Sizzle (Buchanan-Renard #8)

Good thing she wore her boots. The climb was difficult. It was made even more miserable by the heat and the stench wafting up from the dump sites. Finally, at the high point, she tramped through some dead shrubs and maneuvered around an uprooted tree to get a clear view. What she saw stunned her.

Down below lay a flat area about the size of a baseball diamond. It, too, had been the victim of vandals. Trash was scattered everywhere. But something even stranger captured Lyra’s attention. It was so out of place. In the middle of all the rubble and litter was a beautiful little garden. A tiny patch of grass, looking like it had been freshly cut, was lush and green and edged with thriving flower beds. None of the trash touched the grass, as though it knew that doing so would defile this exquisite and most unexpected beauty.

Lyra stared at the amazing sight. How did this happen? Such a lovely spot in the middle of this cesspool.

Someone was obviously caring for the garden and cutting the grass, and she wanted to know why. She hiked back down the hill to her car to fetch her camera. A half hour later she found a suitable spot well-hidden by the dead shrubs and anchored the camera in the weatherproof box. She made sure the eye of the camera was focused on the road and the garden beyond to capture images of anyone coming or going. After inserting a new memory card, she set the timer.

This meant a couple more weeks of hiking back and forth. It probably wouldn’t amount to anything, but then again maybe it would. She imagined all sorts of possibilities. Maybe an elderly gentleman had planted the flowers in memory of his dead wife. Perhaps this was the spot where he’d met her, or perhaps this was where he had taken her on their first date. Her mind then turned to a darker scenario. Maybe this was the spot where he’d killed his wife and buried her. Wracked with guilt, he had planted the flowers. The possibilities were endless.

Walking back to her car with the sun beating down, her face as sweaty and wet as the back of her neck and her soaked blouse sticking to her, she found herself smiling in spite of her discomfort. What would her parents think if they could see their daughter now, wearing old jeans and heavy hiking boots to protect her feet from used needles on the ground? They would be properly appalled, Lyra knew. Then again her mother and father were properly appalled at just about everything she did.

She finally reached her SUV, started the engine, quickly turned on the air conditioner, then pulled her boots off and slipped on flip-flops.

Once she had cooled down, she decided to call Father Henry. Better to get it over with than have it hanging over her, she thought.

She was given a reprieve. The priest wasn’t home. The secretary informed her that Father wouldn’t be back until the following evening. Lyra tried not to sound jubilant when she left a message on his voice mail, telling him that she was so sorry she had missed his call and that she very much looked forward to talking to him at his convenience.

Lying to a priest might well get her some extra time in purgatory. She couldn’t worry about it now, though. She had a lot of work to get done before tomorrow, and she was anxious to get started on the latest batch of pictures.

Traffic was heavy, and it took her an excruciating hour and forty-five minutes to get back home. She pulled up to the gate of her apartment parking lot, and once she punched in the code, the wrought-iron gates swung open, and she drove through to her assigned parking space. Grabbing her backpack from the seat next to her, she got out of the car and locked it. She climbed the stairs to her apartment and fumbled through her bag, looking for her key. Not finding it, she pushed the buzzer at her door.

A woman’s voice immediately came through the door. “Yes?”

“It’s me, Sidney,” Lyra said. “My key’s somewhere in my bag and I’m too tired to look for it. Could you let me in?”

The lock on the door clicked.

Lyra’s roommate, Sidney Buchanan, swung the door wide. Wearing faded gray sweatpants rolled at the waist, a white tank top, and fuzzy pink slippers, Sidney had one pencil between her lips and another one sticking out of the haphazard bun on the top of her head.

She reached out to relieve Lyra of her backpack before taking the pencil out of her mouth to talk. “You look like you’ve just been through a car wash without a car,” she said sympathetically.

Lyra slumped into their only easy chair and exhaled loudly. “I’ve had an exhausting day. How about you?”

“Oh, the usual,” Sidney chirped. “I had brunch with Leonardo DiCaprio. He tried to talk me into flying to Cabo with him this afternoon, but I had already set up a meeting with Spielberg and Lucas. They’re just relentless about the movie they want me to direct, but I said I needed more time to think about it. Then I had drinks with Robert Pattinson and dinner with Chace Crawford. Oh, and Zac Efron has been calling nonstop. I’m telling you, if they don’t stop fighting over me, I’m just not going to see any of them ever again.”

As Lyra was laughing, Sidney sat down on the floor inside a semicircle of scattered film reels and a stack of papers. “Actually,” she said, “I haven’t left the apartment all day. In fact, I don’t think I’ve left it all week.” She glanced up at the window. “Is it night already?” she groaned. “If I don’t have this project ready to hand in tomorrow, I’m in deep trouble.” She picked up a couple of loose pages and stacked them on the pile. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I can do this. I can do this.”

Lyra lifted her tired body out of the chair. “I’ll take a shower, and then if you need my help, I’m yours.”

Sidney gave her an appreciative smile. “Thanks, but I think I’ve got it under control. It’s just going to take time.”

Lyra and Sidney were more like sisters than roommates. They met the summer before their second year at the university at a film festival where they had both volunteered to act as assistants to the presenters. Lyra’s roommate had just graduated and moved back to Fargo, and Sidney’s lease was up. Her apartment was three times the size of Lyra’s, but it was an hour away and didn’t have security. She asked Lyra if she could move in with her. The apartment was tiny, but both of them could walk to class if they wanted to.

It was an easy adjustment because they were so much alike. The same age, they both came from large close families who at times could be overprotective. They both loved classic rock and dark chocolate. Their ambitions were slightly different, though. Sidney wanted to someday create movies that would set the cinematic world on fire. Lyra wanted to write and produce documentaries.

After her four years at the university, Lyra had graduated with honors. When the opportunity came for her and Sydney to study at a prestigious California film school, they both jumped at it.

As Lyra was reaching the end of her studies, she was thinking about what she was going to do when she was finished. Jobs were being offered, but they were all wrong for her, and a little bit of panic was creeping in. All of that would have to be put aside today, though. She had more immediate concerns to deal with.

She had just stepped out of the shower when she heard the phone ring.

“Want me to get that?” Sidney called out.

“No, I’ll get it,” Lyra answered. Wrapped in a towel with her hair dripping water down her back she hurried to get the call, sighing when she saw who it was. “Hello, Father Henry. How nice to hear from you.” That lie could cost her another month in purgatory. “How have you been?”

The priest didn’t waste any time on chitchat. “Lyra, she’s at it again.”

There was no question as to who “she” was: Lyra’s grandmother, or Gigi, as Lyra had called her since childhood. Lyra frowned. “Was it the holy water from the back of the church?”

Of course it was the holy water from the back of the church. That was the only holy water her grandmother was interested in.

The funny thing was, as much as she dreaded talking to him, Lyra really liked the priest. He was a kind man, usually very laid-back, with a great sense of humor. He was quite good-looking, too, though noticing that a priest was handsome was probably frowned upon by the church.

“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—”