Death on Planet Pizza Read online

  She remembered when the grape growing community boasted four thriving vineyards, not to mention a location shoot for the old "Mannix" TV show. She remembered meandering Sunday drives as she, her brother, her mom, and Uncle Bruno would traverse the one-lane country roads once lined with palm and giant eucalyptus trees that saturated the air with a peppery scent.

  Now, the "Rancho" was one pseudo-mission-themed strip mall after another, with the hundred-thousand yuppie residents building their generic homes on once sprawling sheep ranches. They'd subdivided just about every acre of old vines and grazing land into two story Spanish tile clones. Ah, progress.

  Spenser pulled into the newly asphalted driveway of the Sunflower. The grounds were magnificently inviting, especially on this very hot day. To either side of the drive, beyond the sentinel maple and crape myrtle, was a verdant lawn punctuated by flower oases. And under every enormous oak tree was a carefully painted bench serenely facing the wisteria arbor that encircled the entire complex.

  It was the most exquisitely maintained yard Spenser had ever seen outside of the Huntington Gardens. And the home was nothing to sneeze at either. It was a pentagonal ranch style building with thirty individual suites, all appointed in a tony western design.

  The Sunflower was a posh, private, for-profit guest home with a respected reputation. It was exclusive and much sought after by wealthy parents who wanted their loved ones cared for in a familial setting rather than the state's warehousing system. The generous, guilt-ridden insurance settlement CC received from the drunk driver who crippled her, allowed her to afford the Sunflower. And it was worth every penny to her. Tucker loved living at the Sunflower. That was all that mattered. The public entrance housed two administrative offices, a reception area, a waiting room with a view of the interior courtyard and the resident psychiatrist's office. Spenser walked over to the receptionist and was greeted by a barrage of sneezing.

  "Salute," Spenser offered, standing a respectable distance in case germs were involved.

  "T'anks," answered the congested receptionist tossing a tissue onto a mountain of other tissues in the overflowing wastebasket.

  "Santa Anas?"

  "Wud else!" Adrienne Laurel shook her head. "I lub 'em 'cause it gets so clear, but, dang, dose winds sure do a nummer on my sinuses.” Adrienne blew her very red nose then pointed toward the director's office. "She knows you're coming."

  "What's she like, A?" Spenser often visited the Sunflower, but not since its new director, Brianne Saunders, had been appointed.

  "Well...I like her," began the clogged receptionist. "And I think the residents like her, too. I mean, it's hard for anyone to deal with a big change, and the people here are less than flexible, but I think they're coming around. Besides, she's really good with them. Very attentive, but not condescending, you know. Yeah, I like her."

  Spenser had never really liked the old director. He'd acted more like a warden than an administrator. And he always seemed to have a problem with Spenser. She parked her car too close to the peonies. Or she brought Tucker home too late from their outings. Or her patched jeans did not conform to the dress code. Or..."So, she's not a Nazi," offered Spenser.

  Adrienne laughed between sniffles.

  "Aunt Spenser," a husky voice boomed from the courtyard.

  Spenser turned toward the French doors to greet CC’s pride and joy. "Hey, Tucker."

  Tucker Watts was 23 years old, 6' 2", 208 pounds. He suffered from grand mal epileptic seizures and had the added burden of what the clinicians termed mild retardation. He had the reasoning power of a ten-year-old. He was also gentle, kind and funny. He loved video games, being a grand master at Tetris, and writing. His stories were always entertaining, full of recognizable characters from his own life and often insightful with themes that rivaled Michael Crichton.

  Tucker guided his ample frame through the doors and engulfed Spenser in what could only be described as a bear hug because Tucker was a bear. A large, handsome, Smokey Bear, sans ranger hat, awkward on his feet but not in his heart. He was strong, but gentle, caring and adorable and ever so cuddly. He was also a stalwart champion of friend and foe alike.

  "Look," he said, ending his embrace and pointing to a silver medal dangling from a red ribbon hanging from his neck. "I won second place in Special Olympics."

  His excitement was contagious. "Well, all right, Tuck." Spenser high-fived the ecstatic young man.

  "Hundred-yard breast stroke. That's four times up and back. I was fast."

  "I can see that." Spenser examined the Olympic-sized medal.

  "Don't tell," whispered Tucker. "I'm gonna give it to Gina Mae."

  "She’ll love it," Spenser whispered in reply. His smile almost touched both ears. Tucker, being such a looker, was much in demand by the female populace of the Sunflower. And, being so darn polite, he was never one to say no to a lady. Therefore, he democratically allowed each pining damsel the pleasure of his company for two, three months tops. That's what made Gina Mae so special. Tucker'd been seeing his latest flame for over four months. A new record. Much to the chagrin of the odds makers whose pool was suddenly invalid.

  "D'you finish the story, Tuck?" asked Adrienne.

  "Almost," answered Tucker.

  "You got a new story, Tuck?" Spenser was hardly surprised.

  "Uh huh. And it's got Gina Mae in it, too." Tucker reached into his jean’s back pocket and carefully extricated the omnipresent blue notebook that contained his precious stories. "I call it 'Tucker Saves Planet Pizza'."

  "Cool title," acknowledged Spenser. Pizza...food of the gods...was the only thing Tucker loved more than his mother. What else, therefore, would he name his very own planet?

  "It's scary," disclosed Tucker. "But not too scary," he corrected, not wishing to prevent anyone from reading it.

  "Can't wait to hear it." Spenser actually enjoyed listening to his stories. They were sometimes uncompromising in their assessments of people, but they were also honest and straightforward. "Hey, Tuck, remember what next Thursday is?"

  The look on his face basically said 'duh’. "Halloween!" His reply broke the sound barrier. He could taste the candy already. So could Spenser.

  For the last three years, Spenser had taken Tucker to her friend Toots, a seamstress, who would fabricate a costume from scratch. It was always a surprise and it was always a hit with Tucker, the other celebrants, and especially Spenser who marveled at Toots' expertise, seeing as how Spenser could barely sew on a button.

  A week before Halloween she'd take Tucker over to be measured (he always seemed to grow an inch every year), then on Halloween eve she and Tucker would return only to be awed by Toots' magic. After All Hallows evening's tricks and treats, Tucker would divvy up his booty, offering Spenser a generous handful of his night's haul.

  "Pick you up this Thursday, around 6 o'clock and we'll go see Toots."

  "Yes!" answered the enthused young man. "I gotta go now." He planted a kiss on Spenser's cheek and loped away.

  "He's so damn cute," sniffled Adrienne. "And I love his stories. They're the next best thing to having a newsletter! Achoo..." The sneezes had begun anew.

  "Gesundheit. Catch you later, A."

  Spenser left the pollen challenged receptionist and walked to the director's office. Her knock produced a grunt that she took as an invitation to enter. Opening the door, she was confronted by a Vaudevillian tableau. A thirty-something woman was balancing one foot on a step stool while the other foot was awkwardly stopping a crystal vase from plummeting to the floor by pressing it precariously against the wall. Her left hand held tentatively to a shelf, one end of which had broken loose from the wall and was now hanging at a rakish angle. Her right hand held a hammer and a glass picture frame. Her mouth was tightened around some nails.

  Spenser to the rescue. Spenser threw the Markstone envelope on the floor, delicately removed the vase from one foot, took the frame from one hand, and stabilized the stool long enough for the woman to plant both feet on terra fir
ma. She stepped down deliberately, took the nails out of her mouth, and sighed audibly.

  "Thank you." She took Spenser's hand in hers and held on as though still unsure of her footing.

  "I assume you are the director and not one of the maintenance crew."

  A delicious smile crossed the woman's face and she laughed aloud. "Definitely not a member of the carpenters' union. You must be Spenser. Constance Clementine's told me so much about you."

  "Grain of salt, Dr Saunders."

  "I only believed the good things. And, please, call me Brianne."

  Brianne's smile was blinding, her presence electric. She was the kind of woman who commanded attention not only by her beauty, but also by her intensity. She was no more than two or three inches taller than Spenser with a dancer's body, lithe but athletic. Her blonde hair created a curly, almost angelic aura. But she also possessed a sureness that conveyed the knowledge that this woman was firmly grounded. Except, of course, when she was trying to fix a shelf.

  Spenser picked up the envelope. "Here's the program velox." Spenser handed Brianne the folder then walked over to the skewed shelf. She picked up the hammer and a nail, stepped gingerly onto the stool, and began to fix the errant plank of wood. "CC says you can have the programs by next Friday if you like it."

  Spenser expertly hammered the nail into a stud and hooked the shelf's hanging eye into the nail. Finally, her decision to take wood shop instead of home-ec was reaping a dividend. She turned and watched as Brianne scanned the program, her delight obvious.

  Spenser decided to do her own scanning. It was a nice office, utilitarian but comfortable with cushy-seated straight backed chairs and a cherry wood credenza anchoring the south wall. It was not too large, with a picture window that captured the beauty of the garden within its frame. And two of the walls were the proud guardians of some very impressive certificates and degrees.

  "This is perfect. I'll have Adrienne proof the names while you and I go over to the Little Theatre."

  Little Theatre? Spenser wasn't prone to blackouts, but she'd obviously missed a big chunk of something here. "Uh...Little Theatre?"

  Brianne gently cupped Spenser's elbow in her hand and guided her out of the office. "It was really nice of you to volunteer."

  Volunteer?

  Brianne handed the velox to the receptionist. "Adrienne, could you proof this for us, please?"

  "Sure," sniffed Adrienne.

  "We'll be in the Little Theatre."

  A confused Spenser walked beside the enthused director toward the northern point of the Sunflower star. Crap, thought Spenser, I’m too young for Alzheimer’s.

  "You should have seen the panic I was in," continued Brianne, "when Mr Shumway told me I was in charge of a stage production."

  Yep, panic would be an appropriate word right now, thought Spenser.

  "Then, CC told me how much stage experience you had..."

  CC! Should have known. Spenser’s eyebrows furrowed.

  "I know more about aphasia than Aeschylus..." Hell, Spenser was impressed the director knew the name of any playwright, let alone an ancient Greek one. "...so, the whole idea..." Brianne stopped suddenly and stared at Spenser.

  Uh, oh. Spenser had a habit of wearing her emotions on her face. She's guessed I'm hiring a hit man to rub out CC.

  "You never volunteered, did you?" Spenser's look told the story. Brianne grimaced. "I am so sorry. When CC...I mean...I thought...well, she said...you know I would never have...I mean...oh, god. I'm so embarrassed." She blushed the color of a Roman Beauty apple.

  "It's all right," answered Spenser, trying to assuage. "CC does this to me all the time. I don't mind." Yeah, right.

  "But I do. I mean, here I am going on and on like a blithering idiot. You must think...oh, lord...please...don't feel obligated..."

  Spenser had never seen a grown woman so completely mortified. It was kinda cute. And, yes, of course, she was going to help. "I never feel obligated. If I can help I will."

  "You're sure?"

  "I'm sure," Spenser lied. Mom always says that lying is a sin. She wondered what the penance was for such a venial transgression.

  "Thank you." Brianne's relief was palpable.

  There it was again. That smile. Spenser was positive that smile could melt icebergs. She was certain it had melted many a man's heart. She wondered about Mr Saunders. Brianne's wedding ring was a simple but brilliant gold band with an intricate filigree Spenser could not quite make out.

  "I'm afraid we're drowning," offered Brianne. "My staff is doing their best but none of us has a clue."

  The director opened the audience door into a small, one-hundred seat auditorium. On stage was utter chaos. People, whom Spenser supposed were staff and parents, were performing some ritual dance that seemed to involve the dropping of 2x4s, the upending of paint cans and the hammering of nails directly into fingers. Oy. Spenser felt a headache coming on.

  "Mr Overoye, our new maintenance supervisor, has some carpentry background so he's been trying to help with the set construction." Brianne led Spenser to the orchestra pit and signaled for her makeshift construction manager to join them. "Ival, this is Spenser."

  Ival Overoye looked wicked nasty, as Spenser's New England relatives would say. He walked to the apron and stood towering over the two women. He had a long, pointy nose, a small, tight mouth and darting brown eyes. His weasel face sported a ragged scar that transected his forehead down to his right cheek, cutting into his right eyelid. The lid drooped giving him the appearance of wearing an eye patch. He looks like a pirate, thought Spenser. A very malevolent pirate.

  Overoye's body was also long and his movements furtive. After an awkward silence where his sneer traveled up and down Spenser’s body, he bent slightly and offered his hand. His handshake was limp and disinterested. He wore grungy overalls and paint splattered Keds. Spenser didn't even know they still made Keds.

  She was unimpressed with the man and his work. The "flats", canvas stretched over a rectangular wood frame that made up the walls of the set, were neither plumb nor properly toggled. They lay unprotected on dirt and sawdust. Spenser envisioned her stage shop teacher having a stroke at such incompetence.

  "Spenser has a lot of experience in set construction and I think her help will be invaluable." Brianne's tone was strangely placating. Spenser’s eyes moved upward from her low vantage point in the pit. The weasel hadn't moved a muscle since he'd planted his Keds directly in front of Spenser. "Where do we start?" asked a chipper Brianne.

  Where indeed. "Well...," began Spenser, tentatively. "I think some of those flats need to be redone."

  Overoye's face became a deep scarlet. "Fine." His voice was like a brush fire, crackling and ominous. "I got real work to do." His body turned away from the women, but his eyes were glued to Spenser.

  Malocchio. That's what Spenser's Mom-Mom would have said. The evil eye. Had Spenser been the good Catholic she’d been raised to be she’d have made the sign of the cross right then and there. She remembered how Beatrice had told her stories of people who were pure evil, but she'd never actually run into someone like that. Until now. Overoye picked up a hammer, twirled it like a gun, slung it into the loop on his pant leg, and exited stage left.

  "Sorry," apologized Brianne. "He's a bit territorial. He'll come ‘round once he sees how good you are."

  Flattery is so cheap. "I can't stay long," interjected Spenser.

  "Oh, I understand. No, please, just point us in the right direction." Brianne's lips curved upward.

  Damn that smile.

  "Isabella...," called the director.

  An attractive Latina woman in her mid-thirties put down a paint brush and gracefully walked to the apron. Spenser was intrigued. Isabella's tawny skin was highlighted by her luxuriant chestnut hair. Her mouth was full, her nose small and her luminous eyes a rich sepia tone. But most amazing to Spenser was her tiny waist. Spenser had always marveled at small-waisted women, a condition she would never personally experience. B
ut they always looked so emaciated it was a condition she had never really wished for herself. Until now. Here was a healthy, robust, small-waisted woman who looked hardy and full of vinegar, as her mom would say.

  "Hi," greeted the woman as she jumped down from the stage.

  "Isabella Rojas, this is Spenser Isaacs."

  Her handshake was warm and firm and genuine. Spenser liked her.

  "Call me Belle."

  "Nice to meet you, Belle," responded Spenser.

  "Isabella is my Administrative Assistant. In other words, my right hand, left hand and both feet."

  "It's so cool having a professional here," remarked an obviously overjoyed Belle.

  "Well...I'm hardly a professional," countered Spenser, modestly.