This was Grant’s second trip to the bookmobile. We knew two things about him—that his name had never been in the library’s computer, and that his driver’s license, which he’d used to get a library card five weeks ago, had a downstate address.
Smiling, I said, “Looks like you’re making up for lost time. Are you a new retiree?”
“End of December.” He eyed the contents of his backpack, eyed the books still remaining on the counter, and reached into the backpack to rearrange its contents. “Spent thirty-five years working my hind end off, trying to make it to the top of the freaking corporate ladder, and all I ever got was vice president.” He made a rude noise. “Worked so hard my wife divorced me and my kids hardly talk to me except to ask for money.”
A little wildly, I looked at Julia. Now that he’d started talking, how did I get him to stop? We didn’t need this much personal information. Sure, what happened on the bookmobile stayed on the bookmobile, but sometimes when people told you too much, they regretted it afterward.
Julia leaned forward. “Sounds like you didn’t get what you deserve.”
“True story.” He shoved the last book into his pack and, with some effort, zipped it shut, book corners bulging through the nylon. “All I want to do now is read and work on my cars.”
The reading I approved of wholeheartedly; it was how I’d like to spend a large share of my own far-off retirement. The cars, however . . .
I knew better than to ask what kind of cars he owned; we didn’t have that kind of time left at the stop. So I just blurted out the question: “Are there any junkyards close by?” It was a non sequitur to end all non sequiturs, and I braced myself for raised eyebrows and a surprised look that a little girl would be interested in something like that.
“Sure,” he said. “Buster’s. On Lolly Road, a few miles out of Peebles. Model Ts to Hummers and everything in between. Buster’s place is half the reason I moved here.” Grant hefted his backpack onto his shoulders, nodded, and headed out.
“Buster’s,” I said to myself.
Julia flipped the laptop shut. “You’re not still looking for that headlight, are you?”
“And what if I am?” I asked, helping her stretch the bungee cord around the rolling chair, which would wander all over the bookmobile if we forgot to strap it in place.
“Because if you were still looking,” Julia said, “I’d advise you to remember the reactions of the other junkyard owners you’ve talked to lately.”
I winced. More than one junkyard owner had laughed in my face when I’d asked the question. “You’re kidding, right?” the most memorable had asked as he’d puffed a large cigar.
I’d edged out of the way of the smoke. “No, I’m very serious. It’s important.”
He’d puffed out another smoke signal. “I keep records as good as anyone, but tracking down to the headlight level isn’t how I want to spend my time.”
Looking around the small, poorly lit office, I’d wondered how he whiled away his hours. “Do you walk around the yard a lot? To keep thieves away, I mean?”
He’d hacked out a laugh. “You’re from downstate, aren’t you?”
Soon after, I’d fled, and it had taken me two days to gather up the courage to step into another junkyard. That owner didn’t smoke, but the end result had been the same.
Now, I pulled out my cell phone and opened a mapping application to find Buster’s. “This will work just fine,” I said, nodding.
Julia rolled her eyes dramatically and said, “Let me guess. Since I wanted to get dropped off in Peebles, you driving to Lolly Road is the handiest thing ever.”
“Mrr,” said Eddie, who’d been perched on the driver’s seat headrest. “Mrr!”
“Exactly.” I beamed at them both. “Sometimes things just work out.”
• • •
The weather, however, wasn’t cooperating with my new plan. What had been a mild thaw—two degrees above freezing for almost eight hours—was quickly dropping to a more seasonable temperature. In general, this was fine with me, but any of the side roads that hadn’t been scraped free of snow (and that was most of them) were now developing the kind of conditions that made people move away from northern Michigan.
“Not us, though,” I said to Eddie, soon after I’d left Julia at the out-of-the-way restaurant where she was meeting her husband for dinner. “We’re brave and intrepid.”
“Mrr!”
“Exactly. We’re ready for anything”—I paused to navigate the bookmobile through a nasty stretch of rapidly freezing slush—“for anything Mother Nature dishes out.”
The daylight, which had never been all that bright in the first place, was inching toward dusk by the time I saw the sign for the junkyard. BUSTER’S, just like Grant had said. The sign was simple—black paint on a piece of framed plywood—but it did the job well enough, and I was pleased to see that Buster’s parking lot was not only big enough for the bookmobile, but also plowed.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I told Eddie. He eyed me, but didn’t say anything. “Thanks for the encouragement,” I said. “It’s just what I needed.”
“Mrr.”
As the door of the junkyard’s office closed behind me, I blinked in surprise. “Wow,” I said. “This isn’t . . .” I trailed off, pretty sure I was about to say something offensive.
The man behind the desk, who was about my age and wearing a sleek zipped black sweater with a Buster’s logo, looked up. “Let me guess. You expected dark paneling, a clutter of car parts and paper, calendars with scantily clad women sitting on vehicle hoods, and cigarette smoke sticking to everything.”
He was right, I had expected that. These office walls, however, were painted a warm blue gray and decorated with huge framed photos of antique cars on the streets of what could have been Chilson. His desk was piled with a single stack of papers, and the only car parts to be seen were in a glass display case.
“Well, precedent counts,” I said, smiling. “And that’s what the offices of the other five junkyards in the area looked like. How was I to know you’d be the single solitary exception to the rule?”
The guy laughed. “Point taken. Sorry about that; you’re the first person I’ve seen today and I’m told that I can forget to be polite.” He stood and held out a hand. “Rob Caldwell.”
I introduced myself and said, “Nice to meet you. Um, if you’re Rob, who’s Buster?”
“No idea. I bought this place a couple of years ago and never changed the name. It’s been Buster’s for decades. So what can I do for you? I hope you don’t want parts for that,” he said, nodding at the office window, through which the bookmobile was visible. “I specialize in unusual parts, but all I have for that is a recommendation to contact a yard in Ohio.”
“I’m looking for an SUV headlight.”
“That I can do.” Rob sat down and tapped his computer to life. “Make, model, year?”
“No idea,” I said, then jumped ahead of his protest. “What I’m wondering is, has anyone else bought a headlight in the last few weeks?” Rob frowned, but his fingers were still on the keyboard, so I kept talking.
“There was a . . . crime committed just over a month ago, and someone saw a car with a broken headlight driving away. The sheriff’s office is following up, they’re checking auto parts stores, but they’re pretty much convinced that whoever it was ordered a new one online and they’ll never be able to track that.” I took a deep breath. “So I’m talking to the junkyards, figuring that maybe, just maybe, that’s where the guy bought a replacement.”
Rob leaned back. “I don’t have to look that up. No one has bought a headlight from me since before Christmas.”
“Oh.” My shoulders slumped. “Well, it was worth a try. Thanks for your time.”
“Hang on,” Rob said, and I turned back. “I said no one bought a headlight, and that’s true.” He half smiled. “But someone did steal one. And before you ask, no, I never reported it to the police, because who’s going to arrest anyone for stealing a ten-dollar headlight from a junkyard?”