Holidays Can Be Murder: A Charlie Parker Christmas Mystery

by Connie Shelton

She waved her hand back and forth. “No, it’s okay, really.”

  She accepted the mug I handed over and doused it liberally with sugar and cream while I put the turkey into the roasting pan and set it in the oven.

  “You don’t look like you’re having such a great day,” I offered tentatively.

  She made a low growling sound. “Oh, it started off all right. Paula was so hung over from last night—apparently she’d restocked her hidden supply and managed to duck into her room several times throughout the evening. Anyway, she slept til nearly eleven this morning and Wilbur and I finally had some time to ourselves.”

  She sipped at the coffee and grimaced. “The fun started after that. She came dragging into the kitchen and informed us that she plans to stay in Albuquerque and that she’ll be living with us until she gets a job and a place of her own. Not more than a couple of months—” Her voice cracked and she put her forehead on the table. A sound came out that sounded like “no, no, no.”

  “Staying?” I’m afraid my own voice sounded frightened.

  Judy raised her head. Her eyes were red rimmed, her face blotchy. “I can’t handle it, Charlie, I really can’t.” She raised the coffee mug and put it back down. “And the worst part is that Wilbur won’t say anything. He doesn’t want her here either. We’ve talked about this when we’re alone. But he just can’t stand up to her.”

  I microwaved a new mug of water and got out a tea bag.

  “Here. I don’t think that coffee’s doing you much good.”

  She did the dunking and squeezing ritual and took a sip before she spoke again. “What am I going to do?”

  “Change the locks? Move to Zimbabwe?” I offered helpfully.

  “Have plastic surgery so she won’t recognize me?”

  “Go into the Witness Protection Program?”

  “Bump her off?”

  “But only in the most painful way possible.”

  “Oh yes, only that would do.” She giggled and took a good pull on her tea. “I better get going. I’ve got a few things to do around the house and I’d love a nap. Wilbur and I are invited to a dinner party tonight. And Paula’s not going.”

  “Hey, at least we put a smile back on your face,” I said. I walked her to the front door and watched her move lightly down the steps. The sun had come out early and melted the snow from walkways and street, leaving only the lawns and shrubs in frosty white.

  A nap sounded pretty good to me too, but I first called each of my brothers to wish them Merry Christmas. Paul’s household in Mesa, Arizona, was raucous with the shrieks of his two kids and a series of electronic blips in the background. Distracted by all of it, Paul was clearly not with me, so I ended the call after just the basics. Ron answered his phone with a note of hope in his voice.

  “Oh, I thought it might be the boys,” he said when he heard my voice.

  “They’ll call,” I assured him. My heart goes out to my elder brother every other year when he faces this separation from his kids. Part of the price one pays for selecting the wrong spouse, then producing three munchkins before figuring out what kind of person she really is. Ron’s divorce hit him hard and Bernadette did nothing to make it easier, either for him or for the kids.

  “Dinner’s at five,” I told him, repeating the invitation extended a few days earlier. “But come any time. You and Drake can play with your new Christmas toys.” I didn’t mention my new gun. Knowing my brother, he’d convince Drake to head out to the range immediately, and I wanted to be the first to fire it. Sometime in the next few days we’d find the time.

  I awoke to the weird sensation that something was way out of place. Before my eyes opened, the realization came that there were voices. I rolled over and moaned and squinted at the red numerals on my bedside clock. 12:37. No wonder—I was still into those first few really deep-sleep hours. After our early dinner, we’d sat around the table playing card games for several hours before calling it a night around eleven.

  The voices rose and fell and seemed to be coming from outside.

  “What’s going on?” Drake said, his voice coming through clearly, like he’d been awake for awhile.

  I turned toward him and realized that I was seeing faint images of red and blue lights swirling across the ceiling. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and slipped on my new robe. Stepping to the window, I peeked into the back yard. Same eerie swirling lights, but no clue as to their source. I stepped into our bathroom, whose windows face the side yard and the Garfield’s house. The strobes were clearly reflecting off the side of their home.

  “Something’s wrong next door,” I told Drake. “Let me see.”

  I nearly tripped over Rusty as he jumped up and tried to race me to the hall. Drake was pulling on his robe as I made my way through the darkened house to the front door. I gripped Rusty’s collar as I opened the front door and stepped out to the front porch.

  Three police cars sat at the curb in front of the Garfield’s house and ours. An ambulance was backed into Wilbur and Judy’s driveway. It was the vehicle with the lights flashing. A small cluster of neighbors stood in front of the Johnson’s, the house directly across from ours. Luminaria bags slumped in wilted mounds along their sidewalk.

  “What’s going on?” Drake said, joining me on our front porch.

  “Can’t tell. Something next door. Gotta get shoes,” I gasped. My bare feet were nearly frozen to the cement.

  I ran back inside and dropped my robe, pulling on jeans and a sweatshirt, socks and my walking boots. Drake was right behind me, grabbing clothes and boots, too. I instructed Rusty that he had to stay inside and I headed across the lawn toward the Garfield’s front door.

  “Hold it right there, ma’am,” a sharp voice commanded. A rough hand gripped my shoulder and spun me around. “Charlie?”

  “Kent? What’s going on here?”

  He dropped his hand but stood firmly blocking my way.

  “This is a crime scene. Neighbors of yours, I gather?”

  “Uh, yeah. I live right here,” I said, indicating our house with a vague wave. “What kind of crime?” I knew it was a stupid question the minute it slipped out. Kent Taylor only worked one kind of case—homicide.

  7

  “Who . . .?” My mind couldn’t come up with anything more intelligent at the moment. I felt Drake walk up beside me and was aware that Taylor greeted him by name.

  He consulted his notes. “A Paula Candelaria,” he said. “Not a resident of the home, visiting her son and daughter-in-law.”

  “Right.” Paula was dead? It took me a minute to process it. Then the floodgates opened and a thousand thoughts rushed through. Couldn’t happen to a nicer person. At least she can’t move in and take over Judy’s life now. What a pain she’s been. What a pitiful person, so desperate for attention, her drinking out of control . . . I found myself staring at the ground, waffling between feelings of relief that she was gone and horror that I would think that way.

  “Do you . . .?”

  I realized that Kent Taylor had said something to me and I hadn’t caught any of it.

  “I said, do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill her?” he repeated.

  “Kill her?” I recited dumbly.

  “Detective, maybe we could take this inside?” Drake requested. He slipped his arm around my shoulders and tried to rub some warmth into them.

  “Tell you what,” Kent said. “I’ve got some more questions to ask here and I need to take a look outside before these snowy footprints get even more trampled. You guys go back into your own house and I’ll come over after awhile and go over this with you.”

  “Good idea,” Drake agreed.

  “What about Judy? How’s she doing?” I pictured this as just one more thing my fragile neighbor had to cope with.

  “We’re checking into that.” He turned away and Drake steered me toward our front door.

  “That was a strange answer, don’t you think?” I asked Drake as he opened the front door. The warmth o
f our living room felt so good, I rubbed my chilled hands together.

  “What’s going on?” A sleepy Catherine was just emerging from her room, zipping the front of her robe, her hair tousled wildly.

  “There’s been some problem next door, Mom,” Drake said gently. “I think you could go back to bed if you want. The police may be over here after awhile, so we’re going to stay up.”

  “Police? Oh, my god,” she exclaimed, instantly more alert. “Well, in that case I’m staying up, too. Let me make us some hot chocolate.”

  She hurried to the kitchen while I flopped on the sofa. I remembered the jokes Judy and I had made earlier in the day, about bumping off Paula as painfully as possible. God, I hoped she hadn’t taken me seriously. I sat with elbows on knees, my face in my hands.

  “Hon? You okay?” Drake asked.

  I nodded but didn’t trust myself to speak. He stuck his index finger under my chin and raised my head until he could see my eyes.

  “Sweetheart, what is it?”

  “What if I had something to do with this?” My throat suddenly felt tight.

  “How could you poss—?”

  “Judy and I talked about killing Paula,” I blurted out.

  “Wait . . . what?” Confusion mingled with horror on his face.

  “Jokingly! I mean when she came over earlier today—well, I guess it was yesterday now. Anyway, she’d been telling me how Paula was driving her nuts and we got into this little banter about ways to get rid of her. It was just . . . You don’t suppose I gave her an idea, do you?”

  He put his finger gently on my lips. “Hush now. No, you didn’t give her any ideas. And no, Judy wouldn’t have really hurt Paula. Saying you wish you were rid of someone is not the same as killing them.”

  His voice dropped as Catherine peeked in from the kitchen. “Marshmallows?” she asked.

  “Cabinet beside the fridge.” I answered in a surprisingly normal tone, but the minute she disappeared my head dropped back into my hands.

  “Charlie, take a deep breath,” Drake ordered. “Now you’re not going to say any of this to Kent Taylor.”

  “What if I’m concealing evidence?”

  “This conversation between you and Judy is not evidence. Not yet, anyway. Just wait to find out what he finds at the . . . the . . .”

  “Crime scene,” I filled in. “I can’t believe this. Our neighbors’ house has become a crime scene.”

  “Whatever. Just don’t impart this particular information to him unless it looks like it really might be relevant. And even then, be very careful what you say.”

  “Chocolate’s ready,” Catherine chirped from the doorway. She hipped the swinging door open, her hands loaded with a large tray and three steaming mugs. Drake gave my hand a squeeze, then shoved magazines aside to make space on the coffee table.

  We drank our hot chocolate and speculated as to what might be happening next door, with Drake periodically peeking out the front windows to report as various vehicles left. We’d fallen into an almost sleepy silence again when the knock came at the front door at two-thirty. Kent Taylor’s appearance and the gust of wintry air he ushered in brought the rest of us around again.

  “Do I smell chocolate?” he asked before he’d slipped off his overcoat.

  Catherine immediately offered to get him a cup and the rest of us decided we’d take refills too.

  He flipped to a new page in his spiral. “Okay, what does anybody know about the friction between the family next door?”

  Nothing like getting straight to the point. I glanced at Drake, a move that I’m sure made it look like I had something to hide.

  “Wilbur and Judy appear to get along just great,” Drake offered. “Haven’t noticed any problems there.”

  “Well, I’m kind of looking more for information on who might have not been getting along with the victim, Paula Candelaria.” Taylor’s voice was only a tad short of sarcastic.

  “Kent,” I began, “I’m not sure there was actually anyone who did get along with her.” I wrapped my chilly hands around the mug Catherine handed me. “I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead,” I added hastily, “but Paula was rather—shall we say, abrasive. The kind of person who just rubbed most people the wrong way.”

  “I’m kind of getting that impression,” he admitted. “Okay, I understand there was some kind of altercation over eggnog at some ‘do’ down at the Country Club?”

  I tried to remember back to the cookie swap. It had been a busy week. “Well, there was an incident where Paula broke a glass cup and Chuck Ciacarelli yelled at her. But he’s such a grouch, even on a good day. He’d probably yell at Santa for leaving footprints on the roof.”

  “I heard the exchange went a little beyond that. Ciacarelli carried it on outside and got into quite an argument with the victim and her son after they left the party.”

  Drake and I looked at each other. “I sure didn’t hear anything about that,” I offered. “They left before we did, but I never heard any more than what went on in the party room.”

  Catherine and Drake nodded in agreement.

  “Any other incidents you know of?” Taylor asked. “Fights between family members, raised voices, things like that?”

  I had a hard time imagining the mild-mannered Wilbur or long-suffering Judy ever having a screaming match with anyone. I shook my head. Judy’s complaints about her mother-in-law’s behavior were all second hand; I’d never witnessed a nasty exchange between them.

  “Who do you think would have a reason to kill Paula?” I asked Kent. “She didn’t know anyone here.”

  “My question exactly. Woman comes to town to visit relatives. Meets a few neighbors. Hard to find someone with motive.”

  “Was there a break-in? Judy had mentioned that she and Wilbur were invited to a dinner party last night. Did it happen while they were gone?”

  “Yeah—they were gone when she died. Supposedly. I’m checking alibis.”

  An uneasy tremor went through me.

  “And what was the cause of death?” Drake asked.

  “Looks like a single blow with a fireplace poker. It was lying beside her, bloody, couple of smudgy prints on the handle but it looks like it was wiped down. She was lying in one corner of the couch. Could have been innocently napping or something. The blow caught her in the temple, so it’s also possible that she saw her attacker and was standing when she was hit. Could have just fallen in that position.”

  “There’s been a strange car in the neighborhood,” Drake mentioned. “Let me get the license number.” He headed for the kitchen.

  “True,” I said. “Paula’d had some bad relationships in the past—ex-husband in California and all. Maybe somebody tracked her down here.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got the ex’s name,” Kent said.

  Drake handed him the note with the plate number on it. “New Mexico plate,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  Kent set his mug on the tray and reached for his overcoat. “We’ll know more tomorrow.”

  “Do you plan to do drug or alcohol tests on Paula?” I asked.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Paula drank quite heavily. And from her erratic behavior, I wouldn’t be surprised if some drugs were in the mix too.” I shrugged. “Just a thought.”

  “I’m sure they’ll look at all that during autopsy.”

  Drake walked him to the door and Catherine, who’d been yawning for the past half-hour, excused herself to go back to bed. I felt wired. No way would I fall asleep anytime soon.

  “I’m going over there,” I told Drake.

  He started to make some mild protests, but didn’t get very far with it. “Okay. I think I’ll switch on the bedroom TV for awhile. See you whenever.”

  I pulled on my down jacket and stepped outside. The air was still, the night black. All the official vehicles had left and the snoopy neighbors had long since tucked back in and turned out their lights. Only our house and the Garfield’s showed any sign of activity
. Yellow tape still circled their side yard, protecting the patches of snow that hadn’t yet melted. I blew out a deep breath, watching the white vapor puff into the darkness, then headed for the front sidewalk. I tapped tentatively on their front door.

  “Oh, Charlie!” Wilbur seemed surprised to see me but ushered me in immediately. He wore pale gray pajamas with a tiny pattern on them, topped with a blue and red plaid robe. “Come into the kitchen. I’m trying to get Judy to have some hot chocolate.”

  His face seemed drawn, with a set of age lines I hadn’t noticed before. His eyes were red-rimmed with dark smudges beneath. I followed him into the kitchen. Judy was rummaging through an upper cabinet, her back to the door, her quick movements masking the small whoosh of the swinging door. She was also clad in her nightwear—flannel floor-length gown with flannel ruffles at the cuffs and neck.

  “Honey, Charlie’s here,” Wilbur murmured.

  She jumped visibly at the sound of his voice. A mug clattered to the counter top and she automatically reached out to catch it.

  “Charlie! Oh, god, I’m glad you’re here.” She left the mug lying on its side and slumped into a chair at the maple dining table. “I just can’t think . . . I mean, I just don’t know what . . .” Her fingers fidgeted with the top button of her gown at the base of her throat.

  “I know,” I said gently. Wilbur patted her on the shoulder as I sat down beside her. “I’m so sorry to hear about what happened.”

  They both nodded.

  “Did the police have any answers for you?”

  “Nothing yet,” Wilbur volunteered.

  “I couldn’t keep up with them,” Judy added. “I think they went all over the house and spread black powder on everything. I haven’t had a chance to check. It’s going to be a mess to clean up.” She rubbed her index finger around in tiny circles on the table’s shiny wood finish.

  “Let me get us some hot chocolate,” Wilbur offered. “The milk’s already hot.”

  “None for me, thanks. We just drank a couple at home.”

  He went to the stove and busied himself with the mix and the milk, making two mugs.