“El!” said Alice. “Are you all right? You look pale as a ghost.
El had half a glass of wine left, and she took two large gulps, her hand shaking as she lifted the glass to her lips. When she spoke, her voice was almost a croak.
“I wasn’t expecting that one. Al Davies was the Highway Patrol officer who showed up at my front door late one night to tell me that Andre had been killed in a car wreck.”
“I AM SO SORRY ABOUT THAT,” Gordon said.
“Let it go, Gordon,” said El. “You had no way of knowing.”
“I should have thought of it. You told us two nights ago about the Highway Patrolman coming to your door, and I should have put two and two together.”
“Nobody would have. And it was the surprise that got me more than anything else. I’m fine now.”
Peter, Gina, Gordon and El were back in the same booth at Garbini’s. It was Friday night and busier than the previous two nights. Two more waitresses were on duty; Bruno was walking the floor with a proprietary air; and Vic Damone was singing “An Affair to Remember” on the sound system.
“All right,” Gordon said. “But I’ll talk to Davies myself, or with Peter (looking at him) if you want to come along.”
“I might as well,” said Peter. “It looks like we’re about done fishing on this trip.”
“Martyrdom doesn’t become you, Peter.”
“Speaking of coming along,” Gina said, “I wouldn’t mind if someone came with me tomorrow when I talk to Greg London. I’ve known him for so long I might not pick up on everything he’s saying, just because I’ve heard it before. Could anybody join me?”
She looked quickly at Gordon and El, then longer at Peter.
“Peter?”
“I suppose so,” he said slowly. “When is it?”
“Three thirty. The group’s meeting at two because Alice and her husband have plans tomorrow night. We could drive over together and I could drop you off at Stanhope House afterwards.”
“I’ll come.”
Drinks arrived: Merlot for Gina, a white wine for El, ginger ale for Peter and the usual Lenny Briscoe for Gordon. Peter followed the Merlot with his eyes as the waitress leaned across the table to put it in front of Gina. His gaze lingered on it for several seconds before he snapped back to his own drink.”
Gordon noticed, and remembered that Peter was partial to red wine — when he was drinking wine, at any rate. He picked up the thread of the conversation.
“Tomorrow should be a busy day,” he said. “I’ll be dropping off a copy of the manuscript at the sheriff’s office at eight … ”
“And pumping him about the investigation,” said El. “Don’t forget to do that.”
“I’ll try, but that’s more in your line than mine. Why don’t you do that?”
“I want to see what I can get from the medical examiner first. The more I know, the more I can get Ballou to spill.”
“When are you calling the doc?”
“Nine o’clock, or whenever you get over from the sheriff’s office. I’ll wait for you.”
“And what about Celia Strickland at Shore Acres?”
“I’ll try to set something up for Saturday afternoon or Sunday.”
Gordon picked up the folder of clippings and the accident report that Karl had given him. “Try to make it Sunday if you can. I need some time to go through this.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Well,” said Gordon, “I still don’t know where we’re headed, but it feels like we’re moving somewhere.” He raised his glass in a toast. “To the investigation.”
“To the investigation!” said the other three, raising their glasses.
They sipped their drinks silently for a moment. Vic Damone had given way to Perry Como, backed by an ethereal choir, singing “Young at Heart.”
AT STANHOPE HOUSE after dinner, Peter and Gordon were waiting for Emma to come back with paper for the printer so they could run off Ballou’s copy of the manuscript. Peter was fidgeting.
“You all right?” asked Gordon.
“I’m fine.”
“Still OK with not drinking?”
“I said I was fine.”
“I know what you said, but I also saw how you were looking at Gina’s Merlot tonight.”
“For God’s sake, Gordon. You’re starting to sound like my third wife. I always used to tell her it’s not looking that’s the problem; it’s acting.”
“You weren’t talking about drinking then, were you?”
“No, but it’s the same principle. You’re never going to get it off your mind entirely if you’re human. I’m OK. Really.”
“All right. Just asking.”
A moment passed, and Gordon remembered something.
“What about Stella?” he said, remembering the nurse Peter was going with. “Wasn’t she supposed to be here tonight?”
“She said she’d call Friday morning if she could switch shifts and get off Friday night. She didn’t call, so I’m assuming she had to work. Maybe she can come up tomorrow, but they’re really short-handed because of vacations. She might get called in on overtime tomorrow night. It’s up in the air.”
“Sorry it took so long,” said Emma, coming around the corner with a ream of copy paper, still wrapped. “This is the last one, and I had to go to the storage closet to get it.”
She paused. “Could I ask you one thing?”
Gordon nodded.
“I ran into Alice at the library today, and she told me, in the strictest confidence, of course, that some of you are looking into what happened to Charlotte London.”
Gordon flinched. It was just what he had been worrying about, and he wondered how many other people Alice had told — in strictest confidence, of course.
“That’s maybe overstating it a bit. We’re helping El Sundstrom with the article she’s working on for next week’s paper.”
Emma was trying to decide whether to say something.
“I know this is being really forward,” she blurted out, “but could I join your group?”
Gordon and Peter looked at each other.
“This may sound silly,” she continued, “but when we moved here from Colorado, our daughter, Michelle, was really worried about making friends at a new high school. Miss London picked up on that, and made a point of putting her with another girl on a team project the first week of classes. The other girl became her best friend, and that English class changed her life. It made her decide to be a teacher. I feel our family owes Miss London a huge debt, and if there’s anything unsettled about what happened to her, I’d like to help. I’d gladly do any task that needs doing.”
She looked at them with pleading eyes. Gordon glanced quickly at Peter, who shrugged, unhelpfully.
“All right,” said Gordon after a pause. “I don’t see how I can say no to that. But please, please don’t tell anybody — not even your husband.”
“Word of honor,” she said. “If there’s one thing innkeepers know how to do, it’s keep a secret.”
Gordon smiled.
“Do you know where El Sundstrom’s house is at Aspen Cove? We’re meeting there at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”
She nodded vigorously.
“Thank you, thank you. This means a lot to me.”
“Welcome to our team,” said Peter, putting out his hand.
“Welcome,” said Gordon, doing the same.
Saturday June 22
SHERIFF BALLOU came out quickly when Gordon was announced. He was dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt in navy check and wore an olive Stetson with a feather in the band on its left side.
“Thank you for coming by,” he said with forced cheerfulness, once they were in his office. “Appreciated your coming by the other day, even though it didn’t look like you had much at the time. But at least we knew it was out there when we wanted to have a look at it later.”
“Something’s changed?”
“Well, now, it’s too early to say that
yet. Let’s just say a couple of things have turned up that have made us feel we need to look at this sad situation more carefully — just to be sure.”
Gordon played along. “I understand. From what little I know about law enforcement, there’s a lot of following dead ends, just to rule things out.”
“Exactly. What you have here,” he lifted the manuscript and dropped it on his desk, “may be something really important or it may be nothing at all. Probably nothing, but we won’t know until we take a good look at it.”
“Of course. And since I’m now legally responsible for the manuscript, I hope you’ll let me know if you do find something in it.”
Ballou’s eyes narrowed.
“What do you mean ‘legally responsible,’ Gordon?”
“In her will, Charlotte London named me her literary executor.” He paused for effect, and Ballou bit.
“What the hell is a literary executor? I never heard of such a thing.”
“That means I’m responsible for her family history and all related papers — not that there are many of those, what with the fire and all. So I do have an interest in knowing if there’s any more to her death than a tragic accident.”
“Any idea how you got that job?”
“I must have aced the interview.”
Ballou drummed his fingers on the desk.
“You said before that when she walked up to you at the Shotgun Café and gave you that family history, you’d never met her?”
“Never.”
“You’re sure?”
“She’s not someone you’d forget.”
“And did she say why she wanted you to hold on to that computer disk, when she presumably had dozens of people in town she could have asked?”
“I’ve wondered about that myself. All she said was that I had an honest face.”
Ballou looked at the face.
“Yeah,” he finally said, “You’re the type old ladies take a liking to. Probably be a good confidence man if you put your mind to it.”
“Not for me, thanks.”
“It is strange. You have to admit that, Gordon.”
“A big part of me wishes she’d chosen someone else, but … ”
“But she didn’t. You still think your hotel room being broken into had anything to do with all this?”
“More than ever.” Gordon told him about the Cherokee Thursday afternoon.
“Did you file a report?”
“No, and I’m not telling my insurance company either. What are the odds of catching someone on a smash-and-grab in the middle of nowhere?”
“Not good, though you said nothing was grabbed.”
“You know what I mean.”
“How long are you going to be here, now?”
“Through Wednesday morning, then back to San Francisco.”
“All right. I’ll get in touch with you if I need to, and you might want to give me a call Tuesday afternoon, just in case.”
“Fine,” said Gordon, standing to go. “And if you need to reach me later on, you know how to get hold of me in the City.”
Ballou shook his hand.
“Enjoy the rest of your fishing trip. I hear they’re biting pretty good near the dam.”
“THAT’S ALL YOU GOT?” she said.
“Sorry. I may be your intern, but I never took a journalism class.”
El looked askance at Gordon, while Peter pretended to be studying the ceiling tiles.
“All right,” she finally said. “Let’s see if we can get anything out of the medical examiner.”
She picked up the phone from her desk, took a phone list from a stacking tray and studied it for a moment before dialing. This morning, she was wearing a snug, low-cut light-blue top over her jeans, and Gordon couldn’t help noticing the way her breasts rose as she breathed. When the connection was made, she hit the “speaker” button on the phone.
“Brantley,” said a voice on the other end.
“Sorry, I was looking for Doogie Howser, M.D.”
“Now why did I think I might be hearing from you today, El?”
“If you weren’t so rational, I’d say you were psychic. Do you have the report there?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Good. Well, I happen to have my own medical expert here …”
“Advertising must be good this summer.”
“Let’s not go there. I want you to meet Dr. Peter Delaney, a surgeon and emergency room doctor from San Francisco. Say hello, Peter.”
“Good to make your acquaintance, doctor.”
“And in the spirit of full disclosure, my summer intern, Quill Gordon is also here.”
“Quill Gordon? Like the trout fly?”
“I get that a lot,” Gordon said.
“I’ll bet. Well, where did you want to start, El? Did Ballou show you the report?”
“He told me what he thought was in it,” she lied. “Now I’d like to hear it from someone who knows what he’s talking about.”
“Never a bad idea. Well, what we have here is a white female, age approximately 60 years, good health overall, probably would have lived to 90 if this hadn’t happened … ”
“Excuse me, doctor,” said Peter. “But I haven’t seen the report. Could you briefly tell us what condition the body was in when you got it?”
“Oh, sorry. So, to put it in layman’s terms for the fourth estate, she was a bit crispy on the outside,” El and Gordon cringed while Peter listened impassively, “but overall the corpse and internal organs were well preserved. Just between us, the firefighters did a helluva job. If they’d gotten there just a couple of minutes later or been any less effective when they did arrive, I probably would have been looking at a charred skeleton.”
“So you were able to do a thorough autopsy, then?” Peter asked.
“As thorough as the body and my facilities allow.”
“And you were able to check for smoke in her lungs?”
“You’re getting ahead of me, doctor, but that’s the question I’d expect. The answer is yes I was, and no I didn’t find any.”
Peter tapped the desktop three times with the pencil he was holding.
“So that means … ”
“I think you know the answer. Either she was dead before the fire broke out, or we have a set of highly unusual circumstances. I’d say the odds are 99.9 percent it’s the first scenario.”
The three of them looked at each other.
“I don’t suppose,” said Gordon quietly, “that there was any indication as to what the cause of death might have been?”
“I can’t be absolutely certain about it, but there was a severe wound to the back of her head. To use layman’s terms again, it was cracked like an eggshell. It would have been enough to kill her.”
“Did you run a tox screen?” Peter said.
“Came back negative.”
“Is there any chance that wound could have been the result of an accident — a fall, for instance?”
“There’s always a chance, but I’d say it’s pretty slim. The skull was shattered near its base, just below her left ear. That isn’t normally where someone’s head lands in a fall, but stranger things have happened. If a defense attorney asked that question, I wouldn’t be able to absolutely, positively rule it out.”
“Is it possible,” said Gordon, “that the roof of the house could have collapsed from the fire and struck her on the head?”
“Possible, but it didn’t happen. I had the same question and checked with the fire department. They were able to get the fire out before the roof caved. Whatever coshed her, it wasn’t the roof.”
“And no signs of any other trauma?” said Peter.
“Nothing that would have killed her. No gunshots or stab wounds, if that’s what you mean. No other serious skeletal trauma.”
“So, John,” said El. “You mentioned defense attorneys asking questions. Is that what you’re expecting? That this will be a criminal case?”
He didn’t answ
er for 15 seconds.
“Shit. I shouldn’t talk to you over the phone, El. You get me off guard, and I say things I don’t mean to say.”
“Don’t get a swelled head over it. You’re not the only one.”
“All right, can I talk on background? You don’t quote me or tell anyone I was the source for this?”
“You’re on.”
He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully.
“I think the medical evidence points very strongly in one direction: That someone killed Charlotte London with a blow to the head and set her house on fire to cover it up. I think we’re dealing with an unlucky killer.”
“You mean,” said Gordon, “if the house and body had burned more completely, someone could have gotten away with murder?”
“Someone still could. None of this gets us any closer to figuring out who did this. But someone very nearly committed an undetected murder. At least now the sheriff should be looking into it aggressively. And, El, put the heat on him to do that. If what the evidence points to is true, this was a horrible crime, and I hope our killer’s luck stays bad.”
After a few pleasantries, they concluded the conversation. As soon as the phone was off, Gordon turned to El.
“Are you going to go after Ballou about this?”
She raised a hand. “Not so fast. He just got the report yesterday, so let’s give him a chance to come clean first. And let’s keep digging ourselves. Then on Tuesday afternoon, I’ll call our sheriff and put the screws on him.”
“All right. I think, though, that we have the top agenda item for this afternoon’s meeting.”
“What I can’t figure out,” said Peter, “Is why the medical examiner was so forthcoming. In the Bay Area they don’t talk to the media that much and they’re really careful about what they say.”
“You could call it a Forest County tradition,” said El with a smile. “When I got here 20 years ago, the county had a medical examiner by the name of Roy Cahoon. Now there was a man who loved his work. He’d call me after an accident or violent death to give me all the details. He said the taxpayers were paying for his reports and they had a right to know what was in them. Of course, he got off on seeing his name in the newspaper, but he did things that way for so many years that his successor felt obliged to be open, too.”
Not Death, But Love (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 3) Page 16
