Deadly Gamble: The First Charlie Parker Mystery (17 page)

I continued to wind through the narrow
residential street as fast as I dared, praying like crazy that it
wasn't a dead end. Eventually, the houses became a little larger, a
little more pretentious. Street lights were few and far between
here. I had no idea where I was but at least no headlights
followed, yet.

Ten or twelve blocks had probably passed. The
street continued to meander. Occasionally, I came to cross streets,
but had no idea whether they would lead deeper into the maze or
which one might eventually take me out. Almost abruptly I came to a
major street. Rio Grande. Okay, now I could figure out where I was.
The six lanes were deserted. I must have traveled quite a distance.
I turned right.

Within a block I recognized a business, a
small hardware store, closed now with only a few security lights
on. I was less than a mile from the spot where the dark truck had
leaped at me. Traffic picked up as I approached Central. I took it
cautiously, realizing that my pursuer might have lost me, come back
to this spot, waited for me to show up. Which brought another
disturbing thought. Did they know where I lived?

I scanned the intersection of Rio Grande and
Central as I approached. No sign of a dark truck. Past the
intersection, I began watching my rearview. Still nothing. I
relaxed only a little. My thumb reached for the control to my
garage door opener as I neared the house. The door was open by the
time I hit the driveway and I pulled in without a pause, closing
the door before I even shut down the engine. I sat there a minute
before taking the key from the ignition and reaching for my purse.
I was shaking, only partially from the cold.

Rusty greeted me joyfully and I spent an
extra few minutes deriving warmth from him. Before doing anything
else, I checked the doors and windows. All secure. I kept my jacket
on while I made hot chocolate. I gave Rusty a rawhide chew and we
took our treats into the living room. The hot chocolate warmed my
fingers and my insides finally calmed down.

In retrospect the incident receded in
importance. Really, there had been nothing about the truck that I
could positively connect with the case. They might have just been
trouble makers seeing a lone woman out late. Maybe they only meant
to scare me. Maybe they meant to rape, rob, and shoot me. It
happens. But the point was, they were probably strangers. I'd
gotten away. I counted myself lucky.

I dozed on the couch, waking sometime later
to find the lights still on and Rusty asleep beside me. The house
was chilly. I had a terrible crick in my neck. I stumbled to the
bedroom, switching off lights, peeling off my clothes as I went. I
fell into bed naked, not even taking time to brush my teeth.

Something warm and wet stroked my fingers.
The sensation blended into my dream, making me feel curiously
sensuous. I stretched and rubbed my body against the smooth sheets.
The warm stroke came again.

"Rusty!" I woke up enough to realize he was
licking my hand, wanting outside. "Go away." I pulled the comforter
over my head, tucking in so he couldn't reach me. It didn't
work.

He jumped up, front paws on the bed, nudging
with his nose at the pile of covers. This signaled eminent danger.
If he didn't get outside soon, I'd pay. I forcefully dragged myself
from under the covers, and reached for the robe on the back of my
bathroom door. I had barely pulled it on by the time we reached the
back door. Rusty was out in a bound, and I closed and locked the
door behind him.

Sleep came again easily. When I awoke this
time it was almost nine. I felt refreshed and not the least bit
guilty. Stretching luxuriously, I allowed myself to snuggle deep
under the comforter, under no pressure to get up yet. I realized
I'd thought of nothing but the Detweiller case for over a week now
and I was tired of it. Tired of worrying about Stacy and Brad and
Jean and the whole lot of them. I gave myself permission to take
the weekend off.

Bright sun filtered through my bedroom drapes
like a good omen. I peeked outside to spot Rusty lying on the back
porch, patiently awaiting breakfast. The sky looked like smooth
blue porcelain, all traces of last night's storm blown away. Last
night's shadows, too, had receded in my mind. My spirits perked up
with fresh optimism.

Steaming water coursed over me as I indulged
in a long shower, making Rusty wait a few more minutes. I dressed
in jeans and t-shirt, pulled my hair back into a ponytail, made my
bed and tidied the room. When I reached the kitchen and peeked out
again, Rusty stood with his nose aimed at the crack in the door,
his tail swinging wildly. He wriggled through and planted himself
in front of the sack of dog food.

"Okay, I get the idea," I laughed. I tried to
hug him but, intent on only one thing, he twisted out of my
grasp.

I scooped out nuggets for him, which he set
upon like it was the last food on earth. I mixed batter and heated
the waffle iron, a special treat for myself. Outside, I noticed
there were daffodils already blooming in the back yard. When had
those come up? Yes, I vowed, as the toasty waffle scent drifted
from the iron, I'm going to enjoy the weekend and not think once
about Stacy North.

It was easier said than done. She showed up
on my doorstep just after noon.

I'd spent the morning in the back yard. With
its eastern exposure, the sun was nice and warm. I raked the
winter's dead leaves from the flower beds, pruned the rose bushes
back, and watered everything long and deep. The lawn wasn't nearly
ready for its first mowing yet, but I'd soon need to contact the
teenage boy who usually does it for me. I cut a large bunch of
daffodils, enjoying their heady fragrance, then decided I was ready
for a lunch break.

The doorbell chimed just as I stepped into
the kitchen. I laid the flowers in the sink and pulled a paper
towel from the roll to wipe my hands. The thought went through my
mind that it would either be someone selling magazines or a Girl
Scout. I hoped for the latter—I'm a sucker for those cookies.

Stacy jumped slightly, as though startled
from a daydream, when I opened the door. She wore silky-looking
pleated slacks in a soft taupe and a cream colored silk blouse with
gold buttons. It had some kind of crest embroidered in gold on the
breast pocket. Her leather shoes and purse were exactly the color
of the slacks. I looked down at my own jeans, which now had round
dirt patches on both knees. My t-shirt had taken a dousing from the
hose along the lower edge, and was now clinging frigidly to my hip.
I didn't want to imagine what my face must look like.

"Hi, Charlie," she said. She turned slightly
and glanced over the front yard, taking in the shrubs near the door
and the ivy hanging thick around the porch. "Everything's so much
bigger than I remembered. The yard, I mean."

"Well, it's had ten extra years to get that
way," I replied. It came out a little sharper than intended. "Look,
come on in," I invited.

She slipped past me, sleek and graceful as a
cat. Stacy had always possessed a certain chic that I lacked. Maybe
it was inevitable that we would turn out so differently; it wasn't
just her money. In reality, I had money too. My parents, in
addition to the house, had left me a decent inheritance. It waited
patiently, growing in a trust fund for me until I turned
twenty-five. Aside from the money I'd taken out to start RJP the
rest was still there. I tend to forget about it. By the time I
decide to retire, I'll be able to do it in style. Until then, well,
I'm happy with my life as it is. Money obviously hasn't brought
Stacy anything I'd want.

"Come on back. I was in the kitchen." She led
the way, pausing to run her fingers over the dining table and to
notice the china cabinet.

"You still have a lot of your mother's
things, don't you?" she commented. Her voice was almost
wistful.

I offered her a cold drink or some lunch.

"No, I can't stay. I'm supposed to be
shopping. I'll have to get home soon."

I had picked up the daffodils and was
reaching into the cupboard for a vase. Even with my back turned I
could hear a weariness in her voice. I glanced at her. The light in
the kitchen was brighter, and I noticed for the first time how
haggard her face had become. Under the perfectly done makeup, Stacy
was close to cracking. I set the vase and flowers down and went to
her.

Putting my arms around her felt like hugging
a bag of sticks. Her shoulders were so thin. She felt as
insubstantial as a bird. Her fingers were icy against my back.

"Come here, sit down." I led her to the table
and pulled out a chair. "Now, like it or not, I'm making you a cup
of tea." For lack of anything better to suggest, I fell back on
Gram's belief that a cup of tea will fix anything.

While we waited for the water to boil I sat
across from her. "This has been rough, huh?"

She nodded, tears threatening to overflow. I
brought the tissue box and sat again.

"Look, we're going to find out who really did
it," I assured in the most positive voice I could muster. "It'll
all be over soon. I promise."

Stacy dabbed at her eyes, quickly, like she
didn't want me to know she was really doing it. Her eyes were dull,
resigned. She nodded in response to my promise but she knew finding
the real killer would not make it all better.

The kettle whistled and I fetched cups,
spoons, sugar, and tea bags. The ritual kept me busy for a few
minutes. Stacy remained silent. I laid everything out on the table.
Busy-work to postpone what I really wanted to say. I sat again,
watching her release a spoonful of sugar into her tea and stir it
until I thought she might scrape the bottom out of the cup. I
placed my hand over hers.

"Stace. Come on. You can't hold this in
forever. Those walls of yours have become thick and impenetrable.
Someday you'll have to let someone inside."

The eyes threatened to overflow again. She
blinked and wasted some time with her tea, first blowing on the
surface of it, then taking a careful little sip. I waited, averting
my eyes to give her a tiny measure of privacy. The silence
stretched on.

"Stacy, is it Brad?" I finally asked. It was
the question that had been on my mind all along. "Is he
abusive?"

She set her cup down and straightened in her
chair. "Oh, no, Charlie. He's never hit me."

"That's not what I asked. Abuse doesn't
always mean hitting."

The tea cup came back up and she got real
busy again.

"Okay, you don't have to tell me. Maybe this
is awkward for you. But think about it. If he undermines your self
esteem, if he belittles you, humiliates you in public—Stace, he has
no right to do that. You can get help." I was getting a little out
of my depth because I really didn't know what to suggest next, but
at least I'd put the thought in her mind. She'd have to decide what
to do with it.

We drank our tea in silence for a couple of
minutes. Stacy appeared thoughtful but it could have just been her
way of blocking out my words. I had no clue from her.

"Hey, I never asked what you came to see me
about," I said, finally breaking the silence.

"Oh, I don't know," she replied. "I guess it
was nothing really."

She stood up, ending the visit. Near the
front door, she stopped to hug me again.

"Thanks, you
have
helped," she
said.

I watched her get into her Mercedes and back
it out of the driveway. I wasn't sure how I'd helped. Then again,
you can only lead a person so far. Any real change has to come from
within. I tried to put Stacy out of my mind while I arranged the
flowers in a vase, tidied the house, and changed into clean jeans.
I wanted to forget about her as I watched a movie on television and
while I read a book on Sunday. But her face haunted me for two
days.

Chapter 16

Monday morning dawned with all the prospects
of an ordinary new work week. I rose, showered, dressed, fed the
dog, and brought in the paper. I poured cereal in a bowl, sliced
strawberries on top, added milk and opened the paper.

And that's when I learned of Jean
Detweiller's death.

Her picture stared up at me from the front
page. An old picture but distinctly Jean nonetheless. I gaped at
her thin face with the outdated hairstyle for a full minute before
realizing that I could learn more by reading the story.

The phone rang, startling me out of my chair.
It was Ron.

"Have you seen the morning paper?" he
asked.

"I'm just now looking at it. I haven't had a
chance to read the story yet."

"Well, I've had a call from Kent Taylor
already. He'd like to talk to our client but it seems she's nowhere
to be found."

"What?"

"Just that. She hasn't been home for two
nights, and her husband says he doesn't know where she is."

I was having a hard time digesting all this.
I told Ron I would read the article and talk to him later at the
office.

The paper said Jean had been shot sometime
around midnight Sunday night, as she left work at Archie's Diner.
Her body was found beside her car in Archie's parking lot. No one
had heard anything. The article mentioned the tragic shooting of
the victim's husband less than two weeks earlier. The reporter
speculated as to whether the two deaths might be connected but no
conclusions were given.

My cereal had gone soggy. I picked out the
berries and a few palatable flakes and flushed the rest down the
disposal. Locking the back door, I called Rusty and gathered my
briefcase and jacket. We were out the door five minutes later.

At the office, things were hopping. Ron and
Kent Taylor were deep in conversation in Ron's office when I walked
in.

"We've got an APB out on your client," Kent
said without preamble.

"Why? What's going on?"