Deadly Gamble: The First Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  "Okay," she agreed, "just a couple of minutes though. Andre gets really ticked off if he catches us goofing around."

  I produced the photo of Gary Detweiller. "Do you remember seeing this man at the Friday dinner dances a few times?"

  "Oh, yeah. For an old guy, he was real sexy. He had this smile. . . you know. Well, I don't know how to explain it, but it kinda made your heart go faster when he turned this smile on you."

  "Did he flirt a lot? Like with all the girls here?"

  "Look, you're not his wife are you?" She eyed me suspiciously.

  "Not hardly. Just tell me about him."

  "He mostly flirted with the club members. I mean, he'd flash that smile at us girls when he placed his order or like when he wanted another drink. But he really poured it on with the rich women. And sometimes when their husbands were sitting right there."

  "Anyone in particular?"

  She glanced upward, thinking. "Not really. Just about everyone. There was this one blond lady. She always wore a black fur coat. Her husband's a big chubby guy who's always obnoxious to the help. They're in here all the time but I'm not sure what her name is. Want me to find out?"

  "No, no. It's not that important." Great. All I needed was for this chick to make the connection between Detweiller and Stacy. "Any others?"

  "A few, but I don't know their names either. Oh, Ms. Delvecchio. I think he put the moves on her once. I'd gone into the bar," she nodded toward a doorway behind us, "and was coming back with a trayful of drinks. He had whispered something to her, and she laughed about it. Then she, you know, kind of like blushed." She raised her eyes upward again, thinking. "I can't really remember any others."

  "Well, thanks, you've been helpful. Look, don't mention this to anyone, okay." I nodded toward the ten dollar bill in her hand. "It's just between us."

  She peered cautiously through a potted palm before stepping back into the dining room. I didn't have much hope that she'd really keep our conversation secret, but she didn't know my name so how far could they trace me?

  Downstairs, the offices beside the main entrance were quiet, although a few lights remained on. Spotting a computer monitor that was still on, I had a flash of inspiration. It took me about two minutes to figure out the menus and find Carla Delvecchio's address in the membership roster. I memorized it quickly, just before I looked up to find a secretary approaching. She was glaring right at me.

  Chapter 9

  "Who are you?" The secretary stood directly in front of the desk with arms folded. If her blue power suit and short masculine hairstyle were designed to intimidate, they sure worked.

  "This computer isn't down," I said, clicking the few necessary keys to sign off.

  "Excuse me?"

  "You didn't place a service call to IBM?" I stood, gathering my coat around me, slinging my purse's shoulder strap into place.

  "No, we did not." Her voice was pointed, and not the least bit friendly.

  "Well, then someone gave me wrong information," I said, pretending to consult some paperwork in my purse. "Sorry to have troubled you." I headed for the door.

  "Wait, let me see that work order," she said.

  I pretended not to hear her. My feet didn't slow down until I reached my car. My heart didn't slow down until I was six blocks away.

  The sun was low over the volcanoes by now. There wouldn't be a fabulous sunset tonight though. This morning's thin clouds had spread and the wind picked up. Tumbleweeds skipped across the road, lodging against the white block Tanoan wall on my right. I took Wyoming south to Lomas. The worst of the go-home traffic had dissipated, but it still took nearly twenty-five minutes to find Penguin's bar.

  It was one of those small neighborhood places, the kind with its own set of regulars who probably come by for a beer every night of the week and stay late on Mondays for football. The kind where a strange face sticks out like a bum at the country club. I figured this out when no fewer than fourteen heads turned to stare as I walked in the door. Ninety percent of the crowd was male. In my wool slacks and sweater that had seemed casual at Tanoan, I suddenly felt overdressed here.

  Penguin's was one room, squarish. A third of the space at the far end was filled by two pool tables. A lamp hung over each, a poor plastic imitation of stained glass. Both tables were in use, encircled by men in work clothes with patches over the breast pocket disclosing their names. The bar was directly in front of me, with the intervening space filled by a dozen or so square Formica topped tables flanked by four chairs each.

  Few tables were occupied, but the bar was crowded. Since I wanted to talk to the bartender, I squeezed through to the one empty stool.

  "Yes, ma'am?" The bartender was forty-something, medium height, skinny, with a dark hairline that had receded in a large inverted W. His sharp facial features were softened by age. There was a tiredness around eyes that had seen too much, jowls that sagged from a lack of smiling.

  "I'll have a white w....," I glanced down the bar at the other patrons’ drinks. "Make that a Bud Light."

  He shoved a large mug under the tap without a word. Meanwhile, I felt other eyes upon me, and looked up at the man beside me, a big guy in his mid-fifties wearing a blue work shirt and pants. He turned to stare into his beer when I sent a little smile his way. I planned to sip my beer slowly and hoped the crowd would clear out a little so I could speak to the bartender without twenty other sets of ears picking up the whole thing. Since I'm not a beer drinker, this should not prove difficult.

  Other conversations began to pick up again. The TV set in the corner carried the news and I remembered that football season was over. Within twenty minutes, several of the men at the bar left. I took another sip and bided my time. By seven o'clock there were only five or six people scattered around the room. The man next to me hadn't budged.

  "Shame about Gary Detweiller," I commented after trying out some standard small-talk.

  He sipped. "Yup. You knew Gary?"

  "Friend of a friend," I said. "She's pretty broken up about it."

  "Lady friend, huh? Well, tell her not to get too broke up. He had a bunch of 'em. And a wife."

  "No kidding!" I feigned surprise as well as I could. "Well, Linda always did know how to pick 'em." I took another sip. The bartender had walked over to check our drinks, which were still going fine. He wiped the bar, casually joining the conversation.

  "I heard Gary had a lot of friends, though," I said to either of them.

  "Oh, yeah, Gary was a good ol' boy," my drinking buddy said. "He was sure in here every night, wasn't he, Pete?"

  "Yeah, he sure was." Pete's voice sounded tired, his enthusiasm underwhelming.

  "I heard he carried a fair amount of action, too. Bets, I mean," I hinted.

  "Lotta guys in here sent their bets with Gary. He sure loved those race tracks. When it wasn't racing season, he'd bet on the games."

  "Everybody like him pretty well?"

  "I'd say so, wouldn't you, Pete? I don't know nobody didn't like Gary. Why, he'd come in here sometimes after he'd won big, and buy drinks for everybody. Ain't that right, Pete?"

  Pete finally cracked a smile. He should have done it more often, he had nice teeth. "Yeah, that was always fun," he said. "The guys'd get real excited. And he was a real good tipper, too."

  My pal had finished his third beer by then. He slapped some money down on the bar. "Gotta get on home. See ya later, Pete." He walked toward the back of the room, acknowledging two men at a table along the way. He stopped at a pay phone set into a small alcove at the back.

  I glanced around the room. It looked like the early crowd had all gone and a few new ones now filled in. It was a slack time, before the late crowd came, and Pete stood around, not particularly busy. I was the only one left in this section of the bar.

  "Pete, who might have wanted Gary Detweiller dead?" I asked.

  "Why you asking so many questions? You're not this nosy because some friend of yours had the hots for Gary, are you?"

  "I work
for a private investigation agency. One of our clients is concerned about being implicated. I'd like to find out who really did it."

  "Shoot, I don't know," he said. He'd relaxed with me now, and I felt he was being truthful. "You heard Willie. Most everybody here liked the guy."

  "He had a lot of women though. You think one of them might have been mad at him? Maybe he promised somebody more than he planned to deliver."

  "Maybe so. Look, I don't get a lot of last names here. Debbie, Linda, Susan—that tell you anything? Gary usually had somebody different with him every week or so. And they weren't teenagers. They knew the score. Gary took 'em out, spent money on 'em. Past that, I don't think they expected a lot from him."

  "What about the gambling? Anybody ever lose big? Anybody with a grudge there?"

  "Who knows? Maybe. But around here we never heard about it. Gary had this image, you know. Like he always had to be friendly and happy. Everybody's pal, he was."

  Why was this so difficult? Wasn't there anybody out there who would admit that they hated Gary Detweiller? I left Pete a generous tip and a business card, asking him to let me know if he thought of anything else.

  It was pitch dark out by now and the wind had picked up to a bitter whine. Sand from a neighboring vacant lot whipped through the paved parking lot, leaving little drifts against the concrete parking bumpers. I pulled my coat closer around me and fished in my pocket for the keys. Then I noticed that my Jeep was sitting crippled by a flat front tire. Shit.

  I learned to change a tire once. It was in driver education, and I didn't actually do it, we just had to sit through a film on the procedure. I could probably manage if I had to, but I didn't really want to. My head was a little stuffy from drinking the beer, and I really wasn't dressed for getting down on my hands and knees. Rusty sat up in the back seat, his ears cocked toward me. Glancing around the parking lot I considered my options. I could go inside and ask for volunteers. But I didn't really want to do that. You never know what kind of payment men in bars expect for their good deeds. I could use the phone inside and call Ron. Unfortunately, I wasn't ready for the lecture I knew I'd get. Already, he didn't want me on this case. And there was no way he'd believe I'd just stopped in this cozy little spot for a brewsky after work. Not my style.

  Penguin's sat on a small side street, two lots away from Lomas Boulevard, a major street. I walked up to the corner to check out further options. Why had I let my AAA membership expire? About three blocks west I could see the lighted sign of a tire company. I might be in luck after all.

  The wind tore through my slacks, sending cold all the way up my legs, as I fought it for the three blocks. The windows were all dark and an employee in dark coveralls was locking the door as I approached.

  "Sorry, we're closed ma'am," he said as soon as he saw me. He was about my age, with blond hair that separated into greasy tendrils and hands permanently blackened from handling tires. A patch above his pocket said his name was Bob.

  "Please, I'm really in a bind." I hated sounding like a helpless female. I explained about the flat and told him I wouldn't need it repaired until tomorrow. Tonight I just needed the spare put on.

  "The service truck's locked inside," he pointed out.

  "I have the jack and the spare," I said. "I'll pay extra."

  Those must have been the three magic words, although Bob wasn't exactly gracious in accepting my offer.

  "Where's the vehicle?" he asked grudgingly.

  "Penguin's parking lot. You know where that is?"

  We'd walked across the tire store's parking area during the conversation, and he unlocked the doors of a seventy-three Mustang. Cherry red, restored to perfection, it was obviously his pride and joy. "Hop in," he said.

  Fifteen minutes later my flat tire lay in the trunk of his car, and my Jeep was ready to go again. Bob told me to come by the tire store sometime after ten in the morning and he'd have the tire repaired. He said he didn't want to take payment for the tire change, that he'd been on his way to Penguin's anyway. I gave him a twenty and said I'd feel better if he took it.

  Rusty was practically pawing at the windows by this time, worried about me and eager to get out of confinement. Probably hungry, too. I know I was starving. We turned west on Lomas with only one stop on the way home—Mac's Steak in the Rough, where I treated us both to a high-fat dinner of fried steak strips. We munched them in the car and felt much better when we got home.

  I couldn't wait to get out of the wool I'd worn all day, and Rusty couldn't wait to use the backyard. We each rushed to our respective needs. I slipped on soft sweats, glad to be rid of the itchy wool waistband around my middle. I heated water for tea and peeked out the back window to check on Rusty. He was busy rolling on his back in the dead winter grass, rubbing his nose almost sensuously against its earthy smell. I noticed one small light on in Elsa Higgins's kitchen. It had been several days since I'd spoken to her. Tomorrow I'd better give her a call.

  Taking my cup of tea to the living room, I switched on some soft music and pulled out my notebook. I made a few notes about the conversations I'd had today before I found myself nodding off. Not even ten o'clock and I was beat.

  The price of going to bed early is waking up early. By six o'clock my eyes were staring fixedly at the ceiling. By seven thirty I was at my desk, up to my elbows in tax returns. When Sally paged me on the intercom to tell me that Bob from Black's Tire Store was on the line, I nearly jumped. When had Sally come in? I was amazed to look at my watch and find that it was nearly noon.

  "Ms. Parker? This is Bob, from last night? Afraid I got some bad news for you about your tire."

  "What's the matter, Bob?"

  "I don't know if you realized this or not, but that tire wasn't just punctured, it was slashed. We can't fix it. You're gonna need a new one."

  "Slashed?" It took a minute for his words to register. "You mean someone did it deliberately?"

  "Yes, ma'am. It's a big cut, at least four inches long."

  My mind raced back to the previous evening. Had this been random vandalism or had someone targeted me? I thought I'd stayed pretty low-key, talking only to Pete the bartender and that other man who sat beside me. I know Pete couldn't have done it, he'd been in sight all evening. But the other man? He sure didn't look the type. And he'd been friendly enough. What about the other patrons, though? Few faces stuck in my memory—they'd come and gone all evening. I hadn't particularly watched any of them. But obviously one of them had watched me, probably listening in on my conversation at the bar.

  I told Bob to go ahead and mount a new tire on my wheel and I'd come by this afternoon to pick it up.

  Ron was gone at the moment; besides, I really didn't want to tell him about this yet. After swearing Sally to secrecy I told her about the whole evening. She didn't give it much importance. "Maybe it was just plain vandalism," she suggested.

  That answer didn't satisfy me. I stomped rather grumpily into the kitchen to refill my coffee mug, then went back to my tax returns. By two o'clock my head was spinning with numbers and I was ready for a break from the tedium. Rusty and I decided to quit for the day. We headed uptown toward Black's Tire. Bob showed me the old tire with the clean cut in the sidewall. I waited in their customer lounge while he replaced the spare with the new tire on the car and flinched as I paid the bill. It had turned out to be a very expensive beer last night.

  Thinking back over the notes I'd made last night, something came to mind. I decided to pay another call on the Detweillers. Maybe I could catch Jean before she left for work.

  Last night's wind had howled all night, but it left a beautiful day in its wake. The brown cloud of pollution which sits over the city for months at a time, held in place by a winter inversion, had blown away, leaving a clear blue sky that almost dazzled the eyes. The sun came through, deceptively warm. Growing up here I've seen sixty degree days in January and twenty degree days in March. Winter's not over til it's over. But that doesn't stop me from enjoying the pretty days when t
hey happen.

  Apparently Jean Detweiller felt the same. I found her on the front porch, attacking the door with sandpaper. She wore jeans and a faded sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up. Her hair was held back by a red kerchief.

  "Hi, Charlie." She was breathing hard from exertion. "I've decided I can't stand this place any more. I've gotta clean it up or burn it down."

  "Spring fever, maybe," I suggested.

  "Maybe so."

  I noticed the drapes were open today and the windows had been freshly washed. Leaves and debris had been raked from the rock landscaping around the shrubs.

  "You really have been working at it," I commented.

  "I need to stay busy," she replied. She resumed sanding at the flaky paint.

  "This has to be hard on you," I told her.

  She paused a moment and straightened up, fixing me with an even gaze. "You know, I don't know if I ought to say this but losing Gary was probably the best thing that ever happened to me."

  "What do you mean?" I asked, faintly startled that she'd voice her feelings to me.

  "You know how some people act one way around others and completely different at home?"

  Most people do, I thought.

  "You know, around his friends Gary was Mr. Generous, the good guy who said what they wanted to hear, gave 'em what they wanted. Gary was a dreamer. He made people believe that he really could make those dreams come true. I guess that's how I got attracted in the first place. But later, it . . . well, it wasn't really like that." She suddenly got busy working on one particular spot.

  "What do you mean?" I prompted. I thought of Josh's comments about his father chasing after gold mines.

  She sanded more furiously. I waited.

  "I don't know," she hedged, not wanting to say. "It's just that, you know, I got so tired of scrounging by on my measly paycheck. Life was always such a struggle, trying to afford things for Josh, trying to pay the bills and keep the house up. And then Gary would get his hands on some money, and instead of helping with the bills, I'd find out he bought drinks for everyone down at Penguin's."