Not Death,
But Love
A Quill Gordon Mystery
Michael Wallace
Amazon Readers Praise
The Quill Gordon Mysteries
The McHenry Inheritance
Average rating 4.1 out of 5 stars
“I really enjoyed reading this story and getting to know the characters. In a very short time, I found myself caring what happened to them. I am a mystery fan, and this definitely was a fun ride.”
—Mountain Mom
“Quill Gordon courts trout, a lady, and justice, and there’s a little ‘catch and release’ applied to all three in this most entertaining murder mystery.”
—Edan D. Cassidy
“Well written good story. Ready for next book about these people. Could be a start to a fun set of books.”
—Tim Smith
Wash Her Guilt Away
Average rating: 4.7 out of 5 stars
“The characters are so well drawn, each one seemed to be plucked from real life and placed into the story.”
—Sentia
“As languid and dark as a quiet trout stream on an overcast day, the second Quill Gordon novel is a pleasure to read … even the weather has a plot twist.”
—Judy Parrish
“The fly-fishing descriptions were amazing. I was thoroughly engaged. I couldn’t figure out who dunnit until the very end … Great story.”
—Lovedrama
Copyright © 2015, Michael Wallace
All Rights Reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or entered into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction and imagination, and all names, places, characters and incidents are either imaginary or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people (dead or alive), events, locales, or business establishments is purely coincidental.
Cover Design: Deborah Karas, Karas Technical Services
Also by Michael Wallace
Quill Gordon Mysteries
The McHenry Inheritance
Wash Her Guilt Away
Nonfiction
The Borina Family of Watsonville (California history)
In the spirit of Anthony Berkeley
and Earl Derr Biggers
For Jack McDonald,
Carroll Irwin and Ruth Carruth:
Terrific English teachers
Table of Contents
The Searcher and the Match
Part I: Trust
Monday June 17, 1996
Tuesday June 18
Wednesday June 19
Part II: Knowledge and Love
Thursday June 20
Friday June 21
Saturday June 22
Part III: Secrets
Sunday June 23
Monday June 24
Tuesday June 25
Closure
Interlude 1: Thursday November 14, 1996
Interlude 2: Monday February 24, 1997
Epilogue: Friday April 18, 1997
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
I thought once how Theocritus had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung
A shadow across me. Straightway I was ‘ware,
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move
Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;
And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,—
‘Guess now who holds thee?’—‘Death,’ I said. But, there,
The silver answer rang,—‘Not Death, but Love.’
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Sonnets from the Portuguese
The Searcher and the Match
THE INTRUDER WAS ABOUT to leave the house, but decided, out of customary caution, to look through the desk one more time. Missing something now would be no more than a minor problem, but it would be better to have everything in hand.
There was little point in checking the middle drawer again; the owner used it to house the various paraphernalia — pens, pencils, stamps, envelopes, blank pads, paper clips — that one typically uses at a desk.
In the top right drawer was a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver. It was highly unlikely that the owner of the house ever touched it; probably it had belonged to her father and simply remained where he kept it after he died.
The next drawer down was one that called for a special look. It contained the most papers, but nearly all were systematically filed in one of a half-dozen file folders, all labeled with some aspect of the minutiae of daily life. Taking each file out separately, the intruder again flipped through them slowly and carefully. Nothing seemed to be anything other than what it plainly appeared to be. After several minutes of close scrutiny, the files went back into the drawer. However, the business card that had been sitting on the top of the desk, with its unusual name and a San Francisco address, puzzled and troubled the intruder, who decided to hold on to it just in case.
Her journal was in the third and bottom-most drawer, along with an address book, personal stationery and two boxes of thank-you notes. The last journal entry was dated three days ago, and the first entry three months ago. None of the 50 written pages dealt with what the intruder was concerned about. It was actually a bit depressing — the random musings of a seemingly dull life. The intruder began reading the last three pages again just to be sure.
The phone on the desk rang.
Dropping the journal on the floor, the intruder sat up, tensed, relaxed, then retrieved the journal, replaced it in the drawer, and began leaving the room while counting the number of rings.
Four, five, six, seven. Who in God’s name, the intruder thought, has the phone ring seven times before letting the machine pick up? The intruder entered the spacious living room, with its massive stone fireplace, comfortable old furniture and large picture windows looking out over the lake. A trace of light remained in the sky behind the mountains, but darkness was fast taking over.
From the living room, it would be easy enough to hear the answering machine in the adjacent kitchen. It clicked on after the greeting, and the volume was clearly turned to the loudest setting. The voice on the other end practically bellowed.
“Hi, it’s me — Gina. Hope you haven’t forgotten our sherry nightcap. Maybe you’re just out getting a new bottle. I’ll be there in 30. See you.” Click.
The intruder’s heart was beating faster now. No time to lose. Stepping over the woman’s body on the floor in front of the fireplace and moving to the front door, the intruder looked at the large pile of oily rags in the service area just off the entryway. For a moment, the intruder considered pouring some gasoline from the can in the car onto the hardwood floors but decided against it. The oily rags would take a bit longer to get going, but with any luck, it might look as if they had spontaneously combusted. The intruder took out a book of matches and prepared to light one, turning to the body on the floor and saying:
“So long. I don’t know where you put it, but as long as everything burns, it doesn’t matter. You should have stuck to gardening and left things alone. No sense
in digging up the past. Just leave us to our memories. It was better then.”
Striking the match, the intruder threw it on the pile of rags, which burst into flame, then closed the front door, adding:
“And sorry about the sherry.”
The intruder walked briskly back to the car and drove off. By the time a neighbor called 911 and the sirens started, the intruder was miles away.
Part I: Trust
“Charlotte did not stay much longer, and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard.”
AUSTEN, Pride and Prejudice
Monday June 17, 1996
QUILL GORDON WAS BEGINNING to tuck into his breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage and hash browns at the Shotgun Café when he became aware of someone standing over him. Looking up, he saw a handsome woman of about 60, trim and alert, with short gray hair streaked with a bit of black. She was dressed in khaki slacks and a blue-checked gingham shirt, long-sleeved, with the sleeves rolled up in anticipation of a warm day. She had a folio notebook under her arm and a determined look in her steel-gray eyes. Gordon immediately sized her up as a schoolteacher and, minding his manners, stood up.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“You used ‘may’; that is an auspicious beginning,” she said.
So I was right about the teacher part, he thought.
“I realize this is somewhat unusual,” she said, “but you look like an honest man, and I was wondering if I might talk with you for a few minutes.”
There was no polite way of saying no, and in any event he was mildly intrigued. “Please sit down,” he said, gesturing to an empty chair at the table for four. “My name is Quill Gordon, and this is my friend, Dr. Peter Delaney.”
She shook his hand, sat down, and reached across the table to shake Peter’s. “Charlotte London,” she said. “Please go on with your breakfasts.”
“Would you like coffee or something?”
“No thank you,” she said. “I’ve had my two cups for the morning. I’m fine.” She set the notebook on the table in front of her. It had a cover of brown leather, worn to a fine patina, and a zipper around three sides of the perimeter. She unzipped it to reveal a letter-sized pad inside under a 9-by-12 manila envelope. She took the envelope out and set it atop the leather after closing the notebook.
“It’s the most extraordinary thing, really, and you’ll probably think I’m dotty. But I assure you I’m not. I need someone to hold on to this,” she lifted the envelope, “for a short time. It would take too long to explain, but no one local will do. May I ask you a few questions?”
“You can always ask.”
“Thank you. I assume you’re visiting from outside the area?”
“We’re up from San Francisco to do some fishing.”
“And how long will you be here?”
“Until the middle of next week.”
“Excellent. I expect this matter to be resolved by then. Tell me a bit about yourself. Where did you go to school?”
“Cal. Class of ’81.”
“And what was your major?”
“U.S. history, with a minor in English.”
“Better and better. And when you were at school, were you involved in any extracurricular activities?”
“Well, I played on the basketball team.”
“That doesn’t count,” she said. “I meant of an intellectual nature.”
Gordon was taken aback, but tried not to show it. At Cal, he had been a starter and was named second-team all-conference his senior year; even today many people meeting him remembered that.
“I was on an athletic scholarship,” he said calmly. “It took up most of my time outside the classroom.”
“I suppose,” she said. “Would you call yourself curious and inquisitive?”
“I’d say so.”
“Are you good at analyzing information and reaching conclusions for it?”
“It’s what I did for a living,” he replied. That was actually a bit of an understatement. After graduation, he had worked at the old-line San Francisco brokerage Howell, Burns & Bledsoe for a dozen years and had made enough of a fortune through his own investments to quit less than three years ago.
She looked into his eyes for several seconds.
“I think you’ll do — that is, if you are willing. I assure you there’s nothing illicit or illegal about this. It’s simply a personal matter where I need a backup copy kept in a safe place. Will you hold this for me — probably for no more than a week?”
“I’m honored that you asked,” he said, “but are you sure you want to do this? After all, we’ve only known each other for, what, three minutes?”
She smiled a winning smile. “Mr. Gordon, I taught high school English for more than 30 years. By the end of that time, I could walk into a class on the first day of school and tell you in five minutes who the honor students were and who the hooligans were. I don’t know yet if you are an honor student, but you assuredly are no hooligan.”
He took a sip of coffee. “All right, Ms. London. I’ll do it for you.”
“Miss London, please. I’ve never liked the other title.”
“Miss London, then. But can you tell me a little more about it.”
She looked at her watch. “I haven’t the time right now, but you certainly have a right to know more. Could I invite you and Dr. Delaney to be my guests for lunch on Wednesday, the day after tomorrow? I can explain better then.”
“Fair enough.”
“Thank you so much. It’s probably nothing, but it means a great deal to me.” She handed the envelope across the table to him. It was sealed and clasped shut. “All I ask is that you keep it in a safe place and don’t look at it. Do you have a card?”
He reached into his wallet and took out one of his personal cards, which read simply “Quill Gordon, Investor and Financial Consultant.” Underneath in smaller type were his P.O. Box number, the phone number at his San Francisco apartment, and his pager number. He handed it to her, and she held it at arm’s length, looking at it studiously.
“ ‘Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers,’ ” she said at last.
“ ‘Little we see in nature that is ours.’ You know your Wordsworth, though that’s to be expected,” he said.
She flashed a big, warm smile. “Yes, this will do just fine. I’m sure of it now. As I said, simply keep the envelope in a safe place, and do not open it unless authorized to do so by me or by my attorney, Cameron Winters. Shall we say one o’clock Wednesday at Ike’s Lakeside by Woodward Marina?”
“We’ll be there.”
“Thank you again. I’m probably worrying about nothing, but it’s a relief to me that you have this. I’ll see you Wednesday Mr. Gordon, doctor.”
She stood up, looked around the café to see if anyone was watching her, then walked resolutely to the front door and left.
Gordon returned to his breakfast and dispatched half his plate before turning to Peter.
“You were uncharacteristically quiet.”
Peter shrugged. “She had her eye on you,” he said. “I wonder what’s in that envelope. The way she came up to you out of nowhere was like something out of a 1940s spy movie.”
“She’ll tell us on Wednesday, and it’ll probably be a letdown. But I’m not looking at it. She trusted me — God knows why — so I have to honor that.”
“You want to know what I think, Gordon? This may be God’s way of telling you it’s time to get married. Your groupies are getting older.”
Gordon laughed. “She wasn’t looking at me that way, Peter. I wonder if she’s ever looked at a man that way.”
Peter took another bite of his vegetarian omelet and chewed it thoughtfully.
“It pains me to disagree,” he finally said, “but I think you might be reading her wrong. A woman who’s been single for a long time can become the most hot-blooded romantic there is. No, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if our Miss London turned out to have a reservoir of passion inside her that
makes Lake Año Nuevo look like a backyard fish pond by comparison.”
Gordon took another sip of coffee.
“Not that we’ll ever know,” he said.
“Actually,” Peter continued, “I’m more surprised that she was so easily won over when you dished Wordsworth back at her. After all, the world is full of villains who can quote poetry.”
THEY EMERGED FROM THE CAFÉ just before nine o’clock into a lovely June morning. The temperature was 55 degrees, but warmer in the sunlight; the air was redolent with the smell of pine needles; and the sky was a rich, clear blue with one small, puffy white cloud on the southern horizon.
“Where are we fishing, boss?” said Peter as they got into Gordon’s silver Cherokee. “I’m sure you have it figured out.”
“I have a boat booked for us at the marina for the second half of the day,” Gordon said. “Three p.m. to sunset. If you can’t wait to get started, there are a couple of places we could try this morning, but …”
“You’d rather do something else?”
Gordon looked around. They were parked perpendicular to the café, just off the shoulder of the state highway that ran through the town of Arthur, located at the northwest edge of Lake Año Nuevo, 4,944 feet above sea level in the Cascade Mountains in northeastern California. The traffic was light enough that Gordon could have closed his eyes and backed onto the highway, heading in either direction, with a 90 percent chance of not hitting anything.
“It’s been 15 years since I was here,” he said. “I’d like to spend the morning driving around and checking it out, if you’re okay with that.”
“I’m easy. But can we go back to the inn for a second? I don’t have my sunglasses.”
Gordon backed onto the road after checking carefully in all directions and headed north toward the edge of town, where he and Peter had rooms at Stanhope House.
“By the way,” Peter said, as they started up the highway, “thanks for not leaving the city until the afternoon yesterday.”
“How did it go?”
“A bit uneasy, as you might expect. But overall, better than I would have hoped. My little girl is turning into a beautiful young woman.”
Not Death, But Love (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 3) Page 1
