Part 8 (1/2)

She looked over at Roy, who had retained and was now studying the latest issue of Thoroughbred and Cla.s.sic Cars, a glossy British monthly that provided a wealth of useful information in his area of professional interest, including prices being asked in the U.K. for the marques in which he traded. Such research was part of his job, but he suspected Mrs. F. believed he did no work at all.

”Did you want to ask me something?”

”I went to see poor Mrs. Holbrook last night. She looked beautiful.”

He was not prepared for this. ”Did you know her?”

”Unfortunately, I never saw her when she was alive.” Mrs. Forsythe moued as if holding back tears. ”I heard her on the phone a lot.” She squinted and said, with the hint of a sob, ”She had such a sweet voice.”

Roy produced the kind of lie that is informed by sincerity of intention. ”She was a sweet person.”

”What time is the funeral?”

This was pus.h.i.+ng it. ”I'm not going,” he said, with a putting-the-foot-down edge of voice. ”I've sent flowers.” He nodded, signifying the messages that had acc.u.mulated. ”See if a decent offer has come in for the E-Type Jaguar. Remember, that's also called XKE.”

”You've told me that many times,” Mrs. F. said reprovingly and turned back to her sandwich, mug, and keyboard.

But she could forget it as often. Ignorance, and perhaps even dislike, of cars was the source of the only weakness in her work. Mrs. Forsythe could have strolled past a 300SL without noticing that its gullwing doors were raised.

Roy found the special hand mop for the purpose, took it into the showroom, and whisked the dust off the cars, the high-sheen finishes of which were magnets for it, even on such a lightly traveled side street as this. He would do the same several times before the day was over.

When he returned to the office, Mrs. F. smiled at him. ”You keep those things cleaner than I do my house.”

”That's because I'm trying to sell them.” He should not have had to point that out.

Beaming, she waggled a stubby forefinger. ”Bet you'd do it anyhow.”

Which no doubt was true, but her manifest satisfaction was due to something else. ”You've got something?”

”Fort Lauderdale.” She peered at the monitor. ”He'll meet your price, but what about delivery? He doesn't want anybody driving it that far.”

”Tell him about Exotic Car Transport,” said Roy. ”You know the drill.” In fact, better than he.

Though without bearing on matters of life and death, this was the rare positive occurrence of the past several days, and a quarter hour later Mrs. Forsythe introduced another.

”Here's a person in Vermont looking for an old Ford,” said she. She had finished her sandwich but still sipped at the tea as if it were not stone cold by now. ”Thirty-seven. I think my grandpa had one of those when he was young. Didn't they call them Model Tees?”

”I believe the Model T was even further back,” said Roy. ”Any other details?”

She snickered, ”Well, he has mistyped 'Cord' for 'Ford.'”

”I think he means Cord, Mrs. F.! Tell him I can put my hands on an Eight-Ten, but it's rough. Make us an offer as-is, and/or if we handle the restoration.”

”You've got my head spinning,” said Mrs. Forsythe. ”If I didn't know you, I would think you were joking about Cord versus Ford.” She first patted her hair just above her nape and then made her fingers dance over the keyboard.

Roy's afternoon went by in such a fas.h.i.+on. He had made no appointments for today. He pa.s.sed up lunch, being still devoid of an appet.i.te. At four o'clock Mrs. Forsythe went around the corner to a deli and brought herself back a piece of yellow layer cake and a plastic cup of heavily milked coffee.

As it happened they never heard back from the guy in Vermont, who perhaps after all had meant a 1937 Ford. But the deal for the Jag XKE seemed to be holding. There were more e-mails and messages by fax, as well as a number of telephone calls on business matters.

And then, while Mrs. F. was en route to the delicatessen, having switched on the machine-Roy's practice at the office was never to answer the phone directly-he heard a juicy young female voice ask, ”Then there really is an Incomparable Cars?”

He lifted his extension. ”Who is this?”

”Mich.e.l.le.”

”Oh.”

”You don't have any idea who I am, do you?”

”I'm waiting for you to incriminate yourself.”

”You always seem to have a ready answer,” she said with a lilt that elevated the final words as if they posed a question.

”That's supposed to create the illusion that I'm clever,” said Roy. ”But I doubt you are fooled.” Without making a conscious effort to identify her, he suddenly, for no good reason, could do so. ”You collect money for animals.”

”Now you really have impressed me.” Mich.e.l.le chortled in a deeper tone than that of her speech. ”I thought your business card was fake! Gee. Were you serious about letting me test-drive a Rolls?”

”No, I just said it to make fun of you.” She produced more contralto laughter. ”Of course I meant it. When can you come over?”

”G.o.d, any time you say.”

”How about,” asked Roy, ”I pick you up in the Rolls-Royce at seven. You can drive it to the restaurant where we'll have dinner.”

”You're not kidding, are you?”

”Where do you live? I'll come in so your parents or roommate can check me out.”

”I'm twenty-one,” said she. ”I don't need anybody's okay.”

”You need mine,” said Roy. ”Before you go out with somebody you don't know, you should at least identify him for someone else close to you.”

”Now you sound like my father, not a guy with a Rolls. Are we going someplace fancy? I'm asking because I want to know how to dress.”

Being ignorant of her tastes, personal or generational, Roy was tempted to ask what kind of place she would like, but when you do that with a woman you deny her the opportunity to blame you if it proves unsatisfactory. Francine was not the only one who had taught him that. From Mich.e.l.le's question he divined that she probably wanted to go to an expensive restaurant, or else she would not have asked it. But who could tell what her idea of a ”fancy” place might be? Perhaps Baghdad, where the waiters, local lads, wore turbans and carried flaming s.h.i.+sh kebabs through the dining room.

He would reserve his decision until he saw what she wore, always the most prudent course.

”Wear what you would want to be seen in by the people you admire most,” he said now.

”You say the most original things I ever heard anyone say. I don't mind telling you that.”

”That will probably end now that I'm aware of it. Do you have a last name?”

”It's Llewellyn.”

”Mich.e.l.le Llewellyn,” said Roy. ”Anyone with a name like that should always travel by Rolls-Royce. Now I'd better have your address and phone.”

Sam seemed to make a special effort to be amiable this evening, perhaps in atonement for his obnoxious performance last time.

”So, what are you driving tonight?” The patient showed no visible effects of the brief detour in his recovery; in answer to Roy's questions he had again disparaged his doctors as mercenary alarmists.