Hearse of a Different Color (Hitchcock Sewell Mysteries) (29 page)

The yield from Bonnie’s question sat on her lap as we drove back into the city. She said that she bought it for Alcatraz, to put next to his food bowl.

“I don’t know if I could eat with that thing staring at me,” I said as I took the ramp onto the beltway.

“You don’t think it’s cute?”

I thought the little lawn elf looked like a pervert. Especially nestled there in Bonnie’s lap.

“He’ll grow on you,” she said.

“I hope not.”

Bonnie had to get back to the station. She didn’t even come inside to deliver her gift in person. I rapped my hand against the roof of her car and away flew the chariot. I went inside and presented the lawn elf to Alcatraz. He sniffed it, then looked up at me as if to ask,
Do I pee on it
? I stuck it on the floor in the kitchen, next to his food bowl. He growled. Alcatraz almost never growls. I was relieved to see that he shared my taste. I took the elf into the bathroom and set him in a corner on the floor.

I had a message from Constance Bell on my phone machine.
Hitchcock, it was nice running into you. What do you say we get together? I’ve got tickets to the symphony for this Saturday. Would you like to be my date? Don’t know if that’s tempting or not. You’ve got my work number. Let me give you my home number.

I scribbled the number down on the same piece of paper where I had scribbled down the name and number of Helen’s mechanic. Yes, that was tempting. A shot of culture never hurt no one.

I took Alcatraz out for his walk. The Yuletide ice sculpture was taking on a life of its own. Alcatraz and I popped into the Oyster to get warm. Sally was manning the bar. She was wearing a flower-print muumuu.

“Aloha,” I said, sliding onto a stool. “Don’t you have the wrong season here? You’re dressed for summer in the middle of Baltimore’s new Ice Age.”

“Damn straight. Why do you think I put this on? I’m pining, young man.”

I thought of Sally’s daughter, lounging on her wicker divan, dreaming of island getaways. I could see where she got it from.

“Why don’t you and Julia hop on a plane and fly off somewhere warm and exotic? You could take your muumuu with you.”

Sally set me up with a Turkey and put out a plate of Kahlúa for Alcatraz. For as many years as I can remember, there had been an old, weathered dinghy that hung from the ceiling over the bar. Regulars at the Oyster had become so accustomed to tossing their empties up into the dinghy—which is what eventually brought it down—that they still occasionally launch a lazy hook shot up, up, up … down, down,
crash
. Anyone who is an Oyster regular is used to it, though I suppose it looks damned peculiar to a newcomer. I take the time to explain all this only to give a context. As Sally was setting my drink down in front of me, an elfin old coot down at the end of the bar polished off his beer and instinctively gave the bottle a toss up over his head. It came down behind the bar, landing harmlessly on the black rubber runner on the floor. “Sorry,” he muttered, raising a finger to ask for another beer. Sally popped a brew and delivered it. I took a sip of my Turkey. Perfect. Good bourbon moves through your body like warm electricity.

“So, have they learned anything yet about that gal who showed up on your doorstep?” Sally asked, sliding onto the stool that she keeps behind the bar.

“Nothing yet.”

Sally was eyeing me closely. “You wouldn’t be sticking your nose into that business, would you?”

“Why do you ask, barkeep?”

Sally’s flowered muumuu rippled in a shrug. “I’m just remembering the last time you tried to help a pretty woman track down a killer.” She glanced up at the dangling chains overhead. “You nearly got killed yourself.”

I took another sip. “That was different.”

“Of course it was. And you
didn’t
get killed. It all worked out. I’m just thinking of your aunt. If Billie ends up burying you, I’ll kill you.”

“And you would be saying … ?”

“You know damn well what I’m saying, Hitchcock. Why are you running around trying to solve the murder of a total stranger?” She pointed her chin at Alcatraz, who had lapped up his Kahlúa and was still licking the plate. “He needs a father. If you run off and get yourself killed, he’ll never speak to you again either.”

“Sally, your arguments aren’t terribly compelling.”

“Don’t give me that compelling garbage, young man. Can’t you just be satisfied doing what you do? I would think you get your fill of death as it is. Look at my daughter. There’s a person who knows how to make the most of her life. You don’t see any dark streaks running through my little girl.”

“Have you seen some of the stuff she paints?”

“Oh, she’s just having fun. The point is, that girl grabs after life like there’s no tomorrow.”

I looked up from my drink. “There’s a tomorrow?”

“You know you’d piss me off if I wasn’t already on to you.”

“That’s why I love you, Sally.”

“So, do I have the pleasure of your progressively drunken presence for the afternoon?”

I finished off my drink and slid the glass into her hand. “Sorry. I’ve got to go out and track down a killer. It’s what I do between funerals.”

“Have I told you you should get out more?”

“That’s what I’m doing.” I was reaching for my wallet. Sally waved me off.

“On the house. If that was your last drink, I’d hate to think you had to pay for it.”

I leaned over the counter and planted a wet one on her cheek. “Thank you, muumuu.”

Hunt Valley Motors is just north of the town of Timonium, on York Road. York Road is one of those roads that started life way back, as a bridal path, and hung in there over the centuries to become a multilane speedway connecting the city and points north. Car dealerships, mattress barns, shopping centers and fast-food joints line the boulevard now. The former firewall of Shawan Road, running perpendicular to York, was leaped a few decades ago; fields where Herefords once grazed are now being parceled into easy cheesy housing developments with names like Foxcroft, Horse Trail Homes and Cedar Pine (who in hell thought of that one?). With all the traffic on York Road, I had to wait a full five minutes in the left lane to take my turn into Hunt Valley Motors.

Hunt Valley Motors proved to be a relatively small though extremely efficient operation. Four lifts. Two mechanics in addition to the owner, the chief grease monkey. His was the name that Johnny the lawn ornament king and part-time restorer of old cars had scribbled down for me. Chris Cochran. I was directed by one of the mechanics to the lot behind the shop. The shop itself might have seemed small, but the number of cars parked out back waiting their turn was staggering. And not just car cars. Mercedes, BMWs, little Italian jobs, a couple of Jaguars … Nothing but foreigners. It was like an automotive Ellis Island for the rich. I found Cochran standing alongside a blue Mercedes, listening patiently as the car’s owner—a blustery, red-faced man in a hat and a camel hair coat—went on and on about why
his
need to have his car worked on immediately superseded the need of those who happened to have brought their cars in earlier. Cochran was in work boots, greasy overalls and an insulated hunting jacket. He looked to be in his late thirties. Dirty blond hair. Dirty white skin. Dirty fingers puffing on a cigarette as he listened to the song and dance. I pegged the car owner as a doctor, a lawyer or a banker. Not exactly a brain sprain to come up with those options. Cochran was nodding his head, showing full empathy and understanding of the man’s dilemma. I waited at a polite distance. When the man finally concluded his lecture, the mechanic nodded one more time, then said, “Friday.”

The owner of the Mercedes bellowed, “Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

Cochran nodded again. “Yes sir, I did.”

“Well?”

“Friday.”

“I should just take it somewhere else!”

The mechanic rubbed his jaw and looked down at the car. “Okay. If that’s what you want to do.”

“What I
want
is for you to do the work. And I want it done before Friday. Can’t you help me out?”

“Will you buy me a third bay and help me hire an extra mechanic?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Cochran took his last pull on his cigarette and flicked it away. “Friday then.”

“Fine! Okay.
Friday
. By noon!”

“No problem,” Cochran said. The man marched off to an Audi that was idling just outside the lot. A woman was behind the wheel. Cochran turned to me.

“If he’d asked nicely I could have had it for him by Thursday. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to ask you about a car you looked at a few months ago.”

“I look at a lot of cars.”

“Of course. This one was an MG. An old one. You looked at it for a woman who was thinking of buying it. Up near Parkville?”

“Sure, I remember that car. The body was kind of banged up. But mechanically it was fine. The guy rebuilt the engine. He did a good job.”

I pulled my photograph of Helen and Bo from my pocket and handed it to him. “Is that her?”

Cochran glanced at the picture. “That’s her. What’s up? Look, you want to go inside?”

“This shouldn’t take long.”

“Fine.” He pulled out another cigarette and lit it.

“How did that woman get a hold of you?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“To check out the MG. You didn’t know her from before or anything, did you?”

“I never saw her before.”

“So, did she call you? Did she stop in?”

Cochran started to answer, then he paused. His face had taken on the same look of suspicion that Johnny’s had.

“The car is fine,” I said, to reassure him. “I’m not with an insurance company. I’m not with the police. It’s nothing like that. The woman in the picture there is … missing. I’m just trying to find her. I’m a family friend.”

“So where does the MG fit into this? Is this about that guy they bought it from? Did you see all that crap in the front yard?”

“Yeah, I did. It was kind of … hold on. They?”

“What?”

“You just said ‘they bought it from.’ Who else do you mean?”

Cochran shrugged. “Her boyfriend. That’s what I was about to say. If she’s missing, why don’t you ask him?”

Boyfriend?
“I, uh, I don’t know how to get hold of him.”

A light of understanding flashed in the mechanic’s eyes. “Oh … I get it.
He’s
the one you’re looking for.”

“Well … sure. I’d like to talk with him.”

“So what’s the deal here? Are you sure you’re not a cop or something?”

“I told you. I’m a family friend.”

“Yeah, but what family?”

“What do you mean, what family?”

Cochran flicked his cigarette away. “You see the kind of cars I work on? I get a pretty good clientele in here, you know? Like that guy who was just here? The car-by-Friday guy? Hell, the guy could
buy
a new Mercedes by Friday. Cash. I deal with these guys all the time. They come in here with their trophy wives and their trophy girlfriends and try to throw their weight around. I don’t even pay attention to it anymore. These guys trying to impress their women by bossing me around.”

“Was this guy trying to impress her?”

“You mean the girl in the picture? Not really. Not like that.”

“So, what are you saying?”

“I was just asking which family are you a friend of? I don’t want to go getting anybody in trouble here.”

“I’m not following you.”

“He ran off with this girl, didn’t he? That’s why you’re here asking these questions. Old rich guy and a young chick. I see this shit more times than you can think. Except she didn’t really strike me as trophy material, if you get what I mean. Usually they’re all this perfect hair and these clothes and the jewelry and everything. I mean even in the middle of the day they look like they’re going out to some fancy dinner, and they might just be going out to buy dog food or something. But this girl in the picture. I’m not saying there was anything wrong with her. Looker. But … I just figured the guy was slumming, you know? No offense or anything. But they don’t usually leave their wives for a girl like that. This girl here … she was just a regular girl, you know?”

“This old rich guy. He was married?”

“I saw a ring. He didn’t even bother to hide it.”

“And Helen. She had no ring?”

“Man, you do sound like the police.”

“I’m not. Trust me.”

“Look, just who am I getting into trouble here? None of this is my business, you know. A guy comes in here, tells me he’s heard I’m a good mechanic. He says he’s got ‘a friend’ who wants to buy this car she saw for sale somewhere. That’s how he said it ‘a friend.’ That’s like a big, flashing arrow, you know? ‘My friend’ wants you to take a look at this car she wants to buy, blah, blah, blah. I guess some people are smoother than others about that kind of thing. Not this guy.”

“So, he was the one who paid you to check out the car?”

“Yeah. Paid me to go out there to Parkville and everything.”

“Did he pay with a check? Or a credit card?”

“Cash. I told him a check would be fine. But he had a pocketful of cash. Look, I got to get back to the shop. You can see all the work I’ve got.”

“Just one more thing,” I said. “Can you describe this guy?”

He could. He did. He described him very well. Apparently the mechanic had a photographic memory. My scalp began to tingle as Cochran ran through the description. Height. Weight. Face. Hair. A completely illogical part of the whole situation suddenly made sense. Cochran’s guess at the man’s weight was within ten pounds of what my own guess had been. His guess at the man’s age—if it was the same man I was now picturing—was right on the money.

I asked, “Look. How late do you stay open?”

“Five-thirty.”

I checked my watch. It was after four. It would take me nearly an hour to drive home and back again. Maybe fifty minutes … plus ten to take the damn left turn off York Road.

“I’ll be right back.”

It took me an hour. I had a different photograph with me. Cochran was in the garage under one of the lifts when I returned. I shoved the photograph under his nose.

“Him?”