Vacations Can Be Murder: The Second Charlie Parker Mystery Read online

  Vacations Can Be Murder

  The Second Charlie Parker Mystery

  By Connie Shelton

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 1996 Connie Shelton

  All rights reserved

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  What others are saying about

  The Charlie Parker Mystery Series

  “Charlie is slick, appealing, and nobody’s fool—just what readers want in an amateur sleuth.” –Booklist

  “Charlie is a fabulous amateur sleuth.” –Midwest Book Review

  “A good story and a challenging puzzle.” –Robert O. Greer, National Public Radio

  “Down to earth and very readable.” –Library Journal

  This book is also available in print at many bookstores and online book retailers.

  Meet Connie Shelton and find out about all of her titles at www.connieshelton.com

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  Chapter 1

  Vacations mean different things to different people. There's the planning, the packing, the anticipation. Then there's the late arrival, the sunburn, the fuzzy pictures. In my case, add a romance with a good-looking pilot and fourteen stitches in the back of my skull.

  I’d chosen Kauai, the northern-most inhabited island in the Hawaiian chain, an egg-shaped dot of land roughly twenty-seven miles wide by thirty-two miles long. Aside from a few atolls, named but unknown to most, it is the first piece of rock east of Japan. No one knows for certain, but somewhere around a thousand years ago, after the volcanoes had quieted down and a life rich with plants and birds had taken over, the Polynesians sailed from the south Pacific, found this tiny grouping of islands, and called them home. A hundred-fifty years ago, white missionary settlers from America arrived to convert these perfectly happy natives from their heathen ways. I don’t think we’ve ever been forgiven for the intrusion. Today, diligent governing keeps mainland-style progress to a minimum. The scent of plumeria and the soft strains of slack-key guitar set a lazy mood. The place is, in mood, climate, and landscape an opposite to my hometown Albuquerque.

  It was also exactly what I needed after an extremely busy winter and a recent encounter with my former best friend and my ex-fiancé.

  I awakened my first morning in the tropics to the sound of surf gently washing at the beach. My room at the Westin Hotel faced Kalapaki Bay and was on the shady side of the building this time of day. The air felt pleasantly cool on my bare skin. I pulled on a light cotton kimono, and stepped out to the lanai. The breeze fluttered my hair, filling my nostrils with the scent of the sea. The bay stretched out before me, the sand on the beach wiped smooth by the night tide.

  I wondered what Rusty would think of a romp on the beach. He'd probably be out in the water in no time.

  Rusty's an unusual dog of uncertain origins. He's about the build of a Labrador, the color of an Irish setter, and the temperament of a cocker spaniel puppy. I never tell anyone that last part. His size is usually enough to dissuade potential attackers, and he has a way of smiling (no kidding) that shows his teeth, so most people think he's snarling. I usually let them think so.

  Rusty adopted me back when I was in college. He started hanging around outside my English Lit class and following me around campus. No matter how many other people fussed over him, he stuck by me. I had just broken up with my fiancé and I think Rusty sensed my neediness. He has been with me ever since.

  Seven floors below me the ocean looked like a rippled piece of azurite with short ruffs of white lace at the edges. There was a time-delay effect as I watched the lapping waves roll onto the beach several seconds before their soft whooshing sound reached my ears. The sweet smell of tropical flowers rose toward me, borne on the humid air. Distance miniaturized the mosaic-patterned stone walkway below, and I watched two men in hotel uniform pull their golf carts together side by side. A cigarette changed hands, and their laughter drifted up to me. They lounged, obviously in no hurry to rush back to work.

  I took a deep breath and stretched, enjoying the tiny shot of adrenaline to my extremities. It felt good to be away from the routine, to have my taxes done, and Ron back at the office handling things there again.

  In real life I'm a CPA. I'm also partners with my brother, Ron, in a small private investigation firm. Ron is the PI; I'm just supposed to keep the finances running right. This past winter, though, Ron broke his leg in a skiing accident, leaving me to run the whole show for a couple of months. By the first of May I decided I was entitled to a break. I was glad, for a change, not to be responsible.

  The beach below was absolutely deserted; the flat gray expanse of sand looked cool, as nearly colorless as the pale sky beyond. Catamarans and small sailboats, their sails neatly rolled, lined the fringe between sand and grass safely beyond the tide's reach. The beach towel concession stand was securely shuttered. It must be early. I glanced at my watch. Six o'clock. Ten, Albuquerque time. No wonder I felt so wide awake.

  The empty beach looked tempting, but the sun hadn't reached it yet. The air would probably be a bit nippy to bare skin that had been swaddled in protective woolens the past five months. Another whiff of a breeze shook the palm fronds and raised tiny bumps on my skin. My stomach spoke, reminding me that my last meal had been on an airplane, so long ago that I had trouble calculating the hours. Breakfast seemed to be in order.

  Two hours later, after a shower and a mushroom omelet, I felt ready to get out and explore. Like any diligent tourist, I had picked up an assortment of maps and guidebooks at the airport, so I decided to find out what this paradise had to offer. I jammed my bikini, a towel, and a bottle of sun screen into my canvas tote, made sure I had my wallet and keys to the rental car, and left the room.

  Last night my arrival had been late and I hadn’t comprehended the full magnificence of the Westin Hotel and its grounds. Walking out now, I passed through the elegant lower lobby with its thick blue and gold Oriental rug, teak registration desk and Chinese antiques. One wall opened to reveal an open courtyard about the size of a city block. A tiled pond filled most of it. In its center, marble horses reared dramatically amidst splashing fountains. Live swans dipped their graceful necks into the water, coming up periodically for air. Tropical birds in shades of turquoise, green, red and yellow sat on perches around the perimeter of the pond, squawking and tossing peanut shells onto the floor.

  From this lower lobby, a long escalator crawled upward to another lobby. Open to the outside, where cars circled under the porte-cochere, the upper lobby bustled with activity. Bellmen unloaded bags from the backs of taxis and limousines, while dazed-looking, sweaty tourists emerged with their too-warm clothing pasted to their backs.

  A diorama of the Westin complex sat atop a large table, covered with a Plexiglas dome. I studied it for a moment before heading to the parking lot.

  The red Sunbird convertible was right where I'd left it—I thought. Actually, there were six of them in that row, and four in the next. I glanced around to see whether anyone was about to witness my embarrassment as I tried my key until
I found the right one. Luckily, it worked on the second try. Just to verify, I pulled the rental receipt from the glove compartment to be sure my name was on it. My face flushed as I remembered how cool I thought I'd be reserving a convertible to drive around Hawaii. Apparently, several hundred other tourists had the same idea.

  The sky was clear, as blue as a Wedgwood candy dish. I could feel the humidity, but the air was cool enough to keep it from becoming oppressive. I put the top down and stowed my beach gear behind the front seat. I had decided over breakfast to take a drive up the main highway to see where it would lead me.

  I studied my map as the car warmed up. The main town, Lihue, is situated at approximately the four-o'clock position on this almost-round bit of land. From Lihue the road goes north where it dead-ends slightly beyond the twelve-o'clock spot, or south, curving upward to the west, and ending around nine-o'clock. The remaining fourth of the coastline, and much of the mountainous interior are inaccessible by car. Getting my bearings, I decided to explore the town first.

  The tree-shaded Westin driveway took me out toward Rice Street. Plantings of philodendron alternated with bright clumps of white, purple, pink, and coral impatiens. White stone urns, festooned with garlands of stone flowers, stood in well-planned alcoves. I turned right onto Rice Street, driving up a hill, the cutaway side of which was raw-looking red earth, the color of rust. I had no trouble finding the sign that directed me toward Highway 56.

  At Ahukini Road, which led back to the Lihue airport, I took advantage of the red light to consult my map again. The overhead whopp-whopp of a helicopter's rotor blades grabbed my attention. The aircraft came straight toward me, then made a graceful turn almost over my head. It swung around, dipping lower, disappearing behind a tall field of sugar cane. My interest quickened immediately.

  I have always loved flying. Living in Albuquerque, I'd had no trouble bumming hot air balloon rides on several occasions. The sensation of floating soundlessly above the earth is like no other. I'd even tried an ultralight once. I draw the line at hang gliding but, as long as it has a power source, I'm game.

  An impatient horn tooted behind me, jerking me back to the present. I drove through the intersection, and pulled to the side as soon as I could safely do so.

  Another helicopter lifted off, just the other side of the cane field on my right. It looked like a giant dragonfly as it paused for a couple of seconds then made a wide circle around the airport tower and headed for the low hills behind me. It soon became just a dot in the sky.

  I flipped open the guidebook. Paradise Helicopters. The ad lay right there, under my index finger. Fly Through Paradise With Us, it announced.

  The color photo showed a helicopter poised before the white streamer of a long waterfall. The advertising blurb promised the ride of a lifetime, a chance to view the hidden mysteries of Kauai in a way no one else could offer. They claimed the most experienced pilots, a perfect safety record, and discount coupons for restaurant dinners if you booked direct.

  Well, who could pass up all that?

  A quick study of the map told me that their offices were right here in Lihue, just a couple of blocks away. I watched for an open spot in the traffic, and hung a U. Paradise Helicopters was in a small strip shopping center, tucked between a pizza parlor and an aloha wear shop. Trees fashioned out of bougainvillea vines dotted the parking lot at intervals. I pulled the Sunbird into an open space in front of the glass-fronted offices, right beside an identical red car. Smugly, I remembered to memorize my plate number before I went inside.

  The air conditioned office was a pleasant contrast to the hot sun outside. The front lobby was designed to be as comfy as a living room. Rattan furniture, with tropical print cushions in pale shades of blue, yellow, and gray was placed in a homey grouping facing a TV set. The TV was off now, but I could see it was connected to a VCR. A selection of tapes was stacked next to it, featuring titles such as "Kauai By Air" and "Your Flight of Memories."

  The warm-up, I supposed, where the passengers could sit around before their flights, viewing the spectacles yet to come, and trying not to think about being too nervous.

  Colorful helicopter posters decorated the walls, and the air smelled faintly of flowers. An elaborate arrangement of bright red and yellow heliconia and puffy gray protea stood almost five feet tall in one corner. A tiny model helicopter hung suspended by an invisible nylon line above the flowers.

  "Hi there!" A bubbly voice greeted me like I was a long lost friend from the past. I glanced around, and saw that the front office was deserted except for the bubbler, a young woman seated at a desk near the back. She was so petite and tan that she made me feel like the great white whale with my hundred-twenty pounds of winter pale flesh.

  Her fluffy wheat-colored hair was pulled up on top with a stretchy hot-pink band, from which it spewed like a wild tuft of pampas grass. She wore an elaborate combination of shimmering pink and blue eye shadow, and had probably used close to a whole tube of mascara. Too bad, because she was too pretty, and definitely too young for the drastically overdone look. She had a plastic badge pinned over her left breast that told me her name was Melanie.

  "You wanna take the flight?" Twin dimples sculpted themselves into her tan cheeks.

  "Yeah, do you have anything available today?" I stepped up to the teak counter which divided her desk off from the rest of the room.

  She lifted the top sheet of a stack of pages which were held together at the top with two large bulldog clips. Her eyes scanned the second page, while her perfectly aligned teeth worked at masticating her pencil eraser. Her orthodontist would not be happy to see that.

  "I have a single open at three o'clock."

  "Nothing sooner?" Once I make up my mind to do something, I want to do it now.

  "Not for a single. Now, if you were a couple... But, see, singles are harder to find, and I have to make it come out even, and there's this couple with a kid at three..."

  I could see this was going to lead to a long explanation which wasn't making much sense anyway.

  "That's okay." I held one palm out toward her. "I'll take the three o'clock."

  I could tell by the way the dimples reappeared that I had alleviated some kind of huge concern in the back of her tiny little mind. She sat in her swivel chair, one leg tucked up under her, prepared to take my vital statistics.

  "Great! Great, now I need your name and your weight."

  I told her.

  "Charlie? Isn't that kind of a funny name for a girl?"

  I felt my eyes begin to roll. I was in no mood to explain to Miss Cutie that I had been named after my mother's two maiden aunts. Charlotte Louise Parker had been a hell of a name to stick a tiny baby with, but I was a little young at the time to have a vote in the matter. Growing up with two older brothers had turned me into a tough little tomboy, and Charlie was the name that stuck.

  Melanie seemed to sense that maybe I didn't owe her an explanation so she busied herself with taking an imprint of my credit card. I watched her fill in the rest of the information in overemphasized round letters with lots of extra curls attached.

  "Would you like to see where the tour will take you?" she asked, once business was taken care of.

  I figured the big map on the wall with a path outlined in florescent red dots pretty well told the story, but she wanted to be helpful. She seemed determined, so I didn't object when she came around the end of the counter. Her pink spandex shorts and cut off top made me realize once again that I'd put on a few pounds over the winter. Her ensemble didn't exactly strike me as proper office attire, but I figured they do everything a bit more casual here in Hawaii.

  She had just launched into a recital of all the unpronounceable Hawaiian places I'd see, when a man appeared from a back office.

  He wore a navy blue knit shirt with the Paradise logo in white on the left side of his chest, and a pair of navy twill shorts. His wavy brown hair was generously scattered with gray. His eyes drooped slightly at the outer corners, and the
re was a deep worry-crease between the dark brows. He was slim, and stood with an erectness in his posture that suggested a military career. I noticed his watch. It was gold, with all sorts of extra dials on the face. He wore a heavy gold ring on his right hand, none on the left.

  "Mack!" my exuberant little hostess exclaimed. She turned to introduce us. "Charlie, this is Mack Garvey, the owner of Paradise Helicopters. He flies on weekdays, so today you'll be flying with our other pilot, Drake Langston."

  I held out my hand to Mack. He shot a quick flicker of a smile my way as he shook it, but I could tell his mind was elsewhere. He scowled toward Melanie's spandex-clad behind. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, then closed it again. It seemed like a good time for me to go.

  “Nice meeting you, Mack,” I said, heading toward the door.

  He grunted a distracted “You, too,” as he crossed behind the desk to check the flight manifest.

  "Bye, Charlie! Come back here at two-thirty to check in for your flight." She waved and grinned, like we were best pals who planned to meet in the high school cafeteria at lunch time.

  With a few hours to kill, I decided to explore. Driving west out of Lihue took me inland. According to my guidebook, there was an old plantation house, now open to the public, along this road. Apparently, sugar was still big business here, although the romance of the plantation days was over.

  Now, large corporations own all the sugar plantations. The work has become mechanized. Long gone are the hundreds of immigrant laborers working in the fields cutting the tough cane. Their descendants have gone on to pursue other ventures—Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Filipino and Portuguese—all blending into a unique society of their own. I made a right turn and joined the line of traffic heading away from town.