Read Online He Done Her Wrong: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Eight) (Toby Peters Mysteries) by Stuart M. Kaminsky - Free Book Online
Authors: Stuart M. Kaminsky
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tourists for much of the way.
Dot was a skinny guy with a bad leg and no interest in conversation. A mongrel dog, which was stuffed, dead, or in deep meditation, lay next to the pump where Dot filled me up after looking at the dent in my roof and the rear window.
The flat land turned to desert brush and stretched on dry and far past Palmdale. I was somewhere near Plaza Del Lago or what once had been Plaza Del Lago, but it wasn’t there. Then the narrow road took a sudden dip, and I saw the town sitting in a basin. It was bigger than I expected and sprawled out. A narrow part of town lay in front of me on both sides of the two-lane highway with wooden storefronts and old houses. Beyond the street on both sides stood larger, more substantial houses with grounds and an occasional pool. Face-to-face off the highway, about a block in to the left, were two big sprawling buildings both with large pools.
Five minutes later I was on Plaza Del Lago’s main street and pulling into a parking space in front of Cal’s General Store and Gifts. I went in, plunked down a quarter and got a box of Wheaties and a quart of milk and two cents in change from a woman I supposed was Mrs. Cal, a thin-haired knot of a woman dressed in overalls. I’d worry about a bowl and spoon later.
“Could you tell me where the Grayson place is?” I said, hoisting my bag of groceries.
“Could,” said Mrs. Cal and turned back to stacking Gold Dust Cleanser.
“Will you?” I went on.
She looked at me in a way that would have put Arnie’s sigh to shame.
“You got business?” she said. Her voice had a desert dry rattle, resulting I imagined from eating nothing but crackers from the cracker barrel and conserving her voice for the opera.
“I got business,” I said, getting into the swing of things.
“They’re new, practically everyone is here,” she said, looking at me in a way that made it clear that I would not be a welcome addition to Plaza Del Lago.
“Why’d they all come?”
“The springs,” she said, pointing at a display across the aisle behind me. The store wasn’t big, and the two aisles were narrow and filled from floor to ceiling. The display she pointed to was bottles of something called Poodle Springs water. The labels were yellow with a white cartoon poodle on them, standing on its hind legs, with its tongue out. The water inside the bottle was a little murky.
“Spring under the town,” Mrs. Cal explained, growing talkative. “Been there since God created it.”
“That a fact?” I encouraged.
“Stuff tastes like turkey piss,” she said, shaking her head.
Never having tasted turkey piss I said, “No kidding.”
“I don’t kid,” she said, leaning on the counter.
“How’d it all start?”
“Fella named Grayson, the one you’re looking for, come down here maybe ten years back, bought up most of the land. People were happy to sell it to him. Thought he was a idiot.”
“He wasn’t?” I asked.
“Look around if you got eyes,” she said, turning her head in every direction. All I could see was piles of groceries, but I assumed she meant the buildings beyond. “He got all kinds of fools from places like San Francisco, Los Angeles, and Reno to put up money and build houses and those two hotels. Sunk money into ads in the papers. Told people this turkey piss could cure anything. Pretty soon old people were down here buying, swimming in the stuff, drinking it. Some people will buy a goat’s ass and stick it on their head if a smart talker gets his jaw going at them.”
“Some people,” I agreed.
“We make out all right with it,” she added. “I ain’t complaining.”
Since it had sounded to me like complaining, I considered debating the point with her, but remembered my job.
“Grayson’s?”
“Keep going two roads east, turn left and drive till you can’t drive no more. Big ’dobe house with an old mission bell on top and a Joshua tree in the yard.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking my
Dot was a skinny guy with a bad leg and no interest in conversation. A mongrel dog, which was stuffed, dead, or in deep meditation, lay next to the pump where Dot filled me up after looking at the dent in my roof and the rear window.
The flat land turned to desert brush and stretched on dry and far past Palmdale. I was somewhere near Plaza Del Lago or what once had been Plaza Del Lago, but it wasn’t there. Then the narrow road took a sudden dip, and I saw the town sitting in a basin. It was bigger than I expected and sprawled out. A narrow part of town lay in front of me on both sides of the two-lane highway with wooden storefronts and old houses. Beyond the street on both sides stood larger, more substantial houses with grounds and an occasional pool. Face-to-face off the highway, about a block in to the left, were two big sprawling buildings both with large pools.
Five minutes later I was on Plaza Del Lago’s main street and pulling into a parking space in front of Cal’s General Store and Gifts. I went in, plunked down a quarter and got a box of Wheaties and a quart of milk and two cents in change from a woman I supposed was Mrs. Cal, a thin-haired knot of a woman dressed in overalls. I’d worry about a bowl and spoon later.
“Could you tell me where the Grayson place is?” I said, hoisting my bag of groceries.
“Could,” said Mrs. Cal and turned back to stacking Gold Dust Cleanser.
“Will you?” I went on.
She looked at me in a way that would have put Arnie’s sigh to shame.
“You got business?” she said. Her voice had a desert dry rattle, resulting I imagined from eating nothing but crackers from the cracker barrel and conserving her voice for the opera.
“I got business,” I said, getting into the swing of things.
“They’re new, practically everyone is here,” she said, looking at me in a way that made it clear that I would not be a welcome addition to Plaza Del Lago.
“Why’d they all come?”
“The springs,” she said, pointing at a display across the aisle behind me. The store wasn’t big, and the two aisles were narrow and filled from floor to ceiling. The display she pointed to was bottles of something called Poodle Springs water. The labels were yellow with a white cartoon poodle on them, standing on its hind legs, with its tongue out. The water inside the bottle was a little murky.
“Spring under the town,” Mrs. Cal explained, growing talkative. “Been there since God created it.”
“That a fact?” I encouraged.
“Stuff tastes like turkey piss,” she said, shaking her head.
Never having tasted turkey piss I said, “No kidding.”
“I don’t kid,” she said, leaning on the counter.
“How’d it all start?”
“Fella named Grayson, the one you’re looking for, come down here maybe ten years back, bought up most of the land. People were happy to sell it to him. Thought he was a idiot.”
“He wasn’t?” I asked.
“Look around if you got eyes,” she said, turning her head in every direction. All I could see was piles of groceries, but I assumed she meant the buildings beyond. “He got all kinds of fools from places like San Francisco, Los Angeles, and Reno to put up money and build houses and those two hotels. Sunk money into ads in the papers. Told people this turkey piss could cure anything. Pretty soon old people were down here buying, swimming in the stuff, drinking it. Some people will buy a goat’s ass and stick it on their head if a smart talker gets his jaw going at them.”
“Some people,” I agreed.
“We make out all right with it,” she added. “I ain’t complaining.”
Since it had sounded to me like complaining, I considered debating the point with her, but remembered my job.
“Grayson’s?”
“Keep going two roads east, turn left and drive till you can’t drive no more. Big ’dobe house with an old mission bell on top and a Joshua tree in the yard.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking my
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