Whether he meant it or not, the sentiment was so irreproachable (and so beautifully delivered in that famous velvet voice) that a harsh response was impossible. The corners of her mouth moved briefly upward in a hint of a smile, then she replied. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”
At that point the room was utterly silent, and Radio walked over to Gordon and Malone. “Father,” he said, “I don’t know if anybody’s told you this, but that was a first-rate eulogy.” With his theatrical sense for the grand gesture, Radio had improbably brought the situation back to a semblance of normality, and within a minute the buzz of conversation was going again. Father Malone soon moved off, leaving Gordon and Radio by themselves.
“You know,” said Radio, “I’m having to change my opinion of that girl. She looks really good in that dress. You should take her to San Francisco with you. I’ll bet life in the city would suit her just fine. There’d be a lot more to do than around this place. Really, I don’t know why she wants to stay here.”
“Maybe it’s her home. Did that ever occur to you?”
“I guess that’s it. May not matter anyway, if she’s headed to jail.”
The barb got under Gordon’s skin, and he decided to jab back. “I wouldn’t bet the ranch on that, if you’ll pardon the expression. She’s not the only suspect.”
“Oh, really? I thought you’d ruled me out.”
“There’s somebody else who had both a motive and the opportunity to commit the crime. Somebody in your group.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “George Horton.”
Radio laughed. “You can’t be serious. Why George’s heart breaks whenever he has to swat a fly at the dinner table.”
“Would I make something like this up? Look, Radio, it’s common knowledge that George was jealous of Dan McHenry and his flirtations. That may not seem like much, but jealousy has killed a lot of people in the past. And he can’t account for where he was at the time of the killing. He says he was headed into town, but nobody can vouch for his being there until well after the crime was committed. And I’d presume that with all the target practice you folks have been taking up at Sullivan Meadows, old George must be a pretty good shot. In fact, I’d bet that Dan McHenry standing by himself by the creek at this ranch looked just like those silhouettes of the Clintons you were shooting at last week.”
“Don’t get smarmy about those targets,” Radio snapped. “You can’t make anything out of that.”
“No offense intended,” Gordon said. He enjoyed knowing that he had irritated Radio, and hoped that he’d planted a seed of suspicion as well. “I was just trying to tell you how it might look to the law.”
“If the law really believed that, they’d have been on us like flies on manure. The sheriff is just looking for an excuse to jump on us. But he can’t do it, because we’re a lawful militia with no aim but self-defense.”
“Whatever you say.” He paused and put a tinge of sarcasm into his parting words. “Nice talking to you.”
As he turned his back to Radio and walked across the room toward Ellen, Gordon allowed himself to break a smile.
“What were you doing talking to him?” she asked.
“Nothing much,” he replied. “Just trying to stir things up a little.”
• • •
“I need to get away from here,” Ellen said a few minutes later.
“Let me take you to dinner,” Gordon offered.
“Thanks, but I don’t think so. Anywhere around here, I’m afraid I’d be the center of attention, and that wouldn’t make for a fun evening. For either of us.”
“Poor thing. You’re almost a prisoner in your own home.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me, damn it.”
“All right. Don’t be so touchy.”
She was silent for a moment. “I have an idea, if you’re willing. Have you ever been to Costello Camp?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s our high country cattle camp. We could drive up there and I could fix dinner. It would get me away from here for a couple of hours. And you’ve been so helpful I’d like to do something for you.”
“Well …”
“Do you like beef stir-fry?”
“All right. You’re on. Want me to drive?”
“That would be fun. I’d like to see what a Cherokee is like.”
“Oh, come on. Around here?”
“Sure you see a lot of them, but they’re all driven by tourists who wouldn’t dream of putting hay in the back. It’s a city macho vehicle, but I still want to see what it’s like.”
• • •
Not long afterward, Gordon looked out the window and saw George Horton sitting by himself in the deserted, windswept picnic grove. It occurred to him that this might be a good opportunity to pick up information, so he got a cup of coffee to fortify himself against the cold and went outside.
“Mind if I join you?”
Horton looked up. There was a sadness in his eyes and his voice, when he spoke, had the tempo of a record being played just a little too slow. “If you’d like to,” he said. “I came out here to think, but I’m about out of ideas.”
It struck Gordon in an instant that he had been too blind to realize that Horton must be feeling a pain that could only be deepened by the fact that it occurred outside a societal context that most people could appreciate. Gordon himself, a tolerant man who had certainly been exposed to the gay culture in San Francisco, hadn’t really been thinking of George as the surviving, grieving lover he was.
“This has to be hard for you,” Gordon said quietly. “Dan McHenry must have meant a lot to you, and now …” he stopped, not knowing what to say next, and wondering if he had said too much already. Horton looked at him for a few seconds.
“Thanks,” he said. “I think you’re the first person who’s realized that.” He shook his head. “You know, I was probably one of two people in the church today who was genuinely sad that Dan was gone. Out of all those people.”
“Who was the other one?”
“His sister, of course. They may have been fighting with each other, but there was a feeling there. I could see it.”
“Even after the will? The lawsuit?”
“Have you ever really loved somebody, Mr. Gordon? I mean loved them so much you put them ahead of yourself and allowed them to walk all over you and break your heart?” Gordon hadn’t, but before he could answer, Horton continued. “It’s like the way some mothers love their children, so much they can’t stand up to them and the kids turn out to be no good. I loved Dan that way, and he cheated on me and made fun of me behind my back because he knew I’d always be there for him. There were times I could have killed him, and sooner or later we’d have gone our own ways. Not because I would have wanted to, but because he would have found someone else and kicked me out of his life. Do you think it’s better it ended like this — I mean, from the standpoint of the relationship — or would it have been better if it played itself out to the end?”
“I don’t know,” Gordon said after a moment. “I had a history teacher in high school who once said that you can’t assume that because what happened was a disaster, what didn’t happen would therefore have been better. The alternative may have been worse, and his point was that you’ll never know and can’t assume anything. I guess my approach to things is to deal with what is, and not with what might have been.”
“Maybe that’s the way to do it. But I was starting to say about his sister. She may have been fighting with Dan, but she loved him. And I don’t think she manipulated her father into changing his will. To tell you the truth, I don’t think Dan even believed that.”
“Does Radio know you feel that way?”
“I’m sure he suspects. He doesn’t like me, but then I don’t have to tell you that. I honestly don’t know what I’m doing with these people now. I fell in with them because Dan did, but they’re living in their own world, and with Dan gone, it has little to do with mine.” He paused and lowered h
is voice. “Don’t tell anybody, but I voted for Clinton, for God’s sake.”
“George! Get your can over here!” Radio’s voice bellowed out from near the house. “We need to head back.”
“It’s all right,” Gordon said. “I won’t tell him.”
Horton smiled and extended his hand, which Gordon shook. “I appreciate your coming out here.” Then he was gone.
Gordon stayed out in the picnic area for half an hour, watching the last of the mourners leave and turning over in his mind the conversation with Horton. Was his pain nothing but grief, or did it encompass a secret guilt, as well? Horton had the chance to commit the crime, he obviously knew about the back road that would have put him in position to do it, and he had a motive. He’d admitted as much. There were times I could have killed him. It didn’t seem entirely credible, but if Ellen McHenry hadn’t killed her brother, George Horton had to be the prime suspect.
• • •
It was about four thirty when Gordon and Ellen, changed from their funeral clothes into jeans and flannels, left the ranch, bearing an ice chest full of beef and vegetables and a bottle of Pinot Noir. It was still cold and windy, but the cloud cover was breaking up and from time to time the sun partially broke through and cast a spotlight on a section of landscape.
The dirt road leading to Costello Meadows leaves the state highway a few miles the other side of Harperville from Twin Creek Ranch. Gordon had passed it many times, but since the stream it followed was too small to offer much in the way of fishing, he had never explored it. The path wound its way steeply into the mountains, climbing two thousand feet in nine miles. As if by agreement, he and Ellen avoided talking about the funeral or the lawsuit and mostly sounded each other out on matters of personal history and preferences. He noted with satisfaction that she expressed a mild curiosity about his romantic history. He hated talking about it, but knew from experience that the questions at least meant she was probably interested in him.
The cattle camp was located at the edge of Costello Meadows, on land the McHenrys leased from the Forest Service. It consisted of two small cabins, where ranch hands could bunk if need be, and a large corral, empty at the moment. Cattle — several hundred head — were fanned out all over the meadow and were wearing bells so they could be easily tracked if they strayed off. Craggy peaks rose sharply on the east side of the meadow, and the aspens that dotted its perimeter were at the peak of color and shimmering in the wind.
Ellen led them to one of the cabins. It was fifteen feet wide and twenty feet long, and to call its interior Spartan would be an understatement. Just inside the door was a small, old, wooden table flanked by three even older chairs. On the other side, spanning the entire narrow wall, was a kitchen area. It consisted of a sink with no running water, a propane stove and just enough counter space for a resourceful chef, with two cupboards built into the wall above. The long wall on one side was decorated with a cheap and faded color print of cowboys sitting around a campfire. A third of the other long wall was occupied by a large fireplace, framed in river rock. Several oil lamps and a box of matches sat on its mantel. Foam pads and a pile of blankets were pushed against the opposite wall, awaiting use by the next cowboys who needed to use the cabin for the night.
“I feel better already,” Ellen said. “It was a good idea to get away from the ranch.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Gordon asked.
“Two things.” She took a saucepan and handed it to him. “Take this down to the creek and get some water to boil the rice in.”
“And?”
“When you’re done with that, bring in some firewood and start a fire. It’s cold in here.”
As he walked toward the creek, the sun was barely above the mountains to the west. It was a quarter to six, and the fading light and cold wind were a bracing reminder that summer was almost over. The creek was three feet wide, clear and icy cold. He knelt on the grass beside it and dipped the saucepan in several times, taking the water out and pouring it back in before finally filling the vessel for good.
He gave the water to Ellen and set to building a fire. There was an ample supply of dry pine logs by the cabin, and he carried in several baskets of wood. Working with smaller sticks, he built a latticework pattern of kindling over crumpled newspapers, then added a larger log at an angle on the top. He thought the flames should flicker up from the paper and catch the kindling well enough. He fervently hoped so, in fact, because few things are more embarrassing to a man than being unable to start a fire with a woman watching.
The fire caught immediately; a quarter-hour after he’d lighted it, Gordon added two logs and felt he could take a break. At the stove, Ellen was stir-frying strips of sirloin in ginger oil with carrots, green peppers, zucchini and mushrooms. The Pinot Noir had been opened and a tin cup containing some was on the counter within her reach. As he walked up, she took another cup out of the cupboard and set it on the counter.
“Help yourself to the wine,” she said.
“I see you’ve already started.”
“Ranch rules. Chef gets first dibs.”
He poured half a cup. It was an expensive label and worth the price, crisp but complex, with a hint of blackberry and a strong finish.
“This is good,” he said. “Can I do anything to help?”
“Just keep an eye on the fire. Dinner should be ready in a few minutes.”
Gordon sat down in one of the chairs, but kept his eyes on Ellen more than on the fire. Between the wine and the warmth of the room, the tension of the day was easing out of his body and the memory of the funeral and wake were receding from his mind. Fitfully, though, he tried to think over the events of the past few days. It somehow seemed to him that buried in the recesses of his mind was something that might hold the key to the murder of Dan McHenry. But the cheerfully domestic nature of the setting he occupied made it difficult to focus.
“This is a cozy place,” he finally said.
“It’s not fancy, but you can’t beat the location.” She sighed. “Dad and Kitty used to use it as base camp for deer hunting, and it’s always been where I go when I want to be alone.”
“That was something at the house today, the way Kitty went after Radio and his group.”
“That’s Kitty all over. She’s impulsive and she wears her heart on her sleeve.” She paused. “She’s been like a second mother to me.”
“I thought Bowen was going to die of embarrassment. It’s not nice to feel that way, I know, but I took a great deal of pleasure in his discomfort.”
“That may not have been such a good idea,” said Ellen. “It might cause him to turn mean.”
“He doesn’t need much turning,” Gordon said. “Nevertheless, Kitty is quite a woman. She must have led an interesting life.
“Hard is probably a better word. Her husband up and left her when their daughter was three years old, and Kitty had to raise her on her own. It wasn’t easy.”
“She must be doing all right now, having her own place and all.”
Ellen smiled. “She’s there from five in the morning until three in the afternoon seven days a week. Then she has to take care of ordering things and keeping records after that. In the winter, when the tourists are gone, the place is never more than half full. If she takes thirty thousand out of it, she’s had a good year. It’s not easy to get by up here, Gordon.”
“I’m beginning to appreciate that.”
She looked up from the stove. “I think you do,” she said gently, “and I like that. “This is a lonely and incestuous place, but you’ve tried — and I think you’re pushing yourself to do it — you’ve tried to get inside it a bit. Of all the people who’ve come up to our place to fish over the years, you’re the only one I could say that about.”
“So tell me,” he said, “if this is a lonely place, does that mean you’re lonely, too?”
He could see her body tense and immediately regretted having asked the question. Then she responded — as he would hav
e expected if he had given the matter any thought — in a characteristic way, by getting back to business. She lifted the lid of the pot on the stove and said:
“The rice is done. Dinner’s about ready.”
The meal was delicious, and they finished the bottle of wine. Afterward, Ellen brewed a pot of strong coffee, and they spread a blanket on the floor in front of the fire and sat, talking. The caffeine picked up Gordon’s energy, and brought his mind back to the subject of the murder. He told her about his conversation with George Horton that afternoon.
“He doesn’t strike me as a killer,” Gordon said, “but then how many killers do I know?”
“Don’t you think it had to be somebody in that gang?”
“Bowen, I’d believe. Radio, too. Either of them would slit somebody’s throat for a nickel. Or less if they had a good reason. But they both have an alibi.”
“That’s an interesting point, though. Dan’s throat wasn’t slit. He was killed at long distance by someone with a rifle and a telescopic sight. There was something remote about it. If George Horton was going to kill somebody, doesn’t that seem like the way he’d do it?”
“You may be right. Anyway, I’ve planted that seed of suspicion in Radio’s mind, and maybe that’ll make something happen. It’s so frustrating to be caught up in this and feel there’s almost nothing I can do about it.”
“But you’ve helped a lot already. Just by thinking to look in that mine, you gave the sheriff a reason to consider someone else but me as a suspect.”
“I suppose.” He laughed. “This is the strangest fishing trip I’ve ever been on in my life.” He finished his cup of coffee and set it down. The two logs now on the grate were almost burned through and were glowing orange, giving off very little flame. Ellen was lying on her side on the blanket, looking into the fireplace.
“It’s getting late,” he said. “Shouldn’t we be heading back?”
“Whatever on earth for?” she asked softly.
He looked at her for a moment, then got up, put his coffee cup on the mantel, and carefully placed two more logs on the fire. Going back to the blanket, he sat next to Ellen and leaned over to kiss her. She put her arms around him and pulled him down. Outside, a gust of wind shook the trees, and the cattle continued to roam through the meadow, the cacophony of their bells providing music that would last all night long.
The McHenry Inheritance (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 1) Page 14