Fire in Broken Water

by Lakota Grace

  Flint would probably be there with his banker girlfriend, Jocelyn, in tow. That changed the game. No way was I attending alone!

  Rory Stevens could escort me. I had a bribe to entice him—an atomic orange Hummer that needed washing. It even bore a sign that said so.

  Chapter 20

  The day of Marguerite's garden party I stood blankly staring at my closet door wondering why I was attending this farce. I hated command performances, especially those including someone I didn’t want to see, such as one Flint Tanner. At least I wasn’t going alone. I had convinced Rory Stevens into taking me.

  The day was June hot, and the green silk chiffon dress I'd picked would be cooler than slacks. I didn’t have a garden-party hat, but I piled my red hair in an elaborate do on the top of my head and affixed a rhinestone clip on the side. Then I slipped into a pair of high-heeled sandals. That would have to do.

  I packed a change of clothing in a tote bag to take along. Rory had promised me an excursion to an ancient pueblo when we finished with the cop chaperone duty. It was called Spirit Mountain, an undiscovered archaeologic treasure just across the meadow from V Bar V Ranch. The old Indian ruin had over sixty rooms—you’ll love it, Rory promised me.

  The look of interest in his eyes as I opened the front door made dressing up worth the effort. The party officially started at one p.m., but from the cloud of dust we ate before we reached the front gate, everyone else was arriving fashionably late, too.

  Ray Morales directed traffic and he waved us to a pasture they'd chalk-striped for parking. Rory's Hummer jounced and swayed over the ruts and settled in between a Mercedes and a Stingray. It looked like an unkempt ugly uncle looming over the expensive cars.

  Rory offered me an arm, and I picked my way across the hillocks in my sandals. They were totally impractical for police chases, which is what I'd been doing the last time I was in this pasture. I glanced around, but the Brahma bull hadn’t been invited to the party.

  The spreading lawn in front of the Spine mansion had been transformed into a gala reception area with a huge party tent and small conversation gazebos scattered on the lawn. A central pathway led to the paddock where the Friesian horses would be performing later in the afternoon.

  Maybe fifty people or so had already arrived, and waiters were circulating with champagne and—was that caviar? I snagged a glass and a small plate with a cracker spread with the fancy stuff. I took a bite. Hmmm. Tasted like fish eggs. I sniffed. Smelly fish eggs.

  Men arrived in polo-shirt casual, but women took the opportunity to play dress up. They wore billowing hats decorated with feathers and tulle, and long dresses punctuated with strands of pearls.

  Members of the sheriff’s department, betrayed by their sharp-eyed alertness, tried to blend with the partygoers. Heinrich Spine was taking no chances. With the water issues in the valley, summer heat could make conflict inevitable. Shepherd stood at one side of the yard, looking uncomfortable as he tugged at the too-tight collar of a long-sleeved white shirt.

  I walked to the front of the house where Marguerite stood, dressed in immaculate white linen with a wide-brimmed hat sporting an explosion of purple-dyed ostrich plumes. As I drew close, she smoothed the shoulder ruffle of a too-tight pea-green sheath that Amanda had been poured into. The girl was obviously uncomfortable and shrugged away her mother's hand with a sulky expression. Trouble there.

  I deposited the empty caviar plate and glass and grabbed another glass from a passing waiter. Just another guest having a great time.

  “Well, I didn't know you'd be here.”

  I whirled to discover Flint Tanner.

  “And Rory Stevens,” he said to my date who’d been trailing me around. “This is ranch land. Aren’t you out of your swampy element?”

  Rory scowled at Flint, not his usual cocky self. I couldn't blame him. Flint cut a tall figure in contrast to Rory’s short stature.

  My ex-boyfriend wore a cowboy hat, pressed blue jeans and a big smile. Next to him was a ravishing young woman, blonde and petite.

  “Let me introduce my friend, Jocelyn Hunter,” he said.

  “We’ve talked on the phone,” Jocelyn said, “about that studio apartment you’re renting.” She reached out a slim hand to me and then adjusted it upward a few inches to reach mine. “My, you must have played basketball in school.”

  Now my scowl matched Rory's.

  Her little face set in a determined expression. “I normally don’t mix business with pleasure. But you did get the eviction notice?”

  I murmured something about stopping by the bank the next week. I congratulated Flint on his new job and exchanged hot-weather comments. That exhausted my repertoire of social niceties. When Amanda Riordan approached me, I turned away from the group with relief.

  “I'm so glad you could make it,” she said. “Did you see this awful dress mother chose for me? I look like an ocean wave.”

  “You look beautiful.” I gave her shoulder a pat. “That green brings out the color of your eyes.”

  Which is what I always used to say to my mother when she dressed up to go out after my father left us, her eyes uncertain and a certain bravado in her voice. I felt a twinge in my heart and then let it go. Those shadowed childhood memories were best left buried. Tennessee was eons away from this sun-filled summer day in Arizona.

  Amanda deserted me to greet yet another late arrival. Rory had moved to the edge of the yard talking to a group of friends. An extrovert, he shone at parties like these. That left me, standing alone in the midst of a crowd of strangers.

  My cure for anxiety was food. I found it at the party tent where Raven LightDancer was presiding over an impressive array of hors-d'oeuvres.

  “An interesting show,” he said. “Count on these people to entertain.”

  “What have you got to eat?” I asked him.

  “Try this.” He popped a morsel into my mouth. I chewed thoughtfully on a cheese puffery with salmon and chives. “Not bad. What else you got?”

  “Persimmon bruschetta, cucumber with whipped feta, or this steak tostada with chimichurri sauce.”

  I reached for the tostada.

  “Careful, a little hot,” he warned.

  My eyes watered as I swallowed too fast. Then the flavor came rushing through. I could get used to this.

  On the other hand, I was getting paid—or the Benevolent Fund was—to anticipate problems. Maybe I should just keep my mind on business.

  “Raven, who are all of these servers?”

  His cordiality disappeared like water seeping out of a leaky barrel.

  “Family members.”

  “Did you hire them?”

  “You think they’re here to cause trouble and steal? Well, they’re not. These are my friends. They’ll be fine.” His voice was defensive.

  I wasn’t so sure.

  I retreated to the main house restroom, sanctuary of all women escaping an awkward moment. As I passed through the hall on my way to the front bathroom, I checked the door to the chemistry lab. Locked, as Fancy told me it would be.

  I joined the end of the line that had formed outside the bathroom door. Attorney Myra Banks stood to the side with Janet Miller, the woman whose son had killed himself. I moved over to say hello while we waited our turn.

  Janet Miller wore no makeup and appeared to have lost ten pounds in the time since her son’s death. Her eyes were haunted, staring. Myra stood with a concerned arm around the woman’s shoulder.

  “Peg! Glad to see you.” The attorney looked up with a relieved expression as I approached.

  The restroom door opened, and Janet pushed past the other waiting women. She rushed in and locked the door, sobbing.

  “What was that all about?” I asked.

  Myra had a troubled look. “I thought the party would cheer her up. A big mistake. Ever since we arrived, she keeps going on and on about how Gil Streicker gave Johnny drugs and that's why he died.”

  “You think she was right?”

  “We’
ve got a big meth problem in the high school.” Myra shrugged. “I didn’t think my nephew Johnny was into that sort of thing, but you never can tell.”

  Nephew. It took me a minute to make the connection.

  “You’re related to Janet? She said her sister’s name was Eloise.”

  Myra looked embarrassed. “That’s my first name, thanks to our mother. Eloise Myra Banks. You understand why I use my middle one for business.”

  I wasn’t sure her choice was much better. What do parents think when they name their children? Another reason to be glad I didn’t have any kids.

  “I'm worried about Janet,” Myra said. “She’s not sleeping. The doctor prescribed sleeping pills, but she's not taking them.”

  “Keep an eye on her, Myra. Grief does terrible things to people.”

  I was glad Janet had family close. She seemed to be a woman standing on the edge of a very high cliff as she dealt with the death of her child.

  Our conversation was interrupted by a commotion in the front yard. Heinrich Spine banged on his chair with his cane to gain the crowd’s attention.

  “Please make your way down to the paddock. We have a treat in store with an exhibit of the prized Spine Friesians.” Then he took Marguerite’s arm to lead the procession.

  I made a hasty visit to the restroom, and then joined the crowd. A breeze had kicked up, and its breath cooled my cheek. I leaned against the rough wood of the paddock fence, watching the building thunderheads as I waited for the show to begin.

  The crowd applauded spontaneously as the first black Friesians appeared, a matched pair with a Phaeton. Ray Morales sat high on the step with a top hat and a black leather whip. The animals shone with their grooming; manes elaborately braided and hooves gleaming with polish.

  The carriage rounded the turn by the fence, passing within inches of the guests. The silver decorations on the harness gleamed and the single-tree jingled as they pranced by.

  Next out, Flint Tanner stood tall in the English stirrups of a gelding, the horse prancing and side-stepping away from his hand.

  There was a touch at my elbow and Rory Stevens joined me. He chuckled unkindly under his breath. “Be too bad if that horse gets the better of him.”

  “Hush,” I whispered, as Flint passed close by the fence, the horse settling to his touch.

  Then there was a roar of approval from the crowd as the next rider appeared from behind the barn. It was Amanda on Black Onyx. She had changed into riding jodhpurs, and competition hard hat. The young woman was superb on the black stallion. She bent over and whispered in the horse’s ear. They cantered easily past us, the Friesian’s luxurious mane and tail flowing in the wind.

  Seated on the horse, Amanda left her own awkward body behind, transformed into a centaur of horse and rider. No wonder the girl loved Onyx! The watching group clapped as she swung by.

  As a finale of the show, some of the guests were invited for a carriage ride with a spirited team of four black horses. The exhibition was impressive; I had to give Heinrich Spine credit for that.

  The old man stood with difficulty and looked with rheumy eyes at the friends and business associates gathered in front of him. “First, thank you all for coming to our little party. Second, I’m officially announcing that I have signed the ownership of the Spine Ranch over to the Nature Conservancy upon my death. When I am no longer here, this beautiful ranch will live on in perpetuity.”

  There was a scattering of polite applause. I looked to the Riordan family for their reaction. Heinrich’s announcement had apparently come as a surprise. Marguerite’s face was as white as her linen shift.

  “No.” She shook her head, “No, you promised…”

  Promised what, I wondered? I strode in her direction, but her husband, Dr. Theo, reached her first.

  “Marguerite, dear. Your father has the right to do what he wants with this ranch. It was never yours.”

  Marguerite slapped his face. The sharp crack echoed in the sudden silence, the white imprint shocking against his ruddy cheek.

  “How dare you say that! This ranch is mine. I’ve earned every miserable inch of it.” Then Marguerite fled into the house.

  Dr. Theo stood there, his arms hanging at his side, head bowed. Then he slowly followed after his wife. People parted on either side of his wedge of desolation.

  After he left, the guests stood in knots, awkward with uncertainty. A few went up to Heinrich to murmur their appreciation for the party, but the mood of celebration had been crushed by Marguerite’s exit.

  The wind added to the tenseness of the moment, scattering dirt and debris as a thunderstorm moved in. Women clung to unmanageable hats, and servers scurried to bring table service and remaining food into the house. The party was over. It was time to leave.

  Rory and I headed to the parking lot. It started to rain, first tentative splatters, then sheets of drenching water. He seemed to tap into the energy of the storm.

  “Forget those ridiculous shoes,” he shouted. “Let’s run for it!”

  He grabbed my hand as the thunder and lightning crashed overhead and the rain came down in a blinding rush. My impractical heels were ruined in seconds as we dashed through the puddles and mud. When we reached the Hummer, I stood hopping from one foot to the other as Rory unlocked the doors.

  Safe in the vehicle, my breath steamed the windows as the rain drummed against the metal roof. I swiped the moisture off my face and took down what was left of my elegant hairdo. I shook my head like a dog to loosen the knots, liberally spraying Rory with water.

  “Hey!” he exclaimed.

  The sudden drop in temperature from the storm chilled the air. “Turn off the AC?”

  “No can do. Need the air to demist the window. Deal.”

  He yanked the wheel left and right to negotiate the puddles in the yard. Mud squished between the tire treads, sending a spray to either side as he bumped onto the main road. Several miles later he turned toward Spirit Mountain.

  I crossed my arms, shivering. Then I remembered the tote and twisted on the seat to get it. I zipped the bag open and pulled out a small hand towel. Once I wiped the worst of the water off my arms and legs, I dug out my Bermuda shorts and T-shirt. They were still warm from the earlier heat of the summer day.

  Rory was seemingly intent on the road ahead, and I wondered whether I could change out of my wet clothes, casual-like. If surfers could skinny into wetsuits in a public Malibu parking lot, this shouldn’t be too hard.

  “Don’t look.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it,” Rory assured me.

  Kicking off the now ruined sandals, I lifted the dripping skirt. Then I pulled the Bermuda shorts up to my thighs and then slipped the dress over my head. But before I could yank the T-shirt down, Rory turned and gave me a big grin.

  “Road!” I punched his shoulder and pointed ahead.

  “Ow, that hurt.”

  “Deal,” I said.

  I reached in the tote one last time and pulled out a pair of Tevas, those sturdy river shoes. For general hiking, especially in muddy conditions, they often worked better than boots.

  “How much farther to Spirit Mountain?” I asked.

  “Probably another twenty minutes or so.”

  The cloudburst had stopped, and although the thunderheads were blue-black on the horizon, only spits of rain hit the windshield. Rory lowered his window, and the tangy odor of wet creosote drifted in.

  “Ah,” he said. “Love that stuff.”

  I pulled my cell out of my sopping purse and checked for messages. The blue light was blinking which meant I had one. It was from Ned Jamison, my buddy back east.

  “Peg! I've found out something about the Batesville connection. When I couldn’t reach you, I called your grandfather. He told me you were at the Spine's party. I left a message there, too. Call me.”

  I dialed his number, but just then we descended a hill dropping into a dead zone. I’d try him later.

  Lightning flickered across the sky as we drove
the route toward Wet Beaver Creek. I hoped that the calm water of the creek would ease my party-strained nerves, but something much different awaited us.

  “Holy cow, look at that!” Rory braked sharply and pulled to the side of the road.

  Chapter 21

  In front of us, the normally dry gash of Red Tank Draw had vanished under a roaring torrent of water pouring over the road. The crossing was barely visible as the angry flood covered the roadbed with a foot of water.

  An impatient horn blared behind us, and a red pickup roared past, spraying mud on the Hummer.

  “Idiot,” Rory said, as the truck driver plowed across the flood-covered bridge. His tires plowed up a ridge of water that bulged to the top of the hubcaps. Reaching the other side of the bridge, he climbed to the top of the arroyo, his big tires throwing out gouts of mud.

  Another car whizzed past us, a battered blue Toyota. A woman drove, her mouth set and hands clenched to the wheel. Staring straight ahead, she followed in the wake of the pickup like a baby duckling following a parent.

  “No, lady, don't try it. Don't do it,” I muttered.

  The Toyota reached the center of the submerged bridge and I held my breath. Would she make it over? Then a sudden tongue of water immersed the tailpipe and the car stalled. The woman cranked away at the starter, but the car was stone dead. The water lapped at the side panel of the vehicle.

  Rory turned on his emergency flashers and dashed out on the roadbed. I dialed the sheriff’s office and requested assistance. Then I yanked open my door and ran after him.

  We'd drilled on water rescue at the police academy back in Tennessee. But there, we were dealing with slow-rising rivers, predicted and anticipated sometimes days in advance. I'd never thought I’d use that training here. Who expects floods in an Arizona desert?

  Rory waded out to the flooded Toyota, holding onto the guardrail and fighting against the current. He pounded on the driver’s side window.

  “Unlock your seat belt. Roll down your window and climb out. Now!”