Death on Planet Pizza Read online

  Well, an HO scale model of the Jupiter. It was on display at the LA County Fair and Spenser was spellbound by the elaborate exhibit. There was the 2-6-2 steamer with the 0-4 tender, and the sturdy workhorse Santa Fe diesel, and the orange and yellow Chessie cab-forward. Not to mention an entire town laid out boasting a vibrant downtown, a lake with boats churning the water, cars and trucks and people and even a drive-in movie with a real movie playing on the 12 inch by 14 inch screen. She could still hear her uncle regaling her with tales of the rails. Of when he was a young whippersnapper of nineteen and he rode the B&O as a brakeman.

  “Excuse me.” Spenser was momentarily startled to see a stranger in her house when events of the morning brought her back to real time.

  “Sorry.” She gently placed the Jupiter back into its home, turned and sighed. “Where were we?”

  Spenser exchanged insurance info with the man named John Smith, after he finally convinced her with license, registration, Visa and library card that he really was John Smith, and guided him and his oversized Tonka toy away from her injured tin house.

  Racing back into the Airstream, she removed the model train display case from the wall, carted it into her bedroom, and secreted it in the base of her platform bed, making sure to cover the small hidey-hole with hanging linen and bedspread. Most of her possessions could be replaced should anyone decide to rummage around, but the trains were way too precious, at least emotionally, to take that chance.

  Spenser was already late for work, so she grabbed a shower curtain (a brand new one, free of mold and unsightly soap scum that would have embarrassed her in front of her neighbors), plastered it to the front of her trailer with invaluable duct tape, cleaned up the glass and debris, set the DVR for a "Poirot" episode on PBS, locked the Silverstream (fat lot of good that would do), and trudged to the Shadow.

  "Hell of a morning, Bessie," Spenser greeted her vehicle as she put the car in gear.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Tuesday - morning

  One of the things Spenser loved about Southern California was the inevitability of the unexpected. You just never knew when something extraordinary would happen.

  For example, here was Spenser taking the long way to Markstone - what the hell, I’m already late - through the eucalyptus-lined, verdant vineyards and ranches of Etiwanda, just minding her own business. The peace of it all was so relaxing. Unless you counted the obstacle blocking Spenser's forward progress. In the middle of the roadway, standing regally, was something that looked just like a llama. And, it looked just like a llama because it was a llama.

  ‘Natch. Perfectly normal for Southern California. Spenser blasted the horn, but instead of scurrying away, the critter decided to run directly at Spenser. Braking Bessie hard, Spenser swerved wildly onto the shoulder. The maneuver left the Shadow leaning awkwardly into a small ditch.

  Spenser felt a wave of nausea as she opened the door and surveyed the scene before her. Did she hit the poor animal? She wasn’t sure. She thought she’d heard a thud just before the car swerved. Damn, she hoped she hadn’t killed it. Sure, she’d dispatched many a butterfly, gnat, bee, fly. She’d had to scrape things off her windshield before, you betcha. But, llamas, not so much.

  Spenser scanned the road, nope, no bleeding Camelids. She exhaled, wondering what the hell to do next, when she heard what sounded like singing; a melodic phrase repeating over and over again. “Sweetums, Sweetums, dear”.

  Sweetums?

  Spenser turned toward a small hillock to her right and saw an honest to gosh cowgirl, wearing form-fitting Levi’s, a plaid shirt, ten-gallon Stetson, and cowboy boots with spurs. She descended in one smooth motion from hillock to road.

  The cowgirl was twirling a lasso, ready to snare any errant cows, or llamas for that matter, in her wake. “Hey,” she called to Spenser. “You seen a big ol’ llama ‘round here?”

  Spenser pointed in front of her and the cowgirl started running toward the other side of the street. “Could use your help,” she yelled as she passed Spenser.

  Semper paratus. Spenser hauled herself out of the ditch and followed the lasso lassie. As she reached the opposite hillock, she saw the cowgirl stopped at the bottom, twirling the rope in a widening circle with the llama calmly munching on some chaparral.

  “If you could move to the other side, stop her from bolting,” she whispered, “I’ll try to get this ‘round her neck.”

  Spenser nodded and moved slowly around the distracted animal. She watched as the cowgirl inched toward the llama, soothing words tripping from her tongue, the rope twirling over her head. Then, just as the beast raised her head, the lasso found its mark. The animal resisted slightly, but the cowgirl had a good grip and finally the beast settled down.

  The cowgirl smiled at Spenser. “Sorry if she gave you a scare. She broke her pen. I’ve been after her for nigh onto a half hour.”

  She looked to be about thirty, thirty-five years old. She was maybe three inches taller than Spenser with a shock of platinum blonde hair. She had a short distance runner’s body, muscular, lean, and compact. Her facial features were just short of perfect, a white scar running from a cleft in her chin to about mid-jaw marring her beauty only slightly.

  She stroked the llama’s head and gave Spenser her full attention. “Jesse Day,” she said, extending her hand.

  “Spenser Isaacs.” Spenser shook Jesse’s hand. “Can I help you get, uh, Sweetums…wherever she needs to go?”

  “Thanks, Spenser, but how ‘bout we see if there’s any damage to your car first.” Her smile was like a campfire, warm and inviting. Sheesh, now I’m a cowboy poet.

  They walked three abreast over the hillock, across the street, and over to Bessie who was listing precariously starboard. Spenser took a tour around the car. There was only a slight dent marring the front bumper where the Shadow had made the acquaintance of a rather large rock.

  “Hm,” said Jesse. “Doesn’t look so bad, but don’t you worry, I’ll find my insurance company’s number and they’ll make sure your bumper looks as good as new.”

  Spenser wondered if Jesse was with State Farm or Allstate or some other equally stately insurance company and if that company’s computers would be red tagging her name as a potential insurance scam artist. Spenser got in the car, started her up, and sighed in relief as the Shadow tackled the ditch with assurance. Once back on the road, she came alongside Jesse and Sweetums. “Just follow me,” said Jesse. Which Spenser did, very slowly.

  No more than a quarter of a mile down the road, Jesse pointed toward a well-worn slip of macadam where a mailbox shaped like a Victorian home stood sentinel. Spenser drove through an overgrown olive tree grove to a house, an exact duplicate of the mailbox Victorian, nestled confidently between oak trees and jacaranda. Its three stories rose majestically supported by four turrets and a central cupola. Wow. Spenser’s vocabulary always became expansive when she was very much entranced. And the Victorian was very much entrancing her. “What a magnificent house,” Spenser said as Jesse came abreast of the Shadow.

  Jesse nodded in agreement. “Family ranch. Generations of Days. The dynasty sadly ending with me, I’m afraid. The unmarried black sheep who inherited from a childless uncle.” She giggled lightly. “Sounds like a soap opera. We return you now to ‘The End of Days’.” Jesse then let out a wet blurp, halfway between a pig snort and a Marine belch. She guffawed with an unselfconscious abandon that had Spenser giggling in synch.

  Spenser watched Jesse corral the wayward llama where she joined others of her ilk, admonishing her to stay put. Jesse then sprinted to the expansive front porch. “Come on in,” she said, beckoning Spenser.

  Climbing the flagstone steps, Spenser scanned the wraparound porch with its lush ficus in terra cotta urns and inviting bowed windows flanking a magnificent mahogany door. Above the door was a colorful stain glass window depicting an English country garden.

  Jesse opened the door and invited Spenser in. The foyer was bigger than Spenser’s trailer. A wall
mirror taller than most redwoods reflected a scene out of every Bob Vila “This Old House” direct from rural Massachusetts renovation. Spenser thought she’d died and gone to HGTV heaven. The wood paneled study sprawled to her left and the formal parlor invited Spenser to step to her right.

  The front room was larger than her mom’s house multiplied by four. A grand piano rested regally in the bowed window’s niche, flanked by ancient wooden pillars that were topped with hanging pothos plants. An exquisite stone and marble fireplace dominated the south wall. The step-up dining room was so far away Spenser wondered if the Days had employed a tram to move from one to the other.

  The very swank sofa was overstuffed and oversized. A troop of boy scouts with compasses would have gotten lost in it. There was a chaise near an Art Deco torchiere and a love seat larger than her car augmenting the sofa. The wing back chairs on either side of the fireplace would have fit very nicely into a Sherlock Holmes yarn. I say, old boy, take the chair by the fire, what.

  Spenser tried for casual indifference as she stared drooling at the authentic, Spenser was certain, Tiffany lamp on the side table. Directly in front of her was a “Gone with the Wind” staircase braced by sturdy railings of some very dark wood and an intricately carved newel post with the head of some very fierce animal grinning menacingly in her direction.

  “Wow,” said Spenser. Good to know that her powers of erudition were up to the task at hand.

  Spenser followed Jesse into the study and toward the grandest desk Spenser had ever seen. Actually, grand was not the correct adjective. Gigantic didn’t even come close. Ocean-liner enormous seemed more appropriate. The drawers could have been subletted. Jesse began rummaging through one of its compartments while Spenser perused the book titles tantalizingly staring at her from their shelves of honor. Leather bound novels from authors Spenser’d always meant to read but never seemed to find the time. Okay, never seemed to find the inclination. Man, I could impress the hell out of Bea just uttering these titles.

  A rare moment of responsibility seized Spenser and she figured she probably should call Markstone to say she’d be late, later. “May I use your phone to call work?”

  “Oh, sure.” Jesse pointed at a stunningly carved pine box on the eastern end of the massive desk then continued her exploration.

  Spenser studied the marquetry box, carved with exquisite Aubrey Beardsley-like figures, lifted the lid, and was surprised to see an ordinary cordless phone. Spenser dialed Markstone and attempted to explain her delay in between guffaws from the receptionist. Spenser rang off and studied the study.

  The room was way too close to some cinematographer’s idea of the typical, affluent Victorian home to be real. Yet here it was. In all its glory and charm. The early morning sun scooted along the highly polished parquet floor, stopping to touch the Eastlake high-backs and elegant chaise. An escritoire, embracing a blue crystal ball, held court within the beveled-glass bowed window, flanked by rubber plants and pampas grass in coral colored ewers. Did Spenser mention wow?

  “Here ya go.” Jesse handed Spenser a business card with the name Boris Blinkoff tastefully embossed. No way was that a real name. “Boris is my insurance agent. Been with the family forever.”

  Spenser fingered the card. “Thanks. I’m sure it won’t be much of a repair.” She started walking toward the front door, Jesse following. “I better get going before my boss notices I’m not there complicating her life.” They walked down the flagstone steps toward Bessie.

  Spenser glanced at the corral. “So, you’re a llama rancher?”

  Jesse stared at Sweetums and her fourteen companions. “Oh, no, not me.” Jesse laughed. “The llamas belong to my best friend’s brother. He lost the lease on the corral they were using. And I, being the only one either of them knew with any kind of property, was commissioned to help. Which I don’t mind. Well, okay, maybe a little.”

  They stopped in front of Bessie. “My family had been cattle ranchers for over a hundred years. My cousins and I would work the drives in between school breaks, but then they all were married and moved away. When my parents died fifteen years ago, my uncle inherited the ranch, but he just never had his heart in it. He planted the trees thinking olives would be more interesting than cows, but as you can see he never had his heart in that either.”

  Jesse folded her arms across her chest. “No, I’m afraid that what with the economy, I’ve given up on ranching. Now, my passion is olives. I figure maybe my uncle had the right idea, just not the right resolve.” She pointed to the grove surrounding the house. “I’ve just begun tilling the soil around the trees and trimming the branches. I’m determined to get that damn grove back into some kind of productive state. Everything’s just kind of lain dormant for about eighteen months, since Uncle died. And I have no idea why I’m telling you all this really useless and boring information.”

  Spenser smiled. “Not at all. It’s fascinating. I’ve never known a farmer before.”

  “Well, I’m not. Not yet. I’m actually an attorney. Got an office in San Oaks. But one of these days I’m going to throw off the shackles of litigation and settle down to become an olive tree farmer.” Her eyes focused on a point somewhere in her future. “Yes siree, I’ll get those trees to start producing the best olives this side of Tuscany. People will come from around the world to taste my olive oil. I’ll be written up in Connoisseur.” Jesse started laughing, slapping her thigh. “I’ll be the only non-Italian invited to join the order of Garibaldi!”

  Spenser laughed, too. She slid into the Shadow and looked up into Jesse’s smiling face.

  “Thanks again for helping me with Sweetums.”

  “My pleasure.” Spenser started the car.

  “Oh, hey,” Jesse checked her pockets and handed Spenser a business card. “If you ever need an advocate, I’m your gal.”

  Spenser took the card and put the Shadow in gear. “Be sure to call Boris,” called Jesse as Spenser made a U-turn and headed back toward the road.

  Spenser watched as the ranch house disappeared from her rear view mirror. She smiled as she replayed the unusual morning in her head. Then with a stupid grin on her face, she suddenly realized that she was almost two hours late for work. Spenser maneuvered back onto the highway and headed for Markstone, marveling at her ordinary Southern California morning.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Tuesday - late morning

  Nearing noon, CC gave Spenser leave to visit the Sunflower. Spenser was thrilled. Not. She made the drive in record time and no ticket. She walked past the still sniffling Adrienne and toward the Little Theatre. It was her fervent hope to avoid meeting anyone else, most especially Peter Shumway, the home's owner. He was annoyingly obsequious toward the residents and terminally pedantic. Spenser could recite, verbatim, Shumway's curriculum vitae because she'd heard it so often.

  He was always struggling, it seemed, to keep his beloved Sunflower progressive in its treatments and provide the best (read expensive) possible service to his dear clients. To hear him tell it, the Sunflower was an enormous drain on him psychologically. His empathy for the residents was inspiring. Their ills were his ills. Their cares, his cares. The altruism escaping his every pore was prodigious. Thank goodness for his acumen, his expertise, his undying devotion to his needy charges.

  "Gag me," whispered Spenser. She turned the corner unaware of the predator waiting for her on the last bend of the Sunflower star.

  "Spenser, my dear." The voice was like fingernails on chalkboard. The shiver it engendered rose like bile. Spenser turned reluctantly to see Peter Shumway hauling his 5-foot, 180-pound frame directly at her. There was no escape. The human steamroller planted his triple D shoes micro inches from her and invaded her space with the sickening scent of patchouli and sweat.

  "Mr Shumway." Spenser forced a smile.

  "I must say, you look absolutely smashing."

  The word smarmy suddenly sprang to mind.

  "We are ever so grateful to you. Dr Saunders is a fabulous admi
nistrator and, I must say, Mr Overoye is one of the finest maintenance supervisors the Sunflower has ever had..."

  Now that's sad.

  "But, and let's be honest shall we." Shumway's voice became low and conspiratorial. "Neither are qualified to, how shall I say, mount a stage production. Your assistance has overjoyed everyone."

  Yeah. Especially Overoye.

  "And we are doubly grateful that your volunteerism," he emphasized that last word, "will allow us to utilize our resources in the best possible way."