Competition Can Be Murder
The Eighth Charlie Parker Mystery
By Connie Shelton
Copyright © 2004 Connie Shelton
Chapter 1
The rolling gray waves of the north Atlantic stretched beneath me to the horizon in all directions. For a kid from New Mexico who’d always had a mountain, a rock, or a tree as a focal point, all that gray shimmering undulation felt a bit unnerving. I glanced again at the waypoint I’d programmed into the GPS and gripped the cyclic a little more firmly. I was right on course.
Eyes on the horizon, I refused to think about the water’s depth and my stomach settled back into position. In the distance, between the heavy gray sky and the steel-gray water, I thought I could see the tiny dot I was aiming for. It appeared to be too far to the north. I was going to miss it by a half mile at least. But I resisted the temptation to change course. The main thing I’d learned from Drake during my flight lessons was to trust my instruments, not my eyes. I rechecked the GPS reading once again.
The two men in the back seat, both burly, rosy-complected Scots, watched the back of my head. They both nodded curtly when I asked over the intercom if they were doing all right back there. The one whose red checked shirt showed above his survival suit raised the corners of his mouth in what might have been taken for a smile when I glanced over my shoulder at them. The other held his lips in a straight line that made me wonder if he was naturally stern or was struggling to keep his breakfast inside.
“Almost there, guys,” I announced in the most chipper voice I could manage.
The outline of the oil rig was becoming clearer now, its assortment of blocks and protrusions making it look like some kind of tenement apartment building that had collided with a communications tower, all stuck onto a couple dozen stick-like legs coming up out of the water. I approached from the south, eased the right pedal so we made a gentle turn, and circled the rig to come into the wind. The big yellow H on the deck was clear and I flared slightly and set the JetRanger’s skids squarely on it.
A dark-haired crewman, ducking to avoid the spinning rotor blades, approached and opened the back doors for each of my two passengers. They shook themselves a little, like dogs out of the bath, when their feet touched the solid platform. Gathering a bulky pack each, they headed toward the crew headquarters without a backward glance at me.
I tightened down my cyclic stick and removed my headset so I could give the ship a look before taking off again. Improperly latched doors have caused more than one helicopter crash and I wasn’t taking any chances out there over the water. The crewman glared at me from under heavy black eyebrows as I circled, rechecking the doors he’d just handled. I gave him a smile and a nod, and made a show of checking the cargo door and fuel cap just to let him know it wasn’t personal. He backed away from the ship and stood at the edge of the helipad, hands on hips, waiting for me to leave again.
Colin Finnie, the crew chief I’d met for the first time yesterday, stepped out of his office and gave me a wave. Several other men waited in the background, talking quietly among themselves.
“Anyone going back this trip?” I asked as Finnie met me halfway.
“Not this time, Charlie. Tell Drake we’ll have five transfers on Thursday.”
“Got it.” I shook his hand and turned back to my aircraft.
As I rechecked my controls and brought up my engine speed, I noticed the other crewman talking behind his hand to Finnie. His eyes darted toward the helicopter as he spoke, those black brows dipping ominously.
What was that all about, I wondered as I pulled pitch and lifted off the platform. An hour later, bringing the aircraft in over the Inverness airport, it was still on my mind. I’d have to remember to ask Drake about it when he got back.
The warmth inside the tiny office at Air-Sea Helicopters hit me with force the second I stepped out of the brisk, cool outdoors. I reached for the zipper on my red survival suit, ready to peel it off.
“Drake left you a message, Charlie,” Meggie piped up. “He’ll be in by three and wondered if you’d still be around?”
Meggie Flanery came with the job, and I was thankful that she knew the ropes and was willing to work with me. We’d taken the summer job in Scotland as a favor to an old friend of Drake’s. Brian Swinney had known Drake back in their years of flying tours together in Hawaii. He’d returned to his native Scotland a few years ago and started his own helicopter service, but an illness in the family forced him to London just after he’d received a lucrative contract servicing the oil rigs in the North Sea. Since Drake’s fire contract had ended in July, we’d just been able to get away from New Mexico, get to Scotland, and take all the tests and check rides to get our UK licenses by the first week of August. Brian was paying good money, but truthfully, Drake and I were really here for the adventure.
Meggie looked at me expectantly, her wide blue eyes and cupid’s-bow mouth pursed in question.
“Sure, I can wait.” I glanced at my watch. It was only another hour. Maybe Drake and I could grab some dinner together at a pub in town before we headed back to our rented cottage.
Meggie picked up the radio’s microphone and transmitted Drake’s call sign, the tail letters for the company’s other aircraft. His voice came over the speaker and I could hear the Eurocopter’s turbine whine in the background. I loved the way his voice sounded over the air, calm and professional at all times.
“Looks like you’re all set, then,” Meggie said after she signed off with Drake.
I slid the padded survival suit off my shoulders and freed my hands. “Whew! That thing sure feels good out there over the water, but I’ll tell you, it’s hotter than blazes indoors.”
Meggie watched me with something bordering on awe. For all her twenty-one years, she had that flawless skin that comes only from a lifetime of exposure to cool, moist air and the pure blond, blue-eyed purity handed down from her Nordic ancestors. Still, she hadn’t worked with many women pilots and never one who’d been known to double as a private investigator once in awhile. I got the feeling at times that she’d like to adopt me as a big sister.
“Can I make you a cup of tea, then, Charlie?”
“Um, sure. That sounds nice.” I tugged the legs of my jeans straight and rolled the sleeves of my plaid shirt past my forearms. “Let me wash up and run a brush through my hair.”
I remembered something. “Meggie? One other thing—”
“Sure,” she replied.
“The flight manual for the JetRanger. It’s not in the aircraft. Have you seen it around here? I’m not supposed to fly without it on board.”
“Haven’t seen it here. Sorry. But I’ve got the information on the computer. I can print out another one.”
“Thanks.”
She turned to her monitor, made a few clicks with the mouse, and the printer began to feed out sheets of paper.
Ten minutes later I was sitting in the spare office chair, feet up on the waste basket, with a warm mug of tea in one hand and a buttery shortbread cookie in the other.
“Karen called,” Meggie said. “She says Brian’s mother is a wee bit better today.”
“It must be hard on them, watching him go through the chemo and all.”
“Yes, I think so. I can’t imagine me own mum bein’ sick like that. How about you? Your own parents in good health?”
I told her how I’d lost my parents very suddenly when I was fifteen and Drake only had his mother now.
Meggie gave me another of those awestruck looks when she learned I’d basically been on my own since my teen years.
“But I have a neighbor who’s like a grandmother to me,” I assured her. “And two brothers. It’s about all the family I can hand
le.”
The radio crackled, Drake announcing, “I’m beach-in. Fifteen minutes ETA.”
Now that he’d cleared the coast, I swigged the last of my tea and went outside to tie down the JetRanger’s rotor blades and get everything secured for the night.
I’d just finished my duties when I caught the distinctive sound of the Astar’s blades beating the air behind me. A British Air flight had just departed five minutes earlier, so I assumed Drake would be cleared by the tower for immediate landing. Sure enough, he brought the sleek red and white aircraft in smoothly and set her down on his designated pad. He grinned at me from the right seat as he gently pumped the rotor brake and the turbine engines wound down. As always, my heart did a little skip when I saw his gorgeous smile. Nearly two years of marriage haven’t dampened things a bit for us.
An hour later, we’d secured both aircraft for the night, let Meggie go home, and driven into town in search of a pub and dinner. At the Lantern Wick I was debating whether to brave it and try the Scottish delicacy, haggis, or to go with the less scary roast beef.
“You know how they make that haggis, don’t you?” Drake teased.
“Please, I really don’t need the details.” I only knew that they used just about everything from the inside of a sheep, but didn’t really want the whole play-by-play on how it was made. Every Highlander I’d asked about it simply said that it was very good and very rich. “Okay, I’m hungry tonight. I’m gonna brave it. If I don’t like it, I’ll get a sandwich to take home.”
Drake opted for shepherd’s pie, which smelled good enough to make my knees weak when it arrived. For a few minutes we didn’t have much to say, as we dug into our meals. The haggis did turn out to be very good and very rich, with a warm whiskey gravy and a side dish called clapshot that tasted a lot like mashed potatoes. After I’d rolled my eyes and moaned pleasurably with the first bite, Drake even bravely tried a little.
“What’s with that attitude I’m sensing out at the oil platform?” I finally asked him after we’d curbed our initial starvation pangs.
“Did someone give you a hard time?”
“Not really, it’s just a sense of hostility I get when I go out there.” I told him about the crewman who’d openly glared at me when I landed. “Today wasn’t the first time.”
“Brankin, I think that guy’s name is,” Drake said. “He’s one of the union leaders.”
“Uh-oh. Are we getting into the middle of something nasty here?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” His face was solemn and I knew he was trying to be straight with me without alarming me.
“Well, let me in on what you do know. I don’t want to get hassled out there.”
“I met a few of the union guys yesterday,” he said. “I remember Robson, Ewing, Barrie, Tolliver . . . some of them. But I haven’t managed to put the names and faces together yet.”
We’d agreed that I’d handle some of the flying in the JetRanger, an aircraft I was used to flying at home, while Drake would take the bulk of the time, flying the French machine. It was more complicated, with some of the controls operating the opposite ways of those I was accustomed to. The contract called for nearly constant use of that machine, while the secondary one, mine, would probably only be called out once or twice a week.
“There’s some kind of union squabble going on between the boat operators and the helicopter operators. The oil companies like the convenience of using aircraft, but the boat operators don’t want to lose the business. They’ve got some of the oil crews steamed up against us. A few of the men have refused to fly, wanting to only be transported back and forth to shore aboard the boats. Some of the ones you saw today, by the sound of it.”
“But Brian has a contract. Would they actually try to harm us?”
“I don’t think so. I think the real beef is with the oil company. But Brian’s in the middle.”
“And since he’s in the middle, that means you and I are in it too, aren’t we?”
He nodded and drained his glass of ale.
Chapter 2
I rolled over and slowly worked my eyelids open. The window looked out on acres of emerald green lawn, bordered by low heather and tall pine forest. Gray sky gave the room a feeling of pre-dawn gloom, but a glance at the clock told me we were well past that. It was after eight o’clock.
Drake had left sometime before daylight, needing to get to the airport and be ready to fly early. I’d checked Meggie’s calendar yesterday afternoon and noticed that, even though the oil company didn’t have any flights for him today, she’d booked a couple of sightseeing tours for the morning and a recon of a farm later in the afternoon. Rain speckles on the window made me wonder if the weather would end up nixing the day’s work.
I threw my legs over the edge of the bed, instinctively watching for the dog I was accustomed to seeing asleep on the floor beside me. Unfortunately, we couldn’t bring our big red Lab, Rusty, with us. The UK’s laws on quarantining pets that come into the country made it impractical, which was probably the real point of the law anyway, more so than the supposed one of keeping the country rabies-free. Well, it was only for a couple of months that I’d have to do without canine companionship.
After a quick trip to the bathroom and brushing my teeth, I slipped on jeans and a light sweater. A sound outside caught my attention and I went to the window and peered down. From our second-floor bedroom I couldn’t see the source so I padded down the stairs in my socks and pulled aside the drape covering the sliding glass door in the living room. The noise had elevated and I picked out two male voices in a heated exchange, although I couldn’t make out the words. No one was visible here, on the south side of the cottage, so I went into the kitchen.
From the small window over the sink I could see a young man stalking toward our driveway, two border collies trotting along at his heels. His back was to me and I could only see that he had reddish-blond hair and wore khaki work pants, heavy boots, and a plaid shirt. He carried a long shepherd’s crook. The two black and white dogs stayed right with him and I was suddenly overcome with the need to pat a friendly doggy head. I sidestepped quickly to the front door and went out, belatedly realizing that I didn’t have shoes on and that it was raining a steady, light drizzle.
The man looked my way as I closed the door behind me, somewhat louder than necessary.
“Hi,” I ventured.
The golden brows, which had been pulled tightly together over an upturned nose, relaxed somewhat and his expression became a tad less surly.
“I’m Charlie Parker,” I said, putting more perkiness than necessary into my voice. “We’re renting the cottage here for a couple of months.”
He was gentleman enough not to ignore the hand I extended to him. “Ian Brodie,” he replied as he stepped forward.
“Are you a neighbor?”
“Near enough.” His head tilted toward the long drive that led to our cottage.
“Beautiful dogs,” I commented. “I really miss ours.” I leaned forward and the two collies came immediately to sniff my hands. I ruffled their ears and patted both heads at once.
Ian softened considerably now that I’d gotten down on one knee and was letting the dogs lick my face. “Aye, I can see that ye do.”
“We’re just here for the rest of the summer,” I said. “Not long enough to try to bring him with us.” I told him about Rusty and his friendly manner.
“These are working dogs,” he said. “We run sheep.”
“Nearby?”
“Here on the property. We rent from the Dunbars, too.” Something hardened in his face but I had no clue what caused it.
Our landlords were, I guess in the most literal sense, land lords. The family Dunbar went back just about to the dawn of time, and the thousands of acres where we now resided contained a few rental cottages, plenty of farm land, and one real, authentic castle. I could see its turrets from our upper windows, but had caught only the merest glimpse of the whole structure the day we arrived to pic
k up our keys from the estate manager’s office.
I told Ian briefly what we were doing here and suggested that he drop by anytime, and bring the dogs.
“Well, my wife and I are around a lot. You can always find a friendly dog or two with us. Our place is the second turn after the bend in the road.”
“I thought I heard voices a minute ago,” I mentioned.
Ian stared pointedly at my feet, which were clad in thoroughly soggy socks now, and shrugged. “Was nothin’.” He turned and gave a sharp whistle to the dogs, who immediately snapped to attention.
I stood slowly and watched the three of them follow the drive toward the road. Something had sure touched a nerve.
Chapter 3
The phone was ringing when I opened the front door. My socks made squishy noises as my feet hit the tile in the entryway. I reached to peel them off, trying to hop toward the kitchen phone, and nearly landed on my face in the effort. It took about three giant stumbling steps to recover and reach the telephone. I managed a breathless, “Hello?” as I slid the last two feet and knocked one knee into the refrigerator. “Shit!”
“Excuse me?” a cultured female voice answered.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” I breathed. “I was outside.”
“In this weather? No wonder.” She paused a long few seconds. “Is that Charlie Parker, then?”
“Yes, yes it is,” I stuttered, wondering who on earth had our number here. Meggie was the only female I’d spoken to, and this voice was a few decades older than hers.
“Yes, Charlie. It’s Sarah Dunbar, up at Dunworthy.”
“Oh.” Brilliant, Charlie. What a charming answer to the lady of the castle. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Dunbar. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“Oh, nonsense, girl. The weather’s a fright today. I should give you a minute to towel off. Would you like me to phone back later? And, please, it’s Sarah.”
“No . . . Sarah, this is fine. No need to make another call. I’m doing just fine.” I was, in fact, toweling off as we spoke, rubbing a kitchen hand towel vainly over my hair in an effort to keep the water from dripping into my eyes. Why hadn’t I noticed how wet I was getting while I petted the dogs?
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