Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
DANNY
M an, I have to stop letting Ava rile me up. Every time I do, I lose, and then I look – and feel – like an idiot. It’s my own fault, I know, but old emotional triggers are strong, and it doesn’t take much to set them off. For me, anyway. No doubt other people have more self-control.
On the plus side, I bounce back quickly. Especially when I have the prospect of a perfect day ahead of me. A classic car treasure hunt with Frankie by my side. The only thing that will make it better is if the car turns out to be a rare beauty – like finding a first edition holographic Charizard Pokémon card in a junk store. The guy who messaged me didn’t give details, so he’s probably some crusty old farmer, a man of few words. Not even sure how he got my number – probably through the Flora Valley grapevine, pardon the pun.
And I was pretty sure Frankie wouldn’t want to come with me, but to my surprise, she didn’t hesitate. Given my previous advice to myself about self-control, I shouldn’t get too excited about what this might mean. But then, advice is always easier when you’re giving it to someone else.
Nate’s dutifully rinsing off all the plates before loading them in the dishwasher. The hardest substance in existence isn’t diamonds but cooked egg that’s been left on a plate and put through a hot wash. Mom taught all us kids how to be useful in the kitchen. We may have been rich enough to have cleaners and gardeners, but the kitchen was solely Mom’s domain and we learned to respect it from a very early age. I can make cutlery and glassware sparkle and was always the best at ironing and folding the cloth napkins. In the rare instance that I might be called on to polish forks and press table linen, I’m ready.
I watch Nate wipe up the bench. Pretty soon, he’ll be changing diapers and whatever else parents need to do with babies. I’d better bone up quickly if I’m going to be any great shakes as an uncle.
“Hey, Nate,” I say. “Got a burger preference?”
“Anything as long as it has no spicy pickle,” he says. “I’d rather have a patty made out of roadkill than eat that stuff.”
“If Brendan’s still mad at Shelby and Frankie, a roadkill burger might be what you get,” I say.
“He was only mad at Chiara,” says Shelby. “And she will have made it up to him by now.”
“I want to know how. And yet I really don’t want to know.” Frankie echoes my thoughts exactly.
“What will you do this morning?” Shelby asks her.
“Research,” says Frankie. “Brewing supplies, vintage shops, craft beer tasting, pickleball courts, rare birds of Sonoma county.” She pauses. “Where to buy hiking boots.”
“Ball’s,” says Nate. “The sports shop in Verity also has outdoor gear.”
“We can stop off there this afternoon,” I say. “Get you kitted out.” Now it’s me who pauses. “And I guess I can buy a pickleball paddle.”
“You should sell this idea to your TV producer guy,” says Nate, with a grin. “Dating show meets WWE Smackdown .”
“It’s so cute that you’re pushing on with your plan,” says Shelby. “Even though you’ve already boinked.”
“Boinked isn’t even a real word,” says Frankie. “Let alone a euphemism!”
“And on that note, it’s definitely time to go,” says Nate. “You ready, Shel?”
“I suppose,” says Shelby, heavily. “Hospitals are not my favorite place.”
“Mine either.” Nate kisses the top of her head. “Now go pee because we don’t want a repeat of the roadside incident from last time. I swear at least five thousand cars went past while you had your pants down.”
Frankie catches my eye, and her expression clearly says, Can we get out of this madhouse as soon as possible?
“I’ll be working in the office until after lunch,” I tell her. “Then I’ll go get my car and pick you up back here at two thirty?”
“Two thirty it is,” she says, and her smile makes my heart beat faster. I’m going to work like a dog to make sure the morning flies by. Because I cannot wait for this afternoon.
* * *
Two thirty on the dot I pull the BMW M3 into the spot beside Frankie’s Karmann Ghia. She’s ready and waiting, and in the cutest outfit yet, yellow capri pants and a blue-and-white striped top, a yellow scarf holding her hair back and white espadrilles on her feet. Cute and hilarious because I’ve changed into a fresh set of clothes and happen now to be wearing a yellow polo shirt and a pair of seersucker pants in a pale blue and white stripe.
“Awkward,” says Frankie when she joins me in the car. “Shall I put on a different shirt?”
“No time,” I say. “We’re due at our mystery man’s house at two forty-five. We can always tell him we’re twins who never got over being dressed in matching clothes.”
Frankie buckles up. “Nice car,” she says.
“It’s not something I’d usually own,” I reply, as I put it in gear and move off. “Nothing ever goes wrong with these, so there’s not much opportunity to add value. That’s why I’m excited to see what our mystery man has to offer. I’m expecting it to be a piece of junk, but there’s always the possibility of a real find.”
“And what’s your professional opinion of my car?” Frankie asks.
I know a test when I hear one. Fortunately, with this subject, I’m on solid ground.
“I could sell it today if you wanted. Convertible in mint condition, could reach forty grand, maybe more if we got a couple of strong bidders.”
“I bought it for twenty-five,” says Frankie, thoughtfully.
I flash her my best salesman’s smile. “Just say the word and I’m on it.”
The navigation on my phone tells me the destination is coming up on our left so I slow down. The road is rural and quiet, and it doesn’t look like there are many dwellings around here at all.
“Mystery man said watch out for an iron gate,” I tell Frankie. “I’m guessing the farm kind.”
“There’s a gate.” She points it out. “But it does not look like it belongs to Old Macdonald.”
I stop the car outside what is most certainly not a typical farm gate. It’s wrought iron and flanked by stone pillars. On one pillar there’s a video-com unit. As I edge the car up to the gate, it starts to swing open. We’ve been spotted.
“Do you think we’re being lured into the lair of a serial killer?” I say, only half joking.
“Should have bought your pickleball paddle before we came,” says Frankie. “So we could use it as a weapon.”
We motor slowly up a carefully swept gravel driveway formally lined with cypress trees and set among what can only be described as parkland, with mature oaks and chestnuts, and shrubs that have been trimmed into neat, curved shapes.
“They might be a serial killer,” I say. “But they have excellent taste. And a load of moolah.”
“Oh my,” says Frankie, and I let out a whistle.
Holy shit. That’s a palace. It makes my family home look like a dog kennel.
I pull up at the side of the big circular gravel area in front and cut the engine.
“Did you know this place existed?” I ask Frankie. “I’ve never even heard a whisper, and my mom and dad know everyone.”
Frankie’s smile borders on sly. “Bet you I know whose place this is,” she says.
“What?” I’m taken aback. “Who?”
A series of wide stone steps leads up to the double front door that is right now being pulled open. Out steps an elegantly dressed blond man in his thirties, who smiles in our direction.
“Who else but the ultimate mystery man of Flora Valley?” says Frankie. “Known to us mere mortals as Ted.”