Holidays Can Be Murder: A Charlie Parker Christmas Mystery (7 page)

“. . . taking her away right now,” he was saying.

“What? I missed the first part of that.”

“The police have just taken Judy Garfield.”

A ball of lead settled in my stomach. “Damn that Kent Taylor,” I railed. “I just saw him and he knew this was happening. Didn’t say a word about it to me.”

“Wilbur’s over here now, out in the kitchen with Mom. He doesn’t know what to do next.”

“Has he called a lawyer?”

“I don’t think so. They don’t know many people here. Can you recommend anyone?”

“Let me put you on hold. I’ll check Ron’s Rolodex.” I pressed the red button and trotted up the stairs.

Ron’s office is on the left, with mine across the hall. His desk, as usual, was a hodgepodge of paper—piles of unopened mail mixed in with telephone messages and sheets from yellow lined pads. I’ll never know how the man finds anything in here. I patted down the mountain of stuff until I felt a hard, square shape resembling the Rolodex.

Cradling the phone to my shoulder and stabbing the button for line one, I assured myself that Drake was still on the line.

“Hold on a second while I try to remember Ron’s filing system,” I said. “He doesn’t do anything the way anyone else does.” On a lucky guess, I flipped to the letter L and discovered several cards with Lawyer written at the top. I thumbed through them to see if I recognized any names.

“Might try Martin Palmer or George Collins,” I suggested, reading off the phone numbers. “Or if Judy would feel more comfortable with a woman, I’ve heard Natalie Rice is good. Don’t know if any of them will be in their offices the day after Christmas, but maybe there’ll be a message with an alternate way to contact them.”

I closed the Rolodex lid. “Did they actually arrest Judy, or just take her down for questioning?” I asked. I listened while Drake repeated the question to Wilbur.

“He’s not really sure. They didn’t put cuffs on her.”

“Well, either way, she probably should have an attorney with her. I’ll get off the phone so you guys can make some calls. There’s not much to do here, so I should be home soon.”

I switched off Ron’s light, went back downstairs, and finished stacking the mail. After carrying mine and Ron’s upstairs to our respective offices, I scanned the empty rooms to be sure everything was in place, debating the wisdom of driving back downtown to see if I could help Judy. Decided they probably wouldn’t let me see her, since I wasn’t legal counsel. I locked the back door and headed home.

Wilbur, Drake, and Catherine were sitting around the kitchen table when I arrived.

“Any news?” I asked.

“We reached Martin Palmer on his cell phone,” Drake said. “He’s on his way to APD to see if he can straighten this out.”

Wilbur looked more helpless than ever, clutching an empty mug in his hands and staring at a spot somewhere in the middle of the table. His thin, sandy hair stood out in tufts on the sides, as if he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly. Catherine looked up at me with a raised eyebrow, which I took to mean that things didn’t look too great.

“Would anyone like a sandwich?” I offered, needing something to do besides stand around.

Catherine jumped up and headed toward the refrigerator. “Yes, that’s a great idea. Let’s put some lunch together for everyone.”

The phone rang just as I was reaching into the breadbox. We all froze in place. Drake reached for it on the second ring.

“Martin Palmer,” he said, handing the receiver over to Wilbur, whose hand shook visibly when he took it.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh.” He nodded his head as the attorney talked. “Is that it then? Uh-huh.” He pressed the button to end the call and set the phone on the table.

We all stood in our frozen positions while he scrubbed at the sides of his hair some more.

“Well?” Drake finally asked in a remarkably calm voice. I wanted to scream.

Wilbur let out a huge sigh. “They’ve charged her.” His voice nearly broke and he swallowed deeply. His Adam’s apple traveled up and down again before more words came out. “She has to stay there until a hearing tomorrow. The judge will decide whether she can be out on bail.”

Catherine crossed to him and put her arm around his thin shoulders.

“Surely she’ll be granted bail,” I pressed. “She’s certainly not a flight risk or a danger to society.” I pulled slices of bread out of the loaf and began smearing them with mayonnaise.

“I can’t believe this is happening at all,” Drake argued.

That pretty well summed it up for all of us.

“Let me call Ron this afternoon,” I said. “Maybe we can do a little investigating of our own and get some leads on the real killer.”

“You know the police aren’t going to take kindly to our interference in an active investigation,” Ron told me when I finally reached him about four o’clock.

“Is it really an active investigation?” I asked. “They’ve got a suspect and they’re about to indict her tomorrow. I seriously doubt they’re pushing real hard to find any other suspects.”

He grumbled a bit but basically agreed. “So, what other leads do you have?”

I had to admit there really weren’t any, other than my firm belief that Judy just didn’t have what it took to swing a poker at someone and bash them in the head with it. “I’m going to see what I can find out from Wilbur. And maybe from the other neighbors Paula talked to. Maybe somebody can give us some insight. Right now, her life is pretty much a mystery.”

Drake had done a good job of distracting Wilbur from his problems for the afternoon. The two men had cleaned up the remains of the luminarias from both our yards and were raking a few of autumn’s leftover leaves from our backyard. I donned a light jacket and went out long enough to suggest that I’d warm up the leftover green chile stew and that Wilbur should stay for dinner. In the meantime, would he mind if I took a peek through Paula’s things in their guestroom? My own guess, privately, was that the police would have removed anything of use, but there was no harm in looking for clues.

The Garfield house felt like a place that’s been suddenly abandoned. There were dishes on the dining table, where Judy and Wilbur had been having breakfast when the police arrived. I carried them to the kitchen and ran some warm water over them in the sink, put away the butter, and wiped off the countertops. Turned on a couple of lamps against the late afternoon twilight.

Their floor plan was similar to ours, three bedrooms off a hall on the north side of the house. It only took a minute to figure out which one Paula’d used. The rumpled bed had probably remained unmade during her entire visit, I guessed. The disarray of the comforter and blankets was complete. The tight red dress she’d worn to the cookie swap lay draped over a chair back, with her outfit from Christmas Eve piled on top of it. A suitcase was on the floor against one wall, the lid open and lacy underthings spilling over the sides. The bag had been thoroughly rummaged, whether by the police or by Paula herself, I couldn’t tell. Of course, the other possibility was that the killer might have searched her room for something. What that might be, or whether he’d found it, was anyone’s guess.

Knowing that I was probably just repeating someone else’s moves, I ran my hands through the suitcase, but nothing incriminating jumped out at me. I took the time to pull each item out, give it a look, and fold it neatly, making a little stack on the floor beside me. Two pair of jeans, three sweaters, an assortment of dainties—not much else. A tote bag, the kind made of canvas with handles of webbing, stood beside the suitcase and was crammed with shoes. I pulled them out—pink tennies, black pumps, black boots, silver flats—shaking each upside down in case any notes written in invisible ink or keys to bus depot lockers might fall out. No such luck.

Tentatively, in case something sharp reached out at me, I felt around the inside of the tote. It was exactly what it appeared to be, medium weight canvas with no hidden compartments. The suitcase was another story. It was one of those ubiquitous black airline bags with wheels and a pull-out handle. Under the flimsy plastic lining, I felt the mechanism for the wheels. One side had just a touch more padding than the other and my curious fingers poked around, exploring that oddity, until I discovered a narrow slit in the lining.

With thumb and forefinger, I reached inside and came out with the corner of a zipper-type sandwich bag. A tug at the bag brought the whole thing out and I saw, not especially to my surprise, that it contained white powder. Now I know these things are usually referred to in grams or kilos or such, but that was completely outside my realm. I’d put the contents at about a tablespoon or two.

Probably the cocaine that had been found in her system. I wasn’t about to dip my finger into it and take a taste. How was I going to know what it would taste like anyway?

I placed the small bag on the floor and proceeded with my search of the room. The nightstand drawer yielded a paperback romance and a pair of reading glasses that I’d bet Paula never wore in front of anyone else. The adjoining bathroom vanity held a large makeup case with a mirror encircled by a row of Hollywood-style makeup lights. Everything in the case looked standard for a woman who took great pains with her face and hair. No more little baggies. And if there had been, I was sure the police had thoroughly checked over this treasure trove and removed anything of use to them. I wasn’t interested so much in her stash as I was in where she’d gotten it.

Since it looked as if Paula was crazy enough to travel with her powdered treasure hidden away in her airline bag, did that mean she’d brought it all with her? Or did she have a connection here in town? For a person who planned to move in and stay awhile, I couldn’t imagine the tiny bit I’d found would last very long. And based on the behavior I’d witnessed the couple of times I’d been around her, she’d probably already dipped into it more than once.

I stood in the doorway between bedroom and bath, pondering what I might have missed.

A purse.

Every woman carried a purse and it would surely be where she kept those items she’d want close at hand. An address book, photos, stuff like that. I crossed the bedroom again and pulled open the dresser drawers. The top two were empty, the next two held spare linens and towels—obviously things that belonged to the household, not to Paula. The bottom drawer was where I hit paydirt. Under another stack of towels, was a black handbag, not Paula’s large everyday one, but a small quilted leather one about six by twelve inches, with a gold chain for a strap. Small and dressy enough that it could double as an evening bag, but large enough to carry the essentials. And inside, I found two very essential items: an address book and a wallet with a nice juicy section of photos. Why the police hadn’t seen fit to take these, I didn’t know, but I wasn’t passing up a chance like this.

A quick glance told me that none of the names or faces—except one stiffly posed photo of Wilbur and Judy—meant anything to me. But maybe Wilbur could identify more of them and give me a whole load of clues.

I realized that it was completely dark outside now and since I’d volunteered to provide dinner for everyone, it was time I hustled myself back home. I’d just closed the drapes in the guest room and switched off the light, pulling the door closed behind me when I bumped into Wilbur in the hallway.

10

“Oh! I didn’t hear you out here,” I gasped.

“Um, I just thought I better check on you. See how things were coming along.” He fumbled with a ring full of keys.

“You’re coming back to our place for dinner, aren’t you?” I sidestepped him and worked my way toward the living room. “I found a couple of items you might be able to help with—if that’s okay.” I held up the wallet and address book.

“Sure. Drake told me to come right back. I just thought I’d be sure the house was locked and some lights were left on. That’s what Judy . . .” He glanced around uncertainly.

“Okay, then, let’s go.” I took his elbow and steered him toward the door. He gave one sharp glance toward the sofa where his mother had died, then followed me timidly.

I switched on the porch light and twisted the little thing in the middle of the doorknob to lock it. I made a show of checking it after I closed it behind us.

“All set?” I asked.

Wilbur nodded absently and followed me across the lawn to our front porch. I wasn’t sure how much help he’d be when we started going through Paula’s possessions. He was clearly still dazed by the dual shock of his mother’s murder and his wife’s being arrested for it.

Inside, the house exuded the warm fragrance of meaty chile stew and Catherine had warmed some garlic bread to go with it. We served everything at the kitchen table and the four of us sat down. Despite his glazed appearance, Wilbur put away two bowls of stew and perked up somewhat afterward. Drake and Catherine cleared the dishes and put coffee on while I pulled my chair closer to Wilbur’s and brought out Paula’s things.

“I could use your help now, Wilbur. Can you identify the people in these photos?”

He pushed his glasses farther up his nose and opened the wallet. His gaze caught for a moment on Paula’s driver’s license before he flipped to the photo section. The first was of a dark-haired man, probably Hispanic.

“That’s Ray. The fifth.”

“The recent ex?”

He nodded. “I’m not even really sure the divorce was final. She may have just left him when she showed up here.”

“Really? I was under the impression that they’d been apart for awhile.” Something came back to me. Paula had said the past year had been hard because of the divorce. I thought she meant it had dragged on that long.

“No, I don’t think so,” Wilbur said when I mentioned it. “The split was pretty new. But, who knows? Mother sometimes came up with a variety of stories to suit her purposes.”

It was the first time, I realized, that I’d heard Wilbur say anything negative about his mother.