Partnerships Can Be Murder

by Connie Shelton

  "Concha!" he called. "Concha, you better come here. There is some stranger walking in our door."

  Concha came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, and looked me up and down. "Eee, I think you're right. Who is this girl? Have we seen this one before?"

  I felt guilty that I hadn't brought them anything from Hawaii. I could have picked up an extra tin of macadamia nuts or something, although Pedro is usually suspicious of all foods that don't come from his own kitchen.

  They teased me about staying away too long, but they both hugged me at the same time. Manny sat at his usual table in the corner, watching the little reunion, his dark brown face with its perpetual sprinkling of white whiskers remaining placid. I gave a little wave in his direction. He kept on chewing, raising his chin briefly toward me in the way of a greeting.

  "You look good, little girl," Concha said, holding me at arm's length.

  She's always called me "little girl," ever since I really was a little girl, coming here with my dad. It seems a bit silly now, since she stands all of four feet ten inches. At five-six, I feel like I tower over her. She makes up for it in the width department, though, her roundness giving her the overall shape of a penguin. Her smooth flat face remains unwrinkled, belying the fact that she must be in her mid-fifties.

  Pedro, on the other hand, is a skinny little rail. He always wears white. White shirt, white pants, white apron, and in winter, a funny little white knit cap that he pulls on over his graying hair. He has lots of kindly wrinkles around his eyes, and deep smile lines on either side of his mouth. His hands are beginning to become warped with arthritis. He had stepped behind the bar, and returned now with a margarita for me.

  "This one on the house," he said, "to welcome you home."

  I wanted to protest, knowing they barely scratched out a living from the little place, but I knew it would offend him. Pedro is one of those generous souls who is most happy when he can do a favor for someone else.

  He continued to fuss around me, bringing flatware and napkin, making a show of dusting the crumbs off my chair. Like Manny, I have my regular table here. Mine is tucked into a corner, on the opposite side of the room from his. That's not saying much. The place is only about forty feet square, and at least half of that is taken up by the bar, a heavy wooden carved affair from Mexico. That leaves space for only six tables. Pedro suggested this one to me because it's far enough into the shadowy corner that Rusty can lie down beside my chair without attracting the attention of anyone who's not used to seeing a dog in a food establishment.

  The margarita was perfection. Lightly foamy on top, the rim of the glass crisp with salt crystals. My tongue puckered slightly as I took the first sip. The drink was cold and tart. I could feel tiny clumps of salt crystals at the corners of my upper lip, and I lapped them off with my tongue. Heaven.

  "Dinner," Concha sang out. She carried the hot plate with a folded towel. "You look hungry tonight, so I made three."

  The three rolled enchiladas stuffed with tender chicken meat were invisible beneath the blanket of melted cheese, green chile sauce, and two dollops of sour cream. A scattering of lettuce and freshly chopped tomato covered the whole steaming platter. I could see the cheese still bubbling around the perimeter where the broiler had turned the edges crisp. Experience had taught me not to dig right in. First I cut into the side of one of the enchiladas, releasing a delicate tendril of steam. The smell made my saliva glands go into overdrive, while my eyes watered slightly from the pungency of the green chile. I finished every bite.

  I had gained five pounds on my trip to Hawaii, thanks to the wonderful dinners supplied by Drake Langston. I had promised myself that I would get into some kind of exercise program when I got back but obviously I hadn't done it yet. Now this. I really would have to get serious. Maybe once I'd solved the David Ruiz case.

  It was almost ten before Rusty and I got away from Pedro's. The place was dead quiet once the boisterous Manny left, so Pedro, Concha, and I sat together awhile longer, catching up. Finally, I had to let them go. I knew they must have lots of kitchen cleanup to do before calling it a night. Luckily, they don't have far to travel to get home. They live at the back of the restaurant in a little apartment they've constructed out of what probably used to be the storeroom. With their one daughter grown and gone, it's just right for the two of them.

  I was tempted to leave the Jeep and walk home—the exercise would have done me good. But, the thought of coming back for it in the morning cooled me down. Besides, this isn't the safest neighborhood for a woman to go walking late at night. Even with Rusty at my side, I don't feel entirely at ease in the dark places between street lights.

  There was a stack of mail waiting in the box, which I'd forgotten to check for two days, so I stayed up awhile, drinking a cup of tea and paying a few bills. I finally hit the sack around midnight, and for some reason, was wide awake at six.

  I kept thinking about Michael's comment that he thought David might be worried about money. The phone messages I'd seen on his desk from the IRS might bear that out. I felt like I needed to go back and have another look at his desk. Now that I had a direction to take, Sharon might provide some further insight as well.

  The heavenly smells of fried meats, onions, and coffee greeted me when I arrived at the restaurant. Unfortunately, I still felt stuffed from the night before. I did accept a cup of coffee from Sharon, as she let me into David's office once again.

  The place appeared untouched since the last time I'd been there. Apparently the police had made their decision without a whole lot of checking into David's life. The messages from Tom McDonald at the IRS were still where I'd left them. I wondered if Sharon would mind if I called the man under the guise of being the accountant for the restaurant. It would be a way of finding out whether the business was involved or not. It was still early, though. Maybe I'd be better off to search through the mess in the office a bit further first.

  I opened the lower desk drawer and ran my fingers through the file folders inside. One was labeled "taxes." Inside, I hit the jackpot. The restaurant had received two notices by mail of an impending audit. They were dated three months earlier. The phone calls had probably come because David had not responded to the audit notices. I was glad I'd discovered this before calling and making a fool of myself. I wondered what other little surprises the files would yield.

  Specifically, I was interested in seeing the financials for the business. I found it odd that the IRS would already be getting around to an audit for a business that had only existed for a year. They don't normally move that fast. Unless there was something obvious to arouse their suspicions. I rummaged through the rest of the files in the drawer, but didn't come across any income statements or balance sheets. A similar search of the clutter on the desktop didn't turn them up either.

  By this time, the breakfast crowd had pretty well thinned out, so I took Sharon aside.

  "Did David keep financial records any place besides this room?" I asked.

  She looked thoughtful for a minute. "I don't think so. He did all his work here. I'm not sure I ever saw him even take anything home to do on a weekend, or anything."

  I thought about the apartment. There hadn't been any filing cabinets, and the small desk had contained only personal papers.

  "Were you aware that the IRS had initiated an audit of the business?" I asked Sharon

  Her eyes drifted toward the floor. I wasn't sure whether I just imagined the slight hesitancy.

  "You mean the phone messages on his desk? I assumed that had something to do with David's personal taxes. I didn't think the business was being audited."

  Something about her statement sounded weak to me. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I sensed she wasn't being a hundred percent open about this. Had she and David been up to some funny business with the books?

  Chapter 11

  "I need to find copies of the financials, Sharon. I've searched the desk drawer and the mess here on top. Do you have any other id
eas?"

  She shook her head. "What would this have to do with David's death, anyway?"

  "Maybe everything." My voice came out sounding harsher than I had intended, but dammit, I hate it when people close up. "His cousin tells me that David was very nervous about something. He got the feeling it was something financial."

  I held out the IRS notices, and looked her straight in the eyes. "Look, I didn't know David at all, so I'm having to go by what everyone else tells me. Most people deal with life's little financial crises, and somehow they cope. But some people just can't handle it. David might have felt the whole thing closing in on him, and he might have seen suicide as the only way out. I know you don't want it to turn out that way, but it might just be what happened."

  Her facial muscles remained motionless, but two large puddles formed in her lower eyelids. I waited. Sometimes silence is the best way to obligate the other person to speak.

  Finally, her shoulders sagged. "I don't know about any of this, Charlie," she said, a sob escaping between the words. "David kept most of the financial aspects of this business to himself. I know I should have paid more attention, but I just couldn't find the time. Charlie, you don't know what it takes to keep a restaurant going. Getting good help is the worst part. Just about the time you think you have a good crew, and everything is running all right, someone quits. You can't imagine how many times I've ended up waiting tables, or even cooking, because some little twit decided she couldn't handle the job any more, and called at six o'clock that morning to let me know she wouldn't be back. So I'd do her job all day, supervise the kitchen, do the shopping, check the inventory on staples, balance the cash drawer. By the time I get home at night, I'm exhausted. In the beginning I'd take the reports home and try to study them, but I don't understand that stuff, and it made my head hurt to try and make sense of them. Maybe I trusted David too far, but I just couldn't do it all."

  She had slumped down in David's chair, and propped her elbows on the desk, her forehead in her hands. She was right—I couldn't imagine all that went into running a restaurant. I felt guilty for doubting her. Awkwardly, I patted her on the shoulder, feeling badly because I'm not one of those people who dispenses hugs and comfort easily. I let her sit there in silence a few minutes before bringing up the subject again. This time, I tried to make my voice gentle.

  "For your sake, Sharon, we have to find out the state of things around here. This IRS man isn't going to give up just because no one ever returns his calls. If you'd like, I could call him, explain about David's death, and tell him we're trying to put the records together. They aren't all that cold and unfeeling. At least it will give you a little breather."

  She agreed, sending a weak smile my way—the first I'd seen in awhile.

  "Okay, now review with me exactly who did what. David showed you some reports. Did he produce those reports himself? Were they hand written, or did he do them on the computer? Did anyone else ever review the reports—a CPA or attorney?"

  Now that we were getting to some hard facts, she sat straighter in the chair, and calmed down.

  "David did the reports himself, on the computer. He had a CPA, Ben Murray, who did the tax returns. I think Ben reviewed the financial reports periodically, too, but I'm not sure. I couldn't stand Ben Murray. He's kind of, well, sleazy. I don't know how to describe it, but I didn't like being in the same room with him. I let David deal with him." She looked up at me again. "I guess I shouldn't have, huh?"

  "It's okay, Sharon. What's done is done. I just need to figure out what's going on now. If David had printed reports, they have to be somewhere. I need to see them. Any ideas?"

  "You could try going to see Ben Murray. I'll warn you though, wear protective bullshit gear."

  We laughed, the tension broken.

  I looked up Murray's address in the phone book, and discovered it wouldn't be too far out of my way to stop at Dr. Casper's office first.

  Linda Casper had been in my class in high school. Despite being probably the smartest of the whole bunch, she was down-to-earth. A good friend. With her head for learning and her natural bedside manner there was never any doubt she'd make a top-notch doctor. Now, just a couple of years out of med school, though, it was still a struggle. She'd gone in with two older physicians, in hopes of building her practice. It would come—just a matter of time.

  When I signed the clipboard at the reception desk I noticed there were only two other patients listed for Dr. Casper. Both had already come and gone. I found myself worrying about her. Most people think becoming a doctor is an automatic ticket to riches, but I knew better. I'd watched Linda sign those loan papers to get through school. It would be years before she broke even. Especially as a family practitioner, where even the best ones sometimes barely make it.

  "Charlie!" Her infectious grin warmed the examining room. At five foot four, Linda is somewhat on the bosomy side, soft in all the right places for hugging a hurt child. Her short blond curls are the wash and wear variety, and her bright blue eyes go naturally with the faint freckles visible under her makeup.

  "What are you in for this time?" she asked.

  She consulted my folder, where her nurse had made notes about the appointment. "Removing sutures?"

  She stared over the tops of her beige rimmed reading glasses. "Charlie, Charlie, Charlie," she tsked. She set the folder down, and her hands went to her ample hips. "What ever am I going to do with you?"

  "Oh hush, Linda, and pull 'em out," I said with mock annoyance. I lifted my hair up, giving her a clear view.

  She reached for a pair of shiny surgical scissors and some tweezers.

  "What was it this time? Doesn't look like a good clean-cut knife wound." Snip, snip. I felt a small tug.

  "A wrench."

  "Oh, okay." Snip, snip, tug. "Are you ever going to give up these quests of yours, this insatiable need to help out the underdog?" Snip, snip.

  "I doubt it."

  She twisted her upper body around to look me in the eye. "I'll bet you're working on another one right now, aren't you?"

  "Well..."

  "I knew it! I ought to suture you to this table."

  "What? And take all the fun out of life?"

  She laid the instruments down on the Formica counter top with a little more force than necessary. I turned to see if she was really angry. Her head shook slowly back and forth, her mouth puckered into a resigned little grin.

  "You haven't changed since fifth grade," she said.

  I hopped off the examining table, and gave her a hug. "Neither have you. Do you ever get out of here long enough to have lunch with an old friend?"

  "Rarely. But it happens now and then. So, when do you want to do lunch?"

  "I'm serious, Linda. Pick a day, and I'll be there."

  "Next Wednesday. Twelve-thirty. High Noon Restaurant in Old Town."

  "Watch me, I'm writing it down." I took the small spiral from my purse, and made notes.

  Linda scratched a couple of notes on a multiple part billing form. "Hand this to the receptionist, Charlie. There's no charge."

  "Oh, no you don't," I said. I remembered that she'd only had two other patients for the day. "You can't give your services away." I looked her straight in the eye.

  "Okay, minimum charge."

  She gave me her don't argue with me look. We exchanged another hug, and I left. At the front desk, the receptionist said, "That'll be twenty-one sixteen with the tax."

  I gave her a check for forty and told her to adjust the billing accordingly.

  Outside, the day was already turning into another warm one. A couple of cottony clouds sat atop Sandia Peak, but they didn't look quite powerful enough to build into rain producers. Anyway, the weatherman hadn't predicted any moisture, and it looked as though we might already be heading for our typical hot dry June. I let the engine idle a minute or two, then turned the air conditioner up full blast. The visit to Linda Casper had served as a pleasant interlude between investigatory duties. I proceeded toward the
address Sharon had given me.

  Sharon was right about Ben Murray. His office was down on South Broadway, in an area where most businesses had boarded up and left. The ones that stuck it out were heavily protected. Murray's office was upstairs over a pawn shop with windows outlined in silver burglar alarm tape, then coated with steel mesh, and finally covered by wrought iron bars. I entered a narrow door off the street, and stepped into a three foot square space facing a dilapidated wooden staircase. The closed-in area was musty with the smell of old cigarettes, with dust and mouse turds to add ambiance. Given David's inclination toward classy, expensive touches in his personal life, I had a hard time imagining him coming here for financial advice.

  At the top of the steep stairs was another space about three feet square that served as landing and entrance to Murray's offices. His name had been hand lettered, probably by a six-year-old, on the opaque rippled glass panel in the top half of the door. I turned the cheap doorknob tentatively.

  Murray's taste in furnishings ran to the economical. The room I stepped into was meant as a reception area. It was furnished with a wooden desk, from which various sized chunks of the veneer were missing. An old-fashioned rotary dial phone in a peculiar shade of turquoise and an overflowing ashtray were the only visible desk accessories. A manual Royal typewriter with chipped paint stood on a metal typing stand beside the desk. It wasn't covered, and had a good quarter inch of dust on it. The only other furnishings in the reception room were two matching chairs with an end table between them. They were avocado green vinyl, which coordinated beautifully with the orange and green shag carpeting—something long and treacherous, looking like it could easily harbor small rodents. Another overflowing ashtray sat on the table between the chairs.

  No human being had yet taken notice of me, although I suspected tiny multi-legged creatures of the night were well aware of my presence. In the background I could hear a low monotone male voice, like one side of a phone conversation that was purposely being kept quiet. I stood awkwardly, not quite sure what to do with my hands, certain that I didn't want to sit down or touch anything. Finally, I ahummed a couple of times.