Wash Her Guilt Away (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 2)

by Michael Wallace

After he left, Peter walked over to one of the beds, sat on it, and pressed down. “Should be comfortable,” he said. “And now that the heater’s kicking in, my outlook on life is definitely improving. Anyway, after that long drive, I need to clean up before dinner.” He took a quarter out of his pocket. “Shall we toss to see who gets the first shower? In the honeymoon suite?”

  6

  GORDON HAD ARRANGED to meet Johnny, the guide, for dinner at eight, which allowed them to unpack and clean up in leisurely fashion. At about 7:15 they headed to the main lodge. The wind had all but stopped by then, but even though there was nearly an hour of daylight left, the heavy cloud cover created a sense of twilight and impending darkness.

  “I guess we won’t be sitting on the deck and watching the sunset tonight,” Peter said.

  In the Fireside Lounge, two men were sitting near the fire in the chairs Gordon and Peter had occupied earlier. One of them had pulled a small table in front of his chair, placed a box of trout flies on it, and was setting some of them on the table for further examination. His companion was ignoring the flies and focusing on the drink in his hand. The woman who had replaced April behind the bar was in her early forties, medium height, trim, with brown eyes and ginger-brown hair neatly pulled back in a ponytail that stuck through the back of a cap with Harry’s logo on the front. Sensibly dressed in jeans, a blue blouse and a burgundy sweater, she put out an air of confident competence.

  “Good to meet you,” she said, looking first at Peter then at Gordon. “You must be Mr. Gordon; Don said you were tall. I’m Sharon Potter.”

  “My pleasure,” said Gordon, shaking her hand. “My friend, Dr. Peter Delaney.”

  “What can I get for you?”

  “I’ll have a beer, please,” said Gordon. “Do you have Sierra Nevada?”

  “We certainly do,” she said, taking out a bottle and pouring it into a tall glass. “And you?” looking at Peter.

  “Double Johnnie Walker on the rocks.”

  “Decisive,” she said, handing Gordon his beer. “I probably would have guessed you were a doctor, even if he hadn’t told me.” She poured Peter’s drink and handed it to him. “You should meet Drew and Alan. They’re here through Saturday, just like you.”

  As Sharon said that, the man looking into his drink sat up and turned to look toward the bar. His friend was contemplating the flies on the table as if they were a floral arrangement. Gordon and Peter walked over.

  “Good to meet you,” Gordon said, extending his hand to the trout fly man. “I’m Quill Gordon and this is my friend Peter Delaney. This your first time at Harry’s?”

  “Alan Sakamoto,” the trout fly man said. He looked up briefly to shake their hands, then, apparently considering the conversation at an end, returned to the flies.

  “Drew Evans,” said the man with the drink, rising to shake hands. “And it is our first time here, though I gather this place has quite a reputation.”

  He was six feet tall, in his early thirties, with darkish blond hair combed from left to right, slightly over his forehead, gray eyes, a flushed face and a physique that was beginning to turn from slender to middle-aged solid. Alan looked to be a few inches shorter, with straight black hair, brown eyes, and an owlish face marked by a pair of aviator glasses.

  “Where are you from?” asked Peter.

  “Silicon Valley,” Drew said. “We both work for Miracle Software in Sunnyvale. Alan heads up one of the main design teams, and I try to sell what they come up with. Neither of us could do the other one’s job.”

  “I’ve certainly heard of it,” Gordon said. “Has a good reputation, anyway.”

  “The stock’s sure going like gangbusters.”

  Gordon nodded. “But that could change, you know.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re a financial adviser.”

  “No, but I was a stockbroker for quite a few years. Long enough to see them go up and down.”

  Alan looked up from his flies for the first time since the conversation began. “Did you say Quill Gordon? Like the fly?”

  “Afraid so,” said Gordon.

  “East Coast fly,” said George, shaking his head. “Won’t work too well out here. Trying to figure out what we’ll need tomorrow.”

  Having no answer, Gordon merely nodded. Sharon saved him.

  “Johnny’s boat just pulled up,” she said. “He’s with you tonight, right?”

  “Yep. Put his drink on our tab.”

  Taking their leave of Drew and Alan, Gordon and Peter moved to a sofa facing two chairs over a coffee table, situated halfway between the bar and the fireplace. A minute later, Johnny came in the front door, removing a battered Stetson to reveal a crew-cut head of salt and pepper hair. He stood five-nine, with a wiry build and precise, fluid body movements. The fluidity was displayed as, in one continuous motion, he hung the hat on a peg behind the front desk and removed a fishing vest from his torso and hung it on the peg below the hat. He rubbed his hands together as he stepped into the lounge and Sharon set a drink on the bar.

  “Jim Beam and water, as usual,” she said.

  “Well, thank you, Sharon. That’s mighty kind of you. This’ll help take the chill off. Yes, it will. Ah, Mr. Gordon.” He walked over, and after introductions, they sat down.

  “How was the fishing today?” asked Peter.

  “Not bad this morning. Not bad at all,” Johnny said, with a perfect middle American accent, but drawing out the words as if speaking with a brogue. “We caught several nice fish this morning, but when the wind came up early in the afternoon, it was tough. Very tough indeed.” He took a generous sip of the bourbon and swirled it around in his mouth, closing his eyes to better concentrate on the taste. Finally he swallowed.

  “I like to say there are 20 ways to catch a fish in Eden River,” he continued, “and this afternoon we were down to numbers 18 and 19 before we finally caught a couple more. You can have good fishing when it’s bitter cold, and you can have good fishing when it’s pouring rain. But when that wind is howling like a banshee from hell, it’s almost impossible.” He took another sip. “I hope it dies down tomorrow.”

  “I have faith in you, Johnny,” said Gordon. “Whatever the weather is, you’ll give us a better chance than anyone else.”

  “You’re too kind, sir. Now where are you staying here.”

  “Cabin four. The Green Drake, I think it’s called now. Right between the Van Hollands and the Adderlys.”

  “Ah, the Van Hollands,” Johnny said. Then, leaning forward and lowering his voice, “A most interesting couple. Very interesting. As you’ll no doubt see for yourself when you meet them.”

  “Actually,” said Peter, “we met her this afternoon.”

  “And I saw her husband coming out of his cabin,” Gordon said, “but he walked off in the other direction and we didn’t have a chance to meet.”

  Johnny raised his eyebrows and took a breath, as if starting to speak, but held it a few beats. “Well, now, that’s very interesting,” he said in the low voice, looking quickly around the room. “Very interesting, indeed. But I’m afraid that couldn’t have been Mr. Van Holland you saw. No, not at all. You see, Mr. Van Holland was out with me on the river until 15 minutes ago.”

  7

  AFTER THEY FINISHED THEIR DRINKS, Sharon led them into the dining room. Gordon stopped at the threshold, looking carefully at the couple seated at the corner table by the window. The woman was 34 years old, long-limbed, and had brown hair, well cut to her shoulder for a professional look. Her face had regular, appealing features, somewhat tightened by a sense of intensity, and even in this casual setting, she was casually but carefully dressed in gray slacks, a light blue blouse and a waist-length black leather jacket. The effect was that of someone who had just thrown on a couple of things pulled from a suitcase — but of course all bought at the finest stores. The man was a few years older, with lighter brown hair and a clean-shaven face that conveyed a sense of solidity. He was wearing rumpled chinos and a denim shirt th
at really had just been pulled from the suitcase. He looked well on his way to being called “distinguished” in another decade.

  The woman looked up, saw Gordon in the entryway, and waved, flashing a smile that momentarily wiped the seriousness from her face. Gordon waved back and started for the table; after hesitating briefly, the others followed him.

  “Gordon!” she said, rising from the table in a swift, graceful motion, and giving him a hug. She was six feet tall, but still a few inches shorter than he, and for a second they looked like a pair of well matched dancers. “Imagine you being here. It’s great to see you again.”

  “This is a pleasant surprise,” he replied. “You look great, Rachel.” Turning to his friends, “Rachel Adderly.”

  “I know Johnny, of course,” she said, shaking his hand. “We were on the river together Saturday.”

  “And you did very well, my dear,” Johnny said.

  “More the guide than the angler. Johnny’s the best.”

  “And my friend, Dr. Peter Delaney,” Gordon said.

  She shook his hand as well. “You have quite a reputation, doctor. You did an emergency appendectomy on my brother and he spoke highly of you.”

  “My pleasure,” said Peter. “Your name sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it.”

  “Rachel’s on the Oakland City Council,” Gordon said. “And there’s some talk you might be running for the open Assembly seat next year.”

  “I didn’t know that,” said Sharon, “but politicians have always been welcome at Harry’s.”

  “I’m glad to hear that; there aren’t too many places we are. And if I end up in Sacramento, maybe I can come here more often.” She turned to her companion. “Darling, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine, Quill Gordon. We both played basketball at Cal. My husband, Stuart Bingham.”

  As he stood to shake hands, it was clear that even without heels, Rachel was three inches taller.

  “Good to meet you,” Gordon said. “Rachel started for the women’s team three years. One of the pioneers of Title Nine.”

  “It’s served her well,” her husband said. “I’ve never known anyone with such drive and energy.”

  “Stuart is the director of the Morgenstern Museum,” Rachel said. “We met at a fund-raiser there for my first campaign.”

  “You have an excellent collection,” Peter said. “I try to get out there at least once a year.”

  “Thank you. We put a lot of effort into keeping it fresh, while still showcasing the old favorites.”

  The conversation paused, and Gordon took the opportunity to get his party to its table, which was along the window, two down from Rachel and Stuart’s. Between the dense clouds and the late hour, it was almost dark outside, but they could see the reflection of the lights from the lodge on the river surface.

  “The special tonight is lamb stew,” Sharon said, giving them their menus. “But the steaks are always good, and Eddie’s chicken piccata has acquired quite a following.”

  Near the door where they had come in, a party of six — three couples in their late thirties and early forties — were sitting. Later in the evening, when cake was brought and everyone sang happy birthday while one of the women blushed, the nature of their occasion became clear. Sharon brought Drew and Alan to a table in the second row from the window, and April followed them, moving to Gordon’s table. She took drink refill orders from Peter and Johnny, but Gordon decided to stay with his glass of water for the time being. She moved to Drew and Alan’s table.

  “What can I do for you guys?”

  “I don’t think you want to know,” said Drew, attempting a raffish smile.

  Without missing a beat, April said, “Maybe you should have another drink. It might make you witty.”

  Drew hesitated for a second then laughed, but the laugh seemed a bit forced. “I like a woman who talks tough. Reminds me of the lady I met at a bar once. Jeans were so tight it looked like she’d been poured into them. I asked her, ‘Excuse me, miss, but how do you get into those jeans?’ And you know what she said?”

  “ ‘You could start by buying me a drink,’ ” April replied. “Hey, if you’re not ready to order, I can come back in a couple of minutes.”

  He laughed again. “No, no. Can you get me a margarita with extra salt on the rim?”

  “Sea dog margarita, coming right up. And for you, sir?” turning to Alan. He had opened his fly box and set several flies on the table, staring at them intently.

  “Get him a Seven and Seven,” Drew said. “He’ll thank you when he finally sees it.”

  She left for the bar, with Drew watching her all the way out the door. Peter turned to Johnny.

  “So can I ask you a question?” Johnny spread his hands as if to say go ahead. “You were saying in the lounge earlier that because of the wind you were down to your last couple of ways to catch a fish. Could you talk about that a bit?”

  “Sure. You see, doctor, most of our fishing here is either with dry flies on the surface, when there’s an insect hatch going, or drifting a nymph along the weed beds a few feet below the surface if the fish aren’t rising. Those are the tried and true methods, they are. When the wind’s really blowing and the water’s disturbed, the fish tend to move to the bottom and stop feeding, so the usual approach doesn’t work.”

  “What does?”

  “Well, your friend Mr. Gordon here is an excellent fisherman. I’d be interested in hearing what he’d do in such a situation.”

  They looked at Gordon. Drew was watching and eavesdropping as well, and even Alan had looked away from his flies to follow the discussion.

  “OK,” Gordon said, leaning forward to respond. “If the fish are at the bottom and not really feeding, I’m thinking you need to do something to get their attention. You could try getting a weighted nymph down that deep, but you’d probably have to hit the fish on the nose before he went for it. So it might make more sense to put something in front of them that moves and looks like a bigger meal. I’d probably start with a Woolly Bugger, which can mimic a leech or a minnow, with a split shot a foot or two above it to get it down deep, then retrieve it in short little jerks, maybe six to nine inches at a time. That’d look like a good enough meal for a big fish to chase.”

  “And they did,” said a deep, cultivated voice approaching the table. “Two of them, anyway, nice rainbows. What would you say, Johnny — 18 and 20 inches maybe?”

  “Now, I don’t know, sir,” said Johnny, standing up. “I think that second one might have been closer to 21 inches.”

  “Did he say Woolly Bugger?” asked Alan.

  “I heard 21 inches,” said Drew.

  “Charles Van Holland,” said the man who had just walked up to the table with Wendy at his side. He was a bit under six feet tall, in his mid-50s, and looked fit and robust. His face, with its square jaw and patrician nose, had a good color, perhaps from being outside on the river all day, and he was the best-dressed man in the room, with crisply pressed gray slacks, black loafers, a button-down shirt that alternated quarter-inch stripes of white and navy, and a blazer with gold buttons and light blue handkerchief neatly flowering out of the breast pocket. Wendy was wearing an emerald-green knee-length dress of silky fabric with an off-white sweater thrown around her shoulders, but left open to provide a good look at the dropping V neckline of the dress, framing a string of pearls. Seeing her legs for the first time, Gordon noted that they were well shaped, and quickly forced himself to look back at Van Holland. Drew was looking at her so intently that he didn’t even attempt to get off a line as April set down his drink.

  After introductions all around, Van Holland turned back to Gordon and Peter. “I hear you’re going out with Johnny tomorrow. You should have a great day. He’s the best.”

  “How was it today?” Peter said.

  “Good in the morning. We had a hatch that ran for three hours and were catching fish on dries, then they were taking nymphs pretty well until the wind kicked up around two. Then not
hing for about three hours until we tried the Woolly Buggers and caught those two really nice ones.”

  “Was this your first time out?” Gordon asked.

  “Oh, no. I’ve been coming to Harry’s off and on since I was 12. And this trip we got in Wednesday and went out with Johnny Thursday, Friday and today. Doing it again Tuesday.”

  “And we’re out with Johnny Monday, Wednesday and Friday,” Gordon said. “Johnny’s a popular man.”

  “The best are the busiest. Right, Johnny?” The guide raised his glass to Van Holland and smiled.

  “And does your lovely wife go with you?” asked Peter.

  “She came out on Thursday, but it was too hot for her. I know, hard to believe if you got here today, but it was probably in the nineties on the river in the sun. She wasn’t feeling well, so we brought her back mid-afternoon, then Johnny and I went out again. But Wendy says she can amuse herself here, though I’m not sure how.”

  Gordon had the best look at the two of them from his chair, and he could see that Wendy, standing slightly behind Charles and out of his line of sight, was casting furtive glances in Drew’s direction. He was returning the favor more intently and unabashedly.

  “Well, I hope you left a few for us,” Gordon said.

  “Now I wouldn’t worry, Mr. Gordon,” Johnny said. “There are so many fish in this river, what with it being catch-and-release, that you can hardly drop an anchor without hitting one. You and Mr. Delaney should do just fine. Just fine indeed.”

  Van Holland and Wendy moved on to Rachel and Stuart’s table and began making small talk with them. When he judged that they were immersed in the conversation, Peter leaned forward to Johnny and said in a low voice:

  “So what’s it like, generally speaking, going out with a husband and wife, or a man and his girlfriend? What does that do to the dynamic in the boat?”

  Johnny set his glass down on the table, looked around at the other tables in the room, and leaned forward. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

  “As a general rule, sir, I don’t gossip about the clients. No, I don’t. Bad for business. But I’ll have to tell you. Last Thursday, I earned my money. Yes, I did.”