The Daughters Of Alta Mira (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 4)

by Michael Wallace

  He switched off the microphone, leaned back in his chair, and exhaled a long blast of air before turning to Gordon and Sam.

  “Another game, another 30 bucks,” he said. “You up for some pie and coffee before turning in? My treat, since I get paid for an extra game next week.”

  DANNY’S DINER was the only eating establishment still open after ten o’clock. It wasn’t the best place in town, as Bob freely admitted, but the pies came from Kemper’s Bakery and the place had a buzz from the after-game crowd, which took up three quarters of the tables.

  “You only get 30 dollars for calling a full game?” Gordon asked as they sat down.

  “Extra money,” Bob said. “If we had to make it on just my salary and what Brenda gets working two-thirds time at the bank, it’d be pretty tight. Teaching two classes a year on radio broadcasting at Homestead and calling the high school games brings in just enough to give us a couple of extras and a bit of a cushion.”

  “Still doesn’t seem like much to me,” said Sam.

  “This isn’t San Francisco, Akers and Pains. KNEP has to fight the Plateau Courier, in a civilized way of course, for every advertising dollar in town. Jud Diamond, who owns the station, may have a nicer house than I do and drive a nicer car, but he’s not a wealthy man, and in a year when the economy’s sour, things get a bit tight. I do a little extra for him, get a little goodwill for myself. I’m not complaining.”

  The waitress arrived with their order. Bob and Sam were having apple pie; Gordon cherry. Sam and Gordon were drinking cocoa, and Bob was having a cup of coffee. Gordon figured that after years of drinking coffee throughout a six-hour morning radio show, Bob was immune to its effects; it neither picked him up or tired him out, but was simply a comforting presence.

  “Fishing tomorrow?” Gordon asked.

  “I said I had a real treat lined up for you, Flyboy. You know where Jackson Valley is?”

  “I’ve seen it on the maps. Southwest of town, if I recall.”

  “You remembered right. I’ve gotten us admitted to Blue Moon Ranch. A mile of the headwaters of Big Hole River run through it — beautiful meadow stream with some good fish. And there’s a pond with a lot of good fish, too. We could have a banner day.”

  “How did you swing that?” Sam asked.

  “I know the owners. The Brinkley family. The daughter, Diane, is chief deputy district attorney.”

  “Is there anybody in town you don’t know?” Gordon said.

  Bob paused as if seriously considering the question.

  “Probably not,” he finally said.

  “Must be nice. Knowing everyone, I mean.”

  “I always thought so, but lately I’m not so sure.”

  Gordon said nothing. Bob took another bite of pie and continued:

  “That’s the good thing about a small town like this. It’s comfortable feeling you know everybody and can trust ‘em. Or at least know how far to trust ‘em. But in the last few weeks, I’m beginning to wonder how much I really know about the people here. We got two girls missing from the community college, and it’s hard to believe they just ran off. I have to feel if they were all right, they would have reached out to somebody by now. If something happened to them …”

  “It would have to be somebody here,” Gordon said.

  Bob nodded and took another swallow of coffee.

  “Couldn’t it have been someone passing through?” Sam asked.

  “Nice try, Akers and Pains. Much as I’d like to believe that, I can’t. Not too likely a stranger would go up to the college and get a local student to get in the car. It’d have to be somebody who knows the layout of the place, knows the students hitchhike, and would seem like a safe person to be with. In short, one of us.”

  “And then there’s Alicia,” Gordon said.

  “You must have been talking to Elizabeth,” Bob said. “Yeah, that one’s got me down, too. Calling the game tonight was harder than usual. When Kyle Burnett threw a nice pass, I couldn’t just enjoy it like I usually do, and say good for him. I was thinking about what he was accused of, and how I’d feel if something like that happened to one of my daughters. I’ve lived here most of my life, and I never thought it could happen, but now I’m not so sure anymore. It’s a bad thing to feel that the place you call home may have a rattlesnake on the porch.”

  “Rattlesnakes,” Gordon said. “The plural would seem more appropriate.”

  WHEN WE GOT BACK TO THE ROOM, Gordon unwrapped the painting and looked at it for several minutes. I’ve seen that look on his face before. It’s hard to describe, but it’s as if he’s trying to coax a solution out of something by focusing on it.

  I imagined his 17th floor condo — two bedrooms, 1,100 square feet on Russian Hill — and tried to think of where I’d hang it. He uses one of the bedrooms as an office, and I decided he’d put it there so he could look at it while he’s working, though I’m not sure how much actual work he needs to do these days.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” I finally said.

  He broke out of his trance. “Sorry, Sam.”

  “It’s OK. I’m just trying to think where you’re going to hang that painting. My guess is your office.”

  “I suppose I could,” he said, “but I’d want anyone who came over to be able to see it. Hard to say until I get back and can look at it in place, but I was thinking of the wall to the right of the fireplace.”

  “Where the Chinese tapestry is now?”

  He nodded. “Between the fireplace and the window. It could be a visual bridge to the view of the world outside.”

  “What would you do with the tapestry, then?”

  “I’m thinking it would work pretty well in the master bedroom. Certainly enough wall space there. But again, I’d have to see things in place before making a decision.”

  I can see it in my mind’s eye, and I think he’s right. But then, it’s his place. He ought to know what should go where. He set the painting on the floor and leaned it against the wall.

  “I’d like to leave it here overnight, if that’s OK with you, Sam. I want to see what it looks like first thing in the morning.”

  “Fine by me. Can I ask a question? Change the subject?”

  “Sure?”

  “How did you get to know Mountain Bob, anyway? On the surface, it wouldn’t seem as if you’d run in the same circles.”

  Gordon smiled. “Bob got to Cal the same year I did, and, unsurprisingly, got involved with the campus radio station. Sophomore year, he covered the basketball team, and as he was hanging around during practices, we found out we both like fishing. He invited me to Alta Mira that summer, and when I came here that July, I learned that he’d been offered a job at KNEP, was going to marry Brenda and quit school. But we stayed in touch, after a fashion.”

  He stood and stretched. “I’m going to take a quick shower and turn in. Sounds as if we have a long and pleasant day ahead of us.”

  Alone, and listening to the running water, I looked hard at the painting again for several minutes, trying to find a flaw in it. I couldn’t. I don’t much care for Miss Macondray, but there’s no question she can paint. I’ll give her that, if nothing else.

  Saturday November 8

  WHEN GORDON FIRST MET Sheriff Chris Huntley, she was working the room at the 4-H breakfast, held the second Saturday of each month at the Grange Hall. Bob had insisted it was the only place that someone who supports the community would eat on the second Saturday of each month, so Gordon and Sam had met him there shortly before sunrise.

  “No need to rush breakfast,” Bob said when they arrived. “This time of year the fish won’t be doing much before nine o’clock anyway.”

  The Grange Hall sat near the end of Third Street on the west side of town, four blocks off Chaparral Boulevard. It was a Quonset-style building, put up after the end of the War and kept in serviceable condition by countless hours of community elbow grease ever since. For three decades it had stood at the edge of town, but in 1978 the new Plateau
Middle School had been built just past it, and now it was the school that looked out on the alfalfa fields stretching from just north of the airport to the mountains four miles away.

  Inside, it was a rectangular space, with long rows of folding tables, flanked by folding chairs. The building smelled of bacon, coffee, maple syrup, and burning dust, the latter owing to its being the first time this fall the heaters had been turned on. They hadn’t yet taken the chill out of the room when Gordon, Sam and Bob entered through the long side of the building, facing the parking lot. After they paid their $3.50 each and stepped inside, they could see the sheriff leaning over a table in the far right corner.

  When Bob pointed out the sheriff, Gordon realized he had seen her making the rounds at the game last night. She was in her forties, five-eight and whippet-thin, wearing a sharply pressed khaki uniform with the sheriff’s star prominent over her left breast. Her hair was short, the type of light brown that might have been blond at some point in the past, and her face was angular with a large Roman nose. Even at a distance, it had the slightly mournful look of a face that had seen too many things no one should have to see. When she waved to Bob and began walking in their direction, her bearing was erect in a way that owed more to the military than the catwalk. As she drew closer to them, she flashed a quick smile, and for an instant, her face lit up before retreating into melancholy.

  Bob introduced them, and said, unnecessarily, that she might know Gordon’s father, the judge.

  “Judge Gordon from San Francisco?” she said. “He subbed for a local judge on a stolen-property case I was working in Sacramento back in ’88. Threw out the search, and the perps walked, even though we caught them red-handed with the goods.”

  Gordon had been in situations like this often enough that he knew how to respond.

  “Was it a legal search?” he asked.

  She laughed, and again her face lit up for a second. “Sorry. But I’m sure that’s exactly what your father would say. And the answer’s no. I was working with another detective who liked to cut corners, and he tried to claim exigent circumstances when he should have gotten a warrant. It worked with a couple of our local judges, but after Judge Gordon spanked him on it, he never did it again. Far as I know, anyway.”

  “And the defendants,” Gordon continued. “Did they see the error of their way, join a church and become model citizens thanks to their good fortune?”

  “Of course not. They almost never do. We busted them again three months later, and that time it stuck.”

  “So in the end, justice was delayed, not denied?”

  “Tell that to the people whose houses they ripped off in the meantime. But if we’d done our job right, it wouldn’t have happened. No hard feelings.”

  She declined Bob’s offer to join them for breakfast, saying she had to “network,” and resumed going around the tables. As set up, the hall would seat about 250 people; it was already half full and lively with conversation, much of it about last night’s game.

  “I guess the campaign never ends,” Gordon said, after she was out of earshot.

  “She’ll have an uphill battle next June,” Bob said. “The bad news is that she’s new to the area and still doesn’t know everybody. She’s smart to be here shaking hands.”

  “Is there any good news?” Sam asked.

  “The good news is that she’ll be running against Howard, and she hasn’t pissed off as many people as he has.”

  “I’M GUESSING THIS IS your guest from Friday.”

  They had just taken a seat — plates heaped with eggs, bacon and pancakes — when a tall, balding man in his mid- to late forties, round face, booming voice, and the beginning of a gut, showed up next to them.

  “Howdy, Rooter,” said Bob. He turned to Gordon and Sam. “This is Norv DeShayne of DeShayne Plumbing, one of my fine sponsors.”

  “Plumbing,” Sam said. “Hence the ‘Rooter.’ ”

  DeShayne laughed, a deep laugh that seemed to explode from his larynx and fly halfway across the room.

  “Actually,” Bob grimaced, “he’s the head of the Alta Mira High School Boosters Club and one of the school’s big rooters.”

  “I think I like your friend’s explanation better,” DeShayne said. “Maybe we could work that into a jingle for one of my ads. What do you think, Bob?”

  “I think anything’s possible in radio.”

  “That’s the spirit. We’ll talk about it next week.” He turned to Gordon. “You’re the tall guy here, so you must be the basketball star.”

  Gordon nodded without saying anything. DeShayne continued:

  “I liked what you said about our team on the show yesterday, and I’m guessing you’ve never seen them play.”

  “Not yet, but basketball is basketball.”

  “Sure, but some people know it better than others. My daughter’s on the team, you know. The point guard, actually, so you’d probably pick her first. I’d pick her first myself, but then, I’m kind of prejudiced.”

  “Bob says she’s really good,” Gordon said.

  “And she is. The whole team is. But we’ve got to get past Forestville and their big center to win the league championship. That’s where I like what you had to say about how to play a team with a really big player. I’m going to see that your thoughts on that get passed along to the coach.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be very appreciative,” Gordon murmured.

  “It’s a he. Nick Ballard. And he should be,” DeShayne said. “Had no idea how to play them last year. Anyway, it’s worth a try.”

  “When what you’re doing isn’t working,” Bob said, “anything’s worth a try. Right, Gordon?”

  He shrugged. “That’s how I see it.”

  “That’s the spirit,” DeShayne said “Keep on trying. It’s what makes America great.” He looked up and saw the sheriff talking to a small group on the other side of the room. “Oh,” he said, making it sound like an expletive. They followed his gaze.

  After an awkward silence, Bob said, “Maybe you should go over and shake her hand, Rooter.”

  “I will not,” he spat out. “The bitch is trying to frame my daughter.”

  WELL, WE GOT THROUGH that one, somehow, but it took us awhile to eat breakfast. It seemed as though everybody in town was there, and since everybody in town knows Bob, most of them stopped by to chat. Even the highway patrolman who pulled Gordon over on Thursday came by to shake hands and say he hoped there were no hard feelings. Why should there be? I’m sure Gordon was guilty.

  Most of the people who came along had apparently heard Gordon on Bob’s show yesterday morning and wanted to comment on it. Gordon took it in good stride, and people seemed to accept him pretty quickly. Of course, it helped that we were with Bob.

  While everybody was talking to Bob and Gordon, I got to thinking about how Gordon seems to fit in when he comes to these small towns where we go fishing. Some of it’s his quiet demeanor, and some of it’s that trustworthy face of his, but it has to be allowed at the end of the day that the man is something of a chameleon. You see him here in jeans and a flannel shirt, and he fits right in. But you see him looking sharp and confident in a suit in one of San Francisco’s best hotels or restaurants and you wouldn’t credit it’s the same man.

  Funny, though. With all the people coming by, the one we haven’t seen is our painter-teacher friend. She’s out there somewhere. I wonder if she understands what she’s stalking. Several years ago, when Gordon was still working at the brokerage, he invited me to lunch with his squeeze at the time. She was attractive, vivacious, well dressed and smart — and not necessarily in that order. At one point, he had to step out and take a call from a client, and she started pumping me about him. It was kind of awkward, and after a couple of minutes, she sighed and said:

  “I don’t know, Sam. He reminds me of the Charles Aznavour character in Shoot the Piano Player. Have you seen it? There’s a scene where his girlfriend says of him, ‘Even when he’s with someone else, he walks alone.’ �
��

  When she said that, I thought maybe she’s the one. Maybe he’s finally found someone who understands him. Two weeks later she must have gotten tired of walking alone with him and dumped him. It shows you what I know.

  What with all the social activity, our breakfast dragged on until eight o’clock. People kept coming by and filling Bob’s coffee cup. And Gordon’s. And mine. It was my first five-cup breakfast in a long time. When we stepped out of the Grange Hall, the sun was shining right down on us, and the chill was just beginning to leave the air.

  “We’re in good shape, Flyboy,” Bob said. “We don’t want to be working too much ahead of the fish.”

  Gordon has a distaste for crowded parking lots, so he’d parked the Cherokee on the street across from the school, pointing toward town. That way we could start and go. The school has a large grass field, and a group of girls in shorts and T-shirts were running drills on it. The coach looked familiar.

  Gordon pulled up short. “Is that …?”

  “Yep. It’s Armstrong,” Bob said.

  “So this is what he does when he isn’t pulling over speeders.”

  “It’s not the only thing. If you ever catch a fish you don’t want to release, bring it to John Armstrong and he’ll stuff it for you. He does a bit of taxidermy on the side, and his rates are very reasonable.”

  “A man of many talents,” I said.

  “A lot of us are, Akers and Pains. I teach a class at the community college. Elizabeth paints pictures and even sells one when a sophisticated buyer comes to town. John does taxidermy. Almost everyone has a little sideline around here. It’s the mountains.”

  THEY TOOK THE STATE HIGHWAY south from Alta Mira about ten miles and turned west on Jackson Valley Road. After a couple of straight miles through fields (with and without cattle) it met up with the west fork of the Big Hole River and followed it into the mountains. The river at this point was more like a creek, but a fishy looking one, and one or two cars pulled into turnouts suggested anglers trying their luck.