Sally giggled, a rare sound to his ears. “You do a decent John Wayne.”
“Well, thanks, little lady.” He slid onto the bar stool beside her. “Your dad said you left early to grab a bite to eat since you’d worked through lunch.”
Her smile disappeared. Had she been surprised her father had noticed she’d missed lunch? Joe didn’t understand the family dynamics of the Clay household, but one thing was clear: Sally desperately wanted her father’s love. One day maybe she’d tell Joe the whole story.
Her father’s words echoed in his head. But you ain’t gonna be around. Why did the thought bother him, even more than it had this morning when his boss had called?
“So how’s Grandma?”
“Growing weaker and weaker, she says.”
Sally’s face clouded. “Is she?”
“Nope. Mom says she’s rambunctious as ever when her audience isn’t there, audience being you and me.”
“I see. And what have you decided?”
“Me? No way, lady. The pressure’s on you. I pled my case last night. I’d be proud to escort you as my date to the Derby Ball, where I’ll be delighted to officiate at the ceremonies. What have you decided?”
“Joe, I told you I’ve never been to the Derby Ball.”
“Neither have I. Grandma had better coach me well.”
“You also know I can’t dance.”
“We’ll manage.”
“I can’t wear high heels.”
“Good. Those dangerous things should be government-regulated.”
“So you’re caving in to Grandma?”
Joe placed his hand on her arm. “I’m not inviting you to get Grandma off my back. I’m asking you because you’re the only woman I want to take.”
Sally blinked. Swallowed. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
A reluctant grin pulled at her lips. “Okay, Joe Desalvo. I think I can work it into my busy social calendar.”
Chapter
TWELVE
Sally gripped the edge of the bar. There. She was committed to the ball. Giddy and nervous, she smiled at Joe. His own smile slipped. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s something else I’d like you to make time for, if possible.”
“Must be serious. You look so—so grim.”
Joe shook his head, as if reluctant to continue. “It’s one of Bloom Desalvo’s clients, one missing from the list. I’d like for you to go with me to interview her.”
“Her?”
“Yeah. Ellen Kennedy.”
Ellen Kennedy? Sally vaguely remembered the name. Joe had asked her about it when she’d reviewed the printouts from the classic car customer list. “Right now?”
“Yeah, right now.” He waited as she slid off the stool, then escorted her to his car.
She studied Joe’s profile in the dim interior of his Dodge. His expression gave nothing away. His voice had. Ellen Kennedy. Joe couldn’t hide the tightness in his tone when he said her name. And Sally could no longer hide her curiosity.
“Where’d you come up with the name Ellen Kennedy?”
“Eavesdropping. Vic has a car for her, a Packard. Yet, she’s not on the list and I can’t find her file.” He shrugged. “May mean nothing.”
“If she’s not in the files, how did you come up with her address?”
His lips thinned. “Vic had her phone number jotted on his desk blotter. I did a reverse listing check on the net.”
“A Packard, you say.” She gnawed at her lip. “Leo never brought me a Packard. I didn’t know he was looking for one.”
“Would Dad tell you if he was looking for a particular model car?”
“Usually. If I got a lead, I’d pass on the info to Leo. Come to think of it, he never told me he was looking for a Kaiser Darrin, either. Leo sent work my way, but I hadn’t seen as much of him in the past few months.”
“From what I’ve learned, that’s because that new guy, Dan Alsop, has been handling acquisitions. Both Vic and Barbara confirm that he’s really shrewd at finding great classics in good condition.”
Sally grimaced. He’d certainly put a dent in Mustang Sally’s business. “Such as? Did they give you some examples?”
“Sure. He found a Ford Skyliner, one of the first to come out, that the actor James Dean bought new.”
“James Dean?” Excitement buzzed through her. She was certain the dates were wrong. If only she could remember. “When did he die?”
“I don’t know. Sometime in the fifties. Why?”
“I have a Skyliner in the shop. That model came out in ‘57. Find out when James Dean died.”
“Sure, but the car came with documentation.”
Celebrity ownership was a popular claim in classic cars. It was also the easiest to fake and the most difficult to prove. “Okay, what else did wonder boy find? A Lexus that Elvis drove?”
“Look, Sally, I know you’re upset because Alsop has cost you business, but the man’s innocent until proven guilty.”
She sighed. “You’re right. I’m being petty.”
“Well, maybe this will impress you. He picked up a Tucker in original condition and sold it to Steven Spielberg. There were only fifty made.”
“Fifty-one. Okay, I’m impressed, especially with your knowledge of Tuckers. Thought you didn’t know classic cars.”
“When I was about thirteen or fourteen, Dad took us to see Tucker.”
“Uncle Sal bought the video as soon as it was released.” Before the accident. Back in the days when she and her dad, along with Sal, Maggie and Aunt Susan, were a stock car race family.
“Dad was into orphans.”
Orphans? Joe shouldn’t know the term if he were as clueless as he claimed. Some undercover agent she was, although she’d been thinking too much lately about working with Joe under the covers. “What do you know about orphans?”
“What can I say? I’m a quick study.” Joe’s tone was light, but he wasn’t smiling. He exited the freeway onto Shelbyville Road and headed toward Eastwood. “Impressed?”
“Sure.”
He chuckled. “Don’t be. Mom had to explain orphans to me.”
“You’re right, though. Leo loved to discuss the orphans.”
As traffic thinned, Joe said, “Maybe I should’ve called the woman first.”
“I remember suggesting that,” Sally teased.
“Is that an I-told-you-so?”
“No. I like the element of surprise, myself.” What had gotten into her? Always serious, Sally couldn’t remember when she’d felt so jovial and, well, downright giddy.
Earlier at the Universal Joint, Joe had said I’m asking you because you’re the only woman I want to take. Ever since, she’d been floating. He’d be returning to Atlanta, leaving her heart in pieces. She understood that. She accepted that. But first he’d take her to the Kentucky Derby Ball. He’d give her more than she’d dreamed of experiencing since the accident. He’d give her one magical night.
No one could take that away from her.
They should’ve called first.
Ellen Kennedy stared at Joe when he introduced himself. “Mr. Desalvo’s son?”
“That’s right.”
Then she peered at Sally, as if she thought she should know her. Sally extended her hand. “I’m Sally Clay, of Mustang Sally’s. I do restoration work for Bloom Desalvo and we’re following up to see that the Packard meets your expectations.”
“That’s right, ma’am,” Joe added, following Sally’s lead.
“That’s fast follow-up.” Shaking her head, she invited him and Sally inside her lavish home.
Squeezed between two equally-towering houses as if fighting for position, her split-level contemporary bordered an exclusive golf course. Last time Joe remembered, the development had been a dairy farm.
“It’s amazing how much you resemble your father,” the woman said. “Please accept my condolences.”
“Thank you.”
Joe tried to view the woman
through his father’s eyes. Classy, understated makeup, Ellen Kennedy had shoulder length hair pushed away from her face with a thin scarf. She glided across the floor with perfect grace and poise. Slender, like his mom, she appeared to be about his mother’s age. Pretty. But had his father been tempted?
“I’m pleased with the Packard, by the way.” She folded her manicured hands in her lap.
“It’s everything you expected?” Joe asked.
She smiled. “I don’t know enough about these old cars to tell you.”
“May we look at it?” Sally asked. “I’ll be happy to answer any questions.”
“Certainly. The garage is through the kitchen. Follow me.”
As they stepped inside the cavernous four-car garage, the Kennedy woman flipped on the light, treating them to an orderly and clean space.
“Ah, the Caribbean Convertible.” Sally’s limp had all but vanished as she scurried to the car. “What year is this?”
“According to the registration, it’s a 1954. Isn’t it lovely? Mr. Bloom says these are rare.”
“Yes, ma’am, they are.” Sally nodded at the hood. “May I?”
“Be my guest. I can’t tell you a thing about engines and such. I’ve joined the American Antique Car Association and intend to learn more.”
“That’s a good idea,” Joe said, just to make polite noises. The woman probably knew more than he did about classic cars.
The three circled her Packard, taking in the large, two-door convertible with an elaborate front grill, single rounded headlights, and vintage tail fins.
“After my husband died, I found it so hard to be involved in the activities we shared. We were both doctors, you see.”
“Are you retired now?” Joe asked.
She nodded. “We both retired early. And now I’ve decided I needed a new interest. Your father helped me a lot.”
Joe didn’t want to ask what she meant. Lonely widow, attractive—damn! He didn’t like this line of thought. Sally raised the hood but said nothing. Joe suppressed his eagerness to know what she learned. He’d find out later, on the drive home.
“He helped me decide on a Packard. According to Mr. Desalvo, Packards are good collectibles as well as good investments.”
“They’re orphans, which means they’re no longer manufactured.” Joe allowed himself to be cheered by the fact she didn’t refer to his father as Leo.
“That’s what Mr. Desalvo said. He told me to take my time in finding a good collectible and to have an independent mechanic check it over. He didn’t want to see me taken advantage of. But I knew a reputable businessman like your father would never misrepresent a product.”
Joe nodded. As far as he knew, his father had been scrupulous to the extreme. It’s how he’d raised Joe and his sisters. But Joe hadn’t been around the last ten years, except for special holidays. He didn’t really know his father anymore. And his father’s words during that last phone call haunted him. Your mother can’t help me with this, son.
Sally’s head emerged from the engine. “Mrs. Kennedy, will you be showing this car?”
“Showing? You mean, entering it in some competition? That’s not my intent.”
“Just wondering.” Sally lowered the hood. “Let me give you my card. I’d be honored to maintain this beautiful piece of machinery, when the time comes for a tune-up or repair.”
“I appreciate that.” Accepting the business card for Mustang Sally’s, the woman turned to Joe. “I bought the car to belong, is all.”
“Belong? Oh, to the Antique Car Club.” As the woman ushered them to the door, Joe couldn’t help but think she’d meant more, much more.
During the drive home, Sally seemed preoccupied. The suspense got to him.
“Are you going to tell me?”
Sally shook her head. “I don’t want to say anything until I check my manuals.”
“Manuals?”
“References. I keep ‘em at the shop.”
“Want to go by there tonight?” He didn’t like the idea of taking Sally to the garage at night. What would be waiting for them this time? Another fire? A corpse?
“Not tonight. I’m exhausted. I didn’t get much rest after last night’s work out. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Where will—”
“No you don’t. Tell me what’s bothering you. If it doesn’t check out, no harm done.”
Sally sighed. “Packard made few of the Caribbean Coupe Convertibles, and they’re extremely valuable if all original. But the Packard name isn’t on Ellen Kennedy’s engine. It appears to have been sanded down, then smoothed and painted over. So I took a closer look.”
“And? You don’t think it’s the right motor?”
“Well, I was expecting a larger engine, 359 cubic inches with a four-barrel carburetor. This one had a two-barrel.”
“How can you look at an engine and tell its size?”
“To be sure, I’d have to pull the head and measure the bore. But I can count the number of jets in the carb to know it’s only a two-barrel.”
She’d lost him again, but Joe understood the gist of it. As with the Darrin, his father’s company had sold a collectible as an original—with an engine that wasn’t.
“Here’s the deal, Sally.”
Sally struggled to recognize the voice. She’d answered “Mustang Sally’s” while juggling a bottle of water.
“Uh, Laquita?”
“Right. I know your predicament. Jennifer and Monette filled me in. But I have to do your nails and hair Thursday night, see? Can’t be during the day. I’m booked solid. So you gotta wear gloves to work and keep your fingernails outta grease and oil. Ya hear?”
“Whatever you say.”
“And get you a satin pillowcase to sleep on so you don’t mess up the hair—”
“Uh, Laquita? There isn’t much you can do to the hair. It’s short and—”
“I’m the expert. Let me worry about it. See you at your house at eight. Ya dig?”
“Bless you. I’ll be here. You can double your fee.”
“Not this time, girlfriend. Just pay for the nail polish and we’ll call it even. Jennifer says fuchsia. Later!”
She hung up before Sally could protest. Well, Laquita would need an oil change soon. Sally would pay her back, one way or another. She smiled at the dust motes spinning through her office. Suddenly she’d become The Cause. The Project. Uncle Sal could accuse her of having no social life until Doomsday, but the Universal Joint had given her good friends.
The telephone rang again, this time with Joe Desalvo on the line. “What did you find out?”
Sally sank into her chair, her gaze dropping to the opened Encyclopedia of American Cars. She’d been dreading this conversation with Joe, knowing how bad it looked for his father. “My suspicions were right, Joe. The 1954 Packard Caribbean Coupe Convertible had a straight-eight 359-cubic-inch engine with nine main bearings. All Packard 359s had four-barrel carburetors.”
“Translated, we have another forged engine.”
Sally grimaced. “This is fraud, Joe, and it’s on Bloom Desalvo’s shoulders.”
“I know.” He exhaled a long sigh. “I saw the paperwork, Sally. The woman paid megabucks thinking she was buying a restored-to-original-condition classic.”
“Paperwork? I thought you didn’t find a file.”
“Guess Barbara hadn’t set it up yet. There’s one now.”
More than one file, Sally thought. She knew she had to call Special Agent Ferguson and report her findings, adding to the FBI’s file. She’d agreed to help. As a businesswoman, she was obligated to assist the FBI. So why did she dread making the call?
Worse, what would Joe think of her if he found out she’d been helping to build a case against his father?
As if reading her mind, he added, “At least I know Dad wasn’t involved with this one. Ellen Kennedy took delivery on the Packard yesterday. That’s the good news.”
“Uh oh. That means there’s bad news?” She sank back into her chair
.
“Afraid so. Remember asking me about the actor James Dean?”
“The one you said once owned a fifty-seven Skyliner that Dan Alsop made a buy on?”
“Right. I looked it up. James Dean was killed September 30, 1955.”
After locking up the shop for lunch, Sally drove home and changed into her most decent slacks and sweater. Three days on the job, her dad was proving to be dependable. He seldom spoke to her, or to anyone else who came into the garage, but he worked. He put in as many hours as Roy had, with no complaints. She kept telling herself it was a start. Could he finally be on the road to recovery?
Pushing aside thoughts of her dad, she scrubbed her face and hands to get ready for Roy Bishop’s funeral. Joe had offered to take her to the grave-side service. Gratefully, she’d accepted. She’d yet to talk to Janet, Roy’s widow.
Joe coasted the Dodge to the front of her house, where Sally waited on the stoop. By the time she’d made it to the street, he had the passenger door opened to help her in. Always the gentleman. She knew without a doubt this man couldn’t be a part of anything shady or illegal. Nor could his family. She just hoped the FBI saw it her way.
The service was blessedly short. Sally kept her tears to a minimum. She’d already sobbed her heart out in private over the loss of her friend Roy. Still, Joe’s strong arm across her shoulder steadied her.
“Thank you for doing this with me,” she murmured, as the mourners drifted away from the grave. “I know this isn’t easy for you, so soon after—”
“Shh.” He hugged her gently. “It’s all right.”
“There’s Janet.” Sally walked up to Roy’s widow, stunned to see her wearing a black maternity dress. My God, she was pregnant? She’d had no idea Roy and Janet were expecting. Roy hadn’t said a word.
“Janet, I am so sorry about Roy.”
Janet glared at her, ignored Sally’s outstretched hand. She walked past her without a word. Why was Janet shooting daggers at her? Did she blame Sally for Roy’s death? She had returned none of Sally’s calls. In a way, Sally blamed herself for Roy’s death. She could hardly fault Janet for feeling the same way.
“I guess she’s upset,” Sally murmured.
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