Who Left that Body in the Rain? (4 page)

“Whose jalopy is that on rack two?” That was Skye.

“José Perez’s. His brakes are shot, and we put it right up, because he needs it so he can get to work by three.”

“You put a Mexican’s jalopy ahead of my best friend and good customer?” Skye’s voice rose with his temper. Joe Riddley said Skye had the shortest fuse in Hopemore. I personally wondered why he’d never had a heart attack, the way he carried on when people crossed him. “Take it down. Joe Riddley wants his car by four.”

“Yarbroughs have two cars,” Ben argued. “José and Marguerite don’t have any other way to get to work.”

“They’ll find a way if they have to. Go ahead and do like I said. You can fix that piece of junk tomorrow.” I didn’t hear Ben’s answer, but I heard Skye real clear. “You still work for me, remember?”

Ben was a good mechanic, but I’d seldom heard him use more than three words at a time. Joe Riddley must be right that he was just shy around women. He didn’t mind talking straight to Skye. “Sure I remember, but I also remember that you made me manager back here, with full authority. That’s what you said—full authority.”

“You have full authority, so long as you don’t step over the line.”

“Full authority means I decide which car gets fixed when. You don’t need to keep coming back here to tell me my job. I know my job. I also know José Perez came in this morning with shot brakes, and he needs brakes worse than Judge Yarbrough needs his car.”

Skye’s voice went low and deep. “Listen to me, boy, and you listen up real good. Joe Riddley Yarbrough is a close and personal friend. You bring Perez’s car down from that rack and get Yarbrough’s fixed by four. Then you finish the rest of the work we’ve promised for today. When all that is done, you fix the Perez brakes. You hear me? I don’t want any gaff.”

“I hear you,” Ben said, “but I don’t like it. Am I the manager out here or not?”

“You’re the manager until I say different.”

“Or until I say different.”

“Don’t you threaten me, boy.”

“I’m not threatening you. But I am warning you that if you pull this again—”

“Don’t say something you’ll live to regret, son.” The door slammed.

I felt the building shake as Skye lumbered past the ladies’ room on his way back to his office. Ben’s mutter was so faint I almost didn’t hear it. “Someday, man, you are going to go too far, and somebody’s gonna throttle you.”

3

By the time I got back, Skye was telling Joe Riddley about land he’d found for a project called Hands Up Together. The two of them wanted to buy undeveloped land and hire a contractor willing to let young men who’d just gotten out of jail apprentice with his various crews. They’d learn skills while building their own lodge. Afterwards, some might continue in the building trade while others could learn to farm or work in local businesses to learn skills like auto mechanics in Skye’s service department, landscape maintenance in our nursery, or appliance repair at Spence’s Appliance Store. The scale was small and local enough, it might just work.

“This place is right off Warner Road,” Skye was saying as I came in. “Six acres with a pretty little pond, in easy walking distance—hey, Mac. Your car will be ready by four.”

So help me, I could not think of a thing to say.

“There’s one other thing.” Joe Riddley remembered without any prodding from me. “I hear you sold a car to Maynard Spence this morning. BMW convertible?”

“Sure did. It came up this morning in a batch from Orlando. One of the sweetest used cars we’ve ever had. I thought about keeping it for myself, but Gwen Ellen might think I was having a midlife crisis.” His chuckle was so infectious we laughed, too.

“Clarinda didn’t say it was a used car.” Joe Riddley reached for his checkbook. “Maynard’s got more sense than she gave him credit for. I want to pay down the principle a bit, as a wedding present. Can you arrange that?”

“That’s a fine idea.” Skye picked up the phone again. “Laura? Joe Riddley and Mac are here wanting to pay down the principle on that BMW Maynard bought, as a wedding present. Can you help them with that?”

He hung up. “She’ll be right here to take care of you. Doesn’t it seem like just last week she was a kid in pigtails, swinging by her knees? Now she practically runs the place.”

That was no surprise to anybody. Laura MacDonald had always preferred running with boys and hanging out at her daddy’s office to playing dolls.

“If she was a boy,” Skye said for the umpteenth time, “I’d leave her the whole shebang.”

“You still could,” I pointed out, also for the umpteenth time. “It’s the twenty-first century.”

“I guess.” Skye rubbed his nose and looked thoughtful, but I didn’t figure he was fixing to call his lawyer. He couldn’t fathom that Laura might prefer running a business to running a home.

Yet, good old boy that he was, he still couldn’t help bragging, “Remember how little she was when she sold her first car? Nine, hanging around here doing homework. Jack Stubbs, the accountant, came into the showroom to browse while his car was getting fixed, and Laura informed him he could save money by buying a new car. When he laughed, she marched back to the service department, pulled his records for the year, and calculated what he’d averaged each month and what he’d have to pay for a new car with the trade-in. She was right—he’d save money buying a new car. He was so impressed, he bought a car and told her she could have a job as soon as—oh, here she is now.”

He was mistaken. I didn’t recognize the young woman who pranced over to his desk on long legs that ended in black sandals with thick soles. She wore a mere sliver of a black skirt, a pink long-sleeved T-shirt that seemed at least a size too small, and such a quantity of silver bangles, I wondered how she could type. Eyes like blue marbles sparkled beneath a mop of blond curls. “I finished those letters, Mr. MacDonald.” I didn’t like the familiar way she said his name. “And I brought in my pen for you to use, but you can’t keep it and lose it.”

The view as she bent over to lay down her papers made me speak quickly to distract Joe Riddley. “Did I get all the parrot doo out?”

He peered at my shoulder. “Looks like it.”

“Not to worry. Not to worry,” Joe advised, then squawked and flapped his wings.

The young woman squealed and moved around the desk away from him. “He won’t hurt you,” I assured her.

Skye scanned the first letter and sighed. “There’s still errors, sweetie. In the first paragraph, it’s t-o-o, not t-w-o, and in the second, it’s supposed to be o-f, not o-f-f.”

“I tried,” she complained prettily.

“Try a little harder.” He made corrections on the next two letters as well and handed them back. “Here. Go do them right.”

“Yessir.” She flounced to the door, then came back, bracelets jangling, and put out her hand. “My pen, please.”

He told us sheepishly as he returned it, “I’m the worse pen loser you ever saw. Laura claims I chew and swallow ’em.”

“You lay them down and forget where,” the young woman teased. She paused at the door to promise, “I’ll get the letters right this time.” Skye laughed.

Joe Riddley said thoughtfully, “She looks like she’d be a pleasure to have around.”

“Nicole’s hopeless,” said a deep voice at the door. “She can’t spell or type, and her computer skills aren’t worth a darn. But she is great with customers.” Laura MacDonald strode forward to greet us. “Hello, Mac, Joe Riddley, bird.” She reached up and stroked Joe’s scarlet breast.

I considered it a mystery of the universe that Laura had turned out so well, because she grew up under the disadvantage of being the plain daughter of a beautiful mother. She’d inherited Skye’s prominent blue eyes, broad shoulders, and long legs—she stood six feet in low heels. Her hair was blond like his, but long, thick, and heavy. When she was small, Gwen Ellen made her wear it down her back. Finally she gave in to Laura’s pleas—“It’s hot, Mama”—and plaited two fat braids. They only emphasized the child’s big nose, broad forehead, and strong chin. On Skye the features looked good. On a child, they were a disaster.

But Laura’s looks had never bothered Laura the way they bothered her mother. I had watched Gwen Ellen agonize during Laura’s preschool years when thoughtless strangers looked from mother to daughter and said, “Boy, she sure must look like her daddy.” I had witnessed Gwen Ellen’s heartache when Laura had no date for various dances. I had cheered as Laura led her high school soccer team to the state championships her senior year—and I had watched Gwen Ellen wistfully eyeing the cheerleaders. My son Ridd, who coached the soccer team, bragged, “Laura’s a born leader. She grasps what has to be done, knows what each player can do, and deploys them to the best advantage.” But that didn’t take the briers out of Gwen Ellen’s socks. She still believed cheerleaders grew up happier.

At twenty-six, Laura had the confidence that comes with an MBA and had grown into her features, but she looked older than she was. Maybe it was a few too many pounds on her big frame. Maybe it was the careless way she pulled that mane of hair back at her neck and fastened it with a plain steel clasp. Maybe it was the fact that she didn’t bother with makeup except for a quick brush of blush on her cheeks. Maybe it was her comfortable gray wool slacks, white oxford cloth shirt, navy blazer and sensible navy pumps. Or maybe it was her air of utter competence that let you know you were dealing with somebody who knew what she was doing.

“Let’s go back and see what we can do for you.”

We were following her out when Skye called, “Laura? Did you change that radio ad?”

His voice was stern, but she didn’t seem bothered by it. “Yessir.”

“I thought so. I heard it this morning. I didn’t approve the change and I don’t like it. Change it back.”

“Advertising’s my department, Daddy, and the other ad was blah. We need to reach younger customers.”

I heard his fist hit the desk. “I’ve told you and told you not to okay anything without running it by me.”

“You were in Denver when they needed the okay. I kept trying to reach you, but couldn’t, and they had to have an answer. We can talk about it when it’s time to look at next month’s ad.” She stepped out of his office and pulled the door closed behind her.

“Come back here when I’m talking to you,” he roared. Laura gave us a tolerant smile and ignored him. On our unhurried way to her office she stopped twice to answer questions from salesmen and once to help Nicole reset a computer toolbar she’d deleted in error.

Laura worked across the showroom, on the short hall that led to rest rooms and the service department. As we reached her door, Skell dashed up the hall from the service area. Five-foot-seven and as dark and handsome as his mother was dark and beautiful, Skell looked real natty in an expensive brown tweed coat, brown slacks with a razor-sharp crease, and gleaming brown wing tips. His face, however, was flushed with anger and his eyes glittered. Without even greeting us, he demanded, “Where’s Daddy? I gotta see him real fast.”

“In his office.” Laura wasn’t the least bit flustered by him. The two were so different, no stranger would have guessed they were related.

He made a beeline for his daddy’s door, frantic as a cat whose kittens have been moved. We heard him shout, “Did you sell a BMW off my lot this morning?” Then the door slammed. The only thing Skell inherited from Skye was his temper, and Skell’s temper had gotten steadily worse since he’d joined the business two years before.

Laura’s office was very like her, a simple room with practical working surfaces. She did have, however, a very fine painting hung over the desk, a bronze sculpture of swinging children on her credenza, and an expensive black leather briefcase tucked down beside her desk. Laura might like things simple, but she did not like cheap.

While she was pulling up Maynard’s records on her computer, Joe Riddley growled, “It’s high time Skell got over the fact that he’s never gonna reach five-eight and will never be a world-class cellist.”

“Shush,” I told him softly. Then, seeing that Laura had heard every word, I added, “It’s partly our fault—Hopemore’s I mean. We bragged on him so much when he was little, we raised his expectations too high.”

Laura gave me a rueful smile. “He’ll be all right. How much did you want to pay?”

While she took Joe Riddley’s check, gave him a receipt, and credited Maynard’s account, I kept thinking how much handsomer Skell would be if he got rid of that balky mouth.

After we finished our business, Joe Riddley needed to visit the men’s room. “You get back to work,” I told Laura. “I’ll go sit in a new car and enjoy the smell.”

When I got to the showroom, Gwen Ellen was knocking at Skye’s office door. She was petite and elegant in a green tweed suit and short brown boots. We don’t often need boots in Georgia, but Gwen Ellen bought a lot of her clothes in New York.

Before I could call out a greeting, Skye opened the door. “Hey, honey. Come in and wait a minute. Skell was just leaving.” She went inside, and Skell and Skye both came out. Skye spoke in a tone any parent would recognize, the ultimate warning: “You want that car back, call Maynard and make him a deal. But it better be a good deal, you hear me?”

Skell clenched his fist and jabbed the air once, then stormed out. Neither had noticed me.

“Oh, Mr. MacDonald.” Nicole waved a sheaf of papers. “I have those letters done right. You want to sign them?”

“Sure.” Skye lumbered over and bent over her desk. She looked up at him and said something I didn’t catch. He laughed and reached out to jerk one of her curls. “Third time’s the charm, honey.”

What are friends for if not to save you from indiscretion and sexual-harassment lawsuits? “We’re done, Skye,” I called.

He turned. “You can’t leave without saying hello to Gwen Ellen. She’s in the office.” He held out one arm and draped it around my shoulders as we walked back together. “Honey, look who’s here. Mac and Joe Riddley came by so they could help Maynard pay for a new convertible he bought. It’s their wedding present.”