Duck” pinged out in a momentary lull of the relentless onslaught of Muzak. Tommy pulled out a cell phone and flashed me more teeth than I care to see.
“It’s London.” Big, fat, cheesy wink. “Gotta take this one, doll. Look around. Try the cars. See how they fit you.”
London? Maybe London, Kentucky, or London, Texas. And the caller? Probably someone looking for his missing Jag. But I took the chance to check the odometer of each of the six cars. All had minimal mileage, but not a single vehicle was newer than four years. They couldn’t all have been driven by a grandma to church on Sunday and nothing more.
Maybe my next stop would be at Larry’s. I had no idea what the guy did or even where he lived. Time to let my fingers do the walking through the white pages.
“Tommy?”
He was too busy begging on the phone to answer me.
“Another month, man. Please. That’s all I need. How was I gonna know she was going to change everything at the last minute?”
Hmm . . . interesting tidbit.
Tommy’s championship whining continued. “Hey, listen. I got a big buyer in the showroom right now. Some ritzy decorator. I bet she’ll take the Bentley. You know, to drive rich clients around.”
Yikes! Two big strikes against Tommy: one, there was no Bentley in the showroom, and two, if that was how he saw me, as the “big buyer,” he was in worse shape than I’d thought. In more ways than one.
“Oh, all right,” he grumped. “Two weeks, then. I’ll sell the Bentley by then, and I can pay you back in two weeks.”
That was my cue. “Tommy? Thanks for the info. You sure know your foreign cars. But I have to hurry home now. I’ll give the car some more thought.”
“No!” He ran to my side in panic. “See?” He slapped the clamshell phone shut. “I’m done. Now, which one’s it gonna be? I’ll bet I can guess. It’s the Rolls. It’s just so you.”
Not in this lifetime. “I’ll get back to you. But now I really have to hurry. So many walls, so much to faux. See ya!”
I ran. Yeah, I did the cowardly lion bit and split. I was afraid if I stayed there a minute longer, he’d tie me to the steering wheel of the Rolls and help himself to my debit card. This guy looked like hungry desperation and was a prime suspect in the mur
— Oh. Yeah. Darlene died of cancer.
That sorta deflated my sails, but it didn’t slow my pace. My Honda was a welcome sight.
The gray fedora and tan trench up ahead? Not so much.
I reached my car and thumped my head against the roof. “Bella! What are you doing here?”
“How’d’ya know it was me?” she asked, indignant. “I’m undercover.”
“You showed me the cover, remember?”
“Oh yeah.” Her brief disappointment vanished behind a smile. “Toodle-ooh, then, Haley girl. I have a kill—ah . . . er . . . killer headache, and I’d better head on home.”
I nabbed the stubby tail of her trench’s belt. “Not so fast, Sherlock Cahill. You haven’t answered my question. Why are you here? Show me a cat or a dog in the middle of the business district. A little old iguana or even a tarantula will do.”
She waved. “Oh, you’d be surprised. You have to scratch the surface to find your culp—er . . . what you’re looking for, you know.”
I tossed my backpack purse into my car and crossed my arms. “What are you looking for?”
She matched my stance. “How about you?”
“I asked you first.”
“I’ll tell you after you tell me, Haley girl.”
Mental scramble time. “I . . . ah . . . met Tommy Weikert when I went to meet with his mother the day she died. I was going to redesign her parlor.”
“Yeah, I know. I read the paper. But what ya want with him? Last time I checked, you said you loved your Honda and didn’t want some fancy doodadded hood for people to know you’re loaded.”
“I’m not buying one of those cars!”
“Then what are you doing here?”
Quick, quick. Think of something, Haley.
Only the funeral came to mind. “Um
“It’s London.” Big, fat, cheesy wink. “Gotta take this one, doll. Look around. Try the cars. See how they fit you.”
London? Maybe London, Kentucky, or London, Texas. And the caller? Probably someone looking for his missing Jag. But I took the chance to check the odometer of each of the six cars. All had minimal mileage, but not a single vehicle was newer than four years. They couldn’t all have been driven by a grandma to church on Sunday and nothing more.
Maybe my next stop would be at Larry’s. I had no idea what the guy did or even where he lived. Time to let my fingers do the walking through the white pages.
“Tommy?”
He was too busy begging on the phone to answer me.
“Another month, man. Please. That’s all I need. How was I gonna know she was going to change everything at the last minute?”
Hmm . . . interesting tidbit.
Tommy’s championship whining continued. “Hey, listen. I got a big buyer in the showroom right now. Some ritzy decorator. I bet she’ll take the Bentley. You know, to drive rich clients around.”
Yikes! Two big strikes against Tommy: one, there was no Bentley in the showroom, and two, if that was how he saw me, as the “big buyer,” he was in worse shape than I’d thought. In more ways than one.
“Oh, all right,” he grumped. “Two weeks, then. I’ll sell the Bentley by then, and I can pay you back in two weeks.”
That was my cue. “Tommy? Thanks for the info. You sure know your foreign cars. But I have to hurry home now. I’ll give the car some more thought.”
“No!” He ran to my side in panic. “See?” He slapped the clamshell phone shut. “I’m done. Now, which one’s it gonna be? I’ll bet I can guess. It’s the Rolls. It’s just so you.”
Not in this lifetime. “I’ll get back to you. But now I really have to hurry. So many walls, so much to faux. See ya!”
I ran. Yeah, I did the cowardly lion bit and split. I was afraid if I stayed there a minute longer, he’d tie me to the steering wheel of the Rolls and help himself to my debit card. This guy looked like hungry desperation and was a prime suspect in the mur
— Oh. Yeah. Darlene died of cancer.
That sorta deflated my sails, but it didn’t slow my pace. My Honda was a welcome sight.
The gray fedora and tan trench up ahead? Not so much.
I reached my car and thumped my head against the roof. “Bella! What are you doing here?”
“How’d’ya know it was me?” she asked, indignant. “I’m undercover.”
“You showed me the cover, remember?”
“Oh yeah.” Her brief disappointment vanished behind a smile. “Toodle-ooh, then, Haley girl. I have a kill—ah . . . er . . . killer headache, and I’d better head on home.”
I nabbed the stubby tail of her trench’s belt. “Not so fast, Sherlock Cahill. You haven’t answered my question. Why are you here? Show me a cat or a dog in the middle of the business district. A little old iguana or even a tarantula will do.”
She waved. “Oh, you’d be surprised. You have to scratch the surface to find your culp—er . . . what you’re looking for, you know.”
I tossed my backpack purse into my car and crossed my arms. “What are you looking for?”
She matched my stance. “How about you?”
“I asked you first.”
“I’ll tell you after you tell me, Haley girl.”
Mental scramble time. “I . . . ah . . . met Tommy Weikert when I went to meet with his mother the day she died. I was going to redesign her parlor.”
“Yeah, I know. I read the paper. But what ya want with him? Last time I checked, you said you loved your Honda and didn’t want some fancy doodadded hood for people to know you’re loaded.”
“I’m not buying one of those cars!”
“Then what are you doing here?”
Quick, quick. Think of something, Haley.
Only the funeral came to mind. “Um
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