Gossip Can Be Murder

  Gossip Can Be Murder

  Charlie Parker Mystery #11

  Connie Shelton

  Secret Staircase Books

  For Dan, always my partner and my inspiration

  Chapter 1

  Drake’s voice came through my headset. “You’re less than fifty feet above treetop,” he cautioned.

  “I know,” I said. “I’m setting up for the L.Z. at my ten o’clock.” I continued easing left pedal and watching my airspeed. Keeping an eye on the tiny field less than a quarter mile ahead of the Eurocopter A-Star I was flying today.

  “Watch it, watch it.”

  “I am watching it,” I snapped. Even though I had less than a hundred hours in this aircraft, he didn’t need to coach me through every single step, for god’s sake.

  My eyes scanned the instruments. Normal, normal . . . oh, no. The rotor RPM had dropped below the red line so fast I’d not noticed. The low rotor horn suddenly blared, right beside my head. I jammed the collective down as fast as I could. It helped a little but the RPM continued to decay.

  “Drake!” I felt the scream rise in my throat.

  “Flare!”

  “Yes! I’m starting to. I am flaring!”

  Outside the windows, treetops flashed by. My heart pounded and my palms felt like glazed ice cubes.

  “Bring the nose up more!” he yelled.

  I yanked the cyclic back and the nose came up.

  “I’ve lost the engine,” I screamed. “I’ve got no engine RPM. Engine horn is on!”

  “You’re going in.”

  The ground rose sickeningly. There was a shudder as the rotor blades struck trees. The cyclic jerked in my hand. I could feel my eyes grow wide as the earth came toward me, little details like pebbles and wildflowers coming into sharp focus, then blurring. I pulled up on the collective for all it was worth. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the impact.

  An electronic boom caused me to open them again and the screen in front of me was now solid blue. YOU CRASHED. The words in bright white on the simulator screen slammed my ego. A crash—even a simulated one—the worst thing a pilot could experience. My pent-up breath rushed out.

  My husband stuck his head in through the cabin door, a grim little smile on his face. “It worked.”

  I took three more breaths. “Yeah, it sure did.”

  “This gives me the evidence I need.” He reached over to unfasten my harness and realized I was shaking. “Hon, you did exactly what you should have, exactly what even an experienced pilot like Mike Walters would have done. I’m proud of you.”

  Tears welled but I blinked them back. “Really?”

  “You helped make my case for me.” He offered a hand to help me out of the simulator cockpit.

  I stepped out and gave him a gentle jab to the ribs. “Next time, you’re the pilot who crashes and I’m the one who gets to loosen the thingamajig and cause your engine to fail.”

  “Deal.” He kissed me solidly. “Let’s go check out that wine festival now.”

  Two hours later, Drake and I were finally relaxing, having snagged a table at one of the more popular wine-tasting events in the city. Although this morning’s crash had not been real, the adrenalin charge certainly was. I willed the tightness from my shoulders and put my feet up on an adjoining empty chair, a glass of pinot noir nearby.

  I took a deep breath of September. I love the crisp air, the late-blooming roses, the purple and gold chrysanthemums, the way the State of New Mexico celebrates with cultural and festive events. We seem to pack a lot of art shows in alongside the State Fair and Balloon Fiesta. We’re reveling in cool mornings and glowing afternoons, when you can drive up to the mountains to witness the turning leaves and come back to the city by mid-afternoon to sit at an outdoor café with the sun warming your back.

  So much had happened to us in the past year—we’d thought we might become parents, only to have that possibility taken away; I’d gone through a blue winter, guilting over my role in the loss. Our chance at a getaway vacation for two last spring had somehow morphed into my taking a new case in the northern part of the state while Drake rushed off to start an early fire season with his helicopter business. The summer brought so much flight work we could hardly keep up with it; after several years of drought the state had become a tinderbox and Drake continually stayed busy with one fire contract after the other. I’d gone along on a few of the jobs, getting additional qualifications for flying difficult water bucket drops and a bit of long-line work. But those weeks and months didn’t exactly provide quality time as a couple. Bone tired and caked with soot at the end of each day, we were doing well to manage a quick shower and goodnight kiss before dropping off into exhausted slumber.

  I looked over at Drake and noticed the strain around his eyes. This crash investigation has turned into more than he bargained for. But he’s coping.

  He reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. When our eyes met, I knew that he’d divined all the thoughts that had just run through my head. “It’s okay,” he said. “We’ll get past the bad stuff. I’ll take some time off this winter. Promise.”

  I blinked a couple of times, smiled and stroked his jaw. “I know.”

  “We’re going to make the most of that second honeymoon,” he promised, referring to an upcoming trip we’d booked to Kauai for November.

  A flash vision of some of the moments from our first honeymoon zipped through my head. I couldn’t help sending him a rather naughty grin.

  “Charlie! Hey, Charlie!” A female voice grabbed my attention and I stood up and turned around.

  “Linda—wow, imagine the odds of running into someone you know in this mob.” We hugged. I reintroduced Drake to Linda Casper, my close friend since elementary school, now also my physician. He offered to get Linda a glass of wine, princely guy that he is, and she accepted. I think he simply found standing in line preferable to listening to ten minutes of girl-babble.

  “I was planning to call you the minute I got home,” Linda said after he’d gone.

  “We’re due for our monthly lunch, aren’t we?” Considering I’d skipped them the past two months, I should have been the one calling her. “I’ve gotta tell you about the summer and gosh it seems like there’s tons to catch up on.”

  “How about if we take a whole week to do just that? This week?” Her blond curls bounced when she talked and the blue eyes held the same sparkle as when we’d met in the fifth grade. She was still a full six inches shorter than I, her growth having moved in an outward rather than upward direction. Today she wore pink, a summer flowered top and capris that showed off the curve of her calves.

  In college, our paths had diverged with mine going toward accounting and a CPA certificate, while she finished med school in record time and started her own practice a few years ago. Our schedules were equally erratic and it was rare that we found more than an hour at a time for each other.

  “A week? What’ve you got in mind?” My mind flashed back over the promises I’d made to my brother Ron about spending some time at RJP, the investigation business we own together. But with Drake leaving tomorrow for a Fish and Game job the prospect of sitting home alone every evening wasn’t all that appealing.

  “How about a week at the plushest spa in Santa Fe . . .” she paused for effect. “Huge rooms with views toward the ski slopes, meals by a staff of gourmet chefs, massages every day, yoga classes, peace and quiet.”

  “What’s the catch?” Something this good always has a catch.

  “Okay, honestly?” She fiddled with the clasp on her watchband. “Alex was going with me but he got an emergency call from the folks back home and had to cancel.” Freckles popped through her light makeup; it happens when she’s embarrassed. “I didn’t
mean to make it sound like you were second choice . . .”

  “But I am.” I laughed. “So? Since when has that ever mattered between us? I’ve cancelled lunch with you a dozen times since Drake came along. It took both of us forever to meet our Mr. Rights, so we adjust, right?”

  “Well, it’s not just a trip purely for pampering. That’s the other thing.” She fidgeted with the watch again.

  “Uh-oh. What other thing?”

  “I’m taking classes in Eastern medicine.” She held up one hand. “No kidding—it’s really fascinating. Makes so much more sense than a lot of the stuff we learn in traditional Western medicine. I’ve been studying quite a lot and I want to learn more about it, see if I can incorporate some of these ideas about diet and treatments with my current patients.”

  “And I figure into this, how?”

  “Alex and I had planned to each attend some of the sessions, then share notes afterward. He wants to put it to use in his practice, too.”

  “Oh, Linda, I’m not qualified. I wouldn’t know what they were talking about when it comes to anything medical.”

  “Yeah, you will.” The blue eyes sparkled again. “I’ve looked through the course schedule. Anyone can attend the basic classes in nutrition and meditation. And there’s a lot of philosophy. I think you’ll love those. I’ll take the sessions for medical professionals. Mainly, I need someone to pick up the handouts and take notes, get the materials that each instructor provides—two copies, if possible. Please, Charlie.”

  “And the massages—”

  “Every day. Different techniques for different conditions, so of course I’ll need you to experience each one and report to me. All the spa facilities are open to attendees, so . . . mineral baths, hot tubs, lounge chairs around a pool . . .”

  “Wow, you make it sound pretty tough.” I had to laugh at her sales pitch. “It’s this week, though?”

  “Sunday evening, a reception. Monday morning, the classes start. I know, it’s short notice and I’m really sorry. But you’d really be helping me out.”

  Drake walked up with two new glasses of wine. He gave Linda one and lifted the other, indicating it was for me. She quickly filled him in on her request.

  He glanced at me, gauging my enthusiasm for it. “Whatever you want,” he said. “I’ll have to stay over at the jobsite, anyway, the government being too cheap to pay ferry time for me to fly home and back each day.”

  “I’ll need to clear a few things at the office with Ron, but if you don’t mind my not being at home . . .” I knew better. Drake’s always good with nearly anything I want to do.

  “Let me just—” I pulled my cell phone out of my jacket pocket and punched in Ron’s cell number. It rang four times before his voice came on.

  “One second, please,” he said. I heard fumbling and kid voices in the background. A full minute went by. “Thanks for holding. Ron Parker here.”

  “Did I catch you in bad traffic?” I asked. He and his new lady, Victoria, had taken his three boys to the State Fair and I’d teased him about how much fun they would have eating a ton of junk food and riding the carnival rides until they puked. And if Ron didn’t go quite that far, it was a cinch one of the boys would.

  “Uh, no, we got out of the fairgrounds okay. We’re pulled over at a gas station on Lomas.”

  I didn’t want to visualize what was going on, but I knew it involved one of the kids in the bathroom. “Okay, I won’t keep you long. Just wanted to let you know that something’s come up and I’m planning to go to Santa Fe for a few days. You’ve got the situation with Graham and Valdez under control at this point, don’t you?” Our wrongful-death helicopter case.

  “Charlie, what is it this time?” he demanded. “You’re always roaring off somewhere!”

  “Excuse me?” I turned away from Linda and Drake and walked toward the back of a vendor tent. “What—”

  “You know what I mean. We’re partners. And you’re always finding something to do outside the office.”

  A grain of truth in that, but where on earth did this outburst come from? “Ron, that’s ridic—”

  He cut me off. “No, it’s not. Between helicopter jobs with Drake and whatever other fun things you come up with . . .”

  “Fun? I’m usually snagged into doing things that bring money into this company. I lost—” My throat tightened.

  Silence on his end.

  I took a deep breath. “Ron, despite all this goofing off you think I’m doing I haven’t missed a payroll, I’ve never been late with a tax return or any other stupid-ass government report that’s been required of me.” I straightened my shoulders. “I’ll be in the office this evening. I’ll be there tomorrow. I don’t need to be in Santa Fe until Monday morning. But you’ll have to plan on my being gone for the week. I’ll have my cell if there’s a real reason to reach me.”

  “Fine. Oh, great—Jason! Get . . .” His voice trailed off and I lost the connection.

  I waited a minute to see if he would call back then dropped the silent phone into my pocket. I was not going to beg his permission to take a personal week off.

  “All set.” I walked back to Linda. “I better plan to take my own car, just in case something drastic happens.” I didn’t elaborate and she didn’t seem to notice. Drake, on the other hand, gave me a quizzical look.

  Linda beamed. “Thanks, Charlie. This is gonna be so much fun!” Her dimples went deep. “Here’s a map to Casa de Tranquilidad. I’ve already switched the room from a king bed to two doubles, so that’s set. I’m driving up this afternoon to get a head start, but you come along whenever.” She gave a little wiggle, her bosomy chest shaking like a gelatin mold. “Gotta go pack. I’m really looking forward to this!” She drained her glass and practically skipped as she headed out of the park.

  Drake smiled. “She’s got the enthusiasm of a cheerleader, doesn’t she?”

  “Used to be one, in junior high.”

  He gave me another close look. “Problem with Ron?”

  “It’ll be okay.” I sipped from the glass he’d handed me. “You sure you don’t mind my going off for a week?”

  “To Santa Fe? Heck no. In fact, since I’ll be working up there in the Pecos area, maybe we can both break away and meet somewhere for dinner in town.”

  We finished our wine and decided we better get home and pack for our respective journeys. Something about he way his eyes gleamed told me that we were going to make the most of our last night at home.

  Chapter 2

  Eager as we were to get home, I convinced Drake to stop by my office at RJP Investigations on the way. I’d left some of the files for the Graham and Valdez case, Walters et al versus Starland Helicopter Manufacturing and S-Jet Engines, on my desk and decided it would be safer if I put them in the locked file cabinet. Ron’s and my little business enterprise is located in a converted Victorian house in what’s now a combination residential/office neighborhood near downtown. Although we’ve never had a security problem, I’ve always taken reasonable precautions about leaving sensitive information out in plain sight. I’d originally planned to come back here this evening to organize paperwork, and type up some of Ron’s notes. Considering his attitude today, I decided screw him. I’d rather spend the evening with Drake. I would get him on his way in the early morning, then I could come back to the office to wrap up a few things Sunday morning and leave for Santa Fe when I was finished.

  “Do you want to look over the file on the engine data?” I asked Drake as we climbed the stairs to my second floor office.

  I didn’t hear his response as I hit the light switch and I turned to look at him. He shook his head. “Not now.”

  “Sorry. I know this is hard for you.”

  “It’s just that Mike Walters and I worked together several fire seasons. He was a good pilot. I can’t stand the idea that all these lawyers are trying to place blame with him, and I just can’t believe the accident was his fault.”

  “I know. And it wasn’t. Didn’
t our simulated crash this morning prove mechanical failure? Isn’t that enough to clear him?” I sat down at my desk, opened the file and picked up the printout of our test data. “Or almost enough?”

  “What we did today proves that a loose nut would cause that particular engine failure. I still have to prove that exact nut failed in this accident.” And Ron continued to put pressure on Drake to hurry the investigation.

  I watched his profile and saw the jaw muscle flexing. This was the first instance where the firm’s work had caused friction between my husband and my brother. “It’s okay. Let’s put this out of our minds and deal with it later.”

  After a minute or so he blew out a long breath. The jaw muscle relaxed and his military-sharp posture loosened up.

  “Look, there’s nothing here I can’t do tomorrow morning.” I said. “Let’s grab some dinner.” I gathered the folders quickly and took them to the fireproof file cabinet in Ron’s office.

  “Pedro’s?” I asked, knowing he’d hear the hopeful tone.

  “Sure.”

  A couple minutes later I’d locked the drawers and switched out the light.

  Drake rubbed the back of my neck as we walked down the hall toward the kitchen together, a silent apology for his testy attitude earlier. I slipped my arm around his waist and pulled closer to him.

  We locked the back door and drove in Drake’s pickup truck the few blocks to Pedro’s Mexican restaurant near Old Town. By the time we walked in and got our first whiff of green chile and tortilla chips, the earlier conversation had receded to the back of my mind. When Pedro brought our customary margaritas with extra salt, my stomach began to growl.

  “No Rusty tonight?” Concha, Pedro’s wife, waitress, and chief cook, asked as she set plates of steaming green chile chicken enchiladas in front of us.

  Our rust-brown Lab is a fixture here, as much as we are. He normally takes a spot in the corner beside our table and manages to catch any loose, unwanted tortilla chips that fall his way. Pedro always brings a heaping basket of them, just to cover that situation.