Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery (15 page)

I kept to the already-stepped-on areas as I
went upstairs. Making my way down the long hallway, I peeked into
each room I came to: a guest bath with thick apricot colored towels
hanging on the brass towel rack, another untouched bedroom, and a
child's room. The little girl in the picture downstairs?

Each room was picture perfect and lifeless.
Like the rooms in model homes, beautifully decorated but not
liveable. There was almost nothing of a personal nature, until I
came to the master suite, and saw the wedding picture. Vicky was
wearing a cloud of white veil and a form-fitted dress accented with
seed pearls. The groom was Michael Mann.

Chapter 18

They were posed gazing into each other's
eyes. Vicky had the same look on her face that I'd seen directed
toward my brother. I felt angry but not terribly shocked. What was
she up to? I'd caught her kissing some other guy in the kitchen at
the Ruiz's home after David's funeral. Now I find out she was
married to David's cousin.

My hand strayed to the top dresser drawer
handle. It slid open to reveal neat stacks of men's underwear and
socks.
Is still married
.
I pushed
the drawer closed and rested my palms on the polished dresser top,
closing my eyes to shut out the blurry haze swimming before me. Oh,
Ron, what have you gotten yourself into this time? I wanted to cry
for him. Ron might not be the prize catch of the century, but he's
a good guy inside, and he doesn't deserve this. Thinking about it
made me want to strangle the shit out of Vicky. I had to force
myself not to grab up the photograph and throw it across the
room.

I backed up and sat down at the foot of the
king-sized bed, trying to get my thoughts in order. Little things
that had previously slipped past me began to come back. Michael had
mentioned his wife to me more than once. I thought he had even said
something about living in this neighborhood. I'd seen him just now,
leaving on his weekend trip. Vicky had cut the timing awfully close
this time. And the little girl with the rabbit, the Padilla’s
granddaughter—Michael's and Vicky's daughter. I rubbed my temples
with the tips of my fingers. I dreaded telling Ron, but how could I
not? He had to know. Better from someone who cared for him than to
find out accidentally. He wasn't going to believe me. I better try
to find some proof. I glanced around the bedroom.

There was a feminine looking desk of white
French Provincial in the corner. The top was immaculate, reminding
me that my own desk at home was in need of some attention. A small
framed photograph of the little dark haired girl and a bud vase
with a yellow silk rose in it were the only items in sight. The
drawer on the left held a small stack of bills, a checkbook, a roll
of postage stamps, and several pens and pencils. I probed around
all the corners, but came up with nothing of interest. The drawer
on the right held a couple of flat manila file folders, where she
apparently filed the paid bills and a few other household papers. A
box of feminine pink stationery sat at the back of the drawer. I
pulled it out; it hadn't been opened yet. Putting the box back, I
realized that the first drawer hadn't been nearly this deep.

Another look inside the first drawer told me
that it had a false back. Tapping at it with my fingernail, it was
easy to tell that a hidden compartment existed. I ran my fingertips
around the sides and bottom of the drawer once again. A small catch
was concealed underneath the drawer. When touched, it caused the
drawer's false back to release. Behind the thin divider was a
hidden compartment, about nine by six inches. It contained two
stacks of letters. The stationery was nothing special, plain white.
The envelopes had not been mailed; in fact, were not even
addressed. I lifted the top one, and slid the letter out.

Darling V.,

I'm miserable without you. Each night is
torment, each day the hours drag by until I am with you. I pray
that we will soon be together forever. Please, darling, find the
courage to tell him that you want out. I know you don't want me to
step forward yet, but I cannot wait much longer. Our times together
mean everything to me. I believe you feel the same, so please act
quickly. Counting the hours...

Your One and Only

Thankfully, the handwriting wasn't Ron's. I
wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. This pulp wouldn't even sell
in a bad romance novel. Rereading the letter once again, I still
wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. It looked like Vicky was
spreading herself pretty thin, so to speak. Ron would have to know
about this. I flipped quickly through a few more of the letters in
the stack. They were more of the same. I slipped one out of the
middle of the stack, fairly certain that it wouldn't be missed.
With the letters back in their spot and the false panel back in
place, I doubted Vicky would know anyone had touched them. I had
just closed the drawer when I heard a sound from downstairs.

My senses went on alert. I had felt
impervious, with Vicky and Michael gone their separate ways for the
weekend. The heavy front door closed with a firm click, then I
heard the sound of heels tapping across the marble foyer. A woman's
voice hummed a tune I couldn't recognize, but I did realize that it
was headed toward the stairs. My heart thudded as I searched for a
hiding place. It was either the closet or the bathroom, and from
what I could see of it, the bathroom walls were almost completely
mirrored. The closet looked like my only choice. I dashed for it,
hoping the door wouldn't have squeaky hinges.

The walk-in closet was almost the size of my
guest room, and I only had about one second to inspect it in
semi-darkness before pulling the door shut, leaving myself in total
blackness. The humming voice had stopped, so I had no idea where my
visitor had gone. Chances were, she wasn't even coming to the
bedroom. Nah, chances were, the bedroom was exactly where she was
coming, and probably to this very closet. I tried to imbed myself
in a rack of hanging clothes, and ended up twisting my ankle as I
stumbled over shoe racks on the floor. I bit my lower lip to avoid
letting loose a couple of choice words.

Who could it be? Had Vicky come back for
something?

The silence was killing me. I couldn't hear
footsteps on the thick plush carpet, and had no idea where the
woman had gone. When the humming started again, I almost jumped.
She was standing at the closet door. A metallic rattle told me the
doorknob was in her hand. I held my breath and tried to resemble a
garment.

A murmured word or two came through, then she
apparently turned away from the closet. I could hear a drawer
opening, and papers being shuffled. The drawer closed again. Then I
remembered that I had set my clipboard down on the dresser when I
spotted the wedding picture.

My stomach felt a little watery at this
point, and I knew it would be a matter of moments before she
spotted the foreign object on the dresser. If the woman was Vicky,
she would know she hadn't left it there, and my goose was about to
be cooked. She would either search every inch of the house until
she found me, or she'd panic and call the police to do it for her.
My ears went into radar mode, trying to pick up on any little
sound. A good five minutes went by without even a tiny noise.

My left foot was being pierced by the tip of
a spike heel, and I was in serious danger of losing my precarious
balance. I had to make a move soon. I decided to risk a peek. I
held my breath again as I turned the knob; it moved silently in my
hand. The door came inward just enough for me to press my face to
the crack. There was no one in the room.

My clipboard was still on the dresser,
apparently untouched. I listened intently for another full minute
before daring to leave the safety of the closet. I crossed the room
to the large window which overlooked the street. The woman was just
sliding into the driver's seat of a gray compact car parked at the
curb, and I couldn't see her face. She had long dark hair like
Vicky's. The car pulled away from the house with a roar. I assumed
I was alone again.

I faced the bedroom once more. What had she
been doing? Was it Vicky? I walked across to the desk, clicking
open the hidden compartment. The letters were gone. I looked again
at the one in my hand.

Downstairs, a stack of mail had been
deposited on the dining table since I'd last walked through. I
glanced through it. A normal assortment, some addressed to Michael,
some to Vicky. I pocketed an advertising piece with his name on it,
further proof to Ron that Vicky still lived with her supposedly
ex-husband.

The traffic had thinned considerably by the
time I reached I-25, heading south. After making the change to I-40
at the Big I, the Jeep seemed to take on a will of its own and I
found myself pulling up at Pedro's. Taking comfort in a plate of
chicken enchiladas and a margarita was just what I needed. I wasn't
looking forward to Sunday evening and the inevitable meeting with
Ron when he returned from the lake.

Chapter 19

My head felt thick, and my eyes didn't want
to open when the sun came through my window the next morning. I
couldn't remember exactly how many margaritas I'd had, but it had
been more than my usual one. Rusty sat at the foot of my bed, his
head cocked, ears perked up.

"What're you so happy about," I grumbled.

He wagged his way around to me, sniffing my
breath. Amazingly, he didn't bolt from the room. Dogs really will
stick with you through anything. I decided he was trying to tell me
something about going outside. The later it got, the more urgent
the request would become.

I made him wait while I went to the bathroom
first and found my robe. By the time I had walked through the house
to the back door, he was dancing. I opened the door for him, and
watched him race to his favorite corner while I measured coffee and
started the brewer. While it hissed I went back and washed my face
and brushed my teeth. The improvement was immediate. Five minutes
under a stinging hot shower, and I felt almost normal. I dug a pair
of shorts out of a drawer and a new t-shirt I'd bought on Kauai. It
made me think of Drake again. I tried to remember what he'd said
his work schedule would be. Maybe I'd call him this weekend. By the
time I had brushed my hair and pulled it back into a ponytail, I
could smell the coffee, and realized I was hungry.

Sun poured through my kitchen window when I
raised the shade. The back lawn lay like a deep green carpet. It
would soon need mowing. Mother’s roses, which filled the flower
beds along the back and left walls were already bursting forth in
clumps of color. Why did I always think of them as Mother’s? They’d
been
my
roses for nearly half my life now but I never saw
them that way.

Rusty waited at the door. He was obviously
thinking the same thing I was about breakfast. I dumped a scoop of
nuggets into his bowl before I turned my attention to the fridge to
see what I could come up with for myself. There was cereal, but the
milk smelled a little iffy, so I opted for an English muffin
instead. Elsa had given me jars of jam made with the raspberries
from her yard last summer. I was down to the last one. Good thing
the berries would be coming back soon.

I found myself dwelling on Ron's problems,
and finally had to tell myself to stop it. There wasn't anything I
could do about it until I could talk to him. Even then, he might
not care to hear about my findings. Well, he was a grown man. Once
he had the facts, he would make his own decision. In the meantime,
I planned to devote myself to studying Nouvelle Mexicano's
financial situation, hoping to glean something that might help
Sharon out of her dilemma.

I set my plate in the sink and poured another
cup of coffee. The printouts waited for me where I'd left them on
the dining table. I carried the papers and my mug into my home
office. With everything spread out on the desk, I wasn't quite sure
where to start. I didn't really know anything about the restaurant
business, but had some vague idea that they probably tried to base
their profit margin on some percentage of sales, like most
businesses do. I ran some percentages as a test. There didn't seem
to be a lot of consistency, and I found myself feeling like I was
swimming against a strong current. Putting in a lot of effort, but
not making a lot of progress. I decided to go back to the
beginning.

The first few months checked out much more
consistently than recent months did. Was it because the restaurant
had enjoyed such a good start, which had later tapered off, or
could there be a more suspicious reason?

By this time papers covered my desk. I
reshuffled them. Put everything into chronological order, and
brought out the calculator. My fingers raced over the ten-key pad,
checking percentages, stopping at the end of each column to pencil
in my results. My numbers tallied with the computer numbers. I
don't know why I thought they might turn out differently, but I ran
them twice. I searched the pages for errors—some entry that might
have been posted to the wrong account. A debit that should have
been a credit. I wanted so much to find a simple mistake.

I didn't want to believe it, but it was
becoming obvious that David had been playing around with the books.
A lot of cash passed through the place, and I began to see just how
easily he might have tampered with it.

The light in the room had changed, and I
realized it was getting late. I was amazed to see that I had worked
through the whole day. It was after four o'clock. Rusty was lying
on the floor. He raised a sleepy head when I pushed my chair back
to stretch.

"Let's get out of here for awhile," I
said.

He recognized the word "out" and bounded down
the hall before I pulled myself out of my chair. I grabbed his
leash off the coat rack near the door and fastened it to his
collar. He knew the routine. We walked toward the park four blocks
away.