his elbows rested on the top of the driver’s side fender. “George, I’m fifty-two years old. I’ve been around long enough to remember when there were no cars. I went to college by train. I didn’t buy my first automobile until I was twenty-five. It was a used Buick. Since then I’ve owned more than a dozen different makes and models, some have been good and some have been bad, but none of them have been possessed by evil spirits.”
Tapping the Packard’s hood, he added, “In my profession you learn that at least half of what you hear is nothing more than rumors. I’ve found that gossip fuels more court cases than real facts. Yes, a couple of men did die after this car came to town. But what killed them was their own carelessness, not the Packard. And I’d bet dollars to doughnuts that this car had absolutely nothing to do with Abigale Watling’s death. If you and I were to listen to the conversations of others in this barn, I figure some of them are giving Abbi’s Packard credit for every soldier’s death in the Great War. They might even be blaming it for our current dismal economic times.”
George grinned. “People are strange.”
“Sure are,” Johns agreed. “When you get them together in one place they spook easier than wild horses. But I’ll assure you of this, if someone doesn’t buy this car, I will. I’m not going to let a good deal or a great car pass me by.”
“You’re serious? You aren’t worried?”
“George, I’m worried about a lot of things, but none of them concern this car.” Johns pushed off the sedan and walked over to where the young man was standing. “I sense you’re not buying into the gossip either.”
“No, but even though my car is busted so bad it will never run again, and even though I love this Packard, with its canary yellow paint, I’ve got four hundred I can spare. That’s all. So I’m going to have to sacrifice my dreams and be satisfied with something like a used Ford or Plymouth. Nothing wrong with that.”
“You mind taking a bit of advice from an older guy?”
“No, not at all.”
“Everybody in this town is scared of this car. There’s an hour until the sale part of this event is over. Make Janie an offer. Who knows? You might be the only one with enough courage—no, not courage, sense —to bid on Abbi’s favorite ride.”
George considered the words as he turned and looked back at the sedan’s long nose. “Are you serious?”
“What do you have to lose?”
Chapter 8
E ven as he heard the auction heating up behind him, Timmons’s voice on the loudspeaker, and the shouts of members of the audience as the most impressive pieces of furniture crossed the block, George could not pull his eyes from the Packard, much less allow his body to stray more than a few feet from where it sat. Like a kid with a new bike, he was constantly touching the car, studying every angle, and dreaming of all the places it could take him. Yet even as his hopes deepened, his faith eroded like a beach taking on a hurricane. So as the seconds became minutes and the minutes became a half hour and then an hour, he grew more and more skeptical. No matter what Carole believed, he just knew miracles didn’t happen to people like them. The Depression had made that plainly clear. For those without wads of cash, there were no surprises. Life was all about getting what he paid for, and the fact was that those without money couldn’t pay for much of anything. So why was he hanging around? Why was he holding on to the hope that somehow he could buy this car for less than fifty cents on the dollar? He might as well hope to win the Irish Sweepstakes.
Yet as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he was still here because of his faith. It was faith alone that was holding him in the barn. Maybe the imagined curse was even the Lord’s way of making sure he was the only one who would make an offer on it. Yet, even as he clung to hope, it seemed as silly as believing the
Tapping the Packard’s hood, he added, “In my profession you learn that at least half of what you hear is nothing more than rumors. I’ve found that gossip fuels more court cases than real facts. Yes, a couple of men did die after this car came to town. But what killed them was their own carelessness, not the Packard. And I’d bet dollars to doughnuts that this car had absolutely nothing to do with Abigale Watling’s death. If you and I were to listen to the conversations of others in this barn, I figure some of them are giving Abbi’s Packard credit for every soldier’s death in the Great War. They might even be blaming it for our current dismal economic times.”
George grinned. “People are strange.”
“Sure are,” Johns agreed. “When you get them together in one place they spook easier than wild horses. But I’ll assure you of this, if someone doesn’t buy this car, I will. I’m not going to let a good deal or a great car pass me by.”
“You’re serious? You aren’t worried?”
“George, I’m worried about a lot of things, but none of them concern this car.” Johns pushed off the sedan and walked over to where the young man was standing. “I sense you’re not buying into the gossip either.”
“No, but even though my car is busted so bad it will never run again, and even though I love this Packard, with its canary yellow paint, I’ve got four hundred I can spare. That’s all. So I’m going to have to sacrifice my dreams and be satisfied with something like a used Ford or Plymouth. Nothing wrong with that.”
“You mind taking a bit of advice from an older guy?”
“No, not at all.”
“Everybody in this town is scared of this car. There’s an hour until the sale part of this event is over. Make Janie an offer. Who knows? You might be the only one with enough courage—no, not courage, sense —to bid on Abbi’s favorite ride.”
George considered the words as he turned and looked back at the sedan’s long nose. “Are you serious?”
“What do you have to lose?”
Chapter 8
E ven as he heard the auction heating up behind him, Timmons’s voice on the loudspeaker, and the shouts of members of the audience as the most impressive pieces of furniture crossed the block, George could not pull his eyes from the Packard, much less allow his body to stray more than a few feet from where it sat. Like a kid with a new bike, he was constantly touching the car, studying every angle, and dreaming of all the places it could take him. Yet even as his hopes deepened, his faith eroded like a beach taking on a hurricane. So as the seconds became minutes and the minutes became a half hour and then an hour, he grew more and more skeptical. No matter what Carole believed, he just knew miracles didn’t happen to people like them. The Depression had made that plainly clear. For those without wads of cash, there were no surprises. Life was all about getting what he paid for, and the fact was that those without money couldn’t pay for much of anything. So why was he hanging around? Why was he holding on to the hope that somehow he could buy this car for less than fifty cents on the dollar? He might as well hope to win the Irish Sweepstakes.
Yet as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he was still here because of his faith. It was faith alone that was holding him in the barn. Maybe the imagined curse was even the Lord’s way of making sure he was the only one who would make an offer on it. Yet, even as he clung to hope, it seemed as silly as believing the
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