Part 10 (1/2)

When I mentioned it to Ray, he hung up on me so fast that I didn't get to ask him to call me when he found out the answer. No matter, I would get it out of him later.

I drove straight from Danny's school to Erica's apartment, hoping to see the Porsche back in the driveway. It wasn't. I did see tire tracks on the driveway and footprints in the dusting of snow leading to her door.

I leapt out of the car and rushed onto the front porch. No one responded to my hammering on the door. I fished out my key and unlocked it.

Inside, the living room appeared the same, just dusty and unoccupied, as was the kitchen. Her bedroom and bath were another matter.

The mirror over her dresser now lay in pieces. Her dresser drawers hung open and empty. The bathroom vanity mirror had also been smashed. I surmised that the stiletto heel lying in the sink had been used to do the deed.

All of Erica's toiletries were missing. Only their lavender scent lingered in the air. Her suitcases were gone too. The remaining clothes lay strewn about the bedroom floor, still on the hangers, as if they'd been considered for packing and dismissed. Her discarded shoes were heaped in a pile in front of her closet.

I sank onto the corner of her bed and surveyed the damage.

If I called Ray, he would ask if I saw signs of foul play. In all honesty, I did not. When it came to Erica, breakage was commonplace. Once, she'd even put an umbrella through her television set. With the exception of the mirrors, the room just looked like she'd packed to go somewhere in haste. I crossed my fingers it wasn't Las Vegas to marry one of the unknown men in the Elvis chapel.

I dropped to the floor, crawling about on my hands and knees, trying to discern if she'd taken summer clothes or winter, beach or ski chalet, fas.h.i.+onable or serviceable. I came to no conclusions.

I did, however, spot her new prescription bottle under the bed. A count of the pills told me she'd stopped taking them two days after we'd had the prescription filled.

”Oh, Erica, how can I help you if you won't help yourself?”

____.

I trudged across the driveway and knocked on the door of my old neighbor and nemesis Mr. Murphy. During the years I'd occupied the apartment next door, he'd made an almost weekly trip to my door to complain about the placement of my trash cans on garbage day. With his attention to detail, I hoped he might have noticed Erica's departure and perhaps her departure companion.

He wasn't home.

I got back in my car and drove by The Lincoln House. Erica's Porsche sat right where she'd left it days ago. It was too early for the restaurant to be open for lunch. I doubted any of the lunch s.h.i.+ft employees would be of much help anyway. Erica worked the five to close s.h.i.+ft. Maybe I would come back later and question some of her co-workers about Erica's mystery man. I could only suspect that she'd either run away or moved in with him. Surely psycho serial killers didn't have their victims pack suitcases.

Asdale Auto Imports was closed, according to the sign in the window. I was pleased to find the parking lot behind the building empty. Cory had stayed home or gone out on the town today as he should. But I needed to find the name of the redhead who wanted to purchase the Caterham. I wanted to find out if she was the same woman I saw at The Cat's Meow the other day. And I wanted to know if her brother had red hair, too.

But first I had to call the two dealers and discuss their available cars so I would have a reason to contact this woman.

That took me an hour. At the close of the hour, I wasn't excited about either car. The condition and maintenance records for both sounded satisfactory, but the prices were not. I didn't feel like flying Cory to either dealers.h.i.+p's location to examine the cars. I really couldn't imagine how owning one of them was going to turn this woman's love life around.

Cory had written her name in his tight script on a pink Post-it Note. Leslie Flynn. He'd noted her brother's phone number underneath her name and the message to find her a Caterham DeDion.

I dialed the number. A man answered.

I identified myself and asked to speak to Leslie.

”This is she.”

Now I heard the slightest hint of femininity in her otherwise gravelly voice. Dear G.o.d, did the woman have no attractions at all? ”I understand from my mechanic Cory that you're interested in purchasing a Caterham DeDion. I've located two for sale.”

”Excellent. How much are they?”

”Around forty thousand.”

”Who do I make the check out to?”

I pulled the phone from my ear and looked at it. She must be nuts. No bargaining? No negotiating? I put the receiver against my ear again. ”Leslie, I wanted to talk with you more about these cars. I'm not sure they're the best value for your dollar.”

”I'll be right over.”

”Leslie?”

She'd hung up on me.

I sat at my desk and waited for her arrival, finding myself in the awkward position of not wanting to make the sale. These Caterhams didn't merit their asking price, and the dealers didn't seem inclined to bargain. Hiring me to broker the deal seemed silly, especially considering the fact that Leslie could locate these guys by herself if she just got online. And, even though it wasn't my concern, I didn't think owning a Caterham would be the answer to her prayers. If this man she desired was so shallow that he could be won over with the purchase of a British sports car, he couldn't be worth having in the first place.

Had I become the love police? Maybe I should just let Leslie and, for that matter, Erica, decide what was right for them.

Nah. My new mission was to help people, whether they realized they needed help or not.

When the yellow Mustang convertible pulled into the shop's parking lot a half hour later, I knew Leslie was the woman I'd seen at The Cat's Meow.

She entered the showroom through the front door, stamping snow off her tan work boots. I walked out to greet her, thinking Cory had described her quite well.

Leslie Flynn had thinning sunburst red hair. I would have said it was a dye job, but the abundance of freckles visible even on her tanned skin suggested it was natural, or, at least, a simulation of natural. Her teeth were not only crooked but stained, and the brown Carhartt overalls and matching jacket she wore emphasized her unfortunate weight. As Cory had said, it wasn't pretty. And she smelled kinda funny, too.

She looked me up and down. ”You're a cute little thing, aren't ya?”

I felt my cheeks flush. ”Thank you. Please, come in and sit down in my office.”

Her work boots clunked across the floor behind me. She dropped with a whompf, expelling all the air from the seat cus.h.i.+on.

I wasn't sure quite how to begin, never having tried to talk a customer out of buying a car. ”That's a nice Mustang you're driving now.”

She straightened and beamed with pleasure. ”It handles well.”

”It's a popular car. More popular than a Caterham.”

Her head bobbed up and down. ”I know, I know. But have you ever seen Gatekeepers or eX-Driver?”

”No, I'm not familiar with those.”

”They're j.a.panese animated cartoons, and they feature the Caterham. The man I'm interested in loves the Caterham and those cartoons.”

”You've talked to him about the cars and the cartoons, then?”

”Many times.”

”So you two already have a relations.h.i.+p?”

Her lips parted and her eyes narrowed as she appeared to consider my words. ”I sell him eggs. Fresh brown eggs.”

”I see.” I didn't really.

Leslie must have sensed my confusion. ”My brother and I run a dairy farm. We have chickens, too. We also sell flowers and planters.”