Deadly Gamble: The First Charlie Parker Mystery (15 page)

"Did Jean take her break here or did she
leave that night?"

"Oh, usually we just take our breaks here.
Sit down in the back and have something to drink. She'll always
have a cigarette."

"But that night? For sure, was she here?"

Again, the eyes slanted upward. "No. Now that
you mention it, that night she went out. 'Cause usually if one of
us gets a visitor the other will watch the customers and take their
break later. That night I called for Jean but she wasn't around, so
I stayed on and talked to Ricky at the same time."

"Was she gone long?"

"Well, it would have been her dinner break.
She had a full half hour if she wanted it. Even though the food
here is free, sometimes you just want something different, you
know?"

"So, you didn't get to the Lobo game after
all."

"No, Ricky was disappointed, but he said he'd
try to get tickets for Saturday night instead." She glanced toward
the door, which hadn't budged. "Look, I better get inside."

"Yeah, thanks."

"Oh, and sorry about almost hitting you," she
said.

I watched her trot toward the door. I hoped
she'd go inside thinking about the narrow miss or about Ricky and
the Lobos, and not mention our conversation to Jean. I'd thought
about asking her not to say anything, but if they were friends that
probably wouldn't have stopped her. I started the Jeep, suddenly
anxious to be out of there.

The late afternoon traffic was gathering
intensity already. I drove back to the office, staying on Central,
which is typically less congested downtown than the arterial
streets that lead away. I checked the answering machine and found
one message, from Carla Delvecchio. I played it back twice.

"Charlie, I need to talk to you this
evening." She gave her home number. Something about her tone of
voice told me it was urgent, although she didn't say so. I dialed
the number but only got her machine in response. I hate answering
machine telephone tag so I decided not to leave a message. I'd call
her when I got home.

Rusty leaped with joy, almost knocking me
over in his exuberance, when I opened the front door. I fed him and
let him out for a romp in the back yard. Elsa Higgins' kitchen
light was on so I walked through the cut in the hedge.

A warm meaty smell, interlaced mysteriously
with cinnamon, greeted me when she opened the door.

"Come in, come in," she said, bustling me
across the threshold and closing the door quickly. "I've had this
beef stew simmering all day," she said. "Can you stay?" Her blue
eyes were eager.

I felt too guilty to tell her I'd just eaten
a big piece of pie so I told her I'd have just a tiny bowl.

"Good. Now you wash up and I'll just add
another setting to the table here."

You wash up. How many times had she said
those words to me in my lifetime? Thousands, I'm sure. Dutifully, I
picked up the bar of soap, knowing she'd scold me if I only rinsed.
I watched her shuffle about, gathering a bowl and spoon, putting
them on the table for me. Her fluffy white head bent low as she
checked the place setting and straightened it.

"How was your visit with Paul and his
family?" she asked.

"The usual. Did they stop by here?"

"No, not this time." She sounded a little
wistful, but I was sure it was only because she'd forgotten how
rowdy his kids are.

"They got in late Friday, and spent all day
Saturday with friends. I didn't see them that much myself."

"Now, you don't go apologizing for them," she
said. "I never was as close to Paul as you other kids."

I grinned out the window. She'd always see us
as kids, I supposed.

Despite the pie an hour ago, I found myself
able to put away the entire bowl of stew she had ladled up. I
helped her clear the plates, and when she brought out freshly baked
cinnamon cookies, I managed to get through a couple of those, too.
Tomorrow, I promised myself. Tomorrow, I would start counting my
calories and exercising.

I told her about the trip I'd booked to
Kauai, realizing belatedly that I could have asked her along. She
doesn't get out much and that might have been a thrilling trip for
her. But the selfish side of me kept quiet. I really was ready for
some time completely by myself.

We washed the dishes and chatted for another
hour before I remembered that I needed to return Carla's call
before it got too late.

The phone rang four times and I knew I was
about to get the answering machine, but she finally picked up. She
sounded breathless.

"Did I interrupt anything good?" I asked
teasingly.

"Unfortunately, no. I just stepped into the
house. Let me put this grocery bag down." There was a pause, while
I heard a series of clunks and some shuffling.

"There now," she said. "I'm finally sitting
down with my feet up. What a day!"

"Sorry, I wouldn't be calling you at home,
but your voice sounded urgent."

She took a deep breath. "Well, not exactly
urgent, but I thought I'd bring you up to date on Stacy's
situation. You're involved."

"What!"

"Let me backtrack. I talked to the police
today. Detective Taylor, I think."

"Kent Taylor. Ron knows him."

"Well, don't be too surprised if he shows up
at your office tomorrow. Here's the situation. They've been working
on Stacy's connection to Detweiller. They know about the watch. And
your name's signed on the pawn ticket. When you picked it up."

"Oh, boy. What does that mean?"

"Probably only that they'll want to talk to
you. Find out how you got involved, what kind of things Stacy told
you."

"Can't I claim privileged client
information?"

She chuckled. "Sorry, no. A private
investigator has no more privileges than any other citizen. And
since you aren't even a licensed investigator, well, you know where
that puts you."

I told her, as nearly as I remembered it,
everything Stacy had told me. "Will that get her in more trouble if
I have to tell all that to the police?"

"I doubt it," she said. "I think they already
know most of it. Sounds to me like Stacy was more afraid of her
husband than the law anyway."

"What about the murder charge? How are they
connecting her with that?"

"Well, they still don't have the weapon.
They're glossing over that fact but without it they're going to
have a real difficult case. They found a nine millimeter casing
under some shrubs near the murder scene. There were two shots fired
but only one casing found. Either the killer got sloppy, or didn't
even try to retrieve them. They're small. On concrete the wind
could blow them around. They'll probably cover the scene again just
to be sure the other one isn't lying around in a flower bed
someplace."

I thought of Jean's burst of yard-work
efficiency. What if she'd been cleaning up after herself?

"They'll probably get a search warrant for
Stacy's home next," Carla continued. "They'll be looking for a
weapon."

"Stacy mentioned that Brad owns guns."

"Well, if one of them happens to be a nine
millimeter and if it's recently been fired, I'm sure they'll be
just overjoyed to take it in for more testing."

I was quiet, pondering the implications.

"I guess that's about all," Carla said. "Just
wanted to warn you that they've made your connection with the pawn
ticket."

She said she was beat so we hung up.

Somehow, I wasn't tired any more. I paced.
What would they make of my involvement? If they did find a weapon
in Stacy's house, could they try to prove collusion on my part? I'd
probably been naive, taking Stacy at face value. She might have
counted on our past friendship as a means of providing a backup
character reference.

I brushed my teeth, showered and put on a
terrycloth robe. Rusty climbed onto the couch beside me, laying his
large red head on my knee, his brown eyes watching me with silent
support. I stroked his head absentmindedly. The next time I glanced
at the clock it was after eleven. I rechecked the doors, turned off
the lights and headed for my room. Rusty settled onto his rug at
the foot of my bed. Sleep finally came but it was broken up by
unsettled patches of wakefulness. I opened my eyes around five,
unable to fake it any longer.

Chapter 14

At the office, I pretended to work on some
correspondence but truthfully I wasn't getting anywhere with it.
Nagging little suspicions filled my head. I couldn't believe Stacy
would deliberately set me up. On the other hand, she was desperate.
The missing watch might have only been a middle link in the
relationship with Detweiller. Perhaps he'd taken it then tried to
blackmail her.

Jean Detweiller's face kept coming into the
picture, too. Perhaps I should mention my suspicions to the police.
Unfortunately, they were only suspicions. I really didn't have any
evidence, only a fellow employee who
thought
Jean took a
long break that night and Josh's obvious relief when he heard who
was arrested.

The front door chimed at nine o'clock.
Sally's voice rose in a friendly greeting, then I heard Kent
Taylor's muted response. Heavy footsteps clumped up the stairs.
Taylor had that same neatly cared-for look, pressed slacks, clean
shirt, neat tie. His overcoat hung open in front. The weather
outside was marginally cool enough to need one. I still hadn't
decided what I would say to him.

"Hi, Charlie." He didn't hold out his hand,
so I didn't either.

"Kent." So far we were off to a great
start.

He held up the signed sales ticket from the
pawn shop encased in a small baggie.

"I suppose you know what this is about," he
said.

"Well, I guess it's
about
Stacy
North's Rolex watch, which I retrieved for her."

My tone was a little more huffy than I
intended and he picked up on it. He stuck the baggie in his pocket
and sat down on my sofa, lounging against the back, one arm draped
across the cushions. I lowered myself into my desk chair. When he
spoke again, he had become good-cop.

"Did Stacy happen to mention to you how her
watch ended up at a pawn shop?" His voice was low,
conversational.

I had no idea how to play this. Should I open
up and tell the whole story just as it had happened, or should I
give yes/no answers only when asked a direct question? I felt
myself squirming.

"Not exactly," I told him.

"Charlie, let's not drag this out all day."
His voice was still friendly. "You aren't implicated in the
Detweiller case personally. Right now, I don't even have reason to
believe you're withholding evidence."

He placed subtle emphasis on the words
right now
. I squirmed some more. He waited silently,
obviously knowing that I was uncomfortable about this.

"Stacy's my friend. I've known her since
fifth grade. I
know
she did not kill that man." My voice
came out surprisingly firm. I proceeded to relate most of our
conversation as it pertained to the watch emphasizing, truthfully,
that Stacy was more afraid of her husband than she was angry with
Detweiller. I held back my suspicions about Jean.

Kent made some notes in a small spiral. When
he looked back up at me, he was smiling.

"That was a nice piece of detective work you
did retrieving that watch," he said.

I have to admit I warmed up a little inside.
He clarified a couple of points, then left. I turned back to the
work on my desk but found it hard to concentrate. As a last resort,
filing is a fairly mindless task, easy to do while preoccupied. I
picked up the stack of miscellaneous receipts, bills, and customer
folders that had been accumulating for a week. There on top lay the
receipt for the new tire I'd bought.

Another unresolved question. I still didn't
quite believe it was a random case of vandalism. Someone in the bar
that night wanted to slow me down. But who? And why? Maybe another
visit to Penguin's was in order.

This time I dressed to fit in—faded jeans,
sweater, denim jacket. I made Rusty stay home against his wishes
and left plenty of lights on so the house wouldn't look deserted
when I got back.

Penguin's was hopping when I arrived. I'd
forgotten this was Friday night. The small parking lot was
completely full so I parked on the side street about three houses
down. The five to seven o'clock happy hour was just ending, and two
couples passed me on their way out the door. Inside, a jukebox down
near the pool tables twanged country tunes with a vivaciousness
that rattled ice cubes in the glasses. There were more women here
tonight. Most were dressed as I was, casually but ready to party on
a Friday night. All the tables were full and people were two deep
at the bar. I pressed my way through the crowd and ordered another
Bud Light.

"Draft or bottle?" Pete the bartender
asked.

"I don't care."

He handed over a brown bottle, which I
carried to a slightly more open space between the end of the bar
and the pool tables. On the jukebox Garth Brooks quit and Reba
McEntire came on with a soft melody full of pain. At least the room
quit vibrating.

The pool table in front of me was getting
more active by the minute. The game looked like eight-ball. Both
players were good. The guy with his back to me was just about to
clear the table, but he'd have to make a tricky bank shot to do it.
I found myself staring at the cue ball, holding my breath as he
drew back his stick. When the ball went in the pocket, the crowd
let out a shout. I breathed again. A dramatic-looking redhead threw
her arms around the winner. She wore black leather pants that were
in danger of splitting, a sequined gold bra-thing, and a black and
gold bolero jacket. He put an arm around her waist and swung her
around. When he faced me, I realized it was Larry Burke. We were no
more than three feet apart.