Chapter 6

Lyle had an idea why the president of Nostalgia City had asked to see him. But maybe Archibald Maxwell really did just want to thank him for his actions at the gas station. In any event, it gave Lyle the chance to see the executive offices. He’d never been above the second floor. When he reached the inner sanctum, he first noticed the silence. Thick carpet soaked up all sound. The heavy decision-making probably went on behind the large, wooden double doors with chrome-plated handles shaped like Route 66 highway signs.

Lyle wondered what the receptionist with the beehive hairdo did when she went to the grocery store or the movies. Venturing outside Nostalgia City was an occupational hazard for those who styled their hair to match their jobs. The people in Flagstaff and nearby Polk likely were used to seeing beehives, flips, and flat tops. Lyle’s tonsorial concession to the period was his sideburns. They were somewhere between Elvis and Walter Cronkite.

“I’m here to see Mr. Maxwell.”

“I’ll tell him you’re here.”

“Don’t you want my name?”

She pointed at Lyle’s shirt. He glanced down at his badge and grinned then turned away and headed for a chair. “She can read your badge, dummy,” he mumbled to himself.

The reception area’s spare ’60s modern decor with brightly colored pop art paintings--such as a collage of yellow stars and Marilyn Monroe’s face--made the room feel like a museum. Lime green and orange vinyl furniture completed the impression.

Lyle settled into an uncomfortable, low-backed chair and picked up a magazine with Steve McQueen’s picture on the cover. A minute later, the solid wooden doors opened and the most stunning woman he’d seen in a long time walked out. She had to be at least six feet tall. Business clothes didn’t completely hide her curves. And those legs. She reminded Lyle of a taller, older version of Susie Lopresti, the cheerleader he lusted after in high school. Lyle pushed his cabbie hat back on his head to get a better view without appearing to stare. He didn’t need any subtlety, however, because the woman walked right up to him.

“All set,” she said. “Are you parked downstairs? I appreciate the service.”

Lyle stood and looked up. Damn, she was well over six feet. Her blond hair, knotted up to look businesslike, drooped a little as if it wanted to be unfastened. “I, ah, my cab’s downstairs.”

He dropped his magazine and turned to the door. Just then, another cab driver walked in.

“Does someone need a lift?” the driver asked into the silence of the reception area.

The beehive looked confused. She glanced down at her desk and then looked up. “Mr. Deming? You have an appointment with Mr. Maxwell.”

“That’s right. Is it 4:30 already?” He turned to the blonde. “I’m sure my colleague here can help you.”

“Sorry,” the blonde said. “It’s your hat. I thought you were waiting for me. Thanks anyway.”

As she turned to go, Lyle thought he caught a hint of a smile.

He sank back in his angular chair. Had she really been that spectacular, or was he just horny? Since his wife divorced him, dates had been few and far between--zero in fact since his dad moved in. It wasn’t that Lyle was unattractive. Some people said he resembled George Clooney--okay, maybe a slightly older George Clooney. Lyle didn’t have time to consider this further because Archibald Maxwell came out to greet him. He ushered Lyle back to his office and they sat opposite each other in chairs next to a window.

“Want to thank you for your quick work last week. One person was killed, but it could have been much worse with all that gasoline around.”

“I just reacted, that’s all. Somebody had to. Wish I could’ve helped that guy.” Lyle didn’t really want to be reminded.

“The pump that broke shouldn’t have spilled gas. It malfunctioned. We’re replacing them.”

“Let’s hope nothing like this happens again.”

Max nodded. After a moment he said, “You like driving a cab?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You used to be a policeman,” Max continued, “a detective sergeant in Phoenix.” It was a statement, not a question.

Lyle thought he knew what was coming. He glanced around at the unconventional artwork in the office. On one wall hung a painting of a rural landscape surrounding a spark plug the size of a Saturn moon rocket. The painting next to it featured a full-color Spam can label. Lyle remembered that one. Must be a print.

“Our security chief tells me you were a good investigator, solved a lot of cases. Right now, Nostalgia City has a situation we need to solve. I think you could help us.”

“Mr. Maxwell, I appreciate the compliment. I know we had some problems, but even with the car accident last week I didn’t think it was too serious.”

“It’s damn serious, and we have to stop it right away, before it gets worse. That’s why I hoped you could help.”

Maxwell’s eye contact was hard to avoid. Lyle glanced at the Spam can again but found his gaze quickly pulled back to the president.

“Sorry,” Lyle said. “I don’t want to be disagreeable. I do like working here. I worked for the Phoenix PD for years, but now this is the kind of job I want.” He touched the name badge on his breast pocket. “I like visiting with the tourists, showing them around.”

Maxwell stood up, looked out the window for a moment, then faced Lyle. “We would--of course--offer you additional compensation, and you’d report directly to me. Clyde won’t like that idea. Tough for him.”

“I appreciate the offer.” Lyle lifted his hands, palms up. “I do. It’s not the money. I’m retired from being a cop. It takes it out of you. I came here because I wanted a change. Besides, security is pretty good. Bates’s people should be able to handle it.”

Maxwell snorted. “I like to have back-up plans. Thought you’d be just the person. You were a detective and you know your way around the park.” He stared at Lyle.

“But if the runaway Ford just lost its brakes or something...”

“Hell, it was no accident. Done on purpose. This is the third act of sabotage in two months.” Max shook a finger at Lyle as if it were his fault. “First a ride, then the railroad bridge, now this. Trouble is, we don’t know why.”

“What’s the sheriff doing?”

“Not much. Besides, we don’t need that kind of publicity.”

Lyle hadn’t realized the accidents represented a serious threat to his newly adopted home. His new job meant more to him than most people knew, but going back to being a cop wasn’t an option.

“We’ve got to stop this, now,” Maxwell said. “Would you please think about it, Mr. Deming?”