Sizzle (4 page)

“Now, Lyra, you know it’s always the water from the font.” She walked into her ridiculously small bedroom and tripped over a shoe box. Hopping on one foot, she made it to the bed and dropped down.

“Father, I’m so sorry for the inconvenience,” she said as she rubbed her foot. “You know she is …” Her voice trailed off. How did one accurately describe her grandmother?

“Stubborn,” he suggested.

“Yes, but she’s a dear, sweet woman, and her heart is—”

Ignoring her praise, he continued, “Outrageously superstitious?”

“Yes, but—”

“You need to have another talk with her.”

“Yes, all right.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“How soon?”

He wasn’t going to let her wiggle out of it. “This weekend. I’ll leave after my last class on Friday,” she promised. “Is there a way you could stop by while I’m there? Perhaps between the two of us we could talk some sense into her.” Fat chance, she thought, but didn’t dare say.

Father Henry was appeased … for the moment anyway.

Lyra tried to put the worry about Gigi aside for now and concentrate on the work she needed to get done before she went to bed. This weekend she would surely come up with a solution that would appease both her grandmother and the priest. Until then, she was determined not to think about it.

She put on a pair of old-fashioned pajamas, then went back into the bathroom to smooth on moisturizer. Her face was sunburned. She blamed it on her afternoon climbing the hill.

She also blamed it on Dr. Keaton, the professor of her afternoon class. He had insisted on lecturing outside by the commons where there wasn’t a single shade tree. The professor lounged under a huge black umbrella while his students baked in the sun. To be touched by nature, he’d said. The only thing that had touched Lyra was the sun. She’d used sunscreen, of course, but she had started splashing water from her water bottle on her face into the second hour of his lecture and had apparently wiped off the protection.

Sidney smiled when she saw what Lyra was wearing. “New pj’s?” she asked.

Lyra nodded. She went to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of water.

Sidney tilted her head and studied her friend for several seconds.

Lyra noticed. “What?”

“How come, even with a sunburn and dressed in 1950s pajamas, you still look stunning?”

“Okay, what do you want to borrow?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why the compliments?”

“I just think it’s disgusting,” she explained with a grin. “I always feel like the homely stepchild when we go out together.”

Lyra wasn’t buying it. “Oh, please. I’m ordinary. You’re the one with the strawberry blond hair and gorgeous eyes.”

“I’m the girl next door. You’re the sexy one. I make men smile. You make them pant.” Lyra laughed. “You’re crazy. Men adore you.”

Sidney shrugged. “Some do,” she said. “I suppose it’s because I know how to flirt.”

“Yes, you do. You’ve turned it into an art form.”

“I am good at it,” she admitted. She pulled out her T-shirt and said, “I’m thinking about implants.”

Lyra had just taken a drink and nearly choked on the water. “You’re what?”

“Implants,” she repeated with a straight face. “If I get them, I’m going for gigantic, like Professor Pierson. Perky Pierson.”

“Those aren’t real?”

“They’re up around her neck,” Sidney said. “There’s no way they can be real.”

“You aren’t really thinking about getting implants, are you?”

“Of course not. You’re so easy to rattle.” Swiftly changing the subject, she asked, “Did your grandmother send you those pajamas?”

“Yes, she did,” Lyra replied as she sat down across from her friend and picked up a laptop.

“What was the occasion?”

“Early birthday gift.”

“She doesn’t ever get you anything else, does she?”

“Not for a long, long time.”

“What about your brothers? Does she get them pajamas, too?” she asked, smiling as she tried to picture Lyra’s brothers wearing them.

“Watches,” she replied. “Watches or alarm clocks every holiday.”

“I think your grandmother is a genius. Think about it. She’s eliminated the agony of trying to figure out what everyone wants, and she never has to fight the crowds or worry about costs. Christmas shopping must be a breeze.”

“You’re right, it is,” Lyra agreed. “You really should meet her. She’s the only member of my dysfunctional family you haven’t met, and I know you’ll like her. Why don’t you drive down to San Diego with me this weekend? I promised Father Henry I’d have another talk with her. I’m planning to leave after class Friday afternoon. Please come. It’ll be a nice getaway for you.”

“I wish I could, but I can’t. I’ve got two projects due the end of next week and both of them need a little more work. I’m going to be in the film lab all weekend.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You’ve got your own project to finish. How’s it going, by the way?”

“Almost done,” she said. “I want to add a few more photos of the oh-so-lovely men and women dumping their trash, but I’ve got all the pictures I need.”

“That’s great. You’ve got to be happy you don’t have to spend hours every day driving back and forth to the dump in all that traffic.”

“No, I’m still doing that.”

“You just said you weren’t taking any more photos …”

“I’ve got another project going now. It’s not really a project, I guess. I’m just curious.” She told Sidney about the patch of grass and flowers she’d found on the other side of the hill. “It was so … surprising, and I admit, I’m fascinated.”

“So you set your camera to take pictures of what? The grass growing?”

“No, I want to find out who’s cutting the grass and tending the flowers. More important, I’m curious as to why. I’ve got all sorts of theories, but my favorite is a lost love. Maybe that little patch of grass is where they liked to picnic or—”

“You’re a hopeless romantic, Lyra. You’re going to keep driving back and forth just to satisfy your curiosity.”

“It’s not as crazy as it sounds,” she protested. “And I’m only going to keep the camera there for a week at the most … okay, maybe two weeks at the most. Is there any of that chocolate left?” she asked.

The swift change in topic didn’t bother Sidney, as she often did the very same thing.

Since they’d been friends and roommates for a long while now, each understood how the other’s mind worked.

“No, you ate the last of it last night, and yes, it is, too, crazy. Driving back and forth in Los Angeles for your documentary was necessary, but continuing to battle the traffic for hours on end for no apparent reason … that’s absolutely crazy.”

“Maybe it is, but I’m going to keep on doing it. Wait just a minute, I didn’t eat any chocolate last night.”

Sidney grinned. “Okay, I ate the last of it.”

She got up and went into the kitchen and came back a minute later with a box of Cocoa Puffs cereal and a bottle of flavored water.

When she sat down, she took a fistful of cereal and handed the box to Lyra.

“You didn’t see it, Sidney,” she said as she scooped out some cereal.

“See what?” she asked, reaching for the box.

“This little oasis the size of our parking space with lush green grass and pretty flowers around the border. It’s almost a perfect square,” she added. “And in the most bizarre place, surrounded by horrible, smelly trash. You really should come with me and see it.” Sidney surprised her by agreeing. “You’re right. I should. Maybe then I’ll be as intrigued as you are. I’ll ride with you one afternoon next week. You know what I’m thinking? That grass could be covering a grave.”

“I considered that possibility.”

“Wouldn’t that be something? A wife killed her husband, or a husband killed his wife, then dug a hole and buried her.”

“And he then planted flowers and cuts the grass out of guilt?” Sidney laughed. “I guess a murderous husband wouldn’t bother cutting the grass.” She then suggested several other theories, all involving murder and mayhem. After suggesting one rather gruesome possibility, she was ready to buy a shovel and start digging to find out if there really was a body.

“Why is it you can only come up with brutal crimes?” Lyra asked.

Sidney shrugged. “Probably because so many of my brothers are in law enforcement.

I’ve heard a lot of stories around the dining room table, and I guess it’s made me cynical.” Lyra disagreed. She didn’t think Sidney was cynical; she just had an overactive imagination, which was why she was going to be great in the field she had chosen.

“We should get to work,” Lyra suggested. “Or neither of us will get any sleep tonight.” Sidney agreed, and for the next several hours both of them worked in silence. Lyra finished around midnight and headed to her bedroom.

“What time will you leave for your grandmother’s?”

“Around three. I want to beat some of the going-home-from-work traffic if possible.

Why?”

“Could you take those reels back for me? They have to be checked in by five on Friday, and I’ll be across campus all day. It’ll be a big help …”

“I’ll take them. It’s on my way.”

Tuesday, after class, Lyra went into Dr. Mahler’s office to discuss her extra-credit project. She told him about the garden she’d found at the back of the dump site and explained how she wanted to do a very short film about it.

“Have you finished your documentary about … what was it you chose?”

“Parks,” she answered. “I decided to do my film on Paraiso park, and that’s where I found the pretty little garden.”

He looked astounded. He braced his arms on his desktop. “Whatever possessed you to do Paraiso Park? That’s over an hour away. How did you even know about it?” She tilted her head toward the poster on the wall. “I got the idea from you, Professor.

You and your poster.”

He leaned back in his swivel chair to look over his shoulder at the wall. “I’ve had that hanging there for so long I forget about it. I grew up right next to the park,” he explained. “I got that poster at the first annual festival. Moved the following year.” He looked at Lyra.

“Has it deteriorated? It has, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, it has.”

She told him how she had been filming cars and trucks dumping their trash.

“And now you want to start filming the garden on the other side of the hill?”

“I already have started filming. I switch the memory card every day. I haven’t had time to look at any of it yet. I thought I’d get your approval for the extra credit—”

“Uh hum, uh hum …”

Uh oh, he was rubbing his chin. He was going to squelch the project.

“It’s intriguing,” he admitted. “I’ll tell you what. Your grade is dependent on your documentary. Once you’ve handed it in, then maybe you can tackle the garden film. I’m concerned that it’s too much like your documentary. It’s the same notion, the same setting

… but it’s up to you. Just finish one before you start on another.” Lyra thought about Mahler’s advice as she left his office. He was right. She needed to finish the important project first, but in the meantime, she’d let the camera at the park keep taking pictures.

Friday afternoon, Lyra thought she could beat the L.A. traffic, at least until she got to the Interstate, but there was a four-car pileup and that meant she had to take a detour. She had driven the route before, cutting through the most beautiful neighborhoods. The speed limit was much slower, but Lyra didn’t mind. It was a lovely day, and she enjoyed looking at the manicured lawns and gardens.

She was driving down Walnut when she saw the sign. “Yard Sale.” THREE

MILO SMITH WAS AN IDIOT. HE WAS ALSO A FRAUD AND A braggart.

And he didn’t have a clue. Not only did he think he was brilliant, but he actually believed that everyone else in the collection agency he worked for thought so, too. His employer, Mr. Merriam, rarely gave compliments to any of his seventy-plus employees, but just last month Milo overheard him remark to an associate that Milo had proven himself invaluable time and time again. Milo interpreted the comment to mean that Mr. Merriam would lean on him more for his “specialized” overtime work.

Like the other employees, Milo wanted to climb up the company ladder. He openly talked about that goal, yet he never discussed his number one secret goal because he knew none of them would understand. They might even laugh at him.

Milo wanted to be James Bond. Oh, he wasn’t crazy. He knew James Bond was just a character in the movies. Milo had grown up watching 007 and had seen every Bond movie so many times he’d lost count. He could repeat word for word all of the lines Bond said.

Milo’s miserable childhood had disappeared as soon as one of the movies started, and for a couple of hours he wasn’t the scrawny kid who got smacked around by his old man. No, Milo was James Bond.

As an adult, Milo had gotten into the habit of praising himself. Was it any wonder he had accomplished so much at such an early age? He was exact; he followed directions—no matter how complicated or convoluted—and like all professionals, he never missed a deadline. Best of all, he kept his emotions out of the job.

He couldn’t say the same for his ego.

Milo was a hit man. Sort of. To date he had never actually killed anyone, but that was yet another fact he discreetly kept to himself.

Luck got him into the profession, being in the right place at the right time. Kind of like those pretty movie stars who got discovered while they were sipping Cokes at the drugstore fountain. Yeah, just like that.

Milo got discovered by Mr. Merriam, who happened to be walking by when Milo was beating the crap out of one of his neighbors. Mr. Merriam plucked him right out of that alley and hired him on the spot. Milo was given a tiny cubicle with a phone and a list of people to harass and threaten if they didn’t pay their debt. The collection agency was legit.