Wash Her Guilt Away (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 2)

by Michael Wallace

  “It takes two to make trouble.”

  “Is that an offer or an observation?”

  “Just pointing out you’re one short. Are you going to have another drink or just keep me here asking questions?”

  “That’s hardly any way to respond to a friendly question. But sure, I’ll have another. Alan?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Be right back,” she said.

  Gordon had been watching the exchange for want of anything better to focus on, and he had a direct view of Wendy at the table behind Drew. He thought her countenance clouded over a bit as Drew flirted with April, but, again, it was hard to tell for sure.

  “April Flowers,” Peter said, shaking his head as she left the room. “Can you believe it? You know, Gordon, I don’t generally approve of capital punishment, but I think if I was on a jury, I could send a parent to The Chair for giving a kid a name like that. She must have been teased like hell when she was little. So unnecessary.”

  Gordon lowered his voice. “Remember the name of the guy you’re talking to. And speaking of unnecessary, you need to watch what you say when there are small children around. Bun in the oven. Really!”

  “Perfectly good English euphemism for ‘knocked up.’ And be grateful Carrie Ann didn’t learn that one tonight. They lose their innocence too fast these days as it is.”

  Johnny came through the front door with a large box in his arms and set it down on top of the reception desk. Don emerged from the kitchen area to get it and motioned Johnny to the dining room. Gordon waved him over.

  “Thank you, Mr. Gordon,” Johnny said as he sat down. “My dinner’s on the house tonight. Don needed the liquor cabinet resupplied, and I was done for the day so I fetched it for him.”

  “Good for you,” Gordon said.

  “He has a room I can use, too, and I might take him up on it tonight. It’s really raining. Indeed it is.”

  “How’s it look for tomorrow?” Peter asked.

  Johnny shrugged. “Looks like we’ll go out one way or another. I’m hoping this storm blows through overnight.”

  “I think we’re all hoping that,” Gordon said.

  April returned with the Petersons’ beverages and Drew’s drink. She served him first, and he said something to her in a low voice. It was apparently intended to be provocative, as she responded with an overdramatic arching of her eyebrows.

  “Really, Mr. Evans! What would your wife say?”

  “Don’t have one, sugar. Footloose and fancy free, as they say.”

  “Maybe you should do something about that,” she said. He laughed, and with a quick pivot she moved to Gordon’s table.

  “Hi, Johnny. The usual?” He nodded. “How about the rest of you?”

  “I think I’ll switch to wine when I finish this,” Peter said. “What am I having for dinner again?”

  “You haven’t ordered yet.”

  “Right. I knew that. Well, when I do, bring me a white or red, whichever works best.”

  “I’ll wait until I order, too,” Gordon said.

  April turned back toward the bar. Wendy raised an arm in a weak gesture, and April either didn’t see it or chose not to. As she walked past the table, Wendy shouted, “Hey!”

  All heads turned in her direction. “What’s a girl have to do to get served here?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” April said in a voice so even she had to be strictly controlling it. “What can I do for you?”

  “How about a glass of your best Merlot?”

  “Maybe you should slow down a bit, dear,” her husband said.

  “Don’t worry, Charles. I’m fine. And besides, it just makes me more affectionate.”

  “Coming right up,” April said.

  The evening proceeded slowly. The Peterson grandchildren periodically brought all conversation to a halt with their own versions of shrieking, grating wails. Whenever April walked past his table, Drew made a suggestive comment and laughed at her retort. Johnny opined that he had rarely seen such a long streak of bad weather this time of year. Wendy had two more glasses of wine and seemed generally in an ill humor. Peter, sedated with alcohol, had become less voluble. Rachel appeared to be trying to engage Stuart in conversation with only sporadic success. Alan made periodic attempts to talk about fishing details, but neither Drew nor anyone else was interested.

  The older couple had just left, and most of the other guests were finishing dinner when April came in to take dessert orders. She started with the Van Hollands.

  “Tonight we have cherry cheesecake, chocolate death cake, and strawberry or vanilla ice cream handmade by Ruben’s in Red Gulch. Can I tempt either of you.”

  “I’ll have the chocolate death cake,” Wendy said, “and a double Courvoisier to go with it.”

  April looked uneasily toward Charles for confirmation. He shifted nervously in his chair.

  “Maybe you should skip the brandy tonight, darling.”

  That tore it. “What the hell’s going on here?” Wendy shouted, then turning to April: “Listen, honey. I’m the customer. Your job is to serve me. And my husband isn’t a doctor, so you don’t ask him for a second opinion.”

  April stood fixed and speechless. From the tension at the corners of her mouth, it was clear she was struggling to hold herself back.

  “I’ve had it up to here with your attitude,” Wendy continued. “You’ve been dissing me all week, and don’t think I don’t know why. You can’t stand it that the men here aren’t just looking at you. Well, maybe they would if you took better care of yourself.” She heaved an overly dramatic sigh. “Dumb slut.”

  In one swift and fluid move, April slammed her tray on the table, grabbed Wendy by the arm and jerked her to her feet. Wendy responded with surprising quickness and agility, giving April a hard shove in the chest that sent her flying backward on to the middle of the Peterson table. It fell over under her weight and impact, sending dishes and glasses clattering to the floor.

  April was instantly on her feet again and lunged at Wendy, who was coming toward her. They threw their arms around each other, and, grappling like Holmes and Moriarty at the waterfall, crashed into Drew and Alan’s table, knocking over all the glasses and spilling the contents on the men’s laps. After bouncing off that table, they went down on the edge of Stuart and Rachel’s table, taking it and its crockery to the floor with them.

  “That’s enough,” Gordon said. In two quick steps he was over to where the women were struggling on the floor, Wendy on top, trying to grab April’s throat, and April pushing up on Wendy’s chin. He slid his long right arm between the two of them, pulled Wendy to him in a bear hug, and lifted her upright. Taken by surprise, she let go of April, who scrambled to her feet. Rachel immediately leaped forward and restrained her.

  “Calm down, sister,” Rachel said. “This isn’t doing anybody any good.”

  As the two combatants stood glaring at each other and breathing heavily, Carl Peterson turned to his wife.

  “Just like your cousin Ronnie and my friend Ben at our wedding? Remember?”

  She smiled and nodded.

  Hearing the noise, Don and Sharon had come back to the dining room.

  “Is everything all right?” he said.

  “It will be when you fire this bitch,” Wendy snarled. “She assaulted me. Everybody in this room saw it.”

  From behind her, Van Holland made a “hold it” gesture in Don’s direction, and when Don didn’t immediately reply, her bile rose again.

  “What the hell is wrong with this place?” she snapped. “All sorts of things have been going on around here, and I could tell some good stories. Maybe I will.”

  Gordon had loosened his grip on her by now, and she threw off his arm. “I’m going back to the cabin,” she said. “Thank God, it’s the last night. And don’t bother following me, Charles. I need to be alone.”

  With that, she stomped across the room and left through the front door of the lodge, slamming it violently on the way o
ut. Van Holland had the sick look of a man who has been gut-punched on a full stomach.

  “Please don’t blame April,” he said softly to Don. “She was provoked. And add the damages for this to my bill.”

  “I appreciate that,” Don said, “but let’s sort it out later. If you’d like, I can put you up in one of the rooms in the lodge at no extra charge.”

  Van Holland nodded. “Thank you. I probably should let her calm down.”

  Drew and Alan quickly excused themselves. Rachel and Stuart stayed a few minutes longer to be polite, then headed back to their respective cabins. The Petersons called for their check, but Don told them that under the circumstances the evening was on the house, and they left smiling. Gordon offered to stay and help clean up, and Peter followed his lead. Don came back with two brooms and dustpans, giving one of the brooms to Gordon. Sharon came in with a mop and bucket.

  “Look at this mess,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Cost of doing business, honey,” Don replied.

  “This is one thing I’ll never get used to. And what did Mrs. Van Holland mean about all sorts of things going on here?”

  “I think there’s been a little tension among the guests,” Gordon said. “And maybe some flirting. Nothing serious, but with the bad weather and people cooped up inside, maybe some of us are getting on each other’s nerves.”

  They quickly restored the room to order, and Don offered Gordon and Peter drinks on the house to thank them for their help. Gordon asked for a small brandy; Peter, a large one. They stood at the bar looking at the dying embers of the fire.

  “So you’ve been in the business for 20 years,” Peter finally said. “What’s the worst fight you ever saw?”

  “Funny you should ask,” Don said. “I was just thinking about it, actually. It was at Le Chat Blanc, a high-end restaurant in Sacramento. I was assistant manager and working Monday, which is usually a slow night. It was about 9:30 and there were a handful of people in the bar, including this lobbyist and his girlfriend. They were having a quiet drink, when his other girlfriend walked in on them. Before anybody knew what was happening, those two women were in a catfight, and it was a lot worse than what happened tonight. It went on for five minutes before anybody could separate them. Ten thousand dollars in damage.”

  “Wow,” Gordon said.

  “Still, it could have been worse.”

  “How?” asked Peter.

  “His wife could have walked in, too.”

  They finished their drinks and prepared to leave. Peter got to the front door first, while Gordon was still getting into his jacket, and when he threw the door open, he did a double take.

  “Gordon! I thought you said it doesn’t snow here in May.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “Then what the hell is this white stuff falling outside and sticking to the ground? Sure looks like snow to me.”

  And so it was.

  Wednesday May 10

  1

  HARRY’S LOOKED LIKE A SCENE from a Christmas card that morning. The snow had stopped falling in the middle of the night, but there were several inches of it on the ground, and the lawn leading up to the lodge was covered in white. Snow also covered the sloping roofs of the lodge, and smoke curled from the chimney of the Fireside Lounge.

  The sun remained hidden behind a dense overcast. Gordon was losing faith in his optimism and wondering if there would be any decent weather at all this trip.

  Peter, on the other hand, could scarcely conceal his glee at having been vindicated in predicting snow. “Do you think Johnny will take us out today?” he said as Gordon finished buttoning his shirt.

  “Of course,” Gordon said irritably. “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “Well, there’s the matter of the snow, which I’ve been told numerous times is an impossibility here in May.”

  “Freak occurrence. You could live to be a hundred and never see this again. Besides, the fish are in the water, not the snow, and this kind of weather could make them start feeding aggressively.”

  Peter shook his head. “I’m beginning to worry about you, Gordon. You’re starting to sound like our friend Alan. Have you ever actually caught fish when snow was falling?”

  “Sure thing. Just three years ago, in late October, I was fishing the Henrys Fork of the Snake River in Idaho, and it snowed for four hours. I probably caught 20 fish.”

  “There has to be an easier way.”

  When they stepped outside, the air, while cold, was not as biting as they had expected. They could see their breath as they exhaled, but there was no wind and it seemed milder than yesterday.

  “Looks like our diva hasn’t come out yet,” Peter said, gesturing with his head to the Van Holland cabin.

  “How do you know?”

  “Elementary, my dear Gordon. There aren’t any footprints in the snow between her cabin and here. And I don’t think she’s witch enough to fly to the lodge. Let’s go. If we’re lucky, we can be on the river before we have to say goodbye to her.”

  Sharon, looking distracted, greeted them at the entrance to the dining room and took them to a window table. Charles Van Holland sat at the corner window table alone, poking listlessly at a plate of eggs and potatoes. As she poured coffee, Peter said:

  “I guess it’s none of my business, but is April …?”

  “Don’s meeting with her at ten o’clock, and he told her to stay out of sight until then. I’m so upset about what happened last night.”

  “Sooner or later it’ll happen anywhere,” Gordon said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  They went to the buffet and loaded up their plates. Johnny came in and joined them. As they sat down again, Van Holland came over.

  “I wanted to apologize for last night,” he said. “That whole thing should never have happened. It was a mistake to bring Wendy here.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Gordon said.

  “Nothing you could have done,” said Peter. “It all happened so fast.”

  “Very generous of you,” Van Holland said. “But I’d hate for that to be what you remember about the trip.”

  “Let it go,” Gordon said. “Everybody else has.”

  “I’d like to believe that. But Wendy should be here by now. I’ll head over and rouse her so we can check out and go home. It’s been a pleasure knowing both of you.”

  They all shook hands.

  “Go, Bears!” Gordon said, and Van Holland smiled.

  At the front door he met Drew and Allen coming in, and repeated his apology to them. Drew made a noncommittal reply, and Alan tried to help.

  “Looks to me like your wife needs something to do,” he said. “You should try teaching her to fish.”

  Van Holland thanked him and began walking out to the cabin. Gordon watched him out of the corner of his eye as he ate breakfast and looked at the river, running between snow-covered banks. When he reached the cabin door, Van Holland knocked normally, then more forcefully. Finally he shouted, “Wendy!” loud enough that they could hear it faintly in the dining room. He shook his head violently and started back to the lodge. He encountered Sharon as he walked in.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said. “She’s not answering the door.”

  “I’ll get Don,” she said.

  He was out in less than half a minute. “Is there a problem?”

  “Wendy didn’t answer the door.”

  “Did you try opening it with your key?”

  “No. Left it on the nightstand here.”

  “Let me run over. Maybe we need a neutral party.”

  And he was out the door, walking briskly toward the cabins. When he got to Pale Morning Dun, he knocked on the door, normally at first, followed by a heavy pounding. He shouted something they couldn’t hear in the lodge, then took a key out of his pocket and put it in the lock. As he leaned into the door, it opened a few inches, and stopped. Gordon could see Don turning his head to get a better look through the small opening.

  What happened next was un
expected. Don lifted his right leg and gave the door a hard kick. He did it again, then a third time, at which point the door flew open and he staggered inside.

  “Peter!” Gordon said sharply.

  Peter and Johnny had been sitting with their backs to the scene and hadn’t seen any of it. They turned around and looked where Gordon was pointing.

  Less than a minute later, Don came out the door and closed it behind him. Even from a distance, they could tell from his body language that he had experienced a shock. Rather than walking back purposefully, as he had gone out, he half stumbled back. Gordon, Peter and Johnny rose and went to the front door, followed shortly by Van Holland.

  “She’s dead,” Don said, his voice sounding dry and parched as the words came out.

  “Oh, my God,” Van Holland said, burying his face in his hands.

  “Not so fast,” Peter said. “I’m having a look. Gordon, you come with me.”

  “I’ll call the sheriff and an ambulance,” Don said.

  Peter and Gordon ran down the snow-covered slope to the parking area, where Gordon unlocked the Cherokee. Peter took a medical bag and a portable CPR kit from the back, handing the latter to Gordon.

  “Fast!” he barked. “Every second counts.”

  They started for the cabin at a trot, and Rachel and Stuart came out of their lodging as the men passed by.

  “Is something wrong?” she said.

  “Nothing you can do,” Gordon said. “Get back to the lodge.” Still in condition, he beat Peter to the front door and waited a few seconds for his friend to arrive.

  “Stand by the front door and watch me, but don’t come in unless I tell you to,” Peter gasped.

  After pulling on plastic gloves, he opened the door, and they could feel the warm air from inside the cabin. As Peter went in, Gordon could see the legs and torso of a woman, presumably Wendy, lying on the floor, but the head was out of sight behind the bed. With three long strides, Peter was next to it and squatting. In less than half a minute, he stood up again.

  “She’s been dead a while,” he said. “Looks like she was strangled with this bungee cord, though I’d want to hear what the medical examiner has to say. He looked around the room, taking in the details, and walked over to one of the two windows. He looked at it for a minute and shook his head, then moved over to the next window and looked at it. Lifting his bag from the floor, he walked to the front door, stepped out and pulled it closed.