“Do you know if this is the blend that has the slightly metallic taste?”
“No.”
“Does that mean no metallic taste or you don’t know?”
“Don’t know. Nobody’s ever bought it.”
“I’ll take a chance,” he said.
She added up the purchase, which came to nearly $90, and ran Gordon’s credit card. She managed to get out a “Thank you” as he left.
“Killed two birds with one stone,” Gordon said to Peter at the car. “Elizabeth’s been drinking more tea and less coffee, so this takes care of her gift for the trip.”
“And the other bird?”
“I paid with the card so Nell would be sure to see. Public relations.”
THEY WERE ON STREAM before two o’clock. It had turned into a near-perfect fall day, with temperatures in the mid-60s, sunny with a few passing clouds, and an occasional breeze that blew pine needles into the river.
The fish cooperated as well. For more than three hours, the thought of Gary Baxter never crossed Gordon’s mind, so intent was he on fishing and reading the water. The upper Bellota was, at this point, essentially a large stream, rarely more than 40 feet wide, and there were several types of water that called for different fishing strategies.
At the point where they parked, the river cascaded down a steep grade, with a series of fast water and pools. The anglers did well by fishing small nymphs at a depth of about three feet, with a small split shot to help the flies sink quickly in the fast currents. Peter at one point switched from a nymph to a Royal Wulff fished on the surface; he didn’t do as well as Gordon, who was still using nymphs, but still caught a couple of wild Brook Trout.
Moving downstream, Gordon waded out to the gravel island where the river became wider and shallower to encircle it. The island was about a foot above the water; in the spring, with the river high from snowmelt, it was probably submerged. There was a long riffle, two to three feet deep, on the far side of the island. Gordon took the split shot off his line, figuring that in the shallow water the nymph would sink well enough on its own. He was vindicated when a 13-inch Rainbow took it on the first cast. He worked the riffle for the better part of an hour, catching and releasing seven trout — five Rainbows, a Brown and a Brook. Most of the fish they caught that afternoon were in the 11- to 12-inch range, with a couple reaching 14 inches.
Shortly before five, with the canyon entirely in shadow and the air becoming chillier, they were back by a pool just above the turnout where they had parked. It was 30 feet wide, about 35 feet long, and they couldn’t see the bottom.
“A good day,” Gordon said. “No trophy fish, but a lot of nice ones.”
“I was getting positive feedback all afternoon,” Peter concurred. “I have no complaints. Shall we head back?”
Gordon was still looking at the pool.
“I want to try one more thing,” he said. He had gone back to fishing nymphs with the split shot, and now cut off the one that was on his line. In its place, he tied on a black Woolly Bugger, which fish can see as a minnow or leech. He cast it to the head of the pool at the far side and counted to seven as it sank. Then he began retrieving it, stripping in the line by hand, six inches at a time. On the fifth strip, the rod jerked and he set the hook. It took ten minutes, but he finally landed a 19-inch Brown. After removing the hook with his left hand, he held the fish upright in the water for a minute before it finally regained its strength and swam back into the depths of the pool.
“I guess that’s how you catch the big boys,” he said. “Let’s get back and eat.”
IT WAS DARK WHEN THEY RETURNED to the house, and the temperature had dropped into the low 50s. Gordon removed the cover from the grill on the deck and got it going. Taking a large piece of sirloin steak from the refrigerator, he applied a special rub he had brought along. Peter, meanwhile, prepared to bake two potatoes in the microwave and was cutting up green beans they had bought at a roadside produce stand the day before.
Gordon grilled the steak to what he thought would be medium and brought it in. After he cut it in half, he and Peter agreed it was fine, and they sat down at the small table inside with the food and a liter of San Pellegrino.
“No hurry with dinner,” Peter said. “It’s a little over an hour to the meeting, and the church is just a ten-minute walk across the bridge.”
Gordon nodded. Peter continued.
“How about you? Are you going to check out the nightlife?”
Gordon smiled. “The real estate agent said the Rope’s End on karaoke night is a good place to pick up local gossip. I thought I’d check it out.”
“Too bad you have only one liver to give to this case.”
“Let’s hope it’s a liver well spent.”
A few minutes passed before Peter spoke again.
“I’ve been meaning to ask, if it’s not too personal a question. How did Elizabeth’s show at the gallery go?”
“Quite well. By the time it closed at the end of September, she’d sold 22 of the 25 paintings on exhibit. And since I own two of the other three, she was just one shy of selling everything.”
“Not bad. I saw the prices.”
“A far sight better than what she was asking, and not getting, in Alta Mira a year ago. She’ll be depositing a nice check next month.”
“High five figures?”
“I haven’t asked, but it sounds about right. How are things with Stella?”
Stella Savoy was the nurse with whom Peter had been conducting an on-and-off relationship for three years.
“Warming up again. It seems that whenever she goes out with someone else, I start looking better to her. Scary, I know, but there you have it.”
Gordon held his tongue.
“Apparently,” Peter continued, “I’m not even the biggest asshole among the doctors she sees. That’s what sobriety is doing for me. Progress, not perfection.”
Gordon again held his tongue. It was a bit harder to do this time.
“And Heather?” Gordon asked, referring to Peter’s daughter by his second marriage.
“She’s good. We had lunch in the City a week ago, and she told me that she’s beginning to believe that not everything her mother says about me is true.”
“Progress, not perfection,” Gordon said.
THE KARAOKE GROUP was doing “Louie Louie” and only marginally affecting the action in the rest of the saloon. The pool game proceeded without missing a beat, and a slight lowering of voices was the only concession those in conversation made to the music. The Rope’s End was fuller than when he and Peter had left it the night before, and Gordon, seeing a small opening at the bar, squeezed into it. On his left, two attractive women in their late twenties or early thirties sipped glasses of wine, talked with each other, and kept looking around to see if anyone might join them. He wondered, idly, if these were part of the cohort of loose women Reg, the bartender, had alluded to the night before. Reg set drinks in front of a man and woman at the far end of the bar and came back to Gordon.
“MGD?” he asked.
“Good memory,” Gordon said. “But that’s on Fridays. Tonight I’ll have a Sam Adams.”
Reg set the drink in front of him a minute later, as “Louie Louie” was coming to an end. The customers who weren’t holding drinks at the moment applauded politely.
“How many performers do you get?” Gordon asked.
“Nine to 12, usually. Sometimes as many as 15 on a summer night, if tourists feel like joining in.”
“How does this group compare?”
“Better than most.”
Gordon’s heart sank. Had Carla, the real estate agent, given him a bum steer?
“But don’t leave yet. The best is coming up soon.”
Gordon looked around. He knew no one, and the snatches of conversation he was overhearing didn’t sound in the least promising.
“You from out of town?”
He turned to his left. One of the two women, the one with reddish-brown hair,
had addressed him.
“That’s right.”
“Where are you from?” asked the other, a blonde in a lower-cut top.
“San Francisco.”
They leaned forward, seemingly impressed.
“What do you do in San Francisco?” the first one asked.
“Investments,” he said, choosing the most neutral answer. “What do you do?”
They looked at each other.
“We teach at the high school,” the blonde said. “Just moved here in August. I’m Jessica.”
“And I’m Vivian.”
“Gordon,” he said, extending his hand to shake theirs. “So don’t tell me. You moved to Dutchtown for the nightlife.”
They giggled.
“Unless they’re hiding something from us,” Vivian said, “this is as good as it gets. What brings you here?”
“A friend and I are here on a fishing trip.”
“And what does your friend do?” Jessica asked.
“He’s a doctor.”
The reaction told Gordon that he was presenting himself (and Peter, if such a thing were possible) too well. The women were pleasant enough, but if they’d only been here a few weeks they likely couldn’t help him with the Baxter case. Before he could start thinking about extricating himself, an Elvis impersonator stepped onto the stage and waved at the audience. The room cheered more enthusiastically than for the “Louie Louie” group, but that wasn’t saying much. He did “Burning Love,” throwing his hips around so hard he risked dislocation. He was enthusiastic, in any event, and he had a better song than the act before, which led to a solid round of applause at the end.
During the song, Gordon decided to cut to the chase with the two women.
“Maybe you can help me,” he said, lowering his voice. “I’m actually up here doing a bit of a confidential investigation. Have either of you been around long enough to pick up any gossip about a murder that happened two years ago?”
They looked at each other and shook their heads, but Vivian seemed to recall something.
“Wait a minute. Would that be the guy who got drunk and killed his wife?”
“That’s what the jury concluded,” Gordon said.
She turned to Jessica. “Remember, the principal told us about that at new faculty orientation. He was making a point about how safe it is here and said that was the only murder in the last 30 years.”
“It’s coming back, now that you mention it,” Jessica said.
“But that was it,” Vivian continued. “I haven’t heard anything else about it.”
“Same here. Sorry.”
“It was a long shot, with you being new in town,” Gordon said. “Thanks anyway, and keep what I told you under your hats. Remember, it’s a confidential investigation.”
A wave of applause broke out, and they turned to the stage. A woman in a revealing Old West dance hall outfit had taken the stage. She wore a blond wig, and her dress, if it could be called that, had a low top and high skirt that showed off her body, particularly her long legs, to excellent effect.
Just looking at her, Gordon was mesmerized, as were most of the other men in the room. He tried to guess who she was impersonating. Marilyn Monroe was his first thought, but he immediately dismissed it as wrong.
And she looked familiar, though he couldn’t place her.
The music started, and he realized who she was supposed to be. Marlene Dietrich. The song was “See What the Boys in the Back Room Will Have,” from the western Destry Rides Again, and the way she moved and mimed to the music had the audience’s complete attention. It was a rousing number, rarely heard these days, and by the time it was over, the audience was stamping, clapping and whistling. The energy from the song had taken over the room, and “Marlene,” bowing graciously, left the stage to a loud ovation.
She walked behind the people standing and sitting at the bar toward the restrooms, where she would presumably change clothes. As she passed Gordon, she gave him a wink and slapped his butt lightly with her right hand.
It dawned on him who she was. Carla. The real estate agent.
“You’re it,” said Reg, materializing next to Gordon. “The tradition is whoever gets butt-slapped by Marlene buys drinks for everyone at the bar.”
Gordon wasn’t sure if he was joking or not, but decided to go along. He took a hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet.
“Will this cover it?”
“With plenty to spare.”
“And would that include a drink for Marlene?” Reg nodded. “Then keep the change.”
“Much obliged.”
Vivian and Jessica were thanking Gordon for buying drinks and a couple of the other barflies came up to shake his hand. There was still a loud buzz in the room, a hangover from the energy of the song. Eventually it began to subside, and, as it did, a male voice further down the bar emerged above the din:
“I’m telling you it was a travesty of justice. They convicted and punished an innocent person, and I’m here to see that the real story comes out.”
GORDON QUICKLY IDENTIFIED the voice as belonging to a silver-haired man of medium height and average build, with thick, dark-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a houndstooth sports coat with dark gray slacks and an open-necked blue shirt. He looked too well dressed to be a local.
“Excuse me,” Gordon said to Vivian and Jessica. “I think I just found the man I’m supposed to meet. Good to make your acquaintance.”
He moved down the bar to the left elbow of the man who had spoken, and heard the next man over say:
“Well, that may be, but folks around here are pretty sure the right thing was done.”
Gordon touched the silver-haired man on his left arm, and the man turned.
“Excuse me,” Gordon said in a low voice. “I couldn’t help overhearing what you just said, and I think we may have some interests in common. Would you be agreeable to talking somewhere with more privacy?”
The silver-haired man blinked twice and swallowed.
“Certainly,” he said. “I never imagined …”
Gordon looked around the saloon. A small table near the front door had just opened up, and he walked over to the waitress wiping it off. When she indicated no one else was claiming it, he waved to the silver-haired man, who came over.
“Len Vincent,” he said, extending his hand.
“Quill Gordon,” he said, shaking Vincent’s hand. “My friends call me Gordon.”
“Quill Gordon? Like the trout fly?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Better than Woolly Bugger, I suppose.”
“There’s that to be said for it.”
Len reached into his shirt pocket. “My card,” he said, handing it to Gordon.
Gordon handed over one of his own and looked at the one he had been given. It was self-printed on light stock and read: “Leonard T. Vincent, Historian,” with a P.O. box in one of the San Jose suburbs, and a phone number.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Vincent.”
“You can call me Len.”
“Len.”
“And are you a historian, Gordon?”
“Not really.”
“I don’t understand. It seems that either you are or you aren’t.”
“A couple of years ago, as fate would have it, I took over a local history book when the author died. I saw it through to publication out of respect for her, but I don’t pretend to be a historian. How about yourself?”
“I taught history at a high school in the San Jose area for 35 years. Now that I’m retired, I have the time and resources to do my own historical work.” He looked around the room. “What put you on to this incident?”
Gordon considered his answer carefully. “A friend of a friend thought there might be more to it than meets the eye and asked me to do a little looking around while I was up here fishing.”
“The friend of a friend would seem to have good instincts. Have you formed any conclusions yet?”
“I just got here yeste
rday. I’ve barely started.”
“And might I ask what you plan to do if you find out anything?”
“I suppose that depends on what I find out. How about yourself?”
“I see it as the centerpiece for a book I plan to write. If I’m right about what happened, there was a grave miscarriage of justice, and I’ll be doing a public service by setting the record straight.”
“So you don’t think he’s guilty?”
“He?”
“Gary Baxter.”
“Mr. Gordon, you’re playing games with me. I’ve never heard of Gary Baxter in my life.”
They looked at each other for several seconds, realizing they had been carrying on a conversation in parallel universes.
“Well, if you’re not here about Gary Baxter,” Gordon said, “who is it you think was wrongfully convicted?”
“Why Maria, of course. Maria Valdez. How can you call yourself a historian if you don’t know about her?”
“I just told you, I don’t call myself a historian.” He took a deep breath and a long drink of his beer, finishing the glass.
Gordon’s head was swimming. He looked up and saw Carla at the bar. She had changed into a casual evening dress, her hair was let down and she wasn’t wearing glasses. Reg the bartender handed her a glass of wine and pointed to Gordon’s table. She lifted it and smiled.
“Excuse me,” Gordon said, turning to Len. “Do you mind if I ask Marlene Dietrich to join us?”
AS SHE WALKED OVER, Gordon found an unused chair at a nearby table and brought it over for her. He stood and held it for her as she sat down and crossed her legs in one smooth motion. Her skirt covered them to just above the knee.
“Such a gentleman,” she purred. “Obviously not a local.”
“That was quite a show you put on. Do you do it every week.”
“Not Marlene, though she’s one of my biggest hits.”
“Carla, this is Len Vincent. Carla Thibaud. Carla’s a real estate agent. Knows everything in town.”
“A bit of an exaggeration,” she said.
“I’m charmed,” Len said.
“Len and I were talking about a bit of local history. He’s keen to know more about Maria Valdez, the woman hanged in the Gold Rush.”
I Scarce Can Die (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 5) Page 6