Obsessions Can Be Murder: The Tenth Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  I watched with a little trepidation as he made the call to Billy, relaxed when he did, and started eating my pie when, after jotting some notes, he made another call. From the sound of it he was lining up a job. The bad news was that it would start first thing Monday morning and my little hope of staying over in Watson’s Lake for a couple of extra days seemed doomed.

  While Drake was in the shower, I called Ron to see what progress, if any, had been made on our search for David Simmons. No answer on his cell or at his house, so I left messages in both places suggesting that he also see what information he could get from Continental Union, the insurance company in the case.

  His afternoon on the lake put Drake into a deep sleep about ten minutes after he’d turned on the television set. I sat up in bed, letting the program’s background of intense car-chase music drone on, unable to concentrate on the show. The David-Bettina- Rocko triangle seemed logical, but the Earleen-David-Bettina triangle might be very believable as well. The newspaper article said Earleen was in Santa Fe when the explosion happened. When had she left and when had she come home? I should have asked the sheriff more questions. Perhaps Amanda could fill in some of that, too.

  I’d already witnessed a not-too-attractive side of Earleen. Maybe I should get to know her a little better. I finally switched off the TV and the lights and lay there in the dark, thinking of the cast in this new drama while Drake snored softly beside me. At some point he rolled over and draped his arm around my waist and I snuggled into him and fell asleep.

  I awoke with a vague notion that I might spend the day, Sunday, checking out some of the leads in the case, but Drake had other plans. He was up already and dressed again in his outdoor gear.

  “One more day to get in some fishing,” he said. “We’re going to rent a boat, pack a picnic lunch, and spend the day on the water.”

  What could I say? Odds were very good that this might be our last weekend together for months. With the fire season kicking into high gear and his aircraft ready to go, he could be away on jobs continuously until August. I layered shirts and light jackets and tucked my book into a day pack. The convenience store at the marina provided sandwiches and chips and sodas. Rusty stood at the edge of the dock with his ears perked, not sure whether he should jump into the boat or not. Ready for a new adventure, though, he joined us.

  By noon, we’d caught zero fish, eaten two sandwiches, drunk two sodas, and I’d read only three paragraphs in my book. Not the most auspicious of days. On the plus side, there was still time to pack the truck and get back to Albuquerque, where Drake could go out to the heliport and check over the aircraft, readying the equipment for the next day’s job.

  The drive went quickly and we got to the house a little after four. While I carried our bags into the house and tossed fishy-smelling clothes into the washer, he began his systematic gathering of equipment from the garage. It’s amazing how much stuff has to go along when he leaves for a contract.

  After he’d left for the heliport, I sorted through the mail from the past two days, watered my one surviving houseplant, and checked the fridge for supplies although I’m not sure why. Drake would be gone at least a week, probably two, on this job. There wouldn’t be many dinners prepared in this kitchen for awhile.

  The phone rang just as I was letting Rusty out the back door.

  “Got your messages,” said Ron, “just haven’t had time to get back to you. You’re home now, I guess.”

  “That’s where you called.” Sometimes his powers of deductive reasoning astound me.

  “Okay, here’s the thing. No activity on David Simmons’s Social Security number for years. Last reported wages were six years ago from a firm in California--Silicon Valley. Small activity four and five years ago, some self-employment income, apparently, but not much. Since then he’s not surfaced anywhere in the United States.”

  That caught my interest. “Outside the United States?”

  “Not sure. There are a few sources I can check, but it gets a lot more difficult.”

  “Did you get my message about the insurance company?”

  “Yeah. They won’t tell me much, especially on a weekend. Finding someone with any authority there was impossible. I’ll stay on it.”

  “Any law enforcement activity on David?”

  “Not that I could find. Nothing major, anyway. Not to say he might not have gotten a speeding ticket in some little Podunk town, but there’s no felony record.”

  I found myself chewing on my lip. So, where did David go when he drove away that day, and how had he managed to hide himself so well? Most curiously, why had he chosen to have no contact with his family?

  Unless he had. Just because Amanda didn’t know where he was didn’t mean that others had not heard from him. Earleen? I debated the possibility that she and David had cooked up the plan together, but then why didn’t she join him wherever he’d gone? Why was she with Frank now if she thought David would come back for her? Too many questions.

  I needed to get back to Watson’s Lake.

  Monday morning began early, with Drake’s alarm clock going off at four. We managed a very fast, very hungry quickie before taking short showers and gulping coffee and toast for breakfast. I told him of my plan to keep working on Amanda’s case and we both cautioned each other about staying safe on the job.

  “I want you to take your pistol with you,” he said.

  I fidgeted for a second. I hadn’t been to the practice range in months.

  “Charlie . . . promise me. I don’t want you out there completely unable to defend yourself.”

  “I know, I know.” We’d had this discussion too many times.

  He pulled me into his arms and held me with nearly rib-cracking firmness. “I love you, baby.”

  I watched him drive away as a lump formed in my throat.

  I packed enough essentials—including the Beretta—to last a few days, waited for the commuter traffic to become unclogged, and gassed up my Jeep to head north. By ten o’clock I passed through Santa Fe and by one I was cruising the familiar-looking streets of Watson’s Lake.

  At the Horseshoe Motel, Selena Gibbons, the seventy-something lady from Texas who ran the place, greeted me by name. “Didn’t realize you’d come back so fast,” she said. “I coulda held the room for you.” Her blue-white curls stayed firm while her head bobbed.

  I thanked her and signed a new credit card slip. I’d no sooner walked back into our same cabin than my cell phone rang. Ron.

  “Not much from the insurance company, I’m afraid,” he said. He basically recapped what Sheriff Michaela had told me about the suspicious nature of the fire, the fact that David was their chief suspect, and their refusal to pay the claim unless and until his involvement could be disproved.

  “Another thought,” I said, musing out loud. “Have any of the law enforcement agencies put David’s picture out—something like a national alert or APB?”

  “I can check, but I don’t think so. Aside from the Segundo County sheriff’s department, I haven’t found other law enforcement agencies who’ve taken much of an interest. Big things like terrorism and high profile cases seem to draw all their attention. But I’ll check.”

  I walked up to Jo’s Café, fastened Rusty’s leash to the porch railing, and went inside. The first person I spotted was Amanda.

  Chapter 4

  She was eating alone at a booth near the back, toying with a plate of French fries smothered in green chile and reading a book.

  “Hi, Amanda,” I said. “May I join you?”

  She started at the sound of my voice, but immediately put her book down and indicated the seat across from her.

  “Have you found anything new?” she asked.

  “Not really. Background, mostly. Stuff you already know, I’m sure.” I paused for a minute when Jo approached. Her red hair stood out in a cloud of curls today. I gave her an order for the same thing Amanda was eating. “We’re trying to find a contact inside the insurance company who’ll be
willing to share more of their information, but they seem pretty buttoned up.”

  At the mention of the insurance, a bright gleam showed in her eyes but it faded when I told her they were still adamant about payment of the claim.

  “It just seems so unfair,” she said. “They have no proof my father did anything, and he’s not asking for the money. Why can’t they pay? Jake and I really need—”She busied herself by wiping her hands on her napkin.

  “Wouldn’t Earleen be the one to collect payment on the house?” I asked. “If they owned it jointly?”

  Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t know. Jake told me that Dad told him their research work would be funded no matter what. I assumed he meant in case of something . . . something happening to him.”

  “What’s this research project your dad and Jake were working on?” I asked.

  “Way over my head,” she said with a little grin. “Something medical. Jake’s a scientist.”

  Out here? My skepticism must have came through loud and clear.

  “Not everyone in this little town is a hick,” she said. “Jake went to Harvard, made some brilliant discoveries in the medical field. They’ve allowed him to continue his research here—kind of my doing; I grew up in the West and hated the east coast. Anyway, he has a small lab at home and works on his projects there.”

  I forked up a French fry and swabbed it in green chile sauce. “And your father—how did he fit in?”

  “He always was interested in Jake’s research. I loved watching them together, like two little kids with a science fair project. After Dad completed his big merger in California and moved out here, he decided he might help Jake with the financing on the research. You’d have to ask Jake more about that part of it. I have my hands full with a class of fourth graders. While I’m home grading papers at night, Jake is usually out in the lab doing whatever.”

  “Would he be there now?” I asked. “I’d like to find out a little more. He may remember something David said to him.”

  “He’s probably there,” she said. “Whether he’ll remember anything new, I don’t know about that. We’ve talked this over so many times.”

  She looked at her watch and dropped her napkin onto the table. “Oh, gosh, my free period is over in five minutes. I have to dash!” She tossed some money on the table and ran for the door.

  I finished my fries, covered the rest of the bill and walked with Rusty back to the motel where we got into the Jeep and headed down Main Street. I’d snagged the Watson’s Lake street map from the motel room and found the Zellinger’s address without too much trouble. Take Piedra Vista to Aspen Lane. The biggest hassle was following the winding mountain roads, where number 21 might be a half-mile from number 23. Once I got used to that part of it, I located the modest wood frame house on Aspen Lane quickly enough.

  The home sat in deep pine forest, with a narrow driveway leading to an attached garage on the right side and a cleared-out parking area directly in front of the house. As with most of the houses I’d seen here, theirs was done in cedar and redwood, with a steeply pitched red metal roof and wooden deck at the front of the place. Empty window boxes attested to the fact that it was still a bit early for bedding plants here in the mountains, but Amanda had brightened the place with interesting bits of “yard art”—brightly painted wind spirals and two bird feeders, which were being utilized at the moment by a blue jay and four small sparrow-like guys.

  I rolled down the Jeep’s windows for Rusty and climbed the three steps to the front deck. Large windows gave the occupants wide views of the forest; they also let me see inside quite easily and I could tell that Jake was not in the front part of the house. No television sounds, either.

  Beside the front door were two doorbells. A small placard read: Ring this one first. If no answer, ring this one. I followed the small arrow indicating that the leftmost button was to be pressed first. Electronic chimes sounded from within the house, but I wasn’t terribly surprised when there came no response. The second button activated an intercom of some sort, apparently, because a male voice came through an overhead speaker, asking who was there.

  “Charlie Parker. I’m working with Amanda.”

  “She’s not here. Gets home from school about four.”

  “I know. I just saw her. Actually, I wanted to talk to you, Jake.”

  There was a pause. I could envision the scientist at work, disgruntled by this interruption in his day.

  “It won’t take more than five minutes, I promise.”

  “Come around back. Follow the pathway to my lab.”

  I stepped off the deck and discovered that a path did, indeed, lead to the left, where it snaked around the corner of the house. Following it brought me to a separate building, larger than I would have imagined, surrounded by tall pines and connected to the main house by a breezeway. Jake Zellinger was waiting at the door.

  He ushered me into a small vestibule, about eight feet by eight. “Leave your shoes, purse and jacket here,” he said. “Don’t worry about being barefoot, the floors are heated.” He gave me a pair of paper slipper-like things to put on my bare feet.

  I noticed that he wore soft slippers with paper booties over them as well. I did as instructed and followed him into a much larger room, probably five or six hundred square feet. A huge desk sat in front of a window with a forest view. Stacks of folders filled most of its surface, attesting to the fact that a clean desktop was low on his priority list. File cabinets stood beside the desk, and the rest of the room was filled with lab tables, including beakers and bottles of liquids. Along the far wall a workbench that looked worthy of any mechanic’s shop contained ordinary-looking tools. Ordinary, except that they were all spotlessly clean. I commented on it.

  “This isn’t the sterile room,” he said. “That’s beyond the other door. But this one has to stay clean, therefore the ‘no shoes’ rule.”

  “Nice facility you have here,” I said, looking around. Jake gave a quick tour of the room, pointing out a few charts and experiments of which he was particularly proud. I couldn’t follow half of the scientific jargon but gathered that he was an expert in genetics.

  “You look awfully young to be this far along in your career,” I said, knowing that he held advanced degrees from Harvard, yet he appeared to be barely out of his teens. His dark, longish hair hung unkempt over his forehead, split at the middle by a pronounced cowlick

  He gave a crooked, boyish grin. “People say that,” he said enigmatically.

  I watched him for a moment. I’d placed Amanda in her early thirties. They seemed like an odd pair.

  “I’m thirty-seven,” he said, finally. “If I look younger than that, it means that our research is working.”

  My puzzled look spurred him to talk.

  “Since the 1980s there’s been a small but important research project at Harvard.” He picked up a magazine from the desk, a copy of a woman’s magazine that looked somewhat out of place amidst the stacks of data-filled sheets. “What are the two things that every person wants nowadays?”

  I glanced from the magazine to his face and back.

  “To be thinner and younger,” he answered. “Look at anything in today’s popular press.” He waved the magazine then dropped it on the desk. “Every issue carries some newest, latest tip for achieving one or both of those goals.”

  “That’s true,” I said.

  “We set out to study one of those subjects—how to block caloric intake—and we discovered the secret to both. Actually, the major research is still taking place back east. We’ve been pursuing molecular pathways that mimic caloric restriction. A couple of years ago a team published a paper on resveratrol, which stimulates this pathway, causing cells to live longer.

  “The team has pursued tests on yeasts, then on higher organisms like worms and flies. Long and short of it is that when cells live longer, aging is slowed. Restricted caloric intake means—thinner. Longer living cells means—younger. Ta-da, we have both our goals.”


  He turned and picked up a folder, reading from a report that contained more four- and five-syllable words than I could hope to absorb. “Basically, we’ve got the answer but we’ve needed the means to administer it. Through my research here, I’ve concluded that an implant of some type was the only practical way. And unlike a lot of medical implants that involve a small device to send electrical energy somewhere in the body, as with a heart pacemaker, this was a different animal. They only way to truly know if it would work was to implant the device in some humans.”

  I stared at him, the real meaning beginning to dawn. “You’ve done this procedure to yourself, haven’t you?”

  “Until I publish my paper next month on the device, which we’re calling the YA-30, I can’t really say.” But the look on his face told me.

  “And what was David Simmons’s role in all this?” I asked. “He’s not a scientist, is he?”

  “The other half of every scientific breakthrough is, of course, money,” Jake said. “I’ve been very blessed to have a large institution behind me in the research end of it. But bringing a product to market is an expensive proposition. Patents, prototypes, manufacturing, distribution. There’s a lot to it.”

  “And David had that much money?” I thought of the huge house, the biggest showiest place in these parts.

  “Access. He had access to it.” Jake’s brown eyes glowed with enthusiasm. “David made a bundle in the Silcon Valley heyday. Had all the right contacts, knew people with fortunes to invest. After I married Amanda he was willing to go along with her wish to live in a quiet rural atmosphere, and he set it up so I could have this lab and continue the important research work.

  “He had the marketing brains, developed a plan to hook up with his venture capitalist friends, bring the product to market on a five-year time frame.” Jake dropped the folder on the desk. “That was four years ago.”