Reunions Can Be Murder: The Seventh Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  In a phone call to federal banking authorities, the News Express has learned that the bank was closed on their orders, after an audit on Friday uncovered severe shortages of cash and irregularities in accounting procedures. At this time, no other details are known.

  I printed those pages, then scrolled to subsequent dates.

  According to William “Bill” Walker, a local businessman, he and many of the townspeople were approached by one Phillip Stanton with a plan to further develop the town. “I guess we were ripe for his kind of deal,” said Walker. “White Oaks hadn’t seen prosperous times for at least fifty years and the town was on its way downhill. Stanton had the whole thing planned out. Housing developments for a retirement community, stores, a community center, the whole thing. Lots of us went for it. We’d each invest what we could toward the amenities, then we’d get our money back tenfold as the housing started to sell. He even showed us contracts from homeowners who’d already bought in. People were going to be moving here from all over the country.”

  Testimony at the trial of bank president Sam Curry revealed that the bank’s officers and directors had fully backed the project. Stanton, who had skipped to an unknown location, had convinced the officers of the validity of the project and they had, in fact, put depositors’ money at risk in the development.

  In a bizarre set of coincidences, the sum of three million dollars had been wire transferred from the White Oaks bank to the account of River Oaks Development late Thursday afternoon, October 12th. On that same day, River Oaks Development wired the money to Sagebrush Properties, who then wired it to Stonebridge Land and Cattle. A convoluted set of documents showed that Phillip Stanton had a hand in each of these entities but no actual transfer of funds to him directly can be traced. Despite a warrant for his arrest, Stanton has not been located.

  “In short, the investors and the bank are out everything they invested,” testified Warren Collins of the Federal Banking Commission.

  The News Gazette went on with follow up stories about Sam Curry, the bank president being sentenced to ninety days in jail and two years probation. After serving his brief jail time, Curry quickly disappeared. Several businesses immediately folded, and all but two of the former directors left town quickly and quietly. Bud Tucker was one of the two who stayed.

  I looked at the stack of pages I’d printed and rubbed my itchy eyes. It was nearly eight o’clock. Following Molly’s directions, I turned off the equipment and locked the door. Drake would probably be back at the hotel by now. I dialed the number on my cell phone as I started the car.

  “Hey there, have you had dinner yet?” I asked when he answered.

  “Just finished. I didn’t know if you’d be back tonight.”

  I told him where I was and that I’d fill him in when I got there. “I’ll grab a fast food something on the way,” I said.

  By nine o’clock Drake was in the shower and I had just finished a semi-soggy burger. My head was so full of the complexities of the banking scandal that I knew I wouldn’t fall asleep right away. I stretched out on the bed and turned on the television. I had just begun to doze when Drake shook my shoulder gently.

  “Isn’t that your client, hon?” he asked.

  Preoccupied and half groggy, I hadn’t been paying attention to the news report. “What are they saying?”

  He nodded his head toward the TV.

  “. . . at least two dead.” An on-scene reporter with her collar pulled up against the blustery wind was speaking into her microphone.

  “So, just to recap, Chris,” said the female studio anchor gravely, “there’s been a six-car pileup on Interstate 40 near the Carlisle exit. Fifty-nine year old Dorothy Swartzman of Albuquerque, apparently the driver of the lead car that started it all, has been taken to the hospital. The extent of her injuries is unknown at this time. But we do know that two other people died at the scene.”

  “A real tragedy,” agreed her male counterpart. He turned to the other camera. “It was a big day at the zoo today for a group of kindergarten . . .”

  “Did I catch that correctly?” I asked Drake. “Did they say Dorothy caused the crash?”

  “Sounded that way to me.”

  “I wonder if I can reach Melanie.” I went to the room’s desk and rummaged through my purse for the number. It rang four times and a machine picked up. I left a message, giving her the number at the hotel and my cell phone. Told her to call me when she got in, no matter how late.

  “So.” I said, plopping back down on the bed. “I wonder what this means . . .”

  Chapter 10

  The phone rang at six-thirty. Drake had left for the fire scene more than an hour earlier and I’d wired myself with two cups of room-brewed coffee. I planned to head for the hotel’s coffee shop for some real food, then I’d make the decision whether I’d go back to Albuquerque or see what else I could dig up in White Oaks.

  “Did I wake you?” Melanie asked. “I just got in and got your message.”

  “How’s your mother?”

  “She’ll be fine, physically. She’s got a broken leg and a mild concussion. They’re keeping her in the hospital a day or two for observation.”

  “Did she tell you how the accident happened?”

  Melanie sighed. “She claims she saw a hitchhiker who looked just like Grandpa and she was going to pull over and pick him up.”

  “On the Interstate?” For one thing hitching was illegal there and, for another, how would she recognize someone while driving sixty miles an hour?

  “She swerved across two lanes of traffic. I don’t think she understands yet that she caused two people to die.” Melanie sounded bone-tired.

  “Is there anything I can do?” I offered, unsure what it would be.

  “No, I don’t think so. Needless to say, this has put a real damper on the reunion. Everyone was there at the hospital last night, but when it became obvious that Mom would be all right, they all started talking about going home. Couple of them have kids whose spring break is almost over anyway. Guess they’ll all be heading out today or tomorrow. I’m just going to get some sleep, then start shuttling them to the airport.”

  I ended the call by telling Melanie that I wasn’t much closer to locating her grandfather but that there had been some new developments in the case. I’d fill her in when I got back to town. I didn’t mention Randy Buckman’s theory that someone had murdered both the old men and that searchers would find Willie’s body soon.

  After polishing off a plate of pancakes at the coffee shop I went back to the room and left Drake a note saying that I planned to go back to Albuquerque later. I’d call him this evening. I loaded my duffle into the Jeep and headed toward White Oaks one more time. The news accounts of the town’s banking scandal and the possibility that Bud Tucker had been the killer’s real target had bothered me all night.

  The road leading into town was beginning to feel shorter with each trip. At the outskirts I’d passed the town cemetery every time but had never stopped. Now I noticed a gathering of cars there, including Randy Buckman’s cruiser. Tucker’s funeral. I’d forgotten all about it. I pulled into the dirt parking area and stopped behind Sophie’s little red car. A small knot of people was gathered around an open grave to the right of the entrance.

  If you ever want to meet the entire population of a small town at once, just hold a funeral. Keith Randel, Sophie, Buckman, and an assortment of others were all there, their typical ranching attire dressed up by the addition of a clean felt Stetson here, a bolo tie there. A petite woman with fluffy white hair was sobbing into a sodden ball of handkerchief. Bud Tucker’s lady friend from Ruidoso was about to watch her hopes of marriage get lowered into the ground. The man I’d seen yesterday at the café, the one whose words sounded so angry, stood at the edge of the group. I approached quietly and stood next to him.

  A minister, differentiated only by the fact that he wore a small cross pinned to the lapel of his wool jacket, read the twenty-third Psalm. Sophie stood on the op
posite side of the grave from me. Her face was composed, her eyes dry. She stared at a point somewhere in mid-air over the silver coffin. She didn’t acknowledge me.

  Keith stood with his hands clasped in front of his large belly, expression respectful if a tad impatient. I could tell he’d rather be behind his grill, although he knew all his potential customers were standing out here in the open air. He gave me a quick smile and wink. I edged closer to him, mainly because I couldn’t openly study the angry man next to me unless I put a little distance between us.

  The minister said something, the intonation indicating he was finished. Four pall bearers stepped forward to lower the casket into the ground, and Sophie reached down to gather a ceremonial handful of dirt. The white-haired woman looked near collapse as she gripped the arm of a young man next to her. I noticed that Randy Buckman’s eyes continually scanned the crowd. He’d obviously come to the same conclusion I had, that Bud Tucker might have been the target of a local resident.

  I tapped Keith on the arm and he bent his ear close to me.

  “Who’s the man in the buckskin vest?” I asked.

  “Rory?”

  I shrugged.

  “Rory Daniels,” he said. “Family’s lived in these parts forever, I guess.”

  I opened my mouth to whisper another question but Keith was on the move. “Gotta go get the café open,” he said. “C’mon over. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  He gave my arm a quick squeeze and headed toward his small pickup truck as quickly as his massive size permitted. I caught up with Sophie as she rounded the grave. She wore a pair of crisp new jeans and a burgundy western shirt trimmed with a single row of fabric ruffles at the yokes. Her hair was braided down the back of her head and a small silver cross hung from a delicate chain around her neck.

  “You doing okay?” I asked.

  “Sure. I’ll get used to it eventually.” Her weathered face was solemn but her eyes were clear.

  “I have to head back to Albuquerque today,” I told her, mentioning briefly Dorothy and the car accident. “Here’s my number. Just call me if you need anything. Or if you think of anything that might help locate Willie.”

  She nodded and brushed on by. The little crowd had thinned, heading for their cars to get out of the breeze that was picking up steadily from the west. I spotted Rory Daniels getting into the same dusty blue Pontiac he’d been driving yesterday. The other man, whom I’d not noticed in the group, was with him. The two looked—satisfied.

  I walked slowly back to my Jeep, leaving only a dark-suited man, presumably from the funeral home, standing beside the open grave. Keith’s café was hopping when I pulled into the parking area. He’d been right in his assumption that everyone in town would want lunch right after the funeral. Conspicuously missing was Sophie Tucker’s little red car. Had she gone home alone? Was this the town’s way of shunning her for her father’s past transgressions? I hesitated a minute, debating whether to go out to her house or stay here and try to catch the local gossip.

  Gossip won out. I parked and went inside.

  Only one stool at the counter remained empty so I took it, followed by the eyes of everyone else in the room. Keith spotted me and held up the coffee carafe.

  “Could I get iced tea this time? I’ve had enough coffee this morning to wire a small city.”

  He brought me a tall glass of tea with a lemon wedge affixed to the rim. Conversation drifted back to normal in the room as I squeezed the lemon and gave the liquid a stir. A woman I’d not met before came up to the customer seated next to me and asked for his order. Keith was back in the kitchen, his arms working busily at the grill.

  “Ma’am?” The waitress was looking at me. She was in her forties, attractive, with short dark hair styled puffy on top and a generous mouth coated in bright pink lipstick. She wore a flowered shirtwaist dress, and I thought I’d seen her at the funeral.

  “Nothing just now. I had a late breakfast.”

  She moved on to the tables behind me. I kept one ear cocked toward the table where Rory Daniels and his friend sat, to my right. At one point, Daniels’s voice became tense but his friend shushed him and they began talking about the calving season. Soon plates of food began to appear on the stainless steel window ledge and the waitress began to dispense them to the various tables. People didn’t linger. Needing to get back to the work of ranching, they ate, paid, and left in quick succession. When only myself and one other customer remained, Keith’s waitress pulled a purse from behind the counter and turned to go.

  “Thanks, Mona, always ’preciate it,” he said.

  “Anytime. You know that.” She stood on tiptoe and planted a solid kiss on his jowly cheek, leaving a pink lipstick mark. Laughing, she rubbed it off with her thumb and left.

  “Didn’t realize you had a waitress,” I told him when he came over to refill my tea after the other customer had gone.

  “Oh, Mona. She’s kinda like a lady-friend. Helps out when things get busy. We catch a movie over to Ruidoso now and then.”

  “You don’t have to explain her to me,” I told him, smiling at the slow flush that reddened his cheeks. I took a long sip of tea. “Maybe I’ll have some of those world-famous enchiladas now. Smelling all that food made me hungry.”

  “Chicken, with green?”

  “You bet.” Doesn’t take long for a good cook to differentiate the green chile eaters from the red.

  “That Rory Daniels, the guy you pointed out to me at the cemetery?”

  “Yeah?” He peered at me through the kitchen window while he assembled the enchilada plate.

  “What’s his story? I saw him yesterday. Caught just a few words, but enough to give me the idea that he sure hated Bud Tucker. Then he’s at the funeral today?”

  “Hell, ever’body was at the funeral today. That was mite near the whole town.”

  “But if he hated Tucker . . .”

  “Could be he wanted to be sure Bud got buried. Never know about that stuff.” He brought the steaming plate out and set it before me.

  I cut a vent through the tortilla to let steam escape. let sten>What’s behind it? Do you know what he had against Bud?”

  He leaned heavily against the counter. “Goes a long way back. Way ’fore my time here. Guess the whole town nearly went broke back in the ’40s. Some Eastern fella showed up with a scheme and lots of ’em went for it. Rory’s pa was one, I know that much. Poor ol’ guy never was the same. They say it turned his hair white overnight—and he was only in his twenties. Rory was a new baby then. But his pa never did recover. Died when the kid was ’bout ten or so.”

  “What about Rory’s mother?” I asked, savoring another forkful of chicken, cheese and chile.

  “Never met her myself. Never met the pa neither.” He straightened a set of salt and pepper shakers and began to wipe the counter with a rag. “Guess she died ’bout the time Rory growed up. That was about in the ’60s, ’70s, I guess.”

  “And Rory blamed Bud Tucker for that?”

  “Guess so. I hear Bud was one of them bankers back then. Let all the people lose their money. Rory’s family was poorer than dirt after that.”

  “The newspaper reported that the bank president went to jail, but the other directors weren’t held responsible.”

  He looked up and grinned. “Been doin’ a little research, have ya?”

  “Well, some. Just trying to figure out some motive for all this. I can’t see that some random stranger would come along and kill a couple of old men, just to steal Willie’s pickup truck.”

  “Been killin’s for less,” he commented. “Plus, we don’t know but what those two old men had ’em a big stash of gold somewheres.”

  “True.” I puzzled over it as I scraped the last of the chile off my plate. “Just seems like they’d both have chosen a bit better lifestyle if they’d been rich.”

  “Sometimes havin’ riches ain’t the same thing as havin’ things.” His eyes met mine firmly as he said it.

  I had to
agree with that.

  “But, gee, Keith, that was all so long ago,” I said. “How could Rory Daniels still be this angry with Bud so many years later?”

  He shrugged. “Can’t say for sure.” He began to wipe vigorously at the countertop. “Some things you get taught as a kid, they don’t never go away.”

  I watched his rag rub the same spot repeatedly.

  “My own pa grew up in Arkansas,” he continued. “Hated Andrew Jackson worse than anything. Taught me to hate him too.” He rubbed harder at the countertop. “Now you know neither me or my pa was around in Jackson’s time, but I still can’t stand that man. Don’t even want his name spoken.”

  I almost laughed but toned it down to a rueful grin. “Guess some things run pretty deep, huh.”

  He met my eyes firmly. “They do. Always remember that.”

  I paid my check and decided I’d drop in to see how Sophie was doing, one last time before heading back to the city.

  Her car sat in front of the brick Victorian so I pulled in beside it. Sophie was on the porch, lifting the previous season’s hanging flower baskets down from their hooks. She’d changed from her good jeans and shirt into a faded pair and a worn flannel shirt with the tails hanging free.

  “Figured I’d better get these things cleared away. Can’t decide whether I want to plant them again this summer or just toss them away.” She set the two baskets down.

  “I’m heading back now. Better see what else I can do for my client.”

  She nodded without comment.

  “Sophie, could we talk for a minute?” I felt awkward standing down in the yard, while she watched me from the porch.

  “Sure.” She leaned a hip against the railing and crossed her arms over her chest.

  I climbed the steps so I’d be at her level. “What’s happened here?” I asked. “A couple of days ago you were open and friendly with me, now . . . something’s different.”

  Her gaze dropped to the wooden porch, then slowly climbed from my shoes to my hair. Her mouth stayed pinched. “My Pop was not responsible for the people in this town losing their money.”