“My appetite must be coming back,” he said as he sat down at the table. “This is better than the last couple of days.”
They ate in silence for two or three minutes, then Charles pushed his plate away, half of everything still on it.
“Sorry,” he said. “My stomach is in a knot, and I’ve hardly slept, though the sedative helped some. Thanks, doc.”
Peter nodded, but said nothing.
“I still can’t believe this. I’ve been trying to think about what happened — not just here, but from the very beginning. With Wendy. Did you know I met her when she came to work for me?”
“I think she told me that,” Gordon said.
“It was the strangest damn thing. I was looking for a receptionist and had three applications from people I was going to call in for an interview. Scoring the applications, Wendy’s was third best out of three, but she was the first interview. Three minutes into it, I knew. She was alive, and charming and eager — just what you want in someone who has to deal with customers and the public. At the end of the interview, I offered her the job on the spot, then canceled the other two interviews.
“I think I was half in love with her already. Things hadn’t been going well in my marriage. The kids had moved out. Georgia was at loose ends and trying all sorts of things to give herself something to do. But she was doing it alone, and I wasn’t part of it. I know it’s a cliché, but we were drifting apart. Either of you been married?”
“Nope,” Gordon said.
“Five times,” Peter said.
“Then you know exactly what I mean. Something goes sour in the marriage, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t get the sweetness back. Isn’t that right?”
“I don’t know,” Peter said. “None of my wives was willing to try.”
“Then it’s the same in the end. Because it ends.”
“Well put.”
“Right now I’m madder than hell about what a fool I’ve been, because, like you said before, doc, I should have checked her references. But she didn’t deserve to get killed, and part of me is feeling sad. This marriage was bound not to last, but now there will never be a clean ending.”
He finished his cup of black coffee.
“I hope to hell they catch the bastard who did this. She deserves at least that.” He stood up. “Thank you for listening. I’m pretty raw, and I know it isn’t pretty, but it helped to talk. I hope I didn’t impose.”
“Not at all,” Gordon said. They shook hands and he left. Peter and Gordon finished their breakfast and sat at the table, looking out at the river, the gray skies, and the bright green lawn.
“There’s a moral in that story,” Peter finally said. “You know what it is, Gordon?”
“Don’t fool around on your wife.”
“Ah, I keep forgetting you’re a moralist, and of course that’s exactly what a moralist would say. But I’m a pragmatist and a realist, so I take home a different message.”
Peter leaned forward and said in a stage whisper, “Don’t marry the one you’re fooling around with.”
2
ON THE WAY BACK TO THE CABIN, Gordon excused himself, saying he wanted to be alone. He turned right toward the pier and walked to the end of it. Johnny had left with two of the new arrivals to Harry’s, and looking downstream, Gordon could see their boat disappearing around the bend. Another boat and a kayak were tied to the pier. Gordon pulled his parka up around his neck and looked out at the river. Its current, so slow as to be almost imperceptible, was soothing, and he found himself focusing on a leaf upstream as it slowly drifted along. He stayed with the leaf for three minutes until it was finally too far away to see. Then a trout rose to an insect on the far side of the river, and his brain shifted gears. He looked at the ripples spreading outward from where the fish had surfaced, and tried to calculate whether he could cast that far. He decided he couldn’t. He was so utterly absorbed by the river that he didn’t hear the other person who had walked up behind him.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said.
“Who were you expecting?”
“I wasn’t expecting anyone. After what’s happened at Harry’s this week, people have been avoiding conversations.”
“You can hardly blame them. It’s not the sort of situation that lends itself to small talk.”
He nodded.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Ask away.”
“This isn’t easy for me, but I’d like your opinion. I know you’ll have one. I just — well, I don’t know what to do. I guess you know the story.”
“I’m afraid everybody does.”
“That’s part of the awfulness of it. Anyway, the detective said we can leave tomorrow, so I guess we’ll be getting away from the people who know. But then it’ll be just the two of us knowing, and I’m afraid that might be even worse.”
Gordon cocked his head to the side.
“What would you do if you were me? Would you throw him out?”
“It’s not my marriage. I’m afraid I can’t answer that one.”
“Oh, God, this is awful. I mean the modern woman in me knows it’s his fault and he should have been able to control himself. But at the same time I can’t help blaming myself for bringing Stuart up here where there’s nothing to do. And this filthy weather!”
“The weather’s nobody’s fault.”
“I know, I know. But I’m looking at this and trying to see what I could have done differently. You know, when he and I first met, the sparks didn’t begin to fly right away. After the first date, I wasn’t sure there would be a second. But I came to see that he was a gentle and decent man, and after a while I could see myself spending my life with him and maybe having his child. I grew into loving him, you see, and because of that I thought I had no illusions and wasn’t in the grip of a blind passion. I thought I really knew the man I married.
“And then he jumps into bed with … with her. I can’t believe it, and I don’t know if I can ever trust him again. If he cheated once, isn’t he likely to do it another time? Or more? How can I stay married to a man if every time he works late, I start to wonder?”
There was a loud splash in the river, and they turned to see an osprey emerging from the water with a handsome trout in its beak. They watched it fly off into the distance.
“It sounds as if you still love him,” Gordon said, “and if the question is whether he’ll cheat on you again, I do have an opinion. It may not be right, but it’s my opinion.”
“Let me hear it.”
“I think this first came to me when I was working at the brokerage, with a lot of high-energy, high-income men. You couldn’t help picking up some of what was going on in their lives, and it could get pretty tangled, especially with romance and marriage. After hearing enough of that, I finally came up with the 80-10-10 rule.
“By that I mean that ten percent of married men are never going to cheat on their wives. They’re too moral, too afraid, or both.
“Another ten percent are going to cheat no matter what. It’s in their nature and they almost can’t help it. They just can’t control the impulse. I think our friend Drew might be in that group.”
“I think you’re right.”
“That leaves the broad 80 percent of the rest. They’re capable of cheating if the circumstances are right — if they run into an interested woman at a time when the marriage is going through a rough patch, for example. It’s a matter of chance, and of course, some succumb easier than others. But my point is that most men could do it at some time and place in their lives.
“But here’s the other thing. If you figure half do and half don’t, there’s something I’ve noticed with the guilty half. It generally puts a hell of a strain on them. It’s not easy to make up plausible stories and cover all the eventualities. And most of us — I’m talking about guys now — know at some level that it’s wrong. So it usually blows up, and after it does, most of the men in this group are going to tell themselves, ‘I’m never going to
do that again. It’s too much of a strain and there’s too much guilt.’ In other words, once is enough.”
“So you think Stuart … “
“I think he’s in that group. I’ve talked to him a bit, and he seems genuinely remorseful. Plus, with Wendy, I don’t think he knew what hit him. I could be wrong, but my opinion is that he’s a long shot to step out on you again. And if that’s a fair assessment, I guess the question you have to ask is, can you forgive him for doing it once?”
The wind had been picking up speed for the past few minutes, and a wicked gust hit them with such force they almost lost their balance, and Rachel grabbed Gordon’s arm for support. The gust was followed by a large drop of rain, then others. Within seconds, they were utterly exposed to a torrential, drenching downpour. Rachel seemed not to notice. Finally, she let go of Gordon’s arm and said:
“So tell me, Gordon. How does your theory apply to you?”
“Oh, I’m an 80 percenter. No doubt about it.”
“I doubt it. I think you’re a ten percenter.”
“Which ten percent?”
She laughed. “I think we both know the answer to that. Thank you so much for talking to me.”
“Always.”
“Don’t take it personally, but I need to get out of this rain and into that nice, toasty cabin. I’ll think about what you said.”
“Good luck.”
She turned and strode purposefully off the pier. When she reached land, she began jogging toward her cabin, and he watched, with a pang, as she ran across the lawn, her long legs moving her forward fluidly and gracefully. When she was inside, he turned and looked out at the river, its calm surface whipped up by the wind and heavy rain. He felt as agitated as the weather. Something he couldn’t put his finger on was rattling around inside his head, waiting to fall into the right place, where he could make sense of it. He stared at the river through the hard rain for ten minutes, but couldn’t make it come together. Finally, he turned to start back to the cabin, where Peter was no doubt wondering what had happened to him.
Then, as if the tumblers of a lock had fallen into place, allowing it to be opened, he knew.
“Of course,” he said aloud. “That has to be how it happened.”
Instead of going to his cabin, he walked back to the lodge.
3
IT TOOK TWO CUPS OF COFFEE in the lounge, seated in front of the fire, for him to put it all together in coherent form. When April came by with the pot to offer him a third cup, he waved her off brusquely.
“Jeezo,” she said. “Usually it’s the coffee that makes a man nervous. You’re making the coffee nervous.”
Gordon walked to the front desk, where Don was sorting the paperwork for the day’s arrivals, and asked if Rogers was around.
“He’s with the deputy,” Don said. “You want me to tell him something?”
“Just that I’d like to see him when it’s convenient.” Don nodded and turned to go to the room that was serving as Rogers’ office.
For a quarter of an hour he fidgeted and took several walks around the perimeter of the empty dining room. The rain finally let up as Lilly came out.
“Mr. Gordon?”
“Can I have a word?”
“Follow me.”
Rogers was hunched over the small table in his room. The table was covered with papers — handwritten notes, medical reports, faxes from the Syracuse police, and much more. The papers were scattered over the top of the table in a state of disarray that matched the state of the investigation. Rogers looked up from them, a hangdog expression on his face.
“Whatever you got,” he said, “I hope it’s good. This investigation is starting to wear me down.”
“Are you getting anywhere with the attack on Cynthia?”
Rogers shook his head. “She’s still unconscious, but responding better by the hour. I don’t expect much, though, even when she can talk.”
“Do you think she was attacked by Wendy’s killer?”
“What else makes sense? So have you heard something interesting?”
“Better than that, maybe,” Gordon said. He self-consciously paused for effect.
“I think I know how Wendy was killed in a locked room.” Rogers, who had been slumping, sat up straight, and Lilly, who was sitting on the bed leaned forward.
“And if I’m right about how, that tells us who.”
Seconds passed with only the sound of the three men breathing in the room. Rogers finally broke the silence.
“Bullshit,” he said, raising his hand as Gordon tried to object. “Don’t interrupt me. Seven years ago, I was investigating the disappearance of a 15-year-old girl. We weren’t getting anywhere fast, and all of a sudden this local woman who claimed to be a psychic said she could find the girl. The community was up in arms over her disappearance, and the goddamn Beacon-Journal did a story about the psychic. The sheriff was up for re-election in three months, and he ordered me to work with her.
“To make a long story short, she said the girl was dead, but her spirit was calling from the mountains. That woman dragged me and half the news media in Northern California up to a small lake at the end of a dirt road 30 miles outside town. We combed every square inch of that lake — helicopters, boats, scuba divers, you name it. It took two days, we came up with zilch, and you don’t want to know how much it cost.”
“The day after we finish dragging the lake, the girl’s mother calls and says her daughter just walked in the door. Turns out the girl hooked up with the star of the basketball team and on a whim decided to go off to Oregon with him for a few days of adult recreation. I frog-marched that basketball-playing bastard into the courthouse in front of the TV cameras on a statutory rape charge, but the judge let him off with time served.
“And that, Gordon, is when I took a solemn vow that I would resign on the spot rather than letting an amateur tell me they’ve solved an investigation again. I’m sorry. You’re a decent guy and I know you mean well, but you really need to leave this to us.”
Gordon was not accustomed to being dismissed out of hand, and for a moment, it rankled. But he quickly recognized that it was the frustration, more than Rogers, that was speaking. He stood up and looked down at the detective. When he spoke, it was coolly and matter-of-fact.
“You’re probably right, Rogers. Hubris on my part. I guess I’m getting carried away with my own importance.”
Gordon walked to the door and put his hand on the knob.
“Keep doing what you’re doing, and good luck catching the killer. If I can help, let me know. But if you change your mind a few days from now, remember I’ll be back in San Francisco then. You have my number.”
He turned the knob.
“Sir,” said Lilly.
“What?”
“Sir, I know Mr. Gordon is probably wrong, but maybe there’s something in his idea that could help us. And we are stuck. What would it hurt to at least hear him out?”
Gordon’s hand remained on the doorknob.
Rogers stared at him with a fixed, surly expression on his face.
“Hell,” said Rogers. “It’s not like we have another good lead to follow. All right, Gordon. Sorry I snapped at you. That psychic is still pissing me off. Tell me what you got, and like the deputy says, maybe there’s something in it that we can use.”
Gordon returned to his chair and sat down.
“Thank you.” His heart was pounding, and he stared at the ceiling before taking a deep breath and beginning.
Over the next half hour he meticulously laid out the theory he had developed, explaining in considerable detail how the locked-room situation could have been accomplished and why that explanation pointed to one person and one person alone as the killer. Rogers sat with arms crossed as Gordon began, but after several minutes adopted a looser posture and began interjecting a question from time to time.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Rogers said when Gordon was finished.
“You have to admit, sir,” said L
illy, “that it fits the evidence and explains everything.”
“And you didn’t even drag in those witches of yours, Gordon. I see you’ve finally given up on that idea.”
“I still think they may be relevant,” Gordon said, “but there was nothing supernatural about the crime. And if I’m right, it was totally simple.”
“So simple it fooled everybody,” Rogers said. “Including me. The only thing that bothers me is that your theory is the only thing we have on our suspect. I need to think about how to play this.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Lilly said. “There may be something more solid. We didn’t pay any attention to it at the time because we thought we knew what it meant, but if Mr. Gordon is right, it means something else altogether.”
He explained, and Rogers buried his head in his hands.
“If this is right,” Rogers finally said, “I’ve missed so much I should have retired six months ago.”
“Where’s the medical examiner?” Lilly said. “Couldn’t he tell you if Mr. Gordon’s idea would hold up?”
Rogers looked at his watch. “He’s probably playing golf right now, but I’ll get after him.” He looked at Gordon. “I may be thanking you later, but right now we have a lot of checking to do on your theory. Leave us to it, and I’ll let you know what we find.”
4
THE NEXT FEW HOURS were the slowest moving Gordon could recall spending in his fairly young life. He went back to the cabin at first, but Peter kept asking him what was going on, and not wanting to say, Gordon finally went back to the lodge, took a seat in the lounge, and inflicted his surly and nervous presence on April. It was six o’clock before Lilly came into the lounge and asked Gordon to come to the interview room.
“Hard to believe,” Rogers said, “but the medical examiner says your theory would account for most of the discrepancies. More importantly, he says he’ll testify to that in court. It’s not evidence, but it’s corroboration.”
“And just before she was attacked in the parking lot,” Gordon said, “Cynthia came up to you wanting to ask about the medical evidence. She said it pretty loud, and probably a dozen people could have heard her, including our suspect. If we have the method right, our killer would have been really worried about someone figuring it out. A reporter who’s nosing around on the issue and who already snatched a medical report off the fax machine could have pointed the way to a solution without even realizing it, just by asking some questions. That would be a pretty good motive for getting her out of the way.”
Wash Her Guilt Away (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 2) Page 22
