by Lakota Grace
***
The housekeeper, Rosa, met me at the door and gestured to the second floor. “Please hurry. Dr. Spine is fighting with his daughter.”
I took the steps two at a time and opened the door to Heinrich's study. Marguerite was on her hands and knees picking up pieces of a broken bowl. It looked as though the old man had tipped over a tray of food on the carpet.
He looked up when I entered. “Took your time.” He pointed with a shaking finger at his daughter, his watery eyes glared fiercely. “She's trying to poison me.”
“Now father,” Marguerite began.
“That's Doctor Spine to you. Leave. I don't need you here.” His voice held fierce contempt.
“I'll be right outside.” Marguerite threw her father a look of frustrated bitterness and retreated out the door.
“I could use a drink of whiskey. Liquor cabinet's over there.”
“Fix your own,” I snapped. I wasn’t his daughter and he didn’t pay my salary.
Leaning heavily on his cane, Heinrich walked to the sidebar. With a shaky hand, he poured a whiskey from a crystal decanter. He lifted it toward me.
“Want one?”
“No,” I said, pointedly looking at my watch. What was the man doing drinking at this time of the morning, anyway? And wasting my time while he did it?
“Water, then,” he suggested.
“No, thanks. You really being poisoned?”
“Could be, the food's bad enough here.” He settled back in his chair. Took a sip of his whiskey. “It’s one way to get rid of that woman. She hovers.”
“And you play games,” I said.
“What else has an old man to keep life interesting?”
I wasn’t buying his “poor me” attitude.
“You could be nicer to Marguerite—she's your daughter. What’d you call me for?”
He shrugged. “Gil Streicker’s death. Was it accidental?”
“Possibly not, we're still waiting for the final report.”
“But I understand arsenic was involved?” He took another sip of his drink.
“Who told you that?”
“Never mind. I wanted to inform you that someone's been in my chemistry lab,” he announced. “The bottle of arsenic I kept there for experiments is missing. I've been robbed.”
“And this happened when?”
For once, he seemed nonplussed. “I'm not sure. I don't remember when I was last in there. Several years ago. But when Fancy said you'd paid a visit, I went to look. The arsenic was gone.”
That was convenient. Covering his bases, now that we were taking a closer look.
He gave me a gimlet-eyed stare. “You didn't take it, did you?”
Heat started at my throat and moved upwards. Only I wasn't embarrassed, but rather, angry.
“Gotcha,” he said. “Anyway, forget that for now. I wanted to discuss this job application I got from one...” He opened a folded piece of paper with his arthritic fingers and smoothed it out on his knee. Pulled a pair of reading glasses out of his pocket and settled them firmly on his nose. “...Flint Tanner. He says you know him. Do you?”
I considered my answer. I was angry at Flint, but the man needed a job. “He's reliable. You could do worse.”
“Or I could do better. What about you?”
I choked back indignation. “Dr. Spine, I—”
He waved a hand at me. “Never mind. I was just checking. You'd need to know about horses before I'd consider you, and you don’t look like a horse person.”
He got that one right.
“What are you doing this Saturday?” he asked.
“Why?”
No way did I want a closer connection with Dr. Heinrich Spine and his entourage. The man was a dredge anchor on my good intentions.
“Marguerite's giving one of her summer soirees. You’re invited.”
“I'll think about it,” I muttered as I left the room. Heinrich's chuckle followed me down the stairs.
This visit had been a waste of my time. The old man's statements were just a smoke screen to deflect attention that missing arsenic from his lab could have killed his ranch manager.
When Fancy showed me around the chemistry lab, she claimed the room was kept locked. But that big ring hung by the kitchen door held a copy of the entry key. Everybody passed through the kitchen at one time or another: Amanda, Marguerite, even Raven LightDancer. Maybe it was time to visit the man in black.
***
As I neared the kitchen, I heard the syncopated rhythm of flamenco. The melody conjured up images of smoky campfires and wagon caravans, very unlike the New Age tones I associated with Raven LightDancer.
Raven was alone in the kitchen. Steam rose from a large stockpot on the six-burner gas stove, pastry was resting on a marble slab, and a clear glass bowl held a golden-brown filling.
“Peg Quincy, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Are you looking for Marguerite? I think she went to the store.”
He switched off the CD player on the counter, but the music still echoed in my mind.
“Actually, I didn’t want to see her, I wanted to visit with you.”
His manner turned formal, almost old-world courteous. “Coffee?”
At my nod, he walked over to the built-in coffee maker in a side wall and steamed an espresso. He looked at me and asked, “A double?”
I nodded. He hit the brew button again. Liquid black gold steamed into the cup.
He made one for himself as well. “Have a seat.” He handed me the espresso and pulled up a chair beside me.
His actions were hospitable, but the look in his eyes was cautious, measured. “You know.”
“I do. Rory Stevens told me.”
“Ah, Rory. We both are swimmers, in our own way.” He took a small sip of espresso.
“Marty Zielinski is a long way from Raven LightDancer,” I said. “Why’d you change your name?”
“Officially, I haven’t. LightDancer is my nom de plume. And I’m good at what I do.”
“Which is what?”
“Let me show you.” He rose and lifted the lid from the bubbling pot on the stove. Steam belched forth.
“Here you see the makings of an organic vegetable broth. Don't tell Heinrich, but I get the vegetables from Serena Battle’s truck garden.”
He poured the boiling mixture of vegetables and liquid into a second colander-lined pot waiting in the sink. Then he tipped the vegetables into the trash and held out the remaining broth to me. “What do you smell?”
I leaned closer and my nose caught an earthy fragrance. “Curry?”
“Close. Garam marsala, actually. A five-spice mixture of cumin, coriander, cardamom pods, black peppercorns, dried red pepper—seeds discarded, of course—”
Of course.
He reached into a drawer for a spoon and dipped out a sample. “Try some.”
It was good, a rich buttery essence on my tongue.
“You plan to tell Marguerite and her father my real background?”
When I remembered his fake guru act at the mango lunch, I was tempted.
“Look, I tell Marguerite what she wants to hear, and I help the family eat better, even Heinrich.” He held out open-palmed hands. “I'm a reformed man.”
I wasn’t so sure. The honest demeanor he presented now could be an act, too. Likely it was. But I needed information.
“I just came from Heinrich’s room. He says someone is poisoning him.”
“Heinrich has a good imagination. Marguerite takes after him. Sometimes, she’d rather not see the world the way it really is.”
“What's your relationship with the family?”
“Chief cook and father confessor, most days.” His face held a wry expression.
In spite of what I knew, I warmed to his surface cheerfulness, as I suspected many people did. But I also detected an edgy intelligence. I wondered if such intelligence had seen a potential rival in Gil Streicker and acted upon it.
“Where were you the night G
il died?”
“You think I had something to do with it?”
His expression was all innocence.
“Did you?” I asked.
“Not a chance. I was over in Rimrock taking care of my ailing mother.”
“All night?”
“All night. She'll testify to that.”
I just bet she would. “And might your mother's last name be Zielinski, like yours is, Marty?” My voice hardened as I remembered his falsehood to the Spine family.
“So I use two names. Arrest me.” He held out his arms for imaginary handcuffs.
“It's not something to joke about. You're no more a spiritual healer than I am.”
“Don't be so sure, Miss Pegasus Quincy.”
His voice deepened, the vowels lengthening. “I sense an aura about you.” He cocked his head and squinted. “Pink—No, more turquoise, I think. Definitely spiritual in nature.”
He gave me another disarming smile. “People believe what they choose to believe. I am just the channel.”
I shook my head. What a load of malarkey. This man was paid exceedingly well for the gibberish he spouted to Marguerite. If his past history as a con man was revealed, that income would vanish.
Was Gil a blackmailer that had threatened to unveil him? My eyes went involuntarily to the big ring of keys hanging near the door. Easy enough to set out a drink for the ranch manager laced with arsenic. Odorless, colorless. Gil would never have known. And the man in front of me would never admit to it without further proof.
“I'll catch up with you later, Marty.” I rose from my seat.
“Do that. And the name is Raven, please. I've got a reputation to maintain.”
As I walked out the front door, the strains of an East Indian sitar floated out from the kitchen. The brief glimpse of Romany gypsy vanished as the New Age Raven LightDancer returned. The man presented an unsettling element here at the Spine Ranch.
I’d do well to remember that.
Chapter 18
Later that afternoon, I received a telephone call from Bettina Schwartz inviting me on another house hunt.
“We’ll find something exactly right for you,” she promised.
Her voice held that fake bravado that Shepherd used about his Porsche obsession. But the lady was tenacious, had to give her that.
I agreed to meet her after work. It would be cooler then, and the longer summer hours would give us daylight to look at houses. I’d settle for anything at this point. I just needed four walls and a roof that didn’t leak.
I knew the odds were slim when Bettina didn't meet my gaze, but rather pulled out a stapled sheaf of papers from the side pocket of the car door. She ran her finger down the computer-generated list.
“We've seen most everything here in Mingus. Maybe something will open up soon. That nice couple from Canada says they are thinking of putting their place on the market soon...”
We were in trouble if that was the best she had. HT had told me about that house—a five-bedroom monstrosity rumored to be in the low seven figures. That was about four zeros beyond what I could pay in rent.
“Surely there’s something else?”
“Well, there's one place, but you won't like it, I can guarantee that.”
My ears perked up. “Why not?”
“All sorts of complications. The owner, Mrs. Dorothy Harper, lives in a nursing home now. Possible tax foreclosure. Plus it’s been vacant for months—probably infested with scorpions and packrats. And you can't even get to the house in mud season.”
“How long is mud season?” First I'd heard of this climate event. This wasn't the East Coast after all, but rather the high desert of Arizona.
“I want to look.”
“You won’t like it.”
“I don’t care.” My chin set.
She sighed, undoubtedly relegating me to that purgatory of time-wasters that all real-estate agents face.
“All right, we’ll take a short peek. It’s on the way down the hill to Clarkdale, and I have some lovely properties there.” She drove her car down the switchbacks and then yanked a hard right at the turn to Desolation Gulch.
The Gulch had a checkered history during the mining days at Mingus: fistfights that turned into long-running feuds, cockfights, ladies of ill repute. As the crow flies, or the cop runs, the location wasn't far from Mingus at all. But the primitive road was an impossible challenge for the little SmartCar, even on a dry summer day.
Bettina high centered the car twice and finally gave up. She pulled on the emergency brake and we hoofed it down the hill, deeper into the Gulch. The real estate agent teetered in her high heels for a few steps, then yanked them off to walk barefoot. The last of her chirpy manner vanished as a run appeared in her stocking. I liked this house already.
We hiked for another five hundred yards and stopped at the end of a weedy drive.
“That's it,” she declared, pointing at a dilapidated structure head of us.
“Seen enough? My feet are killing me.” She started back up the rutted trail.
“Wait a minute, I want a closer look.” I kept walking.
The house was small but solid. The walls were constructed of round river rock, the front door half-ajar. I slowly walked around it, judging the construction. The roof looked sound. Two rusted hulks of cars populated the backyard. There was a small shed of corrugated tin, and was that an outhouse?
“It doesn't have indoor plumbing?”
“Well water, septic system.”
“But no indoor plumbing.”
Bettina rubbed one foot. “The owner was going to put it in, got the pipes up to the foundation of the house, but never got around to connecting it.”
“What about electricity?”
“It has an emergency generator and propane,” Bettina said. Her voice was I-told-you-so triumphant.
Not so fast, real estate lady. “Heat?”
“A fireplace.” She was getting a might sulky at my persistence.
I walked up onto a small wooden porch, my footsteps echoing on the boards. There was a hand-made rocker, where the owner must have sat. The unlocked front door opened with the screech of rusty hinges.
The inside was compact. A small living room with a fireplace held an old but serviceable sofa. An archway led to an eat-in kitchen with a small wooden table and chairs. I wandered through another doorway into a bedroom just large enough for bed and dresser.
There was no closet, but built-in shelves would do for folded clothes. I bounced on the double bed. Mattress seemed intact. No sign of water leakage from the roof above. And it was way bigger than my small studio apartment.
I turned around and walked back out on the porch, considering the possibilities. An unobstructed vista spread all the way down the gulch to Clarkdale. Facing east, so I’d see both moonrise and the early morning sun.
The little house even had a tin roof. I'd always liked tin roofs in the rainy—correction, make that mud—season. And it was quiet, away from neighbors that might be bothered by a baying hound like Restless. If I moved here I could build a fenced yard so he'd have a place to stay when I was at work. A doghouse, even. The house had a solid, set-down feeling to it.
“I’m interested,” I said, pulling the front door shut with a scrape across the floor.
Bettina was quiet all the way back to my apartment. As we pulled into the parking lot she said, “I'm sure something else will turn up if you'll just be patient.”
My patience meter had swung all the way over to the red zone. “See when I can occupy.”
“I can't promise anything, but I'll approach the owner. She has good days and bad days.” She sniffed.
“Pick a good day. I want the place.”
When I got back to the studio apartment, I felt like a new woman. I had a place to live! It would mean a lot of work, but I wanted to set down permanent roots here on the mountain. Besides, my dog Restless and I needed room to play. In my mind I was already rocking on my own front porch and…then the
phone rang.
It was my partner, Shepherd. “I want to do a stakeout tonight. I need your car. Need you, too, in case we run into something interesting,” he announced. “Bring your gun.”
***
When Shepherd knocked late that evening, Black Mountain shrouded my apartment with deep shadows. To the north, a faint glow marked the town of Sedona. Beyond that, the Mogollon Rim and the San Francisco Peaks formed jagged outlines on the horizon. With no moon rising, the skies would be dark and optimal for surveillance.
I let him in and made one last attempt. “Shepherd, give it up. Let somebody else handle this guy.”
He ignored my words and pushed ahead with his plans. “We need to use your car. The Porsche guy would recognize mine. And if anything happens, you’re the officer-in-charge. I’m just along for the ride.”
Were we on two different planets?
“Your job is at stake,” I protested.
“Some things are way more important.” His jaw set. “Now, you ready? Let's go.”
Although Shepherd was dressed in a dark T-shirt and black slacks, I outfitted myself in full uniform with my Glock at my side, as he had requested. It seemed strange to be the token law enforcement officer, here.
Shepherd had been told to stay away from this guy. What did he think his defense would be, that he was a civilian ride-along? I couldn’t see the judge buying that one.
But it was a waste of time arguing with Shepherd when he was in this frame of mind. Maybe we’d get lucky and the guy would commit some outrageous crime. Then we could lock him up for good and get Shepherd off this impossible mission.
I made one last pit stop. Then I filled a bottle of water that I'd ration, sip by sip. Stakeouts were tough on the female anatomy, but I was developing strong kidneys. I glanced at the back door to be sure the lock was set, and we pounded down the stairs, Reckless leading the way. I pushed the pup back into the apartment, closed and locked the door.
Shepherd and I piled into my Jetta, and I started the engine.
“Shepherd is this trip really…“