Deadly Gamble: The First Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  "Rusty! Rusty!" Two balls of energy bounded through the door, intent on the object of their affection. The poor dog tried to take refuge behind my legs and we ended up with a tangle of bodies that almost sent all of us to the floor.

  "Hi, Sis." Paul greeted me with a dry kiss on the cheek. He carried two suitcases and had two sleeping bags hanging from his shoulders by straps.

  "We got away later than we'd planned," Lorraine explained, not sounding nearly apologetic enough for waking me at two a.m. Her arms loaded with brown grocery sacks, she pushed her way through the tangle of kids and dog toward the kitchen. Paul headed to the guest room without stopping, apparently worried about losing his momentum with the heavy load.

  Three minutes later we were all assembled in the living room.

  "Would anyone like hot chocolate?" I offered. I noticed they were all wearing light cotton clothing. Lorraine was visibly shivering.

  "Yea, chocolate," Annie and Joe shrieked at once.

  "They slept most of the way here," Paul explained. "I guess they're getting their second wind." No kidding.

  "Why don't you kids check out the games in your room," I suggested. "I'll call you when the hot chocolate's ready." I turned to Lorraine. "Is that everything from the car?" She nodded.

  Paul and Lorraine followed me into the kitchen, with Rusty sticking close to my legs. I found packets of instant hot chocolate mix in a cupboard and rounded up mugs while the water heated.

  "So, how is Phoenix these days?" I asked.

  "Fine, fine. Getting warm already."

  I'd never known a time when Phoenix wasn't warm. The end of February should be no exception.

  "How's the job?" I thought I could see a hint of gray at my brother's temples.

  "Fine, fine."

  Lorraine piped up. "Paul had a promotion last month," she said.

  The conversation continued in this lively vein until we'd finished off the hot chocolate and I couldn't keep my eyes open another minute. We finally got the kids settled into their sleeping bags, although they didn't look the least bit sleepy. I went to bed wondering what we'd find to talk about for the next two days.

  I found Paul wandering in the backyard at eight the next morning. Everyone else was still asleep. He slipped his arm around my shoulders as we walked among the dried stalks of last summer's flowers. The earth smelled faintly damp. I noticed the young green shoots of daffodils and tulips had grown noticeably taller in the past couple of days.

  "Lorraine wants to visit her friend from college, Betsy Royce, today," Paul said. "Betsy's kids are about the same age as Annie and Joe. I think they'll have a good time together."

  "You going too?"

  "Would you mind? Jack Royce and I were pretty good friends."

  "No, I don't mind. You guys make your plans. I've got things to do. Want to meet back here for dinner?"

  "Pedro's?"

  "You got it." Pedro's is a little Mexican food place, just far enough away from the tourist traffic that it hasn't lost its charm. I eat there a couple of times a week. Pedro and his wife, Concha, make the best sour cream chicken enchiladas in the state, and their margaritas are fantastic.

  I puttered in the kitchen, pondering where I'd go next with the Detweiller case, wondering if I was going to be in a ton of trouble for pursuing it on my own. I'd have to bring Ron up to date on it the minute he got back to town. The thought occurred to me that I might have better luck reaching some of those names on Gary's list on a Saturday. After feeding my guests a hearty breakfast of cold cereal and seeing them out the door, I pulled out the list once again.

  About half the names came from the same part of town where Detweiller had lived. Probably neighbors, co-workers, guys he'd met in neighborhood bars. The other half of the list contained a variety, a surprising number located in well-off parts of town. I wasn't sure where I'd get the most information, from the average working-guy types or from the successful ones who might have gotten tricked into the association with Gary, much as Stacy had.

  I stopped at the first gas station to fill up. This might end up being a long day. The Jeep took fourteen gallons, which I put on the credit card we use for company expenses. I'd decided to try the upper-crust neighborhood first. Two of the addresses were in Tanoan, so I headed out I-25 to the San Mateo exit, then up Academy Road. The guard today was a different one, and I hadn't really thought about what my approach would be. I doubted they routinely let in investigators who want to question their residents. Especially when the investigator was really an accountant. My only choice would be to fake it. I told the guard I was going to Stacy North's house, hoping all the while that he wouldn't call her to verify it.

  He didn't. He waved me through like his main concern in the world was what time he'd get off work. I drove straight to one of the houses where I'd gotten no answer yesterday. The place still looked closed up tight. A newspaper rested on the front step. I rang the doorbell without much hope, and was startled when a sleepy-looking man in silk pajamas opened it.

  The man looked almost as startled at seeing me. His curly blond hair stuck out at angles and his pajama top was skewed off to one side. He blinked at the sunlight, trying to focus on my face.

  "Charles Tompkins?"

  "Who are you?" If I'd been an attacker, he would have been an extremely easy mark.

  "My name's Charlie Parker. Do you know a Gary Detweiller?"

  "Who?"

  "Gary Detweiller. Your bookie."

  He suddenly stood very still. His eyes had no trouble focusing directly on mine now. A white rim showed around the edges of his thin lips.

  "I don't know who you are, or who you're looking for, lady, but you got the wrong address." His hand had moved to the edge of the door.

  "Fine. Detweiller's dead, and I imagine the next ones to come knocking at your door will be the police." I turned away. "Have a nice day," I said sweetly.

  "Uh . . . wait. What did you say your name was?" He had removed his hand from the door. I noticed a sheen on his forehead.

  "Charlie Parker. RJP Investigations. Someone else with, shall we say, a not exactly legitimate connection to Detweiller has asked me to look into his death. This person is another Tanoan resident. With the information I've found so far, I suspect Detweiller had targeted you folks, figuring he'd found a gold mine."

  "Look," he glanced behind me nervously, "why don't you come inside a minute."

  I stepped into a cool white hall, from which I could see a white living room on one side and a white dining room on the other. The chrome and glass furnishings didn't add any color. Only brief dashes of black accent pieces kept me aware that I hadn't fallen into a snowbank.

  "Excuse me a minute," Tompkins said, walking up a staircase to my right. He returned two minutes later, slipping his arms into a paisley silk robe. He hadn't combed his curls.

  We took seats in the chilly living room. Tompkins reclined in a puffy down-cushioned chair. He couldn't maintain the pose, though. He fidgeted, crossing and re-crossing his legs, scooting to the edge of his seat.

  "Now what about this man, what was the name?"

  "Detweiller." Don't play ignorant with me, bud.

  "Yes, now who was he?"

  I stared at his face for a full minute, while his eyes darted around the room.

  "How much did Detweiller take you for?" I finally asked.

  "What makes you think. . ." He drew himself up defensively.

  "I think Detweiller was a schemer and a con man. He worked his way into his victim's confidence, then took whatever he could. With the women, he used sex, with the men, I imagine there was some kind of money scheme. He played the horses a lot. Maybe that was it with you."

  "Horse racing? I hardly think so," Tompkins tone was scathing.

  "What, then?" I stayed patient, letting him think about it. Two or three plans crossed his mind. I watched them play out rapidly.

  "Okay," he finally said. "You're right. It was an investment scheme. And oddly enough it did involve horses." He
chuckled dryly. "I met Detweiller in the Card Room at the club. He wasn't a member. I was pretty sure of that. I assumed he was there as a guest. We got to talking. I've always been fascinated by horse racing. Not so much as a bettor. I was interested in the horses themselves, the breeding, the bloodlines. Gary picked up on that and told me he'd done a lot of investing in race horses. Said he could get me into this consortium that had already bought into some of the finest champions in the country. He knew all the names, their records."

  "Because he hung around the tracks all the time."

  "I found that out later. This guy was smooth."

  I thought of the picture I'd seen of Detweiller. I couldn't see how a well-off man like this wouldn't have seen right through the facade. Then again, why hadn't Stacy seen through it either? Maybe Detweiller was a chameleon.

  "And you ended up losing your money," I suggested.

  "Twenty thousand. He had me thinking I was one of the small investors, too—that most of them were putting in hundreds."

  "So, when did you find out the whole thing was a sham?"

  "Just now, really. I'd been calling Gary for a week, wondering when I would get some word about the investment. I was supposed to get reports, statements, and so forth. It had been over a month since I'd given him the money and I was getting concerned. I'd called for several days in a row, and was really starting to get mad."

  Mad enough to kill? I wondered.

  "Now wait a minute," he protested, reading my thoughts. "Yeah, I was mad that he was ignoring my calls. But twenty thousand dollars is not enough to kill for. An embarrassment, maybe, but not worth risking my neck over."

  I believed him. Twenty thou was a new decorating job for the living room to this guy. He wasn't going to risk this lifestyle over a man of Detweiller's caliber.

  Back in the car, I considered visiting the other names I had whose addresses were in this area. But I had the feeling I'd get the same story. Whatever scheme Gary had used with each of them, the bottom line was not financial ruin. Poor Gary Detweiller, for all his illusions of importance, was nothing more than an embarrassment to these people.

  Which brought me to consider the other half of the list. What about those working class slobs who might have sunk all they had into one of Detweiller's schemes?

  Chapter 7

  "Gary? Sure, Gary Detweiller was a friend of mine. Do anything for ya, he would." A grease-encrusted hand reached out from under the hood of the sixty-three Chevy, groping for an open end wrench.

  I'd driven across town to one of the other addresses on my list. Zack Taylor lived little more than a dozen blocks from Detweiller's home. The house was an average sized ranch style home with a gray shingled pitched roof and red brick front. The double wide garage door stood open, so I'd walked on in.

  Taylor was bent over the engine of the old car, like a surgeon in the midst of a delicate operation. The hood had been removed, leaving the patient's innards exposed. A hundred watt drop light hung from the rafters. Tools waited like surgical instruments, lined up on a towel which also served to protect the fender on which they rested. The remainder of the garage was filled with tires, boxes, bicycles, and the other assorted stuff that usually preempt a car from occupying the second space.

  Zack Taylor was probably in his late twenties, old enough to have a family, judging by the junk in the garage, but not old enough to have given up his stock race car. A hole in the garage where you pour money, my father had once called them. Ron had been into that for awhile, but luckily he outgrew it.

  "So, where did you meet Gary?" I asked.

  Zack replaced one wrench, reached for another, and scratched at the side of his face with a greasy finger.

  "Penguin's. It's like this little neighborhood place where guys go to have a beer and watch the ball game. Gary was there all the time."

  "The guys liked him, huh?"

  "Oh, yeah. When Gary had money, he was your best friend. Not like a lotta guys. He'd buy rounds for the whole place."

  "He do any betting?"

  "Oh, hell, yes. Uh, pardon my French. Yeah, we all did. Bet on the playoffs, Superbowl, stuff like that."

  "How about the horses?"

  "That too. Gary'd take all our bets, then go to the track. He sure loved that track. When we picked a winner, he'd bring us our money."

  "Minus his take."

  "Well, yeah. Guy's not gonna spend that much effort without making a little somethin'." He traded wrenches again, then lifted some contraption out of the engine.

  "But nobody minded that."

  "Why? Gary was always fair with us."

  "Did you ever hear where the money came from when he hit it big? Like the times he'd buy drinks for everyone?"

  "Naw, not really. Gary was a real smart guy. Always had these big business deals going. He prob'ly got these big commission checks all at once, or somethin'."

  Yeah, like the commission on a Rolex watch.

  "Can you think of any reason somebody would kill him?" I asked.

  He raised up and looked straight at me for the first time. His face was probably very good looking under all the grease. He was about six feet tall, slim build, with dark eyes and a nice smile.

  "I sure can't," he said. "Down at Penguin's, anyway, he didn't have an enemy in the world."

  I thanked him and left a business card in case he thought of anything else. He stuck it into his shirt pocket, where I imagined it staying right through the wash cycle and coming out as a little white wad.

  Two other visits yielded about the same information. It was a bit early to catch the bartender at Penguin's. Besides, I was getting tired. Talking to people can really wear you down. I decided to head for home in case Paul and his brood had returned early. The drive across town gave me a chance to think some more about Gary Detweiller. Who was this, Robin Hood? Robbing from the rich to give to the poor? If so, who would be mad enough to do him in? Maybe tomorrow I'd head back to the rich side of town.

  As it turned out I didn't get a chance. I walked in my front door to find Paul and Lorraine stretched out on the couch with the TV blasting. Annie and Joe sprinted through the living room just then chasing Rusty, who dashed for cover behind my legs as soon as he saw me. I put my hands out to fend off the attackers. Paul noticed me then and mouthed some words in my direction. Lorraine mouthed something at him, he nodded, then directed more words at me. It felt like stepping into a Hitchcock movie where the background music jangles so loudly that the actual dialog is meaningless.

  I told the kids Rusty needed to go out now—alone. They set off toward the kitchen door. Making my way over to the couch I picked up the remote control and adjusted the television to a reasonable level where human conversation could take place.

  "How was your day?" I removed two empty glasses from my Queen Anne coffee table and wiped at wet rings with my sleeve.

  "It was nice," Lorraine said. "We got a chance . . . " Joe plopped in her lap with enough force to knock the air out of her.

  "Mom, when're we gonna eat?" he whined.

  Lorraine turned to offer him some explanation, apparently forgetting that she'd been talking to me. Annie was tugging at Paul simultaneously, so I carried the dirty glasses and a crushed potato chip bag to the kitchen.

  Yes, let's eat, I thought. I hated to do this to Pedro, but I had to get these guys out of my house.

  "I'd rather go to McDonald's," Annie whined.

  "But sweetheart, we can go to McDonald's at home. Pedro's is a place Daddy and Aunt Charlie and I really like." Lorraine's voice was kind and patient. Personally, I'd have told the kid to shut up and get in the car. Guess that's why I don't have kids.

  "McDonald's." Annie kept her little voice firm, and Joe joined in. Soon it became a chant. Paul looked up at me helplessly. I shrugged. Anyone who's powerless at the mercy of a ten-year-old probably deserves it. We went to McDonald's.

  Annie and Joe each ate about thirty cents worth of the burger from their kid meal boxes that I'd paid two dollars
apiece for. The rest lay scattered over the table. They scampered off to the play yard where they crawled around through a series of hamster trails sized for kids.

  Paul and Lorraine kept a conversation going of sorts, interrupted by one or the other going to check on their offspring about every three minutes. I ate my Big Mac and fries and nodded at the right times, while my mind darted back and forth thinking about the people I'd talked to in the past few days. Who killed Gary Detweiller?

  By three o'clock the next afternoon I was wondering who would kill Annie and Joe. I might be a good candidate. The sleeping bags were neatly rolled, the bags packed, and it was all I could do to resist carrying the stuff to the car myself. When the front doorbell rang I jumped.

  "Anybody home?" Ron stuck his head in.

  "Ron! You're back. Look who's here," I said taking him by the arm. Paul and Lorraine were in the kitchen. Annie and Joe stood off to the side eyeing Ron suspiciously. "Want to take the houseguests from hell back to your place for awhile?" I muttered under my breath.

  "Not a bit," he smiled.

  Paul had emerged from the kitchen just then. He and Ron clasped hands in a hearty shake. Lorraine got scooped up in one of Ron's giant hugs. I stood back and watched my brothers' contrasting interaction. Paul is tall and thin with dark hair and eyes, technically the better looking of the two. Ron is about five-ten and heftier. His dark hair is thin on top and shows touches of gray at the temples. Paul is the slacks and polo shirt type, while Ron chooses Levi's, western shirt, Stetson, and boots. When he wants to look a little more dressed up, he'll add a bolo tie. Paul is quiet in a diffident sort of way, while Ron's soft-spoken manner suggests thoughtfulness. Not to say that we don't butt heads now and then. But I really am glad he's my partner.

  I let Ron have the visitors all to himself for awhile. I offered drinks but no one was interested. I busied myself cleaning up the kitchen and gathering the guest towels and sheets into the washer. When Ron stood up to leave an hour later, the others did, too. It was a long drive back to Phoenix, they said.

  I spent the rest of the evening gathering my sanity, cleaning up all traces of visitors, enjoying the peacefulness of my home without anyone else in it. Rusty lay sprawled out on his side near me, apparently exhausted. It wasn't until I was getting ready for bed that night that I remembered I hadn't even mentioned the case to Ron.