“No. I’d love to. I mean, I’d just lose my mind, go everywhere. ’Course, the real decision would be whether to buy a dirt bike or a road one. Love the sound of the big ones.”
“Me, too. Like the old V8s from the fifties and sixties. That rumble.”
“If Fair and I weren’t facing a big bill for the hydraulic system on the old John Deere, I’d think about it. You really can save money on gas. Our gas bills have doubled, and, boy, that cuts into the budget. The estimate from the John Deere dealer—back to the tractor—is ten thousand dollars for a new hydraulic system, all new hoses, the works. We’re gonna get the work done outside the dealer, I think. It will take longer. Still cost, though.”
Herb whistled. “That calls for serious prayer and maybe a winning lottery ticket.”
The two people who loved each other drove back to St. Luke’s, chattering away.
As Herb pulled in to the driveway of the garage, the truck backfired, shuddered, and stopped dead.
Harry jumped out after Herb popped the hood. “Cut on the motor.”
He did. Nothing.
As this was a truck that still had an oil dipstick, Harry took it out, put the clean end to her ear. “Okay, try again.”
A click sounded, another. Click. Click. Click. But no ignition.
“I just picked this damned truck up, as you know.”
“I think it’s your alternator. But it could be more than that. Better call ReNu. They’ll need to tow you.”
He got out of the truck, slamming the door. “I do need a new truck. Or that motorcycle. But you know there’s no way the church can afford new wheels. Given the hauling and odds and ends we need, half the parish uses the church truck. It has to be a truck.”
“Yes, it does.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ll call ReNu. Got the number?”
Herb easily recalled the telephone number, as he’d called it so many times.
By the time Harry had the new pin on the belly mount—an easy job once she found a block of wood to steady the mount and once she was able to dislodge the sheared pin—the tow truck from ReNu had turned onto the driveway. To her surprise, Victor Gatzembizi emerged from the passenger side; Terry Schreiber, the driver, was about as greasy as she was.
Wiping her hands on her jeans, Harry strolled down to them as Herb came out of his office.
Victor looked up. “Reverend Jones, let’s hope this is a hangover from your former problem.”
“Why?”
“Well, otherwise you and the insurance company are throwing good money after bad.”
Herb explained what happened, then Harry piped up, “I think it’s the alternator.”
Victor listened. Terry, who didn’t know Harry, discounted what the attractive woman said.
“If Harry didn’t farm, she’d be working for you, Victor.” Herb smiled.
“Given what’s happened to us, I could use a good mechanic.” Victor shook his head.
“It has to be a shock and a strain for you, Victor. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, Reverend. The best thing I know to do is to keep working. And I go to each of my shops at least once a week. It helps to get away. Terry here can’t. I think it’s harder for the boys.”
“I want to know what the sheriff is doing,” Terry grumbled.
“The best he can.” Harry quickly defended Rick and, by extension, Cooper.
“You’re right, Harry,” Victor agreed. “It takes time, and even if they know who did it or have a good idea, they still have to gather enough evidence to run them in.”
Harry looked at Terry, who had a smear of grease on his forehead. “I guess you guys are all pretty close.”
“We have a few beers. Race our cars.” Terry shrugged.
An idea occurred to Harry. Like most of her ideas involving curiosity about others, it would come to a bad end.
That evening she called Cooper, told her about Herb’s truck, and asked her if she could run over the VIN number.
“I can, but that’s not going to tell you anything,” Cooper said.
“Why not?”
“It will tell me and CarMax, for instance, if the car has been in a wreck. Won’t tell me anything about the repairs, which is what you’re after since his truck was just repaired. Right?”
“Right. But surely there are repair records.”
“Only insurance companies can access those.” Cooper paused a minute. “From a law-enforcement perspective, we don’t care about repairs. We want to know if the title, the registration, the license, is current, expired, et cetera, and we’d like an accident record.”
“But what if the accident is caused by a fault in the vehicle?”
“That’s not my job.”
“Hmm.”
“Harry.” Cooper’s voice rose. “I don’t know where you’re heading with this. I’m kind of afraid to find out.”
Ever want to do this?” Harry sat in the empty bleachers with BoomBoom, her childhood friend, competitor, sometimes enemy, and friend again. They were alone at the Central Virginia Hot Rod Track over in Augusta County, next to Albemarle County.
“I’d love it. Alicia, on the other hand, would be apoplectic if I started drag racing.”
Alicia Palmer, a former movie star, was BoomBoom’s partner in life—a big surprise to both of them, but it was working out just fine.
“You could use her Mustang.”
“Harry, she’d kill me.” BoomBoom laughed. “That’s her baby. Funny, she has the money to buy any car in the world, including those gorgeous Bentleys, but she wanted that metallic candy-apple-red Mustang.”
“It is pretty cool. Soup that baby up and I bet you’d win some of these races. Top fuel dragsters spend over two hundred grand on those things. ’Course, you wouldn’t need to spend that much at this level. Could just fire up what I call a door slammer.”
BoomBoom wondered how the dragsters managed, given the expense of low-level racing. “Even if it’s a door slammer, every penny goes into their rod. The ReNu guys weren’t rich.”
“That’s what Cooper said about Nick Ashby. All his money got poured into his STI. Raced it as a sports compact. After the police picked over and through his car, they gave it to his mother. What a little gem that car is. Tons of power, plus it starts in all weather, goes through snow, and, being a Subaru, lasts forever.”
“Maybe Nick’s mother will sell it to you.”
A light shone in Harry’s eyes. “Oh, God, to cruise around in a torpedo with four wheels. Ever wonder how you and I wound up being gearheads?”
BoomBoom shrugged. “Actually, no. Remember in our junior year when the boys took over that straight stretch from the old Del Monte plant to the train depot? Two in the morning and all of us stood guard to watch out for the cops.”
“Fab.” Harry grinned.
“What was really fab was, after they all ran their heats, I took out the old Trans Am and just smoked them. Ha.” She slapped her thigh.
“Gallop down Memory Lane.” Pewter, on the bleachers with Mrs. Murphy and Tucker, sniffed.
“Makes them happy.” Tucker lay down, head on paws.
“I suppose, but the dumb stuff they talk about: drag racing, who got their ears pierced—”
“In ancient Egypt, cats had pierced ears and wore gold earrings,” Mrs. Murphy interrupted.
“You’re making that up,” Pewter replied. “Although we were gods—then again, we still are.”
“I’m not making it up. Mom has pictures in one of her history books of a cat statue with earrings.” Mrs. Murphy looked out over the quarter-mile track.
“I wouldn’t want to be a god,” the corgi wisely stated. “You’d never be real, never truly one of the pack. I want to belong to my pack, which”—a long sigh followed this—“I guess is Harry, Fair, and”—another long pause—“you two.”