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

by Michael Wallace

  “All right. I have your number there.” Gordon waited, rather than replying. “In that manuscript you gave me Saturday, there was a notation to check with Davies. I just did, and found out from his secretary — he wasn’t in — that you’d been there before me.”

  He paused, and again Gordon remained silent.

  “I don’t know that I like that,” the sheriff said. “Investigating crimes is my job, and I don’t appreciate amateurs getting in the way.”

  “So you’re saying you think there was a crime,” said Gordon.

  “Don’t jump to conclusions. Maybe I should have said investigating suspicious circumstances. Either way, it’s my job, not yours.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of trying to do your job, sheriff. But I have a job to do, too, and that’s to get Charlotte London’s manuscript ready for publication. If she wrote in the margins that somebody ought to be talked to — well, I wouldn’t be doing my due diligence if I didn’t talk to that person.”

  “And that person you talked to, did he say something interesting?”

  “I thought so.” Gordon left it hanging there.

  “Don’t play games with me, Gordon. I need to know what he said.”

  “For whatever it’s worth, Davies thinks there was something suspicious about the accident that killed Ned London in 1971. He doesn’t have hard evidence, and his superiors told him to back off that angle at the time. If he told me all about it, he’ll certainly tell you when you get hold of him.”

  “Fair enough. Is there anything else you’ve turned up that you haven’t told me?”

  “There is one thing,” Gordon said after a silence. “It may not be important, but it struck me as being odd.”

  “Out with it, Gordon. I don’t have all day.”

  “Well, it turns out that the day after she was killed in that fire, Charlotte London had an appointment to talk to Davies herself. She died before she could make it. Of course, it could be a coincidence.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences. All right, Gordon. I’ll look into this. If you hear anything else, let me know right away. No doing things on your own.”

  He rang off before there was any chance to reply. Gordon set the phone on his car seat and drank the last two swallows of his coffee, lukewarm now.

  Then he smiled.

  “El must have got to him,” he thought. “The machinery of justice is cranking up.”

  BEFORE THE MEETING STARTED, El’s living room had the chattering vibe of a classroom before first bell the day after Christmas vacation. Gordon got everyone quieted down and filled the group in on his conversations with Richard Paris and on the Crocker Bank information Gina had unearthed. In both cases, the reports were greeted with spontaneous applause.

  “And I’m guessing,” he said, turning to El, “that you got hold of Gene Ballou this afternoon and put a bug in his ear.” She nodded. “He called Davies straightaway and couldn’t reach him, but found out I’d been there yesterday and paged me.”

  “What did you tell him?” said Alice.

  “I gave him the short version of our conversation and let it drop that Charlotte was going to see Davies the day after she died.”

  “I’ll bet that put a turd in his pocket,” said El. “But that’s good. He has to take it seriously now, and we’ll keep the heat on him. After Thursday’s paper comes out, he’ll be calling for help from the FBI.”

  “How, exactly, are you going to handle the story?” asked Karl. “It’s complicated and has a lot of nuance.”

  “I’m going to stick to the facts and insinuate.”

  “How so?” asked Gina.

  “We’ll lead off with the medical examiner’s report that Charlotte was dead before the fire started. Then I’m going to say she was working on the family history and was scheduled to meet with the officer who wrote the report on her father’s accident, and that a page redacted from the report suggests Ned’s car was hit by another. That should plant a seed.”

  “How about the bank transfer?” said Gina. “Aren’t you going to play that up?”

  “Not right now. It isn’t privileged.”

  “What does that mean?” said Anna.

  “The report on Ned London’s crash is an official public document. You can make a good argument the redacted page is, too. That means that if I quote it or report it accurately, the paper can’t be sued even if the document is wrong. The fax on that bank transfer, from someone I don’t even know, doesn’t have the same standing. I have to figure out another way of getting that into next week’s story. Worst case, I might turn it over to Ballou, or Southworth who have ways of following up on it. The point is, we don’t need to have the whole story in this week’s paper — just enough to show we’re on to something big. And I think we have that.”

  “Anything else?” Gordon said, trying to wrap the meeting up.

  “One other thing,” said El. “I called Ron Paris this afternoon and innocently asked him about the last meeting with his family and Ned London. I said it was for the story of The Peninsulas anniversary, but I wanted to set him on edge a bit and make him wonder what I know. Just in case I have to bluff him next week.”

  There were nods all around, but after a pause, Gordon said:

  “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, El. If we’re right about Ronald Paris, he’s already committed two murders, plus two burglaries trying to get at the information I have. He’s dangerous.”

  “And if he did do those things, he has a lot on his conscience. So I want to prick that conscience and maybe be able to get some blood from it later.”

  “Aren’t you overlooking something?” said Peter.

  El looked at him.

  “What if he hasn’t got a conscience at all?” he said.

  “THANKS FOR AGREEING to come here,” said Peter, as they were seated at a window table at Ike’s Lakeside. “Don’t get me wrong about Garbini’s, but if they started playing Sinatra singing ‘You and Me,’ I don’t think I could take it.”

  “No word from Stella?” asked Gordon, picking up a menu. “Or did you get the word and it wasn’t good?”

  “No word. And I can’t say that I blame her. All I can do is be persistent without racking up a restraining order.”

  “Do I hear the voice of experience?”

  “My fourth wife got a restraining order when she filed the divorce papers. I hadn’t done anything, but her attorney convinced the judge I was an ‘aberrant personality.’ And you don’t have to comment on that.”

  “I wasn’t going to say a word.”

  Peter leaned back in his chair, looking out over the lake. The afternoon wind had died down, leaving the surface placid, and the sun was still in the western sky, but descending toward the top of the mountain range.

  “On a positive note,” he said, “Heather called today.”

  “Your daughter?”

  “She wants to get together for coffee next week in San Francisco. We’re meeting Wednesday morning. Maybe the tradeoff for not getting a second chance as a lover is that I’m getting one as a father.”

  “Are you looking forward to that?”

  “With some trepidation. I’d love to have her in my life, but aside from our friendship, Gordon, I don’t exactly have a good track record with relationships.”

  Dinner arrived, and after they started on it, Gordon’s pager went off.

  “It’s El,” he said. “My phone’s in the car, but I’ll be right back.”

  He returned her call from the parking lot.

  “You’ll never guess who just called,” she said.

  “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Ronald Paris.”

  Gordon felt his stomach tighten as she continued.

  “He said he wanted to talk to me some more about The Peninsulas and it couldn’t wait. He’s coming over tonight.”

  “Are you out of your mind, El? If we’re right about this guy,” he looked around to be sure he wasn’t overheard, “he’s already killed t
wo people, and you’re letting him into your very isolated house, just the two of you. What were you thinking?”

  “We’re both in Rotary, Gordon. He won’t hurt me.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it. We’re at Ike’s, but I’ll be over as soon as we’re done. What time is he coming?”

  “Eight thirty. Really, Gordon …”

  Gordon looked at his watch.

  “I can probably get there before he does.”

  “Gordon, please! In case you haven’t noticed, I can take care of myself.”

  “I’ll be there in 45 minutes,” he said, punching the end-call button.

  His expression gave him away when he returned.

  “Lover’s quarrel?” asked Peter.

  “Worse than that. Ronald Paris is going to El’s house in less than an hour, and she doesn’t seem to be the least bit concerned about it.”

  “I’m not surprised. If this was a horror movie, she’d be the one going down into the basement when everybody else was screaming, ‘Don’t do it!’ What’s your plan?”

  “I say we finish dinner and get down to her place as fast as we can, so she has a little muscle at her side. Just in case.”

  He began bolting his food. Peter had nearly finished his meal while Gordon was out.

  “I have a better idea,” said Peter after a few minutes. “Why don’t you go first. Let’s see if we can get Gina to pick me up, and we’ll follow you over a bit later. Before we come in, we’ll call, and if you don’t give us the password, we call the sheriff.”

  “Fair enough. What’s the password.”

  Peter thought for a moment.

  “We’ll ask if we can come over. If there’s trouble, say, ‘By all means.’ If you don’t say those three words, we figure the coast is clear.”

  “You’re on.” Gordon pushed the plate away. A third of the meal was still on it, but his appetite was gone. He called Gina, she answered right away, and he gave her the short version of the situation.

  “I’ll be at Ike’s in 20 minutes,” she said.

  “Not so fast, Gina. Before you come, take a few minutes to call everyone in the group. We want the whole team to know Paris is at El’s house.”

  “Will do.”

  Gordon put the phone in his pocket and looked at Peter.

  “You’re a wreck, Gordon. Get going. I’ll pay for dinner, and Gina and I will be over as fast as we can. And remember: ‘By all means,’ if there’s any trouble.”

  “By all means,” said Gordon, rising to leave.

  AFTER GORDON LEFT, Peter looked out at the lake, then turned his gaze inward back toward the bar. The bottles, the glassware, and the laughing customers all looked friendly and inviting.

  “Can I get you anything else?” said the waitress as she cleared the plates.

  Peter took a deep breath, looked out at the lake, then back at the bar again. It struck him that a little Dutch courage might be in order, and with no mental resistance, he acted on the thought.

  “Bring me a double Johnnie Walker Red on the rocks and add it to the bill,” he said. “That should do it.”

  She was back with the drink and the check in three minutes. Plenty of time to knock it down before Gina arrived. He put a credit card on top of the bill, and since he was alone, turned and lifted his glass toward the lake.

  “Here’s to you, Heather, and to our reconciliation.”

  He took a sip and savored the smoky taste as he swilled it in his mouth and the burn as he swallowed. Not until he had finished the drink did he realize that the waitress had brought the credit card stub back for him to sign.

  DRIVING FAST, Gordon reached El’s house at 8:25. Her pickup was the only vehicle in the gravel parking lot, he noted with relief, feeling that he would much rather be there when Ronald Paris arrived.

  He donned a light windbreaker after getting out of the Cherokee and slipped his phone into its right pocket. He walked down the steps to the pier leading to her house, pausing halfway to appreciate, if only briefly, the aspect of the lake. The sun was behind the mountains, and most of the lake was in shadow. On the other side of it, the very tops of the mountains were catching the sun’s last rays. Halfway out, a motorboat sped north in the direction of the marinas, the sound of its engine a distant buzz.

  Gordon walked across the pier to the front door of the house, and as he reached it, looked back toward the parking area. His and El’s were still the only two cars there. He knocked on the front door, then turned the knob. Stepping into the entrance hall, he was struck by how quiet it was inside. He was looking right, toward the living area, as he came into the main space, and when he turned left, toward the kitchen, he froze.

  El was sitting in a chair, tied up and gagged.

  Next to her stood Ronald Paris, an automatic pistol in his hand pointing toward Gordon.

  “You’re early,” said Gordon.

  “I wanted this to be a surprise. Come on in. Slowly. I’m glad you could make it. Your presence will make for an interesting tableau later in the evening.”

  GINA CALLED EVERYONE in five minutes and either talked to them or left a message. Grabbing her purse, she raced to the back door, closed it without locking it, and ran the few steps to her parked car. She opened the purse and began to look for her car keys, but after rifling through the contents several times, realized they weren’t there.

  “Damn!” she said, turning back to the house.

  She went into the kitchen and looked carefully at the breakfast table and the counters. No key. She slowly and methodically checked all the surfaces in the living room, with the same result. Then she canvassed the bedroom and bathroom to no avail. She felt the passing minutes as though they were a heavy weight, slowly crushing the breath out of her.

  “All right,” she whispered. “Don’t panic. If I were my keys, where would I be?” She stood in the bedroom, hands to her temples, and retraced her steps from the day. Finally she remembered that after returning from the group meeting, she had changed out of her slacks into the pair of jeans she was wearing. Sure enough, the keys were still in the pocket of the slacks.

  Racing toward the car, she pulled up at the back door, ran back to her bedroom, and took a plastic storage container from the shelf in the closet. Setting it on the bed, she dug through seldom-worn clothing to the bottom, feeling around until her hand touched the gun she kept there. Frantic because of the delay, she rushed back to her car, set the gun on the front passenger seat, and backed out of her driveway much faster than it was safe to do.

  Gina’s ex-husband had given her the gun for protection when they were divorced, and she had put it in storage without giving it a second thought. She had never used it; had never read the directions; had never even given it a close look. But now she felt it would come in handy, and to the extent she thought about it at all, she figured that Peter or Gordon would know how to use it. It had never occurred to her to see if the gun was loaded.

  It wasn’t.

  GORDON HAD BEEN CAUGHT FLAT-FOOTED, and there was no feasible way of trying to be a hero. The only consolation was that Peter and Gina would be there in 20 minutes. All he had to do was hold out that long, and remember the magic words.

  By all means.

  “When the deputies get here,” Paris said, “It will look like a classic lovers’ murder-suicide. I haven’t decided yet who’s going to be the murder victim and who’s going to be the suicide, but there’s still a little time.”

  “That may take care of us, Paris, but we’re not the only ones who know. There’s been a good little group of people looking into Charlotte’s death.”

  As he spoke, Gordon tried to take in as much of the situation as he could by moving only his eyes and not his head. Paris was too far away to be rushed and taken down, but too close to miss if he fired the gun. El was completely out of commission. Gordon had a folding knife with a three-inch blade in his right pants pocket, but it would be useless against a man with a gun.

  “There may be
other people,” Paris said, “but you’re the only two here, and El is the only one who has the power to print a story in the newspaper. With the two of you gone, I think I can brazen through the rest of it. But first things first. Where’s Charlotte’s journal and the family history?”

  Gordon was doing a quick calculation as to whether he should tell the truth or not.

  “Talk, Gordon. I know you can do it. I’d rather not have to kill you slowly, but if that’s what it takes to get the journal … ”

  “All right, all right.” He had decided the truth wouldn’t hurt. “It’s in a messenger bag behind the driver’s seat of my car.”

  “And you’ve read it?”

  Gordon nodded.

  “Then you have to die.”

  “Is it really that bad, Paris? I mean you’re not the only married man in the history of the world who got a little on the side.”

  Paris tensed visibly, and for an instant, Gordon feared he might pull the trigger right there. Then Paris relaxed slightly and kept the gun pointed directly at Gordon’s torso.

  “Did she say anything about her father’s death? Was she suspicious?”

  He’s talking, Gordon thought. That’s good. If I can just keep him going another 10 or 15 minutes, Peter will be here.

  “She was getting suspicious. She had an appointment to talk to Al Davies, the officer who wrote the report on Ned London’s so-called accident the day after she died. You saw to it that she didn’t make the appointment.”

  “It was better that she didn’t find out.”

  “We did, though. My friend and I talked to Davies yesterday, and he told us about the smudge of red paint on Ned’s car. Then, this morning, I talked to your brother in San Francisco, and he told me about following you to Chico while you got the body work done on your red pickup. That pretty much clinched it.”

  “I was afraid of that.” Paris shook his head. “If you hadn’t called Rich this morning, you probably would have lived beyond tonight. He called me two hours ago, and that’s when I got the wind up.”

  “Like I said, Paris, I’m far from the only one who knows all this.”

  “In her journal,” he said, “did she mention me by name?”

  “Not by name, but there were enough hints that we figured it out.”