Fire in Broken Water

by Lakota Grace

  That social rite concluded, I spread the sheaf of papers I'd collected from Dot Harper on her desk.

  “I want to rent a house, and I understand you're the key to making that happen.”

  Myra put on a pair of black-rimmed cheaters and examined one paper, then the next. “Dot Harper, my favorite older-lady client. How's she doing over at the retirement home?”

  “Just about got the place totally organized. You’d be proud.” I gestured at the papers. “She says the state real estate department made a mistake on her bill.”

  “They did. But the tax department won't admit it. Says it's a rounding error. Dorothy won't buy that one. She wants to know where the rounding goes—says it should be designated for at-risk kids to learn math skills.”

  “I'm inclined to agree with her,” I said. “But does that mean they can condemn her property for non-payment of taxes?”

  Myra twiddled a pencil. I used to do that in grade school. If I did it fast enough, the pencil looked like it bent in the middle.

  Myra's pencil looked pretzel-shaped by the time she paused. “No, I can fix that...”

  “Good. Then I want to rent the house.”

  “You want to rent that?” Myra laughed derisively.

  ““What's the matter with it?” I protested. “Good view, plenty of elbow room.”

  Myra tapped her teeth with the eraser end of the pencil. Then she came to a decision. “We might get it through the zoning board with a variance—assert that you were a workman hired to make necessary improvements. Wouldn't hurt if you lived there while you did them. Let me talk to Elmer down at the Zoning Board. He owes me one.”

  I imagined everyone in the valley with the exception of Shepherd owed Myra for one reason or another. She was the original Godmother of the Verde Valley. I looked at her. The zoning-variance sounded like Myra’s usual over-the-top legal paperwork. Wondered what she was charging Dot Harper.

  “No! It's not what you think. I do Dot's work pro-bono. She loves to ruffle feathers as much as I do. Thank goodness, she's one of a kind. I'd go broke otherwise.”

  There was one other small matter. “Uh, about the plumbing…”

  “Look, you wanted this house knowing it had no inside plumbing. And now you want some?” Myra asked.

  “Dot said you’d fix it…”

  Myra sighed. “All right. Time she installed that bathroom anyway. With her approval, we should get a crew out there next week to start laying the inside line.” She reached into a file cabinet and pulled out a standard lease for me to sign.

  I read it carefully. The “no pets” clause shone like a beacon. I pushed it back across the desk. “My dog Reckless comes with me.”

  Myra muttered under her breath and then scratched out the clause with a hasty pen. “What can a red mutt hurt in that wreck of a place?”

  “And...”

  “Yes?” At this point, Myra looked down her glasses at me. Nothing like one strong-willed woman matched against another.

  “The road. Can you get someone to run a blade over it?”

  “I'll try. But no guarantees. It'll probably just flood out again,” she warned.

  Fair enough. I figured I'd squeezed this particular lemon dry of all the juice I was going to. I signed the lease with a flourish and handed over the deposit and first month's rent. It flattened my bank account, but I could mooch off HT for a little while longer. I ignored a mental vision of his guardian angel, Isabel. I'd pay him back. Soon.

  Myra stood, probably wanting to dismiss me so she could do some real work. “Do consider suing the sheriff's office,” she said. “I'll do that one on contingency—won't cost you a cent up front. Got a few scores to settle over there.”

  Suddenly it clicked. If I sued the department, my primary complainant would be Shepherd, my supervisor. I'd be pitting my boss against this female bulldog. Why did they hate each other so much?

  On impulse, I sat back down again. “Okay, Myra. Spill it. What's this feud between you and Shepherd?”

  She stopped, startled, and then gave a full-throated laugh. “You caught me, Peg. You'd make a good interrogator. Want some coffee? This story will take a while.”

  Over a mug of black coffee, she began. Told me how Shepherd's obsession with work had driven a wedge in his marriage years ago.

  “You know how that can be,” Myra said.

  I nodded. The divorce rate was astronomical among cops. “But how did you come into it?”

  Myra took a sip of coffee. Shook her head and added some more cream from a pitcher in the small refrigerator next to her desk.

  “I didn’t know him personally at that point, but our paths crossed from time to time in court. One day after a hearing, I was driving back from Prescott. Had a flat. I'd never fixed a tire before, but I was game. Checked out the owner's manual, assembled the machinery, thought I had the car braced, but...”

  “...it slipped off the jack,” I finished for her. “What then?”

  “I stood there in heels and trial skirt; the rain pouring down. And then Shepherd's car slid in behind mine, as easy as could be. He had that tire changed in seven minutes flat.”

  I smiled. Cars were a strong point for Shepherd. He could drive and fix anything wearing four wheels. “And then?”

  “Well...” Myra got a little flustered. “He invited me out for coffee and I accepted. One thing led to another and we became lovers.”

  “And that broke up Shepherd's marriage?”

  “Well, it didn’t help it.”

  “I'm not passing judgment,” I said. “These things happen. But you seem like bitter enemies now, not friends.”

  She sighed. “That’s the rest of the story. When Shepherd told his wife about me, she threatened to leave him if he didn't break it off. And I unwisely pleaded with him to stay with me anyway.

  “Shepherd hates conflict, I should have remembered that. Caught in the middle, he chose her. He laughed in my face, said I wasn't worth one hair of her precious head. But then his wife decided to file for divorce anyway. She came to me, asked me to represent her.”

  Myra shrugged. “I was angry, hurt…”

  “So you took him to the cleaners.”

  “Absolutely!” She brightened. “Best legal work of my career. Never trust men, Peg. We ladies have to stick together and help each other. So now you know the rest of the story.”

  We shook hands on the rental agreement and Myra gave me the key. I stood to leave.

  She put a hand on my arm. “I took my sister to her first appointment with the counselor, Dr. Westcott. Thank you. Janet likes her. I do, too. It was a good recommendation.”

  I made light of it. “Just part of the service of your friendly sheriff's office.”

  Myra didn't want to leave it there. “No. It's more than that. You have a talent for caring about people like Janet. My sister told me about your gift of that pink geranium. She was planning to kill herself that night. Your visit might have saved her life.” Unlike Myra’s usual brittle legal veneer, her tone was honest, almost vulnerable. “If ever I can return the favor, Peg...”

  Although I hadn't intended to profit by my actions, maybe I was collecting a few future paybacks myself. Just call me Godmother-in-Training.

  We said goodbye and I headed out to my car. On the way, I checked my watch. An hour had passed while I was with Myra. Wondered what her normal billing rate was for filing legal documents like a lien release. Maybe I could get a loan from Ben to pay the bill—I knew he had extra cash. I’d paid him some.

  I sat in Myra’s parking lot letting the Jetta idle for a moment. So, a new house for Reckless and me. It didn't make up entirely for the events of yesterday, but some sun appeared in my dark world.

  I debated calling Ben to help move from HT’s to my new house, but the enterprising college student wouldn't work for free on this second move. Couldn't blame him. On the other hand, I had another bird I could flush. I even had him on speed dial.

  Rory answered the phone with a “Hi,
Peg.” He sounded tentative.

  Maybe I was, too. We'd slept together and parted without words. Fear of commitment—we both held that conviction in high esteem. On the other hand, we were friends, so I explained the situation.

  “I've got a Late Night Commitment,” Rory said. His tone added the capitals. “But I may be able to spare a few hours. I'll meet you at HT's house after work, say about 5:30 or so. Lots of room in the Hummer, shouldn't take more than a trip or two.”

  Part of me questioned exactly what or who the L.N.C. was, but I needed his strong shoulders for the move.

  “Great! I'll provide the beer,” I said. I had enough money for that, anyway.

  I shifted the Jetta into drive and pulled out of the parking lot. My cell rang again. I braked to the side of the road and dug the phone out of my purse. I covered one ear to hear over the road noise.

  “Hello,” I said. “Hello?”

  The reception was bad, kept breaking up, but a woman's voice rose through the static. “Please come. It's...something's happened...”

  “Who is this?”

  “Please hurry. Hein...Heinrich...” Then the connection closed.

  I looked at the caller ID. “Restricted.”

  That figured. But the Heinrich part was clear enough. Was it Marguerite, calling numbers at random with her latest crisis?

  Then I remembered Myra's words. I cared about people, right? Even those, like Marguerite, that affected me like the screech of fingernails on a blackboard. I could swing by the Spine Ranch, check it out before I needed to meet Rory at HT's house for the move. Plenty of time.

  ***

  The grounds were quiet as I drove under the Spine Ranch sign. It was just after two in the afternoon, and most of the household would be resting. At least I hope so. Fancy opened the door and peered at me with her usual sour expression.

  “What do you want this time?”

  How did I turn into persona non grata in her eyes? She'd seemed so human when we were in her iris garden.

  “I received a phone call from Marguerite,” I said. “Something about Heinrich and needing help.”

  Fancy stood stolidly in the doorway. “Heinrich is upstairs, asleep. Marguerite is in the kitchen.” Her smile turned knowing in a mean sort of way. “Perhaps it is best if you come in.”

  She opened the door the bare minimum for entrance, let me in, and pushed it closed. I followed her tap-tapping heels on the marble tiles toward the large kitchen.

  Marguerite greeted me with wails of anguish. Encrusted pots overflowed the sink, dirty dishes covered the counter, and vile-smelling odors rose from a big pot on the range.

  “Where's Raven?” I asked.

  Marguerite shrieked again and dropped a heavy cast iron pan she was pulling from the oven. Meat and juices splattered over a floor already tacky with debris. The woman stood shaking burned fingers, weeping.

  I reached around her and turned on the cold water in the sink. “Put your fingers under the water. They'll feel better.” I handed her a towel. “Where's the first aid kit?”

  “I don't know.” She sniffled. “Raven always took care of that.”

  I poked around in the cabinets and found it. I rummaged through the contents to find some burn ointment. “Here, let me put some on your burns.”

  “No. Don't touch me. It's all your fault that he's gone.”

  “Then you do it.” I set the tube of ointment on the counter.

  She dabbed it on her burned fingers, trying not to mar her manicure. Fancy leaned against the door jam, smirking.

  “Let's try again,” I said. “Where's Raven LightDancer?”

  “He quit!” Marguerite said. “He couldn't work any longer in that atmosphere of suspicion and mistrust you created. He said it ruined his creativity. First Gil, now Raven. We were doing just fine before you arrived. It's all your fault!”

  I couldn't help wonder if they were doing “just fine” with a barn that burned for no good reason with a murdered man inside it. Didn't sound like just fine to me.

  “Did you call me on the phone?” I asked.

  Marguerite looked at me as though I'd grown a third eyeball. “Why would I do that? Haven't you done enough damage already?” She threw her hands in the air. “Who's going to fix my dinner?”

  “How about fixing it yourself?”

  Marguerite put a hand to her forehead. “I think I'm getting sick.”

  “In that case, I'll be on my way,” I said cheerfully.

  “Wait.” She looked doubtfully at the stacks of cutlery on the counter. “Could you wash up the dishes? I’ll pay you.”

  “Not a chance.”

  Marguerite stared in dismay at the mess.

  One of the ranch dogs poked his nose in the kitchen doorway, apparently attracted by the enticing smells and commotion. He grabbed the roast that Marguerite had dropped on the floor and dragged the meat into a corner, creating another well-defined smear on the kitchen floor.

  Time to leave. When I entered the hallway to the front of the house, Fancy had disappeared. Apparently, her genes didn't include the dish-washing one, either.

  Behind me in the kitchen, there was a yelp, followed by a door slam. I wonder if Marguerite let the poor dog keep the bone at least.

  With Marguerite occupied and Fancy absent, I sauntered through the house unsupervised. I passed by the entrance to the chemistry lab and tried the handle. Locked. I peered through the wire-re-enforced window on the door. The room was dim, with faint light glinting off the test tubes and glass beakers.

  I gave the space a closer look. A larger crack of light seeped around the edge of the far outside door. Was it ajar? Wouldn't hurt to check.

  I'd close it like a good neighbor before the javalinas got in and ruined all of Heinrich's experiments. And maybe poke around a little, while I was at it.

  I shut the front door quietly behind me and moved to the side of the house.

  Chapter 30

  A moment later, I entered Heinrich Spine’s laboratory. Leaving the outside door cracked to air the thick atmosphere, I switched on the overhead lights.

  Someone had been here since my last visit. Heinrich’s papers were stacked in disorganized piles, and dust smeared the black counters. Maybe they hadn’t found what I was looking for, either.

  I started with the upper cabinets, opening doors, shifting bottles around to check the back corners. Heinrich labeled all the bottles with German precision, and the cabinets contained enough junk for a chemistry garage sale. It all looked suspicious.

  I was searching for the thirty-third element on the Periodic Table. I knew that because my high school chemistry teacher decreed the entire class had to memorize the elements before anybody could pass. I'd get up to number 32 and balk. My lab partner would hiss in my ear. “33…33…Arsenic, you blockhead!” So what's the number of the periodic element I can now recite in my sleep? Arsenic, of course.

  I squatted to inspect the bottom cabinets. Hidden in the far reaches of the last lower cabinet, I spotted a thick glass bottle of a dusty blue. I pulled a paper towel off the roll on the counter, wrapped the bottle, and pulled it out. The worn label, written in a spidery hand, read, “ As, No. 33.”

  I’d found the missing arsenic. Either Heinrich hadn’t located it after my visit, or someone had returned it after he’d been here. If so, there might be fingerprints. I set the bottle carefully on the counter. Was there more? I got on my knees to search the next lower cabinet.

  A gust of wind slammed the propped door shut with a loud bang. The air immediately got heavier, and I rushed to the exit. I turned the handle, but it wouldn’t budge.

  Jammed.

  I shoved a shoulder against it, but nothing happened.

  What about the inside door? I walked to the other side of the room and checked. It was securely fastened with a key lock, no thumb latch. I was trapped! My heart fluttered and my vision narrowed. With effort, I took a few deep breaths that seemed to help.

  The hunt for evidence was abandoned
as I stood in the small, dark room. There was an odd whistling sound. Had that been there before?

  Using my ears as a Doppler beacon, I scanned the room hunting a source. Stacks of paper and bottles lined the counter, in addition to test tubes and beakers. But none of those would make a sound like that. Six Bunsen burners connected to the gas outlets on the wall…My head swiveled for a closer look. Not connected.

  The tubes piled in a coil like a den of unhappy snakes and poisonous vapor seeped into the room. Vapor with the rotten egg odor of natural gas.

  My head spun, and my vision tunneled. I grabbed my phone out of my pocket to call for help. No bars. The heavy adobe walls of the house must be blocking the signal.

  I hammered on the interior house door and stopped to listen. There were no footsteps, no calls of alarm. No one had heard me. I raced to the other side of the room and pounded on the door to the outside. Then I screamed until my voice was harsh and kicked futilely at the door.

  The walls pulsated, malevolently drawing closer as my panic increased. How long could I hold out? I sunk to my knees, trying to breathe shallowly as lights danced before my eyes.

  Then the outside door crashed open. Ray Morales’s form was silhouetted in the doorway. He held a crowbar over his head. Was he the killer, coming to finish what he’d started? I ducked reflexively.

  Ray dropped the bar and rushed into the room. I scuttled away from him like a hermit crab from a predator.

  “No, Peg, it’s okay. I want to help!”

  Ray pulled me to my feet and staggered under a firefighter’s lift to carry me outside. He lowered me to the stone bench and took off his straw hat, waving it in front of my face.

  I braced my hands on the bench and straightened into an upright position. Sunlight eased my body tension. I gulped huge mouthfuls of fresh air. Slowly the stranglehold of panic eased. The old stone bench beneath me felt solid, reassuring. Overhead, a thrasher sang in an acacia tree. My breathing slowed.

  “What happened?” Ray asked. “I heard shouting and ran to help.” His brown eyes were concerned.

  “The door slammed behind me.” I started to rise. “I have to go back in there.”