Your Chariot Awaits by Lorena McCourtney Page A

drive and did great in traffic. And you are unemployed, remember?”
    Like I needed reminding. “What’s the going rate for limousines?” I asked cautiously.
    â€œThe one time we used one, I think we paid something like $250 or $300 to a limousine service in Olympia. Call up some limousine outfits over there and find out their rates. Though we’d expect a break on price if we made it a regular deal.”
    Shrewd as well as nosy.
    â€œI guess I could think about it.”
    â€œExcept that we need to know right now. We won’t be getting back into the marina until midday Monday, so I need to call now for a reservation with someone else if you aren’t available.”
    â€œTuesday morning, you said?”
    â€œRight. Their flight comes in around eleven.”
    Three hundred dollars sounded pretty good. And by Tuesday, I’d be sixty. Maybe it was time to try something a bit adventurous. I could get the title change taken care of on Monday.
    Insurance too, if I had time, though my policy allowed thirty days to add an additional vehicle. But that would be on liability only, of course, since that was all I carried on my old Toyota. But, feeling oddly exhilarated, I made the leap. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
    â€œGood. I’ll talk to you about details when we get back from this trip. And I still want to buy you that peach smoothie.”
    With no more phone calls, I finally got to my meatloaf and spinach. I read through the hieroglyphics of Uncle Ned’s will while I ate. No surprise to see that he’d mangled the spelling of Sarah’s pistachios. But he had gotten lava lamp spelled right. That went to someone named Candace.
    IT WASN’T UNTIL the following day after work, Friday, when I officially became unemployed, that I remembered the chauffeur’s uniforms Larry had said he’d left in the trunk. I got the limo keys from the spot I’d assigned them, a hook by the door that opened from the kitchen into the garage.
    The trunk compartment was deep and roomy. It was on two levels, the second making a kind of platform at the back of the main compartment. The spare tire was fastened to the upper level, where it was easily accessible.
    Inside the roomy compartment were cartons and sacks from some of Larry’s on-the-road meals—grease seemed to be his main food group—and a cardboard box. A maintenance book lay on top of the box. I set it aside to take into the house. I unfolded a black jacket from the box, and at the same time something fell to the ground with a glass-shattering crash.
    Uncle Ned’s photo. He stared up at me from the gravel driveway, a sour-looking face topped with a shiny, coal-black toupee, as if he’d just had a midair collision with a disoriented crow. And mean little eyes that said I know what you did—you dropped me—and I’m gonna get you for it.
    I assured myself that dead people can’t get even and hastily scooped what was left of Uncle Ned into a Kentucky Fried Chicken sack. But just in case, I added a conciliatory thought. I’ll get you a nice new frame.
    I don’t know what chauffeur uniforms usually look like, but I was favorably impressed with these. A sophisticated black with two rows of gleaming silver buttons up the front of the jacket, a snug-fitting collar, two more silver buttons on the sleeves, and pants with a narrow, black-satin stripe running down the side.
    Joella knocked on the kitchen door while I was trying on a uniform in my bedroom, and I yelled at her to come on in.
    â€œHey, wow, classy!” she said when she saw me. The jacket was overlarge, but wearable. Both jacket and pants had nice silky linings. “You can cinch in the waist of the pants with a belt. It’ll be under the jacket, and no one will see.”
    There was a neat cap, too, also black with a silver pin in the shape of Texas above the visor. I stuck it on my head at a snappy angle, clicked my heels,