Arizona Dreams (David Mapstone Mystery 4)

“Me, too,” she said. “So when Robin showed up at the door today, I either had to treat her like the enemy, or like my sister.” Lindsey says “eye-ther” and I say “eeth-er”; somehow we worked the whole thing out. She said, “So I invited her in, and we talked. I always wanted to save Robin. But I couldn’t make her save herself. Now I think that’s happened. Do you think I’m a fool?”

“Definitely not,” I said. “You have a kind heart that I love.”

“Oh, Dave…” And she was in my arms before I knew it. I let out something between a gasp and a yelp, and the remains of the martini flew onto the floor.

“Dave, what’s wrong? Stop that—leave the martini glass alone. I’ll get that later. What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“No…yes…” And so I told her.

“Oh, my God…we’re going to the ER…” This as she was taking an inventory of the dark red crescent spreading

across my side and my swollen hand and arm. Then we fussed back and forth—I wasn’t going to wait for eight hours in an overrun Phoenix emergency room. I promised I’d call the doctor in the morning if things got worse. Lindsey said I’d call the doctor no matter what.

“I feel like such a dolt,” I said.

“They assaulted a deputy sheriff!”

“Oh, yeah, Mr. Tough Cop.”

“Were you armed, Dave?”

I shook my head.

“Oh, God, they might have killed you. What if they had been armed?”

Then I tried to distract her by making a fresh martini for me, while telling her about the visit from Dana Underwood and her father’s letter.

“Do you remember her?”

I shook my head. “Maybe I remember her voice. I don’t know.”

“She’s a strawberry blonde, Dave,” Lindsey teased. “You used to have a weakness for those strumpets.”

“I have a weakness for you. And she looks like some soccer mom from Ahwatukee.”

“Soccer moms can be hot,” she said.

I said, “Cherchez la femme.” Lindsey wrinkled her nose. “Look for the woman. The subtle power of a woman.”

Then, a teasing gleam came into her blue eyes: “Did you ever sleep with your students, professor?” By this time, we were at the built-in breakfast booth at the back of the kitchen.

“Do you really want to know?”

“I’m not sure.” Lindsey was something of a moralist, in a gentle way.

“Well, I didn’t sleep with my students. Although that certainly happens.”

“Dr. Mapstone, the dutiful teacher. But, Dave, you really think there’s a body out there?”

“I saw those rocks. And the father wrote in the letter that he buried this ‘Z’ under rocks. They could have sat undisturbed there for forty years, the place is so isolated.”

“Except today.”

“Except today,” I agreed. “And what the hell were they doing out there, saying ‘private property,’ when that land belongs to Dana.”

“Maybe they’re really aggressive real-estate agents.”

“Maybe,” I said, and sipped the martini. “But nobody gets killed over real estate. Not even in Arizona.”