Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  "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.

  A stucco front had been added to the restaurant's narrow bit of sidewalk frontage, along with curlicued wrought iron window grates that were meant to be decorative and functional at the same time. I pulled on the heavy wooden door inlaid with a stained glass parrot, and stepped into a shady foyer.

  A hostess, who could have been no more than nineteen, greeted me with a dimply smile. She had a sleek French braid that went halfway down her back. Picking up a menu, she led me to a small table. The interior of the place consisted of one main room, divided into several sections by chest-high dividers, topped with green plants. The lighting was done in such a way as to suggest skylights, although being on the ground floor of a three story building, I knew there were none. The effect was light and modern. The color scheme was pale turquoise and mauve. The menu read like a crash course in foodspeak, with many items "delicately seasoned," "lightly sauteed," and "with a hint of…" It was Mexican with a health-food perspective. I chose a salad that sounded interesting, a combination of greens, chicken (briefly sauteed and impeccably seasoned), and herb cheeses, all in a tortilla shell "lightly tanned" in 100% canola oil. My waiter brought my iced tea almost instantly, and I sipped at it while scoping out the rest of the room.

  The place was only about a third full, although my watch told me it was twelve-fifteen. Being a Friday, I would have expected this to be prime time in a downtown restaurant. My salad arrived just then, and I had to admit, it was delicious. Despite the overuse of adjectives on the menu, the food was just plain good.

  "Charlie Parker?"

  I looked up to see a woman leaning over my table. "Sharon? My goodness, imagine running into you here."

  "I own the place," she said, her eyes proudly sweeping the room. "How is your meal?"

  I told her what I thought.

  "What's it been, now? Ten years?"

  "Try twelve. Graduation day," she said. "I didn't see you at the tenth reunion, and wondered whether you were still in Albuquerque."

  Sharon Ortega had improved with age. Her face was slimmer than I had remembered, her hair shorter and lighter than before. She wore it in a breezy chin-length style, with generous streaks of blond highlights through it. Her eyes were still dark brown, about the size of quarters, with the same thick natural lashes we had all envied. She wore a crisply tailored linen dress of pale turquoise, and a wide silver bracelet on her right wrist. We’d shared classes throughout high school, although we had not palled around much outside school hours.

  "What are you doing these days, Charlie?"

  "My brother, Ron, and I have a private investigation firm together."

  Her eyes got even wider. "Really? You chase down bad guys and everything?"

  "Well, Ron's the licensed PI. I'm the accountant. But, you know how it goes. I tend to get dragged into cases from time to time." I handed her one of my cards. She stared at it for a good ten seconds, as if memorizing the details.

  "How about you?" I asked. "How long have you had the restaurant?"

  "We've been open about a year," she answered. "I have a partner, too. I manage the kitchen and the help, and he handles the paperwork. Hey, you and he might just hit it off. You got anyone special in your life right now?"

  I thought of Drake Langston. "No one permanent yet," I told her.

  "I think David's around someplace." She glanced around the room.

  "That's okay, don't interrupt anything." I really didn't want any hasty matchmaking on my behalf, so I quickly changed the subject. "How's business, Sharon? You like being downtown?"

  She shifted from one foot to the other, and I could see a flicker of emotions cross her face, as she decided how much to tell me.

  "It's been all right," she said cautiously. "We really started off with a bang a year ago. We're only open for breakfast and lunch, you know, and we had people lined up out the door. Lately, though, I don't know." Her voice dropped to little more than a whisper. "I guess maybe the fad's over."

  "The food is great. I'd think the healthy approach would be really big now."

  "That's what we thought, too. I took a lot of my mother's old recipes, and adapted them. Cut out a lot of the frying, switched everything to unsaturated, lean, fresh. Everyone who tries us, really seems to like the result.

  "I don't know," she continued. "Maybe it's just this city."

  I knew what she meant. I've seen it happen many times. A new restaurant will be a huge hit at first, then business falls off, and soon they're gone.

  "Well. I better let you finish your lunch." She pulled her shoulders a little straighter, and summoned a bright smile. "Enjoy."

  I watched her make the rounds of the other tables while I finished my salad. She had a few words and a friendly smile for each of her customers. She looked like the old Sharon I had known, the one who was outgoing and friendly with everyone.

  The waiter had left my check, and I was calculating the tip when I felt someone approach. I glanced up to see Sharon once more, this time toting a man behind her.

  "Charlie, this is my partner, David Ruiz," she said.

  We exchanged hellos, and I made a couple of comments about how much I'd enjoyed my lunch. David seemed eager to be somewhere else. He was in his late twenties, well dressed in gray summer weight wool slacks and a custom made shirt with monogram on the pocket. His shoes were Gucci, and his dark hair looked like it had been trimmed within the past two days. Sharon had probably dragged him away from his desk. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and I saw a smudge of blue ink on his right middle finger. He had a handsome face, but some difficulty in cracking a smile. As we talked, his eyes darted around distractedly. I stood up, giving him a chance to exit.

  Later, I would wish I'd talked a little longer with David Ruiz. The next time I would hear his name would be when I learned that he was dead.

  Chapter 3

  Ron wasn't back yet when I arrived at the office. Sally said there hadn't been any calls. She had her desk cleared, and her car keys out, apparently eager to leave for the day. I secretly hoped Ron wouldn't come back for awhile yet. There were no appointments on the book, and I could use the time alone to get my own work caught up.

  I went back up to my own office, where Rusty greeted me like I'd been gone a week. I slipped him a biscuit from a canister I keep on my shelf. I spent the rest of the afternoon finishing up the payables, then getting on to some letters and phone calls. By four o'clock things were beginning to shape up. It would be another week before I'd have to worry about the month-end financials, so all in all I felt good about the amount of work I'd accomplished.

  I still hadn't heard from Ron, so I left him a note telling him that I'd like t
o go over the pending cases with him. If he got in before seven, and wanted to come by the house, I was making spaghetti. I figured that would lure him, if nothing else would. I called his apartment, and left a similar message on his answering machine.

  Rusty trotted around after me, his toenails clicking on the hardwood floors, as I checked the front door lock, closed windows, switched off the copy machine and the lights. We ended up in the kitchen at the back of the old house, where I wiped off the counter tops, threw out the old coffee grounds, and washed out the pot. At four-thirty, we locked the back door and headed for the Jeep, parked behind the building. Rusty made a side trip to the back corner of the property, where he did his business, then feeling much relieved, he jumped into the back seat.

  I made a quick stop at the grocery store to stock up on milk, bread, and salad ingredients. It was still only five-fifteen when I got home. Ron had left a message on my machine saying that he would love spaghetti for dinner, and would be there at six-thirty.

  Ron had two cases currently going. One was a pretty standard matter of gathering evidence in a workman's comp case. The man who claimed a totally debilitating back injury had somehow managed to play two sets of tennis the previous Saturday, according to rumor. Ron's job now, was to get pictures, testimony, whatever it took to prove that the guy really should be back at work.

  The other case involved a prominent businessman, Morris Boyd, who was apparently fooling around with the wife of a well-known politician. The businessman's wife, Lorraine Boyd, was our client. Since New Mexico has fairly lenient no-fault divorce laws, I could only guess that her reason for wanting the whole nasty little story in pictures was to facilitate some kind of blackmail, either monetary or emotional. I hate those kind of things, and I've told Ron I'd rather we didn't take them. But, with Ron, income is income. I've been fortunate enough with my investments that the agency is more of a side-line for me. Ron needs every penny he gets just to manage rent and child support.

  We rehashed all of this over plates of pasta, salad, and garlic bread, all of which I must admit I threw together from packages and jars. Although I can cook when the need arises, I challenge myself to produce acceptable food in fifteen minutes or less, using nothing more than the microwave or toaster oven. We had stacked the dishes in the sink, and moved into the living room with glasses of red wine.

  "You never did explain that little railroad track of stitches you have across the back of your skull," he reminded.

  "Let's just say it turned out to be a working vacation," I told him.

  "And how did you get talked into working on your vacation?"

  This time, it was my turn to blush.

  "A guy, huh?" he teased.

  "Well..." I told him a little about Drake, and sketched an outline of the case, which had taken me from Kauai to San Francisco and back, and had given some revealing insights into the helicopter tour business in Hawaii.

  "Look, Vicky and I are driving up to Angel Fire tomorrow morning for the weekend. Why don't you join us? It would give you a nice breather."

  I could think of better ways to breathe than in the company of cute Vicky, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings by saying so. After all, I didn't know the girl, and to be fair, I should reserve judgment.

  "I have a two bedroom condo reserved. It's two story, and you can have the lower floor all to yourself. You and Rusty."

  I felt myself wavering. Angel Fire is one of the prettiest places in the entire state. Tucked into one corner of the wide green Moreno Valley, the little alpine village perches at the base of eleven thousand foot Agua Fria Peak, looking like something right out of a Swiss travel brochure. I'd been there a couple of other times with friends, and loved it. During the winter months, it's a bustling ski resort, but in the summer the pace slows down considerably. The summer season kicks off Memorial Day weekend, another week away. Right now, it should be quiet and peaceful. I felt myself giving in to the idea. Ron could tell what I was thinking.

  "Okay, then," he said, getting up to carry his glass to the kitchen. "We'll stop by and pick you up at eight."

  "We better take my Jeep," I said. "I can't see three people and a dog jammed into that convertible of yours."

  "You sure?"

  "As long as you'll still do the driving."

  He agreed, set his wine glass in the sink, and squeezed my shoulder as he left. I switched on the TV but couldn’t get interested in anything. Dialed Drake Langston’s number on Kauai. When the answering machine came on I remembered the four-hour time difference and figured he wouldn’t even be home from work yet. I left a brief message, saying that I was thinking about him, then wondered if I shouldn’t be observing the old boy-girl ritual where girl waits for boy to call first. Too late now.

  I puttered around the kitchen, washed the dishes, put the leftover salad in the fridge and went around the house emptying waste baskets into a black plastic garbage bag. Tomorrow would be trash day. I carried my one sack out to the curb. That done and Rusty fed, I decided I was ready for a shower.

  Twenty minutes later, I stood in front of my closet deciding on what clothes to take to Angel Fire. Mountain weather is always cooler, and sometimes more unsettled, than in the city. I tossed an extra pair of jeans, some boots and two sweaters into a bag. The unfinished Clancy novel was in the living room. I went to retrieve it and that’s when I noted the call on my answering machine. It must have rung while I was outside or in the shower.

  “Hi, Charlie,” Drake’s deep voice came through. “Sorry I missed you . . . Been thinking about you constantly . . . uh, I guess I’ll have to call back later. I have an association meeting to go to now. But then you’ll probably be asleep . . .Well, I’ll just try over the weekend. ’Bye.”

  A pang of longing shot through me. Maybe I should cancel the weekend plans with Ron and Vicky.

  Wait a minute. I stopped myself. No way was I going to fall into that sitting-by-the-phone trap, that molding-my-life-to-fit-his routine. If anything were to develop between Drake Langston and me, it would have to come about naturally. And I would not lose sleep over making it happen. I tossed my packed duffle onto the floor, turned out the lights, and lay in bed with my eyes wide open until after one a.m.

  Chapter 4

  The condo was situated near the base of the Angel Fire ski area. This time of year, ours was the only car in the parking lot. Rusty and I shared the downstairs bedroom. That and a small bathroom comprised the entire lower floor. The view from my window showed the side of the Jeep, not much more. I clipped a leash to Rusty's collar, and we left to explore. Ron and Vicky could unpack and get started with whatever else they had planned for the weekend. I didn't especially want to be around for that.

  Outside, the sky was a deep blue. Tall ponderosa pines cast dappled shadows across the ground. A brisk wind came up the road, making the air at least fifteen degrees cooler here than in the city. I was glad I'd brought a light jacket along with the sweaters.

  We walked uphill, toward the unmoving ski lift. No one else in sight. Rusty tugged constantly at the leash, so I finally gave up and unclipped it. He wouldn't go far, he just wanted the freedom to go at his own pace. He stayed with me, trotting within a few yards, wherever I walked.

  Dried pine needles crunched under our feet. The air was crisp, free of the car exhaust and fast food smells associated with the city. I breathed deeply, absorbing all the oxygen I could, like a drug.

  An hour later, puffing slightly from the altitude, we re-entered the condo. Vicky sat on the living room sofa, her eyes and hands intent on a video game connected to the TV set. She had changed from the stretch pants and halter top she had worn for the trip. Now she wore an oversize T-shirt and a pair of red socks. Her tan legs were bare. Ron was barefoot in the kitchen, putting food away in the refrigerator. Their bedroom door stood open, revealing rumpled bedding and clothing carelessly tossed on the floor. Suddenly I longed for Drake. I didn't want to make idle chit-chat with these two.

  There was a small deck
off the living room with several white plastic chairs on it. I picked up the Tom Clancy novel that I hadn't quite finished in Hawaii, and took it out to the deck. The deedle-deedle music from Vicky's video game disappeared when I closed the glass door.

  I found myself thinking about Drake Langston more than I intended to. I wanted to tell myself that it was a vacation fling, but I'm not given to flings, so that idea went against my grain.

  By five o’clock the sun was low over the western hills, the tall pines casting cool shadows my way. I slid the glass door open. Video characters bounced across the TV screen. Ron dozed on the sofa, the sports section of the Albuquerque paper draped across his chest.

  “I think I’ll start some dinner,” I suggested.

  Neither of them replied. I walked between Vicky and the television without breaking her concentration. Rummaging through our provisions, I came up with a frozen lasagna, which I popped into the oven. Dumped pre-cut salad greens into a bowl. The condo came equipped with plenty of dishes and utensils so I set the table and located a candle for the center. Ron roused at the sound of all the clinking and helped put the finishing touches on the salad. We whiled away the rest of the lasagna’s baking time by taking turns challenging Vicky at the video game. My skills in this department are sadly lacking and I got eliminated early in the first round.

  At last the lasagna bubbled and we pried the video game away from Vicky. Ron lit the candle on our table and held her hand as we took our seats.

  “So, Vicky, Ron tells me you’re a decorator,” I said, once we’d scooped lasagna and salad onto our plates.

  “Yeah,” she answered, her dark eyes looking at Ron rather than me.

  “Do you have a specialty? Residential or commercial?”

  “Oh, just about anything.”

  “What’s your preference in style? Traditional, contemporary?” I felt like I was giving her the third degree but she certainly wasn’t volunteering anything.