloon was almost crowded now, and the background noise was almost deafening once they began focusing on it.

  “Anything else?” Gordon finally said.

  “No. I think that’s pretty much the story. No, wait. One other thing. It probably isn’t important, but it was close to when Connie got killed.”

  Gordon nodded encouragement.

  “That summer, Connie tried out for the play they put on each year. The old Acorn Theater. Used to be a movie house, and now it’s mostly used for community meetings. But they put on a play for three weekends every summer when the tourists are here. Makes a couple thousand bucks toward the youth center we’re trying to get built.

  “Anyway, that year Connie tried out and got the lead part. Like I said, she had a mouth and knew how to use it. And she was pretty pleased with herself.”

  “What was the play?” Gordon asked.

  “God, I don’t remember. Some dated old thing about a bunch of rich people.”

  “Was it a comedy?”

  “It was supposed to be.”

  “Was Gary upset about Connie getting all that attention?” Peter asked.

  “Not at all. He was really proud of her. And she was the best performer, as far as I can tell.”

  “When you started to talk,” Peter said, “it sounded like your first reaction to Connie’s murder was that Gary didn’t do it. Is that right?”

  “I guess so. It was such a shock I didn’t know what to think. But it didn’t seem to me that he could have done something like that. It’s hard to believe a good friend could.”

  He drained his glass and looked at his watch.

  “Wow! Later than I thought. Peggy will be expecting me. Is there anything else?”

  “Not that I can think of,” Gordon said. “You’ve been really helpful, and I appreciate it.”

  Joey shrugged and stood up.

  “Least I can do when my best friend for 20 years sends a letter from state prison asking me to talk to someone. Thanks for the beers.”

  “You’re welcome. Oh — one more thing.”

  Joey stopped mid-turn and looked at Gordon expectantly.

  “Where did Gary and Connie live?”

  “Cross Maria’s Bridge, turn right on the other side and walk toward the river. Theirs is a blue house, six or seven down. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks. Take care.”

  He left, and Gordon drank a swallow of his beer.

  “Dinner?” he said. Peter nodded. “How about the taqueria?”

  “Works for me,” Peter said. Gordon called for the check.

  “Did you notice,” Peter continued, “that while the bartender said Joey only has two drinks — his wife’s orders — he had three tonight. I’ll bet he tells his wife he paid for two and keeps the money.”

  “You’re a cynical old bird, Peter.”

  “Maybe. But I’ve been married five times more than you have. Husbands and wives are always hiding money from each other.” He finished his soda. “Let’s hear it for family values.”

  IT WAS DARK AND COLD when they emerged from Rope’s End. The street was deserted and minimally lit by widely spread lamps. They crossed River Street and walked the block to Taqueria Michoacan. In front of it, facing the street with a view of the river through an empty lot, was a patio with a dozen tables, empty this late in the season. Next to the vacant lot on the other side stood the Acorn Theater, the stage on which Connie Baxter had experienced the limelight for the first and last time in her brief life.

  Inside, the taqueria was warm. Its adobe-colored walls were decorated with commercial idealized depictions of Mexican life and posters of Mexican movies. The high school student who was greeting and waiting tables took Gordon and Peter to one in the corner. It had a tile top with an image of a frog; the only items on it were standard-issue salt and pepper shakers and a standard-issue napkin holder.

  The waitress brought chips, salsa and menus, and left. Since the place was only half full, she was back soon to take their orders. Gordon had chicken enchiladas with rice and beans; Peter ordered two beef burritos a la carte.

  When the waitress left, Gordon excused himself to make a call. He stepped outside and punched in the numbers while his hands were still warm. While the connection went through, he began drifting across the street. Elizabeth answered on the third ring.

  “Gordon?”

  “Well, we made it.”

  “So I gathered. Is it raining?”

  “Not now. We had some light showers earlier.”

  “Is it supposed to snow?”

  “No. Clearing and warmer, they say.”

  “That’s good.”

  “How is it in San Francisco?”

  “Just starting to rain a little. Not very hard.”

  “Usually doesn’t this time of year. How was your day?”

  “Not bad. We had a good discussion on Christina Rossetti in 19th-century poetry. Well, when I say we, I mean the women and I. The guys just sat there. But we were discussing ‘Goblin Market,’ which is very seasonal, and ….”

  Gordon had reached the front of the theater by now and was looking at the signs on either side of the door. One was announcing a meeting next Wednesday to discuss fire protection fees, indicating that the theater also doubled as a community hall. On the other side was a poster for Acorn Summer Theater, now in its fifth season. The 1998 play was “Harvey,” about a lovable alcoholic followed around by a six-foot tall white rabbit. At the bottom of the poster was a list of previous productions:

  1994 – Arsenic and Old Lace

  1995 – You Can’t Take It With You

  1996 – The Philadelphia Story

  1997 – Barefoot in the Park

  That meant, Gordon thought, that Connie had probably played Tracy Lord in The Philadelphia Story, the part that, in a Broadway play and movie, had resuscitated the flagging career of Katharine Hepburn in 1940. Who, he wondered, had been her leading man?

  “Are you listening, Gordon?”

  He snapped back to
the call. “Of course I am.”

  “Then what do you think I should do?”

  “About what?”

  “All right. You weren’t listening. I was saying the check from the gallery still hasn’t arrived, and should I call and ask about it?”

  “They said three to four weeks, and it’s only been three. I’d wait until all four weeks have gone by. You don’t want to be acting like you’re desperate for the money.”

  “But I am desperate for the money.”

  “All the more reason to keep up a good front, then. But it’s just my opinion. You don’t have to take my advice.”

  “I probably will. You know money.”

  Gordon nodded to himself but was wise enough to say nothing.

  “You were supposed to meet with somebody today,” she said. “How did that go?”

  Gordon looked around. The street was still empty, but even so, he lowered his voice.

  “We met Gary Baxter’s best friend, Joey Vargas, at the local saloon, The Rope’s End.”

  “Oh, God. Do they have a noose hanging over the front door?”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “No, I just have a feel for cheesy effects.”

  “Anyway, we plied Joey with beers and he told us all about the Battling Baxters.”

  “So they had a reputation.”

  “Yes, but we knew that already. The interesting bit, I thought, was that just a few weeks before she was killed, Connie Baxter starred in the local summer theater production of The Philadelphia Story.”

  “She played the Katharine Hepburn part?”

  “Apparently so. What do you think about that?”

  She thought about it for several seconds.

  “It may not mean anything, but if I were you, I’d want to talk to the rest of the cast. And I’d be really interested to know who played C. K. Dexter Haven.”

  “Was that the Cary Grant part?”

  “In the movie, yes. On stage, it was Joseph Cotten.”

  “What theater did it open in?”

  “Come on, Gordon. You can’t expect me to know everything.”

  Gordon smiled. The conversation was beginning to remind him why they’d been together nearly a year.

  HE ARRIVED BACK at the table at the same time as the enchiladas. He and Peter were both hungry and ate in silence for several minutes.

  “How’s Elizabeth?” Peter finally said.

  “She sounded good. I walked over to the theater while I was talking to her. They had a list of the plays the summer theater’s done in the past five years: Arsenic and Old Lace, You Can’t Take It With You, The Philadelphia Story, Barefoot in the Park and Harvey.”

  Peter set down his fork. “They didn’t leave much for the high school drama club, did they?”

  “No, but that must mean that Joey’s old play about a bunch of rich people was The Philadelphia Story, and Connie played Tracy, the Katharine Hepburn part.”

  Peter nodded, and Gordon continued.

  “Elizabeth and I both had the same idea. We were wondering who played C. K. Dexter Haven, the Cary Grant part in the movie. What do you think?”

  “It’s a good question,” Peter said, “but me — I’d be more interested to know who played Macaulay Connor.”

  “The James Stewart part?”

  Peter nodded. “In the movie. Van Heflin played it on Broadway. After all, Connor was the one who carried Tracy to the house naked from the swimming pool.”

  “She was naked, right? Not him.”

  “Yep. Though I’m guessing that as a concession to public morality in Dutchtown, such as it is, they probably had her wearing a robe.”

  WHILE THEY WAITED FOR THE CHECK, Gordon brought up another matter.

  “There’s something that still bothers me,” he said. “They say Gary Baxter killed his wife in an alcoholic blackout. How much can someone do in that condition without remembering it?”

  “I can’t cite personal experience,” Peter said, “but let me tell you a story I heard once at a meeting. A guy goes deer hunting on a chilly autumn morning. He drives way back into the woods on logging roads and finally stops at a likely spot. To ward off the cold, he decides to bring out a fifth of bourbon he has in his pickup. He takes a little snort before setting out, and the next thing he knows, he’s coming to on his couch. It’s dark, so he turns on the light and sees that it’s eleven o’clock at night.

  “He knows he was supposed to be deer hunting, but all he remembers was taking a quick little drink before he started. So he stumbles out to his truck in the driveway. There’s an eight-point buck tied to the hood. It has a bullet hole through its heart and has been completely gutted and cleaned. He opens the passenger door of the pickup, and the fifth of bourbon is sitting there, but it’s bone dry.”

  The waitress brought the check, and Peter pulled it to him.

  “So, yes. I’d say either of your scenarios is entirely plausible.” He stopped to count the money. “And now can I ask you something?”

  Gordon nodded.

  “You seem a bit ambivalent about this assignment.”

  “Elizabeth put me on it. I didn’t feel I could just say no.”

  “And you haven’t actually met Gary Baxter?”

  Gordon shook his head. “They said they could try to get me into Folsom to do that, but I passed.”

  “Were you afraid you might like him, and that would affect your judgment?”

  Gordon finished his soft drink before replying.

  “Actually, I was afraid I might not like him.”

  Saturday October 17

  GORDON WAS UP BEFORE DAWN, which, at that time of year, was after seven o’clock. Between the late sunrise and the high mountainsides along the river canyon, he guessed the house wouldn’t see any direct sunlight until close to mid-day. He started a pot of coffee, and while it was brewing, stepped out on the deck. Dutch Joe Creek looked clear and inviting, rolling over a rocky, gravelly bottom in a succession of riffles and pools. It appeared someone had built a barrier of stones about 50 feet upstream from the house, creating a waterfall a foot and a half high, tumbling into a pool that was 40 feet long before trailing off into a riffle. The pool looked as if it would hold fish.

  As he poured a cup of coffee for himself and listened to Peter’s snoring, Gordon made a snap decision. They had bought bacon and eggs at the store, but trout and eggs would be even better. He quickly finished the coffee while putting on a pair of hip waders. He took a rod he’d rigged the night before with a dry fly (a #14 yellow Humpy) and slipped out the door. In the pre-dawn light, he could see well enough to get to the space between their house and the next one.

  The embankment dropped 15 feet to the creek at a reasonable slope for climbing. It was a mixture of rock and dirt, both moisture-slickened from the previous day’s rain, and dotted with ferns and other riparian plants. He went down the slope carefully, holding his rod in front of him with his right hand and using his left for leverage on larger stones. He got to the bottom at the tail end of the pool and stepped into it. The water was cold through his waders, but he was standing in only a foot of it.

  Most likely, he reasoned, the fish, if there were any, would be looking for insects near the waterfall. With the creek at his back, he could cast freely and did so before dropping his fly a foot from where the waterfall hit the pool. It hadn’t drifted two feet before a ten-inch Rainbow smacked it. Gordon played the scrappy fish back to shore, landed it, and killed it with a blow to the head from his net. Seeing no hungry birds in the vicinity, he left it next to the creek and stepped back into the pool. He made three casts to the right of where he had caught the first fish and raised nothing. He then tried to his left, and on the second cast, an 11-inch Rainbow took his fly. As he was playing the fish in the pool, he chanced to look up at the house on the opposite side of the creek.

  The lights were out, but at a second-story window, a woman stood watching him. It was hard to see much in the dim light, but he could see her from the knees u
p, and she appeared to be in her late twenties, voluptuous and attractive, with blond hair falling below her shoulders. She was naked and showing no sign of self-consciousness about it.

  He quickly returned his attention to the fish on his line and landed it on the shore like the one before. When the fish was in hand, he looked back at the house. The woman was gone, leaving him to wonder if he had imagined it all.

  After bringing the fish back to the house, he cleaned them at an outside sink and took them to the kitchen. He found the largest skillet in the house, set it on the stove, and put a quarter-cube of butter in it. After dipping each fish in flour on both sides, he set them on a plate, and stepped out the front door. Across the street was a vacant lot with a bush about ten feet in, which he’d noticed earlier as he was starting for the creek. Closer inspection revealed that it was indeed a wild-growing rosemary plant, and he broke off two sprigs. As he entered the house with them, Peter came out of his room, yawning.

  “You’re slipping, Gordon,” he said. “You usually have breakfast ready by now.”

  “I had to catch it first.” They walked into the kitchen area, and Gordon pointed out the two trout.

  “Nice,” Peter said and poured a cup of coffee.

  As Peter sat at the small table, Gordon placed a sprig of rosemary in the cavity of each fish and placed a smaller skillet on the stovetop next to the large one. After breaking and scrambling six eggs, he turned on the heat under the large skillet, and when the butter was melted, placed both fish in it. As the fish sizzled, he took a loaf of bread from a box they had brought along; Elizabeth had baked it Thursday night. He cut a large slice for Peter and one for himself, setting the bread on two plates. A few minutes later, he turned the fish and started the heat under the smaller skillet. When the butter had melted, he put in the eggs. They cooked in two and a half minutes. Gordon put half of them on each plate, added a fish, and brought the plates to the table.

  “Mountain breakfast,” he said.

  The meat flaked easily off the bones and was moist and flavorful, with a hint of the rosemary.

  Gordon finally said, “Elizabeth and I went on a couple of trips to the mountains this past summer …”