Vacations Can Be Murder: The Second Charlie Parker Mystery Read Free Page B

arrived at
Paradise Helicopters' office precisely on time.
    Melanie greeted me again by name in her
almost too-friendly way.
    The other passengers had already arrived, a
husband and wife with a kid about four years old. He was a handful,
whining and tugging at his mother in that center-of-attention way
that most preschoolers seem to have They introduced themselves as
the Johnsons—Joe, Brenda and young Cory.
    “It’ll be a few minutes until the shuttle
driver gets back,” Melanie explained. “Why don’t you put a video
on, Charlie?”
    Her hands were busy filling out Joe Johnson’s
credit card slip, but her eyes were riveted on young Cory, whose
gaze was fixated on the model helicopter that hung above the
now-endangered flower arrangement in the corner. He was raising one
foot, apparently ready to use the large vase as a step stool.
    I took Melanie’s cue, “Here, Cory, let’s see
what this one’s about.”
    I grabbed a tape that looked like a cartoon
and stuffed it into the machine. The deedly-deedly music attracted
his attention only seconds before two heliconia stalks would have
met a nasty fate.
    Brenda sat on the sofa, flipping through a
magazine, oblivious to her son’s actions.
    I turned my attention to the scenery
outside.
    Twenty minutes later, my fellow passengers
and I were on our way to the heliport in Paradise's company van.
Sugar cane grew eight feet tall along Ahukini Road, acre after acre
of thin green blades. In the distance it stretched on, like a
giant's unmown lawn. We went through the intersection where I'd sat
only this morning; now we headed toward the airport.
    The van driver veered left, away from the
main terminal building, past a collection of smaller general
aviation hangars. On our left, a row of helicopter pads was laid
out and numbered, like the squares on a huge board game. A couple
of the pads contained parked helicopters with their rotor blades
tied down.
    For the most part, though, the place was a
regular beehive. I watched two helicopters land, and three more
take off, just in the time it took our driver to park and unload us
from the van. Small as the aircraft were, each had its own
distinctive paint scheme.
    A chain link fence, eight feet high topped
with a double strand of rusty barbed wire, separated the pads from
the parking area. We were instructed to wait behind it until our
driver signaled. Meanwhile, the blue and tan JetRanger we would
ride in was hovering a short distance away, apparently waiting for
another, in line ahead of it, to make its landing.
    My attention was drawn to the other one as it
landed. The pilot brought it in fast, and landed with a bump.
Before his shuttle driver could get there, the pilot had opened his
door and stepped down. It didn't seem a very safe practice to me,
leaving the machine running with passengers inside and no
pilot.
    The man motioned toward his driver, calling
him over. He stood leaning over the young kid, shaking a finger in
his face. I couldn't catch the words, but his body language was
easily understood. The young driver cowered at the onslaught, and
the passengers inside looked uncomfortable.
    A tug at my sleeve got my attention.
Paradise's helicopter had landed, and the previous passengers were
out and waiting near the van. I followed our shuttle driver, and
stood back as he opened my door for me. The tremendous whirl from
the rotor blades caught at the edges of my shorts, whipping the
fabric against my legs. Luckily, I hadn’t worn a skirt. I stepped
up, and slid into my seat. The pilot helped me find my seat
belt.
    I had been given the front seat next to him,
while the Johnson family were lined up across the rear. I was
thankful that the noise of the rotor blades forced us all to wear
headsets. If I'd had to listen to one more plaintive demand from
Cory in the back seat I'd have decked him.
    The twenty minute wait in the office before
heading to the airport had just about cinched my decision not to
have children. This one was