“I’ll find him,” said Alice, writing it down in a small notebook.
“And I’ll keep after Adam Beckstein, the reporter,” El said. “If he doesn’t call me tomorrow morning, I’ll call him again.”
“And Peter and I,” Gordon said, “have an appointment to meet with Chief Davies in Cabrillo tomorrow morning. Charlotte was planning to see him but was killed before she could, so he may have something important. We can hope.”
“This is just like historical research,” Karl said. “You think there’s something there, but you don’t know what. So you keep chipping away at it from different angles, and quite often you eventually get it.”
“Anything else?” said Gordon. He looked around and saw Emma Crisp sitting quietly on the couch. She hadn’t said a word. “You’ve been quiet tonight, Emma. Any thoughts for us?”
“No, no. Not really,” she said. “I’m still new to this and just trying to take it all in.”
“That’s all right,” said Gordon. “But if you have any idea at all — even if you think it’s crazy or stupid — share it with us. We’re lost, and we have to be open to anything.”
She nodded. “I will,” she said softly.
Gordon turned to El. “What time tomorrow?”
“Five o’clock work for everybody?” she said. There were several nods, and no dissents. “Five o’clock it is.”
Everyone began moving and pulling things together. Anna went straight to her mother, and began talking earnestly to her. Gordon felt he had to hold back until they were done. By the time that happened, the last of the group was leaving, and Anna was headed for her room. El came over.
“Can we put it off tonight?” she said in a low voice. “I’ve hardly seen Anna at all today, and I really need to spend some time with her.”
“Sure,” said Gordon. “I understand.” And he did, but wasn’t happy about it.
He walked out the front door into a lovely summer evening, warm with just a hint of a breeze. He saw Peter standing next to the Cherokee at the top of the stairs and made his way there. For a full two minutes, both of them stood looking out over the lake and the house without saying a word. Peter went first.
“Bachelor dinner at Garbini’s? I suspect we have some catching up to do.”
“SO?” said Gordon.
“I could say the same thing,” said Peter.
“You first.”
“No, you. I insist.”
“Toss for it?”
Peter sighed and reached into his pocket for a quarter. They were seated in the back booth at Garbini’s. It was fairly busy, with more of a Sunday family crowd. Sinatra was singing “One for My Baby, and One for the Road,” barely audible over the crowd noise. Peter flipped the coin.
“Tails,” said Gordon.
“Tails it is.” He looked at Gordon, who nodded. Peter took a deep breath.
“I suppose in a couple of years, I’ll be able to laugh about last night, but at the moment, my sense of humor is in the deep freeze. It was almost five o’clock when Gina and I finished talking with Gregory London. I still hadn’t heard from Stella, so I figured she got scheduled on an extra shift and couldn’t make it. It’s a pretty common thing with nurses. And you were over at El’s reading Charlotte’s journal, with no idea when you’d be out. So I asked Gina to dinner at Ike’s Lakeside, and off we went.
“We were there early, got a nice table by the window, and the conversation started going really well. Mostly we talked about this case and Charlotte. Gina’s really glad this group is working on it, and she said, for whatever it’s worth, that she’s beginning to understand what Charlotte might have seen in you. We went over all the elements of it, and she did some speculating about what might be in the journal … ”
“How close was she?”
“Not even on the same continent. Anyway, we raked the ground of the investigation pretty well. And I don’t say it was just my imagination, but I think a certain rapport was developing, aided by a couple of glasses of wine.”
“Hold it!” said Gordon. “Who was drinking that wine?”
Peter looked sheepish. “She had a glass to start with, and when they brought dinner, she asked for another, and I decided to have just one to be sociable.”
“Oh, Peter.”
“It’s all right, Gordon. I haven’t had a drink in three months, and it was just one. I’m not having one tonight. It’s OK.”
Gordon shook his head, and Peter moved forward with his story.
“When dinner was over around seven, I figured you’d be calling or coming back to Stanhope House, so I suggested we go back there and wait for you. We went up to my room to settle in until you called. I unlock the door, open it for Gina, she steps inside, and screams.
“My first reaction was that whoever ransacked your room had come back, so I jump into the room, testosterone flowing, ready to face the bastard down. Instead, I see Stella sitting up in the bed.”
“Oh shit.”
“Wearing a beautiful, diaphanous negligee she bought two weeks ago, no less. She got off work at 6 a.m. yesterday, grabbed a few hours of sleep, then started up here to meet me. But she forgot to recharge her phone, so she couldn’t call. Instead, she decided to surprise me.”
“Which she clearly did. So how did you respond?”
“Under the circumstances, I couldn’t see anything else to do but tell the truth. I know, it’s out of character, but hard cases make for hard choices.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance she took it well?”
“Let me answer your question with another question, Gordon. When your girlfriend is waiting for you in your hotel room, and you walk in with another woman, and you have alcohol on your breath, and you try to explain it by saying that you were coming to the room to discuss a murder investigation … Well, do you have any idea how lame that sounds?”
Gordon considered the question for a full minute.
“Off the top of my head, Peter, I can’t imagine anything more lame. And she could smell just one glass of wine on your breath?”
“The woman has a nose like a bloodhound. I don’t know how she can stand working in a hospital. But there you have it. Gina remembered a friend she had to meet and hared it out of there, and Stella read me the riot act while she was getting dressed and stalking out. And I spent the rest of the night in my room, waiting for you, with only my imperfections for company.”
“At least you weren’t alone.”
“And since you didn’t come back, I’m assuming you got to the end of the symphony.”
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself, Peter. Even Watson could have figured that out.”
“Anything you want to tell me about it?”
“I don’t know. It just happened.”
The waitress arrived with their salads, and they waited until she had gone before resuming. Peter picked up his fork, but instead of using it on his salad, he shook it at Gordon.
“Come on, Gordon. I expect better from you. Saying it just happened puts you in the same league as the people I used to treat in the emergency room. Guy comes in with three gunshot wounds, and you ask how he got shot. I don’t know. It just happened. All right, what were you doing when it just happened? I was enjoying myself with an attractive lady when her old man came home early and shots were fired.
“So don’t tell me it just happened. Let me rephrase the question. Did she tie you up at gunpoint and have her way with you, or did you make a decision?”
“All right, I made a decision.”
“That’s better. Now we’re getting somewhere. And do you know why you made that decision?”
“Well, I do like her in a funny sort of way. And the chemistry was right. What does it matter, Peter? This is almost the 21st Century. You don’t have to intend marriage before you sleep with someone.”
“True, but you have to exercise some judgment, and I’m beginning to wonder about you in that regard. You know who El reminds me of? Susan Sarandon in Bull Durha
m. You saw that, didn’t you?”
“Sure.”
“Remember, how she picked out a different ball player to sleep with each year. I’m beginning to wonder if our newspaper editor picks out a different tourist to sleep with each summer.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Plus she’s the queen of overshare. I hope you didn’t choose her for her discretion.”
Gordon took a bite of his salad and chewed it slowly.
“You’re approaching it from the wrong angle, Peter. I’ve come to have some respect for El in a short time. She’s smart, she’s tenacious, and her heart’s in the right place. The way she put together this group to look into Charlotte’s death shows all of those things. But she’s also who she is, with no pretensions, and she doesn’t care who knows it. You can call it overshare, but I call it lack of guile. I meet too many women in San Francisco who are trying hard to act perfect and maintain appearances. It’s kind of a relief to find one who’s unself-consciously herself. Her daughter is the kind of woman I see all the time in San Francisco, and she doesn’t understand or appreciate her mother. I hope she will some day.”
“When and where, exactly, did Anna come into the picture? She hasn’t been here all along, has she?”
“No. Actually, she came home from college early this morning and walked in on us. Or more accurately, on me. Sitting in the living room wearing only a robe from El’s closet.”
Peter shook his head.
“There seems to be too much of that sort of thing going on around here.”
“At least in my case, what she saw was exactly what it looked like. Unlike you, I was spared having to explain.”
Monday June 24
AFTER A BRIEF STOP at the Hellwithit Bakery, Gordon and Peter left for their appointment with former Highway Patrol officer Alvin Davies. The 75-mile drive to the town of Cabrillo was designated on the maps as one of California’s scenic routes, and it lived up to its name. Looping around the east side of the lake, they connected with a county road that went through a long stretch of densely forested land and descended into a valley with lush green meadows ringed by steeply forested mountains. At the other end of the valley was the town of Redman, which slowed their progress for three minutes.
Ten miles south of Redman, they came to the junction of the state highway leading to Adams. It went through the heart of town and bent south, eventually picking up the middle fork of Hawk River. Along the river were numerous turnouts where an angler could park and clamber down to the water, but neither man was thinking of fishing that morning. They passed through several small towns of a few hundred souls, some of which lacked even a gas station, and finally reached a junction with another state highway heading east toward Cabrillo, and, beyond that, Nevada.
The pine trees were beginning to thin out somewhat, with clumps of sagebrush springing up between them. As they drove toward Cabrillo, the sagebrush-to-pine ratio increased. It was starting out a fine summer day, and the drive was magnificent. Uncharacteristically, Gordon and Peter barely spoke during the hour and a half they were on the road.
Twenty miles from the junction, signs of civilization — in the form of scattered dwellings, many with discarded vehicles and appliances in the yards outside — indicated they were approaching Cabrillo. Like many western towns, it had originally been built with the railroad and the horse and buggy in mind, then adjusted to fit the automobile in the 20th Century. The original settlement, now called Old Town, was south of the highway, on the other side of the south fork of Hawk River. At this point, close to its headwaters, it was a 20-foot-wide creek running through a weedy channel, engineered to accommodate flood waters. Along the state highway were two grocery stores, four motels (all dating back to at least 1954), three cafes, four gas stations, five bars, two frosty joints, and a smattering of other small businesses.
They crossed the river into Old Town, turned left off Railroad Avenue on to Lincoln Street, and drove up a forested hillside. At the top was a cleared area with several portable buildings. This was the civic center of Cabrillo, and the police station was the first portable on the left.
Behind the counter was an attractive, businesslike woman in her mid to late 30s, with wavy hair and large glasses. She looked up, saw Gordon, and smiled pleasantly.
“May I help you?”
“Quill Gordon and Peter Delaney,” he said. “Chief Davies is expecting us.”
She leaned backward and glanced into an office.
“He doesn’t look too busy,” she said. “Come on in.”
She opened a swinging door and let them into the work area. Gordon, used to the security at the Hall of Justice in San Francisco, shook his head. They followed her to a door, where she paused and said, “Chief, your appointment is here.”
The man at the desk pushed an inch-high pile of papers to the left side of his blotter and stood up. He was five-nine, in his early fifties, putting on weight, and wearing a pair of gray dress slacks and a white button-down shirt with no tie. His eyes were blue, and his grayish-black hair was cropped to within a quarter-inch of his scalp and receding in front. He gave Gordon and Peter the head-to-toe Lawman’s Appraisal, then waved them in, gestured to two chairs facing his desk, and sat down. They did the same.
“How was the wedding?” asked Gordon, remembering that the chief’s son was being married over the weekend.
“It was a wedding,” he said, with a shrug. “They’re all nice, I suppose, but it’s the living afterward that’s tough.”
“I hear you,” said Peter.
Davies was leaning back in his chair, looking at them warily. Gordon knew the chief was playing the game of letting the other fellow speak, and decided to play it himself. After a minute, Davies leaned forward.
“So you’re here about Ned London,” he said. “What do you know about it and what do you want from me?”
“I’ve read your report,” said Gordon, “which was clear and thorough. And I’ve read the news articles that were written at the time.” Davies nodded, almost imperceptibly. “On the face of it, everything seems straightforward.”
He took a deep breath and tried to read Davies, knowing that what he said next could make or break the interview.
“As I think I mentioned over the phone, I’m the literary executor for Ned London’s daughter, Charlotte. She was working on a family history, which I’m now trying to finish. She died in a fire a week ago today, and though nothing’s been said officially, it’s looking as if her death may not have been an accident. In her manuscript, she has a notation that her father’s death was somehow questionable, and that she needed to talk to A.D., which I assume was you. So I’m here to do the interview she couldn’t.”
Davies turned his chair to the left and looked out a window at the trunks of nearby pine trees. He was still looking at the trees when he spoke.
“Did you have a specific question?”
“That’s just it,” said Gordon. “I don’t. I don’t know what Charlotte London was concerned about or suspected might have happened. But I do know that she was a tough, smart woman. If she saw smoke somewhere in that accident, I’d be inclined to believe there was fire. You’re sure acting like it. When I said I’d read the report, you could have told me everything was in it and sent me on my way. Instead, you’re trying to draw me out about what else I know.”
Davies, his hands making a steeple at his mouth, continued to look out the window.
“Am I right?”
Davies turned back to face Gordon.
“I always wondered if somebody would come asking about this some day,” he said.
“Why don’t you tell us the whole story of that night, as best you can remember it,” Gordon said softly.
“I don’t know if it would help,” he said. “At the end of the day, I don’t know if there was more to it. All I know is I thought so at the time.”
“Maybe you should start at the beginning,” said Peter, in his best bedside voice. “What were you doing that ni
ght when you got the call, and what happened from that point on?”
“All right. Maybe it’ll help me, too.” He covered his face with his hands, inhaled deeply twice, and put his hands on the desk.
“I have a surprising recall of that night, considering how long ago it was. It was a Wednesday night in January, so hardly anyone was out and about. It was looking like another cold, slow winter night. At 10:45 I pulled into Grady’s Market in Arthur (out of business now). They closed at 11, but I knew the regular night clerks. They always brewed a fresh pot of coffee at 10:30, and I’d come by to fill my thermos before closing.”
“Did you have a partner?” asked Gordon.
“They figured I didn’t need one on weeknights, and that was generally true. I filled my thermos, got into the car, and the radio came on. They’d got a call from Ned London’s family that he’d been at Año Nuevo Pines, hadn’t come home, and the people he was visiting said he’d left over an hour ago. Usually there’s nothing to those calls, but it gave me something to do.
“I drove out of town, bright lights on, looking carefully along the roadside for a gray 1967 Buick LeSabre, which was what he was driving. I turned left on the state highway that goes down the west side of the reservoir and drove slowly to Año Nuevo Pines, but didn’t see anything. I wasn’t expecting to, but you never know. I turned around and started going back slowly to check it from the other direction. When you only have one job to do, you stretch it out as long as possible. About three miles from the subdivision, I came to the point where the highway climbs up and hugs the cliff about 100 feet above the lake before dropping down again.
“Don’t ask me why because I couldn’t tell you, but as I was going uphill, it occurred to me that this was the only place along the way that a car could run off the road and not be seen. Near the top of the rise, there’s a little turnout, and I pulled into it. I got out of the car — and by the way, it was colder than snot outside —and started walking along the side of the road to see if there were any indications that something had gone over.”
“Wait a minute!" said Gordon. “There’s a guardrail there, and it certainly should have stopped an ordinary passenger car.”
Not Death, But Love (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 3) Page 23
