Restore My Heart

by Cheryl Norman

  “No excuse for rudeness. Where to now?” Joe asked, helping her to the car. “Lunch?”

  Sally banished the disturbing encounter with Janet to the back of her mind. “I’ll take a rain check, Joe. I need to get back to work.”

  “Dinner, then?”

  “I work out tonight. It’d have to be after that, and someplace super casual.”

  He opened the passenger door for her. “Mazzoni’s again?”

  She slid into the car. “You know my weakness. How can I refuse?”

  “There’s more.” She waited while he rounded the car, then scooted behind the wheel. “I have another favor to ask.”

  “What is it?”

  “I want to do some snooping around Dan Alsop’s place. No breaking and entering, just prowling. Are you game?”

  Sally shook her head no. “Are you kidding? In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a slow mover. If you had to make a run for it, I’d only slow you.”

  “I’m not planning anything dangerous. I’d just like to see where the guy lives, get a feel for his set-up. You’d know more about what to look for.”

  “Look for? What are you thinking?”

  “Well, wouldn’t he have to have some kind of building or garage to modify engines, grind off engine numbers, stuff like that?”

  “You’ve made quite a leap, Joe, from innocent until proven guilty to let’s find evidence.”

  Joe started the engine. “I’m running out of time. Mom thinks Dad was murdered. We know Roy was murdered, and somebody shot at me. You were nearly run over by a speeding truck. I don’t believe in coincidence.”

  Running out of time? He must be thinking about returning to Atlanta. Of course. She knew he’d not be around forever. Joe Desalvo, handsome financial wizard, probable ladies’ man, wasn’t a forever kind of guy. She’d always known that.

  “I want to get to the bottom of this, too. I want to nail the sucker who killed Roy if it’s the last thing I do,” she said, remembering the pain and hatred in Janet Bishop’s eyes.

  Back at Mustang Sally’s, Justin scowled as Sally entered the service area. “Did you go home to change?”

  “I had to. Why?”

  “Alone?”

  Sally fought a smile. “No, Dad. Joe waited with me until I got safely into my car.”

  “Good.” He spun on his heel and returned to the engine stand, where he’d pulled the Corvette’s engine. He removed the head bolts.

  “Want me to help move the heads to the work bench?” Sally asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Sally snapped on a pair of chemical-resistant nitrile gloves, then moved to the back side of the V-8 engine. With her dad at the front, she grabbed a rocker arm and lifted the first head from the block. They hoisted it to the worktable, where he could remove the valves. Working together, they moved the other head.

  She pulled off one glove to grab a shop towel, then patted perspiration from her face.

  “Thanks,” her dad mumbled, then turned to the work bench.

  Sally returned to the carburetor she’d been rebuilding before she’d left for Roy’s funeral. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but her dad seemed more energetic than he’d been in years. Could it be the work? He’d once loved cars. Had he begun to heal?

  Joe studied the address he’d scribbled on the sticky note. Dan Alsop, according to the accounts payable file he’d accessed at Bloom Desalvo’s, lived across the county line in Taylor County. Few of the rural homes displayed house numbers.

  After three passes down the narrow county road, Sally called out, “There it is.”

  Joe pulled onto the shoulder and stopped. “It’s dark. I think no one’s home.”

  “Don’t park here. Pull down to that closed gas station and park. We’ll walk.”

  “It’s too far for you.”

  “Do it. We don’t need to arouse suspicion.”

  She had a point. The last thing he’d need is for a neighbor to call the cops. In isolated areas, neighbors could be too vigilant. “I don’t plan to get too close. He may have a Rottweiler.”

  “Great. You have your flashlight?” She held up her small Maglite.

  “Yes. We’ll take yours for light, mine to knock out the dog.”

  A few minutes later, Joe led Sally down the sloping driveway of an old frame house. The driveway led to the garage, located in the basement. Joe studied the wooden garage door.

  “Locked.”

  “Hey,” Sally whispered. “You said no breaking and entering, remember?”

  “I know. Shine your flashlight into the window. I’ll peek inside.”

  The windows were too high for Sally to see, but she managed to hold the light for him. Stretching, Joe peered into the shadows. “Good girl. Hold it steady.”

  “Tell me what you see.”

  “I see a bunch of books, like in your office at Mustang Sally’s. And, uh, some kind of press. A metal press, I think, with sheets of blank metal. Aluminum, maybe?”

  “Engine plates. He’s stamping out fake engine plates.” The flashlight’s beam danced with Sally’s excitement.

  “Hold the light still. I see—” Joe stretched, staring into the dim interior. “There’s an old typewriter, pans like you’d see used in film developing—”

  “For faking documentation. What else?”

  “Nothing, except some tools, like some of yours.”

  “Hurry. I hear a car on the road.”

  “That’s all I can make out with the flashlight.”

  The approaching car’s headlights swept the yard. Sally flicked off the flashlight. “It’s turning in here, Joe. We have to hide.”

  Chapter

  THIRTEEN

  Joe grabbed Sally around the waist, lifting her as he backed beside the wall. “Be very still.”

  Sally pressed against him so close he felt her hammering heart against his arm. Or was that his pulse, drumming inside his head? What the hell were they doing? What had begun as a peek at Dan Alsop’s lair had turned into trespassing. Alsop could have them arrested as prowlers.

  Sally didn’t move, didn’t even breathe. Joe was holding his own breath, straining to hear, while he squinted into the darkness to watch. The slamming of a door covered Joe’s sudden gulp for air. A lone man climbed from a pickup truck. He headed up the wooden steps to the back door on the main floor of the house. Go inside.

  But the guy halted on the steps. Had he spotted them? Joe pressed deeper into the shrubbery, again holding his breath. Sally froze against him. The man backed down the stairs, his steps growing louder as he crossed the driveway. Closer. After an interminable minute, he returned to the stairs. He climbed the steps, then disappeared inside the house.

  Joe’s heartbeat steadied, his breathing kicked in again. Sally exhaled, her warm breath a whoosh across his arm. He helped Sally up the driveway. They stuck to the edge, hiding in the shadows. Good thing Dan Alsop, or whoever, hadn’t lingered outside or carried out his trash.

  And didn’t have a Rottweiler.

  “Close call,” Sally murmured as they drove toward Jeffersontown. “I’m not cut out for detective work.” Or criminal trespass.

  “Can’t say that I am, either. I nearly went into cardiac arrest when that truck pulled in the driveway.”

  Sally puzzled over Joe’s observations. If what he’d seen had been forging equipment for engine plates and documentation, they might be able to link Dan Alsop to Ellen Kennedy’s Packard. “We need to get inside.”

  “What? Are you crazy?”

  “Okay, not us, but the authorities. I bet an expert could match the keys on that old typewriter to the documentation showing James Dean’s ownership of that Skyliner.”

  “What, exactly, do you mean by documentation?” Joe asked.

  Sally shook her head. He really didn’t know squat about his father’s business. “A copy of a bill of sale, with the original purchaser’s name, a notarized copy of a title, or a license receipt. Those can all be forged and made to look aged.”

&n
bsp; “I don’t even know who bought that James Dean car, or if it was handled through Bloom Desalvo.”

  “How about linking that metal press to the forged engine plate on your Kaiser Darrin?”

  “We’re in over our heads, Sally. Law enforcement knows how to collect evidence so it stands up in court. What good is it if we prove Dan Alsop is counterfeiting classic cars if he doesn’t go to jail?”

  “Think about this, Joe. We’re not just concerned with a scam here. We’re trying to find out who’d kill to cover their tracks. Doesn’t it make sense that if I thought of tying Dan Alsop to the Darrin, he thought of it, too? That’s why the Darrin and anyone who can testify that it was misrepresented when sold would have to be eliminated.”

  “Eliminated.”

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense of all that’s happened.” The logic did nothing to calm the rolled oyster churning in her stomach. “We can’t depend on the local authorities. It takes time getting search warrants and gathering evidence.” Just like that FBI agent. Adam Ferguson had told her to drop out of it, to let him handle it now, but where was he?

  “What can we do? I told you I won’t do anything dangerous.”

  “Unfortunately, we’re in danger either way. So why not take the offensive?”

  “I don’t like what you’re suggesting. Let’s give the cops a chance first.”

  “Meanwhile, we’re still targets.”

  “You’re tired. Why don’t you sleep on this and we’ll discuss it tomorrow after work.”

  “Tomorrow after work. I have to be home by eight.”

  “Or you’ll turn into a pumpkin?”

  Sally grinned in spite of her anxiety. “Just the opposite. My friend Laquita is a beautician. She’s going to try to turn me into Cinderella before the ball.”

  Joe pulled up in front of the house, then killed the motor. Leaning toward her, his arm on the back of her seat, he murmured, “That won’t be much of a stretch.”

  “Thanks, Joe.” Sally needed only to turn her head a few inches before her lips would be against his. Heat suffused her body. “I—I promise I won’t embarrass you tomorrow night.”

  “Look at me.” His finger tilted her face to his. “It never crossed my mind, Sally Clay. I wish you’d take my word for it. You’re a desirable woman.”

  His breath warmed her face. His lips followed, gentling against her mouth in the most tender of kisses.

  The next few minutes passed in a fog. With Joe’s help, she made it to her door, then inside. So dazed from his kiss she couldn’t remember what she said to him, she sobered at his parting words.

  “Watch your back.”

  Thursday morning, Joe poked his head through the door to Vic Bloom’s office. Vic scowled at a sales contract until he noticed Joe. Recognition instantly transformed his face into a relaxed smile.

  “Got a minute?”

  “Sure, Joey. Come on in.”

  Joe took one of the two vinyl chairs usually reserved for customers. Except for the overflowing ashtray, Vic’s desk was tidy and clean. His office exuded a professionalism sadly lacking in the man’s own appearance.

  It hadn’t always been so. Joe remembered a younger Vic Bloom, dashing and slick in his business suits and wing-tipped shoes. He’d bought himself and Leo copies of John Malloy’s Dress For Success about the time Joe started high school. Joe still had his dad’s copy.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  Joe cleared his throat, unsure where to begin. “I wanted to talk to you about the classic car division, Vic.”

  “What about it?”

  “Barbara says you’re growing that side of the business. Mom hasn’t really gotten involved with it yet, but I need to bring her up to speed.”

  “Actually, that side of the business is going great. We’ve brokered a fair number of high price deals lately.”

  “Really? Sally Clay says her restoration business with Bloom Desalvo has declined, so I’d wondered.”

  Vic shrugged. “Haven’t needed much restoration work. Like I told you last week, we’re getting some great finds since we hooked up with Dan Alsop.”

  “So you said. How well do you know Dan?”

  “Never heard of him before, but Barb met him in night school. She’s the one introduced us, but Leo wanted to hire him.”

  “That’s what puzzles me. Why? Dad loved that part of the business.”

  “I know, I know.” Vic lit up a smoke. “All I can say is your dad was winding down. He’d started wanting more time off, more time with the grandchild. I think he was looking to retire early, at least that was my impression before—”

  An awkward silence hung between them. Joe knew what Vic had been about to say. Before Leo blew his brains out. Vic coughed.

  “That’s all right, Vic. I’m just trying to get a feel for where Mom fits in now.”

  “She’s the office manager. You were right about her, you know?”

  “You mean about being ready to come to work?”

  “I mean about having the management skills. She’s an asset already, Joey. Even taking time off to see about her mother in the hospital, she’s been handling business.”

  “That’s great.”

  “We like having her around. Barb says she’s a real help.”

  “What about Dan Alsop? Is he worth his price?”

  “Dan ain’t salaried.” Vic’s cigarette hung from his mouth. “He works strictly off commission. We’re lucky he hooked up with us.”

  “No complaints on any of his deals?” Joe slid the question in casually, watching Vic’s face for a reaction.

  A trace of irritation flickered, just a hint of discomfiture. Joe would’ve missed the tightening around the mouth if he hadn’t been studying Vic’s face. The man quickly recovered his poise, but Joe had struck a nerve. He knew it.

  “Heck, no. Only praise for the man. I just hooked him up with a lady who’d been searching for a Packard. She’s happy with the deal.”

  “Ellen Kennedy?”

  “How’d you—”

  “Barbara said she’d been working with my dad.”

  This time, Vic failed to mask his discomposure. “She had no business telling you about that.”

  “About what, Vic?” Joe leaned into Vic’s desk, crowding his space. “I need to know the truth.”

  “We may never know the truth.” Vic shook his head, stubbed out his cigarette, then sighed. “The Kennedy woman wouldn’t leave Leo alone. She insisted on speaking only with him when she dropped in, which was frequent. Sometimes—sometimes she’d still be here when we locked up for the night.”

  “So you think they were having an affair?” Joe forced the words.

  “I don’t know. She sure had a thing for him. Anybody could see that.” Vic shook his head. “Leo never had eyes for any woman but Lucinda. I figured it was a one-sided crush until—”

  “Until Dad’s suicide,” Joe finished.

  Bleakness filled Vic’s eyes. “Yeah.”

  “And you and Barbara think that guilt over infidelity led my father to put a gun in his mouth?”

  “If I thought that,” Vic paused to stick another cigarette between his lips. “I’d personally strangle the Kennedy woman.”

  Sally arrived at Mustang Sally’s later that morning.

  “Thanks for opening up, Dad. I mean, Justin.”

  “No problem.” Justin rolled his mechanic’s creeper from beneath the Chrysler 300. “You’re all gussied up.”

  “I’m going to the Fillies’ Derby Ball tonight.”

  “Desalvo takin’ ya?”

  “Yes. Joe’s grandmother is a Filly. Which reminds me, I’ll be leaving a bit early today, too. Hope you don’t mind closing again.”

  Justin gave her a quick nod. “No problem. What time is he picking you up?”

  “Six-thirty.”

  “I’ll be home before you leave.”

  With that, he disappeared beneath the vintage Chrysler, leaving Sally flabbergasted. He’d acted almost�
�interested. Like a father. With his monotone and expressionless features, though, who could tell?

  Sally gave in to a smile as she limped toward the office. She grabbed nitrile gloves from the dispenser in the counter to protect her manicure, a concession she’d made to Laquita. She’d vetoed fake acrylic nails, though. No way the proprietor of Mustang Sally’s would be caught wearing those long claws. Besides, how could she reach inside a carburetor? Working today wearing gloves would be awkward enough, but at least her nails looked uniform. And clean. And very fuchsia.

  She had no idea what finishing touches Monette and Jennifer had in store for her. For so long the tomboy, Sally had done little primping in her life. After the accident, her appearance had mattered even less. She focused on her health, fitness, and skills as a mechanic. It surprised her now, at age twenty-seven, to discover the fun side of primping.

  Settling behind her desk, she pulled open the tummy drawer, rummaging for the flyer with Special Agent Ferguson’s phone number. She’d been procrastinating enough. Swallowing, she picked up the receiver. In deference to her manicure, she punched out the numbers with the eraser end of her mechanical pencil.

  Sally identified herself and brought the special agent up to date, including the suspicious contents of Dan Alsop’s garage.

  “Ma’am, you’ve been a big help, but drop your amateur investigation at once. I can’t allow you to put yourself at risk.”

  “Can you get a search warrant for Dan Alsop?”

  “Are you willing to offer expert testimony that an automobile he brokered had been misrepresented?”

  “Yes, sir, I am. I’ll cooperate any way I can. I don’t know if Alsop’s the killer. But somebody killed Roy Bishop in my place of business for the photos I took for you of the Darrin’s engine.”

  “You don’t know that for sure.”

  “Yes, I do. I just can’t prove it.” She held up her gloved hand, as if Ferguson could see the gesture. “I know. You have to have evidence. Well, we still have the Darrin.”

  “Where?”

  “Joe Desalvo has it hidden in the next county in a horse barn.”

  “Did you see it there? Or are you taking Desalvo’s word for it?”