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

by Connie Shelton

  “Just about. I’m putting all the covers back on now.” It was always amazing to me how many places on the fuselage of an aircraft could be opened up to get to the thousands of parts inside.

  “I’ve got an emergency. Will she be ready to fly right away?”

  “Sure. I was gonna call Drake to see if he could do a run-up and check everything anyway. But you can do it.”

  I walked the length of the hangar and back, forcing myself to calm down and concentrate on the steps I had to perform. Unlike Drake, I didn’t have thousands of hours under my belt, so this didn’t all come as second nature to me. I started the pre-flight procedure, making myself do each step without thinking of Drake lying out in the cold desert alone.

  “Okay, shall we roll her out?” Frank said.

  He hooked up an electric tug and gently backed the aircraft onto the tarmac. I climbed into the right seat as he backed the tug away and gave me a thumbs up that I was clear. I turned the battery switch on, checked the fuel boost pumps, and pushed in the caution light circuit breaker, going methodically through my startup check list. The turbine engine soon whined to life, the rotors slowly spinning up to speed.

  In the course of my training I’d only done a couple of night flights so I looked around, planning what I’d do. It shouldn’t be that difficult. From our flights in and out of the Taos Airport I knew basically where the powerlines ran. The nearest ones had blinking red lights on the poles and I’d use my landing light to illuminate the ground and locate Drake. I brought the rotors up to speed and lifted off. Circling the airfield once while I gained altitude, I got my bearings and headed toward the road where I’d left him.

  Crossing over a fenced maintenance yard full of trucks, I searched the highway for the turnoff to the dirt road I’d come down. I came upon it sooner than expected and had to circle back. With my bright light trained on the road, it was only a few seconds before I saw the blanket cocoon I was looking for.

  Apparently Drake had heard me coming. He was sitting up, blankets still around his legs, waving his arms at me. He tucked his head into the blankets to avoid the upwash of dust as I turned the aircraft to face into the wind, flared, and brought her in for a perfect landing on the road. By the time I’d locked down the controls, he was up, bundling the blankets into a wad, and limping his way to the passenger side. He shoved the blankets into the back seat and hoisted himself into the front.

  “I’m trying to get some heat in here for you,” I shouted over the turbine whine. “Are you freezing?”

  He slipped his headset on and buckled his harness. “I’m doing okay, but the leg’s still bleeding a bit.”

  “I’ll head for the hospital, but I don’t know how soon we’ll get you in. There’s been a bad accident on the highway. That’s why I couldn’t get a 911 response.”

  I radioed ahead to the hospital’s dispatcher and informed him that I was bringing in a wounded patient by helicopter. He asked how soon we could be there; the highway victims were just starting to arrive. “ETA three minutes,” I responded.

  I pulled pitch and we made a direct line for the center of town. Navigating over the town was easy, with streets and plenty of landmarks to guide me and I set down on the hospital’s helipad three minutes and ten seconds later. An ER team wheeled a gurney out and made Drake lie down on it.

  “You got any other helicopters coming in tonight?” I yelled over the rotor noise.

  “Maybe. With that pileup.”

  “Okay if I set this over there on the grass then?” I asked.

  “Sure, I guess so.” This was obviously not someone with enough authority to worry about protocol.

  I moved the aircraft, set it on a nice level spot, and shut everything down. By the time I got inside, a technician had sliced Drake’s jeans another twelve inches up the seam and was cleaning the wound with gauze. I guessed they were hustling to get the simple stuff out of the way before the really bad cases came through the door. Twenty minutes later, Drake had a neatly bandaged leg, a supply of antibiotics, and a whopping bill. I put the charges on a credit card, rather than try to hassle with insurance papers, and we were out of there as three ambulances roared up to the emergency entrance.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “We need to see if my car is still at the church or if that’s another whole set of problems to fix.”

  Poor Drake, he’d been through so much and I could tell he didn’t need this.

  “Come on. I know what we’ll do,” I said. He limped alongside me to the spot I’d left the aircraft.

  I headed for the pilot seat and he didn’t say a word, but went to the passenger’s side. He watched silently, looking at me with either amusement or pride—I couldn’t be sure. He made no comment as I lifted off and headed west, where I hoped we’d be able to tell if my car was still there. As we approached the church I switched on the landing light.

  “There it is!” I cheered. Thank goodness we didn’t have to track down a missing vehicle.

  “Set her down,” Drake said.

  “What? Here by the church?”

  “Sure. It’s a big parking lot and there aren’t any other cars.”

  “Won’t this get me in trouble?”

  “Possibly. Just do it quick and get back out before anyone has a chance to write down our tail number.” He patted my arm. “I’m okay to drive the car. Let me out here and beat it back to the airport. I’ll come out there and pick you up.”

  I looked at him again, checking to see if he was really okay. His color was much better. “All right,” I said. “Get ready to bail.”

  As soon as the skids touched the ground, he jumped out. He cleared the rotor blades, pulled a key ring from his pocket and flashed it toward me, then gave me a thumbs up. I took her back up and quickly gained enough altitude to avoid noise complaints from the townsfolk.

  Five minutes later I homed in on the beacon at the airport and set the ship gently in front of the hangar. Frank towed it back inside after I tied down the blades and I spent a few minutes filling out my logbooks. Drake arrived about ten minutes later in the Jeep.

  “Everything look okay with the car?” I asked.

  “Just fine,” he said.

  “Want me to take over the driving?”

  “If you don’t mind. My leg’s throbbing already.”

  The cabin sure looked good when we drove up. It wasn’t even nine o’clock yet but I was bone tired and Drake looked just as bad. Inside, at least it was warm. I switched on some lights. I looked around the room and tears began to well up unbidden.

  “It’s too lonely without Rusty,” I said. My voice came in a quiver.

  Drake took me into his arms and I fell against him, sobbing for all the ordeals we’d been through in the last two days.

  Chapter 28

  The phone rang, startling me out of a catnap. Drake and I had slumped to the sofa together, arms locked around each other. I stared around the room, dazed for a minute until it came to me what I was hearing. Before I could force enough energy down to my legs to stand up, the answering machine had come on. Ron’s voice came through: “Just wanted to let you know that the Feds caught up with your guys at the airport. They’ve recovered the church’s treasure and there’s even talk of presenting you with some kind of award for your valiant service to them. I’ll call you in the morning to fill in the details. ’Bye.”

  I jostled Drake and together we limped up the stairs, pulled off our clothes and fell into bed. By six a.m., although it was still dark outside, I was awake and restless. A hot shower took care of some miscellaneous muscle aches and the last vestiges of the headache that had lingered since I came out of the drug Anton had shot into me. I toweled off and dressed in soft sweats and went after my wet hair with a blow dryer until it lay cleanly around my shoulders.

  Downstairs I brewed a pot of coffee and tidied the last evidence of yesterday’s treasure search from the living room. I glanced wistfully at the telephone. It was still too early to call Dr. Nelson t
o see about Rusty’s condition. But I could call Ron at home.

  “What’s this about some award from the church?” I teased, after his groggy hello.

  “Umm, hold on a second.”

  In the background I could hear a toilet flush and water running in the sink. He returned in a couple of minutes. “Better,” he said. “Well, we had a bit of excitement here last night, thanks to your tip. Have you seen the news?”

  “No.” We’d tried to receive the Albuquerque television stations when we first got here, but decided we were too surrounded by mountains to get a signal.

  “Last night at ten it was the late-breaking story. Feds and APD had the plane, on the taxiway, surrounded by armed agents.”

  “Oh, my gosh.”

  “Yep. They moved fast after you called. Got passenger manifests and found two men traveling together who had bought their tickets at the last minute: Paco Leon and Ralph Baldonado.”

  “So Anton used a mixed version of his real name.”

  “Guess he hadn’t realized that you’d made that connection. This guy has more fake identities than Madonna’s got hair colors.”

  “Plus, he probably thought Drake and I were dead by then.” I quickly filled Ron in on how we’d been drugged and left in the gas-filled house.

  “Oh, jeez, Charlie. I better give the Feds that information so they can add two more attempted murders to the list of charges. Anyway, these two were on a flight to Dallas with a connection to Bogota. It was another thing that made the ticket agent suspicious—an overseas flight and they each had only one carry on bag.”

  “How’d they get the treasure past airport security?”

  “Bluffed their way through. Told ’em it was cheap trinkets they were taking to the children of some Columbian village. They almost got away. The plane had pushed back from the gate and was second in line for takeoff by the time the authorities roared out there in cars and vans, strobes flashing and all that. Luckily for all the other passengers, the two of them gave up without a fight. Although the news stories so far have been full of somber reflection on the grave danger to everyone’s safety.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me.” I’d recently read a poll that showed the second least-trusted segment of our society were media people—right after lawyers.

  “Oops, gotta go. My other line’s ringing,” Ron said. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  It was still a bit early but I took a chance and dialed the vet’s office. Got a recording stating their business hours and I started to leave a message when Dr. Nelson herself picked up the line.

  “I heard your voice, Charlie, and I knew you’d be worried about Rusty,” she said. “He’s doing fine. Better than most head injury cases, actually. I’d like to watch him the rest of the day, but I think I can probably release him late this afternoon or tomorrow. Call me again around four and I’ll let you know.”

  A couple of thumping noises from upstairs told me that Drake had awakened. I rummaged through the refrigerator for some breakfast and came up with eggs and ham. With some pancake mix from the pantry shelf, I set out to create a substantial breakfast. We’d had nothing since our coffee yesterday morning. It was no wonder we’d been totally wiped out last night.

  The phone rang as I was stirring the pancake mix.

  “You won’t believe this,” Ron said, without preamble. “They’re not charging Anton and Ralph with Ramon’s death.”

  “What!”

  “Kent Taylor tells me they both provided alibis.”

  “And they checked out?”

  “Apparently so. Ralph was definitely at an ecumenical council in New York when it happened. Dozens of witnesses. And Anton, Leon, whoever he was at the time, was on St. Maarten.”

  “Can he prove that? He did a pretty good job of being unseen after he got there.”

  “He says so. He’s provided a list of witnesses and they’re still checking them out.”

  “What about the possibility that one of them ordered someone else to do the actual shooting? Some little punk out there could have done it for drug money.”

  “They’re checking that out too,” he said.

  I hung up the phone, angry. This slimeball Anton. He disappears to a tiny island where he manages to avoid notice for years. Now, when it’s convenient, he can come up with alibi witnesses. I knew I’d place no credence whatsoever in those witnesses, but the Feds would probably have to believe them.

  My skillet was hot so I cracked the eggs and began scrambling them furiously. A nagging thought began to form. What if it was true--that neither Anton nor Ralph killed Ramon?

  “Those eggs piss you off?” Drake teased, coming up behind me. “You’re stirring them hard enough to wear a hole in the pan.”

  I set the skillet on another burner and turned to him.

  “The police are checking out alibis for Ralph and Anton. They don’t think they’re guilty of Ramon’s murder.”

  “What?” he said.

  Chapter 29

  Eloy’s answering machine picked up. Unsure exactly what to say, I only left a message for him to call me back.

  “Today is his mother’s funeral, isn’t it?” Drake said. He’d finished cooking the pancakes and was setting two full plates on the table. “Come eat, and then we’ll figure out what to do.”

  I hadn’t realized how absolutely ravenous I was until I started eating. Both of us put away eggs, ham, and pancakes in no time flat and followed that with coffee and a couple of somewhat-dry Danish rolls we’d left in the breadbox.

  “How’s your leg this morning?” I asked Drake.

  “Sore. Those stitches scratching against my pant leg are going to drive me crazy. But there’s no inflammation. It’s going to heal all right.”

  We continued to sit at the kitchen table, neither of us finding the energy to move. But I knew I couldn’t sit there, with a killer potentially getting ready to make a move against Eloy.

  “As much as a funeral would not be on my list of things I’d like to do today,” I told Drake, “I think we should go.”

  He called the funeral home and got the times, while I stacked the dishes and pans in the sink.

  “The funeral mass starts at ten,” he said. “I don’t think we’ll make that unless you want to tiptoe in after it’s started.”

  I looked at my watch. He was right. By the time we dressed and drove into town, we’d probably only catch the last of it.

  “Graveside services follow. That will be at a cemetery on the west side of town.”

  “Let’s go there,” I said. “I wouldn’t mind watching everyone else arrive.”

  The small cemetery sat in a low spot, a few acres of dirt surrounded by a three foot high wrought iron fence. Some bare-branched trees ringed the fence. Overhead, the sky was the color of lead, lending the whole scene a desolate quality. The only color came from small bunches of faded plastic flowers on some of the graves. Pale, tattered ribbons fluttered in the slight breeze. I shuddered.

  We waited in the Jeep until a white hearse appeared, followed by a limousine and line of cars with their headlights on. The hearse stopped inside the fence’s only gate. The other cars found places to park anywhere they could. Eloy emerged from the family limo, along with his sister and her husband. He looked haggard, his eyes red-rimmed. He spotted Drake and me and we walked over to him.

  “Are you doing all right?” I asked, shaking his proffered hand.

  He nodded but no words came out. He pressed his lips together. He and Drake shook hands and gave each other a manly hug with much back-patting.

  “I’ve got lots to fill you in on,” I told him, “but it can wait until another day.” I wanted to warn him to be careful, but this was not the time.

  “Everyone’s going to Maria’s right after this. There’ll be lots of food. I should go for awhile and you guys can come along, then we can go back to my place if you’d like.”

  Drake nodded agreement.

  People were standing around the casket, which now sat on a
platform above an open hole in the ground.

  “I know you need to get over there,” I said. “But one quick question. Did your mother have a will?”

  “Sure. Mike drew it up for her a few years ago. Why?”

  “Not important right now. Go ahead and join your family.”

  Drake and I waited on the fringes of the group. I spotted Officer Steve, Eloy’s cousin, standing with head bowed, behind Mike, Maria and Eloy. There were probably twenty people in the same age group—cousins, I assumed. There was one older couple and I thought I remembered Eloy once telling me that his mother still had a sister living. The woman appeared frail, her skin pale against the black lace mantilla she wore with a black dress and black wool coat. The man kept a hand on her elbow and she leaned on him frequently.

  Father Sanchez’s words, partly in Latin and partly in Spanish, drifted past me since I understood neither language. I scanned the crowd for clues while Drake shifted uneasily, taking the weight off his injured leg.

  When the group began to break up, I turned to him. “Are you sure you feel like going to Maria’s?” I asked.

  “Sure. Let’s go for awhile,” he said. “What am I going to do at home, anyway? Sit around and eat more.”

  “I’m curious to take a look at Eloy’s house later. The layout, I mean. I want to know where this closet is from which his gun magically disappeared and reappeared. If my hunch is right, something’s going to come to a head in the next day or two.”

  We walked back to our car and waited. When Eloy and family had climbed back into their limousine we followed it into town. The Ortiz’s house was a decent-sized adobe, a two-story territorial with bright blue front door. It sat on a narrow lane with no room to park on the street. Cars had already filled the circular drive so we drove down the street. About a half block away we found a vacant lot and noticed that several other drivers had the same idea. We parked beside another couple I’d seen at the cemetery and walked together back to the house.

  Inside, it was graciously furnished with mission style carved furniture mixed with contemporary pillowed sofas and chairs. Indian rugs covered the tile floors and the art was a pleasant mixture of well-known New Mexico artists like R.C. Gorman and Amado Pena, along with some beautiful landscapes by artists I didn’t immediately recognize.