Honeymoons Can Be Murder: The Sixth Charlie Parker Mystery (The Charlie Parker Mysteries)

by Connie Shelton

  Broken cirrus clouds were beginning to show in the west, indicating the incoming weather front. It probably wouldn’t arrive until this evening or tomorrow morning, but I’d like the three of us to be safely back at the cabin before it did.

  Interstate 25 traffic wasn’t bad this time of day and we were soon topping La Bajada Hill and looking down into Santa Fe. I pulled off at Cerrillos Road and lunched at McDonald’s. I carried Elsa’s newspapers in with me and scanned through the articles as I dipped fries into a puddle of ketchup I’d made on my tray.

  The details of Ramon’s affair had been thoroughly hashed out in the press. Stella Chavez had been a dutiful parishioner in his church for years. She had confessed to him regularly, praying with him, begging God to help her be a better wife. As she became comfortable with the priest, she admitted that Leroy verbally abused her, calling her lazy and worthless, convincing her that she had no friends. She told Father Ramon that she really tried to do better, but nothing was ever good enough. She continued to pray that she would become better.

  The attraction had begun gradually, according to both parties, but grew into a love that neither Ramon nor Stella could deny. The first time her husband hit her, Stella went to Father Ramon and ended up in his bed. A power beyond either of them kept them together, even though there was no possibility of a future together. They remained secret lovers for several years until the inevitable happened. Stella became pregnant with Ramon’s child.

  There was no option that was not a sin: divorce, marriage to a priest, abortion, suicide. She thought of them all.

  Perversely, Leroy would not let her leave him. As if to pour salt into her humiliated and wounded soul, he made her stay with him through the pregnancy. He took her to church every week, flaunting her condition in front of the community—and poor, miserable Ramon. Then, when at the age of forty-two, Stella gave birth to a baby with Downs Syndrome, he publicly and loudly renounced the child, forced her to put it up for adoption, and moved out of their home. Two weeks later, Ramon Romero was shot dead on the front steps of the church.

  Stella went into a depression so deep that she didn’t leave her bed for months. Leroy was questioned in the priest’s death, because the whole story had come out by this time, but he had a solid alibi. He moved back in with her and changed their membership to another parish, content now that both sinners had been punished.

  I thought of the Stella I’d met this morning. She was clearly still terrified of Leroy, trying as she had to escape my visit, and making sure he didn’t know I was there. Now, in her late forties, she looked closer to sixty—a worn out woman whom life had dealt too much.

  As I bit into my burger, I wondered why she hadn’t simply walked out years ago. If she’d taken the drastic step of having an affair with her priest, why hadn’t she had the courage to walk away from her marriage? I had the feeling that a strict religious upbringing, coupled with strong Spanish family ties, would make this seem impossible. And, having watched another friend’s situation that had gone bad, I knew what an illogical hold an abusive man could hold over a woman. After alienating her from friends and family, she was likely to take his word for it that she was worthless and would never make it without him. Stella fit the mold. I felt sorry for her.

  It was nearly two o’clock when I drove into Taos and the clouds had continued to build. It was completely overcast here. The intersection approaching the plaza bottlenecked into its usual stop and go formation, and I missed the yellow light by seconds.

  Just ahead was the Dumont Gallery and my eyes caught a familiar face. Anton Pachevski crossed the sidewalk and ducked into the passenger side of an illegally parked black Suburban with its hazard lights flashing. I couldn’t see the driver. The flashers went off and the dark vehicle jumped into the flow of traffic. I chomped impatiently for my light to turn green.

  The creeping traffic only allowed me to move about four car lengths before I had to stop again, but the Suburban was large enough that I could still see it ahead. With no idea what I’d actually do with Anton if I caught him, and not wanting to risk a confrontation with potentially dangerous types, I was at least determined to find out where they were going. I didn’t think Anton had recognized me, although he’d only been an intersection’s width away. Even if he did, they couldn’t move any faster in the clogged traffic than I could. I kept my eyes on their vehicle’s black luggage rack.

  At Civic Plaza Drive, they turned left and I got caught by the light again. I tried to watch their movements but there were two vehicles in front of me and I couldn’t see far down the street. When the light changed I made a chancey left turn and raced west. No sign of the black Suburban. I scanned the driveways and tiny parking areas of the town government buildings that lined the street. Nothing. When I came to the T at Camino de la Placita, I had no idea whether to turn left or right. Just rounding the bend to my right, I glimpsed a dark vehicle so I opted for that direction. Two streets down, at a four-way stop, I caught up with it, but it was a dark blue pickup truck. I had lost Pachevski.

  However, I did know he was in town and I could describe the vehicle reasonably well, so I stopped in at Steve Romero’s office and told him what I knew.

  “I’ll put it all in the file,” he said, “but I don’t know how much help it’ll be. This time of year, half of Texas comes to town, all driving Suburbans.”

  “I’m pretty sure this had New Mexico plates,” I offered.

  “Pretty sure?”

  “Okay, I can’t be certain. I guess without some numbers, it doesn’t help anyway, does it?”

  “Don’t sound so discouraged,” he said. “At least we know he’s still around town. I’ll put a few men on the lookout for him.”

  A cold wind had picked up by the time I left the building, and the clouds spat a few threatening granules. I headed north toward El Prado and the turnoff to the ski valley. At the hangar, both Drake’s and Eloy’s trucks sat outside and I saw my husband loading his overnight bag into his. I tooted my horn and he waved. It was a relief to know that he’d returned before the storm set in.

  The scattered granular snow had changed to full-fledged large flakes by the time I pulled into my parking slot at the cabin. Rusty bounded out of the car, happy to feel like he was home again. He raced around the yard, nose to the ground, and visited each of his favorite trees. At the steps to the cabin, he came to an abrupt halt, his nose glued to the wooden stairs.

  I didn’t pay much attention, reaching into the back for my bag and the stack of newspapers Elsa had given me. The dog didn’t follow me into the house and when I came back out, he was still engrossed in investigating the stairs and porch.

  “C’mon, you. Let’s get out of this weather,” I called.

  After the second call, he came in. I busied myself setting out his food bowl and carrying my bag upstairs. I tossed the newspapers on the sofa, thinking I’d read them more thoroughly after dinner.

  The changes were subtle, but they were there. In a kitchen cabinet, some pans were not as I thought I’d left them. Two throw pillows on the sofa were lying flat on the seat, not propped against the arms as they usually were. Just then I heard a vehicle outside and rushed to the front window. It was Drake.

  He greeted me at the door with a kiss. “Well, that was an interesting job,” he said. “And the aircraft is already due for a fifty-hour inspection. I left it with Frank, the mechanic at the Taos airport. He said he’d do it overnight and have it ready tomorrow.”

  “Yesterday morning, you left here before I did. Right, hon?” I asked. “Did you come back at all after that?”

  “No . . .” he seemed puzzled.

  I walked into the kitchen to put his dirty Thermos in the sink. Glanced at the back door to the utility porch. The lock on the doorknob was locked but the deadbolt wasn’t. I distinctly remembered locking it.

  “Someone’s been in here while we were gone,” I informed him.

  “Well, Eloy still has a key,” he pointed out. “He might’ve come
in to check on something.”

  “Could be, but I doubt it.” I told him about the sofa pillows being out of place and the kitchen pans. “Why would he move any of that stuff?”

  “Beats me. Call him.”

  I dialed Eloy’s home number but he wasn’t there yet. I left a message on his machine.

  Upstairs, the disturbances were more subtle. The mattress on our bed, which I’d just remade with clean sheets before we left, was slightly askew. The bedspread was wrinkled. Sometimes my neatness borders on manic, I know, and I had not walked out of this house with these little touches out of place like this. In the vanity under the bathroom sink, a couple of bottles were tipped over, and some towels lay in a rumpled heap.

  “Drake, Eloy didn’t do this,” I told him. “Someone’s been going through everything in the house.”

  I continued to scout around while Drake started dinner. Parts of the house were undisturbed, like the second bedroom and the cabinets and bookshelves in the living room. I turned on my computer and it booted up. After giving my password I ran a log of recent entries and found only my own. If the intruder had searched here, he hadn’t gotten very far.

  “Nothing that common housebreakers usually take is missing—TV, microwave, my computer. They’re all still here. So I have to believe the guy was after something very specific.”

  “And it doesn’t sound like the way Eloy would look for something,” Drake said. “Under our pillows, for heaven’s sake.”

  The phone rang just then. “Eloy! I’m glad you called,” I said. “Did you come up here to the cabin while we were gone?”

  “Well, yeah, yesterday afternoon.”

  “Were you looking for something?”

  “No, I didn’t even go inside. Just wanted to check that the Scout had enough gas in it. Heard snow in the forecast and wanted to be sure you could plow the driveway if you needed to. Why?”

  I told him what I’d found.

  “Well, that is weird. But they didn’t forceably break in?”

  “Not that I can tell. All windows and doors are intact. I wonder if they quit before they were finished, though, because there are quite a few places that aren’t disturbed.” Or they found what they were looking for. Most likely in the last place they looked. “Eloy, you might want to come up here sometime and see if anything’s missing.”

  He said he’d come out in the next few days but couldn’t think of anything of value that wasn’t out in plain sight. I hung up, still feeling unsettled, but relieved that I’d notified our landlord of the problem.

  “Where’s Rusty?” I asked, turning to Drake. It was dark out now and an uneasiness settled over me.

  “I don’t know,” he answered. He called out to the dog but there was no response.

  “Rusty!” I opened the front door and shouted. The rust-colored hulk didn’t appear. “Where could he have gone?”

  Drake looked concerned. “Check the house, just to be sure he didn’t get shut in the bathroom or something. I’ll look outside.” He pulled on his parka and picked up his pistol and flashlight.

  I raced upstairs, calling as I went. No dog in any of the rooms. I check the utility porch and behind the major pieces of furniture. As I’d felt sure, he wasn’t in the house.

  “Charlie!” Drake shouted from outside.

  I pulled on a coat and boots and dashed out.

  “He’s injured,” Drake said. “We need to get him to the vet.”

  Rusty, my best friend and sidekick for nearly ten years, lay on the snowy ground, a nasty bloody gash on the back of his head. My fist went to my mouth and I bit my knuckle to keep from crying out.

  “Oh, God, how did this happen?”

  “Well, he didn’t just bump into a tree,” Drake stated. “Somebody’s hit him.”

  I peered into the darkness nervously.

  “Okay, go inside and find a vet with emergency services after hours. Call and find out where we have to go. Then close up the house. I don’t want you staying here alone,” Drake said. “And turn off the stove—I think I left it on.”

  I rushed in and did as he instructed. Grabbed a couple of blankets and the directions I’d written to the vet’s office. I closed all the drapes and left lights on, hoping that, even as we rushed around, the intruder wasn’t watching from somewhere in the woods, although he easily could be.

  Drake had placed the unconscious Rusty on the back seat of the Jeep. He trembled sporadically.

  “You don’t mind driving, do you?” I asked. “I want to keep an eye on him.” My voice quavered as I said it.

  I climbed into the back seat and placed Rusty’s head on my lap, then wrapped the blankets around him.

  “Sure.” Drake took my keys and carefully backed up.

  The snow came at us in gusts so thick it was impossible to see through them, like someone above was shaking the contents of a down pillow in front of our windshield. I stroked Rusty’s fur and checked the wound to be sure it had not started bleeding again.

  Only when something rammed us from behind did I realize that we had more than the weather and the injured dog to worry about.

  Chapter 21

  “What the hell!?” Drake shouted.

  “What was that?” I looked at him for answers but he seemed just as puzzled as I was.

  Bam! It happened again and Drake struggled to hold the Jeep on the narrow, snowy mountain road. He looked into the rearview mirror.

  “Somebody’s out there, ramming us,” he said, “but I can’t see a damn thing for the snow except some headlights. Do you have your seatbelt on?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get one around the dog if you can.”

  I fumbled with the belt in the middle seat but twining a belt around seventy pounds of unconscious dog wasn’t an easy feat. I finally looped the long end under his body and managed to find the buckle in the dark, purely by feel. It snapped into place and I cinched it as tight as I dared without restricting his already erratic breathing.

  Bam! The rear end of the Jeep slid precariously.

  “Watch out! The dropoff!” I screamed.

  “I know,” he answered tersely.

  He was perfectly aware that the road dropped off thirty or more feet. There was no point in my reminding him. I knew that.

  “Hang on,” Drake shouted.

  He sped up as we entered a sharp curve in the road, then steered to correct the skid, then sped up again on a short straight stretch. Only his intimate knowledge of every bend in the road, from driving it every day for a month, kept us from sliding the wrong way. He kept up this dangerous speed-skid-correct tactic through several more hair raising turns.

  “I don’t see their headlights anymore,” he said.

  “Keep going. They’ll catch up,” I prodded.

  Rusty stirred for a second and vomited over the edge of the seat onto my shoe. Ugh. But at least he was still alive.

  Drake kept glancing back in the mirror. Finally we reached a large open curve in the road and he risked turning his head to look back.

  “I think they’re off the road,” he gloated.

  “What?” I twisted my neck to look back. Sure enough, between gusts of snow I could see a pair of headlights shining up the hill at an awkward angle. They weren’t moving. “Do you think they might be hurt?” I asked.

  “Do you think I care?”

  He was right. Whoever this was, they’d tried to kill us. While part of me hoped they weren’t injured, another part of me hoped they were gone for good.

  Drake made the turn onto the ski valley road, which already had a couple of inches of snow on it. We had to take it slowly because the visibility was so bad and there were no other tracks to follow. An hour later we pulled up at the veterinary clinic. I was feeling a little queasy from the curvy road and the stench of vomit. The smelly liquid had now soaked into my sock.

  Dr. Virginia Nelson came out to the car which Drake had parked as near the front door as he could.

  “Boy, this is a bad night fo
r you folks to be on the road,” she said.

  “We wouldn’t be if we’d had any choice,” I told her.

  I unfastened Rusty’s seatbelt and my own and slipped out.

  “Still hasn’t come around, huh,” Dr. Nelson said, gently running her hands over the dog and lifting his eyelids.

  “Just once, for a few seconds.” I showed her the evidence.

  “Let’s get him inside.”

  She dashed back inside and brought a wheeled gurney down the ramp and stopped it at the side of the car. She and Drake pushed and pulled as gently as possible to get the inert dog onto the gurney while I stood by helplessly with a golf ball sized lump rising in my throat. I’d never seen my normally vivacious buddy so quiet. Even in his sleep he snored or chased rabbits. I blinked back wells of moisture that were forming in my eyes.

  The two of them wheeled the gurney up the ramp and directly to a surgical room at the back of the clinic. Lights blazed in here and the doctor had already prepared a tray of instruments. She dabbed at the wound with gauze and cleaned away the caked blood in the surrounding fur.

  “This is going to be easier for you folks if you don’t watch,” she said. “I’m going to clean the wound thoroughly and shave the area. With a head injury, I don’t want to anesthetize him, so I’ll use a local so I can get this thing stitched up. I’ll put him on an IV of dexamethasone to reduce any brain swelling and concussion.

  “The worst part will be when he starts to wake up. A lot of dogs will cry constantly and he’ll probably have to be on some pretty heavy-duty pain killers. At a minimum I’ll need to have him here twenty-four hours, and it may be more like four or five days before he’s able to go home.”

  Four or five days. I felt a murderous rage building inside me.

  “With that weather out there, you might want to get a room in town tonight,” Dr. Nelson said. “Call me in a couple of hours and I can let you know how he’s doing.”

  It took all my will to turn my back and leave the room with Rusty lying on that table. Drake put his arm around my shoulders and squeezed a little life back into me. He guided me out to the Jeep and buckled me into the passenger seat. After he’d started the engine we both sat there, numb.