had no choice.
“I need to talk to you about Dad’s Kaiser Darrin.”
She stared past him and clenched the delicate china cup. “That damned Darrin.”
Curious. Joe gave his mother a quick rundown on the forged serial number plate and the Ford engine, then asked, “What did you mean by ‘that damned Darrin’?”
“The Darrin started the hard feelings between your dad and Vic—”
“Whoa! What hard feelings?” Joe’s mind reeled. “Tell me the whole story.”
“Well, you know how your dad was about orphans—”
“Orphans?” Joe interrupted. Was there no end to what he’d missed by not spending time with his father? Leo Desalvo had three children of his own. A loving, involved father, had he needed more?
“Orphans are cars that are no longer manufactured, like Studebaker, Hudson, or Kaiser. Remember his Hudson Hornet?”
Joe smiled, indulging in a side trip down memory lane. Why his father wanted an old car the size of a boat baffled the thirteen-year-old boy he’d been that summer. “I remember. He sold it and bought that other old car—what was it?”
“A thirty-six Packard,” she said.
“It took him about a year to get it restored.”
“Then he sold it for ten times more than he paid for it, don’t forget. Until then, I thought of his fascination with orphans as a hobby.”
Joe sensed his mother’s need to reminisce, so he didn’t press her. They chatted a few minutes about his dad before she stood, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin. She returned to the table with the coffee decanter.
“I digress.” After refilling their cups, she settled at the table and continued. “Your father had been looking for a reasonably-priced Darrin for months. When Vic found one, he wouldn’t sell it to Leo. He claimed he’d bought it for a client.”
“Did Vic know how badly Dad wanted a Darrin for his collection?”
“Of course he did. That’s what hurt.”
“Then Dad found this Darrin and bought it.”
She harrumphed. “Right. And for this Darrin he paid full price.”
Joe needed time to digest this information. Why would a man in the business of brokering classic automobiles pay full price for the Darrin? And why kill himself after he did?
Things are looking up, Sally thought, as she rose from her office chair. Uncle Sal’s referral brought in his Corvette before Sally had arrived from her rehab visit. Roy had already written up the service order when she arrived. Later, one of Mustang Sally’s repeat customers brought in a 1959 Ford Skyliner for a complete restoration.
Counting the Darrin, three of Mustang Sally’s four service bays held jobs. Sally headed back to finish the Darrin’s tune-up. Roy busied himself with the Skyliner.
She’d had to explain the missing window and the fire as soon as she’d arrived. Roy had seemed troubled. “Do you think someone knows you’re working with the feds?” he asked.
“I don’t think so. I haven’t told a soul about that but you.”
“I know. But the timing seems odd. And it appears the Darrin was the target.”
Roy’s words unsettled her. She didn’t put much stock in coincidences. That’s why she’d described the Toyota Tacoma she’d seen speeding down the street when she’d talked to the police. Could it have been the arsonist’s vehicle?
She measured the gap on six new spark plugs and installed them in the Darrin. Taking a break, she wiped grease from her hands, then wandered over to the cooler where she pulled out two bottles of water. Swigging a long drink from one, she carried the other bottle to Roy.
“This one’s going to be a bitch.” Frowning, Roy slammed the Ford’s trunk.
She handed him the water before straddling one of the work stools. “Why?”
“Finding relays for retractable hardtops is next to impossible. And this one needs relays.”
She ran her fingers through her bangs and sighed. “We’ll just have to try.”
“Yeah.” Roy downed half of his water, then swiped the back of his hand
“I need to talk to you about Dad’s Kaiser Darrin.”
She stared past him and clenched the delicate china cup. “That damned Darrin.”
Curious. Joe gave his mother a quick rundown on the forged serial number plate and the Ford engine, then asked, “What did you mean by ‘that damned Darrin’?”
“The Darrin started the hard feelings between your dad and Vic—”
“Whoa! What hard feelings?” Joe’s mind reeled. “Tell me the whole story.”
“Well, you know how your dad was about orphans—”
“Orphans?” Joe interrupted. Was there no end to what he’d missed by not spending time with his father? Leo Desalvo had three children of his own. A loving, involved father, had he needed more?
“Orphans are cars that are no longer manufactured, like Studebaker, Hudson, or Kaiser. Remember his Hudson Hornet?”
Joe smiled, indulging in a side trip down memory lane. Why his father wanted an old car the size of a boat baffled the thirteen-year-old boy he’d been that summer. “I remember. He sold it and bought that other old car—what was it?”
“A thirty-six Packard,” she said.
“It took him about a year to get it restored.”
“Then he sold it for ten times more than he paid for it, don’t forget. Until then, I thought of his fascination with orphans as a hobby.”
Joe sensed his mother’s need to reminisce, so he didn’t press her. They chatted a few minutes about his dad before she stood, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin. She returned to the table with the coffee decanter.
“I digress.” After refilling their cups, she settled at the table and continued. “Your father had been looking for a reasonably-priced Darrin for months. When Vic found one, he wouldn’t sell it to Leo. He claimed he’d bought it for a client.”
“Did Vic know how badly Dad wanted a Darrin for his collection?”
“Of course he did. That’s what hurt.”
“Then Dad found this Darrin and bought it.”
She harrumphed. “Right. And for this Darrin he paid full price.”
Joe needed time to digest this information. Why would a man in the business of brokering classic automobiles pay full price for the Darrin? And why kill himself after he did?
Things are looking up, Sally thought, as she rose from her office chair. Uncle Sal’s referral brought in his Corvette before Sally had arrived from her rehab visit. Roy had already written up the service order when she arrived. Later, one of Mustang Sally’s repeat customers brought in a 1959 Ford Skyliner for a complete restoration.
Counting the Darrin, three of Mustang Sally’s four service bays held jobs. Sally headed back to finish the Darrin’s tune-up. Roy busied himself with the Skyliner.
She’d had to explain the missing window and the fire as soon as she’d arrived. Roy had seemed troubled. “Do you think someone knows you’re working with the feds?” he asked.
“I don’t think so. I haven’t told a soul about that but you.”
“I know. But the timing seems odd. And it appears the Darrin was the target.”
Roy’s words unsettled her. She didn’t put much stock in coincidences. That’s why she’d described the Toyota Tacoma she’d seen speeding down the street when she’d talked to the police. Could it have been the arsonist’s vehicle?
She measured the gap on six new spark plugs and installed them in the Darrin. Taking a break, she wiped grease from her hands, then wandered over to the cooler where she pulled out two bottles of water. Swigging a long drink from one, she carried the other bottle to Roy.
“This one’s going to be a bitch.” Frowning, Roy slammed the Ford’s trunk.
She handed him the water before straddling one of the work stools. “Why?”
“Finding relays for retractable hardtops is next to impossible. And this one needs relays.”
She ran her fingers through her bangs and sighed. “We’ll just have to try.”
“Yeah.” Roy downed half of his water, then swiped the back of his hand
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