I made a sandwich for lunch, then decided that I couldn’t just sit around all afternoon. I needed to be doing something. By two o’clock Rusty and I were headed toward Taos. First stop was to drop the envelope to Ron into a mailbox. Then I headed for the Dumont Gallery.
A small bell tinkled as the door closed upon the hush of the gallery. The Sam Begay show was still hanging, although there were quite a few red “Sold” tags visible. His rock formations still looked like body parts to me. I was alone in the place, so I browsed some of the other artists’ work. The place was deathly quiet except for the sound of my shoes on the wooden floor as I stepped from one painting to the next.
“That’s a lovely piece, isn’t it?” Daphne Dumont’s voice startled me, coming from just over my right shoulder.
Some detective I am, I thought, letting her sneak up on me like that. What I said was, “Yes, just beautiful.” As before, Daphne’s white hair was pulled up in a complicated twist at the back of her head and secured with a turquoise and silver thing that reminded me of a dagger sticking through a loaf of bread. Her broomstick skirt and velvet tunic were also turquoise, and a number of silver and turquoise rings cluttered her fingers.
The painting in question was a typical New Mexico landscape, with sagebrush and chamisa, a mountain in the background, and the edge of an adobe wall at the right edge, indicating that there was probably a house just outside the picture. I’d seen dozens similar to it over the years, but no doubt some tourist from back East would snap it up.
“We’ve met, haven’t we?” she asked.
“I was here for the Sam Begay show,” I told her. “And weren’t you at Hope Montgomery’s holiday party?”
“Yes! Darling Hope. Isn’t she just such a dear?”
“You’ve known her for a long time, I suppose?” I tried to pose the question in the very most casual way.
“We’ve become quite close,” she hedged. “She started coming in last summer and has bought several very nice pieces.”
“But you didn’t know her before that? Perhaps in California?”
She drew herself up. “I hardly see how that’s any of your business.”
I sighed and handed her one of my RJP Investigations business cards. “For purposes of an investigation we’re conducting, I need to find someone who’s known Hope Montgomery for more than two years.”
Daphne brought a hand adorned with four chunky rings to her chest. “My goodness!” she exclaimed. “Whatever for?”
It was my turn to be enigmatic. “If you’ve known her a long time, maybe you can tell me a little about her. If not, then I guess you can’t be of any help to me.”
A greedy spark glinted in her eye. Daphne was clearly not the type to accept being left out of the loop. On the other hand, she didn’t want to gossip indiscreetly. I watched the battle taking place behind her polished façade and I waited to see who would win.
“Hope and I have corresponded for years. It began when she requested our catalog by mail. She said she had visited the gallery and was very impressed with the artists we chose. I didn’t remember her personally, but was happy to oblige her with the catalogs. Each year she picked out several favorite pieces and ordered them.”
“Did she pick them up here or did you ship the paintings to her?”
“We shipped them. She would send a check and as soon as it cleared the bank we shipped the painting. Most of them went to California, a few to New York. I think we shipped one to Europe once.”
“But you never met her face to face.”
“Not until last summer. Actually, I hadn’t heard from her in over two years. There was that dreadful bit with her housekeeper in California, and she simply wasn’t able to make the trip here.”
“What dreadful bit was that?” I asked.
“The poor woman died. Monique . . . Frasier was her last name, I believe. She had been with Hope for a couple of years, I think, and Hope had really come to rely upon her.”
Monique. Monica. I was detecting a strong fishy odor about the whole thing.
“I gathered she was more than just a housekeeper in the strictest sense of the word,” Daphne continued. “She had taken over a great deal of Hope’s paperwork too. I seem to remember that it was Monique who sent the check for the last painting we shipped to California.”
“And she died?” I prompted.
“Hope was extremely torn up about it. Of course, she’d just lost her father six weeks earlier and losing her right-hand person was simply too much. She wrote to say that she was going away for awhile. Went to a lovely spa in the desert for several weeks, I think she told me. Then she’d become almost a recluse in her California home for a couple of years. She’s just now finding the strength to get back out into the world again.”
“Did Monique sign any of the checks?” I asked.
Her brow flexed into a pair of horizontal lines. “I really don’t remember. Maybe Hope signed the check and Monique wrote the cover note.” She shrugged slightly. “I just don’t recall.”
I thanked her and left the gallery, questions zipping around in my head like a pinball. In the car, I pulled my cell phone from my purse and dialed the RJP number.
“Ron, I mailed you a photo today, but before it gets there, I’ve got some more background information on this Hope Montgomery situation.”
“Okay,” he said.
“See if you can get a Social Security number for a Monique Frasier. Or Monica Francis. I have a feeling they’re the same person. Monique was Hope Montgomery’s housekeeper until a couple of years ago. Unless it was some kind of cash-under-the-table deal, Hope would have had to take withholding taxes out of her pay. See if you can get her dates of employment. And, supposedly, she died about two years ago. See if Social Security has any record of that. And find out who her beneficiaries were.”
“Yes, ma’am. Anything else?”
“I’ve got some other theories about this. I’ll do some more checking on my own.”
I ended the call and turned to Rusty, who had been patiently waiting in the backseat. “One more stop,” I assured him. “Then we’re heading home.”
Officer Steve Romero was sitting at his desk, a phone to his ear, when I walked in. The uniform he wore today must have been from an earlier season in his career. The buttonholes were pulled tightly across his midsection. He glanced up at me and finished his call quickly.
“Ms. Parker. What can I do for you today?” he asked.
“I thought I’d stop by and see if your round of New Years Eve parties the other night helped locate Anton Pachevski.”
“Pachevski? Oh, Leon Palais.” He shook his head. “Not yet. He’s keeping low right now. We’ve had a couple of officers who thought they spotted him, but we can’t get a line on where he’s staying and we haven’t been able to get close enough to actually get our hands on him. You see him around?”
“No. I stopped in at the Dumont Gallery awhile ago but Daphne Dumont didn’t mention anything about him.” I didn’t admit that I’d forgotten to ask in my quest to learn more about Hope Montgomery.
“We’ve got all the galleries covered,” he said. “I don’t know if we’ll get much cooperation. These art folks tend to stick together. On the other hand, I doubt any of them want to face jail time for harboring a felon so I doubt they’re actually hiding him. I think they just don’t know where he is right now.”
I told him I’d let him know if I learned anything.
It was nearly six when I got back to the cabin, but I’d had a hunch on the drive home and decided to try to follow it up. It was still not quite five o’clock on the west coast. I pulled out the page I’d printed off the internet, the one with Monica’s picture and bio. Along with that information was the name, address, and phone number of her agent. This would be interesting. If Monica was really Monique, and Monique was dead, I’d like to know when she’d had her last acting job.
“Maury Schultz.” The voice was abrupt, with a Jersey accent.
“Th
is is Charlie Parker at RJP Productions in New Mexico,” I lied. “We’re casting the extras for a film here and came across one of your clients on the internet.”
“Yeah?”
“Her name is Monica Francis. Her face is just what our producer is looking for in one of the supporting roles. I’m wondering if the picture on the web site is current?”
“Monica, Monica. Hold on.” The phone clattered noisily to a desk top and papers began to rustle in my ear. “I’m checking my Rolodex here. This Monica, she ain’t been around for awhile. I gotta . . . hang on.”
This time the blank silence of a line on hold greeted me. I was beginning to wonder if I’d been disconnected when Maury came back.
“Miss? Guess I can’t help you with Monica Francis. Just called the number I got in my file. It’s somebody else and they never heard of her.”
“But her picture was on the web site,” I countered.
“Hey, what can I say? These people get outta date books and post this stuff.”
“But don’t you still represent her?”
“Look, I got clients bringing me in a lot more than her. Years ago, I thought she might get somewhere. But she didn’t. Not my fault. I got her a few parts but, hey, some make it and some don’t.”
“So she hasn’t been in touch with you in awhile?”
“By the notes I got here on the card, I’d say the last time I talked to her was four, five years ago.”
I thought I had a pretty good idea why.
“Well, thank you for your time.”
“Hey I gotta lotta actresses here. I can get you somebody else.”
“We’ll let you know. Mr. Parker was really set on this one.”
I hung up before he could pitch all his other clients to me. The phone rang nearly the instant I set it down.
“Hey, I got some pretty good information on your Monica Francis,” Ron said. “She was working off and on in the movies from the 1960s until about ten years ago. Had a dry spell, I guess, because her next four or five employers were restaurants and hotels. Took waitressing work to get by on. Five years ago she went to work as a housekeeper for—guess who—Monty Montgomery. When he died, she stayed on, working for his only heir, Hope Montgomery.”
“Aha! I knew there was something weird going on here.”
“There was some mixup about that time with her Social Security number. Guess she tried using Monica’s number but with the name Monique. It wasn’t close enough to suit the government so she legally changed her name.” Amazing the amount of information he could pull from normally obstinate bureaucrats.
“Okay, I think we’ve got something here. You should get a packet from me tomorrow morning. Act on it right away.”
I placed a quick call to Fred Montgomery, with the message that they shouldn’t leave town because I thought we’d have some answers soon.
It was pitch dark outside now and I found myself listening carefully for vehicle sounds and feeling vulnerable with the lights on inside. I pulled all the drapes closed and double checked the locks on all the doors.
“This is bull,” I told Rusty. “We’re here in the mountains. We shouldn’t have to feel like someone’s going to break in on us.”
He wagged mightily and turned toward the kitchen. When I didn’t follow, he pawed once at my shoe and turned to the kitchen again.
“Okay, okay, I get it.” Obedient pet that I am, I filled his food dish.
* * *
The following morning dawned clear and cold. The sky sparkled with ice flecks against Wedgwood blue. Yesterday’s fresh snow lay undisturbed on the ground, with whipped cream lumps dolloped over the tips of the pine branches. The sun glinted off thousands of faceted crystals.
Drake called at nine to say they were leaving Farmington, would be in around noon and if I’d pick him up at the hangar, he take me to lunch. I phoned Eloy and left the message to have him schedule the ski charter accordingly.
Ron called at ten to say the photo had arrived and he knew just the expert to give it to. My heart rate quickened.
“Tell him if we can have an answer by noon we may have a criminal in custody by the end of the day,” I said excitedly. Before I hung up I told him what to do if the photo expert came up with the right answer.
“Okay, buddy,” I said to Rusty. “Drake’s coming home and we’re about to solve one of our cases, anyway.”
By eleven-thirty I’d neatened up the cabin, put fresh sheets on the bed, and done two loads of laundry. Fifteen minutes later I drove up in front of the hangar. Eloy’s truck was already there.
“Hey, Charlie, how are things?”
“Great. Did you enjoy your ski day yesterday?”
He was maneuvering the small electric tug that they used to wheel the aircraft in and out of the hangar. “It would have been more fun if I didn’t have this thing about Ramon hanging over my head.”
I filled him in on some of the details I’d learned from Father Domingo’s diaries. “I think I need to stop in at that church the next time I go to Albuquerque,” I told him. “There’s more to this than the matter of a priest having an affair with a married woman. And I’d like to see if our homicide detective contact will let me take a look at the file on Ramon’s killing. There has to be other evidence we don’t know about yet.”
Eloy sighed, like the news of Ramon’s affair was no surprise to him. He pushed the tug toward the large door where Drake would land. “I sure hope so, Charlie. I don’t know what I’m gonna do if they take me down there for a trial. There’s not much way I’ll be able to hide that from my mother.”
I patted his arm. “Don’t worry about it just yet. You’re lucky your brother-in-law lawyer and your cousin on the police force are standing up for you. Not many people get that kind of advantage. We’ll solve this soon.”
The distinct whopp-whopp of the JetRanger’s rotor blades came softly from a distance. I dashed outside like a kid watching the circus come to town. I looked toward the west but the sky was almost painfully bright and I didn’t spot the aircraft immediately. Rusty cocked his ears, picking up the sound more clearly than I could. I looked again. There in the distance was a tiny dark speck. I blinked to be sure my eyes weren’t tricking me. The speck became larger.
We stood beside the Jeep and watched the speck become a shape, the sun reflecting off the steady motion of the blades. I grabbed Rusty’s collar as Drake brought the aircraft to a hover over the landing pad then set her gently down. He lowered the rotor rpm and the turbine whine gradually wound down. I let the dog go and he raced to Drake’s side of the helicopter.
Another sound penetrated my consciousness. Sirens.
Two county sheriff’s cars and one from the town of Taos wheeled into the driveway and roared to a stop just short of the landing pad. I saw the concern on Drake’s face and put my hand up in a “stop” gesture. Eloy stood rigid beside me.
“Ray Tenorio,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
“Don’t worry. I don’t think this has anything to do with you,” I said.
I trotted over to Steve Romero’s car.
“Is this about Hope Montgomery?” I asked.
He nodded.
“She’s in the front passenger seat,” I told him.
“Stay here,” he said, guiding me to the other side of his car.
He made a couple of hand motions to Tenorio and the other officer. They stood behind their car doors, hands poised over pistols. I held my breath, praying that the pistols would stay holstered. Steve approached the aircraft and opened the passenger door.
“Monica Francis, also known as Monique Frasier, also known as Hope Montgomery,” he recited. “You are under arrest for murder.”
Chapter 17
He went on, reciting the Miranda rights by rote, while the two men in the back seats eyed the other officers nervously. Drake attended to the switches on his console. He’d learned by now to expect nearly anything when I was on the scene.
Hope blanched so white I thought s
he might faint. This certainly wasn’t the way she expected her fun Las Vegas weekend to end. She glanced to her friends in the back seats, gauging their reaction. Neither would meet her eyes. She climbed docilely from the aircraft and hung her head while Steve clipped a pair of handcuffs on her. Ducking to avoid the still-spinning rotor, he led her away from the helicopter to one of the sheriff’s department cars.
Before the officers could guide her into the back seat, she spun on them with venom in her eyes.
“You swine!” she spat. “How dare you!”
Gone was the cooperative manner, gone was the genteel face. The actress had slipped out of character.
Ray Tenorio and the deputy placed hands on her shoulders and forced her into the back seat of one of the squad cars. She was still ranting vehemently as the deputy backed his car and turned it around. I saw him saying something to her as he passed us and she appeared to return fire. He showed her who was in charge by turning on his lights and sirens as he pulled onto the highway. Let her suffer the humiliation of arriving at the county jail in a blaze of attention. Tenorio followed, grinning with large white teeth.
Hope’s two guests had hustled their baggage out of the aircraft and into the car they’d arrived in two days ago, and were now only a few yards behind the second sheriff’s car.
“Murder?” I said to Steve as they rounded the first curve in the road. Drake had finished shutting down the engine and had brought the main rotor to a complete stop. He walked up next to me to find out what was going on.
“Interesting lady, Monica Francis,” Steve smiled. “And I have to offer compliments to you and your brother. He dug up a hell of a story and put some wheels in motion very quickly.”
And? My raised eyebrows conveyed the unasked question.
“Seems that Monica Francis started out like so many other pretty young girls—wanted to be an actress so much she could taste it. Didn’t do too badly. She got a number of minor roles, but that wasn’t what she wanted. She was after real fame and, mostly, big money. Waiting tables and cleaning hotel rooms was bearable when she was twenty, but by the time she was pushing fifty, with no fabulous prospects in sight, she began to get desperate. She laid her plans well. Found a rich old man who needed a housekeeper, went to work for him. Hoped to clean out his bank accounts and skip but he complicated things by dying only a few months after she went to work for him. So she started to work on his heir, the real Hope Montgomery. But old Monty’s daughter was no fool. She realized that things weren’t right—valuable objects were missing, bank accounts were low. Deciding to expose Monica was, unfortunately, a fatal move for her.
Honeymoons Can Be Murder: The Sixth Charlie Parker Mystery (The Charlie Parker Mysteries) Page 14