Buried Secrets Can Be Murder: Charlie Parker Mysteries, Book #14 (The Charlie Parker Mysteries)

Buried Secrets Can Be Murder

Charlie Parker Mysteries, Book #14

by Connie Shelton

Chapter 1

How well do we really ever know someone? How can we know the secrets that lie buried in one’s past, often for years at a time, things hidden so deeply that they aren’t likely to ever see the light of day—unless someone asks too many questions? I would ponder it all later, but I was not to know the darkest of those secrets yet.

For now, all my secrets pertained to Christmas, which was coming up in a few days, and the gifts for friends and family that I’d stashed in obscure little places.

For instance, knowing that my brother Ron frequently violates the sanctity of my desk in his search for some random office item—such as a paperclip—which he can never locate in the perpetual mess of his own office across the hall, I’d hidden his gift where he would never look—under the kitchen cabinet where the dishwashing liquid resides. Sally Bertrand, our part-time receptionist, would find her own gift in two seconds flat in the kitchen, so the handmade quilt for her soon-to-be-born baby was securely hidden away somewhere else on the premises. I just had to remember where.

My thoughts were flitting through all the possibilities when my phone rang.

“What time does your party start,
hon
?” Drake, my hubby. I felt lucky that he remembered our office open house today, and that he would be in town to attend. His helicopter business kept him pretty busy, between winter wildlife counts for the government and a few photo shoots for local businesses.

I told him to come any time and hinted that it would be nice if he arrived wearing something other than his flight suit, which permanently smelled like jet fuel. Don’t misunderstand me—he
really
cleans up nicely. I’d begun to clean up a little better, myself, since Ron’s fiancée Victoria came into our lives. We girls had shopped for holiday outfits and I felt ready to dazzle the guests in a pair of sleek black slacks and a fitted long-sleeved top that I would have called red, but Victoria assured me was cabernet. All I knew was that Drake would like the extra cleavage on display and I loved the way the draped front concealed all the extra fudge I’d consumed in the past week. I stood up a little straighter and smoothed the slacks.

“Charlie? I took the quiches out of the oven and put those little chicken things in. What’s next?” Sally stood in the doorway to my office, looking as if she had a basketball stuffed under her shirt.

A glance in her direction reminded me that I’d stashed her gift on top of my bookcase, right behind where she now stood. Luckily, it was already wrapped.

“That’s great,” I said. “Why don’t you just go down and get off your feet. You look tired.”

I might be the boss, but I felt heartless asking her to help with the party preparations at the eight-and-a-half-months stage of the game. “Do you know where Ron is?” I asked.

“Went to pick up more ice. He should be back pretty soon. And Victoria . . . that lady’s a dynamo.”

My watch said that the guests could begin arriving any minute. “Why don’t you find a comfy seat up front and just be ready to greet the people. I’ll finish up the food and hopefully this whole thing will come together without a hitch.”

I watched Sally waddle down the hall and carefully descend the stairs. She was right about Victoria. Two weeks ago she decorated the Christmas tree we’d set up in the conference room. This morning she brought scads of fresh flowers and turned our big table into the backdrop for a feast, then proceeded to fill the fridge in the kitchen with trays and boxes of premade goodies. An hour ago she’d presented Sally and me with The Schedule—a complicated chart that would allow us to heat the hot hors d’oeuvres at the proper oven temperature for each, transfer them to serving dishes, bring out the cold foods and get everything to the table at exactly the correct time. Leaving us with that little task, she’d gone to pick up Ron’s three sons, promising that they would be well-dressed and behaving as gentlemen. I’ve seen those kids in action enough to cringe at the idea of their presence, and I would be ready to bestow sainthood on Victoria if she could pull it off.

Down in the kitchen the oven timer pinged and I turned toward the stairs, working to avoid a twisted ankle as I negotiated them in high heels. For a girl who is seldom seen in anything but jeans, t-shirt and sneakers this dress-up version was taking a little time to get used to. I grabbed oven mitts and retrieved the chicken skewers, consulting the chart to see what was supposed to happen next.

Luckily, it looked as if we’d reached the end of our tasks because everything seemed to happen at once. Two vehicles pulled into the parking lot behind our Victorian office building—Drake in his pickup truck, quickly followed by Victoria’s blue PT Cruiser. At the same moment I heard the front door chime, Sally’s cheery greeting and at least three other voices I couldn’t readily identify.

Showtime.

I met Drake at the back door with a kiss, a tray full of treats, and instructions to carry them to the table in the conference room. “Don’t take any,” I warned with a slap toward his hand, “at least not until you’ve set them down.”

Outside, Victoria stepped from the car with the grace of Princess Diana, while strange boys in dark suits—with white shirts and ties!—emerged from each of the other doors. I’d not seen my nephews in several months, not since before my trip to England last fall, and I nearly didn’t recognize Justin when he stood up. He’d sprouted up and now stood a couple inches taller than Victoria. Wow.

She guided the boys toward the door—none of them broke into a run—and they greeted me with a simultaneous “Hello, Aunt Charlie.” Double wow. I think my mouth hung open until I remembered to reciprocate with a polite welcome.

“Boys, go check in with your dad,” Victoria said.

“He’s up in his office . . .” I said, watching them walk single file toward the hall. I turned to Victoria. “What did you
do
to them?”

She looked a little worried.

“No, it’s a miracle. A
wonderful
miracle,” I quickly added.

“They just needed some guidelines,” she said.

It was true. Between Ron’s fear of reprisal and his ex’s complete lack of discipline with the kids, they’d run pretty wild the last few years. Add manners and they were basically good kids.

“Did I ever mention how great it’s going to be, having you in this family?”

She gave me a hug then stepped back. “You look gorgeous in that outfit.”

“Did I ever mention how
really
great—” We both laughed.

Drake came in, eyed the front of my new blouse, sent an eyebrow-wiggle my direction, and asked if we needed anything else carried to the other room. Victoria checked the chart and took a quick peek into the fridge.

“Looks like we’re ready to party,” she said.

I put on my best hostess smile and walked toward the crush of people who’d begun to fill our offices. Drake pulled me aside just before we stepped into the reception room.

“I invited somebody, the client I just finished flying on that TV commercial,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Absolutely not. We’ve got a ton of food here and eighty percent of these people come from the law firms we usually work for. They’ll all get phone calls and go dashing out before they have a chance to eat much. Unless we get a huge crowd, you and I will be taking a bunch of this stuff home.”

He smiled and nodded toward the food table. “Looks like that won’t be a problem.”

Ron’s boys were loading plates as though they’d just arrived home from a famine-struck nation. I caught my brother’s eye and gave a slight head-jerk. He called a little huddle and I could tell that he was taking charge.

“At least if there is anything left, we know who to send it home with,” I mumbled.

Scanning the reception area and conference room, I was pleased to see that someone had remembered to plug in the lights on the ten-foot tree in the corner. The candles on the table glowed warmly and sprigs of evergreen gave the table a festive feel. Victoria’s fresh garland and holly wreath on the front door had replaced my old fake ones, giving the whole place a lot more finesse than my half-hearted measures ever did. A dozen people were circling the food table, chatting amiably and scooping into the guacamole.

Brett
Hascomb
, an attorney we’d recently worked for, stepped in the front door, abruptly patted his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. With an apologetic little grimace he turned back to the porch to take the call. Kent Taylor, Ron’s best contact within APD, edged past the lawyer and stepped inside. Kent sort of tolerates me. I’ve gotten more involved than he would like in a couple of his cases but, except when I need something, I really do try to stay out of his way. Officially, my position in our little private investigation firm is that of business manager and financial whiz. It’s not my fault that people tend to glom onto me and beg me to solve their problems.

Kent sent a friendly smile my direction, which told me he was off duty for the day. When Ron offered him a Scotch and he accepted it, I knew that to be the case. The two of them chatted as the homicide detective filled a bowl with posole, that favorite holiday stew of hominy and pork marinated in savory red chile broth.

At her desk, Sally leaned back in her swivel chair with one fist bunched in the small of her back.

“You feeling okay?” I asked.

“Tired. Achy back. Nothing unusual these days.”

“Go home. You don’t have to stick around for this.”

She blessed me with one of her warm smiles. “Really, what would I do? Sit in a chair and rub my aching back at home too. Nah, I’ll just sit for a minute and then mingle. It helps to alternate sitting and standing.”

“If you’re sure.”

Never having done the pregnancy and childbirth thing myself, I’m usually somewhat at a loss for what’s needed. Sally hadn’t seemed this tired with her first one, from what I recalled, but what do I know? I offered to bring her a cup of hot cider or tea but she stood up and said she’d manage it herself.

I scanned the room for a sign of Drake and saw him talking to a guy who looked really familiar. He caught my eye and I edged through the crowd to where they stood near the stairs.

“Hon, this is Jerry Brewster,” Drake said. “Remember, I told you I’d just flown a job for his business?”

My brain didn’t immediately click into gear. Jerry flashed me a grin. “Brewster Acura, Brewster Mercedes . . .”

“Ah yes, all the car dealerships,” I said.

No wonder he looked familiar. His face had been on local television since he was a little kid, mugging cute shots to draw folks into his father’s Chevrolet dealership thirty years ago. When his generation inherited, they expanded and upgraded the family empire. He still did plenty of camera face time—I just didn’t watch nearly as much TV as I used to.

“I understand we’re nearly neighbors,” Jerry was saying. “We’re in the old Talavera place.”

“Ah.” Calling the Talavera Mansion a ‘place’ was like referring to the White House as ‘you know, that big one with the columns.’ And while we might technically be neighbors, the four blocks between our houses was at least seven figures in price level. We’re all part of the old Albuquerque Country Club neighborhood, but our house and those in the surrounding blocks consist of decent-sized ranch homes on decent-sized city lots. Brewster’s section of the community has stately edifices on actual acreage, housing the most successful business people or those willing to go into crazy debt.

Jerry and Drake were chatting on about their flight this afternoon as all this mansion-envy filled my thoughts.

“Say, Felina and I are doing a little thing at our house tomorrow night,” Jerry said, turning to me again. “Cocktails with a few friends and neighbors. We’d love to have you guys come.”

I glanced at Drake, who had visions of more flight time dancing through his head. And while I couldn’t think of a single thing I might have in common with Brewster’s crowd, I had to admit I’d spent a good part of my life wondering what the inside of the Talavera Mansion was like. We both said yes at once.

An hour later, our open house crowd had thinned as most everyone needed to get home or off to the holiday concert at the university. Outside, darkness had closed in and the streetlamps were on. I was consolidating the remains of the party food, trying to make it fit onto smaller trays and hoping I could send it home with Ron, when the phone rang.

Sally had given in to her backache and gone home; Victoria must have taken the boys with her. I heard Ron pick it up before I had the chance to tell him that the machine would get it. His voice sounded businesslike and the conversation went on for about ten minutes before he appeared in the doorway to the conference room. I stretched plastic wrap over a plate of cookies and looked up at him.

“A new case,” he said.

“Uh-oh . . . this week?” So much for our idea of a holiday break.

“A woman is dying. The family wants to locate her sister before it’s too late.”

I knew that we couldn’t turn them down, but my holiday spirit took a dive.