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

  I stood aside as he pulled the two heavy doors shut and padlocked them. The yellow police tape was gone now. Apparently, Akito felt they had thoroughly investigated the scene.

  The afternoon sun had sunk below the mountains, and the parking lot was bathed in pinkish light. Since Joe and I were both heading for the gate, we ended up walking together. The female guard was in her little wooden structure when we passed. She rose from her seat, and I thought she was going to question me, but Joe reached for the gate's doorknob, and opened it. I walked through, without a word to the guard.

  Catherine Page was standing in the parking lot. She wore white linen slacks and a white cotton sweater that made her look cool and clean. Too clean to be standing in the red dirt lot. Her hair was freshly done, her tapered nails now polished pale apricot.

  "I was hoping to catch Mack Garvey," she told me.

  "He's not here. Joe just locked up the hangar."

  She carefully kept her eyes on me, avoiding any direct glance at Joe, just as he was avoiding looking at her. Here among the shabby buildings and rusted cars, she was like a sweet angel in white. I couldn't imagine any male not wanting to gaze upon her, at least for a minute.

  I got the distinct feeling an undercurrent had just rippled through the lot.

  Joe got into the beefed up red pickup truck next to my rental, and started it with a rumble. Catherine and I stepped to one side as he backed the clumsy contraption out of its space. As he pulled away, I saw him watching us in his rearview mirror.

  I turned to Catherine and noticed she was staring through the fence at the hangar.

  "Is that where it happened?" Her voice went high and thin.

  I nodded. I couldn't think of anything appropriate to say.

  "You know," she said sweetly, "I don't think I ever hated anyone in my life the way I hated Gil."

  It took a moment for the words to reach me, coming as they did past her angel exterior. I caught myself staring at her.

  I didn't really need to ask why she felt that way.

  Already, she had lost a little of the beaten-puppy look I'd noticed earlier. I tried to picture her wielding twenty pounds of greasy hydraulic servo, but it didn't quite gel.

  On the other hand, she'd certainly managed to get here almost immediately after the body had been discovered. It was entirely possible that she and Joe were in this together. I better check out the Friday night phone call, and the airline schedules.

  She had turned to stare back at the hangar.

  "The worst part was having to watch him abuse Jason," she said.

  "Physical abuse?" I wondered how a mother could sit back and watch.

  I'm not sure whether she heard me. She seemed wrapped in a private world. Her eyes were narrowed, her thoughts turned inward.

  Her voice, when it came, was merely a whisper. "I'm so glad he's gone," she said.

  If she killed him, I decided, she did it for her own survival.

  I murmured an apology about needing to be somewhere, and got into my car. As I pulled onto the highway, the light was fading fast, and so were my eyelids. I let the valet park my car, and dragged my feet through the lobby toward the elevators.

  "Miss Parker!"

  I turned to see the concierge. He was a sandy little man, thirty-something, about five-six, his thinning hair cut close all around. His name badge told me he was Morton Willis. His braid-trimmed uniform was crisp and unwrinkled. It made me aware that my own linen suit had wilted hours earlier.

  His manner was as ingratiating in person as it had been over the phone.

  "I was able to get you on the six o'clock flight to San Francisco in the morning. I hope it was all right to book the seat, but they said it was the only one available for two days."

  I'd forgotten all about our conversation. Was it only a few hours ago?

  Fatigue was making my muscles Jello-like, but I had no choice. I couldn't wait another two days to talk to Jason Page. I took the ticket folder he handed me. I handed him a twenty dollar tip.

  "Oh, one other question." I might as well get my money's worth out of the guy.

  "Yes, Miss Parker?"

  "I need to know if Susan Turner requested a pay per view movie Friday night."

  He wanted to tell me something about the hotel's assuring its guests privacy, but the twenty dollar bill still rested crisply in his hand.

  "It's official," I said. "If I don't find out, I'm sure the police will ask."

  Without another word, he turned toward the registration desk. I followed, feeling like a kid at Baskin Robbins begging for a small taste. He stepped behind the desk, and signed on to one of the computer terminals. His fingers skipped over the keys, pausing now and then for the next screen to come up.

  "Yes," he said, finally. "Ten p.m. Friday, The Curse of Dracula."

  Hmm, Susan didn't seem like the Dracula type. I thanked him, as he quickly signed off the terminal.

  "Shall I arrange a wake-up call for five in the morning?"

  "Sure. Five." Ugh. These early mornings were becoming a habit.

  I sank against the back of the elevator for the ride up.

  A couple got on at the fourth floor, bound for the restaurant on twelve, I imagined. She was wearing a strapless print dress of bright orange hibiscus and green leaves which hit her about three inches below the buns, and would probably require a paint scraper to remove. Her date was giving it a good try though, right there in the elevator. I wondered if they would make it through dinner before making a hasty retreat to their room. I got off on seven, giving them five whole floors for a quickie.

  My message light was blinking again. Drake. He wanted to know if I'd eaten dinner yet. I couldn't remember.

  "Let me take you out," he begged.

  "Honestly, Drake, I'm beat. I'm heading for the tub right now."

  "Let me join you."

  Even in my weakened condition, the idea was powerfully attractive. Something held me back, though. Our first time, if there were to be a first time, should be special.

  I filled him in on my plan to fly to San Francisco.

  "Tell you what, why don't you pick me up when I get back?"

  I pulled the ticket out, and looked at it. My return flight left San Francisco late afternoon. If the airline was on schedule, I should arrive back on Kauai about ten p.m. the next night. He said he would be there.

  I peeled clothes off as I made my way to the bathroom. I poured half the little freebie bottle of bubble bath under the rushing tap, then went back into the bedroom to get organized. I hate being disorganized, and I hate things messy. At home, I can almost tell if someone has walked through my living room because some little thing will be out of place.

  I picked up the dirty clothes I had just taken off, and stuffed them into a laundry bag. I'd leave them to be done tomorrow while I was gone. I pulled out a small collapsible carry-on bag I take along whenever I travel somewhere that I'm likely to overdo the shopping. I had no plans of staying over in San Francisco, but it never hurt to be ready.

  I would wear my generic black slacks and my new cotton batik print blouse. In case of an emergency stay-over, I stuck a change of underwear and a clean shirt into the small bag. In the morning, I'd add my make-up bag and a hairbrush.

  My inflatable neck pillow and cassette stereo would help tune out all extraneous noises. I'd try to sleep on the plane, so I could be awake by the time I got back to Drake.

  Fluffs of bubbles rose a foot above the edge of the tub like meringue on a lemon pie. Perhaps half the bottle had been a bit much. I turned the cold water completely off, leaving the hot at a trickle. There’s nothing worse than a bath that begins to cool down before I’m satiated.

  My tired muscles loved it as I settled them down into the steaming water. I leaned my neck back against the end of the tub, and let the water lull me. Soon, I felt my eyes drooping, and knew I better get out before I ended up spending the night under water.

  The clock at my bedside told me it was eight o'clock, but I gu
ess my body was still on mainland time. I set the alarm, just in case the wake-up call didn't come through.

  I must have died the very minute my head hit the pillow, because the next thing I was aware of was the ringing telephone. I wanted to punch the cheery good-morning person in the face, which is probably why they don't deliver wake-up calls in person.

  It was still dark out, and my brain wasn't in gear yet. I am not a quick riser. My already-packed bag waited near the door. I brushed my teeth and splashed some water on my face, consciously trying not to come fully awake just yet. I tossed the last two items into my bag and called the front desk to get me a cab.

  By the time I stumbled downstairs, the car was waiting to deliver me to the airport, where I managed to find my flight. It was direct, so I snagged a pillow and blanket before they were all gone, and tucked myself in.

  Nestled against the window, my Walkman pouring Barry Manilow into my ears, I slept through the announcements, breakfast, and whatever other courtesies they might have tried to foist upon me.

  I awoke four hours later feeling like a new person. I could have used the bathroom, but it seemed like too much bother to squeeze past the teenage boy who must have been about six foot seven, judging by the length of his legs, just to get into a lavatory smaller than a phone booth. I did a little stretch in place, and accepted the flight attendant's offer of a hot wash cloth and a cup of coffee.

  I could now face the world.

  In the ladies room at San Francisco International, I pulled out my little zippered makeup bag, for a quick fixup. Even under the best of conditions, I don't take a lot of time at this ritual. Foundation, blush, and lipstick is about all I mess with.

  A woman approached the mirror beside me, and settled her carry-on bag on the counter with a thump. Out came two zippered cosmetic cases. I tried to look busy, but I have to confess, I was probably staring. She gazed intently at her own face, inspecting each square centimeter, and paid no attention whatever to me. I thought she looked fine already, and I was curious to see just what improvements she would deem necessary.

  She first went to work on her eyes, applying concealer from a greasy looking stick, to the skin below them. Next came eye shadow, three colors in all, which she placed with extreme precision to different sections of the lids. Once the colors were in place, she took a Q-Tip and smudged them together, making the original colors blend into one. I didn't understand why she hadn't just bought that color in the first place, but I guess some things are beyond my realm.

  Liner pencil came next, two colors applied, blended into one. She finished with two coats of mascara to each set of lashes, then rechecked the job, dabbing with a clean Q-Tip whenever she found minuscule errors. By this time I was openly staring.

  Now, she pulled out a bottle of liquid foundation, and proceeded to dot the contents all over her face. With a small wedge of sponge, she spread the dots together, leaning close to the mirror to be sure she hadn't missed a spot. I was fascinated by the variety of jars, tubes and implements that appeared from the two cases. My bathroom at home isn't this well stocked.

  I could see the routine would go on for some time yet, and I was running out of things to do to myself. I ran a quick brush through my hair, and figured I was as ready as I'd ever be. I left the other woman at the mirror, sweeping blusher onto her cheekbones with a long-handled brush. A litter of cotton swabs and tissues had begun to collect on the counter.

  Catherine Page had given me phone numbers for their home and Jason's friend, but no addresses. I hadn't wanted to tell her I was planning to visit her son in person, lest she feel the need to brief him first. I stopped at a pay phone, and looked in the book for the Page's address.

  Gilbert Page Enterprises was listed, with a downtown address, but no personal listing. I realized that Mill Valley probably had its own directory. There were lots of Cramers in the book, and I finally found one whose number matched the one Catherine had given me for Jason's friend. I copied the address into my little spiral.

  At the car rental desk a helpful young junior executive type, with a crisp white shirt and company logo tie, at the rental car desk gave me a couple of maps, on which he drew arrows in pen showing me where I needed to go.

  "Ever heard of a health club called Workout Heaven?" I asked him. "It must be new, it's not in the book."

  He chewed his lip a minute. "I drive by something like that coming to work," he said. "I can't think exactly where, but I know I've seen their sign."

  He pulled the map back, and turned it to face himself. "Somewhere here along Bayshore Boulevard, I think." He ran the pen back and forth along a two or three block stretch.

  I told him I'd find it, then flashed him what I hoped was a very grateful smile.

  Out in the lot, I located my rental car, and sat inside letting it warm up while I studied the map. I pulled my lightweight jacket out of my carry-on bag. I'd forgotten how chilly San Francisco always feels.

  Bayshore Boulevard was on my way into the city, with Mill Valley beyond that, so I figured I'd hit Susan's place first.

  Mark Cramer's street was in the city, south of Market Street. That would be my second stop.

  I started watching too late, and realized I'd passed the stretch of Bayshore my friend had indicated on the map. Buildings were thinning out, so I decided I better turn around. I found a place to do it and doubled back. Sure enough, heading this direction, the sign was easy to spot on my right.

  I pulled off, getting out of the traffic, before I realized that the sign said "Future Home of Workout Heaven."

  I was facing a big flat dirt lot, empty except for a bulldozer, and three pickup trucks with Hayes Construction Co. signs on their sides. I looked around, making sure I was in the right place. Looked like Workout Heaven was still quite a way into the future.

  The air was nippy as I got out of the car, and I zipped my jacket up all the way. The salty breeze off the bay whipped my hair across my face like a Middle Eastern veil.

  It looked to me like the bulldozer was about done with its work. The ground was all nicely leveled. Four men were in various stages of measuring and driving stakes into the ground.

  One guy in a red hardhat seemed to be in charge. I headed toward him.

  The foreman had pale hair which curled up around the edges of his hardhat, and his face was so wind burned it looked like it had been scoured with cleanser, giving him an inexpensive dermabrasion treatment. He was shorter than I, about five-four, I'd guess, with a barrel chest and a belly that hung generously over his belt buckle. His jeans seemed in imminent danger of slipping off his almost nonexistent butt.

  "Hi," I said. "Is this Susan Turner's place?" I tried to muster a smile, but my hair whipped across my face and stuck to the fronts of my teeth.

  He was fighting his own private battle with a set of plans that were refusing to stay unrolled in the brisk wind. He looked flustered and irritated.

  "Yeah," he growled, giving up and letting the plans have their own way. "Where is she, anyway? I got all the dirt work done here; the guy waiting to be paid." He waved toward the bulldozer operator.

  "My own crew's been on the job all week, payday's Friday, and do I have her deposit check yet?" He opened the door of his pickup truck, and jammed the unruly plans inside, slamming the door to keep the disobedient critters inside.

  "I knew better than to trust that lady. She don't know nothin about how business works."

  I thought it rather unprofessional of him to be telling me all this. For all he knew, I might be someone snooping into Susan's private business. Since, of course, I was, I didn't mention this little blunder on his part.

  "I think she's been out of town," I ventured.

  "Shit! That's it! Not one more lick of work here until I get money from that broad."

  He put two fingers between his teeth, and let out a whistle that almost deafened me.

  "Quittin' time," he shouted toward the other men.

  Without a word among them, they dropped the wooden
stakes right where they were, and headed for their trucks. He hopped into his truck, too, and waved me a little salute.

  Within ninety seconds, I was completely alone, standing in the flat dirt lot.

  I was happy enough to be out of the wind, as I got back into the rental car, but frustrated with the conversation's abrupt end. I stared at the empty dirt lot for a good four or five minutes, wishing I'd had a chance to ask the contractor a few more questions.

  How did this jibe with Susan's version of her busy health club?

  Had she actually described it as bustling with customers working out with weights, jumping around in unison aerobically? Or, had she merely conveyed that impression? I know she'd invited me to come by and work out anytime I was in town. I tried to picture myself in the classes.

  The dance aerobics might be fun. Perhaps I'd try it one day. As a kid, I'd always wanted to be a Rockette at Radio City Music Hall. Face it, I have all the grace and precision of a goony bird. The years of defending myself against my brothers gave me more muscle than elegance. My little fantasy, therefore, is still a secret.

  The blowing dust and sea spray had coated my windshield with a thin opaque film, and I had to locate the washers before I trusted myself out on the road again.

  Locating Mark Cramer's address proved more difficult than I had anticipated. The street was shown on my map as being only a block or two south of Market, but it turned out to be one of those that dead-ends then starts again somewhere else, continuing in little segments for twenty or thirty blocks.

  I managed to find the correct little segment on my third try.

  To say that the neighborhood was run-down would have been complimentary. The four houses facing the half-block long street were probably of Victorian ancestry, but certainly not from the same set of genes as their Nob Hill neighbors.

  One or two old trees, tall and beaten by time, were about all that remained of any landscaping that once might have been. Weeds outnumbered shrubs by at least a thousand to one, and the former lawns had long since become hard packed dirt, beaten down by children's feet, motorcycles, and parked cars.

  Judging by the number of cars parked along the short street, most if not all the homes had been converted to apartments. I wondered about a kid from Jason's background finding a best friend here. I wondered what Catherine Page thought of it, if she knew.