The Big Cat Nap (7 page)

“You okay?”

“Of course I’m okay.”

Harry briefly recounted where she’d been, the response of the returning mechanics, and then she said, “No tires. Not one. Strange.”

“Not really.” Franny stood up, smoothed her skirt, and sat down again. “Tires take up a lot of room. Most people don’t know too much about tires, so a shop like ReNu will generally just put on what the manufacturer originally had on the vehicle, unless the customer asks for something else.”

“Does Victor ever buy tires from you?”

“Rarely. He calls in orders from the various wholesalers or tire manufacturers, if possible. And as you may know, the whole piece comes: It’s an entire wheel, tire already on it. In the old days, you’d pry the tire off with a tire iron. You can still change a tire if you get a flat, but for ReNu’s purposes, it’s easier to pop on an entire wheel. I
think all this is economically generated, because the customer has to buy so much more than, say, in the 1950s or 1960s. Though it’s true you do get your car back faster.”

“You’ve answered my question. You were close, so I dropped in without calling. I apologize.”

“No apology needed after all we’ve been through. I just heard that Willa’s cancer has returned.”

Willa Reisman was a member of their cancer support group.

“Oh, no.”

“She made it four years, but damned if a spot hasn’t been found in her lung. That’s the thing: Those cells can travel. She had breast cancer, as you know.”

“Think they found it in time?”

“Hope so. She begins treatment next week. You know how viruses for computers are encrypted in something else, something that seems innocent?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s what I think cancer does. Malware. God, I hate this disease.”

“I do, too.” Harry sighed, then changed the subject. “Do you think Victor at ReNu is a good businessman?”

“One of the best.”

“He hired a slacker for the front desk. I gained access to the garage during lunch break by slipping Kyle some money. So I’m thinking about that, you know. Victor is penny-wise and pound-foolish.”

Franny played with her earring for a moment. “I guess we all are, to a degree. I know Victor very well, and he also respects mechanics. He probably doesn’t think too much about the front desk.”

“But you hired a good person.”

“The front desk is your face to the public. It’s the first employee of your company most people meet. You’re damned right I have a good person, but I’m selling. Victor isn’t. When the squashed car comes to him with the blown radiator or whatever, Victor already has the job. Still, you’ve given me something to think about.”

“What?”

“How sharp you are and how you rush in where angels fear to tread. Once you’re in a mess, you miss very little.”

“I’m not really in a mess. I just discovered Walt’s body, along with Herb and Susan.”

“Harry.” Franny lifted an eyebrow. “Why are you asking me all this?”

Harry shrugged. “Dunno.”

Franny shrugged, too. “Whatever this was about—could have been anything, an outraged husband, a deal gone sour—I personally am not going to worry unless tire dealers go missing.”

Back in the truck, the animals stayed silent until they reached the farm. Murphy and Pewter spilled out of the truck, ran around the yard and to the barn, glad to be away from all those machine odors. Pewter sashayed to the house.

Pewter sat under the enormous walnut tree next to the house. Matilda, the huge blacksnake with glittering eyes, silently crawled down the tree—bark easy for her to grip—until she reached the lowest branch, about ten feet up. Wrapping her tail around the thick branch, she swung down above the gray cat’s head. While she wasn’t near enough to touch, the blacksnake was close.

“S-s-s-s.”
She flicked out her forked red tongue.

Pewter, ears so good, looked up. She let out a scream, ran through the screened-in porch door, which had an animal door in it, and then through to the kitchen itself.

“Ha.”
Matilda was full of herself.

Mrs. Murphy, sitting in the center aisle, saw Pewter run, then saw the source of the dash.

“Hey, Tucker. Come here.”

The dog joined her feline friend, who gave her the story. They watched the large snake swing back up onto the big branch.

“She has an evil sense of humor.”
Mrs. Murphy laughed.

“Should we go into the kitchen? Pewter will be very upset.”
Tucker did love the gray butterball.

“We’ll need smelling salts.”

The two laughed uproariously.

Flipping hay flakes into the stalls, Harry heard the meows and little barks, then saw her animals leaning on each other and thought about how love knows no boundaries.

For that matter, neither does hate.

T
he next day, Franny Howard, almost always the first person at work, unlocked the door to the showroom. The immaculate garage behind the showroom had three large drive-in bays where tires could be put onto vehicles. Franny ran a tight ship.

Fresh morning coolness brushed her too-rouged cheeks. No sooner did she hear the
click, click
of the large lock than she sensed something wrong. Opening the door, she looked at the long countertop, the desks behind that, and her own office behind that. Everything looked to be in order. She checked the counter, the shelves underneath. Nothing amiss. She turned on each of the three computers, punched up information she considered sensitive. Nothing had been stolen that she could discern.

Then she unlocked the door to her office. Again, everything was as she’d left it last night before meeting friends for an intimate dinner at Keswick Sports Club.

Hands on hips, she breathed in. Why did she feel such unease? Turning on her mid-height heel, Franny walked out from her office to the front of the long polished counter, then opened the door into the garage just as Mackie Rogan hit the button to roll up one of the doors to a big bay. He turned to face the inside of the service area at the same time as Franny stepped into it.

Both of their mouths fell open.

“What the hell?” Mackie finally gasped.

Franny hurried over to the area where the various brands of tires were kept, each clearly marked. “Goddammit! Goddammit to hell!” she cursed, a rarity.

Mackie, now next to her, intoned as though reciting a litany, “Goodyear Eagle F1 GS-D3, empty. Continental ContiSportContact 2, empty. Yokohama ADVAN Neova AD07, empty. Michelin Pilot Sport PS2, empty. All of them.”

Arms across her chest, trying to assess the damage, Franny nodded. “Whoever cleaned us out knew tires and was a high-performance freak. A real high-performance freak.”

“Boss, this is terrible.” Mackie cast his eyes over their remaining inventory. “They left the Hankook Ventus, the Toyo Proxes, the Pirelli PZeroes, the Dunlops SPs. Damned good tires.”

Swiftly calculating, Franny shook her head. “Mackie, I tote up about twenty-five thousand dollars.”

He put his big hand on her thin shoulder. “Yep. They’ll be on the black market by tonight.”

Not one to fade during a crisis, Franny patted his hand. “I’m glad you were the first one in the service area. You can keep your wits about you. Check the security system. I’ll call the sheriff. And, Mackie, let’s see who notices when they arrive for work.”

Mackie’s dark eyes widened. “You don’t think one of the boys did it, do you?”

“No. We have a good team. But what I’m curious about is how long it takes our guys to notice and what happens when they do. It teaches you about people.”

Mackie nodded, as always impressed by Franny’s shrewdness. He briskly walked to the metal door that enclosed the expensive security system.

Franny hurried back into the office to call the sheriff on a landline. Put it on a computer, call from your cellphone, and it was out in the world, never to be recalled. One could never control the new technology, despite loud government and corporate protests to the contrary. All this whirled through her mind as she dialed.

No sooner had she spoken to the sheriff’s department than Mackie
opened the door into the front area. He was a large man, and she recognized his heavy tread. Emerging from her office, she smiled at him. She trusted Mackie; they’d worked together since she founded the business in the mid-eighties, a time when it was not terribly easy for a divorced woman to get a business loan.

“Our security system was disabled. Whoever did this knew about more than tires,” Mackie told Franny.

“How’d they get the door open?”

“I think with a tiny welding flame. Just sliced clean through the lock. I checked the regular door into the service area. M.O.”

“Mackie, can I get you a drink?”

He smiled. “No. Tell you what, it was a shock.”

“Yes.” She looked at him imploringly for a moment. “Why do people steal? It takes so much knowledge, so much hard work. Wouldn’t it be easier to be upright?”

He shrugged. “Greater profit, no taxes, I guess. And if this is a large operation … well,” he fumbled, “there must be some sort of protection if the thief is caught.”

“Yes, yes. You always see things I don’t.” She flattered him, but it was the truth. “Stupid criminals act on impulse. Intelligent ones plan and protect one another.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I am, too.” She smiled at him, remembering how young he was when she hired him, her first hire. “But we’ll get through it. We always do.”

“We will,” he said with conviction.

With Rick at the wheel on their way up Route 29, Cooper took the dispatcher’s call. The sheriff decided they could go to ReNu after this. He wanted to question the mechanics at ReNu himself, and Coop wanted to walk through the garage to see if she or anyone else had missed anything. Given the variables at a crime scene, especially murder, things could go overlooked. But Franny’s call required immediate attention.

Once there, both sheriff and deputy reached the same conclusion that Mackie had: This was the work of professionals.

Rick took notes while interviewing the other employees of the tire company as they arrived. Cooper listened intently. She was an excellent listener.

Rick respected Franny and spoke plainly to her. “This is going on all over America. One of the biggest tire heists was a few months ago in Reno.”

“Why there?” Franny motioned for the front-office girl to simply sit down when she walked into the scene. Isabelle, a bit frightened, did just that.

Coop looked over at Isabelle and said, “No one was hurt. We just need to ask you and everyone a few questions.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the diminutive young woman replied.

Rick leaned toward Franny. “These operations have big warehouses. Huge business. Cheap storage, dry conditions. They set up near a good airport so things can be easily shipped all over. It’s easier for some companies to use those huge storage units for inventory than to take up space at the factory or, worse, build.”

After Rick and Coop left, Franny sat down to write a preliminary summary of her investigation so far. Never hurt to put it on paper. Making lists, checking inventory—tasks that often bored others—helped her think. As she pulled up her inventory on the computer, she reviewed how many computer systems she’d gone through since starting up. Then she recalled a squib she’d read in
The Kiplinger Letter
, saying that the number of small businesses started by women was growing 50 percent faster than the number of businesses started up by men. She was especially pleased that one of the fields booming with female ownership was construction.

Franny felt no particular competitiveness against men, but she rejoiced when women succeeded in male-dominated fields. One thing life had taught Franny was that most reasonably intelligent men knew where their economic self-interest lay and put their energies into those businesses that would turn a profit.

In a tiny way, she felt that young women wanting to steer their own ships was her little victory, too. Now, if she could just encourage
women to take more risks, for Franny well knew that greater risks meant greater profits.

Then she came back to the present. Seemed she had run risk enough in her youth. The funny thing was Franny, like most people, thought life would get easier as she got older. It didn’t. She just got better at handling the crises.