Sour Grapes (A Savannah Reid Mystery #6) (27 page)

"Dixie Lynn? Dixie Lynn? Are you kidding me? Are you making this up? I mean, Dixie's won Grammys, and she sang at the Oscars last year, and she's been on the cover of Rolling Stone and--"

"I know. She's very hot right now. Are you up to it?"

She bounced off the bed and around the room. She

couldn't have achieved more height with a pogo stick.

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"Am I up to it? Am I up to it? I've been practicing for this my who-o-ole life. This is too cool! I can't believe it!"

Since the tide had turned, Savannah decided to crawl into bed and catch a few hours sleep if the human

yo-yo would settle down. Morning was going to come early, and she already had a mental list a mile long of "to do's".

Besides, any minute now, Atlanta might think to ask the name of this high-powered, wheeler-dealer, Hollywood agent. All too soon she would find out that her agent was none other than John Gibson, who knew absolutely everyone who was anyone in most of the continental

United States, and even more in Europe. He had set the whole thing up, bless his heart, and Savannah would love him forever for doing it.

But Atlanta didn't need to know that just yet.

"Good night, sweetie," she told her sister as she climbed beneath the covers. "This is our last night here, and I am going to sleep an entire night in this lovely, free bed. So lights out."

Moments later, she could hear Atlanta wiggling around in her bed, giggling, still ecstatic. How nice, to be so young and full of hope for the future. Marion Lippincott was right All that energy and beauty, it was wasted on the young.

Nearly every town had an industrial section, and San Carmelita--graceful seaside village that it was--was no exception. And while most people wouldn't chose to live in that area of town, they were thankful for it when they needed some of the more basic things of life done,

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like their car lubed, their tires rotated, or a

fresh coat of paint sprayed on the old jalopy.

Savannah had brought her Mustang down here so

many times that almost every shop owner knew her by

name and reputation. Californians loved their restored classics, and the Ford Mustang was one of the most popular. Savannah liked to think that her baby was the prettiest "pony" in town.

So, as she drove down one street after another, checking every detail shop she passed, she was heartily greeted and had to fend off a multitude of offers, most of which weren't worth beans.

When it came to buying classics, a lot of car lovers made empty promises. . . sort of like drunks at a bar at closing time.

She had already tried at least six or seven places, showing a snapshot of the BMW, and a photo she had cut out of a Villa Rosa brochure she had snagged from

the reception desk. It was of Anthony Villa pouring a glass of wine. But she had cut off his name and the part of the picture with the wine, just to make sure they didn't make the connection.

With only two more places to check, she was beginning to wonder if maybe Dirk wasn't right when he told

her she was ditzy. This morning, when she and Atlanta and the rest of the girls had cleared out of Villa Rosa, he had reiterated his opinion to her. Once again, she had told him where to file his opinions, using his hemorrhoid medication applicator for convenience.

But long ago, she had observed that, if you actually found what you were looking for, it was always in the last place you looked. Another one of those cosmic rules. And she reminded herself of that profound truism any a

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time she was searching for anything, be it her keys, a pair of panty hose without a run, that package of Little Debbie cinnamon rolls she had hidden in the back of

the pantry, or a detail shop that had recently processed a BMW owned by a guy who looked like Anthony Villa.

As she pulled into Rory's Car Wash, she saw the Irishman standing next to a purple Corvette, his sleeves rolled up to show off the biceps that he had earned

buffing cars from dawn to dusk. His hands were the same shade of purple as the car, which was covered with some sort of chalky compound. Purple dust had landed in the reddish blond curls that hung down to his collar. He was polishing, muscles rippling, and Savannah didn't mind at all stopping for a chat and a look-see.

"An, Savannah, me darlin'!" he called out in his delightful Irish brogue as she approached. "'Tis a sight for these sore eyes, ye are, love."

Ah . . . that accent of his. She swore the man could have simply "talked" her into an orgasm if she listened long enough. And he wouldn't even have to say anything dirty. With a voice like that, he could read the weather report and she would swoon.

"You're a cheerful sight yourself, lad," she replied, giving him her best Southern sashay as she walked up to

him.

"Don't tell me you've brought that little red car of

yours about for my attentions. She's still looking fine from the last buffin' I gave her."

"She is, Rory. She is, indeed. So, that's not why I' here."

His eyes, greener than ol' Ireland, sparkled as he glanced appreciatively up and down her figure. He had informed her long ago that he considered her a "well

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balanced lass." No anorexic models for this red-blooded son of old Erin.

"Could it be that Lady Luck herself has smiled upon

me," he said, shoving a rag, stained as purple as his hands, into the back pocket of his jeans. "Is it me own handsome self ye've come to see?"

"It is . . . and I'd like to ask you if you've seen this car

lately." She shoved the snapshot under his nose. "Or this fellow." She handed him the clipping.

His face fell, but only a little. Rory was an optimistic chap, if nothing else.

"Ah, information she's after," he said with a cluck of his tongue. "She wants me for me brain and not me body. What a bitter disappointment, but I'll bear up."

He took the pictures from her and looked from one

to the other. "And why is it you're askin', lass? Did this fellow do a wrong deed by you? If he did, you give your friend Rory his address, and I'll be settlin' that score straightaway."

"Thank you for your chivalry, but it's nothing like that. I just need to know if you've cleaned his car recently."

"I did. Let's see. . . only a couple of days ago, I believe. He tipped me handsomely, told me to do an extra good job for him. I told him I always do a fine job . . . but I took the tip anyway. No point in insultin' the lad."

"Exactly." She savored the thrill of victory for a second, then said, "Tell me, Rory. Did you notice anything . . . unusual about the car?"

"Anything out of the ordinary, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Like what?"

"I'd rather not say. Just think back if you would."

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He gazed into the distance and rubbed his nose, eaving a purple streak across his face. "Let me see now. recall thimldn' two things, I did. First, I thought the car wasn't that dirty. Didn't really need a deep cleaning. ksked me to shampoo the trunk twice, the fella did. knd second, I thought the trunk smelled a bit strange. _,ike some sort of chemical. . . like ant poison or some ;law of medicine. . . had been spilled in there. But I aw no stain on the carpet. Maybe that smell was why he wanted it shampooed a second time."

"Maybe." Savannah had to control herself to keep iom doing an Irish jig right then and there. "One more thing, Rory. . . you vacuum thoroughly before roll shampoo a carpet, don't you?"

"I do, indeed."

"And that big commercial vacuum of yours. . . how )ften do you clean out the bag?"

"Bag? Oh, it has no bag. The refuse goes into a big netal drum, and I don't have to empty it but once in a Feat while."

"Have you cleaned it since you vacuumed that car?" "No. I had cleaned it just the day before."

She beamed, giving him her deepest dimpled grin. You, Rory, are a jewel, a credit to the mother that bore 'Du. Will you do me an enormous favor and not clean hat drum until later this afternoon when a guy by the

tame of Dirk will be coming around with his tail tucked

)etween his legs to collect what's in it for evidence?"

"I'd be glad to refrain from work, but only because uch a comely lass as yourself asked. And also because ' going to be rubbing out this monstrosity of a vehi:le

for the next two days anyway."

Savannah couldn't resist; she stood on tiptoes and

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gave him a peck on the cheek. He laughed and the sound was deep and throaty, reaching parts of her anatomy that, for far too long, had gone undisturbed.

'Thank you, Rory. I owe you a pint of Guinness." "And I'd be glad to share it with you, Savannah, me

love. Drop by sometime and I'll buff yer fenders for ye." "Yes," she murmured as she walked away. "I'll just bet

you would. Ah-h-h . . . you cheeky lad."

Savannah thought there was a plethora of detail

shops in the industrial area of San Carmelita, but to her dismay, she discovered there were far more junkyards selling used tires.

She and Tammy had agreed to start at opposite ends

of the Junkyard Jungle and work their way to the middle,

giving each other a buzz if either found what they were looking for.

So far, she had questioned a dozen dealers who were happy to see her, until they realized that she wanted information, not a used radiator or a replacement hood ornament. She had risked life and limb, fending off testosterone-ridden mongrels who guarded their yards, their rusted heaps of metal and piles of tires as though

these assets constituted the National Treasury.

But she hadn't found anything yet, and, so far, her purse hadn't buzzed, so, neither had Tammy.

It was as she was crawling back into the Mustang, feeling a bit down as the "detail victory" began to wear off like a previous sugar fix going downhill, that she heard it. Her purse .

. . specifically, the phone in her purse.

"Hallelujah," she said, though silently warning her

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self not to get too excited. Tammy could be calling to suggest that they meet somewhere for some afternoon

donuts and coffee.

But then. . . it was Miss No-Donut, Health Conscious Tammy, not Dirk, so . . .

"Whatcha got?" Savannah asked.

"Todd's Tires, Four ninety-eight East Maple." "I'm on my way."

Three minutes later, Savannah pulled onto Maple Street, which must have been named by a homesick, displaced native of Vermont, because there wasn't a maple. . . or any other kind of tree in sight. She spotted Tammy's hot pink Volkswagen Bug parked under a

hand-painted sign that identified that particular lot as

Todd's Tire Emporium. A lofty name indeed for what was basically a mountain of rubber.

The canine protector of this fortune was an ancient

golden retriever, who looked like the type who would open the gate for an after-hours burglar and show him

the cash box. His white muzzle, arthritic limp, and wagging tail hardly inspired fear as Savannah walked up to

him and patted his head. "Hey, old man," she said, stroking the silky ears, "have you seen a dingy blond running around here? Okay, how about Todd? Where's your master, eh?"

At that moment, Tammy and a young man in overalls emerged from a ramshackle shed that bore the ambitious

sign OFFICE on its door. Tammy's eyes were glistening, her face an ear-to-ear grin.

'This is Todd," she announced proudly. "He sold a BMW some new tires, I mean, old tires a couple of days ago. And he identified the picture of. . . you know."

Savannah's pulse rate shot up along with her spirit

and her basic will to live. Yes! Yes!

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But along with the elation that she had been right

came the strange, sad feeling she got when she realized that someone she liked had done something terrible.

It wasn't a good feeling. Before this was over, so many lives would be destroyed. Even the serene, beautiful world that was Villa Rosa would be changed forever.

But, as always, she reminded herself that she hadn't caused this situation. Someone else had begun the avalanche of catastrophic events. She was simply putting an end to it.

"Hello, Todd," she said. "I'm so happy to meet you." She shook his grease-stained hand and gave him a

warm smile that made the young man blush with pleasure.

"What can you tell me about this transaction that took place between you and the fellow in the picture

Tammy showed you?"

Todd wiped the sweat off his face with a red rag, then stuck it back into his pocket. "I remember it so well because it was weird," he said. "This guy in this gorgeous Beamer came in here and said he wanted to swap out

his tires. I tried to talk him into some good recaps, but he said, 'No, they've gotta be used. The more used the better.' Now, that's weird. I've been selling tires here with my dad, Todd Sr. for years, and nobody ever said, 'The more used the better.' And folks don't buy old tires when the ones they've got are in great shape."

Savannah mentally crossed her fingers for luck, and said, 'Tell me that you still have the tires, Todd, that you haven't sold them yet."

Tammy wriggled all over with delight. "He's got them! I already asked."

"Yeah," Todd replied. "They're so nice that I saved them for myself. They're out in the yard."

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"Fantastic!" Savannah slapped them both on the back. "That's just friggin' fantastic! Let's see 'em."

Savannah found it embedded in the tread of the

third tire that she examined. Within seconds she had Dirk on the phone.