Restore My Heart (8 page)

“I need to talk to you about Dad’s Kaiser Darrin.”

She stared past him and clenched the delicate china cup. “That damned Darrin.”

Curious. Joe gave his mother a quick rundown on the forged serial number plate and the Ford engine, then asked, “What did you mean by ‘that damned Darrin’?”

“The Darrin started the hard feelings between your dad and Vic—”

“Whoa! What hard feelings?” Joe’s mind reeled. “Tell me the whole story.”

“Well, you know how your dad was about orphans—”

“Orphans?” Joe interrupted. Was there no end to what he’d missed by not spending time with his father? Leo Desalvo had three children of his own. A loving, involved father, had he needed more?

“Orphans are cars that are no longer manufactured, like Studebaker, Hudson, or Kaiser. Remember his Hudson Hornet?”

Joe smiled, indulging in a side trip down memory lane. Why his father wanted an old car the size of a boat baffled the thirteen-year-old boy he’d been that summer. “I remember. He sold it and bought that other old car—what was it?”

“A thirty-six Packard,” she said.

“It took him about a year to get it restored.”

“Then he sold it for ten times more than he paid for it, don’t forget. Until then, I thought of his fascination with orphans as a hobby.”

Joe sensed his mother’s need to reminisce, so he didn’t press her. They chatted a few minutes about his dad before she stood, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin. She returned to the table with the coffee decanter.

“I digress.” After refilling their cups, she settled at the table and continued. “Your father had been looking for a reasonably-priced Darrin for months. When Vic found one, he wouldn’t sell it to Leo. He claimed he’d bought it for a client.”

“Did Vic know how badly Dad wanted a Darrin for his collection?”

“Of course he did. That’s what hurt.”

“Then Dad found this Darrin and bought it.”

She harrumphed. “Right. And for this Darrin he paid full price.”

Joe needed time to digest this information. Why would a man in the business of brokering classic automobiles pay full price for the Darrin? And why kill himself after he did?

Things are looking up, Sally thought, as she rose from her office chair. Uncle Sal’s referral brought in his Corvette before Sally had arrived from her rehab visit. Roy had already written up the service order when she arrived. Later, one of Mustang Sally’s repeat customers brought in a 1959 Ford Skyliner for a complete restoration.

Counting the Darrin, three of Mustang Sally’s four service bays held jobs. Sally headed back to finish the Darrin’s tune-up. Roy busied himself with the Skyliner.

She’d had to explain the missing window and the fire as soon as she’d arrived. Roy had seemed troubled. “Do you think someone knows you’re working with the feds?” he asked.

“I don’t think so. I haven’t told a soul about that but you.”

“I know. But the timing seems odd. And it appears the Darrin was the target.”

Roy’s words unsettled her. She didn’t put much stock in coincidences. That’s why she’d described the Toyota Tacoma she’d seen speeding down the street when she’d talked to the police. Could it have been the arsonist’s vehicle?

She measured the gap on six new spark plugs and installed them in the Darrin. Taking a break, she wiped grease from her hands, then wandered over to the cooler where she pulled out two bottles of water. Swigging a long drink from one, she carried the other bottle to Roy.

“This one’s going to be a bitch.” Frowning, Roy slammed the Ford’s trunk.

She handed him the water before straddling one of the work stools. “Why?”

“Finding relays for retractable hardtops is next to impossible. And this one needs relays.”

She ran her fingers through her bangs and sighed. “We’ll just have to try.”

“Yeah.” Roy downed half of his water, then swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Do you mind if I bring Janet’s car here tomorrow to change the oil? It’d be easier if I put it on the lift.”

“Sure. Using the garage when we’re closed is one of the few perks I can give you.”

“I like working here. Wages are the going rate and you don’t breathe down my neck like some bosses.”

Sally laughed. “I guess I’m unaccustomed to being called boss. Just trying to keep up the business.”

Roy drained the bottle of water. “Have you thought about adding a side line for quick oil changes?”

“You mean, like those ten-minute places?”

He nodded. “More and more people, more and more cars—there’s a market, Sally.”

“Okay. Let me think about it.” She’d consider all options before she’d sell her treasured Mustang convertible. She had to admit restoring antique autos limited her customer base. Of course, restoration yielded a lot more profit than maintenance work.

“Is the Darrin finished?” he asked.

“I need to hit it with the timing light. Then it’s out of here.” She slid from the stool, her thoughts on the counterfeit engine. She’d learned nothing so far that would help Special Agent Ferguson. After she finished the Darrin’s tune-up, she’d have no reason to see Joe Desalvo again. Unless—

If she could locate another Willys F head engine, she could restore the Darrin to original condition, qualifying it as an original-condition model. Would he want to invest additional money?

In spite of her initial misgivings, Joe had turned out to be a decent guy. She hugged the memory of his tenderness and concern to her heart, ignoring the little voice warning her to keep her distance.

Joe switched off the cordless telephone and tossed it onto his bed. He’d been thinking about Sally all day. No denying it. And he needed to talk to her about this latest piece of information about Vic Bloom. Why?

That question baffled him. His father’s death didn’t concern Sally. She wasn’t part of his mother’s search for answers. Strictly speaking, Sally was nothing more than Joe’s mechanic. But he knew better. He needed a friend, a confidant. Someone other than family. In a very short time, he had come to view Sally as his friend.

Okay, so he saw her as an attractive woman, too. He hadn’t forgotten how dangerously close he’d been to kissing her last night. She may have wanted it, too, but instinct told him she was afraid. Insecure. After meeting her father, Joe didn’t wonder why. What an insensitive jerk. So Joe’d made his escape before he wound up taking advantage of her vulnerability.

Instinct also told him Sally would shoot straight with him. He didn’t need to interpret every nuance, every phrase for hidden agendas. Her honesty and candor made her good friend material. Furthermore, he wanted to be her friend, too.

When Sally tuned up the Darrin, he’d have no excuse to spend time with her. That’s why he wasn’t taking chances on her coming to Sunday dinner. He wanted her to meet Nina, and Nina would be at Mom’s tomorrow. He’d go see Sally. Rejecting him in person would be harder than over the phone.

Mustang Sally’s stayed open until five o’clock, giving him ample time for the drive. Pulling a nylon windbreaker over his head, he darted into the rain toward his car. He drove through the community of Anchorage, past the split rail fences and horse barns, then headed west toward Shelbyville Road.

The shortcut through Middle town, another community east of Louisville, took longer than he’d expected. The changes in the past ten years astounded him. What he remembered as shortcut county roads were now congested four-lane parkways. He reached Jeffersontown—J-town to the locals—and turned a block short of Watterson Trail to circle the block.

Joe rolled to a stop in the rear parking lot at Mustang Sally’s. Before he got out, he caught sight of movement at the back door. Was he too late? He slid out, searching the parking lot for signs of Sally. Then he saw her.

Sally waited at the corner to cross Watterson Trail, headed in the direction of the convenience store. Slamming the car door, Joe jogged to catch her. Before he could reach her, the signal changed to WALK. Sally started into the street in her careful, slow gait, her head lowered against the rain.

She couldn’t see the pick-up truck speeding toward the intersection.

The pelting rain and passing cars drowned out Sally’s heavy breathing as she concentrated on her leg muscles. Thanks to her grueling strength training, her leg grew stronger each week. When rested, Sally could walk at an almost normal pace now. With renewed determination, she indulged in a smug grin as she waited. The Walk light flashed. Checking first left, then right, she moved into the intersection.

The next instant, two strong arms ensnared her, dragging her from the road. What in the world— ? Her heart in her throat, she fought to free herself. She tumbled into the wet grass, pinned down by her brutal assailant. Mugged in J-town? She struggled again to dislodge the attacker, but managed only to dig herself into the gritty mud. Anger replaced fear. She growled at the man, ready for battle, when he suddenly released her.

“Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m not all right, you insane terrorist—”

The woodsy cologne and baritone voice penetrated her scrambled senses. Her heart thudded a frantic tempo against her rib cage. “Joe?”

He’d pulled her to her feet. “I’m sorry I tackled you like that, but it happened so fast—”

“What
happened so fast?” She wiped mud from her chin. “Just what are you doing here, anyway?”

Joe nudged her toward the convenience store. “Could we get out of the rain?”

Sally was in no hurry to escape the shower. It rinsed the mud from her clothes and cooled her flushed skin. She warmed from his closeness, although the adrenaline rush from her pseudo-mugging hadn’t helped.

They stopped beneath the overhang at the store’s entrance. Joe kept his voice low. “A pickup truck almost ran you down. He ran the light.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “What? I didn’t see—”

“I know.” He nodded toward Watterson Trail. The tightening around his mouth, his rigid jaw sent shivers of alarm up her spine. “I think it was deliberate.”

“Running the light?”

“Hitting you. The fire, and now this.” His sable eyes bore into her. “Someone means you harm.”

She chewed at her lower lip, unable to deny his logic.

“Look, Sally. Get whatever you came for and let’s get back so we can report this.”

“Report what?” she muttered under her breath. Just because a truck ran a red light didn’t make it attempted murder. Either way, though, she’d be just as dead.
Dead?
She swallowed against the terrible realization.

Pushing through the door with Joe on her heels, she tried to shake the frightening coincidence of being a victim of both an arsonist and hit-and-run driver. She’d never trusted coincidence before. Her trembling fingers dug through her fanny pack for change. After she paid for her carton of milk, she remembered Joe hadn’t answered her original question.
Just what are you doing here, anyway?

“Good thing it’s not a hard rain.” Back at Mustang Sally’s, Joe dried off with paper towels. “Do you want to call the police or shall I?”

Sally’s casual shrug failed to hide her anxiety. “You can. You’re the eye witness.”