Vacations Can Be Murder: The Second Charlie Parker Mystery (11 page)

I peeled clothes off as I made my way to the
bathroom. I poured half the little freebie bottle of bubble bath
under the rushing tap, then went back into the bedroom to get
organized. I hate being disorganized, and I hate things messy. At
home, I can almost tell if someone has walked through my living
room because some little thing will be out of place.

I picked up the dirty clothes I had just
taken off, and stuffed them into a laundry bag. I'd leave them to
be done tomorrow while I was gone. I pulled out a small collapsible
carry-on bag I take along whenever I travel somewhere that I'm
likely to overdo the shopping. I had no plans of staying over in
San Francisco, but it never hurt to be ready.

I would wear my generic black slacks and my
new cotton batik print blouse. In case of an emergency stay-over, I
stuck a change of underwear and a clean shirt into the small bag.
In the morning, I'd add my make-up bag and a hairbrush.

My inflatable neck pillow and cassette stereo
would help tune out all extraneous noises. I'd try to sleep on the
plane, so I could be awake by the time I got back to Drake.

Fluffs of bubbles rose a foot above the edge
of the tub like meringue on a lemon pie. Perhaps half the bottle
had been a bit much. I turned the cold water completely off,
leaving the hot at a trickle. There’s nothing worse than a bath
that begins to cool down before I’m satiated.

My tired muscles loved it as I settled them
down into the steaming water. I leaned my neck back against the end
of the tub, and let the water lull me. Soon, I felt my eyes
drooping, and knew I better get out before I ended up spending the
night under water.

The clock at my bedside told me it was eight
o'clock, but I guess my body was still on mainland time. I set the
alarm, just in case the wake-up call didn't come through.

I must have died the very minute my head hit
the pillow, because the next thing I was aware of was the ringing
telephone. I wanted to punch the cheery good-morning person in the
face, which is probably why they don't deliver wake-up calls in
person.

It was still dark out, and my brain wasn't in
gear yet. I am not a quick riser. My already-packed bag waited near
the door. I brushed my teeth and splashed some water on my face,
consciously trying not to come fully awake just yet. I tossed the
last two items into my bag and called the front desk to get me a
cab.

By the time I stumbled downstairs, the car
was waiting to deliver me to the airport, where I managed to find
my flight. It was direct, so I snagged a pillow and blanket before
they were all gone, and tucked myself in.

Nestled against the window, my Walkman
pouring Barry Manilow into my ears, I slept through the
announcements, breakfast, and whatever other courtesies they might
have tried to foist upon me.

I awoke four hours later feeling like a new
person. I could have used the bathroom, but it seemed like too much
bother to squeeze past the teenage boy who must have been about six
foot seven, judging by the length of his legs, just to get into a
lavatory smaller than a phone booth. I did a little stretch in
place, and accepted the flight attendant's offer of a hot wash
cloth and a cup of coffee.

I could now face the world.

In the ladies room at San Francisco
International, I pulled out my little zippered makeup bag, for a
quick fixup. Even under the best of conditions, I don't take a lot
of time at this ritual. Foundation, blush, and lipstick is about
all I mess with.

A woman approached the mirror beside me, and
settled her carry-on bag on the counter with a thump. Out came two
zippered cosmetic cases. I tried to look busy, but I have to
confess, I was probably staring. She gazed intently at her own
face, inspecting each square centimeter, and paid no attention
whatever to me. I thought she looked fine already, and I was
curious to see just what improvements she would deem necessary.

She first went to work on her eyes, applying
concealer from a greasy looking stick, to the skin below them. Next
came eye shadow, three colors in all, which she placed with extreme
precision to different sections of the lids. Once the colors were
in place, she took a Q-Tip and smudged them together, making the
original colors blend into one. I didn't understand why she hadn't
just bought that color in the first place, but I guess some things
are beyond my realm.

Liner pencil came next, two colors applied,
blended into one. She finished with two coats of mascara to each
set of lashes, then rechecked the job, dabbing with a clean Q-Tip
whenever she found minuscule errors. By this time I was openly
staring.

Now, she pulled out a bottle of liquid
foundation, and proceeded to dot the contents all over her face.
With a small wedge of sponge, she spread the dots together, leaning
close to the mirror to be sure she hadn't missed a spot. I was
fascinated by the variety of jars, tubes and implements that
appeared from the two cases. My bathroom at home isn't this well
stocked.

I could see the routine would go on for some
time yet, and I was running out of things to do to myself. I ran a
quick brush through my hair, and figured I was as ready as I'd ever
be. I left the other woman at the mirror, sweeping blusher onto her
cheekbones with a long-handled brush. A litter of cotton swabs and
tissues had begun to collect on the counter.

Catherine Page had given me phone numbers for
their home and Jason's friend, but no addresses. I hadn't wanted to
tell her I was planning to visit her son in person, lest she feel
the need to brief him first. I stopped at a pay phone, and looked
in the book for the Page's address.

Gilbert Page Enterprises was listed, with a
downtown address, but no personal listing. I realized that Mill
Valley probably had its own directory. There were lots of Cramers
in the book, and I finally found one whose number matched the one
Catherine had given me for Jason's friend. I copied the address
into my little spiral.

At the car rental desk a helpful young junior
executive type, with a crisp white shirt and company logo tie, at
the rental car desk gave me a couple of maps, on which he drew
arrows in pen showing me where I needed to go.

"Ever heard of a health club called Workout
Heaven?" I asked him. "It must be new, it's not in the book."

He chewed his lip a minute. "I drive by
something like that coming to work," he said. "I can't think
exactly where, but I know I've seen their sign."

He pulled the map back, and turned it to face
himself. "Somewhere here along Bayshore Boulevard, I think." He ran
the pen back and forth along a two or three block stretch.

I told him I'd find it, then flashed him what
I hoped was a very grateful smile.

Out in the lot, I located my rental car, and
sat inside letting it warm up while I studied the map. I pulled my
lightweight jacket out of my carry-on bag. I'd forgotten how chilly
San Francisco always feels.

Bayshore Boulevard was on my way into the
city, with Mill Valley beyond that, so I figured I'd hit Susan's
place first.

Mark Cramer's street was in the city, south
of Market Street. That would be my second stop.

I started watching too late, and realized I'd
passed the stretch of Bayshore my friend had indicated on the map.
Buildings were thinning out, so I decided I better turn around. I
found a place to do it and doubled back. Sure enough, heading this
direction, the sign was easy to spot on my right.

I pulled off, getting out of the traffic,
before I realized that the sign said "Future Home of Workout
Heaven."

I was facing a big flat dirt lot, empty
except for a bulldozer, and three pickup trucks with Hayes
Construction Co. signs on their sides. I looked around, making sure
I was in the right place. Looked like Workout Heaven was still
quite a way into the future.

The air was nippy as I got out of the car,
and I zipped my jacket up all the way. The salty breeze off the bay
whipped my hair across my face like a Middle Eastern veil.

It looked to me like the bulldozer was about
done with its work. The ground was all nicely leveled. Four men
were in various stages of measuring and driving stakes into the
ground.

One guy in a red hardhat seemed to be in
charge. I headed toward him.

The foreman had pale hair which curled up
around the edges of his hardhat, and his face was so wind burned it
looked like it had been scoured with cleanser, giving him an
inexpensive dermabrasion treatment. He was shorter than I, about
five-four, I'd guess, with a barrel chest and a belly that hung
generously over his belt buckle. His jeans seemed in imminent
danger of slipping off his almost nonexistent butt.

"Hi," I said. "Is this Susan Turner's place?"
I tried to muster a smile, but my hair whipped across my face and
stuck to the fronts of my teeth.

He was fighting his own private battle with a
set of plans that were refusing to stay unrolled in the brisk wind.
He looked flustered and irritated.

"Yeah," he growled, giving up and letting the
plans have their own way. "Where is she, anyway? I got all the dirt
work done here; the guy waiting to be paid." He waved toward the
bulldozer operator.

"My own crew's been on the job all week,
payday's Friday, and do I have her deposit check yet?" He opened
the door of his pickup truck, and jammed the unruly plans inside,
slamming the door to keep the disobedient critters inside.

"I
knew
better than to trust that
lady. She don't know nothin about how business works."

I thought it rather unprofessional of him to
be telling me all this. For all he knew, I might be someone
snooping into Susan's private business. Since, of course, I was, I
didn't mention this little blunder on his part.

"I think she's been out of town," I
ventured.

"Shit! That's it! Not one more lick of work
here until I get money from that broad."

He put two fingers between his teeth, and let
out a whistle that almost deafened me.

"Quittin' time," he shouted toward the other
men.

Without a word among them, they dropped the
wooden stakes right where they were, and headed for their trucks.
He hopped into his truck, too, and waved me a little salute.

Within ninety seconds, I was completely
alone, standing in the flat dirt lot.

I was happy enough to be out of the wind, as
I got back into the rental car, but frustrated with the
conversation's abrupt end. I stared at the empty dirt lot for a
good four or five minutes, wishing I'd had a chance to ask the
contractor a few more questions.

How did this jibe with Susan's version of her
busy health club?

Had she actually described it as bustling
with customers working out with weights, jumping around in unison
aerobically? Or, had she merely conveyed that impression? I know
she'd invited me to come by and work out anytime I was in town. I
tried to picture myself in the classes.

The dance aerobics might be fun. Perhaps I'd
try it one day. As a kid, I'd always wanted to be a Rockette at
Radio City Music Hall. Face it, I have all the grace and precision
of a goony bird. The years of defending myself against my brothers
gave me more muscle than elegance. My little fantasy, therefore, is
still a secret.

The blowing dust and sea spray had coated my
windshield with a thin opaque film, and I had to locate the washers
before I trusted myself out on the road again.

Locating Mark Cramer's address proved more
difficult than I had anticipated. The street was shown on my map as
being only a block or two south of Market, but it turned out to be
one of those that dead-ends then starts again somewhere else,
continuing in little segments for twenty or thirty blocks.

I managed to find the correct little segment
on my third try.

To say that the neighborhood was run-down
would have been complimentary. The four houses facing the
half-block long street were probably of Victorian ancestry, but
certainly not from the same set of genes as their Nob Hill
neighbors.

One or two old trees, tall and beaten by
time, were about all that remained of any landscaping that once
might have been. Weeds outnumbered shrubs by at least a thousand to
one, and the former lawns had long since become hard packed dirt,
beaten down by children's feet, motorcycles, and parked cars.

Judging by the number of cars parked along
the short street, most if not all the homes had been converted to
apartments. I wondered about a kid from Jason's background finding
a best friend here. I wondered what Catherine Page thought of it,
if she knew.

There was no place left to park on the
street, so I pulled into the driveway of the Cramer residence.

The house had once been yellow with white
Victorian gingerbread trim. The yellow had now faded out to the
shade of mayonnaise gone bad, while all that remained of the white
paint were flaky chunks here and there. The exposed wood beneath
had rotted beyond the help of any sanding and painting repair job.
The building’s entire structural integrity looked questionable.

A refrigerator sat on the screened front
porch. A large metal hasp and padlock on it made me wonder if the
appliance worked. Was the lock there to keep kids out, or food in?
Or both?

The driveway ran in two narrow concrete
tracks beside the house, clear to the back yard, where a separate
garage building stood with doors open wide. I decided to try that
first.

The garage was in somewhat better repair than
the house. A car was parked inside, facing outward. Its hood had
been removed, towels draped over the front grill and the left and
right quarter panels like surgical cloths. Its engine was
apparently the object of the procedure. Two young men bent over it,
their concentration complete.