Yellow Packard Page 3

  The heat, combined with their hard work, had done the trio in. It was an exhausted and frustrated Janet who moved away from the men to the one familiar thing still remaining at the now empty old house. After taking a deep breath, she eased down onto the swing. Even as she rocked back and forth, the hot, damp air all but smothered her.

  “So,” Johns mumbled from a spot he’d taken leaning up against the porch railing, “I think my gut feeling was spot-on. Someone knew where she kept that cash, and they took it.”

  Pushing off the railing, he ambled over to Janet and asked, “Do you mind if I sit down?”

  “Plenty of room,” she assured him while stopping her slow, rhythmic swinging long enough for the middle-aged attorney to ease onto the wooden slats. As the pair began to swing, he took a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his receding brow.

  “So,” Janet said, “you’ve got banks and stores on the lookout for folks with a wad of hundred-dollar bills?”

  Johns nodded, “Have had since you and I talked in the library right after Abbi’s services.”

  Janet didn’t answer; there was no need to. She had nothing to add. She was convinced that someone had not only robbed her aunt, but murdered her as well. It would have been so much easier to handle if they had just found the money. Then she would have known Aunt Abbi died a natural death. Now, much more than anything else, she needed to be assured the old woman didn’t spend her last few moments consumed by fear.

  “You lost a lot of money in this deal,” Johns noted, breaking a silence that had fallen over the trio like an unwelcome fog. “I’m sorry about that, too.”

  It was too dark to see his face, but she heard in his tone a sincere regret for her loss. His tone also seemed to hint at a bit of guilt on his own part. Maybe as her attorney he sensed he should have watched Aunt Abbi more closely. Maybe he should have been aware that she’d withdrawn cash from the bank. But in truth that wasn’t his job. The old woman made those moves on her own, and she was sound enough mentally to conduct her own affairs. If there was fault to be given, it was Abbi’s. She wasn’t careful enough. Yet that didn’t make her death any easier to swallow.

  Johns’s deep voice once more filled the darkness, “You know I was there the night your parents died in that car wreck two years ago. I was looking out my window when the drunk ran the stop sign and hit them. Such a senseless tragedy! Not only do I wish it hadn’t happened, but I also wish I hadn’t witnessed it. Still keeps me awake at night.”

  “You were the one who called me,” Janet quietly replied. “I’ll never forget that call. Changed my whole world. Turned it upside down.”

  “And you came immediately back and stayed right in this old house for those three weeks while we got things straightened out.”

  “Aunt Abbi made those days a lot easier for me.”

  “And that’s why I feel so bad now,” Johns admitted. “Your folks barely left you anything. You don’t make much as a grade-school teacher. Now, just when you could have had a real break, put together a nest egg of sorts, there’s nothing here for you.”

  “I’m not worried about that,” she quickly assured the man. “I’m not like my cousin. I never planned on getting any of Aunt Abbi’s money. For me that was never important. I’ve got a job and an apartment, and that is more than a lot of folks have in these hard times. My parents always told me it wasn’t what a person has, but what a person is. I think they’d be proud of the kind of person I have become. And they’d have been proud of Aunt Abbi, selling everything for the orphan’s home, too.”

  “Yeah,” Johns sighed, “but that missing cash still should have been yours.”

  “It was the car,” Atkins matter-of-factly announced as he steered the conversation in a direction that Janet couldn’t have predicted. “If she hadn’t bought that blame car she’d still be alive.”

  “What do you mean?” Johns shot back.

  “That Packard was bad luck,” the sheriff quickly replied. “You surely heard the story about what happened when it was delivered?”

  “Now, Jed,” Johns argued, “you don’t believe in that kind of nonsense. You go to church. Where’s your faith? What you’re mentioning is nothing more than stupid superstition. Now tell me, do you believe a black cat is bad luck? Or what about walking under a ladder?”

  “I’m not stupid enough to walk under a ladder,” the sheriff explained, “and as for cats, well no, I don’t put much stock in that either. We own a black cat, and I named him Lucky. But that car is something else altogether.”

  “What happened?” Janet asked. “What’s this about Aunt Abbi’s car?”

  “It was nothing,” Johns quickly answered. “It was just an accident.”

  “You can call it an accident,” Atkins barked, “but those that were there know it is something more.”

  “What do you mean?” the woman demanded.

  “Well,” Johns explained, “the car came in from the factory by rail. When they brought it out of the boxcar, the guy backing it out didn’t see one of the other men who was working for the Illinois Central. The driver accidentally drove into him, knocking him off the dock and onto the rails. He hit his head and died. But it was nothing more than an accident.”

  “Maybe,” Atkins chimed in, “but how do you explain what happened at the dealership?”

  Janet looked from the sheriff to the attorney. Even in the darkness she could sense the man’s impatience.

  “Just another freak accident,” Johns said. “That’s all it was!”

  “What happened?” Janet again demanded.

  “The car body was being lowered onto the frame,” an exasperated Johns sighed, “and the lift’s hydraulic failed. Everything suddenly came down on top of the mechanic.”

  “In the span of three days,” Atkins chimed in, “that car killed two people! And the man who ordered it refused to buy it after that, even though he paid a deposit to have it painted that hideous color.”

  For the next few seconds no one spoke, and the warm air grew even thicker. It was Johns who finally tried to bring some logic back into the discussion.

  “Jed, you sound like some crazy child. Cars aren’t cursed. It was nothing more than just bad luck.”

  “You can believe that,” the sheriff muttered, “but you and Abigale were the only ones who did. No one would buy that car. The dealer kept discounting it and discounting it. Six months after it arrived in Danville, old Abigale paid less for that fancy Packard than she would have a Ford. And now she’s dead. That just proves it to me. That car should be destroyed!”

  “You can’t blame a car for that,” Johns argued. “It’s not like she died in it.”

  “I can,” Atkins firmly answered, “and you watch that sale tomorrow. There aren’t going to be any locals who will buy the Packard. No sir! Anyone who knows that car’s history won’t touch it with a ten-foot pole. Gives me the spooks talking about it.” The sheriff wiped his brow with a handkerchief as he stood. After taking a deep breath, he glanced over to the other two. “I’m heading out. Mabel’s been waiting long enough. I’ll see you at the sale tomorrow. I want to look pretty closely at everyone who’s there; I might just spot a killer. I also want to know who buys that car. Mark my words, whoever it is will be dead by Christmas.”

  “‘Night, Jed,” Johns muttered as the sheriff climbed off the steps and strolled resolutely toward the street.

  “Thanks, Sheriff Atkins, for your help,” a still rattled Janet added.

  The law officer didn’t look back, just raised his right arm in a halfhearted wave. Folding himself into his Ford coupe, he hit the starter, pushed the sedan into first gear, and eased down Elm Street and out of sight.

  “It’s eating him up,” Johns announced.

  “What is?” Janet asked. “The story of the cursed car?”

  “No, though he might just come to blame the car for her death. What’s eating on him is that this crime is too perfect. He doesn’t have a suspect or even a ruling of suspicious de
ath. All he has is a motive. And as we don’t know how much money she had left from the hundred thousand she withdrew, he doesn’t even know how he is actually going to prove a crime happened. Even if he finds someone spreading around hundred-dollar bills, he likely couldn’t tie them to your aunt. So he’s going to blame the yellow Packard. He has got to blame something!”

  Janet couldn’t help but smile. Her aunt, the mystery reader, would have appreciated this ironic twist. She’d had hundreds of whodunits lining the shelves in her library, and few of those authors had scripted a perfect crime. Yet it seemed the final chapter of the old woman’s life ended with a crime that could not be solved and a murderer who would never see justice. Compounding it all was a car that no one would dare buy.

  Somewhere in the darkness she heard a neighbor’s clock chime. It was ten o’clock, time for her to step off the porch for a final time and head back to Becky Hammer’s home. Tomorrow afternoon she’d be on a bus bound for Carbondale with $75.04, a head full of memories, and a lot more questions than answers.

  Janet moved her gaze from the familiar porch to the street. There, almost completely hidden in the shadows, was a man. She felt his eyes on her even before she spotted him.

  “Who’s that?” she whispered.

  “I don’t see anyone,” Johns quietly answered.

  “Across the street, in front of the Balts’ house. His hat is pulled down, and he’s leaning against that elm tree. If you look closely, you’ll see him.”

  Johns stared out into the darkness finally spotting the object of Janet’s concern. “That’s Mitchell Burgess.”

  “I don’t recognize that name,” she replied. “But I saw him a few days ago staring at the house when we were in the library. He gives me the spooks.”

  “Don’t worry about him,” Johns quickly assured her. “He moved here a few years back from Missouri. Lives in one of the shotgun houses on the other side of the tracks. He did a lot of work for your aunt. Mowed her grass, tended her garden, that sort of thing. He’s probably just hanging around lamenting the fact he’s going to have to find another way to make ends meet. And we know that’s not easy during these tough times.”

  Johns waved and called out, “Hey, Mitchell, you all right?”

  “Yes sir,” came the reply. “Sure is a shame about Miss Watling.”

  “Yeah,” the attorney replied. “If you could use some work, why don’t you come by my office on Monday. I have some things I need done at my house.”

  Stepping from under the tree and into the glare of the street lamp, Burgess nodded. As he did, Janet sized him up. He was likely in his forties, barrel-chested, and average height. There was an apelike quality in the way he stood, his shoulders hunched forward, his hands hanging at his side. He wasn’t the kind of person she would want to meet on a city street at noon much less in the shadows of a lonely night. “I’ll do that,” he replied, “and by the way, do you think I could still do the gardening around here until they sell the place? I’d hate to see it go to seed.”

  “I’m handling the estate,” Johns informed him. “You just continue to do what you were doing, and I’ll pay you the same she did until we get the property sold.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Let me give you a ride,” Johns said to Janet as Burgess ambled down Elm Street toward the tracks.

  Janet didn’t answer, her eyes never leaving Burgess. Though she had no logical reason, there was something about the man that bothered her.

  “You ready?” the attorney asked.

  “Yes,” she finally replied, suddenly glad not to be walking the five blocks to the Hammer’s.

  “And, Janet. Don’t worry about what Jed said about the Packard. The six months the dealership had the car they saw the best sales in their history. In fact your aunt even called the car her good luck charm. She loved it so much she said it was worth more than anything else in her life. That Packard had nothing to do with her death.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” Janet assured him. After standing and smoothing her skirt she added, “I know it wasn’t a car that caused her death or took her money. But I’d sure like to know who was responsible.”

  Getting out of the swing and moving toward the porch steps, Johns solemnly said, “So would I.”

  Chapter 4

  The six-foot-tall, dark-headed young man had shed his suit coat more than two hours before. Now his blue-and-red-striped tie loosened around his thin neck, and the sleeves of his wrinkled white shirt pushed up almost to the elbows of his long, athletic arms, George Hall was wearing out his brown wing-tip shoes as he paced from one end of the eighteen-foot-long waiting room to the other. Another, much more seasoned, veteran of the childbirth experience sat in a far corner chair, his feet casually propped up on a table, a smirk on his face, and an eyebrow raised at Hall’s nervous energy.

  “You’re going to wear out the floor if you keep that up.” The stranger laughed. “And your shoes aren’t going to last long either.”

  “Yeah, I know,” the expectant father admitted while continuing his trek toward the far wall. “But this waiting is just too much. I’ve never been through anything like the last five hours. I wish she’d hurry up.”

  “I’m sure your wife is doing all she can to accomplish your objectives. So why don’t you just sit down and read the paper or something? Of if you need to walk, take it outside. The sidewalks are probably lonely this time of the night, and they might enjoy your long steps a bit more than the nurses and I do.”

  George stopped momentarily and glanced up to the wall clock. Three thirty! Why did the baby have to pick the middle of the night to be born? Surely midmorning or even late afternoon would have been much better for everyone. Then a cold chill ran down his spine. If this long, unpredictable night was any indication, raising this child was not going to be easy! What had he gotten himself into? Suddenly thoughts of dealing with a troubled teen restarted his involuntary exercise program. His walk across the room was stopped in midstride when a middle-aged nurse sauntered down the hall and into the room. George quickly looked her way, his nerves taut with anxious hope, but her eyes didn’t catch his nor were her words the ones he wanted to hear.

  “Mr. Sims,” she announced with a smile as she looked at the other man, “congratulations. You have another daughter. I think that makes five if I remember correctly.”

  The small man with the thinning blond hair grinned, uncrossed his legs, stood up, and stretched. “Just can’t seem to get this right. Keep trying for a son and always end up with another girl. Guess I’ll have to take that Babe Ruth baseball glove back to the store for a doll. Again!”

  “That’s the way things often turn out,” the woman teased. “And there’s nothing wrong with girls. I used to be one.”

  Ignoring the woman’s joke, George quickly moved toward her and chimed in, “Excuse me. Is there any word for me?”

  She nodded and grinned. “Yes, the word is patience!” The nurse shook her finger at Hall before smiling and turning toward the other man. “Now, Mr. Sims, why don’t we walk down the hall so you can meet your latest. Do you have a name picked out?”

  “What’s your name?” he inquired.

  “Elizabeth.”

  “That sounds all right to me.”

  A deeply disappointed George didn’t hear the woman’s response. Exhausted and alone, and now overcome with fear that he might not be up to being a parent, he gave up his pacing and collapsed into a wooden chair. He needed sleep, but he knew his nerves wouldn’t let him nod off, so he picked up the newspaper. It was opened to an advertisement for an estate sale and auction in the same town where he and Carole lived—Oakwood. Though he had no interest in the event, he scanned the long list of furniture, jewelry, kitchen items, and books. Nothing captured his attention until his deep-set, hazel eyes neared the bottom.

  1936 PACKARD FOUR-DOOR SEDAN, 6,200 MILES, EXCELLENT SHAPE, YELLOW EXTERIOR AND GRAY INTERIOR.

  He reread the listing three more times, the
last time out loud. Tossing the paper into the chair beside him, he grinned and stretched his arms above his broad shoulders. Wouldn’t it be something to take his baby home from the hospital in a grand, eight-cylinder car like that Packard! What a way for his little man or little gal to start life! Style, that’s what it would be. He could see himself behind the wheel, sporting to work or taking his family to church. They could even go to Kickapoo Park in the summer and picnic on the wide running boards. Carole and the baby deserved a car like that. So much better than his third-hand, beaten-up Chevy coupe with brakes that worked sometimes and with an old Indian blanket covering tears in the front seat’s upholstery.

  Twenty minutes later George was still in that same chair, lost in visions that mixed fatherhood and automotive grandeur, when the plump nurse returned to the room and announced, “Mr. Hall, your wife is fine and you have a little girl!”

  All thoughts of the car suddenly evaporated. In fact everything evaporated from his head.

  “Oh, thank God!” he shouted. “This is all the answer to prayer I needed. She’s healthy…. They are healthy. Amen!”

  Leaping from the chair, a rejuvenated George raced up to the nurse, threw his arms around her, lifted the woman up into the air, and spun her around like a rag doll. If she was surprised or put off by his actions, she didn’t show it. Without complaint, she took the unscheduled ride, circling the room four times and then, without as much as a thank-you, was plopped down on the wooden floor. Once back on the ground, she straightened her uniform and hair before asking the obvious, “Would you like to see your daughter?”

  “Would I?”

  “I take it that is a yes.” She laughed. “You just follow me. Do you have a name picked out?”

  “Rose, you know, like the flower.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hall, I’ve heard of the name. This may come as a shock to you, but I know it’s a flower.” She added, “It seems I recall they come in a variety colors.”

  “By the way,” he asked, “do you want a cigar? I’ve got some in my coat pocket. I can go back and get one. My jacket’s in the waiting room.”