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

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