Rust in Peace (A Giovanna Ferrari Repair-it-all Mystery Book 1)

by J. J. Murray

  To most folks in Gray County, it is a rolling, smoking, festering boil on the good name of Gray County, God, and country.

  To me, it is psychedelic art in need of an overhaul.

  “You could have been Daphne,” Ayana says. “You have her body.”

  “Not really,” I say. “I always identified with Velma Dinkley.”

  “Velma who?”

  “That was Velma’s last name,” I say. “The one who was always losing her glasses.”

  Ayana blinks. “I didn’t know any of them had last names.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Daphne Blake, Velma Dinkley, Fred Jones, and Norville ‘Shaggy’ Rogers.”

  “Norville?”

  I shrug. “Zoinks!”

  “You need to go on a game show,” Ayana says.

  “I watched a lot of television while my papa and grandfather were fixing televisions,” I say. “When they only used to have tubes and capacitors that went bad.”

  “I’m guessing you’re an only child.”

  I nod. “And an orphan.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask about that,” she says. “Your grandfather treats you like you’re his daughter.”

  “Yep,” I say. “My papa died when I was sixteen, and my mama died when I was twenty. As of my last birthday, I’ve lived longer than either of them did. They’re still young in my mind, though.”

  “You need a sister,” Ayana says. “And so do I.”

  “I promise not to borrow your clothes,” I say.

  “You better not,” she says. “Authentic vintage clothing is getting expensive and sometimes hard to find. I will let you borrow my brush.”

  I laugh. “Do you even use one for your dreadlocks?”

  “Nope.” She lies back on the creeper. “I had a sister once, and she’s the reason I’m not in Detroit.” She sighs heavily. “But that’s a story for another day.”

  “Do you like dogs?” I ask.

  “It depends on the dog,” Ayana says.

  “My dog Lovie is a boxer-Labrador-something, and she’s sweet and crazy.”

  Ayana smiles. “She’s like me. I will like your dog.”

  I approach the back of the microbus. “Let’s see what’s causing all that smoke.”

  The rear engine compartment is a mess and smells like burned oil and rubber. “Let me guess. This microbus will go seventy-five if you’re traveling straight downhill from Mount Everest and don’t hit the brakes.”

  “It rarely goes above fifty, yes,” Ayana says.

  A measly eighty horsepower for something that weighs over three thousand pounds. “It gets, what, fifteen miles per gallon?”

  “If that.”

  “It’s almost as much of a gas-guzzler as mine is.” The Jeep gets an unhealthy twelve miles per gallon.

  “I keep telling Tina that it’s environmentally unsound, but she says we need it for advertising. What could be wrong with it?”

  What isn’t wrong with it? “Let’s see, your fuel lines need replacing. I’ll double-wrap each line to be safe. This engine compartment gets really hot.” I reach in and pull out part of a plastic IGA bag from the fan housing. “I’m sure the rest of this is melted up against your fan.” I pull out a singed bird’s nest.

  “Wow,” Ayana says.

  “It’s not the craziest thing I’ve ever found in a vehicle.”

  “I’m not sure I want to know,” Ayana says.

  “Well, I’ve found mummified mice, pizza crusts, candy wrappers, a Matchbox car in the air cleaner, parts of squirrels and possum, a gopher snake …”

  “Alive?”

  “I only found half of that snake.”

  Ayana grimaces. “I don’t want to know any more.”

  And I don’t want to find any more.

  I pull on the fan belt, and it hits a deep bass note. “It needs a new fan belt. It’s not supposed to make that sound. It probably needs a new thermostat. This is an air-cooled engine, so you have to check your oil regularly.” I pull out the dipstick. “You’re two quarts low. I’m surprised this engine hasn’t melted into a lump by now.”

  “We had the oil changed last month,” Ayana says.

  “I would add an oil cooler, adjust your valves, time it up, and put in a new fuel pump.” I shake my head. “And even after that, I wouldn’t ever take it over fifty miles per hour or drive it over the mountain on a windy day.”

  “Why?” Ayana asks.

  “This is a tiny forty-year-old engine pushing a heavy load. On a windy day, crosswinds will shove it around because it doesn’t have enough weight in front.”

  “So what should we do?”

  “You could scrap it,” I say.

  “Not an option,” Ayana says.

  “Or I can hook you up for … another pair of earrings, the real ones, once you get me the parts.”

  “Done. Is there anything you can do now?”

  “I think I can do enough to cool it down for now,” I say. “Do you have to be anywhere?”

  “Nope.” She looks me up and down. “You’re going to work on this beast in that dress?”

  “I’ll put on some coveralls first.”

  While I replace the fuel lines and the fan belt and change the oil, Ayana sketches on some scrap paper with a pencil. When I’m finished, I start it up, and it doesn’t smoke nearly as much. “It should do better. You’ll have to get the thermostat, fuel pump, and oil cooler in Calhoun.”

  “How much will that cost us?”

  “New thermostat and cable, fuel pump with mount, fittings, and gasket, an oil cooler … Somewhere around four to five hundred. Adding a few hours of labor …”

  “Three pairs of earrings.”

  I love this arrangement. “Deal. And I guarantee my work for the life of the vehicle. No one makes that promise anymore. If I fix it and it breaks, I’ll fix it again.”

  She hands me a sketch … of me. “What do you think?”

  I think Ayana has some serious talent. “I don’t look like that. My legs aren’t that long. Are these coveralls that tight?”

  “I tend to make people look better than they are,” Ayana says. “But in your case, I only drew what I saw.”

  “My hair is definitely not that nicely coiffed,” I say. I look like Rapunzel.

  “You should let me braid all that hair,” Ayana says. “You’ll be cooler in more ways than one. You could even dread your hair.”

  I show her my hands. “You forgot to add grease under my nails.”

  “Gio, if I were a guy, I’d bring my vehicle to you for the smallest hiccup in the engine. I’d even break stuff so I could watch you fix it.”

  “Not many men watch me work, and most of the men in this county think they already know how to fix their cars and trucks.”

  “You need to get out of Gray County because there is a man out there for you, Gio Ferrari, and he’d have to be fast to catch you.”

  “Everyone walks and talks real slow around here.”

  “So go to Calhoun. Take a trip to Richmond. Get away from this small-minded town. And if you ever want to talk about anything, give me a call.”

  “How?”

  Ayana pulls out a fancy cell phone.

  “I didn’t think …” I laugh. “Is that the iPhone six?”

  She nods. “Like I said, I’m a modern hippie.”

  Sunday, June 11

  Chapter 18

  For two hundred years, Sunday church at Preston’s Chapel has lasted no more and no less than one hour. I hope it ends quickly today. It has to be ninety degrees in here, and sweat is streaming down Nonno’s nose and dripping onto the hymnal.

  Dodie Loney plays the ancient Williams organ well, but Dodie’s little feet can’t pump it fast enough to keep the sound consistent on a normal Sunday. Her prelude—“Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence”—is nearly silent. The three dozen of us in the congregation drown her out completely during “Showers of Blessing” and “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing,” and no one has the heart to sing loudly so we don�
�t add more heat to the air. Dodie looks exhausted by the time she finishes the third hymn, and Minister Preston has to help her to her pew.

  Minister Preston’s sermon is from 1 Kings 17: “And Elijah the Tishbite, who was of the inhabitants of Gilead, said unto Ahab, As the LORD God of Israel liveth, before whom I stand, there shall not be dew or rain these years, but according to my word …”

  It is a dry sermon in a hot church about a dried-up brook, but I like its message. The rains will come. Until then, hold on to what God gives you.

  Even if it makes you sweaty.

  I have to hold on to Nonno’s arm while he holds Louise’s arm all the way to the Jeep.

  “Are you okay, Louise?” Nonno asks.

  “I’ll be fine, Franco,” she says. “I just need to get out of this heat and rest.”

  We drop her off at her neat pink ranch house, and I drive to the shop.

  When I pull up to the curb, Nonno looks as if he might faint. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “I will be fine,” he says. “I, too, need to rest.” He gets out and looks back. “You could use some rest, too.”

  “Turn up the AC, okay?”

  He shakes his head. “It makes me sneeze.”

  “Well, keep it on low and drink lots of water.”

  He walks around the Jeep, and I roll down my window. “I will be fine, Gio.” He kisses my cheek. “You go home to rest, too.”

  “I’ll try.”

  When I get home, I put on a T-shirt and some shorts, grab a kitchen chair, pick up Andrea Camilleri’s La Form Dell’Acqua (The Shape of Water), and plant the chair in the creek. As I sit and soak my feet in lukewarm water and Lovie chases skinny fish, I read about my favorite Sicilian detective, Inspector Salvo Montalbano. I had already read the English translation years ago, but I like this Italian version much better. Montalbano is witty, cynical, and loves good food.

  Like me.

  As I ponder the futility of giving Lovie a bath, a shiny black BMW 760Li rolls up beside my Jeep on the other side of the creek. A dark-suited man carefully walks across the swing bridge and stops, removes his dark sunglasses, and looks down at me.

  “Are you Miss Giovanna Marie Ferrari?” he asks.

  Oh, he said my name perfectly. He looks like a paisan with his thick, dark hair and devastating brown eyes. “Yes.”

  He withdraws an envelope from his suit jacket. “I am Roberto Riva.”

  “Riva” means “dweller by a river or lake.” Maybe he’ll hang out with me on the creek today.

  “I work for Curtis Daniels, attorney-at-law in Calhoun. How are you today?”

  “Fine.” And he’s hot. I mean, he has to be hot in that suit. I walk up my side of the creek and out onto the bridge. Lovie keeps her distance with her tail between her legs. “Are you thirsty? I could get you some …” What do I have in the fridge? “I have water, ice cold well water.”

  “I am fine. Mr. Daniels is representing the estate of Frederick Rose Simmons.” He hands me the envelope.

  I don’t want to rip it open in front of Roberto. “What does it say?”

  “Open it.”

  “I could, but you could tell me what it says, too.” So I can listen to your velvety voice.

  He shrugs. “You are invited to the reading of Mr. Simmons’ will tomorrow at Mr. Daniels’ office on Downing Street in downtown Calhoun. Eleven o’clock sharp. Do not be late. Mr. Daniels is an extremely punctual man.” He turns to leave.

  “But I’m not related to Mr. Simmons,” I say. “How can I be in Mr. Simmons’ will?”

  “You will find out tomorrow. Again, do not be late.” He walks back to his BMW.

  He’s getting away! “Will you be there, Roberto?”

  He smiles with all of his teeth. “Yes.”

  “Then I will see you tomorrow.”

  He opens his door. “Goodbye, Miss Ferrari.”

  I open the envelope after he drives away to confirm that I have been invited to the reading of Mr. Simmons’ will. Mr. Simmons knew me for only one day, and I’m in his will!

  What does this mean?

  I run inside, get my phone, and walk to the buffalo field fence. This may be another reason why I can’t gain any weight. Making a phone call on a hot June day burns one hundred calories. I call Nonno.

  “You’ll never guess what just happened.”

  “You have been invited to the reading of Mr. Simmons’ will tomorrow at eleven o’clock sharp in Calhoun.”

  “Did Roberto stop by the shop looking for me?”

  “He was looking for me, and I gave him directions to your cabin.”

  But that means … “You’re in the will, too?”

  “I suppose I am.”

  “But why are we in the will, Nonno?”

  “I do not know,” he says. “But we will find out together.”

  This is happening too fast! “Doesn’t probate usually take a long time?”

  “Yes. Louise tells me probate sometimes takes thirty days or more. This is quite shocking.”

  “What is the rush, Nonno?”

  “That trouble I warned you about,” Nonno says. “Money makes things go faster.”

  Too fast. “What do you know about Mr. Daniels?”

  “I have not met the man, but I see him on television,” he says. “He dresses nicely, and he must have many connections to bring all this about so quickly.”

  “What do you wear to the reading of a will?”

  “I am wearing my Sunday best.”

  “I have to do something with my hair. I may have Ayana braid it.”

  “No, Gio. Let it flow. It looks so lovely that way.”

  “You don’t have to deal with it, Nonno. I’ll pick you up around nine-thirty, okay?”

  “I will be ready.”

  I go inside and drink a liter of water. I knew Mr. Simmons for a total of ten hours. He knew my grandfather for fifty years. What could he possibly leave me?

  The truck!

  I hope he left me the ‘41 Chevy. That would be a blast to restore. I would look so good in that truck with my hair flowing out the window.

  I look into my closet at my little black dress.

  You’re getting quite a workout.

  I have never worn that dress three days in a row in my life.

  Monday, June 12

  Chapter 19

  Curtis Daniels is the best-known lawyer in Calhoun and one of the few who has television ads. He speaks as if he’s from Boston and wears old-fashioned gabardine suits. He looks like a cross between actor Sir John Gielgud, the butler in Arthur, and Roger Moore, one of the first actors to play James Bond.

  Because about thirty people will hear the reading of Mr. Simmons’ will, we have to use a large conference room. I help Roberto Riva brings in extra chairs and flirt my little black dress off.

  “You are trying too hard,” Nonno whispers.

  “To do what?” I ask.

  “Mr. Riva is a fine looking man,” he says.

  “Oh? I hadn’t noticed.”

  But is Roberto noticing me? I shaved my legs extra close today and even plucked a few stray gray eyebrows.

  Nonno and I sit at the end of a long conference table surrounded by Mr. Simmons’ great-grandchildren and grandchildren. Billie and Bobbie, Melville Taylor and wife, Teresa, and their five kids crowd Mr. Daniels at the other end. Mr. and Mrs. Hemmingsford come in late and sit on opposite sides of the table in the middle. They’re here, too? Wow.

  Mr. Daniels pulls a watch on a chain from his pocket, opens it, nods, and closes it. “My name is Curtis Daniels, and I am Mr. Simmons’ lawyer and legal representative as approved by Judge Mitchell J. Stanton of the Calhoun Circuit Court. I am also the executor of Mr. Simmons’ will. The Circuit Court approved the will as legitimate, legal, and binding on Friday, June ninth. I had the privilege of doing an inventory of Mr. Simmons’ estate with Mr. Roberto Riva, whom you have all met, on June fourth. Early on the morning of June sixth, I witnessed Mr. Simmons writing his will
. This was duly notarized and witnessed by Mr. Riva.”

  Mr. Simmons made his will on the day he died! Did he think he was going to die soon? And how did he get to Curtis Daniels? Mr. Simmons had no vehicle. He wouldn’t have driven the Massey-Ferguson tractor to Calhoun, would he? Mr. Daniels must have come to the farm to work on the will after I worked the first night, but that had to be very early in the morning. I didn’t think lawyers made house calls.

  “Using money from Mr. Simmons’ estate,” Mr. Daniels says, “I have paid off Mr. Simmons’ debts, taxes, and court fees. I have also used some of his assets to pay my firm’s fees.” He frowns. “I also had to use some of Mr. Simmons’ assets to pay for his casket, burial, and headstone.”

  His family didn’t even pay for his funeral! How heartless! I hope Mr. Simmons leaves Melville Taylor a donkey to remind him of what he is.

  “I have a short statement to read, which was written in Mr. Simmons’ own hand at two-thirty a.m. on June sixth.” He opens a sealed envelope.

  I left before midnight, and Curtis Daniels arrived a few hours later. That’s a strange time to be working on a will. Maybe Mr. Daniels’ schedule was full during the day. Oh, of course, Mr. Simmons wouldn’t have left his farm during daylight.

  Mr. Daniels puts on spectacles and clears his throat. “This is what Frederick Rose Simmons wrote at two-thirty a.m. on June sixth: ‘Ha!’” Mr. Daniels removes his spectacles.

  Heads start to turn all around us.

  “That’s it?” Melville Taylor cries.

  “Yes,” Mr. Daniels says. “A capital H followed by a lowercase A and an exclamation point. Would you like me to reread your grandfather’s statement, Mr. Taylor?”

  “I heard you,” Melville says. “That’s all he wrote?”

  “That is all he handwrote, yes,” Mr. Daniels says. “Mr. Riva and I transcribed the rest.”

  Melville turns to his mother, Billie. “It was probably the only word he knew how to spell.”