In the living room, I switched on the TV, tuning to one of the local stations that carried Balloon Fiesta coverage. With the volume low, I pulled an afghan over my legs and watched the hundreds of bright orbs against the backdrop of perfect blue New Mexico sky. My interest quickened as I spotted Sara Haines, whom I’d met at the pilot party, flying Early Morning Delight. And there was Scarlett’s Dream. I wanted to look for Lady Liberty, but knew she wouldn’t be there. I wondered how long before Sam would get home, before the crew would assemble and tend to the bag of crumpled fabric that now lay on Sam’s garage floor. I wondered whether Rachael was still at his side at the hospital, or if they’d given her enough positive news that she’d been able to go home yet.
“. . . competition for the women’s world altitude record.” The words riveted my attention.
“Yes, Sandy, that is big news,” the male news commentator said. “All week we’ve been covering the events leading up to top lady balloonist Rachael Fairfield’s attempt at this record. And now it appears someone else is going to do it.”
“That’s right, Dave. Rachael isn’t even out here today. KQUE has been trying to reach her all morning to find out what’s happened, but we’ve been unable to learn why the big change in plans.”
“Why, indeed. Well, that’s going to remain the question of the day for now. Meanwhile, we’ve learned that the new contender is Liz Pierce, another New Mexico woman.” He consulted his notes. “Liz originally comes from Texas, moved to Albuquerque three years ago, and quickly became active in the ballooning scene.”
“Right, Dave. Since Albuquerque is known as the hot air ballooning capital of the world,” Sandy emphasized these last words, as if every person in the audience didn’t already know it, “many balloonists from around the country and indeed around the world move here for our nearly perfect flying conditions.” I let them ramble on, blanking out much of it until I heard Kevin Pierce’s name.
“. . . Max down on the field right now, talking live with Kevin Pierce, Liz Pierce’s husband and crew chief for this flight. Max?”
Another talking head appeared, a dark haired guy with less than camera-perfect looks, who, like the others, was bundled into the latest in chic outdoor jacket, cap and gloves.
“Thanks, Sandy, Dave. Yes, I’ve got the exclusive opportunity to speak with Kevin Pierce, Liz’s husband, as they make final preparations here on the field for her attempt at this important world record.” He turned and the camera angle widened to include the face of the guy who, at this point, probably thought he’d gotten rid of us last night. “Now, Kevin,” Max continued, “your wife’s attempt at this record comes as quite a surprise to most of our viewers, I’m sure.”
“Well, Max, it’s never been a real secret that there were two women going for this record. Liz has always been the more experienced pilot, the one most likely to actually accomplish the goal. The other lady’s got an important brother, is all. He paid for lots of publicity. But Liz never let that intimidate her. She’s got spunk, and she’s gonna do this thing right.”
I seethed over Kevin’s gall. How dare he? I wanted to grab that stupid fuzzy caterpillar from his lower lip and rip it off.
“So,” continued Max, the reporter, “we see that Liz Pierce is about to take off here from Balloon Fiesta Park.”
The camera panned out to capture Kevin striding over to the gondola of Beauty’s Beast and exchanging a long kiss with his wife. Liz grinned and waved to the camera, then pulled a long blast on her burner and lifted off the ground.
“We’ll be following with Liz’s chase crew,” Max said, “and bringing you the moment of touchdown when this historic flight concludes.”
Historic, my ass, I thought. There are hundreds of aviation records. Even Rachael admitted that this was just one of many. News people—kings of hype. I watched the coverage switch back to the two anchors, then to shots of the entire sky now filled with color.
I couldn’t sit still. I stomped to the kitchen and pulled out the phone directory, punching in Rachael’s number as soon as I found it. Apparently she either wasn’t home yet or had shut off her phone to ignore the press. I left a quick message on her machine. The Pierces’ audacity in going for the record attempt when Kevin knew full well why Rachael was out of the competition ate at me. The bastard deserved to be in jail for about a dozen reasons.
Yes, that’s exactly what he deserved.
I paged through the phone directory and picked up the telephone again.
“Arson Investigation, Smith speaking.” I couldn’t conjure up a face to go with the bored-sounding voice, but that didn’t matter.
“There was a cabin fire last night on Hummingbird Lane, off South 14. I know who started it. He locked two women inside, hoping to kill them.”
“What is your name, ma’am?”
I ignored the question and hurried on. “The man’s name is Kevin Pierce.” I spelled it in case the officer didn’t get it the first time. “His wife is on TV right now, at the Balloon Fiesta. So is he. Bring him in for questioning, look for prints at the scene. He’s your man. His white pickup truck was there last night. There’s probably evidence in that, too.”
“Ma’am, what is your name?”
I hung up. Took a deep breath. That felt good.
Rusty padded out of the bedroom and joined me. I filled his bowl with nuggets and let him out the back door. Nice, familiar routine things. As I tidied the kitchen, the wall calendar caught my eye. I flipped back to September, remembering where we’d been on which days. I’d only been ten days late. My mind grappled with the thought. What should I be thinking now, anyway? What’s done is done, I told myself. A gray feeling settled over me but I blinked back the tears. It would take awhile to sort this all out, I realized.
I let the dog back in, made myself a cup of hot chocolate and carried it back to the living room. With my afghan once again warming my legs, I took a few sips of the soothing beverage. Television coverage once focused on Liz Pierce as a newsman who’d managed to snag a ride with her crew continued to chatter. The camera aimed toward open sky, able to pick up the balloon as only a dark dot against stark blue. I felt my eyelids grow heavy and I burrowed into the cushions.
In the fitful sleep of early morning, I dreamed of being on the spot when police came for Kevin. I rode in the car with them to the police station, where the long institutional hallways suddenly turned into those of a hospital and a nurse was congratulating me on the birth of twins.
I woke with a jerk, clammy sweat covering my chest. I rubbed my face forcefully, digging sleep granules from the corners of my eyes. Rusty looked up at me from the rug, ears perked, questioning.
“Whoa, that was a nightmare,” I said.
My cocoa had become tepid so I carried the mug to the kitchen and nuked it for a minute. Then, deciding that I really didn’t want to fall back asleep, I dumped the old filter, found a new one and started a fresh pot of coffee. While it brewed, I tiptoed into the bedroom where Drake had now nestled completely under the covers and pulled fresh clothes from the closet. Doing my best to avoid the squeaky places in the wood floor I dressed in jeans and a sweater, brushed my teeth and hair, and swiped on a dash of lipstick. I felt nearly human.
Coffee and toast helped complete the illusion that I wasn’t half-dead with exhaustion. I found myself pulled to the television once again.
“We’d like to let our audience know that we’re extending our Balloon Fiesta coverage this morning to let all of you witness Liz Pierce’s historic world altitude record live.” Sandy, the too-perfect news anchor, turned to Dave, her much-too-perfect cohort.
“That’s right, Sandy,” he crooned. “Max and our cameraman, Ted, are on-scene with the crew of Beauty’s Beast, as Liz Pierce is about to land somewhere near the foothills of the Sandias.”
Max’s face came on again and he filled about ten minutes with nothing more than we already knew, keeping a running commentary on Liz’s great achievement that nearly made me ill. The camera guy
managed to capture great video of the balloon drifting down to a picture perfect landing, while the crew dashed out to catch it and Kevin opened a bottle of champagne.
Liz pulled off her knit cap and fluffed her hair quickly before turning to face the reporter.
“How high did you actually go, Liz?” Max asked, shoving the microphone in front of Kevin’s champagne bottle.
“Thirty-four thousand feet,” she said, beaming.
“Woo-hoo!” Kevin shouted, sending a blast of feedback through the mike.
A chunky blond man wearing an FAA ballcap pushed his way to the gondola. “Sorry,” he said to the camera, “formalities first.”
Kevin stepped back to allow the FAA man to reach into the gondola and lift out a wooden box about a foot long and eight inches high. The barograph. It recorded the flight and would be sent to France to be certified before the record became official. But I had no doubt from the expression on Liz’s face that she knew she’d done it. I felt a letdown for Rachael. All that work, now this.
I’d picked up the remote, ready to end the misery, when something caught my eye. As Max babbled on, interviewing Liz about the details of the flight, I saw a uniformed APD officer approach Kevin in the background. As the man spoke, Kevin’s expression turned from joy to disbelief, to horror.
Chapter 27
The cop played it cool and walked Kevin out of camera range. The news team, completely unaware of the real story, continued to chatter about Liz and the altitude record. I watched for a few more minutes until it became clear that they were winding down and hadn’t picked up on the fact that Kevin was being questioned by the police.
I carried my plate and mug back to the kitchen, itching to be out there watching it all unfold. I’d love to see the expression on Kevin’s face when he learned that Rachael and I had gotten away.
I imagined his shock when the police examined his truck and discovered particles of soot and ash. Surely they would still be there. Surely he hadn’t taken the time to wash his clothes. I reached for the phone, wanting to tell the cops how to do their jobs. Before I touched it, it rang, startling me.
“Charlie, it’s Rachael.” Her voice sounded flat.
“How’s Sam?”
“Better. He’ll be okay. He woke up, it must have been right after you left, I don’t know. The whole thing’s pretty blurry. Anyway, the doctor wanted to keep him awake for a few hours. He took a pretty good bump to the head. So I sat with him and talked and kept him talking. He’s got broken ribs and they aren’t sure about other internal injuries yet. More tests today, I guess.”
“Sounds positive, though?”
“Yes, much better than we’d expected. The cuts and puffy black eyes look pretty awful. I had a hard time getting past that and realizing those weren’t the worst part. If there aren’t internal injuries, he should be out in a few more days.” She took a deep breath. “I guess you’ve heard about Liz?”
“It’s been all over the TV and I figured reporters have probably been bugging you.”
“Yeah, twenty seven messages on my machine.” She sighed. “I’m just too tired to say anything coherent right now. Yours is the only call I’m returning.”
“Well, Liz’s little victory is going to be short-lived,” I said. “The police are talking to Kevin right now.”
“About . . .”
“About last night. I called them.” I filled her in on the scene I’d just watched on TV. “It’s probably going to mean both of us testifying against him. Are you ready for that?”
“I’m not ready for anything except a bath and about twenty hours sleep right now,” she said.
“Sorry. I know. I should have waited on this.”
“No, no. I’m glad. You know, I always thought Liz was a friend. Kevin, too. I would have never imagined this.”
I remembered the cozy little scene at the barbeque as Liz chatted with Rachael in the buffet line.
“Get your rest,” I told her. “Everything else can come later.”
The doorbell rang before I’d quite hung up the phone. I heard Rusty growl from the living room and I rushed to get the door before he could go into a complete fit and wake up Drake.
“Charlotte Parker?” The black man in the blue suit held up a badge.
Oh, god, now what?
“You phoned Arson Investigation this morning?”
“Uh, yeah. I did.” Caller ID. I’d forgotten that most police calls gave them all they needed to know. That business about asking my name, totally unnecessary. “Come in,” I said, stepping back.
He walked in the way cops do, scanning the room and getting the layout in his mind. Introduced himself as Detective Henson. “Actually, a Drake Langston reported the arson last night. Your call just confirmed it.”
“My husband’s asleep. We had a very late night. Do you mind if we talk in the kitchen?”
I led the way, filled two more coffee mugs, and gave him the whole story. He scribbled notes and asked for one refill along the way. When I’d finished, he closed his notebook and asked whether Rachael could verify everything I’d told him.
“I’m sure she will,” I said. “Just not today. She was at the hospital all night and just got home. This past month has been hell on her.”
“Understand. We’ll get with her in a day or so.”
“So, what’s going to happen to Kevin?”
“Evidence techs are out at the cabin now. We knew we had an arson by the time the fire crew got the flames under control. Furniture piled in front of a bathroom door, accelerant on the sofa. It was pretty clear. When I took your call this morning, I picked up on the fact that Pierce’s white truck was at the scene.” He grinned at me. “Yes, we do know how to match ash debris from the truck to that in the cabin. Don’t worry, we’ll get him.”
He carried his mug to the sink and rinsed it. “The arson’s going to be just one of Kevin Pierce’s problems. Stalking and attempted murder earn even bigger points. I hope Ms. Fairfield’s kept those notes.”
“She has.”
“And she’ll testify?”
“We both will.”
Henson stuffed his notebook and pen into an inside pocket and walked into the living room.
“What’s going on?” Drake emerged from the bedroom wearing a pair of jeans and crookedly hanging polo shirt. His hair stuck out in little sleep twirls.
“Hon, this is Detective Henson from Arson Investigation.” I briefed him quickly about the way Henson had found me.
“You have anything to add to this story?” Henson asked.
“I wasn’t there.” He told the detective how he’d gotten the call and came looking for us, only to find two stunned, smoky women with their hands tied, wandering up a mountain road. By the time he finished, Henson’s jaw had begun to twitch and I had tears in my eyes.
“We’ll get the sonofabitch,” he assured us.
I spent the next couple of weeks in my office at RJP Investigations, doing the paperwork I’d planned to do during what I called ‘the week that went totally wrong.’ Drake had no out of town work, so we settled into a comfortable routine where he spent his days at the airport, catching up on maintenance on the helicopter while I reveled in the mundane tasks of payroll, accounts payable and receivable, and going through the stacks of mail that awaited on my desk. Even the dog seemed pleased with the familiarity of our ordinary life as he lay flat out, belly up, on the floor of my office day after day.
A week later, Rachael called. “Sam’s home now and we want to do a little something to thank the crew—and you and Drake and Ron, too, of course. How about a barbeque out at Sam’s place on Saturday?”
I accepted for all of us.
Saturday dawned as one of those perfect October days, the last of our Indian Summer. It wouldn’t be long now until we began to feel the chill winds of winter, but this day would be just right for the gathering in the mountains. It felt strange to drive past the burned out shell of the neighboring cabin. Drake and I both got quiet as we a
pproached. He squeezed my hand and I sent a little smile his way.
At Sam’s the beer had begun to flow and the steaks were already smelling good. I left Drake and Ron beside the male gathering on the porch, while I went inside to offer Rachael a hand in the kitchen. I found her putting the finishing touches on a salad. Pots of baked beans and ears of corn boiled on the stovetop. She looked up and crossed the room to pull me into a warm embrace. We’d only spoken on the phone a couple of times since that climactic weekend, and I’d worried that things might be a little awkward between us.
“You doing okay?” she asked.
I knew she referred to the miscarriage and I nodded. “How about you?”
“My father’s been trying to call but I haven’t felt ready to talk to him yet,” she said, shaking a bottle of salad dressing. “Do you think that’s wrong?”
In the craziness of that last flight and the night at the cabin, I hadn’t found the right time and place to tell Rachael the full story, only to tell her that I’d been convinced that her father was not the one sending the threats. Now, I pulled her aside to the big sectional sofa and filled her in on Dean Patterson’s confession and his current condition. Her face drained of color as the story unfolded.
“My god,” she whispered. “I sent him to prison for nothing.”
“Patterson was very cunning,” I said, deliberately staying away from her mother’s role in the whole thing. “He purposely misdirected you. He wanted your father out of the mayoral race and out of your lives. And he accomplished that. You were wronged in so many ways, Rachael.”
Tears welled in her eyes but didn’t get the chance to overflow before Justin came striding into the room.
“Sam says he needs a platter for the steaks,” he said.
Rachael ducked her head and I intercepted Justin. As she fled for the bathroom, I steered him to the kitchen and rummaged through cupboards until we came up with a couple of big plates. Once he’d left, Rachael reappeared, her face pale but composed. “I’ll have to deal with this news later,” she said. “Right now there are people to feed.”
Balloons Can Be Murder: The Ninth Charlie Parker Mystery Page 21
