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

by Connie Shelton

  From the quarter-mile-long driveway, we’d been directed by valets to leave our car with them and follow a luminaria-lined walkway through a heavy wooden carved door into an inner patio, where snow-laden pines glowed with strands of blue Christmas lights. Following the path led us to the front door to the house. More luminarias topped the adobe wall around the patio as well as the varied levels of the many-tiered house. Although the bagged lights atop the house were electric, the ones along the pathway were the real thing. I wondered where the sand had come from to assemble them, since the ground was entirely covered in a blanket of unbroken white.

  The foyer we stepped into was small, but it opened into a huge circular atrium that rose two and a half stories to a vaulted ceiling. The walls of the atrium contained a half-dozen arched doorways that led off to other parts of the house. Each arch was rimmed with an elaborate garland of fir, cones, fruit, and gold bows; from the center of each arch a ball of mistletoe hung from a delicate gold ribbon. A thirty-foot pine tree, adorned solidly with gold and burgundy toys, bows and cherubs, rose in the center of the room. I made a conscious effort not to gape.

  Hope Montgomery had taken Drake’s arm and was leading him past the enormous Christmas tree. I trotted along, afraid of becoming lost in the place unless I knew where they were headed.

  “The boys had such a wonderful time this morning on their flight,” she was saying. “They told me you’re a fabulous pilot.”

  I smiled through clamped teeth.

  “Now, you make yourselves at home,” Hope continued. Like this cozy little place wouldn’t hold three of our house. “The bar’s set up over there and Mario will make you anything you want. Munchies are on that table.” She indicated a spread that took up an entire side of the room. “And we’ve done a kalua pig, which is being carved and served on the sun porch.” Waved her many rings toward the back of the house. “Oh! There’s Jack—I’ll be right back.”

  She rushed off and I saw that it was Jack Nicholson she was greeting. I spotted at least three other famous stars of stage and screen, including Jason Kirk, who waved at Drake but stared right through me.

  “Let’s get something to drink,” I suggested. “I hate this feeling that my hands have nothing to do.”

  We edged our way to the bar and I was surprised to see that I recognized a few of the locals in the crowd. Daphne Dumont was deep in conversation with Sam Begay, the Indian artist, near one of the arches, and I spotted Maggie Collins’s long gray hair across the room. Drake handed me a glass of wine and we silently toasted each other with our eyes.

  “Let’s wander around,” he suggested.

  Music wafted its way toward us from the direction of the largest arch, one that led to a crowded room. In most homes, this might have been called the living room but I had a hard time imagining living in it. The room was a good sixty feet long with fourteen foot ceilings that were supported by massive squared-off vigas and finished out with diagonally placed latillas of peeled pine limbs. Different corners of the room attempted to be cozy—a grand piano in one, a traditional adobe corner fireplace in another. The wall behind the grand piano featured a montage of movie posters and other movie memorabilia from the ’60s. Groupings of sofas and chairs sat on Indian rugs in the standard colors of black, gray and red, and most of the furniture was occupied by guests who balanced plates of food on their laps.

  “Welcome to my little mountain place,” Hope said, again linking her arm through Drake’s.

  “Do you live here full time?” I asked, edging toward his other side.

  “Oh, no. I’m usually just here in the summer. Actually, this is the first Christmas I’ve done here in the house. I thought it would make a nice change from Rio.”

  “So you have several homes?”

  “Just a couple. Usually I’m in La Jolla. But the apartment in New York is nice when I want a dash of East Coast, you know. And the villa in Nice gets me to Europe now and then. I come here mainly for the solitude and because the New Mexico artists are so talented—their work is so different from the mundane stuff I find elsewhere.”

  “Are you an artist yourself?” I asked.

  “Oh, heavens no,” she laughed, raising a bejeweled hand to her chest. “I just appreciate good art, but I couldn’t do a thing with a brush. Besides”—she leaned in closer—“even the very successful ones don’t make any real money. Talented as they are, they just don’t have the business sense to be financially well-off.”

  I wanted to ask whether she’d made her money, but Drake shot me a look that said it would be extremely rude of me to do so.

  “I better check on the caterer,” she said. “Do enjoy yourselves.” She breezed away in a flurry of burgundy crepe.

  “Maybe we should get some food,” Drake suggested. “Otherwise, I’m likely to die of hunger.”

  “Or boredom,” I poked. These parties were not his idea of a good time.

  We worked our way through the crowd to the dining room, which had been set up with a huge buffet of traditional Southwestern fare such as posole, green chile stew, chile con queso, guacamole, taquitos, fajitas, and all the trimmings, along with the roast pork and a varied spread of salads, fruit, and assorted hors d’oeuvres. I honed in on the green chile stew and a flour tortilla while Drake, missing his Hawaii days, couldn’t resist the kalua pig and tropical fruit.

  “Oh, pardon me,” a softly Southern voice said at my shoulder. The woman had leaned over to spear a slice of pineapple and her purse strap had slipped off her shoulder and bumped me.

  “No problem,” I answered automatically. I glanced at her for the first time. Her clothing was casual. She didn’t appear to have dressed for a party, wearing a warm-up suit of silky pink. She was attractive, with chin-length blond hair and sapphire eyes, but her hair and makeup hadn’t been retouched, probably since first thing this morning.

  “Do you live here in Taos?” I asked.

  “Me? Oh my, no. We—my brother and I—just got in from California. I’m Susie Montgomery.”

  “Oh, are you related to Hope?”

  “We’re her cousins. We come from Texas—Dallas—but we been in California for ’bout a week, tryin’ to get together with Hope.”

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Susie. I’m Charlie Parker and this is my husband, Drake Langston. We’re from Albuquerque, but are working up here for the winter. I’m a partner in a private investigation firm in Albuquerque, actually.” I don’t know what made me drop in that last part, but Susie’s eyes somehow shifted when she heard it.

  Drake and I carried our filled plates back to the living room and found empty seats in one grouping of couches. I saw Susie pass by the archway, walking with a man dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt. She must have meant it when she said they “just” got in. They both looked a bit road-weary and unprepared for the glittering party in which they’d found themselves.

  “Charlie!” It was Maggie Collins. “It’s so good to see you again.”

  I introduced Drake.

  “Some spread, huh,” Maggie said. She dropped her voice to a tad over a whisper. “Hard to believe Hope Montgomery just stepped into all this, isn’t it?”

  I raised an eyebrow. I was quickly learning that Maggie was an unabashed gossip, and I let her go on.

  “Oh, yes. She inherited everything. She’s the daughter of the guy who invented the first computer microchip. Actually, he didn’t invent the chip itself, but invented something that’s crucial to manufacturing them. I don’t know what exactly, but he made a shitpot of money. Maybe several shitpots.”

  “Really?”

  “I saw this in People years ago. He had homes all over the world. Was married once, but the wife had left him years earlier—because he was always locked away in his lab, never paid any attention to the family. Well, of course, after he hit it big she wanted a part of it all, but by then it was too late because she’d walked out long before that. But there was a daughter, Hope, and I guess he felt obligated to her. He died, oh about two y
ears ago, and she got everything.”

  She paused for a breath and took a sip from her wine glass.

  “And,” she dropped her voice even lower, “there was a brother. I mean, old Monty had a brother. And his side of the family made a big stink about it because he’d helped Monty develop the process with the chips and the brother thought he should get the inheritance. But Monty had patented everything in his own name and the brother’s claim fell flat. You haven’t already heard all this? It made the news big-time for awhile.”

  I had to admit that I hadn’t. Social intrigues have never been tops on my list of newsworthy items.

  “Well, Hope sure stepped into a gold mine. From what I heard, she and her mother had lived a very average existence after the mother left Monty. She was a bank teller with very little contact with her father until she joined the ranks of the rich and richer.”

  “I may have just met some of the brother’s family,” I said. “Two people who said they were Hope’s cousins.”

  Drake had cleaned his plate and went to dispose of it, taking my empty one too. He offered to get second drinks for Maggie and me, but I think he was secretly wanting to move around instead of being trapped in the gossip-fest. I, however, had one more thing I wanted to get out of Maggie.

  “Changing the subject, can I ask whether you know Anton Pachevski?” I asked her.

  “Not well, but we’ve been introduced. I’m not sure if anyone knows him well. He seemed to appear here in Taos rather suddenly.”

  “Could you introduce me?”

  “Getting into the art crowd’s groupies, Charlie?”

  “No way. I just wonder if his art expertise extends to religious items. I have a question I’d like to ask him.”

  We edged our way toward the bar, where Drake was beginning to look like he could use help with the three drinks. Maggie and I took ours and worked our way through the rooms until we spotted Pachevski with a group of beautifully clad women circled around him. This wasn’t a good time to question him about his knowledge of religious art items.

  “Don’t worry about it, Maggie,” I said. “I’ll catch his attention when he’s less involved.”

  “Whatever you say,” she said. “I think I’ll go check out some of that food.”

  I gradually worked my way to the edge of Anton’s little group, eavesdropping shamelessly, but making no apologies for it. When the conversation turned toward historical art in New Mexico, I popped in with my question.

  “Mr. Pachevski, are there many showings of religious artifacts, like maybe silver crosses, around here?” I asked.

  Pachevski’s dark eyes held mine. “Actually, I’ve not seen any,” he answered. “Of course, my field of expertise is in fine art, not folk art. I rarely trouble myself with craft shows.” He’d let the group know that he was a cut above all that and made me feel like the dumb kid in class.

  Sam Begay approached the group just then and all attention, including Pachevski’s, turned toward him.

  “Here’s the artist of the day,” Pachevski said grandly, putting an arm around the young artist’s shoulders and beaming. The women began pummeling the Indian artist with questions and I slipped away from the group.

  Drake was still in the cavernous living room—I spotted him at a distance. I started in that direction when I noticed Susie Montgomery and her brother standing alone near the glittering Christmas tree in the atrium.

  “Did you enjoy the dinner?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Susie answered. It came out as yea-us, her Texas twang drawing out each word. “Ready to get to our hotel though. I’m bone tired.”

  “We drove all the way from Flagstaff,” Fred added. “Then couldn’t even get her to talk to us.” His voice was bitter.

  “She didn’t invite you to stay here? The house is huge.” Even as I said it, I realized the comment was rude. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to be nosy.”

  “No, it’s all right,” Susie said wearily. “This whole thing has been such a mess. I’m not terribly surprised.”

  “Did my sister tell me that y’all are private investigators?” Fred asked.

  “A partner with my brother. He’s the investigator. Is there something he might do to help you?”

  “Let’s not talk about it here,” Fred said. “Can I call you? We’ll be at the Holiday Inn here in town.”

  I scribbled down the phone number at the cabin and told him we’d be going to Albuquerque in a day or two. They were retrieving their coats when I returned to the living room to look for Drake. We made our excuses and left shortly afterward.

  We were in the middle of discussing plans to go to Albuquerque the next morning when the phone rang.

  “Ms. Parker?” It was Fred Montgomery. “I want to apologize for being so short with y’all last night at the party,” he said.

  “No problem.” I didn’t admit to him that my curiosity about Hope Montgomery was killing me. “What can I do for you?”

  “Would you be able to meet with Susie and me, here at the hotel?” he asked. “I’d like to talk to y’all about taking us on as clients.”

  I turned to Drake and mouthed a few words. He nodded.

  “Sure, Fred. We’re on our way to Albuquerque, so we’ll stop there on the way. In about an hour?”

  We gathered a few essentials for an overnight stay in the city. Rusty watched nervously as we stacked things near the front door, following closely on my heels, making sure I knew he was going too. Lowering the thermostats and leaving a couple of lights on, we all piled into the Jeep and made the trip into Taos in just under our allotted hour. Fred and Susie Montgomery were waiting in the hotel’s coffee shop.

  “Would y’all like some coffee?” Fred offered.

  While we all ordered coffee, I noticed that Susie looked much more rested this morning. Her blond hair was fluffy and freshly styled and her makeup told me that she’d been to at least one Merle Norman makeover class in her lifetime. Although her clothing was inexpensive, she dressed with that flair that meant she watched fashion trends and was emulating Texas chic on a budget. Fred wore western cut perma press slacks, a plaid western shirt, and bolo tie with a hunk of agate at the throat. We discussed the weather until the coffee arrived.

  “Well, Miz Parker,” Fred began, “I guess Susie’s told you that we’re the rightful heirs to ol’ Monty’s money.”

  “Actually, she hadn’t,” I told him, stirring cream and sugar into my cup.

  “Well, we are. I know you might have read some stuff about this. We fought it in court and got ruled against, but it’s the truth. I cain’t exactly tell you how I know this, but that woman Hope ain’t who she says she is.”

  “She isn’t Monty’s daughter?” I asked.

  “She ain’t even Hope Montgomery,” he said emphatically.

  “Maybe we better back up a little,” I said. “I’m not sure I’m getting this.”

  “You tell it, Susie,” Fred offered.

  Susie shifted in her chair, her eyes switching between Drake and me. “Monty Montgomery did have a daughter, that part’s true. His wife left him years ago and took the daughter with her. That part’s true. As far as we know, he didn’t have any contact with the daughter for at least ten or fifteen years.”

  “Now that ol’ Monty’s dead, this woman shows up claiming she’s his daughter, Hope.”

  “Surely the executor of his estate required proof of her identity before turning over this fortune,” I suggested.

  “Well, sure he did,” Fred said. “But this ain’t her.”

  “And . . .” I prompted him, getting more confused by the minute.

  “And, well, I think this lady come in somehow and replaced the real Hope and took her identity.”

  “Did you bring this up in your court case?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine that, with the kind of money involved, there wouldn’t have been a serious investigation into it.

  “That’s just the thing. No we didn’t,” Susie piped up. “Course nobody knew what Hope wou
ld look like. She was a teenager last time anybody in the family saw her and now she’s fifty-somethin’. Fred, he was just a little kid, only met her a coupla times. I wasn’t even born yet. Then her mamma takes her off to someplace like Philadelphia to raise her. Now she comes back with all these manners and fancy ways and she’s got the court convinced of whatever she tells ’em.”

  “What about the mother?” I asked.

  “Dead. Been gone for years.”

  “And how can Charlie help you with this?” Drake asked.

  “Well, we was hoping . . . You see, we never had our own investigator on this. Just relied on the court. We kinda hoped you could find us some proof.”

  “We can pay you,” Susie added.

  I felt sorry for them and their predicament, but I also felt like I was getting sucked into something I had no idea how to handle. I wanted to tell them so, but the hang-dog looks on their faces started to get to me.

  “Let me see what I can do,” I told them.

  “Are you nuts?” Drake asked me as we got into the car a few minutes later. He had a half-smile on his face. “That whole theory sounded like pure wishful thinking on their part.”

  “How do I get myself into these things?” I wailed. “Why can’t I just learn the word ‘no’.”

  “I was kind of wondering that myself,” he laughed. “Now what?”

  “I’ll talk to Ron when we get to Albuquerque. Maybe he’ll have some ideas.”

  I stared out the windows while Drake did the driving. The snow was mostly melted in Taos, with only sparse patches remaining. By the time we entered the canyon south of town, there was no trace of it, although the rushing water of the Rio Grande on our right hand side looked frigidly clear and the river rocks were rimmed in ice. The tiny towns slipped past and we decided to stop for lunch in Santa Fe.

  We rolled into Albuquerque about two o’clock and stopped first at Ron’s and my office in the old Victorian just off Central Avenue. Rusty raced around the yard, then through the back door and up the stairs, happy to be on his old turf.

  “Hi, Charlie. Hi, Drake,” greeted Tammy, her pudgy face beaming. “Here are a few messages.” She handed me a handful of pink slips. Welcome back.