Holidays Can Be Murder: A Charlie Parker Christmas Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  The entryway was small, and opened directly on the living room. Beyond that I could see the L of a dining room, with a kitchen and breakfast area directly in front of me. Everything was done in shades of blue and cream. I stepped into the living room and examined a group of photos standing in brass frames on a bookcase. There were plenty of Ray, some including the woman who’d opened the door. None including Paula.

  Considering their divorce was only recently final, he’d done a remarkable job of mopping up traces of her and installing her replacement quickly enough.

  Voices from upstairs caught my attention. The male sounded grumbly and included something along the lines of, “. . . and you let her in?” Almost immediately, a door closed firmly and the woman appeared at the top of the stairs. Putting on a weak smile, she tottered down on her slender heels and approached me.

  “What did you say this was about?” she asked.

  “I didn’t.” I gave her a minute to come up with something, but she wasn’t ready with anything quick. “It’s something I have to discuss with Ray.”

  I walked over to a very straight wingback chair and sat down.

  “He’s getting dressed. It’ll be a few minutes.”

  “That’s fine.” I guess I looked prepared to camp there because she didn’t say anything else. She went into the kitchen and rattled some ice cubes in a glass.

  A good ten minutes passed, during which the woman disappeared into another room beyond the kitchen. Sounds of doors opening and closing and the occasional running water upstairs told me that Ray was making no haste with his toilette. I walked back over to the bookcase and continued my perusal.

  Unfortunately, the reading material was limited to romance novels and a few volumes on how to improve your golf game. There were no scrapbooks or albums or other juicy stuff. The furniture was the mid-priced kind you found at outlet places and the art on the walls was of the starving artist variety. I was about to start toe-tapping when I noticed Ray at the top of the stairs. I wondered if he’d been standing there watching me give the place the once-over.

  “Ray Candelaria?” I walked toward him and extended my hand as he reached the bottom step. He was in his mid forties, probably ten years younger than Paula, or more. Black hair, razor cut to perfection, tailored gray slacks and a pink polo shirt, about two too many gold chains.

  He held up my card and looked at it. “You’re an investigator from Albuquerque?”

  “That’s right. Could we sit down a minute?”

  He ushered me back into the living room and we took chairs at opposite ends of a crushed velvet sofa.

  “Have you heard about Paula?” I began tentatively.

  His expression said ‘the bitch,’ although the words didn’t come out. “What about her?”

  “That she was killed a couple of days ago?”

  His surprise seemed genuine. His face screwed up in puzzlement. “Killed? What happened?”

  So the Albuquerque police hadn’t considered Ray worth talking to.

  “It was murder.” I didn’t know any other way to say it and still get to the point quickly. “She was visiting her son and daughter-in-law at the time.”

  “The one in Albuquerque.”

  “Yes.”

  “Think I met that one a couple of times,” he said. “You know, Paula and I were only together a couple years. Fun while we were just fooling around, you know. Sailing up the coast, doing the sights, hanging out in some good clubs. But then we got married. Thing she had about ‘commitment.’ I don’t know. The fun just kind of went out of it after that.”

  He shrugged and reached toward the coffee table, picking up a small wooden box with a hinged lid. He began flipping the lid open and shut, clicking it repeatedly.

  “When did you see her last?”

  “Oh, gosh—” he glanced upward “—way before the divorce actually went through. Probably been a couple months anyway. Maybe more than that.”

  “What was she doing during that time? I mean before she showed up at Wilbur’s house.”

  “My guess? I mean, I don’t really know. My guess is, hanging out in some flophouse.” He snapped the box’s lid loudly and set it back on the coffee table. Thank goodness—I’d been about ready to snatch it away from him.

  He rubbed his hands through his hair and it fell perfectly back into place. His gaze met mine firmly. “Paula couldn’t give up the drugs. I mean, heck, I’ll smoke a little dope now and then, do a little coke at a party or something. But for Paula that was just the appetizer. She’d started with crack a few months before I finally told her to get out. Who knows what else she’s tried by now.”

  “Who supplied her? Was there some guy named Gus?”

  His mouth twisted into a grimace. “Oh yeah. Gus.”

  I waited silently, sure that there was more to come.

  “Met Gus at a party at my boss’s house in Brentwood. We both did.”

  “Nice neighborhood. What kind of business?”

  “Timeshares. Sales have been good the last few years. I’m doing okay.” I remembered a sales brochure I’d come across, tucked between two of the golf books.

  “What about this Gus?”

  He snorted. “The guy is slime. I have no idea how he got into this party, must have been on the arm of somebody connected. Paula gravitated right to him. Don’t know how, but those types always find each other. I had to drag her out of the kitchen to go home. But they stayed in touch—I know they did.”

  “Any idea where he lives?” I’d found a phone number in Paula’s address book, but nothing more.

  He shook his head. “She probably never went there anyway. Probably just met him places.”

  “Know where he hangs out?”

  He gave me the names of a couple of clubs and I wrote them down in my notebook. The tinkling of ice cubes reminded me of the other woman in the house. I hadn’t seen her cross the foyer. How long had she been listening in the kitchen?

  12

  It was completely dark when I emerged from Ray’s house and I thought how odd it looked to see Christmas lights on palm trees and flowering shrubs. I spent a couple of minutes in the car studying the map to figure out where I was going next. One of the clubs was near my hotel, so I decided to check in and freshen up first. The real action probably didn’t start until later anyway.

  My room was on the sixth floor, giving me a swell view of the windows of an office building across the street. A surprising number were lit, considering it was Friday night. I took a quick shower and browsed my suitcase to see what I’d brought that might be appropriate for night life. Nothing, really.

  I settled on a newer pair of jeans--ones without the knees worn white—and a white tank top. I’d brought it along thinking the California climate might be a lot warmer than ours, although it wasn’t exactly tank weather. With a denim jacket, I might pass. I rummaged through my sparse makeup bag and found a pair of rhinestone earrings that had probably been in there for years. I could probably rinse the face powder off them. I looked at the ensemble spread out on the bed and really just wished I could put on my flannel jammies and watch TV before falling asleep early.

  After a quick call to Drake to let him know I’d made the trip okay, I decided I better keep moving while my momentum was up. I got dressed, put on way more makeup than I usually do, and fluffed my hair to double its volume. Surveying the result in the mirror, I decided I would just avoid mirrors the rest of the evening.

  The first club, known simply as Billy’s, turned out to be in a not too bad neighborhood, luckily, since I had to park three blocks away. I carefully locked the rental car and clutched my purse against me, wishing I’d been able to bring my new pistol with me. These kinds of situations make me extremely edgy.

  I used the three block walk to work up a little hip shake and throw on some attitude. By the time I approached Billy’s, I was ready for anything. It was one of those places where people line up outside for their turn to get in and a seven-foot-tall black guy with a s
haved head and three gold earrings guards the entry. I could see that I’d never make the cut without a story. I strutted right up to him.

  “Hi, I’m supposed to meet Gus here,” I said, craning my neck to look him in the eye.

  “Oh yeah?” His eyes traveled down to the dip in the front of my tank top. I forced myself not to reach up and close the gap.

  “Yeah.” I hoped I managed to make it sound saucy. “I’m a friend of Paula’s.”

  Something shifted in his face. “Hold on. Let me check.” He gripped the shoulder of a younger, shorter, white guy and whispered something to him. The young one disappeared inside.

  “Wait right here,” the guard said in a deep baritone.

  He turned to the next couple standing in the line. I felt like I didn’t quite know what to do with my hands. I moved a little to the beat of the music coming from inside and hoped I didn’t look totally nerdy. Stares from the other people in line were beginning to become noticeable but I refused to meet their gazes or apologize for skipping to the front.

  It took about five minutes for the runner to come back. Apparently I’d been given the go-ahead. Interesting. Paula must have been a good customer. The huge guy moved the padded rope barrier aside and ushered me through. I didn’t know where to find Gus, or what he looked like, but figured this wasn’t the moment to ask.

  I walked into the assault of deafening music, strobing lights, clouds of cigarette smoke, and writhing bodies. I stood to the side for a minute, adjusting to it all, before making my way to the bar. I ordered a beer, which I usually don’t drink, figuring that would make it easy for me to nurse one drink for quite awhile and create no danger that I’d be too intoxicated to drive.

  While the bartender drew it into a tall mug, I scanned the room. On the far side, a row of booths lined the wall, most of them filled with couples. One corner booth was occupied by a stringy looking white guy, flanked by two girls, one black and one white. Two other men sat on either side of the girls. They were getting with the music and clearly enjoying themselves. The white guy in the middle was more intent. Gus.

  I confirmed it with the bartender as I paid for my beer.

  Hiking my purse strap firmly onto my shoulder, I readopted my attitude, picked up my beer, and headed his way. I hadn’t yet decided on my approach, so I strolled between tables and dancers, smiling vacantly, pretending to really get into the scene. By the time I’d reached the row of booths, I noticed that Gus was eyeing me. I caught the stare and gave it right back.

  “Yeah?” His voice was surly. His gaunt face showed a couple days worth of stubble, and his streaky blond hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in a week. The black girl had her arm draped over the back of the booth behind him.

  “Paula said I should come see you.” I stood with my weight on one hip, going for a casual attitude.

  His eyes narrowed. “Yeah. So?”

  “She said you got some really good—” I hoped my eyebrows conveyed the message, since I didn’t know the slang word for it.

  “You ain’t from around here,” he said.

  “Nah. Met her in New Mexico. Happened to be here on, let’s say, business. Just lookin’ for something to make the trip a little more enjoyable.”

  He turned toward the guy closest to me who was sitting in the end seat of the booth. “Clear out.”

  The man grabbed the hand of the white girl. “C’mon, let’s dance.”

  They slid out of the booth and Gus gestured for me to take the empty seat. I did, staying within jumping distance of the opening.

  “Whatta ya want?” he asked. Getting right down to business.

  I shrugged. “Just a little grass, I guess. What’ll twenty bucks get me?”

  “That’s it?”

  “I’m only in town till tomorrow. Don’t want to get caught with it on the airplane.”

  “So, going back to New Mexico?”

  “Yeah. Back to the grind.” I slid a folded twenty across the table toward him. He took a pinch from a zipper bag, put it in an empty one, and slid the little bag to me. “I’ll give Paula your regards.”

  Something in his face changed. “What’re you up to?” His eyes had become slits.

  I glanced around the table. The other two had suddenly taken an interest in me too. “What do you mean, what am I up to?” I tried to dish it right back at him, but wasn’t feeling overly confident at the moment.

  “Paula’s dead.” He watched closely for my reaction.

  “What! No way, man. I just saw her last week. She looked great.” I shook my head back and forth. “No way could she be dead.”

  Apparently my feigned shock convinced him. He shrugged. “You’ll see.”

  “Well . . . what happened? How’d you find out?”

  “Let’s just say a mutual friend told me. We got a short grapevine here.”

  The black girl forced a laugh and nodded agreement. I took a long pull on my beer to give myself a moment to decide how to handle this. When the chuckles died down I shrugged.

  “So, what? Accident, or something?”

  “Yeah, let’s just say she accidentally forgot to pay her bills.” He grinned for the first time. The man really should invest in some good dental work.

  “Too bad.” I gave a couldn’t-give-a-shit shrug. “Well, it’s been real.”

  I stood up and tucked my little purchase into my purse. Resisting the urge to look back at the table, I sauntered toward the ladies room at the back of the club. It looked like I had the place to myself. I took one of the three stalls and slid the latch, blowing out a deep pent-up breath. I did a quick pee, dropped the baggie of pot in after, and flushed. At the row of sinks, I stopped to wash my hands, knowing that I’d want another shower back in my room before I could go to sleep.

  “All right, bitch, the truth!” A hand grabbed me from behind, long nails digging into my bicep.

  I whirled around to find the black girl from the table. She shoved me against the wall, the electric hand dryer jamming into the small of my back. Pain shot down both legs and I struck out, whipping my arm free at the same time I rammed the heel of my hand into her chest. Her butt hit a sink and it rattled slightly, like it might come off the wall.

  “Slow down a second,” I yelled before she could come at me again.

  She braced herself against the sink, while I backed up to a flat place on the wall.

  “What makes you think I’m ‘up to something’? What’s with all this third degree stuff from Gus, anyway?” I snarled the words, not faking the anger.

  “You—prissy little white girl—come in here with that story about Paula sending you. Paula’d never be friends with somebody like you.”

  My mind whirled, searching for a way to handle this. “Okay.” I slumped against the wall. “Okay, look, you’re right. Paula and I weren’t exactly friends.”

  She leaned back against the sink, crossing her arms under her ample breasts.

  “Look,” I said, “I know Paula was murdered. Okay, I wasn’t surprised when Gus told me.”

  She tapped an index finger against her upper arm.

  “It’s just that a friend is accused of killing her, and this lady, well, there’s just no way she’s got it in her to kill anybody. So I’m just asking around, trying to figure out what really happened.”

  “And you think Gus got somethin’ to do with it?”

  “You don’t?”

  “I know he don’t. Gus been here, in this club, at that table, every night for the whole two years I known him. Gus, he may be sorta messed up. I mean, a dealer, he shouldn’t be doin’ the stuff, you know. He make some money if he jus’ sell it. Gus, he dumb enough to use it too.” She uncrossed her arms and propped herself against the sink’s edge, staring at the floor. “It’s jus’ . . . he’s my man. I don’t know how to make him quit.” Her voice cracked a little.

  “Okay, look, I’ll take your word for it. He does look like a fixture here.”

  “Damn straight. B’lieve it or not, Gus ain’t
gonna get so worked up over a piece of junkie like that Paula Candelaria. What’d be his reason to kill her? Why’d he even care?”

  “Cause she didn’t pay her bills?” I ventured.

  “Yeah, like she gonna pay ’em now?”

  Good point. I stood up and retrieved my purse from where it had landed beside a trash can. She grabbed my arm again, more gently this time.

  “He’s just a lotta talk. Leave him alone, okay?”

  “Okay. Look, I’m not the law or anything. I can’t actually do anything to him.”

  She backed away and let me pass. As I walked out the door, she was checking her makeup in the mirror.

  13

  I felt like I was batting zero when I got on the plane the next day, heading back to Albuquerque. I’d left the club last night at a leisurely pace, casually inquiring of both the bartender and the doorman about Gus’s habit of being at his table every single night. They both backed up the girlfriend’s story.

  This morning I’d called Luxury Resorts, the timeshare company Ray Candelaria worked for and had been assured that he’d been at work Christmas Eve until six and again on the twenty-sixth at eight a.m. Wouldn’t have been impossible for him to get to Albuquerque and back, but it seemed pretty unlikely.

  So, I was short on ideas at this point. I still didn’t give Gus credit for much in the brains department, and it wasn’t entirely out of the question that he might have sent one of his “friends” to convince Paula to pay up and the guy might have gotten a little too rough. However, the evidence at the scene didn’t quite work with that theory—no damage to the room, no sign of a fight, nothing stolen from the house. I’d run the idea past Ron when I got home, get his take on it, but didn’t think it would exactly get the police hot on Gus’s tail.

  I settled back in my seat for the flight and two hours later had forged my way through the baggage claim in Albuquerque and retrieved my car from the lot.

  It was pretty much on my way home, so I stopped at the office before heading toward my own neighborhood. Sally had left for the day and Ron was sitting at his desk, the phone against his ear. I waved hello and went into my own office to see how much mail and how many phone messages I’d missed. I was halfway through them when Ron appeared in my doorway.