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

  THE DANUBE HOTEL occupies one of the corners at Fourth Street and Chaparral Boulevard, the north-south highway through Alta Mira. Gordon and Sam emerged into autumn sunlight, rendered slightly hazy by the smoke from ranches and homeowners burning debris and yard waste at the end of the season. They walked up Chaparral a block to Third Street, crossed it, and turned right. Halfway down the block was a two-story, turn-of-the-century brick office building. The upper story had been vacant since 1973, but the windows weren’t boarded up because it hadn’t yet occurred to anyone to break them. At street level were two working storefronts, separated by an empty one. The one on the right housed Merton’s Print and Copy, while the one on their left was home to the High Desert Artists Co-Operative. Gordon stopped in front of it and pointed to the watercolor in the window. It showed a solitary angler fishing in a mountain stream.

  “Caught my eye when I was out for a walk this morning,” he said. “They’re only open noon to four Thursday through Sunday, so I thought we’d drop in now.”

  They stepped inside. A severe-looking woman, with no-nonsense glasses and hair so firmly in place that a gale wouldn’t move it, eyed them warily from a desk in the back corner.

  “Feel free to look around,” she said grudgingly. “I’m here to answer questions.” Her tone indicated she wouldn’t be distressed if they didn’t have any.

  With Sam following, Gordon moved to the left of the space and began circulating clockwise, looking at the paintings on the walls. Most of them were earnest representations of local scenes, lacking the sense of light, color, texture and composition that make a good painting. Gordon gave them a quick glance and moved on.

  At the back wall he stopped longer in front of a 3-by-4-foot landscape. Done in a bold, impressionistic style, it showed a small mountain lake on what appeared to be a stormy day. Where the other paintings were light with gay colors, this one was a study in black, brown, gray and deep blue, except for a shaft of light, vivid white with a tinge of yellow, that broke through the clouds and illuminated a jagged rock jutting from the water and reflecting on its surface. The tag by the lower right corner of the frame said the painting was called “Reflection Lake” and its price was $950. The artist’s signature on the painting read simply, “Macondray.”

  Gordon stood in front of it for three minutes before moving on. At the front of the gallery, he looked at the fishing painting for only 15 seconds. There were a half-dozen sculptures scattered around the middle of the room. Out of curiosity, more than anything else, they paused in front of a wood carving that looked like a pile of dog feces. The tag by it was labeled “Bear Scat,” and the price had been reduced from the original $400 to $300, then again to $250.

  “You must admit,” said Sam, finally breaking the silence, “it tells the story.”

  Without replying, Gordon moved to the back and stood in front of “Reflection Lake,” tapping his right foot nervously. Finally, he turned to the woman at the desk.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “What can you tell me about Macondray?”

  She frowned. “Teaches at the community college,” she said. “Full of airs, if you ask me. Has the most expensive painting in here, and it isn’t even pretty.”

  “Ah, but it has style. It’s kind of dark back here. Would it be possible to take it up to the front where the light’s better?”

  Her expression froze, the rictus of the bureaucrat who doesn’t know what to do with a request not covered by the formal rules.

  “I suppose so,” she said warily. “But you need to carry it yourself, and if you break it, you have to pay for it.”

  “Fair enough.” Gordon, just under 6-5, with an athletic build and long arms, gracefully lifted it from the wall and carried it to the front. Ever vigilant, the woman at the desk jumped up and moved to the front door, ready to block his path if he tried to make a run for it with the merchandise.

  The low November sun flooded the front of the gallery with light, and in that light, the rich palette of the painting’s dark hues showed its true vibrancy. Gordon looked at it for ten seconds and made a decision.

  “I’ll take it,” he said. “I see you accept credit cards.”

  Stunned, she nodded. When Gordon picked up the painting and headed toward the desk, she meekly followed.

  Gordon had already set his VISA card on the desk. After rummaging through its drawers, she found the card machine. Carefully she ran an impression of his card and handed him a triplicate receipt.

  After signing it, he said, “Would it be possible to get this wrapped?”

  This time she knew the rule.

  “What do you think this is – San Francisco?” she snapped. “If you want it wrapped, take it to Merton’s next door and he’ll do it for three dollars.”

  Which was what they did. As they were Merton’s only customers, it didn’t take long, and they were soon on the way to Powder Creek.

  THE TIME-AND-TEMPERATURE SIGN at Great Northeast Bank showed 71 degrees at 1:14 p.m. as they drove by. A few blocks from the Danube, the north-south highway heading toward Oregon met the east-west highway heading toward Nevada. They became the same road for about ten miles, before the east-west highway broke off, crossed a mountain range and entered Serendipity Valley, running through the town of Big Piney (slogan: “Last stop before legal gambling”).

  Two miles outside Alta Mira, on the left side of the highway, stood Homestead Community College. Finished in 1969, at the end of California’s postwar education boom, it had the unadorned look of government buildings of its era – greatly improved, however, by the planting of numerous trees, which had flourished in the three decades since. The evergreens were ready to take on the coming winter, and the deciduous trees showed signs of late fall color. Between the highway and the college proper was 150 yards of dirt, stone and sagebrush, with several large boulders breaking up the barrenness.

  Halfway between the college and the point where the highways diverged, a road ran into the mountains on the left. The sign marking it read, “Wappinger Lake,” and, as Gordon explained, the lake was the source of Powder Creek.

  “Will there be any water this late in the year?” asked Sam.

  Gordon nodded. “The lake’s fed by several large springs, year-round. The creek should be fine.”

  The road forked a few miles from the highway. The fork leading right to the lake remained paved. Going left to Powder Creek, it turned to well-packed dirt, along which the Cherokee bounced jauntily. They went down a long grade, passed two logging roads rising to the left, and stopped when the road ended at a primitive Forest Service campground with ten campsites and two outhouses. It was closed for the winter, and Gordon parked by the gate that blocked vehicles, but not pedestrians, from getting through. With the car windows down, they could hear the sound of the rushing creek.

  “What fly should I use?” asked Sam as they were pulling on their waders.

  “I’m starting with attractors,” Gordon replied. “Royal Wulffs and Humpys size 12 and 14. The fish are loading up for winter, and a big bug floating by should look good. Where there’s a grassy bank you might even want to use a hopper imitation.”

  “Let’s start with that,” said Sam. “We can always try something else if it doesn’t work.”

  It worked. They fished their way a mile downstream, savoring the day. The creek was 20 to 30 feet wide and looked fishy, with numerous riffles, pools and undercut banks. The cool water glistened in the afternoon sun, and when they cast their flies to a likely spot, a fish rose to them as often as not. Most were Rainbow Trout in the 10 to 12 inch range, but there were also a few Brook Trout (one a surprising 13 inches) and a couple of Browns. Sam, making a perfect cast to the current at the edge of an undercut bank, caught the largest fish of the day, a 16-inch Rainbow, with a Yellow Humpy. As always, they released all the fish back to the creek.

  For the first two hours the weather was perfect – warm enough to be comfortable, but not too hot. At four o’clock, the sun went behind the mountains. In
half an hour the temperature dropped from 70 to 50, and eased into the high 40s from there. The wind picked up too, blowing more steadily, rattling the tops of the pine trees, and foretelling the winter in its chill. It was 4:45 when they got back to the campground and already noticeably darker, almost twilight.

  They took off their waders and put the fly rods in the back of the Cherokee. Gordon donned a light windbreaker over his flannel shirt and got behind the wheel. Sam stood by the passenger door several seconds longer, looking up through the tree branches at dusk’s fading light, listening to the sounds of the wind and creek, breathing the pure mountain air. That was when he heard a sharp crack in the distance, like a whip snapping.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” Gordon said.

  “It sounded like a gunshot.”

  Gordon nodded. “A lot of guns around here. Was it close by?”

  “No. A ways off.”

  “Then probably nothing to worry about. Let’s get going. I don’t know about you, but I’m getting hungry, and we’re meeting my friend Bob Hastings in an hour.”

  GORDON’S TRYING NOT TO SHOW IT, but I know he’s not happy about the fact I caught the biggest fish this afternoon. That doesn’t happen very often but he is such a competitor he can’t stand it when it does. Come to think of it, he was a bit off this afternoon. He made several bad casts, and a few times he wasn’t paying attention when a fish rose to his fly. It isn’t like him.

  We’re supposed to have dinner at some Basque restaurant tonight with an old college friend of his. Should be interesting. I’m pretty hungry, too, and one nice thing about traveling with Gordon is he’s a good guide. Another nice thing is that this late in the year, we can fish until dark and still have dinner at a civilized hour.

  I swear that was a gunshot I heard.

  MOUNTAIN BOB HASTINGS had scheduled dinner for 6:30 out of consideration for Gordon’s fishing plans. By then, Elizalde’s Basque restaurant was busy – surprisingly so for a small-town establishment on a Thursday night, with winter drawing near. The bar was nearly full, and three-quarters of the red-covered tables were occupied. Bob was at a table near a large stone fireplace, in full use now that the evening chill had descended. He was wearing worn jeans, running shoes, and a flannel shirt of dark green and gold. He had mousy brown hair that sprung out from the sides of his head, a face that looked happy and honest, and a pair of glasses with thick black rims. As Gordon and Sam walked past several historical ranching photos to his table, he rose to greet them.

  “Flyboy!” he said enthusiastically, grasping Gordon’s right hand in his and giving it a strong shake, while slapping Gordon’s shoulder with his left hand. “Good to see you again. It’s been a long time.”

  “Too long,” Gordon said. “This is my friend Sam.”

  “You have a last name, Sam?” Bob said as they shook hands.

  “Akers,” Sam said.

  “Akers and Pains,” Bob ad-libbed.

  “You’ll get used to it, Sam,” Gordon said. “He calls me Flyboy because I taught him fly fishing. He was a worm and lure guy before.”

  “And I’m in your debt, Gordon. Welcome to our little town, Akers and Pains. This your first time here?” Sam nodded. “I hope you’ll like it. And I hope you’re both hungry and decisive. At my house, if you get to the dinner table this late in the day, the food’s all gone.”

  “How’s Brenda?” asked Gordon.

  “Doing great. She’s with the kids at a school dance rehearsal, so it worked out well for this little stag night.”

  “And Eileen? She must be 13 now.”

  “Fourteen in September.”

  “Fourteen! Where did the time go?”

  “And Sarah’ll be 12 in February.”

  “Both doing well in school?”

  “Pretty good. Eileen’s the better student, but Sarah has the personality. We’re gonna have our hands full when she starts dating.”

  A waitress who must have been at least 70, with gray frizzy hair, materialized at their table, pad in hand.

  “Can I get you boys something to drink?” She looked at Bob. “Pretty late for you to be here.”

  “Had to wait for my friends here to wrap up their fishing. Ruby, my friends Gordon and Sam.”

  “Pleased to meetcha. What are you having?” She looked at Gordon.

  “Dos Equis for me.”

  “I’ll have the same,” said Sam.

  “The usual,” Bob said.

  She moved off toward the bar with a surprising spring in her step.

  “She looks pretty spry for her age,” Sam ventured.

  Bob nodded. “That’s what 50 years of eating red meat and inhaling second-hand smoke will do for you. If she ate fruits and salads, she’d be in a nursing home now.” He turned to Sam. “I know what Gordon’s ordering, and I hope you like beef and lamb, ‘cause that’s what they do right here. A lot of Basques settled in these parts a century ago, and old man Elizalde finally figured it was easier to make money cooking beef than raising it. Ruby’s his daughter. Rest his soul.”

  Sam opened his menu, scanned it briefly, and closed it.

  “I’m really glad to see you here, Gordon,” said Bob. “Always good to see you, but there’s something going on here that just might be in your line.”

  “What – tax-free municipals? Short sales?”

  “Naw. I thought you were getting out of that stuff, anyway. I mean your next line.” He looked quickly around the room and lowered his voice to a whisper.

  “Crime.”

  Gordon nodded his head slightly and looked at Bob out of his right eye. “What do you mean, Bob? Somebody been vandalizing the tractors at the local farm supply?”

  “Not so loud,” Bob said in a hoarse whisper. “This is really serious, though I don’t think it’s made the San Francisco papers yet. In the last month, two students from the community college have gone missing. Both attractive women.”

  Ruby returned with two Dos Equis and a Budweiser for Bob. She took their orders (lamb chops for Gordon, Santa Maria tri-tip for Bob, and sirloin for Sam) and scooted off to the kitchen.

  “I don’t suppose,” Gordon said quietly, “that there’s any chance they just ran away.”

  “That’s what everybody’s hoping,” Bob said, “but I think it’s a pretty slim chance. They’d have called someone by now.”

  “Not necessarily,” Sam said. “I serve on a board for a group in San Francisco that works with runaways. Some of them had something really bad to run away from.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, but I don’t think so. They were both girls who got good grades, never got in trouble. Seemed like normal, happy kids.”

  “When did this happen?” Gordon asked.

  “The first one was Jennifer McCall. On October third she was working at a writing lab at the college, helping students with their papers. She walked out the door at 3:30, waving goodbye to the other tutor and three students like she didn’t have a care in the world. That’s the last time anyone saw her for sure.”

  “For sure?”

  “Well, a couple of people thought they might have seen her, but by the time they were asked, a few days had gone by and they couldn’t be positive it was that day.”

  “And the second?”

  “Michelle Robertson. She vanished October 24th, also late afternoon. She had a part-time job at the school library, and when it closed at three, she was out the door like a shot. Her boyfriend’s on the football team, and they were playing at home that night. She wanted to get pretty for him for after the game.”

  “Doesn’t sound like someone who was about ready to bolt,” Sam said.

  “Not at all. This is really bothersome.”

  “The thing that strikes me,” said Gordon, “is that both disappearances were at about the same time on the same day of the week – a Friday. Does the sheriff – or whoever’s investigating – have any thoughts about that?”

  “Haven’t asked, but I doubt it. No one se
ems to have any idea what’s going on. The sheriff – Chris Huntley – is new to the job, and I’d say pretty competent, but there just isn’t much to go on.” Bob looked over Gordon’s shoulder and waved. “Well, look who’s here.”

  Gordon and Sam turned to see two young women, drinks in hand, leaving the bar and heading for the table. One was five-nine, slender, with raven-black hair cut short and designer glasses that accentuated her angular features and knowing eyes. The other woman was an inch shorter, with a stocky build that suggested muscularity, not flabbiness, and light brown hair pulled up in a bun.

  “What brings you here on a weeknight?” Bob said. “Gordon, Sam, this is Elizabeth Macondray,” he gestured to the woman with glasses, “who teaches at Homestead College, and Sandy Steadman of the Highway Patrol.”

  “We’re celebrating,” Elizabeth said. “I got a call from the gallery this afternoon. Some sucker finally bought my painting.”

  HERE WE GO AGAIN. I can tell she’s checking Gordon out. Women seem to do that. I don’t think he’s particularly handsome, but I’m a man, so what do I know? He does have that honest face that makes people think they can trust him. But if she gets his attention, I can say sayonara to fishing with him. And whatever else you can say about Gordon, he knows where and how to fish.

  Only one thing to do. If we’re going to get any fishing done this trip, I’ve got to nip this in the bud.

  “DIDN’T YOU BUY a painting today?” Sam said to Gordon.

  Elizabeth froze. Gordon stared daggers at his friend. Bob picked up on the tension and tried to move forward.

  “Well, Flyboy. I didn’t know you’re an art collector. Elizabeth here does really nice work. Why don’t you ladies sit down?”

  “No one here appreciates it,” said Sandy, pulling up a chair. “In this town, a painting without animals doesn’t sell.”

  “I can believe that,” Gordon said.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Elizabeth. “But Sandy’s right. It makes you cynical when you put out something you think is really good and it doesn’t sell, but other things do. If you bought my painting, I’m very appreciative that you saw something in it.”