Deadly Gamble: The First Charlie Parker Mystery (5 page)

I organized my desk and watered all the
plants in the office before leaving. Rusty stayed behind to keep
Sally company. I dashed home to change clothes before starting the
trek to the far northeast heights. I'd never been inside the Tanoan
Country Club, and hoped that an emerald green dress with soft wool
draped flatteringly across the bodice would be appropriate. The
color set off my auburn hair nicely anyway. I chucked the down
jacket for a calf length wool coat that I hadn't worn in ten years
and hoped it wasn't too far out of style.

The temperature was in the fifties, with a
clear sky the color of a robin's egg. I was no sooner in the car
than I decided the wool coat would have to go. I couldn't handle
the bulk or the warmth. Outside, I could stand it but not in
here.

The Tanoan community is just about as far
away as one can get from the side of town where I
live—geographically and mentally. Surrounded by white walls the
observer gets glimpses of what would probably be stately homes if
they weren't packed so tightly together. From the outside the
impression is lots of earthtone stucco, windows, balconies, and
Spanish tile, jammed into a conglomeration that makes it difficult
to know where one house begins and the other ends. Each of these
architectural delights needs a minimum of two acres to show it off
properly. Instead, they are crammed onto regular city lots. And to
think they pay extra for this coziness.

I turned left at the first break in the big
white wall. A matching white guardhouse was planted into the middle
of the drive, with hefty-looking black iron gates on either side.
The gate leading in stood open, but a guard with folded arms
waited, daring me to drive through without stopping. On the other
side, the exit, fearsome tire spikes awaited any who might attempt
gate running through the "outie." I wasn't sure I wanted in at all,
certainly not badly enough to pay for four flat tires.

I pulled to a stop beside the guard. On
closer inspection, he was at least seventy, with a big toothless
grin that wasn't the least bit scary. I told him where I was going
and he waved me through. His smile remained the same throughout,
and I wondered whether he even heard my words.

The North home was about three blocks into
the rabbit warren of curving streets. Stacy had given good
directions. I found the three story wonder, despite the fact that
stylewise it was very much like three-fourths of its neighbors.
Light tan stucco, broken by two balconies across the front, long
windows, curved at the top, and a mahogany door inset with beveled
glass. Every window was curtained in white sheers, which appealed
to my sense of neatness, but they also gave the place a sense of
separation, of being locked away from the world. I tried to imagine
these people having a pathway through the hedge to the elderly
neighbor with whom they'd had a lifelong grandmotherly
relationship. But their hedges were made of unyielding block walls,
perfectly stuccoed to match their perfect houses. Most of the
people were high powered two-career families who worked ninety
hours a week to afford their affluence.

I touched a button beside the door, setting
off a pealing of chimes. Stacy opened the door moments later. She
wore white wool slacks and a turtleneck sweater that looked like it
was made of cotton candy. Her hair and makeup were perfect,
although her smile was a little stiff. I gathered that she had
completely recovered from Gary Detweiller's death and now wanted to
pretend he never existed.

"Well, Stace, you guys have really made it
big." I gazed around at the foyer. Apparently, it was the reaction
she expected. Her smile warmed up as she offered to show me around.
I oohed and aahed at the appropriate times as she led me through
eighteen rooms of mauve carpet, mauve wallcoverings, and mauve
tile. The brag wall in the study was covered with framed
certificates proclaiming Brad the Outstanding Young Attorney of the
Year several years running. Photos of Stacy and Brad standing next
to various politicians and movie stars broke up the monotony of the
certificates. Wide smiles and cocktail glasses were the prevailing
theme and many of the photos were signed by the famous member of
the group, usually with some very sincere preface like Love Ya...
or Kisses... I found myself saying things like "Well, well," and
"Would you look at that" over and over. We did about fifteen
minutes of this routine before I got a long enough break to remind
her about lunch.

To reach the Tanoan County Club, we exited
the community through the guard post where I'd come in, onto
Academy Road. Less than a mile up the road another turn-in opened
past another guard gate onto a winding lane leading to yet another
stucco and red tiled structure. Inside, the carpet cushed under our
feet as we mushed our way past a receptionist and up a wide
staircase to the restaurant on the second floor.

The maitre d' greeted Stacy with just the
right combination of familiarity and genuflection. I stood by,
practicing Stacy's slightly drooped mouth and half lowered eyelids,
wondering if I'd ever have a need to learn country club protocol.
We followed
Andre
, whose real name was probably Andy, to a
corner table where windows on two sides gave the full sweeping view
of the city. Right now it was a panoramic display of gray, topped
by a frosting of brown air. Well, maybe it was spectacular at
night.

We perused the menu and placed our orders
before I got a chance to get down to the real reason for the lunch
date.

"I guess you figured out that I wanted to
update you on the case," I began. "So far, I haven't learned a lot.
Apparently Gary was into gambling pretty heavily. I'm going to work
on that angle first."

Stacy shushed me briefly while the waiter
brought our salads.

"I don't want anyone here to connect me with
that man," she whispered. "You know how staff people can be."

I wanted to shake this uppity attitude right
out of her but I let it slide. "Do you know anything about Gary's
movements on Wednesday?" I asked. "I'm trying to put together a
picture that leads to him sitting in his car in the driveway at
nine that night."

"Absolutely not." Her voice rose four notes.
"I had nothing whatsoever to do with the man after he took my
watch."

"Okay, okay." I patted the tablecloth near
her hand. "I just have to ask the questions. Stacy, where were you
at nine o'clock on Wednesday?"

"Charlie!" A couple of heads turned, and she
lowered her voice immediately. "What are you getting at?"

"Stacy, you better face facts. The police
might be asking that very question if they ever make the connection
with you. You better be ready with an answer."

She chewed at her salad slowly before
speaking again. "That was the night Brad got home from his business
trip. I picked him up at the airport. The flight came in at
nine-thirty. That's where I was."

I fixed a long look on her. I wanted to
believe her, but it was entirely possible for a person to be at
Detweiller's house at nine, then beat it to the airport by
nine-thirty to meet a plane. She sat up very straight and returned
my stare.

"Charlie, I'm telling you, I was at the
airport."

"Okay." I let it drop. We ate in silence for
a few minutes before changing the subject. When I dropped her off
at her house thirty minutes later, I couldn't resist adding one
more word of caution.

"Stacy, if you have any proof at all to back
up your airport story, I suggest you get it ready. I have a feeling
the police are going to want to see it."

I glanced back in my rearview mirror as I
pulled out of her circular drive. She stood on the front porch,
glued to the spot, her face pale.

Chapter 5

At the intersection of Academy and Wyoming, I
pulled into a grocery store parking lot. Pulling my yellow sheet of
notes from my purse, I reviewed the names I'd compiled this
morning. According to my city map, two of the addresses were in the
Tanoan Community. I headed east on Academy once more. This time the
guard waved me right on through with a little salute, like I was a
resident. I found the address for Charles Tompkins with no trouble.
The house looked like an elder sibling of Stacy's place. Obviously
they'd come from the same gene pool. The place looked deserted and
the cascade of pealing chimes brought no one. I got the same
non-response at the second address I tried.

Still only two o'clock. I didn't particularly
feel like sitting around another three or four hours until the
residents came home. Plus, I imagined anyone sitting in a car in
this neighborhood, day or night, would attract attention from the
roving patrol I'd seen cruising the area.

Detweiller's place was sort of on my way back
to the office, so I thought I'd see if I could catch Josh
Detweiller at home. I got half-lucky. His mother's car was also in
the drive. Jean was sure to question me more closely if I showed up
twice in two days. That wouldn't do. I cruised past the place and
stopped about four houses away. Rearview mirror surveillance is
neither easy nor inconspicuous, requiring a person to keep their
head and neck in one position for hours. After about twenty minutes
I decided I had to turn around. I started the Jeep and drove to the
next driveway where I could make a turn. Just as I was getting
positioned again, this time facing the correct way down the street,
I noticed activity at the Detweiller house.

Jean Detweiller emerged from the front door,
turning to speak back to it. Last minute instructions for Josh, I
imagined. She proceeded toward her car, rummaging in her purse and
not paying much attention to anything else. She started the car,
gunning it loudly while a puff of gray smoke whoofed from the
tailpipe. The car clunked into gear with a jerk and she backed out
carefully, turning in my direction. I ducked down in my seat until
her car passed me, praying she didn't remember my vehicle from
yesterday.

When the coast was clear I drove up to the
house, hoping Jean had left for work and not some quick errand.
Rock music thumped heavy bass clear out to the street. Obviously
Josh didn't expect his mother right back. I pounded on the door
twice, realizing the futility of it. I waited for a break between
songs, then pounded again. The music came back on, about a hundred
decibels lower this time, and the door opened.

Josh Detweiller was almost a double for a
very young Elvis. Except for the hair, which he wore chin length,
the sultry face was nearly identical. He wore faded blue jeans,
nothing else, and the sight of his smooth muscular chest was most
distracting.

"Josh?" My voice finally began working. "Hi,
I'm Charlie."

"Hi." His grin reassured me that I'm not
completely over the hill.

"I'm investigating your father's death," I
explained, flashing one of RJP Investigations' business cards. I
didn't offer to leave the card with him.

"Oh. Come in." He pushed the screen door
outward and stepped back. He was pulling a t-shirt over his head
when I got in.

"This must be hard for you," I said. "Your
mother said you stayed home from school for a few days."

He shrugged.

"Look, I don't have a lot to go on, but I'm
trying to find out who did it. Can you tell me what happened that
night?"

"I dunno," he said. He disappeared into his
room for a minute and shut off the music. "I wasn't even here when
it happened. I came home about midnight and Mom was all shook up
and she was crying and all, and that's when she told me."

"You'd been out with your friends?"

"Yeah, a coupla guys from school."

"Your dad had been out of town, right?"

"I think so. Coupla days, I guess." His face
contorted with anger. "Hell, I don't keep track of him. Nobody did.
He was probably out with some chick in some fancy hotel someplace.
I don't give a shit." He slumped and turned his face slightly.
"Sorry."

"It's okay, Josh. You gotta say what's on
your mind."

He flopped down on the couch, oblivious to
the pile of newspapers he was crunching. I perched on the arm of
the vinyl recliner.

"Did you and your dad get along pretty well?"
I tried to ask the question kindly.

". . . Oh, okay, I guess. Dad did a lot of
macho image shit. You know, he bragged all the time, played the
ponies. He always, you know, dreamed about hitting it big. Couldn't
just have a job like everyone else's dad, bring home a paycheck
every week. He was always chasing some gold mine. Always thought
he'd make a million next week. It just gets old hearing it, you
know."

"Your mom was pretty tolerant of all this,
wasn't she?"

He huffed a sharp breath out his nose. "What
choice did she have? My mom works hard." He pointed his index
finger, stabbing at the sofa cushion. "But she still doesn't make
enough to get us out of this rat trap."

"Can you think of anyone with a reason to
kill your dad?"

He shrugged again. "Maybe lots of people.
Hell, I stayed away from most of his friends. Well, his one friend
really. This guy Larry Burke. A slimeball. Just like Dad."

He stood up and disappeared into his room
again. I thought he was coming right back, but the music came back
on loud again and I realized that was all I'd get from Josh
Detweiller. I let myself out.

I keep a set of phone books in my car, so I
checked out Larry Burke. His address was only a couple of streets
away. It was still a little early for anyone who worked a
nine-to-five job to be home, but I decided to take my chances. The
Burke house was a little larger than the Detweiller place, but in
about the same condition. A gum-popping redhead answered the door.
She wore black Lycra pants and a luminescent pink top that might
have been applied to her model-thin body with a vacuum sealer. Her
makeup looked freshly done, like the "after" in one of those
makeover ads. Unfortunately, she was made over to look twenty when
she was really closer to forty.