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

by Michael Wallace

  A singing commercial just came on for Burnett’s Farm Supply, and Bob poked his head out the studio door.

  “All right, Gordon. You’re on.”

  Gordon rose and moved toward the studio, like a prisoner heading for his execution.

  “IT’S FIVE MINUTES PAST ELEVEN, beginning to wind down the last hour of Morning Coffee with Mountain Bob. That means it’s time for Heart to Heart, our daily interview on local issues, brought to you by DeShayne’s Plumbing, the full-service solution for all your plumbing needs, big or small, anywhere in Plateau County. DeShayne’s wants to remind you that a flush is better than a full house.

  “Today we have a very special guest. Now I know that everybody’s excited about the Alta Mira football team right now, and with good reason. Our Eagles are at home tonight against Black Mesa, and with a win, they should be in the playoffs. We’ll be bringing that game to you live, right here on KNEP, starting with the pre-game show at 6:45. But let’s not forget that basketball season is less than a month away, with the first game just four weeks from today. So I’ve brought in an old friend of mine, former Cal basketball star Quill Gordon, to help us understand our team’s prospects for the 97-98 season. Gordon, thank you for joining us today.”

  “My pleasure,” Gordon lied. “Glad to be here.”

  “Now some of you might not be familiar with Gordon, but let me tell you he was one of the best and smartest basketball players I’ve ever seen. He was all Pac-Ten and averaged 20 points a game, if I remember right.”

  “Actually it was 18.6.”

  “A rounding error. Anyway, folks, the point is, he was good and he knows the game, so I want to see what he has to say about our team this year. Now the first thing we have going for us is that four out of five starters are coming back from last year. What do you say, Gordon? Is that cause for optimism?”

  Gordon started to say that it would depend on how good they were, but realized before the words got out that it might be too candid an assessment.

  “Well, Bob,” he said slowly as he tried to regroup, “experience rarely hurts a team and usually helps it. When you have a bunch of players who’ve played together a lot, they get to know each others’ tendencies and can anticipate the moves they’ll make. Teamwork and chemistry matter a lot, so that can be a definite plus.”

  “That’s what we’re hoping, too. But tell me, Gordon, if you were putting together a basketball team from scratch, what would you want from the first three players you picked? Height? Speed? Shooting ability?”

  “If I’m picking three players to be the nucleus of a team, my number one choice would be a point guard. Someone who can handle the ball, pass it around, direct the offense. Ideally play tough defense, too, and be at least a decent outside shooter.

  “Then I’d want size. A center or power forward who can take up space near the basket, grab rebounds, score from underneath, and make the other team think twice about driving to the basket.

  “And for the third choice, I’d go with an outside shooter — somebody capable of hitting a few three-point shots in a row and loosening up the other team’s defense. With an inside-outside threat and a point guard who can get the ball to the right players at the right time, a team has a good chance of scoring on every possession. If you take three players like that and surround them with five or six others who work hard and can be coached, you’ll have a team that can compete with anybody and maybe go a ways into the postseason.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that, Gordon, because that sounds something like the team we got coming back. There’s a senior point guard, Kara DeShayne, who started the last two years. We’ve got a six-four center, Renee Morgan, who also started last year, and plays a real aggressive game. And then our shooting guard/small forward is junior Brandy Brock. She made an average of four and a half three-point shots a game last year, and we’re looking for her to do even better this season.”

  “In that case, I’d have to say, without having seen the players, that you have some room for optimism, and I’d wish the team the best.”

  “Now you were quite a three-point shooter back in the day, weren’t you, Gordon?”

  “Actually, no.”

  “No? I remember you putting up a lot of shots from 25 feet and hitting nothing but net.”

  “Yeah, but they were only worth two points. The three-point shot came along a few years later, when I was working in an office.”

  “Well, if they had it when you were playing, you would have averaged 20 points a game. Now let me ask you one more question, and then we have to go to some music. If we’re going to win the league, we’re going to have to beat Forestville. They’re the defending champs and have a six-eight center coming back who was second team all state last year. She averaged 30 points a game, but our Renee held her to 23 and 24 in the two games. We still lost ‘em both. Any thoughts on how to handle that challenge?”

  “Without knowing the players involved, I can only tell you what coaching experience suggests. If man defense or a standard zone don’t do the job, you could try something like a box-and-one to keep a double-team on at all times. In a clutch situation, you could even triple-team the star and make somebody else on the team beat you — the way Jim Valvano and North Carolina State did against Ralph Sampson and Virginia in the 1983 regional finals.”

  “Did it work?”

  “They were defending a one-point lead in the last seconds, and Virginia couldn’t get it to Sampson, so somebody else took an open shot and missed. State went on to win it all. So yeah, it can work.”

  “Amazing. Well, this has been really interesting, and I thank you for coming today. Heart to Heart has been sponsored by DeShayne Plumbing, serving Alta Mira and all of Plateau County since 1948. Whatever your plumbing needs, be they great or small, DeShayne Plumbing can handle them all. And now we have a little Conway Twitty for you — one of his big hits from a while ago, ‘Tight Fittin’ Jeans.’ You’re listening to Morning Coffee with Mountain Bob on Radio KNEP, Alta Mira, the voice of the high desert.”

  The coyote howl came on full-throat, fading into the opening line of the song. Gordon exhaled deeply, removed his headset, and slumped in his chair.

  “Thanks, good buddy,” Bob said. “You saved my bacon today, and I appreciate it.”

  “OK, Bob. That was for old time’s sake, but please don’t ask me again.”

  IT WAS A SUNNY DAY, but with a few more clouds than Thursday. The clock on the bank showed a temperature of 66 degrees as the three men drove by in Gordon’s Cherokee after lunch at the Buckhorn Café.

  “Head out toward Big Piney,” Bob said. “As we’re going over the mountains, we’ll turn left and go three miles to Storm Lake.”

  Gordon nodded. At Alta Mira’s lone traffic light, he turned right on the east-west state highway, heading toward Big Piney, and, after that, Nevada. Several miles past the college, the road forked; heading toward Big Piney, it climbed rapidly through fields with cattle at first, then brush and rocks, then some pine and cedar trees signaling the beginning of a higher elevation. As they passed over Dead Mule Summit (elevation 6,195 feet), Bob, in the front passenger seat, touched Gordon’s right arm.

  “Slow down, Flyboy. We’ll be turning left pretty quick.”

  Half a mile down from the summit, they turned onto a paved road that went a quarter of a mile to an 11-space campground next to a creek, now a trickle awaiting refreshment from winter snows. Past the campground, the road turned to dirt, and they made the three miles to the lake without undue jostling or seeing another vehicle.

  Glacially carved during the last Ice Age, Storm Lake was a mile long and three-quarters of a mile wide. It was ringed by pine trees and jagged mountains, the upper parts of which were denuded of any vegetation. At the end of the road, they pulled into a gravel parking area, big enough for a dozen cars, with a boat-launch just beyond. There was one Chevy pickup in the lot, and one boat with two anglers halfway out on the lake.

  The three men got out of the Cherok
ee simultaneously. The high mountain air was clean and bracing, with a slight aroma of pine needles. The lake was deep, blue, and clear, falling off sharply from the shore. For the moment, there was no wind, and its surface was placid, reflecting the surrounding mountains.

  “Not bad,” Gordon finally said.

  “How do we fish it?” Sam asked.

  “Just follow me,” Bob said. He pointed to the left shore. “See that cove there? There’s a bit less dropoff than most of the lake and some weed beds with a lot of insects.” He looked at his watch. “One-thirty now. We might be a bit early, but as the sun starts going down, the fish move in there to feed. Work a nymph under an indicator or run a Woolly Bugger through there, and you’re sure to catch something.”

  They set up their rods and walked a quarter-mile down a narrow path to the cove. As they did, Gordon asked about the lake’s name. Bob responded by pointing to a cleft in the mountains on the opposite side.

  “See that notch there? When a storm moves in from the west or northwest, the wind picks up speed as it comes through there. It actually howls, and the lake gets really choppy. Two summers ago, we lost two people — father and his ten-year-old son — when their boat capsized in a thunderstorm in late July. Never did find the boy’s body. They were from Sacramento. The locals would have known to get off the water.”

  The cove, about 150 feet across, had a small gravel beach and a slight promontory on the side farthest from the parking lot. After some discussion, Gordon moved to the promontory, while Sam and Bob stood 50 feet apart on the beach. For an hour they repeatedly cast into the waters and got no response. Finally, Gordon came back to the beach.

  “It might still be too early,” he said. “Let’s break for something to drink, then hit it again in a bit.” He opened a small ice chest he’d brought along and looked up at Bob. “Beer or 7-Up?”

  “I’m calling the game tonight. Better make it a 7-Up.” The other two followed suit. They moved back from the beach to a shaded area, where they could sit or lean on rocks. Out of the sun, at 6,000 feet, it was cool, almost chilly. A breeze with no warmth to it came up, adding to the chill.

  “So, Bob,” Gordon said after a few minutes, “You said last night that there’s something else going on that you’d tell us about later. Is it later yet?”

  Bob took a sip of his soda and looked toward the notch. “Might as well be, I suppose, but don’t tell anybody. I’m still hoping it’s not true.”

  Sam and Gordon looked at him expectantly, and finally he continued.

  “It supposedly happened last Saturday night. The football game was on Friday, and some of the team members, girlfriends and followers, got together at a house where the parents were out of town for the weekend. One of the kids’ older brothers bought some alcohol, and though it didn’t get to a point where the law was called, it looks like things got out of hand.” He took a deep breath and a pull of 7-Up. “It’s not the sort of thing I want to believe would happen in our town, but one of the cheerleaders was drinking alcohol for the first time, didn’t know when to quit, and went over her limit. She passed out, and they took her into one of the bedrooms. She hardly remembers anything after that, but when she got home and her mother saw her underwear, she flipped out. The girl said she vaguely remembers waking up and finding a boy on top of her. She knew him, she says, but under the circumstances, it’s a less than ideal ID.”

  The wind had stopped and the three of them sat in silence for a minute.

  Gordon finally said, “That is awful. But if they have the underwear, they could run a DNA test, couldn’t they?”

  Bob shook his head. “The parents are religious and conservative. The mother was so overwhelmed by what she saw that she took the underwear out to the incinerator and threw it in the fire. The evidence is gone. They waited until Monday, then went to the sheriff’s office after school to make a complaint. A medical exam showed she’d been treated a bit rough down there, but so long after the fact, there was no evidence of who did it.”

  “Can’t the sheriff talk to the people who were at the party?” Sam asked.

  “Not as easy as that. For starters, the party was at the DeShayne residence … ”

  “The plumber with the daughter on the basketball team,” Gordon said.

  Bob nodded. “The locals call it the House that Shit Built. It’s too bad Kara wasn’t there. She’s a good kid with a level head and probably could have kept things from getting out of hand.”

  “Why wasn’t she there?” said Gordon.

  “Last Saturday was November First. That’s when the girls’ basketball team holds its first practice, and they always do it after dinner, with half the town out. Kara was there with her team. The ringleader behind the party was her younger sister Caitlin.”

  “Not as good and level-headed?” Sam said.

  “Let me put it this way. She’s boy crazy, she wants to be a cheerleader next year, and if common sense was dynamite, she wouldn’t have enough to blow her nose.”

  “How about the parents?”

  “Sheriff’s already talked to Norv DeShayne, and he’s in complete denial. Says he talked to Caitlin and she claims there were just a few people over and that nothing stronger than Coca-Cola passed their lips and that she’s not talking to the sheriff without an attorney present. And if having the party at the home of one of our leading citizens wasn’t sensitive enough, there’s another hot potato.”

  Gordon and Sam looked at him.

  “The boy she’s fairly sure she remembers being on top of her. It was our football team’s all-league quarterback.”

  THEY FINISHED THEIR DRINKS and resumed fishing. The trout had moved into the cove, and all of them caught several fish in the next hour. But Bob’s story had cast a shadow over the collective mood. By 4:15 the sun had gone behind the mountains, and they started back.

  When they dropped Bob off in front of his house, he reminded them they were invited to dinner the following evening. “I’d have asked you for tonight,” he said, “but I have to eat and run, and Brenda wants to catch up with you, Gordon. See you in the press box. Kickoff’s at seven. Buy your tickets at the gate and walk up there. If anybody asks where you’re going, just mention my name.”

  The light was all but gone from the sky, and there was a chill in the air when they drove into Elizalde’s parking lot at 5:15. It was nearly full, and so was the interior — most likely, they assumed, from people like them trying to eat and get to the game. As Ruby led them into the dining area, they saw Elizabeth Macondray and Sandy Steadman at a table for four against the right wall. The women waved them over, and they went, with Ruby shuffling behind.

  “We just sat down,” Elizabeth said. “Why don’t you join us? Anyway, I’d like to buy you a drink to thank you for buying my painting.”

  Ruby looked at Elizabeth, looked at Gordon, set two more menus on the table, and walked away.

  “I’d be honored,” Gordon said. Sam took the seat against the wall, facing Sandy, while Gordon sat on the outside, opposite Elizabeth. “It’s a terrific painting, but then, I guess you know that.”

  Elizabeth ran her index finger over the condensation on her water glass. “I know it’s one of the best things I’ve done, but what I don’t know is where that puts it in today’s art world. Which is hard to stay in touch with when you’re this far away.”

  “So why are you here?”

  “I needed a job now, and this was where they had one. I’d rather be in San Francisco or LA, but they weren’t hiring.”

  “You’ve obviously developed some sort of affinity with this place. When you painted that lake, you had a feeling for it that was real. It isn’t something an artist can fake.”

  “The plateau and the mountains do grow on you, but I think I’d like to enjoy it as a visitor, preferably in the summer, rather than as a permanent resident.”

  A younger waitress, probably in her late fifties, arrived to take drink orders. Elizabeth ordered a red wine, and Gordon looked at Sandy.
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  “Will I be arrested if I have just one beer?”

  “If you stop at just one, probably not, and certainly not by me. Not tonight. I’m off, then tomorrow I start a stint on day shift.”

  Gordon and Sam ordered beers; Sandy asked for an iced tea. When the waitress departed, Sam asked:

  “So if you’re becoming part of this town, are you going to the high school football game tonight? That seems to be where the action is.”

  “Good God, no,” Elizabeth said. “I’d rather be scourged with hot coals. I hate football.”

  SO FAR, SO GOOD. I did my best to make the next line as nonchalant and helpful-sounding as I possibly could.

  “That’s too bad. Gordon here is a real sports fan. In fact he was a star basketball player in college.”

  “I know,” she said. “I heard the interview on Bob’s show this morning.”

  I forgot about that.

  “You did a pretty good job of sounding authoritative about something you knew nothing about,” she continued.

  “It comes with practice,” Gordon said. “I worked as a stockbroker for a number of years.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Anyway, I make an exception for the women’s basketball team at the high school. I’m rooting for them to get out of this place any way they can, and it’s been a good escape route for a few of them.”

  The drinks arrived, and Gordon raised his bottle in a toast.

  “To escape,” he said.

  A FEW MINUTES LATER, Gordon said, “We were fishing with Bob this afternoon, and he told us about the situation with the party and the cheerleader.”

  “Please don’t call her the cheerleader,” Elizabeth said. “Her name is Alicia, and I’m going to do everything I can to see she gets whatever justice she can. It’ll never be enough.”

  “So you have no doubt about her story?”

  “None whatsoever. She said she was raped, and I have no reason to doubt her.”

  Sandy leaned forward. “I sometimes have to remind my friend here that what you know in your gut isn’t the same as evidence that will hold up in front of a jury.”