Yup. It's time for Lianne Mars to re-enter the picture. And some Buffy conversation. What can I say? I loved that show.
Disclaimer: I do not own Veronica Mars. Someone much luckier and more talented does.
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Mac insisted on taking her Beetle. "No offense," she said. "But that model Le Baron tends to crap out after 100,000 miles or so, I have no idea how you've kept it going this long . . ."
"Are you sure you wouldn't rather be at the car show?" I asked.
Sheepishly, she laughed. "Sheer osmosis, I swear."
"Uh-huh." I didn't press the point. Mac swore she had nothing in common with her parents, and genetically she was a Sinclair anyway, but you can't help picking things up from the people who raise you, no matter where your genes come from. (That was the main reason I'd tossed out that DNA report on whether Keith Mars was her biological father. It didn't matter. Dad was Dad. Jake Kane was a rich asshole who might have been sleeping with Mom.)
So we dropped the Le Baron off at home, and while Mac called her parents I told Dad I was making a one-day road trip with Mac. "Just driving around," I said. "It's been stressful around here recently."
I chose the right moment: Right as he was walking out the door to meet up with Lynn Echolls. "Enjoy yourself. Try not to get arrested."
"You ruin all my fun."
"That's what Daddies do, sweetheart." He kissed my forehead and left.
After stopping off at a local natural food store for provisions -- Mac wasn't going to trust that she could find a vegan meal in Barstow or anywhere along the way -- we were off.
The conversation was all over the map. We talked about my latest cases, her family, Arriana Whitlock and SAAC -- "Their goals are noble. Their methods are stupid. I mean, last year they threw blood on the homecoming queen because she was wearing fur."
"Have we learned nothing from Carrie?" I asked.
"Apparently not," Mac said. I'm a vegan. But I'm not a converting vegan. If people ask, I'll tell them. If they don't, I don't. If they give me a hard time, I cancel their credit cards." She paused. "Speaking of: Want me to do anything to the Casablancas brothers?"
"Naah," I said. "Got that covered. But thanks."
"Sad thing was, I always thought Cassidy was kind of um, you know, cute."
Cassidy Casablancas was cute like a rabid chipmunk was cute. "Well, in case you're ever tempted otherwise --" and I explained, leaving out the specifics, how Cassidy had tried to manipulate me. "He's as bad as his brother. He's just not as in-your-face about it."
She said, "Thanks for the warning."
"No problem. Consider him the . . . Malcolm, to your Willow."
She got it immediately. "I didn't realize you were that big a Buffy fan, Veronica."
"Well, I was 9 when it started, but I caught up. And, really, not exactly the kind of thing I publicized. Geek Chic is so not in fashion among the '09er crowd."
"Ah. Like, Cordelia didn't broadcast that she was dating Xander."
"Yep," I said. "Duncan understood, but --
"Duncan?" she asked. "Duncan Kane? Watched Buffy?"
"Yeah -- and Smallville." I shrugged. "What can I say? He always had a thing for short blonde women."
"Meg's not that short . . ."
"But she is blonde," I said.
"So, if I'm your Willow . . ."
"Let's see. Dad is Giles, of course. Wallace is Xander. Weevil is Spike, but later Spike -- and without that whole sexual thing." Weevil was hot, no arguing the point, but a bit too genuine bad-boy to be my type. "Logan is Logan." She gave me a look. "You thought I was going to say Angel? My entire life is not patterned after Buffy, thank you very much."
"That's good, because I'm hoping you don't have a Faith out there."
And we talked about things Buffy-related for quite a while after that. No, I'm not as big a geek as Mac is -- she even wrote some Buffy fanfiction, mostly Willow/Oz related stuff that she was horribly embarrassed about and absolutely would not give me the website for -- but it's nice to be able to share these things with people that don't look at you like you've suddenly grown an extra head.
It was a nice drive, overall. More relaxation -- and I needed it. As we hit the Barstow city limits, Dad called and told me he'd accepted the commission from Lynn Echolls. I was thrilled. Even if Dad never proves Aaron killed Lilly, we could use the $15,000 -- because he will prove that Abel Koontz didn't do it.
"That's something else that popped up today," he said. "I found out that Abel Koontz has a daughter. I'm going out to try to track her down, so don't wait up. Just be sure you get home in time to walk Backup."
I said I would -- and I had to; Backup was a good dog but cleaning up mounds of dog poop from the living room floor? Not my idea of a fun way to spend an evening. So that gave me a couple of hours in Barstow to track down my mystery caller. If things went my way, they'd already be at the Sage Brush Cantina; but it was just short of 1 in the afternoon. Only the most dedicated drunks hang around bars that early in the day.
And, let's face it, Veronica: When do things ever go your way?
We pulled into the Sage Brush Cantina parking lot. Mac's description of it as a "dive" seemed wildly understated. There were only a few cars in the parking lot, and not much around it. From the outside, it looked like the kind of place Hell's Angels would steer clear of.
Mac trailed me nervously into the bar. As she never failed to remind me, she wasn't exactly a fieldwork type of gal. But she did come. I gave her high marks for guts and made a mental note to spend more time with her when it had absolutely nothing to do with any kind of work I was doing.
The door opened to a large and mostly empty room. There were a couple of people playing pool; they gave me and Mac a look as we passed that made me feel like we'd just wandered into a cat show in mouse costumes. They didn't seem familiar, and neither did anyone else.
Just to check, I made a beeline for the payphone and checked the number. Yep. It matched, all right.
I walked up to the bar. The bartender was scrubbing out a glass that didn't look it had been really clean since the Reagan administration. He took one look at me and said, "You're too young to be in here."
"I don't want to drink anything --" I'd probably die of typhoid if I did -- "I just want some information."
"Okay. Lisbon is the capital of Portugal." Terrific. I'd just been handed a bartender who thought he was the second coming of Bob Hope. I just glared at him. "Who's that?" she said, pointing at Mac.
"Angelina Jolie," Mac said. I"'m in disguise."
"Hell of a disguise."
"All I want to do is ask you a question," I said. "Has there been someone who's been coming in here who keeps making calls from that phone -- it would have started a bit before Valentine's Day."
The man grunted. "Yeah. Blonde lady."
A blonde woman? My god . . . "Do you know the blonde lady's name?"
"No." Cheers, this wasn't. "But she's usually in here by now most days."
"Do you have any idea where she lives? Or where she's staying?"
"No. Yo, Jay!" Jay -- one of the two pool players -- "Blonde woman. Didn't you have to take her home last night?"
"Yeah." Jay looked at me as if trying to judge whether I'd get out of here faster if he told me or if he didn't. "The Condor. First floor room."
"The Condor."
"Motel in town," bartender said. "Up that way --" he pointed generally northward --" about a mile or so." He went back to the futile task of wiping out the permanently dirty glass.
That was the best I was going to get from this place. Mac and I turned to go.
"Angelina Jolie?" I said to Mac as I left. "We'll make a badass out of you yet."
"That's as badass as I want to get, thanks." After a second, "So, who do you think the blonde woman is?"
"I think it could be my mother."
Mac looked at me. "Your mother?"
"Let's find out before I get my hopes up."
The drive to the Condor took only a couple of minutes. It made the Camelot look like the Neptune Grand. I was not in the least surprised to find that it rented out rooms by the hour as well as by the day. "Are you --" I said to the clerk, "Do you have a Lianne Mars staying here?"
He looked down and checked the register. "Room 117."
"Thanks."
Mac and I went down to room 117. "She's here," I said. "That's her car right there." My god, my mom was right inside this room . . . I began pounding on the door. "Mom!" I said. "Mom! Mom!"
There was no answer from inside the room. Well, I wasn't going to let a little thing like a lock stop me now. The Condor had old locks -- so old I could easily pick them with a credit card, and did.
Mac hung back as I went inside. Mom was there, asleep on the bed. There was an empty vodka bottle next to her. I went over and said, "Mom!" in her ear.
Still no answer.
Almost in a panic now, I leaned in close.
When I heard a breath I almost collapsed in relief. "Mom!" I said, grabbing her arm.
It was clammy and colder than it should have been. And her breathing was shallow and not at all regular. I'd spent enough time in the Sheriff's office looking at "The Dangers of Drinking" pamphlets to recognize alcohol poisoning when I saw it.
"Mac!" I yelled. "Call 911!"
Oh, Mom . . .