Holidays Can Be Murder: A Charlie Parker Christmas Mystery (8 page)

“Now this picture? These are my brother’s two girls.”

“I didn’t realize you had a brother.”

“An older half-brother, actually. He’s from her first marriage. I was from the second. After that, I think she dropped the idea that men would be permanent in her life. At least she didn’t bother to have any more kids with the others.”

“Were they close? Your mother and half-brother?”

He made a snorting sound. “Not at all. Amos wrote her off when the second marriage failed. He’s a very traditional kind of guy.”

And you’re not? I clamped my lips together, hoping I hadn’t actually voiced this aloud.

He was quiet for a moment, then seemed to realize he still had the wallet in his hand.

“This picture of his girls must be at least ten or twelve years old. These little kids in pigtails are now in high school. Doing really well, too. Judy and I get them birthday and Christmas gifts every year. Used to spend the holidays with them when we were all in the Chicago area.”

“Back to Ray,” I said. “I’m thinking any clues that will be useful to Judy are going to be more recent. Did Paula tell me she and Ray lived in California? Is he still there?”

“Guess so. I have to admit, I followed my brother’s lead in not getting too close to Mother’s husbands. It just didn’t pay.” He was flipping idly through the photos. “Come to think of it, though, she had a phone call from him right after she got here. Could the phone company tell you where it came from?”

“Probably.” If the police hadn’t already checked this lead, they should have. Maybe Ron could pull some strings if the police wouldn’t cooperate.

Catherine brought Wilbur a cup of tea, coffee for me.

“In fact, when she first got on the line with Ray, I think Mother asked him something about how the weather was out in sunny old L.A.”

I’d pulled a notepad out of the kitchen drawer and made myself a note to find a number for Ray Candelaria.

“Was their divorce bitter?” I asked.

“I got the feeling it was. Like I said, I tuned out a lot of it. I know Mother wasn’t happy with him for a long time. She hinted, but never really said, that he abused her. Of course, all that only came out after she’d left him. I overheard her telling Judy about an incident where Ray threatened her if she left, but she said she wasn’t taking any sh--, well, any bad stuff from him. She left anyway.”

“Wilbur! Don’t you see that this could be the whole story right there? Maybe Ray decided to make good on his threat. Maybe he couldn’t stand her being gone, holidays and all, and he came after her.” I felt myself getting excited that another suspect was turning up so quickly.

He looked skeptical. “Ray? Um, I don’t know.”

Was Wilbur just one of those gentle types who didn’t truly believe that a man would harm a woman? I decided I might have to set him straight on that someday.

He was pointing to another of the photos. “That was my dad,” he said. “Too bad he died before he got to see our baby.” His voice cracked slightly on the last word and he looked at me with sorrow in his gray eyes. “What will happen if Judy—”

“Let’s deal with one thing at a time,” I told him. “I’m sure we’re going to find out who really did this long before it’s time for the baby to come.”

I sure hoped we would anyway. We spent a few more minutes going through the address book, a cheap thing in a vinyl cover. Paula had even filled out the few lines inside the front cover with “This book belongs to:” information. At least I had her previous address and phone number in California now.

Wilbur didn’t recognize most of the names in the book. He’d pointed out a couple of cousins from the Midwest, but didn’t know any of her friends from her years in California. He let me take the picture of Ray Candelaria from the wallet and said I could keep the address book as long as I needed it. He was beginning to look faded again by the time he went back home.

11

I spent a restless night pondering my next moves. I wanted to question Ray Candelaria and didn’t think I’d learn what I needed to know over the phone. A trip to Los Angeles might be in order, but I wasn’t sure I should just do it. Wilbur hadn’t actually hired us to investigate his mother’s death. As the accountant for our firm, I knew we were flush enough for the year that a plane ticket to L.A. and a night or two in a hotel wouldn’t break us. We could consider it pro bono, but I wasn’t sure how Ron would feel about that. The only conclusion I’d reached by two-thirty a.m. was that I would run it past him at a more decent hour.

Catherine was already up when I went into the kitchen. The smell of coffee pulled at me. I let the dogs out into the back yard and poured myself a cup, then sat at the table with her. Once again, I felt so thankful that my mother-in-law and I had a good relationship.

“So, what do you think?” she asked, fingering the address book.

“Not much idea yet. But I need to talk to Ray Candelaria. I think he’ll know something.”

“There’s another name in this book I’d check if I were you,” she suggested. “I think he might have sold Paula drugs.”

“You know which one it is?”

“Gus,” Catherine said. “Paula just dropped this on me that day we went shopping. It was so casual I almost didn’t notice. She said something like, ‘Guess I’ll have to find me a Gus here.’ I was driving and I guess something pulled my attention away and I never did ask anything about this Gus. But later, when we stopped for lunch, she excused herself to go to the ladies room and when she came back she seemed much more energetic. And her nose was kind of red. I thought, coke. She’s doing coke. But what was I going to do? I couldn’t ditch her at the mall. I just tried to get her home as quickly as possible.”

“You never mentioned any of this! Was she, like, out of control or anything?”

“Oh, no. It startled me at first, realizing it, but later I thought no, that’s just what Paula’s like. Not somebody I’d want as a friend, obviously, but I didn’t think it was up to me to preach to her either.”

We’d both finished our coffee and I got up to refill the mugs. “I think I’ll go into the office today, check some of this stuff with Ron, maybe do a little more investigating. Want a piece of toast or something first?” I had let Catherine fend for herself for much of her visit, and now I was offering nothing more than toast for breakfast.

“That’s okay, Charlie. You go ahead and get ready for work. I can make something later.”

Thirty minutes later, I’d had a quick shower, an even quicker kiss from my hubby, and was on my way to the office. Ron had told me Christmas Day that he didn’t plan to take the whole week off and would probably spend part of the weekend catching up on paperwork. His car was already there when I arrived.

The kitchen smelled of burnt coffee, which is usually an indicator that Ron has made a pot of his killer-strong brew and let some of it dribble onto the hot metal plate on the coffee maker. Having tasted this stuff in the past, I opted to make myself a cup of tea in the microwave.

“Anybody home?” I called as I climbed the stairs.

His voice came trailing from his office in a monotone. Phone conversation. I flipped on the light in my own office and realized that the pile of mail from the previous day hadn’t magically disappeared. I sat down to sort through it.

“Thought you weren’t coming in this week,” Ron said.

I hadn’t heard him approach and I nearly sloshed my tea. Recovering, I set the mug down on a coaster and shoved the mail aside.

“I didn’t think so either, but this situation with the neighbors has kinda taken over my time for the past couple of days. Wilbur is really devastated. He can hardly answer a question coherently.”

“Well, who wouldn’t be? The papers are full of it. Having his mother murdered, then his wife accused of the crime. What a mess.”

“Pregnant wife. Did I tell you that?” I drained my mug. “Anyway, I’ve come up with a couple of clues.”

He grinned with a knowing little twist to his mouth. “Couldn’t resist, could you?”

“Well . . .”

“So, are we hired, or what?”

“That hasn’t come up. Like I said, Wilbur’s a wreck. And I don’t know how much money they have.”

“So ask a few questions. We can do a charitable deed now and then,” he said.

“Would the charity include my making a quick trip to L.A.?”

He rolled his eyes and puffed out a big sigh, but he didn’t say no. An hour later I’d made reservations for the 4:10 flight on Southwest and a room downtown. I rushed through some routine paperwork and gathered my notes before dashing home to pack and spend a little time with the family before leaving.

By 5:10 I was airborne, somewhere over Arizona. Glass of wine in hand, I was transferring names and addresses to my little spiral notebook and pinpointing places on my roadmap of the greater Los Angeles area, which was certainly greater in scope than anything I usually dealt with. By the time I picked up my rental car and headed into the maze of freeways, it was dark and the commuting drivers were even surlier than I. I was beginning to question the wisdom of the whole trip.

My research and mapping had indicated that Ray Candelaria’s place was between the airport and my hotel, so it only made sense to stop there first. I exited and pulled out my map at the first stoplight. I happened to glance up and realized I wasn’t in a great neighborhood and that reading my roadmap at the intersection definitely branded me as an out-of-towner. I laid the map down and locked my doors.

At the next well-lighted place, a 24-hour medical clinic, I pulled in and parked under a lamppost. Getting my bearings, I discovered I was only six blocks from my goal. Ray’s home turned out to be a white-stuccoed, red-tile roofed, mission styled home in a decent neighborhood. The lawn was well-groomed and elegant palms flanked the sidewalk leading up from the street. There were no cars in the driveway, but lights shone from inside the house. I pressed the doorbell and set off a short symphony.

A woman in her thirties, with long, dark hair and twelve ounces of mascara opened the door. She wore a red and gold caftan and strappy gold sandals. One hand held a martini glass and the other stayed firmly on the doorsill.

“Is Ray Candelaria home?” I asked.

She appraised me slowly, top to toe. When she’d decided that a travel-worn, woman with hair in a ponytail, wearing jeans with scuffed knees, a faded turtleneck, and dingy Nikes wasn’t a threat to her, she stepped aside.

“What was your name?” she asked, finally figuring out that she might have admitted a census taker or insurance salesperson.

I handed her my business card from RJP Investigations.

“Charlie? What kind of a name is that for a woman?”

I slipped on a tight smile. I really didn’t want to go into the whole explanation of how I’d been named for two maiden aunts and that Charlotte Louise had never quite stuck to me. When I didn’t answer, she turned on her heel and headed upstairs. I waited until she’d disappeared, then looked around.

The entryway was small, and opened directly on the living room. Beyond that I could see the L of a dining room, with a kitchen and breakfast area directly in front of me. Everything was done in shades of blue and cream. I stepped into the living room and examined a group of photos standing in brass frames on a bookcase. There were plenty of Ray, some including the woman who’d opened the door. None including Paula.

Considering their divorce was only recently final, he’d done a remarkable job of mopping up traces of her and installing her replacement quickly enough.

Voices from upstairs caught my attention. The male sounded grumbly and included something along the lines of, “. . . and you let her in?” Almost immediately, a door closed firmly and the woman appeared at the top of the stairs. Putting on a weak smile, she tottered down on her slender heels and approached me.

“What did you say this was about?” she asked.

“I didn’t.” I gave her a minute to come up with something, but she wasn’t ready with anything quick. “It’s something I have to discuss with Ray.”

I walked over to a very straight wingback chair and sat down.

“He’s getting dressed. It’ll be a few minutes.”

“That’s fine.” I guess I looked prepared to camp there because she didn’t say anything else. She went into the kitchen and rattled some ice cubes in a glass.

A good ten minutes passed, during which the woman disappeared into another room beyond the kitchen. Sounds of doors opening and closing and the occasional running water upstairs told me that Ray was making no haste with his toilette. I walked back over to the bookcase and continued my perusal.

Unfortunately, the reading material was limited to romance novels and a few volumes on how to improve your golf game. There were no scrapbooks or albums or other juicy stuff. The furniture was the mid-priced kind you found at outlet places and the art on the walls was of the starving artist variety. I was about to start toe-tapping when I noticed Ray at the top of the stairs. I wondered if he’d been standing there watching me give the place the once-over.

“Ray Candelaria?” I walked toward him and extended my hand as he reached the bottom step. He was in his mid forties, probably ten years younger than Paula, or more. Black hair, razor cut to perfection, tailored gray slacks and a pink polo shirt, about two too many gold chains.

He held up my card and looked at it. “You’re an investigator from Albuquerque?”

“That’s right. Could we sit down a minute?”

He ushered me back into the living room and we took chairs at opposite ends of a crushed velvet sofa.

“Have you heard about Paula?” I began tentatively.

His expression said ‘the bitch,’ although the words didn’t come out. “What about her?”

“That she was killed a couple of days ago?”