by Sandra Balzo
'Sure.' He gave me a peck back. 'Just got a lot on my mind. I'll call you tomorrow.'
'How about dinner then?'
Another hesitation. 'I'll let you know.'
'Great.' I wound my hand through the strap on my bag, not sure what to do.
There had been a distinct change in the atmosphere of the room. Had I done something to push the sheriff over the cliff? Asked one too many questions? Tripped over one too many bodies?
Or was Pavlik just, like the old joke goes, 'sick of my shit'.
I didn't want to ask, but I knew I'd drive myself crazy if I didn't. 'You said everything was OK. Did you mean with you, or did you mean with us?'
'Both.' He took a step toward me and drew me into his arms. This time when we kissed, it felt like we meant it.
Pavlik moved me back, hands on my shoulders so we could be face to face. Or as near as possible. Pavlik is considerably taller than I am. My head fits perfectly on his chest for slow-dancing.
I looked up at him. 'We're fine?'
He smiled and his eyes flared blue. 'We're better than fine.'
'So what happened?' I knew I hadn't imagined it. God knows I'd imagined enough things to appreciate the difference.
Pavlik sighed. 'I can't go into specifics, but I think you should keep an eye on Sarah. I said no to our having dinner because it would free you up to see her.'
'So I guess I should have asked if Sarah is OK.'
'You told me yourself that she's not, remember?' He gave me a playful shake. 'She cried today.'
He was right. Sarah was not herself and I knew it, no matter how much she tried to hide it. And the really worrisome thing was that she wasn't trying to hide it anymore.
'A cry for help,' I said and then felt myself blush. 'Sorry, a little dramatic.'
'But maybe not inaccurate.' He squeezed me again and then released me. 'Go get Sarah. She shouldn't be alone.'
'She won't be.' I turned around at the door. 'She'll have yours truly.'
'Leave me alone,' Sarah growled as she stomped past me, her shoes making slapping noises on the marble floor of the chair-lined lobby where I'd been waiting
I trailed after her. 'I'm just trying to help.'
Sarah turned to face me. 'Help? All I asked you to do is call Mario and you couldn't even pull that off. I don't need your help, Maggy. I need my car. Or whatever's left of it.'
'Triple-A was there," I said. "The tow truck is probably pulling the Firebird off the porch as we speak. I didn't think Mario--'
'That's right,' Sarah snapped. 'You didn't think. Nobody touches my car but Mario.'
Assuming no psychic link, I didn't quite see how Sarah could know I hadn't called her mechanic. I didn't bother to ask, though, since we were already drawing the attention of everybody waiting in the lobby as well as the uniformed and armed sheriff's deputy behind the desk. I put my hand on Sarah's back in an attempt to guide her outside.
'Don't touch me," she said, smacking my hand away and, thankfully, heading for the door. 'I've had enough of that to last a lifetime.'
'You mean when you were searched?' I was just following her now, trying not to say the wrong thing. At least until we were safely off the premises.
'Searched? Yes, searched. Twice. And ordered to stand here, sit there, turn right, then left, face the camera, get fingerprinted.' She stopped just outside the door and held up a shaky hand to show me her blackened pads. 'I have to get this ink off.'
Poor Sarah. The invasion of her personal space--the radius of which was already twice that required by most people--seemed to freak her out more than the accusation of drug possession.
I started to put my hand on her shoulder again, but caught myself. Instead, I dug through my bag and handed her a small bottle.
'Waterless hand-cleanser?' She unscrewed the cap and worked the liquid into her hands. Didn't do much for the ink, but the process seemed to make her feel better. 'Where did you get this? Steal it from Christy?'
'Hey, she's not the only one who's hygienic.'
Sarah re-capped the bottle and squinted at the label. '"Good until October ninety-nine?"'
I snatched the cleanser away from her. "This stuff doesn't go bad."
'Says you,' Sarah said, thankfully sounding less shaky. 'It's probably "Bacterial Cleanser" now.'
'Instead of anti-bacterial? Cute.'
Truth was, the stuff had probably been in my handbag since I worked in the health room of Eric's grade school. Not the same handbag, you understand. The contents of the old got dumped into its successor, with the bags getting progressively larger to accommodate. Finding stuff was akin to an archeological dig. I didn't delve too deep, lest I stumble on the primordial ooze at the bottom.
We had reached the parking lot and Sarah looked around.
'My Escape is next to the tree over there,' I said, indicating the vehicle.
'I don't need a ride. Ronny's across the way getting our building permits.' Sarah cocked her head. 'And why are you being so nice?'
'Trying to be nice,' I corrected. 'You're not exactly making it easy. And how do you know Ronny's here?'
'He told me when I telephoned him. The accused does get to make one call, you know.'
I was hurt. 'And you didn't think of me?'
'Just the opposite. No answer. There should be a profane message on your voicemail. I'm just lucky they let me contact Ronny after you couldn't be bothered. He was still with the Firebird and he,' her eyes were shooting darts, 'didn't even know anything about Mario.'
Stoolie. Deciding that pretense was the best defense, I dropped the cleanser back into my handbag and unearthed my cellphone. 'I don't know why I wouldn't have answered.' I pushed the volume button on one side of the flip-phone. 'Damn, I forgot. I set the thing on "vibrate" when I went to see Pavlik. I don't know why I didn't feel it, though.'
Sarah gestured at my tote-sized accessory. 'In Santa's sack of toys? You should put the phone somewhere you'll notice, like a clothes pocket.'
'My jeans are too tight,' I said. 'It'd ruin the lines.'
'Then your bra. That's what a lot of women do.'
I looked down at my breasts. 'Within ten steps, the thing would fall through, hit the ground and shatter into—'
'Fine.' Sarah turned away. 'I told you where to stick it.'
And right back at you, dear friend and business partner.
Something in motion caught my eye. 'Look. It's Ronny.' I pointed across the parking lot.
Sarah's cousin was just coming out of the county administration building. Sarah hailed him and he came over to us.
'They sprung you, huh?' He gave Sarah a hug.
Sure. Him, she didn't hit.
'Had to,' Sarah said. 'They didn't find cocaine in my system.'
'How about biscuit flour?' I asked.
'Biscuit flour?' Ronny seemed lost.
'Yes,' I said. 'That's what I think was in the Firebird. Biscuit flour from Art Jenada's hands or clothes.'
I turned to Sarah. 'Don't you remember he was covered with it?'
'I don't remember much after seeing my baby . . .' Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat, 'the Firebird on the porch.'
Ronny unlocked his car door. 'What I can't figure out is how it landed where it did.' 'You think this was done on purpose?' I asked.
He looked uncomfortable. 'Sorry to pile-on, ladies. It just seems like there've been a bunch of accidents. Don't you wonder if they're related?'
'Somebody murdered my car on purpose?' Sarah's eyes were saucers. Hell, make that dinner plates.
'Let's not jump to conclusions.' I couldn't believe I was the voice of reason here. It showed you what a low bar had been set for me.
'But Ronny's right,' Sarah said. 'We talked about this, Maggy. First Kornell is hit by a train. Then the clock's ripped off the station wall, followed by the front railing failing. Now, now,' a sob rose in her throat, 'this.'
She sniffled.
I didn't dare tease her about the 'railing failing' rhyme. And
I couldn't stand to see Sarah cry again. It was like the hundred-year storm. Once in a lifetime is more than enough.
Besides, commiserating wouldn't help. But maybe action could. 'Fine. Say you two are right. Then maybe we should find out who's targeting us and why.'
Ronny looked surprised. 'We should find out? What about the police?'
'Aww, we don't need them.' Sarah was getting into the spirit. 'Maggy and I have gotten good at this.'
'We have.' I felt like a young Judy Garland encouraging a little Mickey Rooney to 'Put on a show!' 'Besides, the police will just slow us down.'
'They're too stodgy,' Sarah agreed, 'what with evidence and all.'
From Ronny, 'We don't need evidence?'
'Gut feeling is more important.' Sarah said. 'Intuition. We know the people involved. We can do this. Someone wants to stop us and we're not going to let them.'
It was the most enthusiastic I'd seen Sarah in a long time. Actually, it was the most enthusiastic I'd ever seen her.
Which in itself was cause for worry.
Still, if the thought of tracking down the vandals buoyed Sarah as she dealt with the Firebird, I was all for it.
'I'm in,' I said, turning to Ronny. 'But what about you? Still willing to continue with the work?'
'You betcha.' Ronny was nodding.
Well, what do you know? We were going to put on a show.
Fifteen minutes later, we were back at the train station, staring at Sarah's car.
The Firebird had been lifted off the porch and left sitting cockeyed in the driveway between the depot and the florist shop next door.
The poor vehicle faced us, one front tire blown, hood crumpled, paint crackled. The Firebird's black bumper, minimal in the first place, was hanging lopsided like a glued-on mustache that had half come loose. The right headlight was popped out, hanging by its wiring.
Sarah and I observed a moment of silence before she heaved a sigh. 'It's a metaphor for life, isn't it? We start out a sports car and end up a cross between Bride of Chucky and Groucho Marx.'
'Amen,' I agreed. 'Though I'm hoping to avoid the mustache.'
'You saw the coots back in the nursing home.' Sarah was still staring at the Firebird. 'You live long enough, hair grows everywhere.'
'We both have a few years before needing to worry about that.' Not that the thought wouldn't wake me up at three a.m. screaming in terror. 'I'm surprised they didn't tow the car away to the jun--.' I stopped, but not fast enough.
Sarah glared at me. 'You were going to say "junkyard",'
'I was not,' I lied. 'I'm sure the Firebird can be repaired.'
The dangling headlight picked that moment to fall. It hit the ground and rolled, ending up near our feet.
Sarah looked down at it. 'I think not.'
'Really?' It was unlike her to give up. 'What about Mario?'
'Even Mario can't work miracles. Besides, we had a good run. It's time for him to help others.'
'Mario?' Geez, did she have this guy on personal retainer?
Sarah looked at me like I was crazy. 'No, of course not. The Firebird.'
Now she was spooking me. 'How can it . . . he do that?'
'As a donor.' She picked up the headlight and cradled it in the crook of her arm.
I was almost afraid to ask. 'Umm, you mean like an organ donor?'
'Don't be stupid.' Sarah gestured at the car and, as if on cue, the bumper fell completely off. 'It's a car, Maggy. It doesn't have organs.'
The Sarah I knew and feared was back. Be careful what you wish for. 'So you're going to donate the car to a charity?'
'Of course not,' she said, looking offended. 'Don't you know they would just junk him?'
'All right. So what are you going to do?'
'You'll see.' Sarah held up one finger and then proceeded to dig out her cellphone.
As she punched in a number--as in single digit, so whoever she was calling must be on speed-dial--I wandered over to the porch where Ronny was surveying the damage left in the wake of the car.
'How bad is it?' I asked as I picked my way up the steps.
He was on his hands and knees, face through the hole created by the tire. At the sound of my voice he jumped and banged his head on one of the ragged boards.
'I'm so sorry,' I said, 'I didn't mean to startle you.'
'That's OK,' Ronny said, rubbing the spot ruefully. 'I'm pretty tough, despite the way I dress.' He straightened his sweater, which had swung around again.
I had a hunch he was tough because of the way he dressed. 'Are you sure you're not bleeding? Those boards were sharp enough to blow a tire.'
'Nope, no blood.' He held up his hand to show me. 'Besides, the tire wasn't punctured. The tow-truck driver deflated it. Easier to pull the car off that way.'
I guessed it made sense, as in easier to draw a limp balloon out of a hole than an inflated one.
'Did you find any structural damage?' I asked. I was hoping the answer would be no. If there were problems with the integrity of the building, the project was in trouble, given the September first deadline looming.
'That's what I was checking out.' Ronny motioned toward the hole. 'The car just took out some planks. It didn't damage the building, or even the deck posts.'
I let my breath out. 'Well, that's good news.' I turned to summon Sarah and found her right behind me.
'No, no,' she was saying into the phone. 'I won't hear of it. You've been so kind to us all these years.'
She listened for a moment. Then, 'I'm just glad that something good can come of this. We'll be here waiting for you.'
Sarah flipped the phone closed. 'His passenger-side door is going to a sixty-year-old man with a blue Firebird. They'll have to paint him to match, of course.'
I was going to ask if she was talking about painting the man or the Firebird, but that would be petty. Besides, Sarah was getting misty.
She swiped at her eyes and pushed on: 'Both rear tail lights are going to a Milwaukee family for their son's car. It's a birthday surprise.' She smiled through the tears. 'I'm so glad they won't be split up.'
I heard Ronny say something that sounded suspiciously like 'parts is parts'.
'Me, too,' I draped my arm over Sarah's shoulder and gave Ronny a warning look. 'Who's . . . making the arrangements?'
A choking noise from Ronny. 'Sorry,' he said. 'Frog in my throat. I'd better get some water.'
As he ducked into the station's doorway, Sarah answered my question. 'Mario.' She sniffed. 'It will be his last duty for us.'
'Don't be silly,' I said. 'You'll have other cars. And Mario will take care of them, too.'
'You think?' Sarah asked wistfully.
What I thought was that she was going off the deep end and I wasn't far from following her. 'I don't think, I know. What we have to do now, though, is to look forward. One, get the depot ready for opening. And two, make sure that whoever is doing this to us is stopped.'
'You're right.' Sarah balled her hand into a fist and shook it over her head in defiance. 'As God is my witness, I'll never—'
'That's enough of the dramatics, Cuz,' Ronny said from the doorway. 'Snap out of it.' He handed her the glass of water he was carrying.
She drank half of it and set the glass down. 'OK.'
I looked at her quizzically. 'OK?' I turned to Ronny. 'That's all I had to do?'
'Pretty much.'
'We Kingstons weren't molly-coddled,' Sarah admitted. '"Straighten up and fly right," my father used to say.'
My friend might be selling her family mantra, but I wasn't sure even she herself was buying it.
No matter, though. At least Sarah wasn't channeling Scarlett O'Hara anymore.
Ronny leaned out on the deck to get a better view of the Firebird. 'Did you ever tell us where you parked?'
'Up there.' The raised area Sarah indicated was the high, gravel-covered spot I'd noticed earlier. It was directly across the street from us.
'I won't ask you why.' Ronny looked back and forth, f
orth and back. 'I guess the Firebird could have simply rolled down the hill and across the street.'
'But would the car gain enough speed coasting to land on the deck?' I asked. 'We're four feet up.'
Ronny nodded to the street in front of us. 'If the tires hit the curb just right, I guess the vehicle could have gone airborne.'
'Did you set the parking brake?' I asked Sarah.
'Of course I did,' she said indignantly.
'I'm just asking because usually I don't.' South-eastern Wisconsin is pretty flat. Then again, Sarah's car hadn't needed a San Francisco-style hill to ski-jump on to the porch.
She folded her arms. 'Well, I always do.'
'Maybe a better question,' Ronny said. 'Did the parking brake work?'
I could practically see Sarah's hackles rise. 'Mario kept my baby in perfect condition. I set the brake. This is not our fault.' She said it like she was trying to reassure not only herself, but the mortally wounded car squatting in the driveway.
'Of course it isn't,' I was quick to reassure her. 'Now when you backed the Firebird in, did you see anyone hanging around?'
'I didn't—'
'No one, huh?' I mused. 'Not Christy or Art or anybody.'
Sarah just about shouted. 'Look, I didn't—'
'You don't have to get mad,' I said, feeling a little dig. Here I was trying to help and—
Sarah clamped both hands on my shoulders, shaking me. 'Will you let me finish? I did not back the car in.'
En masse, we turned to look at the magic Firebird.
Ronny voiced what I believed everybody was thinking. 'Then how in the hell did it turn itself around?'
Chapter Eighteen
The answer, of course, was that it hadn't.
'Someone must have started the car, pulled it out and then backed in,' I said.
'First of all,' Ronny said, 'how could they start the car?'
I turned to Sarah. 'You didn't leave the keys in the car, did you?'
'Of course not.'
Ronny frowned. 'You have a spare key anywhere?'
She matched his frown, line for line. 'Yes, but I put it in one of those little magnetic cases.'
'Like the infomercial where the pitchman hides the thing inside the wheel-well?' I turned to Ronny. 'They show this bumbling thief looking everywhere and not finding it. What a joke.'
