Sedona Law 4: A Legal thriller

by Dave Daren

  “We sell them here,” he said. “And to some of the restaurants, like Blanc.”

  “Blanc, really?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he laughed. “You wouldn’t think it to look at them, but Blanc’s our big account. They keep me in business.”

  “I didn’t realize they were so locally invested to buy their produce here,” I said.

  “Nah,” he said, “they don’t. I think they got a big corporate supplier in California for that. They just buy our eggs, and sometimes our chickens. Bet those snooty-tooties that eat there would shit a brick if they knew their ‘cheese souffle’ came from this shithole.”

  He laughed heartily, and I nodded.

  “The buyer I deal with is reasonable enough,” he said. “Good guy, actually. But, there’s not a thing on that menu I would eat, all fancy uppity stuff like cor-don blue. I don’t even know what that is. They’re good people though, far as I can tell.”

  I just laughed and shrugged at my dad who smiled at me and shook his head

  “You probably eat there, don’t you?” Alex gestured toward me.

  I just nodded and smiled ruefully. “I like all kinds of food.”

  “He met Keith Richards,” my dad blurted out.

  Alex turned to me wide eyed. “No shit.”

  I sighed. “I used to work in entertainment law in Los Angeles, and my firm handled a licensing deal between the Rolling Stones story and a film Netflix wanted to produce about it. Long story short, Keith Richards flew to L.A. to negotiate the terms. I ran one of the many meetings that were held regarding the deal.”

  “No kidding,” Alex said. “What was he like?”

  “Professional,” I said. “You get this image of these rock stars as entitled pricks, and I guess they can be at times. But, most successful entertainers can actually handle themselves quite well in a professional situation.”

  Alex nodded. “I like that. Keith’s a good man. Say, I want you guys to try something. Hold on.”

  He held up his palm and then scuffled off into a travel trailer behind the stand. My dad and I looked at each other.

  “What did you get me into?” I mumbled.

  He laughed. “Just worry about your fancy shoes. That should keep you busy enough.”

  I laughed. “That bad, huh?”

  “How much did you pay for those shoes?” he asked.

  “How much you pay for Jimi’s locker?” I replied.

  He laughed. “Alright, fair enough.”

  Alex returned with a small wooden box in his hand and a smile. He set the box up on the counter of the produce stand.

  “This here,” he said, “is my new tea blend.”

  “Tea?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s all natural... and all legal. But, I’ve been perfecting this blend for years, and I think I’ve got it.”

  He smiled as he pulled out some dried leaves and handed them to us.

  “Smell this,” he said. “Ah, it’s perfection.”

  I raised an eyebrow and took a leaf. “What is this?”

  “It’s a hybrid herbal blend mainly made of maca and ginseng and with a couple of herbs,” he said. “It’s taken several generations of putting these plants together to create this tea.”

  “What kind of tea is it?” I asked.

  “I don’t have a name for it yet,” he said. “But the effect of it is supposed to enhance your sex drive.”

  “Sex drive enhancers?” I repeated. “I didn’t think you could do that with an herb.”

  “Of course, you can,” he said. “All of those chemical supplements you see on TV? This is nature’s way of doing the same thing, but without putting all of these dangerous toxins in your body. I want you to try it.”

  “Okay,” my dad shrugged. “We’ll give it a try.”

  He looked at me, and I shrugged back. Alex looked like he had hit the lottery he was so excited.

  “Alright,” I said.

  He motioned off to the side of the stand where there was an old wooden picnic table.

  “Sit down,” he said. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

  My dad and I sat at the table, and Alex busied himself in the stand. He lit a small portable burner and then poured a couple of bottled waters into a kettle and turned it on. Then, he rigged up his cell phone to a small bluetooth speaker, and he set it down on the table to play All Along the Watchtower. Alex joined us with a self-satisfied smile.

  “Ah, yeah,” my dad said reverently. “It’s Jimi.”

  “Jimi,” Alex whistled. “You know I saw him in ‘68.”

  “Did you really?” my dad asked.

  For the next several minutes, my dad and Alex exchanged notes on Jimi Hendrix. Then they occasionally made me embellish stories about the hour and a half in a conference room I once spent with Keith Richards and his entourage. Finally, the tea kettle whistled. Alex smiled and banged his hands on the table.

  “Tea time,” he said, rose, and went back into the booth. He messed around for a few more minutes and then came back.

  “It will take a few more minutes before it’s ready,” he said as he set a phone timer. “But I got fresh pomegranate if you want to wait.”

  My dad was into it, and so Alex pulled some old pomegranates out of a crate, and we all ate pomegranates and listened to more Jimi Hendrix. Alex explained that he had finally decided to sell the unit when Jimi came to him in a dream one night.

  “He came to you in a dream?” my dad repeated.

  “It was wild,” Alex said. “It started out, I was out by our pomegranate field, and then, Jimi appeared. He was walking down the open field with a guitar on his back. I saw him coming toward me, and he looked at me straight in the eye, and told me to climb Cathedral Rock. So, in the dream, Jimi and I climbed it together. I remember I had so many questions for him, but we didn’t speak the whole time. It just wasn’t right, you know.”

  My dad nodded and was transfixed by the story. “Of course.”

  “And then,” Alex continued, “we stood and looked out over the distance. And then he played this awesome riff on his guitar, it went like... well, I wish I could play it for you. I’m not much of a guitarist. I’ve been taking lessons ever since the dream, so that one day I could give it back to the world, as Jimi’s last song.”

  “That’s heavy, dude,” my dad said.

  “Tell me about it,” Alex said. “But it went like, nah, nah, nah, nah.”

  Alex’s singing voice rose and fell, and he drummed out a rhythm on the table.

  “Well, I can’t explain it,” Alex continued, “But then, Jimi turned to me, and then he said, ‘release me.’”

  “Mmm,” my dad nodded somberly and stroked his chin.

  “Yeah,” Alex said. “By that, I knew he meant the storage room. So, I knew then, that Jimi’s spirit wanted to be free, and by holding on to it, I was keeping him from peaceful rest.”

  “Woooow,” my dad said. “That... is… wild.”

  “Dude,” Alex said, “that was when I knew it was time to sell. I got to tell you, it was a hard decision. I wouldn’t have done it without Jimi’s permission.”

  My dad nodded reverently, but I remembered what he said about having financial difficulties. It wasn’t really hard. This guy was just broke, desperate, and did too many shrooms.

  “But,” he said. “I’m confident that in you, we have the right buyer.”

  “I’m honored,” my dad said. “I know how much this means to the history of music, and really to the history of our culture.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Old rockers like us, they don’t make ‘em like that anymore. It’s all digital music now, and iPods.”

  The irony didn’t escape me that he was streaming Jimi Hendrix on a crappy smartphone.

  “Don’t I know it,” my dad shook his head.

  “Do you remember,” he said. “When you had to wait for your favorite song to come on the AM radio?”

  My dad laughed. “I was just a kid, but I remember that
.”

  The two old hippies went down memory lane for a while, although I suspected my dad was bullshitting a little. Alex was at least one, maybe two decades his senior. Then Alex’s phone timer went off.

  “Alright,” he said. “Let’s drink some tea.”

  He went back into his booth and returned with three steaming ceramic mugs of herbal tea.

  “Now,” he instructed, “Sip slowly, and tell me what you think.”

  We all sipped the tea, and I was surprised to find it had a nice, sweet flavor.

  “It’s good,” I said, “fruity.”

  Alex grinned. “You’re tasting the fruit blend I added for flavor.”

  “Yeah,” my dad made an approving face. “I like it, it’s good.”

  Alex sipped his, and he made a contemplative face. “This is some good stuff. Takes me back.”

  And suddenly, we were back in the sixties, when Alex was my age, and my dad was barely in grade school. We stayed there for a good half hour as we finished our tea. Finally, Alex closed his sales pitch.

  “I’d love to send you home with some of this,” he said. “Take some. You gotta girl?”

  “I do have that,” I said.

  “She’ll appreciate it, you know what I mean?” he said.

  “I do know what you mean,” I said.

  “Here,” my dad said, pulling some bills out of his wallet. “I’ll take a bag. How much are you asking?”

  “Thirty for a bag,” he said.

  I blinked in shock. That was pricey for tea.

  He winked at us. “And it’s worth every penny. Let me tell you.”

  He whistled and made a hip thrusting motion, and I thought about Julianna and Gabriel.

  “Throw in a bag for me, too,” I smirked and pulled out a few bills.

  Alex looked ecstatic, and we exchanged money, and he brought out two satin bags of tea leaves. Each had a black ribbon drawstring and a small paper label with brewing instructions.

  “My Sylvia handmakes these bags,” he said. “She does everything. From crafts to wedding dresses. Tell your friends.”

  I nodded and wondered what kind of wedding dress would come out of that travel trailer.

  “Now,” Alex said as he rubbed his palms together. “Onto the real business--Jimi’s locker.”

  My dad smiled and rubbed his hands together as well.

  “Yes,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

  “Well,” he said. “Let me get you the keys. The last person to open the unit was Jimi himself. We had a spare key, but we had strict instructions from my grandfather never to open it. When we had the unit appraised, they said it reduced the value of it if we opened it. So, the key has been in a safe deposit box until you came along. So, yesterday, I went to the bank and got it out.”

  Alex went inside his trailer, and while we waited, we put our sex tea bags into the Jeep.

  “That’s for tonight,” my dad told me with a wink.

  “Oh, Jesus, dad,” I said. “I did not need to know that.”

  He laughed, and it took a couple more minutes before Alex finally emerged. He had a small envelope marked with the logo from Coconino Bank.

  “Here it is,” he ceremoniously handed the key to my dad, and my dad handed him an envelope out of his pocket. The two opened their envelopes, cash and a key respectively.

  The key was a tiny, brown one that resembled an old penny that had been buried in someone’s couch cushions for years.

  “This is it,” he smiled and showed it to me. “Take a picture.”

  “Alright,” I said. I pulled out my phone and snapped a photo of my dad holding up the rusty key.

  Alex stood on the side and said, “You know where it is. I’ll let you have privacy for this. Tell me what you find.”

  “Thanks,” my dad said and motioned to me.

  We got in the Jeep, and Alex directed us back behind the produce stand and down a worn, dusty path. We followed the path, until we reached a chain-link fence. We did this in silence, not even Jimi was along for this ride. We drove along the sides of the fence for a while, until the fence ended at a large open dusty field. Grass shrubs popped up along the way, but it was mainly open field. I took it this was the field Jimi appeared to Alex in.

  Then, way up in the distance, some hundred yards away, I spotted a brown wooden structure.

  “That’s it,” he pointed.

  We reached the wooden structure, which was behind a wood and chain-link fence. We drove through the gate, to find two glorified sheds, with four divisions each.

  “It’s locker four,” he said.

  In old faded stickers, I made out a number four on one of the doors. He parked right in front of it.

  We got out of the car and approached the door. It had an old rusted padlock, none of these fancy circular or combination locks they use for storage rooms these days. He tried the key in the lock, but they were both too rusty, and bits of oxidized metal flaked off on his hands.

  “You try,” he said.

  I grabbed the lock and inserted the key, and I could feel the resistance of decades of unuse. After several attempts, I got the key all the way inside, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “It won’t come out, either,” I said as I tried to pull it either way.

  “I was afraid this would happen,” he said. “I didn’t want to do it this way because it’s Jimi, but you know.”

  He went back to the Jeep and rummaged around while I messed with the lock some more. He came back with a hammer.

  “How’s that going to help?” I asked.

  He gave the lock three swift bangs to the side and then popped the lock off.

  I laughed. “Well, that will do it.”

  He smiled. “Alright. What have we got here? You ready for this?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said.

  We bent down and together pulled open the bay door. To our surprise, there was nothing in there. We stood in shock for a few minutes. Then we entered the bare space. Then, we found against one wall, an old, rusting garden hoe. The vintage typography on the manufacturer’s logo, looked like it was about the right time period to have been Jimi’s.

  My dad grabbed the tool and knelt down to his knees on the concrete ground. He stayed there in silence for several minutes while I looked around the space.

  “Okay, Jimi,” he said.

  “What?” I replied.

  He was quiet for a few minutes, and then he spoke softly, “I hear Jimi. He wants me to start a garden.”

  Chapter 15

  We left Jimi’s storage room and drove back to Sedona largely empty handed, save for the sixty-year-old gardening tool in the backseat. My dad, however, was anything but somber.

  “Now, tomatoes are the most versatile,” he rambled, “and potatoes, well, they can grow in almost anything…”

  I checked out once my phone beeped with a call. It was Vicki.

  “Hey,” she said. “How’s Jimi?”

  “Good,” I said. “We got a hoe and some sex tea.”

  “Okay, what now?” she replied after a brief pause.

  I laughed. “Jimi’s locker was a bust. All that was in there was an old gardening hoe, presumably from the sixties.”

  “Wow, a vintage gardening hoe!” she exclaimed with mock enthusiasm.

  “It was not a bust,” my dad yelled to Vicki.

  “Dad says to tell you it wasn’t a bust,” I said. “He says Jimi wants him to start a garden. So, we’ve been talking about growing tomatoes.”

  “Jimi said that, huh?” she answered. “Well, then, by all means, start a garden. Maybe that will go with the goat.”

  “Still at it with that goat,” I said.

  “We could name it Billy,” she said.

  “If we get a goat,” I said, “we at least have to come up with an original name for it.”

  “You’re getting a goat?” my dad asked.

  I laughed. “No, Vicki just thinks it will solve our lawn care problem.”

  “You h
ave a lawn care problem?” my dad asked. “I can tell you how to fix that.”

  “Aren’t you getting grass now?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he grumbled. “But just in the back, so your mother can have her yoga ladies over.”

  “So,” I told Vicki, “did you just call me to name our imaginary goat?”

  “No,” she said. “I called you because I’m at a vortex.”

  “You went to a vortex?” I asked.

  Sedona is known for its vortexes, points of natural beauty that supposedly hold cosmic energy and have healing and meditative powers.

  “Tell her I’m proud of her,” my dad said.

  “Dad’s stoked,” I told her. “Why did you do that?”

  “Well, the dancers all wanted to go,” she said. “They thought it would help them release Beyo. So, long story short, Landon and AJ knew some meditation guide or something, and so they arranged to take them, and they invited me.”

  “How did it go?” I asked.

  “We just got here,” she said. “I thought if I went, maybe the cosmic energy spirit guides would come to me and tell me who killed Beyo.”

  “Or the psychic,” I said.

  “Or Jimi Hendrix,” she quipped.

  “Between all of them,” I said, “we should solve the murder by the end of the day.”

  “Fingers crossed,” she said.

  I laughed. “See you.”

  “See ya,” she replied.

  “Vicki’s at a vortex, huh?” my dad asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Julianna and her whole entourage wanted to meditate, release the murder, so Vicki went with them.”

  “It’ll be good for her,” he said. “Good for all of them. The energy in the vortexes can revitalize and reboot you-- bring out your creativity.”

  “I think I’m in love,” I blurted out without thinking.

  “Yeah?” he replied. “And I think the Pope’s Catholic, too.”

  I laughed. “That bad, huh?”

  “I’ve seen the way you look at her,” he said. “I’m just wondering when you’re going to put a ring on it.”

  “Jimi would be quite disappointed in you, quoting Beyonce,” I said.

  “Nice deflection,” he replied.

  “I’m a professional,” I said.