From the Grounds Up (17 page)

'He told me when I telephoned him. The accused does get to make one call, you know.'

I was hurt. 'And you didn't think of me?'

'Just the opposite. No answer. There should be a profane message on your voicemail. I'm just lucky they let me contact Ronny after you couldn't be bothered. He was still with the Firebird and
he
,' her eyes were shooting darts, 'didn't even know anything about Mario.'

Stoolie. Deciding that pretense was the best defense, I dropped the cleanser back into my handbag and unearthed my cellphone. 'I don't know why I wouldn't have answered.' I pushed the volume button on one side of the flip-phone. 'Damn, I forgot. I set the thing on "vibrate" when I went to see Pavlik. I don't know why I didn't feel it, though.'

Sarah gestured at my tote-sized accessory. 'In Santa's sack of toys? You should put the phone somewhere you'll notice, like a clothes pocket.'

'My jeans are too tight,' I said. 'It'd ruin the lines.'

'Then your bra. That's what a lot of women do.'

I looked down at my breasts. 'Within ten steps, the thing would fall through, hit the ground and shatter into—'

'Fine.' Sarah turned away. 'I told you where to stick it.'

And right back at you, dear friend and business partner.

Something in motion caught my eye. 'Look. It's Ronny.' I pointed across the parking lot.

Sarah's cousin was just coming out of the county administration building. Sarah hailed him and he came over to us.

'They sprung you, huh?' He gave Sarah a hug.

Sure.
Him,
she didn't hit
.

'Had to,' Sarah said. 'They didn't find cocaine in my system.'

'How about biscuit flour?' I asked.

'Biscuit flour?' Ronny seemed lost.

'Yes,' I said. 'That's what I think was in the Firebird. Biscuit flour from Art Jenada's hands or clothes.'

I turned to Sarah. 'Don't you remember he was covered with it?'

'I don't remember much after seeing my baby . . .' Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat, 'the Firebird on the porch.'

Ronny unlocked his car door. 'What I can't figure out is how it landed where it did.' 'You think this was done on purpose?' I asked.

He looked uncomfortable. 'Sorry to pile-on, ladies. It just seems like there've been a bunch of accidents. Don't you wonder if they're related?'

'Somebody murdered my car on
purpose
?' Sarah's eyes were saucers. Hell, make that dinner plates.

'Let's not jump to conclusions.' I couldn't believe I was the voice of reason here. It showed you what a low bar had been set for me.

'But Ronny's right,' Sarah said. 'We talked about this, Maggy. First Kornell is hit by a train. Then the clock's ripped off the station wall, followed by the front railing failing. Now, now,' a sob rose in her throat, 'this.'

She sniffled.

I didn't dare tease her about the 'railing failing' rhyme. And I couldn't stand to see Sarah cry again. It was like the hundred-year storm. Once in a lifetime is more than enough.

Besides, commiserating wouldn't help. But maybe action could. 'Fine. Say you two are right. Then maybe we should find out who's targeting us and why.'

Ronny looked surprised. '
We
should find out? What about the police?'

'Aww, we don't need them.' Sarah was getting into the spirit. 'Maggy and I have gotten good at this.'

'We have.' I felt like a young Judy Garland encouraging a little Mickey Rooney to 'Put on a show!' 'Besides, the police will just slow us down.'

'They're too stodgy,' Sarah agreed, 'what with evidence and all.'

From Ronny, 'We don't need evidence?'

'Gut feeling is more important.' Sarah said. 'Intuition. We know the people involved. We can do this. Someone wants to stop us and we're not going to let them.'

It was the most enthusiastic I'd seen Sarah in a long time. Actually, it was the most enthusiastic I'd
ever
seen her.

Which in itself was cause for worry.

Still, if the thought of tracking down the vandals buoyed Sarah as she dealt with the Firebird, I was all for it.

'I'm in,' I said, turning to Ronny. 'But what about you? Still willing to continue with the work?'

'You betcha.' Ronny was nodding.

Well, what do you know? We
were
going to put on a show.

Fifteen minutes later, we were back at the train station, staring at Sarah's car.

The Firebird had been lifted off the porch and left sitting cockeyed in the driveway between the depot and the florist shop next door.

The poor vehicle faced us, one front tire blown, hood crumpled, paint crackled. The Firebird's black bumper, minimal in the first place, was hanging lopsided like a glued-on mustache that had half come loose. The right headlight was popped out, hanging by its wiring.

Sarah and I observed a moment of silence before she heaved a sigh. 'It's a metaphor for life, isn't it? We start out a sports car and end up a cross between Bride of Chucky and Groucho Marx.'

'Amen,' I agreed. 'Though I'm hoping to avoid the mustache.'

'You saw the coots back in the nursing home.' Sarah was still staring at the Firebird. 'You live long enough, hair grows everywhere.'

'We both have a few years before needing to worry about that.' Not that the thought wouldn't wake me up at three a.m. screaming in terror. 'I'm surprised they didn't tow the car away to the jun--.' I stopped, but not fast enough.

Sarah glared at me. 'You were going to say "junkyard",'

'I was not,' I lied. 'I'm sure the Firebird can be repaired.'

The dangling headlight picked that moment to fall. It hit the ground and rolled, ending up near our feet.

Sarah looked down at it. 'I think not.'

'Really?' It was unlike her to give up. 'What about Mario?'

'Even Mario can't work miracles. Besides, we had a good run. It's time for him to help others.'

'Mario?' Geez, did she have this guy on personal retainer?

Sarah looked at me like I was crazy. 'No, of course not. The Firebird.'

Now she was spooking me. 'How can it . . . he do that?'

'As a donor.' She picked up the headlight and cradled it in the crook of her arm.

I was almost afraid to ask. 'Umm, you mean like an organ donor?'

'Don't be stupid.' Sarah gestured at the car and, as if on cue, the bumper fell completely off. 'It's a car, Maggy. It doesn't
have
organs.'

The Sarah I knew and feared was back. Be careful what you wish for. 'So you're going to donate the car to a charity?'

'Of course not,' she said, looking offended. 'Don't you know they would just junk him?'

'All right. So what
are
you going to do?'

'You'll see.' Sarah held up one finger and then proceeded to dig out her cellphone.

As she punched in a number--as in single digit, so whoever she was calling must be on speed-dial--I wandered over to the porch where Ronny was surveying the damage left in the wake of the car.

'How bad is it?' I asked as I picked my way up the steps.

He was on his hands and knees, face through the hole created by the tire. At the sound of my voice he jumped and banged his head on one of the ragged boards.

'I'm so sorry,' I said, 'I didn't mean to startle you.'

'That's OK,' Ronny said, rubbing the spot ruefully. 'I'm pretty tough, despite the way I dress.' He straightened his sweater, which had swung around again.

I had a hunch he was tough
because
of the way he dressed. 'Are you sure you're not bleeding? Those boards were sharp enough to blow a tire.'

'Nope, no blood.' He held up his hand to show me. 'Besides, the tire wasn't punctured. The tow-truck driver deflated it. Easier to pull the car off that way.'

I guessed it made sense, as in easier to draw a limp balloon out of a hole than an inflated one.

'Did you find any structural damage?' I asked. I was hoping the answer would be no. If there were problems with the integrity of the building, the project was in trouble, given the September first deadline looming.

'That's what I was checking out.' Ronny motioned toward the hole. 'The car just took out some planks. It didn't damage the building, or even the deck posts.'

I let my breath out. 'Well, that's good news.' I turned to summon Sarah and found her right behind me.

'No, no,' she was saying into the phone. 'I won't hear of it. You've been so kind to us all these years.'

She listened for a moment. Then, 'I'm just glad that something good can come of this. We'll be here waiting for you.'

Sarah flipped the phone closed. 'His passenger-side door is going to a sixty-year-old man with a blue Firebird. They'll have to paint him to match, of course.'

I was going to ask if she was talking about painting the man or the Firebird, but that would be petty. Besides, Sarah was getting misty.

She swiped at her eyes and pushed on: 'Both rear tail lights are going to a Milwaukee family for their son's car. It's a birthday surprise.' She smiled through the tears. 'I'm so glad they won't be split up.'

I heard Ronny say something that sounded suspiciously like 'parts is parts'.

'Me, too,' I draped my arm over Sarah's shoulder and gave Ronny a warning look. 'Who's . . . making the arrangements?'

A choking noise from Ronny. 'Sorry,' he said. 'Frog in my throat. I'd better get some water.'

As he ducked into the station's doorway, Sarah answered my question. 'Mario.' She sniffed. 'It will be his last duty for us.'

'Don't be silly,' I said. 'You'll have other cars. And Mario will take care of them, too.'

'You think?' Sarah asked wistfully.

What I thought was that she was going off the deep end and I wasn't far from following her. 'I don't think, I know. What we have to do now, though, is to look forward. One, get the depot ready for opening. And two, make sure that whoever is doing this to us is stopped.'

'You're right.' Sarah balled her hand into a fist and shook it over her head in defiance. 'As God is my witness, I'll never—'

'That's enough of the dramatics, Cuz,' Ronny said from the doorway. 'Snap out of it.' He handed her the glass of water he was carrying.

She drank half of it and set the glass down. 'OK.'

I looked at her quizzically. 'OK?' I turned to Ronny. 'That's all I had to do?'

'Pretty much.'

'We Kingstons weren't molly-coddled,' Sarah admitted. '"Straighten up and fly right," my father used to say.'

My friend might be selling her family mantra, but I wasn't sure even she herself was buying it.

No matter, though. At least Sarah wasn't channeling Scarlett O'Hara anymore.

Ronny leaned out on the deck to get a better view of the Firebird. 'Did you ever tell us where you parked?'

'Up there.' The raised area Sarah indicated was the high, gravel-covered spot I'd noticed earlier. It was directly across the street from us.

'I won't ask you why.' Ronny looked back and forth, forth and back. 'I guess the Firebird could have simply rolled down the hill and across the street.'

'But would the car gain enough speed coasting to land on the deck?' I asked. 'We're four feet up.'

Ronny nodded to the street in front of us. 'If the tires hit the curb just right, I guess the vehicle could have gone airborne.'

'Did you set the parking brake?' I asked Sarah.

'Of course I did,' she said indignantly.

'I'm just asking because usually I don't.' South-eastern Wisconsin is pretty flat. Then again, Sarah's car hadn't needed a San Francisco-style hill to ski-jump on to the porch.

She folded her arms. 'Well, I always do.'

'Maybe a better question,' Ronny said. 'Did the parking brake work?'

I could practically see Sarah's hackles rise. 'Mario kept my baby in perfect condition. I set the brake. This is not our fault.' She said it like she was trying to reassure not only herself, but the mortally wounded car squatting in the driveway.

'Of course it isn't,' I was quick to reassure her. 'Now when you backed the Firebird in, did you see anyone hanging around?'

'I didn't—'

'No one, huh?' I mused. 'Not Christy or Art or anybody.'

Sarah just about shouted. 'Look, I didn't—'

'You don't have to get mad,' I said, feeling a little dig. Here I was trying to help and—

Sarah clamped both hands on my shoulders, shaking me. 'Will you let me finish? I did
not
back the car in.'

En masse, we turned to look at the magic Firebird.

Ronny voiced what I believed everybody was thinking. 'Then how in the hell did it turn itself around?'

Chapter Eighteen

The answer, of course, was that it hadn't.

'Someone must have started the car, pulled it out and then backed in,' I said.

'First of all,' Ronny said, 'how could they start the car?'

I turned to Sarah. 'You didn't leave the keys in the car, did you?'

'Of course not.'

Ronny frowned. 'You have a spare key anywhere?'

She matched his frown, line for line. 'Yes, but I put it in one of those little magnetic cases.'

'Like the infomercial where the pitchman hides the thing inside the wheel-well?' I turned to Ronny. 'They show this bumbling thief looking everywhere and not finding it. What a joke.'

'Uh, Sarah,' Ronny asked, 'where did you put yours?'

'The wheel-well,' Sarah said.

Ronny and I both looked at her.

Sarah bristled. 'I'm not an idiot. I stuck it inside the rear one on the passenger side, not the front driver's side like in that commercial.'

'Smart,' I said. 'No one would think of looking there.'

'Hey,' she protested. 'There's a lot of fiberglass on my baby. Hiding places that are metal aren't easy to find.'

Ronny was rubbing his chin. 'Maggy, this might answer the question you originally asked. If the car was, in fact, running as it came off the hill, the jump on to the porch seems a little more likely.'

'Geez, we're lucky the un-guided missile didn't go through the door.' I was shaking my head. 'Think of all the added expense. Not to mention the time we'd lose.'