Not Death, But Love (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 3)

by Michael Wallace

  Peter broke the silence.

  “Well, it’s not our vacation any more. It’s Miss London’s.”

  Gordon nodded. Peter continued.

  “And between looking into what she left you and dealing with the Merry Wives of Windsor, I’d say we’re going to have our hands full.”

  Gordon laughed. “I’d say the second part is more your concern than mine.” He gently jabbed a finger into Peter’s paunch. “Though come to think of it, I’m seeing a bit of a resemblance to Falstaff.”

  “I wouldn’t be too confident of that if I were you. I was sitting across from you and madam editor, and I saw some things you didn’t. Watch your back around her, Gordon.” A breeze came up and rattled the aspen leaves. “She’s the end of a symphony, waiting to happen.”

  Part II: Knowledge and Love

  “ ‘I was in love in my young days with a deacon,’ said Princess Myakaya. ‘I don’t know that it did me any good.’ ”

  —TOLSTOY, Anna Karenina

  Thursday June 20

  BEFORE THE NOON ROTARY CLUB MEETING, Gordon tended to business. Peter had said he was going his separate way that morning, and left Gordon on his own. Shortly before ten, Gordon drove to a small, locally owned stationery and copy shop. With the help of a tattooed young shop assistant in a tank top, he made six copies of the London family history, at a nickel per page. To the cost of this, he added a 9-by-12 manila envelope, paid with a credit card, and requested a receipt to satisfy Miss London’s executor, if necessary. The transaction took 35 minutes, and he was the only customer during that time.

  Four of the six copies were for members of the investigation team (himself, Peter, Gina, and Alice Laszlo, bearing in mind that Elke Sundstrom had been given a copy the previous morning.) A fifth copy was for contingency purposes, and the sixth he put in the manila envelope, addressed to himself at his San Francisco P.O. Box, and patiently waited in line at the one open window at the Arthur post office until he could mail it. He thought of including a “to whom it may concern” note in the event he didn’t live to receive the envelope himself, but decided against it on the grounds of excessive melodrama.

  That left him time for one more task before Rotary. He wanted to see Charlotte London’s house.

  It was a beautiful morning, with a slight breeze and a congregation of clouds forming over the mountains to the west. With the help of a visitor guide, which had detailed street maps of Arthur and the Peninsulas, and that morning’s Forest Clarion, which gave the address in its top-of-the-front-page story, he found the house, or what was left of it, with no difficulty. It was on the west side of the East Peninsula, in a development called Sunset Vista Estates, on Hawk View Drive, which dead-ended at a turnaround 250 feet beyond the London residence. The development had been carefully designed so that the houses on the lake side of the road were offset from the houses across the street on slightly higher ground. Every house had a clear view of the lake, and no homeowner was looking directly up or down at a neighbor. Año Nuevo Lake was glistening in the bright morning sun, and when Gordon parked in a slight turnout and got out of the Cherokee, he could hear the sounds of boats roaring or purring to and from Woodward’s Marina.

  From what he’d seen of the fire Monday night, Gordon was surprised at how much of the skeleton of the house remained. It looked like a total loss, but the firefighters had arrived in time to prevent it from collapsing into a heap of rubble. It was not an excessively large house — probably 1,700 to 1,800 square feet — and the massive stone chimney on the water side of the dwelling had survived the fire intact. A two-car carport, badly singed, stood to the right of the house itself, connected by a protected walkway, also badly burned. A Honda Accord that looked as if it had been white before it was charred was parked in the carport. The license plate number indicated it had been bought in late 1993 or early 1994. Yellow tape ran across the front of the property, and several standing signs warned people to keep out by order of Peninsulas Volunteer Fire Department.

  “Looking for something?”

  Gordon started. He hadn’t heard anyone approaching, and the voice sounded enough like Charlotte London’s to spook him. When he turned, he saw a woman in her mid-seventies, five-five and of average build, with short white hair under a San Francisco Giants baseball cap. She was holding a leash, connected to one of the ugliest little dogs Gordon had ever seen. It was a dirty off-white, with an uneven coat, bangs over its eyes, and spindly legs that looked as if they had been shaved.

  “This is Roscoe,” she said. “I’m Amanda. Amanda Blake.”

  “Quill Gordon. I’m a friend of Miss London’s — Charlotte’s — from San Francisco. I came here to … well, I suppose to pay respects and come to terms with what happened.”

  “Former student?”

  “No, just a friend.”

  They both turned and looked at the remains of the house.

  “It was terrible,” she said. “I was here that night. In fact, I called it in to the fire department.”

  “So you live nearby?”

  “Two houses down that way.” She gestured in the direction by which he had come in.

  Gordon looked up and down the street. “That’s a ways off, and there are a lot of trees in between. Didn’t one of the closer neighbors see it?”

  “Uh-uh. Miss London is the only year-round resident between our house and the Perrys at the end of the road. The others are all second homes. A couple were occupied this weekend, but everybody was gone by Monday morning.”

  “How about the Perrys?”

  “In Europe until the end of the month. No, I walked Roscoe to the end of the road and back about 7:45 that night, and there was nobody here but Miss London. Harvey used to come with me on the after dinner walks, but he doesn’t get around so good now.”

  Gordon wondered whether Harvey was her husband or another dog.

  “It’s his hip. The doctor recommended a replacement, but it’s taking Medicare forever to process it. Glad we’ve got it, even so.”

  “So at 7:45 there was nobody here. What time did you call in the fire?”

  “An hour or so later. I looked outside, and it was almost dark, but there seemed to be a glow somewhere. I got up from the couch and walked to the window. That was when I saw it.”

  Gordon surveyed the scene. If someone had, indeed, called on Charlotte London that night, he (or she) could have done it without being observed. The way the houses were situated, and with all the trees, it would have been hard to see that anyone was there. Someone could have parked in the turnout where Gordon did, or even in the London carport, and absent the worst kind of bad luck, gone undetected.

  “I’m still wondering about the car, though.”

  Gordon turned and looked at Mrs. Blake again.

  “There was no one down here at 7:45, but later, probably about 8:30, I was making tea in the kitchen and I heard a car go by. I looked out the window and saw two headlights and what looked like a normal-sized car driving away from the end of the road.”

  “Away from where Miss London’s house was?” She nodded. “Did you get a good look at it?”

  “It was getting dark, and I only took a quick look. Normal-sized car and probably a dark color is about all I could say for sure.”

  “What did the fire department say when you told them about that?”

  “They didn’t say anything, because I didn’t tell them.”

  Gordon looked at her quizzically.

  “They didn’t ask,” she said.

  THE ROTARY CLUB OF ARTHUR/AÑO NUEVO meets Thursdays at the North Woods Inn, which opened in 1939 and holds the distinction of being the longest continuously operating restaurant in the area. The building is a large log cabin, made from local timber, with a fireplace framed by river rock in the main dining room. Murals of mountain scenes, some including Paul Bunyan and Babe the ox, cover the walls, and sawdust covers the hardwood floors. (In the bar, peanut shells tossed by customers add to the floor decoration.) Behind the main dining
area is a banquet room where the Rotary Club holds court.

  Gordon pulled into the parking lot at five minutes to noon, and as he got out of the Cherokee, Judge Fletcher pulled into the space to his right. Must have been a short calendar that morning, Gordon thought. They greeted each other, and on the way into the building, Gordon explained that he was Elke Sundstrom’s guest.

  At the entrance to the back room, a silver-haired man in his late sixties or early seventies was sitting behind a folding table, with a cash box to his left and two rolls of tickets (one for the meal and one for the drawing) to his right. He stood and extended a hand to Gordon as he came in.

  “Claude Brown,” he said. “Visiting Rotarian?”

  “No, actually I’m Elke Sundstrom’s guest today. Quill Gordon.”

  “Not from around here, I take it.”

  “San Francisco. I’m here on a fishing trip.”

  “Ah, and what do you do in San Francisco?”

  “I used to work for a family-owned stock brokerage. Now, I’m doing a bit of financial consulting.”

  Brown looked at him knowingly. “In other words, you’re unemployed.” He laughed at his own line and slapped his right thigh once.

  “He went to Cal, like you did,” said Judge Fletcher. “That’s what happens to Cal graduates after they leave school.”

  “At least we’re not living off the taxpayers, like some Stanford men I could mention.” They both laughed at this, and the ice was broken.

  By the time El arrived five minutes later, the judge had already introduced Gordon to District Attorney Cy Southworth; Walter Williams, the high school principal; and Paul James, the fire chief. Gordon exchanged a few polite words with each. He was talking to the fire chief when El walked up, and the chief turned to her.

  “No comment, as usual,” he said. They both laughed.

  “I must say, El,” said Judge Fletcher, “your men are getting younger all the time. But lovely as you are, I suppose you can pull it off.”

  “I can pull off anything for your honor,” she purred insinuatingly. The fire chief, the judge and El all laughed at that, while Gordon maintained a straight face. “Guys, can you excuse us? I need to introduce Gordon to someone.” She took him by the arm and pulled him aside, gesturing toward two men on the other side of the room.

  One was in his early eighties, tall, heavy-set and red faced, with silver hair and a glass of white wine in his hand. The other was in his mid fifties, just under six feet, with a lean-to-average build and short brownish-gray hair. The older man wore khakis, a blue shirt with no tie, and a camel-hair blazer. The younger man was well dressed in a dark gray suit, white button-down shirt and blue stripe tie.

  “That’s Roger and Ron Paris. Roger was Ned London’s partner in The Peninsulas, but Ron and his brother Bobby run the company now. Ron’s the brains of the operation.”

  They walked over, and El did the introductions.

  “Gordon particularly wanted to meet you,” she said. “Charlotte London named him her literary executor, and he’s going to be responsible for seeing that her family history is completed and published.”

  Roger Paris blinked at the news, but quickly reverted to hail-fellow-well-met mode. Ron didn’t bat an eye.

  “Glad to hear it,” Roger said a bit too loud, the wine and partial hearing loss amplifying his voice. “Ned London was a dear friend; the whole London family, actually. We went through so much together. If there’s anything at all that I — that any of us — can do to help, just say the word.”

  “Do you really mean that?” Gordon said. “Because I’d love to sit down with you some time and talk about The Peninsulas. It’ll be an important part of the book.”

  “As it should be,” said Ron. “How long are you going to be in town?”

  “My friend and I are here until next Wednesday.”

  “Then there’s no time to lose,” said Roger. He turned to his son. “Let’s ask Mr. Gordon to join us at our lunch tomorrow. My sons and I have lunch at Ike’s Lakeside every Friday at one o’clock sharp. Can you be our guest tomorrow?”

  “I wouldn’t want to interrupt a family tradition …”

  “Nonsense. Talking about The Peninsulas is talking about family. We insist. That way, you can meet Bobby, too. He had to look at a property in Crenshaw [a small town 20 miles to the east] today, but he’ll be there tomorrow.

  “That would be wonderful,” said Gordon. “Thank you so much.”

  A loud bell clanged, and everyone in the room stopped talking and turned to the front, where a middle-aged man in a checked sport coat, striped tie and bad comb-over stood at the lectern.

  “Welcome to the Rotary Club of Arthur/Año Nuevo,” he said. “Please join me in the pledge of allegiance.” The whole room said it as one, and Gordon realized it was the first time he’d said the pledge since high school.

  “Our invocation today will be given by the Reverend Timothy Blood of St. Luke’s Episcopal Church.”

  A slight man in his early thirties, with thinning hair, tortoise-shell glasses and a clerical collar came to the lectern. It was clearly his minute of glory, and he made it last for three, invoking a long list of blessings The Lord had bestowed upon those in the room. Several people were fidgeting by the time he finally said, “We thank thee in Jesus’ name, amen.”

  The club president recaptured the lectern and said, “We will now get our food and enjoy fellowship before beginning the business part of the meeting in 20 minutes.” He hit the bell again.

  Lunch was a buffet. There were macaroni and lime-Jell-O-with-marshmallow salads for starters, and the entrée was chunks of beef in a sauce that couldn’t seem to make up its mind if it wanted to be beef burgundy or beef stroganoff. It could be eaten over or next to mashed potatoes or noodles and accompanied by a broccoli-carrot-string bean medley dripping with butter. Gordon tried to control the damage by taking small portions, and he found himself wondering if Rotarians 50 years ago had faced the same buffet. Probably so. He saw Bruno Garbini behind him in line and found himself wishing for the comparative healthfulness of Garbini’s spaghetti and meatballs.

  Two long tables covered with white tablecloths, with ten chairs on either side, were set perpendicular to the lectern and head table. All but three chairs were eventually filled. Gordon and El sat on the outside part of the table to the left of the lectern, with Roger Paris across from El. Gordon was to her left, directly across from Ron Paris. To Gordon’s left was a distinguished-looking man in his late forties, who introduced himself as Harold Hansen, owner of the town’s State Farm agency. Across from Hansen was a man in his eighties, walking with the aid of a cane, who was one of the last to be seated. He turned out to be Len Iverson, the former football coach for whom the high school field was named. Ron Paris introduced Iverson and Gordon, mentioning that Gordon was working on Charlotte London’s family history.

  “Miss London?” Iverson said. “By gad, what a woman.”

  “You must have worked with her,” Gordon said.

  “Not directly, but all the teachers knew each other. She was one of the best.” He paused and took a sip of iced tea. “Tragedy what happened. Never thought I’d outlive her.But then I’ve outlived a lot of people.”

  “I had her for senior English,” said Hansen. “My daughter had her four years ago. Not my son, though. He wasn’t a good enough student.”

  “What was she like as a teacher?” Gordon said.

  “It was almost 30 years ago. I don’t remember much. To be honest, English was never my favorite subject, and I haven’t read a book in years. I read The Wall Street Journal, The Forest Clarion, and reports I have to do for work. But I got more from her English class than I did from the others. I don’t remember the books as much as what she said about them, and some of the ways they helped you look at people. Actually, understanding people comes in handy in the insurance business. It’s about helping people, after all.”

  “She taught character,” Iverson said. “We used to think as coa
ches that we were responsible for building character, but for a long time, there weren’t any sports for girls. Miss London’s English classes were part of their character-building. Some of the boys, too.”

  The conversation sagged for a moment. Gordon turned to El, but she was speaking to Cameron Winters, who had sat down to her right. Ronald Paris moved to pick things up again.

  “So where have you been fishing?” he asked Gordon.

  “We were on the lake Monday afternoon and evening; Copper Creek Tuesday morning; the Middle Fork of the Hawk River yesterday afternoon.”

  “Wasn’t it running high and fast?”

  Gordon nodded. “We caught a few, but it’ll probably be better in a month. We thought we’d try the North Fork above the lake this afternoon.”

  “It’s a good spot early season. Good luck.”

  The meeting was called to order. After announcements (a couple of which were on the long-winded side), Rotarian and dentist, Dr. Jerry Mack, stepped up as the “Sheriff” and imposed fines on members of the club to raise money for the scholarship fund. The cause was good, but the extraction process was painful: Dr. Mack tried to be funny, but most of his jokes fell flat and were greeted by polite titters. Roger Paris chuckled several times, probably as loudly as anyone, but Ron Paris barely cracked a smile. At the end of the performance, he leaned across the table and said to Gordon and El, sotto voce:

  “They say in comedy, timing is everything. I think Jerry needs a new watch.”

  The speaker was Captain Ben Vestal of the California Department of Forestry, who spoke about the prospects for the upcoming forest fire season and managed to be reasonably interesting and occasionally funny. His presentation benefited greatly from the act it followed, and he received a genuinely warm round of applause when he finished just before the meeting ended.

  “I don’t see how you can stand this,” Gordon said to El as they left.