Bobby returns, saving me from having to clarify. “Mattie Winston, this is your lucky day,” he says with a big-assed grin. “It just so happens we have an older-model car in stock that just came in, and my boss is willing to let you have it for three grand. It’s not real pretty, mind you,” he cautions, “but it’s been well maintained and the engine is solid. And it’s never been driven hard. It should be good for another fifty thousand miles or so.”
This is good news. Fifty thousand miles is a long time when you live in a town whose perimeters are only a few miles apart.
“What make, model, and year is it?” Hurley asks.
Bobby hesitates before answering. “It’s a ninety-two Cadillac.”
“You’re going to sell her a car that’s nearly twenty years old?” Hurley scoffs.
“It’s old, yes,” Bobby says quickly, holding up a hand to Hurley’s objection, “but it’s a Caddy. And it’s got low mileage for its age, just over a hundred thousand.”
Hurley frowns. “I suppose you’re going to tell us next that it belonged to some little old lady who only drove it around town.”
“Well,” Bobby says with a sideways nod, “it has had only one owner and primary driver all these years. Lots of passengers, though,” he adds with a wry chuckle. “Let’s go take a look at it, shall we?”
After Bobby takes us into the back mechanic’s area and shows us the car, Hurley pops the hood and starts looking over the engine. An hour later he wipes the grease from his hands and delivers his verdict. “He’s right,” he says. “It’s in pretty good shape. I think you should buy it.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m not. I know it’s not the most beautiful vehicle in the world but the engine is sound and the interior is in decent shape. Plus, the price is right.”
I fold my arms over my chest and pout, knowing he’s right but none too happy about it.
“Hey,” Hurley says, “you can always stay with Bjorn.”
My brain summons up the smell of stale urine and my objections begin to ease. Then Bobby makes me an offer I can’t refuse.
Chapter 31
Bobby says, “I’ll tell you what. Go ahead and take it for a day or two. Drive it around and see how it feels before you decide.”
The offer makes perfect sense and thirty minutes later I drive out of the parking lot in a slightly used, midnight blue hearse, compliments of Sven Keller from the Keller Funeral Home. According to Bobby, Sven decided to upgrade his fleet with cars that look more like mini vans than traditional hearses, thinking it would be less offensive to the bereaved whose loved ones were being transported inside. I’m not sure where that leaves me, though I’m pretty certain it’s going to be hard to get around town incognito if I buy this thing.
On the flip side, the car handles smoothly and the interior is nicely done up with leather and a faux wood grain. And the price is very reasonable, making it the only car I can currently afford. Still, it’s a hearse. It looks like a hearse and it’s had who-know-show-many dead bodies in it. The pine-tree-shaped scented thingy dangling from the rearview mirror only partially masks the lingering scent of formaldehyde.
I’m not ready yet to show Izzy what his money can buy, and I’m eager to share my newfound theory about Shannon with Lucien. Given the hour, I suspect he will be home rather than at the office and it’s always safer to be around Lucien when Desi’s there, too. He tends to tone things down when his family is present.
I turn off the road to head for my sister’s house. I wave at Hurley, who has been following me and laughing his ass off since we left the car lot. As soon as his car is out of sight, I convert my wave into a one-fingered salute.
When I pull up in front of my sister’s house a few minutes later, I see my twelve-year-old niece, Erika, standing on the front stoop with a couple of her friends. Though the other girls are wearing items that are rather conventional, Erika is adorned in black tights, a long black shirt that hangs halfway down her thighs, black high-top shoes, and heavy black eye make-up. Her hair, which is naturally brown but has ranged in colors from pink to blue over the past year, is a matching shade of ebony. All three girls spare me a glance as I pull up and park at the curb, but when I step out of the vehicle, Erika stares at me with a slack-jawed expression, her eyes wide with amazement.
“Holy crap,” she says as I approach. “That car is so rad.” Erika has always been attracted to things dark and deathlike, so to her a hearse is the ultimate in cool. “Is it yours?” she asks.
“Possibly,” I tell her. “I’m test driving it to help me decide.”
“You have to get it,” she says, walking over to the car and running her hand down the side of it. “Will you let me drive it when I get my license?”
“Sure.” It seems a safe promise given that she’s still several years away from a learner’s permit, much less a license. “Is your dad here?”
Erika nods, her eyes focused on the car. “He’s inside with Mom and Ethan,” she says. “Can we look at the inside of the car while you’re here?”
“Sure, just be careful. Technically it’s not mine yet, so don’t do any damage.”
“We won’t.” She heads for the car, waving at her friends to follow, but they all hang back looking wary.
Inside the house I find my sister, Desi, in the kitchen cooking something that smells garlicky and delicious. Lucien is there with her, sitting at the breakfast bar with a glass of wine in his hand.
“Mattie!” Desi greets me, smiling. “What brings you here?”
“Mainly I’m here to talk to Lucien, but it’s always good to see the rest of you, of course.”
Lucien wiggles his eyebrows at me and gives me a quick head-to-toe ogle, but says nothing.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Desi asks. “I’m making baked ziti with Italian sausages.” I’m about to accept when she adds, “Though I should probably warn you that I also invited Mom. She’ll be here any moment.”
Knowing my mother is coming almost changes my mind. Mother is a die-hard hypochondriac and spending time with her typically consists of listening to a recitation of her latest symptoms, followed by speculation on what her dreaded disease of the week might be. And Mom does her homework. She knows all the signs and symptoms for some of the world’s most obscure diseases. I spent the better part of my childhood expecting the woman to drop dead at any moment. Then I got old enough to realize her only illness was a mental one.
David, being a physician, caught the brunt of Mom’s hysteria whenever we were with her, plus she would call him several times a week to give updates. Marrying a physician was the one thing I did that made the woman proud of me. Now that he’s out of the picture, my mother often looks at me with shame, disbelief, and disgust. She regards having a physician for a husband as the height of a woman’s ambition. The mere fact that he screwed around on me is not enough to outweigh that fact.
Knowing I’ll have to face both Mom’s disappointment and her health paranoia makes me want to turn tail and run. But I do love Italian food, and the smells in Desi’s kitchen have already seduced me. Besides, I have an idea of how to derail my mother tonight, or at the very least, shift her focus.
“I’d love to stay,” I tell Desi. “And at the risk of sounding rude, do you think you have enough for me to invite someone else over? I’d be happy to go buy some extras, if need be.”
“No need,” Desi says, dismissing my concern with a wave of her hand. “I have enough here to feed an army. Is it that hunky cop of yours?”