Broken Vows Mystery 03-In Sickness and in Death (2 page)

He twirled my long hair in his fingers. “Exactly. Gorgeous.” He tipped my chin and kissed my lips. “Too bad I’m late for work.”

He stood and smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from his perfectly pressed county sheriff’s department uniform. Deputy Ray Parker. God, I loved a man in uniform, especially this handsome dark-haired stud. I blushed, happy to think this for the first time in months. Then I noticed a few more gray hairs at Ray’s temples and worried I had caused them. Or had all his cases been preying on his mind while I’d sat, unwilling to listen?

He smiled at me, clearly pleased to see me up and about and ready to go. “I’m sorry, Darlin’. No strawberries for the waffles. It’s not the right season for them, anyway. Here’s the shopping list.” Ray leaned in for another kiss, lingering as he stroked his thumb over my lower lip. My nether regions tingled in response—not that I felt like doing anything about it. It was just good to know I was still capable of excitement. “Make sure to invite Cory and Erica for dinner Thursday.”

My eyes bulged. “Thursday?”

“Yeah, it’s Thanksgiving.” Ray disappeared out the kitchen door with a wave.

I looked at the list. Turkey. Stuffing bread. Canned cranberry sauce.

My armpits felt damp. I licked my lips. Not only did I have to face the world this morning, but I had to entertain in three days. Although Ray always did the turkey and the stuffing. Maybe I could manage mashed potatoes and a frozen pie. Cory and Erica would bring something. It might work out.

I ate two bites of waffle. Then two more. Then I finished the whole thing. My stomach felt bloated, but I wouldn’t need to expand the elastic in my skirt anytime soon. I loaded the dishwasher and wiped down the granite countertops before stuffing the list in my purse and heading out the door.

Driving my Lexus for the first time in weeks reminded me how much I loved the feeling of independence and control behind the wheel. Traffic was light on Main Street, since most of the shops in Wachobe didn’t open until ten. Only Asdale Auto Imports opened at nine a.m. Tuesday through Saturday as it had for the last four years under my ownership and the prior forty or so years when my dad ran his garage at this address.

I pulled into the parking lot behind the building and found Cory’s BMW parked there. Strange for a Monday.

A cold front had settled in overnight. I held the collar of my white wool coat tight to my neck as I walked along the edge of my cedar-shingled building. The shingles and the white trim could have used a touchup this past summer. I hoped the town fathers hadn’t noticed as well. They considered my building an abomination amongst their prized Victorian brick and clapboard storefronts, and my pre-owned but pristine sports cars too modern for their desired tourist town image. In fact, almost a year ago, they tried to force me to relocate to a back street, away from Main Street and the lakefront that attracted thousands of summer residents and cottage rentals. I refused. The Asdale automotive tradition would carry on at this address. If I could get my act together, it might even do so under my leadership once again.

The bell jingled, announcing my arrival. Cory appeared in the showroom, wearing his mechanic’s overalls, booties, and plastic surgical gloves smeared with grease.

“Jo. What a great surprise.” He stripped off the gloves and threw them in the wastebasket. His arms bruised my ribs as he lifted me off the floor. “I’m so glad to see you.”

One whiff of his cologne and I felt the same way. Friends like Cory were hard to come by. “I missed you, too.”

He set me down inches from the 2006 F430 Ferrari Spider that had become the bane of my existence. It rested in the middle of my showroom floor, Rosso Corsa paint gleaming under the pin lights, no longer desirable to anyone after I found a murdered man in its front seat almost a year ago now. All my inventory dollars were tied up in the car. Unable to add to my stock on the lot, my only option was to offer customers my ability to locate and broker deals for a sports car of their choice. With the popularity of the Internet and cars readily available for sale online, not many customers took me up on my offer. Without Cory’s steady maintenance income, I would be out of business.

I searched his face. “It’s Monday. Why are you working?”

He avoided my gaze. “I’m a little behind.”

That wasn’t like Cory. He always finished his work on time or earlier. I opened my mouth to ask why then thought for a moment. Obviously, it was my fault. He’d been doing his work and mine for months. “I’m so sorry, Cory. I should have been here.”

Cory waved his hand as if to say “don’t worry about it.” He led me into my office and pushed me into my chair. “Good news.”

“You sold the Ferrari.”

He tipped his head to the side. “Ah, no. But we have two new customers, and one of them needs your expertise.”

My throat swelled shut. What expertise? Everything I touched turned into tragedy. “Tell me about the other customer first.”

He dropped into the chair beside the desk, looking like I’d punctured his tires. “Okay. Brennan Rowe bought a turbo-charged Mazda Protégé. He hopes to race it this spring, and he wants me to be the crew chief and mechanic for his team.” He leapt to his feet. “It’s in the garage now. Want to see it?”

Race car support would be a new niche for our business, but not one I wanted to pursue. Too much time at the track. Too many last-minute hassles. Too much tweaking of sensitive engines, brakes, and transmissions. Too hard to hold down expenses. Still, Brennan Rowe reeked of money, especially after the successful construction and lease of his much-contended office building, and he was a lucrative customer with a significant car collection. If Cory had agreed to provide race support, I’d go along with it for now. “Maybe later. Tell me about my new customer first.”

Cory stuck his hands in his pockets and swayed on the balls of his feet. Small but wiry at five-one, he always had a lot of energy. Maybe that was why his auburn hair curled poodle-tight. “She’s different.”

A woman. That was different. Most of my customers were men looking for the power, luxury, status, and speed a fine automobile provided. “How so?”

Cory’s girly eyelashes blinked four times in rapid succession. “She read an article on the Internet about the cars that turn men’s heads; cars that make men think a woman’s hot. You know, a Mercedes 300SL roadster, a Porsche 911, cars like that. She decided to buy one of the cars on the list. She wants to get this guy’s attention, and he likes sports cars.”

“So which one of the ten did she pick?”

Cory scrunched his eyes as if fearing my response. “The Caterham Seven.”

I wished I was home in bed with the covers over my head. “You’re kidding me. Aren’t they only available in England?”

“They have dealerships in the U.S. now.”

“They’re kit cars, aren’t they?”

“You can buy them and build them. I offered to do that for her, but getting a kit car registered and insured is a hassle. We decided that purchasing a used DeDion model would be the best way to go. It’s got the newer Ford Zetec engine, improved suspension, and meets most emission standards.”

“Does she know it’s an open car, best driven wearing a helmet? Does she think getting soaked in rainstorms and picking bugs out of her teeth will attract this guy?”

Cory sank into the chair again. “Jo, she’s not an attractive woman. She’s big-boned with hair dyed the color of the Ferrari. Crooked teeth. It’s not pretty. But she knows this guy loves the Caterham Seven. He saw it in some Japanese animated cartoons and got all hot for it.”

“If she’s that big, will she even fit in the car? It’s designed for racing.” Wouldn’t the town muckety mucks be delighted to have Wachobe turn into the new road racing street course? I didn’t think they’d send me roses in appreciation.

“Yeah, but it’s built for living. She’ll fit. I can make her fit, if you can find the car.”

I stifled a sigh. “All right. I’ll start in the Sunbelt, where people can drive a car like that year-round.” Unlike here in New York’s Finger Lakes region, where maybe a handful of days over a couple of summer months would be suitable.

“Great.” Cory fumbled through a stack of note pads on my desk. “Here’s her brother’s number. She’s staying with him until Christmas. I told her we’d call once we located a car for her.”

He sprang out of the chair, ready for action. “I’ve got a Fiat to service this morning and a Land Rover coming in this afternoon.”

I held up my hand to slow his departure. “Cory, one more thing. Did you want to come over for Thanksgiving dinner?”

His eyes misted. “I do, but can I bring a date?”

A date. Cory’s life had been busy in more ways than one since I dropped out of sight. “Sure. Who?”

“I’ll let you know after I ask him.”

How mysterious. Cory had learned the man he loved was a big fat liar in the worst way just a few days before we lost Noelle. He’d handled his depression better than me, pouring his energy into his maintenance work and letting out all his emotion in amateur theater performances at the Broadway-quality theater one town over from Wachobe. Too bad I hadn’t taken a page from his book.

I powered up my computer, smelling smoke as the dust burned off. The website for Hemming Motors News came up a second after I typed in the address. They didn’t have any Caterhams listed.

A little more searching uncovered two for sale from sports car dealerships in Florida and Arizona. No one answered the phone numbers listed on their websites. I left my name and numbers, office and cell. What more could I do today?

Cory had the bills paid to date, and he’d invoiced all his maintenance customers in a timely manner. An order for parts and supplies went out last week. He didn’t really need me here. I’d become superfluous in my own business.

I tried to think of a way to become more important. I stuck my head in the three-bay garage. “I’m going grocery shopping. I’ll bring you back lunch around noon.”

Flat on his back and smiling, Cory shot out from under the Fiat on his mechanic’s creeper. “Can we have pizza?”

____

The grocery store proved to be a nightmare. I couldn’t decide between a fresh turkey, a Butterball, or the store brand. Jellied cranberry sauce or sauce with berries? One loaf of stuffing bread? Or two, if Cory brought a guest? Maybe Erica would like to bring a guest as well?

I dialed her cell phone number and waited. She answered on the eighth ring. She sounded half-awake.

“What are you doing?”

“Sleeping. I worked until two a.m. What do you want?”

“I want to make sure you’re planning on having Thanksgiving dinner with us.”

“I’m surprised you care enough to ask.”

I deserved that. I hadn’t called her in weeks. “I care. Did you want to bring a date?”

“Are you kidding me? I’m twenty pounds overweight. I look like a cow. No one wants to poke a cow, Jolene.”

“That’s a nice picture, Erica.”

“Better than the picture of all my flab being sucked out. Have you ever seen them do that on TV?”

I had. It grossed me out for days, and the mere memory of it made me want to vomit. “Why are you so gory today? What’s wrong?”

“Everything. Not that you care.”

“I care, Erica, I care. Why don’t you come for dinner tonight and tell me all about it?”

“Fine. But don’t serve chicken. I hate chicken.” She hung up.

I couldn’t decide what to serve for dinner. Ray’s list only covered Thanksgiving dinner and a few other staples. I pushed the cart from one end of the store to another, frustrated with my own indecisiveness and shocked at the anxiety this simple responsibility induced. When I saw another woman reach for lasagna noodles, I seized on the idea, purchasing the supplies for it, salad fixings, and a loaf of Italian bread. Only after I was halfway home did I realize I hadn’t purchased dessert. Ray liked dessert every night.

I ordered pizza for Cory and me while I unloaded the groceries at home. I didn’t feel like driving back to the shop, but I knew he expected me to eat lunch with him today. And I could run into the bakery down the street for a dessert. I would have much rather taken a nap.

But I soldiered on, picking up the pizza and returning to the shop in time to catch a phone call from Ray.

“How’s your day going?”

“Okay. I shopped. We’re having lasagna for dinner.”

“Excellent. Can you set one more place?”

“I’ll have to set two extra. I invited Erica.”

His silence unnerved me.

“Is Erica a problem, Ray?”

“No, but I have someone I want you to meet.”

“I don’t need a psychiatrist, Ray. I’m doing everything you asked me to do.” Not with any enjoyment or enthusiasm, but I was doing it.

“He’s not a doctor, Darlin’.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Danny Phillips. He’s twelve.”

“Twelve? Where did you meet him?”

“His father was arrested this morning for grand theft auto.”

“Not good.”

“It gets worse. He’s Danny’s only parent, and he’s not going to make bail. When he’s proven guilty, he may be incarcerated for a while.”

I noticed Ray said “when” not “if.” The Sheriff’s Department must have an airtight case. “So why do you want me to meet him?”