Honeymoons Can Be Murder: The Sixth Charlie Parker Mystery (The Charlie Parker Mysteries)

by Connie Shelton

  “Mike Ortiz here,” said the voice.

  “Oh yes, Mike. What’s up?”

  “You called me.”

  I had. I feverishly tried to remember what I was going to ask him. “We hear that Eloy’s out on bail. That’s good news.”

  “It wasn’t too difficult. He can’t go too far in this town without people keeping an eye on him.”

  “I guess that’s true,” I let forth a small chuckle that fell flat when I realized he wasn’t laughing along with me. “Mike, I’ve gotten a bit of background about Ramon’s death. I guess he and Eloy had some kind of a fight a week or so before he died?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, I was just wondering . . . I mean, I guess I’m trying to get a feel for their relationship in general. You don’t believe Eloy killed him, do you?”

  He let out a breath. “No, I don’t think he did it. But the evidence looks pretty bad and there aren’t too many other people who had any motive for it.”

  “What about the husband of that woman in Albuquerque?”

  “You know about that?” His voice was sharp.

  “It’s part of the police record, Mike. Not that difficult to find out.”

  “From what I understand—and you probably already know this—his story is that he was deeply hurt about the affair and insisted they attend a different church afterward. But he’d never harm a man of God. He left his wife when he first found out about it, but later they got back together and patched things up. And, he had a solid alibi for that night. The police must have believed him because they released him after questioning.”

  He was right, I knew that, but was just scrambling for theories.

  “You’ve been in this family quite a few years, Mike. Give me a little background to go on.”

  “You’ve probably already heard it. Eloy was the youngest, the fun-loving one, loved the outdoors, worked just enough to meet his bills but wasn’t really going anywhere. Maria, my wife, was the middle child. It was always assumed she’d marry a man who’d take care of her, and she did. Spanish families around here don’t generally think of their daughters as needing careers of their own. Ramon was the special one. Their mother was of the old school who believed that at least one son from the family should be a priest. She raised those kids alone, you know. Their father was killed in a construction accident when Ramon was about twelve. I think Eloy was only four or five.

  “Consuelo did a good job with all the kids, but Ramon got the special attention. By the time Eloy was a teenager I think she was just tired. Maybe her mind was starting to go a little bit by then too—I don’t know. While Ramon was off to Rome and off to Israel and all those other places, Eloy was running a little wild. Nothing too illegal. He just spent a lot of time unsupervised. It’s probably a miracle that he’s turned out as normal as he has.”

  “His mother mentioned that Ramon had worked in Rome. Then she said it was Israel. Was it both places? I thought she was just confused.”

  “Oh yes, he went to the Vatican for awhile. That created quite a stir here in little old Taos, I’ll tell you. We were one proud town when one of our favorite sons went to Rome.”

  “Then Israel? Why there?”

  “It was some special thing the Catholic church was doing there. Remember the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls? Well, it was in the 1940s so I’m sure you don’t remember it personally, but you’ve read about them?”

  “Yeah, saw a couple of television specials about the find,” I said.

  “Then you know that it’s only been in recent years that much of the text has become public? For decades, the churches kept it to themselves. The Catholic church opened a facility in Israel, sent a whole delegation of priests down there to oversee the recovery and translation of every scrap of parchment.” He chuckled. “As a not-very-devout Catholic myself, I’ve wondered if their interest wasn’t an all-out attempt to be sure nothing would come to light in those scrolls that would contradict centuries of church teachings.”

  “And Ramon was one of those priests?”

  “For awhile. I guess he spent two or three years at the facility. Then his mother’s health took a downturn again and he requested reassignment to New Mexico.”

  Scroll pieces. My mind flicked back to the tiny scraps of brownish paper I’d found yesterday in the photo folder.

  “Mike . . .” I faltered. “Oh, never mind.” I thanked him for the information and told him to stay in touch, that I knew Eloy still wanted me to work on clearing him.

  The minute I hung up the phone I pulled the photo from the bookshelf again. The flat plastic bag slid easily out and I looked at the scraps of paper through their protective cover. The writing certainly did look like a Middle Eastern language. I remembered thinking that when I first saw them. But pieces of the Dead Sea Scrolls? Could I possibly be holding such a valuable piece of history? I got a fluttery feeling in my stomach.

  Chapter 5

  My brain was still trying to wrap itself around all this new information when I noticed Rusty at the door, pawing at the rug and whining softly. Only then did my own ears pick up the sound of an approaching vehicle. It’s amazing how clearly sounds come through in the dead quiet of a snowy mountainside.

  Eloy’s truck rounded the curve in the driveway a minute later and Rusty bounded out to greet Drake the instant I opened the door. Eloy waved as he turned around and headed back toward town.

  “You’ll never guess where we’re invited tonight,” Drake said, stomping the snow off his boots in the entry.

  “You’re probably right about that,” I teased, “unless you want to give me a clue or two.”

  “Hint: Jason Kirk invited us.”

  “What? No way! The guy we saw in . . . okay, what was the name of that movie?”

  “The remake of Love Story,” he gushed.

  Oh yeah. “Okay, so it was a sappy movie that we probably wouldn’t have gone to if it weren’t for the free passes, but you have to admit that Jason Kirk is a heartthrob. Okay, you don’t have to admit it, but I’ll admit it even though he is young enough to be my . . . my much younger brother.”

  “See, I knew you’d want to go.”

  I hung his heavy parka on one of the wooden pegs as he unlaced his boots. “So what’s the occasion?”

  “He was one of my passengers this morning. Hollywood types never think twice about spending the money for a helicopter ride.” He set the boots under the bench and we went inside. “So, I flew them up to the high country, where they made a couple of spectacular runs, then I took them back to Kirk’s ranch between here and town. I did mention that my wife was one of his biggest fans.”

  “Oh, Drake, you didn’t.” He knows I’m not the type to go googly over a movie star, even though I might enjoy sneaking a peek at his smooth young body.

  “No, actually I just told him, truthfully, that we’d just seen his latest movie. I didn’t mention our opinion of it. So he said he’s hosting a reception tonight for a new artist at one of the galleries in town and he invited us.” He pulled a thick ivory card from his shirt pocket, an engraved invitation personally signed by Kirk. “So, if you want to go, we’re in.”

  I said, “Probably crowded. Probably way overpriced art. Probably won’t be able to get a parking spot blocks away. So . . . let’s do it! Maybe all his rich friends will be there and he’ll tell them how much fun it was to fly with you. It could be good for business.”

  “And with free hors d’ouvres we won’t have to make dinner,” he added helpfully. “I could, however, use some lunch.”

  Over peanut butter sandwiches, I filled him in on what I’d learned about Eloy’s situation, making light over the fact that we might actually have pieces of the Dead Sea Scrolls here in the cabin. First, I wanted to find out what Eloy knew about them and suggest we get them to the proper authorities.

  “How was Eloy today?” I asked.

  “Subdued,” he said. “This took him completely by surprise. He said his mother really went do
wnhill when Ramon died. He’s worried that finding out about his arrest could kill her. You know, from what you’ve told me, the way she treated him all along, I’m surprised he would care—sorry—you know I didn’t mean that.”

  “I know, hon. Families create some strange dynamics, don’t they?” I stared into my glass of milk for a long time.

  “Hey, we’ve got the rest of the day to enjoy. Let’s do something fun,” he suggested. “Eloy told me we should cut a Christmas tree from the property here. I described that little group we saw yesterday and he knew which ones I meant. Said we should definitely take one of them because they’re growing too close together.”

  “Okay.” I brightened up. “You find a saw and I’ll stock some provisions.”

  I filled a Thermos bottle with hot chocolate and stuck it into a small backpack I’d noticed hanging on the ski porch. We strapped on our boots and snowshoes and let Rusty know that we were embarking on an adventure he could share.

  The sky was deep blue, with a clarity unmarred by the brown air Albuquerque so often has in the winter months. Bright sunlight sparkled off the snow, creating fields of glitter, as if an incredibly wealthy woman had flung a box of diamonds over the ground. Clumps of whipped cream perfection dolloped the pine branches above us, with an occasional mound letting go to fall to the ground. Rusty bounded through snow up to his chest, while we walked easily on top of it, sinking only a few inches with our mammoth paws.

  In about fifteen minutes we came to our little stand of trees and stood back trying to decide which would be just perfect. We finally agreed on a little blue spruce that looked tiny in the forest but was taller than Drake in reality. He cut through the tough little trunk with a few swift pulls on the saw, then we broke open the hot chocolate.

  “I love this out here, don’t you?” I said.

  “Umm, definitely. Let’s toast to taking a honeymoon like this every year,” he said, raising his mug of chocolate.

  We allowed Rusty to lick the dregs from our cups, swearing that he really wasn’t consuming much chocolate from the tiny bit left there. It was really just the flavor he was after anyway. We spun the tree trunk toward the cabin and, each of us taking a lower limb with the tree between us, began the trek back. Rusty raced back and was sitting on the front porch, ears cocked toward us, when we arrived.

  “Boy, my thighs are gonna feel this tomorrow,” I said. “I never realized how much work snowshoeing could be.”

  We stomped the snow off our boots, hung the snowshoes to dry and batted the clingy snow from our legs. I offered to scrounge around for the Christmas tree stand while Drake pulled the tree onto the porch. I located the box marked Christmas Ornaments under the stairs, and pulled it into the living room. Delicate decorations like glass figurines and feathery tinsel were on top. I felt a pang of regret as I recognized a few things similar to my own childhood decorations, ones I’d put on my tree every year of my life. All were gone now, lost in the fire that had consumed a portion of our home a couple of months ago.

  I set items aside as I delved deeper into the carton. Near the bottom I spotted the tree stand under a newspaper-wrapped packet, heavy for its size. I couldn’t resist a peek. Inside, wrapped in deep blue velvet were two small crosses, each about six inches tall. By their weight, I guessed they had to be solid silver. Ornate with decoration, one had a delicate filigree of silver wire around the edges with tiny, intricate designs carved into the cross itself. The second cross had its shape embellished by fleur-de-lis points at each of its four tips and an incredibly detailed motif of leaves and fruit crafted from separate pieces of silver and applied so seamlessly that the welds were invisible.

  “Hon, have you found the stand yet?” Drake called.

  “Oh, yeah, it’s right here,” I replied, setting the crosses in their velvet wrap on the end table by the sofa.

  “And maybe a blanket or some towels that we can set under this thing to catch the melting snow.”

  I handed him the stand and dashed off to find the other required items. When I returned from the bathroom with three towels, the tree was coming stand-first through the door.

  “Let’s set this in the corner,” he suggested, “with the towels under the branches. I have a feeling when it warms up this last bit of snow will melt off and I’d hate to stain the hardwood floors.”

  “Look what I found in the decoration box,” I told him, showing him the two crosses. “Elaborate, aren’t they?”

  “These must be family heirlooms. They sure aren’t any modern-day ornaments bought at Wal-Mart.”

  “A mountain cabin seems like a strange place to leave them, don’t you think? They have to be valuable. Maybe we should ask Eloy if he’d rather take them home or put them in a safe deposit box.”

  “Good idea. Stash them back where they were and I’ll remember to ask him tomorrow,” he offered.

  We decided that we’d better take showers and change clothes to be ready for the gallery reception at six. Our two showers ended up being one, long and shared under the hot spray, and the wardrobe change took awhile, as articles of clothing kept getting pulled back off again before they finally stayed on.

  The reception was crowded and our fears about having to park blocks away proved true when we arrived a half-hour late.

  As it turned out, we were fashionably late in the Hollywood style because Jason Kirk and his entourage of four arrived just as we did, and Drake performed quick introductions on the sidewalk outside the Dumont Gallery. Jason was, predictably, devastatingly good-looking and quick in his acknowledgement of our meeting. The four keepers followed Kirk into the gallery, so they could begin setting glasses into his hand, seeing that he spoke to no one for longer than one point three minutes, and generally bowing and scraping to him while putting on unbelievable airs to everyone else. I knew I would have to take an interest in the artwork or risk being sick.

  Inside, we shed our coats to the outstretched arms of a young lady brought in for that purpose. She vanished to a back room with them and a tuxedoed waiter immediately appeared at our sides with a tray of bubbling champagne glasses. We each took one and were raising them to each other when a woman appeared at Drake’s side.

  “I saw you walk in with Jason,” she cooed. “I’m Daphne Dumont. Welcome to my gallery.”

  Daphne’s look was Taos art chic with a fine polish of some Eastern school spread over the surface. Her broomstick skirt was silk, in a rich teal color, and the dyed-to-match top was velvet, with rows of tiny dyed-to-match teal beads. Her suede boots were silver, as was the silk band caressing her neat chignon at the back of her sleek silver-blond head. She’d carried the silver and teal theme to the tips of her fingers (silver) and to the six rings of Indian silver with perfectly matched turquoise stones that adorned those fingers. I instantly felt like a clod in my cotton skirt and beaded holiday sweater.

  Drake looked somewhat taken aback that she’d wound her silver-laden hand through his arm but wasn’t sure how he could gracefully untwine her.

  “Jason tells me he went for a perfectly marvelous helicopter ride with you today, Draper.”

  “It’s Drake,” he said. “Yes, he did, and I’m glad to hear he liked it.”

  “I’m Charlie, Drake’s wife,” I introduced, extending my hand and forcing her to withdraw her arm from my husband’s. “I’m so interested in the paintings. Do tell me about the artist.”

  Businesswoman that she was, Daphne couldn’t ignore my apparent enthrallment, even though she clearly would have rather led Drake around the room by his elbow. I glanced back toward him and he shot me a thank-you look before heading to the refreshment table. For my rescue attempt I was rewarded with ten minutes of Daphne’s gushing about one particular painting before she spotted someone she knew who apparently had a bigger Visa card limit.

  “If I hear the word marvelous one more time, I’m gonna puke,” I whispered to Drake when we met again.

  “Thanks for bailing me out,” he said. “Here, I’ve fixed you a plate
.”

  He handed me a saucer-sized bit of china with an array of things I couldn’t identify. “The round ones with the little curly orange thing on top are pretty good,” he confided.

  “I bet you tried some of everything,” I teased.

  “I did. And I didn’t put anything on your plate that hasn’t passed my own personal taste test.”

  “You are just mahvelously kind, my dear.”

  “Too much Daphne, I see.” The female voice startled me and I was instantly mortified that someone had overheard me joking about the hostess. “Don’t worry. I’m no fan, and your secret is safe with me,” she said.

  I turned to face the speaker.

  “I’m Margaret Collins. Call me Maggie. And please don’t be under the impression that I actually fit in with this crowd.”

  “Hi, Maggie.” I introduced myself and Drake and explained briefly why we were visiting Taos and how we happened to be at the showing.

  “So, if you don’t fit in with this crowd, how do you happen to be here?” I asked. I got the sense that, with Maggie, the question wouldn’t be considered rude.

  “Same way you did. Knowing somebody. Actually, the caterer is a very good friend and she asked if I’d like to be in on the free food and drink. I’m really a farm girl myself, own a small spread near El Prado, and you’re more likely to see me in Levi’s and a flannel shirt any day of the week. But I clean up pretty good and can do this kind of thing now and then. Plus, I thought Beth might get short-handed tonight. One of her waiters isn’t too reliable and they knew they’d get a big crowd.”

  Her grin was infectious and I noticed for the first time what a pretty, natural face she had. Unspoiled by makeup of any kind, her skin had the texture of a summer peach and her cheeks had just a hint of wind-kissed pink to them. Her hair was her most striking feature, completely gray with an interesting white highlight at the hairline, it fell thick and luxurious past her waist. I liked her immediately. I glanced toward Drake, but he’d wandered to the far side of the room to look at the paintings.