Escapes Can Be Murder Read online

  Escapes Can Be Murder

  Charlie Parker Mysteries, Book 18

  By Connie Shelton

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  Author Note:

  Readers familiar with Tiguex Park in Albuquerque will undoubtedly know there is no four-story garage immediately near the park (although, in my opinion, the nearby museums could use more parking space!). Please forgive this writer a bit of artistic license in giving Charlie this vantage point at a crucial moment in the story.

  Chapter 1

  Forest, the likes of which I’d never seen before, stretched out below. In the pilot’s seat, I felt a band of sweat forming under my bra; a trickle ran down my spine. It isn’t that I haven’t flown over trees before—I have. But these were thicker, leafier, and so multi-colored in the early-October bright light. It was distracting and a little unnerving. I glanced toward the left seat where Drake dozed, confident enough in my skills to let me find the heliport on my own. I chose to believe he wasn’t just oblivious.

  I checked the GPS for the millionth time. Safe Port, Maine, lay ahead somewhere. The instrument assured me it was true although, unlike the one in the car, this baby didn’t tell me to change lanes or make a left turn at the next intersection; I had to keep checking. I only wished I could actually see a town somewhere out there. I brought the Jet Ranger to five hundred feet above the treetops and slowed.

  Five minutes later I spotted a white spire glowing in the middle of a red-orange pool of leafy splendor. A church. Gradually, the solid forest began to reveal gaps—a park, a neighborhood of two-story white-sided houses, a market with a large parking lot. Ahead, I caught sight of the rugged coastline. Somewhere along there would be the regional airport where we were to check in for our job.

  Normally, smaller ships like ours stay fairly close to home. We work a two- to three-state area: New Mexico, Arizona, sometimes Colorado. Rarely beyond. But this time Drake had decided to attend the annual helicopter trade show in Dallas, and for some reason it seemed like a great idea to fly our own machine there. Chatting with an old buddy from his Kauai days, he realized one of the big Midwest airshows would start in three days. We headed across country for that. And when he ran into the man he’d worked for on his very first job in Pennsylvania, and Bert told him they were short-handed on a New England crew … well, that’s the short version of how I came to be searching for a tiny helipad at a small regional airport on the coast of Maine.

  My GPS told me I was within three miles of the airport so I keyed my microphone and radioed the Fixed Based Operator, as there was no tower at a place this small. A male voice with a thick New England accent responded, clearing me to land. The verbal exchange roused Drake from his sleepy state and he immediately knew exactly where we were. He has this irritating way of becoming instantly alert when he wakes, unlike me who, especially in the morning, loves the luxury of an extra fifteen minutes in bed and at least one cup of coffee before I’m expected to give a coherent answer to anything.

  I followed the flight path given by the radio operator and sure enough, right there between the edge of the forest and the waves lapping at the rocky coast, I spotted the landing strip and a green clapboard building. Three single-engine planes tied down at the north end of the strip provided the big clue that it was actually an airport. I aimed the nose of the Jet Ranger into the wind and set her gently onto the square pad at the south end.

  “Nice job,” my sweet hubby said with a flash of the gorgeous smile that had won me over.

  I sat there a minute, going through the shutdown procedures, while he looked around for a sign of the foreman who was supposed to meet us. We would be ferrying supplies to a remote site where a larger helicopter, a Sky Crane, was stringing wire on power poles across a section of the county where a new factory was being built, a business that evidently required fiber optic cable for high speed internet. Why they’d chosen the middle of nowhere for this facility was a mystery no one had yet explained to me. But ours was not to question why, ours was just to lift nets filled with crates of tools and the nuts-and-bolts type stuff, along with food and water for the ground crew, and the occasional rolls of cable. Or so I’d been told. If the job foreman showed up, we would soon know.

  Mainly, I hoped we would have decent lodgings with warm blankets on the beds. I could tell already that the temperature had begun to drop the minute I shut down the heater in the cockpit. Drake had reached into the back seat for his coat and handed me a jacket as well. I set the rotor brake and slipped my arms into the cozy fleece.

  When I looked up, I saw a short man with bandy legs and a barrel chest walking toward the helicopter. He wore baggy jeans, red flannel shirt, and a cap with ear flaps—the New England image was alive and well. He had red hair and a beard to match, vivid blue eyes with squint wrinkles radiating from the corners, and a smile revealing uneven teeth. He walked up to Drake and shook hands.

  “Jed McAllister.” He introduced himself as I walked around the nose of the aircraft.

  “Drake Langston, and this is my wife, Charlie Parker.” I could tell Drake immediately liked the guy.

  Jed greeted me without a quiz about my name, saving me from the explanation that it’s really Charlotte and the way-too-old story about my brothers tagging me with the nickname because I’d been such a tomboy as a kid. I have to admit, beyond thirty-five now, I’m much more into creature comforts.

  We tied down the rotor blades, locked the doors, and retrieved our bags from the cargo compartment on the Jet Ranger’s left side. Considering that we’d left New Mexico more than a week ago, packing only three days’ worth of clothes, one of my first concerns would be to find a laundromat. Jed led the way through the lobby of the tiny FBO, giving a speedy introduction to the young guy behind the desk—Harry. As far as I could tell, he was the only person working at the facility, at least for the moment.

  In the parking lot outside the chain link fence that separated the real world from the aviation world, Jed pointed toward a white Ford Explorer that must have been ten years old.

  “That’s yours for the duration,” he said. “We’ll do a quick tour of Safe Port so’s you get your bearings, and I’ll show you the inn where we booked you a room. I think you’ll find it comfortable. Just don’t let old Mrs. Comfrey boss you around too much. She tends to do that.”

  We busied ourselves stashing our things in the back of the SUV and taking seats. Jed drove, with Drake in the shotgun seat and me in back. I saw what Jed meant by the quick tour. The entire town consisted of one main drag, which followed the coastline, and a web of side streets with the type of clapboard houses I’d spotted from the air. The church, the supermarket, two gas stations, a bookshop, an auto parts store, and (yay!) a coin laundry flanked the main street, which was imaginatively called Main Street. At Safe Port’s one traffic signal we turned left; at the next corner sat a large three-story building with wrap-around porches, gingerbread trim, and a sign: Wayside Inn B&B.

  It exuded New England charm. The muted sage and cream paint created a calming color scheme; wicker furniture groupings and potted plants gave the porches a homey feel; pumpkins and potted chrysanthemums put bright spots of color on the steps and along the cobbled walkway. Tall trees in flaming shades of yellow, orange, and red completed the picture.

  “I’ll leave you here,” Jed said as we pulled our bags from the car. “The missus wanted me to invite you over for dinner.” He waved up the street. “One block up, two blocks over, yellow house with a skiff on a trailer parked in the driveway. Hope you don’t mind lobster.”

  I assured him I would never, ever, ever mind having a lobster dinner.

  “All righty, then. Drive on over when you’re ready.
She likes to put the meal on the table around six.” With that, he started off walking in the direction he’d indicated for home.

  We looked up at the front porch of the inn to see a sturdy woman wearing a flowered housedress and cardigan, her arms crossed over her ample chest. Brown over-permed frizz framed a plump face, and the deep grooves beside her mouth indicated that she probably didn’t smile a whole lot. Mrs. Comfrey.

  “Jed says you folks goin’ workin’ with him,” she said by way of greeting. She turned toward the front door and we followed. “I put you in the east room. Got a private entry facing State Street, so’s you can leave early, come back late, whatever it is you need to do.”

  We followed her down a long hall leading to the back of the house. She opened the door to a room with a pink and white color scheme, frilly curtains, and spare pillows everywhere. It was a seven-year-old girl’s dream. I swallowed a comment. Drake just smiled and thanked her for the information about breakfast hours, house rules about quiet, and the offer to make breakfast sandwiches to take with us, so long as we placed our order twenty-four hours in advance.

  “Tired?” he asked me the moment the door closed behind Mrs. Comfrey. His arms came around me and I let myself soak up his warmth and the nice feel of the massage he was giving my lower back muscles.

  “A little. But mostly I feel like I need to stretch my legs.”

  “Three days almost non-stop in the aircraft will do that.”

  We made a plan: pull all the clothing from our bags and get to the laundry, use the time while the machine cycles ran to take a good long walk, then shower and dress in something fresh so we could make it to Jed’s place before six. I couldn’t get the image out of my head of lobster claws dripping with butter.

  Chapter 2

  Jed and Darlene McAllister proved to be excellent hosts. The lobster dinner was everything I’d dreamed of—especially when Jed informed us his brother’s boat had just brought the critters in from the ocean this afternoon. I might consider giving up green chile and relocating if this was ordinary life in Maine.

  Drake and Jed talked logistics for the job we were here to do. I listened, since I would be in on it, and Darlene moved quietly from kitchen to dining table, bringing more coleslaw, fresh ears of corn, and topping up the small bowls of melted butter for each of us.

  Everything Jed said about the job concurred with what we’d been told—we would carry supplies and personnel out to a fairly remote site where a crew was stringing fiber optic cable through thickly wooded areas that were inaccessible to vehicles. A Sky Crane was doing the heavy lifting and there was one other support ship. We were there because the job’s second aircraft had been called in for a week of maintenance and it was too expensive to keep the other machines on standby at their daily rates. We would make two runs up to the work site in the early morning, carrying men and supplies and another flight at the end of the work day to bring the men back.

  “The middle part of the day is yours to do what you want,” Jed said. “Explore around, have some fun. As long as you’re back at the site by four o’clock each day, we’re good.”

  Darlene had cleared the dishes by now, declining my offer to help. She came back with bowls of local blueberry ice cream just in time to hear Jed’s comments. “You should get out and see the area some,” she said. “Portland’s not far if you get on the interstate, and Bar Harbor’s real cute for a day trip. There are some tours of lighthouses, or you could pick a nice day and go sailing.”

  “Loads of scenic coastline here, that’s for sure,” Jed said. “Bet you don’t see much of that where you’re from.”

  Truer words were never spoken. We have a dozen or so navigable lakes in the entire state. I’d already seen more watercraft in the last four hours than in a lifetime in New Mexico. Maybe we could make the most of our week here and the flexible work schedule by soaking up the local color.

  Despite our getting to bed at an astonishingly early hour, the alarm went off way too soon. We were to meet Jed and the rest of the crew at daybreak. Without the requisite twenty-four-hour notice there were no breakfast sandwiches coming from the kitchen of Mrs. Comfrey (we did at least extend the courtesy of telling her not to cook for us this morning). Breakfast would consist of a stop at the gas station’s convenience store and whatever empty-calorie, high fat goodies we found. Yum.

  I was munching down my fourth mini donut when we pulled into the parking lot at the airfield. The three guys who would ride out to the work site with Drake smelled of bacon and eggs. I was jealous. At least our coffee in Styrofoam cups was good and strong and I was now coherent. Tomorrow we would have to get our order in with Mrs. C. or check around to see if there was some kind of early-bird café in town.

  While the workers loaded their gear, weighed and supervised by Drake, I programmed the location coordinates Jed gave me into our GPS. Drake would take the first flight. I would ride along to learn the routine; after that we could alternate flights. The estimated flight time was forty-seven minutes each way, and the money we’d make in a week would cover all our expenses since we’d left home. Not bad.

  The fall foliage was no less spectacular when the sun rose over the Atlantic and revealed the many hues of the trees as we pulled pitch. The monster-big Sky Crane had taken off only minutes ahead of us, and it was an easy matter to follow it to establish our general direction. The faster machine was soon out of sight, though, and Drake followed the map on the GPS. I concentrated on learning a few landmarks—a large rock outcropping north of town, a patch of pure scarlet trees.

  In precisely forty-six and a half minutes we set down. While the crew offloaded their equipment, I looked around. As with similar jobs of this type, almost nothing was kept at the work location because the job moved farther along the powerline route each day. By tomorrow the cable would be attached to the poles here and a section a mile away, or five or ten, would be ready.

  Jed had told us the entire span to be covered was one-hundred-twenty miles, it was roughly half completed, and the work had to be done before first snowfall, which could happen anytime in the next few weeks. I didn’t do the math; it boiled down to full days, every day, to beat the weather as nature took its course and winter approached. There had been a brief mention about us staying on, if necessary to keep the job on schedule, even after the regular contract ship came back from maintenance. I wasn’t sure either Drake or I were up for that, but we kept our plans open.

  The return flight went more quickly, with a tailwind and less weight on board. I flew the second trip as we delivered crates of tools and boxed lunches for the crew. When we landed back at the airport afterward, we realized it was only ten a.m. and we now had the luxury of freedom until midafternoon. We decided to find ourselves a real breakfast—those mini donuts hadn’t sustained me very long.

  Drake performed a couple of routine post-flight mechanical checks, while I gave the windows a once-over with glass cleaner and paper towels. When I turned to put away my supplies, I saw an older man walking toward us. His step seemed hesitant, as if he was in pain, but his eyes were squarely on our helicopter. When he noticed I was watching, he gave a little wave.

  “Hi.” My brain went through a bunch of quick scenarios—he thought we were giving tour flights, he was an aircraft buff, maybe a retired military man with fond memories of his own time at the controls. Those were the usual. He wore chinos and a plaid shirt buttoned to the neck, with a string tie that sported a sizeable chunk of turquoise.

  “You’re from Albuquerque,” he said as he approached.

  “We are. How did you …?”

  “Recognized your chopper here, your logo. Heard there was some helicopter work going on hereabouts, and I need one. Lucky for me you’re from home.”

  Drake climbed down from the engine cowling. The older man walked over and shook his hand, introducing himself to both of us as Fergus McNab, a retired farmer from Hatch. The small southern New Mexico town was known nationwide for producing the best chile anywhere.


  “We’re on a contract right now, but maybe we could help,” Drake said. “What do you need?”

  “I need to find my son.”

  “If he’s lost Search and Rescue is your better bet.” I couldn’t figure out why an out-of-state aircraft would be a lucky choice for him.

  “Aw, no, it’s nothing like that. Rory lives up here.”

  So, why aren’t you simply driving up to his house? But I held my questions.

  “It’s kinda complicated,” Fergus said. “Could I buy you all a cup of coffee and explain about it?”

  It turned out he’d arrived by taxi—another piece of the puzzle, no doubt—so we all piled into the Explorer and drove the short distance to Maxine’s Café, a home-cooking-style place. We settled at a table in the half-full restaurant.

  “We were planning on ordering breakfast,” I said. “Can we get you something too?”

  “Just coffee for me, thanks.” His gnarled hands played with the little paper sugar packets until the waitress poured him a cup.

  Drake and I ordered bacon-and-egg meals and I brought up Fergus’s reason for seeking us out.

  “So, you need a helicopter to help find your son, but he lives here?”

  A sigh. “I guess his place is pretty remote. I’ve never been there. I don’t drive in unfamiliar places anymore, and I sure as hell can’t hike. What Rory tells me, I get the idea it’s a couple miles’ hike from this cabin of his down to where he can pick up the road when he needs to come to town.”

  “So, I gather you’re in touch with him?”

  “Now and again. He’s got a phone but it’s usually up to him to call me, and the connection can be awful. Calls get cut off, problems like that. I only know roughly where this place of his is.”

  “What if you need to reach him? Like now—how do you initiate contact?”