Partnerships Can Be Murder
The Third Charlie Parker Mystery
By Connie Shelton
Copyright © 1997 Connie Shelton
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Chapter 1
The Albuquerque airport has an ambiance all its own. Wooden chairs with leather seats fill the waiting areas. They are stiff and uncomfortable as hell, but no one would consider changing them because they have that “Southwest chic.” Accents of turquoise and terra cotta set this airport apart from the look-alike terminals in other cities. As a lifelong resident of this southwestern city, my memories are of my brothers and myself as kids sitting on a low adobe wall, watching planes take off and land on Sunday afternoons. Coming home again makes my throat feel a little tight.
Emotions aside, if I’d known what lay in store for me within the next few days, I would’ve probably stayed on the plane.
The 737 rolled to a slow stop. There was a distinct chunk as the jetway connected. Sleepy passengers moved slowly, gathering belongings. I unfastened my seat belt. The remnants of my last pain killer were wearing off, and my head began to throb.
It was after ten o'clock, and only a handful of people waited. They stood in an eager clump. Eager to meet loved ones, or eager to be back home in bed, I couldn't say. My brother, Ron, waited for me. He wore a muted plaid shirt, scuffed brown roper boots, and his straw Stetson, which he favors because it hides the fact that his hair is thinning on top. His faded Levis bore permanent creases across the front and a whitened wallet-sized square on the right rear pocket. I hadn't seen him in ten days, and it seemed to me that his gut was perhaps a little less obvious over the top of his silver belt buckle. Ron dieting?
"Hey, kiddo, how was Hawaii?" He reached out to take my carry-on bag.
“It was murder.” I could hear the tiredness in my own voice. We trailed the straggling crowd toward the escalators.
"I'll bet. All that lounging on the beach, all those mai-tais. Rough life."
"I meant that literally. It was murder." I lifted my hair in back to give him a glimpse of the fourteen stitches at the base of my skull.
"Charlie, what happened?"
"I'll tell you about it later," I promised. This would take longer than a walk through the airport would allow. "What's new around here?" I asked.
Did I imagine it, or did he actually blush?
"Ronnnn...?"
"Well..." He was blushing.
"It's a woman, isn't it? Tell me, or I'll... I'll... I don't know." I moved slightly ahead of him, and turned around, walking backward so I could watch his face. Ron has a stubborn streak a mile long that won't allow him to let his little sister push him around. He would stall a while longer, just to make it clear that telling me was his idea, not mine. I fell back in step with him, and kept quiet.
"Her name is Vicky." His voice started out quiet, but I could hear the enthusiasm grow as he talked. "She's pretty and has such a bubbly personality. We have so much in common, although she is a little younger than me."
"How little?" Ron is thirty-six, divorced, father of three. Responsible, dependable, but a prize catch?
"We met at Denim and Diamonds," he continued, "and we really hit it off, right from the start."
Picked up a girl in a bar? Really, Ron, in this day and age, where is your caution? I didn't have to say it; he got the message from the look I flashed him.
"I know, I know."
We arrived at the baggage carousel just as its obnoxious horn started whonking. Two little kids scurried off the stainless steel edge where they had been balancing on tip-toe. The crowd was pushy, it was late, and my head was beginning to throb. I let Ron watch the bags revolve around the giant lazy Susan. I took a seat to the side, on a slatted wooden bench that dug into my butt in strange and painful ways.
I had only one suitcase, and luckily it was among the first to come off the line. Ron was gentleman enough to carry it for me toward the parking garage.
"I can't wait for you to meet Vicky," he said, as he started his Mustang convertible. "She's really vivacious and fun-loving. I think you two might have lots to talk about."
I made some polite noises, but truthfully, I was beat and in no mood to talk about Vicky. There was a time when I could travel for days, eat rich food, stay up three nights in a row, and still go to work the next morning. No more. I was ready to get home, settle in, and pop another of my pain killers.
"Did you check in with Gram?" I asked.
"I sure did. Called every day, and stopped by twice," he assured me.
"How was Rusty?"
"Rambunctious as ever."
I had left my sixty pound dog in the care of my ninety pound, eighty-six year old neighbor. I wondered which one of them would be happier to see me by now. I only hoped Rusty hadn’t shed too much hair, lifted his leg on her begonias, or otherwise made her life stressful during the last week.
Ron successfully guided us through the low ceilinged airport parking garage. We emerged to a clear night, which was probably full of stars, except that there were too many bright lights around the airport to see them. I let myself sink back against my seat, the cool desert night air streaming through my hair, while he joined the sparse flow of traffic on I-25. Fifteen minutes later, we pulled into my driveway.
I'm probably one of the few thirty-year-old people anywhere these days who still lives in her childhood home. They called it a ranch style house back then, white brick with a shallow pitched roof. The three bedrooms, two baths, spacious living room, and big airy kitchen are really more than Rusty and I need, but a modern little box in an upscale part of town wouldn't come with the fifty-foot sycamores in the back yard, or my mother's Peace roses, whose canes are now thick as small tree trunks.
The living room lamp glowed behind the front drapes, operated by a timer, just as I'd left it. Ron carried my bag inside for me.
"You gonna feel like coming in tomorrow?" he asked. He wanted to ask about the cause of my fourteen-stitch headache, but refrained.
"I'll be fine," I assured him. "Some food and a good night's sleep are what I need right now."
"Okay, see you there."
Right now, I wanted to see Rusty. Without bothering to carry my suitcase to the bedroom, I headed for the back door. I had no sooner switched on the back porch light than I saw the one next door come on. Elsa Higgins, Gram to me and my brothers, was obviously watching for me, probably anxious to get to bed. Leaving my back door standing open, I walked toward the break in the hedge between our two properties. I had not quite made it to the edge of her porch, when the big red-brown energy machine bounded out. His thick tail whipped my legs, and he rubbed against me, covering my hands with slobbery kisses.
He grinned at me with that special smile of his that people frequently take for a snarl. With most people, I just let them think that.
Elsa stood in her doorway, looking smaller and more frail than I remembered. She lives alone, cleans her own house, plants a garden every summer, and makes lap rugs for the “old people” at her church. She’s feisty and opinionated, and I want to be just like her when I grow up. She’s been next door to me all my life, and saved my ass more than once since I lost my parents in a plane crash my junior year in high school. I wasn’t sure whether I detected a certain amount of relief in her expression as she watched Rusty and me reunite.
"How was the trip, Charlie?"
"Fine. I brought you something, but I'll have to unpack to find it." I walked a bit closer to her, staying just far enough back that I wouldn't have to get invited in. "How about coming over for breakfast in the morning? I'll tell you all about it then."
That seemed fine with her. She's not
much of a night person, anyway. Rusty and I headed back through the hedge. I was starving, and would have loved a plate of Pedro's sour cream chicken enchiladas, but I couldn't summon up the energy to get in the Jeep and drive the six blocks just now. The long flight and my throbbing head had taken a lot out of me. The only milk in the fridge smelled ten days old, so I settled for a bowl of granola with yogurt on top instead. Rusty flopped out on the kitchen floor, his brief moment of joy at my arrival long over. For him, it was like I'd never been gone. They say dogs have no sense of time. It must be true—he acts the same way if I walk out to the mailbox.
I rechecked all the windows and doors, then dragged my suitcase down the hall to my bedroom. I'd save the real unpacking for morning. Right now, I only wanted to have a shower and some sleep. Emerging from the steamy bathroom, I took one of my prescription painkillers, and climbed between the cool sheets. Rusty took up his usual post on the rug at the foot of my bed. I slept like a dead person until the light coming through my window got my attention about seven.
Chapter 2
My head felt a hundred percent better, and in a sudden burst of perkiness, I made my bed, unpacked my suitcase, got dressed, and moved toward the kitchen to start the coffee. Elsa showed up about five minutes after I raised the kitchen window shade. It's been our signal for years, to let each other know when we're up and at 'em. Bless her heart, she brought a fresh carton of milk, and warm blueberry muffins.
"I knew you wouldn't have time to go to the store yet," she said.
The smell of the Kona coffee I'd brought from Hawaii filled the kitchen, making my knees weak. I poured a couple of mugs full, and let the caffeine course through my veins while I watched butter melt into the blueberry muffin. I filled her in briefly on the vacation, skimming lightly around the part about my head injury. I didn't want her to think I'd put my life in danger as a result of my acquaintance with the handsome helicopter pilot I'd met there, although I had. Drake Langston was a unique sort of man, whose illuminating smile and tender love-making had gone straight to my heart. He'd left me at the airport (was it only eighteen hours ago?), with the promise that we'd see each other again. Well, we'd see. Life had taught me that such promises are easily made, and rarely kept.
By eight-thirty, Elsa had come and gone. I figured I was as ready as ever to get going to the office. I retrieved my briefcase from the front bedroom I now use as a home office. It was the boys’ room when we were kids, but now I have my desk, computer, and a file cabinet with a few personal files in it. Rusty waited by the front door, beating his thick tail against the doorjamb.
"Okay, buddy, let's go." He nearly went into a frenzy before I could get the screen door open. He raced for the Jeep, wanting to ride up front in the passenger seat. I made him go to the back.
In ten minutes we covered the mile to our office which occupies an old Victorian house just off Central Avenue. Huge trees, leafed out in pale spring green, formed a canopy over our quiet side street in this partly residential neighborhood. Lilac and snowball bushes flanked several doorways, filling the air with their sweet perfume. The yard service had apparently visited our gray and white gingerbreaded place in recent days. The lawn was freshly mown and the shrubs trimmed. I pulled into the narrow concrete drive that follows the left edge of the property to an old carriage house in the back yard. The Jeep edged into its regular spot between Ron’s red convertible and Sally’s imported four-by-four. The tiny flowerbed beside the back door sported freshly planted pansies. I smiled at their little purple faces.
Inside, we had converted the old living room to a reception area. The dining room has a big work table, although I’d still like to get something nicer, for conferences. The upstairs bedrooms are now Ron's and my offices.
Ron was already at his desk when I arrived, deeply engaged in a phone conversation which sounded as if it might be intensely personal. I bet myself that I’d get another earful about Vicky later on. I twiddled my fingers in his direction, and headed for my own office.
My antique desk looked about like I expected. I had left it spotlessly clean eleven days ago. Now a small mountain of unopened mail sat heaped in the center. The fresh flowers on the bookcase had been reduced to a vaseful of crispy stalks standing in slimy green water. I raised two sections of the bay window to give my hanging plants some spring air and carried the dirty vase to the bathroom. Rusty stretched out on a corner of the oriental rug, knowing we were in for the long haul.
Twenty minutes later I had the mail divided into three piles—Do Now, Do Later, and Circular File. I was just about to tackle the Do Now pile, which consisted of bills to pay, and phone calls to return, when I glanced up to find Sally Bertrand standing in my doorway.
Sally is our part-time receptionist. She's a big girl, what some might call "large boned," with small breasts and heavy thighs. She wears her wheat-colored hair in a shaggy style that looks like she whacks at it herself whenever the mood strikes, without benefit of a mirror for guidance. Her wide face has an honest sprinkling of freckles, and her ready smile shows teeth that are even, if not perfect. She's married to a bearded mountain-man of a guy, and their joint pleasure in life seems to be hiking off to the most remote area they can find, while carrying a bare minimum of equipment. This is directly contrary to my way of thinking, where roughing it consists of black and white TV in a motor home.
Sally's overriding concern these past few months has been her effort to get pregnant. She's recently turned thirty, like me, and thinks she hears her biological clock ticking.
"What a mess, huh?" She nodded toward my desk.
"Yeah, but I suppose I'll get through it. How'd it go while I was gone?"
"Ron had me stay till five every day. He's really allergic to answering his own phone, isn't he?" She chuckled in her infectious way. "Have you met Vicky yet?"
"Not yet, but I suspect I'll soon have the pleasure. What's she like?"
Anyone else might be afraid to speak candidly about her boss's personal life, but I knew Sally would be honest with me. We have an informal, friendly relationship, despite the fact that I sign her paycheck.
"Young," she answered.
"How young? I noticed Ron neatly ducked the question when I asked him last night."
She rolled her eyes briefly upward. "Well... young enough to be his, um, much younger sister."
Oh, boy. I could hardly wait.
"By the way," she continued, "I'm a week late." She patted her tummy.
I made some weak sounding congratulatory noises. I don’t know—my biological clock must be in a different time zone than everyone else's.
"Well, I guess I better get back to Ron's letter to the state insurance commission."
She left, obviating the necessity for me to comment further on her possible state of motherhood. I turned contentedly back to paying bills. Call it accountant eccentricity.
By eleven-thirty, I had all the accounts payable entered into the computer, and was just about ready to start printing the checks. For some reason, I was having a heck of a time getting the forms to line up in the printer. I could feel my frustration level climbing at a rate corresponding to the hunger pangs in my stomach. I decided to tackle the problem again after lunch. I grabbed my purse, and was about to switch off my lights, when I heard voices out in the hall.
"Charlie! You going out?" Ron stood just outside my doorway.
"Just to get some lunch. Want to join me?"
"I'd like you to meet Vicky," he said. He was beaming like a cat who'd just discovered a whole cage full of canaries. He stepped aside, his hand guiding Vicky toward me. Rusty roused around, and headed for her. She was apparently not a dog person, because she began to back up at the sight of him. I told him to sit in the corner and mind his own business.
Vicky and I shook hands graciously, but there was no question that we were sizing each other up. My expectations hadn't been too far off the mark. She had to be in her early twenties. She wore a clingy jersey dress, in an electric shade of purple, wh
ich hit her a good six inches above the knees. Large purple hoop earrings, black hose with tiny black bows at the ankle, and black four inch heels completed her attire. Her dark hair was loose and full, caught up on one side by a comb of some kind. Her face still had a lot of the fullness they used to call baby fat, although there's probably a more sensual sounding name for it now. Her makeup was impeccably done, and I imagined her working at the Estee Lauder counter at The Broadway. She had a beauty mark at the left corner of her mouth, and I suppressed the desire to lick my finger and rub at it to see if it would come off.
"Well. I'll repeat the invitation. Would you both like to join me for lunch?" I hoped I sounded sincere.
"Thanks, Charlie," Ron said. "But we already had some other plans."
Vicky beamed at him, and I got a pretty good idea what he meant, but thinking about it made my stomach feel kind of squeamish. I tried not to let my thoughts appear on my face as I pulled my door shut, and walked alongside Vicky down the stairs, then toward the reception area. Sally and I exchanged a look, and I told her I'd be back in an hour or so. I traveled toward the back, leaving the two of them standing by the front door.
The Jeep started with a little more roar than I’d intended and I lowered the windows on both sides to dispel the stuffy air inside. As I came out the driveway I noticed Vicky's car, a red Firebird, parked at the curb.
I pulled out onto Central, going nowhere in particular. I wasn't really in the mood for fast food, but couldn't decide what, exactly, I was in the mood for. Five or six blocks later a burgundy colored awning caught my eye. I’d noticed the place several months ago, but had never tried it. Nouvelle Mexicano. Sounded rather different.
I found a somewhat tight parking space three doors down, and hoped an hour's worth of meter time would be enough. The restaurant was next to an old movie theater that, not being one of the new multi-plexes, was now relegated to showing B movies and cult classics. On the other side was a discount clothing store that appeared to generate quite a bit of traffic.
Partnerships Can Be Murder Page 1
