Joe looked closely at his mother as she poured a cup before joining him at the table. Dark crescents beneath her eyes told a different story. His mother was neither chipper nor rested.
“Mom, are you all right?”
Her answering smile collapsed. “I’m surviving.”
“Did you get a chance to go through Dad’s desk yesterday?”
She sighed. “I don’t think I’m ready to do that yet. Maybe next week.”
“I could do it.”
Her eyes brightened. “Oh, would you?”
“If it’ll help, you know I will.”
“I’m looking for any clue—” Her uplifted hand made a swiping motion. “Oh, you know. Anything that will help us understand what happened.”
Joe hesitated. His mom wanted clues pointing to a murder. What if his father’s papers and files supported the case for suicide? “You may not like what I find.”
“Don’t keep anything from me. I can stand the truth.”
Steel was back in her voice, determination back in her eyes. Joe finished his coffee, accepted a refill, while he debated telling her about the counterfeit engine in the Darrin. Another glimpse at the rigid set of her jaw, the eyes that missed very little, and he knew he had no choice.
“I need to talk to you about Dad’s Kaiser Darrin.”
She stared past him and clenched the delicate china cup. “That damned Darrin.”
Curious. Joe gave his mother a quick rundown on the forged serial number plate and the Ford engine, then asked, “What did you mean by ‘that damned Darrin’?”
“The Darrin started the hard feelings between your dad and Vic—”
“Whoa! What hard feelings?” Joe’s mind reeled. “Tell me the whole story.”
“Well, you know how your dad was about orphans—”
“Orphans?” Joe interrupted. Was there no end to what he’d missed by not spending time with his father? Leo Desalvo had three children of his own. A loving, involved father, had he needed more?
“Orphans are cars that are no longer manufactured, like Studebaker, Hudson, or Kaiser. Remember his Hudson Hornet?”
Joe smiled, indulging in a side trip down memory lane. Why his father wanted an old car the size of a boat baffled the thirteen-year-old boy he’d been that summer. “I remember. He sold it and bought that other old car—what was it?”
“A thirty-six Packard,” she said.
“It took him about a year to get it restored.”
“Then he sold it for ten times more than he paid for it, don’t forget. Until then, I thought of his fascination with orphans as a hobby.”
Joe sensed his mother’s need to reminisce, so he didn’t press her. They chatted a few minutes about his dad before she stood, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin. She returned to the table with the coffee decanter.
“I digress.” After refilling their cups, she settled at the table and continued. “Your father had been looking for a reasonably-priced Darrin for months. When Vic found one, he wouldn’t sell it to Leo. He claimed he’d bought it for a client.”
“Did Vic know how badly Dad wanted a Darrin for his collection?”
“Of course he did. That’s what hurt.”
“Then Dad found this Darrin and bought it.”
She harrumphed. “Right. And for this Darrin he paid full price.”
Joe needed time to digest this information. Why would a man in the business of brokering classic automobiles pay full price for the Darrin? And why kill himself after he did?
Things are looking up, Sally thought, as she rose from her office chair. Uncle Sal’s referral brought in his Corvette before Sally had arrived from her rehab visit. Roy had already written up the service order when she arrived. Later, one of Mustang Sally’s repeat customers brought in a 1959 Ford Skyliner for a complete restoration.
Counting the Darrin, three of Mustang Sally’s four service bays held jobs. Sally headed back to finish the Darrin’s tune-up. Roy busied himself with the Skyliner.
She’d had to explain the missing window and the fire as soon as she’d arrived. Roy had seemed troubled. “Do you think someone knows you’re working with the feds?” he asked.
“I don’t think so. I haven’t told a soul about that but you.”
“I know. But the timing seems odd. And it appears the Darrin was the target.”
Roy’s words unsettled her. She didn’t put much stock in coincidences. That’s why she’d described the Toyota Tacoma she’d seen speeding down the street when she’d talked to the police. Could it have been the arsonist’s vehicle?
She measured the gap on six new spark plugs and installed them in the Darrin. Taking a break, she wiped grease from her hands, then wandered over to the cooler where she pulled out two bottles of water. Swigging a long drink from one, she carried the other bottle to Roy.
“This one’s going to be a bitch.” Frowning, Roy slammed the Ford’s trunk.
She handed him the water before straddling one of the work stools. “Why?”
“Finding relays for retractable hardtops is next to impossible. And this one needs relays.”
She ran her fingers through her bangs and sighed. “We’ll just have to try.”
“Yeah.” Roy downed half of his water, then swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Do you mind if I bring Janet’s car here tomorrow to change the oil? It’d be easier if I put it on the lift.”
“Sure. Using the garage when we’re closed is one of the few perks I can give you.”
“I like working here. Wages are the going rate and you don’t breathe down my neck like some bosses.”
Sally laughed. “I guess I’m unaccustomed to being called boss. Just trying to keep up the business.”
Roy drained the bottle of water. “Have you thought about adding a side line for quick oil changes?”
“You mean, like those ten-minute places?”
He nodded. “More and more people, more and more cars—there’s a market, Sally.”
“Okay. Let me think about it.” She’d consider all options before she’d sell her treasured Mustang convertible. She had to admit restoring antique autos limited her customer base. Of course, restoration yielded a lot more profit than maintenance work.
“Is the Darrin finished?” he asked.
“I need to hit it with the timing light. Then it’s out of here.” She slid from the stool, her thoughts on the counterfeit engine. She’d learned nothing so far that would help Special Agent Ferguson. After she finished the Darrin’s tune-up, she’d have no reason to see Joe Desalvo again. Unless—
If she could locate another Willys F head engine, she could restore the Darrin to original condition, qualifying it as an original-condition model. Would he want to invest additional money?
In spite of her initial misgivings, Joe had turned out to be a decent guy. She hugged the memory of his tenderness and concern to her heart, ignoring the little voice warning her to keep her distance.
Joe switched off the cordless telephone and tossed it onto his bed. He’d been thinking about Sally all day. No denying it. And he needed to talk to her about this latest piece of information about Vic Bloom. Why?
That question baffled him. His father’s death didn’t concern Sally. She wasn’t part of his mother’s search for answers. Strictly speaking, Sally was nothing more than Joe’s mechanic. But he knew better. He needed a friend, a confidant. Someone other than family. In a very short time, he had come to view Sally as his friend.
Okay, so he saw her as an attractive woman, too. He hadn’t forgotten how dangerously close he’d been to kissing her last night. She may have wanted it, too, but instinct told him she was afraid. Insecure. After meeting her father, Joe didn’t wonder why. What an insensitive jerk. So Joe’d made his escape before he wound up taking advantage of her vulnerability.
Instinct also told him Sally would shoot straight with him. He didn’t need to interpret every nuance, every phrase for hidden agendas. Her honesty and candor made her
good friend material. Furthermore, he wanted to be her friend, too.
When Sally tuned up the Darrin, he’d have no excuse to spend time with her. That’s why he wasn’t taking chances on her coming to Sunday dinner. He wanted her to meet Nina, and Nina would be at Mom’s tomorrow. He’d go see Sally. Rejecting him in person would be harder than over the phone.
Mustang Sally’s stayed open until five o’clock, giving him ample time for the drive. Pulling a nylon windbreaker over his head, he darted into the rain toward his car. He drove through the community of Anchorage, past the split rail fences and horse barns, then headed west toward Shelbyville Road.
The shortcut through Middle town, another community east of Louisville, took longer than he’d expected. The changes in the past ten years astounded him. What he remembered as shortcut county roads were now congested four-lane parkways. He reached Jeffersontown—J-town to the locals—and turned a block short of Watterson Trail to circle the block.
Joe rolled to a stop in the rear parking lot at Mustang Sally’s. Before he got out, he caught sight of movement at the back door. Was he too late? He slid out, searching the parking lot for signs of Sally. Then he saw her.
Sally waited at the corner to cross Watterson Trail, headed in the direction of the convenience store. Slamming the car door, Joe jogged to catch her. Before he could reach her, the signal changed to WALK. Sally started into the street in her careful, slow gait, her head lowered against the rain.
She couldn’t see the pick-up truck speeding toward the intersection.
Chapter
FIVE
The pelting rain and passing cars drowned out Sally’s heavy breathing as she concentrated on her leg muscles. Thanks to her grueling strength training, her leg grew stronger each week. When rested, Sally could walk at an almost normal pace now. With renewed determination, she indulged in a smug grin as she waited. The Walk light flashed. Checking first left, then right, she moved into the intersection.
The next instant, two strong arms ensnared her, dragging her from the road. What in the world— ? Her heart in her throat, she fought to free herself. She tumbled into the wet grass, pinned down by her brutal assailant. Mugged in J-town? She struggled again to dislodge the attacker, but managed only to dig herself into the gritty mud. Anger replaced fear. She growled at the man, ready for battle, when he suddenly released her.
“Are you all right?”
“Of course I’m not all right, you insane terrorist—”
The woodsy cologne and baritone voice penetrated her scrambled senses. Her heart thudded a frantic tempo against her rib cage. “Joe?”
He’d pulled her to her feet. “I’m sorry I tackled you like that, but it happened so fast—”
“What happened so fast?” She wiped mud from her chin. “Just what are you doing here, anyway?”
Joe nudged her toward the convenience store. “Could we get out of the rain?”
Sally was in no hurry to escape the shower. It rinsed the mud from her clothes and cooled her flushed skin. She warmed from his closeness, although the adrenaline rush from her pseudo-mugging hadn’t helped.
They stopped beneath the overhang at the store’s entrance. Joe kept his voice low. “A pickup truck almost ran you down. He ran the light.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “What? I didn’t see—”
“I know.” He nodded toward Watterson Trail. The tightening around his mouth, his rigid jaw sent shivers of alarm up her spine. “I think it was deliberate.”
“Running the light?”
“Hitting you. The fire, and now this.” His sable eyes bore into her. “Someone means you harm.”
She chewed at her lower lip, unable to deny his logic.
“Look, Sally. Get whatever you came for and let’s get back so we can report this.”
“Report what?” she muttered under her breath. Just because a truck ran a red light didn’t make it attempted murder. Either way, though, she’d be just as dead. Dead? She swallowed against the terrible realization.
Pushing through the door with Joe on her heels, she tried to shake the frightening coincidence of being a victim of both an arsonist and hit-and-run driver. She’d never trusted coincidence before. Her trembling fingers dug through her fanny pack for change. After she paid for her carton of milk, she remembered Joe hadn’t answered her original question. Just what are you doing here, anyway?
“Good thing it’s not a hard rain.” Back at Mustang Sally’s, Joe dried off with paper towels. “Do you want to call the police or shall I?”
Sally’s casual shrug failed to hide her anxiety. “You can. You’re the eye witness.”
Joe nodded. “Okay, I’ll call.”
“And tell them what? That a pickup truck tried to run me down? What make, model, color pickup, Joe? Can you give a description of the driver?”
Straddling one of the work stools, she offered to share the pint of milk with him. He needed a stronger drink than milk, something to dull the tension coiled inside his chest.
“You’re right. We have nothing to give them. But I’ll report it.” He studied her face, where a raspberry-colored bruise marked her chin. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Just sore. And that’s mostly from last night.” She stared at him with troubled eyes. “What’s happening here, Joe?”
Roy Bishop worked two bays down on an old Ford. Joe cut his eyes toward the man. “Let’s talk in your office.”
“Sure. I’d just as soon not worry Roy.”
Joe offered Sally his arm. “Need some help?”
She slid from the stool. “I can manage. By the way, I never did thank you for saving my life.”
Joe chuckled. “No, but you called me an insane terrorist.”
“Sorry. I thought someone was mugging me.” She led him into her office and the folding metal chair. She sank into the chair behind her desk. “A cripple is an easy target.”
Something snapped inside Joe’s gut. “Dammit, Sally, stop referring to yourself as a cripple.”
He instantly regretted the outburst. Seeing Sally almost killed by the truck had robbed him of patience. Or maybe he needed to distance himself after last night’s near-kiss. For whatever reason, he’d lost it. He braced himself for Sally’s angry rebuttal, or at least a defensive remark. An indignant you’re-way-out-of-line, mister. Tears. Anything but a smile.
A genuine, heart-stopping smile. “Self-pity is tiresome, isn’t it?”
“It’s more like self-deprecation.” He shook his head. “Why do you do it?”
“The best defense is an offense.” She scrunched her shoulders, then released them, a movement that almost passed as a shrug.
“You expect comments about your leg, so you just beat people to the punch?”
She nodded, gnawing at her bottom lip—her rich, dewy lip. The nervous gesture conjured up erotic visions he struggled to ignore.
“But you’re right,” she said. “I can’t expect others to see me as a normal woman until I see myself as normal and whole. I’m working on it.”
“You are a whole woman, Sally. And an amazing one, too.” And intriguing. And sexy. Ooh, boy. “Uh, so how are you working on it?”
“Do you really want to talk about this?” She gave him a puzzled smile.
“Why not?”
“I thought we were going to discuss why anyone would want to burn up the Darrin or my garage or put tire tracks across my back.”
“You’re right. Let me call the cops.”
He punched in 9-1-1 from her desk phone, then reported the attempted hit-and-run.
Later, while they waited for the patrol car to arrive, Joe returned to the subject of Sally’s fitness program, hoping it would lead her to talk about her injury. Right now he wanted—no, needed—to know what made Sally Clay tick. He hadn’t succeeded in understanding his attraction to her. His life had become entangled with hers in a short time, even though he didn’t need entanglements.
“Last night you said you work out, a
nd it shows. Is that part of your program to see yourself as normal and whole?”
“Yeah. You know how a blind person develops her other senses to compensate for the missing one? Well, I do that with my leg. I have severed muscles that will never work, but I also have good ones. I work the good muscles extra hard to compensate for the missing ones. It’s aggressive physical therapy beyond what the doctors recommended.”
In other words, the doctors had given up and the insurance company wouldn’t authorize payment for continued therapy. His family had experienced that dilemma, too, with Nina’s years of therapy and treatment. Sally would exhaust every avenue before accepting defeat. “You’re missing the point, though.”
She pursed her lips. “Which is?”
“You’re trying to fix what’s wrong so you’ll feel worthy. I’m saying you’re worthy now, if only you’d stop crippling yourself.”
Unconvinced eyes stared back at him. “What makes you the psychologist?”
“I’m no psychologist, Sally, but I’m a brown belt.”
“Karate?” Furrows deepened across her forehead. “You’ve lost me.”
“Tai Kwon Do.” Balancing on the chair’s back legs, he leaned it against the wall. “One semester we were signing up new students. An overweight freshman asked me all sorts of questions at orientation, clearly wanting to join the class. But she held back, saying she’d have to lose weight before she enrolled.”
“Did she? Lose weight, I mean?”
He shook his head. “No. Master asked her why she thought overweight people hadn’t the right to defend themselves. Two years later, she beat my butt in a tournament, and still outweighed me by several pounds.”
Sally laughed. “Good for her.”
“And now I’m asking you: Why would you think a person with an injured leg deserves less than anyone else?”
Her eyes narrowed, her nostrils flared, reminding him of a filly during a thunderstorm. “I don’t think that!”
“Okay.” He held out supplicating hands. “I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn.”
“You do have a point.” She sighed, the fire in her eyes abating. “My life’s a lot more complicated than you know. And I’m not going into it.”
Restore My Heart Page 6