“Aha!” she said, finally unearthing the roll of cash inside an old hand-painted Matryoshka. The set of Russian nesting dolls, each one smaller than the one enclosing it, made a perfect hiding place. If you could remember that’s where you put things. The gaily decorated faces of the dolls seemed to mock her, their crooked smiles and rosy red cheeks far too cheerful for her current mood.
Baba grabbed the cash and her keys and headed for the truck, stopping to glare one more time around the empty field and the road that carried neither errant sheriff nor missing client in her direction, and tore off in the direction of town. She’d feel better when she had the bike back. Although, just to be on the safe side, maybe she’d pick up some more chocolate while she was out.
*
O’SHAUNNESSY AND SON Auto Service was perched on the outward bend of a hairpin curve on the edge of town, where the motley assortment of cars, trucks, and vans in various stages of disrepair couldn’t bring down the property values or irritate the neighbors. Other than the collection of vehicles, the place was neat and prosperous looking, with a row of four open bays lined up in a long, dark gray garage and a smaller office tucked away like a forgotten second cousin at the far end.
Baba pulled the big silver truck into the gravel lot and parked it in front of the office space, where a brick doorstop held the door open for whatever breeze there was. The temperature hovered around the ninety-degree mark, which the locals told her was well above normal, and the air was so humid, it clung to your skin like syrup. She didn’t mind, though, and stood for a moment in the hot sunshine drinking in the sounds of hammering and the high-pitched whine of a power tool. The pungent odor of old oil, metal being ground under pressure, and the sharp bite of some kind of solvent drifted out of the nearest bay like a mechanical alchemist’s air elemental. The smell made her smile.
As did the sight of her beloved motorcycle, its normally glossy blue paint scratched and scuffed, but upright on two wheels and ready to sail her away down the road at speeds unsafe—and most likely unattainable—on any normal bike. As soon as she paid for it, drove it home in the back of the truck, and did a little quick magic on the paint job. There was no way she was riding it down the road in its current condition. A girl had to have her standards.
Baba walked into the office, which was only a few degrees cooler than the scorching atmosphere outside. Three small fans revolved frantically, trying with futile perpetual motion to cool the space. One of them had a bent blade and clicked irritatingly on every revolution. Whirr, whirr, click. Whirr, whirr, click.
The room was dim and empty, other than a countertop that separated the waiting area from two small desks and a doorway that led to the garages, and maybe a bathroom. The only decorations, if you could call them that, were posters of tires, a wilted and dispirited spider plant, and an auto parts calendar featuring an improbably large-breasted woman holding a huge wrench, perched on the roof of a red corvette. But the room itself was clean, and the plastic chairs for customers to sit on all bore colorful paisley cushions.
Baba nodded in satisfaction, perversely reassured that all the money and effort for this business was clearly focused on the cars, and not on the people who owned them. Just as it should be.
A tall man with faded red hair, a spattering of freckles, and a receding hairline came into the room and stopped dead when he saw her standing there. He gave a jerking glance over his shoulder, tugging gray overalls into place with a nervous gesture. The name embroidered over his chest said Bob, so she assumed this was the wizard she’d come to see.
“Hi,” she said. “You must be Bob. I’m Barbara Yager. I’ve come to pick up my BMW. Thanks so much for fixing her. I really appreciate it.” She remembered something and pulled a small white porcelain jar out of her pocket. “And I brought you the salve you wanted for your father’s gout.”
Bob glanced furtively behind him again, and reached under the counter to grab her keys and toss them onto the smooth laminated surface. Not meeting her eyes, he shoved the jar back toward her and said in a low voice, “Look, just take the bike and go. You can pay me later. And I don’t want the salve. His leg is much better.” He looked toward the back of the room again, and an expression of near panic flitted across his face as she stood there, not moving. “Go on, the bike is fine. I didn’t bother with the paint job, like you said, but otherwise, she’s good as new.”
What the hell was going on here? Bob had been perfectly pleasant the one time she’d called from a rare pay phone in town and talked to him about the motorcycle; now he was acting like she had some kind of contagious disease—one with unpleasant social ramifications, at that.