Fire in Broken Water

by Lakota Grace

  But another unpleasant surprise awaited me at the apartment. A new eviction notice replaced the one I had torn down. This one, taped to the front door, announced in big red letters, “Final Notice.” They weren't kidding.

  I didn't have many possessions, but I didn’t want them sitting out on the street waiting for me one night when I got home from work. Time to get serious about finding another place to stay.

  I kicked off my shoes at the top of the interior stairs to the apartment and dropped onto my red sofa. Then I pulled out my cell and dashed off a text to Bettina Schwartz.

  “I’m getting desperate,” I typed. “Something, anything?”

  Her response beeped back like she'd been waiting for my text. I guess that real estate people keep the same weird hours we law folks do. Bettina said we'd not stop looking until we found just the right place for me. I liked her can-do attitude—it resonated with my own. And I needed a place to land, fast.

  We set a time to meet the next morning.

  Chapter 16

  Just as she had promised, Bettina honked outside my building early the next morning. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, threw on some clothes, and dashed downstairs to greet her. What was I thinking, to give up a weekend day for this?

  Bettina Schwartz was a petite woman, with a huge head of platinum blond hair and a cowboy vest whose Conchos jingled in hard-to-miss places. She shook my hand firmly. “Isn’t it a lovely morning? Call me Bett.”

  Real estate agents are the first in town to have the new cars. It was just my luck that Bettina Schwartz picked a SmartCar, not a Tesla. I squeezed my six-foot frame into the front seat and we started up the hill.

  Bettina asked questions like a police interviewer. I tried to be cooperative, but what did my sock size or my last three boyfriends have to do with renting a house? Finally, she took a hint at my noncommittal responses and we lapsed into silence for the rest of the drive.

  She shifted the little car into low and it wound up the curves to the top of Walker Street, where many of the lovely wood-frame Queen Annes built for mine executives had fallen into disrepair. The roofs went first, then the house would implode, everything falling into the cellar with a splintering of rotten wood. We passed several in this sorry state and stopped in front of the final house on the street. This residence seemed to be intact, at least at this point.

  “The owners are so excited that you're looking to lease their lovely home,” Bettina said. “They'll make you a great deal. And the neighbors would love to have a lawman—oops, make that a law person—in the neighborhood. It will raise the value of their property if they decide to sell.”

  She pulled into the driveway of the unoccupied house. A tattered “For Sale” sign drooped in a yard covered with litter and debris from last winter's storms. A broken tree branch leaned against the sagging roof.

  “They'll fix that,” Bettina assured me with a dismissing wave.

  She struggled to open a front door warped by the house settling, and we walked in to discover another tree limb had crashed through a front window.

  “Look at that view,” Bettina gushed, pointing to a strip of the valley barely visible through a high bathroom window.

  The boards creaked under our feet. Termites?

  Bettina gestured uncertainly upward. “Bedrooms are up there. They'll fix the stairs, I'm sure.”

  Fixing up the old house was a challenge I might have tackled until she mentioned the rent.

  “They want that much?” I gasped.

  “Well, it's an authentic turn-of-the-century home. Make a great Bed and Breakfast.”

  Changing sheets wasn't my idea of fun.

  “What's next on your list?”

  “I was so sure you'd like this one. There is something lower on the hill.” She sniffed just a teensy bit.

  I jack-knifed my legs back into her fashionista car and we headed down on the status scale. The next house, tiny, backed up to the town's rowdiest saloon. When we opened the car door, we were greeted by the sound of an out-of-patience mother screaming at her kids next door. A jackhammer from some Main Street construction entered the cacophony.

  “Maybe we can come back another time when it’s quieter,” she said.

  Right. Like never.

  She studied the computer print-out. “You don't want Clarkdale?”

  “No,” I said definitively. The man I had killed lived there. I didn't want that constant reminder every day driving to work.

  “And Cottonwood is too far…”

  I nodded. I'd been there to pick up Shepherd during his recovery from an injury, and it was a longish drive from where my grandfather lived in Mingus. Anyway, I liked it here in this little town. I wanted to settle here permanently, if this budget crisis at the sheriff’s department ever lifted.

  “Those are the only two I've got so far, but I'll keep looking.” Bettina sighed.

  I stretched out my legs with relief when I exited her car at my apartment’s front door. We said polite goodbyes and she left. I was disappointed, but no sense rushing into anything. Didn’t property owners need to give 30 days’ notice? I had plenty of time.

  ***

  It was near noon, and I pulled cheddar cheese, a loaf of sour-dough deli bread, and my favorite horseradish from my micro-fridge. Setting my cast iron skillet on the small stove, I poured in a bit of olive oil. Then I buttered both pieces of bread, put slices of cheese in between the bread, slathered the horseradish on top of the cheese and pressed the two slices together.

  When the oil was hot, I tipped the sandwich into the pan to toast. I flipped the sandwich once and when it was done, slid it onto a plate along with some pickles.

  I grabbed a beer and walked out on the balcony to eat. Traffic backed up on the road below me as tourists from Phoenix looked for parking places so that they could visit the Copper Museum and the fudge company. Pedestrians gathered in knots and family groups, snapping pictures of the million-dollar view, and window-shopping for the stained-glass and watercolor treasures in the art galleries. Their dollars paid our salaries, so I didn’t complain.

  After lunch, an afternoon with no set plans loomed. My grandfather, HT, and Isabel had headed over the mountain into Prescott for their quarterly Costco and Trader Joe’s run. I didn’t think I’d be talking to Rory Stevens anytime soon.

  I paced in the small apartment for a while and then grabbed my car keys and headed down the stairs for a drive. The Gil Streicker case was weighing on me, and I always thought better behind the wheel.

  The Jetta started smoothly, its sulks from the day before forgotten. I drove aimlessly across the valley, enjoying the pre-monsoon clouds on the horizon, and the fresh quiet of the weekend.

  When the Jetta stopped in front of a white house with blue shutters—Janet Miller’s home—I looked up in surprise. Maybe subconsciously my car, like an old country doctor’s horse, had delivered me where I needed to be. I’d been wondering how she was doing after her son’s suicide.

  Janet sat in an old platform rocker on the porch when I pulled up. She reminded me of someone I knew. I didn’t have Shepherd’s facility with names and faces yet, but he had thirty years on me. If it was important, my mind would sort through all the possibilities and fish out the person my mind was struggling to remember.

  “Just stopping by to see how things are going,” I said, walking up to the porch.

  A stupid remark. How good could things be, with your child dead by his own hand? I was still learning this family liaison, FLO, thing. Occasionally I had some awkward moments as I fumbled with the right thing to say. Sometimes there was no right thing.

  But Janet didn't seem to take offense.

  “I wanted to thank you for stopping by the other day, Officer Quincy. Johnny would have liked that.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Did you reach the funeral director?”

  “Yes. We've made arrangements to scatter his ashes over the red rocks. He loved them so. He was studying to be a journalist, you know. Now tha
t never will happen.”

  She started to cry silently, making no motion to brush away her tears. They dripped on her cotton blouse, making a trail of dark splotches.

  “I'm organizing a mother's group,” she said after a moment, “to hold an assembly at the high school. Sometimes there are copy-cat sui...suicides.” She stumbled over the word. “Would you be a speaker?”

  I didn't know much about teen suicides, other than they left heartbreak and destruction behind them. But I promised I’d put something together.

  I left soon after that. It was just a drop-in call to let her know she wasn’t alone.

  Between the aborted real estate hunting trip and the visit with Janet Miller, my Sunday so far was a downer. When I got back to my studio apartment, Reckless greeted me with the unabashed enthusiasm of a redbone coonhound. I let him out in the backyard to check out the ground squirrels and pocket gophers.

  The structure was built into the hillside, and beyond the backyard, the road climbed steeply into the main part of town. One little kid spotted me in the yard and waved. I waved back and my mood lifted. Maybe life wasn’t so bad.

  It turned even better a moment later when my phone rang. It was Flint Tanner. Flint was a geologist that had come to town about the same time I had. A tall drink of water, keenly intelligent, and sexy as all get out.

  He was no longer part of my life, but late on sleepless nights the timbre of his voice, the easy way he had of moving, his strong presence, haunted my bedroom still. I’d never understood the phrase, “carrying a torch,” before I met Flint. Now I did.

  “Peg, I know this is short notice, but would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

  I considered playing hard to get, but inside I was panting like my dog Reckless.

  “Where?” There was an unbecoming squeak in my voice.

  “How about Grapes? That’s close to you.”

  I hesitated. Grapes was the favorite hangout for Rory Stevens and me when we were “on” rather than “off”. After the massage-on-the-rocks episode, I wasn’t sure which category fit, but it would be awkward to run into him at Grapes with an old flame on my arm.

  So I countered Flint’s offer with a suggestion that we meet at Nic’s, in the Old Town section of Cottonwood. They had thick, expensive steaks. A girl had to eat.

  Flint was agreeable and rang off.

  I scritched Reckless’s ear for good luck and headed for my closet. Time was a-wasting. I pushed hangers around on the closet rod pondering the age-old problem of what to wear for the evening. It had been so long since I'd been on an official date, everything looked unsuitable.

  Finally, I grabbed a pink silk blouse that didn't look girly on me with my height and red hair. Brown pants that I'd tuck into my new chestnut suede boots with the fringe around the top. I took a leisurely shower and washed my hair. I even painted my toenails all-I-want-for-Christmas pink and shaved my legs for good luck. I was ready to rumble.

  At a quarter to six, I let Reckless out one last time, climbed into the Jetta, and headed down the hill to Old Town.

  I arrived just as Flint drove up. He unfolded long legs and got out of his pickup truck. Flint was six-two, two inches taller than I was. I’d always appreciated that fact. He gave me a smile that began at one corner of his mouth and crinkled his gray eyes.

  “Peg, it's been too long.”

  We both hesitated over a handshake and then he enveloped me in a hug instead. It felt good, warm. Better than warm. A little embarrassed, I pulled back. Flint held the door open for me and we entered the restaurant.

  He touched my back as he held the chair out for me at the table. I felt a responsive jolt of electricity. Maybe there was still something there between us…

  We'd had a brief affair I’d hoped might develop into something more. Then the new bank manager, Jocelyn Hunter caught his eye, and Flint moved on. I cried for weeks. Could those banked coals burst into flame once more?

  Stop it, Peg!

  I snatched up the menu. It trembled in my fingers as I deliberately hunted for the most extravagant item on the menu. Anything to distract me from the handsome man sitting across the table.

  Flint was attentive over dinner: brushing my hand as he refreshed our wine from the carafe, offering me a bite of his lobster soaked in butter. I licked the butter from my lips and looked into his eyes, deeply. A movie moment. All it needed was the slow motion and violins.

  A small tingle grew below my belt line as I anticipated what the evening might bring. We lingered over coffee, making small talk. When the check came, Flint didn’t even glance at it, just put his American Express card in the slot and let the waitress take it.

  He gave me a soft look, holding the glance a moment longer than necessary. Then he sighed and straightened in his chair.

  “Some bad news, Peg, at least for me.”

  “Oh, no. What?”

  “I've been laid off as a geologist. Budget cuts.” He shrugged, trying to be matter of fact about it.

  Flint had been instrumental in the mining survey for the town, but there'd been a dearth of activity in that area since the town voted down new mining development. Could be that's why I hadn't seen him around.

  “What are you going to do?” I thought guiltily of the expensive dinner I'd just consumed. Maybe I should have offered to go Dutch.

  “This is awkward.” He hesitated. “I need to ask a favor. I can't go to my girlfriend Jocelyn for this—you understand.”

  My heart took a nosedive at the mention of the bank manager's name and the accompanying adjective. Girlfriend as in, we go bowling together, or girlfriend, as in we’re sharing the same bed? I backpedaled like crazy, trying to retreat from the cliff I’d almost leaped over.

  “Uh, sure, anything.”

  “I need a job recommendation. They want a professional reference.” He shoved a piece of paper across the table, suddenly all business, turning that romance off like a light switch.

  I glanced blankly at the sheet of paper, desperately trying to change directions. Business, Peg. This is all about business. Flint’s name appeared in rough letters on the first line. Then my eyes jumped to the legend topping the page.

  “You're applying for a job at the Spine Ranch?”

  “Sure. There's an opening there. Something happened to the manager.”

  He died, in fact.

  Flint didn't notice my hesitancy and plowed on. “And I grew up on a ranch. I had a range management specialty with my geology degree.”

  I could see him gearing up with the elevator pitch that we all practice for that awful moment we might actually need it. But how could Flint consider working for Heinrich Spine?

  “Uh. I'm sort of working the case out there,” I said. “Could be a conflict of interest, to recommend you.”

  “I heard that was Shepherd's case.” Flint’s voice became strident. His urgency to reach his goal brushed my own concerns out of the way.

  I hated Shepherd Malone for putting me in this bind! And Flint wasn’t listening either. Did I mean nothing to these men? Obviously, I still felt and Flint didn’t. My cheeks glowed poker-hot.

  I yanked a pen out of my purse and scribbled the usual platitudes across the sheet—excellent worker, well-organized, good team player—and shoved it back across the table to him.

  “Thanks, Peg.” Flint grabbed the paper and tucked it into his shirt pocket before I could change my mind.

  “Compliments of the house,” said the waitress at his shoulder. “Our special chocolate lava cake.” She set a huge dish of cake swimming in chocolate sauce in the middle of the table.

  “Stay here and enjoy your dessert,” I told Flint. “Catch up with you later.”

  I tripped on the carpet in my haste to rise and grabbed the corner of the table. The lava cake tilted ominously. But it didn’t feel as awful as I did. Before Flint could protest, I strode out of the restaurant into the dark night.

  I'd been dreaming of romance and all he wanted was a job reference—was pay
ing for it, in fact, with an over-the-top dinner. I should have known better. Jocelyn-the-bank-person could keep the bum.

  I stormed down the street to my Jetta. Ramming my foot on the accelerator, I roared up the hill to Mingus. The tires squealed when I slammed into the parking spot next to my building. I yanked the key out of the ignition and stomped to the apartment.

  Then I jerked the offending Eviction Notice off the ground floor window. No reason to advertise to the world that I was headed for the same black hole that Flint Tanner found himself in.

  Reckless greeted me with a pounce, and I stomped up my interior stairs tripping over him the whole way. He jumped up in my lap with a heavy thud when I slumped onto the sofa. I rubbed him behind the ears just where he liked and hugged him close.

  Maybe I should become a nun. I vowed celibacy for 60 days—well 30 days, anyway.

  The world seemed a quiet and dark place as I walked out on the balcony for a late night survey of the town. It would be nice, just once, to have a person to share this life of mine.

  Would I settle for even a slug like Flint Tanner? Nah, I wouldn't stoop that low. I'd carried a torch for that man long enough.

  I locked the balcony door behind me and retired for the night. Tomorrow was Monday, time for my regular work life.

  No more Ms. Nice Person. I meant it.

  Chapter 17

  The next morning at the office I had just settled with my first cup of coffee and croissant from the bakery down the street when I got a call from the horse ranch.

  “Someone is poisoning me,” Heinrich Spine said.

  “Do you need to call 911? Are you in danger?”

  “No, of course not. If I were, I wouldn’t call you.”

  Right. “How do you know you’re being poisoned?”

  “How soon can you be here? His voice was sharp with irritation. “I need to talk to you in person.”

  He didn’t sound too sick to me, but at his age, you couldn’t be sure. I told him I’d be there in a half hour. I tossed the remains of the croissant in the trash and dumped the coffee in the sink. I told Shepherd where I was going and he grunted at me. “Stay safe.”