"I know. I've seen only two little clippings."
"Yeah, I mean, there were lots of investigators around, and I'll tell you, they went through our maintenance records with a fine tooth comb. You ain't been strip searched until you've had the FAA and the NTSB jump down your neck. But none of that was public, thank God."
"One investigator told me they had a file two or three inches thick," I said.
"At least. Maybe more. They practically wrote down every time I took a piss for a week." She picked up a rubber band and began stretching it between her two index fingers. "Lucky for us they found that bomb evidence. We'd'a been out of business and bankrupt if they'd traced anything to our maintenance records."
The rubber band flew across the room. "I tell ya, hon, this aviation business'll take you by the heart, then it'll take you by the wallet. We get us the best insurance money can buy—work half the year to pay for it—but otherwise those lawyers'd get everything we got. You know, one little slip-up and they're on you like vultures."
My stomach was getting a bit queasy and I tried to tell myself it was because I hadn't eaten any lunch.
Chapter 20
It was nearly two when I got back to the office and I could tell Sally was craving her afternoon nap. Her normally open, freckle sprinkled face looked faded. The hot fudge sundae I'd brought from McDonald's helped a bit.
We were gathered, the three of us, in our conference room opposite the reception area where Sally's desk sits. I'd volunteered to run for the phone if necessary.
"Office meeting, huh," Ron started off. "Well, since both you ladies approached me with the same request today, looks like we better get it over with."
Sally and I glanced at each other, spoons halfway to our mouths.
"Well, I certainly hadn't planned on dropping a double bombshell in one day," I began, "but maybe this way we can get everything worked out at once." I knew what Sally's request would be, or thought I did. I gestured for her to go first.
She rubbed her growing belly. "No surprise here. You both know I've talked about staying home with the baby. I'll work another couple of months, but then probably not want to come back to work for another year or so—unless Ross can work out a schedule where he can stay home half-time. But in construction . . . I don't think it'll happen."
Ron looked at me. "I'm not pregnant!" I assured him. "Don't plan on it either." He raised an eyebrow.
"Drake's starting his own helicopter business. I'd like to help him as much as I can, but I'm not abandoning ship here, either."
"You won't be much use to him if you're trying to put in full days here," Ron pointed out.
He scraped the bottom of his plastic ice cream cup. His face pulled into its older-and-wiser-brother facade. "Ladies, I knew this was coming," he pronounced.
Sally and I both rolled our eyes.
"Now wait, hear me out," he said, raising a palm toward us. "I'm not saying it's a bad thing. Here's a solution, if you like it. We can solve all this by hiring one full-time person. Ta-da."
"Replace both of us with one person?" Sally questioned, wanting to feel miffed.
"She (or he) will sit at the front desk, performing Sally's tasks. Along with that, Charlie can pass along the grunt-work that she doesn't want anymore and keep the parts she does want. If we hire someone soon, they'll have a couple of months to train with Sally and be ready to take over when she leaves."
"Great plan! So who does the hiring?" I had to ask.
"Whoever you'd like," he answered mellowly. This was just too easy.
Sally wasn't going to argue the point. She tossed her ice cream cup into the trash and said her farewells for the afternoon.
I spent the next thirty minutes on the phone, requesting business start-up forms from just about every government agency in the state. The phone book provided an address and phone number for Kathleen Smathers so I decided to pay a quick visit before going home.
I had to consult the city map to find her street and finally located it, a small cul-de-sac in Tanoan, an exclusive gated community in the north part of town. Smathers' address proved to be a townhouse—two stories of pale tan stucco, narrow windows, and white wrought iron. It was nearly as inviting as the state pen.
I pressed a lighted doorbell and set off a couple of minutes of some Bach fugue deep inside the house. That must have been some hefty insurance settlement to afford this lifestyle after fifteen years of joblessness. The chime had not quite finished pealing before a woman in a deep turquoise silk jumpsuit glided to the door. I knew, because I stared unabashedly through the clear glass panel beside it.
She was built like Dolly Parton except that the hair was flame orange. The silk jumpsuit was belted tightly, emphasizing a tiny waist I would have been proud to own, and she carried a portable phone in one hand.
"Oh, it isn't Joey," she said to the phone, "I'll have to call you back, darling." The instrument clicked off with a tiny electronic beep.
"Yes?" she inquired with a you-better-not-be-selling-anything manner.
I handed her my business card. "I'm Charlie Parker. I got your name from your husband's former employer," I said.
"Oh, I'm not . . ." It took her a minute to remember that she'd once had a husband.
"Oh, you mean Joe's old boss?"
"Could we talk about this inside?" I asked.
She led me to a white silk room just off the wide entry hall. I felt like the hillbilly cousin in my jeans and sweatshirt. I sat up straighter to make up for it.
"The reason his name even came up," I continued, "was because I have some questions about the plane crash that killed him."
She glanced again at the card, apparently thinking many of the same things Louise had earlier about why private investigators would be looking into a fifteen year old plane crash.
"My parents were on the plane," I explained.
"And what does this have to do with me?"
"I just . . ." I just suddenly felt hopeless. What would she know about any of this? "I just wondered whether Joe seemed nervous that day, or suspicious about anything? Or about any of the flights he did for Sandia?"
She looked like she was having to struggle with remembering Joe, much less anything he'd ever told her.
"Sweetie, I've gotten on with my life these last fifteen years. I suggest you do the same." She stood and began walking toward the front door.
So much for that trip.
I started home feeling drained. I just wanted to hug my man and my dog, in that order.
The rush hour traffic had started early today and was already in full snarl by the time I got to the freeway. The normal slow-down clog at Candelaria Road was at a complete standstill for no apparent reason, as usual. I broke free of it just in time to get entangled in construction on westbound I-40. Forty-five minutes later I dragged myself through the door, ready for a hot shower.
The heavenly smell of roasting meat greeted me at the door. I glanced toward the kitchen. The dining table was set with china and silver, candles and flowers. I tiptoed to the kitchen.
"Hi, honey, I'm home," I said softly.
Drake stood at the oven door, peering inside at a huge standing rib roast. "This will be ready in about ten minutes," he said.
"Wow, I'm impressed. And after the traffic I've fought and the people I've talked to all day, I'm ready for a treat. Do I have time for a shower?"
"A quick one." He winked, closed the oven door, and came forward to give me a hug. I let myself relax into it. Then a kiss. I relaxed into that too. Then another kiss.
"Dinner won't wait this long, will it?" I questioned.
"Better just opt for the shower—but take as long as you want." He grinned. "Maybe you'll get the rest for dessert."
God, he was wonderful.
I stood under the hot pelting shower without moving for ten minutes. Afterward, I slipped on silk lounging pajamas that may have been my mother's. I honestly couldn't remember where I'd gotten them. A glass of wine waited on the dresser and I
took a long cool sip of it. Things were definitely looking up.
We spent the dinner hour playing how-was-your-day-dear. I told Drake about Larry Sanchez's story of "spy people" and we mulled that over for awhile. I didn't tell him of Louise's dire version of being in the aviation business, but did tell him about the new arrangement at the office. He'd handled a number of small details about the helicopter purchase and said he'd be ready to go pick it up in a day or two.
We spent the evening watching an old movie on TV, which put us in a romantic mood and we were in bed by nine. By ten thirty, snuggled into the curve of Drake's shoulder, I was drifting into a luxurious sleep, unbothered by the multitude of thoughts that had plagued me all day.
Chapter 21
"Drake, have you seen my spiral notebook?" I rummaged through the top desk drawer, the one I'd reserved for my stuff.
"The little notebook you always carry in your purse?" he asked from the doorway.
"I just started a new one 'cause the old one was full, and I put the old one in this drawer. It has a few of my notes from this case."
"I'll admit that I messed up everything in this room—except in that drawer. Haven't touched it."
I muttered some more and shuffled the junk around. I certainly didn't remember leaving the drawer in such disarray, but the whole house had been a mess this week. I must have put the notebook somewhere else. Maybe in my desk at the office.
I wandered into the living room and noticed the unruly stack of papers I'd pulled from my purse yesterday. Among them were the picnic photo and Hannah's address that I'd scribbled on a scrap, along with postage receipts, gum wrappers, and old grocery lists. I carried the whole mess to the kitchen counter, where I tossed the junk into the trash and put the important things back into the purse.
Tomorrow I should go back over to Elsa's and organize everything into the boxes from whence they'd come.
"Wanna go buy a helicopter today?" he asked.
His face glowed with the prospect of flying again. In my self-centered cocoon, spending all my time concentrating on the past, I'd put aside the fact that Drake had been away from flying for several weeks now and was really missing it.
"If you'd rather not take a couple of days to do this, I could catch a commercial flight to Pueblo and then fly the new machine home."
"No, I'd really like to be in on the big excitement," I assured him.
"You know, it will take a whole day to drive up there, then you'll have to turn around and drive the truck home, another whole day on the road. Maybe I shouldn't be asking this much of you."
"Actually, it sounds perfect," I said. "My thoughts have become so muddled in the past few days that I could use the time away." Sometimes when I get too deeply involved in a case the questions and people begin to swirl around in my brain. Stepping back from the whole mess lets me look at it again with new perspective.
We jointly packed a small overnight bag, gathered Rusty's food and water, and closed up the house. By noon we decided to pull off the interstate at Las Vegas, north of Santa Fe, for some lunch and a stretch. On one corner of the historic plaza stands an old hotel with a Victorian dining room. We rolled the windows in the truck down to give Rusty some air, then walked the half-block.
Seated in the pale green room with white gingerbread trim, I ordered an elegant-sounding salad and Drake went for Mexican food.
"Are you sure you don't mind my taking over your office at the house to run the new business venture?" he asked, when our iced tea and a basket of rolls sat in front of us.
I smiled at him. "I absolutely don't mind. I'm looking forward to the change of pace."
I went on to outline for him the steps we'd need to take to get the business formed. "I'd advise that you incorporate. Just adds another layer of liability protection," I told him. "And the first step in any of this will be to choose a business name."
We kicked around names that sounded Southwestern and names that sounded aeronautical. Lunch arrived and we became distracted by that.
"I'm thinking of a name that relates to you and me as a couple," he suggested.
"Yeah, Red Hot Lovers Helicopter Service? That might attract a strange clientele," I joked.
"How about something combining our names?"
"Langston and Parker? Sounds like a law firm."
"How about CharlDrake Helicopters?"
"You'd put my name first? That's really sweet." I mulled the name around my tongue a few times. "I can envision a logo using enlarged letters for the C and the D—maybe something whimsical yet professional."
"I like it," he said.
We paid our check and retrieved Rusty from the truck. Clipping a leash onto his collar, I trotted him across the street to the plaza's park, where he reveled in the variety of strange smells and lifted his leg a couple of times. In another ten minutes we were on the road again.
By late afternoon, the town of Pueblo came into view and Drake headed for High Mountain Helicopter Service. Bill Whitaker stood behind the front reception desk, rummaging through some file folders. He and Drake greeted each other while I glanced around the office once again. I decided that if Drake ever wanted to rent office space that customers would see, it would not include grimy Mexican blankets over the furniture or layers of dust on everything.
Whitaker apparently had not organized the paperwork for Drake, and I got the distinct idea that Drake was working to hold back some choice words. I decided to take Rusty out for a run.
The afternoon had turned gray, with clouds building to the west. Would Drake be able to fly out of here tomorrow or would it be storming by then? The weather had suddenly taken on new significance in my life.
I clipped the leash on Rusty once again and we strolled out of the airport's fenced enclosure and began a steady jog up the road. Jogging with a dog isn't easy. He wanted to run, nearly yanking the leash from my wrist a couple of times. Then he decided to sniff at new smells along the way and I took one tumble when I tripped headlong over him. Decided this wasn't a great way to get exercise, so we turned around and kept the pace to a walk all the way back.
"How's it going?" I inquired back at Whitaker's office.
Drake raised an eyebrow toward me, while Whitaker continued digging through a file drawer, coming up with files, papers, and notebooks from time to time. Drake took my elbow and steered me back outside.
"This guy is nowhere near organized to do this," he said in a low voice. "And I'm not leaving here until I know I have everything I need."
I knew how much he hated sloppy work and I felt sorry for him.
"No sense in your hanging around here," he continued. "Why don't you go check into that same motel we stayed at last time. At least you can kick off your shoes and watch TV or something. I'll get him to take me there when we're done. It may be late."
"Want me to bring you some dinner?" I asked.
"Don't worry about it for now. I'll call if we decide to take a break. Otherwise, if you get hungry go ahead and eat."
I wanted to offer some help, but didn't have the faintest idea what needed to be done. Figured I'd be more in the way than anything. Rusty and I hopped back into the truck and headed into town.
We got the same blue and gold shag-carpeted room we'd had on our last visit here. I stocked up on ice and Cokes from vending machines and scooped Rusty's food into his bowl for him. Kicking off my shoes and switching on the television were about the only things left to do, and boredom was setting in fast.
I debated pulling out the book I'd been reading half-heartedly at home. For some reason it just wasn't grabbing my attention---probably because I'd had too many other things tugging for it. I looked through the few notes I'd made in my new spiral notebook, but really didn't want to think about the crash, Sandia, or any of the people involved just now. I let myself become involved in an old Hart to Hart episode.
When I woke up it was after eight, I was starving, and there'd been no sign of Drake. Not wanting to phone him at a time when his mood wasn't
likely to be the greatest, I walked over to the Burger King next to the motel and came back with a Whopper and fries. Rusty volunteered to help finish them, but I assured him that I could probably manage on my own.
By ten I was feeling drowsy again but didn't want to fall asleep without knowing how things were going with Drake. Just as I was about to dial the number to Whitaker's place, a set of bright truck lights flared behind the drape. I set the receiver down, peeped out and saw Drake emerging with his arms loaded.
I opened the heavy metal door and he dropped his armload of folders, books, and papers on the table.
"Wow, no wonder you're so late," I said, reaching to kiss him. "Did you get any dinner?"
"Not yet." He held up a small sack. "I got Whitaker to stop on the way here. Boy, this is frustrating."
"Records not in good shape, huh?"
"Not exactly. The aircraft log book looks okay, but there are several components not shown in the maintenance folder. And this guy has nothing computerized, so it's really tough to figure out what's missing."
"Can I help?"
"Yeah, let's cross check these two lists against each other while I eat my burger."
By one a.m. it began to look as if everything really was here, just not in very good order. I'd already devised a better filing system, using the old folders for now, than Whitaker ever dreamed of. Drake leaned back in his chair rubbing his eyes.
"Well, at least it looks like the deal can go through," he moaned. "I really didn't want to go looking for another aircraft at this point, but I wasn't going to accept this one without a complete set of records."
I had the feeling I was getting a little taste of what the aviation business would be like. We fell into bed to catch a few hours sleep before Drake's nine a.m. meeting to sign the papers.
Chapter 22
The miles rolled by for Rusty and me. We'd gotten a bit of a head start—Drake would leave after finalizing his deal, but he'd still get to Albuquerque hours ahead of us. We'd meet up at Double Eagle Airport before going home.
Memories Can Be Murder: The Fifth Charlie Parker Mystery Page 13
