Vacations Can Be Murder: The Second Charlie Parker Mystery (14 page)

Our waitress ambled over, two plates of
pancakes in hand. Her flame-red hair was ratted up high in the
front, one-dimensional, like a fake-fronted building on a movie
set. There were precise little spikes of bangs arranged across her
forehead. The rest of it formed a shoulder length fluffy cloud. I
found myself scanning my plate for hairs. I hoped the cook's coif
was a bit more restrained than this one.

Drake and I both accepted more coffee before
she left. I watched him drench his pancakes in syrup.

"What do you think?" I asked.

"You mean, who might have left the note?"

I nodded, cutting a wedge from my cakes. They
were the tiniest bit crisp on the surface, just the way I love
them.

"Joe? He's got a hell of a nasty temper."

"I thought about that. I got a small sample
of it myself the other day. But, if the police think Mack did it,
doesn't that implicate Joe, too? I'd think Joe would want to steer
me in a different direction."

"Unless they come up with someone else who
might have helped him."

"True. Who might that be?" I asked.

"They questioned
me
yesterday." He
sopped up syrup with a slice of pancake. "I told them it would have
been rather stupid of me to dump a body, then fly to the spot the
very next day and lead them to it."

I didn't point out to him that the person who
discovers the body frequently becomes the murder suspect. I had
been with him when he first saw that body. There would have been no
faking the reaction I'd seen.

We finished our coffee, and drove to Mack's
offices. Melanie fawned over Drake when she saw him, and I had to
suppress a wave of . . . what? . . .jealousy? . . . After all, she
had known him longer than I had, and she'd still be here after I
was gone. What
were
these feelings?

Drake brushed past her, asking if Mack was
in. She plopped back into her chair with a small pout.

"Cute kid," he said, once we were partway
down the hall, "but her circuits aren't quite all connected." He
tapped at the side of his head.

For some odd reason, I felt better.

Mack sat at his desk, writing figures on a
yellow pad with his right hand, clutching a sandwich in his left. I
took the chair across from his desk. His khaki slacks had deep
wrinkles in them and the navy knit shirt had come untucked on one
side, making the company logo hang lopsided. The military
straightness had gone out of his shoulders. The lines around his
eyes looked deeper than before, the gray in his hair more
obvious.

I hated to press him, but I had to.

"Mack, why didn't you tell me about the fight
you and Gil had at the hangar Friday night?"

The color left his lips, and he swallowed
hard. The sandwich hung loosely in his fingers, looking like it
might fall. I sat very still, looking him straight in the eye,
waiting.

"I ... I didn't think anyone knew about
that," he said finally.

"Joe overheard it. He's told the police the
two of you sounded like you were going to tear each other
apart."

"Now wait a minute! It wasn't anything like
that." The life had come back into him, anyway. He planted the
sandwich on a napkin on his desk and stood abruptly.

"Page called me at the office about nine
o'clock. He wanted to meet me at the hangar. I suggested that he
just come to the office, but he insisted on the hangar. I think he
wanted the psychological advantage of making me look at my
helicopter while telling me I was about to lose it.

He tucked the straggling shirt tail into the
top of his pants as he paced toward the window. The short burst of
energy lasted only until he got back to his chair. He slumped into
it once again.

"Anyway, I met Gil there.” He sighed. “He
told me I had until the end of the week to come up with some other
financing. He wanted the money back to give to his boy for a race
car. I told him there was no way I could do it. Banks here just
don't move that fast. I'd be lucky to get approval in a month, much
less a week.

“I pointed out that taking the helicopter
away from me wouldn't do either of us much good. He'd have to sell
it to get his money, and the bottom has really fallen out of the
used helicopter market the past few months. He probably wouldn't
have been able to get back all his investment. And, then what would
I do? I need that ship to keep the cash flowing."

He picked at the sandwich again, and turned
to me, pleading his case. "We may have raised our voices a time or
two, but it never got close to blows. He tried to bully me into
coming up with a lump sum by the end of the week, but I just
couldn't. I told him that."

"So that's how you left it?"

"Pretty much. He said he had one other
possibility—some other place he might be able to get the money for
his kid."

"Who left the hangar first, you or Gil?"

"I did," he said. "But I thought he was
leaving right behind me. There were only my car and his in the lot.
Hell, Joe's truck wasn't even there. How could he have heard this
so-called fight?"

"He says he overheard your voices, and didn't
want to get involved, so he drove around for awhile."

"Joe's making a lot more of this than it
really was, Charlie."

I wondered why. Clearly, one of them was
lying to me. I looked over at Drake. He didn't say a word.

"I gotta go," Mack said. "I've got a flight
in fifteen minutes." He jammed the last bite of sandwich into his
mouth, while picking up his sunglasses and headset. Drake rose and
clapped a hand on Mack’s shoulder.

I lingered a moment as the two men started
down the hall. Next to Mack’s yellow pad lay a computer printout.
My natural snoopiness would not let me walk past it without taking
a peek.

Mack's quarterly financial statements didn't
look so hot.

It only took a second for my eyes to skim
down to the bottom line. The operation showed a loss for two of the
three months. Flipping to the second page, his balance sheet was in
no better shape. His long term liabilities rivaled the national
debt.

I turned back to the income statement, and
did a bit of fast math in my head. Given his gross sales, and
assuming they continued to fly a full schedule, Mack was barely
making it. He'd simply got himself too far in debt. I wondered how
long he'd had these figures.

Just how desperate was Mack Garvey?

I was about to walk away when something else
caught my eye. Mack's legal expenses for the quarter were well over
ten thousand dollars. Based on his overall picture, that seemed way
out of line. What could he be involved in? The income statement
didn't give a breakdown.

I glanced around the room, well aware that I
really didn't belong here, but curious as hell about what I'd just
seen. I dimly registered the closing of the front door, and assumed
Mack had left. Passengers for the upcoming flight were beginning to
gather in the front waiting room. I could hear Drake's voice
chatting with them. Melanie would surely be occupied with checking
the people in.

I decided to risk a few more minutes.

Mack's desk drawers were unlocked, so I made
myself at home in his chair, and pulled open the lower drawer on my
right. Manila file folders were jammed in, along with a plastic box
of staples, some loose envelopes, and a metal ruler, whose rusty
corners looked pretty deadly. However, it was the files that
interested me. I flipped through them quickly.

The fourth one back was labeled LEGAL. People
make this so easy.

The file was thick, and there was no time to
study it carefully, but I was able to get the gist pretty quickly.
Mack was being sued. By Bill Steiner. The pilot I'd seen at the
heliport that first day. The man who'd made such a scene with one
of his own employees.

According the petition, Steiner was suing to
gain control of Mack's landing pad at the heliport. Some of the
correspondence in the file had gotten pretty heated. There were a
number of letters back and forth between Mack and his attorney.
Mack's letters had a sense of desperation. No wonder. Without a
landing pad, he wouldn't be in business another day. The bills
would keep coming, but the money wouldn't.

The question was, could this possibly be
connected to the Gil Page situation?

Chapter 10

Drake and I decided it was time to stop by
the police station. I wasn't eager for another meeting with Akito,
but I was curious why he had left a message for me. And, I thought
he should know about my trip to California. I hadn't yet decided
whether I would tell him about the note on my car. It might serve
to sway him further against Mack. I needed to know more myself
before I let Akito in on that little tidbit.

Susan Turner was leaning against the duty
sergeant's desk when we walked in. She wore a white halter-top
sundress. The back was completely bare, and there were enough
cutouts along her ribcage that the little remaining fabric was
merely a formality. The skirt consisted of two rows of ruffles, and
hit her about six inches above the knee.

Her long blond hair was loose this time,
brushing the middle of her bare back in soft curls. She had a large
red hibiscus tucked behind her right ear. A red bangle bracelet
decorated her left arm, and red pumps with four inch heels
completed the ensemble.

"I don't see why I can't go back to
California now," she pressed. "I've got a business to run. Things
just don't go right without the boss there."

The duty officer sat back, implacable. His
dusky face, smooth as coffee laced with cream, didn't budge.

"Akito's orders," was all he said. His eyes
dropped to her cleavage.

Susan turned slightly just then, and caught
sight of me. A funny look came over her face, like a kid who's been
caught earnestly telling a whopping lie. She didn't know I'd
visited California, but somehow she knew that I knew she was full
of shit.

I didn't say a word.

Susan flashed one final look of irritation
toward the officer at the desk, then turned abruptly. Her short
skirt flounced upward, giving the men one nice leg shot. A cloud of
Emeraude descended chokingly when she passed. It took a full minute
for the air to become breatheable after she walked out.

Officer Akito wasn't in, and wouldn't be the
rest of the day, I was informed. I told the sergeant on duty
briefly why I had come, and he took a few notes. I wasn't convinced
he really gave a damn, one way or the other, but at least I had
done my civic duty.

Drake took my hand as we walked down the
steps.

"You need a break,” he said. “How about
coming out to my place?"

"To see your etchings?" I teased.

"Well, I'm fresh out of etchings right now,
but I can cook a pretty decent steak."

"Sounds good to me." I leaned over for
another quick sample of his mouth.

We drove back to the hotel to pick up his
truck, and leave the rental. It was nice to be chauffeured. As a
driver, I’d been so intent on the traffic I hadn't had a chance to
do much sightseeing here.

The ocean reflected the deep blue sky, and I
enjoyed the glimpses I got now and then as we traveled highway 56
toward Kapaa, the island's largest town. Fields of sugar cane
surrounded us, like disorderly corn stalks, fallen out of their
ranks and hanging around in clumps.

As we neared the Wailua River, I could see a
long stretch of coastline—palm trees in the foreground, the
brilliant blue water laced with white foam, the distant mountains
hazy in the humid air. A few people stretched out on towels or
lounge chairs on the sand, while half a dozen local boys on boogie
boards braved the churning surf.

Just beyond the river, we turned inland.
Groves of coconut palms flanked the road on the right, while the
other side boasted flowering plumeria trees in showy clusters of
brilliant white, yellow and pink. The road began to climb and the
area became residential. A couple of turns brought us again into
open fields with few houses. Drake guided the truck into a narrow
lane.

He called his house a cottage. He had built
it himself right after his divorce. He shyly told me I was the
first woman he'd brought here.

It was a tiny place, cozy and remarkably
homey for a bachelor's house. It sat on a large lot, an acre or so,
I'd guess, and was nestled among mango, banana, and papaya trees. A
Norfolk pine at the back of the house must have stood at least
sixty feet tall. Beyond the trees, I glimpsed the top of the
immense Waialeale crater. Today, again, the crest was obscured by a
topping of wispy cloud.

The cottage was rectangular, one short end
being the front. That entire side was taken up with windows facing
out over the valley. The Hawaiian style roof rose steeply to a high
peak. The exterior was painted pale gray with white trim. A deck
railing of white circled the perimeter.

Inside, everything was neat and compact.
There was a good-sized living room which took full advantage of the
view from the large picture windows. The small kitchen featured
built-in appliances, including a stacked washer/dryer. A pineapple,
left to ripen on the counter, filled the air with sweet
perfume.

The bedroom and bath were small, too, but
neatly arranged with places built in for everything. The bed was
covered with a blue and white quilt, obviously hand made.

Helicopter memorabilia decorated the walls,
and Drake spent some time taking me around to view each item. He
had artifacts from a couple of stints in South America, a
deadly-looking spear gun from some remote south Pacific island, and
pictures of himself flying various aircraft in locations ranging
from the ice-white wilderness of Alaska to the scene of a fourteen
car pileup on a lonely stretch of Nevada highway.

"This is the most tame my life has ever
been," he told me. "Going to work each morning, and coming home
every night is a real luxury in this profession."