Memories Can Be Murder: The Fifth Charlie Parker Mystery

by Connie Shelton

  "Hon?" Drake interrupted my thoughts. "The investigator wants to talk to you a minute."

  "Go ahead," Cannon said. "I'll get my camera and take some pictures. I can make a list of all the obvious losses."

  Yeah, like my memories? Like the days of work we'd put into setting up Drake's home office? Like the cards and love notes Drake had sent me while we were apart, tucked into my bottom dresser drawer?

  I swallowed and gave my head a quick shake to clear it. I'd have to schedule time later to break down.

  "Ms. Parker?"

  I turned to face the arson man.

  "Inspector Wilson. Albuquerque Fire Department." He was a man of large build, built even larger by the extra fifty pounds he carried in the gut that hung over his belt. At six-three, well over two hundred pounds, he filled the doorway. He wore rubber boots and surgical gloves. A sooty streak ran down the side of his face, like he'd gotten caught under one of the dripping eaves.

  "Can you come with me a moment, ma'am?" he requested. All business.

  I trotted behind like an obedient puppy. He crunched his way over fallen debris in the hallway, then cautioned me to follow exactly in his footsteps as we entered the bedroom, lest the floor give way and send us crashing into the crawl space under the house. My throat constricted as I surveyed my former bedroom.

  The outer wall was completely burned away, leaving a wide view into the back yard, and the attached bathroom now consisted only of a few charred upright timbers and blackened ceramic fixtures. The bed's metal frame was the only indication of where Drake and I had spent pleasurable hours in each other's arms. Across the room, the dresser stood like a giant chunk of charcoal, blackened and solid. Flames had burned through the wall to the adjoining guest room, which appeared in only slightly better shape. My mind went numb.

  Wilson turned to me. "Did you always have your morning coffee in bed?" he questioned.

  "What?" My brain couldn't grasp the question.

  "How large a policy did you carry on the house?" Again, that accusatory tone of voice, with questions that I couldn't quite fathom.

  "What are you talking about?" I finally managed.

  "Wait here," he ordered.

  I stayed near the charred doorway, while he picked his way through the rubble to the edge of the metal bedframe. Poking a gloved index finger through the debris, he came up with a small metal part and a few strings of black spaghetti, which he held up to me.

  "This, ma'am. We've seen a lot of these faulty coffee makers go up in flames, but not usually in the bedroom, and we usually find that the wiring's bad."

  I struggled to think what, exactly, he was telling me.

  "Coffee maker?" The words came out sounding like I wasn't quite sure what a coffee maker was.

  Wilson dropped the conglomeration of parts into a plastic baggie. "The lab will analyze these," he informed me. "But my own twenty-odd years in the business make me think this was tampered with." He stared closely at my face, and I tried to imagine what he might be reading there.

  He zipped the baggie closed and started toward me, with an air of okay-we're-done-here. I stepped aside, let him pass me, then followed him into the smoky living room. My internal fog was beginning to clear a little.

  "What were you saying about coffee makers?" I queried.

  "Surely you've seen the warnings and the TV specials about this. Well, some of these coffee makers are notorious for catching fire. The plastic parts don't just melt, they'll actually sustain a flame for several minutes, and that usually means that whatever else is nearby catches fire too. Thing gets too hot, bad wire causes a spark, something like that . . . you got yourself a fire. The thing is," his eyes turned accusatory again, "there's always evidence left behind."

  "What does that mean?" I demanded.

  "You and your old man getting along okay? One of you decide to set up a little romantic atmosphere by having the breakfast coffee in bed?"

  "What are you saying?" My voice was coming back to me.

  "I'm saying, ma'am, until the lab results come back on this, I don't want either of you leaving town." He turned on his heel and stomped out through the chopped up front doorway.

  My mind reeled.

  I paced the gritty living room. I hadn't taken the coffee maker into the bedroom. I tried to remember back to this morning. Had Drake brought it in there to make coffee in bed for me? No. It had been in the kitchen. Always.

  So, who did put the coffee maker in the bedroom? And why? My pacing picked up speed. Why? Okay, if someone did want to burn down our house—and the list of suspects was certainly getting longer—why not just rig the coffee maker in the kitchen? Why put it in the bedroom where we'd surely notice that it was out of place? My mind zipped through the possibilities-everything from their hoping to kill us in our bed, to their wanting to destroy a certain part of the house because it's where I might have stashed evidence in the case.

  Elsa. Oh, God. Thankfully, they didn't know I'd taken all my father's records to her house. Or did they?

  "Hon?" Drake came in just as I was coming to the most dreadful of conclusions.

  "Drake, what are we going to do?" I wailed. It was all getting to be too much. I sank down in a chair at the kitchen table and rested my head on my forearms on the grimy surface. I finally let loose with the tears that had hovered near the surface all day.

  Drake rubbed my shoulders gently. I heard him let out a huge sigh. I turned in my chair and pressed my face to his stomach. He was hurting too. All his things had been lost in the fire too, all the files we'd so meticulously set up for his business. I raised my head to look at his face. He was managing to be brave—staying tough and comforting me—but I could see that his emotions were very near the surface too. I stood and faced him. We wrapped together into a tight embrace and there in the dark, both of us let the tears flow.

  Chapter 31

  Cccllaaannnnggg! The old-fashioned alarm clock Gram had loaned us sent me reeling toward the side of the bed. My heart pounded as I reached to make it shut up. No wonder people's life expectancy used to be so much shorter, if they woke up to one of these things every day.

  Drake groaned and rolled toward his edge. I managed to aim a quick kiss at his shoulder before he sat up.

  "Five-thirty already?" he mumbled. "My, how time flies."

  "Mmmm." I couldn't manage much more than that.

  "You don't have to get up, you know," he said. "I can find a piece of toast or something and head for the airport." We'd decided that, rather than give up a flying job, I'd cover for him if the fire investigator asked where he'd gone.

  "No, I'm sure that alarm woke Gram too, so I shouldn't be the only one to lie around in bed. Plus, I have lots to do today. It won't hurt me to get an early start."

  I gave him first shot at the shower. In our own house, I probably would have shared it with him. Already, living in someone else's home was cramping our style. I dressed (another thing I wouldn't have had to do at home) and went into the kitchen. Let Rusty out back where he conveniently lifted his leg on Elsa's side of the hedge. I should have gone out with him and pointed out that he could still use his own yard.

  I opened a package of blueberry muffins I'd bought yesterday to contribute to the food supply, poured juice, and brewed a pot of coffee with Elsa's little stove-top percolator with the glass bubble in the lid.

  Drake came in a few minutes later, neatly dressed in khakis and a knit shirt, with his leather bomber jacket, which had luckily been with him during the fire, slung over his shoulder. His hair was still damp and he smelled of that sexy aftershave he wears that always makes me want to jump him. We shared a long, hot kiss until I heard Gram shuffling around in the living room.

  "How long will your job take you away, Drake?" she asked as the three of us sat down to breakfast.

  "Probably just today," he answered, after washing down a muffin with some juice. "The customer wants to recon a film location, which should only take two or three hours. I should be back at the han
gar by dark. Then, with any luck, if they do find a site, maybe they'll hire me later to do the actual filming. I'll have to locate a Tyler Mount for the camera. It's gonna be too expensive to buy one for the occasional job, but maybe someplace around here rents them." He turned to me. "What's your big plan for the day, hon?"

  We'd talked about it a little last night, so this was mainly for Gram's benefit.

  "I'm thinking that we should find a place of our own. The repairs on the house are going to take awhile, and we're really going to be in your way."

  "Now don't you even think of spending money on an apartment or anything," Gram began. "You really won't be in my way here, you know."

  She really wanted the company, I realized, and my selfishness nagged at me.

  "Well . . ." I felt myself waffling.

  Drake shot me a look as he reached for his jacket.

  "Let me just see what I can work out. Chances are, I'll be over here a lot anyway while they do repairs on the house, so it's not like you're really going to get the chance to miss us very much."

  I walked Drake out to his truck.

  "Hon . . ."

  "I know. We can't have sex in the bedroom right next to hers, and we sure can't go without sex for months. I've got an idea that I'll check out today."

  He reached an arm around my waist. "It's only been two days and I'm going crazy. See if you can get us moved by tonight."

  I gave him another teaser kiss.

  "Oh." He remembered something. "Are you going to be near the phone all day? I need someone to do my flight following."

  "I'll be here another hour or so, then probably back here by late afternoon."

  "Okay. Give me the number and I'll call you just before I take off. Here's a list of emergency numbers. If I'm more than an hour late, you've got to report me as an overdue aircraft." He climbed into the small pickup and gave me another kiss. "Love you."

  A weak smile played across my lips as I waved goodbye. Overdue aircraft? Oh, please don't throw another obstacle at me, I begged. I slumped back to our blackened abode. I desperately wanted to sit on the floor and have another good cry, but didn't dare start. There was too much to do.

  An hour later, knowing that Drake was safely on his flight, and having made a To Do list, I called Rusty to action and we headed for the office.

  "Oh, Charlie," Sally cried, taking me into a strong hug with the lump of her big belly between us. "I'm so sorry about the house. Is everything gone?"

  I poured a mug of coffee and recapped the previous day's events, leaving out the part where Inspector Wilson had practically accused me of setting the fire myself. Instead, I ended the story with my idea for solving our housing plight.

  "Move here? Into the office?" she said.

  "Sure, why not? It used to be a house. I'm going to do some measuring in my office to be sure we could fit a bed in there. I think we can manage if I move my desk over. We can cook in the kitchen. Rusty's familiar with the place and the yard."

  The canine subject thumped his tail against the kitchen floor, but otherwise lay perfectly still with his head on his front paws.

  I carried my mug up to my office, peeking in at Ron's door to say hello. With the phone pasted to his ear, he grinned and nodded at me while telling someone on the other end that if they didn't show up for their bail hearing he'd personally kick their ass. I just shook my head.

  Okay, I thought, with a little rearranging I think we can make this work. I set my mug on the desk and looked in the supply closet for a tape measure. Chewing on my lower lip, I looked around. If we moved my little sofa downstairs to the reception area . . . pushed the desk into the corner facing the door . . . put a bed so that it faced the sunny bay window . . . I could see it coming together. A TV set could sit on top of the bookcase, a chest of drawers might fit in the hallway. Or we could keep clothes in suitcases. I was beginning to feel a spark of enthusiasm for the idea.

  The phone rang, startling me.

  "Hi hon." Drake's voice came through over the loud background of rotor noise. "I'm in Farmington, safe and sound."

  "Good! What do I do next?"

  "Nothing. I'll call you when I'm leaving here, probably sometime between two and three o'clock."

  I told him about my idea of moving into the office, but the details became lost in trying to communicate over the noise. He said he liked the plan and to just do whatever I wanted to.

  Since shopping isn't something I revel in, I headed for American Furniture, figuring its many departments could take care of our every need with just one stop. By noon, I'd ordered a bed and dresser to be delivered that afternoon. The electronics department netted me a portable TV with built-in VCR, and the linen department supplied us with sheets, blankets, and towels. I hoped Drake would agree with my color choices, but figured if he absolutely hated any of this it could end up in the guest room later. The main thing was that we'd soon have a place of our own.

  When Sally left the office at one o'clock, Ron and I proceeded to move the furniture. The phone rang as we were rearranging a tangle of computer cords.

  "RJP Investigations," I answered.

  "I'm still gonna get that file," a deep voice rasped.

  "What? Who is this?"

  The phone had gone dead. I stared at the handset, my heart fluttering.

  "Who on earth was that?" Ron asked, staring at me with concern.

  "Wait." I put my hand up to silence him. The voice replayed through my head a dozen times, my brain searching for some connection, some vague hint of recognition.

  The caller had clearly been working to disguise his voice, but I felt sure it was male. I also had the nagging sensation that I'd talked with this person. There was something . . . perhaps just a bit of an accent? Then, like a wisp of smoke, the connection vanished.

  "I don't know." I shook my head, clearing it.

  "Well, if you want my help getting this sofa downstairs, you better take me while you can," he said. "Remember, I have a deposition to give at three."

  We struggled with the furniture while my mind struggled with the puzzle. The killer obviously believed there was another file out there somewhere, some evidence not contained in Jim Williams's stolen papers, and something as yet uncovered in the searches of Hannah's home, my home, and my office.

  The blueprints were in Ron's office and I had the sense that they provided a real clue. I just couldn't figure out what it was.

  Chapter 32

  By four o'clock, the big orange-yellow American Furniture truck pulled away, our new belongings neatly arranged in my office upstairs. Ron had gone to give his deposition, and Drake had called to say he was on the way back from Farmington.

  Rusty and I headed west on Central toward what was left of home.

  The sun was already dropping toward the horizon and dark gray clouds streaked across the sky, giving the impression that twilight was nearing. Brown leaves huddled against the curbs, awaiting either the next hefty breeze or the whir of the street sweeper's brushes. I thought of Drake flying into the escalating weather.

  Elsa's windows glowed with golden lamplight, while our house stood dark and abandoned. I pulled into our driveway and walked around the house to check the carpenter's work. The front door had been secured with a hasp and padlock and plywood boards covered the broken-out windows. Satisfied that the house was as secure as possible, I trekked over to Elsa's.

  The phone was ringing as I walked in the door.

  "Charlie, it's for you," Elsa said, holding out the receiver to me.

  "Hi, hon, I'm back at the airport here," Drake said.

  I felt a knot of anxiety relax inside me.

  "I'll be out here another hour or so, then I could meet you somewhere for dinner," he suggested.

  "Sounds good to me. I'll be eager to hear about your flight."

  We agreed to meet at Pedro's at six. I turned to Elsa after hanging up.

  "Would you like to come to dinner with us?" I asked.

  "Oh, no thanks. I don't ea
t much at night." She said it tentatively and I felt another stab of guilt at leaving her behind.

  "If you won't come with us tonight, then I want to take you to lunch tomorrow."

  "Thanks, but that's okay. I have lunch tomorrow with my ladies group from church."

  I laughed. "You're such a social butterfly," I teased.

  Briefly, I told her about our plan to move into the office until our repairs were done. I may have imagined it, but I thought she almost looked relieved.

  "Meanwhile, before I meet Drake for dinner, I'm going to get those boxes stacked out of your way. I can take them back home tomorrow and stack them in my own kitchen, since we won't be using it for awhile."

  I scanned Elsa's guest room for our personal belongings, tucking the few items into a plastic grocery bag. The cardboard cartons I'd carefully searched were arrayed in front of the closet door, so I picked them up and moved them to a corner beside the 1920s chest of drawers. Stacking the boxes atop each other, I realized there was still one carton I hadn't looked into. Yesterday, I'd had two cartons to go, and had stopped when I found the blueprints at the bottom of the first one.

  Surely this one would contain more personal mementos and kid's schoolwork. I'd already found the important clue. But I couldn't just assume it. I stacked all the other boxes and carried this one over to the bed.

  My shoulders ached and I really didn't have the patience or enthusiasm for reading every scrap of paper, like I'd done in the beginning. I began pulling papers out in handfuls, flipping the edges of them as I went. This carton, like the previous one, contained lots of my own report cards and school papers. Some day I might get a kick out of reading them, but not tonight. I glanced at my watch. Five-thirty.

  In the third handful, about halfway into the carton, I realized I had something other than paper in my hand. I set the papers aside and separated out the odd item.

  It was a round metal box about eight inches in diameter and three-quarters of an inch thick, like a film container. The gray can was not labeled in any way, but was sealed with blue electrical tape that ran around the edge. I picked at the end of the sticky old strip.