Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery (3 page)

Rusty trotted around after me, his toenails
clicking on the hardwood floors, as I checked the front door lock,
closed windows, switched off the copy machine and the lights. We
ended up in the kitchen at the back of the old house, where I wiped
off the counter tops, threw out the old coffee grounds, and washed
out the pot. At four-thirty, we locked the back door and headed for
the Jeep, parked behind the building. Rusty made a side trip to the
back corner of the property, where he did his business, then
feeling much relieved, he jumped into the back seat.

I made a quick stop at the grocery store to
stock up on milk, bread, and salad ingredients. It was still only
five-fifteen when I got home. Ron had left a message on my machine
saying that he would love spaghetti for dinner, and would be there
at six-thirty.

Ron had two cases currently going. One was a
pretty standard matter of gathering evidence in a workman's comp
case. The man who claimed a totally debilitating back injury had
somehow managed to play two sets of tennis the previous Saturday,
according to rumor. Ron's job now, was to get pictures, testimony,
whatever it took to prove that the guy really should be back at
work.

The other case involved a prominent
businessman, Morris Boyd, who was apparently fooling around with
the wife of a well-known politician. The businessman's wife,
Lorraine Boyd, was our client. Since New Mexico has fairly lenient
no-fault divorce laws, I could only guess that her reason for
wanting the whole nasty little story in pictures was to facilitate
some kind of blackmail, either monetary or emotional. I hate those
kind of things, and I've told Ron I'd rather we didn't take them.
But, with Ron, income is income. I've been fortunate enough with my
investments that the agency is more of a side-line for me. Ron
needs every penny he gets just to manage rent and child
support.

We rehashed all of this over plates of pasta,
salad, and garlic bread, all of which I must admit I threw together
from packages and jars. Although I can cook when the need arises, I
challenge myself to produce acceptable food in fifteen minutes or
less, using nothing more than the microwave or toaster oven. We had
stacked the dishes in the sink, and moved into the living room with
glasses of red wine.

"You never did explain that little railroad
track of stitches you have across the back of your skull," he
reminded.

"Let's just say it turned out to be a working
vacation," I told him.

"And how did you get talked into working on
your vacation?"

This time, it was my turn to blush.

"A guy, huh?" he teased.

"Well..." I told him a little about Drake,
and sketched an outline of the case, which had taken me from Kauai
to San Francisco and back, and had given some revealing insights
into the helicopter tour business in Hawaii.

"Look, Vicky and I are driving up to Angel
Fire tomorrow morning for the weekend. Why don't you join us? It
would give you a nice breather."

I could think of better ways to breathe than
in the company of cute Vicky, but I didn't want to hurt his
feelings by saying so. After all, I didn't know the girl, and to be
fair, I should reserve judgment.

"I have a two bedroom condo reserved. It's
two story, and you can have the lower floor all to yourself. You
and Rusty."

I felt myself wavering. Angel Fire is one of
the prettiest places in the entire state. Tucked into one corner of
the wide green Moreno Valley, the little alpine village perches at
the base of eleven thousand foot Agua Fria Peak, looking like
something right out of a Swiss travel brochure. I'd been there a
couple of other times with friends, and loved it. During the winter
months, it's a bustling ski resort, but in the summer the pace
slows down considerably. The summer season kicks off Memorial Day
weekend, another week away. Right now, it should be quiet and
peaceful. I felt myself giving in to the idea. Ron could tell what
I was thinking.

"Okay, then," he said, getting up to carry
his glass to the kitchen. "We'll stop by and pick you up at
eight."

"We better take my Jeep," I said. "I can't
see three people and a dog jammed into that convertible of
yours."

"You sure?"

"As long as you'll still do the driving."

He agreed, set his wine glass in the sink,
and squeezed my shoulder as he left. I switched on the TV but
couldn’t get interested in anything. Dialed Drake Langston’s number
on Kauai. When the answering machine came on I remembered the
four-hour time difference and figured he wouldn’t even be home from
work yet. I left a brief message, saying that I was thinking about
him, then wondered if I shouldn’t be observing the old boy-girl
ritual where girl waits for boy to call first. Too late now.

I puttered around the kitchen, washed the
dishes, put the leftover salad in the fridge and went around the
house emptying waste baskets into a black plastic garbage bag.
Tomorrow would be trash day. I carried my one sack out to the curb.
That done and Rusty fed, I decided I was ready for a shower.

Twenty minutes later, I stood in front of my
closet deciding on what clothes to take to Angel Fire. Mountain
weather is always cooler, and sometimes more unsettled, than in the
city. I tossed an extra pair of jeans, some boots and two sweaters
into a bag. The unfinished Clancy novel was in the living room. I
went to retrieve it and that’s when I noted the call on my
answering machine. It must have rung while I was outside or in the
shower.

“Hi, Charlie,” Drake’s deep voice came
through. “Sorry I missed you . . . Been thinking about you
constantly . . . uh, I guess I’ll have to call back later. I have
an association meeting to go to now. But then you’ll probably be
asleep . . .Well, I’ll just try over the weekend. ’Bye.”

A pang of longing shot through me. Maybe I
should cancel the weekend plans with Ron and Vicky.

Wait
a minute. I stopped myself. No
way was I going to fall into that sitting-by-the-phone trap, that
molding-my-life-to-fit-his routine. If anything were to develop
between Drake Langston and me, it would have to come about
naturally. And I would not lose sleep over making it happen. I
tossed my packed duffle onto the floor, turned out the lights, and
lay in bed with my eyes wide open until after one a.m.

Chapter 4

The condo was situated near the base of the
Angel Fire ski area. This time of year, ours was the only car in
the parking lot. Rusty and I shared the downstairs bedroom. That
and a small bathroom comprised the entire lower floor. The view
from my window showed the side of the Jeep, not much more. I
clipped a leash to Rusty's collar, and we left to explore. Ron and
Vicky could unpack and get started with whatever else they had
planned for the weekend. I didn't especially want to be around for
that.

Outside, the sky was a deep blue. Tall
ponderosa pines cast dappled shadows across the ground. A brisk
wind came up the road, making the air at least fifteen degrees
cooler here than in the city. I was glad I'd brought a light jacket
along with the sweaters.

We walked uphill, toward the unmoving ski
lift. No one else in sight. Rusty tugged constantly at the leash,
so I finally gave up and unclipped it. He wouldn't go far, he just
wanted the freedom to go at his own pace. He stayed with me,
trotting within a few yards, wherever I walked.

Dried pine needles crunched under our feet.
The air was crisp, free of the car exhaust and fast food smells
associated with the city. I breathed deeply, absorbing all the
oxygen I could, like a drug.

An hour later, puffing slightly from the
altitude, we re-entered the condo. Vicky sat on the living room
sofa, her eyes and hands intent on a video game connected to the TV
set. She had changed from the stretch pants and halter top she had
worn for the trip. Now she wore an oversize T-shirt and a pair of
red socks. Her tan legs were bare. Ron was barefoot in the kitchen,
putting food away in the refrigerator. Their bedroom door stood
open, revealing rumpled bedding and clothing carelessly tossed on
the floor. Suddenly I longed for Drake. I didn't want to make idle
chit-chat with these two.

There was a small deck off the living room
with several white plastic chairs on it. I picked up the Tom Clancy
novel that I hadn't quite finished in Hawaii, and took it out to
the deck. The deedle-deedle music from Vicky's video game
disappeared when I closed the glass door.

I found myself thinking about Drake Langston
more than I intended to. I wanted to tell myself that it was a
vacation fling, but I'm not given to flings, so that idea went
against my grain.

By five o’clock the sun was low over the
western hills, the tall pines casting cool shadows my way. I slid
the glass door open. Video characters bounced across the TV screen.
Ron dozed on the sofa, the sports section of the Albuquerque paper
draped across his chest.

“I think I’ll start some dinner,” I
suggested.

Neither of them replied. I walked between
Vicky and the television without breaking her concentration.
Rummaging through our provisions, I came up with a frozen lasagna,
which I popped into the oven. Dumped pre-cut salad greens into a
bowl. The condo came equipped with plenty of dishes and utensils so
I set the table and located a candle for the center. Ron roused at
the sound of all the clinking and helped put the finishing touches
on the salad. We whiled away the rest of the lasagna’s baking time
by taking turns challenging Vicky at the video game. My skills in
this department are sadly lacking and I got eliminated early in the
first round.

At last the lasagna bubbled and we pried the
video game away from Vicky. Ron lit the candle on our table and
held her hand as we took our seats.

“So, Vicky, Ron tells me you’re a decorator,”
I said, once we’d scooped lasagna and salad onto our plates.

“Yeah,” she answered, her dark eyes looking
at Ron rather than me.

“Do you have a specialty? Residential or
commercial?”

“Oh, just about anything.”

“What’s your preference in style?
Traditional, contemporary?” I felt like I was giving her the third
degree but she certainly wasn’t volunteering anything.

She shrugged in answer to my question.

Ron piped up: “You should see Vicky’s place,
Charlie. She’s really done a beautiful job with it.”

“Great, I’d like that.” I addressed the
answer to Vicky, although she had not extended the invitation.

Ron sensed her reluctance to open up and he
steered the subject to something else. After dinner, the two of
them volunteered to do the dishes. Vicky laughed and talked with
Ron, who had his arms in the soapy water. What was going on here? I
could only guess that she just plain didn’t like me.

I excused myself and took my dog and my
Clancy novel downstairs to my room, where I could convince myself
that being alone was just fine with me.

Sunday morning I awoke early, dressed and
took Rusty out for a walk. We bought fresh muffins at the small
market on the highway and listened to the bells at the white
steepled church chime out hymns half-remembered from childhood. I
shared my muffin with Rusty. Despite the tantalizing aroma of
coffee, Ron and Vicky didn’t surface until nearly noon.

It was a bizarre weekend, to say the least. I
was relieved to wave goodbye to them, as they drove away Sunday
evening.

There was a message on my answering machine
from Drake. He said he missed me, and would call again later. His
voice did sound wistful. Hearing from him completely undid all the
self-talk I'd done over the weekend. My insides felt unsettled.

The next morning, I was back at my desk by
the time Sally arrived.

"How was your weekend?" she asked, leaning
against my doorframe with her mug of tea in hand.

My eyes rolled, although I swear I didn't
intend them to, when I told her where I'd been.

"That good, huh." She didn't really look
surprised.

"Oops, there goes the front door." We both
heard the bell, which we have rigged up to sound in the back and
the upstairs offices, at the same time. Sally headed toward the
front.

About a minute later, my intercom line
buzzed.

"Sharon Ortega to see you." Sally's voice was
neutral.

Sharon had obviously dressed without much
attention to detail this morning. She wore a pair of black slacks
and a white sweatshirt that showed gray smudges at the cuffs and
elbows. Her breezy blond hair now hung limply, and her face was
without makeup and splotchy looking. She didn't waste any time on
preliminaries once she was seated in the chair across from me.

"David is dead," she said flatly.

It took me a minute for me to associate that
it was her restaurant business partner she was talking about. A
variety of emotions flickered across her face and came out in her
body language. Her face was puffy from crying, her eyes red rimmed.
Her hands wouldn't stay still. She twisted her fingers around each
other in a way that looked painful. Tension was evident in her arms
and neck. Clearly, she was extremely shaken. Something told me she
was scared.

I wished Ron were here. I couldn't imagine
that Sharon was coming here to tell me this dire news as a friend.
We weren't that close. If she intended to hire the firm to look
into David's death, I would prefer that Ron be here to handle it.
But, he wasn't, so it looked like I was stuck.

"Tell me what happened, Sharon," I suggested,
as gently as possible.

The quiet evenness in my voice unleashed a
fresh flood of tears. It's like, when you're a kid, the cut doesn't
hurt so bad until someone sympathizes with you. I handed her a box
of Kleenex, and let her take her time. Finally, the sniffles slowed
down a bit.