Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery (2 page)

Inside, we had converted the old living room
to a reception area. The dining room has a big work table, although
I’d still like to get something nicer, for conferences. The
upstairs bedrooms are now Ron's and my offices.

Ron was already at his desk when I arrived,
deeply engaged in a phone conversation which sounded as if it might
be intensely personal. I bet myself that I’d get another earful
about Vicky later on. I twiddled my fingers in his direction, and
headed for my own office.

My antique desk looked about like I expected.
I had left it spotlessly clean eleven days ago. Now a small
mountain of unopened mail sat heaped in the center. The fresh
flowers on the bookcase had been reduced to a vaseful of crispy
stalks standing in slimy green water. I raised two sections of the
bay window to give my hanging plants some spring air and carried
the dirty vase to the bathroom. Rusty stretched out on a corner of
the oriental rug, knowing we were in for the long haul.

Twenty minutes later I had the mail divided
into three piles—Do Now, Do Later, and Circular File. I was just
about to tackle the Do Now pile, which consisted of bills to pay,
and phone calls to return, when I glanced up to find Sally Bertrand
standing in my doorway.

Sally is our part-time receptionist. She's a
big girl, what some might call "large boned," with small breasts
and heavy thighs. She wears her wheat-colored hair in a shaggy
style that looks like she whacks at it herself whenever the mood
strikes, without benefit of a mirror for guidance. Her wide face
has an honest sprinkling of freckles, and her ready smile shows
teeth that are even, if not perfect. She's married to a bearded
mountain-man of a guy, and their joint pleasure in life seems to be
hiking off to the most remote area they can find, while carrying a
bare minimum of equipment. This is directly contrary to my way of
thinking, where roughing it consists of black and white TV in a
motor home.

Sally's overriding concern these past few
months has been her effort to get pregnant. She's recently turned
thirty, like me, and thinks she hears her biological clock
ticking.

"What a mess, huh?" She nodded toward my
desk.

"Yeah, but I suppose I'll get through it.
How'd it go while I was gone?"

"Ron had me stay till five every day. He's
really allergic to answering his own phone, isn't he?" She chuckled
in her infectious way. "Have you met Vicky yet?"

"Not yet, but I suspect I'll soon have the
pleasure. What's she like?"

Anyone else might be afraid to speak candidly
about her boss's personal life, but I knew Sally would be honest
with me. We have an informal, friendly relationship, despite the
fact that I sign her paycheck.

"Young," she answered.

"How young? I noticed Ron neatly ducked the
question when I asked him last night."

She rolled her eyes briefly upward. "Well...
young enough to be his, um, much younger sister."

Oh, boy. I could hardly wait.

"By the way," she continued, "I'm a week
late." She patted her tummy.

I made some weak sounding congratulatory
noises. I don’t know—my biological clock must be in a different
time zone than everyone else's.

"Well, I guess I better get back to Ron's
letter to the state insurance commission."

She left, obviating the necessity for me to
comment further on her possible state of motherhood. I turned
contentedly back to paying bills. Call it accountant
eccentricity.

By eleven-thirty, I had all the accounts
payable entered into the computer, and was just about ready to
start printing the checks. For some reason, I was having a heck of
a time getting the forms to line up in the printer. I could feel my
frustration level climbing at a rate corresponding to the hunger
pangs in my stomach. I decided to tackle the problem again after
lunch. I grabbed my purse, and was about to switch off my lights,
when I heard voices out in the hall.

"Charlie! You going out?" Ron stood just
outside my doorway.

"Just to get some lunch. Want to join
me?"

"I'd like you to meet Vicky," he said. He was
beaming like a cat who'd just discovered a whole cage full of
canaries. He stepped aside, his hand guiding Vicky toward me. Rusty
roused around, and headed for her. She was apparently not a dog
person, because she began to back up at the sight of him. I told
him to sit in the corner and mind his own business.

Vicky and I shook hands graciously, but there
was no question that we were sizing each other up. My expectations
hadn't been too far off the mark. She had to be in her early
twenties. She wore a clingy jersey dress, in an electric shade of
purple, which hit her a good six inches above the knees. Large
purple hoop earrings, black hose with tiny black bows at the ankle,
and black four inch heels completed her attire. Her dark hair was
loose and full, caught up on one side by a comb of some kind. Her
face still had a lot of the fullness they used to call baby fat,
although there's probably a more sensual sounding name for it now.
Her makeup was impeccably done, and I imagined her working at the
Estee Lauder counter at The Broadway. She had a beauty mark at the
left corner of her mouth, and I suppressed the desire to lick my
finger and rub at it to see if it would come off.

"Well. I'll repeat the invitation. Would you
both like to join me for lunch?" I hoped I sounded sincere.

"Thanks, Charlie," Ron said. "But we already
had some other plans."

Vicky beamed at him, and I got a pretty good
idea what he meant, but thinking about it made my stomach feel kind
of squeamish. I tried not to let my thoughts appear on my face as I
pulled my door shut, and walked alongside Vicky down the stairs,
then toward the reception area. Sally and I exchanged a look, and I
told her I'd be back in an hour or so. I traveled toward the back,
leaving the two of them standing by the front door.

The Jeep started with a little more roar than
I’d intended and I lowered the windows on both sides to dispel the
stuffy air inside. As I came out the driveway I noticed Vicky's
car, a red Firebird, parked at the curb.

I pulled out onto Central, going nowhere in
particular. I wasn't really in the mood for fast food, but couldn't
decide what, exactly, I was in the mood for. Five or six blocks
later a burgundy colored awning caught my eye. I’d noticed the
place several months ago, but had never tried it. Nouvelle
Mexicano. Sounded rather different.

I found a somewhat tight parking space three
doors down, and hoped an hour's worth of meter time would be
enough. The restaurant was next to an old movie theater that, not
being one of the new multi-plexes, was now relegated to showing B
movies and cult classics. On the other side was a discount clothing
store that appeared to generate quite a bit of traffic.

A stucco front had been added to the
restaurant's narrow bit of sidewalk frontage, along with curlicued
wrought iron window grates that were meant to be decorative and
functional at the same time. I pulled on the heavy wooden door
inlaid with a stained glass parrot, and stepped into a shady
foyer.

A hostess, who could have been no more than
nineteen, greeted me with a dimply smile. She had a sleek French
braid that went halfway down her back. Picking up a menu, she led
me to a small table. The interior of the place consisted of one
main room, divided into several sections by chest-high dividers,
topped with green plants. The lighting was done in such a way as to
suggest skylights, although being on the ground floor of a three
story building, I knew there were none. The effect was light and
modern. The color scheme was pale turquoise and mauve. The menu
read like a crash course in foodspeak, with many items "delicately
seasoned," "lightly sauteed," and "with a hint of…" It was Mexican
with a health-food perspective. I chose a salad that sounded
interesting, a combination of greens, chicken (briefly sauteed and
impeccably seasoned), and herb cheeses, all in a tortilla shell
"lightly tanned" in 100% canola oil. My waiter brought my iced tea
almost instantly, and I sipped at it while scoping out the rest of
the room.

The place was only about a third full,
although my watch told me it was twelve-fifteen. Being a Friday, I
would have expected this to be prime time in a downtown restaurant.
My salad arrived just then, and I had to admit, it was delicious.
Despite the overuse of adjectives on the menu, the food was just
plain good.

"Charlie Parker?"

I looked up to see a woman leaning over my
table. "Sharon? My goodness, imagine running into you here."

"I own the place," she said, her eyes proudly
sweeping the room. "How is your meal?"

I told her what I thought.

"What's it been, now? Ten years?"

"Try twelve. Graduation day," she said. "I
didn't see you at the tenth reunion, and wondered whether you were
still in Albuquerque."

Sharon Ortega had improved with age. Her face
was slimmer than I had remembered, her hair shorter and lighter
than before. She wore it in a breezy chin-length style, with
generous streaks of blond highlights through it. Her eyes were
still dark brown, about the size of quarters, with the same thick
natural lashes we had all envied. She wore a crisply tailored linen
dress of pale turquoise, and a wide silver bracelet on her right
wrist. We’d shared classes throughout high school, although we had
not palled around much outside school hours.

"What are you doing these days, Charlie?"

"My brother, Ron, and I have a private
investigation firm together."

Her eyes got even wider. "Really? You chase
down bad guys and everything?"

"Well, Ron's the licensed PI. I'm the
accountant. But, you know how it goes. I tend to get dragged into
cases from time to time." I handed her one of my cards. She stared
at it for a good ten seconds, as if memorizing the details.

"How about you?" I asked. "How long have you
had the restaurant?"

"We've been open about a year," she answered.
"I have a partner, too. I manage the kitchen and the help, and he
handles the paperwork. Hey, you and he might just hit it off. You
got anyone special in your life right now?"

I thought of Drake Langston. "No one
permanent yet," I told her.

"I think David's around someplace." She
glanced around the room.

"That's okay, don't interrupt anything." I
really didn't want any hasty matchmaking on my behalf, so I quickly
changed the subject. "How's business, Sharon? You like being
downtown?"

She shifted from one foot to the other, and I
could see a flicker of emotions cross her face, as she decided how
much to tell me.

"It's been all right," she said cautiously.
"We really started off with a bang a year ago. We're only open for
breakfast and lunch, you know, and we had people lined up out the
door. Lately, though, I don't know." Her voice dropped to little
more than a whisper. "I guess maybe the fad's over."

"The food is great. I'd think the healthy
approach would be really big now."

"That's what we thought, too. I took a lot of
my mother's old recipes, and adapted them. Cut out a lot of the
frying, switched everything to unsaturated, lean, fresh. Everyone
who tries us, really seems to like the result.

"I don't know," she continued. "Maybe it's
just this city."

I knew what she meant. I've seen it happen
many times. A new restaurant will be a huge hit at first, then
business falls off, and soon they're gone.

"Well. I better let you finish your lunch."
She pulled her shoulders a little straighter, and summoned a bright
smile. "Enjoy."

I watched her make the rounds of the other
tables while I finished my salad. She had a few words and a
friendly smile for each of her customers. She looked like the old
Sharon I had known, the one who was outgoing and friendly with
everyone.

The waiter had left my check, and I was
calculating the tip when I felt someone approach. I glanced up to
see Sharon once more, this time toting a man behind her.

"Charlie, this is my partner, David Ruiz,"
she said.

We exchanged hellos, and I made a couple of
comments about how much I'd enjoyed my lunch. David seemed eager to
be somewhere else. He was in his late twenties, well dressed in
gray summer weight wool slacks and a custom made shirt with
monogram on the pocket. His shoes were Gucci, and his dark hair
looked like it had been trimmed within the past two days. Sharon
had probably dragged him away from his desk. His shirt sleeves were
rolled up, and I saw a smudge of blue ink on his right middle
finger. He had a handsome face, but some difficulty in cracking a
smile. As we talked, his eyes darted around distractedly. I stood
up, giving him a chance to exit.

Later, I would wish I'd talked a little
longer with David Ruiz. The next time I would hear his name would
be when I learned that he was dead.

Chapter 3

Ron wasn't back yet when I arrived at the
office. Sally said there hadn't been any calls. She had her desk
cleared, and her car keys out, apparently eager to leave for the
day. I secretly hoped Ron wouldn't come back for awhile yet. There
were no appointments on the book, and I could use the time alone to
get my own work caught up.

I went back up to my own office, where Rusty
greeted me like I'd been gone a week. I slipped him a biscuit from
a canister I keep on my shelf. I spent the rest of the afternoon
finishing up the payables, then getting on to some letters and
phone calls. By four o'clock things were beginning to shape up. It
would be another week before I'd have to worry about the month-end
financials, so all in all I felt good about the amount of work I'd
accomplished.

I still hadn't heard from Ron, so I left him
a note telling him that I'd like to go over the pending cases with
him. If he got in before seven, and wanted to come by the house, I
was making spaghetti. I figured that would lure him, if nothing
else would. I called his apartment, and left a similar message on
his answering machine.