Holidays Can Be Murder: A Charlie Parker Christmas Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  “Back already?”

  “And without much, I’m afraid.” I laid down the phone bill I’d been studying. “Neither of my two suspects seem quite as likely, now that I’ve talked to them.”

  Ron pulled a stick of gum from his shirt pocket, unwrapped the foil, and folded the gum twice before stuffing it into his mouth.

  “I just don’t see Ray Candelaria as a suspect,” I told him. “The man appears to be getting on with his life and didn’t seem to be harboring ill feelings toward Paula.

  “Gus, the drug dealer, on the other hand, might have had reason to come after her. He just doesn’t seem to have taken the opportunity. Several people swear he never leaves his usual spot. Maybe we could ask some questions around town, see if there’s anybody who might know something about that dark blue car we noticed prowling around before Christmas. Gus could have very well hired somebody to come after her. Or, Catherine said Paula was bragging about some new hunk in her life.”

  “I ran the plate on the car while you were gone,” Ron said. “Johnny Domingo. Twenty-one years old. Got a rap sheet, petty stuff mostly. Started as a kid taking things from convenience stores. Graduated to house burglaries by the time he was fifteen. Supporting a mild drug habit by ripping off TV sets and microwaves.”

  “Hmm . . . seems a little young to be a boyfriend. All this time we’ve been looking for a connection to Paula, but maybe it was simply a case of this kid breaking in, thinking no one was home. Hoped to score a nice appliance of some kind and get out. Paula was there and he grabbed the first available weapon.”

  “With all the traffic in the neighborhood?” He knew a fair number of people would drive around Christmas night rather than take on the huge crowds Christmas Eve. His look was pure skepticism.

  “That could be the perfect cover. He might have faked a breakdown and started walking. We were all out walking the night before, and no one questioned us.”

  “And he’d haul a TV set right out past the other drivers and stash it in the trunk of his car?”

  “Nothing like that was missing. However, there are plenty of smaller treasures around. A camera? Jewelry? Come on, Ron, there are dozens of valuables he could have stashed into a pocket.”

  He gave a small nod of concession.

  “Do we know where Johnny was Christmas night?”

  “Haven’t checked that yet,” he admitted. “Let me contact a couple of people I know.” The phone rang. “That’s gonna be Leroy. I’ll get it in here.”

  I fiddled with my mail some more, thinking I should answer a couple of letters but stalling while Ron made the calls. If we could at least send the police looking at Johnny Domingo, it would take some of the heat off Judy. Make their case against her look iffy.

  Ron reappeared. “Well, Johnny Domingo wasn’t in jail or the hospital, as far as I can tell. As to where he actually was, that’s gonna take a little longer.”

  And it could have been a million places.

  “I put a couple of guys on it,” he said. “They aren’t exactly model citizens themselves, but they’ll nose around a little.”

  I didn’t especially care, and certainly didn’t want to know who these guys were. I was just happy that we’d found a direction to go that was leading away from Judy.

  “While you’re at it, know any hit men?” I was only half joking.

  He wasn’t. “Maybe.”

  “I’m just wondering how we might find out if Gus hired anybody local to go after Paula. And who it might be.” I twiddled a pencil in my fingers. “I do think his girlfriend made sense—he wouldn’t have anything to gain by killing Paula. But a hired gun might have gone beyond his duty. Done more damage than planned.”

  “I don’t know . . . this line seems pretty sketchy to me. But I can see what there is to learn. Never know.”

  That’s right—you never know, I thought as I gathered jacket and purse and headed for my car. I was ready for a fresh clothes and a shower.

  Drake and Catherine were out when I got home but the two dogs greeted me happily enough. Drake had left a note suggesting dinner at Pedro’s, so I shouldn’t bother to make anything at home. Like I would have leaped right to the task anyway.

  It was only three o’clock and his note said they’d be back from their museum trip about five. I decided to go next door and see what had happened with the Garfields since I’d been away.

  Wilbur answered the door after I’d rung twice. His normally pale face was pasty white. His thin, sandy hair lay plastered to his head in oily strands, and his hands trembled noticeably. His pants and shirt looked like he’d slept in them, and his navy cardigan hung lopsided from his shoulders. His wire-rimmed glasses had fingerprint smudges on the lenses. He greeted me with a grunt and stepped aside so I could enter.

  The living room showed the lack of a woman’s touch. Newspapers and unopened mail were strewn over the sofa and tables. Two beer cans stood on the end table next to his recliner and a dinner plate on the coffee table had something tomatoey dried on it.

  “Judy hasn’t been released, I gather.”

  “No. The judge was taking a long holiday weekend and her lawyer hasn’t pushed to be assigned to a different one. Her bail hearing is now set for Monday.”

  “Oh, no. I can’t believe that! She shouldn’t be stuck downtown just because it’s a holiday week. Want me to see if Ron can pull any strings? Call somebody, or get her a different lawyer?”

  He didn’t seem to know what he wanted. He shuffled over to his recliner and flopped down. I followed and sat on the sofa across from him.

  “Ron and I are trying to follow the drug connection,” I said. “I met the guy in Los Angeles Paula was buying from. But there must have also been someone here in Albuquerque. Do you have any ideas? Somebody who called her here at the house, or somebody she called?”

  He sat lifelessly in the chair.

  “I found her address book the other day, but didn’t find any local phone numbers in it. Could there have been another place she wrote them?”

  He picked at a thread on the arm of his chair but didn’t respond.

  “Wilbur, I’m trying to help get Judy out of jail for good. To avoid the hassle and embarrassment of a trial. Can you meet me halfway?”

  “My wife did not kill my mother,” he said, slowly and deliberately. “I know this for a fact. I don’t know anything about any drug dealers.” His voice had rising shrilly.

  “I’m not insinuating that you’d normally know anything about drugs, Wilbur. I’m just . . .”

  The true meaning of his words sunk in and my voice skipped as I figured it out.

  He saw it in my face.

  “Oh my god. Wilbur . . .”

  14

  He stood up and hovered over me.

  “Wilbur? What happened Christmas night?” I slid to the other end of the sofa and stood up. “You and Judy went to the dinner party but she got that headache and went to lie down. What were you doing then?”

  I was backing away as I asked the question, but he was quicker. He snatched out at me and grabbed my wrist. Twisting it behind me in a sudden move, he spun me around and moved behind me in a flash. The pain in my arm was unbearable.

  “Too many questions, Charlie. You’re getting too close and I can’t let that happen.”

  He yanked at my wrist until my knees buckled. “That way,” he growled, steering me toward the connecting door to the garage. He kept me gripped with his right hand, opened the door with his left. “Down the steps,” he ordered.

  I stumbled and thought he might loosen his hold, but I felt my shoulder snap instead. I cried out.

  “Stay there!”

  I halted on the third step. He bumped into my back and began to pull me to the right, so I was stumbling backward while he headed toward his workbench. He grabbed a plastic tie, the long ones used to bind groups of cords together, and turned back to me.

  “Put your other hand back here.”

  “No! Wilbur, wait. Think what you’re doing.�
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  “Now!” He yanked my wrist again. The pain shot through my weakened shoulder and up my neck. I slowly lowered my right hand.

  “You never did answer my question,” I said, trying to distract him from his work. “What were you doing while Judy was nursing her headache? You came back here, didn’t you?”

  He was fumbling slightly with the plastic tie, trying to keep a grip on me and operate both ends of it at the same time.

  “You made some excuse and came back here, knowing Paula was alone and thinking the police would probably attribute it to a break-in. You knew you could get rid of her.”

  “I didn’t plan it,” he whined. “Not like you’re saying.”

  “But you’d had enough of her, hadn’t you? She’d never treated you like a man. Never listened to your opinion. And you’d never been able to stand up to her, your whole life, right?”

  “I just came back for Judy’s migraine medicine. I’d told our hosts I’d run to the convenience store and get something for her, but then I remembered she had this prescription that worked really well. So I came back here.”

  “And the police never asked your hosts if you’d left the party, did they? They latched onto Judy and went with her as their suspect.”

  “I never thought that would happen. I never meant . . .”

  I tried withdrawing my free hand, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

  “No, Charlie! Don’t try it.”

  “So what happened when you got here, Wilbur? Paula started in on you, didn’t she? She was nagging, giving you a hard time, wasn’t she?”

  “She . . . she said . . .” His voice cracked. “She wanted to stay here and show us how to raise our baby. Said Judy and I were so stupid we’d never be able to do it by ourselves. She’d had some drinks. I just couldn’t handle it. The thought of her ruining one more little life. The thought of Judy leaving me—because I knew she’d never go for it.”

  “And then what? A nice guy like yourself doesn’t usually just pick up a fireplace poker because someone insults him.”

  “She laughed.” His face turned grim and I could see him reliving that horrible scene. “She laughed at me and I just snapped.”

  “Wilbur, let me go. I’m sure there’s a way we could explain this to the police.”

  “Hunh-uh. They might let Judy go but then our baby’s father would be in jail. I can’t have that. You’re the only person who’s come close to figuring it out, Charlie. I just have to think what to do with you. I already have a plan for getting Judy out.”

  “Wilbur, think about this. If you get rid of me, you’ll have two mur—”

  “Shut up! I mean it!”

  Quick as a flash, he grabbed my free hand and was about to snap the plastic clip on me. It was now or never. I stomped on his instep as hard as I could and followed immediately by flinging my right arm toward his face. I clipped him across the ear but it was enough to make him drop his grip on my pulsing left wrist. I spun to face him, scanning the workbench behind him for a weapon, any weapon.

  He’d had the same thought. He pulled open a drawer at his side and came out with a can of spray paint. I almost chuckled at the vision of myself with a green face, but checked it just in time. Women who laughed at Wilbur didn’t last long. All he had to do was temporarily blind me and I’d be bound and gagged and in the back of his car before I knew it. I ducked and ran behind the car.

  “Wilbur, slow down. This isn’t the way to do this. Getting rid of me will just be the beginning of your troubles.”

  He held the can above the roof of the car, ready in case I raised up. I watched him through the windows, staying on the opposite side. My mind whirled. I had no idea what time it was, but didn’t realistically expect Drake for at least another hour. I couldn’t fend off Wilbur that long. I edged my way around the car, coming up on the driver’s door. I could always lock myself inside and make him break a window to get at me. Dumb idea, Charlie. He had the keys. If I could just . . .

  I edged toward the front bumper. He’d been following my moves, trying to get closer to me. He was now at the rear bumper. I decided to make a run for it before he caught on to what I was doing. I ducked and ran around to the passenger side and up the steps to the house. In a flash I was inside and I snapped the deadbolt behind me.

  The front door. I raced to it and locked that deadbolt too.

  Wilbur was still pounding on the garage door, but it would probably only be a matter of moments before he figured out that he could hit the electric opener switch and get out. If he had his keyring in his pocket, neither the house, the garage, nor the car would be safe for me. I had to get out of there. I ran to the kitchen door. The pounding at the garage door had stopped.

  I grabbed the kitchen phone and dialed 911, laid the receiver on the counter, and screamed as I headed for the back door leading to the yard. I hoped the operator wouldn’t talk to the empty phone too long before she sent help to this address. I peeked out the glass panes at the top of the door. No sign of Wilbur.

  Then I heard the front door creak open.

  15

  The front door closed with a stealthy click as I fumbled with the locks on the back door. Finally. I yanked it open. A siren screamed through the house as the burglar alarm went off.

  Wilbur had obviously set the alarm as soon as he came in, hoping to catch me if I tried to escape. He appeared at the kitchen door as I raced onto the back patio. I headed toward my own house and belatedly remembered that my purse and keys were sitting beside the sofa on the floor in his living room.

  “Looking for this?” he taunted from his back door. My purse dangled from his fingers. In his other hand he carried a claw hammer.

  Shit.

  He sprinted across the patio. I raced away, trying to stay beyond his reach.

  Think, Charlie, think. Where could I go? I thought of Elsa’s, my safe haven for much of my life, but knew I’d never make it. He’d easily be upon me before she could shuffle to her door to answer my knocks. Besides, I would never put her life in danger too. No, it had to be somewhere else. I headed down the street, opting to leave the relative quiet of our neighborhood for busy Central Avenue. It was six blocks away, but at least there would be traffic and people. Somewhere in the distance a siren wafted lightly on the wind.

  Two blocks later, I was beginning to regret my recent lack of exercise. I made a hasty New Years resolution, the same one I’d probably made last year at this time. My legs burned and the air in my lungs felt like fire. Wilbur was keeping a surprisingly good pace for someone who looked like he never did anything more physical than punch buttons on a calculator. He was no more than fifty feet behind me.

  Ahead, a cross street bisected my path and I prayed there would be no oncoming traffic because I wasn’t going to have the luxury of stopping to take a look. Wilbur was closing quickly. My feet pounded on the sidewalk, my breath rushed in and out with a sound like a charging bull, and somewhere—much nearer than before—the siren entered my consciousness. The cross street was about thirty feet ahead of me. I made a snap decision. Just before I came to the intersection, I spun to my right and cut across the yard on the corner.

  Wilbur’s momentum carried him straight toward the street. The oncoming police car, with lights and siren wailing, was only going about thirty. His body smashed into the driver’s-side fender and it flung him through the air and into the yard on the opposite corner from where I ran. I caught a glimpse of all this just before I collided with a huge blue spruce tree and found myself stabbed in the face with a thousand needles.

  16

  The mess wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d envisioned. My face felt like a pincushion and looked like I had a delicate rash for about a week. Wilbur was lucky, too. His injuries consisted of a concussion and a broken leg, both of which were treated with one night’s observation in the hospital before he was released to the custody of the Albuquerque Police Department.

  Judy came home as soon as I told the authorities of Wilbur’s confession.
She looked a whole lot better after a shower and good night’s sleep at home. We spent several afternoons talking at my kitchen table. She’d decided to move back to her hometown. It turned out that Wilbur wasn’t the only one who suffered intimidation at the hands of an oppressor. While Wilbur had taken his mother’s belittling for years, he’d dished out much of the same to Judy. From my own experience, watching his personality go from docile to almost manic in a few moments, I could believe it.

  Kent Taylor probably suffered the worst from the whole ordeal. It just about killed him to admit that he’d jumped to much too quick a conclusion about the perp in this case and that he should have conducted a more thorough investigation.

  Drake and I are doing great—missing Catherine a little because she really was a good houseguest over the holidays—but happy to have our space back to ourselves.