Helena and continuing north until we reached Calistoga. For some reason, I expected a town out of the old west, with saloons, wooden sidewalks, and tall cowboys in large Stetsons sitting around in front of a jailhouse. The name Calistoga had that ring to it. Instead, we drove down Lincoln Avenue, the busy main street lined with art galleries, upscale clothing stores, attractive restaurants, and an assortment of small shops that might have been found on any prosperous main street. “Where to?” George asked. “To the spa where Mary Jane Proll works.” “And where might that be?” “I haven’t the slightest idea, but a good start would be the first spa we come to.” Which was only a hundred yards in front of us. George parked, and we stood on the sidewalk beneath a large red sign promising the ultimate in mud baths, steam rooms, and massage. George laced his fingers together, stretched his arms in front of him, pivoted left and right, and grimaced. “Stiff?” I asked. “Yes. The back acts up now and again.
