I Scarce Can Die (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 5)

by Michael Wallace

  “Bear with me. It gets weirder. I figured that was one of those things that happens occasionally.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Then on Monday, Peter and I were fishing a creek in a meadow a couple of miles out of town. We were the only ones there, and at one point, I looked up from my cast, and I saw her again — young, blond and beautiful, and this time she was wearing a full-length white dress. She was on the other side of the creek again, and this time she disappeared behind a clump of berry bushes a few seconds after I saw her.

  “Did Peter see her?”

  “No, but he was a hundred yards away and looking in the other direction.”

  “This is fascinating, Gordon. I simply must ask Barry about this.”

  “Barry?”

  “Barry Berkowitz, head of the psychology department. He might have some insight into this sort of thing.”

  “If you’re going to present me as a case study, keep listening. The second sighting unnerved me so much I decided to make the lady’s acquaintance. So when we drove back to town, I stopped in front of the house where I’d seen her. It was for sale and completely empty inside. The real estate agent who handled our house said she’d shown the place to a client on Sunday and there was no sign at all that anyone had been there.”

  “So you’re imagining all this?”

  “I don’t see how. I was wide awake both times, and it was completely vivid to me. But I tried to tell myself that may be the case, until it happened again Wednesday night. We had dinner downtown, and Peter went to a meeting afterward. I was walking to the house, and when I got to the bridge over Dutch Joe Creek, there she was again, dressed in white and looking over the railing on the far side.”

  “This is starting to creep me out, Gordon. What did you do?”

  “I called out to her and started across the bridge, but I tripped over a raised plank, lost my balance for a second or two, and when I shined the light in her direction again, she was gone. I looked for her on the other side, but it was so dark, it was hopeless.”

  Again, Elizabeth was silent for a while, before saying:

  “So you saw her Saturday, Monday and Wednesday. With that pattern, she should have made an appearance today. Did she?”

  “No. Well — no and yes. You remember I told you earlier about the guy who’s in town looking into the gold rush lynching that was the first hanging of a woman in California?”

  “I remember you mentioning it.”

  “Well, he struck pay dirt today. In a trunk in an attic, he found a journal kept by one of the earliest settlers of Dutchtown, and it described Maria’s case and her hanging. The pertinent facts, in terms of my specter, are these:

  “She was young, blond and beautiful and often wore a full-length white dress.

  “She worked at a brothel located about where the house where I first saw the woman now stands. She used to stand in a window naked, and wave at the men passing by.

  “The guy who kept the journal once saw her picking berries in the fall in the same meadow where I saw her Monday. She was wearing the white dress when both of us saw her.

  “And finally, she was hanged at the bridge where I saw her Wednesday night. Actually an earlier bridge at the same place. So what do you think of all that?”

  “I think we might be getting somewhere,” Elizabeth said after a pause. “Do you read ghost stories, Gordon?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well now that you lay it out like that, it fits a pattern. The great ghost story writers of the last couple of centuries — J.S. LeFanu, Oliver Onions, M.R. James — often viewed the so-called spirit world as a manifestation of our inner turmoil. A classic example by a better-known writer would be Henry James and The Turn of the Screw. And LeFanu wrote a story called The Familiar, which is about a ship’s captain who abandoned a man to die at sea. Back home in Dublin, he finds himself followed by footsteps as he walks through the city at night, but there’s nobody there. It’s his guilty conscience, and eventually he holes himself up in a room and dies of fright.”

  “You think I’m imagining this?”

  “Gordon, I can’t tell what you’re thinking half the time as it is, and I wouldn’t presume to do it in this case. All I’m saying is, it’s an explanation that makes some sense. You meet someone who’s looking into the woman’s case, and his investigation is emotionally aligned with your investigation of Gary Baxter. Isn’t it just possible that all that stuff is getting mixed up in your brain like a slow-cooking soup and causing your imagination to get a little hyperactive?”

  It took him a quarter of a minute to answer.

  “I don’t know,” he finally said. “It’s so real that it’s hard for me to put it down to imagination.” He drained the last of his herbal tea. “But you make a pretty good case, and I suppose I have to consider it.” He laughed. “Anyway, I like your theory better than Peter’s.”

  “Oh, God. Peter has an answer for everything and never doubts himself. What did he have to say about it?”

  “Brace yourself. Peter thinks the woman in white is the manifestation of all the others I’m forsaking by being in a committed relationship with you.”

  Now it was Elizabeth’s turn to say nothing for what seemed, to Gordon, a very long time.

  “You know,” she finally said, “he could be right.”

  Afterward, Gordon leaned back, slouching in the couch and resting his head on the top of it. He wanted to discuss Elizabeth’s theory with Peter, but Peter wouldn’t be back for at least 15 or 20 minutes. So he stared at the ceiling and let random thoughts of Maria and Gary Baxter flow through his mind like rivers constantly changing their channels.

  He was brought bolt upright by a loud knock on the door — three sharp raps.

  QUICKLY, GORDON CONSIDERED THE POSSIBILITIES. Peter had a key to the house, and if he had lost it, he would have called out as he knocked. The knocker, therefore, could be anyone else and perhaps dangerous. Gordon found himself thinking of the scene in the Humphrey Bogart movie The Big Sleep, where a man answered the door and was shot to death at point-blank range. He tried to put the idea out of his head. An assassin wouldn’t give him the chance to get a gun if he had one (which he didn’t) but would have tried to sneak up on him.

  The knock was repeated, and Gordon made a decision. He would open the door, but be prepared to duck. He walked to it as noiselessly as possible, stood back from the edge, opened it and looked out.

  Standing on the front porch, arms at his side and hands innocent of weapons, was Kevin Hawkins.

  “Mr. Gordon,” he said, “can we talk privately?”

  “Sure,” Gordon said softly, opening the door for him to come in. Gordon motioned him to the couch, and his offer of water or tea was politely declined. Gordon sat in one of the chairs and waited for Kevin to speak first.

  “I suppose you realize you’ve opened a can of worms,” Kevin finally said. “Two weeks ago, I thought I’d never hear about The Philadelphia Story again and be able to get on with my life. I wasn’t the only one who felt that way.”

  Gordon nodded, encouraging him to keep speaking.

  “Basil Dill being shot last night changes everything. I thought Gary Baxter killed Connie. Everybody in town did, I guess. Now I’m not so sure. Especially after that phone call.”

  “The one about 4:15 yesterday?”

  “You know?”

  “I know Dill made two calls from the neighbor’s house. One of them was to me, just arranging a meeting in an hour or so. The other one almost had to be to someone involved in The Philadelphia Story.”

  “Does the sheriff know?”

  “He knows there were two calls. I don’t know if he’s run them down yet. But if he hasn’t he will, and you’ll be getting a visit.”

  Kevin curled up deeper into the couch. “But you don’t know what Dill was going to tell you?” he asked.

  “Actually, if it was about your conversation with Connie, regarding a payment she got from your father-in-law, I do know
.”

  “But how? Oh. Steph Pope.”

  Gordon nodded. “She remembered it pretty well. This afternoon she told me about it with her father and my friend Peter in attendance. The cat’s out of the bag, Kevin, and the question is, what are you going to do about it?”

  “I don’t know. There are so many people who might get hurt.”

  “Not as bad as Connie Baxter got hurt. Or Gary Baxter, if he didn’t kill her, and I’m beginning to believe he didn’t.”

  “Damn Connie Baxter! I wish I’d never met her.”

  “I believe that, but it doesn’t get us anywhere. Since you’re not being very forthcoming, let me tell you how the case looks to me. Fair enough?”

  Kevin nodded.

  “I’m guessing The Philadelphia Story threw you and Connie together in such a way that a mutual attraction developed, and that it played itself out the way these things often do. As part of the pillow talk, you made the mistake of telling her that Lee Harrison had double-billed the county for 34 grand in materials, and that gave her an idea for generating a little outside income. She saw Harrison and offered not to call it to her boss’s attention if he slipped her nine hundred in cash.”

  “A thousand.”

  “All right, so she’d spent a hundred of it by the time she was killed. But she was blackmailing one of the most powerful men in town. How long do you suppose it would take your father-in-law to figure out where she got the lead on that?”

  Kevin was hunched up like a rabbit inside a hollow log.

  “And on top of that, Connie had a gentleman caller the night she was killed. The DNA evidence shows it wasn’t Gary, which makes you the next contender. The sheriff will get around to asking you for a sample eventually, and I’m guessing you’re toast whether you give it to him or not. If you do, it puts you at the scene of the murder, and if you don’t, it looks suspicious as hell. No, Kevin, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes right now.”

  “Wait!” he wailed. “All right, you’ve got a lot of it figured out, but I’m not a murderer. I went to see Connie that night to break it off, but that woman was a witch. Before I knew it, we were in bed together again. But I swear to God she was alive when I left, at about 10:15.”

  That would have allowed someone else enough time to kill Connie before Gary got back from the bar, assuming Kevin was telling the truth. In Gordon’s mind that was a big “if.”

  “But there’s only your word for that,” Gordon said. “And why did Dill call you a half hour before he was murdered.”

  “He wanted to be sure in his mind that it was Connie I was having the conversation with.”

  “Being sure cost him his life. You’re the one who knew what he was doing. That makes you a prime suspect, don’t you think?”

  “Not when they check my alibi. I was talking with four men in the lumber yard when the sirens first went off. We’d been talking for about five minutes, and I’d just been talking with old man Harrison’s secretary minutes before that. I couldn’t have killed Dill.”

  “Who else did you tell about the phone call?”

  “I didn’t tell anyone. That’s the truth, whether you believe it or not.”

  “Could Harrison have known about the call — or listened in on it?”

  Kevin had to think about it a minute.

  “He could have known I was getting a call. The phone on his desk is set up so he can access several extensions, including mine. He likes to have the option of taking a call himself if he knows someone is out.”

  “So he could have listened in on your conversation with Dill?”

  “I think I would have heard the click when he picked up.”

  “Was he there when you were talking to his secretary?”

  “I didn’t see him.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Gordon leaned back in his chair for a minute. Kevin was breathing heavily, but his breathing returned to normal by the time Gordon asked his next question.

  “So tell me, Kevin. Why, exactly, did you come here tonight?”

  “I guess I just wanted to see what you knew. I didn’t realize it was so much. Do you think the sheriff is going to be questioning me about this?”

  “Let me put it this way. If I figured out this much in a week, I’m sure Sheriff Ketch can figure it out in a month. You’ll be hearing from him eventually.”

  “I understand your father’s a judge. What do you think I should do?”

  Gordon suppressed a smile. The judge’s advice to his children was always, “You rarely get in trouble for the things you don’t do.” It would have been good advice for Kevin before the first rehearsal for The Philadelphia Story, but wasn’t much use to him now.

  “If you’re telling me the truth,” Gordon said.

  “I am.”

  “Then I’d go to the sheriff tomorrow and tell him what we discussed tonight. You’re going to be in trouble no matter what you do, but the sooner you step forward, the easier it’s likely to go, relatively speaking.”

  “That doesn’t sound so good.”

  “You’re out of good options, Kevin. You’re just doing damage control now. That’s the best I can tell you. Good luck. You’re going to need it.”

  After a long pause, Kevin stood up.

  “Thank you for talking to me. I’m amazed by how much you knew. How do you do it?”

  Gordon shrugged. “I seem to attract information the way a magnet attracts metal shavings.”

  He accompanied Kevin to the front door.

  “You know,” Kevin said, “whoever killed Basil Dill is still at large. Have you thought about packing up and going home tomorrow? For your own safety?”

  “The suggestion has come up already, but I wasn’t interested. We’re due out of here on Sunday, and that’s when I’m going.”

  “You’re calmer about it than I’d be. All right. I’ll sleep on it, and I’ll probably talk to the sheriff tomorrow.”

  Gordon let him out and locked the door behind him.

  “And whether you tell the sheriff or not,” he said under his breath, “I’ll be briefing Pope and putting this in my report.”

  Saturday October 24

  “DO YOU THINK HE WAS PLAYING YOU?” Peter asked.

  “Probably,” Gordon said. “The question is how. What’s he faking with, and what’s he trying to conceal?”

  They were sitting at the breakfast table at the house, finishing a meal of bacon, eggs, toast and coffee. Light from the bright autumn sun filtered through the window blinds.

  “For instance,” he continued, “why would he tell me he had sex with Connie at her house that night? That leaves him pretty exposed.”

  Peter shook his head. “Not necessarily. He might figure he could have to come clean about being there and be doing a pre-emptive strike, trying out his story on you. And he could always tell the sheriff he had to make a quick bedroom exit when he heard Gary coming home. That puts Gary at the scene with a cheating wife who was alive when he arrived.”

  “If she was.”

  “Well, for various reasons, neither Gary nor Connie is in a position to contradict that. Right?”

  “Right. As always.”

  “And the nosy neighbor was asleep on the job that night, so she was no help.”

  Gordon had been lifting the coffee cup to his mouth, but paused and set it down again.

  “How could I be so stupid,” he said. “I should have talked to the neighbor.”

  “Do you really think you’d get anything after all this time?”

  “The sheriff’s investigative work leaves a lot to be desired. Who knows what he forgot to ask, or what she might say if someone gently encouraged her to talk instead of peppering her with questions at a crime scene?”

  He looked at Peter for reinforcement. Peter shrugged.

  “Who knows?” he said.

  Gordon looked at his watch. “Our appointment with Nell isn’t until 10:30. There’s plenty of time to walk down the street and knock on Mrs. Schumer’s door.”


  “And we’re still going fishing after we talk to Nell?”

  “Absolutely. That’s a promise.”

  CLARA SCHUMER, AFTER ASCERTAINING that Gordon and Peter were not intent on foisting religious tracts upon her, invited them in, served them freshly made cinnamon rolls, and started a fresh pot of coffee. She was a plump, cheerful, gray-haired woman who obviously loved to talk, and, living alone, had too few people to talk to.

  “I do miss the Baxters,” she said, after Gordon told her the reason for their visit. “They argued a lot, I suppose, but nobody’s perfect, and they were basically nice people, although everybody knew he had a drinking problem. It’s a shame that house is just sitting there empty. It would make a nice first home for a young couple. I was going to talk to Gary’s mother about it, but she died in that accident. I guess you heard about that.”

  “We did,” Gordon said. “I was wondering if …”

  “I’m sure the place could be fixed up real nice for not too much money. It could use a paint job, and there’s probably a few days’ work in it for a good handyman. I suggested Tom Perkins to Gary’s brother, but he said the ownership of the house was still in court and he’d get back to me later. Maybe I should give him a call. What do you think? Sure. I’ll do it Monday. Tom Perkins is very reasonable and he does good work. And he could use the business, too. This is such a small town there isn’t always enough work to go around. That’s why so many of the young people leave. I often wondered why Gary didn’t. Leave, I mean. If he’d gotten a good, steady job, he might not have drunk so much and things would have been better for them and Connie would still be alive and Gary wouldn’t be in state prison. But I suppose that’s all water under the bridge.”

  “The cinnamon rolls are delightful,” said Gordon, who had eaten half of one while she was talking. “Are they from your own recipe?”

  “My mother’s. The recipe must be almost a hundred years old. When she gave it to me, I had to figure out how to adapt the cooking time to adjust from a wood stove to a gas oven. It took two or three tries, but I have it now.”

  “You certainly do,” Peter said.

  “I was wondering if you could walk us through what you saw and heard the night Connie was killed,” Gordon said, leaping at the pause in the conversation. “Just tell us in your own words and take your time and include anything you can remember. We’re in no hurry, and I’m not taking notes.”