Balloons Can Be Murder: The Ninth Charlie Parker Mystery Page 7

  She gave a quick backward glance toward her kitchen before coming down the porch steps. Rusty tagged at my heels as we cut through the break in the hedge. I unlocked my back door to be greeted by that silent, slightly dusty feeling of an empty house.

  “Drake hasn’t been home for a few days, I noticed. Out on a job?” Elsa said. “You sure got yourself a good man there, Charlie.”

  Again, a quick flash of impatience that everyone else seemed to have an opinion about our lives. I buried it before she could see my face.

  “I know,” I sighed. Thinking about the way this week had turned out, I wished again that I’d been free to go with him. Neither of us liked being apart.

  I flipped through the pile of mail I’d brought in. A quick sort into his and hers piles, left me with just a few bills that could wait until next weekend and a newsletter from a tax consultant. Heady stuff.

  Elsa followed me through the house as I double checked windows and doors, retrieved my Beretta nine millimeter pistol from the wall safe in our office. I gave her a quick recap of the reason I wouldn’t be home tonight. “Is it okay if Rusty stays with you?”

  “You know it is,” she said. She gave me a pensive look. “People always come to you with their problems, don’t they?”

  I pondered that as I locked up the house and said goodbye to her and Rusty. A powerful urge hit me, an urge to take them both back inside, lock the doors and not answer the phone. Being home for awhile would feel really good right now.

  But I didn’t do it. I climbed back into the car and pulled out of my quiet neighborhood and into the crush of traffic on I-40 west across the river. I remembered the way without notes this time, and spotted Ron’s Mustang in her driveway.

  Her front walkway led to an ancient looking gate, the portal to a Spanish-style courtyard surrounded by a six foot wall. The gate, more of a door really, stood open a couple of inches so I walked in without ringing the buzzer mounted in the adobe wall. Inside the courtyard, a small fountain poured a stream of crystal water through a series of hammered copper bowls into a tiny pond surrounded by desert plants. A grouping of four chairs stood to one side. When she saw me, Misty the cat jumped down from one of them and came to rub against my ankles. I bent to scratch her ears and she sniffed suspiciously at the dog smells on my fingers.

  I headed for the ornately carved double front door but stopped short. A rectangle of white lay on the flagstone patio five feet away.

  Chapter 10

  My pulse did a little skip as I approached it. With the very tips of my nails, I picked it up by one corner. No doubt what this was. Same m.o.

  The green chile stew smelled wonderful the minute Ron opened the front door. He took one look at the envelope, which I held dangling as if it were a dead rat, and steered me into a formal dining room. I could hear Rachael clattering pans in an adjacent kitchen.

  “What does he say this time?” Ron muttered, grabbing the envelope.

  “Shouldn’t we—”

  “Worry about fingerprints? Like the police are worrying about them?” He dug in his jeans pocket for the little penknife he always carries and slit the envelope in one quick move.

  He had a point about that. Spreading the tri-folded page on the dining table he let me see it. BITCH, GIVE UP NOW said the magazine letters.

  I almost wanted to. The authoritative tone, the note of inevitability.

  “How’s Rachael coping with this?” I was surprised to hear a catch in my voice.

  He shot a hard stare toward me. “How are you coping with it?”

  Instant tears stabbed at my eyelids and I shook them back. This was getting ridiculous. I swallowed hard and met Ron’s gaze.

  “I’m doing fine.” My voice came out steady.

  “Good. Don’t show Rachael any of that other . . . whatever it was that nearly came out just now,” he said. “She’s got a lot on her mind and we’re here to protect her.”

  I sighed and kept my voice low. “I thought we were here to get evidence against her father, track him down, and turn him over to the police.”

  “I’m still working on the possibility that William Fairfield is behind these notes, but I’m not completely convinced,” he said. “I’m pretty sure he’s back in Albuquerque now, but haven’t actually set eyes on him. I’ll be watching his place tonight. Once I find him, I’ll be on him like white on rice. He’s not getting close to Rachael or her house again.”

  “And what if it’s not him?” I pointed out, quite logically, I thought. “We’ll be after Fairfield and somebody else gets right in.”

  He shuffled a little uncomfortably. “We’re not the FBI, Charlie. I’ve been over this with Rachael but I’m not sure she gets it. All we can do is what we were hired to do. She thinks it’s her dad, we’re hired to keep him away from her.”

  “But we have other—”

  “Suspects. Aside from Bukovsky or Tamsin, not many.”

  I told him about my unproductive trip to Tamsin’s house.

  “And I tried to catch Bukovsky this afternoon but didn’t find him home either. Here’s a photo.”

  He handed me a vacation snapshot of Chuck and Rachael, smiling, somewhere in a bar or restaurant. Chuck had thinning dark hair, brushed straight back from a glowing forehead. It bushed out in thick waves from behind his ears. Within his self-important smile, his teeth appeared to be capped, too thick and even to be natural.

  “Any more?” I asked.

  “There’ve been a few other clients over the years, but none that I really like for it. Rachael can tell you more over dinner.”

  “You said you’d also asked her brother.”

  “Yeah. Grayson volunteered the information that he’d recently had a bank client threaten him. Wilbur Johnson, a guy they’d foreclosed. Gotta understand he’d be upset over losing his home, but would he go this far over it? I don’t know. Grayson took the threat seriously though. Stayed home two days after the guy called, and he’s been really watching his back ever since.”

  “Is the guy unstable enough to stalk his banker’s sister, though? That’s a stretch.”

  “I thought so too, but it doesn’t hurt to know about it.” He gave me a written description of Wilbur Johnson, too--an older man, farmer, who seemed best identified by his battered Stetson and the gun rack in the back of his Ford pickup.

  I took the small stack of papers and photos and followed him as he gave me a tour of the house. The front wouldn’t be difficult to defend. It was a traditional adobe with high walls around the entry courtyard, a deadbolt lock on the gate at the entrance. Since the house was on a cul de sac, any cars on the street would be easily recognized if they weren’t neighbors. Past the cool, dim entryway, the space opened dramatically with two steps down into a sunken living room. To the right of the living room was a large, open kitchen with Spanish tiled backsplashes and countertops. The dining room we’d first stepped into adjoined the kitchen. Three bedrooms and a home office branched off a hallway to the left of the front entry.

  The biggest security problem was the wall of windows the entire length of the living room, dining room and kitchen. The view showed a small backyard with covered patio of pine vigas, large pots of bright flowers, and a raised fire pit. Beyond the retainer wall, the earth dropped away to the Rio Grande river. What remained was an unobstructed view of the Sandia Mountains, in full lavender and coral glory now as the final minutes of sun shone on them, playing up their vast ruggedness.

  “Charlie?” Ron snagged my attention away from the view that ranked among the best I’ve seen from anywhere in the city. “Earth to Charlie.”

  I shook my head and turned my attention back to him.

  “We need to talk about these windows,” he said. “Notice, no drapes.”

  “Yeah I’d picked up on that.”

  “As soon as it gets dark those will have to be covered. Have Rachael get some sheets, blankets, anything. It’s not safe for her to be walking around in here, backlit, with a stalker out there.”

/>   “I agree. We’ll figure out something.”

  “Hi, Charlie. Thanks for waiting,” Rachael said, joining us in front of the glorious view outside. She looked remarkably fresh for someone who’d been up since before dawn several days in a row. The highlights in her blond page framed her face perfectly. “I put cornbread in the oven, so we’ll be eating in fifteen minutes or so. How about out on the patio?”

  I glanced at Ron.

  “Should be okay,” he said. “It’s still light out. Table’s up close to the house and we’ve got a good view of the property.”

  “I just can’t get used to this,” Rachael said. Her voice shook. “I hate having to be careful all the time.”

  “Soon,” Ron said. “He’s gotta show his hand sometime.”

  Ron stayed for dinner, three bowls of the fragrant stew for him, before leaving me alone with Rachael for the night. We came up with enough spare sheets to cover the wall of windows and, while it severely cut back on the ambiance of the home, the makeshift curtain made me immediately feel more secure.

  “Charlie, thanks,” Rachael said, almost shyly. “I know this really interrupted your life.”

  I didn’t want to get into it so I made a half-gesture of it’s-okay.

  “No, really. You had plans and this . . . this . . .” Her voice cracked as she picked up the newest note. She breathed deeply and waved a hand in front of her welling eyes. “Just tired, don’t mind me.”

  “How about if I make us some coffee?” I headed toward the kitchen.

  She gave a wan smile. “That would be great. Second canister there on the counter. And the filters are in the drawer right below the coffee maker.”

  I found everything and even managed to push the correct button without incident.

  She sank into one of the lush leather couches in the living room. “God, that feels good,” she sighed. She shimmied deep into the cushion. “I haven’t done this in about a month.”

  Taking the other large couch, I did the same.

  A few minutes later, over coffee, I decided it was about time to get more information out of Rachael.

  “The other day at lunch you were going to tell me about Chuck,” I said. “Sorry, but Ron and I are looking at any and all suspects at this point.”

  She raked her hair with one hand, streaming the strands through her fingers.

  “Chuck.” She set her coffee down and pulled an angora afghan over her legs. “The more I think about it, I suppose it could be him. Calling me ‘bitch’ in this note. That was very Chuck. Telling me I’d never accomplish anything.”

  The rest of the note, “Give Up Now,” nagged at me, too. Give up what? The record attempt? One of her legal cases?

  Rachael continued, “Well, I don’t know if you’ve ever gotten involved with a man like that, but it ain’t pleasant. Chuck can be a charmer. He started our relationship on a very romantic note. Flowers after the first date, mushy little notes, extravagant gifts. Kind of bowls a woman over, if you know what I mean. The euphoric period lasted about six months. By then we’d moved in together and once he felt I belonged to him, things changed. It started gradually, with a temper fit directed at someone else. I was absolutely stunned the first time I saw it, but I convinced myself this wasn’t the real Chuck. When I didn’t walk out, the rages escalated.

  “We’d been together over two years before he actually directed one of them at me. I don’t know why I believed he’d change, but I did. I stayed with it another year before I realized how much he’d chipped away at my self esteem. He’d tell me I was stupid, didn’t dress well enough, couldn’t remember basic things like unplugging the toaster. Basically, if his hundreds of petty rules weren’t followed to the letter, I paid.

  “He’d usually start the rampages late at night, often waking me up to start in on me. Screaming, berating, breaking things—the only place he drew the line was that he didn’t hit me. I don’t know why. The anger was certainly there.”

  “He’s graduated to that now,” I said. I told her about the background check Ron had run.

  She blanched. “Then he might really—” She ran both hands down the sides of her face. “The only reason I didn’t suspect him was the fact that he never actually acted out his violence. It was all words.”

  “Not any more. The woman he lives with now has called the police twice. Who knows how many times she didn’t call them.”

  “Oh, god,” she whispered.

  She flung the afghan aside and stood up. “I need more coffee. You?” Without waiting for an answer, she picked up my mug and strode to the kitchen. “Now I don’t know what to think,” she said. “I’d always banked on the idea that he wouldn’t really do anything. I thought once I moved out of his house and bought my own, he’d finally be out of my life. Since I’ve been dating Sam, everything’s been so wonderful for me.”

  “Have you ever seen Chuck hanging around? Has he called or approached you?” I stood up to take my newly filled mug from her.

  “No, nothing recent. He called for weeks after I first moved out. But then he met someone else and the calls ended. I guess that’s why I felt safe.” She clasped her mug with both hands, warming them.

  I yawned largely. “Sorry, I really don’t mean to . . .”

  She waved off the apology. “No need. It’s getting late and tomorrow’s another early morning, I’m afraid. We ought to get to bed. I guess I puttered around in the kitchen longer than I realized.”

  I chose the guest room that faced the street and deposited my duffle there. In the adjoining bathroom, I managed to brush my teeth and wash my face before another giant yawn took over. I made myself perform one last check of all the doors and windows before returning to peel off my clothes and fall onto the soft bed. I was conscious of nothing else until the alarm clock rang in the dark.

  I wanted to reach out and hit the snooze button but I heard Rachael moving about in her bathroom and knew the day was going to start, whether I wanted it to or not. I sat up slowly and rubbed at my eyes. Our plan was that Ron and I would trade off today. I’d stayed with Rachael for the night, he’d take over this morning. I just had to get her over to Justin’s, where she would join the crew for the trip to the balloon field. Ron would meet up with them there. The plan was for him to ride along on her flight. I could go home if I wanted, but knew that once my brain kicked into gear and I got a cup or two of coffee into me, I’d not go back to sleep. Given that, there wasn’t much point in going home to sit around and look at the walls, so I decided I’d tag along with the crew again.

  At the thought of coffee, I caught a whiff from the kitchen. Rachael, bless her heart, had set up the machine’s timer to produce the magic brew at 3:30, and it seemed to be right on time. I slipped into my jeans, a T-shirt, and a sweatshirt over that, and padded barefoot to the kitchen.

  My hostess had beaten me to the punch and stood at the counter, pouring coffee into two travel mugs. She lifted one to me, which I accepted gratefully. The liquid was still too hot to sip, so I carried the mug back to my room as I fumbled with shoes and socks and brushed the morning taste out of my mouth.

  “Ready?” Rachael asked from the doorway.

  “As much as I’ll ever be,” I said. “Do you ever get used to this?”

  “Uh, somewhat, I guess . . . well, not really.” She laughed. “The average weekend isn’t so bad, but the nine straight days of Fiesta week get to be a bit much.”

  I rummaged through my bag for car keys and we set out into the frosty darkness. At Justin’s house, things were beginning to swing into motion. The guys had pumped up with cans of caffeineated sodas. They piled into Rachael’s pickup truck and I followed them to the field.

  By the time the pilot briefing was over, the sky had lightened sufficiently for the first wave of balloons to begin inflating. We would be in the second wave, so we stood around and Ron joined us at Rachael’s launch space, T-12.

  “This is one of our vulnerable times,” he said, nudging my side and eyeing my coffee.
“Keep your eyes open.”

  That’s asking a lot at five in the morning but I did it. We’d decided that Rachael should stay in the truck or be surrounded by several crew members until the moment she absolutely had to take over her duties as pilot. Ron and I scanned the crowd, watching for the faces we’d memorized, fearful that the real danger would come from one we hadn’t considered.

  An hour later, I finally relaxed. Lady Liberty’s inflation had gone perfectly, the balloon becoming airborne with Rachael, Ron and one of Grayson’s reporter buddies aboard. I’d settled into my familiar position in the back of the chase truck, with Sam at the wheel again. The flight plan was similar to yesterday’s and we managed it without any health incidents this time. I met up with Ron afterward.

  “Plan?” I asked.

  “I’m going to keep an eye on Bill Fairfield the rest of the day. Rachael’s going to hang close to her crew and Sam promises to keep her away from the crowds. Grab a nap if you need to, and plan to spend the night at her house again.” His orders might have rankled but the promise of nap time sounded so good that I didn’t say anything.

  By five-thirty that evening, I was back at Rachael’s, making myself at home with a clean set of clothes in her guestroom. She’d ordered Chinese to be delivered, and I eagerly sprang for the front door when the bell rang.

  Over Kung Pao chicken and egg rolls, our conversation drifted back to the place we’d left off last night, Chuck Bukovsky. I was pleased to see that Rachael was loosening up with me each day, trusting me with more confidences.

  “Chuck’s abuse must have been pretty hard to take,” I said. I had brewed a pot of green tea and we’d settled once again on the comfy sofas in the living room. “Especially after what had happened with your father. You were pretty young, then.”

  She withdrew into her cushions. “Twelve. The first time was kind of an otherworldly experience. I remember coming out of a deep sleep, being really fuzzy. I smelled my dad’s cologne and felt really happy that he’d come home from his business trip. He snuggled up to me in my bed and I fell back to sleep with his arms wrapped around me. The next morning he wasn’t there and I asked my mom about it. She said he wasn’t back from his trip yet and I must have dreamed him being there.”