Reunions Can Be Murder: The Seventh Charlie Parker Mystery

  Reunions Can Be Murder

  The Seventh Charlie Parker Mystery

  By Connie Shelton

  Copyright © 2002 Connie Shelton

  Chapter 1

  The fire was apparently set sometime in the early morning hours and by the time our phone rang at four p.m. the vicious April winds had whipped a thousand acres of pristine forest into a raging inferno.

  “I’ll call you when I get there, hon,” Drake said, hefting his flight bag. “It may be late.” He checked his watch.

  “Two and a half hours flight time, right?” I asked, calculating roughly the distance to the fire base camp in southern New Mexico.

  “I’ll try to give you a buzz on my cell phone, but you know how it is once I get on scene. The crew will bombard me, and if there’s any daylight left the fire boss will probably want to do a quick recon.”

  “If I haven’t heard from you in three hours, I’ll call,” I told him. I wasn’t merely being a nagging wife, it was an FAA requirement that he either file a flight plan with them or we provide our own flight following. Experience had taught us that doing it ourselves was better.

  “Love you,” he whispered, through a soft, lingering kiss. He gave my ponytail two quick tugs before we parted.

  I watched him walk across the tarmac--his body trim in his khaki flight suit, and that enticing bit of gray showing at his temples beneath a black cap and dark aviator sunglasses--to our blue and white JetRanger, which airport personnel had pulled out of the hangar and fueled for his flight. Although I’m now a licensed pilot myself, I’ve spent the past few months building up my hours and am not yet at the point where I’m qualified to take on government work. Not that I’d want to—fighting forest fires is some of the most dangerous and hair-raising work a helicopter pilot can perform.

  Drake methodically circled the helicopter, performing his preflight routine, then stowed his bag in the rear compartment and climbed into the right hand seat. I watched as he began his startup checklist, then fastened his harness and adjusted his flight helmet while the rotor blades slowly spun up. He blew me a kiss, then lifted the craft gently off the ground; within a couple of minutes it was just a small speck to the south of the airport.

  I took a deep breath. “Okay, kid, let’s go,” I said to Rusty, our big reddish Lab. I noticed the dog seemed to have put on a few pounds and suspected Drake of sneaking him extra treats in the six months we’d been married.

  Rusty hopped into the backseat of my Jeep and I settled into the front, already feeling that stab of loneliness that came over me whenever Drake left on a job. Especially these types of jobs, where we didn’t know how long he’d be gone and nothing was definite, including his return. I was learning to adjust to the reality of having a husband with a hazardous job, but it wasn’t easy.

  I pulled away from Double Eagle Airport on Albuquerque’s west side, taking the long stretch of two-lane road that appeared to go nowhere but eventually led to Interstate 40. Hitting that busy thoroughfare fed me into the stream of eighteen-wheeler traffic rolling into town. I joined the stream, knowing it was fruitless to try to move ahead. By the time I reached the North Valley, traffic had slowed to a complete clog.

  A two-year construction project to revamp the interchange linking the two major interstate highways that quarter the city had thrown everyone into a tizzy, especially those poor out-of-towners who innocently wandered into it. I exited at Rio Grande Boulevard, knowing that the city stop-and-go would be quicker than the freeway, especially during the five-thirty rush hour. Continuing east on Central, I pulled into the parking area behind the Victorian-housed offices of RJP Investigations twenty minutes later.

  I’m a partner with my brother, Ron, at RJP. Although I’ve cut back on the number of hours I spend here now that Drake and I have the helicopter service, Ron’s out of town this week so I offered to check in each day. Which means I have to stop by and lock up by six o’clock so Tammy, our part-time afternoon help can go home.

  As soon as I opened the door Rusty leaped out of the car and proceeded to roam the fence line of the backyard parking area. I entered the gray and white converted Victorian house through the back door into the kitchen and immediately heard raised voices coming from the reception area.

  “Problem?” I asked Tammy, who was seated at her desk looking about ready to cry.

  “I’ve been trying to tell this lady that Ron is out of town,” she said in a voice just barely over a whisper.

  I turned to the woman who hovered over Tammy’s desk. She was close to six feet tall with broad shoulders and an even broader torso. She wore a polyester pantsuit of chocolate brown with an orange and white scarf twined at the neckline and attached at one shoulder with a gold circle pin. Her gray hair suffered from a bad perm that hadn’t been refreshed in awhile. Despite the fact that her wardrobe hadn’t been updated in twenty-five years or so, she had an intimidating presence and I didn’t blame Tammy for cringing. I turned to the woman.

  “Perhaps I can help?”

  “I doubt it. I need a private investigator and I need him now.” Her voice came out like sludge, harsh and forceful but with a slur to the words. I wondered if she was drunk but the black eyes that bored into me were sharp.

  “Well, as Tammy explained, Ron is the licensed private investigator and he’s out of town for the next week.”

  “What about you? What’s your position here?”

  “I’m Ron’s partner, Charlie Parker. I’m the accountant who handles financial matters for the firm.”

  She latched onto only one word. “Well, if you’re a partner, you can help me.” She hiked a huge brown purse into the crook of her arm. “You can take the information and get started.”

  Her manner made me grit my teeth but I take credit for having a little intelligence. When someone half a foot taller than me, who outweighs me by sixty or seventy pounds, tells me to take some information, okay, I’ll take it. I ushered her into the conference room and carried a yellow pad and pen in with me. Under my breath I told Tammy she could leave at six, just to be sure she let Rusty in first.

  “My father’s missing,” the woman began, plopping herself into one of the leather chairs around the table.

  “Let’s start at the beginning,” I wasn’t going to let her take complete charge. “Give me your names and addresses.”

  “My name is Dorothy Schwartzman. My father’s name is William McBride.” She recited both their addresses. Hers was midtown, in a neighborhood of two- and three-bedroom homes built in the late fifties. His was in the north valley, off Rio Grande Boulevard, in an area that could go either direction on the economic spectrum. Recently trendy, the north valley area could just as easily contain a run-down adobe hovel or a fifteen thousand square foot villa. “We think he’s becoming senile. He’s eighty-four years old.”

  “When was the last time you saw your father?”

  “Late February.”

  “That’s nearly two months,” I said. “Have you reported this to the police?”

  “Yes, I did.” She acted like I’d asked an imbecilic question. “They said they couldn’t treat it as a missing persons case because Dad was probably right where he said he’d be.”

  “He told you where he was going?”

  “Sent me a note. Said he was going prospecting.”

  “Prospecting. Did he say where?”

  “Not in the note, no. But he has two or three favorite places and I told the police about those.”

  “And those would be . . .?” Why did I feel like I was pulling teeth here? I glanced at my watch, wondering whether Drake might have r
eached his destination.

  “Am I keeping you?” she asked, sarcasm dripping from the words.

  “No, ma’am.” I gritted my teeth but bent over my notepad. “Go on.”

  “Well,” she shifted in her chair, settling in for the long haul. “One of his favorite spots has always been White Oaks. And of course he’s had this lifelong enchantment with the stories of the Lost Dutchman mine in Arizona.”

  I wrote down both names. “Where is White Oaks?” I asked.

  “Down south.”

  “South . . . in New Mexico?”

  “Well, yes. Just a few miles out of Carrizozo.” She must have caught the impatient look that crossed my face. “I know, not many people have heard of it, but it was quite well-known at one time. They found a bit of gold and silver around there. They quit regular mining some years ago. I’m not sure if anyone still lives there.”

  “And your father went there prospecting? What would he hope to find—gold and silver?”

  “Of course there’s no real sizeable amount of gold or silver there anymore,” she said, almost smiling. “You have to know my father to understand why he’d do this. He’s a man who has desperately wanted, his entire life, to be rich. He’s completely wrapped up in the idea. His greatest dream would be to find the mother lode, the big deal, win the lottery. It has never once crossed his mind that he might get rich by working hard and investing wisely. That just isn’t in his makeup.”

  “So he went on these prospecting trips regularly?”

  “Oh yes. I suspect he’ll do it as long as he’s physically able to pull himself over the rocks.”

  “And what’s different about this time? As the police said, why don’t you believe he’s right where he said he’d be? Would he normally stay in contact with you?”

  “My son, Roger, drove down to White Oaks a couple of weeks ago. Didn’t find any sign of his grandpa. Dad never was one for staying in touch, just went on his merry way and the heck with the rest of us.”

  “Maybe he just wants some time alone and doesn’t want to be bothered,” I suggested.

  “Hmmph.”

  “Well, I’ve taken all the information,” I said. “I’ll hand it over to Ron next Monday and he’ll get back to you.”

  “Oh, that won’t do at all,” she insisted in her nasal slur. “I’m telling you, young lady, you need to get started on this right away.”

  “He’s been gone two months already and the police don’t feel there’s any reason to treat it as a missing persons case, so why will one more week make a big difference?”

  She pulled out her wallet and laid five one-hundred dollar bills on the table, along with a set of keys and a five by seven photo of a weathered man who looked out of place in a gray suit and blue-striped tie. “I’m worried that he may forget where he is or that someone may take advantage of him. That’s him,” she said indicating the photo, “and those are my spare keys to his house and pickup truck. Please find him. Our family reunion is coming up in a week. He must be there.”

  Chapter 2

  “Excuse me?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly. “This is all about a family reunion?”

  She gave me a pointed stare.

  “You haven’t given us much time.”

  “Just start looking for him.” She’d risen from her chair and towered over me, speaking in a tone that left no room for argument.

  I watched her wide backside retreat just before the front door closed with a firm clunk. What a strange woman, I thought. Actually, it sounded like a strange family. I glanced at the money on the conference table. Guess we had ourselves a client.

  Tammy’s desk was clear, the night lamp on her credenza turned on. Rusty whimpered impatiently from behind the kitchen door. Thank goodness Tammy’d been smart enough to contain him before he could do something as uncouth as slobbering on Dorothy Schwartzman. I freed him and he followed me upstairs to my office where I laid the yellow notepad on my desk and locked the cash into the small safe concealed beneath the seat at the bay window. I checked the answering machine—nothing there—and locked the front door before heading back to the kitchen where I unplugged the coffee maker and locked the door behind me.

  A chill wind came out of the east, raising instant goosebumps on my arms. Our April weather can best be described as unsettled. Gorgeous, sunny spring days can easily alternate with dreary, rainy ones and the winds can be fearsome. Sometimes we get all this in one day. I rushed to the car and grabbed the light jacket I keep in there. A couple of minutes with the heater running full blast and a pleasant warmth began to spread through the vehicle.

  The dashboard clock told me that it had been two hours since Drake left on his flight. With any luck, by the time I got home he’d be calling to let me know he’d arrived safely. Resisting the desire for some of Pedro’s green chile chicken enchiladas, I drove straight home.

  I unlocked the heavy door and switched on some lights. The house felt cool, dark and abandoned in the last of the day’s fading light. The smell of new paint and drywall still hung in the air. We’d only been back in our recently remodeled abode for about six weeks and I was still adjusting to the newness of things. After a fire last October had partially gutted the house, we’d decided to update the ’50s style ranch home with a few modern conveniences, like a large master suite with exercise room and Jacuzzi, new guest quarters, and a made-to-order home office for Drake’s business. As a last-minute afterthought, we’d also updated the kitchen cabinetry and appliances figuring, after all, while the place was torn up we might as well do everything.

  I hung my jacket and purse on the coat rack just inside the front door, thinking tonight might be a good time to get around to unpacking the boxes of dishes and knickknacks that belonged in the china cabinet. Luckily, the fire hadn’t touched either the living or dining rooms, and we’d been able to clean and store my mother’s family keepsakes during the remodeling. It was high time I got busy and put them away, and it would help fill the hours while Drake was gone.

  The answering machine light in the kitchen glowed at me steadily. No word from Drake yet. I busied myself by nuking a frozen dinner for seven minutes and scooping doggy nuggets into Rusty’s bowl. The phone rang just as I was pouring a glass of iced tea to go with my sumptuous dinner and I sloshed some onto the countertop.

  “Hi, sweetheart, just letting you know I made it to my destination just fine,” Drake said.

  “They didn’t have you fly any recon tonight?” I asked.

  “Nope. I landed within the very last of my legal daylight limit. Guess they’ll have me out here at the crack of dawn tomorrow though.”

  He told me what little he knew about the progress of the forest fire and I told him about the new case that had walked into the office. There wasn’t much more to say and I hung up feeling kind of empty. Spent the rest of the evening arranging china in the cabinet while an old Ingrid Bergman movie played on the set in the living room. By nine o’clock I decided I was tired.

  Five a.m. found me wide awake. The early bedtime and the unfamiliarity of Drake being gone conspired to waken me without hope of drifting back off again. I puttered around, letting Rusty out, making coffee, taking a long shower, and I was still ready to leave for the office by seven. Once there, I puttered some more—making more coffee, opening my mail from the previous day, and entering a few billing records on the computer. I found my eyes trailing to the yellow pad with Dorothy Schwartzman’s information on it. I drummed my fingers on the desk. I made a couple of doodles on the pad.

  Face it, I was bored. Must have been, to seriously consider beginning the investigation for Dorothy. The woman had rubbed me the wrong way in nearly every way possible, yet I was seriously thinking about working the case. Plus, I just had the feeling she’d be calling in a day or two for a progress report. The thought of dealing with her again didn’t set well.

  The sound of the back door opening perked Rusty’s ears and he rose from his position on the Oriental rug in my office and r
aced down the stairs.

  “Hey, boy,” came Sally’s voice from the kitchen. I could picture her reaching for the tin of dog treats on the counter and sneaking one to him.

  “Anything exciting going on?” she asked as I entered the room, empty coffee mug in hand. Her wide smile greeted me, and I noticed her shaggy blond hair had been freshly trimmed.

  “Drake’s on the fire near Ruidoso,” I told her.

  “Oh, gosh, I heard about that one on the news this morning. Doesn’t sound good. They said it was man made?”

  “That’s what I heard too. Guess I’ll know a little more this evening when he calls in. Meanwhile, we got a new case yesterday afternoon. An abrasive woman who insists that we get started on it now, even though I told her Ron was gone.”

  “An emergency?” she asked as she put her lunch sack into the fridge.

  “Hard to tell. An elderly man who went off on his own, left the family a note telling them where he was going, hasn’t been heard from since. The police won’t take it as a missing persons case because they say he’s probably right where he said he’d be.”

  She grinned at me, a wide smile on her freckled face. “And you just aren’t satisfied with that, huh? And you’re just thinking you might follow up on it.”

  “Well . . .” I didn’t want to let on that Dorothy Schwartzman had basically bullied me into doing it. “I might just make a few phone calls.”

  “Uh-huh.” Sally poured herself a mug of coffee and headed toward her desk. “Well, I’ve got several letters to get done before the morning’s over. Chrissie smiled today.” She flashed one of those doting-mommy smiles.

  Sally’s daughter, Chrissie, had been born in February while Drake and I were still away on our honeymoon. Sally and Ross had arranged their schedules so one of them was always home with the baby. Since Sally had always worked mornings for us anyway, we kept that schedule; Tammy was really here in the afternoons to take more of my workload so I could help Drake with his business. Logistics are always so much fun.