The Daughters Of Alta Mira (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 4)

by Michael Wallace

  “You have an eye, and an ability to express what you see. I can’t explain it technically, but I can recognize it.”

  “How about joining us for dinner?” Bob said. “We just ordered, and we were talking about the case.”

  “Which one?” Elizabeth said.

  “There’s more than one?” Sam asked.

  “The missing students,” Bob said. “Gordon has a little history of doing investigations, and he was asking about the sheriff’s take on it.”

  “I was wondering,” Gordon said, “if he had any theories or is seeing a pattern.”

  The silence that greeted the remark was telling. Bob, Elizabeth and Sandy looked at each other, and Sandy finally spoke.

  “Sheriff Christina Huntley is a she,” she said, “and very experienced and competent. But because she’s a woman, her ability doesn’t seem to matter to some people.”

  Gordon blushed. “I’m sorry. I heard ‘Chris’ and assumed. You shouldn’t assume.”

  “I was just filling Gordon in on Jennifer and Michelle,” Bob said.

  “And I was leading up to a question,” Gordon said. “They were last seen on the community college campus. Would somebody really have abducted them in broad daylight?”

  “You didn’t explain?” Elizabeth said.

  “I was just getting there,” Bob replied. He turned to Gordon. “The college is about two miles outside town. That’s where the land was cheap when they built it. Not all the kids have a car, so it’s pretty common for the ones who don’t to hitch a ride into town. That’s been going on for years and never been a problem.”

  “Until now,” Sandy said. “Although nobody saw for sure, it’s pretty likely the last thing the missing women did on campus was put out their thumbs and get into somebody’s car.”

  “It’s a scandal,” Elizabeth said. “There should be a shuttle service to town. Some of us have been pushing for that since before this happened.”

  “Is money the problem?” Sam asked.

  “It’s the excuse, anyway. County thinks the college should pay, and the college wants the county to do it.”

  “But surely,” Gordon said, looking at Bob, “that’s something a couple of reasonably competent bureaucrats could hash out.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you,” Elizabeth said. “But you don’t know Dean Breeze.”

  “College president,” Bob said. “A nice man, but….”

  “Too much education for his intelligence,” Elizabeth said. “He doesn’t really get that it’s a problem, and even if he did, I don’t know that he’d push too hard for a solution.”

  Gordon turned to Bob again. “You teach a class at the college, don’t you?”

  “Broadcast radio. Michelle, the second girl who disappeared, took it last spring.”

  “Woman,” Elizabeth said. “She was 20 years old.” She paused and caught herself. “Still is, I hope.”

  “Anyway,” Bob continued, “Elizabeth and I have been trying to press people on this.”

  “Are you talking about it on your show?” Sam said.

  “Not yet. I don’t want to be scaring people if they did just run away.”

  “What do you mean?” Sandy interjected. “Every woman in town is terrified. The missing women have friends who’re saying something’s wrong, and it’s spreading like wildfire. If there’s one more disappearance, it’ll be impossible to keep a lid on it.”

  “Let’s hope there isn’t – another disappearance,” Bob said. “ Until then, we keep our eyes open and push for the shuttle.”

  Elizabeth took a sip of her white wine.

  “How about the other thing, Bob?”

  “Nothing yet. I’ll explain later, Gordon. But I may have a lead. I’ll let you know.”

  The food arrived, and despite the invitation to stay, Sandy and Elizabeth rose.

  “We’ll leave you to your dinner,” Elizabeth said. “Good to meet you, Gordon, Sam.” She began to turn, then looked back at Gordon.

  “And thank you for buying ‘Reflection Lake.’ That painting means a lot to me.”

  THE FOOD WAS EXCELLENT, and they ate silently for several minutes. Sam spoke first.

  “She seems like a real feminist.”

  Bob laughed. “She’s a feminist, all right. They both are. That was the first thing I noticed. But I’ve worked with her at the college for over a year now, and she’s all right.” He chewed a piece of tri-tip slowly and swallowed. “Anyway, I got two daughters, so maybe I should be a feminist, too.”

  “Does she teach art?” Gordon asked.

  “No, that’s a sideline. You’ll find a lot of people here have one. She teaches English and one Women’s Studies class. Talked the college into that one, but when they offered it this semester, it filled right up.

  “Seems like a strange place for someone like her to end up,” Sam said.

  “Oh, it’s not her choice. She’d rather be closer to San Francisco or LA, but teaching jobs are hard to come by. She’s started warming up to this place, though. Like moss, it kind of grows on you.” He laughed.

  After a brief spell of silence and chewing, Gordon asked:

  “So what was that about a second case?”

  “Picked up on that, did you?”

  “It was pretty blatant, Bob. What could compare with the other one?”

  Bob finished chewing a piece of meat with exaggerated slowness.

  “We still fishing tomorrow afternoon?”

  Gordon nodded.

  “I’ll tell you then. But first I need you to give me a hand.”

  “Sure, Bob. Anything.”

  “Great. I knew I could count on you. Can you come by the radio station at 10:45?”

  “I thought you finished at noon.”

  “I do, but I always have a live interview at 11:05. Tomorrow was supposed to be the executive director of the water reclamation district, but he checked into the hospital last night, and when he checks out in a couple of days, he’ll be without the appendix he went in with. I was sort of hoping you could take his place.”

  “Now wait just a minute, Bob. I don’t know the first thing about water reclamation.”

  “No, no, no! I wouldn’t put you on the spot like that. We can talk about the high school basketball team and the prospects for the coming season. Sports interviews go over better than public affairs, anyway.”

  Gordon put his face in his hands and shook his head.

  “Bob, I’d love to help, but think about it for a second. I just got into town last night. I’ve never seen the team play. I don’t know any of the players or what the competition is like in your league. There’s no way I could possibly have anything intelligent to say.”

  Bob nodded placidly.

  “That’s true for a lot of my guests, actually. But you know something, Flyboy? If you go to the Buckhorn Café for breakfast or lunch between December and March, the high school basketball team is one of two things they’re talking about – the other being the weather. And you know what? Not one of them knows any more about it than you. So don’t start pleading qualifications with me.”

  Gordon realized he was holding a losing hand.

  “Well, I suppose I could….”

  “That’s the spirit. And don’t worry about it. I’ll just feed you open-ended questions and you just say what you’re comfortable saying. It’ll be over before you know it. And I appreciate your bailing me out here. Lighten up, and we’ll have a little fun together.”

  Bob looked in the direction of the bar and waved.

  “Hey, Howard!” he called.

  Sam leaned over to Gordon and whispered:

  “This is like being with Walter Winchell at the Stork Club.”

  Gordon nodded, and they looked up to see a man heading for their table. He was tall, with a once-thin build showing a bit of belly. He wore dress slacks, legs pulled over dark brown cowboy boots, a navy blazer, and a blue button-down shirt open at the collar, with a loosened navy and gold-striped tie. His dark hair
, flecked with gray, was short, curly, and tightly coiled, and his thin-lipped mouth was tightly set. In his left hand was a tall glass with a bubbly, light amber liquid, and from the way his eyes darted around, taking in everything, Gordon pegged him for a lawman.

  “Howard, I’d like you to meet a couple of friends of mine, up here for a bit of fishing. Quill Gordon and Sam Akers. Gentlemen, this is Howard Honig, Chief Deputy Sheriff of Plateau County.

  As they shook hands all around, Howard fixed his glare on Gordon.

  “Quill Gordon, eh? Like the trout fly?”

  “I’m afraid so. You can call me Gordon. My friends do.”

  “Have a seat,” Bob said, and Howard did. “How do you see tomorrow’s game shaping up?” He turned to Gordon and Sam. “Howard’s the PA announcer for the high school football games, and I call ‘em for the radio station. We’ve spent a lot time together in that press box over the years.”

  “A lot of time,” Howard said. “This late in the season, we know our boys pretty well. And we’ve heard a bit about the other teams. We’re playing Black Mesa tomorrow night, at our place. Alta Mira’s 8-1, and Black Mesa is 4-5. We should win, probably by three touchdowns.”

  “And if we do,” Bob said, “Alta Mira’s in the playoffs with home-field advantage next Friday. We got a good team this year.”

  “Best since ’84, I’d say. You boys coming to the game?”

  “I’m inviting ‘em to join us in the press box. There should be room. Gordon was a football star in high school.”

  “Actually, I played a year of JV, then decided to concentrate on basketball.”

  “You look like a basketball player,” Howard said.

  “That’s got me thinking, though, Gordon…,” Bob said.

  “Forget it, Bob. I’m not doing color commentary on the football game. You got me on the morning show. Leave it at that.”

  “How about you, Akers and Pains? You got more of a football player build. Or look like you used to. You know much about the game?”

  “About as much as the average drunk in the stands.”

  “Perfect! We don’t want some pointy-headed intellectual on the air. You’ll do just fine.”

  “He’s leading you on, Sam,” said Gordon. “Don’t pay any attention to him.”

  Everyone laughed, and there was a moment of silence afterward.

  “Where you been fishing?” Howard asked.

  “Just started today,” Gordon said. “We worked Powder Creek this afternoon, and they kept us pretty busy there.”

  “Catch and release?”

  “About all I do any more,” Gordon said.

  “I’m catch and eat myself,” Howard said. “But I’m also live and let live. You should try some of the higher lakes. They’re usually pretty good late in the season.”

  “We’re giving Storm Lake a look tomorrow afternoon,” Bob said.

  “Good call.”

  “Can I ask a question?” said Sam. “As we were leaving the creek this afternoon, I thought I heard a shot. Is it still hunting season?”

  “Not for anything up there,” Howard said. “But people are always shooting in the woods. It’s what we do around here. I wouldn’t worry about it. That time of day, this time of year, you two were probably the only ones around who could have been hit. And going by appearances, I’d say you’re still alive.”

  OUR ROOM AT THE DANUBE was clean, comfortable and dated. It had two standard double beds, a bathroom sink with ancient fixtures and a bit of an iron stain, and old-fashioned windows that could be pushed up to let in a breeze. Not now, though. It was surprisingly chilly when we left the restaurant, and the first thing we did when we got in was turn on the standing radiator. It hissed and rattled, but put out quite a bit of heat pretty quickly. The painting, all wrapped up, was leaning against one of the walls. Gordon carefully opened the wrapping and set the painting on his bed for a good look.

  This was not a good sign. I moved over for a closer look myself. The light in the room wasn’t the best, but even so, I could see, better than in the gallery, that the colors and texture seemed to work, though I couldn’t say more than that.

  “It goes with the artist,” I finally said.

  Gordon nodded, and began to re-wrap it.

  “Are we going to the football game tomorrow?” I asked.

  “We have to. Bob would be hurt if we didn’t.”

  “I haven’t seen a high school football game since high school. They take it pretty seriously here, don’t they?”

  “It’s a big deal. The smaller the town, the more the school team’s part of its identity. That has its good and bad points, I suppose.”

  I yawned. It had been a long day, and it was beginning to hit me.

  “We can sleep in, anyway,” Gordon said. “Fishing with Bob tomorrow afternoon, then the game. It’s going to be a late day.”

  “You’d better get your rest,” I said. “You need to be clear-headed when you’re on the air.”

  “You didn’t have to remind me,” he said.

  Friday November 7

  “WHAT ARE WE DOING HERE?” Sam asked. “I would have bet money you’d be having sausage and eggs at a diner.”

  Gordon sat up straight and looked around the room, as if searching for an answer. Kemper’s Bakery, just off Chaparral Boulevard a couple of blocks from the hotel, was an Alta Mira icon. Family owned since 1934 (Why, he wondered, are there so many businesses still around that started in the heart of the Great Depression?), it occupied the ground floor of another of the town’s turn-of-the-century commercial buildings. The outside temperature had been 39 degrees when they walked in at 9:30 to be greeted by an overpowering aroma of sugar, baked flour, butter and coffee. A large glass counter, holding pies and cakes baked earlier in the morning, faced the front door, and, perpendicular to it on the left, with a space in between for a cash register and order station, was another glass counter holding breads and pastries. About 20 plain restaurant-supply tables for two or four filled the floor space framed by the glass counters. The chairs at the tables were in a wide variety of styles, as if they had been pulled in from yard sales one or two at a time. The wall to the right had windows from waist-level to the 11-foot ceiling, showing a room beyond where long tables were set up in a rectangle. It was the overflow room, where people were put on particularly busy days, and also the room where the Rotary Club of Alta Mira had met every Wednesday (except holidays) since 1947, when old man Emil Kemper stole the Rotary business from the Danube Hotel. The place was nearly full, but Sam and Gordon had commandeered a table for two in the middle of the room, loud with local news and gossip. Barely audible over the hum was Kenny Rogers singing “The Gambler,” most likely on Bob’s morning radio show.

  Gordon methodically cut his cinnamon roll in half, took a bite, and washed it down with a swallow of coffee while Sam nibbled on a bear claw.

  “First of all,” Gordon said, “I eat other things for breakfast besides sausage and eggs. Second, I don’t want a heavy breakfast if I’m going to be on live radio. That’s nerve-wracking enough as it is. And third, we’re having lunch with Bob before we go fishing when his show ends. I expect to have a better appetite by then and want to reserve the right to have a late breakfast, rather than lunch, if the spirit so moves me.”

  After a sip of coffee, Sam said:

  “This place is good. You know how to pick ‘em.”

  Gordon chewed his cinnamon roll contemplatively, saying nothing.

  “Looks like we got a nice day, though,” Sam continued.

  “It should start warming up pretty soon.”

  “I’m surprised by how nice it is up here.”

  “It could change like that,” Gordon snapped his fingers. “Let’s enjoy it while it lasts.”

  Two or three more minutes of silence ensued, before Sam tried again.

  “Gordon, you’re not thinking of getting involved are you?”

  Gordon gave Sam a quizzical look.

  “I mean whatever it
is that Bob’s looking into. The missing students.”

  “I’ve had enough of that, Sam. From now on, I’m leaving investigations to the properly constituted authorities.”

  “Easy to say, but you have a way of being sucked into things.”

  “I’m here for the fishing.” Gordon finished his coffee. “Besides, I’m not the one who claimed to hear a gunshot in the middle of nowhere last night.”

  IN ALL MY 39 YEARS, I’ve never been inside a radio station before. KNEP is probably pretty humble compared to some of the big Bay Area stations, but small as it is, you get a feeling it’s a part of the community. You can just imagine what goes out from here beaming straight into one of those ranch homes we drove by on the way out, and the people listening to it knowing just what Bob looks like and seeing him in their minds as they do their chores with the radio going.

  KNEP is located about a mile and a half outside town on the state highway, heading west. There’s a one-story stucco building that could use a coat of paint, part of which is sunk into a marsh on pilings, and two towers, also built on the marsh. You couldn’t do that today, what with the environmental laws and all, but I’m guessing this went up 50 years ago when anybody could do anything they wanted with their land. The building could have been designed with a view of the marshes behind, but whoever built it put the windows in front, facing the highway and a mini-storage complex across it.

  It’s eleven o’clock and Gordon and I are waiting in the front reception area. There’s a desk where a switchboard operator seems to be waiting for calls that never come, and four chairs that, judging by the number of coffee stains, are about 30 years old. A corridor leads back to a few small offices on one side and a studio on the other.

  Mountain Bob is reading the news, and Gordon is fidgeting. I don’t get this. Here’s a guy who could stand in front of 20,000 screaming fans at a hostile arena and make two free throws with the game on the line, and his heartbeat wouldn’t even go up. But ask him to talk in front of an audience, even an audience that’s in his head, like for this radio show, and he turns into a blithering wuss. Funny how we’re all afraid of something.