Restore My Heart (4 page)

Roy Bishop, Sally’s mechanic, guided Joe as he backed the Darrin into one of the garage bays at Mustang Sally’s. The late afternoon sun sliced through the side window, spotlighting a flurry of dust motes that drifted over the car’s mint green satin finish. Turning off the engine, Joe sighed. It had been a long day.

His mother’s words had not ventured far from his mind.
Your father was murdered
. Joe’s thoughts ricocheted between concern for his mother’s mental health and a distorted hope that she was right. Murder left his devout Catholic father just as dead, but at least with his soul intact. Maybe his own soul, too. But nothing could change Joe’s profound sense of loss. He’d wasted years he could’ve spent with his father. Now it was too late.

“Mr. Desalvo?” Sally’s voice broke through his reverie. She leaned against the back fender and ran her fingers over the convertible top. Beneath her denim overalls, a black knit top hugged her trim body. Joe tried to work out why the utilitarian clothing looked sexy on her.

He smiled, sliding open the Darrin’s door. “I thought we settled that. You’re to call me Joe.”

“I did. Twice.” She shrugged. “You seemed to be on another planet.”

“Sorry.” Stepping out of the sports car, he closed the door. “I love these doors.”

“Neat, aren’t they?” She opened the door, sliding it into the front fender, then pulled it closed again. Excitement flushed her cheeks. “Do you know this is the only car to have pocket doors?”

“That’s probably why Dad wanted this car. It’s very innovative for 1954.”

“Like this top. It has three positions: Convertible, full top, and a half-top, or what Kaiser called the landau top.”

“Cool.” He cringed. Why had he said that? He sounded like his kid sister. Why did he turn into a fumbling adolescent in Sally’s presence?

“It’s as sporty a car as they made back then, even counting the Vette.” Sally’s enthusiasm for the old car charmed him. Or was it Sally herself?

She pushed away from the car, motioning him to follow. Resisting the urge to grip her by the arm and help her, Joe matched her slower pace as he accompanied her through the stark concrete garage to the equally stark office. Vintage car posters adorning the office walls offered the only relief from the Spartan furnishings.

Using the old metal desk for support, Sally worked her way to her chair. She motioned toward a metal folding chair opposite the desk. “Have a seat. Let me tell you what I know so far.”

He slid the keys and owner’s registration onto the desk before sitting. “Here’s the only paper Dad had on the car.”

Sally picked up a lined tablet filled with scribbled notes. “Out of only 435 Kaiser Darrins built, 385 are known to still exist. They’re registered with the Kaiser-Frazer Owners Club International. We can check your serial number against the list on the KFOCI website.”

“I can log on with my laptop.”

“Good, because Mustang Sally’s hasn’t gone cyber yet.”

“How soon can you give me an estimate on repairs?”

She gave him a smug grin. “Is tomorrow soon enough?”

“Tomorrow’s great.” He matched her grin and his heart flopped against his chest. What was it about this little grease monkey that drew him? Capable and unpretentious, she cut through his dark cloud of grief like a sunbeam. “Why don’t I stop by around closing time and take you out to dinner?”

“Dinner?” Her smile vanished. “We can discuss business right here.”

Joe shrugged. “True. But I thought we could work in a little pleasure with business.”

She blinked. “Pleasure?”

She looked at him, frowning, as if genuinely perplexed. Or offended? Maybe pleasure had been the wrong word.

“Socializing, Sally. I’m asking you out. Will you accept?”

“Asking me out?” Her voice wavered, but he couldn’t read her mood. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“I hardly know you, for one thing.”

“That’s the idea. We go out to dinner and get to know each other.”

Slowly, she shook her head no. “Trust me, you don’t really want to take me out.”

“I see.” Joe tilted the chair onto the back two legs and leaned against the wall. “Because you have a really jealous boyfriend?”

“Are you kidding?”

“No.” He settled the chair on all fours, pinning her with a stare. Her protests only made him want to press the issue. “I’m not. So why won’t you go to dinner with me?”

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” Looking away, she twisted her hands together.

Why did she seem agitated? “Yes, I guess you do.”

Sally closed her eyes and sighed. “Guys like you don’t ask out girls like me, okay?”

“Uh uh. Not okay.” He leaned forward, fighting the urge to reach across the desk, to touch her chin and tilt it until she met his gaze. Instead, he gripped the edge of the desk. “What do you mean by girls like you?”

“You know. Crippled.”

“That again?” He straightened in his chair. This time there was no hint of humor in her voice. Did she really think he was a shallow jerk? Rather than insult him, it worried him. What had happened to this young woman? What made her use the word
cripple
as if it were profanity?

Sally’s hands clenched together. “I’m not into pity dates, Joe—”

“Neither am I.”

She squirmed in her seat, still averting her eyes. “Let’s just drop it, okay? You’re my client, I’m your mechanic.”

This time he followed through on his impulse to reach for her. With the barest touch of his index finger, he lifted her chin. Like a spooked kitten, she flinched, but didn’t pull away. A becoming blush flooded her cheeks.

“I’ll drop it for now, but be warned, Sally Clay: I’ll be asking again.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

He let it go for now. Why he’d pressed her for a date in the first place baffled him. What was it about her that had gotten to him, anyway? She was so different from his usual choice of a date.

Dismissing him, she picked up the owner’s registration and frowned. “This is strange.”

“What?” He leaned across the desk, his head nearly touching hers and sniffed. Oil?

“Not too close, Joe.” She wrinkled her nose, as if reading his mind. “You’ll get ninety-weight gear oil on you.”

Joe didn’t retreat. The scent of peppermints mixed with the gear oil. Breath mints? His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, the plump lips so like Angelina what’s-her-name’s, the movie star. He’d never expected to be turned on by a woman doused in gear oil.

“Look at the date.” Sally pulled his attention back to the owner’s registration form.

“What about it?”

“Leo just bought this car.” Sally ducked her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but—”

“Let me see that.”

He looked at the bill-of-sale date, then at Sally’s stricken face. The owner, a Howard Steele of Carmel, Indiana, sold the Darrin to Leo Desalvo the day before Leo’s death. The words echoed again through his head.
Your father was murdered
.

The bill of sale slipped from his shaky hand. “I see what you’re getting at, Sally. Why would Dad buy a car he’d always wanted, then blow his brains out the next day?”

Long after Joe had driven off in the Bloom Desalvo Motors service truck, his troubled words preyed on Sally’s mind. Joe was right. Buying a unique and rare find like a Darrin didn’t square with the behavior of a man distraught enough to take his own life.

Was Leo Desalvo’s suicide somehow connected to the Darrin? If so, Sally was in a position to find out. As for Joe asking her to dinner, well, she’d think about that later. He’d seemed nice and sincere, but so had Corky Martin when he’d asked her to the senior prom. She knew better than to waste energy getting her hopes up. Romance and love weren’t in her future, no matter how much Joe Desalvo revved her motor.

Eager to get started on the Darrin, she left Roy Bishop to finish up the Pontiac Tempest and headed for the mint green sports car. The interior, upholstered in pale green satin vinyl, appeared original and in good condition. The mileage on the odometer read 46,209 but had probably spun around once or twice.

Sally moved her inspection to the fiberglass exterior of the Darrin and found it to be nearly perfect. She’d need to roll under the car to check for body work.
So far, so good, Joe Desalvo
. She opened the Darrin’s hood. To the untrained eye, everything appeared to be in order. But Sally Clay considered herself an expert, schooled by her father and uncle. Justin and Salvatore Clay were two brothers whose combined knowledge of automobiles surpassed anyone’s in Kentucky. She immediately recognized trouble.

“Roy, can you take a look at this?”

Roy Bishop had worked for Uncle Sal for thirteen years before Sally had taken over the garage. She considered it her good fortune that Roy agreed to stay on at Mustang Sally’s. He often put in ten-hour days, but never complained. His stocky build and wide, thick shoulders seemed at odds with his gentle blue eyes and kind mouth. Prematurely bald, he appeared at first glance older than his thirty-five years.

“Whatcha need, Sally?”

“Sanity check. Look at this and tell me what engine you see.”

Roy ducked his head beneath the hood. “A six-cylinder overhead valve engine. I should be looking at a Willys F head.”

“Yeah. Doesn’t it look like a Ford?”

“Sure does. Could be the 170 but we’d need to drop the pan and look underneath.” Roy backed away from the front of the car. “Want me to put it on the lift?”

She chewed at her lower lip. “Tomorrow. For now I’m going to check the serial number on the engine plate. Then I think we can both call it a day.”

“I was just cleaning up. The Tempest is good to go.”

“Thanks, Roy,” she murmured, already focusing on the engraved number plate attached to the engine.

It looked authentic, but she’d need to verify the codes in the serial number.

She limped back to the office, reciting the number repeatedly until she had a chance to write it down. A sudden cramp in her calf muscle reminded her she had been on her feet too long today. She hoped to work out some of the kinks later at rehab.

A comparison of the serial number against her list of codes confirmed Sally’s suspicion. She grabbed her Polaroid from the file cabinet, checked for film, then hobbled back to the garage to photograph the engine and engine plate. Someday she’d buy one of those digital cameras—just as soon as Mustang Sally’s joined the information age and could afford a computer.

Back at her desk, she rummaged through her middle drawer until she found the government bulletin she’d received the previous month. Debating whether she should talk to Joe first, she read through the notice again. Leo Desalvo had bought the Darrin then killed himself. Sally couldn’t ignore the possible connection. What if Leo had been involved in interstate fraud?

No. She couldn’t dump that on Joe without more information. She called the contact number on the bulletin, certain that everyone had long since left the office.

“Ferguson,” answered a mechanical voice.

She waited for a voice mail or answering machine announcement.

“Hello?”

“Uh, is this a live person?” Sally asked.
Duh!

Without inflection, the voice answered, “This is Special Agent Adam Ferguson. How may I help you?”

“Actually, I may be able to help you.” Sally identified herself and her auto restoration business. “About the flyer you sent out.”

“Irregularities in expensive collectible automobiles?” An excited voice replaced the man’s monotone. “Have you found one?”

“Yes, sir.” Her heart sinking, she thought about Joe. “I’m afraid I have.”

When she described the counterfeit engine plate and mentioned Leo Desalvo’s name, the FBI man said, “I’m going to need your help, Miss Clay.”

“Of course, but how can I help?” Even as she said the words, a knot of dread formed in her stomach. She had a feeling she wouldn’t like his answer.

Sally entered the kitchen, locked the deadbolt on the back door, then dropped her gym bag by the washing machine. The house she shared with her father was in old J-town, less than a mile from the garage. Called a story-and-a-half, it had once been a neat, cozy house. Sally’s father slept upstairs in the master bedroom, leaving her the downstairs bedroom and bath. In recent years, clutter and neglect reigned.

Clothing piled on the linoleum floor begged to be washed, but would have to wait. First a shower. “Dad?”

No answer. Drifting in from the living room, an announcer’s voice spoke over sounds from a televised basketball game. Sally tracked down her father slouched in his recliner in the living room.

“Dad? Have you eaten?”

He gripped a beer can. “I drank my supper.”

She bit back a reprimand. If she lectured her father about his health, they’d end up in an argument. She couldn’t bear quarreling with her dad. His drinking disgusted her, but she could hardly blame him, not when it was her fault he drank.

“Let me make you a sandwich. I’ll bring it in here, and you won’t miss any of the game.”

He shrugged, then took another sip of his beer, his eyes staring at the television screen. Dumping her fanny pack and keys on an end table, Sally limped back to the kitchen. She scrubbed her hands at the sink, while her mind wandered. She wasn’t sure what to make of Special Agent Ferguson’s revelation. The FBI’s investigation had led to Leo Desalvo before his death.