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

by Connie Shelton

  Still in my flannel pajamas, I wasn’t at all in the mood to run into town again, so I decided to see how much I could accomplish on the internet. First was to use the phone book listings to verify that Fred and Susie Montgomery really existed in the Dallas area. That checked out, along with the information on the business card Fred had given me. Hope Montgomery had unlisted numbers in La Jolla and New York. Her Taos number was in the local phone directory. I had another idea, but would have to go to the library for that.

  I’d no sooner disconnected the modem hookup than the phone rang.

  “Gonna spend the whole day talking?” Ron asked.

  “Sorry, I was on the internet and don’t have two lines here,” I told him.

  “I’ve got the California motor vehicle people sending me a copy of Hope’s driver’s license. I’ll fax it to you.”

  I almost blurted out that I didn’t have a fax machine here, but remembered that my computer had that capability. I’d just have to figure it out.

  “Even if you’re dealing with an imposter, no doubt it will be this lady’s picture on the license,” Ron said. “Surely even the dumbest criminal would know better.”

  “No doubt. But maybe there’ll be some other detail I can gain from it.”

  “Get a picture of her if you can,” he suggested. “There’s probably a lot we can do with that.”

  Two reasons to go into town. Guess I’d have to bite the bullet and go. We hung up and I went upstairs to get dressed. Thirty minutes later I was halfway down the mountain, headed for the Taos Library, where I settled into the reference section.

  Who’s Who carried a lengthy profile on Monty Montgomery, including his work on the microchip processes he’d invented, his service on the boards of a couple of well-endowed charities, and his family connections. The only child listed was a Hope Montgomery. Her birth date was given, so that would be easy enough to cross check with her driver’s license. The book also had a listing for Hope Montgomery, although no picture. Her biography listed her mother’s name and a few personal details that Monty’s listing didn’t cover, along with the obligatory charity work that got her into the book in the first place.

  I read the profiles three times then paid a dime for a copy of the page. I don’t always trust my memory on details.

  Next, I drove to the newspaper office where I accessed the archives, hoping there would be news of the Montgomery family since they were local big shots. A mention of Monty when he’d bought the house was the extent of it. A photo showed him with a blond woman of Hope’s size and build, and the caption said she was his daughter. I couldn’t swear it was the same Hope I’d met, but I couldn’t swear it wasn’t, either. The photo was too grainy. The article had run fifteen years ago and the photo might have been even older.

  I made one final stop at Wal-Mart for a disposable camera. And a stop at McDonald’s for a Big Mac and Coke. Life in the mountains didn’t have to consist entirely of nutritious meals, for heaven’s sake.

  Wiping the last of the special sauce from the corners of my mouth, I used my cell phone to access the answering machine at the cabin. I was kind of hoping Drake might have checked in between flights to say hi. Only one call, from Eloy.

  “Hey, Charlie. I’m just sitting around the hangar waiting for Drake’s next flight to come in . . . and I wondered, uh . . . whether you’ve got any news about my situation. Uh . . . call me if you know anything. My cousin Steve, the Taos cop, mentioned that he’s gonna stop and visit my mother tomorrow. I, uh . . . I’d sure like to get out of this mess before she finds out. Thanks. Bye.”

  I sat in the Jeep in McDonald’s parking lot, thinking back to the diaries I’d read yesterday. It might not be a bad idea to see what the local police knew about the theft ring and about Ramon’s death. The police station was just a few blocks away so I took a chance on finding Steve Romero in. After a minimum explanation I was shown to his desk.

  “Officer Romero? Could I have a minute of your time?” I asked, introducing myself and my purpose.

  “Friend of Eloy’s, huh?” he said, rubbing his hands over tired-looking eyes.

  He was about Eloy’s age, early forties, but softer and rounder than his athletic cousin. His diet of beans and tortillas had settled firmly in the middle of his tan uniform and the once-handsome face was round and unlined.

  “Have you seen this?” he asked, tossing a copy of the Taos newspaper face up on the desk.

  I turned it to face me. The headline read: Local Priest Locates Valuable Crosses. An old file photo of Father Domingo smiled benevolently at me. I slipped into the chair beside Romero’s desk and quickly read the article. It told how the old priest had recently returned the two silver crosses to the Vatican after they’d been missing for nearly ten years. Thankfully, the priest had not mentioned my name or the possible connection with Eloy. It did say that Ramon’s death five years earlier was still being investigated. I glanced at the byline. The story was off one of the major wire services. Father Domingo must have given an interview the day before he died.

  “Know anything about this?” Steve Romero asked.

  “Ramon’s death? Only what Eloy’s told me,” I answered. “Which is why I’m here. Did Eloy tell you he’s hired my firm to investigate.”

  “No, he didn’t.” One black eyebrow went up in surprise.

  “He’s really most concerned that his mother not find out he’s been arrested for Ramon’s death. He’s worried that it might kill her.”

  “Knowing how she felt about Ramon, I think that’s not too far off the mark,” he said.

  “Eloy said you were going to visit her—”

  “I won’t say anything,” he assured me.

  “What do you know about Ramon’s murder?” I asked.

  He grinned with very white, straight teeth. “You sure know how to phrase a question, don’t you? C’mon, you know I can’t tell you everything we know.”

  “Okay,” I conceded. “I just want to be sure Eloy’s getting a fair shake here, you know. Has his attorney been given the evidence against him?”

  “Actually, this whole thing is Albuquerque jurisdiction, since that’s where the crime took place. It’s only because Mike Ortiz and I have vouched for Eloy’s not being a flight risk that he’s not in jail down there right now. Aside from that, I really don’t know too many details about the case. Wish I did.”

  “I just can’t imagine how this gun, which Eloy says is always in his closet, got taken away, used in a crime, and put back without his realizing it was ever missing.”

  “I know, I know,” Steve said, rubbing his hands through his dark hair.

  “Someone had to have access to Eloy’s house. Who would that be?”

  “Maybe the whole town of Taos,” he chuckled. “You haven’t been around here long, have you? Nobody locks their doors in this town.”

  A far cry from Albuquerque custom, where you not only lock them but lots of people also have iron bars on the windows and doors. It would take a long time for me to get used to this small-town casual attitude.

  “Eloy told me he locks his,” I argued. “Said he leaves a key out for the cleaning lady once a month or so.”

  “Maybe he locks them now,” he countered, “but I bet that hasn’t always been the case.”

  His phone rang and he reached for it.

  “Yeah. Uh-huh. Here? Hmmm. Okay. You got it.”

  I wouldn’t have thought anything of the one-sided conversation except that Steve had turned the newspaper back around to face him as he listened. He was staring at it as he hung up.

  “An update on the case?” I asked.

  He glanced around the room to be sure no one else knew he was letting a secret out of the bag.

  “Leon Palais, the head honcho behind this artifact theft ring. He’s been spotted here in Taos.”

  The suspect mentioned in the article in Father Domingo’s folder. My pulse quickened. “Really?”

  “Some FBI guy in Albuquerque got suspicious and came up
here. Said he had reason to believe the thieves might be on the move again. Some lady called him last week asking a bunch of questions.”

  Me. I hoped my face wasn’t giving away my thoughts.

  “The wire service broke the story about the two crosses; it hit Albuquerque a couple days ago. Knowing the crosses came from Taos, this Fibbie started nosing around. Figured Palais might show up. And sure enough. Unfortunately, he eluded the FBI guy when he ducked into an alley.”

  “I—I’d heard that no one knows what Palais looks like any more because he’d changed his identity and his looks.”

  “Well, I don’t know how they did it,” he said impatiently. “Maybe some computer thing where they can add a beard, take it away, change hair color . . . whatever. Anyway, we’re supposed to bring him in for questioning. FBI is faxing us his picture.”

  “Could I get a copy of it?” I asked.

  He shot me a look that basically said butt out.

  “Well, I could show it to Eloy and see if he recognizes the guy.”

  “I could show it to Eloy,” he said.

  “Yeah, but . . .” I shuffled a little in my seat. “I know where he is and in fact I’m heading that way now.”

  He got up from his chair and walked toward the back of the room, muttering something that included the word ‘nosy.’ He came back a couple of minutes later with a sheet of flimsy fax paper.

  “You still here?” he questioned, laying the fax down so it faced me.

  It was Anton Pachevski.

  “Ohmygod! I know this man,” I said.

  “What?”

  “He’s Anton Pachevski, the famous art critic. I met him at a gallery show here right before Christmas.”

  Romero suddenly wasn’t so anxious to be rid of me. I gave him the details of the show at the Dumont Gallery and told him I’d also seen Pachevski at Hope Montgomery’s after-Christmas party. He took a few notes.

  “It makes sense,” I said. “This guy is part of the art world, so he shows up here.”

  “People often change their looks, but it’s hard for them to change their interests,” he said. “You’d be surprised how many guys get caught doing just this—guy loves the race track in his old life, you’ll find him at a race track in his new identity.”

  “Exactly.” I looked at him like I’d already thought of this and had just delivered Leon Palais to him on a silver platter. “There you go.” I shrugged.

  “I think I’ll nose around and see what big New Years Eve parties are going on tonight,” he said. “Maybe I can get men into some of these fancy society do’s and scout around. This Palais/Pachevski sounds like the kind of guy who’d get invited to something like that.”

  I opened my mouth but didn’t get a word out before he shushed me. “Now don’t get any ideas about looking for him yourself. You know what the FBI said—he’s slippery. And he could be dangerous. He went to pretty great lengths to disappear before.”

  The canyon was already well in shadow when I started back to the cabin at three o’clock. I’d completely forgotten about it being New Years Eve until Steve Romero had mentioned it, but I’d stopped at the grocery for some champagne and other goodies before leaving town. I would put together something special for our first New Year together. Passing the hangar, I noticed that the aircraft wasn’t in yet. Drake’s tour group must have been larger than he expected.

  Rusty greeted me like I’d been gone forever when I walked into the cabin. I let him outside to romp in the snow a bit, while I put the groceries away. Outside the window, I caught motion at one of the huge pine trees and saw that he’d chased a squirrel; it was now ten feet up the trunk, chattering at him like a bad-tempered school teacher. I called the dog back inside.

  By the time Drake got home I’d prepared a salad and two baked potatoes, and steaks were seasoned and waiting to be put under the broiler.

  “Big day, huh?” I asked.

  “Almost like doing those endless tours in Hawaii,” he groaned. “Reminds me of why I wasn’t unhappy to leave that kind of work behind.”

  I took his jacket and rubbed his shoulders. “Would you like a nice hot shower before dinner?”

  “No, I’m starved. The other thing passengers seem to think is that pilots never eat. We’re just expected to keep flying through lunch time, while they get taken to the lodge for a big buffet.”

  I waved the plate of steaks in front of him. “Here, pour a glass of wine for each of us and I’ll have these ready in just a few minutes.”

  An hour later, he emerged from the shower looking well fed and much more relaxed. I’d cleaned up the kitchen, made coffee, and sliced a carrot cake.

  “Want to go do New Years Eve on the town?” I asked as we settled on the sofa with our dessert.

  “Not unless you really have your heart set on it,” he said.

  “I’d rather celebrate here, just us two. Three,” I amended, noticing that Rusty was giving my plate the big stare-down. I told Drake about the champagne, brie and pate I’d picked up for midnight.

  “I gotta quit eating like this,” he said, shoving a big hunk of cake into his mouth. “Married life isn’t supposed to make me fat.”

  “We’re dieting, starting tomorrow,” I reminded him.

  We put a video in the machine and turned on the television set for the first time since we’d been here. It was a classic romance film that I normally wouldn’t watch on a bet, but somehow it fit in with our holiday honeymoon. By the end of it I was sniffing and Drake was ready for action. We decided to open our champagne since it was almost midnight. Toast first, then action.

  Chapter 14

  New Year’s morning saw me stretching lazily between the covers, wanting to stay snuggled in with Drake and ready to waste the whole day away. After all, it was only ten o’clock. Unfortunately, the telephone thought otherwise. It rang just as I was draping myself over his muscular chest.

  “Hello,” he said, stretching himself over me to reach for it.

  I took advantage of the new position by shifting slightly under him and pressing my hips upward.

  “Hi, Hope,” he said.

  My arms flopped to the bed. Ugh. Hope Montgomery had the worst timing. Served me right—I’d forgotten to call her back and schedule the flight for her guests.

  “Tomorrow? Yes, our schedule’s open.” He pulled himself off me and reached for a notepad on his side of the bed. “Uh-huh. That’ll be at least fifteen hours of flight time, plus expenses. Okay.” He finished scribbling some notes.

  “The flight for Miss Big Bucks,” I said, without much attempt at keeping the snotty tone out of my voice.

  “Hey, hon, I don’t like her either. But this is gonna be good money. She wants me to fly her and some houseguests to Las Vegas, wait while they gamble for a day or so, and bring them back.”

  “Wow. And she knows how much this will cost?”

  “I told her.”

  “Life must be something else when money’s no object,” I said.

  “Our life is something else,” he murmured into my ear, taking a little nibble while he was at it. The rest became a blur of warmth and sensation.

  “You sure you don’t want to come on the trip?” Drake asked the next morning as we drove to the hangar. I’d offered to help check in the passengers.

  “Nah. Besides, you just watch--they tell you there’s only three people and they’re only staying one night, but I’ll bet they bring enough baggage for two weeks. You’ll be lucky to get out of here under gross load.”

  “Hey, you’re starting to get the hang of this business,” he grinned. “I’m purposely going out light on fuel, for that very reason. I can top off at the Taos airport and again in Farmington if I need to.”

  Passengers never had a clue how important the weight load was in a small aircraft. Invariably, they’d lie about their weight—some being offended that you’d even ask--or think they could carry all the luggage they wanted to. And it never failed that the heaviest man would insist upon ridin
g in the front seat, which threw the center of gravity off so badly that it created a real danger. Pilots often had to make unpopular decisions for everyone’s safety. Hope’s group probably wouldn’t be happy about the extra fuel stops, but those were the breaks.

  “You just don’t let that rich lady talk you into anything,” I said, pressing against Drake for a good-bye hug.

  “Don’t you worry,” he assured me. He knew that I knew she’d been making moves toward him. “Hey,” he brightened, “you’re a commercial pilot. Want to take the charter yourself?”

  “Oh, no, no,” I laughed. “I’m not any crazier about lifting out of these mountains with a full gross load than you are.” Winter flying in the mountains was still a bit beyond my comfort level.

  The sound of a vehicle outside told us the group had arrived. As predicted, Hope’s guests were a couple of extremely well-fed men, each tipping the scale at over two-fifty, and they’d each brought two heavy bags. I weighed all the pieces and handed over the figures to Drake to do a weight and balance calculation. By the time we’d loaded the bags, distributing the weight properly between the front and back seats and the cargo compartment in back, the sun was topping Wheeler Peak.

  “Okay,” I said, “let’s get a picture of the group.” I herded the three into a huddle and aimed my disposable camera. “One more shot.” This time I homed in on Hope’s face and clicked off two quick snaps before she could figure out what I was up to. I dropped the camera into the pocket of my parka and shuffled each passenger to his assigned seat.

  “You take care of things,” Drake told Rusty, ruffling the dog’s ears before he picked up his own small bag. “And you . . .” he turned to me, “. . . take care of yourself. We’re gonna go pick out those rings when I get back.”