Trudi Baldwin - Sammy Dick, PI 02 - Acid Test for Yellow Flower

by Trudi Baldwin

  It was hard to stay mad for long with great music, a great dog, and a great case opening up before me. We sped down Greenway, slipped through the tail-end of the yellow light, and zoomed north toward Sedona on the Black Canyon Freeway, both dog and owner smiling in anticipation.

  Chapter Three – A Glorious Beginning

  We reached West Sedona in well under two hours, coming from the Cottonwood side to avoid the congestion in downtown Sedona. Sedona is an international vacation destination for wealthy, artistic, nature lovers. On any given weekend, traffic intermittently slows to a bumper-to-bumper standstill at what’s called the T intersection, where 189 bisects 89A. If you turn west at the intersection, you head to West Sedona. If you turn east, you’ll wander up through Oak Creek Canyon, one of the most beautiful drives on the planet.

  Snack and I had better things to do today, though, as I swung a left off of 89A onto Dry Creek Road. We had avoided the T intersection altogether by coming in through West Sedona. I read the street names out loud to Snack to further enhance his travelling pleasure. I wasn’t sure it was possible to further enhance Snack’s traveling pleasure today, but the street signs read like some kind of southwestern psychedelic poem, so I spoke them aloud for Snack as we shot past them one by one: White Bear, Color Cove, Gringo, Camino del Caballo, Chimney Rock, Red Cliffs, and, finally, the street of choice, Lizard Head Lane. Gloria Strumheinnie, here we come!

  We veered off to the right and immediately began to gain altitude. The rich and worldly, as I aspired to be, usually had views and I was into views. My anticipation rose. I imagined Glory was the type to have a view. The steeper the road, the higher my anticipation rose, until, finally, we dead-ended at the very top of a mountain where Lizard Head Lane petered out completely. Snack and I sat staring at a rustic, wooden gate, fastened shut with a huge lock and chain. The posts for the gate consisted of hefty, wood poles, at least twelve inches in diameter, stripped of bark and stained a golden red color. Across the top of the gate arched a hand-carved rainbow with an uneven top depicting Sedona mesas and mountains with wildflowers painted into the carved grooves. The sign read Golden Glory Palomino Ranch.

  I loved it! Now I was really jacked up in anticipation. What could be more perfect than having a case that starts in Sedona at a palomino ranch? I was in for a surprise, though. Further perfection emerged running full tilt along the dirt road on the other side of Glory’s gate—two light golden retrievers bounded happily towards us. They waved their feathery tails frantically, barking at Snack and me.

  Snack figured he’d died and gone to some kind of Sedona doggie heaven after getting to ride in the passenger seat for two hours with the window cracked down, followed by greetings from two beautiful females, as I was to learn later, just as we reached our destination. Apparently good things happen at the end of Lizard Head Lane.

  I’d just stepped out to try to figure out how to open the gate, leaving Snack barking in the car, when at a leisurely pace, well behind the dogs, Gloria herself strolled toward us—her curvy form enclosed in tight western jeans, with expensive, well-worn cowboy boots below. Some kind of fancy, western belt buckle clasped her tiny waist, and a white, feminine, western blouse topped it all off. Hatless, her shoulder length, yellow hair caught the slight breeze.

  Even though I knew she was in her fifties, she took my breath away, she was so stunning. Stunning and something else. I searched for the right descriptor, and then it came to me: so stunning and so sure of herself. I began to wonder if I was really up to the task here. Seldom am I intimidated by anyone, but Gloria was having that effect on me. I bet she intimidated a lot of people in her business too. I’d have to keep an eye out for those kinds of provocations as I looked for motive in my investigation.

  “Samantha, how nice of you to drive up here on a Sunday,” she purred in a deep, sexy, modulated voice of professional caliber. “Kiva, Kachina, enough! Heel.”

  Kiva and Kachina scurried around and stood like soldiers at attention side by side next to their master’s left heel.

  OMG … now I was really intimidated. Wait until she gets a load of Snack!

  I’d begun debating if I should leave him in the car the whole time. After all, it was a cool, mild Sedona day—when she crooned, “Let me meet this beautiful dog of yours, Samantha. I can see you and I both share a preference for goldens. The breed is so loyal, loving, and calm. Did you know golden retrievers are one of the top choices for therapy and comfort dogs?”

  Snack might need to be in therapy. I couldn’t quite see him giving therapy, though. What to do?

  I thought fast and retorted, “Snack has never been in the presence of two female golden retrievers at once. He’s quite excited at the thought. He’ll calm down soon (translation: in his next lifetime), but he’s still in training (translation: I’ve had him since a puppy, and he’s still this way. I’ve had no impact on him whatsoever. Or maybe I have had an impact on him—the wrong kind.)”

  “What an unusual name: Snack. What is the significance?” Gloria asked.

  Time to think even faster. Here I was in the first few minutes with my new employer, and I was already lying through my teeth. Not a good beginning. Thinking fast is one of my specialties, though.

  “He does a happy dance every time I give him a snack, so I decided to call him Snack as Mr. Happy Dance was too long, and a little less masculine than he deserves,” I fibbed smoothly as I opened the passenger side door and let Mr. Happy Dance leap six feet straight out like a bullet, twirl to face the females, jump through the rungs of the wood gate, zip around Gloria, sniffing both girls’ butts as he sped by. Then he spun a reversal, so quick he could star in the NBA, and settled on top of the golden retriever closest to Gloria, proceeding to hump away, his eyes squeezed shut in blissful oblivion.

  Holy shit! Now what? For once, when I needed it most, I was at a loss for words. All my signature strengths were fading in the presence of the great Gloria.

  I muttered, “Uh, he is neutered, Gloria.”

  Next, an amazing thing happened. Gloria took firm hold of Snack’s collar and commanded, “Sit.”

  And, here’s the amazing thing, Snack sat. He withdrew himself from his blissful humping and sat down behind the two females looking expectantly and nervously up at Gloria.

  I thought, Uh, oh. We have a true alpha in our midst, and it isn’t me, and it isn’t Snack. It’s Gloria.

  “Do you have a leash, Samantha?” alpha Gloria asked, looking me coolly in the eye. “I can unlock the gate and have you drive up to the house, or we can all walk up together and leave your car here. I keep the gate locked at all times as a security precaution.”

  Walking was preferable I informed her, then I scrambled into the backseat to grab the leash and my huge, knock-off handbag. I shut all the car doors, beeped them locked, and trotted over to squeeze through the rungs of the gate myself, sheepishly handing her the leash. Gloria clipped it onto Snack’s collar, “Do you mind if I give Mr. Happy Dance here a little lesson as we walk up the hill toward my house?”

  “First of all, please call me Sammy, and secondly, I think it would do Mr. Happy Dance a world of good to walk with you to your house.”

  Gloria was firm and deliberate in her actions and voice. She looked each dog in the eye as she called them by name, then issued the command, “Kiva, sit. Kachina, sit.” Both dogs sat. Snack had sneaked a peek at the girls as they sat but hadn’t stood back up. Gloria gently pulled up on his leash, commanding him to put his head back into proper sit position, facing forward with one eye on her. He minded. All three dogs now sat beside Gloria’s left-hand side with Snack next to her leg, and the other two lined up three abreast with Snack.

  Unbelievable.

  Next, Gloria called out each dog’s name, one after the other, then firmly directed, “Heel!” as she took an exaggerated step forward to begin the walk up the gravel road to her home.

  Wonder of wonders, Snack heeled as they made a wide turn to head in the opposite direction away fro
m facing the gate. He danced a little more than the girls, but not much. Snack may be off the charts on the happy scale, but his ratings on the doggie IQ scale are not far behind, and his doggie IQ was saying, “Pay attention to Gloria, you idiot!”

  I walked behind the foursome on the way up the winding, dirt road, appreciating the sight of Gloria’s yellow hair blowing in the wind with the three dogs beside her, all their feathery tails, waving back and forth, almost in unison. Perhaps, this was going to be a good meeting after all. As I watched her manage not just one, but three dogs simultaneously, I speculated as to how well Gloria got along with Sylvester Swane, since they were both alphas. Probably lots of fireworks, I guessed.

  After that illuminating thought, I decided to just relax and enjoy myself. The cool November air in Sedona smells unlike any other place in the world, in my mind anyway. I hadn’t been to that many places in the world, so perhaps it smelled just like Lima, Peru. Who knew? But today, I drew in a big lungful of Sedona air through my nostrils, reveling in the scents. Since the elevation of Sedona is higher than Phoenix, the sparkling scent of ponderosa pine assaulted my senses, laced with the more familiar dark, acrid, undertones of creosote. The slight breeze created a dry, whispery sound as it filtered through the pines. Junipers abounded giving off their own fragrance, something like a dusty lavender with a hint of citrus. The gravel crunched under my feet. I breathed in and out to the point where I thought I might hyperventilate. My light-headedness was not unwelcome.

  We ascended the last of the dirt road, all the dogs minding and alert. When we rounded the final turn, a remarkable dwelling came into view. I assumed it must be Gloria’s home, or her Sedona residence, as Sylvester called it. I earned dual undergraduate degrees in art history and psychology before obtaining my MBA at ASU. Architecture was one of my favorite subjects. Heavily influenced by Frank Lloyd Wright, the home appeared to be an updated Prairie Home consisting of two stories, long oblongs set one upon the other, with rows of uninterrupted windows forming the walls. The exterior was an unornamented, wood and block construction—the wood stained to a dark natural sheen and the blocks painted a subtle mauve gray to blend into the surroundings. As we drew closer, I realized I could see straight through the house from where we stood—a band of floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the entry side, while a similar band stretched across the back, on both floors. Very Frank Lloyd Wright-esque, if there is such a word, and there is now, since I just made it up. I could hardly wait to enter this unusual home to see how it looked from within. I understood the chain locked gate even more now, faraway down the winding road. Privacy is paramount if you live in a glass house.

  We strode across the gravel parking lot. An attached two-car garage adjoined the house on our left. A wide veranda spanned the length of windows. Before we ascended the wide-set wood stairs, Gloria turned to face me, dogs in toe. She commanded, “Sit.” Three tails plopped right down and three heads turned up their faces expectantly toward her. She looked at me, though, and asked, “Will Mr. Happy Dance be okay outside with the girls?”

  The more appropriate question would have been “Will the girls be okay outside with Mr. Happy Dance?” But I didn’t correct her. “Of course. If the girls stay nearby, he’ll stay nearby.”

  With that, Glory unsnapped Snack’s leash and all three dogs leaped into action, twirling and sniffing each other. Snack began edging his way around behind one of the females to attempt to mount her. She snapped at him, and he backed off.

  “That’s Kachina. She’ll dominate and take charge of all three of them in a few minutes, so all will be well. Kachina has excellent judgment,” Gloria asserted as I watched the three dogs take off running full tilt through the tall pines, dodging in and out among the trunks, in a game of follow the leader who was, natch, Kachina.

  A wide veranda swept across the entire front of the home. We ascended its six steps and crossed the polished wood. Gloria stomped her well-worn, very expensive boots on the welcome mat before entering the house, so I stomped my too tight, garage-sale, fake lizard skins in like fashion and followed her in. Let the games begin.

  Chapter Four – Lunch on a Perch

  Since I’d been hyperventilating to begin with as we strode up the hill, the last of my breath rushed out of me upon entering Gloria’s home. We strode right on through over the beautiful mix of bamboo wood and tile flooring to the back of the home. Here, all of the windows were actually sliding glass doors in polished wood frames opening onto a veranda that hung out over the cliff behind her home. Gloria was leaning over the railing, her back to me, looking down into the deep arroyo below.

  “Lots of coyotes prowl along the trail down there and howl at night.”

  “Gloria, this view is breathtaking.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? You can call me Glory, by the way,” she said in her deep, melodic voice, turning to face me. “Are you ready for lunch?”

  “I’m always ready for lunch,” I said smiling. Then she led me further north along the deck to an outdoor, wrought iron table situated on an octagonal deck that jutted out even further over the canyon than the rest of the veranda. I could only imagine what kinds of struts and braces it took to hold this up so far out over the empty space below.

  The mild, November sun shone down on the gold place mats she or someone had laid on the table. A simple arrangement of black-eyed susans graced the center of the table. While Glory strode back inside to bring out our lunches, I caressed and then hefted the flatware. It, too, was graceful, simple and expensive. Like everything else. Ah, the lifestyles of the rich and worldly. Maybe it was all just an empty, American dream, though. I planned to observe Gloria closely to see just how fulfilled she was. Or wasn’t.

  On that thought, Glory emerged back on the deck, carrying two bowls of soup in little, dark green ceramic tureens. She laid my tureen in front of me. The soup was orange. I waited for her to seat herself and lift her soup spoon. Then I dug in. Yum! I love to eat, and I can afford to because I work out so much.

  “Pumpkin bisque,” Gloria pronounced, pacing her spooning better than I was.

  “Umm,” I pronounced, and we both consumed our soup in silence for a while. A hawk whirled lazily above us circling on the updraft from the canyon. He, or maybe it was a she, let out a single cry.

  The soup was the best pumpkin soup I’d ever had. Of course, I’d never had pumpkin soup before, so who knew? But the taste slid over my tongue in delicious waves and I reveled in the glorious day, no pun intended, Gloria.

  After we finished our soups, Gloria brought out salads with sliced, marinated chicken breast and pine nuts sprinkled across the top, all lightly drenched in some kind of multi-spice balsamic vinaigrette to die for. I tried not to keep saying, “Yummm,” after every bite, since I wanted to come across as grown-up and competent enough to find the acid-spilling criminal lurking in the midst of her manufacturing business, but right now perched out on her octagonal deck that seemed unreal and far, far away.

  She was about to bring it closer, though. “So, Sammy, let’s talk business now. Would you like a notebook to write in?” she asked as if I were a kindergartener.

  I decided she had a tendency to come across as superior and condescending. Not only could this be motive for someone attempting to destroy her business, but it was a signal to me to go on the offensive.

  “No, I have one right here,” I informed her, pulling it out of my big bag, “and a contract for you to sign as well, if we can come to an agreement on terms.” I scooted my chair closer to hers and smoothed out the somewhat rumpled contract between us. Two can play at this game, Glory.

  She didn’t miss a beat and launched into a description of the events in her factory that prompted the urgent call from Sylvester this morning. I’d already heard a summary from Sylvester, but I let her tell the story in her own way, with more detail while I took notes. So far, the acid had targeted only her best-selling product line: Organic Yellow Flower, a body lotion designed to “soothe the skin and soul.”


  “So is Organic Yellow Flower really organic and made with real yellow flowers?” I asked.

  Glory looked offended, “Of course. These are very high-end lotions. That’s why we charge so much for each bottle. All of the ingredients are raised organically. Extract of marigold is the flower essence, grown organically in South America. The other flower essence is derived from the bloom of the Summer Buckingham Squash, grown organically on US soil. The Summer Buckingham is pictured on the front of the bottle—a large, elegant gold and yellow flower.”

  I took a chance and quizzed her in a more personal way. “You realize, I’m sure, that everything surrounding you involves golds and yellows: essence of marigold, golden retrievers, gold and yellow flowers, and golden palominos, which, by the way, I’m dying to see.”

  Surprised and taken aback, she was quiet for a minute, and momentarily diverted my attention outwards—away from her and onto the landscape, thoroughly ignoring my question. “I bought this house for a number of reasons, but one is because so many mountains can be viewed from this single spot.” She began pointing to various landmarks in a clockwise fashion, starting to the west and pointing south towards Phoenix when she was done. “Doe Mountain, way over there. Bear and Lost Mountains. Maroon and Mescal over there and two mesas, Brin’s and Airport Mesa.” As if on cue, we both watched as a small plane glided in for a landing on top of the mesa, too far away for us to hear any sound. “There’s a helipad there too.”

  She grew silent again, flipped her hair back off her shoulders with a slight toss of her head. Then she pressed her hands across the contract and looked at me. Her eyes were a light, almost eerie green. Perhaps watered with crystalline blue somewhere in her DNA. She began to talk in a serious tone, “I grew up in a time when women were considered second-class citizens, even within my own family, and strong women, those with direction and purpose and some genius, I might add, were quite threatening to almost everyone. At some point, I decided I would become a force to be reckoned with and part of that force compelled me to identify and gather together what is unique and special about myself into a kind of cohesion, or personal branding, as they might call it today. I had naturally blonde hair, with an unusual yellow tone, and I was lucky enough to own a light golden palomino when I was a kid. Somehow, all of that became part of my personal packaging and story. It helped me gather all the forces of my nature into one place and focus those forces, like a laser, on creating my own success. It has served me well.”