Wash Her Guilt Away (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 2)

by Michael Wallace

  Rogers raised his eyebrows.

  “It had to be Stuart Bingham. I don’t know what he would have been doing there …”

  “Come on, Gordon. I think we both know what he was doing.”

  “You’re probably right. But I really don’t want to hurt his wife.”

  “Yeah, I know about that, too. But this gives us two more people with a motive now.”

  “You mean …?”

  “She’s big enough and strong enough to have done it. I’m not reaching any conclusion — just stating the evidence.”

  “Shit,” said Gordon.

  “That’s the hell of a criminal investigation. All the dirt in everybody’s life gets stirred up. Just collateral damage.”

  “Just.”

  “I’ll have a word with both of them after dinner. I’ll be as decent as I can, but it’s bound to come out. The poor bastard should have kept it in his pants, but easier said than done.”

  “Are you done with me?”

  “For now. Don’t tell anyone about our conversation — and that includes the doctor.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Of course you will. But I have to tell you anyway. Enjoy the dinner. I hear the spaghetti Bolognese is going to be good tonight.”

  11

  THE SPAGHETTI was indeed excellent, but dinner was otherwise a leaden and desultory affair. Sharon made a point of sitting with Van Holland from time to time and trying to cheer him up, but it was a hopeless proposition. Alan forgot to bring his trout flies along and had nothing to talk about; Drew was in no mood for conversation anyway. Rachel’s gift for making small talk availed her nothing. Gordon and Peter ate by the window, looking out as passing showers came and went.

  Rogers and Lilly dined at a separate table at the far end of the dining hall from the others. Shortly after eight, as most of them were finishing the meal, Rogers got up and walked over to Rachel and Stuart’s table.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Bingham. Could I ask you to come by the interview room for a few minutes when you’re done with dinner. I have a couple more questions for you.”

  Slightly surprised, Stuart simply nodded in reply.

  Gordon and Peter lingered over their coffee as long as they could, and shortly after 8:30 headed back to their cabin through a steady light shower. As soon as they arrived, Peter poured himself several ounces of straight scotch from another bottle in his suitcase and offered some to Gordon, who declined. After taking a big gulp of whisky, Peter looked at his friend.

  “So what’s going on with Stuart?”

  Gordon shrugged.

  “Come on, Gordon. Rogers was done with all of us until you went in to see him again, then Stuart gets an encore, too. You had to have said something.”

  “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

  Peter took another sip and kept looking at Gordon without saying anything.

  “All right,” Gordon said. “I told him about Sunday — when we saw Stuart coming out of Wendy’s cabin. It had to be him. Everybody else was gone.”

  “Poor bastard. He’ll break down and admit it right away, and then his wife will find out. I’m glad I’m not in his shoes tonight.”

  “I feel pretty rotten about this, Peter. She’s going to be really hurt.”

  “It can’t be helped, and it would have come out anyway. After we talked about it at lunch, I pretty much made up my mind I’d bring it up if you didn’t. You just beat me to it.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Are you still carrying a torch for her?”

  “No, it’s been a long time.”

  “Not even a little bit? Are you going to tell me that when you read about her in the paper, your heart doesn’t flutter just a teense?”

  “Maybe a teense. But it’s a fond remembrance, not a call to action. I’m sure you have a woman or two in your past that you recall with pleasure.”

  “Those would be the ones I didn’t marry. But I know what you mean.” Another sip of whisky. “Not wanting to be disrespectful or anything, but do you think we’re going to get any more fishing done this trip? It’s awfully tedious sitting in the lodge all day.”

  “I hear you. Who knows?” They were silent for a few minutes. “There’s something else, Peter. Rogers asked me to keep an eye out on the guests and let him know if I see or hear anything.”

  “If you’re asking for my help, I’m in.”

  “Thanks. But it bothers me. I feel like I’m spying on people.”

  Peter finished the whisky in his glass. “Not surprising that he’d turn to the judge’s son for help. I wouldn’t worry about it. This is a serious business. Let me tell you something about crime victims, since I’ve operated on quite a few of them. As a general rule, people don’t get shot or stabbed for behaving like the Chamber of Commerce man or woman of the year. They probably provoked it in some way, but even so they didn’t deserve it. The stabber, the shooter, or in this case the strangler reacted to a provocation in a way society can’t allow. Wendy was a piece of work, but what she deserved was a divorce without alimony — not this. I, for one, will happily keep my eyes and ears open and tell Detective Rogers anything at all that might help him catch the person who killed her. And even if it was somebody I liked a bit, I won’t feel at all sorry when they’re led off in handcuffs. They made a decision and they have to take the consequences.”

  “You’re right. Eyes and ears open. Both of us. And I’ll pass along anything you see or hear.”

  “The Hardy Boys to the rescue.” He reached for the scotch bottle. “And now I’ll have a little nightcap and turn in.”

  “Peter! You already had a nightcap.”

  He poured out a few more ounces of Scotch and looked at Gordon.

  “Please,” he said. “You’re beginning to sound like my fourth wife, and I’d hate to see you pass out of my life like she did.”

  Thursday May 11

  1

  GORDON WAS AWAKE for 15 minutes before he realized it had been raining steadily. The rain had been such a constant presence the past few days that he hardly paid conscious attention to it.

  Peter was grumpier than usual. “We could be here for months,” he said when Gordon emerged after taking a shower. “We’re in the middle of an unsolvable murder case with an overwhelmed detective. God knows how long he’s going to ask us to stick around while he investigates. Plus the weather’s so crappy we can’t do anything. We might just end up spending the whole summer at Harry’s while we lose our jobs and our friends gradually forget about us.”

  “I don’t have a job,” Gordon said, “and I’m hungry. Let’s get some breakfast.”

  “We might have to swim to the lodge. Can we at least wait until the rain lets up?”

  “Fifteen minutes,” Gordon said. “Then we go to breakfast no matter what.”

  A quarter-hour later the rain was, if anything, falling even harder, so they donned parkas and sloshed up the path and across the lawn to the lodge.

  It was warm when they entered the building, and Sharon was there to greet them.

  “Would you like a copy of the local paper?” she asked. “Compliments of the local reporter.”

  Gordon took one. “How bad is it?”

  “The story? Pretty bad. You’ll see for yourself.”

  She took them to a window table and poured their coffee. It was just before eight, and only two other people were in the dining area. Rogers was sitting alone at a table as far back from the window as possible, but with a good view of the dining room and its inhabitants. Stuart was alone at the corner window table, poking distractedly at a plate of food. Gordon set the paper down while he and Peter went to the buffet. By the time they got back to their table, Stuart’s plate looked untouched from when they had last seen it a few minutes earlier. Gordon decided not to ask and instead sat down with his food and opened the paper to the front page. The top story said:

  BAY AREA WOMAN, 27, STRANGLED

  AT HISTORIC RIVERSIDE RETREAT

  No footpr
ints

  Found in snow

  By death cabin

  Was It Witchcraft?

  By CYNTHIA HENLEY

  Beacon-Journal Staff Writer

  EDEN MILLS — Lava County Sheriff’s Detectives are scratching their heads at the murder of a 27-year-old Bay Area housewife found strangled to death at Harry’s Riverside Lodge, a historic local landmark.

  The reason for their puzzlement: Wendy Van Holland of Hillsborough was alone in a cabin at the bucolic hunting and fishing resort the night she was killed. When she was discovered Wednesday morning, the cabin was locked from the inside including a chain lock in place on the front door, which had to be forcibly broken to gain entry.

  Adding to the mystery was the fact that although several inches of snow had fallen the night before, no footprints were found in the vicinity of the cabin prior to the discovery of the body.

  Detective Harry Rogers, in charge of the case, was abrupt with reporters, saying only, “We’re still talking to people and evaluating the physical evidence.”

  Asked if there were any suspects, Rogers snapped, “Everybody at Harry’s is a person of interest at this point.”

  Rogers declined to say how many people that would be, but according to the registration log at the front desk, there were eight guests, including Mrs. Van Holland and her husband Charles, an insurance executive, plus an unspecified number of hotel staff on the premises.

  It was not immediately clear why the victim’s husband, Charles Van Holland, was not in the cabin on the night in question. One of the other guests said he had been every night up to that point.

  The almost supernatural aspect of the murder is in some ways in keeping with the history of Harry’s, which, according to local lore, has been under a witch’s curse for the past 20 years or so.

  Harry’s was opened in 1947 by Harry Ezekian, a Sacramento restaurateur who acquired the lodge from a logging company that had been using it as an executive retreat. During the 1950s and 60s it was a popular weekend and summer getaway destination, especially with politicians from Sacramento who favored it for extramarital affairs.

  After Ezekian’s death, his son Bob took over the business. Gossip began to spread among local residents that the son’s wife, Ariel, was the head of a coven of witches that met regularly in the dense forests of eastern Lava County, and some locals contend that witchcraft is still practiced in the woods on dark nights to this day.

  The son’s wife left him and the area in the mid-1970s, but before leaving she reportedly put a curse on the lodge, saying that there would be no love there. The lodge went through a period of declining business after that, culminating in Bob Ezekian’s committing suicide in a boat on Eden River one night. Locals say the spot where he killed himself is widely avoided after dark by local residents.

  Since then the lodge has been through a succession of owners. The current operators, Don and Sharon Potter, have been praised by many local residents for making improvements to the property and beginning to draw more business to it.

  Detective Rogers, who is investigating the case with the assistance of deputy Eldon Lilly, has moved into a room at Harry’s and said he will stay at the lodge until the case is solved.

  He set the newspaper down on the table, then picked it up and offered it to Peter, who shook his head.

  “Summarize,” he said.

  “Your typical journalistic exaggeration,” Gordon said. “Witchcraft, supernatural elements, unsolvable crime.”

  “They may have the last one right. But there’s nothing supernatural about this — just a smart and lucky killer. Too bad the snow didn’t last until Rogers got here.”

  Breakfast was finished in silence. Part way through their meal, Stuart, his plate largely untouched, rose and left without a word. Drew and Alan came in and sat a few tables away. Alan was absorbed by two streamers (larger flies that imitate minnows) he had taken from his box; Drew appeared nervous and kept glancing over at Rogers. Deputy Lilly came in and joined Rogers as Gordon and Peter were wrapping up their meal. April followed him to the table, topped off Rogers’ coffee cup and asked if the deputy wanted some.

  He hesitated for a couple of seconds. “Maybe just one cup,” he said.

  “Wouldn’t want to get carried away,” she said. As she leaned over the table to turn his cup right-side-up on the saucer, her arm brushed against his and he flinched slightly.

  “Real strong this morning,” she said. “It’ll put some hair on your chest.” After which she flounced over to Gordon and Peter’s table to top off their cups for the last time.

  “You have a new person of interest?” Peter asked in a low voice.

  She chuckled. “He’s so straight I can’t help teasing him. He worries more over a cup of coffee than anybody else here does over a drink. Besides, ever since Drew talked to the detective yesterday, he’s stopped making advances toward me.”

  “Is that a problem?” Gordon said.

  “Let’s face it, they were pretty pathetic advances, but at least they were attention. A girl’s gotta feel wanted, after all.”

  She moved over to Alan and Drew’s table, where Drew welcomed her with all the warmth normally shown to a tourist asking for directions. April looked back at Gordon and Peter and shrugged as she headed back to the kitchen.

  Johnny came in a few minutes later, waved at Peter and Gordon, and went to Drew and Alan’s table. Alan looked up.

  “Are we going out today?”

  “Well, sir, that depends,” Johnny said. “I expect that’s up to detective Rogers.”

  Rogers and Lilly had been conversing in low tones, but Rogers apparently heard the remark and rose, heading over to their table.

  “Sorry for any inconvenience,” he said, “but this is a murder investigation. That said, it looks like I’ll be doing some paperwork and reading reports coming in on the fax machine the next few hours. You boys can go out and do a little fishing if you like, as long as you’re back by one o’clock.” He looked over at Gordon and Peter. “Same for you.”

  Everyone thanked him. On the way back to the cabin, in rain that had become a light drizzle, Peter said:

  “It seems a bit disrespectful to the dead, but Harry’s is getting me down. Is there any place nearby where we could fish, or try to, for a couple of hours?”

  “I know just the spot.”

  2

  FROM HARRY’S THEY DROVE to Eden Mills and turned west on the state highway. Halfway to the town of Muirfield, Gordon turned right on a narrow, cracked and bumpy paved road. They followed it through chaparral for a mile and a half before stopping at a gate and cattle guard at the entrance to a dirt road.

  “You know the drill,” Gordon said. Peter got out and opened the gate, closing it again after Gordon had driven through. They drove up a rise and came into a meadow dotted with grazing cattle. At several points in the meadow the road was under a deep puddle of water, but it was always passable. The rain had stopped, the skies were still gray, and the meadow grass, at least a foot high in most places, was swaying in the wind. After three quarters of a mile, the dirt road went down a slight incline and ended at a small parking area by a creek 50 to 60 feet wide, rolling slowly through a grassy meadow. No one else was there. They parked and sat looking at the stream.

  “Is this more of gabby Bob’s property?” Peter said.

  “Nope. This is the Copper Bridge parking area at Saddle Creek. Owned by Fremont Light and Power, with cattle-grazing rights leased to somebody and public access available to all who can find it.”

  “So where’s the bridge?”

  “There hasn’t been one in at least 40 years, but if you go a couple of hundred feet upstream you can see a few posts. That’s all that’s left.”

  “Pretty place, anyway.”

  Gordon gestured to the left. “If you go downstream about a quarter of a mile, there’s a nice meadow section with some good weed beds in the water. Almost always some decent fish there.”

  “Sounds good to me, b
ut there’s a sheer cliff on this side of the stream?”

  “With a trail on it. Let’s go.”

  They rigged up their rods and started for the cliff. The path Gordon referred to was carved into the side of the cliff and was no more than two feet wide at any point — sometimes less. The path rose to a point about 40 feet above the water before beginning its descent into the meadow on the other side. At the top they stopped and looked straight down into the clear, pure water. A large bed of weeds was in the middle of the creek, with sand-gravel bottom on either side. On the side closest to the cliff several trout 12 to 18 inches long were hugging the bottom by the weed bed.

  “Looks like they’re nymphing,” Gordon said. “I haven’t seen any fish rise yet.”

  A sharp blast of cold wind made the men temporarily teeter on the narrow trail. “Probably won’t if the wind keeps up.”

  Once in the meadow, the path more or less followed the creek from a distance of ten to 60 feet, depending on the landscape. They fished along the creek, tempting the trout with nymphs several feet under the water. The wind became more persistent and a bit colder as the morning wore on. Gordon caught and released three good trout and Peter landed two.

  At 11:30, Gordon announced that they should leave, and they trudged back to the car. On the way back to Eden Mills, they decided that there was no sense in checking out alternatives on a short time frame, so they stopped again at Casa Rosita for lunch.

  3

  PETER HAD JUST TAKEN the first swig of his beer when the bell over the door jangled and they looked up to see Cynthia come in.

  “I was hoping you’d be here,” she said as she walked to their table. “I need a doctor.”

  “I only do surgery,” said Peter, “and right now I’m out of anesthetic.”