Stardom Can Be Murder: Charlie Parker Mystery #12

by Connie Shelton

  “Where’s everybody?” I asked.

  He nodded vaguely toward the other rooms. “Found ’em some places to sleep.” He kept his voice barely above a whisper and I found myself following suit.

  “Didn’t you get to sleep?” I asked.

  “A little. String said we should take turns watching you.”

  Watching me sleep, bound with duct tape? Now that was a creepy thought.

  “I’m freezing down here. Any chance there’s a blanket or a spare jacket around?”

  He left the kitchen and came back a few minutes later with a thin bathrobe, which he draped over my shoulders. It looked like something from the ’40s and smelled of old woman, but I reasoned that I wasn’t exactly at my freshest right now either. At least it was something.

  “So, String’s grandmother lived here until she passed away, but no one ever came and cleared out her things?” I asked, by way of getting a conversation going.

  Billy shrugged. “I don’t know his family story.”

  “I need to stand up. My legs are all cramped.”

  Considering that I’d been folded to the shape of a backward capital N all night, it was amazing that I unfolded at all when Billy came over to give me a hand.

  “Could I go to the bathroom before they all come back in here?” I pointed at the tape around my knees and ankles. “It would be quieter if I didn’t have to hop the whole way.”

  “Just for a minute. And I’ll have to tape you back up as soon as you’re done.” He fished a short knife from his pocket and slit the tape on my lower extremities. “Make it quick.”

  I limped across the room, every joint in my body screaming, and I closed the bathroom door behind me without asking permission. The tiny room reeked. I couldn’t imagine how it would be after another few days of use by, now, five people. I held my breath and finished as quickly as I possibly could.

  Taking my mind off the stench, I took a quick look around. The high, tiny window showed as a rectangle of pale gray, and there was a slim wedge of light from under the door. I could make out a porcelain tub, an old-fashioned sink mounted directly to the wall, a mirrored medicine cabinet above it. While struggling to get my jeans back up with my wrists bound together I edged toward it. Was able to pull the hinged mirror back, but the shelves inside revealed only a plastic comb and a few bottles. I couldn’t read the labels in the dim light.

  A tap at the door startled me.

  “Hurry up, Miss Cross,” Billy whispered.

  I stepped back into the kitchen just as String entered from another doorway.

  “What the—” he demanded, staring at Billy.

  “Uh, sorry, String. She really had to go.” He grabbed up the tape, made me sit in one of the chairs, and did a secure job of lashing my legs together again.

  The boss looked like he had more to say but Mole showed up just then, with the new guy right behind.

  “I’m hungry,” the young one complained.

  Tell me about it, I thought. I’d had nothing but a drugged peanut butter sandwich in the last twenty-four hours, and I’m a girl who’s usually pretty prompt with her meals. A vision of chicken enchiladas smothered in green chile sauce flashed before me. Was this what I would think of in my dying moments—did my life truly consist of food?

  String, meanwhile, flung open all the cupboard doors but didn’t find anything. They’d consumed all the dry saltines last night.

  “No coffee, no booze. What a load of—” Mole’s little observation was interrupted by his boss.

  “Okay, I’ve got a plan,” String said. “We’ll be able to hang out here for a few days if we get some food. And we gotta figure out how to contact somebody who’s gonna pay to get our girl back.” His eyes rested on me for a long moment, sending a trail of bile up my throat.

  The young guy, Kid, spoke up. “I thought about that. I know who we can call.”

  We all stared at him.

  “Rena Lynn follows that movie stuff all the time. People magazine, them entertainment shows on TV, all that. So, anyways, she’s telling me awhile back that Cristina Cross is filming on location around Santa Fe. Rena Lynn wants to go up there and try out for some kinda bit part. I guess they hire locals to be in the crowds or something?”

  “Yeah, so?” Mole gave him a hard stare.

  “So, I could text Rena Lynn and ask her the name of the movie company. Get the phone number they put in that audition call thing.”

  String mulled this over. “That’s not bad.” He gave me a hard stare. “Or, we just beat it out of this one.” He headed toward me with a balled up fist.

  My nerve endings froze.

  “String, wait!” Billy reached for his arm. “You said we better not mess her up. They might ask for a picture, you know, to prove she’s alive. She better not have bruises all over her face.”

  “Good point.” He lowered his aim and sent the punch to my gut instead.

  Pain shot through my entire mid-section and my vision became a dark tunnel.

  “String!” Mole spoke up. “Don’t be dumb.”

  Well, that accusation took all the attention off me as String tackled Mole and the two men went to the floor. Luckily, Kid and Billy stepped in and pulled them apart before guns and knives appeared. I blinked to get my vision back and gasped for air, both from the blow and from the sudden way in which the whole precarious scene had changed.

  After a minute or so the fighters went to opposite corners of the ring, glaring at each other, with the other two on watch that they didn’t start up again.

  “C’mon String, the plan’s gonna fall apart if you guys fight.” Billy sounded like the hopeful child who didn’t want his parents battling anymore.

  String took a deep breath, glared one final time at Mole, and spoke. “Yeah. Okay, let’s get on with the plan then.”

  He sat at the table once more, ruby arms on its surface, scarlet fingers pressed together.

  “Somebody’s gotta stay here and watch her. Mole, you’ll do that.”

  I so wanted to protest that choice but luckily Mole did it first. “Nuh-uh. I will be there when you make the ransom call.”

  “Okay, okay. Domino, you can watch her. Kid, go out there where you left my car and bring it up here by the house. Somebody’ll spot it from the highway.”

  The young guy started to say something but thought better of it. He went out the back door.

  I didn’t want to point out that Billy was their worst choice to be my guard. He’d already gotten into trouble for untaping me once this morning. But I was no fool; if they chose Billy, I could go with that.

  “And just to be sure she don’t give you no trouble, she’s gonna take a little nap again,” String said, pulling a prescription pill bottle from his pocket. He tossed it to Billy. “Make sure she takes one before we leave.”

  A sound outside drew everyone’s attention and a full minute later a vehicle with an extremely bad muffler drove around the back of the house. Now I understood why the young guy had chosen to approach on foot last night.

  “Mole, grab some of your cash. Let’s go.”

  “Hey, why do I have to pay for the—” Mole shut up when String picked up his pistol from the table and pointed it just a little too long toward Mole. After Mole stuffed some bills into his pockets, String jammed the gun into the waistband of his pants, without another word.

  Mole and String went out the back door and I could hear them talking to Kid. Then the three of them got into the deceased Melinda’s silver-gray sedan and it turned around and headed down the gravel lane.

  Billy turned to me. “Well, uh, I think you better take one of these.” He yawned as he held up the pill bottle and it occurred to me that he’d probably not slept all night, for fear of String’s reprisals if he didn’t guard me closely enough. He worked the cap loose and tipped a single tablet out into his hand, then gave it to me.

  “I’ll need water. I never could swallow pills dry,” I told him.

  He dutifully went out to the rain b
arrel and came back with a pan full, from which he poured some into a questionable-looking glass that he found on the counter. While he had his back turned I slipped the pill into the pocket of my jeans and then mimed popping it into my mouth when he turned around. I swear, some guys make this way too easy.

  The water went down cool and good, reminding me that I was really dehydrated. I drank the whole glass and asked for more.

  “Billy?”

  He set the glass on the counter and turned toward me again. “Yeah?”

  “I don’t think I can fall asleep on that floor again. Isn’t there a couch or something softer in this place?”

  So far String had kept the two of us strictly in the kitchen and Billy seemed surprised by the idea that there was more of a house here.

  “Sit there,” he said. “I’ll go check.”

  Like I had much choice. Hopping out the back door with duct tape around my legs, ankles and wrists, in broad daylight, didn’t seem like a real smart move, even in my desperate wish to be out of here.

  He didn’t go far to check anyway. Standing in the doorway he scanned the rooms beyond.

  “Okay. There’s a couch in the living room. We’ll go in there.”

  I hopped noisily into the other room, hoping Billy would be unnerved enough by the thumping that he would unstrap my legs, but it was not to be.

  I yawned hugely and fought an absurd urge to laugh when Billy automatically followed suit. Maybe I could coax him to sleep this way.

  “Could you bring that robe from the kitchen for a cover?” I asked as I sat on the sofa, which turned out to be on the lumpy side. A small throw pillow rested nearby but it had a distinct head-indentation on it. I imagined Mole or String stretched out here during the night and everything in me rebelled at laying my head on the same spot. I flipped the pillow over and tried to think of anything else at all as I lay on my side, curled up.

  Billy came back with the musty robe and draped it over me.

  I did another pseudo-yawn. “Boy, those pills work fast . . .”

  I slowed my breathing and concentrated on keeping my eyes from moving under the lids. Billy moved away from me and I heard him flop into an overstuffed armchair that I’d noticed near the foot of the sofa. Perfect. With my eyelids barely cracked open I could spy through my lashes.

  Sure enough, within ten minutes my guard was fast asleep. Unfortunately, when I tested the depth of his slumber by making a little groaning noise, he immediately snapped awake and eyed me suspiciously. When it became clear that I was probably just snoring, he nodded off again. Well, darn. There’d be no tippy-toeing past him and out the back door.

  Like I was in any position to be subtle about my movements. So far my attempts at hopping from place to place were anything but quiet. I thought about my situation and found that applying logic was a way to suppress the panic that otherwise hovered at the edges all the time. I would need to: a) get them to trust me enough to leave my legs unbound—arms and legs would be even better; b) be very careful not to ingest any more of those sleeping pills—I would eventually need some real sleep but I wanted it on my own terms; c) watch for my chance as soon as possible—once the real Cristina Cross showed up alive and well my value was gone and my ass was grass.

  That thought did nothing to ease my fears but forcing myself to relax and think, it seemed that now was a good time to rest up and bank away some energy. I finally drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 13

  Drake woke with a start. The glow of a streetlight through the bay window reminded him that he was on the loveseat in Charlie’s office. Yesterday’s nightmare came back to him in a rush. He and Ron had come here after spending all afternoon at APD headquarters downtown. The FBI and APD Robbery Division were on the case. But Charlie was still missing. He patted his pockets. Her cell phone was in one, his own in another. Neither had rung all night.

  He sat straight up, rubbing at his neck to ease a cramp from dozing off with his head at an odd tilt. It must be early morning. A clock on Charlie’s credenza confirmed, 5:57. He scrubbed at his face, willing some blood to the surface. Where was Ron?

  Drake wandered across the hall to his brother-in-law’s office to find him seated at his desk, head on his arms, snoring away. He left him alone and went into the bathroom.

  A glance in the mirror showed the ravages of the situation—dark circles under his eyes, stubble thick on his face. If possible, it seemed there was more gray in his hair; the touches at his temples had become generously sprinkled throughout the brown. He splashed water on his face and finger-combed the hair. Until he had Charlie back he really didn’t much care how he looked. His eyes became red-rimmed thinking of her but he refused to give in. She’d be okay. He had to believe it.

  He meandered downstairs to the kitchen, found the makings for coffee and started brewing a pot. Overhead, he heard heavy footfalls. He’d probably wakened Ron, but that was good. They needed to get moving.

  Three minutes later Ron’s boots sounded on the stairs. He came into the kitchen carrying a small sheaf of paper.

  “Do I smell coffee?” he said.

  Drake pointed to the burbling machine. “Almost ready. What’s that?”

  “Research.” He handed Drake the pages but clearly he wasn’t going to interpret them until he’d got some coffee in him.

  While Ron rummaged through the cabinets for a couple of clean mugs, Drake paged through the sheets. They appeared to be printouts of internet pages.

  The coffee maker hissed, a few drops hitting the hot metal plate, when Ron removed the carafe to pour. Drake took a first sip of the hot brew while Ron spent a minute doctoring his with sugar and creamer.

  “How’d you find all this?” Drake asked, giving a nod toward the pages on the kitchen table.

  “Started with what I knew. Same as any investigation.” He took a generous hit of the coffee. “Had the names of Lonnie Stringer and Leon Mohler. While the cops are out on the streets looking up known associates I opted for technology. Well, that and a little memory.”

  They sat at the table and Ron dealt the pages out like a hand of solitaire. He tapped at a photo.

  “Leon Mohler. This one I knew because I’d run up against him before. So, I Google his name and come up with somebody who ‘friended’ him on Facebook. A woman named Lila Jackman. I know—who’d have thought criminals might have Facebook friends. But okay.” He tapped at a picture of a dark-haired woman. “I take a look at this Lila’s profile and she’s got a bunch of friends. I start clicking on their profiles. Among them is a girl named Melinda Davies.”

  Drake knew his expression must look completely blank at this point. Charlie was the computer expert in their family, and even she had not gone much for this social media craze.

  “Melinda is one of those chatty little types who thinks the entire world wants to know what she had for breakfast, when she went to the mall, that kind of stuff.”

  “People really open up that much?”

  “You wouldn’t believe.” Ron got up for a minute to top off his mug. “So, chatty little Melinda, who posts about a zillion times a day, is talking about how her boyfriend is going to take them on a big trip. She’s guessing maybe Europe, maybe a cruise, and her friends are all chiming in with their O-M-Gs and W-T-Fs and making guesses of their own about where this trip might go.”

  Drake shrugged, feeling more out of the loop than ever.

  “Sorry. Anyhow, one of Melinda’s friends is her mother, Sissy Davies. Yesterday morning Melinda posts something . . . here it is . . . ‘tired of waiting around for String to show, heading to mom’s place at R-ville.’ The boyfriend’s name is String.”

  “Stringer.”

  “Exactly. Makes sense to me anyway. These little bunches of friends tend to be inter-related and it would make sense that Melinda’s boyfriend would also be a pal of Leon Mohler.”

  “Yeah, true.”

  “Maybe the most significant thing is that Melinda has not posted one word since yesterday, aro
und noon. We’re talking the queen of chatterboxes, and suddenly she’s completely silent. I don’t like it.”

  Drake stared at the photos, trying to process what Ron was telling him. “So, what next?”

  “That’s about the point, at three this morning, where my brain shut down and I guess I just dozed off at the desk.”

  Drake grinned at him. “Yeah you did. Me too, on Charlie’s little couch.”

  “So, my first step this morning is to find Sissy Davies’s address. That’s where Melinda was headed when she dropped off the face of the earth. Why would she do that when she’s expecting to hear from boyfriend Stringer at any moment with news of this big, special trip they’re going to take?”

  Drake felt his pulse quicken. It was the first concrete thing they had to go on. “Shouldn’t we be reporting all this to Kingston or Gonzales?”

  “Yeah, definitely. Let me see how much more I can gather before we contact them.” Ron filled his mug a third time and headed upstairs, actually looking pretty much awake now.

  Drake mulled over the new information while he rummaged through the kitchen cupboards to see if there might be anything they could call breakfast. A package of Oreos looked more appealing than the outdated milk and nearly empty orange juice carton in the fridge. He grabbed them and headed toward Ron’s office.

  “There’s a Davies listed with a Romeroville address,” Ron said. “First initial C.”

  “I’ve flown over Romeroville and it’s not much. There can’t be too many unrelated Davies there. If C doesn’t translate to something that would be Sissy, this person will surely know who she is.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Ron picked up his phone and dialed.

  “It’s only six-thirty,” Drake said.

  “Yeah, so why isn’t someone answering?” He sat with the phone to his ear and let it ring and ring. After two full minutes he hung up. “Not happening. No one’s there.”

  “Or no one wants to answer. Maybe they have caller ID and you’re coming through as an unknown or something. Or Melinda and her mom went somewhere, back to Melinda’s place overnight . . . there are just too many possibilities.”