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

by Connie Shelton

  I went up to Ron’s office, leaving Drake to search for extra clothes in our current bedroom, which used to be my office. My desk had been moved to the downstairs conference room after we’d discovered that we simply couldn’t live and work in a fifteen by twenty foot room. As it was, the room was crowded with a queen-size bed, dresser, and a makeshift rod we’d set up for the few hanging clothes we’d accumulated since all our old ones were lost. Our personal toiletry items had to be stacked on the dresser top, since the bathroom’s old fixtures didn’t include spacious vanity tops and since customers occasionally used that room. I was more than ready for our home to be occupiable, but it looked like it would be at least a couple more months.

  Ron sat planted in his customary position at his desk, phone growing from one ear. He wore his usual Levi’s and plaid shirt. His felt Stetson hung on the rack near the door. I waved to indicate that I wanted his attention. He nodded and began to wind up the phone call.

  “What’s up?” he asked. “Having so much fun on your honeymoon that you had to come home early?”

  I shot him a poisonous look. He knew I wasn’t thrilled about having to keep in touch with a contractor during the holidays anyway.

  “For your information, smarty, I think I’ve gotten you a new case,” I said. I filled him in on the Montgomery’s situation.

  “So, if I discredit this heiress as a fake will the real heirs give me a percentage of the estate?”

  I laughed out loud. What a dreamer. “How do you plan to do it?” I asked. “Our resources are pretty limited as far as finding out about someone who grew up in Philadelphia, lived in California, and has relatives in Texas.”

  “Could you get something with Hope Montgomery’s fingerprints on it?” he asked.

  “Hmmm. Hadn’t thought about that. Let me work on it.” Too bad I hadn’t swiped something from her house.

  “It’s a long shot, but if it turned out that the imposter had a record we might expose her pretty easily,” Ron said. “On the other hand, if she has no criminal past it’s going to be trickier. And proving this lady an imposter won’t necessarily insure that Fred and Susie get the loot. The real Hope could be alive somewhere.”

  Or not. I had a feeling that if someone went to the trouble to impersonate her, fight it in court, move into her homes and start living her life, they wouldn’t leave a minor detail to chance, like the possibility of the real heiress walking into the picture. The other possibility was that Fred and Susie were dreamers and were letting their hopes for untold riches get the best of them.

  “Any other ideas on the Eloy Romero case I e-mailed you about?” I asked.

  “Well, I thought a contact at the local FBI office might help, and I do have that,” he said. He pulled his amazing Rolodex out and flipped through the cards. I can never figure out how to look up anything in Ron’s card system because he never files anything under the person’s name and rarely under the business name. He found his FBI contact, James Burns, under P for police.

  I wrote down the number and went downstairs to my desk to make some calls. First I called Fred Montgomery at the Holiday Inn in Taos.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he greeted, after I’d identified myself.

  “I need you and Susie to do a favor for me,” I told him. “You were planning to contact Hope today, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We called her this morning and we’re going up to her place for supper tonight. I’m not tellin’ her we got a private investigator though. Just wanna see if we can at least get her talking to us and to recognize that we’re her cousins.”

  “Okay. That’s perfect,” I said. “I need you to get something with her fingerprints on it. A smooth surface like a drinking glass or soda can would be perfect. Figure out a way to pick it up so you don’t leave your own prints, if you can. And don’t let her know you’re taking it.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I can do that.” His wide grin nearly came over the phone line.

  “Wrap it up carefully and mail it to this address.” I gave him the office address here in Albuquerque. After we’d hung up I told Ron to expect a package in the next day or two.

  “Okay.” I said it to Rusty and he wagged supportively. “We’ve done what we can on that case. Now, let’s call this FBI man. Then we’ll find out what our house looks like.” More wagging.

  “Burns here.” The voice was a deep bass that I envisioned coming from a very tall bearded man. I’m not sure why.

  I introduced myself as Ron’s associate and explained that we were investigating an old murder case.

  “I have reason to believe that this case might be connected in some way with a case you worked on several years ago,” I told him. “Two silver crosses, stolen from the Catholic church, have recently been recovered.”

  “I remember the case,” he said.

  “The crosses are in the possession of Father Domingo at the St. Augustine church in Taos. He’s planning to return them to Catholic authorities, may have already done so. The reason I’m telling you all this is that I believe these two crosses may somehow be connected to the murder of Father Ramon Romero, who was killed here in Albuquerque five years ago.”

  “Hold on a moment,” Burns told me. He set the receiver down a bit roughly on the desk and I could hear papers rustling in the background. “Okay,” he continued, “I’ve got the file here.”

  More rustling. “I don’t see any Ramon Romero mentioned in our case,” he said. “I’m beginning to remember some of the details now. We had a guy named Leon Palais pretty well cornered on this. Dates, times, contacts—all those things fit. Only problem was that he vanished. I personally went to St. Maarten in the Caribbean to track him down, but he’d just disappeared. He was known to be good with languages and different looks. A chameleon, basically. Once he hit that island, small as it is, he blended in with the population. It couldn’t have been too hard—he could appear Spanish, French, Italian, Indonesian—he had that international look about him. I guess he knew it and used it to blend. The guy’s sharp, and gutsy.”

  “Any idea where he is now?” I asked.

  “Could still be there on that island, as far as I know. His passport hasn’t been used to get him back into this country. At least some of the missing items have been found,” he concluded.

  “Was it a big theft ring?”

  “Huge. We estimated well over a million dollars worth of artifacts had been taken. But no one knows how to value some of this stuff. They aren’t the kind of items that show up at art auctions, you know. On the black market, these things might have brought in several million.”

  Wow. “And all of it’s still missing?” I asked.

  “As far as I know,” he acknowledged. “Except for these two crosses you mention.”

  I thanked him for the information and hung up. I hadn’t learned anything that would spare Eloy, although it was good to know that he’d never been an FBI suspect. My own gut feeling was that Ramon’s murder was somehow connected with the theft ring. Millions of dollars can be a powerful motive.

  Chapter 10

  Two pickup trucks with LOGAN CONSTRUCTION painted on their sides sat in our driveway. The whine of a saw came through the clear, cold air as we emerged from the Jeep and stood in our mangled front yard. Vehicles had driven across the lawn and the winter-bare shrubs and trees looked pitiful against its brownness. The front door still consisted of a sheet of plywood held in place by a hasp that was padlocked at night. It tore at my heart to see my childhood home, which I’d cared for so diligently since I’d inherited it, in this condition.

  The October fire had destroyed the entire north end of the house, which encompassed our master bedroom and bath, the guest room and bath, and the spare bedroom that we’d converted into Drake’s office. Other areas of the house, the living and dining rooms primarily, had suffered smoke and water damage. We’d spent a good part of November removing what furniture could be salvaged, taking it out for cleaning and storage until the house was ready for it. The new c
onstruction would include a much larger master suite, an exercise room, and a custom office for Drake. As a concession to the few times we had overnight guests, there would still be a guest room and bath—these near the front of the house with their own outside entrance. I was also using the remodeling as an excuse for new furniture in the living room.

  Rusty immediately raced to his old back yard, sniffing excitedly to make sure hoards of other dogs hadn’t invaded while he’d been away.

  “Hey, Ms. Parker, Mr. Drake,” called Hank Logan as we entered the living room. “Glad you came by.”

  “I brought those window brochures you needed,” I told him, pulling out my folder, the only thing that was keeping me organized through this whole project.

  Hank and I carried the folder to the kitchen counter while Drake wandered back to the newly framed area. I joined him a couple of minutes later, after writing down model numbers for the windows Hank still needed to order.

  “It’s looking good, hon,” Drake said.

  No trace of blackened wood flooring or walls remained. Three weeks ago, this section had been open to the outdoors, but with winter moving in, Logan had done a great job of finishing the framing, the flooring, and getting the new section under roof. The windows and new exterior doors were in place, with the exception of the Jacuzzi area of the master bath, where we planned to have double glass with automatic shades between the two layers. We would be able to look out from our tub into a small private garden with a high wall or, if we felt insecure about peepers, could push a button to lower the shades. The open spaces, which were currently covered in heavy plastic, would soon be done and I was beginning to visualize the finished product.

  “I’ll be so glad when this is done,” I told him. “Won’t it be nice to get into our own home, finally?”

  He gave me an answering hug. “I’ll settle anywhere with you,” he whispered.

  “Here are the catalogs—” Hank Logan stopped. “Sorry to interrupt.” He blushed.

  I laughed. “No problem.”

  He handed me several catalogs of bathroom fixtures. “We’ll want to get these ordered right away,” he said, “to keep the whole project on time.”

  “We’ll get some decisions made right now,” I promised.

  Drake and I carried the catalogs to the kitchen, where we could spread them out and the light was better. I scanned quickly past several pages of ultra-modern things I didn’t care for and concentrated on some that would be in keeping with the traditional look of the house without being outdated.

  “Knock, knock . . .” Elsa Higgins’s fragile voice came through the kitchen door. “I saw your car out front.” My neighbor’s velveteen-smooth cheeks were pink from the winter air, her puff of downy white hair faintly ruffled. She’d bundled into a tan overcoat atop her purple knit pants and lavender flowered blouse.

  I ushered her in and gave her a big hug.

  “I thought you two were on your honeymoon,” she chided.

  “We are,” Drake answered. “We’re always honeymooning.” He squeezed my hand.

  “We had to come back and make a few decisions to keep the remodeling on schedule,” I said. “It’s coming along pretty well, don’t you think?”

  “It sure is. I’ve been peeking. Usually come over in the afternoons after the workmen all leave. It’s a pretty big addition you’re making there in the back yard.”

  “Yeah, the master bedroom and bath are quite a bit larger, and that spot where they cut away the grass will be a big patio. Nicer for cook-outs than the little porch we had before,” Drake added. He’d promised to do the cooking if we built a nice grill for him.

  “I wish I could offer you some tea,” I said, “but they’ve cut the electricity to the kitchen and we don’t have a bite of anything in the house.”

  “Well, that’s what I was coming over for. I want you to come to my place for supper when you’re finished here,” Elsa said.

  My surrogate grandmother had watched out for me since my parents died when I was fifteen and wasn’t about to stop now. We agreed to be there by five.

  By ten o’clock the following morning we were on the road again, headed north in two vehicles. The sky was a deep blue, the roads were clear, and the drive went quickly. We were in Taos by twelve-thirty so we stopped for some lunch and a quick trip to the grocery store. I picked up salad ingredients, lean chicken breasts, and a few other staples. On the drive to Albuquerque we had both decided that we needed to start exercising and watching our diet. The idea loosely took the form of a New Year’s resolution, which we realized put us in the same category with about a hundred million other Americans this time of year. I had a feeling that, along with at least ninety-nine million others, I would be doing good to stick with it a month.

  The Taos News caught my eye in a stand outside the store and I bought a copy on impulse. I’m normally not a big newspaper reader, having learned that half the contents are usually designed to depress or infuriate me and the other half are there to lure me into stores to buy stuff I had no idea I needed until I picked up the paper. I jammed the paper into a grocery bag and wheeled everything out to the Jeep. Drake had gone ahead in his pickup truck to make a stop at the hangar and find out whether Eloy had any flights lined up for him.

  The ski valley road was clear until I turned off onto the county road, which was shaded and snowpacked. I switched to four-wheel drive for the climb and pulled into the cabin’s drive a few minutes later. Rusty bounded ahead, treating this place as much like home already as our own house. After carrying the grocery sacks in, turning up the thermostat, and checking the answering machine--where the only message was from Fred Montgomery, telling me that he’d done a fine bit of detective work by stealing Hope’s water glass from the dinner table--I stacked a few logs in the fireplace and struck a match to them, then settled in to have a cup of hot tea and browse the newspaper. A headline on page three caught my attention.

  St. Augustine Loses Father Domingo

  Father Alphonse Domingo, 86, of the Taos parish church of St. Augustine, died Friday night in his room at the rectory. At this time, details are unknown as to the cause of death, although church officials say Father Domingo was in excellent health for a man his age. The county coroner may order an investigation to determine if the elderly priest died of other than natural causes. A funeral mass is planned for Monday afternoon at 2:00 p.m.

  I felt a pang of sadness for the old priest, whom I’d found to be kindly and helpful. But the hint that he may not have died of natural causes bothered me. I reached for the telephone.

  “Father Sanchez? You probably don’t remember me,” I said, introducing myself. “I visited Father Domingo last week.”

  “The young lady with the silver crosses,” he answered. “Yes, of course. Father Domingo told me about it.”

  “I’m concerned about what became of the crosses. The newspaper hinted . . . well, Father Domingo’s death . . . was it suspicious? Oh gosh, I’m not putting this very well . . . I . . . my first thought was that someone might have killed him and stolen the crosses.”

  The line was silent for a fraction of a second too long.

  “No, my dear. I don’t think it was anything like that,” Father Sanchez said. “I know Father Domingo had the crosses shipped to the Vatican right after your visit. I helped him pack them up and Father Ralph was here when Federal Express picked up the box.”

  “But his death. The coroner’s office might start an inquiry?”

  “I can’t really tell you what they are planning,” he answered. “I know his soul is in God’s hands now.”

  Yeah, well, that might be fine. But if someone killed him I wasn’t convinced that God would lock the guilty party in jail.

  “Father Sanchez, may I ask one favor? Would it be all right if I looked through Father Domingo’s papers? When I visited, he showed me some files that were connected with a case I’m working on right now. It would be most helpful if I could take another look at them.”

 
; He hesitated a moment, but agreed. Not wanting to give him a chance to change his mind, I told him I’d be there in an hour. I left Drake a note and Rusty and I climbed back into the Jeep.

  Fifty-six minutes later we pulled up to the historic church and I hurried to the old priest’s office. Father Sanchez met me in the hallway as I was trying the doorknob.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Parker,” he greeted.

  His manner seemed cordial, if reserved. I got the feeling he wasn’t sure whether he could trust me. He pulled a key from the pocket of his black slacks and unlocked the office door.

  “We never used to have locks on any door in the church,” he said sadly. “But times have changed. It’s unfortunate when we must distrust everyone.”

  “Please stay with me while I look at the files,” I offered.

  He pulled open the lower drawer of the desk, the same one where Father Domingo had gotten the file he’d shown me.

  “I think most of Alphonse’s personal papers are in this drawer,” he said. “Here, please take his chair.”

  I felt a little strange, sitting in the chair so recently occupied by the older priest and looking at his open file drawer. But I had a feeling that there was somehow a connection between the dead priest, Ramon Romero, and the theft of the silver crosses. And this old man knew more about it than anyone else I’d run into so far. I pulled out the file he’d shown me the other day and began flipping through the neatly clipped articles.

  Father Sanchez watched me for a couple of minutes then left the room, leaving the door standing open. I heard him enter another office across the hall and sit down in a creaking chair. Perfect. I’d know if he arose and came to check on me.

  With the open file still spread out on the desk, I hurriedly riffled through the other files in the drawer. The headings didn’t seem pertinent, but I paged quickly through the contents of each to see if I might find anything of help. The edge of one file caught as I tried to withdraw it and I pulled at the drawer handle to open it a bit farther. The old desk’s drawers were heavy wood sliding against wood—no rollers or bearings to help them along—and it took some extra strength to open the drawer fully. At the back of the drawer was a narrow space between the edges of the files and the wooden back of the drawer. It contained a pint of Jim Beam and a small leather book. I glanced up at the doorway before lifting it out. It was a diary.