Balloons Can Be Murder: The Ninth Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  Balloons Can Be Murder

  The Ninth Charlie Parker Mystery

  By Connie Shelton

  Copyright © 2005 Connie Shelton

  Chapter 1

  Rachael Fairfield filled a doorway with quiet authority. At least that’s the attitude I picked up as I glanced up from my position behind the reception desk, where I’d been going over expense reports with our part-time receptionist, Sally Bertrand.

  The visitor’s slender build and sleek hairstyle stood out against a brilliant blue October sky in the open portal, as Sally and I stared. Something about the firm set of her shoulders, maybe, or the grip on her leather handbag. Perhaps it was the tailored business suit that surely hadn’t come off the rack.

  “Is Ron Parker in?” she inquired in a clear voice, one I could equally imagine making closing arguments to a jury or briefing a roomful of pilots before their mission over enemy territory.

  In a quick overview, I judged her to be about my age, early thirties, a professional of some sort, accustomed to her own authority. Her highlighted blond style was the every-hair-in-place type; vivid blue eyes and shapely lips brightened a thin face that might have otherwise been gaunt.

  Sally glanced at her appointment book, buzzed Ron on the intercom to inform him that his nine-thirty had arrived, and nudged me discreetly in the thigh as her eyes shot toward the conference room.

  I took the hint and ushered Ms. Fairfield toward the room that had once served as dining room in our old Victorian. Above, I could hear Ron’s chair roll across the hardwood floor in his office, followed by his footsteps on the stairs. He never remembered to step to one side on the fourth step from the bottom, so it was easy to know that he would enter the conference room three seconds later. He did.

  “Ron? Rachael Fairfield,” our client said.

  “Ron Parker.” He shook her hand and tilted his head toward me. “My sister and partner, Charlie.”

  He waved her toward the chairs that surrounded the rectangular mahogany table and she chose one facing the double doors. Ron took the head of the table and I sat opposite Rachael.

  “From what you told me on the phone, I think we’re going to want Charlie in on this,” Ron said. “Do you mind?”

  She gave a small shrug of agreement.

  “Rachael has received some threats,” Ron told me, “something the police won’t handle. Did you bring the notes?” he asked her.

  Out came a large plastic bag from her purse. Inside, two generic white envelopes lay at angles. She slid the packet across the table toward Ron. He glanced up at her before touching it. She tilted her head in consent and he picked up the bag.

  “As I mentioned over the phone,” she said, “I contacted the police as soon as I got the first one. To their credit, they sent someone out who asked some questions and took the letter to their lab to run fingerprint tests on it. Nothing showed up.”

  Ron removed one letter from its blank white envelope and smoothed it out. Generic white bond paper, the kind everyone who owns a computer uses by the ream. Cut-out magazine letters trailed across the page. Five words. YOU WILL NEVER MAKE IT.

  “That was the first one. Two weeks ago. The other one came last Friday.”

  I picked up the page and turned it over a couple of times, noticing a few dabs of extra glue on the front.

  Ron pulled a similar note from the second envelope. Its message was more sinister. YOU’LL DIE BEFORE YOU SUCCEED.

  “You said you’d told the police about a suspect,” Ron said.

  “Yes. They basically brushed it off, I think. They made a few phone calls and said it came to nothing.”

  “Who’s the suspect?” I asked.

  Rachael shifted in her seat, and a flicker of something—uncertainty, insecurity?—flashed across her face. She tucked it away, though, and re-arranged her features. “I think they’re from my father,” she said quietly.

  I must have sputtered because she glanced sharply at me. Ron picked up on my surprise as well.

  “That first one—it’s the exact phrase he used to use on me as a kid,” she continued. “Those are his words.”

  “But—” I stopped short as I watched a child’s vulnerability waver across her face.

  She quickly covered it and went on. “I sent him to prison when I was fourteen. And he’s out now.”

  Chapter 2

  The announcement hung in the air for a very long minute. Ron was the first to recover.

  “And the police didn’t find this information pertinent?” he asked.

  “They called the state prison and verified that he’d been released, then they say they located him in Clovis. He claims he hadn’t been in Albuquerque for the past two weeks.”

  I felt my blood pressure rise at the ridiculous assumption. “So, therefore, that’s the truth,” I said.

  “As far as they’re concerned,” Rachael said. “They said I could get a restraining order.” She rolled her eyes at the absurdity of trusting such a useless document. “They’d be happy to talk to me again if he actually does something, beyond shoving pieces of paper under my front gate, that is.”

  “What can we do for you?” Ron asked.

  “As you know, I’m going to be in the public eye for the next couple of weeks. I was hoping you could protect me, be extra sets of eyes and ears to keep me safe.”

  “We’re not really equipped to provide bodyguards,” he said. “There’s really only Charlie and me here.”

  “Can someone bring me up to speed here?” I asked. “What’s the ‘public eye’ stuff? Are you running for office?”

  “Sorry. I thought you knew,” she said. “I’m going for a hot air balloon world altitude record.” She gave a little self-deprecating grin.

  “Really.” I felt my interest spark.

  “The final weekend of Balloon Fiesta. I’ve applied for official FAI sanction for the women’s world altitude record for an AX-7 balloon.”

  Some of that was Greek to me and she noticed.

  “Fédération Aéronautique Internationale. It’s the sanctioning body for aviation records, not the Guinness Book as most people think. The AX-7 part just refers to the size category of my balloon, Lady Liberty.”

  “Ah.”

  “The part about being in the public eye is really my brother’s idea. He’s launched a big publicity campaign around the record attempt.” Her mouth gave a sideways twitch. “It will take place during the Balloon Fiesta. I could be just as happy to go out somewhere on an empty mesa and simply set my record.”

  I felt myself warming to her.

  “We can’t possibly hope to catch someone who’s trying to harm you in a crowd of fifty thousand or more,” Ron said again.

  “I know it’s not terribly practical,” she said. “It would take the Secret Service to watch a crowd that size. I’m hoping you can watch him, my father, and keep him from getting to me.”

  I could see my brother wrestling with the idea. It sounded simple enough. Find one guy and dog his every move until he tried something, catch him with the evidence, and have the police haul him back to jail. And the money would be good. We hadn’t exactly been crawling with cases the past couple of weeks, and this one could really help the bottom line.

  “Let’s get some background information,” he said.

  I found a yellow pad in the credenza drawer and tossed it toward him. He got Rachael’s address, her father’s last known whereabouts, and contact information for the brother who also lived in town.

  “Grayson Fairfield is your brother?” he said. He glanced at me but I failed to pick up the meaning.

  “My fath
er was a banker in Clovis, twenty-some years ago,” Rachael offered. “I don’t know whether anyone who knows him would still be there.” She also gave Ron the address of her childhood home. “It’s sad, you know. At one time he had serious intentions of going into politics, maybe statewide. Too bad he blew it.”

  I started to ask, but Ron seemed in a hurry.

  “We’ll get on it right away,” he told her. “I can drive to Clovis this afternoon and see what I can learn there. Tell me again, when does the Fiesta start?”

  “Saturday morning.”

  “Okay. We’ve got two and a half days. I should be able to get some leads on him before that.”

  Rachael wrote out a retainer check and passed it to Ron. “Oh, there’s a pilot party on Friday night. I’ve got a spare ticket, if Charlie would like to go with me.”

  I reached for the heavy paper invitation. “Sure, I’d like that.” I glanced at Ron and saw that he was nodding in agreement.

  “Good idea,rt? he said. “We should stick close to you until we get a feel for this whole thing.”

  After Rachael left, Ron dashed up to his office to tie up a few loose ends, then to go home and pack a small bag for a night or two in a motel at the far edge of the state. I called home to learn that Drake was also packing.

  His helicopter service had grown in the past year, keeping him busy nearly all the time now, and this was another Forest Service job somewhere in the northern part of the state. If I wanted the chance to kiss my husband goodbye I needed to get home right away. I left Sally to close up, called to Rusty our red-brown Lab who also helps hold down the office, and headed out back to my Jeep.

  I found Drake in the garage, tossing gear into a pile near the door. He flashed me that smile that always melts my insides.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Cimarron Forest District called. They want to do a few preliminary game counts up in the Sangre de Cristos and keep an eye on the hunters.” He set his flight helmet on top of the pile. “I could use your help if you can come along.”

  I felt my insides tense up. It had been over a year since the engine failure over the North Sea, but I still wasn’t entirely comfortable at the stick.

  He caught the resistance in my expression. “Hon, you’ve got—”

  “I know, I know.” I interrupted, knowing he’d launch into the you’ve-got-to-get-back-on-the-horse speech. I’d heard it. “I’ve tried but I’m just . . .”

  “Fine.” He turned back to the toolbox where he was sorting through wrenches.

  My mouth opened but nothing came out. How could I convey the array of feelings? I’d been back at the controls several times. Being up in the air didn’t bother me, sitting in the pilot’s seat with Drake beside me felt fine. It was that idea of being alone, the only one in control of a million dollar piece of equipment. Whether it was over an ocean of water or a sea of trees, I didn’t want the full responsibility.

  “Hon, I . . ..”

  “Can you check to be sure the base station is on and ready?” he said.

  “Um, sure.” I escaped to the small bedroom he used as a home office. Checked the radio controls to be sure I’d hear his calls. Everything looked fine.

  I caught myself staring at the wall calendar without seeing it, my mind an unfocused blur of images and memories. Finally, I shook myself out of this state and wandered toward the kitchen. Pulling a couple of canned Cokes from the fridge, I packed Drake a little cooler full of snacks to take with him.

  The connecting door to the garage opened and closed, and I worked up a cheerful expression before he walked into the kitchen.

  He spotted the cooler. “Thanks for the provisions,” he said. He picked it up. “So, what’re you going to do while I’m gone?”

  “We got a new case at the office this afternoon,” I told him. I filled him in with the details, making it sound like I was really needed there or else I’d be going with him instead.

  He set the cooler back on the table. “Sweetheart, please be careful,” he said, lifting my chin, brushing my hair back and tucking it behind my ear.

  “I will. You too.”

  The air still didn’t feel right, but we’d vowed never to part on bad terms. We both knew that every flight could be the last. One day, one of us might not come home—it had almost been me, last September. We could not, would not, take the chance of leaving the other with a lifetime regret.

  I leaned into him and wrapped my arms around his middle. My throat tightened, but that was another thing I’d vowed, never to leave him with a last impression of me with tears. Keep it happy, Charlie. I sniffed and swallowed and relaxed my facial muscles as we pulled apart.

  “How long will the job be?” I asked.

  “Probably four or five days. Hard to say, though. The Cimarron guys are working on finding budget money for a few other projects, but it’s not certain yet. I’ll keep you posted.” He picked up the cooler again. “Well, better get going.”

  By the time he got out to the airport, performed his pre-flight and loaded the gear from home, he’d be pushing darkness as he flew into the northern mountains and landed at the remote ranger station. I refused to let myself think about it.

  Rusty and I walked to Drake’s pickup truck with him and we kissed through the open window. His normal ebullience as he left for a new job seemed subdued this time. The unresolved problem hung between us like a gauze curtain and we both knew it would have to come to a head soon. I squeezed his hand then waved to his rearview mirror as he pulled out of the driveway.

  “Come on, kid,” I said to Rusty as we turned back toward the house. “It’s gonna be a long afternoon.”

  With Ron on the road to Clovis and Drake in flight, I’d need to be on hand for news as they each reported in. I spent the next two hours cleaning the house until every tabletop gleamed and the kitchen floor shone.

  By the time I heard the squawk of Drake’s incoming call, I’d begun to berate myself for not being more aggressive about flying, for not going along on the job with him. We spoke only briefly, just long enough for me to know that he’d made it safely and to get the name of the motel he planned to stay in. His tone had returned to normal and I relaxed.

  I made a sandwich and settled onto the living room sofa with a movie on TV. Rusty watched me eat, his head following each time my hand went from the plate to my mouth. I finally flipped him the last of the bread crust and set the plate aside. By ten o’clock, when I still hadn’t heard from Ron, I drifted toward the bedroom where I showered in my sparkling clean bathroom before crawling between my clean sheets. I fell into a sleep that consisted of sleepless bouts interspersed with restless dreams of hovering in flight over a roiling ocean.

  Chapter 3

  I found myself already at my desk by seven-thirty the next morning, keying payables into the computer and wondering how things were going in Clovis. By the time Sally arrived at nine, I’d finished the bills and taken care of a couple of letters that needed to be written.

  “So, what’s with the face?” she asked. She stood in the doorway of my upstairs office, coffee mug in hand, her shaggy blond hair more tousled than usual, her freckled cheeks showing high color.

  “Shows, huh?” I hadn’t bothered with makeup this morning, which surely didn’t help. “I’ve got to resolve this . . . I don’t know what it is, this feeling I have about the helicopter. It’s making for some tension at home.”

  “Ah.” She nodded and offered to refresh my coffee. Nice thing about Sally as a friend, as well as an employee, she made a good sounding board and didn’t make many judgments.

  She’d just set the steaming mug on my desk when the phone rang. She picked up my handset rather than running downstairs.

  “Ron,” she reported, handing me the receiver.

  “So, what’s up?” I asked.

  “Well, I don’t have William Fairfield in hand yet,” he said. “He was here. Probably during the time Rachael’s letters came, although I haven’t found any positive proof o
f that yet. Talked to the new manager at the bank where Mr. Fairfield used to work. The woman’s too young to have worked there twenty years ago, and she’d never heard of him. Said there’s an older woman teller who might remember him, but it’s her day off so I either need to call her at home or wait until tomorrow. We’ll see what works.”

  “So, not much luck, huh.”

  “After I left the bank I went to the old neighborhood and quick-canvassed some neighbors. One was home and she knew the family. Lucky for me Mrs. Pinkley is the gossip of the whole neighborhood. The minute I mentioned Fairfield’s name she said something about lightning striking twice and invited me in for coffee.”

  I fiddled with the phone cord while he cleared his throat and settled in to the story.

  “I just let her go on. Through three cups of coffee. She started out with, isn’t it odd that I should ask about William Fairfield, he’d just been there last week. Hadn’t seen him in years, yada, yada.”

  “Well, we knew about that,” I said. “Was he in Clovis on the day the letter arrived under Rachael’s front gate?”

  “Probably. Like I said, no proof, but this lady’s pretty sure he came around last Thursday.”

  “Uh-huh. And?”

  “Remember how Rachael said something about how she sent her father to prison? I almost didn’t catch it at the time and forgot to question it later.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  “She literally did. This neighbor told me that the Fairfield family was a mess. Father was a well-respected banker, had put his hat in the ring for the mayoral election. Apparently well-to-do, I mean this is still a real nice neighborhood here. But the couple weren’t close and the mother took to the rounds of charity balls and society luncheons, and worked herself into a pretty good alcohol problem. William—Pinkley calls him Bill—wasn’t going to let that slow down his campaign and they got into some pretty good verbal battles over it.”

  “And he harmed his wife?”

  “Hold on, I’m getting to it. Linda Fairfield went off to some dry-out clinic out of state for awhile and seemed better when she came back. The trouble came when ‘the little girl’, meaning Rachael, reported that he was molesting her.”