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

by J. J. Murray

  Veterinarians must pick the loudest woman in the office to take payments so everyone in the waiting room can hear her. “Could we interest you in some Blue Wilderness dog food today?” the receptionist asks.

  “Me, no. I’m going to get some McDonalds fries for the drive home.”

  The receptionist is not amused.

  “No thank you,” I say.

  “It comes in four-pound and twenty-two-pound sizes,” the receptionist says. “This is the four-pound size.” She holds it up for the world to see.

  Not only did she not hear me, she thinks I have no grasp of the sizes of things. “That’s okay.”

  “It’s one hundred percent grain-free and contains no glutens.”

  They could sell that stuff to humans at Peace Goods. “No thank you. What’s my total?”

  “It’s super rich in antioxidants and healthy complex carbohydrates.”

  “We’re good, thanks.”

  She holds up another small bag. “How about some Blue Buffalo Health Bars?”

  Those aren’t health bars. They’re overpriced dog biscuits. “No thank you. What’s my total?”

  “They’re fortified with Omega three fatty acids.”

  And something that has “fatty acids” makes them healthy? “No thank you.”

  “How’s your supply of Heartgard Plus?”

  “I’ve got that covered. So what’s—”

  “You can only get it here,” she interrupts, “and I notice that you have never purchased it from us before.”

  That’s not true! I’ve seen Heartgard Plus at Walmart. “I get the regular Heartgard at Walmart,” I say. “So, what do I—”

  “Heartgard Plus is more complete.”

  And more expensive. “Lovie passed all her tests with flying colors, so the cheaper version must be doing its job. How much—”

  “Oh, you have an outdoor dog,” she interrupts. “You’ll need Frontline Plus, too.”

  “We’re okay on that, too.”

  “She could get ticks.”

  And I could get irate. I count to five. “Lovie is too fast for ticks to catch her. She’s fine.”

  “Can I interest you in a microchip ID for Lovie?”

  “She already has one from Angels of—”

  “One out of every three pets becomes lost during its lifetime,” she interrupts.

  Does the vet pay you not to listen? “Lovie always turns up. What is my total?”

  “How about pet health insurance?”

  This is past ridiculous now. “Does Lovie qualify for Obamacare?”

  I hear laughter from a man sitting near us holding an exceptionally calm pit bull.

  I don’t mean to be funny. I mean to pay and go.

  “Um, no,” the receptionist says. “This is a separate kind of insurance.”

  “Really?” I know I said that louder than I had to.

  The pit bull owner smiles.

  Hey, I’m the “while-you-wait” entertainment. “How much does it cost?”

  “Anywhere from twenty to one hundred dollars a month depending on your coverage.”

  That’s up to twelve hundred bucks a year! For a dog?

  “And it’s actually quite a bargain,” the receptionist says. “Removal of a single tooth can cost up to five hundred dollars.”

  A piece of string and a door cost nothing. An apple could do the trick, too.

  “Hip dysplasia surgery can cost up to three thousand dollars if we have to replace one of Lovie’s hips.”

  I know something about this. “Isn’t hip dysplasia normally found in larger breeds?”

  “Lovie has Labrador retriever in her,” the receptionist says.

  “That was only a guess,” I say. “Her DNA is all over the place.”

  “It can happen to any dog, Mrs. Ferrari.”

  If you say so, and loudly, it must be true. “How much—”

  “Gastropexy surgery can cost up to five thousand dollars if there are complications,” she interrupts. “Does Lovie exercise quickly after eating a large meal?”

  She eats and exercises all day!

  “If she does, this can lead to bloat, and bloat can lead to a life-threatening condition that might require stomach resection or a splenectomy.”

  There must be some script she’s reading from that also says to ignore the customer. “Um, no thank you. What is my total, please?”

  She hands me brochures for pet insurance. “In case you change your mind. Your total is one hundred and twenty-eight dollars and ten cents.”

  When I hand her my debit card, I look down at Lovie.

  Lovie is asleep.

  I should have taped the receptionist’s voice in case Lovie ever has trouble sleeping.

  I take my receipt and try not to fume. I hate when they try to make me feel guilty for not loving my pet enough to spend several hundred dollars on products she really doesn’t need. We didn’t have all that last year, and Lovie passed her tests this year without a problem. Don’t fix what isn’t broken, right?

  “We’ll send you a reminder for Lovie’s next appointment,” the receptionist says.

  “Thanks.”

  When we get home, Lovie shoots out of the Jeep, runs down the near bank into the creek, rolls around in the water, bounds up the opposite bank, rolls around in the dirt, and tears off toward Big John.

  I know I’ve lost at least a pound, and when I shake out this sweatshirt, I will lose another pound of Lovie’s hair.

  We survived for another year.

  Chapter 28

  Instead of changing my clothes, I drive to the shop to work on the ’41 Chevy pickup. Nonno already has it in the garage, and the ancient Ford Script black wall tires seem to be holding air in their radial tubes just fine. After opening the hood from each side so it looks as if the truck has wings, I stare at the engine. I do not want to remove this engine because that would take three to four hours’ work, and I’m sure Nonno isn’t up to helping me. The engine weighs about six hundred pounds, so I pray that I don’t have to move it.

  Nonno comes in smiling and wiping his hands on a blue shop towel. “You survived the vet.”

  “Barely.”

  “I have been busy, too,” he says. “I have already drained and changed the oil and flushed and filled the radiator. I put in a nearly new battery. The brake shoes are okay, but we should change them over to disc brakes. I also added Dri-Gas.”

  To dry up any water that might be in the gas tank. “You have been busy. What else have you done?”

  He turns away. “I have started her up. Twice.”

  “And?”

  He turns back to me. “There is nothing wrong with this truck, Giovanna. Absolutely nothing wrong.”

  “Really?”

  He leans into the engine compartment. “I believe Mr. Simmons maintained this truck and ran the engine often. The sparkplug gaps were perfect, and the engine itself, as you can see, is clean.” He hands me the keys. “Go ahead. Hear it for yourself.”

  I get in and start it on the first turn. Wow. This baby is humming! I shut it off. “What do you know about that?”

  “If it is all right, I would like to tinker.”

  Nonno wants to soup it up and make it shake the pavement. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

  “My hip feels much better.”

  I nod. “Nonno, have you updated your will lately?”

  He laughs. “I tell you my hip feels better and you ask about my will.”

  “I’m just curious. You know I’m glad your hip feels better.”

  “It is still a strange question. No, I have not updated my will, but I do not have to. Everything still goes to you. The shop, the cabin, and everything I currently own. Why do you ask?”

  I tell him about my conversation with Billy, and he nods and squints often.

  “What would have made Mr. Simmons change or update his will?” I ask.

  “Besides my beautiful granddaughter?”

  “Nonno, be serious.”

 
; “I am serious. You were very convincing. Mr. Simmons even said so in the will.”

  “I convinced him to let me fix the tractor, that’s all.”

  He hugs me. “Whatever you said or did, I am glad you did it.”

  “That still doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Because you are asking the wrong question,” he says. “A better question is this: Why would an old man update his will?”

  “Because he’s … nearing his death.”

  He nods. “Perhaps Mr. Simmons’ health was fading. Or he knew he was going to meet his Maker soon and wanted to make sure he left no trouble behind.”

  “But I still don’t think he was unhealthy in any way, Nonno. He must have walked five miles the day I met him, and he didn’t seem to break a sweat. I know I lost five pounds that day.”

  “So if he was healthy, someone had to make him unhealthy,” Nonno says. “But whoever did it did not benefit at all because he or she—or they—did not know Mr. Simmons had changed his will. Or they benefitted because he changed his will.”

  “But only you, me, and the Hemmingsfords got anything in the will.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you saying the Hemmingsfords did it?”

  “No. They are the best kind of people. They have always been fair and kind to our family.”

  “I know it wasn’t me, and it surely wasn’t you, so … who?”

  He shrugs. “Perhaps they did it to benefit the Hemmingsfords as a way to benefit themselves. So, who has benefitted because the Hemmingsfords now own The Simmons Farm?”

  “Besides the Hemmingsfords? I have no idea.”

  “Louise tells me Fernando lives in Mr. Simmons’ house now.”

  “So?”

  “Fernando is a strong man, yes?”

  He’s accusing Fernando! “Nonno, that’s crazy. Fernando is a good man, a nice man. He’s saving his money to bring his family up from El Salvador.”

  “Then he has a very powerful motive,” Nonno says. “He wants to reunite with his family. A man might do anything to reunite with his loved ones.”

  “But how would Fernando know what was in Mr. Simmons’ will?”

  Nonno’s eyebrows bunch together. “That is a good point.” He shrugs. “Okay, who else has benefited?”

  “I really don’t know, Nonno.”

  “No? Louise also tells me the prices have dropped at The Swinging Bridge.”

  Now Nonno is accusing Owen! “By only a dollar.”

  “On buffalo burgers, buffalo steaks, and buffalo barbecue,” Nonno says. “Only on the buffalo meals, Louise says.”

  “The Hemmingsfords lowered their prices on the meat, so Owen lowered the prices on his menu.”

  He closes the left half of the hood. “Is it normal for a restaurant to lower its prices?”

  “Not usually, but I’m sure it happens.”

  He goes to a workbench and shows me the latest Current. He opens it to page two and points at the mill article. “And yet Owen has a big project he wants to complete by the end of October. It will take a great deal of money to get the mill going again, and since you will not help him, he will have to pay someone else much more to do it. Owen needs a great deal of capital, and yet he lowers his prices when he needs money the most.”

  That is strange. “Maybe Owen is hoping for volume sales.”

  “Or he already has funding from another source.” He closes the right half of the hood. “And who has that kind of money?”

  “Are you saying that Owen and the Hemmingsfords are in on this together?”

  “You scratch my back, and I will scratch yours.”

  Owen said he knew what was in the will and that he knew there would be no lake. He also knew that if he dammed up Gray Creek it might harm the buffalo because I told him that. “Nonno, that’s ridiculous. Owen said if the lake existed, he’d trailer The Swinging Bridge to the lake. His family owns land that would be right on the water.”

  “But why would he do that? It would cost a great deal of money to move the restaurant. He would lose many days of customers. He would be moving one business away from a business he wishes to begin. He would want the restaurant to stay near the mill so one can build off the other. Owen is foolish, but he is not crazy.” He pulls down the garage. “No. Owen would sell that lakefront property to those who wish to build houses, hotels, and an amusement park. The money from the sale of that land could pay for the repairs to the mill.” He turns off a shop light clipped to the front bumper. “And Owen is a very powerful man. I would say he is the strongest man I know.”

  “Nonno, that’s crazy. Owen wouldn’t do that.”

  “He was away from Gray County a long time, Giovanna. Who knows how he has changed?”

  “He hasn’t changed at all. He’s still the same goofy boy I liked in high school.”

  He turns off the box fans. “But all of this is worth considering. And do you know where Owen’s land is? It adjoins The Simmons Farm. Louise tells me it is thirty acres. Right on Gray Creek. It is worthless now, but if he were to trade it to someone …”

  “Why would Owen trade it?”

  “He trades it so the Hemmingsfords will help him with his mill.”

  “Owen is not that devious, Nonno.”

  He smiles. “And that is the major flaw in my argument. Owen is not a smart man. We discussed this earlier. He did not marry you. Had he married you—a very smart thing to do—I would accuse him of killing Mr. Simmons myself.”

  I smile. “Nonno, that made absolutely no sense.”

  He motions to the workshop, and I walk out of the garage. He turns the lights off behind me and shuts the door. “I was only testing you, Giovanna.”

  “Testing me?”

  He nods. “I wanted to see if you still had feelings for Owen, and you do.”

  “Because I stood up for him?”

  “No. Because you still think you know him.” He shrugs. “How can you truly know him when he has been away for so long? You grew up. He did not. The feelings you have for him are nearly thirty years out of date. What do they call it? A crush. You still have a crush on this man.”

  “But I don’t. I told him that I wouldn’t help him with his mill.”

  He sits on a stool. “I am sure that if he called you tomorrow, you would run to him.”

  “I wouldn’t … run to him.” It would depend on if I were hungry or not.

  “We will see.” He points at a fully assembled, ticking grandfather clock.

  “You got it working again,” I say. “I knew you could.”

  “I got lucky, that is all,” he says. “I did not label the parts as I usually do. I made no sketches. I took no pictures.”

  “You got it working because you are a master repairman.”

  “No. I was lucky. Perhaps luck is what we need to figure out who killed Mr. Simmons.”

  “Luck doesn’t solve crimes, Nonno.”

  “I am sure luck solves many crimes, Giovanna. Detectives are sometimes in the right place at the right time. Detectives take one last look and see things they did not see before.”

  “Maybe that’s what I need to do. I need to take another look.”

  “But why do you need to look at anything? This is not your job.”

  “Nonno,” I say, “half the people in this county think that I killed Mr. Simmons, and most of the people in this county think I got him to change his will.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “I hear talk, okay? That Gio Ferrari was there the day he changed the will and the day he died. She must have done it.”

  “Have you been arrested?”

  “No.”

  “Have you been interrogated?”

  “No.”

  “Therefore, you are not under investigation.” He stands. “Go home, Giovanna. Talk to Rinaldo. Get some sleep. Rest your mind.”

  “But Nonno, if I don’t do something, who will?”

  “Things will work out,” Nonno says. “Things break, and things
are repaired. Go home.”

  “Okay.”

  On my way home, I try to process the day. I learned that buffalo are good listeners. I wish Big John could talk. He’d probably tell me to rest my mind, too. I learned that Hen is Philip Parsons. I learned that Billy still has a conscience. I found out that Mr. Simmons was going to leave it all to his no-good children until June sixth, Lovie is healthy despite what the vet wants me to buy, and Mr. Simmons’ truck doesn’t need any major mechanical repairs.

  That truck is over seventy years old yet it runs like a dream.

  Why doesn’t it need any repairs?

  Why did Mr. Simmons keep that truck? It’s rear-wheel drive. He couldn’t go tooling around his fields in it with all those hills. He was maintaining it for a reason.

  So I could give Dodie a ride?

  Why didn’t Mr. Simmons give Dodie a ride? He had it running. He had no other passenger vehicles on his property. Did the truck—

  The truck doesn’t have license plates. Oh, he could have written “FARM USE” on a piece of cardboard and driven it anywhere. No one would have given Mr. Simmons a ticket for driving an unregistered vehicle with farm tags.

  But I’ll bet Mr. Simmons didn’t have a valid driver’s license.

  But Dodie does. She could have driven it.

  No. Dodie has low iron. She couldn’t possibly have the strength to turn the steering wheel on that truck or even see over the steering wheel.

  Mr. Simmons wants me to drive Dodie Loney up the mountain.

  Why me?

  What am I missing?

  Sleep.

  And Rinaldo’s voice.

  It has been a long day—long on daylight but short on solutions.

  Friday, June 16

  Chapter 29

  “I would truly enjoy your meal, Giovanna,” Rinaldo’s voice tells me.

  Once again, it’s my only message. Like the creeks, our business is drying up.

  “But you cannot eat meals like that all the time and stay montare e sottile.”

  Rinaldo thinks I’m fit and trim. I know I’ve lost ten pounds these last two weeks. I look across the field and see Big John munching on some grass.

  “I am neither fit nor trim, Giovanna. It is an occupational hazard. I like to cook, and I like to eat. I am good at both. I believe my customers trust me because I am large. A skinny chef is not good advertising. I am not obeso, but the weight chart at the doctor’s office was not made with chefs in mind. I hope this is not a problem for you. Have a calm and peaceful day.”