Balloons Can Be Murder: The Ninth Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  Although the few houses on the street revealed only small glimpses, I could tell this was one of those choice neighborhoods where the homes backed directly on the drop-off to the Rio Grande. Typically, they sat up high and offered unobstructed views of the whole city and the rugged Sandias. Late afternoons, like now, the sun turned the face of the mountains a glorious peachy mauve that could take your breath away. The distraction held my attention for a good five minutes before I realized a group of people were wondering who’d just pulled up.

  “Wait here,” I told Rusty, buzzing a couple of windows down for him.

  I spotted Rachael just inside the garage door, talking to a tall, well-built man in a dark denim shirt. She smiled up at him in a soft way I’d not seen on her before. Her Porsche occupied one half of the double garage.

  A champagne-colored crew cab pickup truck stood in the driveway, tailgate to the open door. Three husky, college-aged guys milled about, gathering ropes into coils, carrying boxes back and forth.

  “Charlie!” Rachael called out. “Glad you came.” She walked toward me and the other heads turned. “Come meet the crew.”

  She ushered me to the back of the truck and waved an arm toward the guys. “Ronnie, Justin, Danny—my oh-so-wonderful crew. This is Charlie.”

  They all grinned and shuffled. I registered brown hair, reddish blond hair, and black hair as my only means of keeping their identities straight at this point as I said hi to each of them in turn.

  “And this is Sam Millson,” Rachael said, “my crew chief and very special man in my life.”

  Sam seemed even taller up close. I judged him to be a few inches over six feet, with wavy blond hair that touched his denim collar. The squint wrinkles around the eyes added character and told me he was probably six or seven years older than Rachael. He shook my hand with a firm grip and had a way of slightly bowing while maintaining eye contact. “Ma’am,” he said.

  “Oh, please, just Charlie.” I felt a slight flush work its way up my neck.

  “Good enough.” He did the little bow-thing again and turned his attention back to the guys, barking instructions about which order to put the boxes into the truck.

  “And this,” said Rachael, “is Mystic Oracle.”

  I followed her eyes and noticed the fluffy gray cat wrapping itself around her legs.

  “Weird name, I know. Left over from my final college days. Now she’s just Misty.” She picked up the cat and they shared a moment of nose-rubbing. “Pets are great, aren’t they? This girl’s stuck with me through all kinds of stuff.”

  Cat person, dog person. I guess we’re all suckers for those furry creatures that find their way into our lives. I glanced over at Rusty, whose panting was fogging the windows in the Jeep quite nicely.

  “Let me put Misty in the house,” Rachael said. “She’s underfoot out here anyway. Then you can let him out if you want.” She headed into the garage.

  Deciding to save the distraction of the dog for a few more minutes, I walked over to the truck. To one side sat the wicker gondola for the balloon system, like a giant berry basket with handles eight feet high. Inside were two hefty fuel cylinders which lay horizontally across each end of the rectangular space. Suede trim over generous padding rimmed the upper edges of the basket and a small panel of instruments fit neatly along one side.

  “Nice system, isn’t it?” Sam stood beside me, glancing around the interior of the basket, making sure everything was in order.

  “Looks good to me. I’ve not spent much time around these things myself.”

  “You’re not crazy enough to take off after some fool world record, are you?”

  I wasn’t sure whether he really wanted an answer to that question or was just letting me know his opinion of Rachael’s endeavor. He turned away and rounded up the three young guys, directing them to pick up a huge canvas bag, about four feet in diameter and three feet high, obviously heavy. They each gripped a handle in the strapping that ran around its perimeter and hefted it to a spot in the garage.

  Rachael came out with a six pack in a cardboard carrier. Each of the guys took one of the cold bottles and she held the carton out to me. I’m not much of a beer drinker but I took one anyway, as did she.

  “Oh, I brought you this address,” she said, digging into her jeans pocket and coming up with a slip of paper. “Ryan Tamsin.”

  I glanced at it, thought I knew the neighborhood, and thanked her.

  “I’ll check him out tomorrow,” I said. “Have you thought of anything else about him that might be helpful to us? Or anyone else who might have a grudge?”

  “Not really.” She took a long swig from her beer. “Well, the last man in my life didn’t end the relationship on very good terms.” She looked over toward Sam but he was engrossed in the banter of the male group.

  “Name? Address? Circumstances?” I asked.

  “Chuck Bukovsky. Charles, actually.” She rolled the cold bottle between her palms. “I’m not sure where he lives now. When we were together we had an apartment up on Montgomery. He may have stayed there, I don’t know.”

  “And the reason things ended badly? Sorry, maybe that’s none of my business.”

  “No, it’s fine. You’re trying to protect me.” Another long swallow from her beer. “Chuck got abusive, that’s all. I took about three episodes of it, then I moved out.”

  I started to ask whether the abuse was verbal, physical, or what, but Sam walked over just then.

  “Hey, babe,” he said, “what time shall I tell the guys to be here Saturday morning?”

  Her brain switched gears. “Better plan on four. I don’t know what kind of traffic we’ll run into.”

  He nodded agreement and turned back to the group. Rachael’s eyes followed him fondly.

  “He seems a little . . .” I searched for the right word. “. . . negative about the whole idea of the world record.”

  “He’s okay with it,” she said. “Well, I guess you’re right. Sam’s a cautious guy, not a risk-taker. He gets the same way when I go climbing. Last summer, Pike’s Peak, he called that a damn fool thing, too.”

  She shrugged and put her empty bottle back into the carrier. Noticing mine wasn’t empty, she walked over to the group of men and handed off the carton to Justin. I really didn’t want mine, so I strolled over and pretended to take a couple more gulps and set the half-full bottle in with the others.

  “I gotta get going,” I said. “I’ll work on those names and see what we find.”

  Rachael walked partway down the drive with me, reminding me about the pilot’s party tomorrow night. We decided to take our own cars and meet there. On the way home I got a sudden craving for chicken enchiladas. Exiting at Rio Grande, I pulled into the tiny parking area at Pedro’s restaurant where only one other car sat in the lot. Rusty recognized the place and let out a little whimper.

  “Yeah, you silly dog, you can go.”

  By the time I’d turned off the ignition and opened the back door, he’d worked up to full-fledged bouncing body language. He raced ahead while I grabbed my purse, waiting with one front paw slightly raised and his eyes pinned to the heavy wooden door.

  “Geez,” I muttered. “Little eager, are we?”

  Truthfully, the ride back across the river had put me so much in the mood for Pedro’s fabulous green chile chicken enchiladas that I was about ready to drool, too. This was so going to beat the can of tomato soup I probably would have opened at home.

  Our usual table was empty and Rusty knew the drill. He could come inside as long as he went straight to that corner and didn’t draw attention. Pedro met me there with one of his terrific margaritas in one hand, a basket of chips and salsa in the other.

  “Your usual?” he asked, his dark eyes sparkling.

  “Of course.” I grinned at him and raised my glass in a one-way toast.

  “You enjoy,” he said. “I be making the enchiladas right away.”

  “Where’s Concha tonight?”

  “Her sis
ter, she came down with some kind of flu.” He raised his shoulders in a what-can-you-do gesture and headed to the kitchen at the back.

  I chose the saltiest section on the rim of the glass and took a long drink of the cool green liquid. Rusty waited patiently with his ears cocked so I tossed him one of the chips and helped myself to one. Within minutes, Pedro reappeared with a plate so hot he held it with potholders. Steam rose from the pile of cheese and chile.

  “Careful, very hot,” he said. As if that weren’t pretty obvious. “So, no Mr. Ron and no sweetheart tonight?”

  “Drake’s on a job in Cimarron, Ron’s checking something in Clovis. So, tonight you just get Rusty and me.”

  He patted my shoulder and said something in Spanish along the lines of it being sad to be alone. I had to agree with that, but suddenly felt ravenous so I dug into the enchiladas instead. By the time I walked out I felt overstuffed and faintly queasy. Stupid to overdo it, I told myself. I drove home in misery and decided to take Rusty for a walk around the neighborhood, work off some of that food before I tried to settle in for the night.

  The cool air definitely helped, and I arrived home just in time to hear the phone ring once and quit. The answering machine clicked on and Drake’s voice came through. I dashed to pick up the receiver.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hi, hon. I thought I’d missed you.” His voice sounded strained.

  “Long day?”

  He filled me in on the job and extended hellos from the Forest Service guys I’d worked with on other occasions. I got the feeling he was making a point: I put the investigation business ahead of our own helicopter business. He cut the call shorter than usual and I went to bed uneasy.

  By morning, things weren’t any better. Something I’d eaten last night didn’t settle well. I had this curious feeling that it still might come back up, while also feeling empty, like I wanted a big breakfast. Probably the beer followed by the margarita and the huge plate of spicy food. The tension over the helicopter job was not a good thing either.

  I sat up on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands. Rusty raised his head and looked at me to see if he should bother getting up. His face was smashed on one side and I started to laugh. Suddenly, I knew what was about to happen. I dashed for the bathroom and vomited hugely.

  “Oh, god,” I moaned. “I do not need this, not today.”

  I washed my face and dragged myself back to bed. The clock told me it was nearly nine. Where had the time gone? I must have slept nearly twelve hours. I picked up the phone and Sally answered on the first ring.

  “I must have picked up some flu bug,” I told her. My voice came out okay, not as strong as usual but not bad. I couldn’t imagine food from Pedro’s spotless kitchen being tainted. “I think I better stay in bed awhile.”

  She agreed and assured me she could hold down the fort.

  I hung up and started to lie down again, but the nausea came back. Propping myself upright on a couple of pillows seemed to work better. Within a half hour I felt better, so I grabbed some clean clothes and took a quick shower. With cleanliness came the desire for food but I thought I better take it easy. Rusty followed me to the kitchen while I toasted two slices of plain bread and brewed a cup of tea.

  By ten-thirty everything had settled pretty well and I felt useless just hanging around home. Maybe I’d gotten the condensed version of the twenty-four hour bug and managed to be rid of it in twelve. Fine with me; I do not make a good patient.

  I pulled out the phone book and looked up both Ryan Tamsin and Chuck Bukovsky. Tamsin’s address agreed with the one Rachael had given me. I knew the general area near what is nervously referred to as ‘the war zone.’ That was enough to make me think I better wait until Ron came back to town before looking for Tamsin.

  Charles F. Bukovsky was listed in a middle class neighborhood near the shopping centers. In both cases, I thought it would be a good idea to get more background before just showing up at the door. For now, I could put in some time at the office and wait for Ron to check in.

  Sally looked up from her stack of paperwork, surprised to see me when I walked in.

  “Better already?” she asked. She looked at me like she wanted to be sure I wasn’t here to hand out germs she could take home to her kid.

  “Guess so. I feel fine now. Maybe it was the food.” I switched subjects. “Has Ron called in?”

  “About an hour ago. He’s on the road. Should get here around two.” She shuffled a few pink message slips. “And Grayson Fairfield called. Set an appointment for three.”

  Interesting. I wondered what Rachael’s brother wanted.

  Chapter 5

  I found out soon enough. Ron actually got in closer to two-thirty, and Grayson Fairfield showed up ten minutes earlier than his appointed time. Sally buzzed Ron’s office just as he was sorting through the stack of mail and messages that awaited him. He suggested that I greet Grayson and get him settled. He’d be down after he’d made one call.

  If I’d thought Rachael was a take-charge person, Grayson appeared even more so. He must have come directly from his office. His thousand-dollar pinstripe suit fit his slender frame perfectly and blended with the thick, dark hair going gray. He stood in our conference room, surveying the furnishings and paintings as if he were appraising them for Sotheby’s. Rachael had told me he was in banking, and I could imagine the intimidation factor as people walked into his office to ask for money. Seeing him made me wonder what his father was like.

  “Mr. Fairfield?” I extended my hand. “Charlie Parker.” I waved him toward the chairs at the conference table and he chose the same one Rachael had on Wednesday.

  “Ron will be down in a minute. Can we get you any coffee or tea?”

  He declined with a small shake of the head.

  “I spoke with Rachael yesterday,” I told him. “She’s fairly convinced that your father is behind these threatening notes.”

  “She probably also told you that I’m not backing her in that assumption.” His voice held a quality of patronizing gloss, despite the argumentative words. “Our father holds no animosity toward my sister, he never has.”

  “He’s had a lot of years to stew over it.”

  “Ms. Parker, take my word for it. My father didn’t do this.” He pointed his index finger at the tabletop, punctuating the terse sentences with little jabs.

  My teeth began to gnaw at a spot on the inside of my cheek and I had to force myself to quit before this pompous jerk really got to me.

  “What can we do for you then? We’ve already explained to Rachael that we’re not a large enough firm to provide adequate bodyguard services.” I met his steady gaze. “And she is the one paying us.”

  For the first time his intent look wavered. I saw the politician in him take over, deciding to placate rather than boss me.

  “I’m every bit as concerned for my sister as anyone,” he said. “It just seems like we’re spending resources on a dead end trail.”

  “Rachael’s pretty shaken by all this,” I said. “Yesterday over lunch she told me that your mother killed herself after your father went to prison.”

  “Rachael was a child. She didn’t know the half of it.”

  Probably true. “Still, it must have been traumatic.”

  Ron came into the room and I caught a second of startled surprise on his face. He covered quickly, though, and with a quick nod toward our guest, took a seat.

  “As I was telling Ms. Parker,” Grayson said to Ron, “our father can’t possibly be the one who sent Rachael the notes. I truly believe that we should be spending the time on developing other leads.”

  Ron shifted in his seat, obviously feeling the difference in authority conveyed by Fairfield’s perfect business suit versus his own plaid shirt and jeans. He took a deep breath, placed both hands flat on the tabletop and considered his next words.

  “Actually, we can’t rule out your father as a suspect,” he told Grayson, without losing eye contact. “No one’s sho
wn me yet that he really was in Clovis last week. Part of the week, yes, but not the day we’re worried about.”

  Grayson leaned forward. “I can appreciate that, but it proves nothing. He could have been right here in Albuquerque, a block from Rachael’s house. But unless he was at her house, he’s innocent.”

  “Guys, look,” I interrupted. “We can spar about this all day, but it isn’t changing anything.” They both sent irritated looks my way. “We should continue to follow leads on your father, and we should see if any other suspects come along. I’ve already come up with two alternatives.”

  This announcement, at least, broke the tension between them.

  “Over lunch yesterday, Rachael came up with some names. I don’t know how valid they’ll be, but we should at least check them out.” I took a deep breath. “One is Rachael’s ex-boyfriend, Charles Bukovsky. She left him because he was abusive. The other is a client, Ryan Tamsin. He’s gotten pretty nasty with Rachael, a dispute over his mother’s will. Both have made threats against her, verbal, yes, but threats all the same.”

  Grayson leaned back in his chair, some of the aggressiveness receding. “I’ve met Bukovsky. Never liked the guy. But Rachael broke up with him more than a year ago. He must be on to other things by now.”

  “You would think so,” I told him. “But it’s amazing how some guys can hold a grudge, how often they think a woman can’t make it without them. Think about the wording on the note—‘You will never make it’. Chuck would think Rachael couldn’t succeed without him.”

  “And Tamsin?” Ron asked.

  “I’ll admit the wording in the note doesn’t seem to fit him as well, but I still think it’s worth talking to him.”

  “Okay,” said Ron, “we’ll do it.”

  “We’ll question these two and see what we find out,” I said to Grayson. “But you have to know that the reason we’ve been looking at your father in the first place is because Rachael says the wording in the note is exactly the same thing he used to say to her as a kid. Coupled with the fact that he’s recently out of prison and she sent him there . . . It’s pretty strong reasoning.”