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

by Michael Wallace

  “Still,” Gordon said, “I’m surprised Ballou didn’t coordinate with him better. He’s going to be furious when he hears what you got out of Brantley.”

  “What you have to remember,” she said, “is how unusual this is. Ballou’s had two murders in his 12 years as sheriff. One was a domestic violence case and the other was a bar fight — both open and shut. This is the first case he’s ever had where the medical examiner could trip him up, and it probably never occurred to him to head that off. We won’t be so lucky if it ever happens again, but for now … ”

  “Thank you, Roy Cahoon,” said Peter.

  THEY CHEWED OVER THE CASE some more, and El made an appointment to meet with Celia Strickland at Shore Acres Lodge Sunday at two o’clock. Gordon and Peter emerged into the growing heat of the bright late-morning sunshine. Thunderheads forming over the western mountains held out hope for a cooling storm later in the day.

  “I’m hungry,” Gordon said. “All I’ve had is a croissant.”

  “If you’d stayed for breakfast,” Peter said, “You’d have had an omelet with sausage, basil and white cheddar cheese.”

  “Don’t rub it in. Can you do an early lunch?”

  “I suppose so. The Shotgun?”

  “I was thinking of giving the coffee shop by the airport a try.”

  “Go for it.”

  They drove to the airport and turned in at the main entrance, pulling up in front of The Barnstormer Café, a 1950s-vintage wood building with several hard-used pickup trucks parked in front. As they were getting out of the Cherokee, Gordon’s pager beeped.

  “Local number,” he said. “Looks familiar. I’d better call.”

  He punched the number into his cell phone, and on the second ring, Cameron Winters answered.

  “Law offices.”

  “Winters!” said Gordon. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, if you can get to my office by noon, you can pick up a package that arrived for you this morning. If not, I’ll put it in my safe, and you can come for it on Monday.”

  Gordon hesitated, and before he could say anything, Winters continued:

  “It’s from Charlotte London.”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  He told Peter about it as they drove back and parked under the shady tree across the street from the law office. Peter waited while Gordon went in. Winters stepped out of his office, wearing jeans and a burgundy polo shirt.

  “No court today,” he said. “Come in and have a seat.”

  On the desk blotter in front of Winters was a book-sized parcel, wrapped in plain brown paper and sealed with tape. Gordon couldn’t take his eyes off it.

  “All I can say is this was quite a surprise,” Winters said. “When I went to my PO box at 11, there was a card that I had a package. It was addressed to me, but when I unwrapped it, I found this,” he gestured to the parcel in front of him, “It came with a handwritten note from Charlotte London. A very peculiar note, I might add.”

  Gordon nodded for him to keep going. Winters opened a sheet of plain white copy paper that had been folded once.

  “It says, ‘Dear Cameron, Please hold the enclosed parcel, unopened, in your safe until further notice. In the event anything should happen to me before I claim it, please deliver it, also unopened, to my literary executor, Mr. Gordon. Thank you. Sincerely, Charlotte London.’ That’s it.”

  Gordon exhaled sharply. Winters pushed the parcel across the desk toward him.

  “All yours,” he said. “You’re under no obligation to tell me anything about it, but to be frank, I’ve never had something like this happen before. If you do feel you can give me an explanation later, I’d be most grateful.”

  Gordon picked it up. It was heavily taped and bound with string. On the brown wrapping paper, in Charlotte’s unmistakable hand, were the words:

  “To: Mr. Quill Gordon

  “From: Charlotte London”

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t understand,” he said slowly. “She died on Monday, but this just arrived today?”

  “That, I can probably explain.” Winters opened a desk drawer and took a large piece of brown paper from it. He set it on the desk facing Gordon. “This was the outer wrapping. As you can see, the postage is covered by a bazillion stamps — probably twice as many as were needed. The postmark is Tuesday. I’m guessing it was mailed after hours on Monday night. There’s a postal substation not too far from Miss London’s house on the Peninsula, and she could have simply loaded it up with stamps and pushed it through the mail slot.”

  “And it took nearly a week to get a few miles to you?”

  “Not without reason.” He pointed to the address. “The last two digits of the zip code were transposed. You can see here where it went to the other zip code and was postmarked there before being sent back here. If it had been handled by a careless or stupid postal clerk, we might never have seen this.” He paused. “I guess you were meant to get it.”

  “Thank you, Winters. I’ll handle it with care.”

  “You’ve been to Rotary, so you can call me Cam. You can also call me bothered. Can I tell you what I’ve been thinking ever since I picked this up?”

  “Please do.”

  “I’ve been thinking about what a remarkable woman Charlotte London was. I’ll miss her, and not just as a client. And I’ve been thinking how it’s funny what troubles you about someone’s behavior.

  “When she came into the office Monday morning and wrote a holographic codicil to her will, naming you, a total stranger, as her literary executor — something she’s never discussed with me in all the years I’ve represented her — I didn’t bat an eye. After all, she had a confidence, bordering on hubris, about her ability to size people up. Strange as it might look to someone who didn’t know her, it was the sort of thing she would do.

  “This parcel, on the other hand, disturbs me very much. Miss London had two qualities that were fixed and immovable. One was thriftiness. She’d spend money on something that was important to her, but she hated to pay too much for anything. The second was that she was absolutely meticulous and intolerant of carelessness. So when I received a parcel from her with way too much postage on it, and a mistake in the address … well, I can only conclude that something was terribly wrong.”

  “You may be right,” Gordon said softly.

  “I would hope that if you see anything in here,” gesturing to the parcel, “that strikes you as being suspicious, you’ll go straight to the authorities with it.”

  “I’ve already given the sheriff a copy of her family history.”

  “All right, then. You know what I mean.” He paused. “Is there anything else I can do?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Gordon, rising. “Thank you. Cam.”

  “Thank you for coming by. And Gordon: Be careful.”

  The package felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds as he carried it back to the Cherokee. Gordon filled Peter in as they drove back to the Barnstormer, which was down to one truck parked in front when they arrived. Clouds were beginning to bunch up over the mountains, and an afternoon thunderstorm seemed like an increasing possibility. When they got out to go into the café, Peter froze Gordon with a look.

  “You’re not going to leave that thing in the car, are you?”

  “What?”

  Peter moved closer and lowered his voice.

  “Hasn’t it occurred to you that this might be what your stalker has been looking for?”

  “Sorry. So much is happening that my brain’s turning into oatmeal.”

  He fished the package out of the car and took it into the coffee shop. Two men were at a table at one end, so they took a corner table at the other end, where they could have relative privacy. The place was decorated with old photos and aviation documents that covered all the wall space, but Gordon hardly noticed. A clock-watching waitress brusquely took their order and left.

  “Well?” said Peter.

  “I guess I
should open it.”

  He took a small folding knife from his pocket and slowly and carefully began unwrapping the parcel by gently prying apart the tape where it was sealed. Peter drummed his fingers nervously on the tabletop.

  “You must have driven your sisters nuts on Christmas morning,” he said. “Can’t you go any faster?”

  “This could be evidence. I’m almost there.”

  He broke the last piece of tape and opened the wrapping to unveil a book, morocco-bound with a maroon cover and no legend. Flipping quickly through the pages he recognized Charlotte London’s distinctive, crisp handwriting, essayed with a fountain pen or pens with blue ink. He stopped at the last page and looked up at Peter.

  “It’s her journal,” he said. “From September 1, 1970 to February 28, 1971. The time The Peninsulas were being debated and approved.”

  A GROWL OF DISTANT THUNDER was heard as Gordon convened the meeting. The heat had been withering until a half-hour earlier, but the temperature was cooling as the storm moved in from the west. Its advance clouds were scudding in front of the sun from time to time, creating alternating intervals of shadow and bright light, but as the meeting progressed, the sound of thunder drew closer and the periods of darkness longer.

  Gordon introduced Emma as the newest (and final, he hoped) member of the investigating team. She was known to all, was greeted warmly, and said that as this was her first meeting, she planned to listen and do no more than ask a question or two.

  After that, Gordon turned the meeting over to El and Peter for a report on the interview with Medical Examiner Brantley. Their summary caused a sensation.

  “I knew it!” said Gina. “I knew this was no accident. Is there any chance at all he was wrong?”

  “Unlikely,” said Peter. “Those guys know their stuff, and he struck me as being sharp on the details.”

  Her face clouded over. “Poor Charlotte. I hope she didn’t suffer.”

  “From the way he described the trauma to the skull, she had to have been either killed instantly or totally unconscious from the time she was hit until the time she died. For whatever the sentiment is worth, it could have been worse.”

  “No question it’s a big development,” Gordon said, “but at the end of the day it only tells us we’re on the right track. We’re no closer to knowing who did it or why.”

  “And,” said El, “it’s far from being provable that it was a murder. That’s what it looks like, but Brantley said he couldn’t swear to it, and a defense attorney could poke holes in the theory.”

  “I say worry about the defense attorney later,” Karl said. “We need to concentrate on who and why.”

  “I agree,” Gordon said, “and toward that end, something else has dropped into our laps.” He took Charlotte’s journal out of his bag and summarized his meeting with Winters that morning.

  “I just got it a couple of hours ago, and haven’t done anything with it aside from quickly flipping through it to confirm it is what it is. I’d appreciate some guidance from the group as to how we should handle this.”

  “Well, I know what I think,” said Alice, “but I’d like to hear what Gina has to say. After all, she was Charlotte’s best friend.”

  Gina stirred restlessly, and it was clear she was agitated.

  “I think you should read it,” she finally blurted out. “One of the last things she did in her life was to make sure you got it if anything happened. So I don’t see there’s anything to argue about, Gordon.”

  “I agree,” said Alice, “but given that it’s a personal journal and we all know Charlotte, I think Gordon should read it and report back to us tomorrow on only what he thinks is relevant to the investigation.”

  There were nods all around.

  “If that’s what you all want, I’ll do it,” Gordon said. “But it’s a heavy load for me to carry, trying to decide what’s relevant and what isn’t. If anyone else wants to look, we could make a copy … Gina?”

  “No, she left it for you, and you should look at it, but … ”

  “But what?”

  “All right, I know this is going to sound petty, but I have to get it off my chest. Charlotte has been my best friend for nearly 15 years. I thought we confided everything to each other. Smart as she was, she must have had her reasons, but I just don’t understand why she turned her journal over to a complete stranger instead of to me.”

  The awkward silence that followed was finally broken by Karl.

  “There’s probably something in it she didn’t want you to see. You wouldn’t believe what people put in their journals.”

  “Karl!” snapped Alice.

  The room was as charged with tension as the outdoors was with the approaching storm, which produced a rumble of thunder at that point.

  “You may be right, Karl,” Gina said softly.

  “I’d bet money on it,” said Peter. “The whole question of why Miss London landed on Gordon has been gnawing on me, but now we might have two answers: a) she didn’t feel she could trust anyone in town to follow up aggressively, and b) she had to share something personal and didn’t want to do it with someone she knew. I doubt she imagined, Gina, that you and Gordon would get together so quickly.”

  Gordon sighed. “All right, then. I’ll do it myself, but I’d still like a little help. Who was here in 1970, in case I have a question?”

  Gina, El and Alice shook their heads.

  “I was,” Karl said, “but I can hardly remember what I had for lunch yesterday, never mind 25 years ago. Happy to look something up if you need that, though.”

  “All right.”

  “Are we done?” asked Karl.

  “I think so,” said Gordon, and hearing no dissent, continued, “What time tomorrow?”

  “We’re meeting Celia Strickland at Shore Acres at two,” said El. “It could take a while. Shall we say 4:30?”

  Everyone agreed to that and stood to go. Peter looked at Gina, then at Gordon.

  “How are we going to handle the logistics of this?” he asked.

  “I know the way to Greg London’s place,” Gina said. “Why don’t you come with me, and I’ll drop you off at Stanhope House on the way back?”

  Peter glanced at Gordon, who nodded. Gina and Peter started out the door.

  “Gordon,” said El.

  “Yes.”

  She waited until the door was closed.

  “If you don’t want to read that in a small room all by yourself, you’re welcome to stay here for a while. Comfortable chairs, lake view.”

  “Are you sure that would be all right?” he said.

  “I’m sure.”

  LOOKING BACK ON IT LATER, Gordon realized that he had come to Charlotte London’s journal with preconceived notions, and that she would not have approved. He had expected it to contain significant and previously unknown details of what her father and brother were going through in their effort to get the plan for The Peninsulas approved. It held nothing of the sort. Charlotte had been indifferent to the point of obliviousness about the project that was consuming the rest of the family. Instead, she was caught up in the details of her own life, and not entirely without reason.

  She had fallen in love.

  The first few entries in the journal were routine descriptions of the details involving the beginning of another school year — one of 36 such beginnings in her professional career. But the tone changed with the entry for Thursday September 10:

  Annual Rotary Club new teacher luncheon today. School let out early at 12:30, and at one o’clock hundreds of people gathered in the cafeteria for the grand occasion. Old hat for me now, but I remember how thrilling it was that first year to see so many people in town turn out to recognize us — making us feel that what we were doing for their children was important. The lunch may be more routine now, but I still believe what we are doing is important. I couldn’t go on otherwise. Something unusual this year, though. The gentleman sitting next to me (not saying who because I don’t want to make too much
of it) was unusually attentive, to the point where, by the end of the luncheon, I was beginning to wonder if I have a secret admirer. He asked a great many questions about the books I would be teaching in Senior English this year. They were good questions, and I found myself wishing the parents of my students took such an interest. We carried on a free and easy conversation for some time, and to such an extent that I’ve quite forgotten everything else about the event. No doubt there was nothing to it, and I am being carried away by an excess of maidenly imagination, but the flutter was nevertheless enjoyable.

  The matter seemed to drop there, and for the next week and a half there was no follow up. Then, an entry for Saturday September 19.

  Quite a surprise this afternoon. I had just returned from the store and was looking forward to an early dinner, some reading, and watching the first episode of the new “Mary Tyler Moore Show.” She was so good in “The Dick Van Dyke Show,” and the premise of a modern career woman is intriguing. I had set down my bags when the phone rang, and I was surprised to find that the caller was my Secret Admirer from the new-teacher luncheon. SA (as I’ll call him) said he wanted to tell me how much he had enjoyed our conversation, and after some hemming and hawing said he’d like to talk to me again and asked if I would have lunch with him at Grouse Lake Resort next Saturday. I said yes more quickly than I ought to have, and spent much of the evening wondering why I agreed, when I really shouldn’t have. I finally concluded it was because I wanted to, and for now, I can comfort myself with the assurance that it’s only lunch, after all. “The Mary Tyler Moore Show” was quite promising; I plan to keep watching it and hope they develop some of the possibilities.

  He called in the middle of the week to make arrangements, and the Friday entry reflected some concern on her part about how to dress and approach the occasion. As Gordon reached Saturday the 26th, the first drops of rain began to fall outside, and a bolt of lightning struck somewhere to the south.

  A beautiful day, warm, sunny, hardly a cloud in the sky. The calendar says autumn, but today it felt more like midsummer. SA picked me up at nine and seemed a bit preoccupied on the 40-mile drive to Grouse Lake. I allowed him his thoughts and concentrated on the scenery. Father used to take us to Grouse Lake when we were children, but I haven’t been there for years and had forgotten what a lovely drive it is. When we got to the lake, we stopped at a picnic area, nearly deserted this time of year. We shared pastries and a thermos of coffee and talked. He is a good talker (something I like in a man) and at one point he even quoted from “The Lady of the Lake:” “Boon nature scattered, free and wild …” I wondered if he had looked it up for the occasion, but decided that he is the kind of man who would like Scott, so it was all right in any case. At least it wasn’t “Lochinvar.” At one o’clock we went to the lodge. It was half full and no children, just groups of men there for a last fishing trip of the season, along with a few wives. I was afraid we would run into someone we knew, but we didn’t, and I was finally able to relax and enjoy our conversation. He was considerably more animated on the drive back to Arthur. I felt positively vibrant the rest of the day and was glad I had done this. “The Mary Tyler Moore Show” was very good again. I think it may turn out to be something.