Memories Can Be Murder: The Fifth Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  Like I'm a real clothing expert. My own jeans and T-shirt wardrobe is, of course, completely up to date in the fashion world.

  I stood back as Drake joined the crowd at the carousel. His trim body and dark hair with just a touch of gray at the temples were still enormously attractive to me. I glanced again at the ring on my left hand. A few months ago I couldn't imagine sharing my home and my life with anyone. Now I couldn't imagine my life without him.

  We walked out into the cool autumn evening to grab lungfuls of bus and taxi exhaust. I pointed the direction to the parking garage and we located the Jeep without hassle. Ten minutes later we were cruising I-25, making the transition onto I-40. Traffic slugged along, coming to a clog then miraculously thinning out again with no visible reason for the slowdown.

  Rusty leaped at Drake the minute we entered the house, twisting and leaning into Drake's legs in hopes of getting his back scratched.

  "Hey, boy, how are you?" Drake made growling noises as he obliged the dog's wishes.

  "Are you hungry?" I asked, heading toward the kitchen. I circled the living and dining rooms, pulling drapes and switching on additional lights. Figured by staying busy, I might avoid that awkward moment where we would stand in the hall shrugging our shoulders at each other and wondering what to say next. Moving in together was a different experience for both of us.

  "Do we have anything to make a sandwich with? And maybe a beer?" He'd set his bag down behind the sofa and headed toward the kitchen. We nearly collided at the door.

  "I can get it," he assured me. "Please? I don't want us to fall into some kind of pattern where you think you ought to wait on me."

  That was fine with me. I didn't want to get into a pattern of waiting on anyone. I reached out to put my arms around him and received a kiss that weakened my knees in return.

  "You know where everything is here; help yourself." When he'd spent a week here this past summer, I'd found Drake to be extremely capable in the kitchen. And when I'd spent a month at his place, we worked together well, although his culinary expertise far outshines mine. I pride myself on being able to come up with acceptable fare from cans and boxes, with slight help from the microwave. Drake actually uses recipes. I even saw him use the oven a couple of times.

  I left the kitchen to his expertise and I took his bag to the bedroom. Rusty opted to stay with Drake since that seemed like the better bet for tidbits that might fall his way. I returned to the kitchen to find Drake pulling something out of the oven. He took the split submarine roll topped with shaved ham, sliced tomatoes, and melted cheese and deftly sliced it into several sections and placed the sections on two plates.

  "I thought you might be hungry by now, too," he offered. "What would you like to drink?"

  I rummaged through the fridge and came up with a Coke. We took our seats at the kitchen table-I had a brief flash forward to the two of us in these same chairs thirty years from now. The vision felt reassuring and comfortable.

  "Here's to us," he said, raising his beer glass. I touched it with the rim of mine.

  "To us."

  His smile went straight to my heart.

  "You'll never guess what happened when I went up to the attic to store some old stuff away," I said.

  His cheek bulged with sandwich so he merely shrugged his shoulders.

  "I found some old papers that belonged to my father." I filled him in briefly on everything I'd learned from Elsa Higgins and from Hannah Simmons.

  "I thought the plane was commercial," he said.

  "I always did, too. This all came as a complete surprise."

  "So, what are you going to do about it?"

  "Ron's going to see if he can get a copy of the NTSB report. Normally, I would think they'd follow through but this time it appears that someone hushed up the investigation. Drake, can you imagine? There was an explosion on board and nobody bothered to follow it up and find out what happened?"

  He reached out and ran his index finger along my jawline. "What else is bothering you, sweetheart?"

  Tears welled up. "I don't know. I feel so guilty. I should have asked more questions at the time. I was so damned concerned with myself then. I mean, I was more worried about missing a stupid dance that weekend than about finding out what really happened. Now the trail's probably completely cold. How many clues can possibly exist after all these years?"

  "I'll help if I can," he said gently. "And stop that guilty stuff. There was nothing you could have done that would have changed the outcome, now is there?"

  I shook my head mutely.

  "And I defy you to find a teenager anywhere that isn't more full of themselves than any other subject on earth. Right?"

  He picked up a napkin and dabbed at my cheeks for me.

  "Now, you want to hear some really good news?" he asked. "I think I've found a ship."

  "Drake, that's great! Your own helicopter. So . . . what's the plan? What kind is it? What kind of work will you get? Come on . . . "

  He pushed his plate back and interlaced his fingers. "Well, I was talking to one of the tour operators on Kauai a couple of days ago and he mentioned that a mutual friend of ours in Colorado was getting two new machines and might be looking to sell one of his used ones. So, I called the guy. Hadn't seen him in years. We worked together about twenty years ago in South America, and he remembered me right away."

  I sipped at my Coke, listening to the growing enthusiasm in his voice.

  "Anyway, it's true, he does have an aircraft he'd like to sell and he's willing to make me a deal on it. He'll carry the financing and provide maintenance if I want him to."

  "What kind of money is he talking about?"

  "We didn't get down to anything specific yet. I'll need to go up there and take a look at the records, find out what kind of time is left on the components, all that stuff."

  "Do you think it's a good move?"

  "Well, I'm gonna have to work my butt off to line up some work for the machine. I'll have to put some numbers to it, but obviously I'll have to fly some minimum number of hours a month to make it pay. I have some government contacts in Arizona, since I grew up in Flagstaff, but not too much here. I'll just have to get out and hustle to find out what I need to do."

  "Ask Ron about that kind of stuff too. He knows lots of people around here. I'm always amazed at where he comes up with contacts."

  He grinned like a little kid. "This could be my chance, Charlie. I've always wanted to have my own operation, maybe in some little out-of-the-way place."

  "Albuquerque isn't a major hub, you know, but I wouldn't exactly call it out of the way."

  "We'll see. Maybe there's work to be had around here too, but I'm thinking that some of the rural areas that don't already have any helicopter service might be good bets. Remember that little town we went to this summer?"

  Valle Escondido. Sally's hometown where we'd discovered dirty goings-on. It really was a beautiful area though.

  "Anyway," he continued, "I thought I might buzz up to Pueblo to check out this aircraft in the next week or two. Want to come?"

  "Sure, that sounds like fun." I told him how I'd asked Ron to check out the NTSB report on the plane crash and that I'd like to see if I could find out more about that before going out of town.

  I caught him staring at me with that certain tender look in his eyes. The next thing I knew we were in the shower together, leaving Rusty to worry about cleaning up the kitchen.

  We awoke early Tuesday morning, with our legs entwined, my face buried against Drake's chest. I raked my nails lightly down his back, causing him to stretch and pull me closer.

  "Mfmph!" I struggled.

  He backed away. "What?"

  "That means I love you but I can't breathe."

  "Sorry." He stroked my hair. "I guess I just don't want you to get away."

  "You don't have to worry about that," I assured him. "I have no desire to get away. Except maybe to go to the bathroom?"

  He released me to attend to immediate
needs. Rusty raised his head, watching me from his rug at the foot of the bed. By the time I emerged, he was standing at the door wagging anxiously to go out. I slipped on a robe and let him lead me to the back door. When I returned, Drake had made the bed and was brushing his teeth.

  "Can I take you out to breakfast?" I asked. "Then maybe we can go by the office-Ron and Sally will be eager to know whether you made it home."

  "And you might be just a little eager to know whether Ron got any leads on that accident report?"

  He read me so easily. He wiggled his eyebrows at me as he plugged in his electric razor.

  "Okay, okay, you're right."

  An hour later, we'd stuffed down a couple of Egg McMuffins and were pulling into the rear parking lot at the office. Both Ron's convertible and Sally's four-wheel drive waited there. Rusty bounded out as soon as I opened the car door for him and raced to the porch.

  Sally stood at the kitchen sink, rinsing the coffee pot. Now in her fifth month of pregnancy, she had begun wearing loose shirts to cover her growing tummy. At least she'd gotten past the green-faced mornings.

  "Hi, Drake," she exclaimed, pulling him into a big hug. "It's good to see you again."

  He blushed and made some greeting noises.

  "So, are you all moved in?"

  "My household stuff won't arrive for awhile yet," he said, "but Charlie has everything rearranged at the house so it will all fit when it gets here. So far, the only thing I really need is my truck. I have the feeling Charlie will get tired of chauffeuring me around by the time it gets here."

  I squeezed his hand to reassure him that I wasn't about to get tired of his company.

  "I'm going up to check my mail while you two visit," I told him.

  Sally was reciting their list of possible baby names by the time I reached the stairs.

  Ron sat tipped back in his office chair when I peeked into his room.

  "Hey, did you find out who we should contact at the NTSB?" I asked.

  "Better than that," he grinned. He held up several pages of fax paper. "I've got the entire report here. And the name of a contact person."

  "Wow, you are good."

  "I haven't talked to the investigator yet, but he's still with the agency, still here in Albuquerque, so it shouldn't be too hard to reach him."

  "And the report? What does it say?"

  "I'm just getting into that. Come here and read over my shoulder." He beckoned, sliding his chair forward so I could squeeze in behind him.

  I read quickly, through lots of technical terminology and paragraph upon paragraph describing the location of the crash and the scene. By the third page, my eyes were glazing over and I knew I'd have to reread this carefully when I could analyze and fully absorb it. Ron was reading slowly, word for word, while I was eager to get to the bottom line.

  When he turned to page four, I jumped to the bottom of the sheet. There were a couple of paragraphs describing the composition of the explosive material in great technical detail, none of it making sense to me. But the words that did stand out were there. Conclusion: explosion on board, most probably originating in the pilot's carry-on bag.

  Chapter 6

  The pilot? Why on earth would the pilot have carried the explosive material on with him? A suicide motive? Blackmail, a threat, or had he brought the death vehicle aboard without knowing it?

  That seemed the most likely scenario to me.

  I turned to watch Ron's face. His concentration was total. About two-thirds of the way down the page, as he reached the final section, his eyes began to scan faster. As he read the final paragraphs I watched his face register shock, then disbelief. He turned to me, his eyebrows pulled tightly together in a deep V.

  "Hey, Ron, how's it going?" Drake's appearance broke the intense moment.

  Ron stood to shake hands and I stepped aside.

  "Still got that nine-millimeter Beretta?" Drake asked.

  "I sure do. When do you want to go out to the range again?"

  I stepped across the hall to my own office, leaving them to talk guns. When Drake had visited this past summer, Ron and I had been in the middle of an on-going argument about gun control. Breaking down my longstanding distrust of guns, Ron and Drake had taken me to the gun range on the west side of town, where I'd actually begun to enjoy target shooting. I hadn't gone in a couple of months now and kind of missed it. I found myself half listening to their conversation as I sat at my desk.

  "I'd sure like to shop for a new pistol myself," Drake was saying. "Where do you recommend I look?"

  I pulled out my letter opener and slit the few envelopes that had arrived. Nothing appeared too pressing.

  "I'd like to get Charlie a little gun of her own, too," he continued. "Something she can practice with until she's thoroughly familiar with it."

  Ron chuckled. "You should have heard her talk about gun control a few months ago," he said. "The idea of getting her own gun would have been out of the question."

  I tossed a Kleenex box toward his office so it hit the doorjamb.

  "See? Women—I tell you Drake, you never can tell about 'em."

  "You two better quit talking about me," I warned.

  Drake leaned into my office and tossed a kiss my way.

  I filed the incoming mail according to whatever I'd have to do with it next, then turned my attention back to the fax. It had been sent from Washington but there was a name, Jim Williams, with an Albuquerque phone number. His name had been mentioned often in the report, apparently as the chief investigator on the case.

  I dialed the number and got Williams on the line almost immediately. I identified myself and read him the case number from the top of the fax.

  "Would it be possible for me to meet with you in the next day or two?" I asked.

  His voice sounded hesitant. "I don't know what I could tell you, Ms. Parker. I mean, besides what's in the report."

  "You were on the scene," I said. "These are my parents we're talking about. I guess I just want to . . ." My voice petered out as I failed to come up with a valid sounding reason.

  He sighed. "I've got fifteen minutes between two other meetings this afternoon. It's supposed to be my coffee break, but I'll give you a little time if you can be here at two-fifteen."

  He gave me an address in the downtown Federal Building. I hung up the phone wondering what exactly I would ask him.

  "Want to go downtown with me this afternoon?" I directed the question toward both men.

  "I can't," Ron said, "I've got a deposition to give at Haworth's office at two o'clock."

  The lawyer was one of our better clients and there was no way Ron could stand him up.

  "I'll go," Drake offered. "I can either attend your meeting with you or I can scout around among the government offices for some helicopter work."

  "That's right! You might make some valuable contacts for yourself. Let's do that. I'll meet with Mr. Williams and you can do some prospecting."

  At two-ten I walked into Jim Williams's office in the local branch office of the Department of Transportation. I'd let Drake out at the door so he could get a head start while I parked the Jeep in a lot down the block. Now I faced a long Formica counter with a bureaucratic looking woman behind it.

  "I have an appointment with Jim Williams at two-fifteen," I volunteered after she ignored me for a full two minutes.

  "He's in a meeting, ma'am."

  "I know, but he told me to be here when they take their coffee break."

  She looked at me like she couldn't believe any sane person would give up a coffee break.

  "Really, he did. Can you let him know I'm here?"

  "He's still in the meeting, ma'am."

  "Yes. I meant when he comes out of the meeting."

  I went ahead and sat down in a vinyl-seated metal chair against the wall despite the fact that she hadn't made a move on my behalf. My eyes kept straying to my watch. At precisely two-fifteen, I heard a door open somewhere down a hall and voices drifted toward me.

>   A large red-faced man with thin sandy hair stuck his head around the corner.

  "Marge, is there . . ." He caught sight of me in mid sentence. "Charlie Parker?"

  "Yes, you must be Mr. Williams?" I stood, ready to follow him.

  "Let's go into my office."

  I followed him down a tiled corridor past a series of identical wooden doors. Williams was about six feet tall, barrel shaped body, narrow hips and legs, fifty-some years old. The redness in his face extended to the back of his neck and to the bald spot at his crown. He stopped and opened the fourth door on the left, stepped aside and motioned me to precede him.

  "Sit down, Ms. Parker," he invited, indicating a chair like the one I'd just vacated. He grunted as he took his seat behind the metal desk. The desk top was clear except for a telephone and computer terminal. One battered file folder lay in the in-basket behind him and he picked it up. Inside was a thin sheaf of papers.

  He opened the folder and rubbed his eyebrows with thumb and index finger as he glanced over the first couple of pages.

  "I received a copy of the final report from Washington," I began. "The conclusion that an explosive device was carried aboard in the pilot's bag naturally surprised me. I was wondering what ever came of that. Did they think the pilot intended to sabotage the flight? Or did someone plant the device aboard, and if so, who did it?"

  Williams continued to flip through pages as I asked my questions.

  "I remember this case now," he said, looking up at me with sharp blue eyes. "It's been a long time."

  I waited, hoping he'd remember enough to be of help.

  "It was a pretty hairy location," he said. "Way at the top of Baldy Mountain up north of Eagle Nest. We had one of those spring snows, dumped about a foot or more on the wreckage before we could get up there. At first, the assumption was that the weather probably caused the crash."

  "How did you learn about the explosive?"

  "Oh, as soon as we saw the airplane, it was obvious," he assured me. "I don't know why anybody ever thinks they can disguise an explosion. A gaping hole in a fuselage doesn't happen because of a snow storm."

  "So, what ever came of it? Was anyone arrested?"