Deadly Gamble: The First Charlie Parker Mystery (14 page)

"Okay, you go."

I felt like a spotlight had just been turned
toward me. Surely everyone in the room was about to witness me
making a fool of myself. I braced my feet the way Josh had done.
Suddenly, red bursting lights were screaming toward my man. I
grabbed the controls. I fired. I dodged. I got shot down within a
minute.

"That's okay. You're just racking up points
right now. You'll get two more turns."

Goody.

Josh was back at it—firing, dodging, ducking.
His body emulated the moves his video icon made. Maybe that was the
secret—really putting your whole self into it. When I finally got a
turn again, five minutes later, I tried the same thing. This time
my turn lasted a good two minutes. We each had another turn before
the game quit. Josh's score was more than triple mine but he was
gracious about it.

"C'mon," I said, "loser buys the Cokes."

The tables had cleared out now. Stomachs
filled, the other kids had turned to the games.

"I hold a record for that game," Josh told me
proudly as we carried our Cokes to a table. "Really. It lists the
high scores, and my initials are right there at the top. You can
check if you want to."

"That's great," I told him. "I believe
you."

Peeling the paper off my straw, I tried to
figure out the best way to broach the real questions.

"I guess you didn't really come here to play
video games with me," Josh said.

"Did you hear that they arrested a woman for
your father's murder today?"

His straw stopped in mid-air. The color
drained from his lips. "No!" He seemed frozen, like an actor in a
stop-action scene. Our eyes caught for a minute, until he moved
again. "Who was it?" he asked.

"Her name is Stacy North. You might have
heard of her husband, Brad North."

"Uh, I don't think so." He jabbed the straw
down through the little X in the lid on his cup. He took a long
drag on the straw before he looked back up and smiled at me.

"Then it's over, huh? They caught her."

"I don't think she did it, Josh. I know this
woman—she was a friend a long time ago. She did know your father,
but very briefly. People don't usually kill someone they hardly
know."

"Well, then why'd they arrest her? The police
aren't stupid. They know more about it than you do, I bet."

"I'm sure they do, Josh. But they don't know
Stacy personally." We were both getting a little hot under the
collar, so I steered the conversation another way. Obviously, Josh
wanted very badly to believe that the killer had been caught. I let
it go.

"Look," I said, "I didn't mean to get you all
upset. How's your mom doing?"

He blew out a deep breath, then took a sip of
his drink before answering. "
She
is doing great. She's
acting . . . I don't know."

He fixed his mouth around his straw again. I
waited.

"She's acting all weird, Charlie." He drummed
all ten fingers on the table rapidly. "It's kind of like. . . kind
of. . like she's
happy
." His voice broke slightly on the
last word. He got busy with his drink again, keeping his head
tilted downward so I couldn't see his eyes.

I glanced around the room, giving him a
minute to compose himself. Noise from the video games clanged from
every surface. No way anyone else could hear us. The gurgling sound
of an empty straw came from across the table.

"Look, I gotta go," Josh said. He was on his
feet already. He slapped his hand down gently on the table in front
of me. "Thanks for the game and the Coke."

He headed for the door. I watched his slim
back as he affected his teenage boy walk across the narrow parking
area. Seconds later, he was out of sight. I remained where I was,
sipping slowly at my drink. Our conversation and Josh's reactions
kept playing through my mind. He'd been shocked when I first told
him of Stacy's arrest. Why? It was almost like he expected it to be
someone he knew. He'd been visibly relieved when he found out who
it was.

Chapter 13

My head was jangling in time with the
constant ping-ping-ping of the video games. Fresh air was in order.
I stepped out into the bright sunlight, squinting as my eyes
adjusted. I'd parked down the block. Now I walked the distance
briskly, shaking the noises from my ears and the lethargy from my
limbs. It had been a long day but it was only about three o'clock.
Perhaps I could find out a little more about Jean Detweiller.

The phone book listed Archie's Diner on
Central Avenue, I guessed somewhere around the old Albuquerque High
School area. I started west and picked up the next cross street,
which took me to Central. Passing the old high school was sad. Both
my parents had attended school there but sometime in the early
seventies it had fallen on hard times. Now a high chain link fence
surrounded the grounds and building. Graffiti scarred the dark
brick facade and most of the broken-out windows were boarded up.
For years the city had discussed various ways to rekindle life in
the place, everything from boutique shops to sleeping quarters for
homeless people. But, as yet, nothing had come of any of the
political talk. So, she sat there, a sad old lady—dead really, but
no one quite had the heart to bury her.

I passed Archie's before I realized it and
had to circle the block. Three-fifteen. Jean shouldn't be at work
until four, which would give me a chance to ask a few questions
without her presence.

The building was probably built in the
fifties, when crowds of kids in bobby socks and poodle skirts
flocked here after school. The front was mostly glass, huge panes
of it, separated by aluminum dividers. The glass rose a story and a
half, forming a sharp peak at the top. At the back, the roof
dropped away sharply in a dramatic scoop, like some inner-city ski
jump. The front of the building sat right at the sidewalk, and
access to the rear parking lot was gained through a narrow driveway
on the eastern perimeter. I pulled in to find one other car in the
lot. Two other vehicles, a sagging twenty-year-old Cadillac and a
Volkswagen bug with the front fenders missing, were parked near a
greasy back door. The employees.

Inside, the decor was original fifties. A
counter ran the length of the place, fronted by chrome and
red-vinyl stools. An aisleway just wide enough for a waitress with
a loaded food tray separated the stools from a series of booths
that lined the windows. An angular chrome jukebox stood in one
corner, a yellowed Out-of-Order sign taped to its front. A thin man
in a shapeless brown coat sat at one end of the counter, hugging a
coffee cup between the palms of his hands. A long tendril of smoke
from an ashtray beside him trailed purposefully toward the high
ceiling, where it joined a bunch of other smoke, forming its own
pollution zone. I took a stool at the opposite end.

"Yes, ma'am, what can I get for you?" The man
must be Archie. He was sixty-something, round all over, about my
height, five-six or so. He wore a white t-shirt, white pants, and
white apron, all of which were spotted with grease and food stains
that looked several days old. His head was shiny on top, rimmed by
closely trimmed white hair. His jowly face was clean-shaven. I
became aware of his thick index finger tapping on the counter,
waiting for my answer.

"Oh." I had to think a minute. The Coke I'd
just finished with Josh had pretty well killed off my appetite.
"I'll just have coffee," I told him.

"How about a piece of pie with that? Homemade
this morning. Best in town." When he smiled, he looked much
friendlier, like an un-bearded Santa.

"What kind?" I felt myself weakening. Maybe I
could call this dinner.

"Cherry, peach, or Dutch apple." He waved
toward the glassed-in pie case behind him.

"Dutch apple."

"Excellent choice." He turned and picked up a
small plate. I watched him dish up the largest piece of Dutch
apple. "Little scoop of vanilla on that?" he asked.

"No, thanks. Just the pie."

He laid a fork beside the hunk of pie and set
it down in front of me. While he turned to get my coffee, I asked,
"Jean Detweiller works here, doesn't she?"

"Yeah, she'll be here in . . . oh, fifteen,
twenty minutes."

"How's she doing these days?"

"You mean after her husband got killed?"

"Yeah. She pretty broken up?"

"Jean's a strong woman," he replied. "You
know, she didn't miss a day of work."

"Really." I forked another bite of the pie.
It was wonderful. "Look, a friend of mine has been implicated in
that case. I'm looking into it on her behalf."

Archie wiped the counter, not saying
anything.

"I'm trying to get a feel for what happened.
Gary had been out of town, hadn't he?"

"I think so. Jean didn't always tell me stuff
like that. The other girl on her shift, Sarah, might know."

"The girls stop for a dinner break sometime
during their shifts, don't they?"

"A dinner break and two coffee breaks," he
grumbled. "This damn government b.s. They gotta have so many
minutes break after so many hours work. Jean's real good about it,
though." He made eye contact to be sure I got the point. "There's
some'll nit-pick that break shit to the letter of the law. Jean'll
work on through if we're busy, and take her break later when things
slow down."

"Does she have a regular time?"

"Oh, usually sometime between the dinner
bunch and the late bunch."

"When's that?"

"Well, let's see. The dinner bunch comes in,
say, between six and eight. Mostly neighborhood folks, you know.
Then we gotta little quiet time until the late bunch comes.
Those're the ones that go out to some doin's or other over at the
convention center or, like, some concert at Popejoy Hall. This time
of year, we get the basketball crowd, too. After them Lobos play,
that bunch is ready for pie and coffee. And we still make regular
ol' fountain stuff like sodas, sundaes, banana splits."

I thought about it. Seemed like the ball
games and concerts usually ended around ten. So, it was likely that
Jean took her dinner break sometime between eight and ten.

"Do the girls eat their dinner here or do
they ever go out?"

"When they got free food here?" He chuckled.
"Well, a course, sometimes they do an errand or something."

The man at the far end of the counter was
standing up so Archie waddled toward that direction.

I chewed thoughtfully on my pie. Jean might
have had motive and opportunity. They lived less than ten minutes
away. Could that have been the reason Josh almost freaked when he
heard a woman had been arrested, until I told him who it was? Then
he almost seemed happy. Maybe he suspected his mother had done it.
Jean certainly seemed to benefit the most from Gary's death, and
she'd certainly been the happiest since. I wondered if there had
been an insurance policy.

I became aware of movement in front of
me.

"Charlie?" Jean fixed a look on me like,
What are you doing here?,
but she had the good grace not to
voice it.

"Hi, Jean. I heard about the pie here, and
decided to try it. So this
is
the place you work."

"Yes. This is the place." She was dying of
curiosity, and would probably quiz Archie after I'd left. I hoped I
hadn't let my speculations show. "Can I freshen that coffee for
you?" she asked.

"Oh, no thanks. I gotta get going." I pulled
money from my wallet and left a tip on the counter. Archie was
clearing dishes at the other end where the other customer had been.
"Great pie, Archie," I called out. "I'll have to come back
again."

He raised a hand in a little salute and
smiled at me. I left with no further explanation to Jean.

Out in the parking lot, Jean's faded blue
Honda was now parked next to Archie's Cadillac. The battered beetle
was gone. It must have belonged to some unseen employee lurking in
the kitchen. I turned, just as a green pickup truck pulled into the
lot. It missed me by no more than two feet. The driver and I were
equally startled. She jerked to a stop just as I jumped back a foot
or so. I waved her on.

She pulled into an empty slot next to Jean's
car and that was when it occurred to me that she wore the same pink
and gray uniform as Jean's. I walked toward the truck just as her
door opened.

"Sarah?"

"Hey, look, I'm really sorry I almost hit
you. I just didn't expect anyone to be walking across the lot this
time of day. Sorry. Are you okay?" She had an elfin face, so thin
that it almost became lost in the mane of blond hair that hung
straight down both sides of it.

"Don't worry, I'm fine." I assured her.
"You're Sarah Johnson, aren't you?"

"Yeah?"

I positioned myself so I could watch the back
door, in case Jean were to peek out. Luckily, no windows faced the
parking area.

"I just wanted to ask you a quick
question."

Sarah nodded. She reached up and began
twisting her long hair into a thick braid while we talked.

"Do you remember last Wednesday night, a week
ago? It was the night Jean's husband was killed."

She looked vague. "Well, I remember the next
day because we talked about what had happened."

"Think back. How about the night before?"

"Let's see, Thursday night was a Lobo game.
Ricky, that's my boyfriend, stopped by Wednesday night to see if I
wanted to go with him. But, I couldn't. I told him I was working
Thursday."

"What time did Ricky stop by Wednesday
night?"

"Umm, let me think." Her eyes turned upward.
"Probably about nine. Things are kinda slow then."

"Was Jean working while you talked to
him?"

"No, she was on break. I remember because I
kept having to interrupt Ricky to do coffee refills." She had
finished the braid and reached into her bag for a hair net.
Somehow, in one deft move, she scooped up the braid and got the
whole thing into the net.