Spare Change (Wyattsville #1)(25)

Olivia, furious with Charlie for stranding her in a situation such as this, was contemplating the thought of gulping down the seeds Canasta had given her, when a trailer tractor pulled up behind her. A bearded man with what she’d call a troublesome glint in his eye, stepped down from the truck and asked, “Need help?”

She hesitated, recalling how this was the sort of situation where a woman travelling alone got robbed and murdered—left by the roadside for buzzards to pick apart.

Ignoring the fact that she hadn’t answered, he said, “Your engine’s probably overheated,” and came walking toward her.

Another woman may have had other options, Olivia did not. She tried to force a smile but the result was a look of paralysis with the whites of her eyes showing the full way around and the left corner of her mouth tilted at an odd angle. “It’ll be okay in a minute or two,” she eventually mumbled.

He popped open the hood, “Let’s take a look.” A cloud of steam rose from the engine when the hood was lifted. “Not good,” he sighed and took to fingering his chin. He waited a bit for the car to cool down, then started poking around. “Ah-ha,” he finally exclaimed and directed her attention to a black hose which had split apart. “There’s the culprit! Looks like you’re gonna need a tow.” He gave a sympathetic smile which, despite the beard, made him seem somewhat less menacing. “I can give you a lift into Claymore,” he said, “you’ll find a mechanic there.”

It was late in the afternoon, in an hour or two it would be pitch black, she could stand here hoping things would take a turn for the better, or risk a ride with the stranger. “Okay,” she answered, then opened her purse, took out one of the green peppercorns and swallowed it down. A month ago Olivia would not have thought it possible she’d hike up her skirt and climb into the truck of a man she’d known for less than fifteen minutes; but there she was, riding shotgun for a load of cantaloupes and headed for a town smack in the middle of nowhere. The truck swung back onto the highway and she watched in the side view mirror as the blue convertible got smaller and smaller, then finally disappeared.

“Peter O’Ryan,” the man said. He let go of the right side of the steering wheel and shoved his hand across the cab. “You?”

In an effort to seem less a woman travelling alone, she answered, “Missus Charles Doyle.” She noticed the photograph of a round-faced woman and five little girls stuck to Peter’s dashboard, then added, “Olivia.” When she learned Peter was a church-going man who’d been married for sixteen years and taught bible studies on Sunday mornings, she let down her guard. “If you ever pass through Hopeful,” she said, “you ought stop and visit Canasta Jones.” Peter claimed he was generally pretty anxious to get home to his family, but promised to keep the thought in mind.

Claymore, which was twenty three miles from where Olivia had abandoned the convertible, had two gas stations but only one was equipped to repair automobiles. And, as fate would have it, their mechanic was off on vacation for the remainder of the week. “But,” Olivia moaned, “…surely there’s someone else?”

“Not till Monday,” the clerk repeated.

Olivia’s eyes welled with tears as she turned and walked out into the street. It seemed things were going from horrible to even worse, helpings of bad luck stacking up like dirty dishes. Whatever had she gotten herself into? When she got to the corner, Olivia turned, whether it had been right or left, she’d be hard pressed to say because by then she was without direction. The sky turned dusky as she tromped aimlessly up one street and down another. She passed by a Boy Scout who rattled a tin can in her face and called out that it was time to help the poor. “I’m the one who’s poor,” Olivia mumbled and continued to move one foot in front of the other. She took no notice of anything, until, she found herself standing in front of a brightly lit Ford showroom. Right there in the window was the answer to her prayers—a shiny new black sedan. That was the kind of car a woman of her nature should have—something solid and dependable, something with a roof that didn’t fold up like a hankie, something black, not a frivolous shade of powder blue. Without a second thought, she walked in.

“Do you take trade-ins?” she asked the young man standing behind the counter.

“Yes indeed.”

“Even if the car’s got a broken hose?”

“No problem.”

“How about if it’s stuck out on the highway?”

“Hmm,” the young man twitched his mouth to the right in a mannerism quite like Charlie’s, which immediately gave Olivia a good feeling. “We could send a tow truck, but that’s an extra charge.”

“An extra charge?” Olivia repeated. She was about to ask how much that charge would be when the salesman held up his hand.

“Okay, okay,” he groaned playfully, “you’ve twisted my arm—no extra charge if we do the deal right now!”

“Right now? But, I still have my things in the trunk.” It was not like Olivia to go about blabbing her business, so she felt no need to explain Charlie’s death but she did nonetheless feel ashamed about including him under the heading of things.

“No problem,” the salesman said, “We’ll have your old car towed back here you can take whatever you want.”