I Scarce Can Die (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 5)

by Michael Wallace

  After a bite of cinnamon roll and a sip of coffee, she began.

  “Well, like I told the sheriff that night, I really wasn’t paying much attention. Friday was a good night for television, and I was watching pretty steadily from 7:30 to 11 o’clock. I was also a bit behind on my laundry, so I set up the ironing board facing the television set and was ironing clothes while I watched. I had my back to the window that looks out on the Baxter House and hardly looked in that direction the whole evening. I think television’s a real comfort for someone who lives alone. It’s almost like having company in the house, and there are some very good programs on. Sometimes I leave it on, even when I’m not watching, just to hear voices and feel like someone else is here. Do you think that’s wrong?”

  “A lot of people do that,” Peter said. “Nothing wrong with it at all.”

  “I’m so glad to hear that, coming from a doctor. Now I won’t worry about doing it. But anyway, as I was saying, the TV was on, and I was ironing most of the time. Oh, and I had the volume turned up fairly high because it was a hot day and the window was open. I didn’t want to miss anything they were saying if a car drove by and was making too much noise.”

  “Would you have been able to hear an argument in the Baxter house?”

  “When those two went at it, you could hear them over the TV if it was at full volume. They didn’t argue that night.”

  “Did any cars drive by?” Gordon asked.

  “I’m sure there must have been one or two. The street dead-ends not far from here, so we don’t get much traffic, but there probably were a couple. I was concentrating on the ironing and the shows. So I didn’t notice any. And like I told the sheriff, I didn’t see another human being that night.”

  “Did you see anything non-human?” Peter asked.

  Gordon would cheerfully have broken a couple of Peter’s ribs with a well-thrown elbow at that point, but Mrs. Schumer’s reply caught him by surprise.

  “So you know,” she said. “Or was it just a lucky guess?”

  Neither man could think of anything to say. She continued:

  “Are either of you sensitive? Do you have the awareness of the spirit world that most mortals lack? I’m guessing one of you does.” She pointed to Gordon. “Probably you. If you are, you’ll know what I mean. People who aren’t sensitive have closed minds and there’s no point talking to them about it because they just act like you’re crazy. No, I didn’t see another human being that night.”

  She took a bite of cinnamon roll and a swallow of coffee. She chewed slowly, and Gordon found himself counting the movements of her jaw to keep his impatience at bay. At last she swallowed and set her coffee cup down on the table, leaned forward, and said in a stage whisper:

  “But I saw Maria.”

  She leaned back and looked at both men.

  “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Gordon said. “In fact, I saw her Wednesday night, on the bridge.”

  She smiled. “So you’re the sensitive. I was right.”

  “Did you tell the sheriff?”

  “Of course not. He wouldn’t have believed me, and Maria had nothing to do with the murder anyway.”

  “So we’re the first ones to know about this?”

  “I don’t know why people are so skeptical. Given how Maria was killed, of course her spirit would be restless and would stay close to where it happened. I see her a couple of times a year, usually at dusk, and usually closer to the bridge, but that night she was right outside on the road.”

  “What time was this?” Gordon asked.

  “About 10:30. The commercial came on, and I turned to go into the kitchen to boil some water for my bedtime tea. It was dark outside, but I’d know that figure anywhere, with the long white dress. She was walking in front of the Baxter house toward the bridge, and almost as soon as I saw her, she passed beyond the window frame and was gone. And as I said before, I know Maria didn’t kill Connie Baxter. That was done by human hand. But as a disturbed spirit herself, Maria probably sensed disturbances in others. She was here because Connie Baxter had just been killed, or was just about to be.”

  “I MADE A SPECIAL TREAT this morning,” Nell said. “Cinnamon rolls!”

  Gordon and Peter looked at each other.

  “That’s wonderful, Nell,” Gordon said. “They’re Peter’s absolute favorite and one of mine, too.”

  She put Gordon and Peter in the sitting room and returned several minutes later with tea, three mugs and the rolls on a plate.

  “So what have you found?” she said, as soon as they had been served.

  Gordon was chewing his roll and took more time than usual to finish it, wanting to frame his reply carefully.

  “We’re going back to San Francisco tomorrow. I’ll be writing a report for NGNC, and after that, it’s up to them whether they want to proceed or not. I don’t know how they make those decisions, so I can’t get you a definite answer.”

  “What will you be telling them?”

  “Well, for starters, it’s pretty obvious that the sheriff’s investigation left something to be desired.”

  “That was obvious before you came up here. What did you find that’s new?”

  Gordon sighed and took a swallow of tea.

  “There are several lines of investigation the sheriff didn’t pursue. Not long before she was killed, Connie acted in a play …”

  “The Philadelphia Story. I saw it.”

  “Right. In any case, there apparently were some tensions among the cast, which could suggest a motive. And it looks as if Connie learned, from someone with connections to the Harrison family, that Harrison Lumber may have been double-billing the county.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past Lee Harrison to do that or worse. The man cares for nothing but money, and if you said he was scamming the county, half the people around here would believe it straightaway.”

  “Also, there’s physical evidence that someone else was at the house that night, in addition to Gary and Connie. The sheriff and district attorney never told the defense about that.”

  “Isn’t that grounds for overturning the trial?”

  “It’s certainly grounds for asking. But judges don’t always like to revisit already-decided cases, so it’s no sure thing.”

  “How about Connie’s sister and Gary’s half-brother?”

  “My girlfriend talked to both of them this week …”

  “Girlfriend? I thought you said she was your assistant?”

  “She’s both, I suppose. My girlfriend and my assistant in this investigation. Anyway, I gather the two were quite a contrast in lifestyles, but they each confirmed something that was already coming out. The brother said Gary thought Connie might be cheating on him, and the sister said Connie had a devious streak and liked to hold secrets and use them against people. It’s a personal trait that’s gotten quite a few people killed over time.”

  “So bottom line, Gordon. Are there any suspects?”

  “I’d say there are three likely people, two long shots, and one supernatural candidate.”

  “That’s not funny. This is no laughing matter.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be funny — just summarizing what a witness said. I’ll get back to that in a minute, but let’s take the others first. The three likelies are Lee Harrison, his daughter Amy and his son-in-law, Kevin Hawkins.

  “Harrison, as you say, may have been scamming money from the county. If Connie was threatening to expose him, or was extorting money from him, he’d at least have had a decent motive.

  “Kevin seems to be the prime suspect as Connie’s presumed boyfriend. If he was, exposure could threaten his marriage and his job. Again, a decent motive.

  “And finally, Amy. Connie took the part she wanted in The Philadelphia Story, and if she was taking Amy’s husband, too, well, hell hath no fury …”

  “You mention the play. How about the plant man? Basil Dill?”

  “I don’t see him as a suspe
ct, but he remembered something that went on during the play and was shot before he could tell me about it. Problem is, the only person who knew he was going to talk to me has a solid alibi.”

  “All right, then. Who are the long shot candidates?”

  “First of all, Dick Holmes.”

  “Holmes? The insurance man? He handles my policy on the inn. He strikes me as marginally competent and utterly inoffensive. Why would he want to kill Connie?”

  “He was in the play, and apparently was getting a bit infatuated with Connie. I don’t know if it went anywhere, but if it did, and she started squeezing him, then a respectable man who’s over a barrel could be pushed to kill.”

  Nell shook her head. “I don’t know what men saw in Connie. Raw sex appeal, maybe. All I know is, she wasn’t any good for Gary, and she wouldn’t have been good for anyone else.”

  “Maybe not. The other long shot would be Reg, the bartender at Rope’s End. The sheriff thinks Dill’s murder has to do with drug dealing. I think that’s unlikely, but Reg has a reputation for doing a bit of business like that on the side. If drugs were being moved backstage, and Connie somehow got involved, there could have been a business decision to get her out of the picture.”

  “I don’t think so,” Nell said. “I have a feeling that Connie was killed for being Connie.”

  “Anyway,” Gordon said. “There you have it. Now, as for the unearthly candidate, it seems that on the night of Connie’s murder, Mrs. Schumer, the next-door neighbor, saw a woman in a white dress on the street and says it was the ghost of Maria, who was hanged at the bridge over Dutch Joe Creek in May of 1852. Like I say, I’m just repeating what she said.”

  Nell looked at Gordon, then at Peter, who had been sitting silently through the conversation.

  “You’re the doctor,” she said. “What do you think?”

  Peter shifted position on the couch.

  “I think the most likely explanation is that she saw a real person, who may or may not have had something to do with Connie’s killing. Or, she could have been imagining it.”

  Nell shook her head. “I don’t buy the real person argument. If you were going to the Baxter house to kill Connie, or just to have it out with her, why would you wear a bright white dress that would call attention to yourself and make you stand out in the dark? That makes no sense at all.”

  AFTER THE TWO OFFERINGS of cinnamon rolls, Gordon and Peter decided not to stop in Dutchtown for sandwiches, but rather to fish for as long as the breakfast and pastries kept them fueled. They drove back from Pass City, past Dutchtown, and about eight miles downriver before Gordon slowed down, made a left turn, and parked in a turnout.

  It was getting warmer and beginning to look as if Indian summer might have one last gasp left, though the leaves on the ground were proof that fall had arrived. A hundred feet from where they parked was an entrance to a Forest Service campground, closed for the winter and blocked by a steel bar gate. A vehicle couldn’t get in, but anyone on foot could, and that was Gordon’s plan.

  “We’re right on the river here, and the campground’s been closed for three weeks,” he said, as they put on waders. “We should have some elbow room, and the fish should be getting curious again.”

  The campground was like a ghost town, and as they walked through it, they could see traces of the former inhabitants: An empty can of beans, a cigarette packet, a cardboard milk container only partially burned in a fire pit. They could hear the moving water of the Bellota, but not see it. Near the end of the campsite loop, Gordon moved between two spots, where there was a break in the brush.

  “Here’s the trail,” he said. “Or one of them.” It was three feet wide, and the brush and trees on either side were more than head high. Two hundred feet from the campsite, it ended on a gravel beach 25 feet wide and about a hundred feet long. Gordon looked at the water and nodded.

  “Pretty much what I was expecting,” he said. “A lot of nice water here. And it’s a big river now. I think it would be a good idea for us to stay within shouting distance. Let’s work upstream first. You want to lead the way?”

  “I’ll follow,” Peter said. “I want to see where you fish and how. Oh, and Gordon.” Gordon stopped. “I did pick up on what you didn’t tell Nell. About the sixth suspect.”

  Gordon smiled. “You mean Nell herself?”

  “You must admit, she has her attractions as a suspect. No one’s considered her, no one knows what her alibi might have been for the two killings. If Mrs. Schumer saw a real woman that night, it could be Nell as well as anybody. And she was a bit too quick to dismiss the idea of it being a real woman.”

  “I thought of all that,” Gordon said. “I like the Harrison trio better, but she’s as plausible as Holmes and Reg. I’ll give her a mention in my report. However, we’re going to catch more fish casting than talking, so let’s get to it.”

  For the next three hours, they enjoyed all the pleasures the river had to offer. A succession of trout, ten to 16 inches long, eagerly attacked the nymphs the anglers drifted below the surface, and several rose to a dry fly when the men switched to that for three-quarters of an hour. It was warm, but not too hot, and the dazzling sun turned the landscape into a Kodachrome slide, bringing out the full color in everything.

  By 3:30, they had doubled back past the gravel beach and were fishing downstream from it. The low autumn sun was beginning to cast shadows across the water. Seventy- five yards from the beach, they came to a large hole where, on their side of the river, the water fell over an 18-inch cascade into a deep emerald pool about a hundred feet long.

  “This is where we might find one of the big trout moving up from the reservoir,” Gordon said. “Want to give it a try?”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Give me your rod. I’ll show you.”

  He snipped part of the tippet off the end of Peter’s line and added nearly twice as much, tied on in two sections. He slid a large indicator far up the leader and attached it, then tied on a fly and attached a weight a foot above it.

  “All right,” Peter said. “Explain.”

  “You want to get that fly down deep in the pool as fast as possible,” Gordon said. “Just like the lake on Thursday. It’s 12 to 13 feet below the indicator, and that split shot will get it down right away. Cast it to land right at the top of the pool and let it drift down with the current. Try it five times, and if nobody says howdy, we’ll reload.”

  Peter did as directed. The first cast was awkward and too close to shore, but the second was better, and the third landed three or four feet beyond it. As the fly was drifting through the hole, the indicator jerked sharply under water, and Peter raised his rod. He had a fish on.

  And quite a fish, too. It moved this way and that, giving the rod tip an extreme bend, but it stayed in the deep water and they couldn’t see it for some time. Finally, it moved closer to the surface, and they could see it was very large indeed. Gordon waded out into the pool, net in hand, to where the water was a foot above his knees. Peter eventually was able to work the fish toward Gordon somewhat, and Gordon realized it was far larger than his net. He threw the net onto the shore, and when Peter worked the fish, a richly colored Brown Trout, toward him again, Gordon reached under its belly and pulled it toward him, holding it against his wader-covered leg.

  The trout momentarily stopped fighting, and Gordon saw that the hook was barely in its upper lip. With his left hand, he twisted the hook out. He left the hand in front of the fish and moved his right hand to its tail. A couple of seconds later, the fish skittered back to the depths of the pool.

  Holding his hands apart where they had marked the length of the fish, Gordon moved back to shore. “Lower right pocket of my vest,” Gordon barked. “There’s a tape measure. Let’s see how big your fish was.”

  With his steady surgeon’s hands, Peter got the tape out and measured the space between Gordon’s hands.

  “Twenty-nine and a half inches,” he said.

  Gordon e
xhaled and lowered his arms.

  “Think you can catch another one that big?”

  “Maybe if I try for 30 more years.”

  “It’s always a good idea to end a fishing trip with a good fish, and this was a great fish. What do you say we call it a day?”

  “Let’s call it a day.”

  GORDON CAME OUT OF THE SHOWER an hour later to find Peter sitting quietly on the couch.

  “Len just called,” Peter said. “He found something else really big and wants to meet us at the taqueria at 6:30. I told him sure. I may have to leave a bit early for my meeting, but you can fill me in later.”

  Gordon nodded, and at the appointed time, they were driving across the bridge to dinner. By 6:30 there was barely any light in the sky, and despite the warmth of the day, it was getting chilly. The four of them (Gloria had arrived with Len) decided to eat indoors and took a corner table. Kickoff for the high school’s home football game was at seven, and the place thinned out quickly after they arrived.

  Gloria stacked two journals on the table, and as soon as they’d ordered, Len explained.

  “To speed things up, Gloria agreed to help me go through the journals today. I read Ezra Pierce’s 1852 journal all the way through to the end of the year, and Gloria got through the summer of 1853. It took most of the day, but the good stuff was there.”

  Len took the top journal and handed it over to Gordon.

  “Could you honor us with another reading?” Len asked. “Please read the entry for the date that begins on the marked page.”

  Gordon opened the journal where a business card had been stuck in and began reading.

  September 21st 1852. Thorndyke, of the claims office, came into the bank today, and as customers were few, we had an opportunity to exchange pleasantries (and more) as he was conducting his business. In the course of the discussion, it came out that Joseph Benkelman has acquired the claim previously belonging to McManus on upper Dutch Joe Creek. I did not ask how that happened, and Thorndyke did not volunteer any information in that regard. Benkelman apparently has high hopes for the claim and has already enlisted four men to commence building a sluice and working the site.