Broken Vows Mystery 02-For Richer, for Danger

by Lisa Bork

  I called our attorney and asked him for the address of the real Abigail Bryce, formerly of Canandaigua. Tomorrow I would start my investigation with a visit to her mother and stepfather. Perhaps they would recognize Noelle’s birthmother from my description or the photograph. If not, I’d try the high school and any friends of Abigail her parents were willing to name. I would look until I couldn’t think of anywhere else to look.

  My gaze wandered to Noelle, who sat on her portable crib playing with some blocks. My chest felt full. I swallowed a lump in my throat. Who knew I would grow to love her this much? I couldn’t imagine life without her now. Six months ago, she’d filled the void in my marriage, a void that separated Ray and me for three years and almost brought us to divorce. For years he’d asked me to bear his child and I had refused, fearing our child would be born with a mental illness like my mother and Erica. I didn’t want the burden of guilt or the responsibility for another wayward soul. Thankfully, Noelle was a happy, healthy baby so far. Now if only she could become ours.

  After spending the rest of the day alternating between entertaining Noelle and catching up on my accounting and bookwork, I turned off the lights in my office and headed toward the garage, cuddling Noelle. I planned to ask Cory to turn out the lights and lock up. Oh, we’d leave the spotlights on over the Ferrari all night. Maybe someone would drive by and fall in love with the Italian stallion. Maybe my new improved website or the listing on eBay would draw some interest. Or, even better, maybe someone would steal it.

  I should be so lucky.

  The phone rang. I debated ignoring it, but ever hopeful, I decided to answer.

  “Jolene, this is Dave Barclay.”

  “Yes, Dave! I’m so sorry about this morning. Are you calling to reschedule?”

  Noelle tried to pull the phone from my hands. I hitched her a little lower on my hip and leaned away, praying she wouldn’t scream.

  “I have to ask you a question. I hope you won’t think I’m crazy.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Kim heard that you found a dead body in the Ferrari. Is that true?”

  Rats. “Yes, I’m afraid so. But it’s been thoroughly detailed. The body didn’t cause any damage to the interior.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I thought I must be crazy for saying them.

  “No, of course. It’s just … this car might not be the right one for us. Bad karma, you know.”

  I knew. “I understand. Well, if there’s anything else I can help you with—”

  “Actually, there is. It’s a sort of an unusual request, but hopefully within your line of work.”

  “Okay. Let’s hear it.”

  Noelle started to whimper and squirm. I set her down on the floor and watched to make sure I’d found all the loose pearls and shards of glass when I swept yesterday.

  “Kim’s grandfather is dying of cancer. He’s got a few weeks left. It’s been very stressful on Kim. She’s been at his bedside every day.” Dave’s voice trailed off as if it pained him to have his wife under such pressure.

  That might explain her pinched face and gaunt body. Had her death watch sucked the life from her, too? Had it milked all her human kindness? Those were questions one didn’t ask a potential paying customer. I settled for “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you. He used to be in the car business, too. And he raced cars in the late sixties and early seventies. Factory show cars. You know, the models the manufacturers put on racetracks as advertising?”

  “Yes.” My dad used to take me to the track in Watkins Glen, only a couple hours away from Wachobe at the base of Seneca Lake. The Glen offered a number of different racing venues. After new car models made the rounds of the auto shows and the automotive press had a chance to take their pictures, the manufacturers often put the vehicles on racetracks to garner even more of the public’s attention.

  “He raced one car in particular. A 1970 Datsun 240Z. We believe the car is still racing in vintage series, or at least, it has in the past. Kim’s grandfather is sure he’s seen it at the Glen in recent years. Anyway, here’s our request. If we give you the serial number, can you locate the car for us and purchase it? We’d be happy to pay you a fee for your time.”

  I didn’t really feel like doing Kim any favors, but my business needed the money. With all my inventory money tied up in the Ferrari, my best alternative offer to any customer was to locate the car of their choice, negotiate the deal, and deliver it to their door. Sometimes I had to search a while to find the right vehicle, but I loved the thrill of the hunt. “I can make a few phone calls. What are you willing to pay for the Z?”

  “Gramps thinks the Datsun is worth around fifty thousand or so. We’d go three times that.”

  Three times its value? Wow! “Is your wife’s grandfather interested in driving the car again?”

  “No. He wants to be buried in it.”

  ____

  After Noelle settled into bed for the night, I left Ray parked in front of the television and fired up the computer.

  I’d been around cars for all my life. No one had ever suggested them to me as a burial vessel before today. Dave Barclay said it had triggered a lot of debate within his family, but they’d all come around to agreement. Who was I to judge?

  The Internet never ceased to amaze me. God bless Al Gore for inventing it. I typed in the year, make, and model of the vehicle, hit the search key, and, presto, up popped an article from a car club that listed all the known owners of the first shipment of Datsun 240Zs to the United States. A quick search of the Internet Yellow Pages produced three listings for the man I needed to contact. They looked like his home, office, and cottage in the Finger Lakes. Would a hundred and fifty thousand dollars be enough to entice him to sell?

  He answered his home phone number on the third ring. I identified myself and explained the purpose of my call, leaving out the part about the burial. Maybe the man wouldn’t appreciate having his car under six to eight feet of soil for eternity.

  “You know, it’s funny. The car’s been sitting in my garage for years since my last race. I had an offer or two on it after we won the Paine Webber Endurance Championship at the Glen, but no one’s asked me about the car in years. Now I’ve had two calls about it within the last month.”

  “Really? That is interesting.” I tried to think of a tactful way to ask about the other caller. Had Dave Barclay already contacted this man?

  “The other woman offered me forty-five thousand. I couldn’t sell it to her.”

  A woman? Kim Barclay maybe? “I see.” I typed a quick map search into the Internet. This man’s residence was only an hour or so from Canandaigua. “Would you be home tomorrow afternoon? I’d love to see the car.”

  “It’s my day off. I’ll be in the garage, working on my current project. You’re welcome to stop by, but I have to tell you upfront I’m not really interested in selling the Z.”

  I’d see what I could do to change his mind about that. It’s always harder to turn someone down in person than over the phone. We agreed to meet at three the next day.

  Ray was flicking through the channels when I entered the living room and sat next to him. He didn’t look at me. The flicking stopped when Dirty Harry appeared on the screen.

  “Will you give me the pictures of Abigail and Theo for tomorrow?”

  His gaze remained glued to the television. “I’ll have to get them out of the car. Can it wait until morning?”

  “I suppose.” But I wanted to get a look at the pictures now. My memory of Noelle’s birthmother had faded. She’d had a silver nose-ring, brush cut, and spiky eyelashes when I first saw her, as well as a vibrant tattoo of an eagle on the back of her neck. Of course, she’d been noticeably pregnant, too. In six months, she could have grown longer hair, removed the nose-ring, and cut down on her makeup. Given the automatic weight change, she would be next to impossible to recognize. We didn’t even know for sure what color her hair was or whether it was curly or straight, and try as I might, I couldn�
��t recall her eye color.

  I nudged Ray. “I wanted to examine Abigail’s picture. See if she has any distinguishing features, like big earlobes or moles or something she can’t hide. Did you notice any?”

  A commercial came on with dancing bears. Ray stood. “Nope, but I’ll get the pictures. You can look for yourself.”

  The grainy, gray photos told me nothing. Abigail stood in the middle of an aisle in the convenience store. With the distance from the camera and the conversion from videotape obscuring the clarity of the photo, I didn’t think her own mother would recognize her.

  Ray’s attention was on the television again. I climbed onto his lap, facing him. He leaned to the left to continue watching his show.

  I fiddled with the buttons on his shirt. “I’m going to start with Abigail’s family tomorrow. Any suggestions on how to approach them?”

  He looked at me. “Just tell the truth. The truth will set you free.”

  Pretty poetic for Ray. A little unnerving for me, considering I didn’t plan to tell him Erica would be babysitting for us tomorrow. “I planned to stop at the high school, too. If neither one of those stops produce any leads, where else should I try?”

  “Wherever kids hang out. The beach at Kershaw Park, the bowling alley, the graveyard.”

  “The graveyard?”

  Ray nodded. “Very popular with the teenage crowd. Great place to hide from mom and dad and do all the things against the rules.”

  “Ew. We never hung out there.” Ray and I had dated since we were sixteen.

  He slid his hands under my shirt. “No, but your father and my mother were always at work. We had the run of two houses.”

  That was true. We’d had very little supervision, but we were also too responsible to get into trouble. I had my sister to take care of and Ray had his little brother. We were more like parents than kids from an early age. Besides, we both had a parent who resided in the Wachobe cemetery.

  I shook off the memories and focused on the plan. “I’m going to take a detour and look at a car for Dave Barclay, too. I’ll be home no later than four forty-five.”

  His gaze shifted to meet mine. “Noelle will be at the shop with Cory?”

  “I’m dropping her off first thing in the morning.” Then Erica planned to pick up Noelle at one-thirty after her nap and take her to the park before bringing her home. But Ray didn’t need to know that. He wouldn’t get home until after me.

  I thought it best to change the subject. “Have you ever heard of anyone getting buried in a car before?”

  Ray squinted at me. “No. The closest I’ve heard is being buried with a baseball mitt.”

  I told him about Kim Barclay’s grandfather. “Do you think that’s legal?”

  “It probably takes all kinds of permits and legal maneuverings, but Barclay has the money. I’m just not so sure he’s as squeaky clean as he appears to be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve heard rumors he extends financing to a lot of people who are not likely to pay him back.” Ray’s finger traced the base of my spine.

  “So his business is unstable?”

  “That’s just it. His business appears to be doing incredibly well.”

  “So is he incurring losses or not?”

  Ray’s hand began to wander up and down my back, scratching. “I think he’s being paid in other ways.”

  I arched my back so he could get to all the hard to reach spots. In another life, I might have been a cat. “Such as?”

  “That’s what I’m not sure about. He does his exporting from an office here, but the sales occur in New York City. I don’t have enough access to information about his business to figure out if the rumors are true. But he owns an awfully big house and some pretty fancy cars—too fancy to be financed on the sale of Mennonite quilts and woodworking alone.”

  “Could he be into drugs?”

  “Or money laundering. Or something else altogether. Do me a favor and keep your eyes open when you’re around him. Maybe you’ll stumble onto his secret. But stay alert.”

  Ray stopped scratching and turned his attention back to Dirty Harry, who was about to deliver one of his most famous lines.

  I slid off his lap. “You know this town, Ray. Most of the rumors are just that, rumors, spread by people who don’t have enough going on in their own lives to occupy their minds.”

  “It’s still smart to keep your eyes open.”

  I would keep my eyes wide open, but right now Dave Barclay was the closest I’d come to selling a car in months. I needed a sale, not just for the money but for the confidence boost. My business was coming up to its four-year mark and it hadn’t shown a profit yet. Cory’s work in the garage paid most of my overhead. I worked almost for free. I would believe Dave Barclay was an honest man for now.

  Then Clint said it. You have to ask yourself a question. Do I feel lucky? Well do ya, punk?

  After the last two days, my answer was no.

  Canandaigua had a six-lane highway leading in and two lanes on each side of Main Street, all of which were packed with traffic on a Friday in the beginning of summer. I tried to pass once and nearly got the passenger side of my car scraped by a boat trailer swaying down the road behind a minivan, its roof loaded with two kayaks and a canoe. This town might offer more business to my sports car boutique, but I didn’t know if I could take the crowds. It was a relief to turn onto the side street off Main where the Bryces lived.

  Mature trees lined the street, casting welcome shade on sidewalks and sun-parched lawns. The stately homes dated back over a century with front and side porches, tall skinny windows, and real painted wooden shutters instead of the no-paint vinyl ones on most newly built homes. Many of the windows still had the original wavy glass. It looked like a nice place to grow up.

  In my naiveté, I thought investigative work was simple. Ring a doorbell, ask a few questions, and uncover the desired answers. I didn’t realize it could become a game of cat and mouse from the get-go. Too bad I was allergic to cats and irrationally afraid of mice.

  When I parked my Lexus in the Bryces’ driveway, I saw the curtain on a second floor window twitch. Ringing the doorbell three times didn’t bring anyone to the door. Multiple knocks with the brass lion’s head failed to attract any inhabitants either.

  I stepped away from the door and gazed up at the window, contemplating whether it would be worthwhile to shout for attention or not. I could yell “Stella, Stella” but someone might call the padded wagon for me. I’d always secretly feared that. Would I be able to talk my way out of a psychiatric ward? When I spent three days there as a child, after discovering my mother’s suicide in the garage, my dad rescued me and refused to allow them to take me back. Ray might let them keep me if he found out I had left Noelle with Erica.

  On a hunch, I climbed into my car and drove a half-block before turning around and watching the Bryces’ house from a down-the-street neighbor’s driveway on the opposite side of the road. Sure enough, ten minutes later, a blond in a short blue dress and white sweater left the house and walked down the sidewalk toward me. She didn’t seem to notice my car.

  I started the car and followed her. She went in the florist shop on Main Street then continued down the road with her purchase of pink carnations in hand. She made another right onto the next street and, after half a block, disappeared into a yard.

  Turned out, it was a graveyard. Ray must have had a premonition. I parked my car and started a row-by-row search of the cemetery, taking great care not to walk on anyone. Easier said than done.

  I found the blond woman kneeling next to a polished marble stone engraved with Abigail Bryce’s name, birth and death dates, and a pair of doves floating heavenward. The woman had removed a shriveled bunch of flowers from a vase at the base of the gravestone and replaced them with her purchase. I stayed out of her line of sight as she prayed. When she stood and started to walk away, I stepped in her path.

  “Mrs. Bryce?”

  She
jumped a foot in the air and yelped. The dried flowers in her hand dropped to the ground at my feet. I stooped to pick them up.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I hoped to talk to you, just for a minute.” I held out the wilted stems as a peace offering.

  She accepted them. “Are you here about your daughter?”

  Surprised, I skipped a beat. “Yes, in a manner of speaking. I’m here about her mother.”

  Mrs. Bryce wrinkled her brow. “Aren’t you her mother?”

  “Not yet. I’m her foster mother.”

  She continued to appear puzzled. “Are you Cynthia Morton?”

  Now it was my turn to be confused. “No. I’m Jolene Asdale.” No, Parker. Try to remember to say Parker.

  Mrs. Bryce’s knees seemed to go out from under her. She reached for the nearest gravestone and leaned against it. Sweat popped out on her brow.

  I surveyed the graveyard, but didn’t see anyone else. “Were you expecting Mrs. Morton?”

  Her eyes bugged out. “No. No. You just caught me off guard. I didn’t expect to run into anyone here.” She wiped her brow. “It’s awfully hot today, isn’t it?”

  I wished I had something to fan her with. “Are you all right, Mrs. Bryce? Maybe I could buy you lemonade or iced tea somewhere?”

  When she failed to respond, I tried again. “I wanted to ask you if you know this girl.” I pulled Noelle’s birthmother’s picture from the pocket of my pantsuit. “I believe my attorney, Greg Doran, phoned you and asked about her. She had your daughter’s identification. She claimed to be your daughter. I’m trying to locate her because my husband and I would like to adopt her child. Foster care placed her with us.”

  I tried not to drown her in details. The poor woman already was half off her feet.

  Relief rippled across Mrs. Bryce’s face and she straightened. “You’re from Wachobe. The deputy sheriff’s wife.”

  “That’s right. I’m Ray Parker’s wife.” I’d never been so delighted to admit it, since it seemed to please Mrs. Bryce. Her whole demeanor had changed from distressed to … friendly.