Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-3

Lyndy Life Observation: Each time I watch the opening of a Charlie’s Angel’s episode I can’t help wondering: Is Bosley actually the mastermind and this Charlie Townsend character on the phone an actor he hired, a cover story to protect his identity? Wouldn’t this make more sense, because Bosley seems way more organized and knowledgeable anyhow?

The access road to the Lovelace chateau ascended a narrow grade from the highway, paved, zig-zagging through a grove of towering evergreens. A crispness in the air, the scent of pine and plentiful shade were welcome relief from the desert—especially this time of year. Savoring the experience, The Spitfire slipped her fingers into her dark brown hair, ruffling it and carrying away the hair tie, freeing her ponytail.

As the Mustang’s engine sputtered, struggling to cope with altitude, The Spitfire prayed it wouldn’t cut out entirely. She would have blamed it on the carburetor, but knew it was worse than simple lack of air; the fastback required the skilled hand of a Barstow mechanic named Darrel Ward. At this rate, she’d be bested by a teenager driving a souped-up Pacer.

At least her Beretta was clean and oiled.

Thus far details were scant. A night prior, The Spitfire received an urgent telegram from Miss Lovelace stating she’d been robbed at gunpoint. The perps entered her gallery, forced her to open a safe, made off with forty thousand in cash therein, plus fine jewelry and other artifacts.

Of course, working for the Lovelace clan often meant dropping everything when your services were needed—even situations far from dire—sometimes a loose scorpion in Rita’s bedroom was cause enough. But almost always it was better paying and a more pleasant gig than anything Mr. Chan had to offer.

Lyndy coasted into a turning circle fronting the Swiss Chalet style structure. All seemed peaceful and quiet; no other vehicles were out front and even the carriage house doors were shut. Folks on the lake spoke of the fanciful mansion, saying it was originally built for Shirley Temple. From certain vantage points one could spot it rising grandly, as picturesque as the wrapper on a high-end milk chocolate bar, framed in massive sugar pines. The entire first floor stood ensconced in a round-stone façade, lending it an authentic alpine flair. Its origins in Hollywood money seemed plausible and the vintage fit.

She stepped out of the fastback—red high-heel cowgirl boots perhaps a bit too much given the serious occasion—slinging her purse over one shoulder and twirling the keys. The air was tranquil as her heels clicked on the decorative brick drive, and she paced a half-lap around the Mustang. She hadn’t phoned ahead and if nobody was home she figured she’d meander to the back patio and have a smoke.

Seconds later the double front doors burst open.

Bounding out came the heiress herself, clad in high waist jeans and a frilly white blouse looking like a pirate shirt. She rushed to The Spitfire, seizing her at the shoulders. “Lyn!” she exclaimed, quaking with energy and excitement. “Great to see you! What a relief.” With Lyndy squirming, Rita began pecking her on both cheeks European style—tranquility shattered.

Reeling back, Lyndy bent at the hip and began dabbing both sides of her face with the tail of her shirt. In the chaos her purse slipped from her shoulder, plummeting several feet downslope into a flower bed, luckily halted by shoots of a tiny aspen. To get it back she had to straddle the retaining wall on her stomach, wriggling her fingers and stretching her abdomen. Using her toes as an anchor, she took care to avoid having her center of gravity extend too far out; would have landed on her head and skidded to oblivion. Dusting off, she smoothed her forearm along both cheeks once more.

Meantime, acting unaware of the pandemonium she’d caused, Rita proceeded to shut Lyndy’s car door for her. She went into a crouch position, inspecting the condition of her wheels and tires. “I’ll give a quick rundown,” she voiced. “My dad’s in Bora-Bora, and all the help is busy in Tanque Verde; currently I’m the only soul here. Which also means for the foreseeable future I’m the maid. And by the way there’s no food in the fridges and I honestly never paid attention to how to turn on the natural gas supply—nor probably should I be entrusted with that responsibility—so we can’t cook or take showers. Inconvenient. But the circuit breaker is live.” From her squatting position, Rita eyed Lyndy up and down. She seemed to be talking and behaving like a cassette player on a 2x speed setting. “Speaking of coffee, you look like you could use a cappuccino STAT? Want one?”

Lyndy blinked, still raking her hair back in place and feeling overwhelmed.

Rita jumped to her feet. “I bought a cappuccino maker from one of those fancy kitchen supply warehouses and it got delivered today. Follow me inside,” she explained, dragging Lyndy by an arm along the footpath and through the massive entry.

“Miss Lovelace, how many cappuccinos have you had?” Lyndy queried, having trouble keeping up.

Ceasing mid-stride, Rita bit her lower lip, counting on her left hand. “I dunno, four… wait … no five,” she said guiltily. “Basically, I can fly.”

She’d only toured the Arrowhead mansion once or twice, but Lyndy could recall certain aspects in detail. It had the same shag rugs—white and fluffy as an arctic fox—spread across polished granite flooring; those rugs made you want to shuffle barefoot across them or roll on your back like a cat. Overhead, 24-inch timbers joined to support vaulted ceilings. An arrowhead motif had been emblazoned into many of the beams. Beside the main stairs hung a wrought iron coat rack featuring saddles, riding crops and a helmet. There was also one of those old-fashioned braided bull whips, nine feet in length.

“Forgot how groovy this place is,” Lyndy muttered, staring in awe at the fireplace with her palms stuck in her back pockets. There was enough wood stacked to keep a fire roaring for weeks. It would be a hell of a place to host parties. Although for somebody who had their life threatened, Rita didn’t seem particularly distraught. “Dude, why in the world are you drinking so much coffee? I thought caffeine didn’t agree with your metabolism, made you all hyper. Afraid of falling asleep?”

Situated at the foot of the stairs, Rita paused, gazing out front as one of the tall doors remained open to a thirty-degree angle. She clicked her tongue, moving to a round table which accommodated her purse. By the mute tone and serious expression on Miss Lovelace’s face, Lyndy knew she’d stumbled upon a kernel of truth. But without a word on the subject, Rita bowed her head while lighting a fresh Newport. She then pointed the cigarette to Lyndy. “Hey, did you bring a swimsuit?”

“Crap. No … why?” demanded Lyndy, frustration increasing.

“Hello. We are road-tripping to Vegas. It’s gonna be like a pottery kiln.”

“Your telegram says nothing about that,” protested Lyndy, frowning and raising her arms in exasperation. “Well that’s just great! Now we have to go bathing suit shopping. And let’s see, I have 12 hours to wax my whole body.”

Rita chuckled, handing Lyndy a pen. On the table she’d written up a CBB contract. Lyndy played it cool, even if her eyes were popping at the sum of $150 per day—it was a chunk of money—and trying to process the remaining squares. The description had been filled in as personal security and investigative services. Rita scratched down her illegible autograph, a combination of capital letters “R” and “L”. Beneath it Lyndy marked hers.

Cool. I’m getting paid to hang out with Rita Lovelace. She hoped Rita couldn’t tell how giddy she was.

Ka-Chunk went the red “Approved” stamp, making it an official sanction. Tearing off the carbon copy, she creased the document into thirds. Hastily Lyndy stuffed these in her purse, not wanting to allow any opportunity for Rita changing her mind. “And will you please quit saving money on per-word charges.” Lyndy glanced up at Rita. “Wait, important question. What are we driving? My car is having mechanical issues. It’s never gonna make it.”

---

A short time later …

The lake, hundreds of yards below and dotted with small paddle boats, shimmered in the noonday sun. Removing her shades, Lyndy stashed them by burying the plastic ends in her hair. She was seated on the elevated patio, a perch shaded in leafy oaks and ponderosa pines, bearing vistas of higher ridges to the south. From here, if you knew just where to look, one could spot the Ellis family cabin. But she found it easier pretending Kyle’s house didn’t exist, instead dabbing on lip balm while she waited.

Thankfully Rita arrived from the kitchen, refreshed and grinning cheerfully. In her arms she supported a silver tray topped with white linen, a curvy glass bottle and two champagne flutes. Light filtering through the bottle gave it a golden-tan hue, and because it was chilled beads of sweat were clinging to the sides. As Rita lowered the platter, Lyndy plucked one of the tall glasses and served herself two shots worth.

Swirling whatever it was, Lyndy brought it to her nose to get a good whiff—the odor fruity but unlike anything she recognized. “What’s this stuff?”

“Eau de vie, hon.”  Sensing Lyndy’s confusion, Rita added. “Don’t think. Just try it.”

Across the remainder of the table Rita plopped a file folder, from which green and pink slips of paper were already spilling out.

Lyndy sipped, pushing the bangs from her view and eyed Miss Rita, who appeared like a jolly, less talented version of Linda Ronstadt—which was no accident—because Rita made a habit of imitating her idol’s sense of fashion. They even had the same color hair. Like a giddy seventh grader, Rita was jumpy, sitting upright and locking her hands between her knees. 

“You know I would have been happier with a Tab.”

Rita dipped a red and white straw into her glass.

Lyndy scooted nearer to the tabletop, resting her elbows and getting her nose up close to the documents. With two fingers securing her glass, she used the other hand to dig through the papers, curious what they were. She quickly recognized this was a mountain of car titles and registrations.

The Spitfire’s eyes shifted to the topmost slip, checking the make, then back to Rita. “Let’s see.” Sniffing quickly, Lyndy queried, “This is a Lamborghini Espada. White one.”

Rita shook her head grimly. “Ooh. No. That one rammed into a mailbox; now only turns left.”

“Alrighty.” Lyndy exhaled, setting the paper face down on the table and apart from the rest of the stack. “Here’s a Maserati? Am I saying that right?”

Rita held up a finger, shut her eyes and tilted her head to recline on the chair back. “Both doors are permanently jammed. You have to climb in Dukes of Hazard style.” Rita chuckled to herself. “I don’t think you want to do that in any outfit you care about.”

“Well this is fun. How about a Porsche? She waved the paper in the air. You love those.”

“No bueno. Lacks a motor and transmission.”

Lyndy sighed. “Mercedes-Benz?”

“I believe it’s missing a front wheel. Also got side-swiped on the way to Santa Monica.”

“Land Rover? These things are indestructible.”

“Mysterious and thus far unsolvable fuel system debacle; gas tank must have turned to varnish. … and are you kidding? That truck needs mud flaps.”

“Ever hear of an American car Rita?”

Rita laughed.

“Fine. I don’t feel like fixing anything. Too lazy today. I guess we’re buying a car too.” Lyndy deposited the paper back on the stack, straitening the pile before shoving them all into Rita’s shotty folder. “So, what the heck did these people take from you that’s so special? The way you treat cars, I can’t imagine you getting worked up over money. Life isn’t worth it.”

“Got that right.” Hefting her purse onto the metal table, Miss Lovelace retrieved a wallet and makeup kit, both of which she set aside, plus an envelope containing a fresh set of color prints. Thumbing through them like a card deck, she rotated and set the topmost image in front of Lyndy. “Have a look.” 

Lyndy perked up again, leaning forward to obtain a better view, while she sipped of the eau de vie.

Rita put a polished fingernail on the photo of a spectacled fellow, surrounded by four others—they appeared to be at a cocktail party or clubhouse after a golf outing. “This sleezy looking oaf in the middle is Dr. Ron Tarner. Ever hear of him?”

Lyndy shook her head earnestly, locking eyes with Rita.

“He’s an anthropologist of some note from Arizona State. Used to pal around with Olivia Rosenbaum if that tells you anything. He’s a hack and I want to expose him.”

“He doesn’t look very tough.”

“He’s not. But he’s funded by a high-end theft ring. And those guys have his back. He came by my art gallery a week-and-a-half ago. I was busy and I didn’t recognize him at first. He wanted to buy something from me—an antiquity I wasn’t interested in selling.”

“Which is?”

“A flute.” Rita nodded, indicating Lyndy had heard her correctly. “Do not adjust your ears. Yes, a ceremonial flute. It’s Tibetan.” She thumbed through the images again, then passed Lyndy a photo of a dull-looking, weathered flute that bore more resemblance to an ordinary piece of driftwood on the beach than anything of value.

“I refused to sell to him. That thing is a thousand years old. It was discovered on the slopes of Nanda Devi in 1951, near some ruins. Lo and behold, few nights later I’m locking up and someone dressed as a highway patrolman says they need to speak to me. Stupidly, I assumed he was legit and let him in. Once inside and out of view from the street, he pulls a gun on me. They only took the cash to make it seem like a robbery. But they were after that flute.” She paused, troubled by something. “Lyn, admittedly I should have gifted that relic to the historical society the second I got my hands on it. In fact, I was planning to do so. I just … well … I guess I wanted to show off.” She pulled another photo from the stack. “Here’s one of Dr. Tarner’s chief cronies, mister Fallon McKnight. Often poses as a grad student—and apparently sometimes a cop. He’s no student.”

In Lyndy’s estimation Fallon was an attractive young man, though con artist was far from her type. “Clever disguise. I probably would have let ‘em in too.”

“You know how they say everyone has redeeming qualities? Dr. Tarner is an exception.”

“How do we find him?”

“Ordinarily, this time of year I wouldn’t know. But we’re in luck cause there’s a big archaeology conference happening in Las Vegas this weekend.”

“Why are we so pressed for time?”

“The conference is starting.” A twinkle in Rita’s eye belied a larger story.

Lyndy frowned. “Rita, are you entirely sure?” She twirled her finger. “It isn’t somehow related to the fact you won’t allow yourself to fall asleep?”

“Fine, I need to add another small detail. There may or may not be a curse on this ceremonial flute. According to the mountain climbers who sold it to me.”

In slow motion Lyndy allowed her forehead to slam against the table. “What does the curse say?” she asked soberly, still with her head down.

“If I fall asleep, I’ll wake up having mutated into something grotesque. It’s not very specific though, as to what that means.”

“Why didn’t the climber folks or previous owners suffer the curse.”

“The curse only takes effect when someone of non-priesterly descent attempts to play it. But any of us who’ve come across it will be impacted.”

Lyndy repositioned uneasily. “So what idiot would do that—play it I mean?”

“Dr. Tarner would. Just look at him.”

“Good point.” The Spitfire downed the last of her drink, then cleared her throat, glancing to the other side of the lake. “Rita, curses aren’t real. They’re only real in so much as you believe in their power. It’s the way I can climb the sacred mountains and have nothing bad happen to me.”

“I know. God, I hope you’re right.”

---

Lyndy Life Observation: I once went on a first date with a guy and we were deciding where to eat. I suggested In-N-Out burger—cheap and we could sit outside—and he told me he didn’t like In-N-Out burger, so I made up a fake emergency and left. 

Fast forward 30 years. The boulevards were hectic with speeding cars, but foot traffic was hard to come by—aside from an occasional runner or yoga-pants mom with a stroller.

Felt weird being in Vegas again. In a way she couldn’t quite put in words, she appreciated this town—had a crude sort of authenticity most other cities didn’t. There were other reasons she felt at home, but she wasn’t ready to acknowledge them right now. Putting those thoughts out of her brain might help avoid falling into the traps of her addictions. Or on the other hand, it may just delay an inevitable spiral of descent.

It was one of the hazy winter days in the valley, where skies take on a silver tone and contrails blend to a point they’re indistinguishable. She’d parked a quarter mile away, wanting to appear on scene as a pedestrian; no doubt this property was under constant surveillance, with modern color cameras pointed all directions.

But when it came to casino building, it totally was an odd location—must be the land was cheap. The community which surrounded was residential, an established working-class neighborhood; some unkept areas had an especially blue collar feel. Other parts were newer communities, what they called “master planned”, which translated to enormous identical stucco boxes. But in her position it was hard to judge anyone’s choice in housing.

And because the terrain tilted gradually approaching the red rocks, one caught glimpses of McCarran airport and the outline of the strip, miles in the distance.

The sidewalk took her across a bridge. A nearby flood control ditch, devoid of vegetation, held several overturned Target shopping carts, unmistakable by their bold red color.

Every other corner in the neighborhood had an ugly strip mall—except for one, which was done up for more high-end customers. Whomever was the mall owner must have bought a thousand palm trees alone. As if to rub salt in the wounds, this one literally featured a Whole Foods establishment. She vowed to set foot in those as little as possible, but a part of her was attracted to their fancy displays and oceans of buffet style food.

Six doors down from the Whole Foods was a gentleman’s club.

She’d been thinking about Rita on the drive over—the two were close in age—and the reason they hadn’t stayed in touch over the decades. It’s cause they were never friends in the first place. Looking back now, it wasn’t for a reason she could have possibly conceived in her youth; when she was still hot stuff. The ridiculous reason, given how life unfolded and everything she’d been through, was that Miss Lovelace had always been envious of her.

Mind blown. She knew that now.

On a bleak Nevada day, feeling the weight of gravity, pressing on down the sidewalk, old, nearly alone and broke. To think Miss Lovelace was jealous of her. Whenever one of the increasingly complex schemes she put herself in spiraled out of control, well, there was Lyndy to bail her out. But on top of that, it boiled down to one main thing: in spite of the fact Rita was literally a fashion model, Lyndy always got more attention. Small comfort.