Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-12
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Lake Arrowhead CA, 1990s
Lyndy Life Observation: A girl working as a server at the V-P roadhouse returned from maternity leave. She showed us the total hospital bill for her delivery, which I remember being around $125 and we thought that was a lot.
Helen, nursing a chilled Zima and Lyndy bouncing Maribel on her lap, sat across from one another at the main floor coffee table. All eyes were studying the triangular shaped puzzle piece in front of them, trying to make sense of it. This included Maribel.
The edges of the triangle measured one-and-a-half by two inches.
The paper slip was a kind of brittle, coarse periodical material turning yellowish with age. Made Lyndy wonder if it had in fact been torn from a magazine.
On one side, the missing full page must’ve displayed a pen and ink illustration. Only a small segment of the drawing remained, showing detail of a passageway. This tiny, smudged portion reminded Lyndy of a dungeon or sewer map, with shaded corners and a single 90-degree bend. The tunnels—assuming that’s what they were—would’ve continued in two separate legs out into the absent nine tenths of the page. On the flipside, the bottom right corner, a page number appeared: 41. In the footer, along the margin, four capital letters: “J-W-M-R”. These were faint, and Lyndy had no idea what they meant.
Lyndy paused to rest her eyes, running her palms up the side of her head and over her ears to massage her neck. She exhaled a frustrated sigh. Helen took a sip of her Zima, then put a hand in front of her lips while belching daintily.
Mari slapped the table and cried: “DA-DA”.
“Yeah, good thinkin’ Vanilla Bean,” muttered Lyndy. “Kyle might have ideas on this, but no can do. That plan opens a whole nother can-a-worms. Remember, we don’t want daddy to know we’re working on this.”
Reaching for a jar of applesauce and a thumb-size spoon, Lyndy attempted to deliver a scoop of food to Mari’s lips. The baby jerked her head away. Testing a different strategy, this time making that sputtering helicopter sound-effect with her lips, Lyndy twirled the spoon in a descending spiral to entice the baby. No luck. Mari observed, but pressed her lips firmly together despite how close the spoon came.
It crossed her mind; the baby had gotten this stubbornness from the Martinez side. She set aside the jar and spoon.
With her finger and thumb, Lyndy tried rotating the paper, hoping to make sense of the partial illustration. Few alive could match The Spitfire when it came to knowledge of the vast Mojave Desert region. If ever appearing as a category on Jeopardy, she knew she’d clean up. As a youth, she’d borrowed and read cover-to-cover nearly every book Lyndy could find on the subject at her library. This amounted to some 35 different works. She even purchased a few outstanding titles covering both human and natural history. These days housed in her storage locker, was a tub full of old maps waiting to be explored.
Still, none of these items paired up remotely against this obscure drawing. At least none she could recall. Which was frustrating.
“Ever have one of those 1000-piece puzzles from K-Mart,” Helen remarked, “and the middle piece disappears behind a sofa, making the whole thing pointless.”
Lyndy groaned in the affirmative. “Basically, that in reverse.”
There were three possibilities Lyndy could imagine. The map showed a portion of a slot canyon, or of a cave with somewhat sharp corners. Or third, most likely, a mine.
Page 41 of what? What book!
It occurred to Lyndy already there might be a closed, abandoned mineshaft in the area where Sabina went missing. Although every Joshua Tree map she could get her hands on, showed no existing claims in that section of the park. Of course, rangers were known to omit cultural sites on public maps. They’d been doing it for decades, saving themselves the hassle of rescuing mindless tourists who were victims of their own curiosity. Many of the well-known shafts were already filled in or fenced securely, and yet rescues were common. So, assuming there was a hidden mine there, she’d have to find evidence of this in some obscure reference.
Lyndy glanced to the TV, then to the smug face of Maribel, who again refused to ingest any food.
“Baby won’t eat?” queried Helen.
“No. And it’s really frustrating.”
Helen squeezed her watch. “Speaking of which, I should get back to my kiddo. I told the babysitter I’d only be gone an hour and a half.”
A few minutes later …
After receiving poor marks in “home-ec” class, Aunt Rose once proclaimed no sane gentleman would ever want Melinda Martinez to raise their child. Who was laughing now?
By anyone’s measure, Kyle Ellis qualified as a gentleman.
While wiping counters, sweeping the floor in the kitchen and clearing away two days’ worth of clutter, Lyndy used the cordless phone to dial Jackie Cordray.
Miss Cordray picked up after a single ring, eager to hear the news. Without going into much detail on the circumstance, Lyndy informed her the Volkswagen sedan had been recovered. Jackie seemed astounded at the news. One could hear the relief in her voice. Made sense.
Clearly things were becoming dicey; she wanted to give Jackie an easy out. So, in reasoned tones Lyndy offered to turn the evidence over to the police and try again to get them to do their jobs. Lyndy explained the disappointing reality: despite the high cost to obtain the car, nothing of value had been found inside, save for one tiny piece of paper. Whomever dumped it had beaten them to the punch by scrubbing it first.
Of her own accord, she hoped Jackie would come to the realization the situation was getting too intense. Jackie would have none of it. Instead, she offered Lyndy another $25k to keep going. Hard to pass up. Plus, in the time when Lyndy was busy with the towing company, Jackie had been doing some amateur sleuthing of her own.
She’d deduced where the art teacher, Tigerlilly, resided—which hadn’t been easy. It’d only come by haunting every art gallery and gift shop in the mountains, twisting the arms of the owners. Jackie was able to provide Lyndy an address in Crestline; a home and studio complex Tigerlilly apparently shared with an assortment of oddball roommates. She and Jackie made an agreement, that if Jackie would bring the Mustang back up the hill, they could swap for the Jetta.
It took several hours to clean the cabin, but Lyndy didn’t want Kyle returning home to a messy house—after Maribel, Fall River was his pride and joy. Becky would’ve done that at least. She had a lot of time to think; about how foolish she’d been trying to take on the impound yard scammers by herself. And about the unknown criminal ring at the heart of it, folks who might be just a little peeved at her going “full Hulk-mode”, utterly demolishing their illegal business. Course, she’d warned them.
While Mari took a nap, Lyndy made a list of ingredients for meals in the coming week. She wanted to cook something special for Kyle, having it ready when he arrived. It didn’t seem like anything else could go sideways.
You know the feeling, “what else could possibly go wrong?”
Preparing for an uneventful trip to the grocery store, Lyndy put sleepy Mari in her car seat, belting it down in the black Range Rover. She didn’t bother styling her hair.
There were two supermarkets serving the Arrowhead area worth shopping in. Of these, only one carried the yuppyish foods Kyle preferred—meaning a kind of Whole Food’s establishment. And every store here came with the customary for the mountains, cramped parking spaces. Lyndy was minding her own business, simply trying to snag a spot when she happened to pull-in next to another Range Rover. Because nearly all Range Rovers are glossy black, these two parked next to each other were identical twins.
Reaching for her purse, Lyndy made an important mental note that Kyle’s over-priced luxury SUV was the one parked on the right.
Then as she unbelted the car seat, Lyndy heard a hauntingly familiar voice, that of an ex-bestie. “You made the front page of the paper,” announced the female.
It was Rita Lovelace—living legend—in the bratty flesh. If Lyndy hadn’t known for a fact she was deadpan sober, she might’ve chalked this up to a hallucination.
Even so, every muscle fiber in Lyndy’s body contracted at once. She whipped around, spying a forty-year-old version of Miss Lovelace. Her deep brown hair, once flawless and uniform, had strands of silver mixing in—though still chest length and straight. Her eyebrows seemed to have taken the brunt of the graying hit. She maintained full, neatly trimmed bangs which served to hide them. This added a certain youthful radiance. Her lips were thinner, face had creases and age spots peppered across her nose. Lyndy had those too, though Rita’s were easily covered in makeup.
No hello.
No greetings of any kind were exchanged. Legend had it breaking up with a close female friend was harder than breaking up with a man. Lyndy was starting to believe this.
Rita had been in the midst of re-arranging sacks of groceries in the back of her vehicle, but paused to deliver her one-liner.
“I did what?” That was all Lyndy could think to say.
“You made the cover of the paper,” Rita repeated, with a sneer, belying something juicy Rita knew and Lyndy didn’t. By this coy tone, Lyndy knew it must not be anything flattering on that paper.
Lyndy raised one eyebrow. “Huh? How so?”
“One sec,” added Rita, turning sideways and squeezing between an adjacent car to unlock her driver’s door. Opening the door a crack, she retrieved a folded newspaper from the side pocket. With a proud smile, Rita returned to face Lyndy, letting the paper flop open.
At the top of the color picture was Maribel, looking cute with a bow in her hair. Next to her, The Spitfire, flat on her back on a picnic blanket. Her chestnut hair was a mess, some of it tangled in strands across her face. She was obviously asleep, sprinkled in a handful of French fries while seagulls were pecking at the food. A half-eaten cheeseburger had fallen loose from her right hand. Behind the mother and daughter pair, the glistening lake, always pleasant and inviting.
Lyndy’s jaw dropped. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
It was hard to imagine a less flattering picture, at least with clothing on. And there were a number of doozy snapshots in the wild from her cocktail and dancer days. Out of perhaps the ten worst, this one took top prize.
The caption read: “Being a mom is hard!” It was touted as the “Picture of the Week”. Swell. Lyndy snatched the paper straight out of Rita’s hand. “Oh. My. God.” Lyndy mouthed. Her first thought, “What if Kyle sees this?” But then she thought about the contingent of other lake moms. These Martha Stewart wannabes, who watch the show and take notes—Lyndy was a laughingstock.
“Nice overalls,” teased Rita, with a snort.
Lyndy glanced up, wondering if her ex-best-friend would be diabolical enough to plan something like this. No words were needed, as they could practically read one-another’s mind.
“Me?” questioned Rita, touching a hand to her chest. “Definitely not. I hate to admit, I’m not as clever as whichever evil genius planned this. Plus, why would I want to humiliate you when you do such a grand job of it on your own?”
Lyndy had momentarily forgotten she was holding the handle of the car seat.
“You’re gonna die old and alone,” said Lyndy coldly. “No one will come visit you.”
Unsure where this venom came from, the words stung Lyndy more to say, and she felt her knees buckle. Her stomach turned. She wished she could take it back.
Rita blinked and fluttered her eyelids, as if the insult had a physical effect. Rita’s retort: “Are you done projecting?”
Lyndy gazed at the picture somberly.
Rita sniffed. “I was gonna say something nice about your baby, but I changed my mind.” She hit a button on her key fob, automatically making her motorized tailgate close and latch—in those days it was a major flex to have that feature. Pivoting, key in hand, Rita departed without saying another word.
As she paced the aisles of the store all the fun of shopping had melted away. Lyndy’s eyes teared up more than once, and the biggest reason she wanted to kick herself for being so rude: Rita was probably the only person who might help unravel the mystery of the torn page. Stupid!
Lyndy Life Observation: In the 80s, at the Barstow Sheriff substation one could file a crime report on a pre-printed form which included two carbon copies. Prior to the description, there were several check boxes depending on which unfortunate event happened to you and laws broken. You know, person-on-person crimes such as: assault, theft, robbery, fraud, criminal threat, violation of restraining order and lastly, they had a box for “hurt feelings”. Which I’m pretty sure meant just a pat on the back and nothing more.
In the old-old days, one could dress in a UPS driver costume pretending to have an enticing delivery for the fugitive to sign for. “Gee, someone sent me a package?” Or the old “census taker” disguise. That was a CBB bounty hunter trick going way back. And because of how stupid you had to be to fall for it, it rarely worked.
They called it the Land-Shark. It got so some neighborhoods; no one would ever answer the door for legit reasons.
Anyhow, Jackie Cordray had done a decent job of tracking down Tigerlilly’s address. If she’d had more time, Lyndy would’ve conjured up an excuse. But she could think of no such reason to visit that wasn’t silly.
She left Maribel in the loving care of Helen for an hour, while she decided to pay a test visit as herself. A check of the trusty Thomas Guide led to a homestead in Lake Gregory, only a fifteen-minute drive from Kyle’s place. While Dr. Ellis’s cabin was in mostly immaculate condition, this two-story farmhouse had seen more than a few harsh winter seasons. It might’ve started life as someone’s vacation home, perhaps for a wealthy individual living in the LA basin, nearer to the coast. But with the ensuing decades and few repairs, the shabby place had seen better days.
An unpaved trail through a tunnel of trees, three-hundred feet in length, served as a driveway. There were no parking pads, just a grassy clearing where three other vehicles were stowed haphazardly. One of these was a Toyota mini-pickup with a cracked windshield.
After shifting the Range Rover to park, Lyndy slid out and tightened her boot laces. Tapping against the screen door, the smell of bacon frying tickled her nose. Note it was 10 in the morning. She could see shadows of figures through the mesh.
A man’s voice cried, “come in”.
Lyndy adjusted her purse before pressing on the door with an elbow. Stepping inside to the main floor—wood slats creaking as she moved—Lyndy entered one of the most bizarre living situations she ever encountered. Working for Chan, she thought she’d seen it all.
A neglected toddler stood in the far corner, petting a seated, panting goat. The toddler’s eyes were milky-white, as though he were blind. A mustached man, roughly 30 years of age sat at the breakfast table. She couldn’t help staring at his eccentric outfit choice: jeans rolled up to the ankles, suspenders, no short, socks or shoes. This left his arms, chest and stomach exposed—also displaying many tattoos. On no man would this have been a sexy look, and unfortunately this white dude was one of those skinny guys with a physique like he’d never touched a weight in his life.
He grinned as Lyndy entered, smoothing his greasy mustache hair. His eyes were shifting, like those of a hyperactive kid. Lyndy allowed her own eyes to wander some more.
In the kitchen frying eggs was another golden-haired woman, perhaps twenty-five. The attractive “babe” wore underwear and a torn, half-shirt. Somehow, she had more exposed skin than the dude.
The goat bleated. Nothing said hillbilly like livestock in your residence. Lyndy checked her watch, trying to remember what decade it was and her own age.
“Who might you be?” questioned the man.
Lyndy was preparing to introduce herself when a new character, a brunette, came dashing down from the second floor. This female—also youthful and model-like—had been dressed in nurse scrubs. While taking the stairs she’d been in the process of stuffing her hair into a scrunchie. She seemed flustered, possibly late for work.
When the woman spotted Lyndy, she froze in her tracks. “Uh hello?”
So far, neither female was Tigerlilly.
“Hi, sorry to intrude on your … uh,” Lyndy stammered. To whatever this was. “My name is Lyndy. I’m a local mom, thinking about enrolling a student in Crestwood Academy. You know, where Tigerlilly teaches art… and uh …. I was hoping to speak with her.”
The dude nodded. “Bout what?” he demanded.
All eyes were suddenly on Lyndy. Even the blind toddler and the goat awaited her answer. At least the male’s response confirmed the address.
“I’m also something of art collector,” declared Lyndy. Cause that sounded believable!
The fellow sniffed, leering her up and down, probably undressing her with his eyes. The other two ladies said nothing.
Lyndy wanted to ask bluntly whether Tigerlilly was in, but Chan always taught her to assume a fugitive was home. It was best to leave the question unsaid, letting co-occupants and roommates fill in the details.
Hard to tell if it was simply her presence or the fact she wanted to speak with Tigerlilly making everyone nervous.
“Are you a cop?” asked the fellow, who had yet to get up from the table.
The girl in the kitchen flipped the sizzling bacon using a spatula.
“Obviously not,” answered Lyndy. “Do I look like a cop?”
The man pushed back from his chair. His knees bumping against the table caused the silverware to crash into the plates, making that clinking sound.
“I can take you to her,” he said.
Aiden S Clarke, author 