by Lisa Bork
I sidled closer until I could see inside through the three-inch-wide window beginning a foot above the door handle.
Danny’s desk was in the third row, between two other boys. Danny was reading a book, as was the rest of the class. He looked …
absorbed. I guessed that was the best we could hope for on his first day.
Inside the room, a man moved past the door. I jerked away from the door and speed walked around the corner, hoping no one had spotted me. I didn’t know if a twelve-year-old would appreciate his “mother” looking in on him or not. I was quite sure he wouldn’t appreciate having his teacher whip open the classroom door and catch me in the act.
In the school parking lot, I used my cell phone to call Ray.
“Hey, Darlin’. How’d it go with the principal?”
“Okay. She said Danny’s old teachers suspected him of stealing from his classmates.”
“I heard when I picked up his file.”
“What else did you hear that you neglected to tell me, Ray?”
“I heard he was a good student, and his father was attentive.”
“Did you hear that the school wasn’t sure his father could read?”
“No.”
“Maybe he’s a thief because his prospects are limited.”
“That’s no excuse.”
“What’s the penalty for stealing a Cadillac Escalade?”
“He’s been charged with grand larceny in the fourth degree. That’s a Class E felony. For first offenders, the maximum sentence is four years in a state prison.”
I watched as a woman pulled into the space next to mine and hustled into the school carrying a tray of cupcakes. Would that be me one day? “Is his father a first offender?”
“He’s been in prison for armed robbery, when he was seventeen. He served nine years.”
“So he’s prone to violence.”
“His partner in crime pulled the gun. Even the bank clerk testified that Danny’s father seemed surprised.”
I felt some relief. “Is prison where his neck got sliced?”
“Yes.”
“Stealing cars seems like a step down from armed robbery.”
“Auto theft is a multimillion dollar business, Jolene. It’s the most expensive property crime in the U.S. More than a million cars are stolen every year, dismantled in chop shops and the stolen parts sold. Nationwide, only a little over ten percent of those thefts are cleared by arrest.”
Like he was telling me something I didn’t already know. “But why is Danny’s father stealing cars here in Wachobe? Most of New York’s auto thefts occur in the New York City area.”
“We think he planned to put the Escalade in a semi bound for the city.”
But instead, he got caught sitting behind the driver’s wheel, and now he faced more time in prison. Would Danny want to visit him there, too? If his father let him, Ray would have to take him to visit. The county jail already gave me the creeps. I couldn’t take a state prison. But surely Danny had to have other relatives.
“Principal Travis also told me Danny’s mother died when he was two, or at least, that’s what his father implied to his kindergarten teacher.”
“I can try asking his father again. He’s smart enough to take his right to remain silent seriously.”
Just our luck that criminals are getting smarter. “Doesn’t he have any other relatives?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
“Mrs. Travis said the birth certificate listed the same Newark address for both of Danny’s parents. Do you think they might have family still living there?”
“Newark?”
I detected more than a hint of interest in Ray’s voice. “Yes, Newark. What about it?”
“The Escalade was reported stolen by a woman who gave a home address in Newark.”
“What was her name?”
“Hold on a minute.”
I heard Ray’s fingers clicking on the keyboard. “Her name’s James. Jessica James.”
Now we were getting lucky. Any chance she was related to Danny’s mother, Jennifer James?
When I mentioned it to Ray, he hung up on me so fast that I didn’t get to ask him to call me when he found out the answer. No matter, I would get it out of him later.
I drove straight from Danny’s school to Erica’s apartment, hoping to see the Porsche back in the driveway. It wasn’t. I did see tire tracks on the driveway and footprints in the dusting of snow leading to her door.
I leapt out of the car and rushed onto the front porch. No one responded to my hammering on the door. I fished out my key and unlocked it.
Inside, the living room appeared the same, just dusty and unoccupied, as was the kitchen. Her bedroom and bath were another matter.
The mirror over her dresser now lay in pieces. Her dresser drawers hung open and empty. The bathroom vanity mirror had also been smashed. I surmised that the stiletto heel lying in the sink had been used to do the deed.
All of Erica’s toiletries were missing. Only their lavender scent lingered in the air. Her suitcases were gone too. The remaining clothes lay strewn about the bedroom floor, still on the hangers, as if they’d been considered for packing and dismissed. Her discarded shoes were heaped in a pile in front of her closet.
I sank onto the corner of her bed and surveyed the damage.
If I called Ray, he would ask if I saw signs of foul play. In all honesty, I did not. When it came to Erica, breakage was commonplace. Once, she’d even put an umbrella through her television set. With the exception of the mirrors, the room just looked like she’d packed to go somewhere in haste. I crossed my fingers it wasn’t Las Vegas to marry one of the unknown men in the Elvis chapel.
I dropped to the floor, crawling about on my hands and knees, trying to discern if she’d taken summer clothes or winter, beach or ski chalet, fashionable or serviceable. I came to no conclusions.
I did, however, spot her new prescription bottle under the bed. A count of the pills told me she’d stopped taking them two days after we’d had the prescription filled.
“Oh, Erica, how can I help you if you won’t help yourself?”
____
I trudged across the driveway and knocked on the door of my old neighbor and nemesis Mr. Murphy. During the years I’d occupied the apartment next door, he’d made an almost weekly trip to my door to complain about the placement of my trash cans on garbage day. With his attention to detail, I hoped he might have noticed Erica’s departure and perhaps her departure companion.
He wasn’t home.
I got back in my car and drove by The Lincoln House. Erica’s Porsche sat right where she’d left it days ago. It was too early for the restaurant to be open for lunch. I doubted any of the lunch shift employees would be of much help anyway. Erica worked the five to close shift. Maybe I would come back later and question some of her co-workers about Erica’s mystery man. I could only suspect that she’d either run away or moved in with him. Surely psycho serial killers didn’t have their victims pack suitcases.
Asdale Auto Imports was closed, according to the sign in the window. I was pleased to find the parking lot behind the building empty. Cory had stayed home or gone out on the town today as he should. But I needed to find the name of the redhead who wanted to purchase the Caterham. I wanted to find out if she was the same woman I saw at The Cat’s Meow the other day. And I wanted to know if her brother had red hair, too.
But first I had to call the two dealers and discuss their available cars so I would have a reason to contact this woman.
That took me an hour. At the close of the hour, I wasn’t excited about either car. The condition and maintenance records for both sounded satisfactory, but the prices were not. I didn’t feel like flying Cory to either dealership’s location to examine the cars. I really couldn’t imagine how owning one of them was going to turn this woman’s love life around.
Cory had written her name in his tight script on a pink Post-it Note. Leslie Flynn. He’d noted her br
other’s phone number underneath her name and the message to find her a Caterham DeDion.
I dialed the number. A man answered.
I identified myself and asked to speak to Leslie.
“This is she.”
Now I heard the slightest hint of femininity in her otherwise gravelly voice. Dear God, did the woman have no attractions at all? “I understand from my mechanic Cory that you’re interested in purchasing a Caterham DeDion. I’ve located two for sale.”
“Excellent. How much are they?”
“Around forty thousand.”
“Who do I make the check out to?”
I pulled the phone from my ear and looked at it. She must be nuts. No bargaining? No negotiating? I put the receiver against my ear again. “Leslie, I wanted to talk with you more about these cars. I’m not sure they’re the best value for your dollar.”
“I’ll be right over.”
“Leslie?”
She’d hung up on me.
I sat at my desk and waited for her arrival, finding myself in the awkward position of not wanting to make the sale. These Caterhams didn’t merit their asking price, and the dealers didn’t seem inclined to bargain. Hiring me to broker the deal seemed silly, especially considering the fact that Leslie could locate these guys by herself if she just got online. And, even though it wasn’t my concern, I didn’t think owning a Caterham would be the answer to her prayers. If this man she desired was so shallow that he could be won over with the purchase of a British sports car, he couldn’t be worth having in the first place.
Had I become the love police? Maybe I should just let Leslie and, for that matter, Erica, decide what was right for them.
Nah. My new mission was to help people, whether they realized they needed help or not.
When the yellow Mustang convertible pulled into the shop’s parking lot a half hour later, I knew Leslie was the woman I’d seen at The Cat’s Meow.
She entered the showroom through the front door, stamping snow off her tan work boots. I walked out to greet her, thinking Cory had described her quite well.
Leslie Flynn had thinning sunburst red hair. I would have said it was a dye job, but the abundance of freckles visible even on her tanned skin suggested it was natural, or, at least, a simulation of natural. Her teeth were not only crooked but stained, and the brown Carhartt overalls and matching jacket she wore emphasized her unfortunate weight. As Cory had said, it wasn’t pretty. And she smelled kinda funny, too.
She looked me up and down. “You’re a cute little thing, aren’t ya?”
I felt my cheeks flush. “Thank you. Please, come in and sit down in my office.”
Her work boots clunked across the floor behind me. She dropped with a whompf, expelling all the air from the seat cushion.
I wasn’t sure quite how to begin, never having tried to talk a customer out of buying a car. “That’s a nice Mustang you’re driving now.”
She straightened and beamed with pleasure. “It handles well.”
“It’s a popular car. More popular than a Caterham.”
Her head bobbed up and down. “I know, I know. But have you ever seen Gatekeepers or eX-Driver?”
“No, I’m not familiar with those.”
“They’re Japanese animated cartoons, and they feature the Caterham. The man I’m interested in loves the Caterham and those cartoons.”
“You’ve talked to him about the cars and the cartoons, then?”
“Many times.”
“So you two already have a relationship?”
Her lips parted and her eyes narrowed as she appeared to consider my words. “I sell him eggs. Fresh brown eggs.”
“I see.” I didn’t really.
Leslie must have sensed my confusion. “My brother and I run a dairy farm. We have chickens, too. We also sell flowers and planters.”
Now I recognized her perfume. Eau de Manure.
Farms covered the hills and valleys of the Finger Lakes countryside, most run by Mennonites with family names like Weaver and Hoover who spoke with German-like accents. In fact, the Finger Lakes region had received the dubious distinction of hog-farming capital of New York, dubious because the swine aromas didn’t mix well with the fine wine aromas that the dozens of surrounding vineyards preferred to promote. The Mennonite farmers were tourist attractions, however, given their farm stores that sold homemade cheeses and fresh eggs as well as quilts, jams, wooden toys, and handcrafted furniture. Their simple clothes, refusal to use electricity or phones, and use of horse and buggy transportation or bicycles, which gave them their lean muscled physiques, also intrigued visitors to our area.
With her bright yellow Mustang and her less than toned body, I didn’t figure Leslie Flynn for one of our more touristy farmers.
She went on, “The farm has been in our family for a hundred years. My brother and I still work it. We have hired help, too.”
I wondered why Cory had made it sound like she was only visiting the farm. She seemed fully immersed in it on a daily basis. “Is farming a lucrative business?”
Leslie’s eyes rolled back in her head. “It’s a living. We can supply most of our own food needs. I can wear coveralls every day, so we have money for other things like cars, don’t you worry.”
“I wasn’t worried about that. I’m just curious. I haven’t spent time on a farm.”
“You haven’t missed much. I’m planning to spend less time there in the future. I want to see the rest of the country. I just have to find a bookkeeper for my brother. He’s a nightmare when it comes to organization and paying bills.”
I could understand her desire for a different setting. After living in Wachobe all my life, I’d started to wonder what else was out there. Maybe her plans to leave had given Cory the idea she was only visiting her brother. I wondered what her brother thought about her plan to seduce a man with a Caterham. It was the kind of idea Erica would come up with. I thought it best not to ask, but I couldn’t let the opportunity pass to ask Leslie about her brother. “Is your brother a redhead, too?”
“He sure is. We’re twins, born two minutes apart. I’m the older, wiser twin.”
“The women are always the wiser ones.”
Leslie bellowed. “I’m learning that more and more every day. My brother’s a bit of a hothead. It’s all I can do some days to keep our help from quitting when he gets the notion to light into them.”
“My sister met a red-haired man the other night … at The Cat’s Meow.” I rushed on, embarrassed to admit my sister was hanging out at a strip club. “She took quite a liking to him. Do you think it might have been your brother?” Perhaps their lack of organization and ability to pay bills had brought them together.
Leslie scratched her cheek. “He spends a lot of time there, I know that. I had to go over there the other day and cover a check he bounced. If you tell me her name, I’ll ask him about your sister when I get home and let you know. Now, how about you tell me about these cars you found?”
I supplied Erica’s name, then spent the next half hour comparing and contrasting the two vehicles, emphasizing their selling points as well as their drawbacks. Overall, I hinted to Leslie that no matter how fun a sports car the Caterham might be, it would not buy her a boyfriend.
She leaned back in her chair when I finished and hooked her thumbs around the straps of her coveralls. “You don’t seem keen on me buying this car, Mrs. Parker. What’s wrong with a Caterham?”
“Nothing, and please, call me Jolene. If you have the money and you think you’ll enjoy driving the car, then you should buy it. It’s just—”
“You don’t think it’s going to get me a man.”
“No, I don’t.”
Leslie examined her dirty and cracked fingernails. “I read an article that said men find women who drive these cars attractive. I know he likes these cars already. I just thought he might notice me as a woman if I drove one, too.”
“If I had to guess, Leslie, I’ll bet the article you read was written by a
man trying to lure more women into buying sports cars. Most of them are bought by men.”
Leslie’s knee bounced up and down as she appeared to consider my words. “You’re a married woman. Tell me, how did you attract your husband?”
I smiled. “He thought I was pretty.” Just like Valerie Bertinelli, but I kept that to myself. I didn’t want Leslie Flynn to try to remodel herself to look like a Caterham. She’d have a hard time becoming sleek and racy.
Leslie glanced down at herself with a rueful grin. “I ain’t pretty.”
Although I’d just had that thought myself, I felt obligated to disagree. “Nonsense. A new hairdo, a little makeup, clothes that emphasize your womanly assets—he’s sure to notice a change in your look.” I sounded much more confident than I felt. He would notice, but who knew if he would find her attractive? I tried to push that thought out of my mind. Something about Leslie Flynn made my heart go out to her. I felt the need to help her in any way I could.
She fiddled with the buttons on her flannel shirt. “I don’t know how to pick out clothes. I get my haircut at the walk-in place for eight bucks.” She darted a glance at me from the corner of her eye. “Can you help me pick out some clothes?”
I laughed. I’d be no help there.
Leslie stiffened. Her brow furrowed.
I held up my hand to appease her. “I’m sorry. I’m laughing because I don’t pick my clothes out, either. I buy them at Talbots across the street. The manager picks them out for me.”
Leslie’s eyes brightened. “She’s a nice gal? She might help me?”
I laughed again. “Nice might be too strong a word, but, yes, she will help you.”
I put on my coat and walked Leslie across the street to Talbots. The sun had come out in full force today, melting away all traces of last week’s snowfall. In fact, the temperature felt downright warm, and my wool coat felt too heavy for the day.
As we approached the store, I could see Celeste Martin through the window. She was waiting on a customer. From her gestures and facial expressions, I had no doubt she was telling the woman exactly what to buy. Celeste had a gift for fashion. She also had a gift for gossip and attracting men. I was hoping I could get at least two of her gifts to work in my new friend Leslie’s favor. From experience, the gossip would always work against me.