Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery (6 page)

I should probably go, although I absolutely
detest funerals. It's an old phobia, traceable to the fact that I
had to attend both my parent's when I was only sixteen. As if the
shock of someone's death isn't bad enough, just about the time
we're coming to grips with it, society demands that we hold this
ceremony to rip the painful wound open again. The only reason I
even considered going this morning was because I didn't really know
David, and could, therefore, stay emotionally detached. That's what
I told myself, anyway.

Actually, I hoped to get a clearer picture of
David's family situation. Seeing them all together might give me
some further insights into the man himself. Plus, I could see
Sharon again, and let her know what I had, or rather, hadn't found.
She could tell me whether she wanted me to keep trying.

Staring into my closet proved to be an
unsatisfying venture. The temperatures were still above normal for
late May, and I didn't seem to own anything in a subdued color that
wasn't also heavy. I finally settled on a navy blue linen suit and
white blouse. If the funeral home was air conditioned, I'd be okay.
If we went to the cemetery, the jacket would probably have to
go.

My hair felt heavy and hot against my neck.
It's thick and just below shoulder length, and every summer I swear
I'll get it all cut off. I thought about wearing it up today, but
remembered that I still had a centipede-like adornment of stitches
at the base of the hairline. I'd need to get an appointment to have
them taken out.

Meanwhile the house was hot and I was getting
irritable. I really needed to get my air conditioner at the house
hooked up. I should have made arrangements for that before I ever
left on vacation. I pulled the yellow pages out of my nightstand
drawer, and looked for the name of the guy who'd done it last year.
The secretary who answered said that he was solidly booked until
next week. Would that be soon enough? I told her I guessed it
would; what choice did I have?

I also dialed the office, and told Sally my
plans for the morning. If there were any calls for me, I could be
reached at home until nine-thirty, or I'd be in the office by
noon.

I showered, put on the suit, and did a quick
makeup job. All this took about fifteen minutes, but still, it's
major primping for me. I'm usually a jeans and
t-shirt/sweatshirt/wool sweater kind of person, depending on the
season. I do minimal makeup, and the dressy version varies from the
everyday version only with the addition of a few extra swipes of
blusher, and
maybe
eyeshadow. Not today. I didn't want any
weird colors caking up in the sweaty places I could already feel
forming on my face.

Rusty wasn't thrilled about staying home
alone, but hey, we can't always have our way. I was wearing a suit
and high heels, so I figured he could give a little, too.

I drove north on Rio Grande Boulevard to
I-40, heading toward the same funeral home where I'd last seen my
parents.

Chapter 8

Nothing had changed. Somber men in dark suits
stood near the doors, speaking in their same low tones, ushering
people to the proper places. The flowers still smelled overly
sweet, and the organ played the same music it had almost fifteen
years ago. The casket at the front became fuzzy as I stared at it,
the image splitting and becoming two, and I had to squeeze my eyes
shut for a moment to make the memory go away.

Sharon was seated alone in the fourth row,
and I slipped into the pew beside her. Her eyes were red when she
glanced up at me. She took my hand and clutched it briefly. I felt
my eyes begin to sting, not so much for the passing of David, whom
I'd barely met, but for the loss it represented to her.

As the priest finished his ceremonial
ministerings, and one of David's brothers stood up to deliver the
eulogy, I found myself getting caught up in the family's grief. I
didn't want that to happen. I forced myself to tune out the words.
Instead, I concentrated on assessing the players in the sad
drama.

David's parents sat beside each other in the
front row, huddling together, locking out the rest of the world in
their grief. A small elderly woman hunched next to Mrs. Ruiz, her
face hidden by a black lace mantilla. Her gnarled fingers worked
systematically at a set of rosary beads. Behind the three of them,
was a row apparently comprised of the brothers and sisters—three
women and two men, all in their twenties and thirties.

Across the aisle from the immediate family,
were three rows set aside for other family. Judging by their
assorted ages, I guessed them to be the aunts, uncles, cousins,
nieces and nephews.

Sharon had caught my line of sight. "The
good-looking man on the end is David's cousin, Michael Mann. I've
met some of the others, but can't remember who's who."

Michael Mann was the one who had given his
statement to the police. I would be interested in talking to him
later, if I got the chance.

Outside, the sun was hotter than before, or
perhaps it was the contrast with the overly air-conditioned room
that I noticed. My fingers were frigid. The dry desert air had a
cleansing effect as I breathed deeply, getting the cloying scent of
the flowers out of my nostrils.

"There will be a short graveside service,"
Sharon said, "then we're invited to the Ruiz's home. You want to
come?"

"I'd like to meet the family," I told her. "I
know this isn't the time for questions, but I might be able to pick
up something."

I hung back at the fringes during the
graveside service, partly out of distaste for the whole ceremony,
and partly to watch the others participate. Sharon had offered to
let me ride with her, but I didn't want to be stuck without an
escape hatch. I followed her in my car to the Ruiz home.

The place was way down in the south valley,
in an area where a man's riches are apparently judged by the land
he holds and the number of children he produces. The homes aren't
anything to get excited about. The Ruiz place had started out as a
small flat-roofed cinderblock house, stuccoed pinkish-tan.
Subsequent additions had been stuccoed separately, each job getting
pinker and pinker, until the most recent, an angular affair
sticking out the back, was almost strawberry—like a child's
birthday cake gone wrong.

Cars already lined both sides of the narrow
dirt road by the time Sharon and I arrived. I pulled into a spot
far back in the line, leaving myself plenty of room. Groups of
teens clustered in the narrow band of shade at the front of the
house, eating off paper plates, and balancing Coke cans. Younger
children, freed from the heavy religious atmosphere, shrieked and
ran across the front lawn. Sharon and I walked inside together.

The small living room was jammed with people,
and the overflow had already gone over into the dining room, and
presumably the kitchen as well. It was like a sauna inside. English
and Spanish phrases floated through the air, blending until I had a
hard time distinguishing either. I spotted the old grandmother in a
narrow wooden rocking chair beside a vintage 60s Danish modern TV
set. She had a paper plate balanced precariously on her lap, and
was picking the last bits of crispy off a chicken bone. Her lace
mantilla was now draped around her shoulders, and I could see that
her hair was steel gray. Her deeply lined face suggested a life
spent working outside in the sun.

A knot of people who had been standing just
inside the doorway pushed past us to get outside. Their departure
cleared the room considerably. The small room was over-furnished as
it was. Two couches faced each other from opposite walls. Both were
covered with crocheted yarn afghans in brilliant rainbow colors.
The lower edges of the couches exposed peeling orange vinyl.
Cone-shaped metal legs, tipped with flat metal feet, showed
underneath. The vinyl arms were cracked, with small bits of
stuffing poking out randomly. A hard-looking recliner chair covered
in brown vinyl the color of old beef jerky stood in an awkward spot
in the middle of the room. Apparently, no one wanted to sit there
because of constant jostling by anyone who tried to get around it.
A small plastic Jesus stood next to the rabbit ears antenna on the
TV set, and a large gilt-framed portrait of the Savior took up most
of one wall above the gaudier of the two couches. I tried to
imagine the person who, somewhere back in history, would have
walked into a furniture store and said, "I love this furniture,"
and plunked down hard-earned money to buy it.

I thought the woman seated in the center of
the nearest afghan-covered couch was Mrs. Ruiz, but I couldn't be
sure, since I'd only seen the back of her head during the
service.

Three men stood in the wide arched opening to
the dining room, and Sharon steered me toward them.

"Charlie, I'd like you to meet Mr. Ruiz," she
said, indicating the eldest of the three. "And, this is Michael
Mann, and David’s brother, Bobby Ruiz."

David's father looked like a man who had
spent his life in the sun. A small man at about five foot six, he
had broad shoulders and tan forearms. His dark face was deeply
lined, his black eyes had permanent squint marks that radiated
clear to his hairline at the sides. His forehead had a flat strip
across it where his hatband had shaped it for life. He had removed
his jacket and tie, but even with the sleeves of his dress shirt
rolled up, he seemed overdressed. I imagined him in faded Levis and
plaid work shirt.

I made polite sounds, along with an
appropriately sympathetic face.

"Charlie is the woman I've hired to
investigate David's death," she told the men.

"Good, good." Mr. Ruiz was the first to speak
up. "My David would never have killed himself. He knew suicide is a
mortal sin. He would never do it." He patted my arm. "You will find
out."

I smiled and assured him I would try. "I know
you don't want to answer questions now," I said, "but I'd like to
talk further with you. Could I plan to come back tomorrow?"

He nodded. "You will want to speak with
Bernice, also. Maybe tomorrow she will be feeling better."

I turned to speak to Michael Mann, but he had
left the group.

Sharon touched my arm. "Want some food?
There's plenty."

I felt funny joining in the social aspects of
what was meant to be a family time of sorrow, but Sharon propelled
me toward the dining table without another word. She was right
about the quantity of food. Pans and covered dishes had been set
out, heaped with about three times as much as it would take to feed
the crowd. I helped myself to guacamole dip, homemade tamales,
enchilada casserole, and three different salads. I was scanning the
area, looking for flatware and a napkin, when I happened to glance
toward the kitchen.

Through the open kitchen door, I saw a man
and woman standing near the stove. They stood not more than six
inches apart, and were having a rather intense-looking
conversation. She reached up a couple of times and touched the side
of his face lovingly. The conversation came to an end just then,
and they embraced, exchanging a kiss capable of causing tonsilar
damage. She turned to leave by the back door. The woman was
Vicky.

Chapter 9

"Here, Charlie." Sharon handed me a paper
napkin wrapped around a plastic fork and knife.

When I glanced back up, Vicky was gone.

I wanted to run after her, confront her, and
scream out what a lousy little slut I thought she was. Charlie
Parker to the rescue, saving her brother from the clutches of a
scheming vixen. "Charlie?" Sharon was staring at me. "Shall we find
a spot to sit down?"

I nodded numbly. We walked through the dining
room to the back, where a large room had caught the crowd overflow.
The den had missed out on the good furniture. A ping-pong table
filled the center of the room. The perimeter had been lined with
metal folding chairs, the kind you might borrow for such an
occasion from the church recreation hall. Sharon and I found two,
and took them, perching our paper plates on our knees. I hoped this
was not the brand they showed on television where greasy food
leaked through as an example of which kind not to buy.

Chewing on tamales, and listening to Sharon
talk gave me time to cool down over seeing Vicky. It really was
none of my business anyway. As far as I knew, she and Ron hadn't
made any type of exclusivity promises to each other. I wouldn't say
anything to her, but I wrestled with whether or not I should drop a
hint to Ron. I decided not.

"Hello, I am Mrs. Padilla." The middle-aged
woman sitting next to me turned to introduce herself. "Esther.
Richard and I live next door," she said. "We have known David since
he was born."

I wiped my hand on my napkin, ready to shake
hers, but she kept her hands busy with her plate. She looked much
like Mrs. Ruiz, two Hispanic women, wives of farmers, who had
raised their children side by side. I asked her if they were
possibly related.

"No, we aren't," she said, "but, our
daughters are all the same age. They act like sisters."

I was through with my food, and ready to get
out of there. I made what I hoped were polite sounding excuses to
Mrs. Padilla, and to Sharon, before I bolted for the door. Michael
Mann stood just outside the front door, almost like he was waiting
for me.

"Ms. Parker? Could we talk for a minute?"

"Sure." We stepped around the far side of the
house, where a carport created a welcome shady spot. It was also
out of earshot of the open windows.

"I wanted to speak with you inside," he said,
"but with Uncle Ralph right there, well... I couldn't speak very
freely."

I waited, remembering that he had disagreed
with the Ruiz's during the police interview. For the first time, I
really noticed him. Michael was a little younger than David, about
twenty-four, I'd guess. He was right at six feet tall, slim, with
Eric Estrada-like handsomeness. His face was smooth, with a couple
of dimples in just the right places. His dark, slightly wavy hair
was trim and neat. He had removed the jacket he'd worn to the
funeral, and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. Fine dark
hair grew thick on his forearms. He had a gold band on his left
ring finger.