Not Death, But Love (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 3)

by Michael Wallace

  The lake’s primary marina was at the eastern tip of the West Peninsula, along with a small commercial complex that included Ike’s Lakeside, a white-tablecloth establishment built partly on pilings jutting out into the water. It was past 11 a.m. now, and the temperature was in the mid-70s. The waterskiing crowd was beginning to go out, and the marina walkways were crowded with parents in shorts and short-sleeved tops leading processions of life-jacket-clad youngsters to powerful motorboats.

  Gordon was scanning the surroundings. “It’s still here,” he said.

  “What?”

  He gestured to a hamburger stand at the edge of the marina. “The Chainsaw. Best burgers and frosties in town.”

  “I’m still full from breakfast.”

  “Have a frosty, anyway. My treat. We can come back in a couple of hours for a burger before we head out fishing.”

  They walked to the stand and got in line behind three families with indecisive children. When they finally reached the window they were greeted by a young woman of high-school age. She was still trying to master the finer points of eye makeup and fingernail polish but was brimming with positive attitude. She quickly presented them with their cones and they moved to one of the plastic tables, shaded by an umbrella.

  “What a hoot,” said Peter, licking his frosty. “I haven’t had one of these in 25 years. I’d forgotten they even existed.”

  “Savor the moment, Peter. We’re here for ten days of fun and relaxation. Nothing is going to keep us from taking it easy. It’ll be like being a kid again.”

  AT HALF PAST TWO they returned to the Chainsaw for hamburgers and a basket of fries. The burgers, exquisitely seasoned with 20 years’ accumulation of grease on the grill, required no condiments, and the fries glistened with residue of the boiling oil from which they had just been plucked. Afterward, they picked up their boat, a small aluminum craft with tattered cushions and a motor capable of speeds up to 15 mph — with the wind at its back. Gordon sat at the stern by the motor and guided the boat onto the lake.

  The temperature had risen to the mid-80s, but with the dry mountain air the heat was not uncomfortable. A bank of cumulus clouds was forming over the mountains to the west, but not enough to suggest rain. Gordon took a course that led them past the tip of the East Peninsula, then followed the eastern shoreline of the lake, keeping about 200 feet from land most of the time. By hugging the shore, they stayed out of the way of the water-skiers, speedboaters and jet-skiers, who stayed toward the middle of the lake where they had sufficient room to maneuver and go as fast as they wanted. Gordon’s eyes moved constantly, taking in all the surroundings, but focusing primarily on the water between the boat and land.

  “Looking for anything in particular?” Peter asked.

  “Several things. Coves; shallow areas with weeds that produce insects; and streams running into the lake. They’re all promising.” He looked behind at the sun, still high in the sky. “Probably a bit early for the good fishing, but you never know. If the sun goes behind those clouds, it might pick up a bit, but the real activity most likely won’t get going until around 6:30.”

  “How do we fish it?”

  “Underneath the surface, unless we see fish rising. We could work a nymph under an indicator or try a Woolly Bugger [a large, sinking fly that imitates a leech or minnow] with a short, jerky retrieve. I don’t know. We might get an insect hatch later on and be able to fish dry flies. That’d be fun.”

  They came to a spot along the shore where a small stream, no more than four feet wide, entered the lake. Peter opted to fish a gold-ribbed Hare’s Ear Nymph eight or nine feet under an indicator, and Gordon tied on an olive Woolly Bugger. On the second cast, Peter caught, landed and released a 12-inch Rainbow Trout, and on his third cast, Gordon caught an 11-inch Rainbow. Several more casts with no action suggested the two fish were outliers, so they moved south along the shore, heading toward the dam. From time to time, Gordon stopped the boat and they tried their luck. If no fish took their flies after a half-dozen casts, they moved on. If one or both of them caught a fish, which happened sporadically, they kept working the area until they had each made six casts without a fish — at which point they moved on. At one point, Peter asked Gordon why he was leaving an area after six unproductive casts.

  “Simple,” he replied. “We know from the fact we’re catching some fish that there’s nothing wrong with our flies or technique. So when we aren’t catching them, it probably means they’re not there. It’s still early, so most of the fish aren’t coming out to feed yet. What we’re doing at this point is moving from one small group of fish, or the occasional lone wolf, to the next.”

  At 6:45 they reached Año Nuevo Creek. They were not far from the dam now, and there was a rope with floating buoys stretched across the lake to keep boats from drifting too close to the dam, or, more dangerously, being sucked toward the spillway. The creek bounded down a hill in a series of short cascades and pools shaded by trees and other riparian vegetation. At lake level it ran across a strip of gravel beach no more than 20 feet wide before emptying into the reservoir. The sun was mostly behind the clouds in the west and the light was less bright and more diffuse than earlier in the afternoon.

  As predicted, it was the time of day when the fish were beginning to feed in earnest, and for the next hour they rarely went more than a few casts without hooking a fish. Most were Rainbows, ten to 13 inches, but Peter landed one that was 16 inches, and Gordon caught and released a 15-inch Brown Trout. At 7:45, insects began appearing in consistent numbers on the surface of the water, and the trout rose to feed on them. They switched to dry flies and caught several nice fish, then at 8:30, the insects vanished and the surface feeding stopped.

  The sun had dropped behind the western mountains, and its waning light turned the cloudy sky into a palette of pink, orange, gray, white and blue. What wind there had been died down, and on the shore a cricket concerto was underway. Gordon looked around with a smile on his face.

  “As good as it gets, Peter. As good as it gets.” He looked at his watch. “We could keep fishing under the surface and catch more, but it’s a good 45 minutes to the marina. You all right with heading back?”

  “I’ve caught enough to be happy. Let’s go.”

  They started back. For half an hour, the western sky put on its light show, but it was nearly dark as they approached the East Peninsula. Moving slowly across the lake, they saw ducks, the occasional rising trout, a couple of other boats heading for the marina, and the houses along the shore with their lights on.

  Then there was a noise that was jarringly out of place.

  It was faint at first, but quickly recognizable as a siren that grew in volume, followed by another and a third. In the still, quiet air of a mountain evening, the siren sound carried and resonated, beginning to echo from the surrounding mountains. Passing the tip of the East Peninsula, they saw, just a few hundred yards away, the reason for the sirens.

  A handsome, modern-looking house, probably not much more than 20 years old, was on fire, the tops of the flames licking the branches of surrounding trees. The firelight was reflected in the lake and lit up Gordon’s and Peter’s faces. The first fire truck pulled up as they watched, and the crew raced to get its hoses out, but it was clear that not much of the house could be saved, and that the firefighters would be concentrating on keeping the flames from spreading to the trees and any nearby houses. A second and third engine pulled up within a minute.

  “Aw, jeez. You hate to see that,” Gordon said somberly.

  “I know. The only good thing about it is that it’s still early. Anybody who was in there probably wasn’t sleeping and got out all right.”

  “There may not have been anyone in there. A lot of those are vacation homes. Still, too bad.”

  They cruised silently to the marina, tied up their boat, collected their gear, and trudged to Gordon’s Cherokee in the parking lot. By the time they reached it, the firefighters had made good work of the burning house, which
was now merely glowing and flickering. A light breeze had come up from the east and was blowing smoke in their direction. They could smell it as they got into the car, and, driving with the windows down, for several minutes afterward.

  Tuesday June 18

  THEY ROSE AT FIRST LIGHT, dressed quickly, and left Stanhope House shortly before six. Breakfast was included with the room but was not served until eight, and it was imperative, Gordon said, that they be on the water well before then. With apologies to their hostess, Emma Crisp, they skipped the meal for the second day in a row.

  A mile south of Stanhope House, well past the bridge over Hawk River, Gordon turned into a small strip mall with six storefronts, two of them vacant. At least one of the other four businesses, The Hellwithit Bakery, was doing well, judging from the half-dozen people waiting outside. The door swung open exactly at six, and the customers streamed in as Gordon parked in front of it. Once inside, they inhaled the aroma of freshly baked cinnamon rolls until their turn came. Each man got a croissant and muffin (bran for Gordon, blueberry for Peter) and filled a travel mug with coffee. Gordon asked the sales clerk to add a liter thermos of coffee to the tab and came back to get it filled it after paying.

  On the road again, they drove with the windows down, enjoying the damp, piney smell of the early morning air. In ten minutes they reached the road heading west to Bull Meadow, and took it. The pavement ended a quarter mile from the state highway, but it was a good dirt road and they had it to themselves. They drove through stands of dense pine forest, traversed a meadow with a six-foot-wide creek running through it, crossed the creek on a one-lane wooden bridge, and eventually entered the woods again.

  “This is the forest primeval,” Peter quoted, sighing. “Was that Whittier?”

  “Longfellow.”

  A short distance into the new stretch of forest, the road forked, with the left fork, which Gordon took, veering sharply uphill. The dirt road narrowed slightly, and with the sun still low in the east, the forest was semi-dark. Several deer appeared at various times alongside the road or on it, and the birds were in full morning song. After a mile and a half, they reached a summit, with a road bisecting theirs and following the ridgeline. From there, the main road went sharply downhill, through such dense forest they couldn’t see where it was headed. After another mile and a half, and three hairpin switchbacks, the vista opened up onto a large meadow.

  Nourished by the past winter’s heavy rains, the grass was bright green and lush, with several hundred head of cattle grazing contentedly on it. The east side of the meadow, where they entered it, was still in shade, the sun not having yet climbed over the mountain in that direction, but the other side of the meadow and the hills flanking it were in light. Copper Creek, averaging 15 to 20 feet in width, meandered through the meadow, gently and with little visible current. Fifty feet from its banks on either side were crosshatched wood fences, zig-zagging in a direction that generally followed the flow of the water. Shortly they came to a dirt parking area, where a gray 1991 Ford Ranger was the only vehicle in sight. Gordon parked across and down from it, facing the creek. In the shadow of the mountain, the air was notably cooler than it had been in Arthur. They ate their pastries and finished their coffee unhurriedly, looking out over the meadow. In answer to Peter’s question, Gordon explained that Pacific Crest Hydro owned the meadow, leased it for grazing to a cattle rancher, and had worked with the state Department of Fish and Game to restore the creek to Wild Trout status.

  “This would be worth the trip if we turned around and went back now,” Peter said.

  “But we’re not going to. It’s a little creek, but there are a ton of bugs and a lot of nice fish in it. There are some Brown Trout that are two feet long or more, but they hang under the banks and are hard to catch.”

  “How do we fish it?”

  “If nothing’s feeding on the surface, we work nymphs along the weed beds and along the banks where we can. If there’s an insect hatch, we switch to dries. We can fish it from the banks, but stay low and back so you don’t spook the fish.”

  They got out of the Cherokee and assembled their rods. Whoever had come in the Ranger was nowhere to be seen, so they had the meadow to themselves. They stepped through an opening in the fence at the edge of the parking lot and headed upstream, looking for likely spots to fish on the way back. They trudged for 20 minutes, covering perhaps two-thirds of a mile. The sun was just coming over the mountain when they stopped.

  “You want to start here or go up or downstream?” Gordon asked.

  “Take this for yourself. I’m going to try that little hole we just passed.”

  Approaching the creek cautiously, and kneeling at the edge of the bank to minimize their shadows, they began fishing, moving downstream when they felt they had exhausted the potential of any one place. They each caught and released three fish (all Rainbows) running between 12 and 16 inches; had a couple of strikes where they didn’t set the hook fast enough; and hooked a few other fish briefly before losing them. They also lost several flies in the weeds, but it was a good morning overall.

  At 8:45 the sun was well over the mountain and the air began to fill with fluttering mayflies, who, when they landed on the water, were apt to become breakfast for a hungry trout. Gordon and Peter switched to dry flies and each caught and released a few more fish in the next hour. Then the insect hatch began to taper off, and by ten o’clock there were hardly any insects visible, and no fish rising to the surface. They tried working nymphs under the surface, but when their flies had received no attention for 45 minutes, Gordon said it was time to quit.

  “I think they’re done feeding until this evening. Early lunch at the Shotgun is looking good to me.”

  “I’ve more than worked off my croissant,” Peter said.

  With the sun beating down on the meadow, the temperature was quickly ascending from warm to hot. At the parking area, the Cherokee and Ranger had been joined by a Jimmy, the occupants of which seemed to be fishing a hundred yards downstream from the parking area. Gordon and Peter were back in town, parked in front of the café, by 11:40.

  The Shotgun Café had been a local institution when Gordon was last in the area 15 years earlier and was still going strong. Coming through the front door, a visitor found himself even with the middle of a long counter, with red upholstered stools. The opening between the kitchen and dining area cut through the back wall, behind the counter. On either side of the front door, along the outside wall, were four tables for four, formica-topped and laid out with flatware, paper napkins, and coffee cups turned upside down in their saucers. To the left of the counter, the building dog-legged slightly inward to a back room, with rectangular tables hugging the walls on three sides and two small round tables, set for four, in the center area. The wall on the street side had two large windows, affording a fine view of the vehicles parked in front. The opposite wall had faux-wood wainscoting to waist level, giving way to whitewashed drywall above. Its decorations consisted of the stuffed head of an eight-point buck and a stuffed bobcat in reactive mode, protruding from the wall. On the back wall was a large painting of a mountain scene consisting of a creek running past a cabin with smoking chimney and a waterfall in the distant background. It was done in a literal, but not realistic, style, with over-bright colors. The morning before, they had been sitting at one of the rectangular tables, directly under the bobcat, when Miss London approached, but today the hostess-waitress put them at one of the round ones in the center.

  When they arrived, the lunch crowd was just beginning to trickle in, but by the time they ordered (a patty melt for Gordon and a hot turkey sandwich for Peter), two-thirds of the tables in the back room were occupied, and the sound of voices talking to old friends had filled the low-ceilinged room, creating a mid-level din that made it hard to hear more than a few words of any nearby conversation. Between the short night and the morning’s exertions, they were tired and mostly sat silently, collecting their thoughts. From the snatches of conversation he coul
d hear from time to time, Gordon became aware that the fire they had seen on the way back to the marina the previous night was the big news of the day.

  “Both fire stations sent every truck they had. Jordy says … ”

  “ … rags in the service porch. It took off so fast … ”

  “ … a complete loss, but they kept the building from collapsing … ”

  “They say she died of smoke inhalation … ”

  “I sure hope so. That would be more merciful … ”

  “She was a great teacher. Nobody’ll deny that.”

  At that line, which came from the table directly to his left, Gordon snapped to attention. He looked at the table, where three men were sitting. They were in their late thirties to early fifties, all wearing jeans and faded checked flannel shirts. Two of them had on caps and the third, a well-worn gray Stetson. A tourist might try to emulate the look (and some did), but there was no mistaking the fact they were locals. Gordon leaned slightly in their direction to see if he could pick up more of their conversation, but just then the waitress — attractive, in her late twenties, and wearing a large diamond ring — came up to refill their coffee cups. It took a minute because she and the men chaffed each other in a good-natured way before she moved on to the next table. Afraid that the thread of the conversation might be lost, Gordon decided to put a foot forward.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I couldn’t help overhearing that you just said something about a great teacher. Do you mind …?” His voice trailed off.

  They looked at him with curiosity but no animus. Seeing what was up, Peter shifted in his chair toward the conversation. The oldest of the three men, the one in the Stetson and with stubble on his face that suggested he shaved and showered after work, rather than before, finally spoke.