Memories Can Be Murder: The Fifth Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  "Bill said it's brand new. He just took delivery on it last week. That's why he's selling this one."

  "What about this other one? Does he fly them both or does he have other pilots?"

  "I'm not sure. Probably has at least one other backup pilot. It'd sure be nice if I could afford that. I'd really like to have an operation like this some day." He gazed around the hangar, apparently seeing something beyond the piles of junk and greasy rags that I'd noticed.

  "What do you think about that aircraft?" I asked, indicating the one he was standing on.

  "Looks real clean," he said. "I'll have to check the maintenance records before I can decide anything."

  He climbed down from his perch and opened the door, taking his place in the pilot's seat. "Come on and try it out," he invited. I opened the left hand door and stepped up to the front passenger seat.

  "This remind you of anything?" I asked, glancing sideways at him.

  He leaned over and kissed me. "Six months ago now, wasn't it? The heliport on Kauai, circling the island, taking you to all my favorite places there . . . wasn't there some family in the back seat. I felt like they were watching me size you up."

  I laughed. "You were sizing me up?"

  "Well," he blushed, "sure. Isn't that what guys always do when they meet a woman they're interested in?"

  I squeezed his hand.

  "Let's take a look at the log book." He pulled a small hardbound book from a pocket at the base of his seat.

  I watched while he umm'd over the various entries.

  "Looks like everything's in order here," he commented. "Of course, I'll have to get the full maintenance records before I can really see the whole picture. Bill should have those here somewhere and maybe he'll let me take them to the hotel with us tonight."

  "How's it going, folks?" Whitaker called out. He walked up to Drake's open door. "You want to take her out for a spin?"

  Drake looked at his watch. "Yeah, definitely. But I think at this point I'll wait until tomorrow morning. Getting kind of late now. It'll be dark pretty soon."

  "Sure, sure, any time."

  "I would like to get the maintenance file with the component tags and look those over tonight if I could," Drake told Bill.

  "Yeah, let's get those for you," Whitaker said. "And somewhere around here I've got a listing of the remaining times on the major components. That oughta be helpful."

  We stepped down from our seats and followed Bill into his office off the main reception room. He rummaged through a file cabinet whose manila folders sagged against each other weakly. His desk was covered with thick volumes of helicopter maintenance books, files, and faxes, topped with a layer of small telephone message slips. Three Styrofoam coffee cups stood in precarious positions among the clutter. I clasped my hands together to resist the strong urge to straighten it up.

  "Now here's the maintenance folder for that machine," Whitaker was telling Drake.

  "And the log book? Can I take that too?"

  "Yeah, we'll get it out of the ship before you go," Bill said. "What else? Let's think what you might need."

  I tapped Drake on the shoulder. "I think I'll go let Rusty out for a couple of minutes."

  He nodded, flashing me a quick smile.

  The dog wagged his entire red-brown body as I approached the Jeep.

  "Poor thing," I consoled. "You missed us, didn't you? Come on, let's take a little walk." I clipped a leash onto his collar.

  He immediately pulled toward the ramp in front of the hangar, but I steered him toward the road. We kept up a brisk pace for a couple of blocks, then turned around and headed back at a good clip. Drake was waiting at the Jeep when we returned.

  "All set?" he asked.

  "Yep, I think we both feel better after a little stretch."

  We checked into a nearby motel and left Rusty in the room gobbling at his dinner while we went out to locate a decent steak. We returned to the room an hour later, full but happy.

  Drake pulled out the folders and log books and spread them out on the table. I stretched out on the bed and watched him at work. Having him around was still so new to me that I enjoyed seeing him in action.

  "I had a thought today, Drake."

  "Hmm, what's that?" His eyes didn't leave the computer printout he was working over.

  "Well, tomorrow you're going to have a chance to fly the new ship. Could we take it anywhere we want to?"

  "Within reason," he said absently.

  "I looked on the map and it doesn't look that far to Baldy Mountain."

  "What are you suggesting?" He looked sideways at me through slitted eyes.

  "That maybe we could check out my parent's crash site?" I tried my best flirty manner, but wasn't sure I pulled it off. "I'd pay for the extra fuel."

  He paused. "Let's see the map," he said.

  He pulled a sectional chart out of the briefcase he'd brought with him, spreading it out on the bed beside me. I scanned it quickly and pointed to the spot. He brought out a little measuring device and checked the distance.

  "I think we could manage it," he grinned.

  "Will Whitaker care? I mean I don't want to cause a problem with him."

  "I'll just ask. Tell him I need to take it out long enough to see how it performs at altitude."

  "Did I ever happen to tell you that I think you're one terrific guy?"

  "You might have mentioned it. But you could tell me again."

  I crawled onto his lap and showed him instead.

  Chapter 8

  At over 11,000 feet, I felt like I was standing on top of the world. Literally. I turned in a full circle and breathed deeply of the thin, cold air. Drake came up behind me, running his arm around my waist after shutting down the helicopter's engine. Neither of us said a word until I began to giggle.

  "This is just so incredible," I laughed.

  Below us, the mountain fell away in graduated sloping steps. Each compass point showed a different panorama, the blue-gray hills to the east, the dark green mountains to the north and south, majestic Wheeler Peak crowned in white to the west. Tiny towns dotted the lower elevations, most discernable only as a bunch of dots with a thread of a road running through the middle. Gray clouds hung above our heads. Drake kept looking up at them.

  "We aren't going to have much time here," he said. "This weather could close in any time."

  I pulled a small note from my pocket. "Here are the coordinates I got from the NTSB report," I said.

  He pulled the portable GPS from his jacket as he glanced at the note.

  "Okay, it looks like we're really close." He looked around for a trail. "Let's try this one."

  I followed him toward a dip that led downward between two large boulders. A trail, in reasonably good shape, snaked its way up the mountain in a series of switchbacks.

  "Probably another hundred feet or so," Drake called back over his shoulder.

  My eyes were glued to the path, my legs a little unsteady on the loose pebbly surface. Drake stopped and I bumped into his back.

  "Look over there," he said, pointing down and to our right. "See the two broken trees?"

  We left the path and sidestepped our way across the steep surface.

  "See how they're broken, up high? They've put on a few new branches but the tops won't grow back. The plane probably took off those tree tops as it came in."

  I stopped short. We were directly uphill from the broken trees and I realized that I was probably standing almost exactly on the spot where my parents and the others had lost their lives. A heavy feeling settled in the middle of me. Oddly, no tears came, only that rock—somewhere between my heart and my stomach.

  Drake bent down, scratching at the dirt at the base of a rock. He picked up a small metal object and brushed the dirt off it. I crabbed my way down the hill to him.

  "Looks like an aircraft bolt," he said, holding it up. It looked like just any old bolt to me.

  "Specially hardened steel, tested to meet aircraft specs," he said. "
They don't look any different, do they? Cost about fifteen times more than any hardware store bolt though."

  "How can you tell that's what it is?"

  He scrubbed the head of the bolt against his jeans, then held it up to me. "See that little number stamped into the head? Every part on an aircraft has a part number. The FAA catches you using some unapproved part on your aircraft, your ass is grass."

  My eyes traveled to the ground, looking for further evidence. I don't know what I thought I'd find—obviously, anything crucial to the investigation would have been removed by the NTSB, or whoever came along after . . .

  A tiny white grain floated across my field of view. I looked over at Drake. He'd apparently just noticed them too.

  "We better get going," he said, gazing up at the sky. "This is going to close in fast."

  We turned around and limped our way back to the trail. Climbing up was a bit trickier than coming down had been, but I let Drake take the lead and I imitated his moves up the tenuous path. By the time we'd buckled into our seats, adjusted our headsets and waited for the turbine engine to whine into motion, the snowflakes had thickened considerably.

  "You comfy?" Drake asked.

  I looked nervously at the sky and nodded.

  "Don't worry, the ceiling's still up there. We're just going to get below it and head lower. Once we're below 8,000 or so, it should clear up."

  He broadcast a call to any air traffic over the radio and maneuvered the aircraft into the air and we nosed downward into the valley toward Cimarron. As he'd predicted, the snowflakes became tinier until they were soon non-existent. By the time we circled the heliport in Pueblo, blue sky was peeking out of the clouds in large patches.

  Again, I excused myself to tend to Rusty, who'd waited in the car while we took our flight, while Drake went inside to talk deal with Whitaker.

  "Well?" I asked when he got back into the car thirty minutes later.

  "Well, it looks good," he said, starting the Jeep and backing out. "I'm real pleased with the machine and all the records look clean. Now I just have to figure out a way to afford it."

  "And what would that be?" We'd not really entered the sacred realm of finances yet. Drake had left a good paying job in Hawaii, and I assumed he'd socked away savings toward this dream of his. For my part, I'd only hinted that I do have a nest egg stashed from my inheritance. The money I draw from Ron's and my business partnership is minimal, but then, so are my expenses.

  "If I can get a contract lined up for some government work, I should be able to work out financing for the aircraft. Once I sell the property in Hawaii, that can help assure my ongoing operating expenses, a facility, and a way to help you out with household costs too."

  "Do you think you might be close to a contract?" We'd joined the southbound traffic on I-25.

  "It'll take some time to get anything firm, but I'm hopeful about the contacts I made in Albuquerque."

  "How soon do you have to commit to Whitaker?"

  "I gave him some earnest money and asked him to hold it for me for thirty days. If I can't get something put together by then and if another buyer comes along, I'll just find something else. This isn't the only helicopter in the world, you know."

  He reached over and squeezed my hand. "We could have such a good time with this, hon. This has been my dream for so long."

  The excitement showed clearly in his eyes. I smiled back at him, sharing the feeling.

  "I'm so glad to have you in my life," he said. He lifted my fingers to his mouth and placed a tender kiss there.

  The drive home seemed longer than the trip north. We stopped in Santa Fe for dinner and rolled into Albuquerque late with me snuggled asleep in the passenger seat.

  Chapter 9

  "So when's the wedding going to be?"

  I was sitting in Elsa Higgins's over-warm kitchen, stuffing bites of cinnamon toast into my mouth, passing a morning while Drake went downtown to meet again with some of his contacts in the Federal Building. Although Elsa had been my life-long neighbor and had taken me in to live with her for my last two years of high school, the question rankled.

  "I don't know," I answered, a little sharper than I'd planned. I regretted it immediately. "Gram, don't worry, Drake and I are getting married. I just haven't felt ready to set a date."

  I walked to the stove and poured hot water from the kettle into my tea cup.

  "It's just that, well, I've watched so many of my friends get divorced. I mean, look at Ron and Bernadette. That got so ugly."

  Her fluffy white hair nodded.

  "I just don't want that to happen to us. I want to be very sure. We haven't known each other that long." I carried the cup back to the table and reached for another slice of toast. "How long did you and Mr. Higgins know each other before you got married."

  "Two weeks," she answered promptly.

  "You're not helping my case here. How on earth did you know it would work out?"

  She looked puzzled. "Splitting up wasn't an option. We vowed to stay together. Better or worse and all that stuff." She wagged her finger toward me. "We went through some of those `worse' times, let me tell you missy, but we rode them out. Everyone did. People today just look for the easy way out whenever things don't go to suit them."

  I licked sugar off my fingers.

  "Did Mother or Dad ever talk about his work?"

  She chuckled. "Well, that sure was a neat way to dodge the subject."

  "Enough said. I'm working on it. What about Dad's work?"

  "Not really. I don't mean this to sound tacky, but your mother was awfully wrapped up in her social life and I don't think she ever once mentioned Bill's work."

  I knew what she meant. My mother's family had money and social standing. They'd always considered that she married beneath her when she picked a working slob—even one with a PhD. Mother had spent her time, as nearly as I could remember, involved in Junior League and the country club life.

  "Bill, of course, couldn't really talk about his work. Just about everything Sandia Corporation worked on in those days was classified."

  "I know. I feel like the plane crash must have been connected to something he was working on. Why else would someone have planted an explosive on a company plane? But I'm just not getting anywhere with my questions."

  She rubbed at a water spot on a spoon with her gnarled fingers. "You might look through your attic," she said. "I know we packed up a lot of papers and files from your father's desk and stored them up there."

  "I found a lot of that stuff," I told her. "With Drake moving in and all, I haven't had time to look through it. And now that his household stuff will be here in a while, I don't know if I have room to bring all that attic junk down."

  "Well, bring it over here if you want," she suggested. "You know your old room is sitting there empty. You can spread out in there if it'll help."

  "We'll see. I guess I should get it out though and see what's there. Although I can't really imagine that he'd have anything very secret at home."

  "Maybe not secret, maybe incriminating."

  From the mouths of babes.

  Why on earth hadn't I put that little bit of logic together?

  "You are a darling," I told her with a hug. "I'm going to get right on this."

  It took me nearly two hours to haul the boxes down from the attic, having to stop and check briefly in each one to be sure I wasn't simply moving old family junk around. It quickly became obvious that the dining room table would not contain it all and I decided to take Gram up on her offer to spread it all out in her spare bedroom. Taking it over there used up another thirty minutes, by which time Drake had come home and we stopped to make a sandwich for lunch.

  He'd brought home a stack of forms to fill out so I set him up in my home office, formerly my brothers' bedroom, with the portable typewriter. I cleared out a drawer and gave him a stack of file folders where he could locate his new business venture. I left him muttering over bid lists and punching numbers into the calculator
.

  Gram was wiping dish suds off her hands when I got back to her place.

  "You go ahead and do whatever you need to," she said. "I usually set down after lunch and watch my shows."

  I trailed her into the dim living room that always smelled of moth balls and lavender. She switched on the television set, adjusted it to her preferred channel and settled into her rocker across the room. I headed down the hall toward the spare bedroom, where I'd stacked the file boxes. There were probably a dozen of them. I took a deep breath.

  Within thirty minutes, I wished I'd looked through them a little more carefully before going to all the trouble of carrying them down from the attic and over here. The first four boxes had proved to contain Dad's notebooks and papers from college. Two more, at least, were graduate school work. I flipped briefly through each notebook, occasionally coming across a personal letter or photo. I put these aside, wondering if there would be enough of them to make up a scrapbook or album. Mostly the notebooks contained lecture notes, research notes, and pages and pages of formulas and equations. None of it made any sense to me, and I couldn't see any possible connection with his later years at Sandia Labs.

  A fifth box contained the pages from his leatherbound notebook, banded in several stacks with the dates neatly penned on top of each bundle. I laid them out on the floor chronologically and pulled the rubber bands from the most current one. The pages in this stack had been completed more than six months before the beginning of the first notebook I'd found, and a reading of the entries going back nearly a year revealed no further mentions of clandestine activities or threats. I sighed and put them all back into the box.

  The light in the room began to fade so I got up to switch on the overhead light. My hands were dusty, which somehow made my mouth feel extra dry, so I decided to find something to drink in the kitchen. Elsa dozed quietly in her rocker, head tilted to one side, her mouth hanging open. Dramatic organ music announced the end of one soap opera. I tiptoed through the room, found a glass in the same kitchen cupboard where they'd always been, and drank a full glass of water in a couple of long swigs.