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

  The Daughters

  Of Alta Mira

  A Quill Gordon Mystery

  Michael Wallace

  Amazon Readers Praise

  The Quill Gordon Mysteries

  (Ratings accurate as of this book’s publication month)

  The McHenry Inheritance

  Average rating 4.1 out of 5 stars

  “I really enjoyed reading this story and getting to know the characters. In a very short time, I found myself caring what happened to them. I am a mystery fan, and this definitely was a fun ride.”

  —Mountain Mom

  “Quill Gordon courts trout, a lady, and justice, and there’s a little ‘catch and release’ applied to all three in this most entertaining murder mystery.”

  —Edan D. Cassidy

  “Well written good story. Ready for next book about these people. Could be a start to a fun set of books.”

  —Tim Smith

  Wash Her Guilt Away

  Average rating: 4.7 out of 5 stars

  “The characters are so well drawn, each one seemed to be plucked from real life and placed into the story.”

  —Sentia

  “As languid and dark as a quiet trout stream on an overcast day, the second Quill Gordon novel is a pleasure to read … even the weather has a plot twist.”

  —Judy Parrish

  “The fly-fishing descriptions were amazing. I was thoroughly engaged. I couldn’t figure out who dunnit until the very end … Great story.”

  —Lovedrama

  Not Death, But Love

  Average rating: 4.8 out of 5 stars

  “This is my third Michael Wallace/Quill Gordon book, and I enjoyed this as much as the other two.”

  —Steve Reese

  “Perfect for summer vacation reading. Good character development and plot, with some nice surprises.”

  —Doug Simmons

  “Enjoyed very much. Fast read.”

  —T. Mitchell

  The Daughters of Alta Mira

  Copyright © 2016, Michael Wallace

  All Rights Reserved

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or entered into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction and imagination, and all names, places, characters and incidents are either imaginary or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people (dead or alive), events, locales, or business establishments is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9903871-2-1

  Cover Design: Deborah Karas, Karas Technical Services

  Also by Michael Wallace

  Quill Gordon Mysteries

  The McHenry Inheritance

  Wash Her Guilt Away

  Not Death, But Love

  Nonfiction

  The Borina Family of Watsonville (California history)

  In the spirit of Rex Stout

  For Kathe and Susan,

  My father’s daughters

  Logging Road, Dusk

  “Take off your clothes.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Does this gun look like a joke?”

  They stared at each other, five feet apart in the fading light. He gestured with the gun.

  “Come on,” he said. “I mean it.”

  “You’re crazy,” she said. “It’s fricking cold out here.”

  “Once we get going, you won’t feel the cold.”

  “Who said anything about getting going? You were just giving me a ride.”

  “Maybe half an hour ago, but as you can see, the situation has changed. Now move! Blouse first. I’m losing my patience.”

  She looked at him, looked at the gun, and unbuttoned the top button of her pink blouse. A gust of cold autumn wind came up, rattling through the treetops. It knifed through her thin blouse, and she shivered.

  “It’s cold,” she said.

  “Honey, that’s the least of your problems.”

  “I can’t believe you think you’re going to get away with this.”

  “Why not? I have so far.”

  Then she knew, and a stab of fear went through her, colder and deeper than the gust of wind.

  There was no chance of anyone coming along this deserted logging road at sunset. Her only hope was to take matters into her own hands.

  She looked at his eyes, which to her advantage, were fixed on her breasts. He’s behaving like a man, she thought. Maybe I can use that against him.

  “All right, then,” she said, unbuttoning the blouse slowly for deliberate effect. She wished that today, of all days, she hadn’t worn the Victoria’s Secret bra she’d bought last summer in Sacramento. He noticed it immediately.

  “I see you’re dressed for this,” he said. “I like that. Now let’s see your panties.”

  As she unbuttoned the last button, she pulled the blouse open, showing off her torso and the bra. The cold air stung her skin, but she saw he was looking at her breasts and took a half step forward. She was about three and a half feet from him. Not as close as she would have liked, but she didn’t feel she could move any closer.

  “All in good time,” she said. She slid her right arm out of the blouse, then reached across her front and grabbed the collar with it, pulling the left sleeve down over the arm. When she was done, she stood looking at him.

  “Take off the jeans,” he said.

  Now or never. To make him think she was complying, she reached down and touched her belt buckle. Suddenly, with a quick, backhand motion, she swung the blouse as though snapping a towel in the locker room and hit him across the side of the head.

  He wasn’t expecting it. The others had gone along meekly, so he’d been looking at her crotch, waiting for her to pull the jeans down. When the blouse hit the side of his head, he started and took a step backward, inadvertently lowering the gun. She lunged forward and grabbed his hand.

  She was five-nine and fit from playing on the volleyball team, but he still had the physical edge. They grappled awkwardly for several seconds, as she put both her hands on his right wrist, trying to turn the gun away. Using both hands, he gave her a hard shove backwards.

  As he did, the gun went off.

  The velocity of the bullet gave her an additional impetus that sent her over the edge of the road. He saw, as a quick flash, the wound near her heart, then she was out of sight.

  He stood shaking and panting. It had all gone spectacularly wrong.

  They had been in a turnout on a logging road several miles from the state highway and the nearest paved county road. At this point, the road had a nearly sheer dropoff of about 75 feet. Nervously, he walked to the edge and looked down.

  She had ended up caught in the branches of a pine tree, 20 feet below the road and 50 feet up from the base of the tree. She was still. From the quick glimpse of her wound, he guessed she was either dead or bleeding out and soon would be. There was no way he could get down to the body. Recovering it would be a major effort, even for the professionals on the Search and Rescue team.

  He walked up and down the road in either direction and concluded that she couldn’t readily be seen by a passing driver. Not that there were many of those at this time of year. There would be no logging operations on this road until spring, and deer-hunting season had concluded last weekend. He walked back to the turnout and looked down. Her white torso stood out against the tree branches, but in the growing darkness, the jeans blended into the background.

  Then he
heard the sound of the stream running through the gorge below and realized there were nearly two weeks left in the fishing season. There was a chance a fisherman in the gorge might spot her in the tree. He squinted to try to see what the sight lines from the creek would be, but it was getting too dark to tell.

  Still, he thought, calming himself, the odds were in his favor. Most people here stopped fishing when deer hunting season began and didn’t start again until spring. No, there was a pretty good chance that the body wouldn’t be found until next spring, if at all. Who could say what animals might get at it? And if it should be found sooner, there would be nothing to connect it to him.

  Moving to his vehicle, he stopped to pick up the pink blouse, which was lying on the ground. He sniffed it, opened one of the doors, unzipped a duffel bag and put the blouse inside. He started the engine and began driving back down the hill, thinking that, unlike her, he had dodged a bullet. Even so, he was displeased.

  I got careless, he thought. It won’t happen next time.

  Thursday November 6, 1997

  RESTING HIS FOREHEAD on top of the steering wheel, hands at ten and two o’clock, Quill Gordon squeezed his eyes tightly shut – as if that might make it go away. The ignition of his Cherokee was switched off, but the reassuring, folksy baritone on the radio was still coming through loud and clear.

  “And it looks like this beautiful Indian Summer weather we’ve been having will last through the weekend, though it’ll be getting a bit cooler and breezier. Deer season is over, but if you wanna get out and enjoy it, remember trout season in the streams is still open until November 15th, and the fish’ll be eating up to get fat for winter. Now this just in during our last song: John Davidson, wherever you are on the Lower Forty, your wife, Martha, wants to remind you that she’s leaving for her bridge game at one o’clock, so if you want lunch, you need to be home by noon.

  “But if you miss lunch at home, you might want to go to Danny’s Diner at Second and Chaparral, serving breakfast and lunch from 6 to 2:30 seven days a week. This week’s breakfast special is chicken-fried steak, three eggs cooked any style, home-fried potatoes and a biscuit with gravy, only $4.95 at Danny’s Diner – where the elite meet to eat.

  “Four minutes to the hour, so just enough time for a little Barbara Mandrell. This is her big hit from 1978, and it’s probably a classic by now. ‘Sleeping Single in a Double Bed.’ You’re listening to Morning Coffee with Mountain Bob on Radio KNEP, Alta Mira, the Voice of the High Desert.”

  The spiel was followed by a coyote howl, which tailed off into the percussive first notes of the song. Gordon sat up, opened his eyes, and turned off the radio. Glancing at the rear-view mirror, he saw that the Highway Patrol car was still parked behind his on the side of the state highway, across from the county airport. He sighed and leaned toward the glove compartment to retrieve his registration.

  It was his own fault and he knew it. He was scheduled to meet his friend Sam Akers at eleven o’clock for the beginning of a 10-day late-season fishing trip. Sam was flying in from Summit County, far to the south, Gordon was particularly eager for any news he might be bringing. Yet he had become distracted in town (not an easy thing in a place with fewer than 4,000 residents) and was rushing to the airport when he saw the flashing lights in his mirror.

  The officer appeared by the passenger window, and Gordon lowered it. The name above his badge said Armstrong, and he looked every bit the fit and clean-cut athlete in his late twenties or early thirties.

  “Do you know why I pulled you over?” the officer asked, as if he wasn’t quite sure himself.

  “I was in a hurry to meet a friend who’s flying in,” Gordon said. “Guess I lost track of how fast I was going.”

  The officer nodded. “Seventy-four in a 55 zone. We don’t like to give tickets to visitors, cause we don’t get enough of them. But 19 over the limit is a bit more than we can ignore. You staying here long?”

  “Through next Saturday. We’re here for a little late-season fishing.”

  “Should be good, especially if the weather holds. The creeks are still running pretty well, and I hear the lakes have been producing. Let me see your license and registration please, so we can get on with this, and you can go fishing.”

  He went back to the patrol car, and Gordon sat fuming. It was his first moving violation in nine years, so the damage would be slight. But as the son of a judge, he was acutely embarrassed to run afoul of the law in any way. He heard the drone of an engine overhead, and looked up to see a small plane circling to land at the airport. Could be Sam’s, he thought. If it is, he’ll see me for sure.

  Gordon watched the plane land, and Officer Armstrong returned as it touched down.

  “I wrote you up for 65 instead of what you were actually doing,” he said. “That’s a bit of a break. And if you go to a driver safety class, they’ll wipe this off the record and your insurance shouldn’t go up. I see you’re from San Francisco. I hear they have some pretty good comedy driving classes there. If you can get into one of those, it shouldn’t be too painful.” He handed the citation to Gordon. “Sign here, and you can get on to your fishing.”

  “Thank you.” Gordon scribbled his signature at the bottom and the officer gave him a copy.

  “Drive careful the rest of the trip, and good luck fishing. Have a nice day now.”

  Gordon folded the citation and put it in his shirt pocket. Double-checking the roadway, he pulled out and drove slowly to the airport entrance, nervously checking the speedometer every five seconds.

  THAT LOOKED LIKE Gordon’s Cherokee across from the airport as I came in, with the Highway Patrol car right behind it. Can’t say I’m surprised. It’s not that he’s a bad driver as a rule, but he loses track of things sometimes and goes faster than he realizes.

  On the other hand, he was right about the weather. It’s much better than I would have expected this late in the season. He knows the mountains and the fishing conditions really well. Going with him is almost like hiring a guide – except the guide doesn’t generally make a point of out-fishing you.

  He knows I’ve just been to Summit County, and he probably wants the news from there. I hope that’s not why he was speeding. He’s not going to like what I have to report, and there was no sense rushing to hear it. Oh, well. His problem, not mine.

  THE NOON RUSH, such as it was, had not yet kicked in at the Danube Hotel’s Vienna Café. Gordon and Sam arrived at quarter to noon and were quickly seated at a booth. Eager to begin fishing, they ordered sandwiches and iced tea.

  The five-story hotel building was the tallest structure in the town of Alta Mira (unless you counted the water tower) and had been built in 1907. A bit frayed at the edges, but still clean and comfortable, it had a superb central heating system, which was why Gordon chose it for a late-season trip.

  “Where are we fishing today?” said Sam.

  “Where do you want to fish?” asked Gordon. “I mean, what type of fishing?”

  Sam thought for a moment. “Small or medium-size stream if you know of one. That’d suit me.”

  “Then let’s do Powder Creek — the upper part of it in the mountains behind the community college.”

  “I defer to your judgment.”

  The waitress brought their tea, and they each took a sip.

  “How are Nancy and the kids?” Gordon asked.

  “Still doing well.”

  Gordon took another sip of tea, followed by a deep breath. “So how was Summit County?”

  “Beautiful as ever. We really should go back sometime soon.”

  “Not me. Not for a while. Did you get a chance to talk to anybody when you were there?”

  “As a matter of fact, I caught Sheriff Mike in the office yesterday afternoon. He filled me in pretty well.”

  Gordon raised his eyebrows.

  “He’s finally going to hang it up next year,” Sam continued. “He’s not running for re-election.”

  “He’ll be dead a year and a half after he qui
ts. That job is his life.”

  “Maybe. Anyway, he’s already hand picked his successor. A woman he brought in from San Jose not long after the last time we were there.”

  “If he’s behind her, she’ll probably win. What else?”

  “Some bad news. Remember Kitty, who owned the café where we ate?” Gordon nodded. “Well, she has ovarian cancer. Probably won’t make it through the month.”

  “That’s a shame. She’s not that old.”

  “Sixty, according to Sheriff Mike.”

  “Too damn bad.” Gordon took another sip of tea and stared at the faded mural of old Vienna on the far wall.

  “And how about…?” his voice trailed off.

  Sam also took a sip of tea, followed by a deep breath.

  “She’s engaged, Gordon. To an undertaker in Carson City. If it makes you feel any better, Sheriff Mike thinks it’s a case of settling for Mr. Good Enough.”

  Gordon sat motionless for a minute, staring into his tea, while Sam grew increasingly jittery.

  “You could always kidnap the bride,” Sam said. “But whenever the wedding is, I’m already busy that weekend.”

  “No, Sam. It’s been over for almost four years, and this just makes it final. I hope he makes her happy. She deserves it, and that wasn’t something I could do.”

  “How old are you, Gordon? Thirty-seven?”

  “Thirty-eight.”

  “Even in San Francisco, that’s pretty old to still be a bachelor. I think this has been holding you back way too long.”

  He didn’t immediately answer, and finally said, “Let’s talk about fishing.” Lunch arrived, and he took a bite from his sandwich, chewing it slowly. “But before we head to the creek, there’s one little thing I’d like to do.”

  THANK GOD THAT’S OVER WITH. I don’t know why I was so nervous about this. I mean, I knew it would affect him, but whatever Gordon’s failings are, blaming the messenger isn’t one of them. And maybe now he can really move on. I’m not the only friend who’s been worried about him in that regard.

  Now he’s saying he wants to go to an art gallery after lunch. An art gallery! In this town! At least it shouldn’t take very long.