“Welcome to Harry’s,” she said. “My name’s April. Are you gentlemen staying with us tonight?” Gordon nodded. “You must be Mr. Gordon.”
“Are we the only ones?” asked Peter.
“No, but the other party coming in tonight is named Sakamoto. You’ll meet them at dinner tonight. All the guests at Harry’s get to know each other pretty fast. Now if we could just get a credit card, we can get you checked right in.” She ran the card and got Gordon’s signature. “Your cabin’s ready, but Don — that’s the owner — likes to show guests to their rooms personally. He said he’d be back at four and it’s ten to.” She slipped from behind the counter and moved toward the lounge. “You can wait in here if you’d like.”
“That’s fine,” Gordon said.
“In fact, since you’re staying for a week, the first drink’s on us.” She moved behind a well-stocked bar, set at a 45-degree angle to the walls. “What can I get you?”
“How about a scotch on the rocks?” said Peter.
“No problem. Johnnie Walker Black OK? It’s on us, so you might as well.”
“You make me feel right at home,” said Peter, nodding and bowing slightly in her direction.
“How about you,” she said, looking at Gordon.
“Could I just get a cup of coffee, if it’s not too much trouble?”
“No problem. We just started a pot in the kitchen and it should be ready in a few minutes.” She filled a small glass with shaved ice, poured the whisky to the top, and handed it across the bar to Peter. “Enjoy. I’ll be right back with the coffee.”
“OK if I put another log or two on the fire?” Gordon asked.
“Oh, yeah. I guess I should have done that. Be my guest.”
They moved to the fireplace and took the two prime chairs, which faced each other, flanking a sofa in front of the flickering blaze. The chairs were covered with red leather, faded, scuffed and worn, but still comfortable after years of use. Gordon took a pair of three-foot-long logs out of a box near the fireplace and put them on what was left of the fire, then jabbed them with a poker to create air space. The fire quickly came back to life, and they took a closer look at their surroundings.
Above the fireplace was a large, unimaginative painting, eight feet long by six feet high, of The Mountain, rising above Paradise Valley, its snow-covered summit wreathed in light clouds, with deer and elk grazing in the green fields below and geese flying across the sky. A river ran beneath The Mountain, with a large trout, altogether out of scale, leaping from it. In the lower right hand corner it was signed, “Stoddard, 1954.” Along the dark wood walls, in no particular pattern, were an eclectic mix of sporting prints and black-and-white photographs taken at Harry’s decades earlier. A grand piano sat in the corner opposite the bar; two tables set up with chessboards were against the wall facing the river; and several chairs and two-seat couches filled out the room, with a few throw rugs covering the hardwood floor. It was a comfortable room, and the two men sat staring silently into the fire for a few moments.
“Peaceful,” said Peter. “Just what I need after all the drama at work lately.”
At that point the front door was thrown open, and a woman stomped, rather than walked, in.
“Where the hell is everybody?” she said in a loud, irritated voice. “I need a drink.” She slammed the bell twice, and only then turned toward the lounge and saw Gordon and Peter. Immediately, she pulled herself together and walked toward them.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that it’s so cold, and I could use a little something to take the edge off. I’m Wendy.”
As the men rose, she moved closer and into the light of the fire where they could see her more clearly. She was five-seven, with thick black hair, holding a slight wave, and dressed to make an impression in tan slacks, a demure light-pink blouse with the top button open, Manolo Blahnik heels, and a silver-chained pendant featuring a diamond-shaped cut of jade framed in silver, clearly by a jeweler who knew the business. Her features were well formed, with a Roman nose that suited her face, a sensuous mouth and deep brown eyes that conveyed a sense of hardness rather than welcome.
“Quill Gordon,” he said, “and my friend Peter Delaney.”
“Ooh, you’re tall. Six-five, maybe, and athletic, too. I’ll bet you played basketball.”
“Six-four,” Gordon said reticently, “and, yeah, a little.”
“Come on, Gordon,” Peter said. “It was more than a little. You were all-conference at Cal.”
“Really,” said Wendy, drawing the word out and putting just too much emphasis on it. “You must be pretty good.”
“Second team,” Gordon said. “That doesn’t take you any further than college.”
“So what do you do now?”
“I guess you could say I manage investments. Peter’s a surgeon.”
“How nice. So are you here for a while?”
April returned at that point with Gordon’s coffee in a cup and saucer on a tray. Seeing Wendy from behind she made a face, then quickly wiped it off and stepped up to the group.
“Here’s your coffee, Mr. Gordon,” she said in a friendly, natural tone. Turning to Wendy, she immediately became more formal. “Hello, Mrs. Van Holland. Is there anything I can get you?”
“Mmm, well, maybe a little something from the bar,” said Wendy, as if the thought had just occurred to her. “A splash of Hennessey would be nice on this freezing day.”
April moved behind the bar, and Peter invited Wendy to join the two men by the fire. She had just sat down on the sofa when April returned with the cognac. Wendy took the glass, swirled it gently in her right hand, raised it to her lips, then said:
“Oh my goodness. Did you make it a double?”
“I’m sorry,” said April with no sincerity at all. “I thought that was your usual.”
“Well, I suppose on a cold day like this, it wouldn’t hurt. Thank you.”
“Should I charge that to your room?”
“Sure.” April turned away, and Wendy said, “Actually, I’ll pay cash.”
“That’ll be nine dollars, please.”
Wendy opened her clutch purse of chocolate-colored leather and took out a ten.
“Keep the change.”
“Much appreciated, I’m sure.” Gordon, whose seat commanded the best view of the bar, noticed that April took the bill to the register, placed it in a drawer, took a dollar back, folded it into fourths, and deposited it in her bra.
“So how long have you been here?” asked Peter.
“Since last Wednesday.” She took a sip of cognac, but made the sip last a while, draining about a third of the contents of the glass and savoring it in her mouth.
“Has the weather been like this all along?”
She swallowed slowly and exhaled deeply. “No, thank God. It was sunny and pretty nice up until yesterday morning, then it started getting grayer and colder. I don’t like the cold.”
“You fish?” Gordon asked.
“No, but my husband does. Oh, does he fish.”
“He came to the right place.”
“That’s what everybody keeps saying. Not much to do if you don’t fish, though.”
She lifted the snifter to her lips and took some more, this time in a big gulp that drained another third of the glass. Having no answer to her last comment, Gordon and Peter nodded and looked into the fire. After a moment of awkward silence, she said:
“I don’t like this cold. I grew up in the snow, and I’m over it. It feels like it’s going to snow.”
“Not too likely at this altitude and time of year,” Gordon said, “but it is pretty raw outside.” Another moment of silence. “How long are you here for?”
“Just till Wednesday, then we get to go back home.”
“And where’s home?”
“Hillsborough.” Gordon and Peter exchanged knowing glances at the mention of one of San Francisco’s most prestigious suburbs. “Not much to do there, either, but at least it’s clos
e to the city.”
She downed the rest of her drink and set the snifter on a side table. Seeing the empty glass, April left the bar and came to the group.
“Everybody doing all right? Is there anything I can get anybody?” Then, turning to Wendy, “Would you like another double?” She delivered the line perfectly, managing to convey contempt while maintaining deniability. Wendy began to respond, then stopped herself.
“No, thank you. That one was more than enough.” She stood and looked at the men. “Nice meeting you. I’m sure we’ll get to know each other better. Everybody gets close at Harry’s.” Looking at April, “Isn’t that right, June?”
April drew in her breath sharply, but choked off a reply.
“I’d better get back to the cabin and get ready for dinner. See you then.” She walked to the lounge entrance, then turned and waved. It was a gesture she had clearly practiced. “Ciao.”
No sooner had she gone out the front door than April muttered, under her breath, “Ciao,” drawing out the end of the word. “You guys OK?” she said, shifting gears. “I just saw Don driving up, and he can take you to your cabin in a few minutes.”
“We’re fine,” Gordon said.
“Hit the bell if you need anything. Once should be enough.” She left the lounge and turned down the hallway past the front desk.
“Well,” Peter said when they were alone again, “that Wendy is quite the personality, though I wouldn’t say she’s your type. Did you notice anything unusual about her?
“What do you mean?”
“She’s apparently married, and she lives in a high-end town, but she wasn’t wearing a ring. I wonder what the story is there?”
“Also, she changed her mind about putting her drink on the tab, which makes me think she doesn’t want her husband to know about it.”
“Good point. You know, Gordon, if the other guests are half as interesting as Wendy, we could have ourselves a jolly little time here.”
5
MOMENTS LATER the front door opened, and the owner came in. Don Potter was 45 years old, of medium height and build, wearing jeans, running shoes, a red and gold flannel shirt, and a down vest. He had a round face with regular, friendly features, a neatly trimmed goatee, and a short-cut head of dull brown hair, just beginning to recede. He saw Gordon and Peter in the lounge and advanced with an extended hand.
“You must be the Gordon party,” he said. “I’m Don. Welcome to Harry’s.”
“Good to be back,” said Gordon, shaking the extended hand.
“So you’ve been here before. I was going to ask. Amazing how many people remember Harry’s from the old days.”
“It was quite a joint.”
“Will be again, if I have anything to say about it. The last two owners tried to cut corners, and you can’t do that if you want to be a destination resort. Sharon and I are committed to making everything first rate. Still some work to do, but people see the difference already.”
“I like what I’ve seen so far,” said Peter. “And your lovely young bartender pours a good drink.”
“April’s a good kid. Life hasn’t been easy for her, but working here has done her some good.” He looked at Peter’s glass. “Can I get you a refill?”
Peter considered the offer for a few seconds, then set the glass down on a table. “No thanks. Not now.”
“Well, when you’re ready for another drink, it’ll be an honest one. Don’t skimp, but charge a fair price, I say. Only way to do business.” Turning to Gordon, he said, “I’ve been anxious to meet you. The first time I saw your name on the reservation, I said, ‘Quill Gordon? Like the trout fly?’ ”
“I get that a lot,” Gordon said.
“I bet you do. But you live up to your name. I hear from Johnny that you’re a top-notch fisherman.”
“We’re going out with Johnny tomorrow. In fact, I’ve asked him to join us for dinner.”
“If you’re out with Johnny, you’ll catch fish,” Don said. “Or if you don’t, it’s on you. Nobody knows this river like he does.” A pause, then looking at Gordon, “Another reason I noticed your name is that we just fixed up the five cabins by the river, and gave them names instead of numbers. Named ‘em after trout flies. I was going to call Number Four Quill Gordon, but at the last minute I figured it was an East Coast fly, so we named the cabin Green Drake instead. And guess where you’re staying?”
“The Green Drake, by any chance?” ventured Peter.
“You got it. If you’re ready, I can take you there now.”
“Sure,” said Gordon, downing the last of his coffee, now cold. “Just out of curiosity, what are the other ones named?”
Don stepped to a window and they followed him. Through it, they could see the five cabins by the river.
“They were numbered one to five before, with one the closest to the lodge and five the farthest away, almost to the property line. Following the numbers, the first one is Blue Wing Olive, then Golden Caddis, Rusty Spinner, Green Drake, and Pale Morning Dun.”
“So Pale Morning Dun is occupied,” Gordon said.
“The Van Hollands,” said Don. “He owns an insurance agency near San Francisco, really nice guy. Wife’s quite a bit younger. A real looker.”
“We’ve had the pleasure,” Peter said.
“Then you know what I mean. Anyway, One, Three and Five are queen bed cabins, usually for couples. Two and four are twin-bed cabins, usually for two men, but sometimes two women.”
“You get women coming here to fish?” Peter said.
“More than you might think. Some of them are really into it. We have one here now who’s mad about it. Mrs. Adderly, but she’s here with her husband, so they’re in number three on the other side of you. At least I think it’s her husband. He has a different last name, and the reservation was made under Adderly.”
“Probably best not to ask,” murmured Peter.
“You got that right,” Don said. “None of my business as long as they pay and don’t break the furniture.”
“Actually,” Gordon said, “if she’s who I think she is, they’re married.”
“Then we have two more people coming in any time now. A. Sakamoto and D. Evans. They’ll be in Golden Caddis. And that’s it until next weekend.”
“So a small group,” Gordon said.
“We were completely full opening day weekend,” Don said. “And from Memorial Day to Labor Day, we’re averaging 75 percent occupancy already, with some weekends sold out. But in the middle of the week before Memorial Day, it’s still pretty slow. Nice, though. You’ll get to know the other guests, maybe even make some new friends. And you’ll have some elbow room when you’re fishing.”
“Is the weather always this bad?” asked Peter.
Don shook his head. “You get a few days like this in the late spring, but it doesn’t last long. Mostly sunny and in the sixties and seventies is more like it. You ready to go to your cabin?”
Gordon and Peter looked at each other and nodded.
“Where are your bags?”
“In the car. The silver Cherokee.”
“OK if I show you the cabin first then bring your bags right over?”
They nodded again and followed Don to the front desk, where he took two keys from the rack on the wall and started for the front door.
“So how did you end up owning Harry’s?” Gordon asked as they stepped outside. The wind was still strong, and he almost had to bellow the question.
“Lucky, I guess. Been in hospitality almost 20 years. Mostly restaurants, but a little in hotels. Always wanted a place of my own. Three years ago, Sharon’s mother died and left her a house in Marin County, all paid for. We sold it and decided to look for something to buy. Harry’s was on the market, and when we saw it, I knew. It needed some work, but I saw what it could be, and it’s almost there now.”
“And your wife?” Peter said. “Did she love it, too?”
“She wasn’t as sure as I was, but she’s come around. Now that sh
e’s made some friends, she likes it here.”
Gordon zipped his parka up to the neck and wished he had a scarf to protect him from the icy wind. Peter crossed his arms over his chest. They were both thoroughly cold by the time they had walked two minutes to the cabin.
“You’ll be fine when you get inside,” Don said. “When we remodeled these babies, we put in electric wall heaters. They’ll keep you plenty warm.”
He unlocked the front door and stepped in. The cabin was 15 feet wide and 30 feet deep, with hardwood floors and walls paneled in knotty pine. Just inside, to the left of the door, was a wood writing desk that appeared to date back to the previous century. Farther against the left wall were two windows, offering a view of the Van Holland cabin and the river beyond, with two twin beds offsetting the windows. Against the right wall were a couch for two and a comfortable-looking padded chair, with a standing reading lamp between them. At the back of the cabin the door to the bathroom was on the left and a closet opened on the right. To the right of the chair on the right wall was the wall heater. Don flipped a switch, then set a thermostat farther down the wall. Within a minute the heater coils were glowing red and beginning to take the edge off the damp cold that had chilled them when they came into the room.
“No TV?” asked Peter.
“The jury’s still out on that,” Don said. “Harry never had TVs in the rooms. Some people like that, some don’t. But it’s like the old joke in the hospitality business. What do you call the hotel room with a broken TV set?”
“I give up,” said Peter.
“The honeymoon suite.”
Gordon and Peter chuckled politely.
“I’ll go fetch your bags. If you need anything, I’ll be back in ten minutes. Hope you enjoy your stay at Harry’s.”
Wash Her Guilt Away (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 2) Page 3