“You’re a mechanic?” He whistled through his teeth. “Holy shit. I knew there was something neat about you.”
“Not exactly a mechanic. I’m a cop.”
“You lie.”
“I don’t lie,” I said, laughing off the kid’s moon-eyed attention.
He stretched a muscular arm toward me and with a cursory “Do you mind?” snatched up my guitar.
Help yourself, buddy.
The kid put the Seagull in his lap, strummed some chords, then belted out a few lines of a country sob song of the “My baby’s left
me all alone” variety. He put so much ham into it, I could only laugh at his performance.
Keith took a mock bow, then handed the guitar back to me.
“So what’s your specialty?” he asked.
“Acoustic rock. The blues. I’m working on a song right now. Fooling around with some pieces and parts.”
“Here’s an idea. Why don’t we talk about it over dinner? I know this fish place in Moss Beach,” he said.
“Thanks, Keith. That’s a nice idea, but I’m already taken.” I reached up and clutched the Kokopelli Joe had given me.
“I don’t mind telling you that you’re breaking my heart.”
“Awww. You’ll survive.”
“No, it’s true. I’m smitten. Beautiful, a mechanic in her spare time. What more could a guy ask for?”
“Come on, Keith,” I said patting his arm. “Show me around my new car.”
I stepped down from the porch with Keith behind me. I ran my hand over the Bonneville’s fender, opened the driver’s door, and settled in. The car had a good roomy, comfy feel, and the dash was full of whizbang dials and gizmos, just as I remembered.
“It’s a good choice, Lindsay,” Keith said, leaning on the roof of the car. “I wouldn’t sell you a junker. My backup toolbox is in the trunk, but call if you have any problems.”
“Will do.”
He flashed a sheepish smile, took off his cap, shook out his sandy hair, repositioned his cap, and said, “Well, take care, okay?”
I waved as he drove away. Then I put the key into my new baby’s ignition and turned it.
The engine didn’t start. It didn’t even cough, buzz, or whine.
It was dead as a flat frog in the middle of the road.
Chapter 43
I MADE A SHOPPING list of the parts I’d need, and then spent the rest of the day bringing up the Bonneville’s shine with a tube of compound I found in Keith’s tool kit. I was supremely happy buffing dull brown into a high bronze gleam.
I was still admiring my work when the evening paper came sailing out the window of a passing car. I backpedaled quickly and plucked it out of the air, earning a “Nice catch!” from the paper guy.
I snapped open the thin local Gazette, and the bold black headline grabbed me:
LOCAL DOCTOR’S WIFE STABBED TO DEATH AT HOME DOCTOR MISSING
I stood rooted to the lawn and read: