Yellow Packard

by Ace Collins

  Turning to meet George’s eyes, Adams answered, “If it hadn’t been shot up, and it ran well, sure, why not?”

  “Well that car would have probably seen a few deaths in its time as well.”

  The older man shook his head. “You’re not getting me to fall into that trap. That imaginary Dillinger car you just dreamed up didn’t do the killings. He and his gang were the ones murdering people, not the car! This Packard killed two men.” He paused and licked his lips before clarifying his remarks, “Or at least it was the cause of their deaths. Now, I don’t know this for a fact, but I heard someone say yesterday that a man who worked on the assembly line died because of the car, too. I don’t really believe in demonic possession, especially of something mechanical, but in this case I might make an exception.”

  George grinned. “Suit yourself, but I’m not buying it. At least I’m not buying your fears. But I might just go over to the sale. If no one else bids on it, I might be buying the Packard. No use turning down a bargain, no matter its history. Besides, I was taught a long time ago at Sunday school that superstitions like that aren’t of God.”

  Glen shrugged, his eyes catching the noonday sun, and his furrowed brow displaying genuine concern. “I wouldn’t do it, George. Maybe I’m being silly, maybe the whole town is, but I just get the sense that for all its beauty and power, there’s something evil lurking in that auto. I sure don’t want to see you bring anything into your life that might end up hurting your family.”

  The new father smiled. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll see you at the sale.”

  As Glen wandered back across the street, George took another look at his old Chevy. Keeping it was simply out of the question. This pile of junk was so far gone, a farmer wouldn’t even want it to turn into a doodlebug tractor. He had to have something dependable in order to get to work each day as well as take his family to all the places they would need to be going. But what were his options?

  Until he visited with Glen, George figured he’d have to haunt the want ads or the used car lots to find something he could buy that would serve the family for at least a couple of years. But now, after hearing the story of the silly curse attached to the Abigale Watling’s Packard, he sensed that the few hundred he had in savings might just buy the ride of his life. At the very least it would be worth going to the auction to find out.

  Chapter 7

  Janie’s Auction Barn was just as advertised. Years ago it had been a general purpose, clapboard-sided building on the old Seymour farm. During its early days it had spent most of its life housing farm equipment, tools, animals, and hay. As Oakwood grew east along Muncie Road the farm had slowly been enveloped by clusters of small homes. During the period of growth, John Seymour sold bits and pieces of his farm to builders before finally letting go of the old barn and family home. With that sale completed, he retired and moved to a large brick home in Danville. While his modest home was torn down to make room for Clyde Jennings’s sprawling two-story stone house, the red barn was spared. Then Janie Timmons purchased and converted the fifty-year-old structure into her place of business. Because the building was laid out so well for sales, the woman always moved her large estate sales, like this one, to the barn.

  By the time George stepped into the structure, scores of men and women were wandering the barn’s main room, inspecting the lots of goods Janie had brought over from the Watling place. Most of the crowd’s attention was focused on the aisles of antique furniture. In among the columns of finely crafted pieces of wood, Glen Adams, his normally kind face now sporting a firm, almost menacing scowl, was standing in front of the tiger oak bedroom suite his wife wanted. Like a mama lion protecting her cubs, he paced back and forth in front of the pieces he was bound and determined to claim as his own. George couldn’t help but laugh as his neighbor literally barked at anyone who dared pause in front of the bed, dresser, and chest; and if they lingered more than a few seconds, Glen pointed out scores of flaws, some real, most imagined, in order to dissuade them from making an offer. Looking past Glen and a few dozen other anxious bargain hunters toward the far back corner of the building, George spotted the Packard. The car had been pulled in through the back door just far enough to get the sliding entry closed, thus it was sitting more than thirty feet from any other sale item. Surprisingly, not only was no one hovering to examine it; few were even casting a glance its direction. For that reason nothing blocked George’s field of vision as he took in the magnificence of the mechanized marvel.

  Even from fifty feet away, it was impressive. With its vertical chrome grill bars, large twin headlights, optional Tripp lights, wide, whitewall tires, and custom radio antenna, it was something to behold. The fancy car looked out of place in a barn that tractors and horses had once called home. It should have been in a carriage house or parked next to a large, imposing mansion. Yet like a lonely orphan it sat among leftover sale items from past auctions seemingly crying for someone—anyone—to come look it over and take it home. Even though there was a lot to see, no one seemed interested in what had to be the brightest and possibly the best luxury sedan in the small community.

  To check out the one item his heart desired, George had to dodge elbows and purses and push through a sea of excited prospective buyers of everything from furniture to clothing. The frenzied scene reminded him of a bargain basement post-Christmas sale where everything was at least 80 percent off. And as the clocked ticked closer to the actual time for the auction, the proceedings seemed to be taking on the aura of war. It was man-against-man, woman-against-woman, and sometimes even woman-against-man as prospective bidders locked in a battle of wills to claim at least one piece of Watling’s estate as their own. Yet after he made his way through the maze of items plucked from the Victorian mansion and passed those fighting to own them, he suddenly found himself all but alone at the back of the drafty building. For the moment he was the only person interested in the car.

  He had taken the time to look at scores of quality vehicles in his life, but this yellow piece of Detroit iron had a quality and style like nothing he’d ever beheld. The stately auto seemed almost alive, and George could swear it was calling out to him. He drew closer. It was immediately obvious that someone had spent some time with it over the past few days. The finish had been freshly waxed so it reflected the images of the scores of shoppers looking at Abbi’s treasures. The chrome had been polished so well he could have used the hubcaps for shaving mirrors. To top it all off, the tires’ wide whitewalls were as clean as a preacher’s Sunday shirt.

  “Quite a machine!”

  Shocked to no longer have the back of the barn to himself, George twirled on his heels and found himself face-to-face with a middle-aged woman. Her deep red hair set off her yellow print dress. Her eyes were almost the same shade of blue as the pattern in the blue willow plate she carried in her right hand. Yet what defined her was her smile. It was anything but forced, displaying a perfect set of white teeth framed by plump red lips. Three decades earlier she probably drew admirers from five counties away, and she was still attractive enough to have eyes follow her every move.

  “I’m Janie Timmons,” she announced as she closed the last few feet between them. “I don’t think I know you.”

  “George Hall.”

  “Nice to have you at the sale and auction,” she quickly replied. “What brings you out today? Anything special you’re looking for?”

  “I read about it and decided to come over and see what you had.” A tinge of guilt swept through him as he realized he’d just told a lie. What had kept him from admitting that he was here for the Packard?

  “Well,” Timmons explained, “Miss Watling collected a great number of really unique treasures. There is some amazing stuff here, and the best part is that the proceeds of this sale are all going to charity. Her European antiques are being auctioned in a few minutes. Other things, like this car, will just be sold for the best offer we can get by the time that auction is over. I wanted to auction the car, but her
final will, drawn up just days before she died, said the Packard had to be sold, not auctioned. I have no idea why. Anyway, when it comes to things like this sedan or that lawn mower over there, I can assure you, every offer will be considered. By the way, if you’ve got cash, later on tonight we’re going to auction off her jewelry and art. There will be some really rare things that will come up then.”

  George turned his head back toward the Packard. On the passenger side of the windshield was piece of paper with the price in block letters. He was so disappointed by the figure, he didn’t even turn back toward Timmons as he noted, “So you’re asking nine hundred for the car?”

  Timmons nodded. “It is really worth that. It only has about six thousand miles and runs like new. You check it out, crawl underneath it, sit in the driver’s seat, pop the hood, and after you’ve done all that, then make your offer. There’s no minimum. At the end of the day it might just stand up.” She smiled, turned, and walked back toward the main part of the barn.

  George nodded as he gently ran his hand up the Packard’s long hood. It was certainly worth the asking price, but sadly that was a lot steeper than he could afford. So for the moment he could admire this piece of rolling art and dream of a day when he could own something like it.

  Strolling to the driver’s door, he opened it and slid in. Resting his hands on the brown banjo-style steering wheel, he studied the gray horn button and its green-and-red Packard emblem. Then he noted the round speedometer that went all the way up to one hundred and twenty miles per hour. His Chevy was lucky to hit forty. The Packard’s four gauges, indicating engine temperature, generator charging, gas level, and oil pressure, were set in two round dials on each side of the speedometer. To the far right, built into the glove box, was a clock. The choke, throttle, and light switches were in the center of the car’s chocolate-colored dash. The radio was between them. He noted the added switches for the Tripp lights and optional heater.

  He smiled as he placed his hand on the floor-mounted shifter. The round Bakelite knob perfectly fit in his palm. He pushed the clutch and shifted the car’s gearbox into reverse, down to first, up and over to second and down to third. He then ran his fingers over the gray cloth that covered the seat and door panels. The material felt like rich velvet.

  “It drives as good as it looks.”

  Once more startled by someone interrupting his solitary moments with the car, George glanced across the front seat to the open passenger window. Leaning in was a man in a pinstriped suit about same color as the Packard’s upholstery.

  “My name’s Samuel Johns. I was Mrs. Watling’s attorney. She was sure proud of this car.”

  “There’s a lot to be proud of,” George agreed. “Don’t see many like this in Oakwood or even Danville. I guess you’d have to go to Springfield or Chicago to find more than a half dozen. And I doubt there is another in the state this color.”

  “No, the color was a special order,” the attorney explained. “And you’re right, most folks are a bit too practical to drive something like this in this town.”

  “Or too poor,” George added.

  “Well there is that, too,” Johns agreed. “You thinking about making an offer?”

  George shook his head, “No, just dreaming. We just had a baby this morning, so dreaming is all I can afford to do.”

  Patting the steering wheel a final time, George eased out of the car. As he closed the door, an elderly man approached.

  “I wouldn’t buy that automobile if it were the last vehicle on this planet,” he loudly announced to no one in particular. Then looking at George, the stranger added, “I knew Abbi pretty much all her life. I’ll tell you this, it wasn’t her heart that killed her; it was this car. She’d still be with us if she hadn’t bought that Packard.”

  “Frank,” a man in a blue suit, white shirt, and black tie laughed as he joined them, “you don’t really believe that. You’re in my congregation every Sunday morning. You’ve got to have more faith than to believe owning a car can kill you.”

  As if buying time to organize his thoughts, the old man ran his bony hand over his balding head before replying, “When it comes to this Packard, I think it’s cursed. That man at the dealership who got killed when this vehicle fell on him was my nephew. Good young man, too! He and his wife had a baby. That lift had never failed before, and it hasn’t failed since. How do you explain that, Reverend Morris?”

  “I don’t explain it,” he replied, his voice soft and reassuring, “but I’m guessing that your nephew might have done something that caused the lift to fall, maybe he didn’t set the locking mechanism. I do know this: that car didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Believe what you want,” Frank muttered just before stomping back to the main part of the barn.

  No one spoke until the little man was well out of earshot. It was the attorney who finally broke the silence. “Preacher, you thinking about buying the car?”

  “I’d love to own it,” the middle-aged clergyman replied, “I’ve wanted a Packard since I was a kid. My Grandpa once owned one of the Packard twin-six models. That was about the time of the war. But I’m going to pass on this one. Just don’t have the money right now.”

  The preacher forced a grin, shoved his hands into his pockets, and turned his head toward George. “I found out a few minutes ago that you’ve got a daughter. I figure that gives you an excuse to miss church tomorrow morning, but we are looking forward to having you and Carole bring that little one real soon. Congratulations!”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m looking forward to showing our Rose off. She is a pretty one!”

  Patting the new father on the shoulders, the preacher added, “I’m sure she is. You take care. I need to get back over and grab a seat for the auction. Molly wants me to buy a sideboard for her.”

  Morris ambled back toward the front of the building, once more leaving George alone with Johns. Both stared at the vehicle for some time before George broke the silence. “So I take it you don’t believe that the car’s cursed?”

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “George Hall.”

  Johns propped his foot on the front bumper and leaned over until his elbows rested on the top of the driver’s side fender. “George, I’m fifty-two years old. I’ve been around long enough to remember when there were no cars. I went to college by train. I didn’t buy my first automobile until I was twenty-five. It was a used Buick. Since then I’ve owned more than a dozen different makes and models, some have been good and some have been bad, but none of them have been possessed by evil spirits.”

  Tapping the Packard’s hood, he added, “In my profession you learn that at least half of what you hear is nothing more than rumors. I’ve found that gossip fuels more court cases than real facts. Yes, a couple of men did die after this car came to town. But what killed them was their own carelessness, not the Packard. And I’d bet dollars to doughnuts that this car had absolutely nothing to do with Abigale Watling’s death. If you and I were to listen to the conversations of others in this barn, I figure some of them are giving Abbi’s Packard credit for every soldier’s death in the Great War. They might even be blaming it for our current dismal economic times.”

  George grinned. “People are strange.”

  “Sure are,” Johns agreed. “When you get them together in one place they spook easier than wild horses. But I’ll assure you of this, if someone doesn’t buy this car, I will. I’m not going to let a good deal or a great car pass me by.”

  “You’re serious? You aren’t worried?”

  “George, I’m worried about a lot of things, but none of them concern this car.” Johns pushed off the sedan and walked over to where the young man was standing. “I sense you’re not buying into the gossip either.”

  “No, but even though my car is busted so bad it will never run again, and even though I love this Packard, with its canary yellow paint, I’ve got four hundred I can spare. That’s all. So I’m going to have to sacrifice my dreams a
nd be satisfied with something like a used Ford or Plymouth. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “You mind taking a bit of advice from an older guy?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Everybody in this town is scared of this car. There’s an hour until the sale part of this event is over. Make Janie an offer. Who knows? You might be the only one with enough courage—no, not courage, sense—to bid on Abbi’s favorite ride.”

  George considered the words as he turned and looked back at the sedan’s long nose. “Are you serious?”

  “What do you have to lose?”

  Chapter 8

  Even as he heard the auction heating up behind him, Timmons’s voice on the loudspeaker, and the shouts of members of the audience as the most impressive pieces of furniture crossed the block, George could not pull his eyes from the Packard, much less allow his body to stray more than a few feet from where it sat. Like a kid with a new bike, he was constantly touching the car, studying every angle, and dreaming of all the places it could take him. Yet even as his hopes deepened, his faith eroded like a beach taking on a hurricane. So as the seconds became minutes and the minutes became a half hour and then an hour, he grew more and more skeptical. No matter what Carole believed, he just knew miracles didn’t happen to people like them. The Depression had made that plainly clear. For those without wads of cash, there were no surprises. Life was all about getting what he paid for, and the fact was that those without money couldn’t pay for much of anything. So why was he hanging around? Why was he holding on to the hope that somehow he could buy this car for less than fifty cents on the dollar? He might as well hope to win the Irish Sweepstakes.

  Yet as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he was still here because of his faith. It was faith alone that was holding him in the barn. Maybe the imagined curse was even the Lord’s way of making sure he was the only one who would make an offer on it. Yet, even as he clung to hope, it seemed as silly as believing the Easter bunny left chocolate eggs. A few might hold stock in bizarre curses, but most logical people saw them for what they were, just twists of fate. And rich folks, the kind with the money to buy a car like this, surely wouldn’t back off because of a couple of accidents. Or would they?