Memories Can Be Murder: The Fifth Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  Pyracantha bushes sprouted thick clusters of fat orange berries, disguising the fact that they also harbored inch-long deadly spikes that would make your finger ache for several days if you pricked yourself with one. The shrubs had not been trimmed so the laden branches arched gracefully in every direction, including over the narrow walkway that led to the front door. The rest of the spacious front yard was landscaped in a mixture of gray river rock and red lava rock, with generous quantities of weeds and grass growing up through them.

  The single garage door began to crank upward as I started up the walkway, so I paused. A red convertible shot backward, its driver not giving a glance to where he was going. When he did turn my direction, he jumped visibly and the car squeaked to a stop. The set of golf clubs in the back seat rattled noisily.

  "Whoa, I didn't see you there," he called.

  Still the fashion plate, his now-white hair was trimmed short at the sides and back, with a modified dip at the front that somehow floated rigidly above his forehead like the bill of a ballcap. Somehow, I had the feeling it would be just as perfect after the convertible ride.

  "Are you Harvey Taylor? Hi, I'm Charlie Parker," I said, approaching the side of the car. "I think you worked with my father, Bill Parker, at Sandia Labs years ago?"

  His gradated sunglasses gave the impression that I could see his eyes, without actually allowing me to do so. Squint-wrinkles formed in the leathery tan skin around them.

  "Yeah, hon. Bill Parker was your dad?"

  I got the feeling that he couldn't believe any colleague of his could possibly have a grown daughter. Despite the white hair, he clearly still thought of himself as being in his studly prime.

  "Do you have a minute?" I asked. "I wanted to chat for a bit."

  He looked at the sporty plastic watch on his wrist. "Five minutes," he said. "I got an important tee-time at eleven." He switched off the ignition.

  I walked around to his side of the car and stood near his side-mirror. When I briefly explained that I was looking into the plane crash, he shook his head.

  "I don't think you're going to get many people who worked at Sandia to tell about any of the top secret projects that were going on at the time, even if most of it is old technology by now. That `oath of secrecy' stuff was pretty ingrained."

  "I don't want to know any government secrets," I reiterated. "I'd just like to know if my father was working on something at the time that might have gotten him killed. Among his papers there are some notes that appear to be in a kind of code. But I can't figure it out. He said something like `the heat is on.' What kind of heat would that be?"

  Taylor scratched a spot on his head with his index finger. The cap of perfect hair moved back and forth, no strand escaping from the heavy spray-job. His face screwed up in deep thought.

  "I vaguely remember there being some pressure from the top. Some supervisor was giving Bill a hard time, wanting to get Bill's research notes. But Bill didn't want to turn in his work yet because he wasn't finished. Said he had a few more tests to conduct before he felt like he had something to show them."

  "Who was the supervisor?"

  His head wagged back and forth. "You know, I just don't remember. Don't remember Bill ever saying—he may have, but I can't recall the exact conversation now. Look, I gotta go . . ." He turned the key in the ignition.

  I fished in my purse for a card. "Could you call me if it comes to you? If you remember anything at all?"

  He stuck the card into the breast pocket of his polo shirt, nodding distractedly as he backed out the driveway. I'd just about bet money that the next time he thought about the card would be when it came out of the washing machine as a glob of white mush.

  I walked slowly back to my car where Rusty greeted me with a welcoming doggy kiss, like I'd been gone for hours. What to do next? I felt like every lead ended up as a dead end-nobody seemed to have any real information for me and I was seriously beginning to question why I was even doing this. The only reasons I kept going were the break-in at our office, which could have been standard B&E and the break-in at Hannah's. That one couldn't be easily sluffed off, since she'd heard the intruders say my name. I turned the car around and headed for home.

  Harvey Taylor's words about a supervisor putting on the heat nagged at me but I couldn't fit it into place. I decided to spend the rest of the day finishing my search through Dad's boxes of stuff. I'd go through everything again to see if any of it made sense in light of the scanty information I'd gotten from his fellow workers. I was beginning to get impatient with the whole thing, wanting to wrap it up as soon as I could.

  When I pulled into the driveway at home, Drake's truck was still gone. I hoped all was going well with the FAA inspectors.

  Rusty bounded out of the Jeep and nosed his way through the front door as soon as I unlocked it. I walked through to the kitchen to let him out back and noticed that the message light was blinking on the answering machine. I tapped the playback button as I set my purse on the counter and reached for the nearby notepad and pen.

  "Charlie, this is Rebecca Sanchez," a tearful voice said. "I, uh, well, my father died this morning." She sniffed loudly. "I wanted to call you before I forgot to. He woke up for a short time last night and talked a little. He said `tell Charlie that Bill was spy people.' I'm sorry Charlie, I don't even know what that means." The electronic beep signaled the end of her message.

  Bill was spy people? My father a spy? Is that what Larry was saying? I felt the breath go out of me.

  Chapter 26

  Rusty zoomed around the back yard, while I stared blankly through the window at the plants that were slowly phasing into winter brown. I felt a rush of anger at the dead man. Larry had no right to accuse my father of spying. He wasn't! I wanted to shout at Larry, to grab him by his frail shoulders and shake it into him. And now he was dead and there was no way to take it out on him, or to get anything more from him. Tears stung my eyes as I realized the futility of it.

  I poured a can of Coke over ice in a glass and swigged it until the gasses welled up in my throat. The cold caffeine cleared my head. Standing here in my own kitchen, railing at a dead man wasn't going to solve anything. I had to think.

  None of this top-secret business that was going on fifteen years ago should even matter today. So why did it? Why had my asking a few questions warranted one man's violent death and break-ins at our office and Hannah's house? For that matter, had our house actually been broken into as well? My desk drawer had been messed up and my spiral notebook was missing-I'd attributed it to our moving day mess, but maybe I was off track. Perhaps that had actually been the first break-in.

  And what about Larry Sanchez's death? Had that somehow been engineered too? My brain went into overdrive. Larry'd been in bad health for a long time, but why, just now, did he take this sudden downturn and die? Who had access to him in the hospital? I should ask Rebecca who his other visitors had been. Could someone have put something into one of those many tubes hooked up to him? I felt myself going crazy.

  Deep breath.

  All this was getting me nowhere. I needed evidence, not speculation.

  I walked through the break in the hedge to Elsa's. She was raking leaves in her back yard.

  "You shouldn't be working this hard," I told her. "Why don't I ask my yard service to come over and do this for you?"

  "It doesn't hurt me to do a bit of work," she said. "Keeps me young."

  She was probably right.

  "Do you mind if I go back and work on those boxes of papers I left in your guest room?" I asked. "I need to finish with them and store them away again soon."

  "They're not in my way," she assured me. "Take as long as you want."

  I whistled for Rusty and he trotted over, following at my heels as I went inside. Elsa's kitchen showed the remains of breakfast, a plate and bowl in the sink and toast crumbs on the countertop. I peeked into the cookie jar and swiped two ginger snaps.

  My cartons were stacked just as I'd left them
in the guest room. The two I hadn't investigated yet waited in one corner. That looked like the best place to start.

  The first one appeared to be more of what I'd already found in the previous cartons—personal memorabilia, photos, a few interoffice memos, but nothing that could remotely be considered secret. I lifted out a couple of inches worth, fanned the pages with my thumbnail, and set them aside. I'd spent so much time reading details on the earlier finds, and I didn't want to get bogged down again. Another two-inch stack, same procedure. Still nothing that looked important.

  By the time I reached the bottom of the carton, I'd just about decided not to bother with the last box. I set aside a pile of what appeared to be some of my own first grade work, thinking it might be fun to go through that later. A bluish-white corner of something lay in the bottom of the carton and I tugged at it, thinking it was a scrap ripped off something.

  It wouldn't come loose. I realized that a large folded document had somehow become wedged under the bottom flap of the cardboard box. Lifting the cardboard, I pulled the paper out. It was a large sheet of paper, folded in quarters, with some faded words rubber-stamped on one corner. Initials and the date, 3-18-78, had been hand written over the stamped words.

  "Charlie, would you like some lunch?" Elsa's voice startled me. She stood in the doorway, picking dried leaf particles off her polyester slacks.

  "Oh, no thanks. I think I'll try to finish up here so I can take all this stuff back and store it away."

  "Whatever you think, dear. I'm heating up a can of tomato soup and you're certainly welcome to some."

  "You go ahead," I told her.

  She shuffled away, mumbling something, and I wavered between finishing the job at hand and taking the time to be more sociable. I unfolded the paper in my hands.

  It was a blueprint of some kind. Two sheets. The weight of all the other junk in the box had flattened these. I stared back into the empty box, lifted the flap again to check under it, and carefully spread the pages out on the carpet. Obviously, my father had gone to some trouble to hide these plans, tucking them under the box bottom and filling it with family memorabilia.

  Why?

  I stared at the plan, trying in my very unscientific mind to figure out what I was seeing. Wording at the bottom of the page told me it was something to do with the SDL-14-X1, the pre-Star Wars project George Myers had told me about. These two sheets couldn't possibly be all of it, but perhaps it was a very strategic part. And in that case, why would it be hidden away in our attic? My heart rate quickened.

  Larry Sanchez's dying words came back to me. Spy people. He accused my father of being a spy and I refused to believe it. But I also had a real bad feeling about the piece of paper spread out in front of me. I refolded the sheets, took a deep breath and stood up. Paced the room a couple of times.

  Okay, I told myself, what is the real meaning of this? My father had no way of knowing he'd be in a plane crash. He'd brought this home and hidden it away sometime within the couple of months before he died. Had he planned to deliver it to someone? An enemy agent? I plopped heavily to the bed.

  No. If, and I refused to even think of my father in this capacity, if a person planned to deliver top secret information to someone, he would have arranged a meeting and taken it there immediately. He would have never hidden something so potentially deadly in our home.

  I stood up, itching to move, and paced across the room again. No, I kept telling myself. There had to be a good reason something like this would end up in our house. Dad must have been trying to keep it away from someone at Sandia. Prevent it from getting into the hands of the real spies. It was the only answer that made sense.

  Or was I only deluding myself?

  I laid the blueprint on the bed and opened the other box. It yielded only kid schoolwork, some mine and some my brothers'. I slowly laid everything back inside, taking my time in an effort to stall having to think about those plans. What should I do?

  My first thought was to tell Drake, but he was busy and I thought about Ron. Maybe he'd have some idea of what I should do next. I stacked all the boxes against one wall and picked up the plans. I'd go by the office and show them to Ron, then come back later to carry the boxes back to the attic.

  Elsa dozed in her rocking chair, the television playing her favorite soap opera. Rusty and I tiptoed by, locking the back door behind us.

  "Come on, kid, let's go to the office."

  His ears perked at the magic words. He bounded for the Jeep. I patted my pockets for my keys, realizing I'd have to go in the house for them. I opened the car door and made sure Rusty hopped in. He watched me through the front windshield with head cocked. I reached for the front doorknob, then remembered I'd locked it before going out the back to Elsa's. I circled the house and pushed the back door open.

  Smoke billowed out.

  Chapter 27

  I stumbled backward off the back porch and landed on my butt. Pain jolted through my hip, but all that registered was the thick black smoke pouring out the door. I pulled myself up and tried to look into the kitchen. I couldn't see five feet into the room.

  Help. All I could think about was getting help. I raced crookedly with my sore hip through the hedge to Elsa's. Pounded on the door, hoping I'd wake her up.

  "Gram! Wake up!" I shouted. "Unlock the door!"

  Through the door's window panels I could see her shuffling into the kitchen, clearly just waking from her nap.

  "Quick, Gram, the house is on fire!"

  I pushed past her as soon as the door was unlocked, dashing for the phone. I dialed 911 on the incredibly slow old rotary dialer. In a few words, I gave the address and told what I'd found.

  "Gram, stay here. I'm going to bring Rusty over. Keep him in the house with you so he won't get in the way." I knew I sounded like a drill sergeant, but couldn't take the time to nicen it up any.

  Once Rusty was safely delivered, I glanced around trying to decide what to do next. The garden hose lay in a coil beside the house, waiting for the final watering I'd planned to give the yard before winter set in. I grabbed it up, screwed on the sprayer attachment, and turned it on full blast. In the distance I could hear sirens.

  I aimed the spray in through the kitchen door. It made no difference. I couldn't see flames, only the treacherous black smoke. I pulled the hose to the north side of the house. Could see flames behind the bedroom window. My brain struggled to think. Was it smart to break out the glass and aim water in, or would that only fan the fire even more? I couldn't remember.

  The sirens became louder.

  I watched the bedroom drapes turn into shreds of dripping flame. I thought of our bed, the puffy comforter that I loved so much, all our clothes. My arms turned shaky.

  The sirens quit abruptly.

  "Back here!" I screamed. "The fire's in the back bedroom!"

  I raced around to the front. A fire truck was parked at the curb, lights flashing in the deepening twilight. Three firemen were climbing out, looking around, unsure whether they'd come to the right place.

  "Back here!" I shouted again. "The fire's in back!"

  They snapped to attention.

  "Quick, it's already engulfed the bedroom," I yelled. With a jerk, I came to the end of the garden hose. I'd forgotten I was still holding it with a death grip. I dropped it and waved toward the firemen, ready to lead the charge.

  "Okay, ma'am," said one of the men. He was so encased in bright yellow rubberized gear that I couldn't get a sense of his size and build, but he took me by the elbow and led me toward the sidewalk.

  "Is there anyone else in the house, ma'am?" he asked.

  "Uh, no. No, my fiancé's gone and I've taken the dog next door. Just hurry up and put it out."

  "Can you go next door, too, ma'am?" he asked. "You look like you're freezing."

  I hugged my upper arms. The skin was cool, but my fingers were positively frigid.

  "I want to help," I cried. "I can't just go inside."

  "Ma'am—what's your
name, anyway?"

  "Charlie Parker. That's my house!"

  "Okay, Ms. Parker. Why don't we just have you go to your neighbor's place now. I can't let you help. You're gonna have to stand back so the men can get to it."

  I looked over and saw the men stretching a hose across the yard. Someone had attached the other end to the fire hydrant across the street. Neighbors were standing on their front porches. Elsa stood on hers, waving me toward her. The fireman gently took me by the shoulders and led me to her.

  It wasn't until I reached her front porch that I realized I was shaking. My head suddenly felt weird and black dots danced before my eyes. I sank down to Elsa's front step and put my head between my knees.

  "Charlie? Dear, are you all right?" she asked.

  "Ummm, hmmm. I just feel kind of strange."

  I felt her slip a thick wool sweater around my shoulders. For some reason, I couldn't stop shaking. I rested my forehead on my knees and tried to keep up with the action by listening to the jumble of shouts and orders coming from across the lawn. The daylight had completely gone and the eerie red flashing lit the neighborhood garishly. From a hollow tunnel, I heard Rusty barking.

  "Charlie! What's happening?" Strong male arms lifted me up and wrapped around me.

  "Ron? How did you know . . .?"

  "I caught the call on the scanner. Just about shit when they gave your address."

  He rubbed my arms, while I leaned my head against his shoulder.

  "I called Drake," he said. "Remembered you said he'd be at the hangar today. He's on his way in."

  "I . . ." I couldn't think what to say. My earlier clear-headedness had completely gone.

  "What happened?" Ron asked again. "No, it's okay. Just wait until Drake gets here and you can tell us both. Did you get Rusty out of the house?"

  "Yeah, we were both at Gram's when it started. I don't know what happened. I was just about to come to the office and I was going inside for my keys. But smoke came out the door . . . and the bedroom . . . I couldn't make the water spray. I—"