I Scarce Can Die (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 5)

by Michael Wallace

  Betty Monroe was a white-haired woman of medium build and extreme cheerfulness. She had baked her angling guests a large batch of chocolate chip cookies with coconut and peanuts — a delicacy that had won eight blue ribbons in the past ten years at the Canyon County Fair. The cookies were served with iced lemonade made from real lemons, not concentrate.

  They sat on the veranda, shaded from the warm autumn sun, looking out over the ranch to the mountains beyond. Gordon and Peter were lucky to have this piece of paradise to themselves today, and each in his own way was feeling gratitude for it. The Monroes asked how the judge was doing, and Gordon was able to give them a fairly detailed report, which provided him with a tenuous link for asking a different legal question.

  “I was wondering,” he said, “what you know about a murder case in Dutchtown a couple of years ago. A man named Gary Baxter was accused of killing his wife.”

  “Everyone knew about it,” Betty volunteered. “It was the first murder in this county in nearly 25 years. But I don’t really know too much about it other than what we read in the Canyon Call.”

  “Our weekly paper,” Oscar said.

  “They were west siders,” Betty explained. “The pass pretty effectively divides the county, and there’s not much communication between the east and west sides.”

  “A damn nuisance when you need something,” Oscar said. “Though I have to say that since they put a sheriff’s substation in Sierra Ford, we at least see a patrol car once or twice a day now.”

  “But you don’t have much firsthand knowledge about the case?”

  “Not really,” Betty said. “It seemed fairly straightforward. Do you mind if I ask why you’re interested?”

  Gordon took a sip of lemonade and decided to tell the truth, but not all of it.

  “My girlfriend knows a couple of people at the college where she teaches. They’re interested in the case and since I was coming up here, they asked me to see what people are saying about it.”

  “Not much anymore. It’s kind of fading from memory,” Oscar said. “Sorry business, but it seems to have been taken care of.”

  “Just thought I’d ask.”

  “Though if you’re really interested, three people from Big Valley were on the jury. I don’t know if they want to talk about it, but if you ask them nice, they’ll be nice back to you, even if they say no.”

  Gordon nodded and sipped his lemonade.

  “Would you like me to get you their names and phone numbers.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Oscar said, standing. “I’ll be right back.”

  He returned with a three-by-five index card with three names and numbers written on it. He stood next to Gordon and pointed at the card as he spoke.

  “Mildred Elliott was one. She and her husband, Bob, own East Valley Ranch. Good people. Bill Wells works at the hardware store in West Valley. And Carol Conway lives with her husband in Sierra Ford. She’s the rural mail carrier for the East Valley. None of ‘em will bite your head off.”

  “Thank you,” Gordon said. “They may be hearing from my girlfriend’s friends. If they’re still interested.”

  He drained his lemonade.

  “And thank you for the cookies and the lemonade. And thank you for letting us fish here today.”

  “You’re always welcome,” Oscar said. “After what your father did, our grandchildren, if they still own this place, will be under orders to let your grandchildren fish here.”

  Gordon and Peter stood and shook hands all around. Gordon started for the steps but turned back after going only a few feet.

  “One more thing,” he said. “I was wondering if there’s a community group here that we could make a contribution to, in view of what you and this valley have given us today.”

  Oscar and Betty looked at each other.

  “You know,” she finally said, “the volunteer fire department needs to replace some equipment and has been holding some fundraisers. You don’t have to do anything, but if you want to, a donation to them would be welcome and well used.”

  Gordon pulled out the checkbook he’d put in his shirt pocket earlier.

  “Who should I make the check to?” he asked.

  “Big Valley Volunteer Fire Department,” Oscar said. “Or any three words of that.”

  Gordon wrote a check and handed it to Oscar, who raised his eyebrows slightly.

  “Thank you very much. It really wasn’t necessary.”

  “Who knows?” Gordon said. “Fishing is a dangerous pastime. Maybe I’ll need their search and rescue services someday.”

  “Let’s hope not,” Oscar said, putting the check in his wallet. “But thanks again, and give our regards to the judge.”

  When they were back at the creek, and out of earshot of the house, Peter turned to Gordon and said:

  “So how much was that check for?”

  “Five hundred,” Gordon said, inspecting his fly carefully. “Deductible, I hope.”

  “I’ll pay half, of course, but that was pretty generous.”

  Gordon turned and pointed toward the creek with his fly rod.

  “Not for this kind of fishing,” he said.

  WHEN THEY STOPPED FISHING at five o’clock, the sun had gone behind the mountains, but there was light in the sky. On the way back, Gordon stopped in Sierra Ford, where there was cell phone reception, and made two calls. The first was to Leonard T. Vincent, the historian he’d met the night before, confirming a time and place for a dinner meeting. The second was to Elizabeth. Gordon made the call from inside the Cherokee, while Peter walked back and forth along the hundred yards of storefront facing the highway.

  “You’re calling early tonight,” she said after answering. “Do you have a hot date later?”

  “Only with my new-found historian friend.”

  “What happened to Marlene?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I was on a trout stream all day, with Peter as my witness.”

  “A highly impeachable witness.”

  “I’m assuming Marlene was back to her humdrum day job selling real estate. What’s up with you?”

  “I’m meeting Laura Johnson at the Chinese place down the street in 15 minutes, so I don’t have much time. But I’m making progress on my assignments. I haven’t been able to reach Connie’s sister yet, but I got Gary’s half-brother on the first try. I’m meeting him at a bar Tuesday afternoon.”

  “A bar? Is he trying to pick you up?”

  “Could be. You’re not the only man who thinks I’m hot, Gordon.”

  “So where’s your rendezvous? The Redwood Room? The Top of the Mark?”

  “No such luck. Do you know much about Hayward? I gather it’s south of Oakland. Have you ever been there?”

  “Several years ago I dated a real estate agent who lived there.”

  “We’ll let that go for now.”

  “Just as well. So where’s your hot date?”

  “The place is called Tony’s Tip Top Tavern. He works there. Have you ever been to it?”

  “Afraid I haven’t had the pleasure. Maybe Peter has. I’ll ask him.”

  “Anyway, I’m meeting him at three o’clock, when the place should be fairly quiet and we can talk.”

  “Sounds cozy.”

  “You are jealous. I can tell.”

  “You’re an investigator on an assignment. I trust you completely.”

  “I’ll try to pretend I didn’t hear the irony in your voice. Anyway, what about you? I have to go in a couple of minutes.”

  “We had a really good day fishing. And Oscar Monroe gave me a lead on a couple of jurors at the trial. May come in handy down the road. I’m meeting Gary’s attorney tomorrow morning. That’s about it.”

  “I’ll ring off now, then. We can talk longer tomorrow night.”

  Gordon got out of the Cherokee just as the light went out inside the general store, and the “Open” sign went out. There was still light in the sky, and he
hoped they would have it until they were over Bellota Pass. He called Peter back.

  “That was quick,” Peter said.

  “She had to cut out for a dinner appointment. But she’s already arranged to see Gary’s step-brother.”

  “She works fast.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Where’s she meeting him?”

  “In Hayward. You know Hayward at all?”

  “I know it a bit. Several years ago, I dated a lab tech who lived there. Where are they meeting in Hayward?”

  “A place called Tony’s Tip Top Tavern. Ever heard of it?”

  “Wow. Tony’s Tip Top Tavern. Now that brings back memories.”

  “Don’t tell me you used to drink there.”

  “Gordon, please. I was the kind of alcoholic who drank from crystal glassware. The only Crystal at Tony’s would be one of the waitresses.”

  “So how do you know about the place?”

  “When I was working the ER in Oakland, I sewed up a guy who got stabbed there.”

  “Really? Hayward isn’t that far from Oakland, I suppose, but there must have been hospitals closer to the scene.”

  “Sure there are. But it was a special case. Guy named James … shoot, I can’t remember his last name. It’ll come to me. Anyway, a year and a half earlier, I dug a bullet out of him, and he was so impressed with my bedside manner …”

  Peter paused for effect, then continued when Gordon declined to rise to the bait.

  “That when he got stabbed at Tony’s — and I’ve seen worse — he had his buddy drive him to Oakland, hoping I’d be on duty that night, and I was. True story.”

  “So he was a repeat customer?”

  “You could say that. And I didn’t get very many — at least not by choice.”

  Rather than commenting, Gordon started the engine and backed the Cherokee onto the highway, pointing toward Bellota Pass.

  “James was a nice guy,” Peter mused, “but he had no business drinking. Once he got a couple of belts in him, he had a lamentable tendency to tell people what he really thought of them. That accounted for both the shooting and the stabbing.” He paused. “Are you sure you’re all right about Elizabeth going there by herself?”

  “She’ll be fine,” Gordon said. “At least she won’t talk her way into trouble.”

  THEY MADE IT OVER THE PASS as the last light faded from the western sky, and Gordon took the winding road to Pass City slowly. There were no street lights, and few signs or buildings along the way, so it was a trip through palpable darkness. It was about 7:15 when they saw the lights of the first buildings in Pass City, and the parking lot for the Blue Badger Café was about two-thirds full.

  “Didn’t we have lunch here yesterday?” Peter asked.

  “We did, but my new friend didn’t want to meet in Dutchtown, where people might overhear the conversation.”

  “Aren’t we talking about a hanging that happened 150 years ago?”

  “To a historian, it all happened yesterday.”

  Inside, Gordon saw Len at a table for four near the fireplace, with a handsome woman in her late fifties or early sixties sitting next to him. She had short hair, dark brown with a hint of gray, stylish eyeglasses, and was wearing a white blouse, buttoned to her neck, with a gray sweater draped around her shoulders. The look on her face was that of a widow running a boarding house, who has suddenly had a presentable gentleman show up looking for a room.

  “Leonard, you old dog,” Gordon muttered under his breath.

  Her name turned out to be Gloria Fenwick, and Len introduced her as the Director of the Canyon County Historical Museum. (“A hundred dollars a month salary,” she later said, “so essentially a volunteer gig.”) She had been spending a slow afternoon at the museum helping him look into the files on Maria, which turned out to be on the sparse side.

  After introductions all around, and after everyone was seated and had ordered drinks, Len elaborated.

  “It seems that most of Dutchtown burned down in a fire in 1883,” he said. “Half the buildings were empty by then, and once the fire got going, it was almost impossible to stop. One of the casualties was the newspaper office, and there was nothing left. All the old back issues, dating back to the beginning of the town were destroyed, and no one knows of any backups. An invaluable bit of history seems to be lost forever.”

  “I was surprised, considering what a big deal they make of her here,” Gloria said. “I thought there would be more on the record, but there just wasn’t. The file on Maria consisted of a few newspaper articles from the last 20 to 30 years that just gave the basic facts — who she killed …”

  “Allegedly killed,” Len interrupted.

  “Sorry. We’re so used to assuming, I’d forgotten there was any doubt. I’m trying to think who around here we could ask for more information, but so far, I’m drawing blanks.”

  They ordered dinners — solid pub fare — and ate contentedly when the food arrived. The light of the glowing fire (not to mention its heat) acted as a soporific, and Gordon and Peter were already tired from their exertions that day.

  Midway through the meal, Gordon finished a bite of chicken pot pie, washed it down with 7-Up, and resumed the conversation about Maria.

  “I just thought of something,” he said. “How about going to the local paper and telling them that you’re looking for information on Maria for a book on Gold Rush lynchings. I’ll bet they’d do a story about you, and there’s a chance it could lead to something.”

  “Do you really think they’d consider that news?” Len said.

  “Judging from what I saw in this week’s paper,” Peter said, “they’ll print anything.”

  “Peter’s right,” Gloria said. “There aren’t any special events going on this week, so a story about your research might get good play. It’s worth a try.”

  “Do you know the editor of the paper?” Gordon asked.

  “Of course. I have to take museum news to her all the time.” She looked at Len. “Would you like me to call her tomorrow and set up an appointment?”

  He looked slightly flustered. “Well, if you think it’ll do some good.”

  “It might, and it certainly can’t hurt. You already have nothing, so what’s a little more nothing? And maybe there’s something.”

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s give it a try.”

  Peter raised a glass of iced tea, and the others quickly joined him in a toast.

  “To the First Amendment,” he said.

  They finished dinner in good spirits and decided to linger for dessert. They had fallen to talking about themselves, being somewhat new to each other, and when Gloria’s turn came, she took a deep sigh before beginning.

  “My husband, Jack, worked as an engineer for a water district in the East Bay, and we had a nice house in Piedmont that we bought in 1967. I’d have been happy to stay there, but he was getting tired of the traffic and congestion and wanted to move to a smaller town in the mountains. He decided to take an early retirement in 1996, when he was 62.” She paused. “He was older than me. Anyway, in October of ’95, we were looking at some towns on the other side of the mountain, but none of them seemed right.

  “We decided to come back through Bellota Canyon, and we stopped in Dutchtown for lunch. It was love at first sight. For him, anyway. We went to a real estate office after lunch and looked at three houses. Then we went back to Piedmont and talked about it a week and came up here the next weekend and made an offer on one.

  “He retired at the end of March, we moved up at the end of April, ready to enjoy a long retirement here. He was really happy, and I was happy because he was. And then, when we’d only been here two months, he died.”

  The three men made varying murmurs of sympathy.

  “He loved fly fishing, which was one of the reasons he wanted to be in the mountains. At the end of June, he was fishing the Bellota about two miles south of town. They’ll never know for sure, but the best explanation they could give m
e was that it had been a wet winter and the river was running high and fast. They think he slipped and fell in, got water in his waders and was washed into a deep hole, where he drowned.”

  “That’s terrible,” Gordon said.

  “I’d just started to make friends here, and they were so supportive, I don’t know how I could have gotten through it without them. I was in shock for several months, and when I came out of it, I had a network here and decided to stay a while. So here I am.”

  “We’re glad you’re here,” Len finally said.

  Monday October 19

  THE LAW OFFICES of Bradford J. Pope, Esq., attorney at law, opened at precisely 8:30 a.m. They were located in a turn-of-the-century two-story wood house on a small lot a block from the courthouse. The building was painted light green and had a front porch that ran the width of the house. Gordon was standing on the porch by the front door when he heard the lock click from inside. An efficient-looking middle-aged secretary admitted him and led him to a couch in the front room, saying that Mr. Pope should be in at any moment.

  He came through the front door a few minutes later, wearing black slacks, a gray plaid coat, a blue shirt and a blue-gray tie that already looked as if it was waiting to be loosened. He was just under six feet tall, with a thickening waist, thinning hair, and large round eyeglasses. In his left hand was a worn leather briefcase. Overall, he conveyed the expression of a more hail-fellow-well-met Atticus Finch.

  “Gordon, I presume,” he said.

  Rising from the couch, Gordon shook hands with him. The grip was firm, but not too crushing.

  “All your stuff’s in the conference room,” Pope said, lifting his briefcase. “Let me ditch this in my office and I’ll be right with you.”

  He returned a few seconds later without jacket or briefcase and led Gordon through the first door on the right, which held a long rectangular table with eight chairs. Gordon wondered if all eight chairs had ever been filled at the same time. Pope sat in one of the end chairs, loosened his tie, and leaned back with his hands behind his head. Gordon took a chair next to it, sat down and placed his closed notebook on the table. Neither man spoke for a minute, and Pope finally broke the silence.