Vacations Can Be Murder: The Second Charlie Parker Mystery by Connie Shelton Page A

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