Deadly Gamble: The First Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  Detweiller had been sitting in his car in his own driveway when an unknown assailant shot him at almost point-blank range, the article said. I pictured the heavily overgrown shrubs that bordered the drive. The victim was survived by his wife, Jean, and son, Joshua. No leads had yet been found in the case. I laid the paper on my desk and looked up at Stacy.

  "This is the guy of our former discussion?"

  She nodded tiredly.

  "And?"

  No response.

  "Stacy, I assume you didn't just come by to share this with me," I said, holding the newspaper up. "What do you want?" I had a feeling I knew the answer, and I wasn't going to like it.

  "I need help again, Charlie." Her voice came out thickly.

  "Stacy, I told you, I'm not an investigator. Besides, aren't the police handling this?"

  Her blue eyes widened slightly. "That's what I'm worried about." She reached for her bag. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

  "I'd rather you didn't." It probably came out sounding harsh, but dammit, I have to live in this office after she leaves. "Stacy, you were never a smoker."

  A trembling hand covered her mouth. "I know, Charlie. I only do it now and then."

  "Stacy, what's really the problem here? Are you worried that the police will dig up your connection with Detweiller?"

  "Of course I am!" She stood up and paced to the opposite end of the room. "Charlie, do you have any idea what Brad will do if he finds out about this?"

  Truthfully, I didn't. But I also wondered aloud why she hadn't worried about this before getting seduced into the situation.

  "I don't know," she said, her voice hopeless. She dumped herself back onto my couch, and rubbed at her temples with both index fingers. "It was stupid. I can see that now. I guess I just fell for the ... uh ... positive attention."

  "I'm not sure what to tell you." I wanted to tell her about paying the consequences for our actions, but somehow I got the feeling she already knew about that.

  She stared at a spot somewhere near the corner of my desk, and her face became even more pale. A long minute passed.

  "Stacy, what do you want from me?"

  "I'm not sure, Charlie. I guess I'm grasping at ways to keep my name out of this."

  "Have you talked to a lawyer? Sounds like this is more a matter of needing legal advice than investigative work."

  "I wouldn't know who to turn to. Our family lawyer intimidates me. He's so chummy with Brad I don't think I could trust him. I guess I was hoping that you could find out who really killed Gary before the police come asking questions of me."

  The messes people get themselves into never cease to amaze me.

  "Stacy, I'll tell you straight out. This is out of my league. If you can wait until Monday, I can set an appointment for you to meet with Ron."

  Her eyes glistened moistly and a red rim formed around her upper lip. The hands shook as she reached for her purse. "That's four days away," she whispered. "I hope it's not too late." She walked toward the door.

  "Stacy, wait." I knew this was foolish, even as I said the words.

  She returned to the couch, perching expectantly on the edge.

  "Tell me everything you can about Gary Detweiller," I said.

  She stared blankly at me for a good half minute.

  "Does he belong to the country club? What does he do for fun? Sports? Clubs? Hangouts?"

  "I really don't know." Her palms fluttered upward. "I met him at Tanoan. He never talked about himself."

  A man who never talked about himself? Please.

  "Stacy, think about it. He must have said something. Surely you didn't hop into bed with someone who never said a word."

  "Well, of course he talked. But mostly he talked about me." Her eyes turned dreamy. "He told me how beautiful I was, how sexy. Stuff I haven't heard in a long time." Her once-vivacious voice broke a little.

  I let the silence stretch out a bit, hoping she'd come up with something more.

  "I went to his house once," she remembered.

  "That might be a start. Tell me about it."

  "It was a depressing place. Of course, this was after he'd wooed me with a nice lunch out one day and he'd gotten a room at the Marriott that afternoon. I guess I wasn't thinking too straight."

  "Then he invited you to his house?"

  "Oh, no. I just showed up. I'd seen the address on a business card he gave to some guy in the Marriott bar. I remembered the street, so about a week later I looked it up and drove over there." She looked up at me briefly. "It had been a bad day."

  "Tell me more about the house. He was home, I assume."

  "Yes, he was home. Although not exactly thrilled to see me. He was jittery the whole time I was there, which was maybe ten minutes. I didn't realize at the time that he had a wife, one more thing he failed to mention. He couldn't wait to steer me out of there. We went to The Wine Cellar for a drink, even though it was only three in the afternoon."

  "Okay, you were inside the house, right? Try to remember everything you saw."

  "The place was a dump, actually. I mean, not just that it was small, but it was dirty. It smelled, and there was clutter everywhere."

  "I'm trying to get a feel for the guy's lifestyle, what he did with his spare time."

  "Well, he didn't clean house, that's for sure."

  "Did you see any magazines laying around, any sports tickets, anything like that?"

  Her eyes gazed upward, as she recreated the picture in her mind. "Newspapers," she said finally. "There were newspapers scattered everywhere. I just can't think of anything else."

  It wasn't much of a start and I finally let her go, realizing that I wasn't getting much out of her. She seemed relieved, having dumped the burden of her secret in my lap. There was still a certain wariness, though. For a minute there, I wondered if she could have had something to do with Detweiller's death and was using me to find a way to cover for her.

  I filed my paid bills while I tried to think what to do next. I could try to dig up some background information on Gary Detweiller so I'd have something for Ron to work on when he got back to town. I walked across the hall to Ron's office and located his Rolodex behind a tall stack of file folders. Ron isn't exactly negligent in his office duties, he just has a different system. Very different. His contact at APD is Kent Taylor in Homicide. I looked in the Rolodex under A, then under T, then under K. C for contacts didn't yield anything, either. Finally I found Taylor under P, for police. Naturally. Where else?

  I phoned Taylor and got him to agree to see me at two. I didn't say why. This was an active police investigation and I knew he'd cut me off immediately if he knew I was snooping. Besides, I have much more winning ways in person than over the phone.

  Sally Bertrand was at her desk when I went downstairs again for a coffee refill. She wore a pair of gray wool slacks and a blue and gray sweater. That's about as dressy as she ever gets. Usually it's jeans and plaid flannel. We run a casual operation here since Ron and I are both firm believers in jeans ourselves. Sally's shaggy blond hair was recently trimmed but not by much. I think she does it herself, probably without benefit of a mirror. She smiled at me with her wide grin, reminding me of an extra large six-year-old. She has square straight teeth, honest blue eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles across her un-madeup face.

  "Who was the lady?" she asked.

  "Old school friend," I answered. "You haven't seen her before because we haven't exactly been friends for about the last ten years."

  "Oh." She didn't ask, and I didn't explain.

  I refilled my coffee mug and carried one up front for Sally, too. She hadn't brought doughnuts, but I decided my waistline was better for it. I've been lucky all my life to never have a weight problem, but I could see that subtly changing now that I'd reached thirty. Given the facts that I love to eat and hate to exercise, something was going to have to give. When it began to give too much, I'd have to face a lifestyle change. Why don't our bodies just stay twenty-five forever?

  B
ack in my own office, I finished up a few odds and ends. Rusty waited patiently, stretched out on a small Oriental rug near the bay window. He hadn't budged during Stacy's visit, probably thinking he'd rack up some good behavior points that way. I know the mutt. He was probably hoping for a trip to McDonalds at lunchtime. No such luck.

  I worked until one, then made him stay behind when I left for my appointment with Kent Taylor. APD's headquarters is downtown, only a few blocks from our office. Getting there takes maybe ten minutes, finding a parking place, another twenty. Even so, I'd allowed myself enough time to stop along the way and indulge in a fast hamburger and Coke. In a burst of health consciousness, I skipped the fries.

  Kent Taylor's office is accessed through a rabbit-warren of cubbyhole-sized spaces separated by carpet-covered dividers. Each housed a desk, chair, and wastebasket. I'd been here once before with Ron, but doubted I could find my way through the maze again. I didn't need to. I asked for Taylor at the front desk, and he came up.

  Kent is a forty-ish man, dark hair thinning on top, a thick roll of extra weight around the middle. The well-fed, cared-for look of a married man with a stay-at-home wife. His pale blue shirt was neatly pressed, no spots on his tie, slacks had probably been picked up from the cleaners yesterday afternoon. I followed him back through the labyrinth to his office.

  A glass wall separated his eight-by-ten space from the main room. I hadn't given much thought as to how I was going to approach him, and suddenly felt a little nervous.

  "How's Ron these days?" he asked, giving me a little time to work into my story.

  "Fine. He's at a firearms show right now."

  "The big one in Dallas?"

  I nodded. I'm uneasy about guns. Ron knows better than to push the subject with me. The gun control issue is one on which we have an ongoing debate.

  The conversation with Kent was dwindling fast. If I didn't jump right in with my real question, I was going to be escorted out the door with a "nice to see you."

  "What can I do for you, Charlie?" he asked.

  My stomach fluttered a little. "It's about the Gary Detweiller murder. I saw the article in this morning's paper."

  "Yes?"

  "Well, a friend of mine knew him. He's wondering if you have any leads in the case." I don't lie easily, and I half expected Taylor to tell me so. Surely he could see the little words "Liar, Liar" popping out on my forehead.

  "We have a few leads," he said. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the arm of it. "You know how it goes, an apparently senseless killing, guy has no known enemies. But there's always a motive. Always more to the picture than the eye first sees." He fixed a direct look at me. "Why? What do you know about it?"

  "Nothing, Kent. Really. I just had this friend who was concerned. Thought I'd see what I could find out."

  The look of skepticism on his face stung. "Charlie, don't get involved with this. If you have a client, let Ron handle it. If your client is directly involved in this case, you better let me know all about it."

  I stood up. "No, this person isn't involved with any murder," I said staunchly. I hoped it was true.

  Walking the four blocks back to my Jeep, I kicked myself in the butt all the way. That had been a foolish move. All I'd accomplished was to make Kent Taylor suspicious of me. I hadn't found out a single fact about the case. And I'd come off as a meek little twit, trying to stick her nose in where it didn't belong. I felt like calling Stacy and telling her to count me out. After all, I didn't owe her a thing. She and Brad North could rot, for all I cared.

  Then I remembered the look on her face, the fear that had been palpable in my office this morning. Back in our high school and college days together, Stacy and I had been close. The best of friends. We'd slept over at each other's houses almost every weekend, setting each other's hair, listening to Three Dog Night albums, giggling over boys. She'd been the only person I'd told when I lost my virginity. I'd been staying at her house the weekend my parents had flown to Denver, the weekend they never returned. Stacy's parents had been the ones to break the news of the plane crash to us. They'd held me close and taken me into their home for those first confusing weeks until my life took on some order again. The friendship with Stacy was probably what kept me from going off the deep end.

  I'd been angry with her for ten years now. Losing one's fiancé to one's best friend is, if nothing else, humiliating. It was interesting, though, that in her time of need Stacy had turned to me. I wanted some time to sort this all out, but didn't have that luxury. Stacy's fear was immediate. The least I could do was try to find a few answers for her.

  The past would have to be shoved into a back compartment somewhere until I could work on it. For now, I had to decide on a course of action and follow it—a more prudent course than I'd taken so far. This much intense thought called for a hot fudge sundae.

  Chapter 3

  Thick gray clouds hung low over the Sandia Mountains. The air felt chill and smelled of moisture. Yesterday had been sunny with a sky of lapis. I was glad for my thick down jacket as I walked back to the car. A favorite memory from my high school years is hot fudge sundaes at Big Boy. With the past crowding suddenly back into my psyche today, the old craving came back. I turned east on Central Avenue.

  Remodeling has changed the building somewhat, but the sundaes are the same as ever. I took a corner booth and put my feet up on the opposite seat. A few minutes later, my sundae arrived. I spooned whipped cream with a sprinkling of almonds into my mouth. I pulled my notebook out of my purse and made a few doodles in the corner. There would be something therapeutic about letting all my old feelings about Stacy and Brad flow onto the paper along with the ink from my pen but I wasn't ready for that yet. My mother had always cautioned me never to write down anything I wouldn't want to see in the newspaper. Consequently, I've never been a diary keeper. I still harbor resistance to pouring my soul out on paper. I decided to confine my notes to the murder case. Perhaps writing a plan down would help solidify a course of action for me.

  Gary Detweiller. Seducer. Hangs out at country club. Wife and son. Poor neighborhood. Steals Rolex. Needs money. ???? The notes covered my small page.

  I had to believe that Stacy wasn't the first woman Detweiller had seduced, probably wasn't the first he'd stolen from. His approach sounded pretty smooth, his routine well rehearsed. Except for the time Stacy had surprised him at home. Maybe his home would be a good starting place.

  I scraped the last of the fudge from the bottom of the cold metal parfait cup, left too large a tip, and stepped out into the biting wind. Trotting out to the Jeep, I pulled my jacket together in front with one hand and fumbled in the pocket for my keys with the other. The clouds spat a few crumbs of snow over the hood as I started the engine. I rehearsed my story as I drove up Central, looking for the turn.

  Detweiller's house was no more inviting this time, despite the addition of two cars in the driveway. A pale blue Honda held the anchor position in front of the single car garage door. The car was probably eight or nine years old, and the sun had faded the paint on the hood to near-white. Obviously, the garage held something other than the car. The second vehicle, a muscle car from the seventies, had been left primer gray with chrome pipes showing at the sides, and windows tinted so dark they were surely illegal. Stickers with illegible words drawn in sharp diagonals decorated the back window.

  I pressed the doorbell, but it felt mushy and dead. When I got no response to it, I tried knocking on the screen door frame. It wobbled ineffectually, so I opened it wide enough to get my hand through, and pounded on the wooden front door. Paint flakes drifted downward.

  A tired-looking woman opened the door. She was probably in her late thirties, but the eyes were aged to forty-something. Her medium brown hair was wound haphazardly around pink sponge curlers, and she clutched a limp pink robe together in front. She kept herself mostly behind the door, which she had allowed to open only about six inches.

  "Mrs. Detweiller? I'm Charlie Park
er. I wonder if I might speak to you about your husband."

  "He's dead." So was her voice.

  "I know. I'm very sorry. I just have a few questions for the investigation." The half truths were beginning to slip out more easily.

  "You'd better come in," she said impatiently. "You're freezing me out, here."

  She stepped back, pulling the door a bit wider. I opened the screen and stepped into the gloom. She quickly closed the door behind me. As my eyes adjusted, I could see that she wasn't wearing anything under the robe, which hung from her thin frame like a sack.

  "I had just stepped out of the shower," she said. "Can you give me a minute to get dressed?"

  Without waiting for an answer, she turned away. Picking up a lit cigarette from an ashtray on an end table, she disappeared into a dark hallway leaving me the perfect opportunity to check the place out.

  The interior of the small house was about what I'd expected, given the looks of the exterior and what Stacy had told me about her one and only visit here. The living room where I stood was boxlike and stuffy. A tweed couch with saggy cushions, a peeling vinyl recliner, and a console stereo with a nineteen inch TV on top seemed to fill the room excessively. Decorator items were minimal—a framed print showing a dirt road winding away into the woods hung over the couch. A lump of wadded laundry, presumably clean, covered about a third of the couch. Newspapers, magazines and unopened mail were stacked on the seat of the recliner, while a couple of coats were draped over its back. One of the jackets was a man's sports coat. Hmmm...

  Tentatively, I patted the pockets. A wallet sized lump rewarded my little feel-up. My heart rate picked up as I realized what I was about to do. I am not, by nature, a sneaky person. Well, maybe sneaky but I'm not dishonest. Somehow this felt dishonest.

  I could hear Jean Detweiller in the bedroom. She wasn't a particularly quiet dresser. I only had a few moments, and I could think of no plausible explanation should she walk in and catch me with her husband's wallet in my hands. My stomach felt a little watery as my thumb and forefinger reached toward the pocket.