The Yellow Packard (6 page)

George laughed. “You didn’t tell her?”

“Of course not,” Glen quickly replied. “She thinks the fact I already have two other boats would have made this one unnecessary. She just doesn’t understand fishing. But I understand her temper and what soothes it, so I have to get the bedroom suite. If I don’t, that boat is not going to do me any good at all.”

“I’m thinking about going, too,” George chimed in, “nothing I probably need, but I would like to see what her car goes for.”

“The Packard?”

“Yeah. Be nice to have a car that runs like a watch rather than one that performs like a three-legged mule.”

Glen rubbed his chin and glanced over to the well-worn Chevy. He grimly studied the beat-up car for a few seconds. “It has seen much better days.” He continued to take stock of the coupe before adding, “I don’t know how much ready cash you’ve got, but I’m thinking that Packard won’t go for as much as you might expect.”

“It’s practically new,” the younger man shot back. “A car like that will likely go for more than nine hundred.”

“A car
like
that would,” Glen agreed, “but that car has a strange legacy. Most of those here in Oakwood whisper when they speak of it. They think it’s cursed or haunted or something. At the very least it is the bearer of bad luck. Millie told me that if I came near it she would divorce me.”

“What?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but counting Abigale, three different people who have touched that yellow beast have died. I heard a joke yesterday that the car had seen more dead folks than Floyd Bacon’s hearse.”

“That’s ridiculous,” George shot back, “cars don’t have souls. They don’t commit premeditated murder. They’re just pieces of engineering that get you from point A to point B. Now some, like that Packard, do it with a lot more style, but their function is the same. My car has gotten to the point where it only stays at point A. So I’ve got to do something.” He leaned closer and whispered, almost as if he was scared someone might overhear his question, “So you think it might go cheap?”

“I think so!” Glen assured. He paused, took another look at George’s coupe, and added, “There’s more spit and bailing wire in your old heap than there is gas. I’ll admit you’ve got to get something, but that Packard’s not for a married man with a new kid.”

“Are you kidding? That car has all the room a family would need. And it is barely broken in. It would last us until Rose went to first grade without missing a beat.”

“Maybe that’d be true,” came the reply, “and if you were single I’d say go for it. But you have responsibilities now. You owe it to Carole and that baby to make a wise decision. And though I don’t buy into ghost stories, I’m still thinking that if I were in your shoes, I’d look at something other than that car. You know folks could be right; it might be cursed somehow.”

George swallowed hard to keep from laughing. Trying to keep a straight face he noted, “You’ve never hit me as the superstitious type. I’ve watched you lay bricks six stories up on a windy day. Didn’t think anything scared you.”

The middle-age man blushed, turning his pale green eyes to the street and pushing his hands deep into his brown pants pockets. He didn’t reply either, probably because he couldn’t come up with the words to justify his worries. Instead he started humming “When the Blue of the Night.”

“Tell me this, Glen,” George asked, ignoring his neighbor’s feeble attempts at crooning, “would you buy a car that had been owned and driven by, say, John Dillinger?”

Turning to meet George’s eyes, Adams answered, “If it hadn’t been shot up, and it ran well, sure, why not?”

“Well that car would have probably seen a few deaths in its time as well.”

The older man shook his head. “You’re not getting me to fall into that trap. That imaginary Dillinger car you just dreamed up didn’t do the killings. He and his gang were the ones murdering people, not the car! This Packard killed two men.” He paused and licked his lips before clarifying his remarks, “Or at least it was the cause of their deaths. Now, I don’t know this for a fact, but I heard someone say yesterday that a man who worked on the assembly line died because of the car, too. I don’t really believe in demonic possession, especially of something mechanical, but in this case I might make an exception.”

George grinned. “Suit yourself, but I’m not buying it. At least I’m not buying your fears. But I might just go over to the sale. If no one else bids on it, I might be buying the Packard. No use turning down a bargain, no matter its history. Besides, I was taught a long time ago at Sunday school that superstitions like that aren’t of God.”

Glen shrugged, his eyes catching the noonday sun, and his furrowed brow displaying genuine concern. “I wouldn’t do it, George. Maybe I’m being silly, maybe the whole town is, but I just get the sense that for all its beauty and power, there’s something evil lurking in that auto. I sure don’t want to see you bring anything into your life that might end up hurting your family.”

The new father smiled. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll see you at the sale.”

As Glen wandered back across the street, George took another look at his old Chevy. Keeping it was simply out of the question. This pile of junk was so far gone, a farmer wouldn’t even want it to turn into a doodlebug tractor. He had to have something dependable in order to get to work each day as well as take his family to all the places they would need to be going. But what were his options?

Until he visited with Glen, George figured he’d have to haunt the want ads or the used car lots to find something he could buy that would serve the family for at least a couple of years. But now, after hearing the story of the silly curse attached to the Abigale Watling’s Packard, he sensed that the few hundred he had in savings might just buy the ride of his life. At the very least it would be worth going to the auction to find out.

Chapter 7

J
anie’s Auction Barn was just as advertised. Years ago it had been a general purpose, clapboard-sided building on the old Seymour farm. During its early days it had spent most of its life housing farm equipment, tools, animals, and hay. As Oakwood grew east along Muncie Road the farm had slowly been enveloped by clusters of small homes. During the period of growth, John Seymour sold bits and pieces of his farm to builders before finally letting go of the old barn and family home. With that sale completed, he retired and moved to a large brick home in Danville. While his modest home was torn down to make room for Clyde Jennings’s sprawling two-story stone house, the red barn was spared. Then Janie Timmons purchased and converted the fifty-year-old structure into her place of business. Because the building was laid out so well for sales, the woman always moved her large estate sales, like this one, to the barn.

By the time George stepped into the structure, scores of men and women were wandering the barn’s main room, inspecting the lots of goods Janie had brought over from the Watling place. Most of the crowd’s attention was focused on the aisles of antique furniture. In among the columns of finely crafted pieces of wood, Glen Adams, his normally kind face now sporting a firm, almost menacing scowl, was standing in front of the tiger oak bedroom suite his wife wanted. Like a mama lion protecting her cubs, he paced back and forth in front of the pieces he was bound and determined to claim as his own. George couldn’t help but laugh as his neighbor literally barked at anyone who dared pause in front of the bed, dresser, and chest; and if they lingered more than a few seconds, Glen pointed out scores of flaws, some real, most imagined, in order to dissuade them from making an offer. Looking past Glen and a few dozen other anxious bargain hunters toward the far back corner of the building, George spotted the Packard. The car had been pulled in through the back door just far enough to get the sliding entry closed, thus it was sitting more than thirty feet from any other sale item. Surprisingly, not only was no one hovering to examine it; few were even casting a glance its direction. For that reason nothing blocked George’s field of vision as he took in the magnificence of the mechanized marvel.

Even from fifty feet away, it was impressive. With its vertical chrome grill bars, large twin headlights, optional Tripp lights, wide, whitewall tires, and custom radio antenna, it was something to behold. The fancy car looked out of place in a barn that tractors and horses had once called home. It should have been in a carriage house or parked next to a large, imposing mansion. Yet like a lonely orphan it sat among leftover sale items from past auctions seemingly crying for someone—anyone—to come look it over and take it home. Even though there was a lot to see, no one seemed interested in what had to be the brightest and possibly the best luxury sedan in the small community.

To check out the one item his heart desired, George had to dodge elbows and purses and push through a sea of excited prospective buyers of everything from furniture to clothing. The frenzied scene reminded him of a bargain basement post-Christmas sale where everything was at least 80 percent off. And as the clocked ticked closer to the actual time for the auction, the proceedings seemed to be taking on the aura of war. It was man-against-man, woman-against-woman, and sometimes even woman-against-man as prospective bidders locked in a battle of wills to claim at least one piece of Watling’s estate as their own. Yet after he made his way through the maze of items plucked from the Victorian mansion and passed those fighting to own them, he suddenly found himself all but alone at the back of the drafty building. For the moment he was the only person interested in the car.

He had taken the time to look at scores of quality vehicles in his life, but this yellow piece of Detroit iron had a quality and style like nothing he’d ever beheld. The stately auto seemed almost alive, and George could swear it was calling out to him. He drew closer. It was immediately obvious that someone had spent some time with it over the past few days. The finish had been freshly waxed so it reflected the images of the scores of shoppers looking at Abbi’s treasures. The chrome had been polished so well he could have used the hubcaps for shaving mirrors. To top it all off, the tires’ wide whitewalls were as clean as a preacher’s Sunday shirt.

“Quite a machine!”

Shocked to no longer have the back of the barn to himself, George twirled on his heels and found himself face-to-face with a middle-aged woman. Her deep red hair set off her yellow print dress. Her eyes were almost the same shade of blue as the pattern in the blue willow plate she carried in her right hand. Yet what defined her was her smile. It was anything but forced, displaying a perfect set of white teeth framed by plump red lips. Three decades earlier she probably drew admirers from five counties away, and she was still attractive enough to have eyes follow her every move.

“I’m Janie Timmons,” she announced as she closed the last few feet between them. “I don’t think I know you.”

“George Hall.”

“Nice to have you at the sale and auction,” she quickly replied. “What brings you out today? Anything special you’re looking for?”

“I read about it and decided to come over and see what you had.” A tinge of guilt swept through him as he realized he’d just told a lie. What had kept him from admitting that he was here for the Packard?

“Well,” Timmons explained, “Miss Watling collected a great number of really unique treasures. There is some amazing stuff here, and the best part is that the proceeds of this sale are all going to charity. Her European antiques are being auctioned in a few minutes. Other things, like this car, will just be sold for the best offer we can get by the time that auction is over. I wanted to auction the car, but her final will, drawn up just days before she died, said the Packard had to be sold, not auctioned. I have no idea why. Anyway, when it comes to things like this sedan or that lawn mower over there, I can assure you, every offer will be considered. By the way, if you’ve got cash, later on tonight we’re going to auction off her jewelry and art. There will be some really rare things that will come up then.”

George turned his head back toward the Packard. On the passenger side of the windshield was piece of paper with the price in block letters. He was so disappointed by the figure, he didn’t even turn back toward Timmons as he noted, “So you’re asking nine hundred for the car?”

Timmons nodded. “It is really worth that. It only has about six thousand miles and runs like new. You check it out, crawl underneath it, sit in the driver’s seat, pop the hood, and after you’ve done all that, then make your offer. There’s no minimum. At the end of the day it might just stand up.” She smiled, turned, and walked back toward the main part of the barn.

George nodded as he gently ran his hand up the Packard’s long hood. It was certainly worth the asking price, but sadly that was a lot steeper than he could afford. So for the moment he could admire this piece of rolling art and dream of a day when he could own something like it.

Strolling to the driver’s door, he opened it and slid in. Resting his hands on the brown banjo-style steering wheel, he studied the gray horn button and its green-and-red Packard emblem. Then he noted the round speedometer that went all the way up to one hundred and twenty miles per hour. His Chevy was lucky to hit forty. The Packard’s four gauges, indicating engine temperature, generator charging, gas level, and oil pressure, were set in two round dials on each side of the speedometer. To the far right, built into the glove box, was a clock. The choke, throttle, and light switches were in the center of the car’s chocolate-colored dash. The radio was between them. He noted the added switches for the Tripp lights and optional heater.

He smiled as he placed his hand on the floor-mounted shifter. The round Bakelite knob perfectly fit in his palm. He pushed the clutch and shifted the car’s gearbox into reverse, down to first, up and over to second and down to third. He then ran his fingers over the gray cloth that covered the seat and door panels. The material felt like rich velvet.

“It drives as good as it looks.”

Once more startled by someone interrupting his solitary moments with the car, George glanced across the front seat to the open passenger window. Leaning in was a man in a pinstriped suit about same color as the Packard’s upholstery.