I Scarce Can Die (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 5)

by Michael Wallace

  Gordon stood up.

  “Are we through now? Because I’d like to get some fishing in today if I can. So if there’s nothing else, I’m going to take my wallet out and give you that driver’s license you want to copy. And I’ll do it real slow, so don’t shoot.”

  GORDON WAS STILL FUMING when he got back to the house. He tried to push the door shut behind him, but the wind stopped it from closing completely. He gave it a second shove, harder than absolutely necessary, and it slammed shut.

  “The man is an absolute idiot,” he said.

  Peter set the newspaper he was reading on his lap. “I take it your opinion of local law enforcement isn’t changing for the better.”

  “Do you want to guess what Ketch’s theory is on Basil Dill’s murder?”

  “I’ll rise to the challenge. How about a traveling gang of Satanists in a 1973 VW Microbus was passing through and decided to make a ritual sacrifice of our poor director?”

  “Too sophisticated and plausible. No, the sheriff is convinced that Basil Dill was Dutchtown’s drug kingpin and was taken out by some organized crime group in a professional hit.”

  Peter blinked. “Has the sheriff ever met Basil Dill?”

  “That’s the question I asked. Ketch is convinced that Basil Dill is a great actor who was only playing the part of someone totally self-absorbed and clueless.”

  “Nobody can act that well.”

  “And that’s not all. He thinks I’m involved with the Medellin Cartel, or whoever ordered the hit on Dill, and that our appointment with him was a set-up for the ambush.”

  “You know, Gordon, last night I thought you were in danger from Dill’s killer. Now it’s sounding like the sheriff is more of a threat.”

  “He backed off a bit when I dropped the name of Mike Baca, the sheriff of Summit County, but still. He’s set himself up with a scenario where a professional killer came through town, topped Dill and took off for parts unknown. That pretty much lets him off the hook if the case goes unsolved.”

  Gordon stopped talking and tried to catch his breath. Finally, Peter said:

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Are you up for a drive?

  “Always.”

  “Let’s take a little jaunt up Scopazzi Creek Road and have a talk with Dill’s nosy neighbor.”

  “Surely the sheriff’s already questioned her.”

  “Maybe to some degree, but I want to know if he asked the obvious question.”

  “Which is?”

  “Dill didn’t have a phone so he used his neighbor’s. He probably called me from her house, and I want to know if he called anyone else.”

  “I’m in.”

  “Bring a jacket. That wind is cold.”

  “There is one thing, though, about the sheriff’s theory,” Peter said.

  “What’s that?”

  “There has to be someone in town who’s running the local drug trade, such as it is. What if that person was somehow involved in The Philadelphia Story, and Connie got hooked up with him? Or her, but probably him. You have to admit that would account for both the cash in her purse and the brutality of the crime.”

  “Dammit, Peter, you’re right. This case is going in too many directions. When we hit town a week ago, the only theory of Connie’s murder was that Gary did it. Now we have several alternate theories but no evidence. I don’t know how NGNC is going to sort it all out.”

  “Neither do I. But remember, Gordon: It’s their problem.”

  A SQUAD CAR was protecting Dill’s residence from the depredations of local vandals and major drug cartels. Smoke coming from the chimney of the house next door told Gordon that Mrs. Brubaker was home. They parked in front and knocked on the door.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said when she answered. “I hope you’re not upset that I told the sheriff Mr. Dill made a call to you last night.”

  “Not at all. It was the right thing to do, and I had nothing to do with his murder. The sheriff just needed to check me out and clear that up.”

  “Well, I don’t mind telling you it’s left me all shook up. I’m thankful there’s been a deputy here, but I don’t know how much longer they can keep someone on watch. The county’s always claiming they’re short of money.”

  “So I figured that since Basil Dill didn’t have a phone, he’d call from your place. And I guess you heard him talking to me.”

  She shook her head. “I was in the kitchen chopping vegetables for soup and I just picked up a couple of words here and there. Not enough to know who he was talking to on either call. But at the end he came in and said, ‘Mrs. Brubaker, could you keep an eye on my place for an hour or two? I’m going to the Rope’s End at five to meet with Mr. Gordon, who was here the other day.’ That’s how I knew.”

  “Wait a minute. You said ‘either’ call. Does that mean he made two?”

  “He paid me for two, so that’s what I figure he made.”

  “Any idea who the second call was to?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Did you tell the sheriff about the second call?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “He didn’t ask.”

  Gordon looked at Peter, who had turned away, trying to stifle a laugh.

  “Do you mind if I tell the sheriff about the second call? It could be important.”

  “Go ahead. I got nothing to hide. The subject just never came up.”

  “That can happen in the stress of a crime scene. Thanks for your help, Mrs. Brubaker. I’m sorry about your neighbor.”

  “He was a queer duck, but I’m going to miss him. In the winter, he and I are the only ones up here. He wasn’t much company, but at least he was some company.”

  Gordon and Peter started back to the car. The sheriff’s deputy climbed out of his, and Gordon recognized him as Scott Burroughs from the encounter at Nugget Lake on Tuesday.

  “Gordon!”

  They walked over.

  “I understand you’re in the thick of things,” Burroughs said. “Mind if I ask what you were doing at Mrs. Brubaker’s?”

  “Just checking to see if Dill called me from her place last night. He did.”

  “I’m sure you told the sheriff, but can you satisfy my curiosity and tell me what it was about.”

  Gordon again explained his interactions with Basil Dill.

  Burroughs whistled. “So he was on his way to tell you something that maybe could have led to a new look at the Baxter case?”

  “Could be. We’ll never know now.”

  “Only one problem with that. How would the killer have known about it?”

  “That’s the key question. But I may have just gotten a lead. Mrs. Brubaker said he made another call at the same time. She doesn’t know who it was to, and she didn’t tell the sheriff about it because he didn’t ask. I’m thinking Dill called his killer, or someone who said something to his killer. Feel free to pass that up the chain of command.”

  Burroughs smiled. “I’ll do that. But I’ll talk to Mrs. Brubaker first and get it from her. I need to get out of that car for a while anyway.”

  “How about sharing a little something in return? Can you tell me what exactly happened to Dill?”

  Burroughs took a slow look around to make sure they were still alone.

  “Now you didn’t hear this from me,” he said.

  “Of course not.”

  “But I was first on the scene, just like in the Connie Baxter murder. It looks like the killer parked facing town in that turnout 150 feet down the road, then crouched behind the washing machine in Dill’s front yard. Not that you could really call it a yard. Wouldn’t have been seen from the house and probably not from the road either, with all the other stuff there. Dill fell down facing the washer, so probably the shooter stood up, called him by name as he got to his car, and when he turned in that direction, the shooter opened fire.”

  “Any idea how many shots?”

  “We found five shell casings on the
ground near the washer. Two shots hit the car, one grazed him in the shoulder, one hit him just above the right knee, and the fifth shot, the one that killed him, hit the bottom of his heart. He couldn’t have lived a minute.”

  “The sheriff seems to think it was a professional job.”

  Burroughs said nothing for a minute.

  “That would be awful bad shooting for a professional who was only ten feet away,” he said. “What it looked like to me was the work of somebody who isn’t used to using a handgun, was pretty nervous about it, and just happened to make one good shot out of five. But then, I’m a lowly deputy, so what do I know?”

  Gordon and Peter walked back to the Cherokee. When they were inside with the doors and windows closed, Peter exhaled loudly.

  “This county needs to shake up its Human Resources Department,” he said. “The guy who ought to be sheriff is being wasted guarding a house that probably no one will come to. Meanwhile, the guy who ought to be guarding the house is sitting in the corner office at the courthouse. No wonder Dutchtown has a killer roaming the streets.”

  STEPHANIE POPE, the attorney’s daughter, was 17 and stood five-seven, with an athletic, muscular build, wavy reddish-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, a winning smile and a confident walk. Within two minutes of meeting her, Gordon had Stephanie pegged as the sort of teenager, mature beyond her years, who gives people over 30 an ephemeral hope for the younger generation. He hoped she was observant, too.

  She joined her father, Gordon and Peter in the conference room, setting her backpack on the floor before sitting down. Pope nodded at Gordon, indicating he should start the questioning.

  “Thanks for talking to us, Stephanie,” Gordon said. “I don’t know what your dad told you about this, but I was asked several weeks ago by a group that investigates wrongful convictions to take a look at the Connie Baxter murder. Have you talked with your father about it?”

  She looked at Pope, and he answered the question.

  “At the time of the trial, Stephanie gave me a lot of grief about representing Gary. I explained to her that attorneys sometimes have to represent clients they don’t like and who may have done bad things.”

  “And I understood that,” she said, “but I still didn’t like it. And now you’re saying Gary didn’t do it? But they practically caught him red-handed.”

  “He was at the scene and incoherent,” Gordon said. “That made him an obvious suspect, but it turns out there were several other leads the sheriff chose not to pursue. That’s where I’m hoping you might be able to give us some information, Stephanie.”

  “What sort of information? And you can call me Steph.”

  “I’m particularly interested in the play you and Connie acted in the summer before she was killed. It just might be connected to Connie’s murder.”

  “You mean The Philadelphia Story?”

  “That’s right. I’m hoping you can help, Steph, by remembering how she interacted with other people in the production.”

  “I remember it pretty well, actually. I was there when Connie showed up at the first tryout. Mr. Dill asked her which part she wanted to play. She said she didn’t know, so he said, ‘Well, let’s start out with the lead. Here’s the script. I want you to look over the first four pages of Act One, then come back and read Tracy’s part in 20 minutes.’ Everybody knew Amy Hawkins was going to get the part, but I figured he wanted to see what Connie had and if she might work in another part.”

  “But she surprised everybody.”

  “Oh yeah. While Connie was off looking at the script, Mr. Dill had Amy read the first four pages. She was OK, but that’s about it. Then he brought Connie over. She hit a couple of good inflections that Amy missed, and when she said the Dutch Muffin Ear line, everyone in the room cracked up — even though they’d all heard it several times before.”

  “Clearly better than Amy, then?”

  “No contest.”

  “You played Dinah, Connie’s younger sister in the play,” Peter said. “You had several scenes together. Did you get to know her at all during the rehearsals?”

  “We weren’t best friends, if that’s what you mean, but we talked a bit. She warned me about men, which wasn’t really necessary.”

  Gordon stole a glance at Pope, who was squirming in his chair. “How did the men in the play react to Connie?” Gordon asked.

  “She got more confident as she got into the part. Dick Holmes had the hots for her, though I think he was too much of a chicken to try anything. Kevin Hawkins was jonesing for her, too, but Amy was watching him like a hawk. He may have been willing, but he was on a short leash.”

  “How about Basil Dill?”

  “She wasn’t his type. Too old. He was hitting on me.”

  “Stephanie!” Pope shouted. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Relax, Dad. It was OK. He only did it once, and sexual harassers are bullies. If you stand up to them, they almost always back down. When he put his hand on my back, I told him if he didn’t take it off, the next place it was going to be was on a Bible in criminal court.”

  “I never would have let you act in that play if I’d known,” Pope said.

  “That’s why I didn’t tell you, Dad. I wanted to be in the play. And it was never a problem again. After that, he was so afraid of getting too close that he shouted directions to me across the room.”

  “And you weren’t afraid of losing the part?” Peter said.

  “He didn’t have the guts to get rid of me, and even if he had the guts, there was no one else who could play Dinah. I was holding all the cards.”

  “Good for you,” Gordon said. “And now here’s the big question. In all the time you were involved in the play, did you ever see or hear Connie doing or saying something with someone else in the cast that struck you as strange or unusual?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that since yesterday, and I did remember one thing. I didn’t know what to make of it at the time, and it may be nothing.”

  “That’s all right, Steph. Tell us, and we’ll sort it out.”

  “Well, before the final weekend of the play, we were doing our pre-weekend adjustment. The play ran Thursday through Sunday, and Mr. Dill always had us in on Wednesday so we could fine-tune some of the performances. He wasn’t a nice man, but he did care about getting the play right. Anyway, we’d run a scene and were taking a break, and he was talking to me from across the stage about how he wanted me to play a scene with Uncle Willie a bit differently. We started walking off stage right, about ten feet apart, when we came on Connie and Kevin Hawkins having words in the wings.”

  She paused, saw that everyone was paying attention, and continued:

  “Kevin and Connie were arguing in a low tone of voice, and they didn’t notice us coming up. Kevin was hissing at her: ‘Oh, my God, Connie. I can’t believe you hit up the old man. That was supposed to be just between us. He’d kill me if he knew it came from me.’ And she just laughed, and said, ‘Relax, Kev. He can afford it.’ Then they saw us and clammed up. Do you have any idea what that was about?”

  Gordon looked at Peter, then turned back to Steph.

  “It fits some of the evidence we’ve collected so far, and it may be pretty important, but I can’t say for sure just now.”

  “There’s one other thing. We weren’t the only ones they were unaware of. From my side of the stage, I could see Amy Hawkins behind a screen, eavesdropping. She had to have heard the whole thing.”

  This time, Gordon had nothing to say. Several seconds passed before Peter spoke.

  “One last question. The sheriff thinks Basil Dill’s murder may have been connected to drugs, specifically that he was dealing them. Did you see any indication of that during the play?”

  “No. He was totally focused on the play.”

  “Any sign that anyone else involved with the show was using or dealing drugs?”

  “Not that I saw. Although …”

  Gordon and Peter said nothing, waiting for her
to finish the sentence.

  “Well, there may not be anything to it, but for whatever it’s worth, the word at school is that Reg, the bartender at Rope’s End, does a bit of low-level dealing from behind the bar. And he played the night watchman. I don’t know if he was doing anything back then.”

  “Another lead, then,” Gordon said. “Thank you for talking with us today, Steph. It could turn out to be very helpful.”

  “Do you really think Gary Baxter’s innocent?”

  “I can’t say. What Peter and I have found in just a few days is that the sheriff and district attorney ran a slipshod investigation. They locked in on Gary Baxter right away and didn’t follow up on evidence that may have pointed to someone else. There’ll have to be more investigation, but it may be, Steph, that you’ve been too hard on your dad. There’s some chance he was defending an innocent man.”

  “In that case,” she said, “he should have gotten him off.”

  LEN CALLED as they were driving back to the house, the excitement in his voice palpable.

  “Gordon,” he said. “Wonderful news! I have struck the mother lode, historically speaking. This will forever change the community’s opinion of Maria. You and the doctor must join us for dinner so I can share this with you. Had you not suggested the newspaper, it might never have come to light.”

  “Good for you,” Gordon said, with less than full enthusiasm. His head was still in the interview with Stephanie Pope.

  “Can you meet us at Hammond’s Station on Union Street? Gloria says it’s the best celebration restaurant in town, and the dinner will be my treat.”

  “We’d be delighted.”

  “Shall we say 6:30?”

  Gordon looked at Peter and remembered that his meeting was at eight o’clock.

  “Peter has to meet someone at eight,” he said. “Could we make it six, so he’s not rushed?”

  “Certainly. Now that you mention it, I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. I’ve been so excited about this.”

  “See you at six then.”

  Hammond’s Station, in an old brick building on Union Street, was the only restaurant in Dutchtown with tablecloths. The owners, a young couple attempting to escape the bustle of the Bay Area, had tastefully decorated it with old prints and maps on the bare stone walls. Len and Gloria were seated side by side at a table for four near the back when Gordon and Peter arrived. One other couple was seated against the opposite wall near the front.