Deadly Gamble

Chapter 3 - Part 1

Deadly Gamble: The First Charlie Parker Mystery

By Connie Shelton

© Connie Shelton. All rights reserved

Chapter 3

Thick gray clouds hung low over the Sandia Mountains. The air felt chill and smelled of moisture. Yesterday had been sunny with a sky of lapis. I was glad for my thick down jacket as I walked back to the car. A favorite memory from my high school years is hot fudge sundaes at Big Boy. With the past crowding suddenly back into my psyche today, the old craving came back. I turned east on Central Avenue.

Remodeling has changed the building somewhat, but the sundaes are the same as ever. I took a corner booth and put my feet up on the opposite seat. A few minutes later, my sundae arrived. I spooned whipped cream with a sprinkling of almonds into my mouth. I pulled my notebook out of my purse and made a few doodles in the corner. There would be something therapeutic about letting all my old feelings about Stacy and Brad flow onto the paper along with the ink from my pen but I wasn't ready for that yet. My mother had always cautioned me never to write down anything I wouldn't want to see in the newspaper. Consequently, I've never been a diary keeper. I still harbor resistance to pouring my soul out on paper. I decided to confine my notes to the murder case. Perhaps writing a plan down would help solidify a course of action for me.

Gary Detweiller. Seducer. Hangs out at country club. Wife and son. Poor neighborhood. Steals Rolex. Needs money. ???? The notes covered my small page.

I had to believe that Stacy wasn't the first woman Detweiller had seduced, probably wasn't the first he'd stolen from. His approach sounded pretty smooth, his routine well rehearsed. Except for the time Stacy had surprised him at home. Maybe his home would be a good starting place.

I scraped the last of the fudge from the bottom of the cold metal parfait cup, left too large a tip, and stepped out into the biting wind. Trotting out to the Jeep, I pulled my jacket together in front with one hand and fumbled in the pocket for my keys with the other. The clouds spat a few crumbs of snow over the hood as I started the engine. I rehearsed my story as I drove up Central, looking for the turn.

Detweiller's house was no more inviting this time, despite the addition of two cars in the driveway. A pale blue Honda held the anchor position in front of the single car garage door. The car was probably eight or nine years old, and the sun had faded the paint on the hood to near-white. Obviously, the garage held something other than the car. The second vehicle, a muscle car from the seventies, had been left primer gray with chrome pipes showing at the sides, and windows tinted so dark they were surely illegal. Stickers with illegible words drawn in sharp diagonals decorated the back window.

I pressed the doorbell, but it felt mushy and dead. When I got no response to it, I tried knocking on the screen door frame. It wobbled ineffectually, so I opened it wide enough to get my hand through, and pounded on the wooden front door. Paint flakes drifted downward.

A tired-looking woman opened the door. She was probably in her late thirties, but the eyes were aged to forty-something. Her medium brown hair was wound haphazardly around pink sponge curlers, and she clutched a limp pink robe together in front. She kept herself mostly behind the door, which she had allowed to open only about six inches.

"Mrs. Detweiller? I'm Charlie Parker. I wonder if I might speak to you about your husband."

"He's dead." So was her voice.

"I know. I'm very sorry. I just have a few questions for the investigation." The half truths were beginning to slip out more easily.

"You'd better come in," she said impatiently. "You're freezing me out, here."

She stepped back, pulling the door a bit wider. I opened the screen and stepped into the gloom. She quickly closed the door behind me. As my eyes adjusted, I could see that she wasn't wearing anything under the robe, which hung from her thin frame like a sack.

"I had just stepped out of the shower," she said. "Can you give me a minute to get dressed?"

Without waiting for an answer, she turned away. Picking up a lit cigarette from an ashtray on an end table, she disappeared into a dark hallway leaving me the perfect opportunity to check the place out.