“How do you feel about your race?”
“Too close to call. A year ago, I’d have won easy, but she’s made some converts — especially the way she shot Armstrong when he was about to kill you. You sleeping all right yet, by the way?”
“It’s getting better.”
A flashbulb popped near them, and they turned to see a man with a camera several feet away, looking at them through the viewfinder.
“One more,” he said, and fired off another shot.
He looked vaguely familiar, and after a few seconds, Gordon recognized him as Lovejoy, the man who’d been taking crime scene photographs when Jessica Milland was found.
“How are you, Mr. Gordon?” Lovejoy asked.
“Good, Lovejoy. And you?”
“Never better. I’m shooting this freelance for the Courier.”
They were drifting away from Howard as they spoke, and Gordon reckoned they had gotten far enough for him to ask Lovejoy’s opinion about the sheriff’s race.
“Don’t know,” Lovejoy said. “I’ve been hearing a lot of different things about it, and I expect it’ll be pretty close. I voted for the sheriff, though.”
“Any particular reason — not that it’s any of my business?”
“You remember that afternoon when they found Jessica Milland?”
“I’ll never forget it.”
“Well, you probably don’t remember that when I started taking pictures of the crime scene, Sheriff Huntley jumped on me and told me to do it over.”
“Actually, I do remember.”
“I was a bit steamed about it that night. I’d been doing this for years and it had always been all right. But later, I got to thinking, and I realized it hadn’t really been all right. It had been good enough for the people in charge, but they either didn’t know there was a better way or didn’t care enough to make me do it that way. And I started to think that maybe it was about time that we elected a sheriff who insists on doing things right and proper.”
“Good for you,” Gordon said.
Another cheer went up, and they turned to see the numbers on the blackboard had changed. For the sheriff’s race, they now read:
Honig: 939
Huntley: 876
“Still anybody’s race,” Lovejoy said. “I’ve got to get more pictures. Maybe I’ll catch you later.”
Gordon milled around aimlessly for a while. Another result was posted, and Howard was still 60 votes ahead of Chris. If she’s going to win, he thought, when do the numbers switch?
The cafeteria was getting stuffy. Gordon stepped into the hallway for some air, and a minute later saw a familiar figure heading his direction. He was six months older than the last time, and looked considerably more mature.
They shook hands like gentlemen.
“Good to see you, Harry. What’s up?”
“I cast my first vote today. My 18th birthday was in March.”
“Congratulations.”
“I voted for the sheriff,” he said. “How’s she doing?”
“Neck and neck. Less than a hundred votes difference.”
“Everyone’s been saying it’ll be close.”
“You graduate Friday, right?”
Hooper nodded.
“What are you doing after that?”
“I didn’t get any scholarship offers, but I showed some film to the coach at Sonoma State. He’s going to let me walk on next fall.”
“Then you have a chance.”
“I have a chance. Say, I won’t keep you very long. There’s someone in the parking lot looking for you, and I think she’s pretty serious about it.”
Gordon smiled as Hooper walked into the cafeteria. A minute later, Brenda Hastings entered from the outside. The last time Gordon had seen her was the day of Bob’s funeral, when he had delivered a eulogy in a post-traumatic trance. She had looked worn and haggard then, but now she looked more like her old self, though he thought he could see a certain sadness still in her eyes.
“Hey, you,” he said.
“Hey, yourself. So it’s finally happening.”
“Finally happening.”
“It’s awfully good of you.”
“I promised I would.”
“The girls are really excited about it.”
“Be sure to make them bring jackets. San Francisco can be cold and foggy in July.”
“Eileen still thinks she can beat you at basketball.”
“At the rate I’m aging, she might. I heard about your new job. Congratulations.”
“Administrative assistant to the sheriff. It pays better than the bank, and you meet some interesting people. Plus, Howard told me last week he wants me to stay if he wins, so I feel it’s a secure job now.”
“I’m sure you’re doing great at it.”
“I’ve gotta go now. We’ll talk more when it’s closer to the visit.”
As she walked toward the cafeteria entrance, he saw that she was still wearing her wedding ring, a sign that Bob couldn’t be replaced in her heart — at least not yet.
There was another burst of applause from the cafeteria, and Gordon looked in the back door, from where he could see the blackboard. The latest results read:
Honig: 1,763
Huntley: 1,788
Chris had gone ahead for the first time.
The old connections and the tension of the race were getting to him. He walked outside to soak in the night air. It was completely dark now, and the temperature had dropped into the low 70s. Crickets were chirping. He walked around to the front of the courthouse, and as he passed a grassy area with a couple of picnic tables, he saw a pinpoint orange glow by a tree. A solitary man was contemplatively smoking a cigar, and Gordon thought he recognized him. He moved closer.
“Hi, Coach,” he said.
“That you, Gordon?”
“The devil in the flesh.”
“I heard you might be here for the election.”
“You heard right.”
“How’s it going?”
“Chris — the sheriff — just went ahead for the first time. It’s been close all night long.”
“Pretty much as expected.”
“So how are you?”
“As good as can be expected. I still have a job.”
“You weren’t worried, were you?”
“A lot of people weren’t happy when I kicked Burnett and Jarrett off the team. When Burnett pleaded, though, that eased up a lot. Case really shook up the town.”
“Do you think Burnett learned his lesson?”
“I’m afraid not. Five college teams have offered him a full scholarship. He’s looking at two in Texas. I think he wants to get far away from here, but wherever he goes, there he’ll be. I’ll always remember him as one of my greatest successes as a player and as one of my worst failures in teaching character.”
“If you had it to do over again,” Gordon said, “is there anything you’d do differently?”
He took a puff of the cigar and exhaled slowly.
“If I had it to do over again, I’d give the ball to Hooper on fourth down.”
GORDON TOOK A 20-MINUTE WALK to Chaparral Boulevard and back by a circuitous route. When he returned to the courthouse, the mood was still energetic, even though it was nearly 11 p.m. In the sheriff’s race, the numbers read:
Honig: 2,916
Huntley: 2,972
He collared Diane Brinkley, standing alone against the back wall, clearly tight and nervous.
“It looks like she’s going to make it, Gordon. The last votes just came in from Big Piney and Serendipity Valley. They should be posting them in 15 minutes or so.”
“Jessica Milland’s town,” Gordon said.
“Figures to go our way. This is really amazing. Cummings beat Scribner, so three of our five county supervisors will be women. And if Chris wins, the Sheriff and District Attorney will be women, too.”
“The daughters of Alta Mira are taking over the town,” Gordon said.
“Abou
t time. Bet you don’t have this many women in high office in progressive San Francisco.”
“No, we do not.”
Gordon checked his watch repeatedly over the next quarter hour. Finally, the Elections Office courier came in with another folded sheet of paper. The babble in the room grew to a higher level of excitement. As he looked toward the blackboard, waiting for the numbers to appear, he felt a pair of arms encircle his waist. He reached down and squeezed the feminine hand at the end of one arm.
The numbers went up on the board.
Honig: 3,179
Huntley: 3,308
The crowd in the cafeteria roared. Gordon tried to make himself heard over the din.
“You’ve been a long time,” he said. “I was beginning to get worried about you.”
“Sandy and I had a lot to catch up on,” Elizabeth said. “So she really won.”
“She really won.”
“You haven’t seen Brenda by any chance?”
“I did.”
“Are the kids still coming to visit us next month?”
“Yes, they are.”
“We’ll show them a great time, won’t we?”
“Yes, we will.”
A new murmur of excitement began to ripple through the crowd. It appeared the sheriff was on her way to the cafeteria. A minute later, she walked through the door by the blackboard and stopped just inside the room. A spontaneous ovation broke out, and Chris looked happy, exhausted and shell-shocked. As the applause built, Diane came up to her, and the two women hugged each other in a tight embrace.
As they broke it off, Howard, standing across the room, crumpled a piece of paper in his hand, tossed it in the trash, straightened his tie, and walked toward Chris. As he reached her, he extended his hand, and she took it in both of hers. He said something, and she nodded. She looked now as if she were holding back tears.
“It’s like watching two noble generals meet after the battle, and the loser hands over his sword,” Elizabeth said.
“I hadn’t thought of that, but now that you mention it …”
“And have I been living in San Francisco too long, or did that hug between Diane and Chris have just a little too much passion in it?”
Another burst of applause gave Gordon a few seconds to formulate his answer.
“Actually,” he said, “you haven’t been living in San Francisco nearly long enough.”
* * *
If you enjoyed this book, please continue reading for a preview of the fifth Quill Gordon novel, I Scarce Can Die, scheduled for release in late 2017.
I Scarce
Can Die
A Quill Gordon Mystery
Copyright © 2016
Michael Wallace
All Rights Reserved
Rude Awakening
HE DIDN’T SO MUCH WAKE UP as come to, lying on the couch in the living room. It was dark outside, and he had a dry mouth, splitting headache and knot in the stomach — his body’s way of reminding him he’d been blind drunk. He also needed to pee in the worst way.
He tried to look at his watch, but it wasn’t on his wrist where it was supposed to be. Had he lost it in a bar somewhere? Had he taken it off when he got home? What happened when he got home, anyway? Had she made a scene again? She always did, never understood. But he loved her anyway.
There seemed to be a bit of light coming into the living room from somewhere. Maybe the kitchen. Maybe he’d gone in there and taken off his watch.
He started to get up, but groaned and slumped back on the couch. The need to pee was competing with the nausea, and the nausea had just won the first round. He knew he couldn’t let it win, and after a minute forced himself up enough to see over the back of the couch.
The kitchen light cast some illumination on the wall he was looking at — enough for him to see the blood spatters.
He didn’t immediately realize what they were. For a few seconds, he thought he was seeing spots before his eyes, in addition to everything else. Then his eyes drifted down to the body on the floor.
It was her, lying in a grotesque pose, utterly still. For some reason, he knew she was dead, just as he knew it was her, even though her face, smashed to a bloody pulp, was unrecognizable.
His entire body froze, going into a state of paralysis that lasted nearly two minutes.
What happened?
That was his first thought. The second was:
Did I do this?
I couldn’t have, he thought. I was out drinking last night. What do I remember? Think, think. I remember playing darts at the Blue Badger and getting into the car, hoping there wouldn’t be a Highway Patrol car or sheriff’s deputy between there and home. That was, what, eleven o’clock?
After that, nothing.
Fighting the paralysis, he forced himself to get up, move around the couch and kneel by her body. There was no doubt it was her. He reached down to touch where her face had been, not even noticing that the cuff of his shirt picked up a smudge of blood.
A hammer was lying on the floor, a few feet from her body. He took it in his hand and stared at it. It looked like theirs, but it was a brand sold by the local hardware store, so he couldn’t be sure. He could, however, be sure it was covered with blood. Her blood. It had to be.
Did I do this?
He asked himself the question again, and realized he couldn’t be certain. Strain though he might, he could remember nothing after getting into the car.
I couldn’t have done it, he thought. I loved her. I loved her no matter what, and she loved me.
Overcome with emotion suddenly, he began to cry — wracking, heaving sobs that jerked his torso in a way that further agitated his stomach and caused the nausea to overwhelm him.
He tried to get up, but found it impossible to stand up straight. Half-walking, half-crawling, he barely made it to the toilet before letting go. For five minutes, he leaned over the toilet bowl on his knees, alternately retching and sobbing, his entire body shaking. When he finished, gasping for breath, he realized he had wet his pants.
I need a drink.
Feeling better, but only marginally, he stood up and began the rounds of the house, looking for a bottle in all his usual hiding places.
He came up empty. He was sure there had to be a pint somewhere, but he couldn’t find it. Damn her. Had she gotten to it first and thrown it out? Too late to do anything now. He’d have to take it from here without the comfort of alcohol. Or, more precisely, without the comfort of any more alcohol.
The nausea was coming on again, but he had to make the call first. He’d ended up in the kitchen, saw by the wall clock that it was just after 4 a.m., and picked up the phone. He heard a dial tone, which meant it hadn’t been disconnected for non-payment.
With shaking fingers, he punched 4-1-1 on the keypad.
“Directory assistance,” said the voice on the other end.
“Shit!” He slammed the receiver down. He didn’t know if he could make it through another call without vomiting, but tried anyway.
“Nine-one-one,” said a no-nonsense female voice on the other end. “What’s your emergency?”
“She’s dead,” he blubbered into the receiver. “She’s dead.”
“Who’s dead, sir, and what’s your address?”
“My wife is dead, and I don’t know what happened.”
Opening, Shaughnessy Gallery
IN THE SECOND HALF OF AUGUST, it is not uncommon for San Francisco to experience a brief heat wave. For two to five days, the summer fog bank retreats well offshore, the temperatures climb into the high 80s or 90s, and for once, the tourists in shorts and T-shirts are properly attired. Then the fog — known to locals as God’s air-conditioning — rolls in again, and life returns to normal.
It was the third day of such a heat wave, a Friday night. Shortly before seven o’clock, it was still 80 degrees outside, and the heat, trapped in the canyons created by the tall buildings, was stagnant and stifling. At Shaughnessy Gallery, two blocks off Union Squar
e, a new exhibition was opening, “Sagebrush Sketches: Paintings by Elizabeth Macondray.” The gallery was air-conditioned, and that fact, coupled with the large number of friends the painter had made during her short time in San Francisco, guaranteed a large turnout.
The crowd at the opening reception was building to its maximum level, the cheap wine was flowing freely, and the artist, looking lovely in a burgundy cocktail dress, was mingling freely and happily with the guests. She was a natural-born mingler and enjoyed working the room, talking to people, and, on this evening, taking compliments.
Quill Gordon, on the other hand, was no mingler. He stood off in a corner looking at a painting of cattle grazing in a pasture, with dry, stony mountains in the background. He was wearing a navy blazer from Cable Car Clothiers, tan dress slacks from Orvis, a powder blue button-down shirt from Nordstrom, a burgundy and light blue striped tie from Brooks Brothers, and Allen Edmonds loafers. His socks, a birthday present from the artist, were navy and peppered with images of the Quill Gordon trout fly. The navy matched his blazer, and the tan hackles of the trout fly went with his khakis. Standing a bit over six-four, in his late thirties and with a face more honest than handsome, he projected the image of a man lost in thought, who wanted to be left alone.
He was looking at the painting, titled “Serendipity Valley,” trying to figure out what it was about the light that made it seem so right, even though it wasn’t strictly accurate. It took him a while to register that a stunning redhead – late twenties, wavy hair, emerald dress – had appeared at his side.
“You’re staring at that painting as if you know the place,” she said.
“Actually, I do.”
“Do you know the artist?”
He nodded, still looking at the painting.
“Do you know her from the college?”
Gordon looked across the room at Elizabeth, whose day job was teaching English at City College of San Francisco, happily chatting with four other people.
“No. I actually met her when she was living there,” he said, gesturing to the painting.
The Daughters Of Alta Mira (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 4) Page 28
