by Lakota Grace
Traffic piled up in both directions, long lines of impatient drivers. The first thing was to make all lanes stop. I walked to the middle of the intersection and first made eye contact with the driver of a beige Ford. I pointed at him then held my palm flat in a stop gesture. He did. I rotated in a half-circle, stopping the other two lanes of traffic.
I let the cross traffic go first. Point, make eye contact, then move my hand in an arc. Nice definite signals with no room for error, sixty seconds each direction. I had a new respect for kindergarten teachers controlling unruly youngsters.
That's when I saw the red Porsche driver shifting through gears as he inched up the hill. Mirrored sunglasses, expensive driving gloves, staring straight ahead until he reached the front of the line. Without waiting for my signal he gunned it, squealing around the corner and up the hill. He swerved around a slow-moving Camry and fishtailed back into the lane. The sports car was pushing seventy when it vanished from view.
I strode to the side of the road and clicked my mic. “Shepherd, your guy just roared through here. Want to pursue him?”
“By the time I could get the squad car moving, the guy would be halfway to Prescott. Let him go.” He sounded resigned.
That didn’t sound like my partner. The legal department must have been talking to him again. Shepherd wanted to nail this guy, bad, but he also wanted to retire with a clean record. It seemed that he couldn't have both and the Porsche driver knew it.
Frustrated that the Porsche driver got away, I went back to directing traffic.
DOT got the light functional in about an hour and I hiked up the hill back to the station. But I couldn’t let go of the image of that outlaw red Porsche. I understood Shepherd’s anger because now I shared it.
Hot and sweaty, I barged through the front door and stripped off my reflective vest and gloves. “He's thumbing his nose at us!”
Shepherd held one hand level, pumping up and down. “Slow down, Peg. It’ll all work out.”
When ? Impotence in twisted my stomach like a heavy metal blade.
***
At noon, I walked down to the apartment to let Reckless out. An immense crane blocked the parking area in front. A black wrecking ball hung ominously near my upstairs window.
The wrecking crew had arrived.
“Hey!” I shouted to the man in the cab. “What do you think you're doing? I live here.”
“Not for long, lady. This structure is coming down.” He sounded both gleeful and final.
I peered up at my apartment. The narrow building, constructed of timber, tilted forlornly down the hill. That didn’t mean anything—the whole town continually shifted with the mining tunnels underneath. The structure could last another ten years. I’d be long gone by then.
The man called his supervisor on his cell phone. Some words were exchanged. Then the man climbed out of the cab and walked over to me. “You got the rest of today, lady. Tomorrow, at dawn, this building is history.”
I climbed the stairs and opened the door to the apartment. Reckless bayed his joy at seeing me and dashed past to reach the side yard. What to do? How could I move in twelve hours?
I let Reckless back in and walked out on the balcony overlooking the main street into town. I'd spent many sleepless nights out here watching the moon rise over the Verde Valley, pondering work-related problems and personal issues. Now my refuge would be gone.
I'd delayed too long finding a new place to live. Reckless and I would be camping out under a bridge somewhere unless I came up with a plan. I considered the earlier offer from Rory, then shook my head. Too many complications there.
The house Bettina Swartz didn’t like and I did, was a possibility, but not a done deal yet. That left my Plan B, or maybe it was Z at this point, my grandfather, HT. Bunking at his house wouldn’t be a permanent situation, just until I could get the house deal worked out, I told myself.
Snapping a leash on Reckless, we hiked up the hill to HT's old house. I'd lived in the loft there once with Ben when I first came to town. I could stay there again. But I felt like a failure, moving back in with family because I had no other option.
HT was out in the garden watering Isabel's roses when I arrived to explain the situation. He responded without hesitation. “Can't say I'm sorry you have to move. I saw that left front corner sagging on that building. You're welcome here. Be good to have young blood around the house. You can borrow the old truck to move—that'll be handy for shifting boxes.” He tossed me the keys.
I left the pup with HT and walked up to the sheriff's station to finish my shift and get some house-moving sympathy from Shepherd.
“Can't help you move, much as I’d like to,” he said. “Stairs give me trouble with this old injury.” He touched his calf.
Shepherd had caught his leg in a bear trap—the scar was ugly and a reminder of tough times.
“What about Ben? He's got young muscles.”
Ben answered on the second ring and agreed to come over at the end of the workday. He said he'd bring his girlfriend—they both needed money. He even offered to drop by the Spirit Bar to pick up some empty packing boxes from his uncle.
The immediate crisis averted, I put my mind to business. I called Lucy Zielinski, Raven LightDancer’s mother and alibi. She agreed to meet with me at her home, and I headed out her way.
***
When Rory had mentioned that the Zelinskis were Gypsies, I pictured English horse-drawn caravan wagons with a goat or two tied to the back.
Instead, the Zielinski house was a modest Spanish adobe, with braided strings of blood-red chili ristas hung on either side of a carved oak door. A Costas hummingbird buzzed a magenta butterfly bush at the corner of the house. Flat sandstone pieces served as a sidewalk, and a jar of sun tea gleamed in the afternoon sun.
I pulled a primitive string door knocker and a bell trilled in the room beyond. Lucy Zielinski opened the door. She was small-framed, with black, frizzy hair hanging almost to her waist.
She grasped my hand in both of hers. “Hello. I was expecting you. Come in.”
My eyes adjusted to the dim cool of the adobe interior. The room had no harsh corners, as the plaster curved softly between the walls and the ceiling. Bright Mexican serapes covered the futon couch and two stretched-leather epiquale chairs sat in front of it.
A tabby cat squeezed between my legs and hopped up on the futon. She stretched out full length, blinking huge yellow eyes. That left the pig-leather chairs for Lucy and me. I sat in one, feeling the leather give and creak around me. The woman looked at me closely with dark eyes under thick brows.
“You want to know about my son Marty.”
“He said that he was here with you the night that Gil Streicker died.”
“All day, actually.” Her answer came easily, almost rehearsed. “Marty came about ten that morning to help with the cooking and slept here that night. We drank, we ate, we danced. He didn't leave until noon the next day.”
“Can anyone else corroborate this?”
“We had a gathering of the Family, twenty or thirty people. There are more Romani in Arizona than you would expect. Marty interacted with most of the people here.”
She gave me a direct stare. “My son is many things, Ms. Quincy, but he is not a murderer.”
If she were telling the truth, that would cross Raven LightDancer or Marty Zielinski, whatever he called himself, off my list of suspects. Part of me felt relief. In spite of his history, the man was a good cook. It would be a shame to waste that mango-salsa talent behind bars.
On the other hand, the Romani were a close-knit clan, not unlike my own extended family back in Tennessee. And families stick together.
“I'll need a list of contact numbers.”
“That I can provide you, but it will take a while. Some people do not wish to speak to the law, you understand.”
In a sudden movement, Lucy reached out her hands and captured my own. She turned them palm upward and studied each hand carefully. The jewels i
n her rings captured a shaft of sunlight from the window. She dropped the right hand, touched the left palm.
“Your dominant hand?”
I nodded.
“Tell me what you see,” she commanded.
“Hands, fingers.” I wasn't sure what she was getting at. I was surprised at the level of unease her cool touch produced in me.
“Ah, but look deeper. Things are not always as they seem. For example, this...” She touched the top line with a ring-encrusted finger. “See, there?”
Her fingernail flicked the palm, and I jerked reflexively.
“Your heart line is long, signifying satisfaction, but it is forked at the end.”
“What's that mean?”
She smiled, her face lighting up. “A significant love relationship late in life, after you thought you were finished.”
Great! I had to wait until I was fifty to find love?
She traced a second line. “Your head line traces almost to the end of the palm, meaning you use logical focused thinking. Am I right?”
Okay, she had me there.
“Most cops do,” I said defensively. “Doesn't prove anything.”
Her voice sharpened like a fine-edged blade. “I am not out to prove anything. I only reflect what I see.”
She examined my palm again, her fingertip touching a third spot. “Here, your lifeline is long, signifying much creativity which you have not yet explored.”
I’d never considered myself a painter if that’s what she meant by creativity. But what about music? I'd always wanted to take up the drums. Or bagpipes, maybe. They'd sound cool echoing down the mountain from my new home if I could ever untangle the lien laws.
Lucy's words interrupted my daydreams as her hand tightened about my wrist. “But here, this fourth line is the most interesting of all. Not all people have this.” Her voice purred.
I peered at where she was pointing—a deep line that cut across the other three.
“That is your life destiny line,” she said, “your fate line. Yours represents a self-made person, not easily swayed by the winds of time. It is difficult for you to change, once you set on a course. You need to learn to be more flexible.”
This lady got way too close to the truth with her statements. Was I that easy a cold read? I pulled my hand from her grasp. It burned and yet was numb. I shook it to regain feeling.
“You expected the tall, dark stranger? Maybe winning the lottery?” Her voice held derision. “Pah! Life success comes to those who work for it, as I have, as Marty has. Never forget that, Ms. Pegasus Quincy.”
Lucy snatched up a shawl and covered her hair, leaving only her large, mysterious eyes and hoop earrings visible. “But I can also entertain. I am Roma. Call me, next party you have. And leave my Marty alone. He has nothing to do with this murder.”
Lucy gave me one final word of advice. “Go see Dr. Theodore Riordan. He can give you the information you need.” Holding her cat with one hand, she walked with me to my car and then returned to her house.
Although my purpose in coming was to clarify Raven's alibi, her reading of my palm intrigued me. It seemed so complex and yet so simple. Maybe there were things beyond my ken. I shook my head a little to clear the cobwebs.
I could just hear Shepherd's reaction to this—”You did what?”
But he'd not argue with one statement she made. Things are not always as they seem on the surface. Dr. Theo was on my list anyway. I called him and arranged a meeting for the next afternoon. I wanted to check out Fancy’s insinuations about drug use.
***
I returned to my apartment and changed into civvies. With hands on my hips, I surveyed my meager belongings: Clothes, plus linens and dishes. Too many books. Dog food for Reckless.
I wondered what would happen to the stray cat I'd been feeding on the balcony. Would she find another soft touch? Maybe she'd find her way to HT's house—I'd heard feral cats had a wide territory. I hauled up the empty boxes Ben had left on the front doorstep and started packing.
Several hours later, he arrived. His noisy energy was a good antidote for the blue funk I’d settled into. He and the new girlfriend pounded up and down the stairs loading stuff in the pickup.
Ben paused at the sled. “What's this? You taking up a new sport?”
“Some stuff I'm holding for a friend. Take it, too.”
Ben nodded and the sled and box of picture books disappeared down the steps with the rest of my stuff. The old pickup motor made an uneven put-put as they chugged up the hill to HT’s house.
I was alone, except for dust mites filtering down through the high window. Tomorrow this apartment would not exist. I wondered if I even needed to return the key. What was the use of a key to a building that wasn’t there? I tossed the key on the table and left.
I pulled in behind the old pickup with my Jetta and followed Ben up the stairs with the last load. Ben palmed the two twenties I offered with the dexterity of a headwaiter, and my movers were off with a roar of his Ducati.
As I entered the loft, the box of Gil Streicker’s possessions slid out of my hands and collapsed in a cardboard-weakened heap on the floor. Picture books and Happy Meal toys scattered across the floor.
I was too tired to care. I shoved the plastic pieces and books to one side, grabbed a towel and change of clothes, and headed down the hall to the shower. I stood in the steam and washed the dust of moving out of my hair. Then I put on a clean pair of jeans and T-shirt and headed down to the kitchen, hungry.
HT’s housekeeper Isabel arrived like a silent shadow, her graying hair in a thick braid down her back.
“Where’s my grandfather?” I asked.
“Asleep.” She crossed her arms over her skinny chest. “We need to talk.”
I grabbed a plate of leftover fried chicken from the refrigerator and slammed the door with my hip. I carried the platter to the kitchen table, hooked my calf around the leg of a chair, and selected a drumstick.
“Talk.” I took a bite.
“How long you going to be here?”
“What?”
“How much you pay your grandfather to stay? Food's extra.”
I stared at her. Then, I pulled a paper napkin from the table holder and lowered the drumstick onto it.
“HT can't afford for you to stay here free. You and that big dog.”
Who was this housekeeper, usurping the role of my grandmother, now long dead? I counterattacked. “What about you, Isabel? You pay rent to stay here, be HT's housekeeper?”
“I pay. You pay.” Her tone was definite, each word set like a boulder in a frozen field.
I wiggled inside, uncomfortable. What did Robert Frost say about family, that the door was always open? This one seemed to be closing fast.
“I'll pay,” I said. “Not going to be here long anyway.”
She gave me another disapproving look and disappeared.
The taste of chicken caught in my throat. I tossed the drumstick in the trash and put the rest back in the refrigerator. I'd grab a bite at the Flatiron Café later.
I felt the empty space in my back pocket where I’d kept the twenties I paid Ben. Maybe I shouldn't have been so generous. It looked as though I might need the money to feed me and Reckless since I was expected to pay rent here.
I'd talk to HT, get something settled between us. No need for Isabel to be so snippy. She wasn’t family.
I trudged upstairs, needing to establish my right to be here. First, I opened the small window to put more air into the low-ceilinged space. I’ve never liked tight places—maybe because of my height. Good thing I never wanted to be a cave dweller.
I shoved cartons into a rough line against the wall of the loft, sneezing at the dust that action kicked up. I bent to push the sled against the wall so I wouldn't stumble over it in the morning. When I straightened to my full height, my head banged the ceiling. Damn! It felt more like a cave already.
I re-taped the box from Gil's storage shed and piled the plastic toys into it
. I dumped in the last handful of picture books and shifted things around so that I could close the top again. Then I stopped.
In the physical shuffling of box contents, the pages of one of the books had crumpled. I pulled it out to smooth the pages and found two stuck together. Carefully I pried them apart, trying not to tear the pages. They had formed a rough pocket, and inside was a folded piece of paper. I pulled it out and smoothed it.
The paper looked like a diagram, a map of some sort. The rectangle was divided into six squares on one side, and six on the other with a narrow center bar dividing them. One of the twelve squares had an X drawn in it. I turned the paper one way and then the other.
If Gil Streicker had drawn it, this could be a diagram of the stable at the Spine Ranch! He wouldn’t need a simple diagram like this. Unless he had a premonition that his own life was in danger. Was this a treasure map left for his little girl Veronica?
I checked my watch. Much as I liked skulking about in the dark, it was almost one in the morning. If Gil’s map had waited this long, another five hours wouldn't matter. I’d drop by the Spine Ranch and talk to Amanda in the morning. No way was I convincing Black Onyx to move so I could examine his stall without her help.
Chapter 24
When I arrived at the ranch the next morning, the horses bunched under a large cottonwood in the pasture, their tails waving in a slight breeze. A ranch dog came barking to my Jetta, gave one more woof for good measure and retreated to the far yard.
I knocked on the front door and Fancy answered it.
“Hello?” Her mouth had a sullen downward twist.
“Is the family up yet?” I asked.
“Marguerite has a headache. Heinrich's asleep. You’ll find Amanda in the barn.”
Not waiting for my response, she shut the unwelcoming door in my face. The sound of her sensible shoes echoed for a moment behind it, and then she was gone.
To the barn, then. The earthy smell of manure drifted from the dimness where Amanda was mucking out the stalls. She had tucked her straight hair under a sweat-stained cowboy hat and wore rubber boots that came up to her knees. The stable was quiet, all the horses out in the pasture.
