Balloons Can Be Murder: The Ninth Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  The girl nodded silently, not taking her eyes off me.

  “Okay, the bus is coming in just a minute,” she said. The doorbell chimed twice, quickly. “There’s Megan now.” She kissed her daughter and attempted a hug around the bulky pack, then opened the door and guided her daughter out to join another pink-jacketed girl on the porch. “You girls have a good day.”

  She stood there watching until they’d covered the length of the sidewalk and turned toward the corner. Closing the door with a firm click, she turned toward me.

  “I have to support her,” she said. “You see why I can’t leave Chuck.”

  “No, Nora. I see exactly why you do have to leave him. How can you let your daughter grow up watching this? You think she doesn’t hear the fights? You think she doesn’t see your face in the morning? How long have you been with him? He’s not her father, is he?” I hammered her with questions.

  “Her father died last year. A car accident. He was a kind man, a good father. He . . .” She walked back into the kitchen and made another attempt with the coffee cup.

  “Sit down. Take a deep breath,” I said. I set her mug on the table and guided her to a chair. Pulling another mug from a rack on the wall, I filled it and topped hers from the carafe on the counter.

  “Steven was a good man. A hard worker. We were married ten years and we barely came up with enough to buy this house. I cleaned houses and took Christy with me until she was old enough for school. When Steven died there was no insurance . . . the mortgage company was calling . . .” She raised the cup and took a small sip.

  “And Chuck came along and helped out financially,” I prompted.

  “He’s so generous. We have everything now. I don’t have to scrub other people’s toilets anymore. I work in an office and they let me leave at three so I can be here when Christy gets out of school.” She glanced up at a clock on the wall above the stove, stood up and took her mug to the sink. “I have to get ready.”

  “Another minute, Nora. You really have to seriously think about your situation here. It isn’t healthy now and it’s going to get worse.”

  She stared out at her front yard, spine stiff.

  “Do you have relatives? Or a friend Chuck doesn’t know about? Someplace, anyplace you can go until the police can get him out of here. Your life and your daughter’s probably depend on it, you know.”

  She nodded silently. I picked up my folder that I’d laid down near the coffee maker and headed for the door. I wanted to dash down the hall, pack a bag for her, and shove her into her car. I wanted to take her to her mother, to a battered women’s shelter, anyplace. I wanted to magically heal her bruised eye and her bruised ego so her daughter would never have to look at them again. But all that was up to her. First, she had to want those things or she’d simply come right back.

  I reached out and rubbed her shoulder. “I don’t want to read about your untimely death in the newspaper one of these days. Where will Christy be then?”

  The shoulder shook and a tear dripped from her chin, only one of thousands she’d already shed, I felt sure. I quietly walked out the front door and got in my car. When I looked back at her kitchen window she was gone.

  I started the car and drove a block before I realized my hands were shaking. I pulled to the curb on this quiet residential street and shoved the gearshift in Park as my vision blurred. My emotions had been way too near the surface in recent days. There were women like Nora Garcia all over this city, this country, and the world. I couldn’t save them all, and I doubted I could even save this one. I swallowed hard and took a sip of the latte which sat in the cup holder. Stone cold.

  Get with it, Charlie. You did what you could back there.

  I got out of the car and walked around it twice, shaking out my limbs and breathing deeply of the chilly fall air. Damp brown leaves lay in the gutter and I kicked a bunch of them. They settled into soggy clumps on the pavement.

  Back in the car I reviewed my plan. This might be a good time to try Ryan Tamsin again. Most retail stores opened around ten, so he’d probably still be at home. I blended into a crush of traffic on Wyoming and headed south. The semi-crumbling house looked exactly the same as before. Closed up tight. Next door, drapes stood open and a lamp glowed softly in the living room window.

  This time when I knocked at the door I heard vague sounds inside, a creaking floor, a radio somewhere in the background with a thrumming beat. About the time I’d raised my hand to knock again, a creak sounded much nearer and the doorknob wiggled loosely. The man who opened the door was probably approaching fifty. His dark hair was pulled straight back and bound in a ponytail at the neck. Parts of his face hadn’t been shaved this morning, other parts probably never. A stylized Fu Manchu dripped from the corners of his mouth, showing strands of gray that matched his fluffy sideburns.

  “Yeah?” he growled.

  “Ryan Tamsin?”

  “Who wantsta know?”

  Suddenly I wished Ron had taken this interview. Like the dog out back, Tamsin exuded the attitude that he would snap your head off the second you showed any weakness. I took a second to pull a card from my bag and to arrange a hardened look on my face. Tamsin glanced at the card but didn’t take it. His sullen stare challenged me.

  “Rachael Fairfield,” I said. “Had any contact with her lately?”

  “The little lawyer bitch? Why would I?”

  “You had some business dealings with her a few weeks ago, didn’t you? Something about your mother’s will.”

  “You already know the story, why come here? Her with her blond hair and high heels. That snotty attitude. She sure don’t give a shit about me.”

  “She handled the will and you disagreed with what it said, I hear.”

  “Well, wouldn’t you? My own mother cuts me off and I’m just supposed to let this prissy little thing tell me that’s how it is. No choice, just take it.” His voice rose a couple of steps. “What a laugh, that uppity attitude of hers. What a big fucking laugh. All this ‘I’m so pure and honest’ shit. And her old man’s in prison all this time she’s playing all highbrow with everybody else. I know what that little blondie’s about, heard the whole story.”

  “What whole story? How?” A chill crept up my spine.

  “From the old man’s cellmate at Santa Fe.” He noticed the surprise I couldn’t conceal. “Oh, yeah. Buddy of mine, knows old Fairfield real well. Knows the little bitch was puttin out for him when she was twelve. Suddenly she gets religion or whatever and nails him in a different way. You think I hate the bitch. Talk to her old man.” He shot me a smug grin and slammed the door. I jumped at the sharp sound and I’m sure my tough-girl expression flipped right off my face.

  Through the door I could hear Tamsin’s chuckle. A minute later the huge-sounding dog bounded against the side gate barking like crazy and sounding like he could rip the gate right off its hinges. I made a prudent retreat to my vehicle and reached for my cell phone as I turned the key in the ignition.

  Ron’s voice reassured me with its normalcy. “Find out who was William’s cellmate in prison,” I said.

  “What’s the matter? You sound kind of shaky.”

  “I just met a friend of this cellmate. Not a pleasant guy.”

  “I’ll get on it,” he said. “By the way, I got an address and place of work from Fairfield’s parole officer. He’s a stock clerk at the Wal-Mart on Carlisle, on the night shift. I’m sitting outside his apartment building now. I’ll follow him to work tonight.”

  I let out a pent-up breath as I ended the call. Nine a.m. and I felt like I’d already put in a full day. I pulled into a McDonald’s and treated myself to two Egg McMuffins, a very large orange juice, and big coffee. I consumed all this in my vehicle while listening to a newscast on the radio to put my mind on other people’s problems for a change. About the time I was wadding up my used wrappers, I saw Ryan Tamsin roar by on his black Harley. He’d strapped a Nazi-style helmet, complete with pointed top-spike, over his dark hair and ad
ded leather jacket and chaps for a complete black-all-over ensemble. He rumbled by, shaking the entire neighborhood, on his way to work.

  The pre-dawn low clouds continued to thicken and I liked the idea of having part of a day to myself. I headed back toward I-40, wanting to get to my own part of town as quickly as possible. Before I’d made it halfway, the sky opened and my wipers barely kept up with it, even on fast speed. I pictured Tamsin on his bike and suppressed a tiny smile. Traffic began doing weird things and I slowed, holding back to let the weavers and lane switchers have their way. By the time I got to my own driveway it had slowed to a steady drizzle.

  Rusty recognized my Jeep by sound and bounded out of Elsa’s back door to meet me in the driveway. I let his enthusiastic greeting make up for my recent encounters with humans. It’s wonderful how a dog brightens your day.

  I waved to Elsa in her doorway and headed for shelter as I unlocked my front door. My clothes felt damp and wrinkled, like I’d been wearing them for two days straight, which I nearly had. I felt ready to shed them and head for the shower but decided to check the answering machine first.

  Two messages: One from Ron (call me) and one from Drake (Hi, hon, we’re in a lull this morning and I just wanted to hear your voice.) Our last conversation had been a little tense and I dialed his number with a little flutter of trepidation. “Hey, is this a good time?” I asked when his soothing voice greeted me.

  “Perfect.” He sounded ready to chat, buddy to buddy, like we usually do. I let him go on about how the helicopter crew was having to wait around until a government guy from Fish and Game arrived to give them the go-ahead to take off. “Like I don’t know what direction the wind is coming from and can’t pull pitch on this thing without some bureaucrat with his two-week’s training here to tell me it’s safe,” he complained.

  I knew the story—make-work jobs within the bureaucracy so someone’s untrained nephew could wave a signal flag and command a million-dollar piece of equipment, flown by a pilot with over twenty years experience. And the uncle who’d gotten him the job no doubt kept his own by sitting around in the off seasons dreaming up more rules to give jobs to more untrained nephews. I half listened while I rolled my head from side to side working cricks out of my neck.

  “So, how’s your day going so far?” he asked.

  I jumped back to reality. I didn’t think he really wanted to hear the whole raft of details about people he didn’t even know, much less the fact that I’d had encounters with a couple of pretty nasty ones already this morning. “Fine,” I said. “Just wishing we were both back home again.”

  “Me too. How about us taking a vacation during the winter lull this year, a real trip somewhere that has no helicopters and where no one can possibly ask you to investigate something.” His voice sounded so wistful, I knew he was serious about it.

  “Sounds great to me. Think about where you’d like to go.”

  “You too. Miss you.”

  For a fleeting moment I wanted to walk right out to my car, drive north and go to his job site. Pick him up and just hit the road. I wondered what it would be like to just quit life for awhile and become anonymous in some little ski resort for the next six months. We exchanged some more mushy stuff and ended the call by making suggestive promises about what our reunion evening would consist of when he got home. I’d peeled off my damp clothes as we talked and the shower was running, hot and steamy, by the time we hung up. Lather and shampoo and thoughts of Drake filled the next ten minutes but work loomed ahead. I toweled off and bundled into my thick terry robe.

  Shaking off the warm, glowy feeling, I dialed Ron’s number.

  “Got your message. What’s up?” I asked.

  “Not much,” he said. I sensed weariness in his voice. “Finally got the chance to speak to Bill Fairfield.”

  “How’d that go?”

  “About like I expected. He denied knowing anything about any notes to Rachael. Said he hasn’t seen her since he got out of Santa Fe.”

  “What’s his attitude like?”

  “Wary. The guy isn’t about to open up to me. He’s got that defensive attitude that prison usually gives them. Comes through like, ‘You’re not the law and you’re not my parole officer and I don’t have to talk to you.’ ” He sighed deeply, like he was wondering exactly what we were doing with this case. “I don’t know. Maybe Fairfield would open up more to you. Confide something.”

  “Like what? I’d just use my feminine wiles on him and he’d completely spill the beans?” What beans? I wondered as I formulated the question. We knew what he’d done. Did I honestly think he’d just blurt out a confession about the threats?

  “There’s more to this story than we’re seeing,” Ron said. “I don’t know what it is, but this isn’t just about Bill’s doing time and Rachael’s receiving a bunch of notes. I can’t exactly put my finger on it.”

  “Clovis.” I said. “Something back there, something from years ago.” I told him how my alarm bells had gone off when it seemed that Mrs. Pinkley, the neighbor, didn’t know anything about Linda Fairfield’s death. “Come on, Ron, we find a woman who’s got her nose in everything but she doesn’t know how her neighbor died? I think there’s more to that whole story.”

  I heard the crackle of some kind of food wrapper being wadded. “So, you think I ought to go back there and do a little more checking?” he said without enthusiasm.

  “I could.” Even as I said it, I wondered what I was thinking. But the idea began to grow. Ron could certainly keep an eye on Bill Fairfield without my help, and Rachael had decided to stay at Sam’s today and skip flying tomorrow. It would be the perfect time to go.

  I glanced out the window as I clicked off the call. The rain had stopped but clouds still blanketed the sky. Although I’d left Ron with the impression that I might just jump in the car this minute, it seemed a little late in the day to drive halfway across the state. Not to mention that the early mornings were taking their toll. My body felt ready for a good, long sleep.

  I opened a can of soup and managed half of a crime scene show on TV before my eyelids began drooping. Bed felt great and I dropped out of consciousness until full daylight streamed through my windows. I allowed myself the luxury of a leisurely cup of coffee and long shower.

  I slipped into jeans and a sweater and pulled a duffle bag from the top closet shelf. A change of clothes and minimal overnight toiletries didn’t half fill it. By the time I’d added a jacket and gloves, a couple of scoops of dog food in a baggie and Rusty’s bowls, we were ready. My canine partner danced with joy when he saw these last items and he even picked up his leash and waited near the front door.

  It was barely noon when I reached the eastern outskirts of town and I cruised into a fast-food drive through where we grabbed burgers and fries for two and a Coke for one. Rusty finished his in roughly four seconds, then stared at me as I took my time. By the time we’d passed through Tijeras all edibles were gone and he settled into the back seat for the three hour ride.

  Ron had given me the Fairfield’s old address but otherwise I hadn’t much idea where I’d go. Turns out three hours on relatively straight highways is a pretty good time to plan strategy. Unfortunately, the only new idea I came up with was to visit the local newspaper and see what kind of news the Fairfield family was making back in the 1980s. I pulled into the parking lot of said newspaper office after a quick stop at the edge of town for directions.

  “The offices close at five,” the receptionist told me as she escorted me to a room that looked like it served as conference room in addition to holding reels of microfiche and two readers. “But this is Tuesday. Somebody’ll be around until at least eight.”

  I shot her a puzzled glance.

  “Paste-up day,” she said, like that explained everything. “We scramble all day to get the final layout done on Tuesday. It gets transmitted to the printer tonight by nine, papers come back tomorrow and hit the streets by three o’clock. We’re a weekly. That’s how it’s done.”


  “Ah.” I slipped out of my jacket and got a quick rundown from her on the filing system for the fiche.

  “I’d offer you some coffee,” she said, “but it disappeared hours ago and no one’s had time to make more. There’s a Coke machine down the hall, girl’s room right through there.” She pointed. “If you need help you’ll have to trip somebody as they dash by.”

  “No problem,” I assured her. She’d offered me exactly what I wanted, hours of uninterrupted time without anyone staring over my shoulder.

  I located an index file that let me look up subjects alphabetically and it was a matter of minutes before I’d determined the dates of Bill’s trial and sentencing. His arrest had happened three months before that. Small town justice seemed pretty swift.

  With the reels at hand I sat at one of the machines and played with the controls until I could scroll through the pages without feeling like I would throw up. There’s a technique whereby you close your eyes in coordination with your finger hitting the buttons that send the film flashing forward and backward.

  Rachael had mentioned that their father was running for mayor so it should have come as no surprise to me that the year of the big scandal was also the election year, but it did. I scrolled through headlines until I came to campaign photos—the smiling Fairfield family on a dais somewhere, all caught in mid-wave to the crowd.

  Bill Fairfield looked almost exactly like his son did now--tall, slender, salt-and-pepper hair. Linda was a pretty blonde, her hair styled fashionably large, her smile looking only slightly forced. Grayson must have been about twenty, a dark haired, young-faced version of himself today. Rachael looked at the camera from beneath lowered eyebrows, shyly, a smile that refused to show her teeth because they obviously were encased in braces. Hard to believe the polished present-day version had sprung from this gawky, colt-like beginning.

  The accompanying article spouted the usual political stuff that all campaigns are made of, conservative version, with loads of patriotic feel-good-ism and promises that one guy couldn’t hope to actually keep. The bottom half of the front page sported much of the same (even more conservative) from the opponent, Dean Patterson.