The Doctor's Little Secret

“Used to be a lot of them.” Rachel was pleased to discover she’d absorbed more details about her community than she’d realized. “They’re Hass avocados, the kind with warty black skin. Absolutely the best-tasting. You fix guacamole with any other variety, you have to stir in salsa for flavor, but these suckers are perfect mashed with a dash of garlic salt. Every Hass avocado in the world is descended from a single tree in La Habra Heights. That’s not far from Villazon.”

“Is the tree on the tour?” he asked with a hopeful air.

“It died a few years ago. There’s a plaque where it used to stand,” she offered.

“Only a plaque? I’ll pass.”

She drove past In a Pickle. As she explained its origins, he said he might return later to buy a souvenir jar of pickles but didn’t want to risk having the lid come off in her car.

Rachel appreciated his consideration. “Marta and I rescued a dog once and it threw up all over my old car,” she said. “I never completely cleared the smell out. There’s nothing worse than beagle barf.”

“Is that so?” Russ chuckled again. Rachel didn’t see what was funny about an upchucking dog.

“Even vinegar didn’t kill the odor. It just made the car stink worse.” They were traversing Arches Avenue. “You’ve seen the civic center, since you work across the street. The only other historic site is Alessandro’s Italian Deli.”

“A deli is a historic site?” Russ inquired.

“Well, not the actual deli,” she conceded. “On that site used to stand the First Bank of Villazon. There’s a rumor that Richard Nixon opened an account there when he had a law office in La Habra.”

“Was that anywhere near the avocado tree?”

“No. La Habra Heights is a separate community north of La Habra. His office isn’t there anymore, by the way. They tore it down. Broke the preservationists’ hearts.” Rachel had no illusions as to how Villazon and environs stacked up against L.A. People traveled long distances to see the Hollywood Walk of Fame and the Page Museum with its skeletons of mastodons and sabertooth tigers. “I realize a deli isn’t exactly the La Brea Tar Pits.”

“On the other hand, I’ll bet the deli sells better prosciutto,” Russ hazarded.

“You’re making me hungry.” She glanced at the dashboard clock. Nearly five. “I’d better drive you home.” Indicating the rear of the car, she explained, “I have to take those DVDs to Hale Crandall’s house. He’s one of our detectives.”

When Russ twisted for a glimpse, his knee bumped her wrist. Rachel felt a little giddy. She’d been experiencing a pleasant buzz from the guy all afternoon.

“Are they evidence?” he inquired.

“They’re motorcycle movies. For a party.”

Swinging back, Russ brushed her again. More buzz than a swarm of bees. “I don’t know a lot of people in this town,” he said. “I’d love to go to the party. Any chance I can tag along?”

Rachel was so taken aback she could only stutter, “Uh…uh, I guess. But it’s a cop gathering,” she protested belatedly. Blabbing to Connie should have taught her to keep her mouth shut. “Backyard barbecue with a hefty serving of testosterone.” She hoped that last bit discouraged him. Chief Lyons wouldn’t like her dragging Dr. McKenzie over there to watch the guys guzzle beer.

“Great,” the doc responded. “I love barbecues.”

Rachel couldn’t uninvite him without being rude. That would tick off the chief worse.

The other cops would needle her later about bringing a date. And if Connie got an eyeful of this guy, she’d have plenty to say. Like, Tell me again why you aren’t jumping his bones.

Glumly, Rachel headed for Hale’s house. She had a feeling the main dish grilling over the coals was going to be her goose.

Chapter Three

In actual fact, Russ didn’t relish the prospect of attending a party with a bunch of sweaty macho guys. He’d rather spend the evening cruising around with Rachel, listening to her loopy presentation and trying to figure out when she was kidding and when she was in earnest, but he was enjoying her company too much to quit now. So he would put up with whatever this party involved rather than go home alone.

He’d never met anyone like her. His parents, a professional couple who claimed to be advocates of social equality, might bend over backward to raise money for the oppressed but showed a subtle snobbery toward those from a blue-collar background.

One of the reasons he’d moved to Villazon was to escape their narrow social circle, which had drawn him in while he lived and worked so close to them. His old friend, a child psychologist named Mike Federov who served on staff at Mesa View Med Center, had praised the town’s friendliness and its healthy mixture of economic and ethnic groups.

Russ preferred to accept people as individuals. And Rachel Byers was unquestionably an individual. Maybe her co-workers would turn out to be interesting, as well.

Their destination proved to be a neighborhood of ranch-style homes in the southern part of town, a few blocks past a shopping center that included a discount furniture store, a gift shop and a supermarket. A row of jacaranda trees lined the street, showing only the first hint of buds that would later blossom into vivid lavender.

“The guys tend to act a little wild on their days off,” Rachel warned as she found a space along the crowded curb.

“Meaning what, exactly?” Russ inquired.

“They’re kind of physical.” She collected the DVDs.

“In what sense?” His idea of getting physical at a barbecue involved nothing more than hefting a hamburger.

“Ever wrestle with your brother? Or your sister?” she said as she climbed out.

Russ had developed a distaste for fighting in high school, when he’d had to deck a few guys to end persistent bullying. Although he’d won, he hadn’t enjoyed the experience.

“I’m an only child. While I’ve done weight training, I never cared for contact sports.” He seized on a more interesting topic. “How many siblings do you have, anyway?”

“Depends on how you figure it.” With that enigmatic comment, she veered onto a walkway, marched up the steps and entered the house without knocking. Since he assumed this must be acceptable behavior, Russ followed.

They appeared to have walked into a pool hall. Cigarette smoke, masculine chatter and the crack of a cue against a ball greeted them. At a billiards table, half a dozen men were so busy playing that they barely acknowledged the new arrivals. Their Hawaiian shirts and cargo shorts made Russ feel overdressed in his jacket and jeans.

On the walls above a mismatched array of chairs and couches, someone had tacked frayed motorcycle posters. Beer cans and food wrappers crowded a few small tables and less-trafficked areas of the floor.

He and Rachel proceeded through a den with a big-screen TV across which aliens zapped each other. The circle of players didn’t even glance up. Despite their age and size, they reminded Russ of video-addicted adolescents.

In the kitchen, doorless cabinets revealed shelves sparsely stocked with canned goods. The countertop overflowed with chips, dips, crackers, cookies and a half-empty box of doughnuts.

Russ peered around for actual food. The appetizing scent wafting through the wide-open sliding door indicated that it awaited outdoors.

A couple of guys interrupted their snacking to return Rachel’s high-fives. “This is Dr. McKenzie. He’s new at the hospital.”

“Guess we’ll be seeing you in the E.R., then.” A beefy fellow with an air of authority offered his hand. “I’m Captain Ferguson. Call me Frank.”

The others also greeted Russ in a friendly manner. Russ didn’t bother to correct the impression that he’d been invited as a sort of comrade-by-association. Besides, pediatricians did consult in the E.R. on occasion.

Rachel sniffed the charcoal-scented smoke wafting through the sliding door. “Burgers ready?”

“You ought to hold off eating.” Derek Reed, who’d introduced himself as the community relations officer, surveyed her lazily. “Hale’s setting up a competition. Just your speed.”

“You mean a game?” Russ asked. Whatever these guys had in mind, he suspected it wasn’t croquet.

“I wouldn’t call it a game exactly,” remarked a fellow who’d given his name as Joel Simmons. “Hope you brought your swimsuit, Rache.”

“Nah. I’ll have to borrow.” Leaving to the imagination exactly what she expected to borrow in a houseful of guys, she led the way to the patio.