She got into the cab, and the stunned lawyer mustered enough control to close the door and wave her off.
Barbara gave the driver the address of her apartment building, but as they were driving toward home, she saw an important sign hanging in front of a plate-glass window. “Stop!” she said, and the cab skidded to a halt before the premises.
“What’s the matter, ma’am?” the driver asked, alarmed.
Barbara handed him a hundred-dollar bill. “Absolutely nothing,” she replied, opening the door and getting out. “Have a wonderful life!” She opened the door to the business and walked inside.
A distinguished-looking, middle-aged gentleman, clad in a double-breasted blue blazer with brass buttons, approached her with a welcoming smile. “Good morning, madam,” he said smoothly in a mid-Atlantic accent. “How…”
“That is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” Barbara said, interrupting and pointing. “Exactly what is it?”
“That,” the gentleman said, “is the brand-new Bentley Mulsanne, and this is the first of its kind to reach the San Francisco market. By the way, my name is Charles Grosvenor,” he said, handing her an engraved and embossed card.
“How do you do? I am Mrs. Walter Keeler. I don’t suppose this one is for sale,” Barbara said.
“Actually, it was a special order by a regular customer, but we received word only this morning that he has suffered a serious illness and will be unable to complete the sale.”
“How very sad,” Barbara said, looking through a window at the gorgeous interior. “I’ll take it.”
“This example is in Aspen green with an interior of saffron and green leather, and trim of burled English walnut.”
“I’ll take it,” Barbara said.
“It has a twin-turbocharged, twelve-cylinder engine rated at six hundred horsepower.”
“I’ll take it,” Barbara said.
“The base price of the car is two hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars, but this particular Mulsanne is equipped with every option available for the car, bringing the total price to three hundred and forty-five thousand dollars, plus sales tax of nine-point-five percent, making a total of three hundred seventy-seven thousand, seven hundred and seventy-five dollars.”
Barbara sat down at the salesman’s desk and withdrew her checkbook from her purse. “To whom would you like the check made?” she asked.
“Bentley of San Francisco,” Grosvenor replied.
Barbara wrote the check, ripped it out and handed it to the man. “I’m going to need a driver,” she said.
“We will be pleased to supply you with a uniformed chauffeur until such time as you are able to hire your own person,” he replied. “May we arrange automobile insurance for you? We recommend Chubb.”
“That’s fine. They insure my apartment. My address and phone number are on the check. Tell them to add the car to my policy.”
“Do you require a personalized number plate?”
“Yes. Make it KEELER.”
He wrote down the name. “We will be happy to make that application for you. Will you excuse me for a very few minutes while I have the ownership paperwork prepared for your signature?”
“Of course,” Barbara said, walking over to the car, opening the driver’s door, seating herself inside and closing the door with a satisfying thud. The man was calling her bank, of course.
She explored the car’s interior, opening the glove box and the center console, running her fingers over the leather and walnut. She adjusted the seat and steering wheel, switched on the ignition and tried to figure out the radio. Soon she had a soft flow of lovely classical music playing through hidden speakers.
Ahead of her along the showroom wall a door opened and a small man in a sharply cut black suit with a peaked cap under his arm emerged and walked toward the car and stopped outside the open driver’s window.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Keeler,” he said in a cockney accent. “My name is Stanley Willard, and I have been assigned as your driver.”
“What do you like to be called?” Barbara asked.
“Willard is the usual term of address,” he replied. “No title is necessary.”
“Willard it will be,” Barbara said.
“May I give you a tour of the car’s controls?” Willard asked.
“Thank you. Yes.”
Willard walked around the car and got into the front passenger seat, and for the next ten minutes he took her carefully through each control and showed her how to operate the many systems that displayed on the car’s navigation screen.
As they completed the tour Charles Grosvenor entered the showroom with a file folder under his arm and escorted Barbara back to his desk. “Ownership requires a few signatures,” he said. “You will receive a temporary dealer’s tag and registration. Your vanity plate and permanent registration will be mailed to your home address.”
Barbara signed all the papers, and Grosvenor tucked them into a heavy cream-colored envelope embossed with the Bentley logo and handed it to her. “Is there anything else I may do for you, Mrs. Keeler?”
“Yes, there is,” Barbara replied. “I would like to buy Stanley Willard.”
Grosvenor smiled. “Willard is a free agent, Mrs. Keeler, and you may negotiate directly with him.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “You may like to know that he is currently paid five hundred dollars a week.”
Barbara stood up and offered him her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Grosvenor, for handling this transaction with such dispatch.”
“It has been my very great pleasure, Mrs. Keeler, and I hope that I may continue to be of service. Please call me at any time for any reason.”
“Are you married, Mr. Grosvenor?” she asked.
“I was widowed two years ago,” he replied.
“Would you like to have dinner this evening?”
“How very kind of you, Mrs. Keeler. I would be delighted to join you.”
“Drinks at my home at seven, followed by dinner at Boulevard? I’ll send Willard for you.”
“Perfect. Willard knows my address.”
“Now, how do we get the car through the plate-glass window?” Barbara asked.
Grosvenor pressed a button on the wall next to him, and the window rose like a garage door. “There we are.”
“I’ll drive, Willard,” Barbara said, sliding into the car and adjusting her skirt. “You ride shotgun.”
“You may put the ignition key in your purse, if you wish,” Grosvenor said. “The starter button will operate any time you’re in the car, and the doors will lock or unlock as you arrive or leave.”
Barbara settled into the seat, pressed the start button and was greeted with a sound like a distant Ferrari. She put the car in gear, drove across the sidewalk and turned toward home.
“Willard,” she said, “I’d like you to come to work for me. How’s seven hundred and fifty dollars a week, paid vacation and medical insurance sound?”
“I am delighted to accept, Mrs. Keeler,” Willard replied, fastening his seat belt as Barbara rounded a corner with a roar and squealing of tires.
52
Lieutenant Dave Santiago pulled up to the Beverly Hills address, stopped at the curb and switched off the engine. “Jeff, let’s get something straight before we go in there,” he said to the FBI agent, Jeff Borden, in the passenger seat.
“What’s that, Dave?”
“This is my investigation, and I take the lead in the questioning. Got it?”
“In our book,” Borden said, “a murder in the United States takes precedence over a prison escape in Mexico.”
“Good.”
“Dave, I don’t have to tell you how thin the ice is that you’re skating on, do I? I mean, given the lack of direct evidence against Barbara Eagle in the murder of Bart Cross, you may have to settle for letting us send her back to Mexico. At least she’ll be off the streets of L.A. ”