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

by Connie Shelton

  “Shall we follow the doctor’s advice and stay in town?” he asked.

  “I want to go back up the mountain and find that vehicle and choke the living shit out of whoever’s in it,” I growled. I glanced down into my lap and noticed that my fists were tightly clenched.

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  He patted the pockets of his parka. “I’ve got the Beretta. Let’s go.”

  The snowfall had lessened somewhat, but it was still slow going out of town and up the ski valley road. Drake kept the Jeep in four wheel drive and took every curve carefully. By the time we’d reached the turnoff to the cabin, there were at least six new inches on the ground and I felt myself falling into a stupor of fatigue and numbness. A lot of the fight had gone out of me.

  We came to the dark vehicle off the side of the road. It had taken the curve too fast and skidded sideways into the high snowy berm the snowplow had been piling up all winter. The headlights were off now; snow covered all the windows. The back left quarter panel had smacked solidly into a forty foot pine tree, wrapping the metal around its thick trunk. There would undoubtedly be axle damage. They were lucky—the tree was the only thing that had saved them from plummeting thirty feet down the rocky mountainside.

  Drake aimed the Jeep’s headlights straight at the disabled car. It was a black Suburban.

  Chapter 22

  “Approach quietly,” Drake said, keeping his voice low. “Yank open the passenger door, then duck for cover.” He pulled the Beretta out of his jacket, checked the magazine, clipped it back in place, snapped off the safety and chambered the first round.

  We carefully opened our doors and climbed out, never taking our eyes off the Suburban. Almost in unison, we pushed our doors closed but didn’t let them make a sound. I crossed in front of the Jeep and reached for the Suburban’s passenger door. Drake stood with legs apart, both hands on the Beretta. I grabbed the door handle and pulled, then ducked below the windows. My heart was pounding like a bass drum.

  What were we doing? I closed my eyes.

  “Nothing.” Drake said.

  I raised my head tentatively. “What?”

  “There’s no one in it.”

  I rose and peered inside. My breath whooshed out.

  So where had they gone? I scanned the ground around the vehicle but there were no tracks. In the hours since the wreck enough snow had fallen to obliterate anything. I walked around to the mangled back end and brushed snow off the license plate. It was a New Mexico plate, Taos County designation. I memorized the number. I felt sure it was the same vehicle I’d followed earlier in Taos.

  “What do you think?” I asked, turning to Drake.

  “They must’ve gone for help. Choices would be, back up to our cabin--that’s the easiest one.” He scanned the surrounding mountains. “I doubt they’d get cell phone reception right here, but the odds would probably be better down on the main road, so they could’ve hiked on down. They could have also hoped to hitch a ride, either into Taos or up to the ski lodges.”

  “Pretty much a toss-up either way, huh?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “I’d sure like to get the police up here to impound their vehicle before they can get a tow truck to rescue it,” I said. “I’m a bit worried about going straight to the cabin, though.”

  “Well, there’s no place to turn around until we get almost there anyway,” he pointed out. “Let’s head that way and see what happens.”

  Back in the Jeep I wrote down the plate number of the Suburban and we buckled up.

  “Is there any way we can approach the house with the engine off?” I asked Drake. “You can hear a car coming for ages up there.”

  “We may have to stop along the road and hike the rest of the way in.”

  I was really beginning to wish I’d changed shoes this afternoon after my trip from Albuquerque. My standard running shoes with dog vomit spattered over the tops weren’t much good for snow hiking. Oh well.

  “Drake, stop!” We’d just passed the narrow trail that led to the picnic site. “I think we could back in there and hide the Jeep. It’s out of sight of the cabin but not too long a walk.”

  “I’ll bet this is where the Suburban was hiding when we drove out. I wondered how anyone got behind us on this road without our seeing them,” he said as he expertly backed the Jeep into the narrow slot.

  “You better stay here,” he said. “You don’t have a gun.”

  “And wait for somebody to come trekking through the woods and find me sitting here defenseless in the car? I think not.”

  “Charlie . . .”

  “I’ll find a weapon. C’mon.” I hopped out of the Jeep and began looking around. “How about the tire iron?”

  “Okay, just stay behind me,” he instructed. “You won’t even get a chance to use that thing if they’ve got guns.”

  Being basically a chicken, this time I obeyed.

  The falling snow had nearly stopped and we were able to follow the road by its white smoothness, without having to turn on the flashlight. The cabin looked just like we’d left it, which was little comfort, since I’d pulled all the drapes closed and anyone in the world could be inside without our knowing it. I looked for any sign of visitors. The snowy footprints on the porch could easily have been ours and nothing else looked out of place.

  “Here,” I whispered to Drake, pointing to a side window whose curtain didn’t quite meet in the middle.

  We detoured to the left, circling behind the parked snowplow and Drake’s pickup, then cut quickly and silently across the open space to the window. By standing on a wooden crate, I could just look over the sill. Through the narrow crack in the drapes, I had a view of the dining area, most of the living room and part of the kitchen. I took my time, looking carefully into every corner. I could see the bottom of the stairs but nothing of the bedrooms. Nothing appeared to be disturbed.

  Using Drake’s shoulder for balance, I jumped off the crate.

  “It looks untouched,” I whispered. “But I can’t see upstairs or the kitchen or the utility porch.”

  He signaled me to follow him to the back and to crouch beside the steps leading to the back door. “Don’t move until I come back for you,” he said. “If you hear gunshots, get back to the Jeep as fast as you can, but don’t run out in the open.” He pulled out his key and quietly turned it in the lock.

  It seemed like a couple of eons passed while I stooped in the snow, my butt becoming icy from the snow soaking into my jeans, and my limbs turning numb from inactivity. Finally, Drake reappeared.

  “All clear,” he announced.

  I groaned as I unkinked myself from my frozen position and pulled myself up the steps. I handed Drake the tire iron and swatted loose snow from my clothing. Inside the utility porch, I removed my snow-filled stinking shoes and left them there.

  “Hot,” I moaned. “I need something hot.”

  He put a kettle of water on to boil and helped peel my parka from my arms. “You sit,” he instructed. “I’ll get you a hot shower started and then make you some cocoa.”

  He went upstairs and I could hear the water running. “Okay, come on up,” he called.

  In the bedroom he helped me out of my frozen, wet things and steered me toward the shower stall. I stood there motionless for a good five minutes, just letting the steamy water course down my body. I heard Drake leave the room, presumably to turn down the flame under the kettle, then return. In another minute he was beside me, naked in the shower.

  “I moved the Jeep back up near the cabin,” he said, “and took a look at the damage.”

  I groaned. I’d forgotten about the probability that there would be repairs needed after the ramming we’d taken earlier.

  “It’s not too bad,” he assured me. “The bumper absorbed most of the impact.”

  He grabbed the soap bar and began to rub my back with it, soothing and kneading the muscles. After he’d turned me around to make sure everything was rinse
d, I did the same for him. We both emerged, warmed, but tired in body and spirit. We bundled into flannel pajamas and robes and went back downstairs for our chocolate.

  “Has it been two hours yet?” I asked. “I’m dying to check on Rusty.” The sight of his empty bedding on the bedroom floor had brought more tears to my eyes.

  “I’m sure it has,” Drake said. “Better call the doc before it gets too much later.”

  “He’s doing as well as expected,” Dr. Nelson assured me. “I found some wooden splinters in the skin and I cleaned them all out. He’s had an antibiotic shot and is on IV fluids now. He woke up but is in a lot of pain, so I’ve also given him pain killers to get him through the night.”

  “As well as expected?” I quivered. “Is he going to be all right?”

  “Well, head wounds are always dangerous,” she replied. “But yes, I think he’ll be okay. He’s not in nearly as bad shape as some I’ve seen who’ve been hit by cars.”

  “No, I feel pretty sure he was hit by a human.” The words grated. I felt the rage building again. “Whoever did this is going to be sorry.”

  “Well, feel free to call back in the morning and check on him,” the doctor assured me. “And don’t worry.”

  I hung up and gave Drake the details. He looked relieved.

  I drained my mug of hot chocolate while he placed the call to the police. He couldn’t get Steve Romero on the line this late, but told the dispatcher that we believed the vehicle was already being sought in another case, in addition to having rammed us and trying to push us off the road.

  “Do you think they’ll get here before Pachevski?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, hon. The guy I just talked to didn’t sound in any big rush to act on it. Said he’d tell Romero about it in the morning.”

  “I have an idea,” I said, taking the phone from him and pulling the phone book from the table.

  I dialed the towing company with the largest ad in the yellow pages. There were only three listed.

  “Yes, did you get a call for a black Suburban stuck off the ski valley road?” I asked innocently.

  “No, ma’am,” the tired-sounding dispatcher answered.

  “Okay, thank you.” I posed the same question to the next company.

  “Yeah, but we’re so backed up tonight, it’s gonna be at least another two hours before we can get up there,” the man whined. “There’s dozens of cars stuck in this storm and you’re just gonna have to wait your turn.”

  “Actually, it’s okay,” I answered perkily. “My husband was able to get it unstuck and we’re fine now. Just wanted to let you know you don’t have to come.”

  “Well, thanks, ma’am. We appreciate you letting us know.”

  I turned to Drake. “That buys us some time, anyway.”

  “I don’t feel too guilty about it,” he said. “They’re probably safe and sound up in one of the lodges, thinking their vehicle is being taken to a shop somewhere.”

  Suddenly I was bone-tired. It was nearly midnight. The drive from Albuquerque, the shock of Rusty’s injury, and the encounters with the black Suburban had all taken their toll. We switched out the lights and I nestled into Drake’s shoulder under the snug blankets.

  Chapter 23

  Dawn lightened the windows to pale gray when I awoke, suddenly, with that eyes-wide-open feeling and my thoughts running clear. Pachevski still wanted something in this cabin, I realized. Unknowingly, I must have interrupted the search when I arrived back from Albuquerque. They had hidden somewhere, but when Drake showed up, they panicked. They hit Rusty over the head so he wouldn’t alert us and were probably planning on doing the same to us so they could finish taking the house apart. When we found the injured dog and rushed off down the mountain, they figured they could get rid of us permanently and make it look like an accident. Then they’d have all the time they wanted to search the rest of the place. The Suburban had probably been parked in the picnic area turnoff all along. Needles of anxiety pricked at me.

  There was something big at stake here and Anton Pachevski wasn’t going away until he got what he wanted.

  With any hope of sleep gone, I slipped quietly from the covers and pulled on my flannels again. Drake rolled over and hugged my pillow but didn’t wake up. I made my way carefully downstairs and started brewing a pot of coffee.

  Okay, I thought, assuming they didn’t find what they wanted, where have they not searched yet? And what area of the house had we not already gone into? We’d pretty well spread out and used most everything. Surely we would have come across anything unusual.

  I poured a mug of coffee and stirred sugar into it, slowly whirling the spoon, concentrating on the question. Taking a sip of the hot brew I stared around the rooms—kitchen, dining, living. My eyes fell on the bookcase where I’d found the funny yellowed scraps of paper in the photo album. I knew what they were after.

  The album was still in place, the photo in the narrow folder in place when I checked it. Yes, the scraps were still there. I pulled out the slim plastic sleeve containing them.

  Even if these truly were pieces of the Dead Sea Scrolls, though, would they really be that valuable? Valuable enough to kill for? I remembered hearing that there were thousands of scroll pieces. That scholars had put many of them back together to reveal new books previously not included in the Bible. I turned the plastic sleeve over in my hand. There weren’t more than twenty characters printed on them, in total. I couldn’t believe they would have that much Biblical importance, other than perhaps to an eccentric collector who might simply want to own a piece of history. No, there had to be something else.

  The two silver crosses I’d given to Father Domingo. Now those had enough religious importance that he nearly went into tears at the sight of them. A large-scale investigation had been launched and rewards offered for them. And I remembered from the clippings in the old priest’s file that many other artifacts had been stolen. That had to be it. Was it really possible that treasures from the Vatican and other Catholic churches around the world might be hidden in this unassuming mountain cabin in New Mexico?

  So, where would they be? I slipped the scroll pieces back into the photo folder and put it back on the shelf. Then my hand stopped. I examined the way the bookshelves were constructed, built in on either side of the fireplace. I pulled the photo albums and books from the bottom shelf and set them on the stone hearth. Tapping on the rough-sawn tongue and groove paneling behind them, it sounded solid. I replaced the books and repeated my steps with the next shelf up. Centered in the expanse of the three-foot wide shelf was a hollow place about a foot wide behind the paneling. I ran my fingers over the wood. There was a small door but it was well hidden. The upper and lower edges were flush with the shelves above and below, and the left and right seams were concealed in the grooves of the paneling. It was an excellent carpentry job. I touched around the edges of the opening, hoping to activate a spring mechanism but nothing happened.

  At last I spotted it, a tiny hole meant for grabbing and pulling outward. The hole was nowhere near large enough for my finger to fit in it and to attempt it with a fingernail would surely mean death to the nail. I looked around for a tool.

  A flat-bladed screwdriver from a tool kit on the utility porch made a perfect fit. Very carefully, I fitted it into the hole, which slanted at an angle enough to allow the screwdriver to get leverage. A gentle pull was all it took and the four smoothly finished edges let go and came toward me. Not high tech but very effective.

  I took the wooden door in both hands and laid it aside. Behind it was a cubbyhole roughly two feet deep, a foot wide, and eight or nine inches tall. The space itself was lined in felt and inside sat a hinged box of highly polished wood. I pulled it out.

  Carrying the box to the sofa I sat with it on my lap and lifted the lid. Inside were two more silver crosses, simpler than the ones I’d found before but with exquisite workmanship that made me take a deep breath. The box was obviously made for them. It had special indentations w
here each cross fit exactly. The entire interior was lined with tarnish-resistant jewelers cloth, and the silver gleamed without blemish. Wow.

  There had to be more. I set the box on the sofa and pulled books from another shelf. It too had a hidden compartment and I quickly removed the door and pulled a wooden box from it as well. It opened to reveal a set of exquisitely shaped silver hearts with flame-like projections coming from the dip in the top of the heart. Sacred hearts, I thought they were called. Of the set of four, one had a detailed silver dagger through it, another was rimmed in tiny jewels, one was nearly solidly encrusted in jewels, and the other was burnished with gold.

  “What are you doing?” Drake asked, emerging sleepily from the bedroom.

  Like a deer in the headlights, I stared, frozen.

  “Hon?”

  “Look at this,” I said, amazed.

  “I know. I see you sitting there in your pajamas, with books all over the hearth, tools and wood all around you, and something that looks like Captain Hook’s treasure spread out around you.”

  “I think this is what Anton has been looking for. He probably found out that I’d turned in two crosses to Father Domingo and he knows I must have found them here in the cabin.”

  He ducked into the bedroom to retrieve his robe then joined me.

  “What if Father Domingo . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence, picturing the tactics they might have used to get information from the old man.

  “Hon, I really doubt they’d go that far,” Drake said, half reading my mind. “The old man was so innocent he probably just mentioned the crosses in passing and they figured out the rest. Besides, the police said he died of natural causes, didn’t they?”

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “Okay, let’s not think the worst about that. But I’m certain this is what they were searching the cabin for. And I’m pretty sure my coming home yesterday interrupted them. They were probably being careful, not absolutely ravaging the place, because they thought they had plenty of time and they didn’t want to make us suspicious.”