Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-4

Yavapai County, AZ, 2010s

Lyndy Life observation: Rita was on tour promoting a hardcover book on southwest art, which she’d co-authored, doing interviews with print magazines and newspapers. At some point she had a sit down with a publication she’d not heard of, and when the interview came out it was all kinds of scandalous crazy: like she’d fallen in love with her cousin, secretly gave birth to out of wedlock twins afflicted by dwarfism, then refused to acknowledge them as hers. Obviously, none of that happened. The article failed to mention her art book. In the end, we discussed and decided not to respond. It wasn’t worth our time.

Lyndy sniffed, snapping out of a pity party as sunbeams radiated across the meadow like orange lasers. It was frigid in the shadow of the San Franciscos. She was grateful to see the sunrise at last. Soon ranch trucks were rumbling by, diesel smoke wafting from the stacks. Across the road in the dry grass, she could see elk. They’d be nudging away frost from the roots, hungry from the cold winter. All the California tourists, hoping for a head start on the Grand Canyon would come flooding in next. That was the money crowd. Dads with big SUVs, cargo shorts and cell phone holders on their belts.

She tightened her boot laces, walking her sign closer to the highway edge and further south, giving people enough time to slow. Then Lyndy unfolded her camp chair, tugged a Navajo blanket over her lap and dozed off.

She slept a lot these days.

Ten minutes later …

The sound of rigid street tires crunching on gravel stirred her from western dreamland. She shifted abruptly in her chair as her hat fell to the ground. She’d not intended to sleep so hard; it was dangerous. Sitting up, Lyndy pulled her denim jacket tight across her chest, then looped a crocheted scarf around her neck.

The vehicle which veered off the highway was an Audi, velvety black, the top-of-the-line sport model. Two seats. Not typical of folks who stopped at roadside venders. There weren’t even many of those luxury cars to be seen in Flagstaff. But sometimes rich folks decided to open up the wallet, buy her whole lot, in theory to feel more connected to their food supply. So, she perked up anxiously.

The door opened and a dark-clothed figure emerged, the frame of a six-foot man. No passenger. Maybe it was a run-of-the-mill businessman or maybe …. a wave of panic hit. She had nightmares of hitmen. Given her past, shadowy characters occasionally emerged, holding grudges against The Spitfire or Mr. Chan—or worse, Rita. Lots of people hated Rita Lovelace and by extension, Lyndy, her once top bodyguard and confidant. She began to wonder if she should arm the taser.

On the other hand, the visitor seemed far more intrigued by the classic Ford, walking up and circling. She changed her mind. Reaching for her purse, she slipped the trifocals atop her nose. The stranger came into focus, a fellow her age. Decently handsome, for a sixty-year-old. And dapper. He still had hair, all gray, but real hair. He could do AARP commercials. He might be a threat, but the expression on his face turned rather friendly.

“Lovely original,” he remarked, nodding his head in slow motion while admiring the car. He was wearing black jeans and a well fit suit jacket. But the casual kind, a western look that felt natural, not forced. In the eighties, such a fellow would’ve lit a cigarette in that dashing pose. He pointed to where someone had bumped her in a parking lot, cracking one of the taillights. She’d not gotten around to repairing it, fearing cost. “Man, that was a factory part. Can you imagine the mindset of someone who caused this?”

She didn’t respond, still assessing.

He wiggled one wrist, in the process shaking his metallic Rolex watch band to shift it. Sometimes that was a tell in poker, sign of something deeper in the brain. A flock of honking geese interrupted his next sentence, and she watched him arch his back, staring up and smiling as they passed over.

“I lusted over these,” he continued. “The chrome inserts with the horse. It’s a symbol of freedom and the American motorway.” He had a smooth, broadcaster voice, the kind exuding a lifetime of experiences. There was a melancholy about him too, you could hear in his tone. This was no average rich dude out for a weekend drive.

Freedom. She used to believe in that ideal—didn’t mean much anymore. Lyndy cleared her throat and replied. “I know right. Couldn’t have said it better.”

“How much you want for it?”

Lyndy chuckled, rising to her feet. He was teasing. She liked him already. “Okay, now you’re making me laugh. I better watch myself, you’re smooth.” Bending down, she retrieved her hat from the dirt, dusting it off, before pacing toward the stranger. “Mister, I’ve owned this automobile since the year of our Lord, 1976. Can’t call it a car. That pearly white son-of-bitch has nearly been the death of me. I’ve had it stolen twice. Both times I fought burly guys armed with guns to get it back. I’ve driven it hard to practically every state on this continent, broke down in the wildest, most ungodly of places.” Her voice went a little higher as she spoke, since the stranger was so attractive.

He listened to every word of her rant, then stepped closer. She let him crouch near the bumper for a better look.

“Well, they spared your sheet metal. Lucky in a way. Bezel took the brunt. I’d wager a boat hitch smashed in here. Probably a lifted, oversize truck couldn’t see where they were backing up. Bastards got away I presume.”

She snickered with a sheepish grin. “Happened in the parking lot of an Indian casino. No cameras in view. Of course. I was preoccupied with a series of off-track bets. And I can’t afford to fix it. Serves me right.”

“I was never fond of humongous pickup trucks, especially when they aren’t used to haul anything but sacks of groceries from Whole Foods.”

“Indeed. You know what they say about big ol’ pickup trucks and men who drive them,” joked Lyndy.

“You’re also fortunate. I happen to have one of these assemblies in my garage. Still in the original box.” He rubbed his fingers together to warm them. “I can see it now. Gathering dust.”

That seemed farfetched.

“Course that’s up in Santa Barbara.”

She folded her arms and smirked. “Okay, I see what’s happening. And lemme guess pard’ner. You’re willing to let it go for a low, low price of fifteen hundred dollars.”

He smiled and shrugged. “I owned the same model for years, a 66 in twilight blue.”

“I’ll be damned. Is that so?”

She heard angels singing. This man was her type—highly suspicious.

 Lyndy softened her posture, resting a hip against her car door. Time to turn up the charm. She shoved her glasses away in her purse and zipped it closed. At the same time the stranger appeared to be deciding what to say next, his opening having gone far better than anticipated. This was usually where men got tripped up. Meantime Lyndy raked back her pixie cut hair, a habit from the days when she had much, much more of it—when she was pretty. She wished she’d done a better job with her makeup.

Lyndy next patted the roof of the car in a comic gesture. “My daughter learnt to drive stick in this.” She said it mainly to break the ice.

“Then we gotta fix it up. Maybe one day she’ll ask you to hand it down.”

“Fat chance,” thought Lyndy.

“I once hoped to do the same for my kid.” He stared off to the meadow across the road. “Except, that ship has sailed.”

The familiar words hit her like a jolt of electricity. To hear the phrase was just weird—a “glitch in the matrix” as the kids say—cause she’d been thinking about Maribel as a baby. How they had trouble bonding at first.

 “Anyhow,” he continued. “What would it take to get you to close up shop for an hour or two. I’ll buy you breakfast, anything you want, assuming you haven’t eaten.”

“Hmmm. That sounds mysterious.” Lyndy attempted her best smile, as she pondered his offer. “I mean, of course. If you help me pack up.” She pointed to her baskets. “Either you seem genuine, or I’ve lost any sense of personal safety I once had!”

He grinned at this.

“What about this idea? I could make us breakfast at home.” Lyndy tilted her head and lifted her eyebrows. “I actually live up that little dirt road a mile. Though, uh, don’t expect too much from my house.” Trailer.

---

Yosemite CA, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: It’s the 90s. I’m 30 weeks pregnant and all these women in town (Lake Arrowhead) start giving me their unsolicited personal horror stories about vaginal birth, how they were in labor 36 hours and every story ends with: “I almost died.”

Lyndy flipped over three pages on her paperback book, hoping it would get to the juicy romance part again and away from outrageously bad dialog.

She was wearing a white one-piece bathing suit. Her third best suit to be honest, but the only one fitting her post baby body. Lyndy had a tennis visor shading her face, as she reclined on a pool lounger. It was just after 10 AM. Her toes were painted plum purple with sparkles. She loved that shade of purple.

Adjacent to her, Maribel was safely shaded from bright sun with her extendible buggy cover. She had a fresh diaper change, had been formula fed, burped and sprinkled with rash preventer. But as usual, she was whimpering and crying, thankfully, at a lower volume.

Lyndy dropped the book on her stomach, sighing and making that motorboat sound with her lips. She shut her eyes, planning for a brief snooze. But just as she dozed off, she felt a poke in her ribs and heard rustling in the bushes.

Her muscles tensed. Rascally kids? Sitting up abruptly, she found no one else in the pool area. She twisted her body, trying to see between slats in the wrought iron fence. In truth, she’d been a little jumpy after what transpired. Her thoughts kept going back to that scene, whether she should report it. But obviously, the act of doing so might drag her into it, and possibly impact Kyle. She dreaded that more than anything.

Tilting her chin, her eyes resolved the pattern of a figure. A person had been hiding which she quickly realized was Neil Conner. She caught him red-handed, grinning devilishly. He’d been poking a twig through the fence, behind a screen of hedges. He was dressed in his work uniform. Conscious of being watched, she hopped up from the chair, tickled as she tip-toed femininely across the concrete. She then crouched near the fence.

“Hey! Peeping Tom, get outta here,” she scolded in an angry whisper.

He chucked her a folded note, penned on wide rule paper like a 5th grader.

She couldn’t help but giggle, catching and shaking out the hand written note. Then she hastened back to her lounger, taking a seat and getting back in her former graceful position before reading it. She pretended nothing happened.

His male cursive was atrocious, but she could decipher it. “You look AMAZING. Lunch break with me?” 1:00 Check box. Yes or no? Degnan’s Deli okay?”

Lyndy checked the yes box and re-folded the note. She couldn’t stop smiling, standing up and flicking the note like a football back across the fence.

Before laying down, she reached to the buggy and stuck a water-filled bottle in Maribel’s lips. That quieted her down. Neil snuck away. She was feeling proud of herself. Until literally five minutes later, with Mari still sucking on the bottle, a shadow of an enormous ranger’s hat fell over her. The ranger was flanked by a sheriff’s deputy, younger and armed with a holster.

The ranger man had sun-damaged skin on his arms and neck, stemming from decades of working outdoors. And wrinkles around his eyes from squinting. Those were typical, but other key differences separated him from his peace and nature devoted colleagues. For one, he had a gold-plated badge, like a homicide detective. His brown eyes blinked impatiently as he stared at the baby, then his gaze transferred to Lyndy. He studied her up and down, which she didn’t care for. This wasn’t the type of fella who guided groups through a 20-minute walk pointing out different species of ducks.

Drill sergeants wore a similar hat to forest rangers. She only just noticed that. Also, kind of a bad time to be in a bathing suit. Lyndy wiped Maribel’s face, then capped the bottle. She wedged a pacifier in place, to prevent Maribel from making those gurgling noises.

Lyndy exhaled, as she turned back to face the men. “Can I help you?”

“Are you, Melinda E. Martinez?” He paused, staring down at a small slip of paper. “Known as Lyndy or … The Spitfire?”

She was thinking about a joke: “Ya got me. You caught The Spitfire.”

The ranger waited. He’d done his homework, or at least looked her up in the reservation system. Even knew her middle initial, which was hard to come by. His nametag said Brandt.

“What’s this regarding?” she asked innocently.

Ranger Brandt got down in a crouch. Lyndy winced. He did that thing older guy’s do with their hand to pull in the crotch of their pants. “Got anybody who can watch this youngster for an hour or two? Nanny or something?”

Lyndy adjusted her visor, glancing back to the hotel. “Not really.”

“Are you staying here by yourself?”

That was a test question, as of course he’d know the answer.

“I’m with my boyfriend. Dr. Kyle Ellis. But he’s on a business retreat with his colleagues. They’re in planning meetings all day.”

The men exchanged glances.

“For the Silver-Pacific construction?”

Lyndy nodded. She sat down, using her bare foot to roll the stroller back and forth. Hopefully it would be at least a few minutes til she needed to change this kid or anything else went wrong. Course, having her cry her brains out wouldn’t be the worst thing. She rubbed her hands on her thighs uneasily.

“Were you a witness to anything unusual last night or early today?”

“What?” It was difficult to fake surprise, but she acted off guard anyway. Kinda like those clowns at the circus who have to plan to take a pie in the face.

“Any crime?” prodded Ranger Brandt.

Lyndy blinked and inhaled a deep breath.

The county deputy tagged in with his opener next: “There are tracks from a stroller with eight wheels, in the sand bar near the Merced River. Happens to be a good view from there to Stoneman Bridge.” He got down into a squat, touching the wheels with his fingers. “I’ve seen these for sale in San Franciso, but I have to admit, there’s hardly any up here. Very unique. Probably not anyone else staying in the hotel.”

She reached for her purse, thinking, “that all you got?”

Before she could respond, Ranger Brandt added: “I found a cigarette in the gravel. Fresh one.” Rangers hated litter.

“That doesn’t mean anything. I don’t smoke,” assured Lyndy. She used her snobbiest sounding tone in the exact way Rita would dismiss a rival whom she didn’t care for.

Amusement shined in Brandt’s eyes.

“But, since you mention it. I do remember something unusual. I was out for a walk with my baby.”

“Perfect,” he answered. “You’re not in any trouble. We need to talk. Shouldn’t take longer than an hour. You’ll be on your way. I’d rather you come to the ranger station to get a sworn statement. Obviously in private.” He glanced down at the baby again. “But uh …” He shoved his fingers in his pockets.

Lyndy shot him a glance, like, “never gonna happen.” Priority numero uno on this vacation: avoid any appearance of going to a police station or involvement with the law. Not willingly at least. The consequences to Kyle and his reputation, she didn’t want to fathom. She’d embarrassed that poor man quite enough.

“Is there another place we can speak privately?”

Lyndy stared down at her old-timey brass key. The fourth-floor room seemed the safest bet, far preferable to a sheriff’s cruiser, whatever they were called. “I have to change anyway.” She said it casually, again using the Rita tone. And it must have worked as the man seemed to grapple with the idea, but then relented by nodding his head.