Memories Can Be Murder: The Fifth Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  "You know, Drake, if this helicopter idea doesn't go through, we could turn you into a pretty decent investigator," I hinted.

  "Turn me into—excuse me, but I came up with those ideas before you did, my dear."

  He had. I really should be sticking to my financial duties at the office and not poking around wherever I saw trouble. Our food arrived just then so I didn't have to respond. I forked up some refried beans, while a sudden memory of Jim Williams's shattered face and car came rushing back at me.

  Chapter 17

  Gray light filtered into the bedroom, giving everything the feel of a badly made black and white movie. Unable to find any position comfortable enough to lull me back into sleep, I rolled off the edge of the bed.

  I gently closed the bathroom door before switching on a light to avoid waking Drake. Surely his muscles must be just as achy as mine. I peed, brushed my teeth and popped three Advil. My scraped hands and face were looking somewhat better as I doctored them with more antibiotic cream. Slipping on a robe, I shuffled into the kitchen and started some coffee brewing.

  Yesterday's boxes hadn't gone away. We'd gone through about half of them, stashing the empties in the garage until trash day, but the other half still needed attention. Later. I flopped into one of the kitchen chairs.

  My mind wouldn't let go of the questions Drake had posed last night. George Myers did seem to know a little too much about me and my habits, and he had leaped right into the opportunity to dig back into secret records. How involved was he? I wondered if he might also have been involved in the investigation of the crash—and to what extent?

  And if he was involved in the investigation, why hadn't he said so? And could there be something in the records that he didn't want me to know? And would he go so far as to cover up or destroy anything he found? Because if he did, it would mean he was definitely a part of the coverup.

  And if all this was true, I was playing with fire. And if it wasn't, I was losing my mind.

  I lay my head on my folded arms and dozed.

  "What are you doing in here, sweetheart?" Drake rubbed at my shoulders as he gently woke me. He wore a fresh blue polo shirt and jeans and smelled like soap and shampoo.

  "Oh, do that a little harder, will you?" I winced as he squeezed the muscles. "Yeah, and up the sides of my neck too?"

  I became a rag doll as he kneaded my neck, shoulders, and upper arms.

  "Now that you're about to drip right off the chair," he said, "let me wake you up again."

  He poured two mugs of coffee, dousing them with cream and sugar.

  "Are you aching as bad as I am?" I asked. "I feel like I slept on a concrete bleacher."

  "I guess I did better than that." He flexed his shoulders and arms a bit. "I'm feeling it, but I slept okay."

  He got up and put some whole wheat bread into the toaster while I sipped at my coffee. Rusty stared up at me with that plaintive starving-dog look he's perfected so well, until I finally got up and poured a scoop of nuggets into his bowl.

  "What's the plan for today?" Drake asked as he set jars of jam on the table and wafted the heavenly-smelling toast under my nose. "That is, after we've breathed some life back into you."

  I grinned. "Well, they say the best way to work out sore muscles is to do the same exercise again, so I guess I'll tackle the rest of the boxes after I've had a hot shower."

  "I just about have the office organized in there. I'm taking full advantage of the empty drawers you gave me," he said. "I may have to invest in a filing cabinet once I get the helicopter business going."

  "Take all the drawer space you want," I told him. "I can always take some of my stuff to the office. And there's probably lots of it I don't really need, for that matter."

  I rinsed the plates and mugs and stuck them in the dishwasher before retreating to the shower. The phone was ringing when I stepped out fifteen minutes later.

  "Drake? Are you getting that?" No answer, just the ringing.

  I belted my terry robe and picked up the bedroom extension.

  "Charlie Parker?" a female voice inquired. "Please hold for Congressman Cudahy's office."

  I held.

  "Miss Parker? This is Congressman Cudahy's secretary. Please hold for the Congressman."

  I held. Did these people forget how to punch telephone numbers after election day?

  "Charlie! Hi, Jack Cudahy here," the public voice oiled over the phone line.

  "Yes?" Since when were we such buddies?

  "Say, Charlie, I've been looking into the records on that plane crash you asked me about? Unfortunately, hon, I can't find anything unusual in the reports. Looks like the weather was just terrible that day and that's probably what brought the plane down."

  "Really? Congressman, some of my father's notes indicate that he was feeling under pressure—some kind of `heat.' What could that have been about?"

  "Well, Charlie, I have no recollections about that time. I can assure you that every reasonable means was taken at the time to insure a complete and thorough investigation into the matter."

  Pure politician-speak. Lots of words that don't say anything.

  "You actually worked at Sandia during those years, didn't you, Congressman? Did you work with my father on any of his projects?"

  "To a limited extent. Oh, excuse me, I've got an overseas call coming in. Well, just wanted to let you know what I found. Please feel free to call on my office any time." Click.

  The man was slick. Had the art of appearing concerned, while not doing a damn thing, down pat. He was probably singlehandedly taking credit for the most recent boom in the stock market too.

  I toweled my hair and slipped on jeans and a T-shirt. Drake was humming "Love Me Tender" from somewhere in the depths of the office that was rapidly becoming his, so I decided to tackle the kitchen cartons.

  Jack Cudahy's call still rankled. How did he think he'd get away with such an absolutely blatant lie? The weather caused the crash—bullshit! Jim Williams had told me there was no question about it being an explosion. Even Hannah, hell even Elsa Higgins, knew that. I thought of Jim, and felt a sudden jolt of concern for the two older women. Was I endangering innocent people by asking questions?

  By ten o'clock the kitchen stood in pretty good shape, I'd shoved aside things in the linen closet enough to make space for more sheets and towels, and stashed the empty boxes in the garage. Drake was still humming away in the office.

  "I think I should go in to Ron's office this afternoon," I interrupted. "It is, after all, supposed to be my full time job. Want to come?"

  "Nah, I'm happy here, getting this stuff organized," he answered.

  "If you'll want the Jeep for anything, you can drive me down there and then take it."

  "Nope. I'll just hang out here. You can leave Rusty with me if you want to." The red-brown lump on the floor raised his head and thumped his tail, but didn't get up.

  I slipped on my denim jacket and pulled my purse off the coat rack. It felt like it weighed ten pounds, which it has a tendency to do, being the catch-all for junk and scraps of paper. I flopped it down on the dining table for a minute to rid myself of some of the clutter and weight. Several handfuls of papers came out, along with the contents of my change purse—amazingly heavy—Drake's sunglasses, and a bag of hard candy we'd bought to smuggle into the movie theater but never went.

  A brisk breeze whipped through the trees, bringing a first taste of winter chill with it. Disks of yellow scuttled up the street, while a hefty portion of them littered the lawn.

  At the office I spent a few minutes getting briefed by Sally about the morning phone calls and mail. She left and I poured myself a Coke before going upstairs to my office. Poking my head in at Ron's doorway, I shot a smile his way as he finalized a phone call.

  "Busy morning?" he questioned, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

  "Not what you think, unfortunately. Drake's stuff arrived from the movers yesterday afternoon, so we've been merging household stuff—not ourselves.
He's still at it, but I thought I better show up for work every now and then."

  "Oh, don't worry about it. We've been doing fine," he assured me.

  "Ron, do you have a minute to talk?"

  "Sure." He followed me into my office and took the small sofa across the room from my desk.

  "Remember that I told you I was going to look up some of Dad's old co-workers to see if I could learn anything more about the plane crash?"

  "Yeah, did you ever talk to that guy with the NTSB? The one who faxed me the report?"

  "Oh, God, Ron. I forgot to tell you—" I filled him in on the horrible night I was supposed to meet Jim Williams.

  "What am I getting close to, Ron?"

  He shook his head. "Damned if I know. You know how little Dad talked about work. I don't remember ever seeing his office, ever seeing him bring papers home . . ."

  "Then last night George Myers, who somehow knew that I'd be eating dinner at Pedro's last night, told me they were working on some pre-Star Wars technology out there. Does any of that ring a bell?"

  "Not a bit."

  "And then—this morning I had a call from Congressman Jack Cudahy, who swore, as much as you can ever get a politician to swear to anything, that the weather caused the plane crash. Ron, we know better. We saw the NTSB report. I don't trust either of those men. And Wendel Patterson—I saw him yesterday too. He's pretty old now, but cocky. Sort of swaggers around hinting but not telling what kinds of things he worked on. The only one I can rule out right now is Larry Sanchez because he's bed ridden."

  His mouth turned grim. "But he wasn't fifteen years ago. Charlie, be careful here. Anyone who would murder a government official just to steal a folder won't think twice about coming after you.

  "And whoever killed Williams may have also planted the bomb on the plane. That means they've now killed at least six people."

  Suddenly I wanted Drake to hold me.

  Chapter 18

  "Sweetpea? It's Apple Pie."

  "Hannah? What is it?" I dragged myself from a deep sleep and rolled over to see my digital clock. Eight-thirty.

  "Sweetpea, I think the story's breaking," Hannah continued.

  "Why? What's happening?" I looked over to Drake's side of the bed but it was empty, the covers pulled smoothly up to the pillow. "Hannah? What story?"

  "Well, I had a call from George Myers this morning," she whispered.

  "Is he there? Or did he just call?"

  "Oh, no, he called on the telephone. Guess I don't need to whisper then, do I?" She giggled.

  "I don't think so," I told her. "What did he call about?"

  "Well, it was real early, probably about seven because the children next door were waiting on the curb for the school bus and it's usually here by seven fifteen, and so I know it was before that."

  "And what about George?" I prompted.

  "Yes, well George called and asked if I remembered him, and of course I did, but I didn't tell him that I'd just talked to you a few days ago. So I got him to explain who he was and why he was calling. Don't you think that was clever? That way I didn't give away that I already knew why he was calling?"

  "Yes, Hannah, that was clever," I worked to keep the sigh out of my voice.

  "So anyway, he made out like he'd had the idea to look into that plane crash and he wondered if I had any old papers or documents or clippings or anything like that. Little skunk, he thought he'd take credit for finding them himself, I'll bet.

  "Well, I didn't tell him anything. Didn't even admit that I'd kept the newspaper clippings about the crash. Let him go to the paper and find that stuff himself, I say."

  "That was smart, Hannah. You just keep quiet and play like you don't know anything." I didn't want to tell her that her life probably depended on it. I hung up the phone feeling a heavy weight of responsibility.

  I took a fast hot shower, brushed my hair into a ponytail, and pulled on jeans and a T-shirt before scouting around to locate Drake and Rusty. Padding through the house in my socks, I realized there seemed to be a bit of a commotion in the front yard.

  A glance out the living room window showed a large truck backed into our driveway. Rusty raced around the lawn in circles and several neighbors stood in a clump on the sidewalk. I stuffed my feet into running shoes and pulled a denim jacket from the coat hook.

  Drake greeted me as I emerged into the excitement. "Hey, hon," he said with a kiss for me. "Look—my truck is here!"

  Sure enough, the truck driver was in the process of closing the back doors of his rig and Drake's shiny little pickup sat in the driveway.

  "I moved your Jeep out to the curb so this guy'd have room to pull in," Drake told me, handing me my keys.

  "Looks like this is the big news of the day," I smiled. "The neighborhood sure turned out for it."

  I noticed Elsa at the center of the little group, talking animatedly with another couple who lived about three houses up.

  "Charlie!" she called.

  I walked toward the little cluster, nodding hello to each of the gray heads.

  "Oh, Charlie, I just can't believe it," Elsa said. Her white brows pulled together in front. "There's been another break-in right here on our street."

  "What! When did this happen?"

  The other woman, whom I recognized as Mrs. Fredericks, a quiet retired teacher, spoke up: "It was our house, Charlie! Yesterday afternoon—Oscar and I left for a couple of hours to do our grocery shopping and a few errands—we weren't gone very long at all. Broke in through one of the back bedroom windows, must have carried our stuff out the back door."

  "They live on the corner, you know," Elsa chimed in. "The thieves must have parked their car on the side street."

  "Did they take much?" I asked.

  "Well, the portable TV set that Oscar got me for the bedroom last year. And there was that expensive radio the kids gave us for Christmas."

  Drug money. It was so common all over town, but hadn't hit this close to home yet. Most of my neighbors are retired and old enough to be my grandparents. If Elsa's home is any indication, I imagined most of their furnishings were vintage 1950s, and their electronics predated the birth of Bill Gates, making them not exactly hot properties on the hot property market. I wondered how they knew the Fredericks' would own a couple of new pieces.

  I made some consolatory noises, telling them I hoped they'd reported it to the police on the chance that the items could be recovered, before I turned my attention back to Drake.

  He had signed the shipping receipt and sent the truck driver on his way. Now he was busy hooking up the pickup's battery in preparation for giving it a first start-up. I leaned under the open hood beside him.

  "Glad to have your baby back?" I teased.

  "A man without a truck is only the next saddest creature to a man without a woman," he intoned seriously.

  "Well put, helicopter man. If you'd said `sadder than a man without a woman' you'd have some answering to do." I jabbed him lightly in the ribs and received a kiss in return.

  "I'm thinking, if I can get everything put together in the next couple of days, we should drive this baby up to Pueblo and bring us home a helicopter."

  "Really? You're that close to being ready?"

  He took a deep breath. "Well, I'm not sure one is ever ready to go a half-million dollars in debt, but I'm feeling brave. Or maybe foolhardy."

  Whew. I was only glad I didn't have to imagine taking on a project of that size.

  "I've got the paperwork from the financing company. The insurance people have given me a quote that, you notice, has turned my hair gray. And the FAA paperwork is in motion."

  "Where, exactly, will this new toy sleep at night?" Considering that our garage was full of boxes, our driveway full of cars, and the front lawn not very large. Not to mention the neighbor's wrath and the reams of city ordinances we'd be breaking by landing an aircraft at a residence.

  "I can rent hangar space out at the Double Eagle Airport, that new one on the west side—out by the
shooting range. It's gonna take some start-up money to do all this, but I've had good news from the Realtor in Hawaii."

  "The property has sold already?" I felt a tiny letdown. I'd been hoping for at least one more vacation trip there.

  "They got some earnest money, so it looks pretty sure. I should be hearing something within the next few days."

  Things were just moving right along, weren't they?

  "Meanwhile, let's get some breakfast and make a plan," I suggested. I picked up the newspaper from the porch while he closed the hood and followed me into the house. Rusty stuck close by, trying his starving-dog routine again, but Drake assured me he'd already been fed.

  "You—you beggar," I teased the dog. "You'd eat seventeen times a day if you could get away with it." I took his big head in my hands and roughed up his ears. He leaned against me heavily, until I thought he'd fall over.

  "How about more waffles for breakfast?" Drake asked. "I'll make them."

  He didn't have to make that offer twice. I sat at the table and spread out the newspaper.

  "Shit, look at this," I muttered. "Another break-in. This one's just about three blocks over. And did you hear Elsa and the Fredericks's telling about it happening to them?"

  He hadn't, so I recounted what little I knew about it while he plugged in the waffle iron and began stirring ingredients in a bowl.

  "This is beginning to be a pattern here. We've never had burglaries in this neighborhood before. And now there've been two. Maybe we should think about an alarm system."

  "Yeah, I could probably install one. And I should probably install one at Gram's house too. I worry about her all alone over there," he added.

  "She's got you calling her Gram too, I see."

  He blushed. "Yeah, well, she says I'm almost one of the family now."

  "It's true, you are," I assured him.

  The waffle batter sizzled as it hit the hot iron. He closed the lid on it and began slicing a banana. Rusty's nose twitched toward the countertop. I scanned the remaining headlines, then folded the paper.