Obsessions Can Be Murder: The Tenth Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

Her eyes went wide.

  “I take it that’s a ‘no.’ ”

  “The Big Brad chain? I don’t think that’s possible, Charlie.”

  “Our investigation brought it up. Your mother, Samantha Bradley, split off from them when she married your dad. We’re not sure why. Just wondered if he’d ever said anything about that.”

  “Not a word.” A small crease etched her forehead. “I can ask Jake if Dad ever mentioned it to him.”

  “Would you mind if I came along? We could ask him now. If you were on your way home, that is.”

  She glanced around. “Well, I am. Sure. Is your . . .” She spotted my Jeep. “Want to follow me up there?”

  Jake was, as usual, busy in the lab when we arrived. He seemed grumpy as he put down a slide he was working on under the microscope and removed his face mask. Amanda and I waited at the doorway, well out of the work area, until he joined us. I repeated what I’d asked Amanda about the Bradley family.

  Jake gave it a moment, seeming to concentrate on remembering something. “I don’t think so,” he finally said. “We didn’t talk much about the past. David was the kind of guy who was very much in the moment. Whatever the current project, that’s where his attention stayed.”

  Amanda nodded. “Absolutely. If we were at the zoo, when I was a kid, he’d be just as focused on that bear or seal as any kid in the place. When he was building the house here, he gave his whole attention to the details. Same with Jake, here in the lab. The two of them could work in here for hours.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I said. “I wondered because Samantha got quite a large inheritance from the Bradleys. If David had stayed in touch with them, they could have been a good source for cash in your work here, Jake.”

  A shadow passed across his face but he didn’t say anything.

  Amanda’s chilly hand on my arm got my attention. “A large inheritance? When did that happen?”

  “At her twenty-first birthday. Right before she married your father. Our reports show that they bought several high-dollar items, so it’s doubtful there was much left by the time you were born.”

  She pressed her fingertips to her temples. “I . . . there’s something about that . . . some money. My mother and dad arguing.” She squeezed her eyes shut, remembering. “I don’t know. I can’t come up with the specific details. I must have been two or three. Can kids have memories as young as two? I don’t know. It’s just an impression of a big fight. She yelled something about money, about what it would cost him if she died.”

  Her face had gone pale and clammy-looking.

  “I just don’t remember.”

  Chapter 19

  I thought of Jake’s comment about David’s proclivity toward living in the moment as I drove down the mountain, toward the Horseshoe. Again, more complexities. If David truly lived in the moment, spending money as quickly as it passed through his hands, how did he manage to hide away ten million dollars in accounts no one knew about? How did the fake IDs fit? The planning that went into that had to be enormous. And he surely had some plan for the use of the other identities; one doesn’t set up multiple lives unless one has a reason to do so. But damned if I knew what those reasons were. Some vital bit of the puzzle was still missing.

  The rest of the afternoon slid by as I read the words in my new paperback without absorbing them. By five o’clock I gave up on that, had a sandwich at Jo’s, followed by a walk through town in the last of the daylight.

  I dreamed fitfully in disjointed scenes where I was alternately home with Drake and then in Jake’s lab here in the mountains. David Simmons came into some of the scenes and when he spoke it was with a high, reedy voice that seemed completely unfitting with the six-foot, burly build of the man. The huge house by the lake was intact and I walked through the rooms with Amanda, until Ron showed up unexpectedly to tell me that I needed to find a safe in the study and look in it. I woke up more tired than I’d been when I went to bed the night before. The clock said 5:21. I groaned and rolled over. There was really no point in trying to go back to sleep.

  I splashed water on my face and brushed my teeth, ran a brush through my hair and pulled it up into a ponytail. Wearing gray sweats that matched the circles under my eyes, I stepped out to the porch and took in a few lungfuls of mountain air. I made myself bend to touch my toes three times and did a quick little jog in place. A good cup of coffee would get me on the way to actually being awake.

  The town seemed curiously silent after the bustle of the weekend. I walked up to Jo’s, waving at Woody as he arrived at the Chevron across the street. The locals had begun to recognize me, minus the curious stares, and I briefly envisioned what it would be like to simply stay here and fit into their little society. It might not be all bad. I pictured the land where the Simmons house had stood, with its majestic views and peaceful solitude. How much would it take to buy that plot?

  I shook off the thought. Don’t be dumb, Charlie. You’ve got a business to run in Albuquerque and Drake’s got huge commitments with the helicopter service. You can’t be moving off to paradise. Pair-o-dice was more like it. Making a living in a little lakeside village would be a big gamble. It always is, in resort towns.

  Four vehicles sat outside Jo’s and they turned out to be a construction crew who occupied one table, boisterous men enjoying a hearty breakfast before heading out for their day’s work. I took a seat at the counter and Jo filled a mug for me without asking. I let the hot brew course through my veins before picking up the menu. The construction guys left and a few others drifted in, including two couples and a woman with two young children.

  “So, you going to the Simmons memorial today?” Jo asked as she poured my third refill.

  I felt a stab of irritation that Amanda hadn’t said anything about it to me. If Jo knew, then everyone at the café knew. Why didn’t I? Maybe I wasn’t fitting in with the locals as well as I’d thought. I shrugged it off, telling Jo I probably would go. I finished my French toast in a grumpy mood.

  When I got back to the cabin, the message light on my phone was blinking. Amanda, letting me know of the service and pleading with me to come, apologizing that she’d forgotten to mention it yesterday but the plans were made on short notice, yada, yada. I called her back to let her know I’d be there.

  “I’m so sorry, Charlie. I should have told you that the sheriff released the body. Somehow, the state lab got right on it and made the positive ID.” Her voice went quavery.

  “It’s okay. Our other conversation got a little intense. Are you doing okay?”

  She assured me she was, although when she reiterated the invitation to the service a little desperation crept into her voice.

  The service would be at ten, so I had hours yet. I used my fresh caffeine and sugar fix to go for a long walk, circling by the elementary school and down the block past the house Earleen and Frank shared. I crossed the main road and strolled by Billy Rodman’s place, which looked belted up and quiet. The brothers were supposedly off in County Jail and I wondered how long that would last. I couldn’t imagine that drunken and disorderly carried a very huge penalty, considering a bunch of our state legislators did it all the time.

  By nine forty I’d had time to shower and rummage through my small stash of clothing for something appropriate to wear and had driven to the chapel of the little multi-denominational church that served the community. I hate funerals and usually refuse to go—too many memories from my own youth. But Amanda had practically begged and I got the feeling it was because she and Jake would be sitting across the aisle from Earleen and Frank. She must have wanted to beef up her reinforcements just a tad. I found her among the small crowd in the lobby—including the mayor and sheriff and a group of churchy looking ladies I’d never seen before.

  Amanda squeezed my hand and leaned in to whisper. “Thanks for coming, Charlie. I can use the moral support.”

  Sure enough, Earleen stood across the room, barely concealing the daggers in her eyes.

  Amanda took Jake’s
arm—somehow he looked even younger in a suit than in his lab coat—and I followed them into the chapel. A deacon directed us to take the front row on the left side of the aisle, and almost immediately Earleen and Frank took the same row on the right side. Amanda, I noticed, busied herself with a handful of tissues.

  The interminable business of doleful music followed by someone—the minister, I assumed—waxing eloquent about all of David’s wonderful qualities began. I half-listened, not catching anything new, any bit of information that would let me know what had happened to him. No one jumped up and admitted to being the one who’d bashed him over the head, and being in the front row I couldn’t even sneak a peek backward to see if any uncomfortable fidgeting was going on back there. I assumed keeping watch would be Michaela’s reason for being here.

  We endured thirty minutes or so of comforting words—at least I assumed Amanda found them comforting to some degree. What do you say to the family when someone’s been murdered? And there’s not much at all you can say when the dead guy is also suspected of killing someone else.

  When we stood up to let the mourners file past, I stepped aside and watched. Aside from family, there were only about twenty people there and most of them just glanced furtively at the closed casket before offering tentative handshakes to the Amanda team and the Earleen team. It was almost humorous to watch, but I wasn’t there for the fun of it. The chief suspect was inside the casket, the secondary one was in county jail, and the rest of them stood in the receiving line. I studied the faces but saw nothing out of the ordinary at all.

  Burial would take place at the community cemetery about ten miles away. A hearse bore the casket but everyone else was on their own in private cars. Once I ascertained that Amanda and Earleen would not somehow be thrown together in one vehicle I whispered to Amanda that I’d take my own.

  “You’ll come with us to Horton’s office afterward, won’t you?” she said. “He’ll be reading the will.”

  Now that could get interesting.

  I followed, noting that the crowd had dropped off by at least half, leaving only the immediate family, the sheriff, Horton Blythe, and a few others to actually stand at the graveside. That part of it went quickly. There wasn’t a whole lot that hadn’t been said at the church. I stifled a yawn.

  Two of the churchy ladies told Amanda that they’d bring food by her house. She thanked them, although I could tell she really didn’t want any company. She told them she wouldn’t be back at home for another couple of hours and they exchanged satisfied smiles. I could envision casseroles and cakes going into ovens, to be produced hot and fresh at the right moment. Amanda sent me a “Help me” look, so I engaged the two women in one of those meaningless conversations about how well they knew David. I let them natter on until I noticed people getting into cars. At that point I exited with a line that bordered on rude, I’m sure, but it was more important that I follow the Zellinger’s car to Blythe’s office.

  We made a cozy little procession—Horton Blythe in a champagne colored Cadillac that couldn’t have been more than two years old, Earleen and Frank in Frank’s swashy Olds sedan that had to be twenty years out of date, Jake and Amanda in their gray SUV and me in my Jeep. I wondered at the conversations that must be taking place in the other vehicles. A fly on the windshield could get some juicy tidbits, I felt sure. Too bad I hadn’t thought to install tiny recorders.

  We headed out the cemetery gates, in the opposite direction of Watson’s Lake, and followed the winding two-lane through the mountains toward Segundo. The town of around 5,000 inhabitants, which serves as the county seat, is about thirty minutes from Watson’s Lake and it was bustling with noonday traffic when we arrived. If I’d given much thought to where people of the region could go for junk food and major shopping (we’re talking one small Wal-Mart store), I’d just found the answer. A KFC, a Taco Bell and a McDonald’s represented the fast food contingent, and all three had cars queuing up to their drive-throughs like ants toward a sugar cube.

  Blythe’s office was one block off the main street in a territorial style building that blended perfectly with the architecture of the whole town. Even the McDonald’s, I’d noted, was adobe-colored with vigas. The law offices occupied half the building, while a title company and a mortgage firm filled two smaller slots. With almost military precision, we filed into the lot. It became interesting to watch the way people chose their parking spots. Horton, in the lead, took a reserved spot with his name on it, inside a fenced area at the back of the building. Frank almost followed but hit the brakes when he realized what a social faux pas that would be. Everyone else consequently had to hit the brakes, too, and this resulted in a moment of indecision. My tail end was sticking out into the street so I mentally urged them on. Frank ended up taking the only spot he could maneuver the huge Olds into, and I watched Amanda direct Jake to take the first empty space near the door. I pulled in next to their Mazda, a small buffer in case the Olds should become belligerent later on.

  We stood beside our respective vehicles, shuffling uncertainly, until Horton Blythe bustled forward and ushered us toward the front door.

  “Come in, come in,” he said, almost impatiently. “My secretary should be—ah, yes. Cathy, coffee in the conference room, please.”

  The forty-something woman in navy pinstripes rose and disappeared into a side room.

  The rest of us followed Horton through a set of double doors and into a long room with a conference table set for six. Cathy had somehow circumvented the congestion in the hallway and appeared now through another doorway, tray and full coffee setup in hand. She quietly offered the beverage around as we all took seats—Horton at the head of the table, Earleen and Frank to his right, Amanda and Jake to his left, which left me at the foot. I felt a little strange being here, but certainly had as much right as did Frank Quinn, so I wasn’t going to apologize for my presence. Frank was the only one to accept the offer of coffee and Cathy left the tray on a sideboard and quietly exited. Horton had pulled a leather portfolio from somewhere and now began to extract a sheaf of papers.

  “We are gathered for the reading of the last will and testament of David Simmons,” he began and I tuned out the rest of the formal introduction as he went through some extraneous introductions of the parties in the room. Since everyone knew everyone else, I could only assume the formality was something Blythe performed as routine, one of those lawyerly rituals that justified his fee.

  I sat back to watch the reactions. It didn’t take long. I knew Amanda had already talked to Blythe about the will we’d found in the safe deposit box, but I wasn’t sure whether Earleen knew about it. My suspicions were confirmed about a minute later when Horton finished the legal sounding bits and began speaking as David’s long-time confidant.

  “David Simmons drew up a new will approximately two months before his disappearance,” Blythe said. “In this document he made provisions for some life changes he expected to happen shortly thereafter.”

  I could tell by the blank look on Earleen’s face that she had no clue what was coming.

  “To my wife Earleen, a copy of the prenuptial agreement she signed, agreeing to leave the marriage with nothing, and a copy of the divorce papers which I plan to file on this date.” When Blythe actually read the words, cutting Earleen out entirely, her face went white and her mouth hung slack. I almost felt sorry for her.

  Frank’s expression looked like someone who’d just swallowed strychnine. His eyes bulged slightly and he began to sputter.

  “Mr. Quinn, there will be no comment.” Blythe looked up briefly and returned to the papers in front of him.

  “To my daughter, Amanda Zellinger, my home and property at Watson’s Lake, New Mexico, my personal effects, and all monetary and brokerage accounts in my name.”

  I stifled the cough that threatened to close off my throat. In my name. So, what had been David’s intentions toward all the money he’d stashed under other names? I glanced toward Amanda, but remembered that she knew nothin
g about the rest of the money.

  Earleen recovered her powers of speech and lit into Blythe. “That’s ridiculous and completely unfair. We weren’t divorced yet.”

  Horton Blythe ran his manicured nails over the document. “His wishes were plain. And you did sign the prenuptial—”

  “Those things never stand up in court,” she yelled. “I’ll fight this.”

  He met her eyes coolly. “If you have the resources, you have that privilege.”

  “You’ve signed a mortgage for fifty-thousand dollars on my property,” Amanda reminded her. She turned to the lawyer. “Since she arranged that mortgage after my father’s death, and since this will would have been in effect at that time, isn’t she legally bound to repay the money to me immediately?”

  “I think you’re right, Amanda,” he answered. “In fact, there could be criminal implications—I’d have to research that part of it.”

  Frank clenched his fists and gave the lawyer a deadly stare.

  “You little bitch!” Earleen screamed. “You talked him into this. You never liked me!” A rim of white foam began to form at the corners of her mouth.

  Amanda pulled back into her chair, tucking herself as far from her screaming stepmother as she could.

  Horton Blythe rose and faced Earleen squarely. “Do I need to summon the police?”

  She took a step back but didn’t lose a scrap of her anger. “It won’t do any good. I’m not sitting still for this.”

  Frank reached out to take her arm but she shook herself away from him. She strode past him and shot one backward glare at the room. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.” The electricity in her voice left a silent vacuum as she jerked the door open and stalked out, Frank stomping along behind.

  We heard the front door slam, giving a shudder to the building, and Horton stepped to the windows that faced the parking lot. We could hear the rumble of the shabby Olds as Frank started it and it roared out of the driveway. As the sound retreated, I let out a pent-up breath.