Finally, the man left and Gordon muttered under his breath, “I need to talk to you. Major development.”
Baca raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly. “Let’s have some dinner,” he said. Drinks in hand, they moved out of the bar to the front of the restaurant, where a young woman greeted them. “The corner booth, Nancy,” Baca said, “and keep the one next to it open as long as you can.”
“Sure thing,” she said, with an ease that suggested this wasn’t the first time she’d had such a request. They sat down at a table covered with a blood-red cloth and flanked by well-padded black seats, covered by tape in one or two places that wanted repair. After they ordered, Gordon told his story in chronological order, beginning with his dialogue with Radio the previous evening. He finished just as the steaks arrived.
“You know,” said Baca, “I ought to give you a badge and swear you in as a deputy. You’re coming up with more than any of my men.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Right now, nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Well, not exactly nothing. I’ll send two men out first thing tomorrow morning to take inventory of what’s in that mine. And I’ll pass it on to ATF. But I think they want to wait to make a move. They’re interested not only in what Radio’s got, but in where he’s getting it.”
“What about the snake? Surely you can prosecute that under some law?”
Baca’s eyes narrowed to a slit. “Assuming you recalled that conversation exactly — which, by the way, would be remarkable — Bowen never admitted to anything. And any halfway competent defense attorney could coach George so that his recollection of the conversation was that he said most people don’t approve of dropping snakes in a woman’s kitchen. All we can do on that one now is make them uncomfortable, but we’d never get a conviction. And I want to do more than make Radio and his friends merely uncomfortable.”
“Well then, what about the murder investigation? You have another suspect now.”
“Why do you say that?”
“George. Dan’s boyfriend. He was jealous, so that’s a motive. And he can’t account for his actions at the time of the killing, so he had opportunity. And it wouldn’t surprise me if he had Dan McHenry’s deer rifle at the camp, which would give him the means to do it.”
Baca cut a piece of steak and chewed it slowly, then washed it down with a sip of the coffee he had ordered to replace the bourbon. After that, he sighed.
“If I didn’t know you better,” he said, “I’d be starting to get offended by now. Do you think I sit around doing nothing all day? We were at Radio’s camp until two o’clock Monday morning questioning everybody there, including George Horton. There’s nothing you told me about him that I don’t already know.”
“So you don’t think he’s a suspect?”
“I didn’t say that. He’s on the list of possibles, but his motive isn’t as strong as others, and there’s a big difference between possibly being at the ranch that morning and definitely being at the ranch.”
“In other words, you still think Ellen did it.”
“I didn’t say that, either. If I really thought so, she’d be under arrest now. I’m just trying to sort out the evidence, and right now it sort of points one way, but it’s not conclusive. You know, I don’t think you appreciate how much restraint I’m showing. Before you got here tonight, two people came up to me at the bar and wanted to know why it was taking so long to make an arrest. I told them what I just told you. There isn’t enough evidence — yet. There may never be enough evidence. And I’m not arresting anybody without good evidence, even if it costs me an election.”
“I appreciate that,” Gordon said soberly.” He took a swallow of coffee. “So people really think she did it.”
“Not everybody, but quite a few. It’s uglier than you think. Nobody has the brass to say it to my face, but there’s talk that I’m giving her special treatment. With all that horse manure out there, I don’t like getting climbed on by you, too.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted. Just give me credit for trying.”
“Fair enough. But let me ask you a question. You talk about evidence — what evidence do you need?”
“It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?” Baca said. “The murder weapon. Until we locate the gun that killed Dan McHenry, we’ll have a weak case at best. If you have any more miracles up your sleeve, maybe finding that gun can be one of them.”
• • •
Gordon realized, as he drove back to the ranch well after nightfall, that he had promised to meet Sam for dinner at the Sportsman three hours earlier, and had completely forgotten about it after the discovery at the mine. Sam had dined alone and had been back at the cabin for more than an hour by the time Gordon arrived. Gordon did his best to be contrite, but his friend would have none of it.
“You could have at least called the Sportsman,” Sam said. “Your manners are going to hell, Gordon.”
“I’m sorry, Sam, but let me tell you what happened today.”
“I’m sure it’s a great story. Greatest story in the history of the universe.” He sounded a bit tipsy, and this was confirmed when he brought out a half-bottle of cognac and poured a few ounces into an aluminum cup. “Half this could have been yours, Gordon, if you’d been on time. Great thing, punctuality.”
Gordon held out his own cup and Sam poured the last three ounces of the bottle into it. He took a gulp, and the alcohol sent a current of fire through his body, warming him against the chill night. “This stuff’ll kill you young.”
“Yeah, but you’ll die happy,” said Sam. “All right, let’s hear your story.”
And for the second time in a few hours, Gordon described what had happened that afternoon, a time that now seemed years removed. Outside, the wind that occasionally rustled the tops of the pines had a cutting edge to it, and the lingering storm clouds kept the sky starless. Gordon was feeling drained by the emotional intensity of the last few days, and the isolated location and weather added a feeling of disconnectedness that further weighed him down. He finished his story and the cognac at the same time, then stared at the cabin wall, spent.
It was a few minutes before Sam spoke. “I have to hand it to you,” he said. “We came up here for a week of fishing, and now you’ve got us in the middle of a Hitchcock script. I can hardly wait to see what happens next. Too bad we have to go back in a few days.”
“I’m not going back.”
“What?”
“I’ll ask for more time off if I need it. I have it coming. And when this is straightened out, I’ll go back just long enough to give decent notice before I quit my job.”
“You’ve threatened to do that before.”
“This isn’t a threat. Howell, Burns & Bledsoe got along without me for 75 years, they can do it from now on, too. I’ve made my fortune, and it’s time to move on. I can do anything I want, and I intend to take my time figuring out what that’s going to be.”
There was a long pause. “Well,” said Sam, “I wish you luck.”
“Thanks.”
The two old friends stared silently at the cabin walls and listened to the wind for a few moments, feeling no need to speak. Then Sam suddenly sprang to attention.
“I almost forgot!” he exclaimed. “We got so caught up in your story I didn’t get to tell you about my excitement.”
“Well?”
“You missed something by not being at the Sportsman tonight. Radio and four or five of his boys were in the bar at the usual corner, and a couple of cowboys from the McHenry ranch came in. The atmosphere was a bit chilly, to say the least. Then Hart Lee Bowen began needling them about working for a killer, and they reacted with a couple of choice phrases about his ancestry and sexual orientation, and before anybody knew what happened, the whole bar was full of people fighting. It was just like a scene from an old Western. Glassware shattering, bodies flying all over the place.”
“Was anybody hurt
?”
“Just cuts and bruises and concussions as far as I could tell. I was on my way out when it started, and it was over pretty fast, but I found out one thing for sure. I wouldn’t want to be up against Hart Lee in a fistfight. He laid out three people in two minutes. You know, Gordon, I’m glad he didn’t find you in that mine this afternoon.”
Wednesday September 15
“Are you going to the funeral?” asked Gordon.
“I think I’ll pass,” said Sam. They were having breakfast at Mom’s Cafe on a gray and cheerless morning with a cold wind blowing from the north. Inside, a wood stove in the corner was putting out warmth, and the head of a deceased deer watched over the gingham-covered tables from above the main door. The cafe was three quarters full, mostly from the usual business crowd, and the air was filled with the sound of multiple conversations, the clatter of dishes, and shouted exchanges between waitresses and the cook.
Gordon sipped his coffee. “So we go our own ways today?”
“I guess. Dinner at the Sportsman?”
“I’m up to here with beef right now. How about the Chinese place — Bamboo Garden?”
Sam sighed. “Even when I’m on my own, you’re shaping my day.”
“We can do something else.”
“No, the Bamboo Garden is fine. Just promise me you’ll be there by six.”
“Promise.”
Kitty walked up and cast a sideways glance at Gordon’s plate. “A Denver omelet, Gordon. This vacation is broadening your horizons.”
He smiled. “Don’t worry. I’m in control.”
“Everything all right?”
Sam and Gordon assured her the food was fine, then Gordon said, “Will you be at the funeral?”
Kitty’s mouth tightened as she nodded. “I really don’t want to go. You have no idea how much I don’t, but I will. I have to be there for Ellen.”
“Do you think there’ll be a lot of people?”
“Of course there will. That’s the problem. It’ll be a spectator sport with Ellen as the star player, and everybody else trying to see how she’s holding up. This isn’t going to be Harperville’s finest hour.”
Sam was taken aback. “Would it really be that bad?”
Kitty shrugged. “What else could you expect? It’s a small town.” A customer brought his check to the cash register, and Kitty excused herself to take care of him.
After a moment of silence, Sam said, “Are you sure you don’t want to come fishing with me?”
“No, but thanks. And Sam …”
“What?”
“Don’t fall into the creek today. With this wind, you could turn into an icicle.”
• • •
The rotating sign in front of the First National Bank of Summit County said the temperature was 45 degrees as Gordon drove past on the way to Saint Louis Catholic Church, where mass would be said for Dan McHenry. The small parking lot was full, and Gordon had to park a block away. The church, built during the boom in the 1920s, was meant to hold 200 people, an optimistic figure these days, even on Easter Sunday, but it was nearly full as he walked in. He was looking for an empty seat, when a voice hissed behind him and to his right.
“Gordon! Over here.”
He turned to see Radio, Bowen and Horton sitting together in the last row. Radio was wearing a gray, pinstripe suit and the other two wore blazers and ties. George’s coat was well cut and Bowen’s looked a fraction too tight for his muscular body.
“We can make room for one more,” Radio said in a stage whisper. “George, move down and let Mr. Gordon in.” Horton did so with an expression of distaste, and Gordon squeezed in between him and Radio.
“Thanks,” he said perfunctorily. He sat quietly for a moment, and feeling the need to make conversation finally said, “I didn’t expect to see so many people here.”
“Then you don’t understand human nature,” Radio said in a low voice. “For the folks in Harperville, this is better entertainment than anything at the movie theater. They all want to see how the grieving sister carries herself so they can go back and keep up the discussion about whether or not she committed murder.” He paused. “Small towns are so delightful, don’t you think?”
“Did it ever occur to you, Rex,” said Horton, his voice dripping with acid, “that maybe some of these people cared for Dan McHenry and wanted to show it?”
Radio didn’t miss a beat. “By all means, George. Human nature isn’t entirely predictable. But let’s remember that Dan hadn’t lived here for years, and he didn’t exactly die of old age. No getting around that.”
“There’s one other thing you forgot to mention,” Gordon said.
“And that is?”
“Some of us are here to pay respects to the family.”
“Your sense of duty, I’m sure, will be appreciated by the proper individuals.”
The mass began precisely at 11 o’clock, with Father John Malone officiating. A small parish like Harperville generally gets either a young priest on the way up or an old one on the way down. Father Malone was of the first category. To compensate for the fact that fewer than a hundred people attended the two masses at the church each Sunday, he threw himself into the secular life of the town with a vengeance. Athletic and handsome in a boyish sort of way, he served as an assistant coach for the high school football team and was an active member of the Rotary Club. But today his presence and voice were entirely devoted to one of the most solemn offices of his chosen profession.
This early in his career he had already mastered the ability to move a service briskly along, while maintaining the proper tone and sense of religious drama. As a result, the music and the rituals of the church combined to impart a feeling of comfort and serenity that Gordon hoped was helping Ellen McHenry. When it was time for the eulogy, the audience rustled and leaned slightly forward to hear better. With dramatic effect, Father Malone looked out over the audience slowly, as if attempting to make eye contact with everyone in attendance. Only after a full half-minute of silently scanning the audience did he begin:
“We are gathered here today to grieve for Daniel McHenry and to show our love and support for his family. As most of you are probably aware, this is the second tragedy the family has experienced in this year alone, and that may provide yet another reason for our joining together here — to try to make sense of it all.
“When a man of Daniel’s age is senselessly killed — and whatever the motive may have been, it was a senseless killing, because there is no sensible reason for taking a human life — we wonder whether there was some meaning behind it that we are unable to discern. I believe there always is.
“Every man’s death reminds us of our own mortality and should therefore make us value our own lives more and vow to do something positive with them. Daniel’s death, at far too young an age, reminds us of our closeness to each other and the need we have for the love of our fellow men. And above all, no death is without reason if only we had the gift to see that reason as it exists in God’s eyes.
“It is possible that the death of Daniel has set in motion a course of events, not yet played out, that will enable us to make sense of this tragedy. And it is possible that it is not, and never will be, for us to know the meaning of it. But that, too, is a revelation, because it calls upon us to draw on our reservoir of faith and accept and respect the workings of God’s will.
“That will may be that the secular authorities find and punish the killer of Daniel, in which case we will all know the outcome. Or God may have reserved judgment for himself, for this we know as a certainty. The perpetrator of a wicked deed may be able to hide from the law, but there is nowhere to hide from God. We must have faith that one way or another, justice will be done, because in the end, it will be. It always is.
“In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit. Amen.”
• • •
After the mass there was a wake at the ranch, which was attended by about half the people at the service. Ellen McHenry
was wearing a black wool dress with a pearl necklace. The stark simplicity of the outfit showed her features to good effect and accented her femininity. Gordon was struck by the fact that the first time he saw her dressed up should be at a funeral. He wanted to be with her, but saw no way of politely detaching himself from Father Malone, who had heard about Gordon’s athletic background and was engaging him in a mostly one-sided conversation about the Harperville High School football team’s progress.
No one expected Radio and his entourage to come to the ranch, and when they walked through the front door it had a dramatic impact. One by one, the groups of people scattered around the front room of the house recognized their presence and fell silent. Ellen, who had been talking with Kitty, noticed the hum of background noise subsiding and quickly spotted the new arrivals. She fixed Radio with a steely glare that almost dared him to do something. He responded by locking eyes with her, and for a moment they stood in place as the room grew totally quiet.
The silence was broken by Kitty’s voice, which crackled with the hard edge of suppressed anger.
“It’s so good of you to stop by,” she said. “Who’s carrying the rattlesnake today?”
Bowen’s face turned crimson all the way to the roots of his hair. Radio looked quickly at the ground, looked up again, and walked over to Ellen and Kitty.
“I didn’t know if I should come by,” he said, “but it seems to me if there’s ever a time to put differences aside, this is it. We feel the loss of Dan very keenly, and I know you do, too. Let’s at least understand we have that in common.”
The McHenry Inheritance (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 1) Page 13