by Lakota Grace
“Well, somebody has to. What if she had car trouble?”
“She knows you do this?”
“Easy enough to put a locator app on her cell.” The tops of his ears turned red. “I pay the phone bill,” he said defensively. “I just want to be sure she's safe.”
Uh-huh. Another word for control in my book.
“Think the two of you might get back together?” I asked.
“That’s what I want. Heinrich is on my side—he doesn’t believe in divorce. I don’t either.”
“Marguerite agree with you?”
His lips firmed. “She will.”
“What was your relationship with Gil Streicker?”
“Gil was a good ranch manager. Period.” Dr. Theo picked up his sandwich again and took another bite.
“I heard Gil once had a relationship with Marguerite.”
Dr. Theo choked. “Heinrich put an end to that foolishness. It was done. Finito.” A look of satisfaction spread over his pink face.
That seemed definite. Maybe too definite. I made a note. “What's your assessment of Dr. Spine?”
Theo shifted and the camp chair creaked under his weight. He wiped a dribble of mayo off his chin.
“He's made a lot of enemies here in the valley.”
“Enemies?”
“The good doctor seems to think he can do whatever he wants. The neighbors take offense at that sometimes. Gil Streicker was good at running interference. Don't know who will get that job now.”
“Perhaps Amanda? She said something about bookkeeping at lunch the other day.”
“I hope not. Tried to talk her into medicine, take over my practice someday. But she loves animals, wants to go into veterinary instead. I'd hate to see her get sidetracked here.”
Interesting. I wondered if Dr. Theo micro-managed his daughter’s life like he did his wife’s. Gil Streicker would have been an impediment to that sort of activity.
Dr. Theo shrugged. “I shouldn't be talking ill of Heinrich. He's been supporting my family for several years now.”
“What happened?”
“To be honest, I'm not sure. One day my practice back in Michigan was doing great, and the next, my partner had absconded with the proceeds of our bank accounts. Stuck me with a mountain of bills. I had to declare bankruptcy. Part of the troubles between Marguerite and me. I’ve made adjustments, but she still lives in this fantasy world, like nothing has changed.” His tone was bitter.
“What kind of practice do you have?” A neutral lead-in. Interesting things sometimes emerged if a person was patient.
Dr. Theo took the bait. “Back home? Pediatrics, all the way. Love kids. Out here, whatever comes in the door. It’s hard to start a new practice at my age.”
“Did you ever do surgery?”
“I assisted a few times. Then the malpractice insurance fees went through the roof, and I had to stop. They're doing a lot with robotics, these days, especially with the little kiddos. Those tiny veins were hard for big hands like these to find.” He held up two paws of stubby fingers.
“Still have any of your old equipment?”
“No, left all that behind when I closed the practice. I’m making a new start here.”
He sounded casual talking about it, but a small scalpel wouldn’t take up much room, even in a travel trailer. I made a note. “Got another question for you.”
“Name it. I'd like to put this affair behind us. It’s been upsetting for the whole family.”
“What do you know about arsenic?”
He glanced at the peaceful surroundings. “Seems strange to talk about poisons in a beautiful spot like this.” He popped one last chip in his mouth and wiped his lips. Then he leaned back and proceeded to lecture the uninformed.
“Arsenic: Odorless, colorless. Used to be the preferred poison in the Middle Ages. Production of arsenic stopped in the eighties here in the States.”
Right. Get to the point, doc. “Ever prescribe any in your medical practice?”
“I didn’t. My old office partner did, though. Used it as a leukemia treatment for a patient of his.” He gave me a sharp-eyed look. “You're talking about Gil Streicker, aren’t you? Think that's how he died?”
“It might have contributed,” I said. “He showed traces in his system. But Fancy said arsenic was in the water at the ranch.”
“She’s being paranoid. First thing I did when we moved here was check the water condition. The arsenic deposits seem to be localized to specific areas of the Verde Valley, not near the ranch property, thank goodness.”
I took one last drink of water, wondering if the liquid flowing down my throat contained arsenic. Odorless, colorless. I’d never know until it was too late. Perhaps that’s what happened to Gil Streicker.
I tucked the notebook in my pocket and stood. “Thanks for talking to me. I'll keep you posted.” After all, that was my job, good family liaison officer that I was.
I walked back to my car. By the time I had turned around in the drive to leave, Dr. Theo had stretched out on the grass in front of the trailer for an afternoon nap, hat tilted over his eyes. He presented the picture of a man with nothing to hide.
But, pleasant as Dr. Theo appeared, the good doctor had an edge that disturbed me. He’d had access to both a scalpel and arsenic in his practice. And he seemed highly protective of both wife and daughter. The relationships that Gil Streicker had with Marguerite and later with Amanda would be problematic to Dr. Theo. Might the strain be enough to drive him over the edge to eliminate a rival?
I punched Shepherd’s phone number into my cell and listened to the empty rings. My partner was still off the grid. When we started work as partners, he had promised to always be there for me when I needed backup. What had happened to that promise and the man who had made it?
Tomorrow began the weekend. Saturday morning was the scheduled massage for Rory Stevens. Part fun, part business. By the end of the day, at least I’d know more about Raven LightDancer.
Amanda felt Raven was the key to what happened to Gil Streicker. I wasn’t sure about that, but I planned to keep turning over stones to disturb whatever shadowy creatures lived there.
Gil Streicker’s little daughter, Veronica, deserved no less.
Chapter 15
By the time I rose Saturday morning, I convinced myself that my meeting with Rory Stevens was strictly business. I was only going because I needed to know more about Raven LightDancer, or whatever his name turned out to be.
At least somebody cared about law enforcement, I told myself as I shopped for the needed supplies, unlike my supervisor. The grocery store had a special section for Arizona wines, and the black bottles with the red-and-black labels of the Arizona Stronghold Vineyard called to me.
I picked up a bottle of their Dala cabernet, a corkscrew, and a couple of heavy-duty wine glasses. Rory was more of a screw-top person, but I was going all out for this occasion. I picked out a pot of miniature yellow roses in the flower section to add some class.
I could have pried the information out of Rory without this massage trip, but maybe I’d been a little at fault with his Hummer. He was a good friend, and I needed to make it up to him. This wine and a massage would serve as my apology.
Although I've been on the receiving end of massages, I hadn't actually given one, but it shouldn't be too hard. Just fake what I didn’t know and make up the rest.
I’d gone to Isabel, my grandfather’s housekeeper, for advice. She’d been a masseuse when she was younger.
“Always start with the face,” she said. “Then the fingers and toes. And don’t forget about atmosphere. Scented candles, soft music. People like that.”
I mentally repeated her directions. Face first, then fingers and toes. I could handle this. No problem.
From the grocery store, I dropped by the Patchouli Palace and picked up a bottle of almond-scented massage oil and a thick gold-colored candle. I grabbed a New Age CD from their stock and stood impatiently as they checked me out. I was
ready.
It took me about forty-five minutes to drive Highway-260 through Cottonwood, a short zag north on I-17 and a right at the Sedona exit. Two miles later, I passed over Red Tank Wash, as I had the day before.
The wash was dry with only small puddles of moisture reflecting back the small canyon’s steep red rock walls. The narrow one-lane bridge that crossed the wash was in disrepair, its guardrail whacked by a too-wide truck, it looked like. One end dangled precariously over the water. I made a note to call the highway patrol to report the damage.
The Verde Valley had a love/hate relationship with water. This time of year, drought and low water levels pitted people like Serena Battle and Heinrich Spine against each other. But in the winter, snowmelts on the Mogollon Rim near Flagstaff flooded the Valley streams, causing damage to houses and house trailers like Dr. Theo’s that parked too close to the creek.
I could use some of that snowmelt today. The summer heat beat on the outside of the Jetta. I switched on the AC to combat it. Sneaking a glance into the picnic area, I checked to see if the camp host was about. He was, so I parked on the other side of the road, in a no-fee area at the edge of Wet Beaver Creek. I didn’t want him ruining my fun this morning.
Rory's atomic-orange Hummer was already there, taking more than his fair share of two parking spaces. I squeezed my Jetta in next to him and struggled to get out, turning sideways and scraping past the Hummer. I smoothed out the butt mark I made on the dusty vehicle with my palm, in a peacekeeping gesture. No sense getting on Rory's wrong side. Again.
I opened the trunk and got ready to load. A low table went on my back with a headband to steady it. I grabbed a blanket, sheets, and towels in one hand, slipped a bag over my shoulder with the massage oil and wine supplies. Then I tucked my boom box under my arm. That left my left hand to heft the rose plant. I slammed the trunk door down with my elbow. I shifted the load to get comfortable, feeling a little like a Himalayan Sherpa.
I hiked across the bridge at Wet Beaver Creek and up the hill to Rory's designated spot across the creek. It was a quiet place. He said it used to be a nudist beach, but I didn't see any bare bodies this morning. Good thing. Let privates be private was my motto.
As I struggled up the hill, Rory sat on a rock, dressed in swim shorts and sandals, a baseball hat shading his eyes,
“You need some help with that?”
He didn’t expect a response. Didn’t get one. Rory treated me as an independent woman, which suited me just fine.
I dropped the bag and linens and carefully set down the yellow rose plant. Then I raised both hands, lifted the carry strap from my forehead and lowered the small table. The binding had made a bruise-hard welt on my forehead and I rubbed it. I positioned the candle on the table and lit it. Next, I arranged the flowers and the boom box next to it. Finally, I spread the blanket on a ledge of red rock and put a sheet on top.
“Here, do the honors.” I handed the bottle of wine to Rory.
He uncorked the wine and poured two glasses, set them down carefully on the sandstone ledge.
“Pretty cool,” he commented, taking a gulp of the wine. Then he set down the glass and sprawled on the sheet on his stomach.
I slipped in the new CD. Soon romantic Enya waltzes serenaded the creek side, blending with the soft ripple of the water from the creek below us. Perfect!
“What's that caterwauling?” Rory jerked upright. He grabbed the radio and switched off the CD. Then he twisted the dial until he found our local country radio station, KAFF. Brad Paisley was wailing something about crushing beer cans on weekends.
“Ah, that's better.” Rory cranked the volume up loud. Real loud. He settled back down on the blanket.
“Start with my back,” he ordered.
A red tail hawk flapped out of the tall sycamore above us and left for quieter parts. I lowered the radio volume to a whisper.
“Turn over. I'm starting with your face.”
“My face? My face isn't sore. My back is sore. What sort of a massage is this, anyway?” Rory remained stolid, unmoving, on his stomach.
“Whatever. I'll rub, you talk.”
He was ruining the mood Isabel had suggested I create. I scowled and poured half the bottle of oil in the middle of his back and smeared it around. Some dribbled on the sheet, puddling. Too bad.
“Tell me about Raven LightDancer,” I said.
“A little bit harder on that left shoulder.”
Rory settled deeper into the sheet-covered blanket. “Raven... Well, first of all, his name's not Raven LightDancer. It's Marty Zielinski.”
“What?”
“Scratch right there, just under the shoulder blade.”
“Zielinski, you said?”
I nudged the oil around a little with one finger.
“Yeah, the guy is Romany, from Poland.”
“You mean, like a gypsy?”
I scraped up some of the excess oil and started to rub his left arm, all the way down to his fingers. Then I started on his foot, rubbing the heel, stroking the instep.
Rory twitched, then shifted the foot out of reach. “Not there. Do my other arm. Keep things even.”
I abandoned the foot and worked on the arm as directed. Okay, maybe I leaned a little too hard into it, but hey, Rory was a former SEAL—he could handle it.
“Ouch! Softer.”
Hmmm. Guess not.
“What else about this Marty Zielinski?” I asked.
“Well, he might have been a gypsy at one time, but now he's a career opportunist—card shark, spiritualist, all-around con man. Gets caught, he skips and reinvents himself.”
I dropped that arm, palmed some oil onto the nape of Rory’s neck. Then I circled his ears with my fingers.
“That figures,” I said. “Right now he’s posing as a New Age guru using sound therapies and weird diets over at the Spine Horse Ranch.” I thought of the mango feast and burped.
My own back was cramping as I squatted in the awkward position. Now I realized why masseuses always used massage tables. And chairs! Didn't they have those little stools that they sat on?
I stopped and pried a pebble out of my kneecap.
“Hey, don't stop now, this feels good.”
The radio DJ had come on, hawking the gun show at the fairgrounds. I turned the volume down more.
“I want to hear that.” Rory reached over and punched in more volume. “Don't forget my legs. You've been working on my head long enough. Feels fine. Start on my legs.”
“Who's giving this massage anyway,” I muttered.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
I switched from shoulders to legs, working on the hard, tanned muscular thighs. The thighs led to the calves, roped with tension. Rory was a swimmer, on the volunteer underwater recovery team for the sheriff's office. It showed.
“Now turn over.”
I slapped his thigh like you would the side of a horse you wanted to shift.
“Already? I was enjoying this. One more turn on my back? I think you missed a spot there.”
“Over!”
He reluctantly complied, lying on his back, front upwards.
I leaned back and started on his feet, first rubbing the top of the foot, then circling each toe with my fingers. I didn't know how he felt about it, but the gestures were oddly stimulating to me. Was I getting a foot fetish?
Isabel said you should keep quiet during a massage, let the customer enjoy the experience. Unfortunately, the raucous descriptions of Berettas and S&W specials killed the ambiance. My budding foot fetish faded.
“I’m being forced to move from my studio apartment,” I said to drown out the gun show. I explained about the eviction notice and my aborted attempts to find lodging that would accept Reckless.
“I don’t mind dogs. You could always move in with me.”
“What?”
“You know, bunk on my couch. As a friend, like.” He shifted on the blanket.
I wasn't sure I wanted to room wi
th Rory. I heard my instructor’s voice from the police academy: Never sleep with a workmate, especially on his couch. Asking for trouble.
I contemplated being Rory’s roommate for another nanosecond.
“Sun's in my eyes,” he complained.
Nope. Would never work.
I plopped his cap on his face. “Better?” The man had just forfeited a face rub.
I started on the chest and arms. Then I worked on the fingers, pulling and stretching each in turn.
“My legs. Don't forget the front of my legs. They're stiff with all the work you did on the other side.”
My back cramped again, and my own fingers were getting sore. This massage stuff was hard work. I scratched at a mosquito bite on my arm—the breeze had brought the critters up from the creek, eager for fresh meat. I brushed at another bug that buzzed my head.
“Keep going, you're doing fine,” Rory purred. “You can do this every weekend for me.”
In your dreams, frogman!
“When I'm finished, what about giving me a turn?” I asked. I thought about the bliss of having someone rub my feet.
There was silence, then a snore erupted beneath the hat brim. Rory had tuned me out completely and was sound asleep.
Sitting on my haunches a moment, I wiped the sweat from my eyes. Then I took another swig of the now hot wine and looked up at the sun, climbing in the sky.
A person could get a bad sunburn, lying in the sun like this. I contemplated that fact for a moment. Then I switched off the boom box and picked up the roses. I loaded up the rest of the gear and strolled back to the Jetta. Rory had had his wine and massage. I had the information I came for. Fair trade.
An Abert’s towhee chuckled from under a red barberry bush near the car as I loaded up. I thought briefly about disconnecting Rory’s distributor, like my cousins in Tennessee had done as a prank to my old car.
Instead, I scrawled a big “Wash Me” with one fingertip in the dust on the Hummer’s hood, right where Rory couldn’t miss it. That would be a good job for a capable man like him when he woke up. It might cool down that sunburn he had gotten, maybe.
***
The Jetta’s transmission made grinding noises as I drove up the final hill into Mingus. Come on, old girl, you can do it. I shifted the car into low and the noise smoothed out.