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

twelve ounces of mascara opened the door. She wore a red and gold caftan and strappy gold sandals. One hand held a martini glass and the other stayed firmly on the doorsill.
    “Is Ray Candelaria home?” I asked.
    She appraised me slowly, top to toe. When she’d decided that a travel-worn, woman with hair in a ponytail, wearing jeans with scuffed knees, a faded turtleneck, and dingy Nikes wasn’t a threat to her, she stepped aside.
“What was your name?” she asked, finally figuring out that she might have admitted a census taker or insurance salesperson.
I handed her my business card from RJP Investigations.
“Charlie? What kind of a name is that for a woman?”
    I slipped on a tight smile. I really didn’t want to go into the whole explanation of how I’d been named for two maiden aunts and that Charlotte Louise had never quite stuck to me. When I didn’t answer, she turned on her heel and headed upstairs. I waited until she’d disappeared, then looked around.
    The entryway was small, and opened directly on the living room. Beyond that I could see the L of a dining room, with a kitchen and breakfast area directly in front of me. Everything was done in shades of blue and cream. I stepped into the living room and examined a group of photos standing in brass frames on a bookcase. There were plenty of Ray, some including the woman who’d opened the door. None including Paula.
    Considering their divorce was only recently final, he’d done a remarkable job of mopping up traces of her and installing her replacement quickly enough.
    Voices from upstairs caught my attention. The male sounded grumbly and included something along the lines of, “. . . and you let her in?” Almost immediately, a door closed firmly and the woman appeared at the top of the stairs. Putting on a weak smile, she tottered down on her slender heels and approached me.
    “What did you say this was about?” she asked.
    “I didn’t.” I gave her a minute to come up with something, but she wasn’t ready with anything quick. “It’s something I have to discuss with Ray.”
    I walked over to a very straight wingback chair and sat down.
    “He’s getting dressed. It’ll be a few minutes.”
    “That’s fine.” I guess I looked prepared to camp there because she didn’t say anything else. She went into the kitchen and rattled some ice cubes in a glass.
    A good ten minutes passed, during which the woman disappeared into another room beyond the kitchen. Sounds of doors opening and closing and the occasional running water upstairs told me that Ray was making no haste with his toilette. I walked back over to the bookcase and continued my perusal.
    Unfortunately, the reading material was limited to romance novels and a few volumes on how to improve your golf game. There were no scrapbooks or albums or other juicy stuff. The furniture was the mid-priced kind you found at outlet places and the art on the walls was of the starving artist variety. I was about to start toe-tapping when I noticed Ray at the top of the stairs. I wondered if he’d been standing there watching me give the place the once-over.
    “Ray Candelaria?” I walked toward him and extended my hand as he reached the bottom step. He was in his mid forties, probably ten years younger than Paula, or more. Black hair, razor cut to perfection, tailored gray slacks and a pink polo shirt, about two too many gold chains.
He held up my card and looked at it. “You’re an investigator from Albuquerque?”
“That’s right. Could we sit down a minute?”
He ushered me back into the living room and we took chairs at opposite ends of a crushed velvet sofa.
“Have you heard about Paula?” I began tentatively.
His expression said ‘the bitch,’ although the words didn’t come out. “What about her?”
“That she was killed a couple of days ago?”
His surprise seemed genuine. His face screwed up in puzzlement. “Killed? What happened?”
So the Albuquerque police hadn’t considered