Free Holidays Can Be Murder: A Charlie Parker Christmas Mystery by Connie Shelton Page A

some of this stuff with Ron, maybe do a little more investigating. Want a piece of toast or something first?” I had let Catherine fend for herself for much of her visit, and now I was offering nothing more than toast for breakfast.
    “That’s okay, Charlie. You go ahead and get ready for work. I can make something later.”
    Thirty minutes later, I’d had a quick shower, an even quicker kiss from my hubby, and was on my way to the office. Ron had told me Christmas Day that he didn’t plan to take the whole week off and would probably spend part of the weekend catching up on paperwork. His car was already there when I arrived.
    The kitchen smelled of burnt coffee, which is usually an indicator that Ron has made a pot of his killer-strong brew and let some of it dribble onto the hot metal plate on the coffee maker. Having tasted this stuff in the past, I opted to make myself a cup of tea in the microwave.
    “Anybody home?” I called as I climbed the stairs.
    His voice came trailing from his office in a monotone. Phone conversation. I flipped on the light in my own office and realized that the pile of mail from the previous day hadn’t magically disappeared. I sat down to sort through it.
    “Thought you weren’t coming in this week,” Ron said.
    I hadn’t heard him approach and I nearly sloshed my tea. Recovering, I set the mug down on a coaster and shoved the mail aside.
    “I didn’t think so either, but this situation with the neighbors has kinda taken over my time for the past couple of days. Wilbur is really devastated. He can hardly answer a question coherently.”
“Well, who wouldn’t be? The papers are full of it. Having his mother murdered, then his wife accused of the crime. What a mess.”
“Pregnant wife. Did I tell you that?” I drained my mug. “Anyway, I’ve come up with a couple of clues.”
He grinned with a knowing little twist to his mouth. “Couldn’t resist, could you?”
“Well . . .”
“So, are we hired, or what?”
“That hasn’t come up. Like I said, Wilbur’s a wreck. And I don’t know how much money they have.”
“So ask a few questions. We can do a charitable deed now and then,” he said.
“Would the charity include my making a quick trip to L.A.?”
    He rolled his eyes and puffed out a big sigh, but he didn’t say no. An hour later I’d made reservations for the 4:10 flight on Southwest and a room downtown. I rushed through some routine paperwork and gathered my notes before dashing home to pack and spend a little time with the family before leaving.
    By 5:10 I was airborne, somewhere over Arizona. Glass of wine in hand, I was transferring names and addresses to my little spiral notebook and pinpointing places on my roadmap of the greater Los Angeles area, which was certainly greater in scope than anything I usually dealt with. By the time I picked up my rental car and headed into the maze of freeways, it was dark and the commuting drivers were even surlier than I. I was beginning to question the wisdom of the whole trip.
    My research and mapping had indicated that Ray Candelaria’s place was between the airport and my hotel, so it only made sense to stop there first. I exited and pulled out my map at the first stoplight. I happened to glance up and realized I wasn’t in a great neighborhood and that reading my roadmap at the intersection definitely branded me as an out-of-towner. I laid the map down and locked my doors.
    At the next well-lighted place, a 24-hour medical clinic, I pulled in and parked under a lamppost. Getting my bearings, I discovered I was only six blocks from my goal. Ray’s home turned out to be a white-stuccoed, red-tile roofed, mission styled home in a decent neighborhood. The lawn was well-groomed and elegant palms flanked the sidewalk leading up from the street. There were no cars in the driveway, but lights shone from inside the house. I pressed the doorbell and set off a short symphony.
    A woman in her thirties, with long, dark hair and