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

by Michael Wallace

  “And did she write about our love affair?”

  “In shocking detail, though I wouldn’t call it a love affair. It read more like a married man’s cynical fling. You came across as a stinker, Paris, but I’m sure you knew that already. She even used a literary allusion to describe it. ‘I fear my Darcy has turned out to be a Wickham,’ she said.”

  Paris frowned.

  “It’s a reference to Pride and Prejudice, one of her favorite books. Wickham was a world-class scoundrel. It’s pretty damning to be compared to him.”

  Paris stared at Gordon for a full minute, the gun unwaveringly pointed, without saying a word. Gordon said a silent prayer that Gina would drive fast. Finally Paris shook his head.

  “You don’t understand, Gordon. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but you didn’t get it at all. I was ready to leave my wife and marry Charlotte after The Peninsulas got approved. And for more than 25 years now, not a day has gone by that I haven’t felt a deep and profound regret it didn’t turn out that way. Being apart from her all those years caused me more pain than you’ll ever be able to imagine.

  “No, Gordon, Charlotte wasn’t just ‘a little on the side,’ as you so crudely put it. She was the great love of my life.”

  PETER FINISHED HIS DRINK and set the empty glass down on the bar, looking irritably at his watch. Where could Gina be? It had been a mistake to count on her. He should have gone with Gordon in the first place. Should they be there by now? He tried to calculate the time frame in his head, but he was thinking slowly for some reason.

  Gordon was probably expecting his call by now. Maybe he should call without waiting for Gina just to be sure everything was all right. He reached for his pocket, realized it was empty and banged his fist on the bar. He’d left his cell phone under a jacket on the front seat of Gordon’s Cherokee. He’d have to wait for Gina after all.

  He caught the bartender’s eye and motioned her over.

  “Might as well have another,” he said, pointing to his glass.

  The bartender shifted uncomfortably.

  “I don’t want to be a bad sport,” she said, “but this would be your fourth double, and with the drunk driving laws now, we have to be careful. Can you promise me you’re not going to drive home?”

  “Actually,” said Peter, attempting hauteur but falling short owing to a bit of a slur, “it’ll be my fifth double, and you can serve it with a clear conscience. The lady’s driving.”

  The bartender shrugged and turned to make the drink.

  “If she ever gets here,” Peter muttered.

  “I DON’T KNOW ABOUT THAT,” Gordon said. “If that’s how you treat someone you love, what do you do to someone who crosses you?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough. But before you do, you need to realize what was going on.”

  He wants to be understood, Gordon thought. If I can just keep him talking a few more minutes, Peter will be here. Gordon looked at El and could see the fear in her eyes; he felt a pang of guilt for having gotten her involved. And tied up as she was, she wouldn’t be able to help in any way if things got sticky. He moved his eyes to his left and noted that the sliding glass door by the kitchen was open to cool off the house. It’s too far away now, he thought, but if I can get a little closer …

  “You’ve probably figured out about Ned London,” Paris said.

  “I’m pretty sure you killed him, but I don’t know why.”

  “Ah, that’s the crux of the matter. Were you aware that Ned’s father was the sheriff of this county for many years?”

  “It was in the family history.”

  “Of course. I should have known. Well, his father was a man who saw the world in black and white. Things were right or wrong with no gray shades and nothing in between. I’m afraid some of that rubbed off on Ned, and it didn’t serve him well.”

  “He wouldn’t go for bribing Sturges?”

  “Please. I prefer to regard it as a campaign contribution and an investment in this area’s future. But, yes. He wouldn’t go along, and worse, he threatened to go public with the information. We were facing financial ruin, all of us, including him, and he was going to be a Boy Scout about it.

  “When we got together that night — Ned, Dad and me — there was a hell of an argument. I’m surprised the neighbors didn’t call the sheriff. Ned pounded down a couple of scotch and sodas and just stuck to the point that he wasn’t going to be a part of any payment to Sturges and that he’d expose us if we tried to do it ourselves. Pig-headed bastard.”

  “By the way,” Gordon said. “When you and Charlotte went to San Francisco before Christmas, was that so you could set up the account at Crocker Bank to transfer the money to Sturges?”

  “How did you know about that? Never mind. You can’t prove anything.”

  “Actually, we have a copy of the transfer record. If we could get it without subpoena power, I’m sure the district attorney could lay his hands on it. You’re not in as strong a position as you think.”

  “Do you want to hear the rest of the story, or are you going to keep interrupting?”

  “Keep going. Please.”

  “Anyway, Ned finally stormed out, and when he did, my father buried his face in his hands and said, ‘That’s it. We’re finished.’ And I said something like, ‘Are you just going to sit there and take it? Well, I’m not.’ I didn’t have anything in mind at the time, but I decided to go after Ned. See if I could talk some sense into him.

  “He only had a couple of minutes’ jump on me, and between his age and the drinks, he was driving slow. I pulled up behind him just as he was starting up the grade where the road rises up above the lake. As we reached the top, I got the idea that it might get his attention if I ran into him, let him know it was serious. I was just trying to get him to stop, but I swerved into his car harder than I meant to and almost spun out myself. He went over the edge in the blink of an eye. I stopped for a second. There was no one on the road, and I was in shock. Then I realized that there was no way I could explain what happened, and at almost the same time I realized our problem had been solved. I drove home, parked the pickup in the garage with the right side facing the right wall so the dent couldn’t be seen, and left it there for more than a week until it could be taken out of town to be fixed.”

  “Did your father know?”

  “He never asked, and we’ve never discussed it. But he’s no fool. I’m sure it’s occurred to him, but he’d rather not know. Dad doesn’t like unpleasantness. And of course, when Ned London ran off the road, so did any chance of my marrying Charlotte.”

  “Why would that stop you?”

  “Come on, Gordon. I’m not a monster. What kind of marriage do you think it would be if I were carrying that kind of secret? That I killed her father? The strain would have been impossible, but you probably can’t understand.

  “Actually, I think I can.”

  “It killed me to break it off, but the other way would have been worse. I had no choice but to be a bastard and try to make Charlotte feel that she was well rid of me. I guess I succeeded. Well, for a quarter of a century anyway. And then she had to get it into her head to write that damn family history. Some things are better left undisturbed, but I figured it would be the usual boring book and nothing to worry about.

  “Then last Monday we met for lunch, and I got the shock of my life. She was asking us questions about her father’s accident and the night he died. She was asking if we had any idea why Sturges changed his mind and voted for the project. And she let it drop that she’d been keeping a journal during the time of our affair. It was obvious that things were getting out of hand. I hope I didn’t let that show.”

  “You might have,” Gordon said. “She mailed the journal to her attorney that night, with instructions to turn it over to me if anything happened. She’d already given me the manuscript of the history that morning. She was plenty worried.”

  “And she wouldn’t listen to reason,” Paris said. “In that regard, she was h
er father’s daughter. And she was getting dangerously close to the truth. Now you’re from San Francisco, so you might not know what it’s like in a small town. The reality is that if it came out now about our contribution to Sturges, I could still walk into the Rotary Club meeting with my head held high. People would think, well, it was a quarter of a century ago, The Peninsulas are a part of the community now, and maybe he just did what a businessman had to do.

  “Or if something had come out about our affair — and I don’t think she would have been too eager to publicize that — I’d still be accepted. Most grown-ups get that love is powerful, irrational and ungovernable. They might not approve, but they wouldn’t judge too harshly.

  “But if it was so much as whispered that I had anything to do with Ned London’s death, I’d be through in this town, even if I was never charged. That was the one thing that couldn’t come out under any circumstances. When Charlotte told me that night that she was meeting the Highway Patrol officer the next day, I realized I had to act before it was too late. She turned her back to me, and I picked up a piece of wood from the basket by the fireplace and hit her once. It was swift and merciful. Merciful because it was a better death than most of us are going to get and because she died without knowing the truth: That she’s a wealthy woman because of her father’s murder and a corrupt vote. It would have devastated her to find out.”

  “Did it ever occur to you,” Gordon asked, “that she might have wanted a say in that?”

  “Not at all. When I saw her lying there, I knew it was the right thing. I loved her and had to protect her.”

  Gordon was now thoroughly terrified, and the terror was magnified as he realized that during Paris’s monologue he had lost track of time. It was almost completely dark, and Peter and Gina should long since have called or arrived. While Paris was talking, Gordon had gradually been able to inch a couple of feet closer to the open door, but he calculated that he was still too far from it to get out without being shot.

  “But we’ve talked far too long,” Paris said. “I need you to move over this way and kneel on the floor where I tell you to.

  Gordon knew he had at most a couple of seconds to decide whether to break for the door and almost surely be killed on the spot or go along and hope against hope for help in the next few minutes. Neither choice was any good.

  “Now!” barked Paris, gesturing with the gun.

  Without a knock or any other warning signal, the front door to the house opened.

  GINA LEANED FORWARD, emitted a moan, and banged the palms of her hands on the steering wheel. The lights of the patrol car behind her were still flashing in the fading light. The worst of it was that she had no idea how fast she’d been driving; the only thought in her head had been that she was late picking up Peter.

  Please, God, she thought. Let it be one of my ex-students. At least give me that much of a chance.

  The young deputy who stopped in front of the passenger window of her car was a complete stranger. She decided to put it all out at once.

  “I don’t know how fast I was driving,” she said, barely able to control her voice, “but this is an emergency. It could be a matter of life and death.”

  The deputy waited several seconds before replying in a calm, even voice.

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s what everybody thinks. But it usually isn’t so bad.”

  “It is that bad, I’m telling you. I have a friend who may be alone with a murderer.”

  “I see,” said the deputy, in a flat, emotionless voice. “Well, why don’t you tell me where this friend with the murderer is right now.”

  “In a house just past Año Nuevo Pines. Can you get someone over there? This is serious.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’d like to be helpful, but you’re not making a lot of sense. If you’re friend’s in danger near Año Nuevo Pines, and you’re driving 30 miles an hour over the speed limit to come to the rescue, I suppose my question is how come you’re driving in the opposite direction from where your friend is?”

  “Oh my God! This is unreal. I’m trying to pick up someone else so there will be two of us to help out.”

  She buried her face in her hands, trying to hold back tears of frustration.

  “Don’t move!” The deputy barked the words out at the top of his voice. After a few seconds, he continued, “I want you to slowly, very slowly, put your hands on the steering wheel at ten o’clock and two o’clock.”

  She did as told and carefully and deliberately turned her head toward the deputy. She found herself looking down the barrel of his gun, just a few feet away.

  “This is insane,” she croaked. “Is this how you treat everybody who’s been driving too fast?”

  “No, ma’am, it’s not,” the deputy said, his voice again level and quiet. “But it is what we’re trained to do when we encounter an emotionally disturbed person driving a vehicle in a reckless manner,” he looked down at the passenger seat, “with a firearm at their side.”

  ANNA WALKED INTO THE ROOM and stopped abruptly when she saw Paris, Gordon, and her bound mother.

  “What’s going on here?” she said. “Gordon?”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Paris has us at a bit of a disadvantage,” he said. When Paris turned to Anna as she came in, Gordon had been able to edge a bit closer to the side door, but still felt he was too far away.

  “If this is some kind of joke,” she said, “it’s not funny. Put the gun away, now.”

  “It’s no joke,” Gordon said.

  “Then put the gun away anyhow,” she said. “What right do you have to come into our house and do something like this?”

  “Anna,” said Gordon, “They probably don’t teach this in law school, but it’s not a good idea to argue with a man who has a gun.”

  In his mind, he was thanking her. Paris was still looking at Anna, and Gordon had been able to move ever so slightly nearer the open door.

  “Actually,” said Paris, “this makes the decision for me. I was thinking of having her (he gestured with his head toward El) kill you, then herself. But now, it’ll look like you killed the women and turned the gun on yourself. That will be very plausible.”

  “Can somebody please tell me what’s going on?” Anna said, her voice rising in panic.

  Paris looked at Gordon, then back at her.

  “Certainly,” he said calmly. “You’re about to die.”

  Gordon’s cell phone rang.

  Thank you, God, he thought. And thank you, Peter, but what took so long? Paris was looking hard at him, and Gordon decided to bluff.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t answer it.”

  “Then that’s probably a signal,” Paris said. “Take it out of your pocket real slow and tell whoever it is you’re fine. But if you try to say anything else, you won’t live to finish the sentence.”

  Gordon took the phone out slowly and began to lift it to his ear. As he did, he caught the caller’s number on the display.

  It wasn’t Peter.

  It wasn’t Gina, either.

  It was Gordon’s sister in Marin County.

  What happened next was sheer instinct. With a quick backhand motion, more wrist than arm, Gordon threw the phone at Paris’s head, as if passing a basketball to an open man in the key. It glanced off the back of his skull and landed harmlessly on the floor, still ringing.

  But Paris was temporarily off balance, and that provided just enough time for Gordon to get out the door and behind the wall to his right before he heard the shot. It left a small bullet hole in the door, surrounded by a spider-web pattern of cracked glass.

  Up to this point, Gordon hadn’t considered what would happen if he were to make it outside. He was willing to gamble that Paris wouldn’t shoot El — and now, Anna — with a witness at large outside, and he fervently hoped he was right. But taking stock of the situation, he realized his position was little improved.

  He was on the left side of the house, as viewed from shore. If he tried to go back past the door, he
would be in Paris’s view and aim. In any event, the deck ended just a few feet beyond the door, without connecting to the front door or the pier leading back to the land. He could go into the lake, but he was at best an average swimmer and would make a big, slow target.

  Gordon decided his best chance was to keep going around the deck and see if he could find anything on it — a hoe, a shovel — that he might be able to use as a defensive weapon. Only a faint light remained in the sky, and he figured that if he hugged the railing at the edge of the deck, and stayed as far from the windows as possible, Paris wouldn’t get a good look at him. Or, more importantly, a good shot.

  He moved quickly to the deck railing, and, crouching to provide a smaller target, began scooting around the house. When he turned the corner and began going parallel to the back of the house, he could see, through the large windows, Paris and Anna arguing with each other. She’s too young to know better, he thought, but if she doesn’t get herself killed, every minute she drags this out has to be bringing Peter closer. Peter, where the hell are you?

  As he reached the corner at the right side of the deck, he saw Paris making a come-here gesture to Anna with the gun. She reluctantly took two steps toward him, and he grabbed her harshly by the neck, pulling her to his body. Then he forced her toward the door through which Gordon had left.

  He’s coming after me using her as a human shield. As if I have anything to shoot with.

  They went through the door on the other side of the house, and Gordon stood up and moved purposefully to the end of the deck on his side, looking for anything he could use defensively. He reached the end of the deck and realized he was boxed in there, with nothing to lay his hands on but a folding chair and El’s fly rod, which was still leaning against the house where he’d left it Saturday night.

  Gordon turned and looked back at the corner of the house, around which Anna, Paris and his gun would be coming at any moment. The basketball player in him instinctively sized up the distance, which he figured was about 30 feet.

  The fly rod.

  Maybe it wouldn’t work, but 30 feet is a reasonably short cast for an accomplished angler. He’d need a break and a perfect cast, but what other option was there?