Wash Her Guilt Away (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 2)

by Michael Wallace

  “Or anywhere else, for that matter,” Gordon added.

  Rogers came in, poured a cup of coffee, and walked over to the others.

  “You two,” addressing Drew and Alan, “are welcome to go out this morning, but be back by one. Doctor, I want you to take me out to this site you found yesterday.”

  “What about me?” Gordon said.

  “I’ve heard your story; I want to hear it from your friend now. Cool your heels until we get back, then you can fish a while if you want. Ready, doc?”

  Peter shrugged and stood up. “At your service.”

  “Say, anybody seen Charles?” Gordon said.

  “He’s probably not up yet,” Peter said. “Last night he said he’d been having trouble sleeping, so I got him a mild sedative from my bag.”

  After Lilly arrived a few minutes later, the two lawmen and Peter started for the Sabbath clearing in the woods. Johnny said that since he had a little time, he’d run into town and pick up a spare part for his boat. Gordon stayed behind, drinking coffee. Rachel and Stuart came in, acknowledged his wave, and sat down to a breakfast marked by tense silence. Charles, looking a bit better than the past two days, came in, took a table, read the newspaper, and ate quietly. The silence began to wear Gordon down so he took his coffee into the lounge, where April was cleaning up behind the bar. He sat on the couch in front of the fire and watched its flames curling around the logs. There was a copy of the Beacon-Journal on the table next to the couch, and Gordon read Cynthia’s article about the murder. It included a fairly accurate summary of the riddles raised by the medical evidence. If Rogers had read the story, Gordon was glad he wasn’t dealing with the detective right now.

  “A penny for your thoughts. Can I touch up your coffee?”

  “Thank you,” he said to April. She filled his cup, then set the coffee pot on a coaster and sat next to him.

  “Could I ask you something?”

  “You can always ask.”

  “I saw you reading the paper. Is it true that they think she died almost before she got back to the cabin?”

  “That’s what one indicator seems to say, but I don’t think they’re taking it as absolute. Why? Are you concerned?”

  “Sure, I am. I was in a fight with her just before she left, and then she died. The detective was really pressing me about that.”

  “Don’t take it personally. He presses everybody.”

  “I don’t know. He was asking a lot of questions about the fight. Then after he talked to Drew yesterday, he had me back in and started asking if I’d been flirting with Drew and was jealous of Wendy.”

  “That’s not how I saw it.”

  “Drew’s pretty worried. You know that, right?”

  “I didn’t know, but I had a sense he was bothered over something.”

  “He’s engaged to be married next month.” Gordon raised his eyebrows. “I know. He isn’t acting like it. Anyway, she’s from a really good family in Palo Alto, and I guess she wouldn’t take it too well if she found out he had a little fling with Wendy. He’s having kittens over that.”

  Gordon looked over his shoulder to make sure they were alone.

  “If she doesn’t find out about this, I’m sure she’ll have other chances. To find out about him, I mean.”

  April laughed. “I think you’re right.” Brief silence. “You’re a nice guy, Gordon. Is there a Mrs. Gordon somewhere? I don’t think she’d have to worry about you.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Was there a close call?”

  “One.”

  “Rachel?”

  “Not her. We weren’t ready for marriage then. Too young. How about you?”

  “Me?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “You’re sweet. I don’t think any customer has asked about me before.” Pause. “I’m too young.”

  “Eighteen’s the legal age.”

  “There’s a difference between legal and good idea. From what I’ve seen so far, I’m not sure marriage is a good idea any time.”

  “Uh-oh. You’re sounding like Peter.”

  “I can only go by what I’ve seen and it hasn’t been pretty. My father was an abusive drunk. He left us for another woman when I was five. Mom should have been cheering, but instead it broke her heart. Go figure.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Well, it’s hardly your fault. I grew up in Alta Vista, about 40 miles away, and when Dad left, the pickings were pretty slim for Mom. She had a couple of boyfriends, but they were married, so it wasn’t going to amount to anything. I mean, do all men cheat on their wives?”

  “Only half if you believe the statistics. And a quarter of the wives cheat, or so they say.”

  “The cheaters all seem to wind up at Harry’s, I guess. I don’t know. I look at my high school, and half the girls in my class are already married. The other half left. The married ones are going to live around here all their lives. The ones who left aren’t coming back unless it’s for Thanksgiving or Christmas. “

  “Have you thought about going to college?”

  “Maybe later. I’m kind of over school now. Harry’s isn’t a bad gig while I’m figuring it out.”

  “You’ll do fine.”

  “If I get the chance, maybe. I think Rogers has me figured for the one who killed Wendy.”

  “It doesn’t matter what he thinks, April. He won’t arrest somebody without evidence, and if you didn’t do it, there’s no evidence against you.”

  “I didn’t do it. Do you believe that?”

  “I believe you.”

  “You know, I didn’t like Wendy, and I’ve been trying to figure out why she got under my skin. I think it’s because I didn’t like what she did to Charles. God knows, I don’t want to work at Harry’s the rest of my life, but I don’t want to get out of here by marrying someone I don’t love and have no intention of being faithful to.”

  “Wendy told me she used to wait tables, before she met Charles,” Gordon said.

  “Maybe I reminded her too much of where she came from. That’d explain the mutual dislike. But there was no need to kill her. Not for me, not for anybody. I’m still really embarrassed that I went after her when she said what she did. If there’s one thing I should’ve learned at Harry’s by now, it’s not to overreact to people you don’t like. They all check out in a week anyway.”

  3

  A FIERCE SQUALL STRUCK as the three returning searchers reached the open area at the boundary of Harry’s, and they were thoroughly soaked by the time they had crossed the lawn and reached the lodge. It was hard to tell whether Rogers or Peter was more put out by the drenching. Lilly took it with equanimity.

  “All right, I’ve seen your witches’ lair,” Rogers said to Gordon. “But since we didn’t find a wing of bat or tongue of newt at the crime scene, I don’t know what it means, aside from some people getting their jollies in a way I wouldn’t choose to. I’ll make a note of it, but that’s all.”

  Gordon confined himself to saying, “Thanks for looking.”

  Johnny returned shortly afterward, and the rain stopped. Gordon and Peter went to the cabin to retrieve their gear and joined him at the pier. Although it wasn’t raining at the moment, it felt like a possibility at any time, and a light breeze that barely rippled the surface of the river added a pronounced chill to the air.

  “Great weather for the fish,” Johnny said as they pushed out into the river. “It’s perfect where they are.”

  They drifted downstream for a mile, saying nothing. The only sounds were the whisper of the light wind, the steady burr of the boat’s electric motor, and the occasional call of a bird. On the left bank, cattails, yielding to the wind, leaned to and fro. At a couple of points along the way, cattle had come to the water and were drinking. No one could be seen in any of the houses along the way, nor was anyone visibly working the land at any of the farms.

  As they moved slowly downstream, Gordon breathed the air deeply, tried to take in all the surrounding
s, and couldn’t help thinking that the sensation of following the river where it went must be like what Huck Finn and Jim had experienced. A light shower began to fall, and he pulled up the collar of his parka. Of course, he thought, the Mississippi was a bigger river, and Huck and Jim had better weather.

  They hugged the bottom of the boat as Johnny took them under the low clearance of Indian Hollow bridge. The shower ended as they came out the downstream side of it, and a moment later Johnny cut the boat’s motor, dropped the anchor and pointed to the water ahead of them. Several fish were rising to the surface, feeding on insects drifting down the current.

  “A couple of nice ones in that pod,” Johnny said. “This is a pleasant surprise. I didn’t think we’d be dry-fly fishing today. No, I didn’t.” A small insect fluttered past the boat, and Johnny snaffled it in his right hand, then extended the hand toward Gordon and Peter, opening it up. A small, light tan insect fluttered about in his palm.

  “This is what’s for breakfast,” he said. “Let me get you gentlemen rigged up with a proper fly.” He cast his hand upward, and the insect flew away. “Off with you,” he said. “Your life’s too short as it is.”

  “True for all of us,” Peter said softly.

  They each caught two good fish at that spot, then continued downstream. In the next two hours, Johnny put them over three more groups of rising fish, and each time Gordon and Peter were able to catch and release a few. Gordon lost himself in the moment during that time, cleansing his mind entirely of any thoughts relating to the trouble at Harry’s. Nothing mattered but the river, his fly, and the dank gray skies overhead.

  Around 2:30, the wind picked up, whipping the surface of the river to a choppy froth. The insects and fish disappeared, and Johnny spent the next hour and a half trying various deep-water tactics to get the fish to bite for his clients. Only one fish obliged, and the anglers’ effort began to feel more like work than play. At 4:30, after several futile passes through a deep hole, he pulled up the anchor.

  “I hate to say this, gentlemen, but I think we’re beating a dead horse. We can try a couple of other places if you’d like, but I can’t give you any good reason they’d be better than what we’ve been doing. I’d suggest we head back, and if it looks any better along the way, we can stop and give it a try.”

  “Your call, of course.”

  Gordon and Peter looked at each other. Gordon didn’t like wearing gloves and his hands were icy and nearly numb. Peter, despite his layers of clothing, was shivering slightly in the bitter wind.

  “If Johnny says we’re done, we’re done. Let’s head back,” Gordon said.

  As the boat moved slowly back upstream, Gordon put his hands in his jacket pocket and pressed his arms against his torso, trying to keep warm. The gray skies seemed, if anything, to be darkening, and the wind was unremitting. They were nearly back to Indian Hollow Bridge when Gordon felt something sting his left cheek.

  It was a small hailstone and was shortly followed by a cascade of others. They bounced off the aluminum of the boat with a loud clatter, pelted the hats of the three men, and combined with the wind to make the normally flat surface of the river utter turmoil. Johnny turned the boat to the right and headed toward the spot where the riverbank and the bridge met. The clearance was slightly higher there, and they were able, barely, to remain seated upright as he beached the boat on the river’s edge, directly under the bridge.

  He cut the motor. “Can’t get through here,” he said, “but it’s our best bet for waiting out the storm.”

  Hailstones pelted the bridge above them, creating a constant rattling din. The stones were so numerous and close together as they fell from the sky that they blurred the view of the opposite bank of the river and created a darkness almost like approaching nightfall. Gordon was appreciating the show of nature’s force when he became aware that Johnny was uncomfortable. Normally relaxed and in his element on the river, he was now fidgeting and looking around nervously.

  “Anything wrong, Johnny?” Gordon said.

  He shook his head and looked away, but Gordon wasn’t convinced.

  After ten minutes, the storm ended as abruptly as it had begun, and the wind even let up some. They pushed the boat off the bank and drifted downstream a short distance. Johnny restarted the motor, and they went under the bridge at the middle, just as they had come earlier in the day. When they had got a hundred feet upstream from the bridge, Johnny looked back at it apprehensively.

  “Are you sure you’re OK?” Gordon said. “You seem really bothered.”

  Johnny shook his head and took a deep breath. He seemed to be considering whether to say something and finally did.

  “Sorry, Mr. Gordon. I don’t want to bother you with it, but I don’t like to dally around that bridge late in the day.”

  Gordon and Peter were paying rapt attention.

  “I don’t know what to make of it, but last fall, another of the guides from the Fisherman’s Friend was out on the river with a client. They were coming back right after sunset, but it was still sort of light out, like it is for a half hour or so. Just as they were coming upriver to the bridge, they saw a man in a boat floating downstream on the other side of it. It was all they could make out at first, but they came out from under the bridge upstream just as the other fellow was starting to go under it.”

  He paused and looked back at the bridge.

  “It was then they realized the man in the boat had no head. For a minute or two the guide and his client were so stunned they didn’t know what to do. Then they turned to look again. There was no sign of the boat. It just disappeared.

  “Ron Belden was the guide’s name. A good man, I think, and not given to flights of imagination. Not at all. But ever since that night, he’s refused to guide on Eden River again. Can’t say I blame him. You asked me about your witches, Mr. Gordon, but there’s more than one strange thing that happens in these mountains. More than one. For my part, I’d just as soon not be near that bridge late in the day.”

  For a few minutes, they moved slowly upstream in silence, broken only by the hum of the motor and the sound of the wind. Even the birds seemed to have disappeared. Finally Peter spoke.

  “Quite a story,” he said softly. “Wow. Witches’ covens, headless boatmen. Paradise Valley must be a supernatural vortex of some kind.”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” Johnny said, “you can add Mrs. Van Holland to the list. What happened to her wasn’t natural. I’m not a superstitious man, doctor, but I’m beginning to believe in the curse on Harry’s. Something’s not right here. Not right in the least.”

  “But why the headless boatman?” Peter pressed. “What’s the story behind that apparition?”

  “Well, sir, a pretty obvious one comes to mind. Pretty obvious when you think about it.” He looked back at the bridge receding into the distance.

  “You see, it was just before sunset at Indian Hollow Bridge that Harry Ezekian’s son blew his head off with a shotgun.”

  4

  “AUTO-SUGGESTION would be my guess,” Peter said when they were back in the cabin. “If I had to write a scenario for it, I’d say the guide and the client most likely heard the story about Harry’s son at the bar a night or two earlier. What with the drinks and all the other tall tales being told that night, they probably forgot it, but it was in the back of their heads somewhere when they hit that bridge at sunset. Makes as much sense as anything else.”

  “You don’t think it could be somebody’s idea of a prank?” Gordon said.

  “The headless boatman disappeared after he went under the bridge. You know how open that river is, Gordon. How would a prankster pull off a disappearance like that?”

  “He could have just stopped under the bridge, up against the pilings. It would be pretty dark under there and hard to see. And I doubt the guide would have gone back for a closer look in any event.”

  Peter considered the idea. “Well, it is a theory,” he said. “I’ll give it that. But our prankster w
ould have to be pretty ballsy to take that chance. No, I think I’m sticking with my original diagnosis.”

  He downed the last of the neat whisky he’d poured upon their return.

  “Let’s get on up to the lodge,” he said. “Being out on that river, I’ve worked up a thirst. A cold beer by a warm fire sounds pretty good right now.”

  5

  IT WAS RAINING AGAIN when they walked to the lodge, but the beers (Gordon had one, too) were cold and the fire was roaring. Some of the people in the lounge were new, and Gordon guessed they had just arrived for a stay or were locals on a night out. The seats by the fire were taken, and Gordon and Peter ended up at a table by a side window, much of it occupied by a chessboard.

  They had been seated a few minutes when Rogers came in, ordered a pint, and headed toward them, pulling up a chair from the next table as he arrived.

  “I guess this isn’t official,” Peter said, looking at Rogers’ beer.

  “Not unless you have some evidence for me. I could use it if you do.”

  “Afraid not,” Gordon said. He took a sip of his Sierra Nevada. “But I still have a feeling about the witches, and something that happened on the river today added to it.” He took another small sip. “It does seem as if someone, singular or plural, is trying to make it look as if there’s supernatural activity going on here. And now we have someone killed by what seems to be a spirit who floated off without leaving a trace. I can’t help thinking there’s a connection somewhere.”

  “Have you ever heard of coincidence, Gordon?”

  “Some people say there’s no such thing.”

  “Some people are wrong. I’ve handled too many cases where we wasted time trying to establish a connection between two things that ended up being random happenings. They seemed as if they should have gone together, but they didn’t.”

  “How about the cases where they did go together, but you just couldn’t figure it out?”

  Rogers looked around the room.

  “I don’t think this conversation is going anywhere, but for lack of any better leads, let’s run with it a bit. Not here, though. Let’s go to the interview room.”