“He wasn’t.” Dr. Yarbrough laughed, and his two companions laughed with him.
“Purple.” Susan just shook her head. “I will never understand men.”
Latigo touched her hand with his forefinger. “I think you understand us well enough.”
“Sometimes I think I do, until my wonderful husband, love him to death, goes into a hardware store. Oh, my God! Hundreds of dollars later, he totters out under the weight of wrenches and screwdrivers.”
Dr. Yarbrough plucked a menu off the table. “Anyone hungry? On me.”
Both Susan and Latigo expressed thanks, ordering light salads.
Harry must have rubbed off on Susan, because she asked Latigo, “You send clients to ReNu. What do you think is going on over there?”
“I don’t know. Victor doesn’t know. It’s deeply upsetting.”
“Why do you refer clients to ReNu?” Susan pressed.
“Good work for good prices. Collision-repair shops indemnify their work.”
“That means you’re not responsible?” Susan blurted out.
“It means if they perform shoddy work, I can go after them. Even the best shops can have a lemon day, for lack of a better phrase. Insurance is more complex than you might think. The Code of Hammurabi mentions an insurance practice in 1750 B.C.”
Susan, sensing he was about to warm up to his pet subject, insurance history, diverted him. “Did you ever consider that love is a fire for which there is no insurance? Even if you crash and burn.”
Dr. Yarbrough laughed, both because of the sentiment and because Susan had cut off the potential lecture of boring information.
On Friday, June 1, the cool morning air refreshed Harry as she cut the endless lawn at St. Luke’s. At ten, the turquoise blue skies were dotted with cream cumulus clouds hovering over the emerald grasses. Once Harry adjusted to the zero-turn mower—her old belly-mount conventional mower had finally died after twenty-five years of cutting grass—she wondered how she’d ever lived without the new manner of mower. Instead of a steering wheel, the driver grasped two long handles, which could move forward and back. She could cut corners so much closer than with a conventional mower. Still she’d have to use an edger along the pathways and the special gardens lining those pathways, but the zero-turn saved so much time.
Peonies, in full bloom this late in the season, crowded the long, brick-laid pathways. The gardening club of the church—now full of men as well as women, since gardening had become just about as competitive as grilling with some of them—created masses of white, pink, and magenta with the peonies. Harry marveled at how beautiful the grounds looked, regardless of season. Even in winter, the hollies shone with red berries, and pyracanthas grew up the side of Herb’s garage, providing a long-distance blast of orange, often against snow. While she liked gardening, she lacked the time to devote herself to it. Her focus was her crops, the foals, and working the horses. Wistfully, she looked down at the cemetery on the lower level, old cream-colored climbing roses spilling over the stone walls. If only she had more time.
The scent of fresh-cut grass filled her, lifted her up. Something about fresh-cut hay and grass made Harry glad to be alive.
Every now and then, Herb would look up from his desk to see one of his favorite parishioners out there mowing away.
Chuckling to Elocution on his lap, he said, “See the pattern? She cuts in one direction, then comes back on the other. Takes longer, but Harry wants there to be a pleasing pattern. Her mother was like that. Well, she inherited her mother’s sense of beauty and her father’s practicality. Not a bad combination.”
A thunk caused Harry to cut the motor.
Once on her hands and knees, Harry saw that a hidden rock, part of it above ground but covered by the grass, had sheared off one of the bolts holding the belly mount. If she continued mowing, she’d scrape the earth and the cut would be uneven. Couldn’t have that.
“Drat,” she muttered under her breath, then said aloud, “Well, I can fix it.”
As she walked toward the administrative buildings on the quad, Herb leaned out the window.
“What now?”
“Sheared a pin. You wouldn’t happen to have spare parts?”
“Don’t. We don’t have a zero-turn.”
“Right. Well, I’ll head to the dealer.”
“Go to Waynesboro. Better price.”
“That’s the truth. Buy something in Charlottesville, add ten percent to the price. Herb, I’ll need to drive over there and fetch a pin. I promise I’ll get this all ready before Sunday. Actually, I think I can finish it today.”
“I’ll drive you over there. It’s such a beautiful day. I’m getting antsy in the office,” Herb volunteered.
“Okay.” Harry walked inside the administrative buildings from the back door, washed grease off her hands, then met Herb out front, for he’d already pulled his truck around.
“Come on, girl. Time for an adventure, especially after your clean mammogram.” The older man grinned.
“Word gets out.” Harry smiled back at him.
“Your friends are very, very happy.”
Handsome, overweight, the Very Reverend Jones was a barrel-chested man, not tall but impressively built. All through his high school and college years, the football coaches wanted him to play on the line. He preferred baseball instead, playing catcher, where his wonderful memory served pitchers well. His knees held up better than if he’d been on the football line, but they creaked. He sometimes wondered how many times he crouched, rose, crouched again.
Within twenty-five minutes, Herb pulled in to the dealer’s. Light traffic helped, but it was actually faster, although a longer distance, to shop in Waynesboro rather than inching up Route 29.
Harry picked up some extra parts just in case. She reached into her jeans’ back pocket to pull out her wallet.
Herb grabbed her wrist. “Church purchase.”
“I don’t mind. It’s my mower and my little offering.”
“Your work is the offering.” He pulled out a silver credit card and handed it to the fellow behind the counter.
“I love doing it.”
“Looks good. My office affords me such a wonderful view, regardless of weather or season. I get most of my best sermon ideas just staring out the window.”
After Herb paid, they hopped back into the truck.
“Ready for our next vestry meeting?” Harry asked.
“We have a good board. Makes it easier. As you know, just maintaining the physical structures takes so much money and effort. Still, I wouldn’t want to be in modern buildings for all the tea in China.”
“Do they grow tea in China?”
“I don’t know, but they sure drink it.” Herb gave her a devilish grin. “We aren’t all that far from Wayne’s Cycle Shop.”
“Yesss?” She lifted an eyebrow.
“Think what St. Luke’s could save on gas if I rode a motorcycle?”
Harry laughed, a light happy sound. “And half the board would have a fit and fall in it.”
Now they both laughed at the old Southern expression.
“Ever own a bike?” he asked.
“No. I’d love to. I mean, I’d just lose my mind, go everywhere. ’Course, the real decision would be whether to buy a dirt bike or a road one. Love the sound of the big ones.”
“Me, too. Like the old V8s from the fifties and sixties. That rumble.”
“If Fair and I weren’t facing a big bill for the hydraulic system on the old John Deere, I’d think about it. You really can save money on gas. Our gas bills have doubled, and, boy, that cuts into the budget. The estimate from the John Deere dealer—back to the tractor—is ten thousand dollars for a new hydraulic system, all new hoses, the works. We’re gonna get the work done outside the dealer, I think. It will take longer. Still cost, though.”
Herb whistled. “That calls for serious prayer and maybe a winning lottery ticket.”
The two people who loved each other drove back to St. Lu
ke’s, chattering away.
As Herb pulled in to the driveway of the garage, the truck backfired, shuddered, and stopped dead.
Harry jumped out after Herb popped the hood. “Cut on the motor.”
He did. Nothing.
As this was a truck that still had an oil dipstick, Harry took it out, put the clean end to her ear. “Okay, try again.”
A click sounded, another. Click. Click. Click. But no ignition.
“I just picked this damned truck up, as you know.”
“I think it’s your alternator. But it could be more than that. Better call ReNu. They’ll need to tow you.”
He got out of the truck, slamming the door. “I do need a new truck. Or that motorcycle. But you know there’s no way the church can afford new wheels. Given the hauling and odds and ends we need, half the parish uses the church truck. It has to be a truck.”
“Yes, it does.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ll call ReNu. Got the number?”
Herb easily recalled the telephone number, as he’d called it so many times.
By the time Harry had the new pin on the belly mount—an easy job once she found a block of wood to steady the mount and once she was able to dislodge the sheared pin—the tow truck from ReNu had turned onto the driveway. To her surprise, Victor Gatzembizi emerged from the passenger side; Terry Schreiber, the driver, was about as greasy as she was.
Wiping her hands on her jeans, Harry strolled down to them as Herb came out of his office.
Victor looked up. “Reverend Jones, let’s hope this is a hangover from your former problem.”
“Why?”
“Well, otherwise you and the insurance company are throwing good money after bad.”
Herb explained what happened, then Harry piped up, “I think it’s the alternator.”
Victor listened. Terry, who didn’t know Harry, discounted what the attractive woman said.
“If Harry didn’t farm, she’d be working for you, Victor.” Herb smiled.
“Given what’s happened to us, I could use a good mechanic.” Victor shook his head.
“It has to be a shock and a strain for you, Victor. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, Reverend. The best thing I know to do is to keep working. And I go to each of my shops at least once a week. It helps to get away. Terry here can’t. I think it’s harder for the boys.”
“I want to know what the sheriff is doing,” Terry grumbled.
“The best he can.” Harry quickly defended Rick and, by extension, Cooper.
“You’re right, Harry,” Victor agreed. “It takes time, and even if they know who did it or have a good idea, they still have to gather enough evidence to run them in.”
Harry looked at Terry, who had a smear of grease on his forehead. “I guess you guys are all pretty close.”
“We have a few beers. Race our cars.” Terry shrugged.
An idea occurred to Harry. Like most of her ideas involving curiosity about others, it would come to a bad end.
That evening she called Cooper, told her about Herb’s truck, and asked her if she could run over the VIN number.
“I can, but that’s not going to tell you anything,” Cooper said.
“Why not?”
“It will tell me and CarMax, for instance, if the car has been in a wreck. Won’t tell me anything about the repairs, which is what you’re after since his truck was just repaired. Right?”
“Right. But surely there are repair records.”
“Only insurance companies can access those.” Cooper paused a minute. “From a law-enforcement perspective, we don’t care about repairs. We want to know if the title, the registration, the license, is current, expired, et cetera, and we’d like an accident record.”
“But what if the accident is caused by a fault in the vehicle?”
“That’s not my job.”
“Hmm.”
“Harry.” Cooper’s voice rose. “I don’t know where you’re heading with this. I’m kind of afraid to find out.”
Ever want to do this?” Harry sat in the empty bleachers with BoomBoom, her childhood friend, competitor, sometimes enemy, and friend again. They were alone at the Central Virginia Hot Rod Track over in Augusta County, next to Albemarle County.
“I’d love it. Alicia, on the other hand, would be apoplectic if I started drag racing.”
Alicia Palmer, a former movie star, was BoomBoom’s partner in life—a big surprise to both of them, but it was working out just fine.
“You could use her Mustang.”
“Harry, she’d kill me.” BoomBoom laughed. “That’s her baby. Funny, she has the money to buy any car in the world, including those gorgeous Bentleys, but she wanted that metallic candy-apple-red Mustang.”
“It is pretty cool. Soup that baby up and I bet you’d win some of these races. Top fuel dragsters spend over two hundred grand on those things. ’Course, you wouldn’t need to spend that much at this level. Could just fire up what I call a door slammer.”
BoomBoom wondered how the dragsters managed, given the expense of low-level racing. “Even if it’s a door slammer, every penny goes into their rod. The ReNu guys weren’t rich.”
“That’s what Cooper said about Nick Ashby. All his money got poured into his STI. Raced it as a sports compact. After the police picked over and through his car, they gave it to his mother. What a little gem that car is. Tons of power, plus it starts in all weather, goes through snow, and, being a Subaru, lasts forever.”
“Maybe Nick’s mother will sell it to you.”
A light shone in Harry’s eyes. “Oh, God, to cruise around in a torpedo with four wheels. Ever wonder how you and I wound up being gearheads?”
BoomBoom shrugged. “Actually, no. Remember in our junior year when the boys took over that straight stretch from the old Del Monte plant to the train depot? Two in the morning and all of us stood guard to watch out for the cops.”
“Fab.” Harry grinned.
“What was really fab was, after they all ran their heats, I took out the old Trans Am and just smoked them. Ha.” She slapped her thigh.
“Gallop down Memory Lane.” Pewter, on the bleachers with Mrs. Murphy and Tucker, sniffed.
“Makes them happy.” Tucker lay down, head on paws.
“I suppose, but the dumb stuff they talk about: drag racing, who got their ears pierced—”
“In ancient Egypt, cats had pierced ears and wore gold earrings,” Mrs. Murphy interrupted.
“You’re making that up,” Pewter replied. “Although we were gods—then again, we still are.”
“I’m not making it up. Mom has pictures in one of her history books of a cat statue with earrings.” Mrs. Murphy looked out over the quarter-mile track.
“I wouldn’t want to be a god,” the corgi wisely stated. “You’d never be real, never truly one of the pack. I want to belong to my pack, which”—a long sigh followed this—“I guess is Harry, Fair, and”—another long pause—“you two.”
Mrs. Murphy kissed the dog, licking her nose.
“Cats don’t belong in packs.” Pewter thrust out her chest.
“Well, you can stay by yourself, then,” the tiger quickly said, as she bounded down the bleachers to follow the two women who’d started walking the track.
“Did you know this place was this well organized?” Harry asked the beautiful BoomBoom.
“No. I figured it was just a quarter-mile asphalt strip. Obviously the owners sank some bucks into this.”
Both women observed the Christmas-tree lights for each driver’s lane. The top two were small amber lights; below these in a straight line were three large amber lights, then a green, and last a red light. It really was a mess of lights. A high control tower on the side afforded a clear view of everything. It resembled a small control tower at an airport, except it was built of wood.
“Let’s go peek inside the tower.” Harry ran to the stairs, taking them two at a time. Putting her hands around the edges of her eyes, she peere
d through the window in the door. The tower top was all windows, 360 degrees.
BoomBoom bounded up behind her. “It’s a panel like a big computer keyboard, kinda—headphones with a little speaker on one side, lots of switches. Two seats, so two people work this. The track lights have to be automatic, so they must set them off from up here.”
“Good P.A. system. And those huge clusters of night lights like at baseball games have to cost a fortune!” Harry exclaimed. “Anything electrical, computer-driven, isn’t cheap.”
“How about the salaries? I expect there are people groundside who are connected to the tower. There’s so much potential for danger—I mean, one blown tire as you’re hauling down that track. Can you imagine the cost of the insurance policy?” BoomBoom shook her head.
“When we were in grade school, before all this technology, wasn’t there a death here?”
“Wasn’t at this track but at the old dead-end road near what’s now the Augusta County offices. The car blew up; they couldn’t get the driver out.” BoomBoom grimaced. “Those days it was just guys getting together and racing. The sheriff’s men left them alone, because they weren’t creating traffic problems and the road was abandoned.” She thought a moment. “ ’Course, that eventually caused problems. As the road deteriorated, cracks and potholes appeared. I think that’s why the racers finally left. I don’t know who built this track. Must be successful, though—still here.”
“Coop’s investigating the track, because Nick raced here. So do some other mechanics at ReNu. She’s not much of a gearhead, so she asks me questions. You know what was weird? The first guy who was killed, Walt, had photos of orphan cars with hoods that stretched into next week. Well, draped over engines, hoods, the trunk, or lolling inside those great leather interiors—tops down, of course—were women, uh, tops down.”
Peals of laughter rolled out of BoomBoom. “You’re kidding. Car porn?”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly porn. Think of it more as a deep appreciation of metallic and feminine curves.”
They came back down, the wooden steps reverberating with their footfalls. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker awaited them.
“Would a calendar of naked men and great old cars turn you on?” BoomBoom punched her old buddy on the arm.
The Big Cat Nap Page 10