Acid Test for Yellow Flower
Sammy Dick, PI
Trudi Baldwin
Copyright © 2013 All rights reserved.
Registration number TXu 1-864-245 April 20, 2013
For Ken, My brother and inspiration for genius Geo
Contents
Chapter One – The Mission
Chapter Two – The Drive
Chapter Three – A Glorious Beginning
Chapter Four – Lunch on a Perch
Chapter Five – Preliminary Work
Chapter Six – The Job Interview
Chapter Seven – The Yellow Flower Line
Chapter Eight – Break Time
Chapter Nine – Lunch at Carl’s Junior
Chapter Ten – Motive Monopoly with Geo
Chapter Eleven – Day Two on the Job
Chapter Twelve – Report to Gloria
Chapter Thirteen – Arrival of the Virgin Instrument
Chapter Fourteen – BYOE Hump Day Party
Chapter Fifteen – The Getaway
Chapter Sixteen – Post-BYOE Hump Day
Chapter Seventeen – Nothing, Nada, Zilch
Chapter Eighteen – Palomino Sunset in Sedona
Chapter Nineteen – Working Overtime at the Factory
Chapter Twenty – The Acid Test
Chapter Twenty One – A Change of Luck
Chapter Twenty Two – Reversal of Luck
Chapter Twenty Three – Flight to Sedona
Chapter Twenty Four – A Strange Tableau
Chapter Twenty Five – Lady Godiva
Chapter Twenty Six – Love in High Places
Chapter Twenty Seven – Going Viral
Chapter Twenty Eight – Giving Thanks
Chapter Twenty Nine – Dessert
Author’s Note
Chapter One – The Mission
The Mission Impossible theme song trumpeted from my cell phone just as I plopped down into a cushy chair in Starbucks. I couldn’t decide whether to answer the vaguely familiar number flashing across the screen or finish sucking down the dregs of my ice cold Triple Caramel Velvet Latte Special smothered with tons of whipped crème.
The flavor was so tasty I’d almost finished my latte off in the short walk from the counter to the chair. I let the phone play through its third run of Mission Impossible while I debated answering. The people around me were debating too. They couldn’t decide what was more irritating, my ringtone or my bottom-of-the-cup straw action. Noticing their grimaces, I chose to act quickly—one of my signature strengths. I decided to try and answer the phone and suck on the straw simultaneously. Most likely the call wasn’t related to work, since it was a Sunday, but I answered with my stock phrase, just in case.
“Uh,” slurping sound, “welcome to the Dick Agency.” I did my best to pull back from the phone on each slurp.
“Sammy Dick at your service.” Long slurping sound to vacuum up the final dregs of caramel tucked around the bottom edges of the cup. “How may I help you?” I licked my lips.
“Are you in a construction zone? Has a water main burst or something.”
I bolted upright, which was hard to do in the cushy chair. Whoa, this is Sylvester Swane himself on the phone. International entrepreneur, multi-millionaire and my only high-paying, and even actual-paying client in my new little start-up investigation business I run with my cousin, Geo, called the Dick Agency.
Best to stop slurping and start responding with some degree of professionalism.
“Sylvester! What a pleasure to hear from you. How are you?” I decided to ignore the water main reference.
“Sammy, I have an urgent job for you. Do you remember Gloria Strumheinnie?”
“Of course, I remember Gloria Strumheinnie. How could I forget your ravishing date at the Swann Diamonds Charity Ball.”
Gloria, or Glory as she called herself, was an international entrepreneur in her own right. In her fifties, she looked like a movie star of early films: huge tits, probably fake, voluptuous body, with golden hair falling to her shoulder in waves. At the Swann Diamonds Charity Ball her dress clung like a second skin, a second skin that glittered with gold sequins. She undulated among the crowd, a gold fish swimming and parting the waters through a school of guppies. Glory cut an unforgettable figure in any room. A perfect date for Sylvester Swane.
A childhood friend of my father, Sylvester supported my fledgling business by throwing work my way. In truth, though, I had solved a major case for him, the Swann Diamonds investigation exposing major criminal activity within his firm, so my good reputation with Swane was not unearned.
My one and only previous meeting with Gloria Strumheinnie had been at the Swann Charity Ball, sponsored by Sylvester Swane and Swann Diamonds. Like Sylvester, Gloria was a force to be reckoned with and lived in circles and a lifestyle way beyond my reach. Well, my reach today. I planned on making big money doing undercover investigations through the Dick Agency, attracting and retaining clients just like the impressive Ms. Gloria Strumheinnie, until I, too, enjoyed a lifestyle of the rich and worldly.
“Sammy, I know it’s Sunday, but I need to ask a favor of you that could result in a very lucrative case. You’d have to start working today, though, as time is of the essence.”
I was ensconced in my favorite Leopard Lady leotard with a pair of sweat pants pulled on as cover-up. I’d just finished my normal, two-hour Sunday workout at Pure Fitness with my sometimes boyfriend who was also a Phoenix police detective, Mountain Man Montaigne.
“No problem, Sylvester. What’s up?”
“Glory owns several lines of business, but one of her fastest growing businesses is the manufacturing and sales of a line of organic body lotions called Glory Organics. Her manufacturing and distribution facility is right here in Phoenix. The products have been highly successful. Glory now sells and distributes globally.”
In actuality, I already knew all this, because in our previous investigation, Geo and I had run a quick search on everyone involved with Swane. Gloria Strumheinnie boasted an impressive resume and entrepreneurial track record, but I played dumb to learn more.
“That sounds like a good track record, Sylvester, so what’s the problem?”
“Her top selling product is called Organic Yellow Flower. This week, through a routine quality check before shipping, small traces of acid were discovered in that product line only. Glory immediately ran her own investigation. The best she has discovered so far is that hydrofluoric acid has been injected into the lotion somewhere in the manufacturing process. Luckily, no bottles had been shipped out yet, and Gloria recalled previously shipped bottles: they all tested clean. Gloria thinks she’s contained the problem and any damage to her company’s reputation. She also stopped production. Cleaned out and sterilized all the vats, then increased quality control. The plant is now up and running again. However, the quality department checks every bottle that goes out the door, since she doesn’t know where in the process the acid was added nor where and when the perpetrator will strike next. The traces of acid were miniscule at this point, but could possibly have caused damage over an extended period of time, with repeated exposure.”
“Checking every bottle sounds expensive and time consuming,” I chimed in.
“Agreed. Not a sustainable method for doing business and she doesn’t want to call in the police because she wants to limit negative exposure as much as possible. Glory’s got to find out what’s going on immediately. She wants a more focused insider investigation, and I recommended you. Imagine the damage to Gloria if bottles of acid-laced lotion go public!”
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“Not to mention the damage to the public’s skin,” I added dryly.
“That too,” Sylvester conceded. “At any rate, time is of the essence. Gloria was hoping you could visit her today, so she could prep you for the assignment.”
My partner Geo and I had snagged only minor investigations ever since our last huge one in July with Sylvester in the Swann Diamonds investigation. Now in November, the year was wrapping up and our client base was slim to zero, with the actual-paying clients even slimmer. I was thrilled with the opportunity Sylvester was once again throwing my way.
“I’m up for it. What’s her address and phone number?”
“Well, there’s a slight catch there, Sammy. Gloria owns several residences and right now she’s up at her ranch in Sedona. You’d have to drive up there today to meet with her.”
“What kind of a ranch?”
If Sylvester was taken aback by my redirect, he didn’t show it—or else he’d grown used to it in our last case together. “A quarter horse ranch.”
“Okay, I’m more than up for it. Please text me her info and I’ll get right on it.” My mom, my best friend Delilah, and I were all avid riders. We loved horses of all kinds. A quarter horse ranch in Sedona and a lucrative investigation—what’s not to like?
“Signing off and texting it to you now, Sammy. Good luck, and call me if you need advice.” The phone clicked off. Finally I was able to suck down the last dregs of my Triple Caramel Velvet Latte. I sailed the cup through the air into the trash can, over the heads of my many admirers, easy score, then zipped out the door and across the parking lot. I was beeping open my Mazda 3 when the text came through: 3182 Lizard Head Lane. Typical Sedona address, followed by Gloria’s phone number. I keyed in her numbers with my thumb, while I slipped into the driver’s seat. She picked up first ring.
“Glory here.”
“Samantha Dick of the Dick Investigation Agency. Sylvester suggested I call you right away.”
“Yes, thanks for your quick response. I’m hoping you can come up today and go over the case in detail with me. I’m sorry it has to be on a Sunday.”
“No problem, Gloria. Sylvester said you live on a ranch, though, and I’m wondering if I can bring my dog. I usually take him for a long run on Sundays.”
“Sure. No problem. I have some dogs of my own. When do you think you can get here?”
“About two and a half hours, if you’re close into town.”
“I’m on the back west side of Sedona. I’ll be looking for you and your dog around 12:30. Would you like some lunch when you get here?”
“Perfect, Glory. See you soon.” I tossed my phone on the passenger seat, revved up my Mazda and sped out of the parking lot toward home.
Chapter Two – The Drive
I pulled up into the driveway of my 1970s home on Sunnyside Lane. All members of the extended Dick family, as I liked to call us, lived within a few miles of each other. Even though my home was older, at least in Arizona years, I loved it. I owned it, or at least the mortgage on it, all by myself. For someone fresh out of graduate school, that’s something to be proud of. To help pay for the mortgage, I had two renters: my cousin, Geo (pronounced with a soft gee and oh), who was also my business partner, and my best friend for many years, Delilah.
I waited for the slow moving garage door to ascend, pulled in the Mazda, jumped out and bolted through the garage door leading into the kitchen, calling out names as I entered.
“Geo, Delilah! Anybody home?”
No answers, but I heard the familiar whack of the doggie door slapping open and in bounded Snack my three-year-old golden retriever. Snack is called Snack for a good reason. It’s the only name he’ll come to. He’s a happy dog as are all golden retrievers, and a perfect match for me.
“Wanna go for a ride, Snack?”
Snack danced and whirled in circles of delirious anticipation. I figured that meant yes, so I headed to the bedroom to shower and change. Once I got there, I had to wade through the laundry piles I’d started last week. The piles had never reached the laundry room, a mere two steps down the hall. NP, I’ve got a case to work now. Laundry will have to wait. Besides, Snack had followed me in and was now dancing through all the piles, obliterating any semblance of preparation I’d started. I shimmied off the Leopard Lady and sweat pants, tossed them into the intermingling piles, and danced myself into the bathroom for a quick shower.
Emerging minutes later, I quickly dried with a towel that I did return to hang in the bathroom—otherwise I’d completely run out of dry towels. Next big decision. What to wear? Sylvester had said it was a ranch. I owned some awesome ranch outfits, but where exactly were they in this giant mess? I waded through the scattered piles and slid open the old 1970s mirrored closet doors searching for some cowgirl-up attire. Delilah and I loved to shop secondhand stores and garage sales for used clothing treasures and accessories. I often wore our finds to go on undercover investigations; one of my favorite activities. I spotted some super-tight faded boot cut jeans, and in the far corner, a pair of lizard-like red and white painted cowboy boots tipped with little kick-ass metal thingies on the toes, probably for just that reason, kicking ass. Delilah and I had picked these up at a garage sale last year. I pulled on the jeans, shoved on the boots. A little too tight on all counts, but, hey, I’d be driving, followed by talking. I can stand tight jeans and pinched feet for four or five hours when they look this cool. Besides, the boots were a serendipitous choice for a visit to Lizard Head Lane, no? The answer was a resounding yes!
Now for a suitable top. I decided I wanted to be a non-traditional, hipster cowgirl. I slid open the other side of the closet. Sure enough, the t-shirt I had in mind was on the far right-hand side, a white faux-vintage t-shirt with red flowers spilling across it in a cascading viney design. The shoulders were a see through lace. Perfect!
I slipped the tee on over my head. Took a moment to survey my five-foot-nine, hard-earned, in-shape body in the mirror. Good to go! Now for some quick makeup and hair spikes. I zipped back into the bathroom now that the steam had cleared, applied lavender lip gloss, black mascara and eye liner liberally, followed by some Moody Mauve eye shadow to heighten the drama. Next I foamed a small mountain of Spikester onto my palm and rubbed it into my damp, short hair pulling it away from my scalp in some mild spikes. My hair was brunette at the roots, followed by some earlier red and tipped with blonde, enabling me to attract men who preferred any or all of those colors.
Snack was enjoying every minute of my preparation, but, then again, Snack enjoyed every minute, regardless. I patted him on his velvety head, we both trotted to the kitchen where I offered him some water which he refused, then I found his leash on the hook by the door. I grabbed my handbag, cell phone and keys—then remembered I had no idea how to find her ranch. I plopped down at the Formica kitchen table where I kept my laptop, flipped it open to MapQuest and quickly printed directions. I could use my phone, but I liked having the actual map and directions laid out.
I was trying to break my habit of talking on my cell phone and driving, so before I left, I called my partner, Geo. He actually answered! Answering had become less of a certainty now that he was in love with little Miss Kathy Keach, as I called her. We’d helped her solve a multi-continent real estate crime, involving murder, arson and millions of misspent dollars—and Geo and I had done it all gratis, just so he could win the love of little Miss Kathy Keach.
Don’t get me wrong. I like Kathy. It’s just that I preferred my pre-Kathy relationship with Geo, as in all about the job, versus the post-Kathy one, as in Sammy plays second fiddle to Kathy when I need Geo’s help to solve a case. Geo’s decision-making revolves around the whims of Little Miss Kathy Keach.
Techno-geek extraordinaire, Geo helps me set up and test gray-market surveillance tools, at least ones that we can afford, and he used to conduct loads of somewhat legally acquired research in his pre-Kathy days. A senior at Arizona State University in business and pre-law, Geo wants to b
e a lawyer one day if he doesn’t get arrested for hacking first. He’d paid off the first three years of his student loan with bonus money from our last big case with Sylvester Swane. I planned to hang that over his head to entice him or to guilt him into helping me on this case.
“Yoh, Sammy, what’s up?”
“I have a new, big case.”
“That’s good.” A man of few words.
“Referred by Sylvester Swane.”
“That’s even better. What do you need? I can work on it when I get home.”
I quickly outlined what little I knew so far. Geo had a genius IQ. It was often wiser to let him decide what to research, so I said, “Go ahead and use your own judgment. I’ll learn a lot more after I’ve met with Gloria. Can we meet tonight to put together a game plan?”
“Um, just a minute, let me see.” I could hear the phone shuffling and a muffled discussion with Little Miss Kathy Keach must have ensued.
“Okay. See you tonight, Sammy.”
What I wanted to say was so did you get your mommy’s permission, you love-sick ding-ding?
Gritting my teeth, what I actually said was, “Good. See you tonight.” I tossed my phone into my handbag so hard I almost cracked its face. I missed the days when Geo and I were more of a team, and now we were a weird threesome—much harder to navigate a case successfully, and it wasn’t like we had a huge history of successfully navigated cases to begin with.
At least Snack was still happy. I stomped out of the house in my too-tight lizard boots and let Snack bound across the driver’s seat onto the passenger side, so he could check out the scenery as we drove. I glanced into the backseat to see if my vintage jean jacket, also snagged at a garage sale, was still there. Yup. Good to go.
We backed out after the rickety garage door clacked its slow upward ascent, then shot down Sunnyside Lane and hung a right onto Greenway. I slipped in a new CD I’d made. Avicii’s “Wake Me Up” burst into the car filling every nook and cranny with its happy beat. I lowered Snack’s window just enough for him to sneak his head out, but not his body. That way he could sniff the scents as they flew by. He squinted his eyes into slits and his ears flew backward like flags in the wind.
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