“Do you have enough to write a story?” Gordon said to El.
She nodded. “I can certainly write a story. I’d like more than we’ve got, but we have enough.”
“Don’t you have to worry about libel?” said Anna.
“Not if you know what you’re doing. Truth is always a defense, and as long as we hint at things we can’t prove instead of saying them outright — well, libel’s a tough rap to prove.”
“What would you ideally like to see?” Gordon asked.
“I’d like to see something connecting Sturges to improper behavior when he voted to approve The Peninsulas,” El said.
“That was 25 years ago,” said Anna. “The statute of limitations has run out.”
“He can’t be prosecuted,” Gordon said, “but his political career could be brought to a halt if it could be proved. He’s thinking of running for state insurance commissioner, you know.”
“Insurance commissioner,” said Peter. “Now there’s a good job for somebody with a history of taking bribes.”
“No it isn’t,” said Anna. “You want someone completely honest.”
Peter began to reply, but Gordon stopped him with a discreet elbow to the ribs. Gordon turned to El again.
“When are you going to write the story?”
“Tomorrow night. I’ll wait until about four in the afternoon, then call Ballou for a comment on whatever we’ve got. After the group meets at five, I’ll be writing as long as it takes to finish. On Wednesday morning, Gordon, I’d appreciate it if you could give the story a once-over.”
“I should look at it for libel,” said Anna.
“Of course, dear,” murmured El.
The food arrived, and they ate, continuing to discuss the case without resolution. After dessert, the waitress went to add up their bill. Gordon had briefed Peter on the way over that his job was to get Anna out of the way, and he gave his friend an ankle-tap to indicate that now would be a good time to proceed.
“So,” said Peter, sitting up, “It’s almost sunset. I was wondering, Anna, if I could interest you in coming with me to watch the submarine races?”
She frowned. “But there aren’t any submarines here.”
El laughed and shook her head.
“Oh, Anna,” she said. “You have so much to learn about the workings of the male mind. I think Dr. Delaney was suggesting he’d like to take you home and give Gordon and me a few minutes alone.”
“All right.” She made to leave, and as she had the inside seat, El had to get up and let her out. Gordon likewise rose to make way for Peter, slipping him the keys to the Cherokee as he slid out.
Sinatra was singing “Summer Wind” as they walked out the front door into a perfect evening. It was twilight, and the warmth of the day lingered on. The quarter-moon, which had risen early in the afternoon, was into its descent in the southwest. Traffic on the highway had all but stopped. Gordon took El by the hand.
“Let’s see if we can have the gazebo at Stanhope House to ourselves.”
They crossed the road and strolled up to the inn. A boy and girl of about ten and 12 were rocking in the bench swing, but the gazebo was empty.
“A quiet place to talk,” he said, as they sat down. She sat to his left and leaned into him.
“This is the best time of year here,” she sighed. “When the days are long and it’s warm and sunny. In a good year, we get a hundred nice days, but they make the other 265 tolerable.”
“About Saturday night,” he said.
“Ack!” she exclaimed.
He started and turned to her. The inn’s house cat had stolen into the gazebo and jumped on her lap.
“Sorry,” she said. “He startled me.” She began to scratch the cat behind the ears. “Ooh, you just want a little attention, don’t you? Yeah. You like this, huh?” She turned to Gordon. “I guess you’d like a little attention, too.”
“I think I could stand it.”
“I’m sure you could. But about Saturday. What do you think it meant?”
“I don’t know. It happened pretty fast.”
“It usually does, in my experience. Maybe you shouldn’t read too much into it. Say it was a lovely evening. Isn’t that enough?”
“Do you want it to be enough?”
He could see her smile in the fading light.
“I could live with that. Let’s cut to the chase, Gordon. Do you think you could move up here? To live most of the year?”
“Probably not,” he said after a pause.
“And I’m married to the paper, though polygamy is a possibility. But I’m not leaving this town any time soon. So don’t say you’ll call me when you get back to the city. It’s not going to happen. This is a summer thing.” She smiled again. “And a damn good one, too. I really like you, and this is a great story we’re working on. We’ll always have that, just like Rick and Ilsa in Casablanca will always have Paris. It’s something special, and most people never get that.”
“Are you trying to let me down gently.”
“I’ll be honest with you, Gordon. If Anna hadn’t come home early, I would have had you over again last night, and probably again tonight. But when she showed up and we had to call a timeout, I started to think about it. It seemed to me that we had a special moment, and we should save it as that — not keep going until we run it into a ditch.”
“You may be right …”
“Well, then.”
“Thanks for the memory. And how about a kiss for old time’s sake?”
“Just one. After two or three, I’m not responsible for myself.”
He leaned over and gave her a kiss that became more ardent and passionate as it continued. The cat rolled off her lap and grumpily skulked away. Finally they broke off.
“That brought back some memories,” he said, leaning toward her again. She put up her hand and stopped his chin.
“I said just one.” He backed off slightly. “Dammit.”
Tuesday June 25
“SHE ISN’T ANSWERING THE PHONE,” said Peter.
“Which one?”
“Stella, of course.”
“How do you know she’s not answering? She may be working.”
Peter shook his head. “No. I can feel the freeze all the way up here.”
Breakfast was over at Stanhope House. Gordon finished his coffee and stood up.
“Keep trying and good luck,” he said. “I have to make a call.”
It was just past nine, and Gordon figured he might catch Richard Paris at his desk in San Francisco. He walked across the broad lawn and sat down in the empty gazebo. It was a clear day, with a brisk, chilly breeze, and he wished he’d brought a light jacket with him. He called the San Francisco number, and a no-nonsense, female voice answered after one ring.
“Richard Paris Property Management. This is Judy; how may I help you?”
“My name is Quill Gordon. May I speak with Richard Paris?”
“Could I tell him what it’s about?”
“Please tell him I’m calling on behalf of Charlotte London.”
“Just a minute, please.”
Fifteen seconds later, a man’s voice came on.
“Mr. Gordon, Richard Paris here. Always good to hear from a friend of Charlotte’s. How’s she doing?”
Gordon cursed silently.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought your family must have told you.”
“Oh my God! Is she all right?”
“She died unexpectedly last week. I’m sorry to break the news.”
There was a silence on the other end, then:
“I’m sorry to hear it. Can you tell me what happened?”
“There was a fire at her house last Monday.”
“I’ll have to give her brother a call. I’ve been really busy the past week. A lot of our rentals are to students at San Francisco State, and with school just out, I’ve been dealing with the turnover. Last time I talked to my father was a week ago Sunday. He said he and my brothers were goi
ng to have lunch with Charlotte the next day.”
“They did,” Gordon said. “The fire was that night.”
“I’m really surprised Dad or one of my brothers didn’t call.” A pause. “Excuse me, Mr. Gordon, this has rattled me. What’s your connection with Charlotte?”
“She named me as her literary executor so I could continue the work on her family history in case something happened,” Gordon said. “Neither of us expected that to be necessary, but …”
“I see. Of course her family and ours have been very close.”
“Closer than I had imagined at first,” Gordon said, without evident irony. “But, listen, I obviously surprised you with some bad news, so you might not want to talk about that now.”
Paris thought about it for a minute.
“No,” he said. “If it was important to Charlotte, the best way to honor her memory would be to help, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure it would have meant a lot to her. I talked to your father and brothers a few days ago and really just had a couple of questions.”
“Go ahead, then. What can I tell you?”
Gordon took a deep breath.
“Well, obviously, the connection between your families had a lot to do with The Peninsulas, which is a big piece of her history. I’d be interested in knowing what you remember about it.”
“I wish I could do more for you there, but it was a long time ago. Dad and Ron handled most of it. Bobby and I were pretty much running all the other business at our office. It was a hell of a lot of work and it took a big toll on everybody.”
“How did all of you get along with Ned London?”
“Really well. He was a great guy, and of course, it was his idea at first. I’m sure there were a couple of times along the way when Dad and Ron wondered if they should have gone in on it, and I sensed there was a bit of tension toward the end. But I figured that was because no one knew if it would get approved. Too damn bad Ned never got to see it.”
“That’s what everyone says. One more thing, then, and I’ll let you go. After I met with your father and brothers last week, I came across a photograph Charlotte saved. It showed the Paris and London families standing in front of a red pickup truck, with the lake in the background on Labor Day, 1970. Does that ring any bells?”
“I remember that picnic. Very well. The plans had just been filed with the county, and it looked like smooth sailing then. We were almost celebrating before the fact, if you will. I guess that day marked the end of our innocence.”
Gordon said nothing, waiting to see if Paris would mention anything else.
“Funny, though. That’s got me thinking about Ron’s truck — the one in the picture. It must have been 15 years old then, and he drove it everywhere. Right around the time of the vote on The Peninsulas, it got banged up. He said somebody hit it in a parking lot and drove off. After the project was approved, he had me follow him to Chico, where he was taking it to be fixed. I gave him a hard time about that, but he said it was an older car and he couldn’t trust anyone local to do the work. But I’m rambling now. I’m sure you didn’t call me to hear about Ron’s car trouble.”
TOO TENSE AND IRRITABLE TO FISH, Gordon and Peter drove around the lake that morning, mostly in silence. At one point, Gordon pulled into a turnout with a view looking northwest toward The Peninsulas. They gazed at them for several minutes.
“Looks a lot different when you know what went into it,” Peter finally said.
“Like sausage,” replied Gordon, pulling back onto the road. “You’re better off not knowing.”
They had a late lunch at the Shotgun. Afterward, Gordon drove back to Stanhope House, dropped Peter off, and walked to the newspaper office. El was on the phone, but waved him in. He took a seat by her desk, and she finished the call a minute later.
“The week is piling up,” she said. “I’m catching up with what I put off to work on the Charlotte story, and I don’t have any time to socialize. So if you have anything, give it to me straight.”
Gordon told her about the conversation with Richard Paris that morning. She raised her eyebrows and nodded as he finished.
“It’s beginning to fit together, isn’t it?” she said. “Frankly, I didn’t think we’d be this far along by now.”
“We got some breaks.”
“Breaks are what happen when you keep going after a story from every angle you can think of. It’s usually the seventh or eighth thing you try that leads to the breakthrough.”
“You aren’t going to quote Richard, are you?”
“Not now. I’m going to play it conservatively. I’ll work out the exact language as I’m writing the story, but I’ll say Charlotte was looking into the possibility that her father’s death wasn’t an accident, and that The Clarion has obtained a page redacted from the original accident report saying that there was a scrape of paint on Ned London’s car. That’ll leave Ron Paris sweating and wondering how much else we know. Maybe it’ll get him to make a mistake.”
“Makes sense, I suppose. I wouldn’t tell you how to do your job.”
“Now don’t take it personally, but if there’s nothing else, I need you to leave so I can get some writing done.”
“See you at 5:30,” said Gordon.
As he rose, Gina rushed breathlessly through the door.
“Bingo!” she shouted. “Looks like we have something on the Crocker Bank angle.”
“Gina, darling,” said El, “You don’t have to scream. The newspaper will reach far more people than your voice. Sit down and tell us in a normal tone.”
Gordon pulled up another chair for Gina, and they both sat down. She caught her breath, then spoke in a loud whisper.
“Howard Sheehan, the former Crocker Bank manager I told you about? He’s not only alive, he’s sharp as a tack, and he still has all those old records. I got his number from the ex last night, and called this morning. I asked if he could see if there was any transfer relating to companies with the names London, Paris, or Sturges in December of 1970 or January or February of 1971. He called ten minutes ago to say he thought he found something. He’s walking to the Kinko’s four blocks from his house to fax it over. It should be coming over any time now.”
It seemed as if the entire office had gone silent, but it was simply one of those lulls that can occur in an office with only a few people in it. When the fax rang during that silence, it sounded as loud as a fire alarm. They raced over to the classified advertising space, where the machine was, and shooed away the classified receptionist. The paper was just beginning to move through as they arrived. After an inch or two of white space, there was a thick black line, followed by the image of a 1988 Dodge minivan and text marked with a pen.
It was a classified ad for a local used-car lot.
Everyone exhaled at once. Gordon leaned over the machine and put a hand against the table on either side of it.
“I don’t know if I can take much more of this,” he said.
They remained by the fax, fidgeting for three minutes that seemed like three hours. When the phone rang again, they moved closer, leaning into each other.
The paper that came out this time was a series of densely clustered text and code sections. One of them, two thirds of the way down the page, was circled in pen or pencil. When the page had gone through, El grabbed the paper and tore it off the roll, handing it to Gordon.
“You’re the financial genius. What does it mean?”
He looked at it carefully, wanting to be sure of his answer. No one was breathing until it came.
“It would appear,” he finally said, “that on January 18, 1971, a $25,000 wire transfer was made from the San Francisco Crocker Bank account of London & Paris Ltd. to the Sacramento Crocker Bank account of Sturges Enterprises.”
“January 18th,” said El. “The day before the Board of Supervisors voted on The Peninsulas. Guns don’t smoke any more than this.”
Gordon was looking at the fax again. He slammed it down on the table,
and El and Gina started.
“Son of a bitch!” he said. “When Ron Paris took Charlotte to San Francisco, he was either opening that Crocker Bank account or putting the money into it for the payoff. Charlotte had no idea what was going on right under her nose.”
NEEDING QUIET TIME, Gordon drove to the Hellwithit Bakery, arriving 15 minutes before closing. He ordered a cup of coffee, and let the server talk him into an almond croissant. One other table was occupied, by two women apparently discussing romantic issues, and he sat as far from them as possible.
It appeared that his most pressing work for Charlotte was pretty much done. El would write a story for the paper, and with even minimal competence devoted to the effort, the authorities should find themselves heading down some of the same paths that Gordon and the team had followed. He paused to consider that perhaps it would be wise to go straight to Sheriff Ballou and share their findings and conclusions. He quickly rationalized himself out of that line of thought, arguing that the evidence was suggestive rather than conclusive, and that Ballou would be more inclined to pursue a case if he felt he were doing it on his own. On the other hand, the trail led to Ronald Paris, who was as prominent a citizen as the town possessed, and he wondered how far Ballou would be willing to go after such a powerful suspect. Gordon realized his father would not have approved of withholding information from the sheriff, but as his father’s approval in so many other areas was elusive, he was little swayed by that consideration.
He felt a vibration in his pants pocket and reached for his pager. It was Ballou. He wolfed down his pastry and took the remaining half-cup of coffee to the Cherokee, where he would have more privacy.
“Thanks for calling so quickly,” said the sheriff. “How much longer are you in town?”
“Through tomorrow night. Peter and I will be leaving for San Francisco Thursday morning.”
Not Death, But Love (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 3) Page 26
