“Flowers die.”
“Balloons crawl on their bellies on the floor.”
They were crazy, both of them, but my life would be so flat without them. I grabbed them about their necks, one in each arm, and hugged.
“By the way,” Jo said, rubbing her neck after I released her. “I took your basket to Freedom House.” She looked at me sternly. “That place is falling down.”
“True,” I said, “but you don’t need to frown at me. It’s not my fault.”
“Um.” She studied me cynically. “You sent me there on purpose, didn’t you?”
“Sure. I needed the flowers delivered.”
She snorted. “Don’t think you can charm me. I know a setup when I see one.”
“And?” I waited expectantly.
Oh, Lord, let her help! Please let her help!
“The least I can do is buy decent furniture for her office.” It wasn’t what I’d hoped for at twenty-five thousand dollars a month for twenty years, but it was a start.
I hugged her. “Thanks, Jolene. That’s kind of you.”
“And maybe see that the place gets painted and fixed up.”
I grinned. “That’s even better!”
“And maybe pay the rent for the first year so they can get Like New up and running.”
“Jolene!” I was overcome.
She raised an eyebrow. “Is that enough?”
I pulled a rose out of my bouquet and handed it to her. “You are wonderful.”
She leaned over and put the rose back in the vase, smirking all the while. “That’s what Reilly always says.”
My phone rang as I tried to think of a comeback.
“Thought you’d like to know,” William Poole barked in my ear, “Whatley’s main problems are blood loss and dehydration. He should be fine in spite of a nasty shoulder wound.”
“Thanks, William. That’s wonderful news.”
At the name William, both Mac and Jolene stiffened like a pair of spaniels on point.
“The doctors said that if you hadn’t found him when you did, he’d have been in big trouble. Not that he’s not hurting anyway, but at least it’s not life threatening. We’re waiting for him to gain consciousness and tell us what happened.”
“How’s Edie doing?”
“She hasn’t stopped crying since she got here.”
I was laughing when I hung up. So many wonderful things happening all at once!
“What does Poole want? And what’s it have to do with Edie?” Mac demanded.
“You know how Tom’s been missing?” I began.
“He’s been found?” Jolene clapped her hands.
“Where? How? By whom?” Mac demanded, ever the newspaperman hot on the scent of a good story.
“Hibernia. By following a blood trail. Me.”
“You? You found him?”
I glared at my editor. “You don’t have to act so surprised.”
“I’m not surprised. I just can’t believe you didn’t say anything sooner.”
I glanced at the flowers and balloons. “I got sidetracked.”
Mac barely gave my gifts a glance. They were fluff. The story was all. “So give, woman. Tell me every single detail.”
So I did, ending with the news that Tom was in the hospital, still unconscious, with Edie at his side.
“But he’s going to be okay?” Jolene asked.
“So William said.”
“Flowers,” she said, completely in character. “We’ll send a huge colorful bouquet of spring flowers, including irises and lilies and daffodils.”
Mac nodded approval. “Good, Jolene. Tell them to put a balloon or two in the arrangement. Merry, you get that story written. I’ve got to call Dawn. She’s been praying.”
Jo and I looked at each other in amazement. Poor Mac. He was well and truly smitten. And he certainly had good taste, finally, after years of chasing everything in skirts. But I still had reservations.
I made quick notes about my adventure with Tom, then turned off my computer and gathered my belongings. My brain was mush. It was time to go home, regroup for a few minutes before going to see Mike Hamblin and then moving on to Intimations. I gathered my balloons and roses.
“Don’t worry. I’ll bring them back,” I assured Mac, who frowned as he watched me try to shepherd the uncooperative floaters through the door.
Whiskers loved my flowers.
“Get away from them!” I shouted, shoving him to the floor from the bureau where he sat trying to eat them. “Go bat a balloon.”
In fact the balloons scared him as they hovered and shifted and twisted in the drafts. He eyed them fearfully and wouldn’t go near them. With an eye to saving my roses, I wrapped the balloon strings about my jewelry box and pushed it next to the roses.
Whiskers sat on the bed and looked longingly at the fragrant flowers, then fearfully at the balloons. He made no move to approach either. Safe for the night.
I pulled on my black dress, nothing as classy or expensive as the one Delia, Miss Little Black Dress herself, was certain to be wearing. Still, as I checked myself in the mirror for cat hair, I didn’t think I’d shame myself or Curt. I thought I looked as sophisticated as I’d ever get with my black hose and shoes and my one piece of good jewelry—a miniature portrait on ceramic that my great-great-grandmother had painted—pinned to my shoulder.
As I pulled into Hamblin Motors at 6:23, I was listening to KYW, the all-news station out of Philadelphia. I wanted to know if there were any reports about Tom Whatley being found. I didn’t think the news had leaked yet, but I wanted to know before I talked with Mike Hamblin. One thing was sure: I wasn’t going to be the one to tell prematurely. There was too much at stake, like finding the bad guys responsible for whatever had happened to Tom.
I found an empty parking slot near the front door of the Hamblin showroom, no mean feat with the limited open space on the lot where cars, vans and pickups sat cheek by jowl. Hamblin’s sat on Route 30 just east of Amhearst, and the four-lane highway passed mere feet from the showroom. Down the road about a quarter of a mile was a well-lit shopping
center with my favorite bookstore. I reached for the keys when a knock on my window made me jump. Howard the salesman peered in at me.
I rolled down my window. “Hello, Howard.”
He smiled with what he thought was charm. Today he was wearing a cream twill shirt with Hamblin Motors over the heart. He looked much healthier.
“I’m sorry, but we’re closed,” he said. “Our colleague died this morning, and we’re closing early in memory of him.”
I nodded. “Bill Bond.”
Howard seemed surprised. “Yes.”
I pushed my car door open and stepped out. I flipped the lock switch down and closed the door, feeling virtuous about how well I was caring for Mr. Hamish’s car. “Mr. Hamblin is expecting me. It’s all right.”
Howard didn’t look convinced and followed me to the glass doors. I pulled the doors open and walked into the showroom. Howard followed.
“It’s okay, Howard. Truly. I promise not to steal any of the cars, toy or real.”
He frowned at me. Obviously humor wasn’t one of his strong points.
“Say.” I paused. “Do you guys wear denim shirts one day a week?” I pointed to the Hamblin Motors logo on his cream shirt.
Howard looked disconcerted by the change of topic. “Yes,” he said hesitantly. “On Thursday. We have a different shirt for each day of the week. Today’s is cream twill, and everyone wears that, even Mike. All except Bill. He likes…” He swallowed convulsively and looked suddenly sad. “Liked to wear a dress shirt and tie. Mike let him since he was sales manager. It set him apart.”
“Was Bill good to work for?” I asked gently.
Howard nodded. “I liked him a lot. Every so often he’d get
temperamental, but mostly he was fun. He was good at his job.” He sighed deeply. “It’s so sad!”
I made a noncommittal noise. How could a man be one kind of person at work and another at home? I made a mental note to ask Stephanie if this was a common phenomenon.
Howard led me to a handsome man with dark curly hair standing by the toy showcase against the outside wall of the showroom. The front of the showcase was open, and he had been rearranging the contents, trying to make room for something else by the looks of it.
He smiled warmly when he saw me. “Merry Kramer? I’m Mike Hamblin.”
We shook hands while Howard stood watching.
“It’s all right, Howard,” Mike said, dismissing his salesman. “She and I have an appointment.”
Howard nodded, though he still looked at me suspiciously. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow, Mike.” He turned and walked away.
Mike watched him go. “He’s a nice enough guy,” he said like he had to explain Howard. “Lots of our customers like his slow, thorough service. He makes them feel safe.”
I nodded, not really interested in what the customers thought of Howard. “What did your customers think of Bill Bond?”
“Come on back to my office where we can talk more comfortably,” Mike said.
I nodded and followed him across the showroom to the door that Howard had prevented me from going through on my last visit.
When we entered Mike’s office, I was immediately taken with a large toy car sitting on his desk. It was about two feet high and three feet long, much larger than any of the toys out in the showcases. It had a long hood, a flat roof and a rumble seat. Spare tires were mounted on the running boards on both
sides just behind the hood. The door to the driver’s side was open, and I could see the seats had upholstery that looked as good as new.
“That’s one big toy,” I said.
Mike laughed. “It’s not a toy. It’s a showroom sample. I found it at an antique show over the weekend. Some guy sold it to me for a thousand dollars.” Mike laughed. “Poor chump.”
I looked at the scarred metal of the car. “A thousand dollars sounds pretty pricey to me.”
He shook his head. “A model this size is probably worth between twenty-five and thirty grand.”
I looked from him to the car in disbelief.
He grinned. “Amazing, isn’t it? But I know what I’m talking about when it comes to cars, whether toys, samples or the real thing.”
“Do you have any real antique cars like Model Ts or anything?” If he did and Mac thought it would make a good story, I’d give it to Larry, the sports guy. He actually knew one model of car from another, unlike a certain charming journalist who shall remain nameless.
We talked about his antique car collection and the huge garage he’d had built at home to house all ten of them. Rather, he talked and I listened. He told me about the shelves that circled his garage for the huge toy car collection he had, everything from a Stutz Bearcat to the latest Matchbox.
“What you see out there are not necessarily my finer pieces.” He waved toward the showroom. “They’re the ones my customers like and recognize. The bulk of the collection is at home.” He grinned. “I love cars of any size!”
Then he described his security system to protect his collection in much more detail than I wanted to know. As he talked, I thought that the retail car business must be more lucrative than I’d ever imagined. We were talking a big-bucks hobby.
Finally we got around to Bill Bond.
“Wonderful, wonderful man,” Mike assured me. “Such a tragedy.”
“Have you any idea why someone would shoot him?”
He gravely shook his head. “I can’t begin to imagine. What is it they always say?
Cherchez la femme?”
Sure, I thought cynically. Blame it on some poor woman.
I sat forward. “Do you think Bill had a woman tucked away somewhere?” And did he beat her too? I wanted to ask.
Mike quickly held up his hands in denial. “No, no. Bill was not the kind of man to have a girlfriend on the side. I was referring obliquely to his wife.”
“His wife?”
Mike looked uncomfortable. “She’s…” He paused. “Let’s just say she’s unusual.”
“How?” I asked bluntly.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s all speculation.”
I waited a minute, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to talk about Tina anymore. Had he just suffered a slip of the tongue, or had he meant to cast doubt on her character, to turn the eyes of people to her as a probable culprit? I wondered what he’d say if I told him that at the time of Bill’s death she was trying to sleep off the battering given by the man everyone at Hamblin’s seemed to consider so wonderful.
Mike took me into Bill’s office where a picture of his family sat prominently on his desk. Tina smiled warmly at the camera, Jess and Lacey leaned against her legs and Bill sat behind her, arm lovingly about her shoulder.
A picture’s worth a thousand words, they say. Sometimes pictures lie.
“He was a dependable man, always here when I needed him,” Mike said, staring at the picture. “We’re going to miss him!”
“Did he ever lose his temper with your salesmen?”
“Never. Now why do you ask that?”
“With the customers?”
“Absolutely not.”
“So you don’t think he had a temper problem?”
“I’m not sure what you’re insinuating, but I don’t think I like it.”
I smiled and changed the topic. “Tell me some Bill stories so I can get a feel for him.”
“The customers liked him because he told them jokes and made them laugh.”
I waited expectantly, but that was it.
I tried again. “I understand he liked to wear a shirt and tie instead of the staff shirts.”
“He had good taste in clothes and liked to dress formally.” I hated interviews like this one where the person appeared polite and cooperative but gave me nothing. The question I had to ask myself was whether the stonewalling was on purpose or not. I made another leap in subject matter.
“How did Bill get along with Tom Whatley?”
Mike blinked. “They got along fine. Why wouldn’t they?”
“Bill was sales manager, but Tom was top salesman.”
“Bill was proud of Tom.”
“No resentment? No jealousy?”
“Bill was a wonderful, wonderful man.”
Yeah, yeah, so you’ve said. “Do you think Bill’s shooting has anything to do with Tom’s disappearance?”
Mike looked surprised. “I hope not. I do. If they’re linked, I’m going to start thinking that Hamblin Motors is the object of some strange vendetta.”
I tucked that highly speculative comment away for later thought. “Have you heard from Tom since he went missing?”
Mike shook his handsome head. “Of course not.”