Holidays Can Be Murder: A Charlie Parker Christmas Mystery Page 2

  I was well into dipping out my four hundredth ladle of stew into someone’s Styrofoam bowl when I glanced up to see my husband grinning at me. Next to him, Catherine stood regal as ever, her sleek page perfect and her makeup freshly retouched. I pictured how I must look--wilted hair, sweaty upper lip, and tomato stains on my white apron. Makeup isn’t something I do much with anyway—a touch of lipstick and maybe mascara on a good day—so I knew that department was lacking.

  Catherine waited until my customers walked away, then she came over to gather me into a hug.

  “Charlie, you look great!” she greeted.

  My expression must have shown my skepticism.

  “Well, okay, not the best, but really, dear, I’m so glad to see you.”

  I took the compliment as graciously as possible.

  “Can we have a taste?” Drake said, eyeing the nearly-empty pot.

  “Did you buy a ticket? Gotta have your official tasting bowl, you know.”

  He produced two of the generic Styrofoam bowls and I gave them each a dipper full. He rolled his eyes as he tasted; my green chile stew is his favorite dish.

  “Charlie, this is wonderful,” Catherine exclaimed. “Really, really good. I vote for it to be the winner.”

  I had to chuckle. “You haven’t tried any of the others yet,” I said.

  “That’s okay—I still vote for yours.”

  I smiled at her. “Doesn’t look like there’s going to be any left to take home. Otherwise, we could have it for dinner.”

  “Looks like we’ll just have to go to Pedro’s,” Drake said, shrugging his shoulders. Like eating out at our favorite little spot was a big sacrifice.

  I glanced at my watch. “Cookoff’s over in another fifteen minutes,” I told them. “If you want to check out the other booths before everything’s gone, go ahead.”

  “I think I’ll save space for Pedro’s,” Drake said. “Need help carrying anything out to the car?”

  I gathered most of the utensils and ingredients I hadn’t used and let him carry them away. Catherine wandered down the long row of booths while I finished wiping up a few stray spills. The crowd had thinned considerably.

  “Looks like they raised quite a lot for the homeless,” Catherine said, coming back.

  “Good. I’m glad it helped. This event has become quite a tradition. Gets bigger every year.”

  Drake came back and carried the remaining gear outside and I folded my apron. Fifteen minutes later we were parking both vehicles in front of Pedro’s tiny establishment near Old Town. The little parking lot only contained three other vehicles, making it nearly full.

  Inside, three of the six tables were occupied, one by Mannie, a grizzled old man who eats chile hotter than most people can stand. He raised his gray-speckled chin in greeting as we took our usual table in the corner.

  Concha, Pedro’s other half, was in the process of setting heaping plates of tacos on one table. “Margaritas?” she asked as we passed.

  “Three,” Drake said.

  Pedro stood behind the bar, whirring the cool green drinks in his blender. Concha wiped her hands on her apron and picked up the glasses. Balancing a small cocktail tray, she threaded her way toward our table. Drake introduced his mother and the Spanish woman gave Catherine a warm smile.

  “I thought you were getting a waitress,” I asked her as she set my drink down.

  She made a sound that came out like “Pah!” and pulled out her order pad. “Kids. Can’t get any of them to do any work. Easier to do it myself.”

  I noticed that Pedro had headed back to the kitchen while she wrote down our order. Easy enough, since Drake and I usually have the same thing—chicken enchiladas with sour cream. Green. Catherine followed suit.

  “I’d forgotten how you get a choice of red or green chile here in New Mexico,” Catherine said after Concha had left. “Most places any more make up these weird concoctions called sauce, and you really don’t know what kind of chile is in it.”

  I could tell I was going to get along just fine with her.

  3

  Sunday morning dawned clear and cold. Frost was thick on the grass and trees, but the hoped-for snowfall from a few days ago seemed to have vanished. Albuquerque rarely gets snow for Christmas—only an inch or two when we do--and it was looking like this year would be no exception.

  “Is there more cinnamon, Charlie?” Catherine was helping me bake the biscochitos and we were running out of the cinnamon-sugar coating we’d mixed up earlier.

  “Check that upper cabinet,” I told her. “I’m pretty sure we’re not out.”

  So far the co-baking project was going along fine. We had two good-sized batches of the traditional Mexican cookies almost done. Catherine and I worked well together in the kitchen, with Rusty and Kinsey supervising as only dogs can. The big red Lab and the little cocker both sat with ears perked and deep brown eyes staring winsomely at our every move.

  The cookie swap is our neighborhood’s way of getting together socially for an afternoon and for everyone to take home a variety of holiday cookies without having to bake for days on end. Later this afternoon we’d all meet at the Country Club and have a couple of glasses of sinfully rich eggnog and indulge in far too many calories. I couldn’t wait.

  Drake eased into the kitchen and slipped one star-shaped cookie from the cooling rack.

  “Uh-uh,” I scolded. “You’re supposed to come to the party to get some.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” he complained. “You’re going to bring home a box full anyway. Why can’t I just have some now?”

  I shot him a look.

  “Besides, I probably won’t be able to go. That photographer who got lousy gray pictures the other day wants to try again this afternoon now that the sky’s cleared. Looks like I may have to be out with him most of the afternoon.” He tried his best to look underfed, so I gave him another cookie and was rewarded with his gorgeous smile and a kiss.

  “By the way,” he said, “did you notice some guy cruising the street in a dark blue car awhile ago? Thought he might be casing the place, so I took down his license number.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper.

  The phone rang, interrupting.

  “Charlie? It’s Judy. Judy Garfield. Next door.”

  I wondered if she’d continue to identify herself so completely every single time she called. I stuck Drake’s note to the refrigerator with a daisy-shaped magnet.

  “The cookie swap this afternoon? Is it okay to bring a guest?” Judy asked.

  “Sure. Catherine’s coming with me. Drake may not be able to make it.”

  I could hear her taking a deep breath on the other end. “Well, Wilbur’s mother dropped in, and we’d like to bring her if that’s all right.”

  “Really? You hadn’t said anything about having company for the holidays. That’s nice she could make it.” I brushed sugar off my hands. “I’m sure it’s no problem to bring her along. We’ll see you there—about four?”

  “See you then.” Her voice sounded tight, like she was talking with her teeth clenched.

  The Country Club’s dining room was dressed in all its holiday finery when we arrived. Twin spruce trees at each end of the room were laden with bows, pinecones, and bunches of sugared fruit. Red and gold satin ribbons draped the cookie tables, set up along three walls. Already, platters of cookies filled two of the long tables, beckoning with their loads of butter and sugar. I set my plates down and turned to see who was already here.

  Elsa stood across the room, a dainty basket hanging from her arm, her puff of white hair freshly styled. She seemed intent on a plate of some kind of cookie with bright red maraschino cherries in the centers.

  “Let’s go say hello,” I invited Catherine.

  “Oh, that’s your neighbor, isn’t it? The one who’s also your grandmother.”

  “Almost—that’s right.”

  Elsa remembered Catherine immediately. “And where’s that husband of yours?” s
he asked me.

  “Got a flight and couldn’t make it. He’ll consume his share of the cookies later, I’m sure.”

  A commotion at the entry grabbed our attention.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry,” a woman was saying. Her voice came through the room clearly, as though amplified. “Judy, here let me get that.”

  I looked beyond her to see Judy Garfield, looking mortified, standing just inside the vestibule.

  “Judy! Did you hear me? I said I’ll take that for you.”

  Unfortunately, everyone in the room heard her and all eyes were watching the little scene play out. Judy and Wilbur each carried a heavy-looking platter covered with plastic wrap and the woman was attempting to take a plate in each hand, something that clearly was not a good idea. Wilbur said something quietly into her ear and she finally settled for carrying only one of the platters.

  She tottered into the dining room on red four-inch heels. The shoes were complimented by a strapless red satin dress, formfitted to the waist then blossoming out in a tulip shaped skirt. Her short-short black hair was pulled back on the right side and held in place by a monster of a red poinsettia. The whole effect was a bit much for a neighborhood gathering at four o’clock on a Sunday afternoon.

  I was beginning to figure out why Judy’s voice had sounded so tense this morning.

  Wilbur placed a guiding hand on his mother’s elbow and ushered her toward the tables at the far right wall. Judy followed meekly, looking as if she wished the floor would swallow her up. As Wilbur and the red woman set their platters down, all eyes stayed on that end of the room and conversation had not quite picked up again.

  “Well,” said Elsa. “That’s certainly interesting.”

  Catherine and I both chuckled at her estimation of the situation.

  I caught Judy’s eye and gave a little wave. She smiled and practically trotted across the room toward us. She wore a gray pleated skirt and gray and pink sweater. Her straight brown hair was pulled back with a pink headband.

  “Your mother-in-law?” I asked hesitantly, nodding toward the other end of the room.

  “Oh yes.” Her eyelids dropped for a moment, as if she had a headache.

  “She’s certainly colorful,” Elsa offered.

  “Oh yes,” Judy said again. “That she is.”

  Wilbur had spotted us and was steering his mother in our direction. His scalp blushed extra pink through his thinning, sandy hair. As they approached, I noticed that the woman was really rather petite, no more than five-two, even in the high heels. Her hair was deep black and her brows were penned in to be the same color. Lipstick the same shade as the satin dress served to highlight the fact that there were deep creases beside her mouth, and the crow’s feet at her eyes were the kind caused by heavy smoking.

  Wilbur spoke up. “This is my mother, Paula Candelaria.”

  “Charlie! I’m just so glad to meet you,” she squawked as he introduced me. “Judy’s told me so much about you. A private eye—that must be so exciting!”

  Her voice came out at least a dozen decibels louder than anyone else’s. Heads turned again.

  “Well,” I murmured, purposely bringing my own voice lower, “I’m not really a private investigator. Just a partner in the firm.”

  “But you solve murders and everything,” she went on, not taking my hint to lower her voice.

  I shrugged, scrambling vainly for another subject. “That eggnog sure looks good,” I suggested.

  Paula’s head whipped toward the end of the long table. “Oh, my, yes. That does look good. I sure hope they made it strong enough.”

  She began a sprint toward the opposite end of the room and stumbled in her spiky heels. Mr. Delacourte, a Methodist minister who lived two streets over from us, reached out instinctively to catch her elbow. She turned and placed both hands against his chest.

  “Why thank you, kind sir. You saved me from embarrassing myself.”

  Mrs. Delacourte turned three shades whiter and I could swear I heard her sharp intake of breath.

  Mr. Delacourte removed Paula’s hands from his lapels and mumbled some kind of gracious reply.

  Paula turned with a swish of her red tulip skirt and headed again for the punchbowl. I caught myself holding my breath as I watched her maneuver the ladle shakily toward her cup.

  Beside me, Judy took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes shut. Wilbur headed to the end of the cookie table, where gold boxes with tissue linings waited for residents to fill with their choices of goodies to take home. Conversation in the room began to return to normal and Elsa had resumed her browsing.

  “I’m so sorry,” Judy murmured. “I had no idea she’d make such a scene. I suspect she got into Wilbur’s special cognac before we left the house.”

  “Hey, it’s not your fault,” I assured her. “Is she going to be staying through Christmas?” I tried to make the question sound polite.

  “Ugh, yes. I hope I make it.”

  “Judy, I don’t want to sound rude, but is she always like this?”

  Her eyes rolled. “Her behavior is very off-and-on. It’s just that it’s been ‘off’ much more frequently since she left husband number five a few months ago. I just had this feeling, this dreadful feeling, that she’d show up and want to spend the holidays with us.

  “See, she latches onto Wilbur in every crisis. In our twelve years of marriage, she’s been through two husbands and I can’t even guess how many boyfriends. It’d be sad if I could watch it from a distance, but every time she lands on our doorstep I just grit my teeth.”

  “You’re right—it is sad,” I sympathized.

  “And now, with the baby, I just don’t want her around. Can you imagine how you’d feel if she were your grandmother?”

  “A baby? Judy, you didn’t tell me!”

  She blushed. “Well, we’ve wanted this for so long and had a couple of miscarriages. I hadn’t planned to make it public until I get a little farther along.”

  “It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone—except Drake. Would that be okay?” I reached for a cut-out Santa on a platter near me. “Does Paula know?”

  “No! Sorry. I really don’t want her to find out yet. I just hope Wilbur can keep it quiet awhile longer.”

  A crash and the tinkle of breaking glass grabbed our attention. Paula stood at the punchbowl, ladle in hand.

  “Hey! Watch it, lady.” The abrasive male voice came from Chuck Ciacarelli, one of the richest men in town with a reputation for being nasty tempered. We called him Chuckie Cheese behind his back.

  Paula was staring at the floor with a puzzled expression. Two women nearby knelt to pick up broken glass, while another reached for a handful of napkins.

  “Careful, you’re bleeding,” the napkin woman said.

  “Oh, my gosh,” I said to Judy, “it looks like Paula’s cut her hand.”

  “At this rate we’ll be lucky if she doesn’t kill herself,” Wilbur said, handing Judy his partially-filled cookie box and heading toward his mother.

  “Or lucky if she does,” muttered Judy.

  4

  I gazed out at the early morning, trying to determine whether it was cloudy or merely too early for the sky to show any color yet. Christmas Eve. It was going to be a busy day and I really wanted nothing more than to snuggle in with Drake and wake up three days later to find the holiday hoopla all behind me.

  We’d spent all day Monday setting the luminarias along the sidewalks and driveways. Paula had been much subdued after her antics at the cookie swap Sunday afternoon. Drake and I pitched in and set Elsa’s sacks out for her and then helped Judy and Wilbur do the last of theirs. A plan had evolved that the three households would get together for dinner tonight, then we’d go out and look at the lights.

  One downside of living in the most popular section of town for Christmas light displays is that the police barricade our streets off and the traffic is so solidly packed that there’s no hope of getting out of our own driveway anytime after late afternoon. We’ve learned o
ver the years to settle in and plan on Christmas Eve at home. I decided to make another batch of my green chile stew, since Drake had hardly gotten a taste of the last one. It could easily feed the whole group. Elsa would contribute cornbread and Judy planned to bring a salad. Paula said something about making eggnog, but Judy quietly nixed that. Paula without alcohol would definitely be easier to handle.

  I nestled into Drake’s shoulder for a few more minutes but finally decided I was too wide-awake to actually get any more rest. I kissed his bare chest and rolled off the bed. Ten minutes later, quick-showered, dressed, and with a hasty swipe of the hairbrush, I padded to the kitchen in my socks. Rusty trotted along and Kinsey, hearing him in the hallway, nosed the guestroom door open and followed us.

  I let the two dogs out into the back yard while I started coffee. By the time it finished trickling into the carafe, Catherine had emerged from her room, hair freshly brushed, wearing a cozy burgundy velour robe. We good-morninged each other while I pulled two mugs from the cupboard.

  “I hope I don’t live to regret my offer to Paula,” she said, taking her mug and adding a slight drizzle of cream.

  Catherine, with the patience of a saint, had offered to take Paula shopping for a few last-minute things. They planned to leave shortly after breakfast this morning and come back mid-afternoon.

  “I’ll watch Kinsey while I make the stew,” I offered. “Or maybe it’s the other way around.”

  “I think you’ve got that right. Once she smells something cooking, she’ll be right in your face.”

  “It’s okay. I’m used to it. She’s such a little sweetheart. Easy to have around.” I opened the kitchen door and the dogs raced in. They both headed for the food dishes I’d set out.

  Catherine and I toasted a couple of English muffins and finished our coffee.

  “Guess I better get dressed. The sooner we hit the stores, the sooner we’ll get back,” she said.

  Drake shuffled into the kitchen wearing pajama bottoms I’d never seen before and his favorite old robe. Catherine gave her son a quick kiss and headed toward her room. I gave him a much longer kiss and settled him at the table with a mug of coffee.