An Excerpt From Death At Sequoia Woods

Chapter 1 — Ken

As I walked up the hill from my cabin, I noticed several police cars parked in front of the Sequoia Woods Country Club and a gathering crowd on the road near the main door. I hoped this was just an over-reaction to a break-in. God forbid one of my friends had a heart attack or a stroke. I waved to several people I knew in the crowd as I approached the uniformed officer at the door, a more efficient way to get to the bottom of what was going on than asking bystanders, a habit from my old life, I guess.

“I'm sorry, sir. The club is closed,” the slightly chubby young female deputy with the Calaveras Sheriff's Department stationed at the door told me. Her nametag said Deputy Terry, and for a brief moment, I wondered if that was her first or last name.

“Are you telling me I won't be able to order the breakfast special?” I asked, trying to be humorous. I used to banter like this with the cops I ran into at crime scenes before I retired, a tendency that struck me now as being more than a little cynical. But after years of reporting on crime in San Francisco, maybe slightly macabre humor was also a defense mechanism.

“This is a crime scene, sir.” Deputy Terry's tone told me my joke had missed its mark. “A murder scene.”

“Nobody gets murdered in the boonies. That's why I retired here.”

“Tell that to Anthony Hughes, the bartender.” The deputy remained stone-faced. “Just as soon as the coroner finishes his work, we will start interviewing all of the residents.

“I don't understand,” I said as the shock and then the gravity of the situation sunk in. “Just last night, I was talking and joking with Anthony at the bar.”

Anthony Hughes had been a fixture here for the past year. All of the regulars knew him and liked him. As soon as he saw me coming through the door, he started to pour a beer. He knew what everyone wanted.

“Step back, sir. We will interview you shortly,” the deputy replied as she held the door open for a man in a suit. The guy didn't have a medical bag, and so I assumed he was a detective.

I thought about my job as a San Francisco TV news reporter and all of the crimes, including murders, that landed in our department. I'd reported on many of these homicides. I stroked my gray beard as I reminisced about some of my most famous scoops. There was the serial killer roaming the streets of San Francisco back in '68. Then there was the guy who shot the mayor and a gay politician a decade later because he wanted his job back. I also reported on a guy who mailed bombs to people because he wanted to protest in the name of ecology. This was different. I knew Anthony, and I liked him. Plus, I saw him almost every night at the country club bar.

The Sequoia Woods Country Club, a sprawling three-story wooden building, is unobtrusive because of its location among the cedar pines and the white fir trees. It is built on a hill, and the first floor contains the pro shop and the facilities to store and repair the golf carts. The second floor has a bar, a restaurant, a banquet room, and a deck that is an ideal music venue, all facing the first fairway. The banquet rooms are located on the third floor.

I joined the crowd that had gathered this frigid Monday morning on this trafficless pock-marked road. The only other human-made structures are cabins scattered around the area. Of course, there is the beautiful 18-hole golf course directly behind the clubhouse, and a parking lot across the road. But it's February, and the golf course is closed because of all the snow on the ground, and most people here are skiers at this time of year. The tourists come for the weekend, and the only people left are those who own cabins in the area.

Since the slopes at Bear Valley don’t open until nine on weekdays, many of the regulars were on hand—news travels fast in this small community. As I joined the others, Deputy Terry walked over to the group and started to take names and phone numbers. The Purillos, a retired couple, were there. Evan, a tall, dark-haired man in his late sixties, was stoic, but Elena, a good-looking, slender blonde woman of sixty-five who still turned heads, was in tears. Ralph Burrows, the barback who seldom showed emotion, was weeping. Jerry Borelli, a nightly patron of the bar, was in the crowd. Teresa Sonrisa, Anthony's thirty-something Latina fiancée, was also in tears.

The deputy announced that the detective would call each person when he was ready to do an interview. She then retreated to the country club bar.

“How did he die?” I said out of force of habit and not really addressing anyone in particular. “Who found the body?”

“I found the body,” Ralph said, his voice shaking ever so slightly. “I came at 6:15 to unload our weekly order of food and vegetables from Stockton. After the truck driver and I finished, I drove to Arnold to get a coffee and a bagel and returned about 7:20. Anthony and I were supposed to meet at 7:30 to do our weekly cleaning of the bar area and replace the items sold over the weekend. The door was open, and so I figured Anthony was already here. When I walked in, I saw Anthony's body lying face-up on the floor behind the bar. Next to it was his water bottle filled with orange juice and tequila. It is common knowledge that his daily ritual was to fill his water bottle with orange juice from the club's refrigerator and add some top-shelf tequila. Then he was ready to go to work.”

I heard sobs coming from Teresa as Ralph spoke. The group looked numb and confused.

“Did he have a heart attack?” Elena asked after a few minutes. “Were there signs of a struggle?”

“I don't think it was a heart attack,” Ralph said. “I heard a cop say he noticed the smell of almonds and that it might indicate cyanide.”

“That smell could mean he was poisoned,” I replied. “However, that smell could be other things too, like, well, almonds. Bars frequently have them, after all. Besides, why would anyone want to poison Anthony?”

“I don't know,” Ralph responded. “The police have only been here for about an hour, so they don't know anything for certain yet. They interviewed Cal and me, since the general manager, George Brown, is out of town. But they indicated they were treating this as a murder investigation.”

“There was a fight last night between Anthony and Cal, the bar manager,” Teresa said. She had stopped sobbing. All we could see was the lightness of her tear-stained face contrasted with her dark blue hooded jacket.” After the bar closed, I was doing my restaurant chores, and I heard them yelling. Through the window, I saw Cal crossing the road to the parking lot. By the time I got to the bar side of the building, Anthony was gone. I don't know where he went.”

“Anthony must have come in early this morning since you saw him leave last night,” Jerry said. “If he was poisoned, anyone could have done it who knew his routine, and that would be everybody he knew.”

“I think Anthony could have been killed by a jealous husband or a jealous woman,” Ralph said offhandedly. “We all know that he had a way with the women.”

I knew that Anthony and the other bartenders were always criticizing Ralph, and he would just stand there and take it because he didn't want to cause any trouble. I could see the light go on in his head when he put two and two together and remembered that Teresa was Anthony's fiancée. He flushed.

“I'm so sorry, Teresa,” Ralph said, trying to get out the huge hole he had dug for himself. “I'm sure Anthony only flirted with the women to get bigger tips. Lots of bartenders do that.”

“It comes with the job,” Elena mumbled. I could see that the color had disappeared from her face. I guess that she was trying to keep the situation from becoming more awkward. “When I was a waitress, I flirted with the guys all of the time. Right, Evan?”

Evan didn't respond.