Chapter Twelve
Cindy and I were at a trendy Thai restaurant called Thaiphoon.
“I love this place,” Cindy said after we were seated next to a window overlooking a vast parking lot. “But you hate eating here.”
“Hate is a strong word.”
“But you come here for me.”
“Yes.”
I ordered a club soda, although I wanted a beer. Cindy ordered a Diet Coke, and probably only wanted a Diet Coke.
“I am so proud of you,” Cindy said.
“I am too,” I said.
“You don’t even know what I’m talking about.”
“No,” I said. “I’m just proud of myself in general.”
Our drinks came. Fizzing water for me; fizzing brown chemicals for her. Next, we ordered dinner. I picked something that sounded familiar and hearty.
When the waitress left, Cindy said, “I’m proud of you because I know you would rather have had a beer.”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t order one.”
“No, not this time.”
She smiled at me and there was something close to a twinkle in her eye.
“How’s the mummy case coming along?” she asked.
“Today was research.”
“You hate research.”
“Yes, which is why I spent most of the day playing Solitaire.”
Our soup arrived. Cindy dipped her oversized plastic spoon into the steaming broth and slurped daintily. I slurped less daintily, and three spoonfuls later pushed the witch’s brew aside.
“You’re done already?”
“I don’t want to spoil my appetite.”
“This coming from a guy who eats a dozen donuts in one sitting.”
“I’ve scaled back to a half a dozen.”
She sipped another spoonful, her pinkie sticking out at a perfect ninety-degree angle.
“I still think it’s an accident,” said Cindy.
“But I’m not getting paid to think it’s an accident.”
She nodded. “You’re getting paid to think ‘what if’.”
“Exactly,” I said. “As in, ‘what if’ I slipped under this table and really turned up the heat in this place?”
“You would never fit under the table.”
“Tables are made to be overturned.”
“We would never be able to come back.”
“What a shame.”
“Nice try,” she said. “So any thoughts on who might want the historian dead?”
“I figure someone who stands to lose if Sylvester the Mummy’s identity were ascertained.”
“Big word for a detective.”
“I’m a big detective.”
“Not sure that correlates.”
“Big word for a professor.”
“I get paid to use big words,” said Cindy. “The murder is over a hundred and twenty years old. The murderer is long gone. Who could possibly stand to lose?”
“Perhaps the family of the murderer. Perhaps there’s a deep dark secret.”
Cindy’s eyes brightened the way they do when she finds me particularly brilliant. I’ve learned to treasure these rare moments. She was nodding her head. “Yes, a good start. Any families stand out?”
“There’s one that has potential. They’re called the Barrons, and they own the town of Rawhide.”
“Own?”
“Yes, own. But keep in mind this isn’t a real town anymore; it’s a tourist attraction. Back in the 1970’s the county of San Bernardino was going to level what remained of the mining town, until a man named Tafford Barron purchased it for cheap and rebuilt it into a sort of amusement park. Barron is quoted as saying he couldn’t let a town built by his family be destroyed.”
“Seems innocent enough.”
“Sure,” I said. “Now he’s running for the House of Representatives. Election’s in six months. According to the local paper out there, Barron has a shot of winning this thing.”
Cindy was nodding and grinning and eating. Multi-tasking at its best. “And what if this historian, Willie Whossit-”
“Clarke”
“Willie Clarke comes in and digs up some incriminating evidence.”
“Or embarrassing evidence.”
“Yes, embarrassing. Either way, something like this could derail a campaign.”
“Possibly,” I said. “It’s at least a start.”
Cindy was looking at me over her Diet Coke with something close to lust in her eyes.
“What?” I said.
“I like this,” she said.
“You do?”
“I love talking about your cases. I love watching you sort through your case. I love being a part of the process, even if it’s from the outside looking in. Being a detective might not have been your first choice in life, but you were born to do it, and I respect you so much for that.”
“I was born for something else, too,” I said.
“Football?”
I shook my head slowly.
“Ah,” she said, blushing. “That.”
Chapter Thirteen
I am not mechanically inclined by nature. I am more of the warrior/lover/artist type. But I do know the basics of car maintenance. So before I headed out into the desert, I topped off the Mustang’s water, checked the oil, tire pressure, air filter and anything else that crossed my mind. A few years back I had the engine rebuilt. Since then, the car ran smooth as hell, which was the way I preferred. More than anything, the car was paid off. A key factor to any struggling detective.
I drove north along Highway 15, the main artery into Las Vegas from southern California. Needless to say, I sat in some traffic. With some time on my hands, and being one of the few who didn’t have gambling on the brain, I was able to relax and enjoy a good book on tape. The book was about things called hobbits and a very important ring.
An hour later I was in the Mojave Desert, passing through cities called Hesperia and Victorville. I wondered if there was a Jimville somewhere. And if there wasn’t, there should be.
The Mojave Desert is famous for its kangaroo rats and Joshua trees. Stephen King once set a story out here, about a Cadillac. Always liked that story.
