Here Comes the Ride

by Lorena McCourtney

  “Good. I think naming a car or a computer or anything like that is ridiculous.” She abruptly changed the subject. “Were you in the limo when it was shot at?”

  “Yes. I was driving.”

  “You must have been running away, if only the trunk got hit.”

  Definite disparagement in that observation. Apparently I was supposed to have stood my ground and returned fire. I was annoyed with myself, but I rose to the bait anyway.

  “The windshield right in front of me was hit several times. Also the passenger’s side window. One headlight was shot out, along with a tire. Then they shot a couple more times and hit the trunk when I was getting away.”

  “How come you didn’t get killed?” she asked in a tone skeptical of my story. Probably disappointed too.

  “The glass is bulletproof. Bullets don’t bounce off like ping-pong balls, but they don't get through. They do ruin the glass.”

  “Is it still bulletproof?” Looking interested, cat tucked securely under one arm, she swiped a section of glass with her elbow.

  “It is. The limo was custom built to accommodate the thickness of bulletproof glass, so changing to an ordinary windshield would have meant expensive alterations.”

  Besides, even though I had no intention of getting involved with any more killers, I rather liked the make-my-day feeling of bulletproof glass.

  “So what was all the shooting about?”

  “A man hired a couple of guys to kill a friend of mine. After which the killer decided I knew too much and wanted me dead too. Then Fitz and I captured him in my backyard.”

  I could tell that this boosted me a notch in her estimation. I frowned. As a budding Christian, I’m not sure I want to be admired for the bullet holes in my limo or my criminal-capturing escapade.

  “Maybe you’ve met Fitz?” I added. “He works with his son on the Miss Nora—the charter boat you’ll be taking your honeymoon on.”

  Her scrunched eyebrows relaxed, and she actually smiled. “I met Fitz. I like him. I’m looking forward to the sailboat trip.”

  I noted she said she was looking forward to the "sailboat trip," not the honeymoon. Meaningful? Or just a slip of words? Where was the groom anyway? So far I hadn’t heard anything about him beyond his name. Sterling.

  “So you and Fitz solved the murder?”

  “It was actually in kind of an accidental way,” I had to admit. “But Fitz knows a lot about crime. He was in a detective show on TV called Ed Montrose, P.I.E.—that's Private Investigator Extraordinaire—before your time.”

  “I’m interested in detective work. Real detective work, not TV stuff. I’m writing a mystery novel. Do you know anything about cold cases?”

  Her tone was casual, but I had the feeling the question was not. “Not really. Cold case means one from a long time back that’s never been solved, doesn’t it?”

  She nodded and looked me over with a gaze that was definitely speculative, although I had no idea what she could be speculating about.

  “Maybe—”

  She broke off as a red BMW whizzed down to the circular driveway from the three-car garage to the east side of the house. Michelle braked by the limo. Pamela struggled to keep Phreddie from squirming out of her arms.

  “I’m glad to see you two have met. Pammi, I’m going to the florist’s to discuss suitable decorations for the limo. Want to come along?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I’ll probably run over to the health club also and make certain Cindy isn’t ordering the wrong treadmills behind my back. Don’t let that cat in where he can scratch the furniture.”

  We both watched the security gate at the far end of the long driveway open to let the red car exit, then close behind it. The cat was still squirming.

  “Everything’s okay.” Pamela rubbed her cheek against its wiggling body. To me she added, “Michelle makes Phreddie nervous.”

  One of his character judgments? I was, oddly, beginning to feel a bit nervous about this whole job myself. There were peculiar undercurrents here. Has a bride ever barged into her own wedding brandishing a machine gun?

  “I would think you’d want to go along to choose the flowers and streamers for decorating the limo,” I suggested.

  “Why?”

  I was taken back by the lack of interest in her tone. “Michelle said you’d objected to the color of the limo—too funereal.”

  “Funereal.” She sounded thoughtful. “What an interesting concept.”

  And what an odd comment. “She said you preferred white.”

  “Ms. McConnell—”

  “Andi,” I said impulsively. I couldn’t say I liked this rather strange young woman, but I sensed a vulnerability that she determinedly tried to keep hidden.

  “Andi, I wouldn’t care if your ‘limouzeen’ was purple with pea green polka dots. And as far as I’m concerned, Michelle can take that life-sized ice sculpture and pulverize it into snow cones.”

  The cat squirmed out of her arms and Pamela took after it, leaving me to wonder about this wedding. And “cold cases.”

  Chapter Three

  Fitz had wanted me to call him after I met with Michelle Gibson. I stopped outside the gate and punched in his number on my speed dial. He’d given Michelle my name when she and Pamela came to inspect the Miss Nora for the honeymoon and she’d mentioned needing a limo.

  “Fitz here. Cruising the spectacular waters of Puget Sound on the glorious Miss Nora. Don’t you wish you were here? I do.”

  “I trust you aren’t issuing invitations to any stray lady who calls. Where are you exactly?”

  “Wonderful thing, caller ID. We’re just sailing by Whidby Island. How did it go with the Gibson woman?”

  I told him about my conversation with Michelle, including some of the more extravagant details of the wedding, and my rather odd meeting with the stepdaughter-bride.

  “Five days. Wow! That’s terrific.”

  “I have you to thank for it, of course.”

  “Did she tell you how she was a movie star back in her Michelle DeShea days? I got the impression she usually manages to work that into a conversation. She said she gave it all up for love.”

  “The husband is dead now, and she didn’t mention a movie career. Actually, she seemed pretty well stressed-out about the wedding. Michelle DeShea,” I repeated. “Sounds vaguely familiar. Did you know her back in your Ed Montrose days?”

  “I never met her personally back then, but she made quite a splash in some prehistoric thing where she wore skimpy skins and threw spears and fought with dinosaurs.”

  “She’s still very attractive. Although Pamela, that’s the bride, doesn’t seem to appreciate all the effort her stepmother is making on the wedding.”

  “Hey, I’ve gotta go. One of our guests just hooked a fish!”

  “Okay. See you when you get back to Vigland.”

  “I miss you.”

  “I miss you too.”

  ***

  That afternoon I had a limo job gathering up a herd of kids for a birthday party, and that evening I went to the weekly Bible study at church. We were into an intensive study of the Sermon on the Mount, and I was still thinking about not storing up treasures on earth when I turned my old Toyota onto Secret View Lane.

  It was eight o’clock by then, with a light rain falling, and I was surprised to see an ancient yellow Volkswagen bug parked in front of my duplex. I blinked. I’d never seen that egg-yolk color on a vehicle before.

  Oddly, my nosy neighbor Tom Bolton didn’t appear to have it under surveillance. Was the man ill? He rarely missed spying on anything happening in the neighborhood. I parked my car out on the street because I’d need to back the limo out of the driveway in a few minutes.

  A second surprise came when Pamela Gibson got out of the garishly-colored Bug. The old car didn’t look like something a girl demanding a Hollywood extravaganza of a wedding would choose.

  “Hi.” She was in a translucent rain jacket and jeans that rivaled the sh
apeless sag of the shorts she’d been wearing earlier. She’d tamed her hair slightly with a couple of those clampy things, but nothing less than a tweezer-ectomy would help those eyebrows. “I tried to call, but all I got was an answering machine. And no answer on the cell number.”

  “I’ve been to Bible study at my church. I had the cell turned off.”

  “Bible study? You believe all that God stuff?” The term was not exactly doctrinally correct, but she sounded more curious than disparaging.

  I thought for a moment before I answered. “I'm still confused on some points, but one thing I’ve figured out is that you have to go beyond just believing God exists and find a personal relationship with Him.”

  “I guess I never got past the confused part.”

  “How did you know where I live?” I asked, suddenly wary of this surprise visit. The business card I’d given her had my phone numbers, but the only address was a Vigland post office box.

  “Internet. You put in a phone number and it gives you a name and address.”

  Which reminded me that privacy in the age of the Internet is a joke. But, on the old theory If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, I’ve been thinking it's time I got a computer and Internet service. E-mail would make keeping in touch with Sarah and Rachel down in Florida easier, and I could run background checks on new customers too. Sometimes it can be scary letting strangers ride with you, even well-paying ones. And I definitely needed a website for the limousine business.

  “Did you want to discuss the wedding plans?” I asked, puzzled why she was here, especially considering how hostile she’d seemed earlier. I glanced at my watch.

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  “I have to make a limo trip over to Olympia yet tonight.”

  I hesitated a moment. This trip was a twice-a-month thing in which I ferried a little girl named Lisa from her mother’s place in Vigland to her father’s place in Olympia for the weekend, a custody and visitation rights arrangement set up in their divorce.

  “You could come along, if you’d like,” I added. I doubted either parent would notice an extra person in the front seat.

  “Is that the only way I can talk to you?”

  Obviously not a girl impressed with the idea of riding around in a limo.

  “That’s the only way.” I didn’t feel like putting myself out for this girl by making other arrangements.

  “Okay then.”

  I changed into my black chauffeur’s uniform, and we were on our way. I started to ask her about the wedding, then decided to keep my mouth shut. During our sleuthing adventure with a murderer, I’d learned from Fitz that silence can sometimes be more effective than questions for gleaning information.

  After several minutes of quiet while I drove across town, she finally said, “I’m wondering about ‘Andi’s Limouzeen Service.’ With a z.”

  I doubted this was why she’d come, but I told her about inheriting the limo from my rich but eccentric Uncle Ned in Texas, who had spelled the word that way in his handwritten will. “Using that spelling is just kind of a, you know, nod to him.”

  “I like it. It’s in your face. Anti-glamorous.”

  Pam looked as if she could give lessons in anti- glamour.

  “But you didn’t come to see me just to talk about my ‘limouzeen.’ ”

  “Maybe I did.”

  She sounded defensive, and I sensed she was still undecided about cluing me in on her real purpose. I turned onto the street in which the apartment complex of my client was located, and switched subjects.

  “Does the man you’re marrying live in Vigland?”

  “No.”

  “I think Michelle said his name was Sterling?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sterling what?” This felt like trying to pry information out of an ice cube.

  “Sterling Forsythe.”

  “Are you in love with him?” I asked impulsively. That aura of anticipation and excitement usually hovering around a bride seemed more like a halo of gloom around her.

  “Of course I’m in love with him! Although I really think love is . . . overrated. A successful marriage takes more than love.”

  In one way that sounded so mature. No reckless infatuation here. But in another way, putting such a low value on love also sounded sad.

  “I was in love once, for all the good it did me,” she muttered.

  “In love with someone other than Sterling?”

  “Sterling is a great guy,” she snapped as if I’d attacked his character. “We’re going to be very happy.”

  I had the uneasy feeling this was a mantra she repeated daily.

  “Will you and Sterling be living here in Vigland?” I asked as I pulled into the parking lot behind the apartment complex.

  “No.” She finally relented and offered a smidgen of information. “Sterling works for a big biochemical research company in California. We’ll live down there.”

  “What does he research?”

  “Genetics and cloning. It’s very hush-hush. He’s kind of, umm, nerdy. Like me. A loner too. But he’s much smarter than I am. He graduated from Harvard when he was nineteen, and he has his doctorate. Scholarships for everything.”

  “How old is he now?”

  “Twenty-nine. He’s the youngest head of a department they’ve ever had at this research facility.”

  “How did you get together?”

  “His mother is a cousin or something of Michelle’s. Michelle invited them all up for a visit last summer. Later the guy I thought I was in love with and I broke up, and Sterling and I got together.”

  “Got together how?”

  “E-mail mostly. I’ve been going to Dartmouth.”

  Dartmouth. Not a university for dummies.

  “You’re going to attend Dartmouth along with being married to Sterling in California?”

  “I don’t plan to go back. Maybe I’ll go to UCLA or somewhere. Or maybe I’ll just start publishing my novels. Sterling and I are going to be very happy.” She touched the ring on her finger. “This was his grandmother’s ring.”

  Two nerdy loners united. Maybe an ideal relationship. At least they weren’t jumping into marriage on a few weeks' acquaintance. They’d known each other a year. And the grandmother’s ring was a nice touch. But I wasn’t convinced this was a happily-ever-after situation.

  “You know, Pam,” I said in another burst of carefully-worded impulsiveness, “nineteen is awfully young to get married. Maybe you should go back to Dartmouth and wait for another year or two and see how things look then.”

  “How old were you when you got married?” she challenged.

  “Nineteen. Which is how I know it's way too young.”

  “A big wedding?”

  “No, we drove to Reno for a quickie ceremony.”

  Followed by a $3.98 buffet special at a casino. Although anything more would have been a lousy investment anyway. The marriage ended when Richard traded me and life in Vigland for a woman named Tamara and a future dedicated to saving the flora and fauna in some South American jungle. Admirable, I suppose, by environmental standards. Less admirable from the point of view of the discarded wife.

  “So you’re saying I should back out and ruin Michelle’s big production number? She’d kill me.” She paused. “Although . . .”

  I didn’t have a chance to ask what the although was about, because little Lisa knocked on the limo door. She must have been watching out the window for my arrival. Her mother, tall, slim, and hostile, as if this custody arrangement were somehow my fault, stood behind her with a plastic bag of weekend supplies.

  I got out and gave the little girl a hug. Not standard limo operating procedure, but I always felt she needed it. I opened the rear door for her, giving it my best flourish and my standard line, “Your chariot awaits, ma’am.”

  Lisa giggled, but the mother did not. She stuffed the sack inside with the girl. “Maybe one of these days that cheapskate will buy her some decent luggage.”

&n
bsp; Once inside, the little girl immediately knelt on the curved seat behind the opening in the partition between the driver’s and passengers’ areas. “Who’re you?” she inquired of Pam.

  “I’m Pamela. Bride-to-be.”

  Little-girl-like, Lisa didn’t question this unusual form of self-identification. “I had a bride doll. Stephanie gave her to me. But I dropped her, and her head broke off.”

  “How far did you have to drop her to do that?” Pam asked, as if this were an interesting bridal possibility.

  They carried on a lively conversation all the way to the father’s house in Olympia, where stepmother Stephanie gave me a check and accepted the plastic bag as if it contained dog poo.

  “You’d think with all the child support that woman gets, she could come up with something more than a bag lady outfit.”

  “ 'Bye, Lisa,” I said. “See you in a couple weeks.” The father took her back to the mother himself on Sunday evenings after her weekend with him.

  Back on the street, I took a turn that in a few blocks put us into a lineup of fast-food places. “Would you mind if we drove through Taco Bell? I haven’t had anything to eat since lunch.”

  “You’re going to the drive-up window in a limo?”

  “Sure.”

  She straightened in the seat. “I could use a burrito.” Just riding in a limo hadn’t impressed her, but apparently going through the drive-up window at Taco Bell in a limo generated some interest.

  Ordering a chalupa for me and a burrito for her, plus soft drinks, brought a double take from the teenager at the window when he saw the limo. Before I could get to my purse, Pam leaned across me and paid the bill.

  She laughed delightedly as I pulled around the building. “Did you see the look on that guy’s face?”

  I angled the limo across two spaces out in the shopping center parking lot. I put a lone packet of taco sauce on my chalupa. Pam doused her burrito with four.

  “Your wedding sounds nice,” I offered as an opening gambit.

  She momentarily stopped eating. “Which part? The ice sculpture? Those expensive hair and makeup people from Seattle? My Barbie-doll wedding gown? That sterling silver bride-and-groom ornament on top of the cake? The fog machine? The sit-down dinner? Enough roses to stage our own personal Rose Bowl parade?” She went through the list as if she were naming rip-off charities soliciting donations, then gave me a glance. “Plus five days' worth of limousine service.”